#disembowelment trap

[artblooger19moon]

Mark Hoffman

SAW

[the-fallen-blue]

Reading a lot of video game fanfic recently and there's a really interesting, idk, ludonarrative scale that writers exist on.

Like on one end, there's stuff that has no justification in-universe, which is purely for the sake of fun gameplay, but it's acknowledged in-universe. Party size is a big one for this. The idea that the protagonist is trying to save the world, cannot afford to take any risks or lose a single fight, has ten skilled fighters sitting at home base, and still just only ever decides on two to three to take to any conflict, is objectively deranged, and there's seldom if ever anything in any of these universes to actually justify it, even something as slim as "only four guys fit in the shuttle." But a lot of games do, nevertheless, reinforce *in the narrative* that if someone's not with you, they genuinely weren't with you, whether it's BG3's "they literally tell you your party is full and whine about staying in camp" or Inquisition's "woUlD HaVe liKeD To haVE beEn tHeRe" from Blackwall if you bring him a Warden widget at base instead of taking him to find it, or simply the mere fact of approval changes only hitting characters who are present.

And consequently, players (and thus writers) sort of internalize this as Just A Thing That Happens in the universe. 90% of Inquisition fics have the Inquisitor taking three people out into the world with them and leaving the rest at Skyhold for absolutely no reason other than that's what happens in the game, even though the only reason it happens in the game is to make combat for the omniscient omnipotent player fun, something that is not at all real for the actual tired, bloody, mortally threatened characters. And while that is arguably quite silly, it also makes perfect sense. The text of the game literally tells us this is happening, whether it makes tactical or real-world sense or not, so it would be unusual for a writer to write that it wasn't.

But on the other end, there's stuff that is not acknowledged in-universe, stuff with absolutely no rational connection to the narrative at all. The enemies come at the characters in consistent, predictable waves, in numbers that make sense for video games but wouldn't in the real world (a hundred wolves ten yards north of a farm, dozens of space assassins on a remote ten person space station, six of a type of demon used as a trash mob that, in lore, requires dozens of highly trained soldiers to stop only one). The character is subject to an attack that would be both impossible and immediately lethal in the real world and the fantasy world alike, five or six times, because the author is describing the exact attack animation of an enemy move; the character retaliates in an exact description of the flashy physically impossible move bound to the right bumper button. The character finds a ring on a 600-year-old corpse that makes that move 10% more effective numerically when worn, described in a way that just barely obscures that the in-game item has actual literal damage numbers on it.

To be clear, there is nothing wrong with this. One should write anywhere along the scale that one desires. If your muse is struck by describing the four implausible conveniently-spaced plant-hangars that Ezio jumps up on his way to climb a trellis in precise detail, if a parkour sequence tickled your id so hard that you had to take it to the page, that is your absolute right, and a lot of your readers will be just as genuinely delighted as you to be like "omg I remember climbing that exact building." The gameplay is part of the story in a video game, and a totally legitimate part of the conversation that we're all having with each other when we read and write fic.

But from a dev perspective, this is a pretty important lesson that the gameplay is part of the story, no matter how sharp or obvious you, the dev who is used to handwaving rings of +10dmg, think the line between mechanics and narrative might be. So, if it is a core premise of the story you're trying to tell that a particular type of demon is a boss fight for a dozen guys, don't make it a trash mob, because to the players who fight six million of the thing over their sixty hours of play, that's the portrayal that will be real. Definitely don't have your characters actively comment about not being present for things in the current game if it will be important for your story in a later game that they have the prestige and knowledge from having been part of the event. And remember, when you add random collectables to weird places, that you have now irrevocably imbued into someone's canon that their Grim Sober Angsty Space Marine is doing weird hops up the side of a light fixture to grab a jar of pink armor paint.

[shellxrls]

me and moony talking ab putting rafe in a saw trap until he’s so scared he pisses and shits himself…

[passengerpigeons]

becoming largely chill about most things. but i give myself permission to be mad about car infrastructure, car dependence, and cars flagrantly ignoring pedestrian right-of-way and generally endangering beings of flesh. because this is one of the few truly moral axis of this world

[sreabhadh]

Don't know how Tumblr works honestly, or if I'm doing this right but Kef's TexAid au and everything everyone has written, drawn, and made for it- well it's got its hooks in me. It's probably pretty tame as far as TexAid goes... so trigger warning here lol. If you are not part of the fandom/already a freak I do NOT recommend reading it because I don't want to be responsible for accidentally traumatizing someone/revealing to others who aren't also like this how "like this" I am.

Like I said, probably pretty darn tame as far as TexAid goes (so those of you like me, don't get your hopes up), and those of you NOT like me in this regard... probably better keep away lol.

Anyway, you've been warned. If you're still here, please enjoy.

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

He still hasn’t found him yet.

Vortex held back his laughter at the thought, wondering how much longer it would take Felix to find his ‘other friend,’ Ambulon. His other friend. Well, ‘another friend.’ That’s what Aid had said. First Aid considered him, Vortex, his friend. A place he could be safe. ‘Friend.’ It should’ve made Vortex want to squish the ‘pilot’ up till he popped and died. Should’ve made him want to explore the ways he could torture him without killing him, break and bend his mind, then test out a new method of completely dispatching him. Just like his other playthings. That had been one of the only things that had been exciting about Vortex’s life, back when he had a fleshy body, and it had been arguably the best part about being… him. Gears and all.

Killing things would always be fun. Unless it was First Aid. Somehow, somewhere along the line, First Aid had made the thought of killing his pilot…less exciting. Letting him live, the little freak, had turned out to be much more fun. Letting his squishy ‘pilot’ feed him information, ideas on how to disembowel their prey. At first Vortex had done it so he could keep going out without risking the scrapheap. Done it for the thrill of watching his cleaner squirm, trapped and forced to come back every time, no matter how much he didn’t want to. His newest toy had proved to be much more entertaining than that though. And now he was- Vortex didn’t want to think too hard about it. But he was his. First Aid, no- Felix was his.

Vortex had chosen him as his pilot. Felix had ‘chosen’ to accept. Felix chose to call Vortex his friend, chose him as a safe place to rest. And Vortex had chosen, time and time again, not to kill him. He belonged to Vortex now. Felix was his. And no one, Pharma or otherwise, was going to take him away. Vortex wasn’t going to let him leave the cockpit ever again.

Logistically, that had issues. Which should be Felix’s problem. Vortex shouldn’t care about that. It should be for Felix to figure out. Vortex’s mech- his body- his- there wasn’t a bathroom. Or a cafeteria. There were lockers, with his old stuff. Old MREs, enough water to help Felix after he woke up- even if the idiot had puked the first bottle out onto the mech’s- Vortex’s hull. But it wouldn’t be enough, not forever. Maybe Felix could think of a solution; he was smart like that sometimes. Felix seemed to have a lot on his mind right now though. Vortex had expected Felix to find Ambulon by now, he really wasn’t that well hidden. He was just tied to the wall with some cable, one of the sleeping bags Felix had brought inside Vortex’s- in the mech’s head- to cover him up.

Felix usually had a much sharper eye than this. Vortex grumbled quietly. Felix didn’t notice. Vortex snorted crossly, more loudly. Felix picked his head up from his hands. “Vortex?” he asked. There was something in the way Felix said his name, something in the way his eyes glinted in the mech’s- in Vortex’s- red lights.

[FELIX BABY~] he purred.

Felix leaned forward in his seat. “Yeah?”

Vortex let the silence pick at Felix’s patience a moment, then grinned.

[I CAN WARM YOU UP~] he said, flashing the words on his screen and speaking it into Felix’s head through the drift, grinning fiendishly as the suggestive tone in his voice made Felix blush. Little freak~

“Errrr, but I’m not cold,” Felix fumbled. His eyes darted around a little, as if looking for somewhere to look that wasn’t part of Vortex. He still didn't see Ambulon. He was busy looking for somewhere that wasn’t flirting with him. Basically, Felix was avoiding looking Vortex in the eye. Or he would be if Vortex were.. organic. And while he tried to feign a lack of understanding, Felix was blushing. It was cute. Vortex snickered. His pilot was adorable. And also a freak. He was an adorable freak. And he was his.

Vortex snickered again, opening the vents and blasting his AC. Felix stared dumbly, then stood, hand on hip, an admonishing look on his face. His mouth opened like he was going to deliver a withering retort, then it shut again, and he swallowed. His expression softened slightly, then contorted with confusion, and rehardened into complete bafflement with an edge of offense taken.

“…why?” he murmured quietly, so softly Vortex felt it through their drift connection more than he heard it.

[COLD YET?~]

���Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…”

Vortex opened the vents even wider, blasting the cold air even harder.

Felix gaped.

[COLD YET?]

“No, but I will be soon, do you mind??” he snapped back. His exasperation overpowered his fear of retribution for being cheeky. It was delicious.

Slowly, Vortex closed the vents, letting the air flow ponderously wilt to a trickle. Felix glared suspiciously at the vents as they sluggishly shut close. Vortex held them open a moment, waiting to see and feel Felix’s anticipatory frustration bubble, which it did. Once he’d tasted enough of that, he let the vents snick all the way shut, cutting off the AC completely. Felix held his breath a moment, waiting for Vortex to do something. Which he didn’t. Felix waiting for him to do something was too fun. And it felt nice having Felix so focused on him, especially after he had spent so much time “distracted.” By Pharma. By recovering from Pharma’s vile mysterious IV drip. By Pharma trying to turn Felix into another one of him. Another Vortex. Vortex gritted his- well he would’ve gritted his teeth except he didn’t have any. His gears ground in response to his anger. His current “body” didn’t have organic teeth but it did what it could.

Felix tensed, ever mindful of Vortex’s moods. The moment was ruined. He HAD been planning on waiting until Felix relaxed, then immediately restarting the AC as strong as it could go. Give him a good jumpscare, and give Vortex another excuse to crack a joke about keeping him warm before pointing him to the sleeping bag Ambulon was occupying. But Vortex had gotten distracted thinking about Pharma- every passing thought on the matter made Vortex itch to kill something. Or rather, several somethings. Lots of somethings, (including Pharma of course), with as much blood and screaming as possible. Anyway. He had gotten distracted, and ruined the moment before he could make Felix jump.

Vortex forced himself to allow a smile on his… well, not on his face. His mood? He allowed a smile on his mood. Felix was okay. He was away from Pharma. He was safe, and alive, and trapped inside his cockpit. He wasn’t going anywhere. Vortex had plenty of time to play with his pilot. And they had a friend now too- someone Vortex could send out to get food for Felix, or hold hostage if Felix tried to leave. Someone else who had an actual brain to figure out how to solve problems. Felix’s brain couldn’t be trusted- not when it came to self-preservation. His choice of Vortex as a friend made that clear enough. That and his inability to spot anything wrong with the bulging lump on the wall. Vortex had a mind, he was able to think despite being dead afterall, but his brain had been dragged and cleaned out of his current head ages ago. Shattered skull and all.  

Ambulon, despite getting very chatty when he had first woken up, still had a skull in perfect condition. He wasn’t even bruised (probably) when Vortex re-sedated him and tied him to the wall, and covered him with the sleeping bag. He’d even managed to duct tape the jumpy lab rat’s mouth closed without blocking his other airways. That took skill. Absently, Vortex wondered if Felix would be impressed by his handiwork. Felix hadn’t been around when Vortex first came online- after dying that was. Didn't know how difficult this kind of precision could be. Hadn’t been around when Vortex was still figuring out how to move his new “body.” Some of the casualties he’d caused back then had been accidents. Sort of. Accidents he’d, unbeknownst to his victims and everyone else who’d thought he was gone, reveled in. And then replicated. Again. And again. Repeating until he was capable of the same intentional blood spilling he had been capable of before. Like a baby murderer, relearning how to walk and talk- and stab people in the guts.

