#echoes buried alive but emerging in the garden

[flurrin]

I loooooovvve lyrics analysis. let's look up songs the WRITER didn't know the meaning of and talk about all the symbology together

[outpost51]

— The Unlikely Adventures of Bitchface and Go F*ck Yourself (18+)

Expiration dates are for bologna and bad boyfriends, not sisters.

Chapter WC: 8,363

Warning(s): violence, gore

{READ HERE ON AO3} or below the cut ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Dillon was grateful for the emergency towels Cheryl kept in the trunk, because both she and Daisy were covered in enough mud to start another garden for their mom.

“I think we’ll need to hose off in the backyard.” Daisy’s voice was soft, but Dillon’s nerves were so frayed she almost ran a red light. If her sister was affected by the jolt, she didn’t show it. “Like when we were little, remember?”

“Yeah,” Dillon replied numbly. Of course she remembered. Her sister’s death forced her mind to unlock every happy memory they ever made together to protect it from the trauma of losing her. The sun had just started its ascent when they pulled into the driveway. She felt like a robot helping her sister out of the car and sneaking around the back of the house; her limbs were stiff and her heart was shuttered the whole way when she knew she should have been ecstatic — Daisy was back, but at what cost? Had her sister left anything behind? Would she be forced to relive the night she died in her dreams night after night? Would she even dream anymore?

Would she ever smile again?

A cold blast of water hit her square in the ass and she squealed, then nearly collapsed as a wheezy giggle filtered through the stuttering stream of the hose. Oh, how she missed that sound, even as weak as it was. When she turned, Daisy was looking down at herself, clad in nothing but the frumpy church dress she’d been buried in and holding the drooping hose in both hands, as if she couldn’t believe she was standing in our yard again. “I’m alive,” she whispered, and Dillon wasn’t sure if those two words broke her heart or made it swell so large it popped.

“That’s good… right?” She suddenly wasn’t as sure of her actions as she was when she first lit the candles.

Daisy dropped the hose to prod at her stomach, chest, and face. The pause was long enough for Dillon to give herself two separate internal lectures and a mild anxiety attack. “Yeah,” she finally replied, an echo of her sister. “When my car landed… I wanted to text you. I wanted to tell you I was sorry I wouldn’t make it in time, and that I loved you, but I think my phone went out the window, or maybe I dropped it.” She wrung out the hem of her dress, and the action was so unnervingly… normal. “I thought about how sad you’d be, and Mom and Dad. I had so much I needed to tell you and I just, I couldn’t stop crying, I couldn’t find my phone—”

Dillon didn’t know what she expected when she brought her sister back; maybe something shambling, maybe a hollow echo, but not… normal. “Daze, it’s—”

“I know, I know. It was such a silly thing to fret over, wasn’t it?” She looked up and smiled. It wasn’t the same one that brightened the breakfast table every morning. “Think Mom’s gonna flip if we waddle in with our clothes soaked?”

Dillon shook her head. “I think she’ll fuss about us catching cold,” she snorted, then froze. “Fuck, I’m sor—”

“Whatever for?” Daisy’s eyebrows crinkled in sympathy. “Oh, Dill, I’m not upset at you, it just feels weird being back in my body, and my stomach kinda hurts, and I’m still trying to shake off the heartache.” She closed the distance between them and sank to one knee to hug her little sister.

That was it, that was the thing that finally broke what thin veneer of composure Dillon had managed to work up on the way home. “Because you died?” she sniffled.

Daisy lifted her head, resting her chin on Dillon’s chest. “Because I lost my sister, too.”

There was no telling how long it took them to stop sobbing on each other, but the sun had almost cleared the copse of trees at the edge of the neighborhood by the time they stumbled through the front door. The smell of bacon and eggs assaulted Dillon’s senses and made her knees wobbly. She hadn’t eaten since picking at breakfast before they left for the funeral.

“Cheryl, we’re home!” she called, toeing off her soggy boots by the door.

“Who’s ‘we’ this morning?” Cheryl didn’t look up from the stove. “Did you pick up Moira?”

Daisy waved at her back. “Hi, Mom.”

A pancake hit the ceiling and stuck there. Their mother might have, too, if she wasn’t in heels. Her scream made Dillon’s ears ring, though.

“That’s what you get for springing the werewolf thing on me last year,” Daisy mumbled as she made her way towards the stairs. “I’m gonna get cleaned up for breakfast. Did they find my phone by my car?”

Cheryl shook her head numbly.

“Bummer,” Daisy sighed, and continued up to her room.

The door had just barely shut before Cheryl was on the phone with her ex husband. “Darren? Darren, shut up, I don’t care if you’re at the office, it’s never mattered before,” she huffed. “Daisy’s home.”

There was a pause, a few muffled words Dillon couldn’t make out. Her mom hung up the phone and turned to her. She suddenly wanted to be anywhere but shoveling pancakes in her mouth at the kitchen counter. “Dillon Marie, what in God’s name did you do?”

“I’m pretty sure a god was involved, but I don’t think capital-G had anything to do with it.” That was apparently not the correct answer, because the fork was removed from her hand and her mom’s fists went to her hips. “A weird lady gave me a zombie recipe book when I stayed behind at the grave. I was desperate and stupid, I know I shouldn’t have messed with forces unknown, but Daisy—”

“What book?”

Dillon retrieved her bag, then the book inside it. “I did what it said to do. It worked, but Daisy’s headstone—”

“Your dad doesn’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That your sister died.” Cheryl flipped through a few pages. Raised her eyebrows a few times. She set the book down and went down to the basement, leaving Dillon alone at the counter with a massive stack of pancakes. Unattended. Four fell prey to her grabby hands before Cheryl returned.

With a severed head, its face frozen in a scream.

That she promptly whacked against the counter over and over until it cracked open.

“You cut up bodies three nights out of the month, pickle,” Cheryl chided as her daughter lost her pancakes in the sink.

Dillon looked at her mother with a mix of shock and disgust. “Yeah, I cut ‘em up, I don’t brutalize them.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, it’s not like it’s bleeding.” Cheryl dropped the pulpy remains in her daughter’s outstretched hands. “Do something with that, please. I need to scramble this before your sister comes back down.”

With her mind completely dissociated from her physical form, Dillon sputtered, “Like what? I can’t just throw this in the trash!”

Cheryl exhaled through her nose. “Of course not, that’s wasteful. Put it in a bag and put it back in the freezer. I’ll boil it later to make freezie-pops.” She scoffed at Dillon’s continued perturbation. “What? Werewolves get hot, too. It’s too much work to fill a kiddie pool with ice for Gus to roll in every time we go on a run. Get some of my bacon while you’re down there.”

Dillon inhaled to respond, but swallowed the thought at her mother’s look.

Until she returned from her task. “Who’s Gus?” she asked as she set the paper-wrapped package on the counter. She’d taken to labeling the meat in their freezer according to what living thing in came from after one unfortunate incident involving a pig-bacon and people-bacon mixup that left her with far more questions about herself than she ever wanted answered.

The stairs creaked under a weight much more significant than Daisy’s, and the clicking of heavy claws on the kitchen floor prickled painful gooseflesh over her whole body. “I heard my name,” a gruff voice rumbled behind her as a massive shadow fell over the kitchen. “Pancakes?”

Cheryl smiled up at the mountain of scruffy black werewolf draped over her head and shoulders. Like he belonged there. Much too fucking comfortable for Dillon’s liking. “Mmhm, eggs and bacon, too. Dillon resurrected her sister.”She pushed the grabby wolf-hand away from her pan. “Don’t touch the scrambled ones, Gus-Gus, there’s brain in there.”

Their guest — or intruder, by Dillon’s perspective— looked like he told his mother he wanted to be a cloud when he grew up and subsequently made weightlifting his entire personality. His piercing yellow eyes might have been intimidating if Dillon hadn’t seen the same glow in her mother’s. “Daisy died?”

“Long story.”

He grunted in response. No shock, no theatrics. Was it such a casual thing in their world? “Coffee?”

“Still fresh. Make Dilly a cup, would you? I doubt she’s gotten any sleep.”

Dillon accepted the mug with far more grace than she expected she would have when faced with a potential — “So are you gonna make Cheryl an honest woman, or do I need to go put my boots back on?”

Gus choked, sputtering black coffee out of his nose. It matted down the thick, fluffy fur on his chest in twin rivers like tire tracks through a cornfield.

“Dillon Marie!” Cheryl’s hands went to her hips.

“There’s a naked wolfman in our house, Cheryl!”

There was a squeak of surprise from the stairs, rapid thumping away, and finally Daisy skidded into the kitchen, one of Darren’s abandoned golf clubs in her hands. She wound up, ready to swing.

Cheryl nearly turned purple. “Gus, I am so sorry, they’re just protective.”

“No harm done, Cherry, I’m the same way with my mom,” Gus snorted as he scrubbed the coffee out of his fur with a kitchen towel.

The outrage from the girls was simultaneous, though the volume was inversely proportional to their sizes — where Daisy was softly inquisitive, Dillon shattered a wine glass in the rack above the sink. The jolt of energy almost, almost startled her enough to derail her tirade.

“Cherry?”

“Cherry!”

“Dillon!”

“Rasso,” announced another newcomer, who caught Daisy’s golf club in a sandy-furred hand an inch from his head. “Nice swing. Why are we yelling names?”

“Oh, there’s a naked werewolf in our kitchen,” Daisy replied. “He hugged Mom, I think, Dillon’s protective.” She looked at her captured golf club, then up further to Rasso’s face. “You pulled me out of the car.”

The action in the kitchen froze as everyone looked to the eldest Monroe daughter on the stairs; Gus had Dillon in both hands, held aloft in a rocketship pose, she had one of his ears in a vice grip, and Cheryl was doing her best to keep one eye on her youngest daughter and the other on her oldest.

Rasso tilted his head. “What car?”

“Long story,” the kitchen inhabitants intoned in unison.

Daisy’s bright smile brought a choked sob from her sister. “Dill brought me back from the dead last night,” she explained. Pride coated every word in a gilded shell as they fell from her mouth in a waterfall of riches. “Nobody can remember, apparently. My friends think I lost my mind, but I remember your eyes. You held my hand and told me about the lake in Arizona so I wouldn’t be scared.”

“Well, how about that? Small world.” Cheryl gave Rasso a warm, grateful smile and plated Daisy’s breakfast. “Come eat, baby, you must be starving.” That warmth turned into a glare that froze him to the stairs when he stepped forward at the same time as Daisy. “If you want to stay for breakfast, you can ask nicely instead of assuming.”

Gus’s snicker abruptly ended in a choke as Dillon managed to land a solid kick to his Adam’s apple. He released her to the wild. “If this is what she’s like at twelve, she’ll be the first human to run with a pack by the time she hits twenty.”

Daisy at least had the courtesy to shove a bite of eggs in her mouth to hide her laugh.

“She’ll be nineteen in a few months, Gus,” Cheryl snorted.

As if the silent shock bulging his eyes wasn’t enough to give Dillon the vindication she deserved after her unjust humiliation, the wayward pancake chose that moment to unstick itself from the ceiling and crown Gus as the king of fools.

“Got something on your face, Gus,” she sneered as she plated up her own breakfast and took the spot next to Daisy. To her great disappointment, he merely put his hands up in surrender, then accepted the plate of meat and eggs Cheryl offered. He at least possessed the skill to read the room, leaning his hip on the counter to eat rather than sitting at the table. Rasso followed suit, and Cheryl took her usual seat.

“Dilly, I know you love your dad—”

“But,” Dillon huffed. She cut into her stack of pancakes a little more aggressively than necessary and with a little too much eye contact with her mother’s guests. Rasso twiddled his fingers in a cheeky wave. “There’s a ‘but’ in that sentence.”

Cheryl exhaled through her nose. “But I am an adult, and I can date if I’d like to, and I am not dating my packmates,” she concluded. “We just buried your sister and I needed my pack. That’s what werewolves do when we’re upset.” Dillon must not have hidden her watery eyes and wobbly lip as well as she thought, because her mother’s face softened with heartbreak. “We both needed to process things on our own in our own ways, pickle. Daisy wouldn’t be here if I made you spend time consoling me.”

The thought sobered the entire room, and they ate in a tense silence until Daisy broke it.

“Brett ran me off the road,” she admitted.

Dillon checked her pockets for her phone when a sudden rumble rattled the plates on the table, the windows, and her entire skeleton. She must have left it in her bag, then, and the violent pulse came from three pissed off werewolves.

Cheryl went unnaturally still. Politely set down her fork. “Excuse me?”

“He doubled back and pulled over to make sure I didn’t get out, I think. I saw his car, but he was making a bunch of vague threats the day before too.” Daisy frowned at her eggs, pushing them around the plate. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t you dare say what you’re about to say,” Cheryl warned. “Don’t you dare. None of this is on you, do you understand me? Not a single bit. You didn’t make him hurt you, or yell at you, or run you off the road, Daisy-mae, all you ever did was want somebody to love you, and that is not a fucking crime. Pass me the people-bacon, Dilly.”

Dillon passed the plate across the table without question. “Holy shit, Cheryl.”

“Language, pickle.”

Dillon was wired as she laid down to sleep that night, kicking her feet and tossing and turning until finally, mercifully, her brain and body gave in around two in the morning. She’d feel like shit when she inevitably dragged her carcass out of bed, but it was fine; she had her sister back, her mom was still single, and she was right about Brett. She just had to figure out how to bring him to justice, but that was a problem for future Dillon. Present Dillon just wanted to sleep.

A weight sank down on the edge of her mattress, stirring her slightly back into awareness but not enough to jolt her awake. Cheryl checked on her a lot that week, so it was nothing new. She’d probably kiss her forehead and go back to her room. “Dillon, wake up, baby,” she whispered.

“Muh?”

“I need you to drive me somewhere. I’ll buy you burritos.”

Dillon pulled her blanket up higher and scrunched her nose up. She didn’t want burritos. She wanted to go back to sleep. “Why?” she grumbled. “It’s late.” The overhead light seared her eyes even behind her eyelids. Fuck it. She peeled one open to see what all the fuss was about. The other followed suit with gusto.

Her mother stood over her in her silky, auburn-furred glory, wolfed the fuck out and clearly ready to party; her gardening belt was strapped around her waist and loaded down with knives, a hammer, duct tape — “I thought werewolves didn’t need weapons to hunt,” Dillon slurred.

“These aren’t for hunting, pickle,” Cheryl growled. “They’re for making that piece of shit wish he never looked at your sister.” She pulled out a screwdriver, twirling it around between her fingers. “And to make sure he never looks at another girl again.”

Dillon had her helping-Cheryl-in-the-garden pants on and her backpack slung over her shoulder before her mother could utter another word. It was funny what a little time and a heaping spoonful of trauma could do to someone; just two years ago, she was worried about disposing of a body her mother left on the front lawn, but now? She was more than happy to help her make one.

She plugged the address Cheryl sent her into the car’s GPS, handed her mom the aux cord, and off they went to pay a visit to her sister’s murderous piece-of-shit ex.

A murderous piece-of-shit ex whose car was not in the driveway of his parents’ grotesquely huge house. “Cut the lights and stay here,” Cheryl hissed, and before Dillon could ask why and what she was doing, she was halfway across the yard, loping silently through the shadows to check all the windows. One must have been open, because her ass shimmied right inside and Dillon felt her heart stop. What if they got caught? Was her mom going to murder Brett’s parents? That wasn’t part of the deal, she didn’t sign up for —

Cheryl slammed into the car, a shirt in her mouth. “Drive, pickle!”

Once she stopped screaming and remembered how to breathe, Dillon floored it. “Where are we going?”

“To the edge of the neighborhood, I can catch his scent from there.” She took a deep whiff of the shirt and discarded it at her feet before rolling down the window. “Slow down at the intersection, I think I have it.” Cheryl hung her head out the window and sniffed a few times. Her snout abruptly jerked to the left. “That way, go! But stop at each intersection and I’ll tell you whether to turn or stay straight.”

They tracked him to a gas station a few miles down the road. Dillon pulled the car up behind a truck to stay out of sight while Cheryl kept a lookout. She didn’t know what he could possibly be doing that took half an hour, considering his was the only other car in the parking lot, and she didn’t want to know.

Cheryl climbed back in and rolled up her window. “Keep the lights cut until it’s too dark to see the road, and don’t follow him too close, not yet,” she said, keeping her voice low and steady. She was way too calm about what they were doing. What Dillon suspected they’d be doing next. Just what did her mom get up to on her runs besides hunting predators in the park? “You okay driving, or do you need me to shift back? I’m not going to make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with. We can even turn around if you want to, but once we leave this parking lot, we have to commit.”

“Commit to what?” Dillon didn’t think she wanted the answer. She wanted to be blissfully unaware until the very last minute.

Cheryl answered anyway. “We’re gonna run this motherfucker off the road and make him wish he didn’t survive.”

Dillon swallowed. She needed less time to think about it than she probably should have. He hurt Daisy, and if he wasn’t hurting Daisy, he’d hurt someone else, and no one was doing anything about it. It ended tonight. “Okay,” she breathed. “Let’s do this.”

She kept the lights off as they drove in silence until she couldn’t make out anything in the dark but Brett’s taillights. “I can’t see anymore,” she said.

Cheryl nodded. “Count of three, turn on the brights and lay on the horn. Three… two…”

Dillon clicked the headlights all the way up and slammed all her weight on the horn. Brett swerved, but stayed in his lane.

“Do you trust me?”

Dillon nodded, afraid to take her eyes off the road. Her mom might have been practically invincible, but Dillon was still very much a small human with bones that broke and skin that cut.

“Speed up, get beside him in the left lane.”

She pressed the accelerator as hard as she could with her limited reach.

When their windows were side by side, Cheryl barked, “Now flip his ass the bird.” Dillon gladly did so. Her mom rolled down her own window and snarled. Where she expected to see anger on Brett’s face, she saw only palpable fear. “He’s gonna run. Let him.” Sure enough, he sped up with a sudden screech of tires. “Keep on his ass, baby!”

It was exhilarating. Terrifying. Was that how Cheryl felt when she ran free during the full moon, hunting the worst of the worst?

When her mom screamed, “Clip his flank!” she jerked the wheel without hesitation. There was a sickening crunch like breaking bone and Brett’s candy-red car lurched hard towards the shoulder. His front tire caught on something and the whole thing went airborne, flipping sideways twice before landing on its side. It slid into the woods running along the interstate and Dillon hit the breaks, skidding to a squealing stop a hundred yards away, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged pants.

It was a lot easier to think about when it wasn’t real. When she wasn’t faced with the glossy smear of fluids Brett’s car left behind. When her bones didn’t ache from the impact.

“Holy shit,” she wheezed. “We just killed somebody. We fuckin’… oh my god. Oh my god, we killed—”

“Back it up, Dilly, come on, we can’t make assumptions,” her mom urged.

She nodded numbly and carefully reversed the car until her mom held up a hand to stop her.

Cheryl was out of the car before Dillon could even park, bounding down the hill on all fours with an excited howl. She’d never seen her mother hunt, just the aftermath, and for a few seconds, the logical, human part of her brain made her hesitate. They ran him off the road. If he survived, he’d be scared out of his mind and probably wouldn’t fuck with Daisy ever again.

It was the probably that boiled her blood and thawed her feet. He didn’t spare Daisy a second thought except to make sure she wasn’t getting back up. There wasn't room for probably.

They were going to make it a definite thing.

She could have her morality crisis later, after she’d taken the eye that he owed.

They found the car flipped on its side, slotted between two trees like a CD on a rack. The engine was still ticking to the beat of whatever country song warbled out on the radio’s dying breaths.

Dillon kicked her foot up on the door and leaned into the smashed window. “Sup, bitch,” she spat. Brett’s eyes weren’t quite focusing, and he squinted like she was blurry and swayed like she was floating around. He sure as hell didn’t have a problem seeing six-foot-nine Cheryl hulking behind her. “You’ve met my mom, yeah?” She leaned in closer to sneer in his face. “You’re about to meet your maker.” He got half a scream out before Cheryl ripped his door off with one hand and yanked him out of the car with the other.

“How did you like that taste of your own medicine, Mr. Lawson?” Cheryl asked sweetly, or as sweet as she could through an elongated snout and dozens of very big, very sharp teeth.

“How’d you… nobody else rem-remembers,” he slurred. He definitely had some kind of head trauma. Oh well. “You wrecked my fucking car, you psycho bitches.”

Cheryl pulled him closer in case he didn’t see her dozens of very big, very sharp teeth the first time. He kicked his feet uselessly. A mouse dangling in the talons of a flying owl. “Tell Little Red Riding Douche what the book said, Dilly-willy.”

Dillon climbed up on her mom’s back and held up the book. “When somebody dies tragically, it makes a shallow scar on the world and a deep one for people directly affected by their death,” she explained. “When they come back, it heals that shallow scar and erases it from everyone’s memories, but the deep scar stays. Cheryl and I were waiting up all night for Daisy to come home when your itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie havin’ ass decided your poor widdle feelies were too hurtsy-wurtsy over getting dumped like the trash you are.”

Brett bared his teeth. Cheryl bared hers. Brett pissed his pants.

“So we remember,” Dillon continued. “We remember how it felt to bury her, and you remember because you’re the reason we had to.” She pointed the book’s spine at Brett. “But you? There’s not gonna be enough of you left for your folks to bury.”

“Pick a piece to leave behind,” Cheryl sneered.

Dillon thought it would make her sick, the crunch of bone, the slick squelch of viscera being torn inch by inch from a living, screaming person. He was another human being, flesh and bone like her. It should have. She knew that on a logical level, she should have been repulsed. Guilty. Afraid.

Maybe losing her sister broke something in her. Maybe it had been broken long before that, when she butchered John Doe. Or even before that, when Darren and Cheryl divorced. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The maybes didn’t matter anymore. Life was too short for maybes.

Dillon pulled a filleting knife from Cheryl’s gardening belt. “I never liked you, Brett,” she said, gently pushing the point of the blade under his chin.

“Fuck you,” he spat, turning his head blindly to find the source of her voice. Cheryl hadn’t waited around to use the screwdriver. “Dunno why my Daisy even bothered with your emo little ass. I told her not to fuck with you anymore, it fucked up her image.” He coughed up a wad of phlegm and blood.

“First of all.” Dillon applied more pressure and drew blood. He screamed. “I’m not emo, I’m goth, there’s a fucking difference. Not that it’s gonna matter in about twenty minutes.” She looked up at her mom, who was lurking close by and picking her teeth like she was bored. Nice touch, Cheryl. “Ten if I get tired of you.” She pressed the knife in further. “And second, you lost the privilege to call her your Daisy the second you hit her, you worthless, pathetic little worm.”

Dillon didn’t know this version of herself. She didn’t know where it came from. It was twisted, angry, sadistic. She wasn’t any of those things.

But grief did funny things to people, made them do things they wouldn’t normally do.

And so did assholes.

“Pathetic? I make more in a week working for my dad than your whole family makes in a year. You’re nothing, noth—”

Brett’s tirade was cut short by a strangled yelp as Dillon brought her heel down between his legs until she felt a pop. “No, Brett. You made more in a week. Past tense, buddy.” She removed the knife. “And now you’re nothing but breakfast for the next couple weeks.”

“My dad—”

“Can fuck a better son into existence,” she barked, slicing her hand through the air. The ground shook. His body jolted and fell limp.

