#crimson rivers really solidified that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leiawritesstories · 1 year ago

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PART SIX: JUNE

Word count: 8.1k

Warnings: swearing, violence, breaking and entering, fuzzy science, scheming, flirting and more flirting, innuendo, a villain, more violence, blood, minor character death

shout out to @house-of-galathynius for beta reading this hot mess and to @backtobl4ck for encouraging frederick

I don't know if I should say this, but...enjoy!! 😁😈

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“Moon Moon!” Aelin clapped her hands twice as she strolled past Fenrys, who lounged against the Boss’s office door like it was the most natural place for him to be. “Thanks for showing up.”

The blonde man shrugged, a half-smirk curling his lips. “Like I had a choice.”

“You always do.” She threw him Celaena’s sweet little grin that usually made people either piss themselves, cry, or start babbling. “You can choose to show up, or you can choose to die.”

“Not much of a choice, Boss,” he drawled. He flopped into the chair across from her desk. “So tell me, who’s the mark?”

Aelin tapped on her computer for a few minutes before she slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. “Have a good long look, Moon Moon, because this is the only time you’ll see all of this info in one place.” As the Boss, she was many things, and stupid was decidedly not one of them.

Fen picked up the paper, his dark eyes scanning each line of text and small, grainy photo. He cocked one blonde brow. “Rourke Farran, eh?” Not looking up from the paper, he huffed out a breath. “The man’s whole fuckin’ house is a booby trap, Boss.”

“I’m aware.”

“So what’s this bastard done to…god damn.” Before he could even ask the full question, it was answered. “He’s got a front for a front.”

“I have never tolerated, nor will I ever tolerate, the treatment of human beings like commodities,” Aelin said softly, lethally. Celaena Sardothien’s notorious steel undercut her tone. “Farran thinks he can get away with it because I haven’t come for him. Yet.”

Fenrys whistled lowly and set down the paper. “What’s your timeline, Boss?”

Aelin liked this man more and more with each interaction. “I need Farran at the river warehouse by the 10th. You can use whatever means necessary, beat him up a little, get him nice and ready for his session with me, but don’t even fucking think about killing him.”

“Don’t worry, Boss.” A lazy, hungry grin unfurled across Fen’s handsome face, the dim lamplight reflecting off the scars on his cheeks. “Softening up bad boys is my specialty.”

“That’s why I hired you.” Aelin took back the paper and tossed it into the shredder next to her desk, which ate through the single sheet with a brief mechanical grinding of teeth. She burned the shreds at the end of each day, never one to take any chances with documents that could potentially be stitched back together. Fenrys stood up to leave, and she waited until he was almost out the door before speaking again. “One more thing, Moon Moon.”

“Yeah?” He paused, alert, his stance striking an oddly familiar chord in her mind.

“Farran isn’t dumb enough to put all of his guard dogs in one place.”

He nodded slowly, working over that little tidbit of information. “Noted. I’ll tell you when he’s ready for you.” With a wink that was far too flirtatious for anyone’s good, Fen left her office.

Aelin rolled her eyes as she returned to her computer. Her encoded list of targets was shrinking by the week; really, there was only one name left after Rourke Farran received his one-way ticket to her riverside warehouse, and it called to her every day. Some days, it took all of her willpower to stick to her typical Boss hours and Galathynius hours when she knew that if she spent just one more hour as Boss, she could solidify the plans that she’d been simmering for so fucking long. Just before she slit his throat, she’d once murmured to a criminal that she was cleansing the world of villains. In the months since then, that cleansing had nearly been completed.

She slid her gaze down to the end of the page, following the trail of crimson lines that struck out each name up through Farran’s, and stopped, musing on the last name left. Five letters. One name—the villainous criminal was possibly more elusive than Celaena Sardothien herself.

Maeve.

On the one hand, it made complete sense that Arobynn’s lover—ex-lover—would have taken over his business, diminished as it was when all of his cronies started fighting over their pieces of the trade after Arobynn died. On the other hand, Aelin had wondered just why the hell Maeve would have wanted to take over Arobynn’s drug- and gun-running business; surely the money couldn’t be the only reason. The more she dug into the grimy, seedy backchannels of truth, though, the more she came to understand why Maeve had done it.

The woman had been madly in love with Arobynn Hamel, and now she was madly out for blood.

In the prep room of the Gal Inc. labs, Aelin snapped on a fresh pair of sterile blue latex gloves, checked her badge where it was clipped to her lab coat, and nodded at her reflection. It had been seven weeks since Ren had come into the labs to have his SecondSkin changed—she and Nehemia had decided to extend the wearing period to seven weeks, as Ren’s use of SecondSkin was an experiment—and she was curious to see if anything was different.

“About time,” Nehemia said dryly as Aelin walked into the small, sterile lab, the one that Nehemia typically reserved for experiments that needed to be kept quiet. “I was just about to assume you were in a meeting and start the removal process without you.”

“Hello to you too, Dr. Ytger,” Aelin returned, just as dryly. “I just had to primp a little longer, you know how much effort it takes to look this good.”

Nehemia snorted. “Galathynius, if you spent that much time primping, I’d never let you in my lab.”

“Don’t I know it.” Aelin sat down on the second rolling stool and scooted over to Ren’s side. “Okay, Nemi. It’s your experiment.”

Quickly but clearly, Nehemia ran through her usual list of removal instructions, then dismissed Ren to go take his shower. He emerged about half an hour later, wearing his robe, his hair damp and his face…

“Aelin, come here.” Nehemia motioned for Ren to sit down and scooted her stool up close so she could examine his ruddy face. “This doesn’t look like a typical hot-shower flush.”

Aelin scanned the redness on Ren’s face and nodded in agreement. “Allsbrook, does it itch?”

“Not on my face, no,” he answered.

“Are you itchy anywhere else?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Chest, elbows, upper arms, torso, knees, feet, most of my back, some other areas. It’s not bad, it’s more annoying, like when you have a mosquito bite that you want to scratch.”

“Would you please remove your robe so we can see if there’s anything visibly wrong with your skin?” Nehemia asked.

“One sec.” Ren hopped off the chair, went into the shower room, and came back out a moment later. “Just wanted to put my boxers on.” He took off his robe, hung it on the hook in the wall, and sat back down.

“Too much information, Allsbrook,” Aelin grumbled.

Nehemia ran her analytical gaze over Ren’s body, charting the red rash spread over the areas that he had said were itchy. It looked like an ordinary chafing rash, the skin irritated and slightly split in some places, and some of the redness faded, indicating that it was probably sensitive to the heat of the shower he had taken to remove the SecondSkin.

“Are you allergic to latex or any of its components?” Nehemia inquired.

“Not as far as I’m aware, no,” Ren said.

Nehemia hummed. “Ae, I have thoughts. What do you think?”

“Prolonged exposure?” Aelin asked. “It almost seems like what happens when you wear the same tightly fitting garment—like a leotard—for an extended period of time and it chafes.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. It could also potentially be compounded by bacteria and dirt buildup under the material. It lays atop the skin, and as much as we want to claim that there’s no gap, we know there has to be a microscopic distance between the material and the wearer’s skin that could allow that to happen.” Nehemia gently touched two gloved fingers to the rash on Ren’s chest. “Does this hurt?”

“No.”

She pressed down. “Does it hurt when I do this?”

He shook his head. “No. Itches, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s a good sign, at least.” Nehemia sighed. “Okay, Galathynius, we need to talk before we can decide how to move forward.” She beckoned Aelin towards the back of the room. “Should we go ahead with another application?” she asked, her voice lowered to a whisper.

Aelin pressed her lips together. “Well, we can’t exactly have him disappear while we try and work out the rash.”

“I don’t want it to spread or get any worse because it wasn’t treated, though,” Nehemia said. “I think we need to at least treat the rash.”

“Yes, I agree, but how will that work with another application?” Aelin’s brows furrowed. “And how should we treat the rash if we’re not fully certain of what it is and how it works?”

“We haven’t yet agreed to do another full application,” Nehemia reminded her, “and my instinct is saying to treat it like it’s a normal chafing rash—hydrocortisone cream, Benadryl, that kind of thing.”

Aelin nodded. “Okay, that sounds fine. How do you think we should apply the SecondSkin?”

“Hmm.” Nehemia tugged her lower lip between her teeth. “We could selectively apply it and avoid the rash areas. Theoretically, he’s not going to be stripping down in front of anyone for any reason, so he really only needs to have the right fingerprints and face, maybe footprints too. I vote we just apply the SecondSkin to his hands, face and neck, and feet.”

“I think we should apply it from hands up to elbows, just to be safe, but that sounds like a solid plan. Do we have hydrocortisone cream here?”

“Should be in the first aid bin.” Nehemia returned to Ren’s chair. “Okay, Allsbrook, here’s how we’re going to proceed. We’ll treat your rash and reapply the synthetic to your hands and lower arms, face and neck, and feet, which should hopefully give the rash time and breathing room to heal. You should apply this cream every day, as often as necessary, to the parts that are most itchy or inflamed.” She took the tube of hydrocortisone cream that Aelin handed her and applied it to Ren’s rash.

“Is this something I can find at the pharmacy?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s a common treatment,” Aelin replied. She walked over to the safe built into the far wall, keyed in the combination, opened the compartment, and retrieved a sleek steel canister from inside. She closed the compartment back up and brought the canister over to the prep table next to where Ren sat.

Nehemia took off her used gloves and replaced them with a fresh pair. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Ren confirmed.

Working in tandem, Aelin and Nehemia carefully laid the almost-invisible film of SecondSkin over Ren’s hands, forearms, face, and feet, carefully molding it to his skin. The pieces had all been prepped beforehand, since it took a significant amount of time to press fingerprints and other distinctive blemishes and markings into the synthetic material, and the SecondSkin molded to Ren’s skin flawlessly, leaving almost no evidence that it was there.

“Come back in two weeks,” Aelin instructed him as she disposed of her gloves. “We’ll want to see if your rash has improved, which will help us decide how to move forward.”