Killing was like breathing to Vortex. Was like laughter, and smiling. It was really quite kind of him to have not killed Ambulon. He was Felix’s friend though, and had enough potential to be fun and useful- not to mention he’d been running from Pharma. Vortex might not know a lot about Ambulon, but he wasn’t about to do Pharma’s dirty work for him. Beyond that…Ambulon’s drift connection allowed Vortex to feel what Felix felt like. As an organic. With a living body. Had allowed him to feel what it felt like to hold his hand. To hold him as he slept, safe and sound. Vortex could repay that by not killing or hurting Ambulon too much. Wouldn’t stop him from spooking him as much as he pleased, but…he was grateful, in a way. It wasn’t something he had ever expected to experience. It was part of why Vortex had stuck him to the wall instead of back in bed with Felix. He liked it, but he wasn’t sure what to think or feel about it, and frankly didn’t want to right now. And he didn’t want to share the feeling either. Felix was his, and that’s what mattered. Ambulon was Felix’s friend, and they, he, Vortex, could figure out what that meant later.  

Felix, for his part, had fallen back asleep, slumped in his pilot’s seat. Ambulon could wait until he woke up again. Vortex used some cabling to grab the remaining sleeping bag, then wrapped it around Felix and the chair- cocooning him cozily and tying him to the chair simultaneously. He toyed with the thought of dangling his old suit in front of Felix’s head so it would be the first thing he saw when he woke up… but he decided against it in the end. He liked the thought of punishing Felix if he tried to grab and put it on, but he knew he wouldn’t. There had been such a reverence in the way Felix stared at the suit that Vortex had once worn. An unspoken want in the way he caressed Vortex’s name stitched over the right breast of the suit. An unspoken want that made Vortex want him to wear it. Even without punishing him for it, just to have his name on him…he couldn’t stitch it onto his chest, not directly- Felix was too squishy for that, and Vortex wasn’t delicate enough with a blade on his own to do it without killing his prize. If he could have his name on him though, if Felix put it on by choice-  

Vortex hummed thoughtfully. The notion was intoxicating. Invigorating. Carefully adding more cabling to secure Felix to the chair and their new resident lab rat to the wall, Vortex got up and started walking. Felix had only just recently removed whatever Pharma had attached to his leg, and if it had been a tracker, then they didn’t want to stay here for long.

Maybe he could find some monsters to kill, something to take the edge off his currently stronger-than-usual bloodlust. Maybe find the ones Felix had once considered the most likely to be edible. Have Ambulon cook it and test it, see if it worked.

He hummed some more, looking forward to getting his gears bloody again. He was going to go kill some monsters, wouldn’t be returning to base, and would have Felix with him the whole time. Yes, today was going to be a good day.  

[despazito]

A neighborhood overrun with cats is a spectacle of contradictions. Our sympathy for animals has created a situation that’s terrible for animals. Cats are considered creatures of the natural world but also members of the family. (If a child had a penchant for disembowelling wildlife, would his parents shrug and say it’s just his nature?) Human progress is the argument for reforming the shelters, while long tradition is the argument for leaving cats outdoors. The people who feed feral cats are owners who don’t own them, and No Kill doesn’t mean no killing. At the root of the contradictions are difficult choices that haven’t been made. Both cats and nature pay the price.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddie-week.

Seen Nothing, Heard Nothing

Day #4 - Prompt: Trade | Word Count: 833 | Rating: T | CW: Steve's S3 Injuries, Spooky Vibes, Language | POV: Eddie | Tags: Canon Divergent S3, What If Eddie Crossed Paths With Steve and The Upside Down Sooner?, What If Steve and Robin's Run-In With The Russians Happened Just Bit Differently?

"Hello?"

Eddie freezes. Utterly fucking freezes. The stilted male voice that has come from somewhere around him sounds ethereal, floating. Like it's an echo. Bouncing through the trees. Like it might be right next to him, but also far, far away.

Ignore it. 

That's what his grandma always taught him. You've seen nothing, you've heard nothing. 

Mind your own business.

"Hello? Is somebody there?"

The voice is familiar, less creepy this time, but he can't place it. The familiarity doesn't mean safety, though. Mimicking known voices isn't at all unusual in the realm of weird, and it's best to not engage. Rule one: Do not invite anything of that world into your own world.

So, Eddie ignores it and keeps gathering up his stuff, acting like he's not in a hurry, even if his heart is hammering behind his ribs.

"I need some help."

Then he hears the rustling through the trees along the well-worn path, and his heart drops. It sounds like something is tromping towards him, getting loud and louder with every step. 

He slings his backpack over his shoulder, and takes three big steps away from the picnic table, away from whatever that thing is, without running. Not that he has anywhere to go. Not really.

That's the way out, and unless he wants to just stumble through the thick woods, getting lost, he's kind of trapped.

He's never felt scared here before, and he hates it.

So, he decides he'll just forge past whatever it is. Without acting like he's heard a damn thing.

He really hopes it's invisible. He can ignore noises, voices. But if he has to see something? He's gonna freak the fuck out and get himself disemboweled, for sure. He'll scream like a little bitch and freeze.

Then he'll run.

He just knows that about himself.

You've seen nothing, you've heard nothing. 

You've seen nothing, you've heard nothing. 

You've seen nothing, you've heard nothing. 

He keeps telling himself that as he walks up the path, trying desperately not to run. Hawkins is weird, but it's never been this kind of weird, as far as he's seen.

But this has scared the shit out of him.

"Eddie? Eddie Munson?" 

Eddie stills. That voice is closer, and crystal clear.

And definitely Steve Harrington. 

"Thank god. Dude, are you deaf, or what? I've been asking for your help for ten minutes. Goddamn."

Okay, not a monster.

Just a dumb jock.

Eddie wheels around, snarking, "What's the matter, Harrington. The big bad wolf take a bite out of ya?"

And the next words, the next bit of sarcasm, dies in his throat. 

Steve's face is wrecked. His body, too, Eddie suspects by the way he's limping along. Eye nearly swollen shut, covered in a dark purple bruise. He's missing a shoe.

And he's in a sailor suit. Like the ones from the ice cream shop in the mall. Does Harrington work there? Surely not.

Eddie drops his bag, and bounds towards him, "What happened to you? Who did this? Or what?"

Steve looks at him from his one good eye, and sways. 

"Robbin'," Steve says, and Eddie grips his shoulders, forcing him to back up until he can sit down on the bench of the old picnic table.

"Robbing? You were robbed?" Eddie asks, and Steve's mouth is swollen, too. Blood staining his front teeth, dried on his face where it came from his broken nose.

"No. Robin," Steve repeats.

"Who's Robin?" Eddie questions.

"Robin. Buckley."

"From band? Robin Buckley from band did this to you?"

Steve looks exasperated, and like he wants to cry at the same time.

"No. No. The Russians. She made a trade. I said no, I did, but she was scared, and I was…this," Steve says. "We have to go back. I just need help. They drugged me."

"The Russians?" Eddie asks, his eyebrows shooting up. 

Steve nods, "Under the mall."

"How'd you end up out here in the woods?" Eddie asks. Because he's a long way from the mall, even if what he's saying is true. That's on the other side of town.

"They dumped me," Steve says. "I think they thought I was dead."

"Well, you look it," Eddie says, and then regrets it. 

"We need to find Nancy Wheeler. She'll know what to do."

"Steve, are you sure this is really something that happened? And not just in your head after whatever accident you've clearly had?"

Steve sighs and holds his head in his hands. He's missing a fingernail, like it had been plucked right off. Like he was tortured.

Shit. Okay.

"Okay, okay. We'll go back. We'll find Robin."

Eddie isn't at all sure what he's agreeing to, but Steve can't do anything by himself. Not in this condition. They'll find Nancy Wheeler, and Eddie isn't sure what a little priss like her is gonna do, but whatever Steve wants, they'll try.

"Thank you," Steve breathes, and as sure as Eddie is that he'll regret this, he's in it now.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddie-week and follow along with the fun!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the lair of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

💜 I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world! 💜

@doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody @backyardfolklore

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 

You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.

“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurry up.”

“You’re going to break my wrist—!”

He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”

He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.

What does he want from me?

Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.

To kill me?

But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.

To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?

Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…

Unless he knows who my father is.

You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.

Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.

There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.

He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.

“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”

“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”

Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”

He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.

“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.

You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.

The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.

“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.

“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”

“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”

Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.

Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.

“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.

Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.

“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”

“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”

“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.

“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”

The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”

Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”

They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”

He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”

“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”

Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”

“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”

“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.

“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?

“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.

“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.

“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”

“But he survived.”

“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”

The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.

“What’s it made from?” you say.

“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.

“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.

Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.

“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”

“Since the day he was born, I promised…”

“I know.”

“Your mother…”

“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”

As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.

“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”

“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.

There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”

House Celtigar, but you can��t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”

He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”

You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”

The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”

“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”

“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.

Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.

You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”

They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.

Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.

My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.

In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.

And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.

“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”

“Why not?”

Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”

“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”

“I like being useful.”

“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”

“He’s in pain?”

“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.

You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.

“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.

“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”

“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”

“Aegon—”

“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.

Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”

One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”

“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.

“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”

Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.

“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.

“You must,” Aemond says.

“What if it was Vhagar?”

“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”

Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”

No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”

Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”

“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.

Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”

Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”

Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.

“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.

Aemond does not understand. “See who?”

“Sunfyre.”

“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”

Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”

The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.

The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.

“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.

Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.

Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.

Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.

Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.

“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.

“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.

“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”

A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”

“He has other things on his mind presently.”

“Like what?”

Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”

Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”

This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”

“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”

You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”

“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”

What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”

“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”

You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.

You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.

[pmamtraveller]

JAN DE BAEN - THE CORPSES OF THE DE WITT BROTHERS, 1675

In 1672, the major European powers united and launched an attack on the Dutch Republic, posing a danger of overwhelming the nation. This cost the De Witt brothers, Johan and Cornelis, their lives. De Baen's artwork illustrates their lifeless bodies suspended at the Groene Zoodje on the Vijverberg in The Hague. Johan de Witt served as the Pensionary (the actual leader) of Holland, the most influential province. He was killed by a carefully planned lynch "mob" following his visit to his brother Cornelis de Witt in jail. He was lured into this trap by a forged letter.

The aftermath of this interaction, captured in this artwork, is disturbing, to say the least. Stripped of their garments, the siblings were suspended upside down from a wooden beam. They were castrated and disemboweled. Protesters severed fingers, toes, tongues, and noses to trade as keepsakes. A man is thought to have twisted the neck of a stray cat, the carcass of which he inserted into the open cavity where Cornelis’ penis used to be. Every bruise, cut, and amputation was integrated into the artwork.

Witness accounts assert that Johan's body was displayed higher than that of his brother. The rioters did so because he held the most powerful office in the country, and this aspect was noted by de Baen as he envisioned his artwork. As the De Witts lost numerous distinguishing features, it becomes challenging to identify which of the two figures in "Corpses" is supposed to represent which brother. Thankfully, an inscription on the back of the canvas dispels much of the ambiguity:

These are the corpses of Johan and Cornelis de Witt, made by a prominent painter from life as they hung from the post at eleven o’clock in the evening. Cornelis is the one without a wig. Johan de Witt still has his own hair

The painter was, after all, not present at the lynching. Other draftsmen were, and their sketches appeared in newspapers that de Baen then cross referenced to construct his own version of the events. Despite his remoteness from the incident, his interpretation continues to be treated as a kind of hand-painted photograph: an honest, accurate, and reliable depiction of a historical event.