Cheryl nudged his prone form with her foot. Something sloshed around with the motion. “Shit, pickle, I think you liquefied his insides,” she muttered. “Might need to have a family meeting about—”

Something slammed into Dillon’s head, and she managed half a realization that it was the force of her mother catching her before the world went dark.

Dillon awoke to the world moving around her and a headache to rival the time she fell off the monkey bars in elementary school. Her upper lip felt tight, and when she rubbed at it, her hand came away crusted with blood.

“How’re you feeling, Dilly?” Cheryl’s voice was soft and gentle so as not to contribute to the pain she clearly expected.

Dillon grumbled in response, rolling her face across the cool surface of the door’s interior. The chill made it feel moderately better, so she opened the air vents on her side. Cheryl turned the air conditioning up without prompting. She heard the motors inside the door whir shortly before a strong gust of wind sucked her hair out the window. “Thanks,” she mumbled. Her throat was scratchy.

The car turned gently, but the speed stayed constant. She was about to ask where they were, but when she looked up, the sight of her mother hanging her head out the driver side window, ears back and mouth open, wiped all memory of potential questions from her mind.

Cheryl glanced back at her and a smile tugged at the corners of her maw. She leaned out further, rolling her head and lolling her tongue.

Dillon’s headache all but disappeared in the wake of a full on giggle fit, and when Cheryl howled with joy, she couldn’t help but do the same, though hers was much quieter and less haunting.

Her mom finally retreated into the car and rolled up the windows when they approached their neighborhood. There was a noise ordinance, after all, and the Homeowners’ Association was notoriously bitchy about it. The vice president once called the cops on a toddler greeting her mother, who had been deployed overseas, at nine p.m., because the volume of her enthusiasm exceeded the allowable limit. “So, we’re not telling Daisy what actually happened, right?” Cheryl proposed as they pulled into the garage.

Dillon snorted. “You got it, Mom.” She imagined the utter surprise on her mother’s face matched her own. She touched her fingers to her mouth to assuage the tingle; the word felt so foreign now, it was like she’d repeated a swear in another language. “Lights are still off,” she redirected, gesturing to the darkened upstairs windows. “I think we can get him down to the basement through the house, Daisy’s still asleep.”

Cheryl checked the tape binding the plastic tarp they wrapped around Brett’s body, ensuring the seals were tight and it wouldn’t leak on the carpet. Satisfied, she gathered the bundle into her arms and followed closely behind Dillon once she got the door unlocked. She wasn’t as silent as she was on a hunt thanks to the crinkly plastic, but between the two of them, they managed to get Brett’s body down to the basement and processed without waking Daisy.

As it turned out, they had enough time to get showers, change clothes, start a load of laundry, and get breakfast mostly done before the eldest Monroe daughter shambled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Turns out being dead isn’t the same as a long nap,” she sighed. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a month, it’ll take weeks to get back to normal.” She flopped down in her seat next to Dillon and sniffed at her plate, nearly drowning in her own salivation when one was set down in front of her. It smelled different than her sister’s, but not in a bad way. “What’s for breakfast?”

In unison, her mother and younger sister chirped, “Brett!”

She blinked slowly. Poked at the eggs. There were little greyish-pink bits hiding among the egg curds again, and her bacon had a different fat pattern than Dillon’s. “Mom…?” she hazarded.

“Yes, Daisy-mae?” Cheryl sank down across from her. Her wet hair was just starting to shrink up into gentle waves.

“Is this… actually Brett?”

Her mother took a few bites of her own bacon and eggs, and for a minute Daisy thought she wasn’t going to answer. “You read those articles I sent you, right?”

“Yes, Mom, I know I have different dietary needs now, and that’s fine, I’d just like to be in the loop if I’m helping you cover up a crime by eating the evidence.”

Cheryl grinned proudly. “That’s my girl,” she beamed. That was all the answer Daisy needed, and after another moment of hesitation, she tucked in.

A few days passed before the authorities located Brett’s car, but no Brett. From the evidence they did find, however — a few patches of thick fur, claw marks on nearby trees, the entire door ripped off — they concluded it was a bear attack. Coincidentally, there were quite a few empty liquor bottles covered in his DNA and fingerprints in his back seat, and in the absence of a body, they assumed he was drunk, drove off the road, and bears came across the wreckage. So while Brett thought he got away with murder for a little while, yet again the Monroe girls had him beat. They actually got away with it, and had enough meat in the freezer to last until the next full moon.

Two years later

The first sign something was wrong was how late Daisy was for breakfast — typically, she was up minutes after Cheryl to help out and was already on her second cup of coffee by the time Dillon dragged herself to the table. She took her new diet in stride, and was downright enthusiastic about it, learning and modifying recipes, mixing up her own spice blends, and even learning a few recipes for their mother and her packmates, too. That was just how Daisy was; she didn’t just make lemonade out of the citrus storm life threw at her, she made everything she could think of and used the leftover zest in a cocktail.

The second was her lack of pep. Even before she had her daily dose of caffeine, Daisy at least had a little bounce and bubble, but when she shambled down the stairs in an old t-shirt, looking like she hadn’t eaten in weeks and slept in just as long, Dillon knew something wasn’t right. “You okay, sis?” she asked. “Did you get a zombie cold?”

Daisy’s eyes took a while to follow her head as it turned to her sister, but they were still dull and unfocused. “I don’t… I’m not sure,” she replied, voice dazed, airy, quiet.

She went down in a heap of limbs.

Dillon shouted her name. No response.

Cheryl shook her. She was limp.

“No, no, nonono,” Dillon sobbed. “Not again, please, not again, you just opened your own studio, Daze, you can’t go yet, you can’t—”

Cheryl dropped a firm hand on her shoulder. “Go get your books, baby. I’ll call Denise. Her heart’s still beating, she’s still with us.”

It was the still that bothered Dillon. Still wasn’t a certain word. It wasn’t permanent. Still was what you said to people so they wouldn’t panic while the boat was sinking. It was still above water, sure, but it wouldn’t be forever. She sprinted up the stairs, not even acknowledging the pain in her chin, hip, and hand when she tripped on the top step in her haste. They didn’t have time for her to lick her wounds. She could do that later, when Daisy was back to being Daisy.

She had only just set down the last of her books on the table when the front door slammed open and Denise jogged in, kitted out in her hunting gear — khaki cargos, black tank top, boots, utility belt, entirely too many weapons for the current situation but sometimes, somehow, still not enough for the particular brand of nasties she hunted — with her short brown ponytail swishing behind her. “What can we do to help, girls?” She always called them girls, despite Cheryl being thirty-eight and Dillon nearly twenty-one; she was the second oldest in Cheryl’s friend group at forty-eight. “Where’s — oh, Daisy,” she gasped.

Dillon raised an eyebrow. The fresh piercing did not like the motion and she winced. “We?”

Denise’s veritable army filed in — Charlotte, Dottie, Regina, Joyce — followed by Cheryl’s pack, or at least the ones who were off work. Dillon counted ten people in total, but then Bailey, her mother’s newest (and shortest, clocking in at two whole inches taller than Dillon) packmate, squeezed out of the crowd to hoist Daisy into her arms and move her to the couch so she could at least be a corpse with dignity.

No, not corpse, that was a bad thought, and Dillon didn’t need to be thinking those things lest they come to pass.

Eleven people had dropped everything they were doing and hauled ass to the Monroe house. For Daisy. Dillon quickly wiped the tears from her eyes and swore. She’d already put eyeliner on that morning. Fuck.

“Move, bitches!” Moira’s voice was the most heavenly sound, bellowing over the din of the gathered crowd’s planning and brainstorming. Regina didn’t even chastise her daughter for her piss-poor manners. Not with bigger things to worry about. The familiar jingle of her best friend’s heavy pants was the only warning Dillon got before she was tackled nearly off her feet in a tight hug. Her shoulder-length shock of pink hair enveloped Dillon in the familiar comfort of strawberry sparkle body spray. “Show me what to read, Pugsley.” They’d called each other Wednesday and Pugsley for as long as Dillon could remember, because even when they wanted to kill each other, deep down they had an unbreakable bond. Moira dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “I brought the sacrifices.”

“Please don’t sacrifice us,” Faith quipped, dropping an armload of books next to Dillon’s.

Rosie, ever the perfect twin, was right behind her with an entire basket of baked goods and other snacks. “Mmhm, we’d be really rotten sacrifices. Scream the whole time. Mom and the other church ladies sent this, we were at Bible study.”

“When Daisy wakes up, I’m so thanking her for picking today to pull a Princess Aurora.” Dillon appreciated the when, and knew Faith picked the word on purpose. When was certain. When was sure.

Bonnie dropped her backpack in the only empty spot left on the table. She was the most recent addition to their friend group, having been dragged in by the twins a year prior when they met her in the local used book store. They liked her vibe, and thus Bonnie Lucas was adopted into the fold. “My cousin’s in town. You know, the one that’s spooky by our standards,” she explained, pulling out beat-up notebooks that smelled like incense and books that looked like they might have been bound in human skin.

“Damien?” Moira grimaced. It took a lot to make her cringe, but Bonnie’s cousin was definitely a lot.

Bonnie snorted. “Yeah, Eugene. Don’t call him Damien, it makes his ego annoying. Anyway, apparently he’s a necromancer for a private firm that like, brings rich old people back from the dead for succession issues, or whatever.” She scrunched up her nose. “Sorry, ‘resurrectionist’” she mocked. “He said it sounds like your ritual is wearing off.”

“What do you mean ‘wearing off’? I put her soul back in her body and she’s been taking really good care of herself,” Dillon sputtered.

“Yeah, he said you’re a fucking badass for managing it without any training whatsoever, by the way. And if you want a job that pays better than night stocking at Sprawlmart, he’ll vouch for you,” Bonnie replied idly as she flipped through her cousin’s books. “Here, look.” She set one of the possibly-skin books in front of Dillon and pointed to the page she was looking at. “This isn’t the same book you used, but see how this one says it lasts… five years, but in really pretentious magic terms? There should be a follow-up ritual in your book.”

Dillon looked through the pile of books on the table for the one the mysterious graveyard woman left behind, then thumbed through the pages until she found her ritual — still as vague as ever — and turned one more page. There it was right at the top, in bolder lettering than the rest:

TO BE EXECUTED BEFORE THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF RISING.

“Fuck,” she sobbed, quickly turning her head so the escaping tear wouldn’t damage the pages any further.

Moira looked up from the thick tome she was digging through. “Why can’t she just use that other one? It lasts longer.”

“Because it has to be the ritual specifically designed to follow the one used to bring back the person in the first place,” Bonnie explained, holding up something that looked like a textbook.

Rosie cocked her head and pushed her glasses up with a finger when they threatened to fall off with the motion. “And why can’t Dam— uh, Eugene do it?”

“Because he’s a fucking prick,” Moira scoffed.

“Because he probably costs money we don’t have,” Dillon corrected.

“You’re both right, but also wrong. Dillon has to do it. It’s her energy binding Daisy’s soul to her body.”

Faith furrowed her brows. “Well, why can’t we just let, ugh, this sounds so insensitive, Dill, I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Why can’t we just let Daisy… uh, leave and then someone else can bring her back with a ritual that lasts longer?”

Dillon felt her heart shatter as Bonnie’s RBF softened like butter next to an oven. “If her soul gets detached, that’s it. Game over. People can only be resurrected once per reincarnation. She has to be refreshed by the third anniversary of her resurrection, by Dillon, out of that book, or Daisy’s gone for real this time.” Her lip wobbled, but the mask was back before Dillon could blink. “I’m really sorry, Dill. I wish I knew sooner.”

The twins called over the group before Dillon could tell them not to. They were just trying to help. Everyone was just trying to help, but their help was overwhelming, and she felt the heartbreak of inadequacy roiling within her. She couldn’t figure out the problem herself, other people had to step in and fix the mess she made, because she was stupid, and weak, and—

“Hey, stop,” Moira urged softly, pulling her into a hug to shield her from view. “You haven’t fucked around with magic in two years, Pugs, and you fucked around with it before without knowing anything about it. You can ask for help with this.”

She couldn’t, though, this was her mess, and her sister —

“You know Daisy would tell you the same thing, Dillon, you know she would.” Moira pushed her away to dab her sleeve under Dillon’s eyes. “Would I lie to you?”

She wouldn’t, and she was right. Dillon shook her head and looked up at the expectant crowd. “I have to—” Her voice cracked as she choked on a thousand emotions all at once. “I need—”

Moira stepped up and placed her hands on her best friend’s shoulders. “Daisy’s batteries are losing their juice, folks, that’s all,” she announced with all the confidence of a lighthouse in a storm. “Pugsley here just needs to reset her zombie clock, and we have a few months for her to train before Daisy goes critical.”

“What happens in a few months?” Cheryl asked.

Dillon tried to look everywhere but directly at her mom, but the tears came anyway, because no matter where she looked, she saw family. “We lose Daisy.”

“Ah, shit.” Regina’s brows sank as she dropped down to Dillon’s level and wrapped her in a hug. “We’re not gonna lose Daisy, pickle, you’re both Monroes. Monroe girls are unstoppable,” she cooed, peppering the top of Dillon’s head with kisses. She was the only other person that could call her ‘pickle’ and get away with it; she’d been Aunt Reggie since Dillon and Moira met in preschool and bonded over a vampire cartoon they both loved. Daisy and McKinleigh, Moira’s older sister, becoming fast friends sealed her place as an honorary Monroe. She could use Cheryl’s dumb nicknames if she wanted.

Her hair tickled Dillon’s neck and ears, and when she turned her head to escape it, she only managed to get the black shoulder-length waterfall up her nose. She tried not to sneeze on Regina’s very nice fleece jacket, even though she knew she was already smearing the remnants of her eyeliner all over her shoulder, but she couldn’t fight it. She bruised the bridge of her nose on Regina’s shoulder.

“D’you get snot on my jacket, missy?”

“Sorry, Aunt Reggie,” Dillon grumbled, wiping at the spot with her own hoodie sleeve.

A small noise in the living room drew everyone’s attention, and from the immediate, ecstatic uproar, Dillon knew Daisy was awake. “I need to tell her,” she insisted. “I need to be the one she hears it from. I brought her back, this is my—” Moira yanked a handful of her hair, knowing damn well what was about to come out of her mouth. “This is my thing.” Not much better than blaming herself, but at least Moira didn’t pull her hair again.

Regina let her go to start shooing people out of the house. Denise and a few of Cheryl’s packmates stayed behind ‘to help out around the house,’ which was code for ‘Cheryl didn’t want to be alone but was too proud to ask in front of a crowd.’

Dillon found Daisy sitting up on the couch, staring absently out the window and clutching a blanket to her chest. She looked confused, lost, unsure how she got there and where she was in the first place. “Daisy?” She perched as carefully as possible on the edge of the cushions, caging her sister between herself and the back of the couch. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I fainted in the kitchen and got hit by a train,” Daisy replied. She sounded distant, and when she finally turned to look at Dillon, her eyes weren’t as clear as they usually were. Was she going blind? “Did everybody come here for me?”

Dillon nodded. “Yeah, you had us worried for a second.” How did she even approach the subject? She couldn’t just say ‘hey, so, you’re dying, sorry.’ There wasn’t a segue in the world that would cushion that blow enough.

Lucky for her, she didn’t have to come up with one. “I’m dying, aren’t I?” Daisy was so matter-of-fact, so calm, so… accepting about it, it broke Dillon’s heart all over again. “I’ve felt a little off all week, but I didn’t want to worry anybody.”

“Daze, you can’t do that anymore. This isn’t a head cold you can sleep off.” Dillon took a deep breath to stave off the tears. She needed to be brave. Daisy was facing her second death with grace and—

“I’m scared, Dill,” she said softly.

So much for sucking it up. After several agonizing minutes of painful sobs wracking her body, she found herself leaning heavily against Daisy, her sister’s arm wrapped protectively over her shoulders and cradling Dillon against her collarbone while she played with her messy mop of hair, brushing out the tangles. Daisy was comforting her, when she should have been the one comforting her sister. “I just have to do another ritual to refresh your binding, or whatever, but I’m scared, too.”

“Because you haven’t messed with the magic stuff since Brett?”

Dillon made a noise in her chest.

“Mom told me what happened,” Daisy sighed, holding Dillon tighter so she couldn’t whip a betrayed look at Cheryl. “I asked, Dill. You know she can’t lie to us, it would break her. You scared yourself, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t try to… to—”

“Turn his guts into a smoothie?”

A bitter snort snuck its way out. “Yeah. That. I didn’t tell it to do that, I was just… angry. I was so angry, and I just wanted to shut him up, and I put my hand out like—” She repeated the motion from the woods, slicing her hand through the air in front of her. Nothing happened. She didn’t know why she expected anything different. “But it hurt, Daze. It hurt bad.”

Daisy hummed. “Maybe because you used it as a weapon, and a really big one at that. You’ll tear muscles if you try to sprint a mile without training or stretching. Magic is the same thing, isn’t it? Just using a muscle to bend the world to your will?”

Dillon shrugged.

“How long do we have?”

“Until next July. The twentieth. The ritual only lasts three years, and we can’t use a different one to make it last longer.” Dillon knitted her brows. “I’m so stupid, I should have studied it more and maybe I would have known that and picked a different one, or—”

Daisy shushed her with a squeeze. It wasn’t as strong as her hugs used to be. “It’s fine, Dill. I believe in you,” she said, with all the confidence she could muster in her weakened state. “You did it once, right? You can do it again. And even if you can’t, if the worst comes to pass, I won’t be upset. I got to see my family again and spend a few more years with you, and I’ll get to say goodbye this time. You gave me that, you know?”

Dillon’s lip wobbled. Her throat seized around everything she wanted to say and everything she couldn’t find the words for. She had to do it now. She had to, and she would.

Because Daisy believed she could.

Arsonist Chronicles Taglist: @sparatus @thetrashbagswasteland @writernopal @tabswrites @starknstarwars @asher-orion-writes @captain-kraken @teamdilf

Ask to +/- in the tags, replies, inbox, or HERE!

[vinceviralfreak]

Title: Infernal Descent

Chapter 1: The Haunting Prelude

The moon hung low in the pitch-black sky, casting an eerie glow over the desolate town of Ravenswood. The air was thick with anticipation as the residents prepared for the dreaded night that came once a year - Hell Night. Legends whispered of the unspeakable horrors that unfolded during this cursed evening, when the veil between the living and the dead grew thin.

In the heart of Ravenswood stood an old, dilapidated mansion, known as the House of Shadows. Its crumbling facade and broken windows were a testament to the darkness that resided within. For years, the townsfolk had avoided the mansion, believing it to be cursed. But on this Hell Night, a group of curious teenagers dared to venture inside, unaware of the malevolent forces that awaited them.

Chapter 2: The Gathering Storm

As the clock struck midnight, the group of friends, led by the fearless Sarah, crept through the overgrown garden towards the House of Shadows. Their hearts pounded in their chests, a mix of excitement and trepidation. The wind howled, carrying with it whispers of forgotten souls and the distant cries of tortured spirits.

Inside the mansion, the air grew colder, and the walls seemed to breathe with a life of their own. The friends cautiously explored the dimly lit rooms, their footsteps echoing through the empty halls. Each step brought them closer to the heart of darkness, where secrets long buried would be unearthed.

Chapter 3: Unleashing the Demons

As they delved deeper into the mansion, the group stumbled upon a hidden chamber. The room was adorned with ancient symbols and flickering candles, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Unbeknownst to them, they had stumbled upon a portal to the underworld, a gateway to Hell itself.

In their ignorance, the friends unwittingly unleashed a horde of malevolent spirits. The once dormant mansion came alive with a cacophony of screams and moans, as the tortured souls sought revenge on the living. Panic ensued as the friends fought to survive the onslaught of demonic entities, their minds teetering on the edge of madness.

Chapter 4: A Descent into Madness

As the night wore on, the line between reality and nightmare blurred. The friends found themselves trapped within the House of Shadows, their only hope of survival lying in the unraveling of the mansion's dark history. They discovered that the mansion had been built upon an ancient burial ground, where countless souls had been condemned to eternal suffering.

Driven by desperation, the group embarked on a perilous journey through the mansion's twisted corridors, encountering vengeful spirits and demonic apparitions at every turn. Their sanity wavered, and their bonds of friendship were tested as they fought to escape the clutches of the House of Shadows.

Chapter 5: The Final Confrontation

In the darkest depths of the mansion, the friends discovered the source of the evil that plagued Ravenswood. A malevolent entity, known as the Shadow King, had been awakened by their unwitting actions. With each passing moment, the Shadow King grew stronger, feeding on the fear and despair of the trapped souls.

In a final, desperate act, the friends united their dwindling strength and confronted the Shadow King. Armed with the knowledge they had acquired, they fought to banish the darkness that had consumed the House of Shadows and restore peace to Ravenswood.

Epilogue: The Lingering Shadows

As dawn broke, the House of Shadows stood silent once more, its malevolence vanquished. The friends emerged, battered and scarred, forever changed by their harrowing ordeal. The town of Ravenswood breathed a collective sigh of relief, but the memories of Hell Night would forever haunt their dreams.

In the aftermath, the friends vowed to keep the horrors they had witnessed a secret, knowing that the world was not ready to face the truth. But the shadows of that fateful night would forever linger, a reminder of the darkness that dwells within us all.

Infernal Descent, a tale of horror and the human spirit's resilience, serves as a chilling reminder that sometimes, the greatest terrors lie within the depths of our own souls.

[kingreywrites]

So Pardon The Dust

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 2493

Summary: When they arrive in the Dark Kingdom, the king has been dead for years.

Note: this is bittersweet, but the idea couldn’t leave me alone, and i had to write it out! so yeah, edmund’s death is heavily talked about, be careful if that’s not your thing! I just love Destinies Collide, and love what-ifs, so this story was born from there asghdh

Read on ao3

When they arrive in the Dark Kingdom, the king has been dead for years. 

They don't know that. What they do know is that once their travel in a shaky gondola over an immense rift ends, everything seems too easy. The kingdom is dark, cold, smells of dust and rust permeating the air, and it makes it hard to imagine that anyone has ever lived in such a place. But Rapunzel's hair pushes her forward, and they don't spend any more time thinking about it. 

They enter the equally dark and cold castle, searching for the moonstone. 

Desperate for a flicker of warmth, Lance lights a fire in a lifeless living room with no windows. Eugene's gaze is drawn to a painting, throning above the fireplace and depicting a man and a woman he presumes to be the king and queen. 

He cannot explain the deep uneasiness he feels at the sight, or even why he can hardly tear his eyes away from the picture. His heart is racing, and he explains it by blaming it on his concern for Rapunzel. 

The queen's smile remains etched in his mind as he moves forward. 

The king has been dead for years. They don't know it, but Eugene finds a room filled with overhanging statues and, sitting in front of a gigantic door, is a tiny skeleton covered in too big clothes and dust. A dark crown still hangs grotesquely on its head, but the first thing Eugene sees is the purple gem necklace between the fingers of its single hand. The same as the queen's in the painting. 

Eugene has a bitter taste in his mouth. Rapunzel holds his hand, also upset, and he remembers that they are here for her, and for her destiny. He holds her fingers tighter between his, and they move toward the door. 

The ghosts are… certainly a surprise.