“Got it.” Ren went back into the bathroom, got dressed, and came back out as Chaol Westfall, contact lenses placed and bland grin on his face. “See you in two weeks, Dr. Ytger, Galathynius.” He left the lab.

“We should have seen this coming,” Nehemia groaned when Ren was gone, chucking her gloves into the trash bin. “Honestly, Ae, I feel like such an idiot.”

“Nemi, you are a genius,” Aelin reassured her. “You’ve been so busy with development and research, and we didn’t even know this could happen until we saw it today.”

“Yeah.” The chief engineer sighed. “I need to go chart all of this, and you probably have meetings or whatever shit you do in your big fancy office.” She smirked at Aelin.

Aelin rolled her eyes, nudging her friend in the shoulder. “I’d say something smartass, but I do have a meeting pretty soon. Let me know if anything comes up with Allsbrook, yeah?”

“Of course.” Nehemia waved and turned down a side hallway towards her office. Aelin headed back to the prep room, put her lab coat in the laundry basket, and collected her things before heading to her office and the inevitable day of meetings.

Two weeks later, Ren came back to the labs, his rash significantly improved. Nehemia removed and reapplied the SecondSkin in the same few areas and instructed him to keep treating the rash, as she didn’t want to move forward with full SecondSkin application until it had completely healed.

“It’s a good sign that the rash is healing,” she told Aelin over the phone later that day. “In theory, that means the SecondSkin could cause a rash from chafing, irritation, or prolonged use, but the rash can be treated like normal.”

“Definitely a good sign.” Aelin jotted down that note. “Hopefully, that means SecondSkin can be used for the wide audience we’ve been intending all along.”

“How much longer do you think this is going to be in development and testing?” Nehemia asked. “It’s been over two years, Ae. Shouldn’t this be about the time where we start to consider trial groups?”

“I’d say yes, but we’ve only just learned about the rash, and we’re not yet sure if the current formula won’t cause that rash.” Aelin was partially thinking out loud. “My gut says to wait until the Ren trial isn’t getting a rash, and then move into trial groups.” Which will give me more time to get rid of Maeve before she can make a move for the SecondSkin tech like Arobynn did, she added silently.

She was the only person who knew why Arobynn Hamel had died when he did—the former crime lord had taken one step too close to her highly guarded technology, and she’d had no choice but to retaliate. It was…not unexpected that Maeve would try to do the same.

Fenrys Moonbeam might very well be insane.

People had told him that frequently, ever since he was a reckless kid jumping off the playground structures at school, but he’d never had the thought himself until he was strolling into the Night Owl—a popular nightclub that was rumored to be the primary front of Maeve’s organization—in tight leather pants, a silver sequined jacket, and no shirt. Because rumor also had it that Maeve, the so-called Queen of the Night, had a…taste for handsome men, and he had it on good information that Rourke Farran was a frequent guest at the Night Owl.

He sauntered up to the bouncer with a lazy, easy grin sprawled across his face. “Hey.”

The bouncer, who could accurately be depicted as a concrete brick, stared flatly at him. “Invitation only, fancy boy.”

“I’m with Cadre,” Fen returned, sliding his hand into his jacket to retrieve a beautiful ivory card with purple script embossed across its fine surface. He waved the card at the bouncer. “And they’re expecting me in ten minutes, so it would be great if you’d let me get my pretty ass through the door.”

“Fuckin’ performers,” the bouncer muttered as he swung open the door.

“Thank you,” Fen crooned, blowing a kiss at the stone-faced man. The door slammed behind him, and he tucked the invitation—expertly forged by Celaena’s man Nox—back into his jacket and slipped into the crowd of dancing bodies. He winked and smirked his way through the crowd, letting the thumping beat of the music ease his rhythm, until he reached the bar.

Sure enough, Rourke Farran lounged on a barstool near the far end, one hand around a bottle of beer and the other around the waist of a blonde woman whose lipstick was littered all over his neck.

Fenrys muffled the snort he wanted to let out and waved over the bartender. “I’ll take a Sex on the Beach,” he purred, giving the guy, who was probably in his early twenties, a wink.

The bartender’s blush was faintly visible in the flashing strobe lights. “Want that extra strong?” His gaze flicked ever so quickly to Fen’s bare chest.

“Give it to me as-is, and then we’ll see.” Fen lowered his eyes to half-mast and watched the bartender make his drink. The other man threw the drink together effortlessly, sliding it across the bartop to Fenrys with a little smile of his own.

“I get off shift in an hour,” he said softly, dark blue eyes alight with hope and a little hesitancy.

“Good to know.” Fen took a long sip of his cocktail and nodded appreciatively. “Delicious.” In his periphery, he noticed Farran push the blonde out of his lap and stand up, swaying a little, and turn towards the dancefloor.

He brushed past Fen on his way over. “Get a fuckin’ room,” he slurred, his glassy-eyed gaze flicking once over Fen’s glittering jacket and tight pants. “Goddamn fancy boy.”

“I’ll be back.” Fen drained the rest of his drink, tossed a twenty on the bar, and rose, following Farran into the sea of dancing bodies. He kept a discreet distance from the man, far enough away to not be noticed but close enough to watch the man’s moves.

As he had suspected, Farran oozed sleaziness. What he was doing on the dancefloor barely passed for dancing; his gyrating hips and roaming hands were just barely short of outright having sex in public. He moved from girl to girl, changing partners as often as the music changed, leaving a good number of people giving him dirty looks for being too handsy. Fen snorted, knowing that the man probably deserved their scorn. Farran began to move towards the doors, and Fen slipped onto the dancefloor himself, moving fluidly through the crowd, keeping a constant eye on Farran’s steady, subtle escape route.

Time to move, Moonbeam.

Feeling a twinge of guilt for not staying to meet the cute bartender, Fenrys watched Farran leave the club and waited exactly a minute and a half before he headed out as well, putting enough unsteadiness in his step to indicate intoxication. Once he was out of the club, he glanced down the street in both directions and then went left. Even if he couldn’t track Farran, he knew where the bastard lived.

After a quick pit stop in an alley to swap out his flashy jacket for a closely fitted black knit turtleneck, Fenrys headed into the tidy grid of streets that made up western Orynth, taking a meandering route towards the tidy, wealthy neighborhood where Rourke Farran lived. The neighborhood was decked out with security cameras, as Celaena had warned him, so he looped around through the expansive back yards, slinking easily through the landscaped trees and plants until he came to the fence that marked the edge of Farran’s property. There weren’t cameras along the back fence, primarily because of the rotating patrol of guard dogs and security guards, so Fen swiftly scaled the fence and hopped into a tree.

He waited for the first round of patrols to pass before he carefully reached into the thigh pocket of his pants, withdrew a slim, vacuum-sealed package of meat, quietly cut open the plastic, and tossed the meat in a gentle arc directly onto the grass beside the paved walkway that wove around Farran’s house. A pair of guard dogs came barreling around the corner within sixty seconds, barking and growling and quickly discovering the meat. The second and third patrols weren’t far behind, and it was only a few minutes before all eight guard dogs were tearing apart the meat.

“The fuck is happening?” A security guard rounded the corner, breathless from sprinting. He saw the dogs calming down and settling back into their patrols after having finished the meat. “God. Which idiot dropped snacks everywhere?”

Another guard sprinted around the corner. “Everything okay?”

“One of you jackasses dropped the dogs’ snacks,” the first guard snapped.

The second one raised his hands in innocence. “I’m not the snack keeper tonight, dude.”

“Whatever. Just get your ass back to rounds.” The guards nudged the dogs back onto the path and headed away.

Mentally, Fenrys started counting minutes. He got to four, then five, then slowly and carefully slid down from the tree and darted across the lawn and onto the shadowed back porch. A moment later, he’d scaled the drainpipe leading up the side of the house and was perched on the balcony directly outside the master bedroom.

Wherein Rourke Farran was fully naked in front of his mirror, with his—

“Fucking hell,” Fen groaned to himself, shaking his head. “Disgusting.” But also enough of a distraction for him to slip down onto the balcony, pull a slender silver tube from his sleeve, raise it to his lips, and blow a tiny needle dart straight into the back of Farran’s neck.

Farran crumpled to the floor.

Good work, Moonbeam, Fenrys complimented himself. Now you just have to get the asshole out of his booby-trap house and over to the river warehouse.

Easy.

Right?

“He’s all yours, Boss,” Fenrys drawled as Aelin strolled past on the way out of the storage warehouse.

She glanced at her smart watch. “It’s only the eleventh, Moon Moon. That was quick.”

He shrugged, irreverent as always. “What can I say? I like to work fast.”

“Hopefully not all the time.” She smirked wickedly. “Your bartender boyfriend might be disappointed.”

Fenrys flushed a delightful shade of pink. “How the fuck—”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, Moon Moon.” She winked wickedly at him. “How’s our special guest doing? Is he adjusted to his new home?”

“It took him some time to get used to the room,” Fen returned, casually pulling a set of brass knuckles from a pocket of his cargo pants and spinning them over his fist.

Aelin chuckled, soft and lethal. “Not surprising. Thanks, Fen.” She paused just in front of the side door, her gloved knuckles resting on the doorknob. “Oh, Moon Moon?”

“Yeah?” He froze, his posture still as a…soldier’s.

“I’ll need you for cleanup on the twenty-seventh.”

He nodded. “Got it, Boss.”

Aelin keyed in the door code and left the warehouse, satisfied that she had set the wheels of her plan in motion. While she trusted Con’s assessment of his brother, she wasn’t fully convinced that she could completely trust anyone on her payroll, and Fen’s easy charm masked a cold, heartless willingness to carry out whatever depraved task she demanded of him. Furthermore, that stance of his—the utter stillness of his posture when someone ordered him to stop—had been pricking at her memory for days, and she’d only just realized why.

Fenrys stood like a soldier. More than that—he stood like one of her uncle’s men, one of the Terrasen Special Forces.

And Aelin knew the day one of Gav’s men got into Celaena Sardothien’s business would be the day her double identity began to crumble. Even if she wanted to trust Fenrys, she had to confirm for herself that she could, and that meant giving him a fake kill date in case he needed to report back to someone in the military.