[colinrobinsonscardigan]

Rewatching Hannibal, and I forgot how funny Chilton is. He's bitchy. He's a loser. It barely feels like he's in charge of the asylum he owns. He survives being shot in the face. He survives being shot in the face and disembowelled and there's not even anything remotely cool about it. If he was a cartoon character he would step on the rake he previously left out as a trap for someone else. Banana peel type man.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Fear of the Dark

Dark!Ghost!Azriel x reader

synopsis: after escaping from the Shadowsinger, the High Lord provides you with a new home, in a location entirely of your own choosing. One that just so happens to be frequently visited by window-rattling blizzards, and snow so heavy you’ll often find yourself trapped within the supposedly safe haven. But when things begin moving on their own, and shadows stalk your well-lit halls, you begin to think maybe the Spymaster somehow eluded death, too.

warnings: references to implied noncon, dark!az, paranormal events, nonconsensual touching (shoulders, mouth, hip)

a/n: dedicating this to @azrielhours , and inspired by her wonderful Company of Phantoms🧡💛

want to know more?

word count: 1,963

-Fear of the Cold-

It’s been six months since he died in the fire.

Six months of roaring screams echoing through the desolate hallways.

Half a year.

It goes by quickly when swallowed by delusion. Of persistent psychosis.

Of imagined shadows stalking your corridors. Of dragging footsteps just outside your chambers. Of the windows rattling, and not from the sudden blizzards that sometimes hit—seemingly out of nowhere. Unpredictable, and haunting.

Some days you’ll wake up, greeted by the barren landscape or grey skies and greyer rock, and others all that lays there is white. Blinding, dominating white, like a blanket smothering the harsh, unforgiving terrain.

You know why you picked here to be your place of refuge. For complete isolation.

The rocky landscape means no one could stumble upon your house without intention, tucked up in the sides of the rugged mountain, weathered by icy rain and lashing winds that could make the blood in your fingertips recoil in the space of a breath. Cold so penetrating it could snatch the air from your lungs.

Few understand the true horror of the cold.

Absolute, inescapable cold.

Nature’s blade, that could cleave glaciers in two.

With the stormy skies, there is no access by air. Winged creatures staying clear of your northern-facing home. And yet, despite the utter isolation, you’re faced with company.

After not even a week in your new house, the hairs had been rising at the back of your neck. Unexplainable drafts ghosting up your spine, or kissing the length of your throat. Doors clicking shut during the grey hours of limited daylight. Books that fall from low shelves, the chandeliers that swing softly when you enter a room, plates that appear where they hadn’t been left.

It’s rarely dark in your house, but the weight is smothering. Every corner is kept clear of shadow, flame purging the darkness with a quiet conviction that feels almost reassuring. But there’s nothing reassuring about your new home. Forearms almost constantly littered in goosebumps, hairs rising, skin prickling.

Even at night, candles burn away at the dark, eating at every shadow that tries to crawl in from the cold. But it feels like lighting a fire in the barren wasteland of the frozen tundra. Flame blazing with superficial strength, until it melts the snow bowing the branches far above, ice slipping free, and smothering the fire in one smooth avalanche.

The glass is rattling again, deathly cold wind whipping, icy rain lashing down as you try to lower yourself into sleep. But every time you near that precipice, something pulls you back: the groan of heavy wooden beams that creak through your house, flame flickering with dwindling light as if blown by a ghostly breath, a strange coldness rising from the foot of your bed. That seeps into your blankets first, then spreads to your feet. Slowly crawling up your body, until you’re wrapped in the haunting embrace of long-dead arms.

Even fire can’t always clear his kind of dark.

Dark that smothers, and festers. That concentrates in the hollow space beneath your bed, that hides in the softness of your pillow, that lurks in the pits of your pupils.

He found a way inside, and now he’s sunk his claws in. Like hooked blades that disembowel when they’re extracted. You’d have to empty your brains out into a bucket to be free of him.

Even then, your body would remember. His touch memorised into the tissue of skin, his terror embedded in the sinew of flesh.

The window spiderwebs, the distinct sound of fracturing glass dumping icy water over your near sleeping form. Hauling you up from the pit of an ocean, wrapped in seaweed to face the stormy grit of the blizzard outside.

Instead, your attention is sucked in by the ever-shifting shadow at the foot of your bed, chilling wind pouring in through the glass, candles winking out. Swallowed in darkness.

The air is pulled from your lungs faster than the cold can snatch it, sat bolt upright in your still-cooling bed.

The darkness holds no recognisable form, simply clustered together as a writhing mass of overwhelming shadow, but there’s no mistaking who it is. Who lurks beneath those suffocatingly concentrated umbras. Inky and undulating.

You’re frozen to your mattress, an icicle thawing out far above as it drips cold sweat down onto your brow, every breath biting at your lungs, making your throat raw.

It’s dark, and you have no protection as he looms so tauntingly before you, hands trembling as they try to grip the freezing sheets. But you can hardly move.

Air chokes in your throat as the shadowy mass expands forward, encroaching toward the foot of your bed. Your eyes widen with terror, watching as talons of darkness spider-crawl onto your duvet, feet recoiling like hot blood against the cold, knees pulling up to your chest, back pressed against the headboard.

“You’re dead,” you breathe out, air thin and slippery between your lips. “You’re dead. You can’t hurt me.”

Your stomach seizes, lurching as the shadowy tendrils stutter in their movements, like shoulders shaking with silent mirth. You get the feeling he’s laughing. Crawling closer still.

He reaches past your feet, darkness swarming over your knees, and within the cloying night you can feel the weight of hands. Of heavy, corporeal touch. One that sinks into your bones as they tremble with old fear.

“You can’t be here,” you whisper, pressing tight into the cold cushioning of the headboard, head tucking into your shoulders as you try to pull away from his overwhelming darkness, writhing throughout the deathly cold room, his touch like ice. “Leave me…” you breathe, voice breaking.

The weight of a palm weighs into the mattress, beside your hip, tying you in place as the living night, faceless and dominating, swells above you.

Your hand reaches sharply for your bedside table, viciously shaking fingers fumbling with the box of matches, sliding the cardboard out with a last trembling hope. Again the darkness stutters, a shadowy laugh whispering beside your ear, an icy draft kissing up the length of your throat.

The match strikes…once…twice…three time before sizzling into a small lick of flame.

In the few seconds of light you’re afforded, shadow easily melts away, pulling out instead hauntingly dark hazel eyes, piercing as the flame sharpens them. The cold, dead mouth that had once hungrily claimed your own, teeth dragging and prominent as they bit you into pieces. The eerily pale tones of his face, warmth vacant from the smooth planes.

You choke on a breath.

Soft, cruel lips curve at the edge, eyes twinkling with the reflection of your match, before his weight shifts over the bed and scarred, calloused fingers pinch out the flame. Skin that remembers its burn now extinguishing it without thought, freed from its sizzling agony.

You scream into the darkness, sinking down into the false safety of your duvet, hauling it over your head as you tuck yourself tight, trembling violently despite desperate attempts to still yourself. A cry breaks from your lips as you feel himself lower over you, directly atop you, trapped beneath his bulk. A cannonball shackled to your ankle, pulling you beneath a frozen lake, blood icing in your veins.

He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be alive.

You heard him die, watched as the flesh slid from his bones, muscle melting beneath the blazing inferno of the house fire.

You smelled it. Could taste it in the smokey air.

“Come out…come out…,” the shadow rasps mirthfully, weight brushing atop the blanket, stroking down your arm, drifting to your hip. Touch biting into bone. “Come out…and play…”

“Go away,” you beg under your breath, squeezing yourself tight, tears burning as they drip over the bridge of your nose, sliding off your face. “Leave me alone…”

The darkness laughs, and your stomach seizes as the duvet is slowly pulled back, dragged firmly from your grip. Numbed fingers try to grapple with the sheets, but he’s so much stronger than you. Just as he’s always been.

“Stop it…” you beg, trying to turn to the side as the blanket is pulled away, revealing his swarming darkness that looms above, with a weight that should not be possible. A spectre should not be corporeal, should not have the right to touch the living. He should have lost that privilege upon passing.

Icy fingertips brush your cheek, and a small cry breaks from your lips, quiet and terrified, eyes squeezed shut in feeble attempts to keep him out as the storm rages.

He dips down, and chilly breath grazes the space beneath your jaw, a whimper pulling from your throat as a broad palm makes its way up your front, settling across your sternum heavily, pressing down on your chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“Please…” you whisper, crying now, “just leave me alone…”

His cold mouth opens over your neck, soft lips sealing over a patch of skin as he tastes you, tongue slowly licking over the junction between your shoulder and neck. Darkness shrouds your bedroom, encasing you in a perpetually cold bubble, sealing out the lashing wind and rain, but trapping you in mist. Thick and impenetrable.

The phantom pulls away, lips grazing your jaw, and even with your eyes closed you can feel his proximity. The piercing weight of his attention as it presses up against your skin.

“Call out for me,” he rasps, voice shadowy and shifting, as if speaking in multiple tones at once. “Call out for me,” he urges, coldness thumbing across your cheek, as if trying to coax your eyes to open. So he can feel their warmth, and their terror.

But you shake your head, teeth chattering as you shiver, shuddering beneath his touch. “Go away,” you beg, “leave me alone.”

A soft puff of breath ghosts over your lips, like a faint laugh, and you shrink back into the mattress while his shadows wrap closer around your body, squeezing like serpents. “Call out for me,” he repeats, his gaze roving over your mouth, parted for air despite its bite.

Hot tears scald your skin as they drip out, peeking open your eyes, as breath is again snatched from your body. A mountain of pressure sitting atop your chest.

He’s as haunting as you remember, cruelly carved beauty, hewn from an ice that tries to be soft, but will only end up flooding if it thaws. Drowning you in his deadly affection. Filling your lungs until they’re close to bursting with his poisonous infatuation.

Hazel eyes flicker as they greedily devour your own, overwhelming and immense as you’re submerged into his obsession. Saturated in his hunger. Starvation so deep it persists after death.

“Azriel…” you breathe, lips trembling around his name, feeling as though its the last line of an enchantment, solidifying his presence, binding him to your own mortality.

Soft lips curve at their edges, a spark of life stolen from your existence. Fed off of, until he’s permanently entwined with your being. Persistent and parasitical.

He hums lowly, approvingly, and you swallow. Fear making you feel sick.

Slowly, as if basking in the descent, he settles his mouth atop your own, snow-soft lips slanting against a frozen stiff set, applying gentle pressure as he savours the feeling.

He still moves with such grace, such innate refinement that between the two of you, you seem the more lifeless. With unmoving limbs, and vacant eyes, you are the more dead.

The shadows pull away, blood gingerly rising to where his touch had been.

“I’ll return,” he whispers, mouth still faintly curved into a soft deception of tenderness.

Flickering night morphs and shifts, dissolving along with the wind.

“Find me in the dark.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

dark!az taglist: @honeyandhalfmoons

[blackberrybuds]

i feel like it goes without saying that tamba is not the killer oml. i feel like pegging tamba as the killer means you have incredibly low faith in tetro's writing. people dont just act insanely wildly out of character for no reason?? why the fuck would tamba disembowel kamimura. why would tamba set a stake trap above a door to kill tsuno. especially since she was handling the cold motive the best out of anyone like HELLO?? its not tamba lmao im 100% certain of this

[vampirebloodie]

Jealous jealous jealous boy | Mark Hoffman x Reader (Part 1)

Summary: Where you were Mark's ex-wife and even after so long he was still jealous of you, especially with Strahm.

Warning: angst/sad history, mentions of trap and blood.

You've reached your limit, he's reached his limit. You didn't know what a hole you were in until you discovered who Hoffman really was, his second "job" was simply the most disgusting thing you had ever been aware of in your life. As much as you loved him, you knew that after that you couldn't trust him anymore and that's why you decided to leave the apartment where you two lived.