Death is not something new to Eugene, yet he can't help but feel nauseous when the king's ghost appears so close to his own skeleton, eyes full of a melancholy and anger that only he understands.

He doesn't seem to be capable of speech. He just groans and attacks, mindlessly guarding the stone that cost him his life. When Adira arrives to help them, she calls him Edmund, a soft grief in her voice, and Eugene keeps the name in a corner of his head. Edmund. Not a ghost, not a skeleton, but Edmund, who protected his kingdom until he died trapped within it.

Finally, Eugene is the one who destroys his statue. He cuts off its head, and tries to forget how a few seconds before, it was his own that could have been lost, if the king's axe had not struck beside it. Luck saved his life this time.

Adira asks Rapunzel to enter the moonstone chamber by herself. She says that it's her destiny, and hers alone. Eugene wants to protest, worry burning in his heart, but he doesn't even have the time - Rapunzel looks at Cassandra, and announces that the three of them will go inside. He should be relieved, but he can't help but take another look at the king's- Edmund's body. Many people have died for this stone, and the more time passes, the more terrified he is of what awaits them on the other side. He knows death, more than any other member of this group probably; he's been around it personally. He promised himself when he came back to life, that he would never let Rapunzel die the way he did, slowly and violently, when she has so much to live for.

He doesn't know where this promise will lead him. 

When they arrive in the Dark Kingdom, the king is dead. They enter easily, and though the ghosts of past rulers stand in their way, the path to the moonstone is far from the most difficult adventure he has ever experienced. Eugene is worried, of course he is - he's afraid of the conclusion of their journey, afraid of what he cannot predict. Rapunzel tells him she loves him, and he almost wants to throw up, because they're in the middle of a kingdom murdered by that exact stone Rapunzel intends to grab. I love you too, he thinks, but can't manage to say, because the words sound like a goodbye, and he's not ready for that. He'd die one thousand times for her, if she asked him to. He'd die for her against her will too, if necessary, but he knows he can't get in the way today. As desperate as he is to protect her, he knows how much she values being able to draw her own path.

He wants to grab the moonstone first because he loves her, and because he loves her, he stays back.

That's not the case for everyone. He notices too late Cass running for it, and Demanitus' warning echoes once again in his ears, mocking now that the only thing he can do is try to pull Rapunzel to safety as the world explodes in colours. The king is dead, and their friendship with Cassandra is too, the shadow of Gothel haunting Rapunzel once again despite how much she deserves to be free from it. Cassandra flees, Eugene hurts his arm when she pushes him away, and Rapunzel runs after her, desperate to salvage what can be.

It doesn't amount to much, in the end.

Things settle down, as much as they can while Rapunzel still sits listlessly near the broken bridge Cassandra left behind, and Eugene goes in the castle again, in search of bandages this time. His left arm hurts.

He doesn't expect to find Adira, standing silently in front of... Edmund. Her back is rigid, her mouth in a straight line, but when he calls her name, he sees a foreign melancholy in her eyes. He doesn't know her that well, but there's a lot Eugene can understand from looking into somebody's eyes.

Adira sighs, shoulders lowering, and he's sure she hears his unsaid question. "I shouldn't be surprised," she says, but it's clear that in a way, she is. "I… knew, that King Edmund was not well, when we left. I often considered that he might very well be…" she trails off, her eyes falling on his body again.

"It's different to be sure," Eugene responds softly, his voice loud in the silence of this immense room. Watching them - Adira, and this skeleton, barely hanging together enough to recognise a human shape - it was difficult to conceive that once upon a time, they had stood here together, alive and happy, perhaps. He can't imagine what it feels like to see an old friend this way, with no warning. "Adira…"

"It's okay, Fishskin," she smiles, and in her voice, he could hear the echoes of all the time Rapunzel told him she was fine, because she didn't know how to act when she was not.

He barely knows Adira. Both because he didn't ask, and because she didn't want him, or anyone, to know her. But he can guess easily that her life had never been one of peace, not even before leaving the Dark Kingdom, and losing contact with the other members of the Brotherhood. He doesn't think she's unhappy, per se, but he- he knows, they all know, especially now after everything that happened, that anger and fear and grief are not emotions that should be let to fester until they explode. Maybe it's his worry for Rapunzel speaking; maybe he's confusing everything, and Adira is simply dealing with the situation the way she wants to, but before he can think better of it, Eugene takes a step forward, and asks her if she wants to bury the king's body.

"To- To give him a better resting place," he explains awkwardly, her eyes piercing right through him. He's ready to say sorry and hope she doesn't kill him for overstepping her boundaries, but, to his surprise, she softens, a genuine if sad smile on her lips.

"Actually Fishskin, that's… a great idea."

And so they do it. Adira finds a bear hood that the King used to wear - Dabney, she says reverently - and they place his bones in it, carefully moving everything in tandem. They don't really talk while doing it. There's not much to be said. Eugene thinks of this king, who was so desperate to save his kingdom that he doomed it, and he thinks about death, too. About how lonely it is.

Adira leads them down a few corridors, and they emerge in a small, grey looking garden. They walk until they find an unmarked tombstone.

"The queen," Adira announces shortly, and Eugene wonders if she helped bury her too.

It's not the first time Eugene digs a grave for someone. He remembers starkly getting out of the tower with Rapunzel, both of them entirely different people than who they were before, and finding a cloak and ashes at the bottom of it. He remembers how quietly distraught Rapunzel had been, and how he had proposed to bury what was left of Gothel.

Shaking his head, he tries to think about something else, but it's hard given the situation. His arm aches at each of his movements. Surprisingly, Adira breaks the silence, and that's enough to distract him.

"I often disagreed with King Edmund," she says, without looking at him. "He was a good king, but his duty to the moonstone blinded him to the bigger picture, and I was afraid that it would lead him, and us, to lose everything. I was right, as I often am," she chuckles, but there's no mirth behind it. Simply grief. Something that can't be quite put into words.

"How did he lose his arm?" Eugene asks, voice low as they finally lower the bones into the ground. His eyes catch the sight of the necklace falling aside, and when they're done, he picks it up, thumb running over the smooth surface of the gem.

"The queen died," Adira whispers. She's looking at the necklace too, when he raises his head. "Edmund's grief led him to act on the anger he had been repressing for too long, but the moonstone was much more powerful than he imagined. Its retaliation costs him everything he held dear."

Gently, Adira takes the necklace from him, and Eugene can't explain the impulse that makes him want to hold onto it for a little while longer.

He's sentimental, he reasons. There's something deeply touching about this man dying while looking at the last thing connecting him to his late wife. These are good explanations, but neither of them addresses the unease and bitterness rising in Eugene's throat. He doesn't understand it himself.

Adira looks at the necklace for a long time, emotions he can't name in her expression. Memories she will not share make her frown, and Eugene feels more and more like he doesn't belong in this moment.

"Should we… bury that with him?" he asks awkwardly. Adira bites her lips, and finally shakes her head.

"This necklace was special for the queen. I know she intended to pass it down to her children."

A terrible voice in Eugene's mind reminds him that it's too late - they both died, and that necklace, that tradition, died with them too. He's hit by the tragedy of it all again, relentlessly reminded that the king passed away long before anyone could try to save him. And they would have, Rapunzel would have convinced him to let her through, she would have given him faith, Eugene is sure of that. He thinks that's why he's angry, too. The king has been dead for years, maybe, alone and desperate until his very last moments. And Eugene, Eugene wishes to go back in time, and give him another chance, get him the help he needed before it was too late.

He has never been good at accepting unhappy endings.

"When… When King Edmund banished us from the Dark Kingdom," Adira continues, "he also made another sacrifice. He sent his son away, when he was barely a baby, to be raised far from the moonstone and its dangers."

Son. A baby, sole survivor of the royal family, who probably doesn't know he is. A baby, who isn't one anymore now, but who is probably alive, and the thought is enough for Eugene to feel something new - he'd call this hope, but he's not sure that it fits. Closure, perhaps.

"You want to give their son the necklace," he smiles shakily.

"That's what needs to be done," Adira agrees, before putting away the necklace in her pocket. The gem catches the moonlight one last time, shining brighter than before, and it's easier for Eugene to let go, this time. "However, I did not keep track of the prince. I don't know what became of him, after we left, but I will keep searching until I find him."

"Hey," Eugene grins, wanting to lighten the atmosphere a little, "you searched for the mystical and maybe non-existent sundrop, and you found it, so I'm sure a prince will be no trouble. And if you need anything, we'll be happy to help," he adds, more earnest this time.

There's a newfound warmth in her eyes, and she inclines her head, acknowledging his words. The situation feels easier, somewhat. They finish replacing the dirt on top of the king's body, and Adira places a little stone to mark the emplacement.

The king is dead, and Cassandra is gone, but Eugene wants to believe that they all can find their own healing in time.

One wrong move reawakens the pain in his arm, and Adira gauges him when he flinches. She tells him that if there are any medical supplies around there, they're probably in the King's personal quarters.

With her instructions, it's not too hard to find them. The bedroom he finds is enormous, which only heightens how empty and dark it feels. Blindly, Eugene makes his way to a window, and pushes the heavy curtains away, letting the moonlight flood the room, and reveal the ambient dust like as many little stars in the night sky.

One side of the bed is unmade. Next to the other, there is an empty crib.

His heart is racing, and he can't explain it. He turns to the bedside table, and does find what appear to be bandages, next to a pile of papers, so close to the bed that it is easy to guess that the king often looked at them. 

Eugene approaches. He tells himself, without much conviction, that he should not look. That even in death the king deserves to keep his privacy. Whatever these papers are, they must have meant a lot to him, keeping him company in his darkest hours, and Eugene doesn't belong in this story.

It only takes him a step, and a second, to recognize his old wanted posters.

[littlekatleaf]

I fretted fire

Awake late, feeling some kinda way, so must be writing Roadrat bits. This is pre-Buried in a burning flame

It’s not tonight Where I’m set alight And I blink in sight Of your blinding light ~ Hozier, Would That I

Roadhog rests the handle of the hoe against his leg, presses his fists to the small of his back, and stretches until he’s rewarded with a cracking relief of pressure. Thank Gods, the sun’s dipping close to the horizon, last rays reddened and dulled by the dust that coats everything. Still hotter than a shearer’s armpit though it must be half eight. Been working since dawn with only an hour or so rest in the hottest part of the arvo when Junkrat brought him a pint and a sanger.

Why he’s making this effort he can’t say - land so fucked with radiation and drought nothing’ll grow beyond a bit of Kangaroo Grass and the odd Boxthorn or Eucalyptus. But Junkrat’d gotten the idea in his head that Roadhog’s farm should be a farm. Without animals (Junkrat’s efforts at cattle rustling had, so far, failed), very least they could do would be grow some vegetables. Or something. Junkrat had been so caught by the idea that he’d actually bartered seeds from Bobby, who’d managed to keep Lisa’s garden alive even without her. Must’ve been some high value scrap, too - Bobby didn’t hand seeds to just anyone.

After all that work, Roadhog couldn’t bring himself to tell Junkrat no, so here he is, sweat pooling in the waistband of his jeans and burning his eyes, too much sun stinging along his shoulders. Unreasonably pleased at the neat rows he’s sown. Grow, don’t grow, he can’t control the plants any more than he can the weather… but he’s made the attempt. Junkrat swears he can rig up some sort of irrigation contraption, but Roadhog has his doubts. More than half suspects the claim is born of wanting to avoid the physical labor of planting. Prepping the field and actually sowing the seeds isn’t exactly an afternoon’s stroll, and even less so when the surrounding air feels straight off a barbie.

Lifts a hand to shade his eyes, gazes to the horizon, as if that’ll make the wished-for clouds gather. As if the puff of breeze is anything but hot and dry. Nothing to be seen but kilometers of arid waste. Another, longer, gust of wind, just as hot, lifts the hair from the back of his neck and sends another trickle of sweat down the center of his back. Roadhog frowns. Bushfire weather. The sky looms empty and flat. No hint of relief. But no smoke neither. Reckons it’d be safe enough, for now.

Heads to the house. Needs food and a shower, not necessarily in that order. Door to Junkrat’s workroom is closed but there’s no sounds of tinkering. Figures. No way he’s got enough scrap to actually build something that works.

Roadhog keeps the shower cold and the relief as it washes over him is exquisite. Still relishing the cool drops of water as they slide from the end of his ponytail and down the back of his neck, he rummages in the refrigerator for something to cook.

“Hungry, Rat?” he calls, but there’s no answer. Could be too immersed in plans to hear. Happens like that sometimes, like he’s swallowed whole by whatever’s caught his attention. So Roadhog doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, instead browning the last of the meat. He hums as he chops a couple of rather sad looking carrots, a zucchini that’s on the edge of edible, a capsicum and a few handfuls of wilted cabbage. Garlic, ginger, soy sauce sizzle in the wok and his stomach growls. To his surprise, though, even the scent of food doesn’t bring Junkrat from his room. He frowns, but lets it go. Plates the stir fry, leaves one on the counter - reckons Rat’ll emerge sooner or later.

Takes his own meal to the porch, hopes the breeze still kicking up dust devils will offer some measure of break from the heat. It doesn't. Instead, even as he eats a tension gathers between his brows, along his shoulders, tightening his stomach. Something in the air, an odd heaviness that tastes of electricity. A memory, locked firmly away, threatens to slip free. It chases him back inside and he digs through the cabinets until he finds an old bottle of gut rot whiskey, cracks the lid and takes a long swig, straight. Makes him cough, and the knot of trepidation loosens only slightly. He takes another drink and it burns his esophagus all the way down, pooling in his belly like lava. He keeps drinking anyway, standing in the doorway, eyes trained on the horizon. Watching. Until the last lingering glow of the sun has disappeared and the bottle is empty.

Then he finds himself in front of Junkrat’s closed door. Still no sounds from inside and he raises his fist to knock. But what will he say? What can he say? It’s hot? Feels like something’s coming? He’s afraid? Jesus, even thinking it feels fucking insane. Drops his fist, turns from the door and the odd silence.

Should probably go to bed. A headache hovers at the edges of his awareness threatening hangover, and to hopefully avoid it, he fills a glass of water, finishes it, fills it again. Rubs sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. If he goes to bed, though, he’ll have to turn his back to the horizon. Have to close his eyes. Let the wind whine down the chimney… Can't bear it. So he paces. From kitchen to bedroom and back. Only sounds the wind and his own footsteps.

Until the work room door creaks open as he passes it for the hundredth, thousandth, some number beyond counting time. Junkrat freezes in the doorway, Roadhog in the middle of the hallway. Their gazes snag, catch.

Rat’s clutching a blanket around his shoulders, even in the heat. He tries to grin, but the expression’s a brittle and cracking thing. “Heya Hoggie,” he says, voice full of gravel and he coughs.

“...”

“Sorry didn’t give ya a hand with the planting. Been feelin’ sorta…” Sentence trails off and Rat’s gaze goes hazy before a heavy sneeze hastily muffled into the blanket rocks him forward.

“Bless,” Roadhog says but Junkrat waves it away.

“Don’t bother. Still gonna - ” he manages before ducking into the blanket as another sneeze shudders through him.

Roadhog takes a breath, but Junkrat sneezes a third time, and a fourth. Roadhog pauses, raises a brow. “...”

“Yeah, think I’m finished.”

“Bless. Forget the planting, ain’t a worry.”

Junkrat rubs his eyes. “What’re ya doin’ still awake, though? Thought sure you’d be sleepin’.”

Roadhog shrugs. The wind moans in between a window and its jamb and he shivers before he can suppress it.

Understanding dawns across Rat’s face. “Ah, it’s like that, o’ course.” Clears his throat. “C’mon. You can sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“But you’re sick,” Roadhog protests through a yawn wide enough to crack his jaws.

“An’ I been sleepin’ most of the day. Can manage for a while.”

Roadhog wants to argue, but finds himself following Junkrat to the bedroom, lying down at Rat’s urging. His eyelids are so heavy. “Rat…”

“Sleep,” Junkrat says.

Only once does Roadhog jerk awake, the scent of smoke lingering in his nostrils, the echo of her cries in his ears. He blinks, and in the deep black of night he barely makes out Junkrat’s silhouette outlined by faint moonlight, all sharp angles and scarecrow hair, perched in the window, still keeping watch.

“Ain’t nothing but a dream,” Junkrat rasps, just above a whisper.

“I heard…”

“The wind,” Rat says firmly.

They’re both silent for a while. Roadhog shifts, trying to get comfortable.

As though the confirmation that he’s still awake gives Junkrat the courage he says, “You can tell me about it, ya know.”

“...”

“Nightmares.” A long pause, then an admission, “I get ‘em too.”

“...” “One day,” Rat says. “You can tell me one day.”

Maybe he will. But for now, trusting that Junkrat will watch for spark or flame, Roadhog lets himself fall back into sleep.

[theinfiknight]

This is a lil piece of poetry I wrote because Hollow Knight made me feel so many things, so feel free to read it if you like

A land apart did he arrive Empty of life and yet alive Mind and soul he gave to keep A king is made, rejoice and weep

Thought and self given to all Stand above to answer his call Eternity, a promise made to last The king looks forward, forgotten is past

Light left behind, a cast off shell Changing, growing, kingdom doth swell Stag to beast, mushroom to moth The king rules supreme, light is forgot

Light is forgot Light is forgot Awry strays the minds of the glow hungry moths Grievously will they pay For their sins that day To forget creator til they can remember naught

One great shell of eclipsed might One fierce, one mysterious, one kindly knight One malodorous brave that stains the air The king is great, his famed five, fair

All among all acknowledge his reign Pale king, White Queen, land lives again Great doors left open to all who seek The king shines radiant, for mighty and meek

Higher beings, these words are for you alone Welcome to the kingdom that gods call home Enter this land of creator and god The king permits it, obey our laws

Welcome to Hallownest, of legend and story! Welcome to the Eternal Kingdom! Share in its glory!

Make your fortune at crystal peak! Where unearthly stone seems to sing Else in the city find that which you seek Prosperity and fortune, promises the king

Wander along down the Pilgrim's Way Take in the beauty of greenkin tamed Behold the queen's gardens, wild and fey The king shines, supremity claimed

Explore the crossroads that wind afar Where trade and life does pulse and ebb Witness it thrive, a kingdom grown large The king at the center, of the living web

Rejoice to witness his light in person In thrall lies mortal bug stood before him Misery cannot exist, nor Kingdom worsen While in his radiance. All adore him! . . . . Memory lost shall remember again Light shines through in hearts of woe Eternity crumbles, ruin begun The king is fractured by forgotten foe

Unity offered, self removed Power and might in exchange for will Join something bigger, it behooves The king is shadowed, light shines still

Oh pale one, great one! oh glorious! They beg, they cry out, they despairingly call Scorching, radiant, bright but odious The king is helpless, light takes all

No cost too great, no act too low Of root and soul, in void will they grow Empty, mindless, to cage that which shines The king will act, against power divine

No will to break, no mind to think To gaze into blackest void, and not blink No voice to cry, no soul to die All light casts shadow, and shadowed they lie

A container to hold void enslaved Vessels of purity, the umbra's shade Birthed, shaped, and left to rot The king needs them not, they are forgot

Massive birthplace of void unmade Deep and dark does the abyss go Buried within do his children fade The king closes it off, they need not know

Chosen vessel, pure and empty Son and hero made, hope renewed Tarnished forever, by love aplenty The king mistakes, purity is skewed

Despair no more! Behold in awe! Palest God's most silent son! Empty, its core, without flaw! Our Hollow Saviour, the war is won!

Peace and heart, for a time return As silent Prince does grow and learn To think, to be, to feel and to fight Light and dark in a single shell, a Hollow Knight

Greater still is surety required Firmer still must the lock hold Three chosen to ascend ever higher The king is eternal, but time grows old

A lock for diversity, of the archive's halls A scholar, the teacher, wise and prepared Mask entrusted away, the endless calls The king requires the it, the dream Monomon shares

A lock for king, for dream, for monarch Loyalty and life, given for the throne Watcher on high, spire so dark The king demands it, Lurien sleeps alone

A lock for union between high and low A deal is made, a dalliance to keep The 'beast' is tamed and seeds are sown The king's work is finished, Herrah sleeps

Beloved of beast, daughter of Wyrm Raised by root, fierce and strong Hive trained to strike true and firm The king gives life, child of silk and song

Strength misjudged, bonds created A broken vessel to chain light unbound Eternity imprisoned, no end awaited The king imposes, sacrifice enshrouds

Willingly does it rise to meet it Freely does it sacrifice its soul For only by dark is light defeated But how so is it hollow, with no hole?

Where emptiness once lay, dreams persist Ideas and love and a life to give Kindness in its brow, restraint in its fist Never meant to die, but also never to live

Unknowing, the deed is done Unwilling, the king buries his son Unfeeling, it goes away to burn Never again may it return

Never again will light release. Never again will Hallownest know peace . The seal is set, the lock is done Our knight is chained, the war is won Light fades away, Kingdom secure All hail the king, eternity is here!

Eternity is here! Forget that fear! Forget that scorching glow! Bask now in pale glory of The kingdom that eternal grows! . . . .

Fading, fading Mind and soul awake Hurting, hurting Love and heart to take Empty, so empty Hollow, he is not Foolish, so foolish Hallownest begins to rot

Shame. Sorrow. Love, Light... and another Do not think. Do not feel. Do not... Father?

Light burns harsh, angry and proud Vengeance shines through Hollow shroud Forgotten she will not be, first and brightest The king needs understand, it is no foe he might best

Orange, virulent, infection spreads Mindless, soulless, unity takes Fear the living, strong and mad, fear the mindless dead The king regrets, low and sad, strongest of wills can break

Brother turns on brother, burning, burning Madness, a frenzy, churning, churning Carnage, rage, bodies flying, flying Massacred and broken, dying, dying

Gone is the promise, left has the dream Only echoes and shadows, acid and steam Kingdom of glory, left now for dead The king is silent, low bends his head

Greenkin lost, Unn hides away Bloated fungi disfigured like clay Bound in the garden, the white lady withdraws The king has failed. Lost is the war . It's over, it's here, the doom that I feared It's done, they've won, all I hold dear Is gone, by spawn, of blight divine I've failed, oh jailed, Hollow son of mine.

Fate will not deny its course I cannot see the way, and fear the worst An end has reached its time to die Shame drowns in sorrow. Goodbye. . . . Gone is the king, cry in lament! Abandoning the very ones that he swore To protect, tearing open a mighty rent In his own heart, shut like the great doors

Dear king, how, why have you left us?! We wander and we search for you still Into darkness we stumble, for it yet does Hurt in our hearts where once was your will

They still call out your name with despair and regret For none could tame their savage souls, yet you the challenge met What you gave to bug and beast was unfathomable, and yet Foolish it was to make them, their first light, forget

The fading town reduces and dies Kingdom and city now, in ruin lies No dream, no mind, only light and pain The king is gone. What now remains?

Palace vanished, knights five, disbanded Monarch but a memory, stagways abandoned Limbo sleeps forever, mourn the paradise lost The king's love severed, this is eternity's cost

One by one the last souls burn In search of glory that will not return Enter the darkness and succumb to light The king is long gone, for he lost the fight

He lost the fight! He lost the fight! Give your self up to blinding light! Take all your dreams and hold them close The light calls out, and your willingness shows

Give in to light! Give in to light! Forget that foolish king! Forget his insolent attempt to close what never should have been!