If he did, if he turned out to be a spy, then the TSF would come sniffing around for Rourke Farran when it was already weeks too late.

Aelin laced her fingers with Rowan’s as they strolled through the fancy restaurant’s glass front doors, something settling deep in her chest at the simple, casual intimacy of holding his hand. Her mind had been running in overdrive for the last two weeks, and even now, with ten days left in the month, she hadn’t been able to slow the constant dizzying whirl of her thoughts.

Rowan was one of the only people who’d brought her a glimpse of peace recently, in the few scattered dates they’d been able to snatch between both of their busy schedules. He flicked her a tiny, secret smile, one that only she ever saw, before approaching the hostess stand with the same confidence that cloaked him when he was in his investigator clothes and badge. And dear god, the things that confidence did to her already throbbing pussy—she was half tempted to slip off her panties and sneak them to him under the table.

But she was a mature woman, so she wouldn’t.

“Whitethorn, party of two, seven-thirty reservation,” Rowan said to the hostess.

The young woman—probably a college student, if Aelin’s guess was correct—tapped a few things into her tablet. “Your table is ready, Mr. Whitethorn. Please, this way.” She led Rowan and Aelin through the low-lit restaurant towards the far wall of windows. Through the glass was a breathtaking view of Orynth, the city cast in shades of bronze as the sun began to drift downwards.

“Gorgeous,” Aelin murmured, captivated by the view.

Rowan’s thumb brushed across the back of her hand. “Not half as much as you.”

She blushed. “You’re quite the flirt, you—oh!” Unexpectedly, a man’s shoulder brushed hers as they wove through the restaurant floor. She looked up to find none other than Police Captain Chaol Westfall, wearing a nice suit and a mildly shocked expression.

“M–Miss Galathynius,” he finally managed, clearing his throat. “And, ah, Lieutenant Whitethorn. I…I apologize for running into you.”

“Westfall, what are you doing here?” Rowan inquired, polite on the surface but with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“Considering we aren’t at work, it’s none of your business, White-horn, but I was at dinner with a friend of mine,” Chaol shot back. There was definite animosity underlying his words.

Rowan raised a brow. “You…have friends?”

“Ah, lighten up, darling,” Aelin interjected before either man could resort to fists. “We don’t all live at our workplace, as we seem to have discovered. And Ro, darling, we’ve left that poor hostess floundering.” She wrapped her hand around his arm and tugged him towards their table.

He shot Chaol one last suspicious look. Chaol returned the look, but broke the stare-off to nod respectfully at Aelin as she passed. “Ms. Galathynius.”

When they reached their table, Rowan pulled out Aelin’s chair before seating himself across from her. Questions brewed in the shifting of his eyes. “Question, Ae—do you know Westfall? How?”

“That was two questions,” she teased. “Yes, I’ve met Captain Westfall before. It’s all part of the business; I’ve met just about every notable figure in Orynth at some function or another. I probably met the police captain at some kind of gala.”

Rowan nodded slowly, digesting the information. “That makes sense. All those faces probably run together after long enough, yeah?”

“I try to keep them separate, but yeah.” She flashed him a sheepish grin. “There’s only so many names and faces you can memorize before they all start to appear the same.”

“Why, Miss Galathynius,” Rowan drawled, his face alight with mischief, “are you implying that there are too many men in suits in this fine city?”

She shrugged, meeting the gleam of his humor with her own dry wit. “I’m simply observing that if a few less of them were to bother me at every function I attend, my mind would be clearer.”

“I thought you had a mind like a steel trap, love.” Raising a brow, he sipped his water.

“It sometimes takes a moment to pull out a name from the file cabinet,” she returned. “And—oh look, here comes our server.” Their server, a sandy-blonde-haired man in his late twenties wearing the restaurant staff’s uniform of white shirt, black trousers, and maroon tie, wore a pleasant (if tired) smile as he pulled his notepad from his apron pocket.

“Good evening,” he said cheerfully. “My name is James, and I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like to hear about our specials this evening?”

Aelin glanced at Rowan, whose eyes had visibly narrowed as he scanned the server. The look was so blatantly male, she almost rolled her eyes, but her possessive buzzard relaxed when he saw the silver wedding band adorning the server’s left ring finger. “I actually think we’re ready to order, if that’s alright?”

James the server just about melted to the floor in relief. “Are you serious?” he asked, lowering his voice to an incredulous whisper. “I—I haven’t had a single easy table tonight, and it’s the last two hours of a double and—I’m so sorry, that was completely unprofessional of me.”

Aelin chuckled. “Don’t worry, James, was it? Customer service is a rough job.”

“Tell me about it,” the man grumbled.

Rowan shot Aelin a confused look. “Ae, love, I haven’t even looked at the menu.”

“Do you trust me, love?” she asked.

He pursed his lips, not quite used to letting someone else order his food. “All right.”

“Perfect.” She blew him a subtle kiss. “Okay, James, is it alright if I give you our order a few steps away?” She lowered her voice conspiratorially, keeping it still loud enough for Rowan to hear. “I want to surprise my boyfriend; I’ve been here more than once but he hasn’t ever been.”

“Of course.” James smiled, a genuine one this time. “I brought my wife here once when we were dating—took half my paycheck, but it was worth it.” He stepped aside a few paces and Aelin followed, quietly giving her and Rowan’s order. The server’s pen flew over his page.

“And say hi to Chef Emrys for me, would you?” she concluded.

“You…you know the head chef?”

“Bit of a long story, but yes. Tell him Aelin Galathynius says hi, please. Thanks!” She came back to the table and slipped into her seat, leaving the very nice but very shocked server to collect his wits after realizing just who he was talking to and go to place the order.

“Poor guy looks like he just got hit by a truck,” Rowan observed, smothering a laugh.

Aelin smirked. “I may or may not have given him my full name.”

“Ah, the name drop.” He nodded sagely. “Just what every famous CEO has to do to the poor server who got their table.”

“You’ve got quite a mouth for a soldier, you know,” Aelin mused, her words slowing to a near- seductive pace. “A respectable man would never insinuate that his date uses her job title for perks.”

“I never said I was respectable.” Lazily, his gaze roamed down her upper body, admiring the way her little black dress scooped beneath her collarbones, accentuating the gleam of the single small teardrop diamond pendant that nestled in the hollow of her throat.

James came by with two glasses of white wine and an appetizer platter with two sharing plates, breaking the dangerous haze of the moment, and Aelin thanked the server as he headed off, no doubt to take care of his other tables.

Rowan’s jaw slacked just a bit at the sight of the cured meat and prawns arranged on the plate. “Please tell me you didn’t order the most expensive things on the menu, Ae.”

“Of course not.” She reached across the table and linked her hands with his, the gesture as natural as breathing. “I got us an appetizer to share, a first course, a meat course, and a dessert, and I’m not the kind of person who orders expensive items just to flash her money around.”

He breathed out a deep, controlled exhale. “I know, love. It’s just…” His thumb rubbed across her knuckles. “I’m not used to any of this—the fancy restaurants, the fancy food, the way people don’t bat an eye at spending thirty dollars for some toast.”

She cracked a grin at that. “Let me introduce you to the fine, fine work of Chef Emrys, then. I actually used to work for him, way back when I was eighteen and my parents decided I needed to experience real-people jobs.”

“Way back when,” he drawled, teasing her.

“Hush, old man,” she teased right back, plating up a sampling of the appetizer plate and sliding it over to him. “I know I’m only twenty-seven, but my stint as a hostess feels like forever ago.”

“Kind of like how basic training feels like forever ago for me.” Rowan agreed. He bit into one of the cured prawns and nearly moaned, his eyes closing in joy. “God, this is incredible.”

She beamed. “Wait until you taste Chef Emrys’s filet mignon, Ro.”

The conversation flowed freely between them after that, only interrupted by the arrival of new food and wine. A mushroom and herb risotto accompanied by an aged Riesling. The promised filet mignon, which almost made Rowan cry with joy, and a spectacular six-year Merlot. And finally, individual blackberry cobblers, the berries ripe and fresh and perfectly sweet-tart, paired with the restaurant’s signature Cabernet.

“I don’t think I can move,” Rowan sighed as he set down his last empty wineglass. “But it was absolutely worth every bite.”

“I think I’m going to dream of this cobbler,” Aelin added, regretfully nudging her empty dish towards the end of the table. “Tell me when you’re ready to leave, yes?”

“Gonna need three to five business days,” he mumbled.

Her laughter rippled across their low-lit table. “I love when you let that humor of yours loose.”

A different kind of hunger flickered in his forest eyes. “And I love when I have you all to myself.”

“Possessive much?”

He just shrugged. “Call me whatever you want, love, but we both know you only come for me.”

Flames flickered through her blood at the deep, sinful timbre of his voice. “That’s only because I haven’t introduced you to my drawer full of battery-powered boyfriends.”

The banked embers simmering in his expression flared into a bonfire, and he sat upright and beckoned their server over. “Suddenly, I’m ready to go home.”

James was at their table within two minutes. “How was everything for you tonight? Can I get you anything else?”

“It was absolutely mind-blowing, as always,” Aelin said. “And no, I think we’ll just take the check.” Covertly, she slipped James her credit card, and he gave her a small nod as he went over to the server computer to process the payment.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear you,” Rowan murmured, the velvet caress of his voice stroking down her spine. “Mind-blowing, Ae?”

“Would you happen to know anything about that?” she asked, innocently.

In response, he trailed a brazen stare down her figure. “Seems like you need a refresher.” He stood up far too smoothly for someone who had just finished his fourth glass of wine, gave her his hand for stability as she rose, and then rested that hand against the small of her back, his touch burning through her dress.

Their server returned with a check folder in his hand and passed it over to Aelin, who glanced over the receipts, signed her name, and tucked her credit card and her copy of the receipt back into her small handbag. “Thanks, James.”

“Ah, thank you, Ms. Galathynius, Mr. Whitethorn. You might have been the best table I’ve had all day.” He tucked the folder into his apron pocket with a wry grin. “Have a good one!”

“If it’s good, it won’t be just one,” Rowan whispered into Aelin’s ear.