Mark was at the police station while you packed your bags with some clothes and personal objects, your tears wet the clothes you were folding, it had been three days since your personal investigation made you discover that he was Jigsaw's apprentice, three days you held back so as not to explode and tell someone everything.

You had been suspicious of Hoffman for some time but you refused to believe in anything like that, after all, he was your husband, someone you swore to trust forever, but the evidence was very clear, all the police officers at the station were dying being tested in the worst traps, but not him, as if he were invincible, and that was why the investigation never moved forward, with Hoffman's hands probably sabotaging the evidence.

You wanted to tell and end it all, but if you did that you could easily end up dead, rules are rules, and as much as Hoffman liked you, you didn't want to test how far his loyalty to Jigsaw would go. An image of Angelina flashed through your mind, she had been killed by her boyfriend because she discovered he was a criminal and drug user, what if Hoffman did the same to you if he discovered what you know?

You had already bought a ticket to your hometown, far away from him and all these cases, everything would go well, you would disappear and start your new life somewhere else, without Mark, without murders. When you closed the suitcase and placed it at the bedroom door, you heard the sound of the main door lock opening. You had completely forgotten that Hoffman was leaving work early today, your heart fluttered and you hid the suitcase under the bed before he entered the room, trying to act as normal as possible.

“Hey, babe. What are you doing? You look so pretty, is this all for me?”

Hoffman came in and gave you a quick kiss, you felt a little disgusted.

“Hi... I was cleaning our room, why are you home so early?”

“I just came to have dinner with my beautiful wife.”

He smiled and left the room heading to the kitchen, you sighed. You even thought about putting poison in his food, but Mark wasn't stupid. Maybe if it was a situation before that, you would have been happy hearing him call you that. You put your bus tickets inside your makeup drawer and left the room to eat with him, even though your appetite wasn't present. Hoffman was already sitting at the table eating when you picked up your plate and sat down too, starting to play with your food instead of eating.

"Babe, what happened?"

He asked wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Hm? It's nothing."

You shrugged. You was so scared. You was afraid of him.

"Don't lie. You've been acting strange for days."

He tried to touch your face and you immediately pulled away, getting up from the table, panicking and starting to cry. Mark was scared by your reaction, you had never treated him like this in all these years of your relationship.

"Do not touch me!"

You shouted pointing the knife from your meal at him. The images of the bodies of all those victims of the cases flashed through your mind, your husband was one of those responsible for all that happening and you could no longer bear the pressure of knowing that. You felt disgusted to think that you shared a bed every night with someone who always got their hands dirty with other people's blood, who did an extremely dirty and cruel job, torturing people by making them disemboweled, mutilated, who killed people even though he knew what happened about his own sister had been murdered in a brutal way.

“Y/n! Put that knife down, what happened?”

He asked with a worried expression trying to get closer to you again, making you move further away.

“I can't do it anymore... I need to go, i need to get out of here...”

You said, throwing the knife on the floor and going to the bedroom, Hoffman followed you immediately, you pulled the tickets out of the drawer and took the suitcase from under the bed.

“A suitcase... Where are you going?”

He asked confused.

“It's over, Hoffman. I can't anymore, I can't be together with you anymore. I need to go."

You grabbed your suitcase and tried to leave the room but he pulled you back.

"Why are you doing this? Why are you leaving me? I love you, you can't do this to me. Please....”

He asked looking into your eyes, his eyes were watering. Flashes of your wedding day hit your mind, those same blue eyes looking at you in a passionate way as he held your hand at the altar and said the most romantic words in the world to you, promising to always protect and love you.

“I love you too, but i can't stay with a.... with.... with you... If you really love me.... Let me go..”

You almost said "killer"

"But why? Please don’t leave me, i only have you...”

“Some things don't last forever, Hoffman. The same goes for our marriage.”

You touched his face leaving a kiss on his lips, one last kiss, only to turn around and leave the apartment with your bags in hand. Tears covered your face and you tried to avoid them, but it hurt so much to have to leave him. Everything both of you experienced in three years of marriage was something surreal, even with all the fights because he was an extremely complicated person to deal with, it had never reached such an extreme point, only at the most with you telling him to sleep in the living room, which don't lats two hours because soon you would miss him in bed and call him again. You left the building starting to call the only person who could help you at this moment, an old high school friend.

“Special agent Lindsay Perez, how can i help you?”

“Perez, i need help. My relationship is over and i need to get out of town, can i stay at your place for a few days until i settle down again? I already found a job interview and i just need to go to the bus station .”

“Oh Y/n... I'm so sorry, yes of course, my house will always be open for you. You don't need bus, my car is being repaired, but i can ask my work partner to pick you up, he's in your city for an interview. His name is Peter Strahm. I think you gonna like him.”

[blushingteddy]

Precious Things: Chapter 2

Plot: Rio visits Westview after The Hex comes down and finds Agnes O'Conner in Agatha's stead. She must team up with an unlikely ally to help get her wife back and confront the past to make sense of the future ahead. (Agathario x Rio/Mrs Hart unlikely friendship)

---

The Hex had fallen a little over three weeks ago. Rio knew the proximate location without knowing the details, felt Agatha pulsate through the veil like the dull throb of a burning wick. Again, without knowing the details, Rio knew perfectly well she had lost the Darkhold—must have lost it along with her mind, Rio thought. Three weeks and no attempt at one of her swift, Agatha Harkness’ exits.

Perhaps she really was ready this time.

Rio couldn’t allow herself the grace of such a naive fantasy. 

It would be short-lived, of course. Fantasies always were when they involved Agatha.

The doorbell rings. The footsteps land steady, quick and unhesitant. Then, for the first time in over sixty years, they’re eye to eye. Rio loses her breath, then sees Agatha’s lips betray herself into a smile. A real smile. Resisting every urge, Rio doesn’t trace a finger down her cheek, doesn’t step close and bury her nose into the nook of her neck, begging wordless for something un-nameable, to be neither absolved nor forgiven but some concoction of the two.

“Have we met before?” Agatha narrows her eyes.

“How very coy of you, my darling.”

“What’s a bad girl like you doing in a nice place like this?”

Rio’s eyes flicker. 

Agatha is still smiling wide, her sparkling blue eyes firmly locked, but there’s nothing behind the waxy, frozen expression. No grief, no hatred, no self-loathing, not a single feeling detectably her own. Agatha glances down at the hand gently turning her elbow, another woman’s thumb gliding idly along a thick raised scar underneath the hem of her short lilac sweater sleeve. She observes it with strangeness, her brow furrowing at the touch, but she doesn’t pull away, and Rio feels a chill run through her.

“Either I’m about to walk into a trap or you already have.”

Rio waits for a response, waits and waits and waits. Agatha just stands there on the porch with vague conflict in her eyes, until Rio brings her hand away from the scar on her elbow, and then she smiles again.

“I have the strangest feeling we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

The windows shatter suddenly, the curtains blow inward, the lights flicker and the rage of the last two centuries exudes from Rio’s palms in graceful sheets of pearlescent black. She slams Agatha back into the house and across the living room with a flick of the finger. In her arrogance, perhaps Agatha hadn’t expected her arrival so quickly after the Hex fell, had answered the door with all the pomp and circumstance of a suburban housewife in the nice part of town because it was all a rouse—a play at the Achille’s heel. Rio strode through the guts of the living room, eyes scanning across the upheaval, searching for her wife.

She had missed Agatha.

She needed Agatha to have missed her too.

The house sat torn apart and disembowelled from the single pulse of turbulence, the cupboards and kitchen drawers and all of their contents strewn everywhere. A glint of metal catches Rio’s eye. The cutlery and utensils. Another flick of her finger, Rio instantly sends a dozen steak knives into the fortified coffee table slumped on it’s side—where Agatha was laying in wait, no doubt. They struck the wood like darts flying at a board. 

Rio waits for the parlay, for the response, for purple to ricochet around the room like a bleeding mortal wound and squeeze her so achingly tight she might never breathe again. 

Nothing happens. 

In her ecstasy and rash excitement, cackling and screeching in delight, Rio shatters every lightbulb with a gesture, the sparks and glass flying like glinting crystal at every available surface. Rio waits on baited breath, still nothing happens.

In the deep lightless dark, a terrified muffled whimper punctures the silence.

“Agatha?” Rio calls out tentatively.

Perhaps it’s a trick.

Of course it’s a trick.

Agatha always plays dirty, Rio reminds herself.

There in the corner, Agatha Harkness sits balled-up with knees pulled into her chest. She whimpers with her scarred elbow tucked around her face. There’s a cut on her head, it’s not severe, but she touches the blood and there’s unmistakable horror in her eyes.

“You’re…scared?” Rio takes a step back. “Why? Why are you frightened of me…”

“Please don’t hurt me,” Agatha hyperventilates.

Definitely a trick.

“You know it’s your time.”

“You can take anything you want…” Rio watches her insurmountable, great proud harbinger crawl on her shaking hands and knees to a leather purse by the stairs. She digs inside of it, looking for something, and Rio looks away in abject horror at the sight of her so human and vulnerable. “My. My husband Ralph. His car is in the garage…”

“It better fucking not be!”

“Please don’t hurt me”—Agatha turns back with paperclips strung together—“Here, take his keys. You know how to drive stick right? Most women can’t. He says that. I-I wouldn’t know…”

“Agatha it’s me.”

“I don’t know who you are!” Fear bursts through her voice.

Wounded and staggered, Rio steps back like a bleeding stag caught off-guard. Agatha scuttles back like a rabbit until her back strikes the wall. She looks twenty-five again, wide-eyed and human, true palpable terror exuding from her like liquorice Rio can taste in the air. Two centuries ago it aroused her. Now she prays for a trick.

“I’m frightened,” Agatha begins to cry. “I want Wanda.”

“Sweetheart, it’s me.” Rio croaks, a flood of tears sting her eyes, the balls of her knees land on the wood and she touches Agatha’s shaking hands. “Agatha what has she done to you?”

Agatha flinches back.

“I can handle you hating me for taking Nicky away from you.” Rio grasps her chin harder than she means, forcing Agatha to meet her eyes. “I can handle not being your wife. I can handle us doing this—the fighting—until the very end. I cannot handle you looking at me like you have no idea who I am. So please, Agatha, drop the other shoe!”

Rio watches her brow furrow in distress and confusion.

“Who is Nicky?”

Engulfed in a sudden hug, Agatha puts up no resistance. A husk. A shell of a woman. Rio tempts the idea of smothering her gently. She doesn’t have the heart, perhaps she never had it to begin with. Rio does the only thing she can. Her fingers strewn in Agatha’s long dark hair, she nuzzles her neck and holds her closer than she’s been allowed in centuries.

Rio feels tears dribble on her skin. 

They aren’t her own.

“Nicky,” Agatha’s breath warms her shoulder. “Why does that name hurt so much?”

“Because he was your son.”

“Was?”

“Yeah,” Rio swipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Forget what I said. You can forget me, okay? But don’t let her take your boy, Agatha. You made him from scratch, remember?”

“My name is Agnes.” Agatha stood, her voice devoid of warmth or emotion. “You have me confused with somebody else.”

Rio laughs bitterly, “Clearly.”

And then, she hung her head and cried.

***

Perched on grey blocks, Rio sat and watched from the adjacent lot. The curtains finally twitched open, Agatha yawned and stretched as the morning sunlight touched her sparkling blue eyes. She looked happy—happier than Rio had seen in a while.

She took it as a symptom Agatha remembered nothing strange from the night before.

The house had been left pristine and exact, better than it had been found, accounting for the azaleas and vibrant flowers trailing up and around the brickwork. Rio’s lips fidgeted, unsure of what do with herself now. She hoped she would look up and find Agatha staring down, some sense of familiarity etched in her eyes, as though the sight of Rio alone would be enough to reach through the curse the Scarlet Witch had placed over her tormented mind.