Power, knowledge, and all that your heart desires Come to me, become greater, burn in the cosmic fire! . . .

Fools gather at kingdoms edge Drown their fear in violence and blood Ancient sorrows do they dredge The king shadows in shell molt flood

Buried in green, a hunter wastes away Closed, angry, mantis warriors stand proud Deeper, hungry, the beast's devout, decay Bereft, lost , kingdom withers in the ground

Ancient nailmasters mourn in solitude Remnants of greatness from a better age Nailsage's legacy, once strong and shrewd Now faint as marks on a torn off page

Mossmen remain in puddles of leaf Awaiting a return ever unreturning Wishing like all else, drowning in grief For a lost god that vanished after the burning

The light seeks out even those who hide Tempting the brave, proud and the mighty Even the unbending mantis lords' pride Do not blind themselves to it lightly

Even among the proud, traitors emerge Valuing strength above mind and skill Petras and warriors, lost to the scourge Caring not for the battle, only for the kill

The queen's gardens are lost to those Invaders who, expelled from their lands Enraged, swarm that thorned repose Executing the will of their light's command

Seeking palest root, bound and blind Solitude in exile, like her beloved But of the mighty, the mysterious, and kind The fierce of the five still guards what they covet

The mysterious, the heartbroken withers alone Distant from her love, far from her home Brave Ogrim slowly loses his mind, His faith and the the very life of the Kind

Outsiders, few, still sparingly appear A strange fool who thinks himself mighty A masked bug lured by memory unclear And a haughty warrior approaching doom lightly

Very few now remain in the fading town The old bug who stands by and advises The mapmaker who ever heads further down But on a distant hill, a figure rises!

A diminutive echo of deep silence That approaches unceasingly, toward The great door that does Kingdom fence, Holding aloft the ghost of a sword

That strikes at the great portal, with nail Cracked and grown old with wear With strength unseeming for one so frail Shattering the door as if it were never there

Small and weak seems the knight As it enters the land plagued bright Can an entire kingdom's fate Rest on the silhouette in the gate That enters so boldly and unafraid Unfeeling as void in which it was made Drawn once more by phantom's call Returning to the land of light's fall

No mighty strength does it seem To wield as it walks as if in dream Down the dusty, ashen road That leads to lonely, fading abode . . . . A land apart did it arrive Empty of life and yet alive Blood and corruption now does seep A kingdom is dead, sorrow and weep

Higher beings, heed well this writing Focus soul to heal crack and seam Through twisted spell or vulgar fighting You will achieve that which others can only dream

Every footstep hangs heavy with fate Into the kingdom that burns in light The speck that will confound even the great The unceasing march of the Hollow Knight

That’s all, hope you liked it. Do reblog if you did

[bewaretheidesofmarchyall]

Good Omens AU Part Four

It’s back. Original is here

Wilbur didn't expect to care about Tommy, but he accepted it pretty quickly.

---------

There wasn't much to bring with him the day he moved to town. After all, it wasn't like he'd actually need to renovate the house. 

He stood on the curb in front of the remnants of the house that burned down a decade ago, suitcase in hand. A bit of a fixer-upper, but I can work with this. 

After checking to make sure there weren't any nosy neighbors watching, he reached out to the debris. 

The charred wood and scattered bricks twitched for a few seconds, before assuming the appearance of a lovely home. 

A doorbell, a porch, windows in a shade of cobalt blue, and above all else the distinct feeling that Wilbur's house (and by extension, Wilbur) had been around on the block for ages.

Even if the neighbors didn't know who he was or what he did, they would have to struggle to think of him as a stranger. 

And they had their own petty human lives, which didn't contain the time or energy to waste worrying about a charming new addition to the neighborhood.

Wilbur strolled into his perfectly average house, plans whirring in his head.

Showtime.

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

There were quite a few houses on the block, but Wilbur was only focusing on a group of three.

House #1: Tommy's home, three houses away. A simple house that contained the most important person in the world and his intimidating dad.

House #2: That Weird Guy's house, two houses away. Wilbur had no idea who That Weird Guy was, but he was apparently close friends with Tommy's dad, and even more intimidating. Wilbur wasn't sure why the kid was surrounded by people that made him worry for his life despite being immortal.

House #3: Schlatt's house, sadly next door. He didn't need additional proof that god hated him, but apparently they'd wanted to make it even clearer.

A week or so after he'd gotten settled into his new home, Wilbur decided to go outside to get a better look at the streetlamps and the night sky while trying to find his plan. 

He was feeling surprisingly positive about the whole thing. Soon, he'd be changing the fate of the world.

If this didn't get him remembered after it all, nothing else would.

A hacking cough came from the porch next door, reminding him that he wasn't the only supernatural being on the block. Wilbur took a breath, trying to be civil. 

Don't get distracted from the most important mission of your life because you want to murder a goat. Just walk on by. Just keep walking, and don't acknowledge his existence. You don't know him. 

However, his unwanted neighbor had no qualms about acknowledging Wilbur's existence, and he'd only taken a couple of steps onto the street before Schlatt called out to him. 

"Well, would you look at that: You’re finally out of the house! This is more of a miracle than anything I’ve done.". 

Wilbur turned around, counting down the seconds until he could not be where he was, having this conversation.

"Schlatt, we're supposed to be undercover."

"Oh, my bad. Guess these random humans will never get to know our big secrets.". Schlatt raised his voice slightly, yelling to the deserted cul-de-sac.

"Would be a shame if someone found out that guy over there is a demon! Yeah, the jerk with the beanie's from Hell, and I'm an angel, and we're only pretending to be human because (get this) one of the little tykes on your block is actually the antichrist!". 

Wilbur pinched the bridge of his nose. Was it possible to get headaches when his mind was only semi-corporeal?

"Could you kindly shut the fuck up?"

"Nope.". I mean, that's kind of on me for phrasing it as a question.

Schlatt took a break from the Annoying Wilbur Show (airs all times that he has the poor idea to go outside) to dig into more of his tomato sauce and meat wraps. 

He raised the snack like it was a holy relic. Wilbur supposed that if Schlatt really wanted to, he could make it into one.

"These are Hot Pockets. I was actually planning on taking a few over to you-know-who's family as a housewarming gift, build up good favor, you know?". Suddenly, the plan clicked in Wilbur's head. He tried to keep his face neutral and concerned, with no hint of a smirk.

"Hot Pockets? I mean, are you sure?"

"What's wrong with Hot Pockets? And choose your next words carefully.". Wilbur leaned against a streetlamp, sighing in assumed pity.

"There's nothing wrong with Hot Pockets per se. They're fine, I guess.". Schlatt sputtered, offended beyond belief.

"Fine? Fine? You see before you the one thing that has made me reconsider starting the apocalypse, and you're like "eh. fine". Fuck you and your family and whatever you call taste buds. Fine? I'd tell you to go to hell, but that doesn't work, so go to New Jersey you son of a-". 

This continued on for a while.

Wilbur nodded along to the tirade, maintaining a poker face. All the while, he telekinetically inched the tray of wrapped (?) Hot Pockets towards him. 

The tray crept ever closer, past Schlatt's lawn chair, past Schlatt's nightmarish garden gnomes, past the freshly dug earth that definitely had a body buried under it, until it was finally within reach.

Without listening to another word, Wilbur grabbed the Hot Pockets and ran for the hills, easily outrunning the outraged angel. 

Sorry, Schlatt, but you're going to have to try harder to win this game.

He sprinted to House #1 and rang the doorbell, trying to look non-suspicious. After about a minute, he got an answer from the selected father (Phil, his name was Phil). 

Wilbur smiled brightly and walked into the house.

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

The initial meeting went great, putting the whole "getting threatened with a knife" thing aside. 

Phil seemed to appreciate the Hot Pockets and company, and Wilbur could confidently guess that he'd managed to secure a place in helping him out in the future. 

Besides being good for the plan in general, he'd liked spending time around Phil and Tommy. Wilbur didn't get to talk to people a lot, and when he did it was normally trying to scam them out of their soul. 

So, this was a welcome break. 

And his heart definitely hadn't been warmed when Tommy had fallen asleep to the sound of his guitar. Nope. Absolutely none of that.

Phil evidently didn't see child raising as his first priority, and Wilbur found more chances to volunteer to watch his kid than he expected. 

At times, he felt like he was just as much of a parent to Tommy as Phil, if not more. 

Which wasn't to say that he felt any bitterness about that. Quite the contrary. Watching after Tommy was one of the best parts of his day. 

Despite being a baby, the kid already had so much personality, and his little face would light up whenever Wilbur went home to House #1.

When Wilbur held the baby in his arms, he really did feel like a guardian. 

The phrase "guardian angel" had stung, but he did want to shield Tommy from harm or becoming anything like him when he grew up.

Still, it's not like his heart was at all warmed when he held Tommy in his arms-Oh, screw it. His heart was warmed. He happened to care about the adorable baby that he spent a lot of time with. Go figure. 

Caring wasn't interfering with his job as a protector, informant for Hell, and general influencer of evil. So, there was no purpose in denying it.

Besides the unexpected emotional attachment, nothing really changed about the general routine.

His days consisted of maintaining the glamours around his house, reading his books, writing (it turns out that an approaching Armageddon worked wonders for deadline motivation), staring at the ceiling and wondering why God had forsaken him, looking after Tommy, talking with Phil (and on occasion, That Weird Guy), giving the Lords of Hell their required project updates, and, occasionally, almost getting murdered.

One key example of the "almost getting murdered" thing happened when Tommy was around two years old.

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

He'd just gotten back from another meeting with the Lords (yes, Tommy is still alive. no, he isn't evil yet, seeing as he's two years old. no, that wasn't sarcasm. no, I'd actually prefer for you to not kill me for my insolence. Same old stuff.). 

It was a cold yet sunny winter afternoon when Wilbur stepped out of the office building and back into the mortal world. As he made his way towards the bus station, his phone rang.

The call was from Phil, and he moved away from the middle of the sidewalk to take it, leaning against the brick wall of a building next to an alleyway.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Will, a job came up tonight without much notice. Would you be able to watch Tommy around 7-ish?"

"Sure, I can do that."

"Great, you're a lifesaver. One last thing: If Techno decides to question you about your motives and backstory, don't take it personally, he's just in one of those suspicious phases lately. Okay?". 

Wilbur would have loved to agree, nonchalantly laugh it off, and quickly go over his backstory in his head again. 

Unfortunately for him, there was a weapon aimed at him from the alleyway.

It would be a funny sight to the passerby to see a normal-seeming person cower in the face of a spray bottle. 

Of course, the average passerby wasn't a demon. 

9 times out of 10, when a spray bottle was pointed at a demon, the spray bottle was full of holy water and the demon was in for a bad time.

Wilbur stood there, frozen. The alleyway was shady, and he couldn't quite make out who was aiming the bottle at him. 

Phil's voice echoed out of his phone.

"Will? Are you still there?". Wilbur tried to keep his voice steady, and he quickly responded.

"I'm here. I got it. I'll be ho-I'll be back soon. There is no need to call me back. Goodbye."

"What's that supposed to mean?". He tapped the screen, ending the call. Please, don't have me die right now. It would be annoying, not to mention narratively unsatisfying.

He looked into the alleyway, addressing whoever had seen fit to threaten him today.

"Hi there. I'm guessing that spray bottle isn't full of Sprite.". 

A man in a blue onesie (Sonic the Hedgehog cosplay?) emerged from the shadows.

"Yep. I mean, it technically was Sprite until it went through the blessing process, but it's a lot holier now.". Wilbur blinked a few times in confusion.

"Connor?"

"Hey."

"What's with the outfit? Why are you threatening me in an alley? What's with the outfit?"

"Don't mock the outfit, I have it on good faith that this is the height of human fashion."

"Let me guess. Schlatt told you that.". 

The onesie-clad angel stood there, realizing that taking the advice of that particular coworker probably wasn't the smartest decision he'd ever made. Eventually, he shrugged it off.

"Well, I feel resplendent, so this is a win in my book.". Wilbur tapped the bricks on the wall, almost playing a rhythm.

"Listen, Connor, if you were just going to kill me with that thing you would have already pulled the trigger. Why are you here?". Connor looked a little sheepish about the whole thing.

"The higher-ups thought that I should make you an offer you can't refuse. Basically, some intern had the bright idea that we should have Hell's guardian either agree to spy for us or die."

"You're suggesting that I become a double agent?"

"Yeah. Or die, whichever is your preference."

"I think your higher-ups underestimate my importance here. Killing me won't slow our side down by much. They'll just send another guy, and you'll have to spend more time in unpleasant alleyways."

"And someday they'll send a guy who takes our offer. Trust me, we've been planning this ever since we realized Schlatt was going to be useless down there.". Wilbur thought about it. 

Killing god obviously matters more than prolonging my life. And I'm a good actor, but I don't have enough time in my life to be a triple agent.

"Come on, Connor. I thought you were one of the decent ones.". Connor half-heartedly kicked at a puddle. 

His face was reluctant, but he still aimed the spray bottle with precision.

"Please tell me you're going to accept the offer?"

"You've known me for years. What do you think?"

"From what Schlatt has told me, you're too stubborn for your own good.". Wilbur laughed at that.

"Yeah. So the real question is: Can you murder me, Connor?". Connor shuffled, and the spray bottle wavered. Wilbur continued talking.

"I'm actually interested to see what you do next. You've got my full attention.". The two of them stood there, completely still. Finally, Connor pointed the spray bottle away from Wilbur and aimed for the sky.

"You've kind of made this whole thing weird, man. So, I'll give you a 15-second head start.".

Wilbur didn't waste time thanking him, and he sprinted away. 

He fled through shadows and smoke, barely remembering to keep some trace of a physical body. He scrambled his way towards the bus station, reaching the glass doors. 

However, that was where his luck ran out.

"Sorry, Wilbur. That's the power of the Sonic onesie: I'm really fast.". 

I'm going to need to invest in a Sonic onesie. Except I can't, because I'm about to be shot. Fuck, those are terrible last thoughts. 

Out of desperation, he grabbed the lid of the spray bottle and twisted it off, before punching Connor in the gut. The angel doubled over, and the holy water spilled out of the bottle. 

Wilbur scrambled away from the spill, trying to keep from making contact.

He ran through the doors and into the bus station. 

Some of the holy water had gotten on his coat, and he awkwardly shrugged it off in a corner, which was a shame. He'd really liked the aesthetic of having a trench coat. Sure, he could glamour another one in a few seconds, but it wouldn't feel the same. 

Connor walked towards him, and Wilbur glared.

"You made me lose my trench coat!"

"Again, sorry about all of this, it was just business.". Connor held out his arm in an almost peaceful gesture. 

And Wilbur, tired and overconfident, made the first stupid decision for the day. He took the peace offering and took Connor's hand.

The white-hot pain nearly knocked him to the ground. 

There had been less than a drop of holy water on his hand, but it was more than enough to stop Wilbur from breathing for a few minutes. 

In and of itself, that was fine. He didn't need to breathe to stay alive. All that he had to do was stay away from holy things, what had he done. 

In the background, Connor was frantically apologizing and claiming that he "didn't mean to do that". Wilbur wondered distantly why he'd still be lying to him.

And here I was thinking that there were one or two decent angels. How laughable. 

No one's decent 14 years from Armageddon. Not humans, not angels, and not me.

Wilbur shoved Connor away and walked up to the ticket counter. 

His hands were shaking and his words all over the place, but somehow he managed to convey that he wanted to take a bus back to town and pay for it. 

If I can get back to my house, I should be okay. Or, at the very least, not dead.

The bus ride was tricky. For one, part of the route was along Fundy's cursed highway (one of the demon’s more useless inventions), so things were significantly slowed down. 

Also, everything felt far away and cold, and it was a bit difficult to keep focus on which stop was his.

It took far too much time to reach town, and even more to make his way back to his street.

On auto-pilot, he ended up at House #1 first, panicking slightly when neither Tommy nor Phil was inside.

Trying to keep calm, he checked House #2, and thankfully That Weird Guy (he knew his name was Technoblade, but that was a ridiculous name, and he'd been thinking of him as That Weird Guy for so long that it was hard to stop) was keeping watch over Tommy. Relief washed over him.

I don't know what I'd do if he got hurt. 

That Weird Guy seemed fine with taking care of Tommy for a little longer, which Wilbur was secretly grateful for. 

He also seemed convinced that Wilbur was going to pass out, which was hilarious, seeing as Wilbur didn't need to sleep or breathe unless he wanted to. 

After a brief moment of rest in a bush, he made his way to his house.

He tried to unlock the door, but his hands were trembling too much to use the key, and he was seeing two locks instead of one, and he slowly slid to the ground.

Is this actually how it's happening? 

I know I'm not long for this world, but I always expected a better exit. Something with fanfare and sacrifice and meaning. 

Our so-called "immortality" is a conditional one. The instant we dare to touch something holy, it all goes, and there's no soul or afterlife for us castaways.

I wish I was human.

Wilbur struggled to look up at the sky. 

It was still daytime, and the stars weren't out yet. That was a shame, he'd worked hard on those. He shivered.

I know we're doomed to fail come Doomsday. I know that there's no way out of Your ineffable plan. But I'm trying to make directorial choices with your script, trying to make a good story. This is a terrible ending.

It was quiet. That was probably for the best.

Do I deserve it?

Of course I do.

But I didn't always, and you're not blameless either.

I hope that Tommy's too young to remember me.

The world was cold, but peacefully quiet, and the pain was mostly beyond his reach. This wasn't bad, all things considered. Wilbur's eyes closed.

A few minutes later, he was rudely awakened by Phil shaking him.

"Are you okay? I mean, obviously you’re not, but can you stand?". He opened one eye.

"I'm fine.". Phil laughed at that. Part of Wilbur considered laughing along, while what was left of his common sense informed him that Phil sounded like he was laughing out of shock.

"Fine? Will, there were a few seconds where I thought you were dead!"

"Well, as you can see, I'm not. If you could just unlock the door, that would be great.". The door unlocked behind him. 

He struggled to rise to his feet, and Phil caught his arm, supporting him.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Minor business conflict."

"There is a hole in your hand.”

"That happens at my job sometimes. I'm in the mafia."

"Have you considered other career options?"

"The insurance benefits are too good.". Phil set Wilbur down on a couch and left the room. As was to be expected.

Wilbur reached under the couch cushions to grab a hidden cigarette lighter. 

He had no intention of smoking while bleeding out, obviously. 

The cigarette lighter had been modified slightly, another one of Fundy's inventions. 

The fire of the lighter was no regular thing, but rather hellfire. Hopefully, that would be enough of a cure.

The warmth of the hellfire slowly and painfully chipped away at the ice and purity, and he took a few seconds to internally mock god. 

Maybe a bit of a hubris-related thing to do, but Wilbur was glad to live another day, and that meant spite.

For whatever reason, Phil stuck around to make sure he was okay. 

Wilbur hadn't quite expected that. 

He wasn't in the best state, but Phil seemed to believe that it was better for him to be talking than unconscious. 

So, in a half-delirious state, he rambled about mercy, and free will, and falling.

And when he whispered that he missed flying, he could have sworn that Phil agreed.

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

Anyway, aside from dramatic moments like those, life was okay.

Wilbur was there for every milestone in Tommy's life, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He was there for his first few words when Tommy was a baby (the first word was "kaboom", but the second was "Wilby").

He was there for his first steps, and once Tommy learned to walk there was no stopping him from running everywhere.

He was there for preschool graduations and first days of kindergarten and beyond.

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

Of course, Wilbur's job was to teach the kid to want to kill god, and he tried to do that too. 

From the moment Tommy learned how to read, Wilbur kept trying to get him to read Paradise Lost. Sadly, he was six and Milton wasn't to his taste at the moment. 

Wilbur wasn't sure how well he did on that front, but he tried. 

Either way, he wasn't sure if he raised a suitably evil kid, but he raised a good one. 

Not good as in morally, obviously. Tommy was still a rascal at times, but he was the rascal that Wilbur cared about.

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

Wilbur was the one to teach him how to ride a bike. 

Tommy was so determined to learn how to do it, and he kept getting up even when his knees were scratched up from crashing. 

When putting on band-aids, sometimes Wilbur would slightly heal him. Not so much that he wouldn't know to be careful, but just enough to ease the pain a bit.

Wilbur also taught him other valuable life skills like lock picking, lying, good taste in music, and how to pick pockets. The stuff every kid needed to know!

His reports to the Lords of Hell became less clinical, and more chatting about Tommy finally figured out how to ride a bike, and he's getting good grades in language arts, and he likes musicals too, and he's such a wonderful kid.

They'd mostly stare in confusion, and awkwardly ask him how that was helping Satan.

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

And he knew that every birthday meant that the two of them were one year closer to Doomsday. 

And he knew that he wasn't going to survive Doomsday.

Wilbur had a feeling since the moment he first fell that he'd have to redeem himself or go out in a blaze of glory. And, frankly, he felt too bitter towards his creator to aim for a redemption arc.

So, when Tommy turned eight, he knew that he had eight years left to live. 

And when he was ten, he knew he had six, and so on. 

That didn't stop Wilbur from baking a cake for him and singing.

He cared about Tommy quickly, and he later grew to care for Phil, and maybe even he would be vaguely upset if That Weird Guy died. 

Wilbur couldn't call this place a home, and he couldn't say they were his family, but it was the closest he'd ever gotten to that sort of thing. 

And sometimes, he could fool himself into thinking it could stay like this.

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

Once, he'd made the mistake of trying to taunt Schlatt about it.

They'd been talking, and Schlatt made one too many jabs about how he spent his days babysitting. 

He'd mocked the patch that Tommy had clumsily sewed into his new trenchcoat, and Wilbur got a bit annoyed.

"At least I've been doing my job and spending time with the antichrist! You've been completely useless down here, just sitting around in that lawn chair and drinking. I mean, it makes everything easier for me, but the fact still remains that I've been getting stuff done while you've been treating this like a paid vacation.".

Schlatt looked him dead in the eyes, setting down his glass.

"You think that you were smart, getting close to their family? Turning up the charm, making friends, stealing my goddamn Hot Pockets (which I'm still mad about)?". He laughed in his face.

"Wilbur, you're a fucking moron. You say that I haven't spent enough time around the family? You've spent way too much, and it's given you a bleeding heart."

"I don't have a-"

"Tommy's going to die in six years, you know. Kid's cute, but he's not going to survive the end of the world. He's a child, and God is God, and he's going to get smote like burnt chicken. It's just the facts.". Wilbur recoiled from him, hissing his next words through his teeth.

"Shut up."

"Did you even think about anything besides your own stupid martyrdom? Or were you too busy playing house and getting attachments? Face it, Wilbur: It's lunchboxes today, graves tomorrow.". 

For once, Wilbur had nothing to say. No clever response, nothing. Just pure panic. 

He touched the patch on his trench coat covering his heart, looking to the sky.

Please. I know you're a bastard. I know you hate me, and I hate you, and that can't change. But if you gave me some sign, some promise that you wouldn't hurt Tommy, I'd do anything. 

As always, there was no response.

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

Wilbur cared about Tommy, and he knew, and even if it was a weakness he couldn't stop. 

All of Tommy's family cared about him, wanting him protected and alive.

But Schlatt?

Schlatt didn't give a damn about Tommy, and he never would.

There was no care weighing him down. And that meant that he had infinitely more options than everyone else.