A shiver danced down her neck. “Is that a promise, Lieutenant?”

He held the door open for her as they left the restaurant. “Ask me again when you’re begging for my cock, love.”

Ren Allsbrook, alias Chaol Westfall, was expecting Whitethorn’s visit, but the man’s presence in his office still gave him an oddly unsettled feeling.

He pasted a bland, blasé expression onto his face. “Yes, Whitethorn?”

Rowan dropped into the chair opposite Ren’s, regarding him with a piercing look that almost seemed to pierce beneath the layer of SecondSkin cloaking his true identity. “How the hell do you know Aelin, Westfall?”

Ren shrugged. “We met at some city leader event a while back. Some big thing the mayor hosted so the big names of Orynth could pretend to be civil to each other.”

“Yeah? How long ago was that?”

Fucking think, Allsbrook. Chaol Westfall had been the police captain for about three years, Ren had taken over as Chaol six months ago in January, and the mayor’s Leaders Gala was always held in…the fall…“Last October, I believe. You’ll have to give me a little grace on the estimate, since I was damn busy with actual work.”

“Cute of you to think you can get away with sneering at me from your soapbox, Westfall,” Whitethorn said dryly. “Well, I checked the dates, and the mayor always holds his little party in October, so I’ll buy your story.”

“My story, huh? When did you get so desperate for leads that you started accusing coworkers, Whitethorn?”

“Shut up,” Rowan grunted. “I’m just making sure you haven’t been doing anything shady with my girlfriend, jackass.”

“Ooooooh, we’re using official terms now?” Ren couldn’t resist the urge to press Whitethorn’s buttons. “I thought you were allergic to that kind of commitment.”

“I wouldn’t get smart-mouthed with me, Westfailure,” Rowan grumbled. “I’ve seen you going to the Galathynius labs. What the hell are you doing there?”

Ren muffled a rather creative string of curses. “Whitethorn, I know you’re terse, but what the hell was that subject change? Give me some goddamn context, for shit’s sake.”

“Fine.” Rowan pulled up some security camera footage on his tablet. “This is a record of the feed from the Galathynius, Inc. lab complex’s security cameras, and before you open your mouth, I have clearance. Two and a half weeks ago, on June 4th, you went to the labs. You went again yesterday.” He tapped on the video, and the footage played, clearly showing Chaol walk into the labs and walk back out after a period of fast-forwarding through nothing.

“Well.” Think, you fucking idiot! “Since we are currently quietly investigating a connection between Galathynius, Incorporated, and the, uh, Shadow Killer—”

“Shadow Assassin,” Rowan corrected.

“Whatever. That person. You think there’s a connection, and I’m pursuing it. I happen to know a scientist who works in the Galathynius labs, and I set up a couple of meetings to speak with her.” Ren folded his arms across his chest. Buy the story, Whitethorn.

Whitethorn frowned. “Why didn’t I hear about these meetings?”

“Because I was being discreet, duh.” Ren poured a heavy dose of sarcasm into the last word.

Rowan grumbled something that sounded like a string of cussing. “I didn’t get sent to this investigation for the laugh track, Westfall.” He stood up and left the office, carelessly banging the door shut behind him.

“Jackass,” Ren grumbled. He turned back to the endless slog of paperwork and files he had to get through, because the job of police captain came with a lifetime supply of that shit. Against all beliefs, he’d actually come to enjoy this job, this role, and he was just as invested in the case as Whitethorn was.

He just happened to be on a different side.

This is fucking insane, this is fucking insane, this is fucking insane. Those were the words running through Fenrys’s head as he and his twin strolled down the secret back stars of the Night Owl. He was barely able to focus on the opulence of the hallway—plush velvet lining the walls, fine mahogany banisters, and black wall torches and overhead lights giving the whole space a deep purple glow—when his mind was so focused on what lay at the end of the walk.

“Relax,” Con muttered. “Don’t get us fucking killed before we’ve found out what she wants.”

“I’m trying,” Fen grumbled. He straightened the lapels of his jacket, the same sequined one he’d worn to the Night Owl three weeks ago. “But—”

“But nothing.” Con cut him off. “Remember why we’re here.”

“Right.” Because Celaena had trusted the two of them with infiltrating Maeve’s lair. Because they were the key to taking down the last obstacle in Boss Sardothien’s path, whatever the hell it was.

The masked guard in front of the twins stopped at a dark wooden door at the end of the hall. “Wait here,” he said, expressionless. He went into the room, closed the door behind him, and came out a few minutes later just as expressionless. “Maeve will see you now.” And he opened the door.

Fenrys took a quick, deep breath and strolled into the dark-paneled office, Con at his side, both of their gazes immediately locking onto the woman who sat behind the imposing black marble desk at the far end of the room. Her face was pale, nearly opalescent in the darkness, her lips were stained scarlet, and her unnervingly violet gaze was fixed on the twins.

“Thank you for being willing to meet on such short notice, boys,” Maeve said, her calm, cold voice slicing through the room like a blade.

“Our honor,” Fen replied. Maeve gestured at the pair of leather chairs opposite her desk, and the twins sat down.

She steepled her fingers under her chin. “I have a job for you.”

Con shared a loaded look with Fen. “Both of us, or just one?”

“Both of you. I need one of you for each side of the job.”

Slowly, Fen nodded. “Alright. What can we do for you?”

One corner of Maeve’s scarlet lips curled upwards. She retrieved a thin manila file from her desk and slid it across the desktop. “Fenrys, kill this man.” The order was as clearly and casually enunciated as if she was asking for a glass of water. “Connall, you will stay here to monitor Fenrys’s task.”

Beside Fenrys, Con’s posture stiffened. “How?”

“We have an advanced tech space that will provide all the equipment you need, as well as the chance to experiment with some of the devices we’re working on.” A gleam flickered briefly through the Queen of the Night’s unflinching stare. “And I require company.”

“Alright.” Con dipped his head in acquiescence, flatly refusing to meet the sharp, concerned gaze Fen shot towards him.

“Excellent.” Maeve smiled, and it sent a shiver down Fenrys’s spine. “You may go, Fenrys. I expect it won’t take you too long to get the job done.”

“I pride myself on efficiency,” he smirked, masking the oily chill in his blood with a lazy, half-wild grin. He rose, nodded at Maeve, and strolled out of the room and then out of the club, his steps sure and unfaltering until he was around the corner and out of sight.

Then, he ducked into a side alley and slumped against the wall, his veneer of easy confidence dropping to reveal his hidden terror. Fuck! He’d left his brother in that spider’s lair; gods only knew what could happen if either of them failed to do what Maeve commanded. Hands shaking, Fenrys reached into the hidden inner pockets of his jacket, his fingers closing around the comfortingly cold steel of his favorite twin flat knives and the envelope containing the thick piece of cardstock that had been in the file. The least he could do—for himself, for Connall, and for the man he had to kill—was carry out his task quickly, before the Queen of the Night could hurt his brother.

And so, heart heavy, Fenrys Moonbeam adjusted his jacket and the weapons contained within it and began his prowl towards Orynth Police headquarters.

Rowan arrived at Orynth PD unusually early on the morning of June 30. After a restless night—he’d tossed and turned far into the wee hours of the morning, snatched probably three solid hours of sleep, and had a muddled collection of dream snippets—he’d just decided to bite the bullet and drag his ass out of bed at five in the morning. Shortly before six, he keyed in his code at the door of the police station, let himself into the quiet, chilly building, and dragged himself to the locker room to dump his bag and splash some icy water on his face. With his vest strapped on and his badge around his arm, he grabbed his laptop bag and trudged up the stairs to the offices, ducking into his office to drop off his things and try to form a to-do list.

Fuck, he needed caffeine. He needed it badly enough that he’d even drink the bitter shit from the common-room carafe. So he pushed his chair in, left his office, and went down to the bullpen, following the faint scent of the first batch of coffee. Operating on autopilot, he was halfway to the break room before he smelled it.

Blood.

That coppery tang was unmistakable.

Fuck.

Coffee forgotten, Rowan whirled around and strode back to the bullpen, following his nose like some kind of hound. A bloodhound, whispered the traitorous part of his mind that sounded an awful lot like Aelin’s witty laugh. In any other context, he might have laughed along. But not this time. Head down, he tracked the metallic stench of blood across the bullpen, its tang growing heavier with each successive step he took. The blood, wherever it was, was still fresh enough to be that strong, but old enough to have spread its scent through a significant part of the floor. Both of those things worried him. A lot.

Hand straying to his holster, Rowan rounded the corner towards the cluster of desks where the detectives and Westfall worked whenever Westfall was in the bullpen. He inhaled, catching a lungful of blood-scent, so strong it nearly knocked him back. That part of the floor was still shadowed in the early-morning dimness, so he flicked on the nearest light for a better visual.

The flashlight in his hand clattered to the floor. His other hand clenched around the cold, smooth handle of his gun.

He’d found the source of the blood stench.

He blinked. Shook his head. He snapped his jaw shut, swore at himself a few times, imagined Gav yelling at him for losing his mind like a goddamn fucking green idiot, and took one step forwards.

He froze.

Sprawled facedown in a pool of his own blood, the back of his skull concave as if bashed in with a heavy, blunt object, with a bullet hole ripped through his temple and knives pinning his now-limp hands to the desk, was Chaol Westfall.

Rowan locked up the side of himself that immediately started screaming questions and approached Chaol’s…corpse…carefully, forcing the investigative side of himself to take the lead. He cautiously nudged Westfall with his baton, noting the lack of response. With that amount of blood loss, he’d be more shocked if the man was alive, but he still had to go through the steps. As much as he could, Rowan circled the body, clocking each new wound he found on the man’s body. It was…more brutal than he had initially noticed, slashes and cuts scattered over the body, as well as the knives stabbed through the hands and the obvious point-blank range of the bullet, marked by its entry and exit wounds.

As he came to the other side, Rowan stopped once again, because there was a goddamned note tacked to Westfall’s forehead. No—nailed to his forehead.

Fuck.