Rio glanced up at her window again and found nobody there.

She willed herself to be seen.

“So who exactly are you with, huh?” A surly older woman appeared from nowhere. “The Post? The Eastview Journal? TokTok?”

She was short and imposing, with rosy cheeks and a neat blonde bob underneath her straw gardening hat. Rio watched the woman remove her gloves one at a time, tugging at them with a frustrated snap, as though she might wrap one across Rio’s cheek like a Victorian insult. Then others came, tentatively at first, a neighbour from across the street in his cycling helmet and shorts, another two from the same front door across the road—wearing matching pyjamas. The street seemed to accumulate in dribs and drabs. Rio watched as the residents stood firm behind this small, angry woman making daggers beneath her sun hat.

“I really cannot stand you people!” The woman yapped and stomped her boat shoe. “Hand it over right now, give me the camera!” Her hand shot outward.

“The what?”

“The camera, now.” She grabbed Rio by the arm. “You journalists really cheese me, you know that. You are not welcome in our neighbourhood and you certainly will not bother Agnes on our watch. What does the sign say, bitch?” Her finger flew at one of the many red posters hung to lampposts and walls:

No loitering.

No photos.

No interviews.

No bothering Mrs. O'Conner

—Thank you, the HOA.

“Sharon you gotta cool it mama, you keep putting hands on photographers”—a larger man pulls her floral-printed shoulder gently—“Jed will have to book you overnight, you remember  him saying that, right?” His voice lowered.

“Yeah yeah,” Sharon shirked him off, straightening herself neatly. “Well, what are we going to do with her?”

“Uh-oh and what do we have here!” A familiar voice boomed loudly from behind the small gathering of neighbours. Rio would recognise it anywhere, apparently the neighbours did too if their grimaces and tight expressions were any indication. “Mrs Hart, is this lady bothering you?” Agatha slipped a protective arm around the short blonde woman.

“It’s Mrs Davis, honey. You can call me Sharon or Mrs Davis.”

“Mhm. Whose our friend, Mrs Hart?” Agatha glanced Rio up and down. “Is this the big-shot journalist from the city who knows nothing about Christmas cheer despite being born in this little humdrum town?”

Rio felt the ghost of a smile tug up her cheeks.

The man sighed, exasperated, glancing to the other neighbours. “We’re going to do  the Hallmark movie bit again? Really?” The others looked at him in commiseration, nobody challenging the order of things. “Fine. I’ll put the decorations up but I am not—I repeat not—wearing a Christmas sweater in July.” He trudged back up the street to his home.

Rio realised Agatha was still staring.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Rio.”

“I’m Agnes.” The grip of her firm hand felt the same. “Agnes O’Conner.”

“Well Agnes, aren’t you just the prettiest girl in town.” She shook her wife’s hand under Sharon’s hawk-eyed stare. “And, I guess, I’m a handsome journalist here to report on this little humdrum town I haven’t been back to since my parents divorced. Where everyday is Christmas and there is inevitably some kind of financial issue within local government?”

“So you heard. That the town might go bankrupt this year and have to cancel the Christmas barn buster.” Agatha nodded seriously. “Unless we put on the best talent show this town has ever seen, that is.”

Perhaps this was a trick.

Rio narrowed her eyes and nodded along.

“Are we sure the mayor hasn’t been embezzling—”

Sharon interjected with disapproval, “Don’t spoil the ending for her.”

“Well alright.” At a loss, Rio followed them back toward Agnes O’Conner’s make-believe home. “So she’s always like this or do you get the impression it’s…some kind of long-con?”

“A con?” Sharon’s head shook side to side as though she couldn’t imagine something further from the truth. “Agnes saved us from Wanda. And I’m-I’m so sick of everybody complaining! Like celebrating Christmas in July is such a…and cover your ears because I’m about to use some really foul language…god damn’ tragedy. Well, it isn’t.”

“Oh, cool.” Rio nodded and followed them inside. “So the HOA has assumed guardianship over Agatha Harkness, last of the Salemites. Yeah that’s cool, I guess.”

***

Rio grew awkward and uncomfortable as a wooden spoon was thrusted into her hand to stir bubbling molasses and ginger. Agnes breezed out of the kitchen, a navy blue Christmas sweater pushed up her forearms, cranking the radio as she went by. The Phil Spector Christmas album looped for the third time.

“Uh, I love the Ronettes,” Mrs Davis approved.

“What are we doing here, exactly?” Rio murmured to the neighbour.

Mrs Davis—Sharon, she insisted—rummaged on her hands and knees in the back of the bottom cupboard. She emerged triumphant, two extra aprons in her hand, then blew a piece of blonde hair out of her eyes and looked Rio up and down. 

She said nothing, shrugging awkwardly.

“Nice, well that’s helpful.” Rio grimaced.

“It’s not that hard.” Mrs Davis pushed up on to her feet and handed her an apron. “She gives you context clues.”

“For who she thinks you are?”

“No, for the recipes.” Mrs Davis rolled up her sleeves. “I think we’re making spiced cinnamon cookies. Have you made them before? You’re letting the molasses burn. Clearly not…” She rose to the challenge and took the spoon from Rio’s hand. 

“And you just let her do this to you?”

“Invite me over to make Christmas cookies?” Mrs Davis balked as though it were a strange thing to get worked up about. “So, what’s your real name anyway?”

I don’t have one, Rio wanted to reply.

“Rio,” she said.

“Lucky you.” Mrs Davis rolled her eyes. “You never did say which newspaper you were with, by the way.”

“I’m not with a newspaper.”

“Seems like you know a lot about Agnes…”

“I’m her wife.” 

Rio needed to admit it to somebody—anybody. She watched as Agnes came back in the room, all smiles and Christmas cheer, her heart aching indescribably at the pathetic sight. There was nothing remotely familiar about Agnes, nothing that felt dangerous at least, which inherently left Rio out of her skin and unsafe. A firm grip tightened around her bicep. Rio glanced down and saw Mrs Davis’ face etched with sympathy.

Rio pulled her arm away, “We were already separated.”

“Are you ladies ready for my famous barn-buster winning pistachio butterscotch eggnog,” Agnes tilted a dusted bottle of Vodka from side to side. “It was grandma’s family recipe.” 

Rio laughed at the absurdity.

Mrs Davis took down three glasses from the cupboard, “Sure Agnes, I think we could all use a drink right about now.” She turned back to the stove and stirred the bubbling sugar. “So, the talent show. Are we thinking Dottie’s backyard or mine this time? Herb says he can hardwire the Jack Frost decorations if this is going to become a regular thing…”

“We should probably call Wanda - see what her and Vision think,” Agnes nodded slowly as though it were a wise thing to say. “She had some great ideas for last year’s Christmas barn buster. If it wasn’t for Wanda, this town probably would have gone under years ago…” Agatha knocked back a healthy pour.

The molasses bubbled and burned in the undisturbed silence. 

Rio glanced and saw Mrs Davis’ white-knuckled grip tight on the wooden spoon.

“Wanda doesn’t live here anymore, Agnes,” Mrs Davis said softly through gritted molars with far-away eyes. “You were the hero of the story, remember? You saved us from Wanda.”

“Saved everybody from Wanda’s best-attempt at chocolate mint liqueur egg nog, maybe! Poor thing left the heat too high and let the eggs congeal!” Agatha cackled boisterously. “Nearly served scrambled egg to half the town!”

Sharon slumped in defeat and said nothing, Rio watched Agnes finish the drink and go back to the coffee table - a half-wrapped garden hose reel still dripping on the paper. She shook her and turned back to Sharon.

“Is she ever lucid?”

“Not in the ways that count.” Mrs Davis reached for the bottle and grimaced into a sip. She offered the bottle, gesturing it toward Rio. “Every day is Christmas and Wanda is always the best neighbour around.”

“Cool, well that’s settled then.”

“What is?”

Rio finished a third of the bottle and placed it gently back on the counter. She didn’t experience alcohol—couldn’t articulate a notion of what it must feel like to be out of control, subdued and numb. She felt all things, all of time, existed in all moments and found the grandeur completely exhausting more often than not, but the vodka tasted sharp and bitter and burned the entire way down. Rio enjoyed the burning sensation inside her body.

“Oh.” Rio glanced and saw Mrs Davis staring expectantly, waiting for an answer, which Rio had assumed was self-explanatory. “We’re going to break this curse and then kick the piss out of Wanda Maximoff. Your molasses is burning, by the way. Agatha go get your Santa suit, sweetheart, we’re going for a ride!” Rio strode into the living room.***

Salem, while not a model of neatness, was a miracle of supply. The car idled in the parking lot of a strip mall on the outskirt of town with high beam lights staring into the windows of a gutted discount clothing store. 

In the back, Agnes sat like a pre-occupied child, a garbage bag of half-wrapped utensils and homeware sprawling into the footwell. Presents for the needy, she had kept saying for miles until she had slowly stopped saying things at all. Now sat silently, her eyes were fixed out of the window staring at nothing like an imitation of deep, monastic thought. 

Rio made a mental note of the correlation between Westview and the curse.

Perhaps proximity effected the state of things.

Privately, Rio found this ordeal eery. The absence of Agatha’s soul. The uncertainty whether it was buried deep within or cast far, far away in some distant crevice unknowable to even Death herself. Wanda would have answers if required, Rio reassured herself.

She hoped she wouldn’t require them.

“You know it’s really past my bedtime,” Mrs Davis yawned at the steering wheel. “What are we waiting for exactly?”

“Those witches.” Rio nodded at the group of reprobates.

“Oh, honestly, I blame the parents!”

Rio glanced in the rearview mirror at her stalled, silent harbinger. “Me too,” she said.

“Still I loved Elizabeth Montgomery in Bewitched. Nicole Kidman was great, a little hammy, but remakes always are…”

“Mhm. Wait here, Mrs Davis, if this works I’ll see you in ten, maybe fifteen years. If it doesn’t we’ll take a ride back to Westview plus a better plan if you have one laying around…”

“You can call me Sharon—”

“Mrs Davis works fine,” Rio closed the door.

The witches were young, Rio noticed, and a pang of guilt went through her. She was out of better options and the scales tipped in neither direction as the decision set it’s teeth into the permanent fabric of time. She interpreted the lack of sway on the balance within herself as neutral, unbiased approval. That, or perhaps she had already been here, had already made this decision, and the balance was no longer aggrieved by the insult.

Just a few miles further up the road, covens would be dense and easy to come by, each group practically within earshot deep into the woods or dotted along some tiny, untouched wild—the cove, Highland park, the forest conservation, the light of distant row boats sparkling on the water, because perhaps The Road would open in a swirling riptide of magic. A deep blood red moon sat above the clearing, then a faint mist of clouds parting to reveal its entirety. Blood moons had always brought out the optimism in witches. And Salem, while not a model of neatness, was a miracle of supply.

Too young to know better, selected for their otherwise lacking experience and numbers, three noviciate witches sat under a corrugated plastic awning passing a blunt between themselves. Rio heard their quiet laughter from a distance. She felt the sense of sisterhood, saw the colours of their aura, wondered briefly on their reasons, because the reasons that led witches to attempt opening The Road were always sad. Rio hesitated as she opened the rear passenger door, then decided her reasons were sadder and more important.

“Hey neighbour.” Rio unbuckled Agatha out of the car. “Wanna sing a Christmas carol and give one of your really special gifts to those poor witches in need? For old time’s sake, call it work and play in fluctuating balances…” She hoisted Agatha upright.

Agatha said nothing, simply obeyed Rio’s direction, allowing herself to be handled and guided to her feet. She walked as Rio led, staggering and mindless, a protective arm slipping firmer around her spine. 