[missbrightsky]

On My Honor

Fics Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 2: Feyre

“Feyre! Feeeeyyyyyy-rrreeeeee,” the whine carried out over the field, grating against my ears. I loosed a tight breath, turning towards the source.

“Yes, Elain?” my sister had left her hair down today, lovely and golden in the late summer sun. She had always been the prettiest of us, soft and gentle, a smile easy on her lips. The opposite of Nesta who was somewhere in the trees near the house.

“Do you think you can find some berries for tonight’s dinner?” she pleaded, her eyes going wide and doe-like. It hadn’t occurred to her that she could find them herself. I’d shown her the patches a dozen times, but she complained of them staining her soft fingertips.

“Sure, I’ll see what I can find.” It was late summer so hopefully we hadn’t picked them clean by now. A smile burst across her face, putting the sun to shame. She skipped back towards the house, presumably to find Nesta and deliver the news. I’m sure she couldn't care less what I put on the table, as long as she didn’t have to do anything.

I slipped between the trees on the other side of the field, the cool shade playing over my skin. Greens and golds and pinks filtered through the canopy, snatches of color snagged my attention. Flowers colored with the blush of a fair maiden. Crimson birds crafted from a forgotten god’s blood. A spot of sapphire sky that was nestled in emerald green.

I pressed further in, if only to escape for a few minutes. Summer was always a plentiful season for us but there was always something that needed to be done. Firewood chopped in the morning and evening. Chicken eggs collected and the pigs fed. And now, berries to be picked for dinner. At least Elain tended to her garden, providing vegetables for our table. I was hopeless when it came to growing things, more used to taking lives than raising them.

A small stream gurgled nearby, cutting through our small slice of land. It wasn’t even our land really. Our house sat just off the main road, obscured by the odd bush or so. The land behind was shared with our neighbors. Alis’s family was to the left of our house and Clare was to our right. Elain and Nesta had claimed Clare as their friend early on. I was too young when they started playing with her, and once I was old enough, they deemed it too late to join their trio. Alis was the closest thing I could call a friend. We really only saw each other when neither of us were busy. She had her nephews to look after and I had my family to worry about.

I wandered loosely through the patch of trees and bushes, idly looking a berry bush. Even if the land wasn’t ours, at least we had access to it. We were far from the wealthiest family in town, and only barely escaped the clutches of poverty except in the worst of winters.

There, I spotted a few clusters hiding deep in a bush, maybe I can use them to bribe Elain to do a chore or two. The deep red shone in the shaded light, thinking themselves clever for burying themselves deep in the bush. Only the most eagle-eyed forager could reap the sweet reward.

It wasn’t that I resented my sisters for their lack of help in keeping us alive, they weren’t the ones that had promised their mother on her death bed to keep them alive. It was almost eight years since she’d passed. That quiet fire extinguished forever.

Elain had cried for weeks.

Nesta for only a day.

I had yet to shed a tear over her.

I kneeled in the warm, soft dirt, inhaling the rich scent of soil and leaves. Gathering up a corner of my shirt, I started to pluck the berries, popping one or two in my mouth, not caring if their juices stained my mouth or cloth. There were few simple pleasures in my life, I had to take them when I could. Soon, I had stripped the bush of its treasure and turned to make my way back.

As soon as I stepped out of the trees, the full force of the sun hit me again, pressing into whatever exposed skin there was. By the time I reached the house, sweat was drying on me.

Elain had already released a squeal of delight when she saw me carry the berries past her in the small garden. My father was at the kitchen table, carving a bit of wood. Nesta was reading one of our few books by the front window, probably more preoccupied with judging the townsfolk that walked by.

She stiffened suddenly, drawing my attention to her and then the world beyond.

There, heading into our village, was a small contingent of soldiers. This wasn’t unusual due to the war that had been raging distantly for years but so rarely did they bear the royal standard. The group of five rode straight and proud on their horses, unruffled from their ride and the heat. Whenever soldiers came to town, bad news soon followed.

Nesta swiftly stood from her seat, sweeping past me with hardly a glance to go and gather Elain from the back. Little happened in our village so they would go see what commotion could be caused. I dumped the berries into an empty wooden bowl on the counter and turned to see what I could cook for dinner tonight.

Nesta returned with Elain in tow, sneering at the red stains on my shirt. I followed them out of the house, if only to make sure that they returned for dinner on time. Other neighbors had emerged in their wake, curiosity spread like wildfire when there was gossip to be had.

Nesta sought out Clare, tugging Elain with her leaving me to trail behind. The three struck up a conversation about the soldiers and what news they might bring.

Alis emerged from her house, her two nephews tugging her along. I paused, waiting for her while my sisters went ahead. I gave Alis a closed mouth smile at how the boys tugged on her hands, urging her to go faster so they could keep the soldiers in their sight. She returned my smile, but it turned tight when she looked down at her boys. They were at the age when they only thought about becoming soldiers, not the war that was raging at the front.

We walked the short distance into town, not exchanging words but listening to the endless stream of chatter from the boys. Word had spread like wildfire in the village, when we turned the corner, it seemed like some or all from every house had come. Had come even with no guarantee that the soldiers were here for any reason other than to resupply.

Curiosity crackled in the air, words buzzing with concern and excitement. The soldiers, dressed in black tunics with silver stitching depicting a crescent moon crossed with a sword, came to a halt in front of the pub, the closest thing we had to a town hall. From their mounts, they surveyed the crowd, their faces unremarkable and vaguely bored. No sneering or grimaces at the state of our small village with its common peasants and odd or end merchant.

“Hybern continues to press forward,” the leader's voice rang out, deep and grave, “General Knight has called for reinforcements to the front.” The murmurs that were quieted had broken out again, neighbors and family turning to each other with fear in their eyes.

The man waited for them to absorb the news before continuing. “We will be coming to everyone’s houses in the next few days with conscription notices and taking names. He has asked for at least one man from every family to step forward and answer the call. Each family will be fairly paid for their service. It is an honor to serve Prythian.”

I hardly heard the last words, all sounds going dull and distant. One man from every family, was echoing in my mind. Our father had served the country years ago. But that was a different ruler, a different age. He was being called to war again and the last one already wrecked his knee. He wouldn’t survive training, let alone the bloody battles that would follow. Even Elain begging him not to go wouldn’t stop him. He had too much pride for himself and where he stood in the world.

The man stopped speaking and the crowd was starting to disperse. I forced myself to unfreeze, looking over to where my sisters were still talking with Clare. They looked unbothered by the announcement, clearly not caring or realizing that our father would be going to war for the second time.

I turned to start the walk home, lost in thought. The only thing I knew for sure was that my father cannot go off to war, but we needed money that would come with conscription.

And there at the edges of my mind, a crazy idea formed. One that I didn’t want to look at too closely. Not yet, but soon.

Next Chapter

[scarletta-ec]

Original Sin Story: Re_Crime

CHAPTER FOUR: ~SETH'S PROJECT~

Scene 1

When Seth talks about Adam disappearing, he refers to him as “my adorably foolish child”.

Scene 2

Seth only ever saw Gammon’s rebellion as being a result of desperation. Apparently it was unexpectedly successful, though, as the senate (including Gavriil) had grown too complacent. Seth doesn’t mind— he’s gotten tired of messing with Gavriil, and Adam (who he was curious over) has fled the stage.

Scene 3

The revolution is underway. Seth is waiting for Gammon in front of the Levia-Behemo temple. Gammon arrives in the garden with pitiful Gavriil in tow, throwing him in front of him. He’s a mess but he’s still breathing, murmuring Alice's prophecy. Gammon dismisses him as a mere drugged-up madman now. Seth, as ever, is calm and a complete troll about it, despite the fact that Gammon knows Gavriil is like this because of Seth.

Gammon approaches him with a revolver in hand. Seth, hands up, asks him to explain what his research found out— so that he can correct him if Gammon got anything wrong.

Seth isn't taking anything seriously, and laughs inappropriately.

Gammon’s theory: Seth became Gavriil's servant over twenty years ago. Along with Gavriil, they developed a drug to brainwash Maria with— except in truth, it wasn’t Maria that was being drugged, but Gavriil himself, so that Seth could rule through him. As for Maria— she was already dead; Gammon’s not sure if she just died or was murdered. Gavriil has been having purple dreams, and passing them off as the queen’s prophecies. However, he’s been brainwashed into thinking that these prophecies are really coming from the queen, and that she’s still alive.

Gammon has no proof of his theory, though, so that’s why he’s come here to see her corpse for himself, demanding to know where it's being kept if it hasn't been disposed of already. Seth happily tells him Alice is where she always has been.

Gammon pistol whips Seth out of the way and heads inside the Hall of Glass. Seth, with a black eye, collapses with a smile.

Seth wonders what Gammon will see in the temple, and what will become of him once he’s come face to face with the “queen”, suggesting that Gammon’s theory is correct in some regard but also missing some key information. Seth pulls himself off the floor, retrieves his glasses (which had gone flying), and goes to a corner of the garden and opens a secret passageway buried in the dirt.

Right as he enters, he can hear someone's scream echoing from inside the Hall of Glass.

Scene 4

Seth reflects on things.

Adam is not Maria's child, but he also is.

To be accurate, he is not one of her twins, as Adam thinks. Yes, Seth "disposed" of them, but instead of tossing them into the river, he left the girl in the hands of a temple for her inheritor abilities (not that they knew he was the one to leave her there), and kept the boy in cryostasis.

Because the twins were irregulars, Seth found them invaluable for his research, but held the Ending Boy's value in higher regard than the Genesis Girl's. Still, he ensured both were alive for later reference.

He first met the real Adam when he fashioned him in his very own laboratory. It was partially to increase his “allies”, and partially on order by Maria. Through Gavriil he met Vaju, and through him became the head of the research institute, where he began to build his “ally” network. He would sometimes apply Venom for this purpose, though as the drug had several failings he tried not to rely on it too heavily.

Maria essentially gave him the okay to use the institute to further his efforts in creating artificial humans. After the disposal of her twins, and her resulting infertility, she desired an heir and privately requested Seth's assistance.

Adam was fashioned out of Maria's provided DNA. Seth has several stores of different racial DNA so he used foreign DNA to obscure Adam's resemblance to Maria.

Genetically speaking, Adam is the son of Maria and some unknown man. With the father identity-less and irrelevant, one could say Adam is her second virgin birth.

Adam was different from other Ghoul Children, having a mix of DNA, which improved his longevity. He's really no different from a normal human, the only difference is having been grown in a glass chamber than inside Maria. Seth doesn't really count him as a Ghoul Child.

After Adam's creation, a rogue Apocalypse attack destroyed part of the laboratory and Adam went missing.

Around the same time, Raijoou had left Apocalypse due to their increasing violence, and during an excursion, Seth as Horus met her and separately, her wife, Inanna. Seeing their disappointment at her inability to have children, Horus offered to her an ideal solution: use both the couple's DNA to make them a child. Of course, he added in something extra.

The result was a normal human child born from a glass vessel, like Adam. Seth had only recently learned Inanna told Raijoou she found this child in the river rather than it being their truly biological child. That was the logical decision, despite the irony.

As such, the child created from Held inheritor DNA exhibited the same abilities, which piqued Seth's interest in the creation of artificial inheritors.

Seth had wanted to see what came of the irregular twins, and track down his missing experiments once things calmed down, but he had a problem: his health was just beginning to decline, so he couldn’t just be running all over the place. Luckily, he didn't have to go too far to go find Adam, who had washed up on the shore nearest one of the exits of Lunaca Labora. Seth was also a bit surprised to run into Catherine there.

This was Seth’s first time raising a child— he tried to raise him by fostering his intellect, and his intellect solely. The emotional starvation he employed wasn't entirely deliberate, he simply wanted to create a mind similar to his, and Seth's warped view on his own childhood stopped him from seeing the issue with this.

It was a busy time— he was building his network, running the institute, drugging Gavriil, and had to solve the issue of his health going downhill. For the last problem, he researched this in Lunaca Labora, where he was “born as a human”. His current body was inferior to human ones— it aged at a much faster rate.

As he’s a genius, he was soon able to make a new, longer lasting type of body he could use using a similar method to the one he used for Adam and the Zvezdas. Pleased with his success, he made two other Ghoul Children (clones of himself) while he was at it, as another test in increasing his allies, giving them personalities based on his own. One was a failure, which he put in refrigeration in case of an emergency, as a backup body, and the other was a success. This Ghoul Child became Pale Noel. He entrusted Apocalypse, now abandoned by Raijoou, to Pale. Pale is still active to this day.

… Of course, Pale is such a terror that Seth’s own position could have been put in jeopardy, so he ordered Pale to keep from showing himself publicly and instead work behind the scenes. He then expunged all the information on Pale from his info network. After that he went to Raijoou and erased the memories she had of his appearance with Venom.

Of course, this didn’t really erase the mistrust that Raijoou had towards "Horus". Just memories of what he looks like.

His body was starting to fail then, so he decided to retire the Horus identity. He went back to Lunaca Labora and transferred his mind into the new, complete body. He could have changed the face but apparently it was just too handsome to mess with. As for still looking like Pale, he figured he could just tell people they were twins.

He decided to drop the false identities and go by his real name, Seth Twiright. He spent some time in Lunaca Labora while he waited for the excitement regarding Pale to die down, making more Ghoul Children. But he also didn’t want to make the same problem with Pale being identical to him. So he decided to make some that were completely new, different in face and gender— clones, but also not clones. This makes him think of Behemo, comparing himself to his work.

Seth says something profound— even geniuses have failures. Rather, being a genius in the first place is because you learn from your failures. Several attempts to create an inheritor Ghoul Child failed, so he had their organic compositions melted down.

After several trials, he made a Ghoul Child (he lists this as his official third) that was a different person, finally succeeding at installing an “inheritor” power in her for good measure. The moment he gave her a personality, she became rebellious, and as soon as he took his eyes off her she escaped Lunaca.

He was unable to find her for a while, but eventually received word that Pale had found her. She is also apparently very attached to Pale, which stupefies him because Pale is a clone of him despite her being rebellious towards Seth himself. He decides to leave her with Pale.

The way he talks about Adam sounds almost like he views him as a plaything. He gets tired of making Ghoul Children, freezes his current projects, and then goes to meet with Adam again as Seth. He recalls having fun the time Adam tried to kill him at Merrigod, though he was a bit flummoxed that Meta genuinely attempted to kill him along with the other researchers.

Seth was very intrigued by Adam, due to their similar upbringings and yet different personalities, and even sought to make him like himself. But Adam has quit the field— though in a way, Seth views that as “evil” like him, too. As for Eve— Cain and Abel’s deaths were not his own fault. He in fact would have preferred they were born alive, because they contained Seeds of Malice. But it's not a major loss of his either way. They died because Eve's blood was too diluted with Venom, which reduced the twins' survival rate.

Seth had fibbed a little bit when he told Adam that he derived Venom from a dead Gilles inheritor. In truth, he synthesized it from those melted down Ghoul Children, all failed Gilles inheritors before the success of Meta. 

Eve, as the Held inheritor child Seth created, was immune to its effects. The mind manipulating power of Venom has no effect on one capable of the same sort of power, especially one with the blessing of Held himself. Seth is relieved she never indulged this power to Adam or else he could have pieced that together.

While a single use of Venom does little harm to someone, many uses can hamper their cognitive ability. One immune to this would have no worries— unless they tried to have children.

Overuse of Venom had the tendency to cause severe deformities in the children of those drugged, so severe it often killed them in the womb. This was why making a Gilles inheritor was so challenging. The twins must have been dead for a while to be in that condition at birth.

Unlike Gilles inheritors, Held inheritors are capable of turning their mind manipulation powers onto themselves. Seth isn't sure because he can't read minds, but he's certain Venom did not break Eve at her stillbirth, because she was immune. Instead, Eve's power was attempting to keep her from breaking by preserving the belief that Cain and Abel were still alive, as a subconscious defense mechanism.

Of course— he doesn’t feel obligated to tell Adam all that. After all, Adam used Venom behind his back. It took no effort at all for Adam to piece that much together. Seth may have made it, but Adam has only himself to blame.

[self-proclaimed-chaotic-good]

Waiting by an Open Door | Carlton Drake x Reader

Trope Prompt: Fairy Tale

Words: 2053

Fandom: Venom

Summary: You search for your friend and fellow reporter, Eddie Brock, only to find a mysterious mansion where the CEO and founder of the missing LIFE Foundation had been cursed with a creature that will consume him entirely if he can’t find the cure. Beauty and the Beast AU

-

You rolled up to the imposing cliffside and stopped at the deadend in front of a wide clearing that overlooked the ocean. You double checked Eddie’s GPS signal that confirmed that it was indeed coming from this location. The weather had been fair that day and it only seemed to grow cloudier the closer you went to the cliff. You slowly climbed out of your car, spinning around to take in your surroundings, hoping to see Eddie pop out with a sheepish grin, explaining that he had been chasing a lead but came out empty and was left without a ride back.

It was quiet on the cliffside. A gentle breeze brush through your hair, the smell of salt and earth and the impending rain filling your nostrils. You zipped up your jacket and trudged upwards.

“Eddie?” you called out.

Nothing.

You decide to walk closer to the edge of the cliff, taking in the view before you. Ever since you moved to the city for work, you never had the chance to explore and appreciate San Francisco. It was a shame, really. Growing up, counting down the years until you can branch off on your own and travel and do all the things that you want once you’ve got the means to do it, far from your small hometown where you never fit in, only to realize that it wasn’t that simple.

You wanted to be a writer, to create stories that would teleport your readers into another world as your favorite books had done to you. Instead, you became a journalist, exposing corruption and lies that had been buried, and reporting only the truth. That’s where you met Eddie Brock.

The two of you were wary of the other until you were partnered up to cover a story. You worked so well together, that you decided to help with the Eddie Brock Show. You couldn’t be in front of the camera, though. You didn’t have the right charisma for it like Eddie had. It was fine though. As long you had credit for it and that it made a difference.

Which lead to the current situation. Eddie heard of the unethical experiments going down at the LIFE Foundation that was rumored to still be on the very location you were standing on, only hidden. It had been days since he left to check it out without you. The two of you had an agreement to notify the other when any information was found during field research and you have yet to hear from him.

What happened to the LIFE Foundation was a mystery. It used to be this impressive, futuristic, modern facility built into the cliffside with an extension that reached the ocean. Carlton Drake, the CEO and founder of LIFE was a rags to riches story that newspapers and magazines like to eat up, especially with the breakthroughs he’s had.

A blackout occurred one night. Residents flooded emergency call centers and electric companies scrambled to find the source of the problem, but came out empty. And then, the power came back on. No one could find an explanation for it, maybe some old power lines that needed fixing, but was was even curiouser was the fact that the entire LIFE Foundation facility had vanished.

You were nearing the edge of the cliff, continuously trying to call Eddie, when something shot up from the ground. You stumbled back, lowering your phone slowly as you watch the dark gooey substance morph into a large gate that swung open, almost as if inviting you in. It was never a good sign of sanity to see dark goo moving around and forming objects in thin air, let alone seeing a wide rundown mansion with dark vines crawling along the walls, fog and dirt covering the windows, with a healthy and thriving colorful garden in contrast. What the hell is this?

You looked back at your car, then down at your phone where the signal was blinking straight ahead from your current location. You needed to find Eddie.

So, you did as anyone crazy enough to be best friends with Eddie Brock and stepped through the gate.

The gate slammed shut behind you and disappeared, replaced by a thick wall of greenery. The only way was forward, you guessed.

As you neared the building, you realized how alive those dark vines were, squirming and crawling and seemingly watching your movements. You went to open the front door when the vines quickly covered it and opened the door for you.

What should you do? This shouldn’t be possible in the first place, but the shock was keeping the panic at bay for now. Should you try calling Eddie again? You doubt he would answer. If he hadn’t done so during those million times you’ve called and texted him, it was rather unlikely he would right now.

The slam of the heavy front door echoed through the massive space inside. You clutched your phone close to you and crept forward, taking in the interior of the mansion. You heard whispering behind you, making your blood ran cold, convinced that you were caught. You spun around, but saw no one. Your heart picked up, hearing whispers on the other side of the room, then back at where you first heard them.

Were you hallucinating? Were there mercury fumes that LIFE had managed to obtain and experiment on?

“How the hell did she get in here?” a gruffy man’s voice whispered. You spun around again, trying to pinpoint the voice. All you could see was furniture and scattered objects around the room.

“Maybe it was one of the symbiotes,” a soft woman’s voice said.

“She’s here for that damn reporter,” the man growled.

Your ears perked up. “Eddie? Is Eddie here? Please, just tell me where he is and we’ll leave,” you begged, wanting to be out of this strange dream as soon as you could.

“No,” another man’s voice said from the top of the stairwell.

You whipped around to face the stairs, seeing a familiar man half concealed by shadows looking down at you with dark brown eyes. He wore a black suit with a high collar jacket underneath, his appearance clean and presentable in contrast to the mansion.

“You cannot have Eddie Brock,” he said firmly.

“Why not?” you challenged, stepping forward.

He fidgeted in his spot, the thought of retreating completely into the shadows seemed tempting for him. “Eddie Brock not only trespassed, but he also attempted to steal from me!” he said, his voice echoing down the stairs.

You squint your eyes, your feet carrying you towards the staircase. The man immediately took a step back. “You’re Carlton Drake, aren’t you?” you said, “What the hell is going on here? What is all of this?”

He remained silent.

“Look, just let me see Eddie and we can talk this through. He’s been missing for days,” you tried to reason with him.

The whispering started again, though it was sort of comforting to know that he could hear them, too, as his body language responded to their words.

“Just let her, Doctor Drake,” the woman’s voice said.

“Enough, Skirth,” the man, confirmed to be Carlton Drake, hissed under his breath.

“We can’t stay like this!” she hissed back.

Drake glared at the source of the voice, then sighed.  He inhaled sharply, then exhaled through his mouth slowly. “Follow me,” he muttered, finally walking into the light to reveal the surprisingly handsome CEO.

He lead you around the mansion towards another set of stairs that led downwards to a large basement. You slowly followed in after him, internally cursing yourself for not bringing any form of self-defense besides the lessons you’ve been having. You fell into the habit of looking behind you, almost hoping to see another person in order to put a body with the voice.

Drake turned on the lights, revealing a long corridor that led into a wide room filled with glass paneled chambers. You gasped when you realized there were people in them, many curled up in the corner of their chambers whimpering. Their eyes widened as they spot you, crawling over to the panel and banging their palms to catch your attention.

“Silence!” Drake ordered, breathing heavily as he tried to control his anger.

“(Y/n)!” Eddie shouted from the last chamber.

You ran passed Drake towards your friend, slamming your hands on the panel, looking for a way to get him out, “Oh, god, Eddie! What are they doing here? What is going on?” you demanded.

“(Y/n/n), you have to get away from him!” Eddie said, “He’s got a freaky parasite up his ass! And he’s been trying to get one in all of us as well!”

“Enough from you, Eddie Brock!” Drake snapped, stalking over.

Eddie pressed himself against the glass and laughed. “Or what? Gonna force that freaky parasite in me? Your subjects are dying! You think it’ll work just like that? You think the world won’t get suspicious about this company?”

“Eddie, stop! Doctor Drake, release him and everyone else,” you said, stepping in between them.

“A company founded on a mountain of bodies!” Eddie shouted, provoking him.