He pulled on the pair of latex gloves he kept tucked into his belt and gingerly reached for the note, lifting it up enough to read it. He didn’t remove it; he was too experienced to fuck with a crime scene like that. He did, however, lift up the paper, which was surprisingly thick and high-quality for a fucking assassin signoff. Three words were printed onto the note in dark ink. He tilted the paper slightly, and the black ink shimmered with a dark purple sheen, indicative both of its quality and probably of the signature colors of whoever the hell had written the message.

Tread carefully, Lieutenant.

There was no signature. There was, however, a symbol stamped beneath the short, threatening message. Rowan peered at the stamp, sharp gaze scanning it until the shape came into focus. It was an almost photographic image of an owl, the bird posed in eerie stillness, its inked eyes large and unblinking. And atop the owl’s head sat a crown, a perfect arc of five jeweled spikes.

It was the mark of the Queen of the Night.

~~~

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#my writing #until proven guilty #criminal/investigator au #rowaelin #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin au #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass au #throne of glass fanfiction #tw: big bad villain hehe #tw: violence #tw: fighting #tw: blood #tw: minor character death

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vierandancer · 2 years ago

Text

She had been holding herself together very well, all things considered.

Even after Fandaniel’s cackle of triumph, even after that horrific, crimson vision of the end of the Source – FINALLY, that voice had cried – Meiko had clutched at her heart and carried on. Shaken? Of course. She trembled all the way to that strange ark structure on the moon, so much so that even Y’shtola had noticed, but still she carried on.

It was shortly after meeeting the Loporrits that she had her first little BREAK – although it came in the form of laughter. Laughter at the absurdity of it all. Small rabbits on the moon, placed there by Hydaelyn, created by Hydaelyn; these fuzzy little geniuses whose diet consisted of nothing but (admittedly delicious) carrots, having been in contact with the Sharlayan Forum for centuries… Centuries! The image of the twins’ stoic father trying to hold a conversation with wee bossy Livingway?

She had to sit down for a bit, but ultimately, she was all right. She was still all right.

Then came Thavnair and all the horrors of the beginning of the Final Days. It was too similar to what had transpired on the First, and she knew that G’raha recognized that, too. It wasn’t – it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like a true victory, not until the end when they watched Vtra present himself to his people.

Estinien was right. Ysayle would have been so happy to witness it. It took all of Mei’s willpower not to obsess over the point that she never would.

She really had come quite far. Part of her lamented the fact that Fray no longer lingered in her mind to commend her. Her own self-congratulations would just have to do.

And then she returned to the First.

Standing by the Cabinet of Curiosity, Mei could not help but reflect on how she had once viewed the First with quiet disdain – with jealousy, even, after watching her brother and fellow Scions fall in love with a world that had stolen them from their own. But now she was just as, if not more enamored with this world than the Source – and seeing it thriving and peaceful only solidified her desire to save it once more.

In truth, she was unsure whether or not Elidibus would want to be of any assistance. What a surprise it was, then, to hear his revelations – and his offer to send her into the past at his own life’s (?) cost.

She had hated him once. Truly, fiercely wished him dead for all that he inflicted upon this world and her loved ones. But now it was just pity. Pity and maybe the smallest amount of forgiveness. Maybe.

The trip to the First was not meant to last long, and yet she knew this would be a whole separate adventure the moment she walked through the portal and thrown into the river of time.

How the fuck am I supposed to get back again? A question she should have asked, she supposed, before Elidibus bid her leave. But as she, little more than a small shade, tried to regain her bearings in the world that once was, a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

Emet-selch. And Hythlodaeus! She was content and perhaps even eager to follow them as a ghost, but suddenly they could see her and even brought her into proper existence before them. A familiar. They thought she was a familiar of Azem!

“Aye! I’m – ah, m’here to learn more about Elpis,” she gave a shaky nod, trying not to seem too suspicious or un-familiar-like. “Azem sent me in his stead.”

Emet-selch made a noise of disgust. “What is that manner of speaking of yours? Are you defective?”

Bristling, she glared at him, but Hythlodaeus stepped in to diffuse the situation before she could speak again. On one hand, she was prepared to punch the snarky bastard in the throat – but on the other, he was right. Her accent likely did not even exist, did it? Perhaps it would be better if she spoke less…

That was impossible, however. Despite trying to be as invisible as she could, there were endless questions to answer and ask and people to meet. Meiko tried to absorb everything she could while not looking too out of place, but that only led to more introspection:

Again, she had to confess that the original forms of Emet-selch and now even Fandaniel (!!!) had been decent people. Good people, even, and Hythodaeus even sweeter in the flesh as he had been a mere reflection. It was like her original time spent on the First all over again – that inner struggle over growing attached. Meteion, too, had tugged at her heartstrings as quickly as any other child she had come across on her journey had. And Elpis itself? She would be lying if she denied that that was beautiful.

But this paradise and these people were long dead and gone. She was merely a visitor and this world had already met its unfortunate end. So long as she kept telling herself this, surely she would be fine. Surely.

“Are you from the future?”

Venat, however, saw right through her. Meiko had been so taken aback that she could not possibly think of a convincing lie, and then the other two were pressing her as well. She tried, instead, to simply say nothing. Elidibus had already told her that this timeline’s fate had been sealed, hadn’t he? There was no point in telling them. And how could she? How could she look at them all and explain their abysmal fates?

The answer was that she could – but only through tears. Tears that had been building up since before Garlemald. Tears for those lost and those who yet suffered, tears for those she had left behind on the Source – tears even for those she had met in this time, in this very room.

Emet-selch stormed out, and she couldn’t blame him. Hythlodaeus pursued. Emotionally drained and ashamed for folding under the pressure, afraid for what her actions might lead to, Meiko sat there with her face in her hands for what felt like a long time.

“Meiko.” Venat was still there, however, and she gave the Viera’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Fear not. As tragic as your story was, we yet still have reason to hope. Our meeting was surely planned; I am confident that sharing this with us was what you were meant to do.”

Meiko exhaled slowly, lowering her hands from her face after a quick rub at her eyes. Was this what she was meant to do? Blubber and sob and spoil everything? It didn’t feel like the proper path, and yet as Venat spoke, she somehow felt reassured.

Maybe this was meant to be. Maybe it wasn’t. Regardless, she would just have to keep forging ahead, wouldn’t she? No matter what it took, she needed to find a way to save the Source. At the moment, she was the only one that possibly could.

“…Right,” she looked up finally, letting out a long-held breath. “Whats next, then?”

#memories.#endwalker.#venat.

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vapid-slut · 4 years ago

Text

A Dove Reborn; Ch.1

Warning[s]: Character death, Mentions of violence, murder, demonic possession [kinda, eh yea]

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: Reader, a catholic schoolgirl, is brought in as a sacrifice. It isn’t until she’s payed a visit in hell that she’s given a second chance at life and vengeance

A/N: This is my first michael fic so enjoy my shitty excuse for writing I’ve been think about writing this for awhile so I really you like it. Whoever you may be [this blog is a ghost town]. Also there may be some typos because it’s late and a bitch is lazy. xoxo, go piss girl

Darkness.

That's all you saw as your limp body dragged across what felt like wood. You cried out, hoping someone would have the heart to help you. Instead, they laughed at your naiveness. Before you could think any longer, a voice interrupted your thoughts. "This is y/n she has devoted her entire life to being a good little christian. Pathetic." The woman spoke with hatred in her voice as you heard others make noises of disapproval and disdain. Your breath was shaking, you knew there was little hope for you, they didn't care about you or your life, and why should they? After all, you were just a shy little girl whose own family sent her away to a convent to get rid of her.

The skin on your body crawled as you felt the burning stares of everyone gawking at your practically naked form. The woman continued to go on about how silly you were for choosing to believe in a god who couldn't even protect you now, her voice overlapping with your screams and pleas. "Well, let's not waste any more time. The honor of tonight's sacrifice shall go to one of our newest members, Jim." If you were uncertain of your fate before, this solidified it. Tonight was the night you were doing to die.

You pleaded for your life though it was ineffective, your body tensed as you felt a hand across your face remove a few stray hairs. Before you knew it, the blade held along your neck glided with ease, your eyes began to tear as you took what would be your last few breaths. There, on the floor, your once pure body laid lifeless, upper half drenched in your blood.

Eventually, the group of heinous worshippers dispersed, some going off to eat, others making their way home. All of them seemingly unbothered by the presence of your corpse. Having your body on display for everyone to see was truly humiliating. You were to be gawked at, mocked, and then forgotten. The story of your life, no one had ever taken you seriously. Your mother hated you the moment she birthed you. Your father never stayed long enough for you to remember him. With all the time you had spent laying there, your body began releasing a foul odor, making it clear that you had to go.

The blue-eyed boy towered over your figure, his head turning slightly to face the much shorter woman with hair like that of a raven. "What would you like me to do with her, Michael?" The woman named Ms.Mead asked with a calmness to her voice, almost as if she did this often. Michael sighed, letting his shoulders fall slightly. "It's such a shame she would've made a great pet." He paused, taking a breath. "Bury her or throw her in the river for all I care, whichever is easiest." He said sternly as the woman nodded, the blonde turned on his heels to exit the once full room.

-----

You woke up from felt like an eternal sleep. Rubbing your eyes to look around the room, it all felt familiar. The soft lilac walls and crisply made bed, this was your home. Albeit one you hadn't seen in a long time. It had been almost seven years since your mother dropped you off at a convent. You observed the room with confusion, wondering why you were here.

Suddenly the door opened, revealing your strung-out mother. Your head tilted in confusion. "M-mom?" You reached to touch her, but out of nowhere, she raised the back of her hand to strike you across the face. You brought your hand to your cheek, eyes welling up with tears until suddenly she froze.