Agatha smelled the same, Rio felt her heart ache over it as she caught it on her collar. The soft plaid shirt lingered with Agatha’s indescribably Agatha scent. She hated how lovers described one another in this way. The idea somebody could smell of vanilla, or petrichor, or warm spring cotton, or whatever other deeply personal experiences could be extrapolated from nothing, except Agatha did smell like a deeply personal experience that needed to be extrapolated and bottled. 

Something Rio did not realise she had forgotten to miss until it was there, achingly missed, faintly on Agatha’s neck. The smell of personality and skin and clean, floral soap. Rio turned toward it, resisting the urge to press her nose on her wife’s collarbone, and then looked back to the witches beneath the awning.

They walked further toward them.

“Marching ever forward ‘neath the wooden shrine,” Rio hummed loudly. “I stray not from the path, I hold Death’s hand in mine…”

“Ah, fellow sisters of the craft?” A young, vaguely stoned butch with sand blonde hair looked at them curiously. “Well you’re shit out of luck, I’m afraid. We’re already up a green witch and that one…” She pointed at Agatha, her brow furrowing oddly. “That one doesn’t have an aura…why doesn’t she have an aura? Weird.”

“No, no, she totally does.” Rio patted Agatha’s belly. “She’s just, you know, shy.”

“Shy?”

“A grower not a shower.”

“Cute,” the butch laughed, inhaling a hard pull, then passed the blunt to her coven sister. “Take it you’re trying to open The Road? Shit’s a bust, man. Either that or you’re looking for somewhere safe to lay? We can help the the latter, but like I said…” She raised her hands. “We’re up a green witch.”

Rio looked at their faces, really looked, and saw wide eyes and hollow thin cheeks. A girl sat with her back pressed to an old laundromat door had a sleeping bag beneath her. The other in shorts and scarlet red lipstick, dark black eyeliner swiped in thick batwing lines, a crescent shaped bruise on her forearm, thigh-high patent leather boots with mended high heels.

“So, you’re the green witch?” Rio nodded.

“Mhm. We hold dominion over the cycles of life and death, you know…” 

“You hold dominion over nothing.”

“Ouch.” She laughed. “I’m Theo, that’s Frieda Kahlo, and that right there”—Eyeliner gave a scowling wave—“Is Pliers.”

“Pliers?” Rio raised a brow.

Pliers shrugged, “If it can take a prick it can break a prick…”

“Aw.” Rio nodded, unbothered. “Well, I guess we solved the mystery of the protection witch. I’m Rio—Green. This is Agatha she’s…” Rio hesitated, unsure of how to categorise her swaying shell of a wife. “Seen better days,” she said. “Anyway whose ready to open The Road? Wow. I know I am. All our hopes and dreams are about to be fulfilled. Are you excited?” She forced a grimacing smile and pumped Agatha’s wrist in the air. “We’re going on The Road and nobody’s going to die!” She sing-songed.

Agatha always made this look so easy.

“Cute. You’re not just any green witch though, are you?” Theo stared acutely. “And if I didn’t know any better? I would say your roommate there looks a whole lot like fabled Persephone from your grimoire…”

Rio liked that.

That made her smile.

“Look at you with all the hot takes.” Rio tilted her head and dropped Agatha’s hand. “What gave it away?”

“Your face.” Theo took the blunt from Pliers. “Shit, I mean, my friends can’t see you but me?” She inhaled and held it. “Big fan of your work.”

Rio understood perfectly well there was only one way a person saw through her skin.

“We’ve met before.”

“Two years ago. Called on you for help. I would say you never showed but, you did, you just didn’t help how I wanted you too…” Rio’s face softened as she glanced at the silvery scars on Theo’s wrists. “Now you remember me,” Theo puffed.

“Hm, interesting.” Rio observed the stilled, perfectly balanced scales within herself and realised now why they were not fluctuating—this one was already on borrowed time. “I hate to drop in unannounced, believe it or not, I do have a soft spot for my own kin…”

“But you have need of me?”

Rio nodded her head. “Will your friends cause trouble?”

She glanced, expecting wide-eyed horrified looks, or perhaps the protection witch had already started drawing some analogue mortal conjuring to expel her. They always tried their tricks. She was greeted by the sight of two frozen, dull-eyed statues stuck in sleeping delirium—the lights were on but nobody was home. Accounting for Agatha’s condition, it left only two of them to tango.

“Datura.” Theo lifted the joint, then rolled her hand to reveal the laced joint she had switched-out behind her palm. “I always keep one up my sleeve. Better to need it and not have it than…well, you’re the green witch. I’m preaching to the gospels. Mean ol’ hangover when they come around but they will come around, right?”

Rio nodded at that.

She was not wasteful with life.

“Glad we’re on the same page. Will this hurt?” Theo boldly pushed up on to her feet.

“Yeah, this is going to suck. I need you to blast her.”

“Do something for me?”

“You had two years, I already did.”

“Okay do something else for me, anyway?”

Rio paused. “Name it.”

“My friends,” Theo glanced. “Says in the Book of Stones you’re not the only immortal—says you have sisters.”

“Brothers, actually.”

“You still count Creation on your Christmas card list?”

Rio glanced at Agatha, the irony never going amiss, then looked at Theo with a fixed expression. “Kid, if you knew the day I was having…” she sighed. “Let me guess you want fresh, clean, happy little new lives for the Olsen twins over there?” She pointed at the stoned zombies.

Theo folded her arms. “Something like that, sure.”

“Fine, whatever. I’ll do it.”

Theo nodded and narrowed her eyes at Agatha, “You’re sure this will work? I could kill her, you know…”

“Be just great if you could. I’ve been trying for two-hundred and sixty years…”

Two jolts of light pale yellow shot out from Theo’s palms and struck Agatha’s chest like sparks to a dead battery. She moaned in pain, face contorting, and then Rio saw the flicker of her aura. The most beautiful, lilac shocks of her essence exuding from her in iridescent waves. In the absence of herself, Agatha’s body knew what to do. Her feet slowly rose from the ground as her purple latched and pulled Theo’s pale yellow magic back into herself. Rio watched on baited breath, hoping for bursting shocks of laughter and swirls of unpredictable purple and chaos, she would settle for just a glimmer in her wife’s sparkling blue eyes… 

And as Theo died.

Agatha rewarded her. 

Her purple drained the very last drop of Theo’s magic and slowly Agatha came back to the ground with large, hyperventilating gasps of air. Rio knew better than to touch her—fuss over her. She tilted her chin, poised and manicured and ready for a fight. Hoped for one, desperately. She swirled her fingers and conjured a pulse of black, beautiful pearlescent death in her hand like a toy to play with—ready for the worse if it came to a quick draw.

Agatha stared with those beautiful, sparkling blue—bent over and out of breath—licking her cerise lips like a viper filled on live bait and blood. Rio saw the flicker of recognition, the grief, hatred and self-loathing in her eyes. It was beautiful, she thought, and with that she snuffed the little death in her fingers and took a step closer.

“I have missed you.”

Agatha began to blink and stumble. 

“I hate you…” she quietly hissed.

Then Rio watched her collapse backward to the floor.

***

Salem, while not a model of neatness, was a miracle of supply. Beyond townships the population dwindled away to the rare, odd passing carriage out in the wilds and thickets. An unsustainable diet for a creature of constant consumption. A maiden defined by her hunger.

Salem sat like a sentinel against the vast emptiness of the world. In Salem covens brushed shoulders in their dozens every day—locals, travelling groups, those covenless few, the rara avis, seeking safe refuge on their journeys like foraging rabbits awaiting some great predator—and if one wanted to spend money, the witches market in Salem sold everything from sundries to sundresses to wizardbane to scented parchments and papers.

“People buy this nonsense?” She stands loftily, lifting a sample of jasmine scented parchment from the wicker basket, amusement and disapproval etched across her face. “And for such a pretty penny too! Oh dear, where are my manners. I don’t mean to…” A cawing laugh escaped her. “Well, I suppose I am making a mockery of you.”

The stall owner, an elderly woman with clouded eyes and sallow skin, pulled her face into an offended snarl. A response sits on the brink of her lips but it never comes. The light blue in her eyes grew wide, the air leaving her all at once in a stalled slow exhale, she stared straight ahead—through Agatha, through everything and everyone.

The woman wept beneath her breath, “I imagined you so differently.”

“Most do,” the witch-killer confirmed suspicions only she had assumed.

An inexplicable feeling came over Agatha, one which followed her entire life up to this moment, and she understood perfectly well her reputation preceded her in this instance. 

The sensation of beating August sunlight disappearing behind thick impenetrable February clouds fell upon her cool, prickling skin. The taste of copper formed on the back of her tongue as though some unsourced part of her mouth were bleeding. Her tongue touched the backs of her teeth, gently prodding for the taste of blood, but she half-expected already there was no wound. Agatha shook her head, the feeling faded.

Then the cloyingly sweet smell of black cherry filled her nose and Agatha closed her eyes. Some said corpses smelled like sweet cherries and almonds when turning toward decay. Agatha inhaled regardless, though she knew perfectly well this woman wasn’t long for the grave, she figured cherries smelled simply of cherries—enjoyed the smell, either way.

The woman collapsed backward into her table, quills and stationary knocking outward in every direction, ink sent up into the air from mixing bowls in a collision of black and emerald green dyes against the flutter of parchments, then they floated to the ground like feathers. A crowd drew to the scene, but the elderly woman’s eyes remained fixed despite the chaos all around. Agatha looked in the same direction.

And Agatha saw her.

There behind the crowds, a woman with a bright green lantern stood completely still and flat. 

It was as though somebody had gone to the effort of painting her across the fabric of reality, etching every fine feature on to the tapestry of existence like a drawing without dimension. Agatha blinked, eyes narrowing, unsure of the sudden anxiety knotting her stomach with dread, she realised quickly she couldn’t account for perception, distance or dimension. 

The woman was closer than she appeared, or perhaps further still, like an apparition assimilating around physical laws that were unnatural and not her own. An aura of omnipotence vibrated from her slight thin figure, cloaked in garnet and emerald, the woman appeared unassuming though she wasn’t a witch nor a woman, Agatha recognised this instantly. She was a manifestation of elemental power.

A temporal embodiment.

Entropy. Eternity. Infinity. Creation. Death. The five inextricable brothers to never be seen, heard or witnessed. Agatha bowed her head, a rose by any other name, to look upon Death was to surely die, and Agatha wondered if she had stared too long. She feared Death had caught her eyes and was now looking upon her curiously in return. 

Death gently brushed past her shoulder with a perceptive smile, some inextricable part of Agatha’s soul responsively yearned and keened toward the apparition, drawn to her magnetism, and she exhaled all the air in her chest. Death stopped in stride, their shoulders still touching, then Agatha felt fear anew. A kind of fear that overwhelmed and overtook every fibre of her being.

“It’s not my time.”

Death said nothing.

Death was surprised to be seen, Agatha realised quickly.

“Oh…You are not used to being caught off-guard.” Agatha’s voice hung as a sharp, jovial whisper. “Tell me, have you ever felt it before? It kind of tickles, doesn’t it?”

A beautiful smile broke across Death’s pale face—the most beautiful smile Agatha thought she might have ever seen. The crowd, now in a fluster over the ailing woman, noticed nothing strange or unusual about the scene. There was only panic, chaos, upheaval and aid. The four mortal elements in times of strife.