“Eddie!”

Drake growled, clutching his head as dark veins, reminiscent to the vines covering the mansion, crawled over his skin until it swallowed him whole. A slimy grotesque creature took over, his mouth opened in a cruel grin.

“I should have eaten you when you walked in,” the creature growled.

“You can have a go.”

“Please you two, stop it! Just released Eddie and everyone here, and I promise that the information won’t get leaked out,” you said, holding your ground, though on the inside, while you were scared for your life, the need to protect the others overrode that.

“A trade, then,” the creature said, his long tongue drooling out of his mouth, “You for the others.”

“What? No!” Eddie protested, banging on the panel.

“And what will I have to do?” you asked, ignoring Eddie.

The creature groaned, retreating back into Drake’s body. He shook, staggering backwards as he clutched his head, He took a moment to collect himself again, but when he raised his head, half of his face were covered by the dark veins like a grotesque lace mask.

“Help me get rid of this,” he said, a shaky hand hovering over the veiny half of his face, “and I will release you, too. I am bound to honor my words. I promise I will release them. Deal?”

You looked back at Eddie who pleaded with you not to do it, but you saw the others, weakened, disheartened, and possibly malnourished. No one deserves this type of treatment.

“Deal,” you said, sticking a hand out to him.

He grabbed it firmly and shook. The walls began to melt into piles of dark goo, giving the imprisoned a means to escape. They all laughed and cried, seeing the outside after who knows how long. They ran out with their arms wide, feeling the warm sun against their skin and the breeze caressing them.

Eddie looked over at the others and the car, then back at you. He didn’t want to leave you. He knew that he shouldn’t have gone alone, but his resource was sketchy and there was no proof that the LIFE Foundation was still there. Whatever thing is keeping the place together allowed only certain people to go through.

In all honesty, Carlton Drake hadn’t done anything to him. Yet. Maybe he would have if you hadn’t gone looking for him. He only knew about the experiments because of the other subjects trapped along with him, a pile of goo next to the bodies that didn’t survive the experiment. Even then, he couldn’t quite figure out what he was planning on doing.

“I can’t leave,” Eddie said, shaking his head.

You gave him a grim smile, tossing your keys to him. “Annie misses you,” was all you said before the walls reformed again.

Panic was starting to set in, you could feel it. Your heart beating against your ribcage and the tips of your fingers tingling while you began to feel lightheaded. Your body swayed until your legs gave out. Drake quickly caught you, carrying you up three flights of stairs to the guest room.

[thewhiterabbit42]

What Lies Beneath

Pairing: Gabriel x reader, some Sam x reader and Dean x reader, some Debriel if you squint

Summary: The reader tries to move on after Gabriel’s death.  Is she losing her mind, or is there more going on than there seems?

Written for: @gone-to-fight-the-fairies​

Drunk drabble request:  Gabriel, yellow, succulent plant

Word Count: 3409

Warnings/Tags: canon divergent, swearing, some sexual situations but no smut

A/N:  Admittedly, this started as a drunk drabble, and after I hit about 1k the idea just stuck with me and I finished it sober.  I really love what was started and hope I get to play around more with this in the future.

You don’t know why they remind you of him.  If there’s any plant Gabriel’s been tied to, it’s lilies, but that’s not what caught your eye when you went looking for something in honor of the archangel.  

“Yellow succulents?”  Sam’s the only one to say a word as you add them to the arrangement in the middle of the underground garden devoted mostly to spell ingredients.  He makes a face as if impressed.  “Fitting.”  

They are.  They’re hardy little suckers that can endure conditions in which most living things would shrivel up and die.  Perhaps its that resilience that made you go with them.  Perhaps it’s the fact the warm color reminds you of how he was before Asmodeus got his hands on him.  The same you saw start to bloom again in the last few days leading up to his sacrifice.  

Now, he’s just another spot in an ever growing memorial as you try to keep his, and so many others’, memories alive.  

A little morbid, don’t you think?  The thought slides across your consciousness, unbidden.  

You mentally bat at it, sending it back from where it came as you reassure yourself that there’s nothing wrong with a tribute for someone who saved the lives of everyone living under this roof.  

***

It irritates you, the way no one remembers.  You remind yourself they didn’t know him, not really, but it eats away at you the more times they pass your display without so much as a glance.  You’re not certain anyone’s even noticed there is a memorial, let alone a central spot for him in it.  

Ingrates.

The word echoes beneath your breath, drawing Dean’s attention from where he’s clipping a few sprigs of lavender.  

“Did you say something?”  The dent between his brows suggests he’s heard what you said, and you don’t blame him for the odd look he shoots your way.  Who under the age of sixty even uses that word?

“Nobody cares,” you tell him, carefully adjusting some of the stones surrounding the plants.  “It’s like none of them remember what it cost to get them here.”

Dean pauses what he’s doing, staring down at the soft purple in his hand.  He takes a moment to consider his words.  You’re not sure if it’s a call for appreciation or concern, because he’s usually not this thoughtful when it comes to your conversations.  

You can practically hear Gabriel’s voice in your ear.  Don’t look the gift of an active-brain-cell-using Winchester in the mouth.

You almost smile, until Dean speaks, and an inexplicable absence wells up within you.  

“They remember,” your friend assures.  “Maybe not every minute of every day, but they know it wasn’t just Sam and I who got them here.”  

It helps in that it softens the brunt of your anger, but you're not certain you prefer the sadness that pools in its wake.

***

You miss him.  His presence.  The way it could fill the room with life in a way that your mind still can’t grasp.  It was something you could only understand through your senses, and without him, they lay dull and dormant, as if he was the reason they were ever alive in the first place.  

You try to keep a box around it, try to bury it so deep even you don’t know it exists.  Except there’s only so much you can pack away before the container swells too much and bursts.  

It floods you with an ache that resonates keenly with your loneliness.  The sentiment itself isn’t new, but the amount of it is, and you’re beginning to realize the death of your friend is simply the frosting to a cake that has been crumbling for years.  

There’s a heady layer of surprise that winds through it, one that makes you wish you had taken Rowena up on her offer to temporarily hollow you out so that you’d feel nothing, at the risk of feeling everything once the spell had worn off.  

You let out a small growl, drawing both Sam and Dean’s gazes from across the table.  

“Don’t,” you warn, eyes riveted to the book in your hand.   “Not a damn word.  Got it?”  

Dean exchanges a look with his brother and it takes them a moment of silent debate to figure out which one of them, if either, you’re even talking to.  

“Uh, sure thing, kid,” Dean finally says, but you don't notice, too busy desperately trying to cram your emotions so far beneath the surface you won’t be able to find them for at least another century.    

***

Sam Winchester is many things.  A good friend, usually being at the top of that list, which is why you mistake his offer for a movie night alone as nothing more than a helpful distraction.  The arm around your shoulder?  Simply comfort.  He knows how much touch grounds you, how just feeling someone’s body next to yours can drag you back out of the rabbit holes you tumble down.  

Except this isn’t one you can just be plucked out of, and the tongue in your ear does not belong to someone who’s just concerned.  

At first you melt against him.  It’s the first non-friendly contact you’ve had in ages, and a whole new perspective emerges as those large hands of his start taking possession over you.    

Something else quickly stirs beneath your body’s natural and wholly starved reaction, causing you to jolt straight up on the couch.  

“Oh god,” your eyes are wide, panic blossoming through your system.   “Gabriel!”

“Gabriel?”  Sam echoes, his eyes narrowing intently on you.

Shit.  Definitely not the time to be shouting other people’s names, let alone his.  

Sam stares at you, and it’s clear by the silence that follows he’s trying to choose his words carefully.  “Y/n, Gabriel’s dead.”

You scrub a hand over your face.  Just say something that will make him drop it.

“I loved him,” you blurt out completely to your horror.

Your mouth drops open, and there's a tense moment neither of you know what to say.

Awk-ward.

Your cheeks hit nuclear fusion, embarrassment quickly merging with your anger and spiking to unprecedented levels.

“God damnit, f--” you suck in a breath, cutting yourself off.  “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s ok,” Sam assures, his hand rubbing soothingly along your spine.  “I know he meant a lot to you.  I just - I guess I didn’t know how much.”

You drop your face into your hands, lips paling in a tight seal against your teeth as you use every ounce of self-restraint not to scream.

“No wonder you’ve been…”  He trails off, and you’re too busy fighting against the riptide of fury coursing through you to read between the lines.  “If you need time, I can wait.”

“How chivalrous.”  It’s a knee-jerk reaction, and you almost don’t recognize the voice that comes out of your mouth, though it’s undeniably yours.  

“Excuse me?”  From his tone, it might have been kinder -- and less confusing -- if you had simply slapped him or run off.  

The night’s still young an oh-so-helpful voice in the back of your head tells you.  

“I’m sorry.”  You bolt off the couch before you can say or do anything else that will make a complete idiot of yourself.  

Back in the solitude of your room, you spend the rest of the night hoping some freak wormhole will open up and swallow you into another dimension.

It doesn’t.

***

It’s been a good hunt.  Casualties are at a minimum, and the case itself is challenging enough to leave a thrill in your veins, but not so much that you’re wrecked and ready to sleep for a week.  

You hit up the closest place that serves alcohol, which happens to be a dive bar in the center of town. It’s just you and Dean, for once.  You’re not certain if Sam’s backed off after your strange encounter, or if Dean’s sensed the tension and tried to intervene by giving you both some space.  

The concept is clearly reserved for his brother, however.  

He's practically been on top of you this entire time, which is irritating on several levels these days.  You wish he'd just grow a pair and tell you what's on his mind.  Instead, he insists on hovering, and the longer you’re around him, the more you feel like crawling out of your skin.  

You hit your tipping point once you’re someplace past tipsy when you’re attempt to get some air results in him practically escorting you to through the back exit like you were some prisoner.  He’s got his hand on your back the entire time, and for some inexplicable reason, you’re suddenly wading through every memory you can, trying to sort out if he’s ever been this handsy with you before.

The answer is not usually, but then again, it’s rarely ever just you and him.  

You know what they say.  When the cat's away...

You know exactly where that train of thought is headed, and it’s nowhere good.  

“Come off it,” you mutter, trying to manually shift the gears of your brain in a different direction.  

You feel Dean’s hand stiffen through your jacket.  “What?”  

Nice one.

You bite back your internal irritation, channeling it toward Dean who’s giving you a nice, long side-eye.  

“Whatever’s on your mind, just spit it out.”  

You expect him to brush it off, to play the tough guy, maybe scoff before finally admitting he’s worried about you.  The reaction itself doesn’t matter, because by the end of it, he’ll have forgotten you said anything strange and you’ll both be back on normal ground.  

Except he doesn’t do any of that.  The moment you call him out he freezes, reminding you of a cornered animal with the way his entire body goes rigid, as if he's unsure what this situation calls for.

It does not bode well for your theory that sometimes, a Winchester gets emotional on you and things just get weird for a night or two.

You don’t hear what Dean says beyond your name. You don’t need to.  It’s all there in the sudden heated, green glow that has your mouth going dry.  There’s nothing but the feel of brick at your back, and a silent chorus of not again that’s almost as frantic as your rapidly rising pulse.  

By the time his lips even make it near yours, you’re on the verge of having an anxiety attack.  

He tastes like whiskey and warmth, a note of loneliness running beneath it all.  You can’t get past the contrast of soft and hard within his kiss, the way his hands fist at the sides your shirt, waiting for your permission to proceed any further, and there’s a heady moment where the world begins to ink around the edges in a way that should make you question it.

The moment it returns in a dizzying rush, everything’s changed.  Your hands are in his hair, your tongue exploring his with as much ardor as his mouth remains locked with yours.  

You pull back so fast you nearly knock yourself out against the wall.  “Did you just kiss him back?!”

Dean blinks, stare hazy and so very, very confused.  “What?”

Don’t ruin this.  

“Oh my god, you did,” you gasp.  

Dean’s eyes become startlingly clear as he gives you a long, measured look.  “I thought you said that witch didn’t catch you with any hexes?”

“I - she didn’t, but…”

He sighs, hand running across his mouth as if trying to wipe the crazy off before he catches it.  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

He steps away, scratching at the back of his head.  “Maybe we should just call it a night.”  

“Yeah, that,” you eagerly agree, shoving off the wall and practically running back to the Impala.  

This is why we can’t have nice things.  The snark floats across your mind in wholly unhelpful ways.

“Don't.  Even," you hiss without regard to whether or not you’ve actually made it out of earshot.  

Dean thankfully takes his time catching up and doesn’t say a word when he climbs into the car beside you.  You don’t question the direction he’s driving, just grateful to be moving.  You’re too caught up in your inner dialogue, and it isn’t until you’re at the city limits that you realize you’ve been headed in the opposite direction of the motel this entire time.  

“Where are we going?”

You glance over, noting the way he refuses to take his eyes off the road.

“Sam's right.  Something's wrong with you.”

The indignance that winds through your surprise grabs hold of your mouth before you can stop it.

“So what?  Your plan was to try and bone my brains out in hope they went back in the right way?”  

You're not like this.  Your anger doesn't normally drip with sarcasm and bitterness that sours your tongue.  But it is you saying these things, increasingly so over the last several weeks, and it’s a wonder your friends haven’t called you on it before now.    

Dean licks his lips, the way he does when he’s not certain about the fight he’s about to pick.  

You have a feeling you know what’s coming, and you brace yourself for the inevitable.

“I know about your feelings for him.”

Oh for shit’s sake.  

You inhale.  Deeply.  Because out of all the conclusions he or Sam could come to, it really is this one.

It’s a wonder they haven’t ended the world well before now.

“Gabriel,” he continues, as if there’s any other divine asshole you could have randomly professed your love for.  

Noted.

You pinch the bridge of your nose.  Hard.  

You remind yourself Dean means well.  You can see the worry seeping through the hard lines in his features.  He only wants to help.  

Apparently by sticking his tongue in your mouth.

You turn away from him, fingers pressing into the side of your temple.  

Pretty sure that one’s actually on you.  

“It’s ok if you did,” he tells you.  “I’m not trying to rush you.    

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean.”  You manage to soften your tone, keeping it neutral.  You’re not actually pissed at him.

Dr. Dean’s miracle cure…

You push even harder into the side of your head, willing the comments to stop.

“Maybe not,” Dean concedes.  “But I know you, and something definitely isn’t right.”  

… think it can only be taken orally?

You want to laugh, cry, and shriek all at the same time, and you clench your jaw down painfully tight.  Maybe, just maybe, if you’re lucky you’ll find a way to break it and remove the possibility of saying anything ever again.  

There’s a very large part of you that isn’t impressed with that course of action.  

The ride back to Kansas is long, with nothing but the occasional roar of the engine to fill the the car.

You wish it could be as silent inside your head.

***

You can’t keep doing this.  

Sam and Dean are worried.  Really worried.  They’ve taken you off active hunting, relegating you to the bunker.  You’re not allowed to wield anything other than a lore book and a spatula, and it’s driving you as insane as they think you are.  

You need to tell them, before they resort to locking you in your room, or worse, trying to exorcise you in the dungeon.  

That’s a little dramatic, even for them the part of you that’s currently more rational chimes in.  

So is putting you on lockdown for talking to yourself.  

To be fair, you do sound a feather short of a wand.  

You groan, all but ready to commit yourself.  You knew that Harry Potter marathon had been a terrible idea, and for the last three days it’s been nonstop puns and references.  

Then again, it’s certainly better than that entire month of dad jokes.

“It’s not just being stuck here,” you insist to your empty room, and it’s more than having your closest friends question your mental state.  There are things you miss just as much as the actual reason you seem like you’re unravelling, so much so you might really be losing touch with reality.

Quit being a drama queen.  That’s my job.

For once, you can’t argue.

You roll off your mattress, moving toward the large bureau across the room.  It’s early, at least it is for you, but without much else to do, bed might not be such a bad thing.  You open your drawers, searching for one of Sam or Dean’s old T-shirts you’d commandeered, when you feel a prickle of hesitation run down your spine.  

Is it really so terrible having me in here?  

Your eyes glance up to the mirror in front of you, a little taken aback.  

You thought Gabriel would know the answer by now.  

Some days the answer is a hell freaking yes, but others, like now, when the alternative makes your chest tighten and your lungs turn to stone, you can see past your need for space and privacy.

“Nah,” you tell him, smiling briefly at your reflection before returning to your task.  “You’re not so bad.  I just, y’know, miss having time to myself.”

Soon, sweetheart, that familiar timbre rumbles soothingly through the back of your mind. As soon as Ro figures out how to rebuild my vessel, I’ll be out of your hair.  Or out from beneath it, as the case may be.

The thought lessens the tangled snarl of frustration stuck somewhere between your chest and stomach, and there’s a mutual sense of relief as your shared tension begins to unwind.  

You know, it’s no picnic on my end, either.  

“Yeah.  Must be a real travesty being alive with someone who doesn’t mind sharing,” you drawl.  

Apparently, possession didn’t have to be an all or nothing relationship, but angels and demons often went that route because it was the easiest.  

Given how crazy you seem and feel, you can see why

I’m beginning to think the whole look but don’t touch mode isn’t much better he laments.

Is he for real?

Six months.  Six angel damned months of nothing, save those two wrecks of a night with Sam and Dean.  You had no idea how dependent you’d become on using physical pleasure to let off steam until your extra passenger hopped on board.  

Dear God did you just need to put something between your legs.  A hand.  Fingers.  Something battery operated.  Sam.  Dean.  Any one of those. All of the above.  

Easy there, ya little hot tamale.  Just because I don’t have eyes, doesn’t mean I can’t make imagery out of all the brain cells firing in this noodle of yours.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, doing your best to clear your mind before you both end up in any more situations that break the awkward scale.  

You finally find something to sleep in, and muscle memory has you undoing the front of your pants without even thinking.  Before they’ve hit the floor, Gabriel’s faded into the background, giving you privacy to change.  

By the time he reemerges, you’ve already buried yourself beneath the sheets, well on your way to falling asleep.  

You know, there’s just one thing I’m looking forward to more than being back in my own vessel.

“I’ll bite,” you murmur, sensing there’s a punchline coming.  “What’s that?”

Getting to see the look on Thing One and Two’s faces when they find out I got inside you before either of them.

You’re not sure if it’s really that amusing, or if some of Gabriel’s sentiments are trickling into yours, but your laugh is one of the few genuine sounds of mirth to make an appearance since you’ve been placed under house arrest.

“You and me both, feathers,” you snicker, settling further into your pillow.  

I also can’t wait to see the look on their faces when I thank you properly.  

The thought skitters across your awareness, but you’re no longer awake enough to receive it.  You just know that something’s there.  

“Hmmm?”  

Nothing, sweetheart.  Gabriel’s presence fills you completely, wrapping you snugly from head to toe better than any blanket ever could.  Get some rest.  

It’s hard not to with him there.  You’ve never felt so safe and warm, and as you drift away, you almost don’t want to think about what it will be like when it comes time for him to leave.  

Tags are open to anyone 18+. Send an ask to be added OR follow @rabbit-writes (my fic only side blog) and turn on notifications.

Gabe Squad: @bloodstained-porcelain-doll​​​ @lacqueluster​​ @baritonechick​ @samikitten​​ ​ @kazosa​​ @nobodys-baby-now​​ @acarpouschimerical​​ ​ @cipherwheeldecoder​​ ​ @megasimpleplan4ever​​ @azlinh​​ ​ @fruitypieq​​​  ​ @koithings​​ @booknerd1324​​ @the-kryomancer​​ @karichanarts​ @archangelashiah​ @calamity-chaos​ @erisunderthemoon​ @hankypranky​ @missihart23​ @curious-trickster​ @gabegirrl86​ @crazyevilninja-is-lame @sweetmisseddreams2002​    @bun-dpdbny​ @greeneyedtrickster​ @marichromatic​ @ourloveisforthelovely​

ALL the tags:

@girl-next-door-writes​​ @fand0maniac​​ @feelmyroarrrr​​​ @lucifer-in-leather​​ @blondecoffeecake​​  @tistai​​ @room-with-a-cat​​ @authoressskr​​ @revwinchester​​ @flufy07​​ @tardis-is-mine​​ @tangle-of-ivy​​ @luciferseclipse​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​ @protectivedestiel​ ​ @angelofwinchester17​ @phantomwarrior12​ @jeanjeaniethings​ @wontlookaway​ @copperseraphim​ @fandomsrourlives​ @archangelgabriellives​ @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts​ @mizzezm​ @disneymarina​ @zpandaqueen​ @idabbleincrazy​ @katekvnes​ @han68000​ @brokencasbutt67-writer​ @crashdevlin​ @klinenovakwinchester​ @bofa-deans-nuts​ @sherlockedtash88​ @lovelyhexbag​

[carcosa-commune]

Moonstruck

The story of the Cleric beast. How a man becomes a monster and how even a monster may weep. tw: body horror, gore, werewolves

 He panted, his body wracked with waves of pain. Gods be good. Gods be merciful. His arm had stretched, down and further like a child tearing at a ragdoll it had popped from it’s socket.

 They had killed Marya too late. By the time they found her there was nothing of Marya was gone and all that was left was a beast slavering in her skin. Leo had nearly fainted at the sight of her. Her muzzle buried in his innards. She had raised her head as they entered and that pelt matted with blood, eyes yellow and unthinking had been almost too much for him.

 If ever he had wanted to weep, that would have been the time.

 Willis had been an old friend, a dear friend of Henry and Marya both. Long hours they had spent together at study, prayer, and hunt. But those had been better days. Willis was a good man, a better hunter. But he had loved Marya, and he had stayed his hand for too long.

 Henry had driven the stake through her heart himself. She would have thanked him had she still able to utter words. Had her voice not been stolen in place of howls...and whimpers. They had burned her and Willis together, there was little enough time for separate pyres. The smell of burned flesh had become commonplace to him. A smell almost appetizing, almost identical to the smell of cooking meat. Until you smelled it, that hint of corruption beneath it all. It made him ill and the sting of smoke made his eyes water.

 The sight of Willis, his Willis, prone on the pyre stuck in his mind more than the countless unspeakable scenes he had witnessed on the hunt.

 He could not allow himself to become what Marya had. He could not allow himself to become a beast. Panting and clutching his chest. Don’t look down, not at your hands/paws no, don’t look. He scrabbled to the floor.

 He had found refuge in an abandoned house near the bridge. The few clerics left we’re pups no, wrong word, novices, they hadn’t the stomach to kill him and make an end of it. He was the eldest cleric left alive. And they were so afraid. Pangs of hunger jabbed like daggers at his stomach.

     Leo, my boy, Leo you ought to have killed me. One last mercy for an old man. He rued.

 They ought to have killed him as soon as the fur came, it itched furiously at the beginning,      gods,    day and night it had itched and he had scratched himself raw...until he had noticed his hands, the nails on his hands hardening, sharpening until a brushstroke drew blood.      Blood. Fear the-    The thought flit away. It was harder to think.

 He was starving. Always starving. He had...he had devoured the houses’ last dweller. He had been dead already, a gun in his hand. His body had long rotted but he was hungry so hungry and the bones had cracked beneath his jaws...marrow flooding his tongue and gods how his jaws had ached and throbbed before...    and he had gnawed the bits of spoiled meat (flesh) left on the bone.