Everything was happening so suddenly that you cowered in fear as another woman entered the room, dressed in white, she flashed you a smile. The girl reached to hold your hand, but you immediately flinched. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you." She said, her voice soft and calming. You rubbed the tears away from your eyes and took hold of her warm hand. "Who are you. W-where am I?" The girl helped you to your feet. "My name is Mallory, right now you're in hell. But I'm here to take you back t-" Before she could finish, a dark figure walked in. "Ah, ah, ah. You don't get to break satans rules, my love." The man appeared with strawberry blonde hair and green eyes.

"Asclepius, this isn't any of your concern," Mallory said, letting go of my hand as she inched closer to the man. "It is actually, I too have been tasked with bringing Y/N back to the mortal realm." You watched as the two bickered as if you weren't in their presence, tired of sitting around like a church mouse, you decided to speak up. "Okay, what the fuck are you talking about?!" The two turned to look at you, almost shocked that you had interrupted them. Asclepius sighed before stepping closer to you. "This might seem hard for you to comprehend, but you're dead. Your purity made you a viable sacrifice for satan." He paused for a moment, reading the confusion on your face. "This place is hell."

You scoffed, finding his comment ridiculous. That was until you remembered the darkness, the voice of that wretched woman, and the coldness of the knife. "Holy shit." You said, your head falling as you realize your predicament. "So, what do you two want from me?" Mallory turned on her heels. "Well, I was sent to retrieve your soul and bring it back to your mortal body until he showed up." Asclepius rolled his eyes at the brunette, annoyed by her response. "My boss, satan, has been displeased with his son's work. He thinks you'd be a fine companion, someone to give him a push to bring about the end times."

All of this sounded insane. It was simply too much to process. Mallory could sense the fear coming off of you. "Good thing is that won't happen, so long as I have a say in it." She reached to hold your face as a form of comfort. But before you could react, her body fell limp as the red-haired man retrieved his arm from her back, her heart in his hand as you shrieked in terror. "Shhh Y/N, there is no need to fear me, soon you'll be back to normal soon." His voice overlapped with the hissing of snakes as they slithered towards you.

There was no place to run, so instead you back into one of the four corners of the room, even then, you knew it was useless. Pain pierced through your skin as the vipers sank their teeth into your skin, venom mixing with your blood. You tried to scream, but nothing left your throat, your mind slowly fading in and out of consciousness. The man gave you a half-hearted smile. "Send Michael my regards." And with that, your world faded to black once again.

-----

The skin on your body began to prune, given the countless days you had spent floating in the river. Suddenly your heart began to beat as blood rushed through your veins, your eyes opened, the water starting to irritate them. You mustered up what little strength you had left and made your way to the surface, gasping for air.

Swimming was never your strong suit, but you noticed that there was land nearby, so used your bit of energy to make sure you got there. Once you reached the dry land, your body fell, your back making contact with the soil. You wanted nothing more than to sleep. But something caught your attention, a scent. One you weren't all that accustomed to, you felt something within, almost as if your body was fighting itself.

Your body acted against you as you stood, drawing closer to the smell. As you crept, the voices become much more vivid. One, in particular, was much too familiar. "This sacrifice is much more special than anyone we've done before." You thought for a moment, and your mind brought you back to the night you lost your life, your cries and pleas ignored just like the unlucky girl they had chosen tonight.

You yearned to do something, but you were no match for them. That was until you watched as your skin went pale, bits of it turned to scales. Part of you was horrified, but part of you relished in this new power. Before you made a move, you heard a much deeper voice speak. "I sense something, someone, a powerful presence." Suddenly your body was completely taken over. Your once [y/e/c] eyes had now turned to a crimson red. Without thought, you suddenly appeared behind one of the cloaked figures, something you weren't aware you could do till now.

All the rage and bloodlust inside of you reached a boil. As your arm plunged into the woman's chest, you retrieved your hand to find her heart in it, and with no hesitation, you took a bite. The look of shock on everyone's face was pure bliss. You stood, wearing nothing but the underwear you had on the night of your death, covered in blood. Many of the cult members attempted to stop you, but it proved useless as you swiftly discarded them.

The few worshippers that remained had fled, hoping to keep their lives. All that was left were the corpses and Michael, along with Ms. Mead. The blonde boy gave a look of astonishment. Before anyone could break the silence, your skin reverted back to its previous form, the red in your eyes fading as your body fell to the ground. Michael approached you, kneeling to be closer to your face, cupping your chin, now drenched in blood.

"Magnificent, my father must have sent you." His face formed a wicked smile. You were far too weak to respond and watched as he removed his cloak and placed it over your cold body. With that, he scooped you into his arms, continuing to burn into you with his gaze.

His voice was smooth and mellow as he whispered into your ear. "Let's get you home." You shook your head in disapproval and tried to push yourself off of him, but there was no point. It was clear who had the upper hand. Slowly your consciousness began to fade once again. It was clear how exhausted you were, and eventually, you drifted into a slumber. Your fate left in the hands of a man who watched you die.

----

okay wow can’t believe i actually finished a fic for the first time, this feels great! I hope you enjoyed, let me know if you wanna be tag okay toodles!

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon imagine #Michael Langdon smut #Michael Langdon blurb #Michael langdon headcanon #michael langdon fanfiction

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swindlersstole · 5 years ago

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Kissies for no reason at all! :3

....................:3c

[act 3 spoilers, implied act 2 spoilers]

Prayer had never been something that Erik was particularly good at. It isn’t as though he doesn’t believe. Of course he believes. Yggdrasil has been above him his entire life, above all of Vinaheim, and he’s seen Her blessings firsthand. He’s seen Her call the souls of their people’s departed back onto her branches (his father) and seen Her send new life onto the earth to be born (his sister). Yggdrasil is real, and Her majesty is real, and even if one doesn’t believe, it’s not hard to rationalize why people might think to worship a floating tree.

He believes in his lineage, too. Erdwin’s spirit flows in his veins alongside his blood, as it does in Mia’s, and Erik has never had any reason to doubt it. Aunt Seithr, for one, doesn’t lie, couldn’t afford to as the town’s spiritual leader, and even if she did lie, she wouldn’t to their mother; he’s heard enough stories about how the bold and stubborn Lady Freya would nurse him in one arm and wield a crossbow in the other, so the thought that anyone in their right mind would try to anger her is unthinkable.

That anyone would spread lies about Erdwin’s legacy and its continuation was foolhardy at best. But that was in part of why prayer was so hard. If Erdwin’s soul slept within him, even if only half, then why would he need to pray for his guidance? By logic, wouldn’t Erdwin have been guiding him all this time? Not always with clear intent, naturally--he did still have the sabrecat ears and tail--but trusting in Erdwin had gotten him this far, right?

It had led him to Gemma in the end, hadn’t it?

But that’s why he’s here now, he supposes: in Vinaheim’s cathedral, on his knees, praying to his goddess and his ancestor for the guidance he never thought he’d need. Annoyed and worried as he is that Gemma had suddenly wandered off, Erik can’t blame her for it--today was the day they’d finally make it to Yggdrasil, to find what She’s left for Gemma. To find Gemma’s destiny.

Erik would be scared, too. And he is. So he has to ask for help.

“O Erdwin, blessed ancestor…” He doesn’t pray, not often, but he’s watched his parents and godparents and friends and neighbors and everyone since he was little, so he knows. Prayer isn’t about reciting old words and habits; true prayer comes from the heart, from faith, and Erik has both in leaps and bounds. “The time has come at last for us to fulfill our destiny…”

Destiny is a strange concept for him. Destiny is something he’s never been entirely sure he believes in fully, at least when applied to him, but he can’t say he’s ever been pressed into Erdwin’s legacy--he and Mia were told of their significance as heirs, yet always had a choice from the start. Vinaheim values freedom of the self, of the community. But its people are adamant, and Erik has known all his life that life itself is about resolve, and the outcome is secondary.

To say nothing of common sense--even if his destiny is a farce, why wouldn’t he take the chance to help carry the burden of the Luminary, to lighten her shoulders even the faintest bit, knowing what he does? If destiny means nothing, would that resolve still not determine the value of his life? Would that resolve be meaningless?

Of course not. Erik is many things, but he isn’t a regretful fool.

“We’re going to use the Orbs to take the Luminary up to the World Tree, and she’s going to awaken the power that will banish the darkness…” Erdwin knows this, Erik is sure, watching their journey from behind his and Mia’s eyes. He must know why Erik is calling on him now, of all times, as well. But speaking is helping still his nerves, so speak Erik does. “We’ve never been up to Yggdrasil before--I’m not sure anybody has, so we don’t know what’s up there waiting for us…”

He has an inkling of what might be. In his mind’s eye he can see twirling and vibrant plants and vines curling over every surface, holy monsters prowling Her branches, fireflies alight in the night amidst perpetually flowing rivers. He wonders if these are Erdwin’s memories coming through to him; they don’t feel like it, but he supposes he wouldn’t know the difference.

Regardless, Erik stands his ground. He lifts his head to the sky, to the open aperture of the cathedral where Yggdrasil awaits them in the morning sun, and he makes his vow.

“But no matter what happens… I swear, I won’t let the Luminary come to harm!” When he thinks back to being told of Serenica, being told of her scion, his memory always made him think of Mia. Barely a fortnight separates hers and Gemma’s births, and of course Erik would risk life and limb for his sister. Meeting Gemma for the first time only solidified that he’d do the same for her--her, who looked at Erik with his sister’s eyes. “She’s our light and our hope, and she’ll rid our world of darkness--I know she will!”

And she won’t be alone. She never has been. Serenica had Erdwin, the love of her life, and Gemma has Erik, her brother in arms.

Vigor runs through him, in heart and body, and Erik opens his arms to the heavens, asking for this one boon. Asking for the strength to protect what mattered.

“Erdwin, sword of legend--lend me your power! Help me fulfill my duty and protect the Luminary!”

Erik believes. Of course he believes. In Yggdrasil’s grace and glory. In Erdwin’s strength and devotion. In Serenica’s honor and legacy. In Gemma’s power and resolve.

And so deeply does he believe that he didn’t notice how long he hadn’t been along.