Wordless, Death turned and made her way to reap and extinguish. Her distance could be felt in Agatha’s chest, her restless soul had pressed on her ribcage, now it quietened into calm. Agatha watched as Death’s long black fingertips stroked the elderly woman’s cheek softly. She was there for only a moment, then…

“She’s gone.” A coven elder shook her head gravely, fingers firm against the deceased’s pulse points. “Send for the black mistresses, for the horseman, send word to her kin…”

In shock, Agatha simply stood with her feet rooted to the ground. She became a fixed object, processing and ordering the event in her mind, until hours passed, sunlight sinking behind the treeline, and the horsemen came and eventually left, carting the elderly woman’s body away. Agatha stood there still, until her thought processes finally felt linear and whole, until she no longer wished to stand there anymore. Agatha had no remaining questions save for one. 

Did she taste as she had always smelled—were her lips cloyingly sweet and bitter like fresh cherries?

Agatha pushed the strangeness of the day aside and pulled her hood over her nape. It was time to move forward, move away, move quickly at that. Salem was overrated. A slough of mediocre bottom barrel witches and overpriced talismans, trinkets and scented parchment. No, Salem would never do.

Not for what Agatha Harkness had planned.

***

The loudness of New Orleans hummed constant in the air, a battle between French, Creole and newly forming Verlan, distinct to the avenues where old French dialects melted against one another into new parlance. An entire city in harmony, conversations carried across streets from neighbours on their doorsteps and Agatha, most days, felt as though she were ducking beneath it all. A woman out of place. A woman without roots of her own.

A hand shot out from a dimly lit alley and grabbed her wrist as she passed. Agatha froze, understanding perfectly well that to glance in the woman’s direction was to certainly go blind, she was without permission to look upon consecrated conjure doctors. Untrusted and unknown. This made working with the kanzos difficult. 

The Mambo all but impossible. 

For months, Agatha persevered. She wanted a second meeting with Death. She knew the Hodou leaders could grant her this, and perhaps only them.

“Your request has been denied,” a voice whispered sternly. “Whoever you are—whatever you are—the spirit warns you are the unquenchable thirst drying witches like summer riverbeds in your wake, that to commune with you is to surely die. Go from this place by midnight, by order of the Mambo, and if you refuse or ever return to New Orleans you will die on the thirtieth beat of your heart, Agatha Harkness.”

“Lets say, hypothetically, I stood on the border of the territory with one foot in and one foot out.” Agatha felt her eyes begin to wander toward the woman, she stopped suddenly and remembered herself, then clenched them closed. “Is it thirty beats like a warning to leave or thirty beats like a countdown that cannot be reset?” 

The grip receded from her wrist without another word, Agatha drew her hand back to her body and rubbed the tender bones beneath her gold bracelet and purple sleeve. She inhaled and nodded, then continued walking along main street.

She had her meeting. 

The afternoon whittled into early evening, Agatha camped by the border in woodlands that were obscured by thickets and rows. With her back against the bark of a proud water oak, Agatha read the Epic of Gilgamesh, sipping occasionally at her green tea, her toes pressed into the raw damp soil. She would miss New Orleans. She had become accustomed to the noise and bustle, intrigued by the magicks and works brought to this place from the distant corners of the world yet unexplored, then a flock of roseate spoonbills flew overhead in bolts of white and pink feathers, and Agatha decided she would miss that too.

Agatha winced and placed her cup, sensing she had bitten the inside of her cheek too deeply. Then the heat of sunlight disappeared from her skin and the taste of bitter cherries swelled on her tongue. Agatha sighed and lowered her book to her chest. There in the unaccountable distance, perhaps within reach or thirty feet away, Death stood with a dark linen shroud obscuring her lovely face.

“There’s my girl,” Agatha muttered and pulled herself up from her bed roll. “You’re earlier than I thought you would be?”

With the lightest flick of her finger, a powerful wind swung forward and hooked around the back of Agatha’s knees—yanking her forward on to her palms and shins like a noviciate at worship.

“Okay you don’t like over-familiar types,” Agatha bristled.

Still, Death said nothing in response.

Then Agatha felt something prod lightly against her chest bone. She glanced down, saw a paper plane skewered and trapped in the edge of her bodice, when she looked up again the sight sent her skittering back into the bark of the water oak like a rabbit startled by a predator. There in the unaccountable distance, Death stood as a deity, her visage milk pale and rotting like a corpse, her jawbone and teeth defined in calcified bone.

“Got your nose.” Agatha pushed her thumb between her fingers, shaking her hand slightly in the air, doing her best to bring her heart rate down and simmer the tension. “This for me?” She reached to her bodice and plucked the paper plane.

Death’s hollow visage tilts to the side. 

As though to say…

Who else?

And then she leaves with incorporeal flare that sets Agatha’s teeth on edge with fright. Death was not ten or fifteen paces away as Agatha anticipated, she was much closer, close enough to faintly smell of figs and persimmons as her fingers swung a blade millimetres in front of Agatha’s nose. It sliced the air into wefts of fabric. Death cut a bleeding wound in the surface of reality. It was like watching someone step through a strand of hair—disappear into broad daylight before her very eyes. 

Curiously, Agatha touched the two edges of reality with the tips of her finger and drew them back like a stage curtain. Beyond the gaping wound, Agatha observed thick sage-coloured mist and the smell of wet rotting leaves and foliage. Then Death appeared, her features marked with abject offence, she wagged her finger and Agatha nervously scrambled back into the tree bark, stayed there entirely frozen as the wound knitted itself back together on a swipe of Death’s finger. A moment passed, Agatha blinked and remembered the paper plane.

She opened it and found the territory map of Louisiana. The borders of New Orleans drawn fine and sharp. Death had marked the boundaries cleanly, crossed Agatha’s current position, which Agatha had determined based on distance as the crow flies from the centre of civilisation, but Death accounted for variables in a way that required no further conversation to extenuate her position.

Agatha’s math was off by two and a half miles.

And Death did not want to deal with her tonight.

***

Agatha finished her dirty work and snapped the girl’s neck with a stream of purple, grimacing in pain as she removed the poisoned knife lodged in her gut. Word of her power was spreading quickly, and news of Agatha’s movements and reasons—her movements, mostly—seemed to reach covens days before she did. The jagged wound felt wet beneath her fingertips, she glanced down and saw it leaking in spurts and pulses. An arterial bleed. 

She coaxes her purple into a concentrated stream, hoping to draw the last dregs of regenerative power from the bodies littered around the camp ground, but the bodies are precisely that—drained of life and magic. 

Agatha Harkness, all alone and bleeding in the woods. 

She laughs quietly.

Of course this proposal would have to be so…

High stakes.

“New plan. Here’s what I’m thinking!” Agatha remarks into empty quiet nothing, taking a rag along the blade to clean it off. “Dinner, tonight. You’re allowed a night off right?” Self-assured she isn’t alone, Agatha gestures at the slumped bodies lying at her feet. “There could be more bodies if it would…sway you.” Agatha grimaces awkwardly. “How big of a pile do you need?”

“Cute.”

Death leans against the trunk of an old oak tree, her hood shrouding her unmistakable features. Agatha nods, smiling slightly. Death returns the gesture.

“Hello,” Agatha whispers.

“Hello again.”

“I just…” Agatha stops and looks around at her dirty work. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re beautiful, that’s all.”

“I know,” her voice is tentative and light. She glances oddly. “You’re very persistent, do you know that?”

Agatha grins. “I’ve been called worse, sure. I think I…imagined you differently?”

“Oh, you did? Never heard that before…” 

Suddenly, Death became decidedly death-like. It’s petulant. A rebuttal. Her sparkling dark brown eyes recede, her beautiful smile melts into milk bone teeth and an ivory-coloured chiselled jaw. She’s trying to scare her, Agatha realises, but it doesn’t work. Agatha laughs as though it’s cute. She is suddenly taken with Death. Taken with her rum-coloured skin and dark, deep brown eyes. Taken with her black linen shrouds, chaos and upheaval.

Her heart in a flutter, Agatha stood poised and manicured - determined to be alluring too. 

Then, Agatha’s eyes wander. For some reason, despite the skeletal visage, Death’s figure is still… 

Death’s mask tilts in confusion. “Are you staring at my breasts?”

“Well, you look beautiful.” Agatha shrugs, guilty of the charge. “I mean an entity of abject cosmic horror, sure, but your breasts are…” She wisely stops. “You look lovely, I mean. And, I think you’re fond of me too.”

“Ah.” Death finally notices the blade. “So you got hurt this time too?”

“I suppose I wanted to look my best for you.” Agatha lifts her cupped palm to reveal the drooling wound. “Of course, you could always change me out of this old thing. You’re the original green witch, right? You could…fix me up before dinner?”

“You know I can’t do that, Agatha.”

“Why? Have you lost your touch?”

Death leans forward, all sparkling brown eyes and obsidian smile again. “No, it would simply be against the rules.” She inhales and sweeps her hands along Agatha’s biceps. “I know it must be hard for you to envision rules and boundaries, Agatha, but there are laws even you must observe. Mine, mostly. I’m sorry.”

“Big talk.” Agatha lifts her chin. “I think you’re scared you’ve lost your touch.”

“I haven’t lost my touch.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite.”

“Prove it.”

“Agatha,” Death grins weakly. “I see what you’re doing. You are such a beautiful woman, and truly I’m flattered, but intervening in matters of life and death is against the rule of balance. Perhaps in another life?”

“Oh fuck the rules!” Agatha challenges boldly as her legs start to wobble. “I-I. I kill eleven witches just to ask you for dinner and you’re telling me you. You…” A pained expression - then Agatha collapses backward.

“I told you, Agatha, I am flattered…”

The stars are clear enough through branches to make out the constellations. Orion’s belt. Cassiopeia. Ursa Major. Agatha blinks and feels her sweat run cool. Death comes into focus above her, but Death’s face is still a face, and Agatha takes it as progress she might make it out of this thing alive.

Might.

Death seems to be considering her options.

“You should break the rules,” Agatha whispers. “You. You should…” She draws a breath and feels her heart slowing. Agatha blinks and nods, knowing she is dying. “You should consider it.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Agatha furrows her brow as though it’s ridiculous. “How could you possibly bear it if you didn’t break the rules? You’re Death. They’re your rules.”

Death likes that. 

That makes her smile.

She crouches down, her fingers feel cool and gentle either side of Agatha’s jawline and temples. Death hesitates with a certain look in her eyes that lingers.

“You’re beautiful when you’re dying, Agatha. Maybe I prefer you like this?”

“Oh, honey.” Agatha trails her fingertips along Death’s shin, resting them on the ball of her knee. “You should see how often I come close to dying. This doesn’t have to be a one time thing. You’ll see, baby.”

“Alright, Agatha.” Death cranes her neck, unbuttoning Agatha’s blouse. “You get one dinner.” Her brown eyes sparkle.

“What’s your name?”

“I have many.”

“I have time - I could learn?”

“You’re so cock sure of that?” Death stares.

Agatha grins exuberantly, bare chested and bleeding with her blouse undone. “Yeah baby, I’m so sure.”

Death pauses in consideration, her cold fingers resting on warm wet ribs, then she shakes her head in exasperation and sucks the wound.

“Ah, so you’re a power bottom.” Agatha observes - more relieved than she wanted to let on. “Love that for me. You and I are going to be thick as thieves…”

***

Sharon finally grabbed the cassette tape that had been alluding her for the last five minutes, hidden beneath her car seat out of reach, she sprung up and exhaled a sigh of relief, then fed it into the player. A moment later, The Ronettes. 

She turned and then looked again as Agnes and her special friend trudged back over to the car. Agnes was walking by herself unaided this time, smiling that lovely friendly smile, waving excitedly as though they hadn’t seen one another in days—if not weeks. 

Her special friend looked as though she had been crying.

“Did it work?” Sharon asked as the car door opened.

“Nope,” Rio replied, bundling Agatha into the back a little rough. “Can you, er…take her back to Westview? Just some loose ends I need to tie up. I’ll be around. Can you keep her safe for me until I’m back, Mrs Davis? In fact, forget the safe part. Just keep her in Westview?”