 But that had been days ago and the hunger had returned, unbearable. It went in tides of agony, his stomach jabbed with innumerable spears. He wanted      needed  food yet Henry knew where food would come from if he succumbed.      Willis...you damned fool. You wretched imbecile, you knew what she was. You knew she was starved.  

 His feet were unsteady. Bent at odd angles the bones warping and stretching. That had been torture almost worse then the hunger. He had screamed his throat raw, howling in pure agony.

     Marya...how she had screamed through that door. Willis had not been able to look at her so it had fallen to him to gag her.

 His legs, horrible twisted things barely supported him and he fell hard to the ground.

 The floor was filthy, but he put his hands on the floor for balance. They were long enough now that he barely need bend.

 He knew what he smelled. He would ask them to kill him. Gods help him he even knew who he smelled. They must’ve sent a search party for him. The last of the clerics.

Please Leo. A stake through the heart, a funeral of cleansing fire. Perhaps he might find a dream, then, see Willis and Marya one last time. That was the best he could hope for. A failure as a healer. A failure as a man. But Leo would not could not fail, he had Leo himself trained him as a hunter. The closest he would ever have to a son. My child, Leo, you are a true believer, a fine lad. Grant me one last mercy. Do what needs to be done. A sharp jolt of agony ran up his spine making him shudder.

  He’ll do what we ought to have done for Marya. Oh. She asked. She begged and yet…”    He nearly wept from the pain, like searing pokers in his back.      We damned her Willis. The both of us damned Marya and-    He arched his back and screamed. The pain seemed infinite, a burning hell uncoiling inside him.

  “Oh God mercy, mercy, grant me mercy!”  he cried. But he deserved the pain, he knew. Bile burned the back of his throat as the pain tore through him. I left Marya to suffer this, she asked me for mercy and I denied her. Gods be good I denied her. Tears ran down his cheeks, God had taken Willis as punishment and left him with the hunger, the wretched ravenous hunger. The truth came to him then, crueler then the pain, he deserved no mercy.

 And still, he hungered, the smell of incense barely masking the scent of shit and ash. But strongest of all he smelled the blood. Mercy. please.  

 He squeezed through the door, his legs jutting out behind him as he crawled. He did not like to think of the figure he made. The fur that covered near all of his skin, rough and bristled, nor the teeth that had forced their way out of his gums, and to meet them his bones had warped and twisted, his jawbones jutting from his face like a mast made of bone. The mind and body twist to it’s whims. Gods have mercy on us all. His shoulders had swollen grotesquely and he jammed one barely forcing himself through the door, now too narrow for him.

 Dusk had lit the sky aflame, radiant oranges and golds draped across the sky like a cloak of flame; yet through the blazing veil the moon still shone, it’s dull light like ash to the sunset’s flame. A single pale eye staring at him with reproach.

 The bridge was deserted. Luggage and provisions carelessly strewn about the bridge, curiously it was barren of corpses. Perhaps they had crawled off elsewhere to die. And yet...he still smelled it, the sweet rot of incense and burning flesh. People. He turned towards the rusted gate, just past it was the church ward, his home once.    

 Like lightning, a memory struck his mind. One from a better time, Marya, Willis and himself together in the garden, so young they’d been then. Henry had wrapped his arm around him, teased him about being so bookish, more interested in words then air, he had said, smiling. Henry had smiled with him before smacking him lightly with his book to Marya’s gales of laughter.

 The gate screamed and rose slowly like the maw of a great beast and as a coach rushed through.

 The red pulsed in his mind and then crashed like a tide against a dam. He was salivating; his stomach jabbed with a thousand blades and try as he might, he could no longer picture the garden . The dam has broke.     He ran. His legs and arms working in tandem, powerful now. He could smell them. Flesh. Meat. Food.    

 The Horse startled rearing in terror and he tore at it’s throat with one slash of his claws. He could eat it. Rip into it’s guts and taste the warm blood. The heart still beating. The coach collided with the wall. Screams rose from within, he ripped at it with his claws, the wood splintering and a shrill shriek rising from within. Flesh. Meat. Prey. was inside. The carriage shook with the force of his blows and the screams grew louder, glass shattered as a searing pain ripped through his side.

 He roared and it echoed furious in the air. KILL. RIP.  tore through his mind. The meat emerged from the coach in black vestments smelling of smoke and pain. He leapt at it, it’s eyes widened white as moons as his claws rent his flesh. Hot blood filled his mouth and      meat     followed as his teeth tore into in his prey. The pain throbbed but he kept eating, an eye bursting in his mouth.

 Screams filled the air and excitement swelled within him.      Terror. Rip. Devour.  

 “Shoot it for God’s sake!” A bang shattered the air and something singed his ear. He bellowed in rage, his claws parting flesh like a dagger through cloth. The prey only whined faintly as his jaw locked on his neck. Bones snapping and skin tearing like parchment.

 Inside the carriage, the prey  (Leo!) raised an ax. He let his meal fall boneless to the ground and turned to face him.

 Hunger pulsed within him, a constant stabbing pain and it was a fire in his belly and he needed to devour to eat to rip and- Leo. my son. Do it. Leo do it. End it.    Tear into the soft salty flesh until he was sated, he raised his claws and prepared to...his eyes full of fear, ax raised, he knows me, Leo do it please.  

 The prey raised his ax tears glimmering in his eyes. Do it. The beast’s claw stilled in midair and the prey shook as the ax dropped from his hand; hitting the bridge with a clatter. Leo shook with sobs.

 The beast bore his teeth the hunger burning white-hot inside him.

 The boy (PREY) looked at him, his face frozen in terror. His lips moving as if pleading but only one word escaped him.

 “Henr-”

 His claws rent through his armor and he screamed, the beast grinned but inside his screams mingle with Leo’s.

 A whispery voice hidden deep inside him wanted to sob. Gods have mercy, I did not want this. It was only for love that we’re undone, Marya, Willis, my friends, my son, I never wanted this.  

 The beast feasted on the fresh meat, cracking the bones for their marrow, savoring the soft sweet flesh. The youngest was freshest, oh, and slowly he devoured the tongue, the thighs so plump, and the heart still hot and steaming in the night air.

 His paws left bloody prints as he stalked, there was food, yes...more food across the bridge. There he would wait and there his prey would arrive.

     All of us damned, damned and dead, all for love. The voice cried out once last time and died. A candle’s flame snuffed with nary a whimper. All that remained in the darkness was hunger.

[mmmmalo]

Jade & Bec

[This is an experimental post, exploring the threads between Jade & Bec, which will be updated regularly unto some semblance of completion.]

Are you familiar with the concept of trolls as manifestations? Cool, awesome, here’s a strange edge-case:

Tavros informs Jade that he prevented her death by commanding Bec to redirect a bullet into a villain’s heart. Jade informs Tavros that the “villain” was in fact her Grandpa, and Tavros attempts to defend his misguided heroics with the dignity of a wounded puppy dog. The strangeness: if Tavros is manifesting for Jade, why is he explaining Bec’s motivations for killing Grandpa? After all, Tavros directed Bec to do something Bec was already going to do – both of them are concerned with Jade’s safety. One might conclude that Bec (like Tavros) misjudged (not really) the danger presented by Grandpa (Harley). However, the manifestation of Tavros implies that these motivations also apply to Jade, despite her vocal insistence that Tavros is wrong.

What gives? Here’s a possibility broached in the second half of the conversation:

What if Bec is Jade’s imaginary friend? Tavros’s inexplicable manifestation for two parties would then be explained as voicing the thoughts of a mind divided. This would mean Jade shot Grandpa, albeit with several psychic buffers.

I realize that this would contradict the birth of Bec seen in Jade’s dreams, and that’s certainly not something to be ignored -- but then the trolls acting as psychological manifestations would likewise seem to contradict their existence as alien entities. The uncanny dissonance comes with the territory of dream logic, maybe.

Another reason to think Bec may have always already been a part of Jade: in the same way that cherubs seek to rekindle a primordial union, the kids in Homestuck universally aspire to a reunion. When John seeks to reunite with Dad, their separation analogous to the scratch on Dave’s record, an emblem of his fractured sense of self. John’s distance from (his image of) Dad is met with anxiety, and the urge to unite with that image drives much of his behavior throughout the story. Critically, a consequence of conceiving of this union as a re-union is that John fancies himself as having spawned directly from Dad’s image. (x)(x)(x)

As her riveting anthro treatise indicates, Jade similarly wishes to unite with Bec. The creation of Jadesprite corroborates this, as does the eventual realization of dogtier!Jade. But what could it mean for Jade to think of this as a RE-union? There’s certainly the sense in which Jade romanticizes shedding the trappings of civilization and embracing animal instinct, which can be conceived as having preceded humanity as we know it. In that sense, Jade could be said to be “returning” to a state from which humanity ostensibly divorced itself.

Put in familial terms, you might say humans are descended from beasts. Thus phrased, Jade being raised by a dog seems like a very apt metaphor.

Bec being Jade’s creation would admittedly invert this sense of who is parent and who is child, but there’s precedent for that sort of thing. The metaphor rich soils of Alternia has an upper class defined by the lower class trappings of Juggalo culture, after all. At this point I only want to establish a starting point for considering what it would mean for Bec to have already been Jade.

Main topics for future additions:

Why would Jade want to shoot Grandpa?

What are we to make of Bec’s powers if he is an extension of Jade?

(and of course, further justification for either of these questions being asked)

[5/3/2019] Topic: Jade & Lightning

First, a comment:

zenosanalytic

the parent stuff seems pretty easy, considering that it's de riguer in Homestuck for kids to be the parents of their parents

so like: Bec would both be a creation of Jade, and her primary parental figure. The different would be that, whereas with the B1s&2s it's a literal genetic link, with Jade and Bec it'd be more role-based.

...'difference' rather -__-

Thanks -- that’s further reason to regard that twist as a non-issue, except insofar as it may evince confusion on Jade’s part.

To get into the subject of why Jade would want to shoot Grandpa, it would be worth it to review and reevaluate stuff leading up to this. Namely, Jade’s fear of lightning.

When John entered the Medium, he had several near-falls: slipping on a staircase, launching into the air with his new Pogo-Hammer. Each encounter with the possibility of mortal descent was followed by the appearance of large ogres, who begin their assault after John looks down into the abyss. The ogres are physical manifestations of John’s abstract fear of heights, a fear which began with his fall from the slime pogo, and which Sburb stoked by placing his home on top of a huge spire. (Or perhaps it would be better to say that heights are the aspiration, and falling is the fear)

Subsequent encounters between kids and the monsters on their planets can be similarly understood as reactions to fears exemplified in some early trauma. Rose slams an ogre face-first into the oceans of LOLAR, which reminds her of the drowning of Jaspers. Dave gets his neck slit by an agent, which is an echo of the decapitated apartment building suspended over a bloodpool of lava, itself an echo of the fracturing of Dave’s identity from fraternal emasculation. In each case, the challenges posed by the game are directly sourced from some psychological fixation.

In Jade’s case, the appearance of her first imp is triggered by an aurora that bears a striking resemblance to lightning, giving a fairly direct indication of Jade’s fear. What’s more, the form of this manifestation is a callback to Bec’s first appearance! Naturally, this could be explained as simple callback reminding us the imp has inherited Bec’s powers via prototyping. But insofar as the imp is a manifestation induced by the image of a thunderbolt, the sequence suggests that Jade’s fear of lightning is closely associated with Bec.

There are precedents for this connection: one is rooted in the idea that the sylladex is itself a medium for the abstract expression of thought. When Jade attempts to draw her Eclectic Bass back into her Pictionary Modus, she instead captures the ghost image of Johnny 5, a sentient robot. This error is not a random occurrence, but rather a short circuit of mental association. Eclectic is two letters apart from electric, and Johnny 5 emerged as a consciousness due to a lightning strike, like a metallic Frankenstein monster. Immediately following this error, Bec appears and zaps Jade back to her room. – the dog is somehow both the interruption of this line of thought and its culmination.

The invocation of Frankenstein allows us to make some sense of the earliest iteration of this pattern: a pumpkin carved with the visage of Bec nearly awakens Jade when the reader tries to drop it on her head. 4 points:

John covered his walls with clowns and rude epithets; Rose scrawled frantic permutations of MEOW; and Dave drew SBAHJ. Each instance involves the kids expressing some kind of subconscious fixation or fear: John and his social anxiety, Rose and the echoes Jaspers’s swan song, Dave and the fever dreams within his art. There are no comparable drawings on the wall of Jade’s home, nor in her room on Prospit, but rather than concluding that Jade is an outlier to the trend, I would contend that Jade carved the face of Bec onto the pumpkin in her sleep instead. This again indicates a dread for Bec buried in Jade’s mind -- or rather, that Bec is an expression of some unspoken dread?

The pumpkin drop is echoed in drunk!Rose’s account of Newton’s mythic realization of the law of gravity. Rose says the proverbial strike of apple-to-noggin is symbolic of inspiration, the sudden intrusion of an idea. The same can be said of the pumpkin as a symbol: recall that the gift that inspired Jade to begin gardening in the first place was pumpkin seeds. So that which threatens to awaken Jade is the idea of Bec, again situating the scene

That the “reader” executes the drop is not arbitrary. It is crucial to the structure of the scene that the impetus for this attempted inspiration comes from beyond the fourth wall, for reasons I will elaborate upon in due time.

The inhabitants of dream bubbles are at times referred to as the dreaming dead, invoking the age old metaphor of death as a long sleep. The corollary is that awakening is akin to coming alive. As the allusion to Frankenstein via Johnny 5 might suggest, the flash of Bec-associated inspiration from beyond bears the possibility of no only awakening Jade, but of bringing her to life.

More lightning talk tomorrow.

[5/6/2019] Topic: Grandpa Harley

Let's skip to the end (and sort out the messy filler afterward): Jade's fear of lightning seems to be linked to a sexual assault at the hands of her grandfather.

An early hint comes by way of another reference to Johnny 5. Having alchemized the thunderstruck robot, Jade finds herself swarmed with notifications from the manifest Eridan. The Prince impresses upon her Ahab's Crosshairs, a weapon which had been previously established as a phallic lightning bolt (x). Knowing that the weapon will somehow make it to her grandson* Jake, Jade muses on the question of who she might have kids with. Eridan in turn balks at the thought of "pink wwigglers comin out a your owwn personal torso" -- a turn of phrase that obviously alienates us from childbirth, but also presents us with the image of worms or maggots wriggling in Jade's body. Rot blends with an image of fecundity, like the scarabs in the Mummy. We don't have the tools to make sense of this overlay of death and birth quite yet, but we will return to it. For now, consider this scene as a collage whose elements we cannot yet organize.

The more overt indication comes via Clubs Deuce. Recall when dream!Jade beat the snot out of CD for stealing the queen's ring, only to reveal that back in reality, Jade's dreambot was beating the stuffing out of dead!Grandpa? The juxtaposition suggests that Jade's violence towards CD in her dream is a displacement of some latent aggression towards Grandpa. Much later, just before Cascade, there is a payoff of sorts for this linkage: another lightning aurora hovers in the distance as Jade prepares for the scratch, and it triggers the return of CD. He drops in from the sky and kills Jade with an explosion of foam, knocking the Genesis Frog into the Forge in the process. The foam is ejaculatory, and the depositing the frog where it may gestate prior to its final descent/ascent to Skaia is an insemination. We infer that CD is playing the role of Grandpa in this display.

In response, Jack kills the shit out of CD, just as Bec killed Grandpa. The retaliation has echoes elsewhere. Recall the gag in which Hussie riffs on the end of the Neverending Story: he rides a white dog-dragon and avenges himself upon some bullies with a blast of stupid green dog barf. (Aside: it is out of the current scope, but worth noting that Hussie and Falkor respectively bear emblems of influence by Vriska and Lord English) The sequence is a silly mirror of Becsprite's annihilation of Jade's imminent meteor (the seed) with an immense blast of green fire. Entry sequences tend to involve some esoteric depiction of a character's trauma, and in this case, the meteor directly represents the "bully", Grandpa. (And perhaps to a lesser extent, bullies like Karkat, who in their own way posed a violent, intrusive threat to her (emotional) well being)

The entry meteor's threatened impact with the earth is but one example of the colliding celestial spheres that seem to haunt Jade. In Descend, Jade's reverie in the golden city is cut short as Jack severs the umbilical chain connecting the moon and planet (child and parent), sending the moon careening into the Battlefield below, crushing Jade. As with the meteors that swarm Skaia like sperm upon an egg, the child-status of the moon renders its crash akin to a seeding. A subsequent collision is more direct: Jake's Hope field versus Jade's green fireball. The entire grimbark scenario was triggered by Jade catching a glimpse of Jake's banana hammock (though of course, on a plot level the transformation was triggered by HIC's mind control). To drive the point home, Jade bemoans her inability to detach her focus from Jake's undies as they duel. As Jade is overpowered, the collision of Hope and Space comes to resemble the visage of Doc Scratch -- this unsettles due both to Scratch's pedophilia, and the way that the mind/body blocking of the scene reinforces the sense of domination from Jake to Jade. Adding insult to injury, the defeated Jade is crushed to death by a long white tower.

All this would seem to have been foreshadowed by Dave's comment on the earth being under assault by planet fucking Jupiter; the invocation of Zeus connects his comically absurd doomsday scenario to Jade's fear of lightning.

Next topic -- motifs connected to imbuing inert matter with the breath of life, and how they relate to Jade's sense of agency.

[shittybundaskenyer]

The Gardens of Val Royeaux

Alistair x Delia Cousland

Words: 2942

Val Royeaux is a mess and she adores every part of it. The vivid blues and oranges and the gold , the marble lion statues guarding the streets and the smell of different pastries and sweets. It makes her skin tingle with excitement as she and Alistair stride down on one of the busy streets of the Summer Bazaar. She’s wearing a sky blue dress that Alistair bought her a few days ago, the Cousland family sword still dangling at her side. It looks a bit silly, but he said she looks like a queen anyways.

She wonders sometimes about what could’ve happened with them if Alistair would have been made king. Maybe they’d sit on the throne of Ferelden at this very moment, buried deep in politics and court etiquette, but it’d be not so different from this, with the taint still poisoning their blood and with her body unable to produce and heir. It hurts sometimes, the thought of what could’ve been if things go different at the Landsmeet, or even way before. Maybe she’d be in Highever with her family, marrying some idiot son of a powerful Bann, leaving the fighting for the men, like her mother did when it turned out that she’s carrying Fergus in her womb. Family first.

She’s happy that she’s here, though. Not with a Bann’s idiot son, but with her royal bastard, her Alistair, scarred and a bit weaker, but alive, and in a very long time, happy.

She smiles a little at the thought and he looks at her, with an eyebrow raised curiously. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” she tries to hold back her laughter but it bursts out from her anyways. Alistair looks more confused than before, but a small smile is forming in the corner of his mouth. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, waiting for her response what never comes.

They turn into a back alley where the buildings stand close together, casting dark blue shadows over them. They’re the only souls wandering here.

“Is there something on my face?”

“Yes,” she smirks and steps a little closer, her hands reaching for his, and he tangles his fingers between hers.

“Could you take it down?” he lowers his voice as he leans closer, almost whispering in her ear. A shiver runs down her spine from the feeling of his warm breath on her skin.

“Yes.”

She tilts her head up, planting a small peck on the corner of his mouth, and then captures his lips in a proper kiss, caressing his cheek with her other hand. He gasps, surprised, but he’s reaching for her waist to pull her closer already.

Delia steps back a bit, but Alistair is not quite done yet, he slides his hand up to the nape of her neck and kisses her again.

“Just one more,” he whispers onto her lips and she chuckles, a sweet little sound, and he leans forward to taste that beautiful giggle.

Footsteps echo from the entrance of the alley so he pulls away at last, but his hand grabs her own to entwine their fingers again.

It’s strange, wandering around Val Royeaux like lovers, hand in hand, without any heavy armor covering their bodies from head to toe. It’s so easy to get used to the touches—shoulders bumping together and staying close afterwards, arms laced together, a thumb caressing the back of a palm. Alistair, still touch-starved, loves it more and more as they continue their little journey towards the other end of the Orlesian capital.

Soon they leave behind the Summer Bazaar and it’s bridge and descend into the heart of the city.

Val Royeaux is busy, carriages running around, guards patrolling the streets and the songs from the taverns spilling onto the bare cobblestones in front of their doors. The Orlesians speak softly, the words rolling down their tongues smooth like velvet and it’s mesmerizing too, as just like the hundreds of orange and blue houses are. Golden and marble lions guard the squares here too, and she can smell the salty air of the harbor even if they’re in the middle of the city.

The sun is high on the horizon when they finally reach the gardens, the scent of thousands of flowers and the earthy smell of soil and fallen leaves fills her lungs, makes her chest ache. It’s beautiful even from the other side of the stone wall that separates it from the rest of the street. Marble lions sit on the top of each pole and two golden one roars towards the sky at the gate.

Alistair looks at her from behind his shoulder, his eyes glinting with a smile. She raises her eyebrows questioningly but he doesn’t say a word, he just grabs her hand more firmly instead and pushes open the gate, pulling her in.

It’s more beautiful inside. Small paths made from white stone emerge from the vivid green grass between overflowing flower beds and pots. The trees stand proudly next to each other and the wind whispers between their shiny leaves. The whole garden is filled with life, maybe has a life on it’s own. It breathes and her palm itches to step closer, to touch the plants and feel the life beating in them.

Alistair watches her from the corner of his eyes with a soft expression on his face and his lips slightly quirk up.

"Do you like it?"

Delia flicks her gaze to him and he already regrets the question. She's mesmerized and despite the garden's beauties, her expression is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

Without a word, she reaches for his shoulders and pulls him into a tight embrace, mumbling her thanks into his neck.

After they part, they roam the small paths, stopping at every new flower bed so she can smell each one of the plants. There are almost no one here except for them so she laughs freely and he chases her when she runs off and no one looks at them questioningly.

They only stop when the late afternoon lights turn the garden into a field of dark shadows and vivid colors. She leads him towards a large tree where they can sit down under it's old branches.

Alistair however stops her before she could sit and reaches under his vest so he can pull out the dagger from it's sheath, the blade he got from a local blacksmith in Redcliffe while they were traveling through, and sunlight gets trapped on the weapon's Silverite surface. Delia inhales sharply and her expression softens, her hands already reaching for the blade. A gift. Another one, precisely.

"Can I touch it?" she whispers, her eyes flicking back to Alistair for a second.

"It's yours," he smiles and hands her the dagger, turning it between them with a swift move so the hilt's facing her.

She pulls it away slowly, rising the blade towards her face to get a closer look. The blade is clean, never used, and sharp as a razor. The hilt is decorated with carved dogs and laurels and her heart swells at the sight.

"It's beautiful."

"Shall we try it out?" Alistair raises an eyebrow while he extends a hand to grasp hers.

He points a finger towards the tree next to them but Delia is still confused so he steps behind her and places a hand above her hips, slowly guiding her closer. Her back's pressed to his chest and she feels his every breath lifting the hairs next to her ear. She relaxes into his embrace and lets him guide her hand, and with it, the dagger, too.

They carve a heart into the tree's bark and she thinks she finally knows where this is going when a slightly angular ' D ' and a '+' follows it. He finishes the carving with an ' A ' and he rests his chin on the crown of her head, probably admiring their work.

"Now we conquered Orlais, too."

"You're so silly," she actually giggles and his heart skips a beat. "We're together since the Blight. We're married , Alistair."