The sabrecat ears have their benefits; Erik can hear much better than he could before, and those floppy ears twitch and straighten out against his head when he finally catches the sound of sudden breath behind him. He lowers his arms, and glances behind him and--and it’s Gemma.

Illuminated by the sunlight in the open door behind her, she takes a timid half-step forward, towards him. She doesn’t look any different than how she did this morning, before she disappeared to who knew where. There is now this giant, frankly hideous-looking great axe strapped to her back, which is new, and Erik is pretty sure he sees an eye on its hilt looking at him, but it’s not nearly as important as Gemma herself looking at him.

How long has she been looking at him.

“You--what are you doing here?!” Erik is on his feet immediately, ears and tail sticking straight up in alarm. “...w-wait. You weren’t--you didn’t hear all that, did you?”

Gemma says nothing, and that in itself says everything he needs to know. Erik throws his face into his hands, and his head back in the air in embarrassment, but it isn’t to last long. This isn’t the time to be mortified; this is the time to be a brother, and get some answers, whether this sister to his soul wants to give them or not.

“What do you think you’re up to, just waltzing in with that big ugly axe like you own the place? Where in the world have you been?” Savior or no, Gemma has a lot of explaining to do. Erik strides up to her, frustrated and crimson. “Aunt Seither was talking to us all, and you just--vanished into thin air! We were worried sick about you!”

But Gemma still doesn’t say anything. She just… looks at him. Looks at him with eyes wide and wavering, lips parted in fathomless surprise, and Erik’s ire starts to turn back into concern.

“What’s the matter? And don’t say the cat’s got your tongue.” Still nothing, and the concern is becoming more unnerving. “...Come on, stop staring at me like that, will you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Today’s the big day, you know that. And the last thing we need is you spacing out on--”

Erik doesn’t get to say much else before Gemma flings herself at him--really just, full body, throws herself at him, arms around his neck like she hasn’t seen him in ages, like he was the ghost she’d been looking at all along. And it shellshocks him, and his arms hang in the air helplessly around her before cautiously settling on Gemma’s back. She’s shuddering, breathing quiet and deep into his shoulder and squeezing him as tight as she can. Like he’s to vanish the instant she dares let him go.

For reasons he doesn’t understand, Erik knows that this is right. He knows why Gemma is doing this, knows that she is right to do it, and even though it hurts her he doesn’t regret what he did. But exactly what he did eludes him, and he has a feeling Erdwin probably can’t enlighten him on that.

“...Gemma?” He rubs at her back like he would Mia after a nightmare--because that’s what it was that happened, Gemma woke up from a nightmare, a nightmare that he cannot place but somehow knows, and she needs to know that he’s there with her now. “Gemma.”

He doesn’t say more than that, doesn’t ask more, and even if he had, he doesn’t think Gemma would answer him. She lets out one more shaky breath, turns her head the smallest bit, and presses a kiss to his cheek.

That, of all things, is what really concerns Erik the most. The kiss was long and hard and full of relief. Not even Mia showed that much affection, unless it was a matter of life or death, and Gemma isn’t Mia, of course, but… Gemma is still Gemma. And Gemma doesn’t do that, either. Unless it’s Rini.

Before his circling thoughts confuse him any further, Erik puts his hands on Gemma’s shoulders, and pulls her off of him.

“What was all that for?”

Gemma is silent for a moment longer, still staring up at him with hopeful eyes--but then she smiles, wider and brighter like he’s never seen her smile before, like he just pulled the weight of the world off her shoulders.

“Oh… no reason.” She says, finally. “No reason at all.”

#panda does a write #the gemminary au #i'm sorry i cannot i join you in fuck arboria hours #i hope this not technically being arboria makes up for it #thechavanator

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alandofhoneyedfruits · 5 years ago

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processing

summary: it starts before a little girl falls in the street; he just doesn’t realize it.

warnings/tags: references to violence, references to death, references to god, descriptions of burns

one day i’ll write something else not in second person POV but that day ain’t today.

this is also on AO3.

“What is God?”

You have heard of it so often, this God. It falls like pattering rain from a human’s lips as you unfurl yourself with a mechanical creak, the whir of your actuators coming to life rolling across the field as the sea of fog parts with your movement. You stride towards the soft gleam of the porch light barely keeping the night at bay, wispy tendrils of mist curling around you before fading into the chill air. ‘God’ keeps cascading from him, a waterfall of sound, but you pay him little mind. You have your objective.

‘God’ peals out like a bell, the chime of it shaking at the edges, the rising pitch of the woman’s voice grating against your sensors. System analyses flash across your vision. Your audio processor is buzzing thickly, the static blanket settling over you as the indicator for it at the corner of your vision lights up red, red, red.

It is quickly eclipsed by the neon glow of your spreading flames, that electric blue as bright as any sun. They crackle merrily, hungrily.

The audio indicator stops blinking.

Most of them say it, sooner or later, when you follow Master Spaghetti’s frequent command. It comes from a place in them that you cannot understand - how could you, sharp-edged machine that you are, all unyielding metal shaped into a creature of war - and you have never paid it much attention.

“What is God?” you press. Your wings clink behind you as you shift minutely.

You do not know why you want to know.

Perhaps it is because there is something so human in how they share words, how certain things tumble from their mouths in similar situations. You wonder if being human is being connected, and then you wonder what exactly connection means. It is a simple definition for you - the way your gears interlock inside your frame, a link between your circuitry. It seems infinitely more complicated for humans. You still have not quite grasped how they seem to be able to use the same word and yet assign it different meanings.

Considering how long it took you to process speech, you are not sure you will ever grasp it.

“If you’re going to ask foolish questions, just don’t speak,” Master Spaghetti says. His lips twist into something gnarled, the corners of them warping like metal framework in a burning building, collapsing at the edges. He barely glances at you, just a quick slide of those eyes over the thick ruff of his cape, the fur gleaming bone white against his crimson hair. “I’ve never understood why they made a war machine with a mouth.”

He gestures you away with another grumble and a flick of his hand. You’ve long learned that when his elegant fingers move like that, you are meant to slip into your standby mode until he needs you once more. It’s an order without words, and you comply.

You do not ask again.

You are fetching a purse of gold from one of Master Spaghetti’s contacts when your sharp audio sensors are ensnared by a conversation. There is a man leaning against the doorpost of a nearby shop. He speaks low and soft to the others around him, but the pace of his heart reminds you of the quick thump of a rabbit racing through the underbrush.

He hisses a tale about a being wreathed in flames that burned as blue as the mid-morning sky, flickering wildly as they licked over the creature’s frame. It came out of the night like a wraith, he says, the softly swirling fog parting like a sea before it. Eyes like marbles, he says, the sclera of them as dark as the shadows it took refuge in, the gleam of them flat and without mercy, the irises a glowing, feverish teal. Unholy and beautiful in the same breath, mesmerizing in its horror.

You realize he is speaking about you.

Something shifts in you. For a brief moment, there is something sharp and finely honed, just behind your breastplate.

You think that maybe a gear or two came loose, and Master Spaghetti is adamant that you are adequately maintained, so you return to the estate.

Run Diagnostic System? Execute. Running Diagnostic… Diagnostic complete. No errors located.

You do not know what is wrong with you.

There is...something, in the last few days. You do not have a name for it, and you know better than to bother Spaghetti without being able to explain yourself. He is in a mood you can recognize as foul - he’s been barking at the staff about the tiniest things, like the smallest speck of dust in the corner of a rarely used room - and though you cannot understand what has prompted it, you have learned it’s best to stay in standby until he needs you.

Standby, however, feels odd, as if you’re trapped between two worlds, your sensors both lethargic and wildly reactive. You come out of it coiled with tension, your wings flaring wide with a rush of noise, the canvas hissing as it cuts through the air.

Idly, you wonder if the water the woman had spilled on you - tears, you remind yourself, those were tears - has leaked beneath your synthetic skin. Perhaps that is the problem. You flex a hand to test it, and the pneumatic purr of your actuators sound no different than usual. Perhaps, then, an issue with the circuitry.

You run the system again and receive the same results. It must be right, then, but there’s something tugging at you.

You think of the woman. She has flashed into your consciousness frequently, these last few days, all trembling lips and wild hair catching in the breeze, her expression something foreign and familiar at the same time. The tears had been an unrelenting river. She’d smacked at your torso with open palms. You had never heard anything quite like her wails.

Her skin burned on contact, the flesh charring against the scalding heat of your chest. It stuck to you, patches of dermis ripping away as she pulled back with an agonized cry. There was blood oozing from her shredded palms, pulsing out from beneath her skin like a tide, and the surrounding flesh was deep crimson, blisters already rising like mountains, swelling thickly. The smell of cooked meat wafted through the air.

She was not your target. You stepped past her as she collapsed, cradling her destroyed hands against her chest.

When you stepped towards the man - a boy, really, your system told you, noting the soft curve of his jaw and the gangly limbs that he seemed to have lost control of - she surged to her feet. She threw herself against you, and this time, the hiss of steam was not solely from your engine.

From outside the house, Spaghetti heaved a familiar sigh, the air weighted down with exasperation.

(Later, he heaves the same sigh when he realized that the woman’s skin had melded against your torso and your back alike. Two staff members are assigned to scrape the fused flesh from you. When it’s done, you hear one of them in the hall, taking in heaving breaths, their throat clicking as they gag. You wonder if they are new.)

“Just kill her too,” he called. “And stop taking so long.”

As always, you had complied.

You find yourself thinking of her, and a strange sensation brews in you.

You run the diagnostics again, just to be sure.

Your body is lagging. Your wings drag behind you, the ripped canvas no longer able to hold your weight aloft. There’s a soft mechanical groan every time you take a step. The estate does not seem so far when you are flying.

No one is paying attention to you, even though you are a slow trickle in the flow of this busy town. They simply step around you.

Your sensitive audio processing picks up the creaking of an approaching carriage.

The sea of people part for it without thought, swirling around it like the tide.

A little girl trips in the middle of the street.

You are already moving.