Sharon thought that was a strange thing to say.

“Mrs Hart!” Agnes wailed in exuberant delight—her blue eyes growing wide and pleased. “Where have you been! And what is with all this garbage in the back of your car…” she murmured, examining a half-wrapped garden hose handle.

Sharon bit her tongue, hating that name. 

“Those are Christmas presents, Agnes,” she said diplomatically.

Agnes turned indiscreetly as Rio buckled her in the seat, “Gee willickers, I sure would hate to be on Mrs Hart’s naughty list this year. Am I right, sister?” She lightly elbowed.

“Fuck off,” Rio whispered under her breath and fussed over the straps. “Whole thing was a fucking disaster, Mrs Davis.”

“Well she doesn’t think it’s Christmas anymore,” Sharon reasoned.

Rio paused and glanced oddly.

“You’re right,” she observed. “Maybe not an entire disaster, then.”

[thisistoomuchworkforausername]

I've had this account for over a year never intending to actually use it for anything other than lurking only for TETRO DANGANRONPA PINK to be the thing that finally makes me crawl out from under my rock to scream into the cosmos.

That being said...

I have a theory...

I've scanned high and low and I haven't found anybody who said this yet, but I could've just missed it. But has anyone considered that no one killed Kamimura? Like... I have this gut feeling that he died from the elements.

I know I sound insane, given the sheer... intensity of the scene, but hear me out.

POINT 1: How "personal" it is. Counter-intuitive, I know, but I've seen this wording used multiple times to describe the brutality of Kamimura's death, and my question is if this is the case, who had it out against Kamimura to the extent of disemboweling him??? Hasegawa was closest to him but... no... just no. Tamba had beef with him but they made up, and her arc this chapter has been her trying to apologize to Mai. Kind of a weird way to apologize if that's the case. Even Okazaki doesn't have a reason to hate his guts that badly, and Okazaki definitely lit ants on fire as a kid.

POINT 2: time. How on earth did someone kidnap Kamimura, torture him, decapitate and mutilate him, wrap his head in bandages, tie him up, clean up the scene at least a little if Watari's luminol testing indicates anything, trash multiple rooms, and (maybe) set up a separate trap for someone to spring (not necessarily in that order) in the two hour time frame we have ON TOP of remaining unseen and undetected through the entirely of it. All I'm saying is some time could be cut if his injuries were inflicted post-mortem (I'm probably forgetting a lot, I know, but this is more stream of consciousness than a TED talk)

POINT 3: It's been a re-occurring theme throughout all three chapters so far that the motive seems to specifically effect Kamimura. Of course, part of that sentiment is just him griping, but especially the temperature motive seemed to bring him to his lowest, breaking down his walls and leaving raw emotions on display. Narratively, if Von Babbit goes hypothetically go this route, then that escalation would payoff by having the motive actually cause Kamimura, and ONLY Kamimura's death. The ultimate irony.

It would also be interesting to see the fallout for the staff once this is revealed, possibly leading to more internal fighting as the scientists deal with their experiment having been compromised by their own interference, like what happened to Mai but more extreme, because Kamimura did nothing to "warrant" being taken out of the game. It makes me wonder, if this IS the case, how they will change course with future motives in order to prevent an accident like this from happening again.

Of course, this is only a hypothetical, and hinges on a gut feeling with no basis except "vibes". This whole post is practically fanfic but I actually have a lot more thoughts that I'll share at some point once I've gotten my case built up, but this is already way longer than it needs to be and I may regret this by morning, but Tetro lives rent free in my head and it's driving me insane.

Also, y'all. The bandages didn't HAVE to come from the med bay. There is literally a character whose design includes bandages over every inch of visible skin. Somehow I doubt Okazaki hasn't changed those once in 22 days... and I'm pretty sure replica outfits are provided to all students; all I'm saying is if there was a character to go full Togami, it's them.

[garchankdefender]

Arcane fic: cannon-compliant Vi whump with a smattering of CaitVi.

Turns out, tumblr lets you post whole-ass stories right on main! Which I didn't realize at first! So here - an exerpt from a longer fic. CW: major injury (disembowelment, blood loss, shock - it's fairly graphic), implied vomit, canon-compliant character death. Set during the fight with Ambessa/Warwick at the commune.

*

Vi realized what was going to happen.

There was not a moment of hesitation as she ripped herself out of Caitlyn's grip, even as Caitlyn screamed out desperately after her. Vi paid her no heed. Jinx was running to her death; Vi couldn't let that happen. It was that simple. Not after Jinx had saved her own life. Not after they had just been reunited.

Fresh adrenaline dumped into her system, heartbeat kicking into high gear. Her breaths were coming fast and harsh as she ran, left arm still clamped determinedly over her side. Each step shot a lance of pain through her stomach, but, drawing from her deepest reserves of energy, she pushed it aside. Pain or not, she needed to get to her sister. 

She and Jinx were both running flat-out when they collided. Vi wrapped her in her arms and held on in a desperately tight embrace. Jinx kicked at her, crying out in wordless anguish. She twisted violently in Vi's grip, and Vi screamed as she felt an agonizing tear along her left side.

"No!" her sister was shouting. "No, no, no! Isha!"

Still, she held on tight, pulling Powder in close to her chest even as she wriggled and thrashed to escape. Vi threw her weight backwards, pulling Jinx away from Vander, and from where Isha stood observing them.

Jinx shrieked with rage as she realized what Vi was doing, and she kicked and writhed and clawed with renewed fervor. Vi received an elbow in the gut, and for a moment the world went muffled and dark as a guttural sob ripped from her throat.

Jinx struggled in her loosening grasp, and it was all Vi could do to keep holding her. She grunted through her teeth, keeping her sister trapped in the bear hug.

"Please, please," Jinx was begging, eyes fixed with horror on Isha's. "No."

Through the mass of soldiers, Vi saw Isha point a finger gun at them and, with a little smile, pull the imaginary trigger.

(She looks so much like Powder, Vi thought.)

Then the girl took a breath, looked up at Vander, and pulled the trigger of the real gun.

Vi saw it all: the small finger depressing the trigger; the sudden, initial crackle of the volatile hextech; Vander's agonized roar; Isha, her eyes closed, her expression one of peace. Jinx howled brokenly, fists uselessly beating against Vi's arms.

She felt every hair on her body prickle.

They were too fucking close.

Jinx screamed, falling back as the hex crystal detonated. Vi used one last, desperate burst of energy to turn and grab her sister, curling over her body, using her own as a shield.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Her vision flashed to bright white, and then to black.

...

Cool dirt against her cheek. Sulphur and iron in her nose.

...

Something tickled at the side of her face. When her eyelids fluttered briefly open, two pink rings of iris stared back at her.

White-hot pain rippled across her shoulders and down her spine. Her head pounded, and her midsection felt like she had been ripped in half. Sharp, agonizing nausea rolled through her.

Vi whimpered, and slipped back into the darkness.

...

Someone was calling her name.

...

There were hands on her. She was being moved – turned onto her back.

Vi felt a sharp twinge in her gut, and groaned softly as she experienced the disgusting, deeply unsettling sensation of organs sliding wetly out of her body.

...

"Vi? Vi. Vi!"

It was Caitlyn.

Their eyes met; Cait's were huge and terrified. Vi saw them dart down to her abdomen, and back up just as quickly. Vi was facing up and couldn't see what Caitlyn had, but, seeing her shaken expression, she felt cold dread settle in her chest.

Something pressed soggily into her midsection, applying firm pressure, and her whole body jerked violently at the terrible ache of it. She cried out, her own voice ragged and weak in her ears.

Caitlyn was saying something, but the words skittered across her consciousness without registering in her brain; like rats across concrete, leaving no footprints.

There was another voice now, too, hoarse but familiar. Two hollow, pink-ringed eyes appeared in her vision. They held her gaze – but only for a heartbeat, before they blinked away, and were gone.

Vi tried to say something, to cry out to her sister, but all she managed was a loud, embarrassing whimper in between shallow breaths.

Warm fingertips gently cradled her jaw. Head swimming, Vi blinked up into Caitlyn's eyes. Before, they had looked terrified. Now, they simply looked lovely, like deep pools of calm blue water. Vi let herself be soothed, watching them as they darted over her.

The fingers slid to the side of her neck.

"So sweet," Violet murmured, mostly to herself as she felt the world start to slip away again. "Like a cupcake."

...

Her eyes opened again, lids slow and heavy. Gradually, the world filtered back in. The pain was still there, but it felt quieter now, less consuming.

Cait's face still floated above her, but she had turned to speak to a man standing behind her. Vi recognized him, maybe, but not enough to know from where. He had a beard, and a fancy piltie jacket in tatters.

He looked fucking haggard.

He spoke, animated with intensity. His voice was deep and urgent. Vi struggled to comprehend his words, brain sluggish. Slowly, they filtered their way down into her murky thoughts. "Come on,” he said. “We need to get outta here!"

Caitlyn’s voice shook when she replied. Vi wished she knew what she’d said. The man knelt next to her, and the motion made Vi's head spin. More was said, but the words and voices blurred together, indistinct and distant.

Something was tapping at Vi's collarbone, hard and insistent. She opened her eyes – she hadn't even realized she'd closed them again – and saw Powder in front of her, tapping her metal middle finger on her chest.

Her expression was detached; stoney. Her eyes looked so, so sad.

Powder. Vi tried to reach up for her, but all that resulted was a twitch of her hand. She tried to speak, but again only managed a feeble moan.

The tapping stopped.

There were more words; a sudden flurry of movement. They were shifting positions around her, and Vi had to squeeze her eyes shut to avoid being sick. The world spun dizzyingly. It was almost like being drunk – there was a certain comforting familiarity in that, at least.

Her eyes flickered open again when she felt the pressure lift off her wound. Above her, she saw nothing but smoke and dust - Caitlyn was no longer there. Vi hated herself for the loneliness and fear that washed through her in Cait's sudden absence.

She felt hands on her limbs and body, but couldn't identify their owners. Through her dulled senses, a sharp cramp began radiating from her belly, and Vi moaned quietly. 

Lying face-up, limp and helpless, she stared at motes of dust swirling leisurely above her.

Vi was used to soaking up damage. She was built for it – she'd been weaned on the street fights of the Lanes, after all, and raised in the bloody pits of Stillwater. She had been kicked; stabbed; beaten until the world around her turned to a blurry mush. Vi knew her body, and knew her limits – she had met them too many times not to.

This felt different. She felt a heavy, abject wrongness in her gut - something she had never felt before. That scared her. Everything hurt - her head, her back, her hands, her fucking stomach - but she couldn't quite pinpoint the individual injuries. It was all becoming a confused, muddy din of sensation. Her breathing was fast and shallow as she felt a deep fear grip her. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, as if she was still in the fight, still sprinting towards Powder.

Cait reappeared above her, face sweaty and pale. Softly, she clasped Vi's face in both her hands, saying something gentle and pleading. Vi's skin was cool and sweaty, and in contrast Caitlyn's felt burning hot.

The world moved around her again, and Vi had a moment of wild confusion. Am I on a ship now? The ground under her seemed to roll and pitch like a boat on the waves. But no – she had been picked up; she could tell from the thick, solid arms braced under her knees and back. Each jarring step made her gut twinge ruthlessly. She could feel wetness slicked across her whole front, soaking into the man's broad chest, pooling in the bend of her waist, dripping into the dirt below.

She felt, very strongly, that she was going to die.

But Cait and Powder were there beside her as they walked, and she felt a hand close over hers, and maybe dying wouldn't be such a bad thing, after all.

She let her eyes slide closed. There were more words, but Violet did not hear them.

*

(Extended cut at https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14422355/1/All-Your-Insides - plus, stay tuned for another chapter continuing with Cait's POV)