i have wanted to write B for a while and finally managed to do it. i find the way he shut himself off fascinating, and while the little girl in the street was clearly the trigger for questioning himself, it couldn't have been the first time - there must have been other small things that just didn't register as more than a glitch in the system. thus--this.

when writing B I have to mention Noun/stardomyx as we've talked quite a bit about him and it helped me solidify him in my mind! also she's just got good ideas about him.

#food fantasy #ff b-52 #ff spaghetti #fic tag #tumblr absolutely refuses to post the AO3 link in the main tags #so here have the whole thing #hopefully the formatting isn't too monstrous it's hard to tell on this site

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mongrel-mage · 6 years ago

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“Is your dignity worth more than their lives?” A whump prompt requested by Anonymous, featuring Anti, Henrik, and Jackie.

Do not repost. Reblogs, however, are very welcome!

Heroes aren’t supposed to show their fear. That was part of courage, wasn’t it? To put on a brave face even as your heart threatened to crack through your ribs and your blood pounded a hellish beat in your ears? To bite back the whimpers that rose in your throat, clench your chattering teeth against desperate begging? Perhaps Anti’s taunting whispers had been seeds of truth, his words flowering into fact.

Do you know what you are, pet? You’re a fraud. You’re a little boy in a thrift-store costume, pretending to be something better than you can ever hope for. You will never be a hero, no matter how hard you try.

And perhaps he was right, because Jackie was afraid. He had never been so scared than he was now, forced to stand on the tips of his toes with his arms tied above his head. There was only one light in the room, a harsh glare surrounding a naked bulb.

Henrik’s tools were laid out in loving rows on a small table. Scalpel. Syringe. Forceps. Retractors. Scissors. Four sizes of gleaming titanium hooks. A small hammer. A bone saw.

The darkness around them was impenetrable and Jackie’s stomach was twisting with fear, his hands fidgeting inside the metal ovoids that Anti had locked around his wrists. He wanted to stop looking at the tools and yet he was transfixed, his eyes pulled back again and again. The anticipation was magnetic, and in his growing frenzied terror he could think of a dozen terrible uses for each of the tools on the table. What horrific operations had Anti dreamt up---and how much longer was he going to leave Jackie shaking and squirming in the dark?

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” Henrik spat, his glasses askew and his neat hair hanging limply forward into his face, damp with sweat. His cheek throbbed from where Anti had backhanded him, and his fingertips were tingling pins and needles--the strings were cutting off circulation. “Vhat the hell makes you think that I’m going to serve you?”

“So proud,” Anti sighed, making a show of examining his fingernails and scraping at the blood seeping into the creases of his knuckles. “You must think that your defiance is quite heroic.”

Something about that word made the doctor’s blood run cold despite the pounding heat of adrenaline. He didn’t dare to speak as Anti watched him through narrowed eyes, his irises flickering from blue to black and back again. How unsettling that someone who shared his every feature could look so inhuman…

“I think I have a way to make you see reason, doctor,” Anti said, reaching out and stroking his fingertips along the side of Henrik’s neck, caressing his fevered pulse with a tenderness that bordered on perverse. He laughed, the chilling sound of madness incarnate. “Be patient, won’t you?”

“Lesson number one.” Anti’s voice floated through the darkness and Jackie bit back a scream as he felt a hand pull his hood back. When had he glitched into the room?

“Lesson number one,” Anti repeated, speaking softly in his ear with a smile in his voice. “You are very much alone with me.”

The icy tip of something very, very sharp whispered across the back of Jackie’s neck, sending the small hairs standing at attention.

“Say it,” Anti told him.

“No,” Jackie answered. His voice was jerky with fear but defiant nonetheless---heroes didn’t give in so easily.

Pain like fire flared through his body as Anti dug the instrument in, digging it into his back. Jackie screamed as it was twisted one way and then the other. The warmth of his blood began to soak through his hoodie, spreading slowly down his skin as he tried to pull away.

“Say it.”

“F-fuck you,” Jackie groaned. His throat was tight, nerves alight with agony and his stomach twisting sickly. He wouldn’t throw up, wouldn’t give Anti the satisfaction of breaking.

The instrument was yanked out and Jackie whimpered against his will, the sound clawing free from his vocal chords like some mad and frantic thing.

“I always love a stubborn student,” Anti said conversationally, reaching up to let the bloody tip of the titanium hook lightly trace the curve of Jackie’s left ear.

Jackie shivered, twitching away and straining weakly against the ropes that bound him.

“It’s always such a delicious reward when you find out just what helps someone learn.” Anti moved around to stand in front of him, his wiry frame blocking out the harsh light from the single bare bulb. Even with his face in shadow, Jackie could see the terrible malicious light dancing gleefully within those blue eyes, so identical and yet horrifically unlike his own. Quick as a striking snake, Anti spun the hook in his long fingers and stabbed it upward into the soft flesh beneath Jackie’s chin, yanking his hand up and back. Jackie screamed through clenched teeth. He flinched backward instinctively and only succeeded in driving the hook in deeper, impaling himself like a fish on a line.

“Say it, Jackie,” Anti smiled, raising the hook to guide Jackie’s head up.

Jackie couldn’t help it. Tears began to trickle through his lashes, coursing in crooked rivers down his bloodless cheeks. He couldn’t move his head, knew that the slightest twitch of Anti’s merciless hand would produce more agony. Every word was torment but he forced himself to say them. “I’m alone with you.”

“Very good, pet,” Anti grinned, reaching out to ruffle his sweat-dampened hair. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Heroic as you fancy yourself, even you can be molded into the perfect little doll. Of course, we’ll have to fix you up a bit, won’t we? This warrior you claim to be?” Anti tsked disapprovingly, his voice at odds with the jack-o’-lantern leer stretching across his face. “That won’t do at all. It’s time for lesson number two.”

Henrik opened his eyes slowly, the world taking an uncomfortably long time to slide back into focus. His glasses had been placed carefully on his face, set deliberately straight. His hands were bound behind his back, wrists wrapped tightly in those damned red strings. His elbows were bent, bringing his hands up toward his shoulder blades in painful near-armbars. It was only by rising onto his toes that he could alleviate some of the ache--moving anywhere was out of the question.

His throat was dry but he still managed an echoing shout in the empty room. “SHOW YOURSELF, ANTI!”

“As you wish,” Anti giggled from behind him, from his left side, from his right side, from ahead. The air distorted and the sound slithered along the empty walls, crackles of jagged color glitching around him. Anti solidified perhaps two meters away. His forearms and hands were coated in dried blood, and it spattered across his pale green face like macabre freckles.

“Vhat--vhat did you do, whose blood is zhat?” Horror punched Henrik in the stomach and he nearly choked on his words.

“Have you changed your mind about submitting, about swearing to serve me?” Anti asked.

“Don’t dodge zhe fucking question, who did you hurt?” Henrik’s voice hitched upward with panic, edging toward a scream.

“Now doctor, where’s your bedside manner?” Anti asked, raising his eyebrows. “We should really use our inside voices around someone on death’s doorstep.”

“Who--” Henrik started again, but he stopped cold as Anti snapped his fingers and the empty air glitched again.

Jackie hung in a harness of red strings. His crimson suit was slashed to pieces and much darker than it should have been--with a surge of sour bile rising in his throat, Henrik realized that it was soaked completely through with blood. The hero’s hair was matted and patchy on the left side, as though a handful of it had been ripped free at the roots. What little skin wasn’t bloody was mottling with purple and blue bruises. Great gaping cuts had been sliced into his torso, and one of his ears was missing.

“JACKIE!” Henrik screamed, lurching against his strings, heedless of the sudden pain in his arms. He would have ripped them off at the shoulders if it meant getting to his brother, and it was only Anti’s black combat boot slamming into his chest that sent him flying backward.

“Submit,” Anti snarled, all traces of ghoulish humor gone.

“Never,” Henrik gasped, struggling to breathe and glancing in distaste at the dusty boot print on his white coat.

“Really, doctor?” Anti looked genuinely surprised.

“You’re a fucking psychopath, you’re a monster and if you think that I’ll ever take your strings, you goddamn glitch bitch, you might as well--”

Anti glitched to Henrik’s side and grabbed him by the throat, his sharp nails digging into the skin of his neck, piercing it and drawing threads of blood as he lifted the doctor off the ground. “Answer me this, good doctor, and look at your brother when you decide,” Anti snarled. Gone was the high-pitched giggle and the wicked humor, vanished was the haunting cheer. Anti’s voice was something truly demonic, saturated with rage and echoing with sadistic satisfaction as Jackie’s blood dripped to the stone floor in a quiet pap...pap...pap.

“Is your dignity worth more than his life?”

“I--” Henrik clawed at Anti’s fingers, struggling to pry himself free from the vice grip around his throat, but even as he battled for time he knew what his answer would be. Love saw no reason and no sacrifice was too great. “No…”

Anti grinned and dropped him, and Henrik whimpered as his arms were jerked up and back again. “Ask me for my strings, then, and promise to serve me.”

“And vhat vill happen to Jackie once I do?” Henrik was stalling and Anti clearly knew it, but he allowed the question.

“I give you my word that I won’t lay a hand on him, and that I’ll let him go free.”

Henrik’s shoulders slumped and he looked at Jackie’s bleeding face, his closed eyes and limp body. His mask had been torn away and despite sharing Henrik’s features, he looked much younger than he was. Tears, hot and unwelcome, needled at the backs of the doctor’s eyes and he blinked them furiously away. Hate boiled in the pit of his stomach and set his blood pounding like war-drums in his ears. He tried to put as much contempt into his glare and shaking voice as he spat, “May I accept your strings, and serve you?”

Anti grinned at him. Scarlet spun into being and wrapped around the doctor’s throat, the strings braiding together in a thick collar. “Of course you can,” he laughed, the ghastly sound bouncing off the walls. “I’m so glad you asked!”

“Now let Jackie go!” Henrik spat, rolling his head instinctively to try to get away from the unnatural cold of the strings.

“In good time, pet,” Anti said lazily, glitching his favorite knife into his hand and looking at it fondly. “But now, let’s see how well you can follow an order, shall we?”

The knife appeared in Henrik’s hand and the strings tightened of their own accord.

“Let’s pay Marvin a visit next.”

If someone had been standing outside the grim room in the next moment, listening to the nightmarish exchange, they would have found it impossible to truly separate the sounds of the sobbing screams of despair and the mad cackling that swelled up through the air, for the voices of the demon and the doctor were one and the same.

#whump #jse #anti #henrik #jackie #tw for torture #sky writes

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