"Are you trying to say that I'm childish and living my wildest teenager dreams right now?" He grins and turns her towards him by her waist, leaning down until their lips almost touch.

"Well, if you put it that way…" she whispers, mouth to mouth, bodies pressed together. She pulls him towards her while she kisses him, and they stumble until her back touches the tree. He buries a hand in her dark locks and presses her more firmly to the tree, licking her lower lip and slipping his tongue into her mouth.

They kiss until he's out of breath and a familiar heat pools in his belly. But she feels that fire too, she grabs his hair and slips her hands under his vest and shirt and groans when his thigh slips between her legs.

She tries to shake off her boots while still kissing him so they end up tumbling and falling to the ground. Alistair’s who lands first, the air running out of his lungs in a low hiss and Delia’s head colliding with his nose.

"Ouch!" His face pulls into a frown and blood already starts flowing from his nose when she reaches for his face.

"Shit, Alistair I'm so sorry!"

"It's alright," he mumbles and pinches his nose. Bloods sweeps into his stubble and she doesn't hesitate to tore a piece of cloth from her underskirt to help him stop the bleeding.

She holds the cloth to his nose until the bleeding stops. His gaze never leaves her, not until she wipes his face clean and presses a careful kiss onto the tip of his nose.

She’s straddling him, her body on top of his is a pleasant weight, long brown curls falling over her shoulders and tickling his jawline. He slides a hand over her stomach and his thumb grazes one of her breasts through the fabric of her dress, slowly, oh so slowly, venturing higher until he can touch her collarbone, drawing an invisible line onto her skin with nothing but the heat of a fingertip. She exhales, a shaky sound, and presses her body even closer, leaning down to capture his lips in a languid kiss.

“Will your nose be alright?”

“I’ve been hit harder before, believe me,” he winks, eyes shining happily. “Besides, taking care of it further will stop me from kissing you.”

“I’ve always loved kissing you when you were covered in blood,” irony sweeps into her tone and she hits his chest playfully, then leans closer, “now kiss me again.”

And he does until they’re both out of breath.

She remembers how they made love when the darkspawn still crept in every corner, when the back of her skull constantly tingled, letting her know when they were lurking around.

It was not so different from this.

They were foggy nights with the rotten forests stretching towards the horizon, the air heavy with the scent of rain and the smell of fire and tainted flesh. It didn’t matter then. They had each other in the not-so-existing privacy of a tent, on a worn bedroll. Her knees were skinned then, too. Grass fell into her hair, she was still sweaty from the day’s journey on foot and she still smelled like darkspawn. Or at least she thought.

But Alistair just didn’t care. He pulled her close to him and kissed her softly, murmuring pleas and the broken syllables of her name onto her lips, as he does now, too.

Her fingers slide under his head, cradling his nape and she smiles, just a twitch of the corner of her mouth, but he notices her every little movement and doesn’t hesitate to act upon her invitation. Because it was an offer, that little smirk, and his belly is already on fire as she kisses him again with more vigor this time, easing open his mouth with the tip of her nose and capturing his already opened, waiting lips with her own.

Delia pulls away for a moment and he gasps for air, a low groan leaving his lungs but when her lips doesn’t return immediately, he opens his eyes, still in a haze, and chokes on another moan, clearing his throat afterwards.

She’s almost fully bare when he looks up, only her smallclothes remain as she tosses her pale blue dress next to a group of blooming embrium.

“D-Delia, what are you doing?”

“What? You don’t like me stark naked atop your body anymore?” she grins, a broader smile this time, showing teeth, and his hand twitches on her thigh and his cock in his trousers, too.

The traitorous bastard.

“Of course I do,” he leans forward until he sits up and wounds his arms around her. Lying is completely useless, she knows him as well as he knows her. “But I want your stark naked body all to myself,” the side of his face presses to her jawline as he whispers into the crook of her neck, “and I’ll not share the view with some Orlesian bastard who's hiding behind the bushes.” His lips taste her skin as the past words leave his mouth, licking the little spot behind her ear.

Delia shudders, but her eyes tell a different story. She’s confident, prideful even.

“No one is here, Alistair,” she presses that wicked smirk of hers to his collarbone and he’s aware that his fingertips are squeezing her thighs too tight but he doesn’t have the strength to pull his hands away. “And besides, if there is someone, let them see.”

Maker .

He knows her well enough to know that she was never feeling awkward when she ended up changing clothes or bathing when the others were nearby. She knows her body, how it looks, where it’s different and where’s similar to others. The scars, the faint stretch marks on her thighs, the freckles and moles peppering her skin, her muscled legs and arms and that thin, soft layer of fat on her belly. It’s all that makes her unique—a body shaped by fire and steel. She knows it's power perfectly well.

She presses open-mouthed kisses to his collarbone and the caramel-colored triangle of skin that his shirt leaves bare.

One nimble finger hooks into the neckline of his leather vest while the other goes for the buttons, popping open them one by one, her lips never leaving his skin. The laces of his shirt are the next in line, but she has something different in mind for those. She pulls them open with her teeth agonizingly slow while she pushes off the vest from his shoulders.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Alistair sighs into her hair, his hands coming up to caress the skin just under her breasts.

“Doing what?”

“Making me fall in love with you over and over.”

“Alistair, we’re married,” she whispers and pulls back a bit so she can look straight into his eyes.

“But it’s true.”

They make love in the soft grass. The small rocks and the bumps of the earth presses into the small of her back and scrapes her knees and green patches of broken grass cover her skin, hiding away the thousands of constellations of her freckles. They’re even more visible in the early afternoon light, bright pink and brown against her porcelain skin.

When all their clothes are shed she has him on the pleasantly cool earth, takes him slowly, savoring every second of their union until it lasts. Alistair is quieter than usual, but his heartbeat is so loud she can hear it clearly. They kiss and they part and then collide again like the northern coasts of Ferelden with the Waking Sea, where the cliffs of the shore are washed away by the wild waves, picked apart rock by rock and you feel like you’ve reached the end of the world.

It’s like being with her, Alistair thinks, like standing on the edge of the world and not afraid to jump and fall.

He’s still dizzy as he holds her flush against his chest, buried deep inside her as thousands of little jolts of pleasure run through his body. Her heavy breathing echoes in his ear and he nuzzles the crook of her neck, licking off the sweat from her skin and kissing her there.

“Do you have a thing for letting other people hear our lovemaking?” he mumbles, the words coming out of his mouth quite weakly, a whisper, nothing more.

“Maybe?” she chuckles.

“Now I understand everything,” he turns onto his side, pulling away a bit but his hand stays on her waist, his thumb stroking a long-healed scar. He’s smiling like an idiot.

They lie in the grass in silence, watching how the wind makes the deep green leaves of the trees dance above their heads and how it carries the sweet scent of the roses. He watches how the shadows play across her hips and shoulders too, and how the sun makes her skin look even brighter. She’s glowing like a princess from a fairy-tale. A warrior-princess, of course.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her lips tickling his jaw.

“For what?”

“For bringing me here. For marrying me. For surviving the Blight... For being my best friend, for being my new family,” her words are quiet but firm and he raises his hand up to her neck to cradle her nape and kiss her properly.

“You don’t have to thank me anything. I’m here because I could say all of these to you, too… So thank you as well, my love.”

[thatgoddamnwizard]

Mae/Harry: Cold Comfort

((@wintermae I just decided to transfer this over from Discord so we could reblog from it and have it in the thread archive, since we’re almost up to this point in the “Effects and Consequences” thread!))

Mae:

They had gotten out. Mae was honestly a bit fuzzy on the details of how, exactly, she and Harry had done it...Her theory was that her mind was trying to protect her for a little longer and she wasn't about to mess with that at the moment. Not when they weren't truly out of the woods yet. 

 "You can stop lookin' at me like that any moment now, Harry. " She had a hand on her stomach and center of her chest, the bloodstains on her shirt  turning darker than they had been before.  Man, stitchin' would've been neater than staplin'. "'M not goin' to go into hysterics. 'M fine...Relatively so."

______________________________________

Harry:

They were nearing his apartment. Once he got her inside, she'd be relatively safe from Nikolai, at least for the time being.

He kept looking over at her as he drove, his eyes taking in the bloodstains, the silvery glimmer of the staples she had used to put herself back together. The memory of seeing her lying on the table, screaming as these monsters cut her up, flashed white-hot in his mind, and he closed his eyes briefly before turning back to the road.

He felt sick. And angry. He wanted to visit that same pain on them.

“Relative to what, exactly?” he growled. “To being freaking vivisected? 'Cause that's not exactly a high bar.”

______________________________________

Mae:

"Well 's my bar to put where I want it, 'sn't it? I was the one who got filleted so I should get to figure it out." She stops short, swallowing back a wince of unease thanks to one of Chicago's many potholes. Her hands press a little harder to her chest and stomach.

Don't get defensive, Mae. He's not the bad guy here. He's the guy who helped get you out.

"Sorry. That was rude of me. You're just as whumped an' 'm actin' like a bitch. Everythin' 's back on the inside so...'s a definite improvement to how it had been."

______________________________________

Harry:

He grimaced at the look of pain on her face when he hit the pothole and tried to pay more attention to the road, mumbling an apology under his breath. Not that he could avoid all of the potholes, but he could at least try to drive over them a bit more slowly and avoid jarring Mae's still-healing body any more than he had to.

Guilt gnawed at his mind, Nikolai's voice echoing in an endless, mocking loop. Were it not for you we never would have found her again.

The Beetle turned down the street his apartment building was on. “No need to apologize. I'd probably be grumpy too if I had my insides on my outside an hour ago.” He pulled the car into his parking space. “Come on. We'd better get behind my wards before Moriarty and Doctor Moreau recover enough to come after us.”

______________________________________

Mae:

For some reason the statement made her laugh. Which...hurt like hell since it pulled on her rush stapling job. But over the scary sort of pain, she didn't mind the good sort of pain. Laughing was decidedly in the good column. The road seemingly evened out and she relaxed ever so slightly. She figured that they were getting close to his place. It would be interesting to see where a big shot wizard lived.

Or maybe she was trying not to think about any of the less savory things. Either way it would be nice to be inside.

His mention of Moriarty draw a long groan from her. That was a name she hadn't thought about in YEARS. "I met him once," she told Harry. "Moriarty, I mean. God he was a self-important  jerk. Makes sense that you'd associate Nikolai with him."

______________________________________

Harry:

Harry pocketed the keys to the Beetle, climbed out of the car, and limped hurriedly to the passenger side to help Mae. This time it wasn't so much a display of chivalry as it was concern for his friend, who was still apparently in quite a lot of pain.

He hated seeing any of his friends in pain. He'd rather get the tar beaten out of him any day of the week than see his friends suffer. God knew he was used to it.

He offered her a hand, his eyebrows rising. “Wait, what? Moriarty was real? As in Doyle's character?”

______________________________________

Mae:

It was a testament to how tired and beat up she was that she simply put her hand in his as she got out of the Beetle in one swift movement. This time she bit her tongue to keep from making any noise when it tugged and pulled at her. She knew she should move slower but there really wasn't time to take it easy. At least not until they got behind the wards he apparently had guarding his home. "Oh hey. This 's a nice buildin'. Very solid lookin'. Like the brick."

At his surprise, Mae nodded. She took in a slow breath then exhaled in the same way. "The whole multiverse theory that gets talked about? Yeah, 's...way more than a theory. 'S a reality." She offered up a wry smile while hoping Harry wouldn't notice just how pale she probably was. "I...also kind of dated Holmes for a bit. That...was a thing for a bit."

______________________________________

Harry:

“It's quality brick,” he agreed, leading the way around the building and down the steps to the door of his basement apartment.

“Multiverse,” he mused, shaking his head. “Hell's bells, that's a sobering thought.” Being an aficionado of science fiction, and an eclectic reader in general, he was familiar with the concept. Maybe there was another him somewhere out there in the quantum foam, hopefully having better luck than he was. He hated the guy already, the asshole.

He nearly choked when Mae admitted to dating Sherlock Holmes. “That must've been a trip. Dating someone fictional. Then again, maybe we're fiction in somebody else's universe. Jesus. That's a mindfuck and a half.”

He reached out to begin taking down his wards, and clenched his jaw against a wave of acidic pain that suddenly flared against the skin of his chest, followed by the unmistakable sensation of his power being slapped down inside him. He nearly hit the pavement, but caught himself on the wall, swaying. Nikolai had carved some sort of magic-binding sigil into his flesh while he had been unconscious, and it was still doing its job, which meant he couldn't get into the apartment without having his wards blow up in his face.

“Dammit,” he snarled. “Dammit! I can't get past my wards.” He breathed slowly for a minute, letting the pain subside. “I need a shovel.”

______________________________________

Mae:

Mae didn't disagree about about either comment relating to the multiverse considering how true they both were. She laughed without making a sound and nodded. "He was interestin'."

Whatever he'd meant to do was quickly abandoned in favor of crumpling into himself some. Her eyes widened in concern. At first she couldn't figure out just what was going on. He was too young to have a heart attack, wasn't he? God that would be the  icing to their really crappy set of days.

The moment his wards were mentioned, Mae understood. He'd been marked with something that was keeping him from doing anything remotely magical.  She leans against the wall Harry had caught himself on and looks around. She sure as hell didn't see any shovels near by. "Are you planning on burying me alive?" Mae joked before making a face. “Not the best time for gallows humor, Singer."

______________________________________

Harry:

He gave her a level look. “Nah. Thought I'd go look for buried treasure. Buy a Caribbean island somewhere, retire while I'm still in one piece.”

Pushing himself away from the wall, he hobbled the rest of the way around the old boarding house, until he could see the little brick-lined garden that bore some sad semblance of plant life. He paced around, nudging at the bricks with a foot until he found a loose one, and then dropped into a crouch, wiggling it loose.

His eyes traveled over the yard as he tried to remember where he had planted the talisman he had hidden for emergencies. He had expected to give the information to trusted friends who needed shelter in his absence, not to have need of it himself.

He found the spot and started digging with the brick.

______________________________________

Mae:

"Just call you Will Turner," Mae told him wryly while watching him move from the spot where he was holding up the wall to get to the other side of the building. Her brows furrowed slightly as she followed him, her curiosity getting the better of her.  Once she realized what he was doing, she understood his need for a shovel.

Since she didn't want to just stand there while he did all the work, Mae knelt down and started to help dig. Dirt collected under her fingernails as she assisted him. In some ways it was nice to be that close to the earth. To momentarily connect again.

______________________________________

Harry:

Harry almost protested at Mae's assistance, considering the state of her, but he kept his mouth shut because he knew she'd just yell at him and then keep doing it anyway. What do you know, miracles do happen, and Harry Dresden can shut up.

The brick hit metal, and he pulled out the little copper tin that he'd put the talisman in before burying it. “Here we go.”

Standing, talisman in hand, he returned to the door and led the way inside. Thirty pounds of cat came barreling into his legs in greeting, nearly bowling him over, and he hissed through his teeth as pain spiked through the bullet wound in his calf. Headbutt-greeting accomplished, Mister ambled away to continue whatever it was he had been doing. Harry lifted one hand habitually with the intention of igniting his collection of candles and storm lamps that was scattered around the room, but he caught himself just in time, before that damned sigil could put him on his ass again.

“Home, sweet home,” he said instead, and went to the mantel to look for some matches.

______________________________________

Mae:

She was surprised at the fact that he didn't try to tell her off for helping since he definitely was the type of man to be on the upside of chivalrous. Maybe it was because he was tired. Or because he knew she would ignore him anyway.

Either way the talisman was found in quick order and they were both making their way back to his front door. Which looked like it had seen better days and more than a few attempts to break in. "Sturdy door," she commented. "Reminds me of Bobby's bunker."

The cat that lived there ran into him at full force, ostensibly letting Harry know that he had, in fact, been missed. She winced a little at the visual since it had looked like the big cat had thunked into him pretty hard. They walked inside and Mae was surrounded by a distinct lack of light. It's a basement type area.

"'S very...mysterious." Mae breathes a laugh before shrugging out of the tatty hospital type robe she'd drawn around herself before their daring escape. She instinctively shut the door behind her. It resisted with a metallic screech before there was darkness once again.

"Shoot. Okay. One minute." It took energy. Which she was surprised to find she still had some reserves of. Closing her eyes, she focused on bringing light forth, working to keep her breathing steady as she slowly opened her eyes and saw that she'd succeeded. A soft sort of light emanating from left hand.

______________________________________

Harry:

“Mysterious?” Harry looked up from where he was lighting a candle, and his eyes traveled around his living room. It was the same as it had always been: small, cozy, candlelit. “Uh, okay. If you say so.” He nodded to the door as Mae wrestled it closed. “Yeah, still need to get that fixed. Had a zombie incident a few years back.”

He watched as she conjured light in her hand, smiling a little despite himself. It was beautiful. Ethereal.

Sometimes he forgot that Mae wasn't fully human.

Limping to her side, he looked down at her, at the bloodstained hospital gown she had been wearing under the robe. “How you holding up?”

______________________________________

Mae:

"Ugh. Zombies. Hate those."

Seeing his smile put her at ease and helped ease that fight or flight feeling still running through her system. It also seemed to make the light coming from her shine a bit brighter. When he hobbled over Mae gave him a slow, lazy shrug. That was easier than any quick, jerking movement she could do. And it definitely hurt less.

"'M okay." She looked down at her front and sighed heavily. "A bit messy. Um...Go on an' finish lightin' the candles. I'll just sit here an' concentrate on healin'....Do you happen to have a sewin' kit?"

[badwolf-in-the-impala]

The Absent Heart

((~Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9))

Ao3 Link: Here

GIF Credit: paradiseofimagines

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

 ~Part 2~ 

The day started off just like any other. 

Freya and the other girls were up before the sun, preparing the morning meal and completing other various chores around the Lothbrok home. She helped ready Queen Aslaug, just as she had been entrusted to, many times before. She brought her breakfast, laid out her dress for the day, and plaited a number of small, intricate braids into her hair; always finishing by mid-morning. The Queen would always thank and dismiss her with a smile. Leaving her to the remainder of her day, which was usually spent with Helga.

But today, their usual work took up less time than usual. There were few people for them to tend too, and they were well stocked on the many herbs and other various materials they used for their work; and Helga’s garden had been tended to several days prior, which left the remainder of the afternoon open for little work.

“Go.” Helga insisted with a smile. “There is no sense in sitting around, wasting a perfectly beautiful day.”

“Are you sure?” Freya asked? “I don’t mind staying if you need me too.” Helga simply laughed and shook her head, earning her a confused look. 

“You work enough as it is already.” She assured Freya. “Go enjoy an afternoon. I am sure if you know where too look, you’ll find the brother’s causing some form of mischief somewhere.” 

And sure enough, Helga was right. As Freya wandered farther into the woods towards the small clearing, she could hear the familiar sounds of metal striking metal as the brother’s sparred. Noting as she approached the treeline, that they still left her things in their usual spot against one of the many large trees.

Ubbe was the first to catch sight of her, grinning wildly but choosing not to give away her presence as she nocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring. Watching as she held steady for several seconds before taking her opening and loosing it in the direction of Hvitserk and Sigurd; watching as they leap apart, startled as it struck the tree beside them. Ubbe laughing heartily at their expressions as they turned, ready to skin whoever fired the arrow alive. Their expressions softening when they caught sight of Freya as she emerged into the clearing from the trees. Bowing several times as she laughed.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Sigurd questioned, eyes still wide with shock before they narrowed themselves at Ivar who was trying to control his laughter along with Ubbe. “You’ve not shot that thing in years! You could have killed one of us!” 

Freya scoffed, rolling her eyes at him as she planted her hands against her hips firmly.

“If I do so recall correctly, Sigurd, I never miss.” She replied, green gaze narrowed briefly before widening; a small startled shriek leaving her lips as she was swept up off the ground and thrown over, she was guessing Hvitserk’s, shoulder. Flailing her hands wildly against his leather clad back and she demanded to be put down. Knowing they remembered good and well she always hated when they did that.

“Hvitserk, I swear to the God’s! I will castrate you right here and now if you do not--” Her sentence was cut short as he dropped her small frame to the hard ground below. The harsh ‘THUD’ of her rear connecting with the ground echoing through the clearing as their laughter ceased.

“I think I would run run if I were you, Brother.” Ivar stated with a devilish grin as he watched Freya’s face turn red, all the way to the tip of her ears.

“You forget, I’m a better shot when I’m angry.” She stated seriously as she climbed to her feet, brushing the dirt and grass from her skirts.

“I-I didn’t- I mean I- I just- ...” Hvitserk stumbled over his words as Freya glared at him.

“I think what bone-head here means, is we are excited to see you.” Ubbe stated, patting his younger brothers shoulder reassuringly with a grin before scooping Freya up himself into a bone crushing hug. Setting her down after a few seconds of trying to struggle out of his grip, next to Ivar.

“Which begs the real question here,” Ivar stated as he elbowed her in the ribs playfully. “Why are you not with Helga?” 

“Because,” She replied, pushing back against him with her shoulder. “There was very little for us to do this morning, therefore, I have an afternoon with nothing to do.” 

“I think we can change that.” Ivar grinned as he held up his sword for her to take. Watching as she practically bounced out of her seat with excitement, snatching the blade from his hand, spinning gracefully into a fighting stance as she challenged Hvitserk.

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

The afternoon worn on with the clash of swords and laughter as the boys taught her new techniques and helped her brush up on past ones. Oh how Freya had missed this. It was rare that she saw them much anymore; save for evening meals, when they usually joined their mother for a few short hours. It was refreshing to join them like this, as she once did when they were children. It felt amazing to have that small freedom back, even if it was only for a short time. She would enjoy it to it’s fullest.

The day was warm, and soon her muscles ached with exhaustion from the mock combat moves they performed repeatedly for several hours. Her feet thanking her when they finally decided enough was enough and ventured down to the small river inlet to cool off. Freya was even to exhausted to be mad when Ubbe pitched her into the water, still fully clothed. 

She finally emerged back to land sometime later, sopping wet and grinning mischievously, noting that Ivar to be the only one still in her company. He was also completely unaware of what was about to happen as she crept quietly out of the water and around the log where he sat comfortably in the shade with his eyes closed. A startled yelp escaping his lips as the sopping wet mass tackled him in to the ground. Freya giggling hysterically as they rolled to a stop, Ivar landing on top of her with a menacing glare. Though the look had the opposite affect as she only laughed harder, Ivar rolling his eyes in annoyance as he pushed himself over into the grass.

“Oh come on, Ivar. I’m just having fun.” She giggled, standing and striping her wet clothes off, leaving on only a thin knee length shift as she hung the rest up to dry in the sun. Laying back down on her belly, in the grass beside Ivar. 

“We have two very different ideas of fun.” He replied, suppressing a smirk as he propped himself up with his hands behind him, shifting as Freya rolled between his legs and made herself comfortable in his lap. A contented sigh leaving her lips as his fingers found their way to her hair, toying with the long dark curls that spiraled past her shoulders.

“If you say so.”  She yawned lazily, green eyes opening to gaze up into those of familiar sapphire blue before closing again as she relaxed. Enjoying the comfortable silence that fell between them; nearly nodding off until he spoke sometime later, startling her eyes open once more.

“You should come with me too Wessex.” He watched as her brows knit together in a brief moment of confusion, green eyes searching his own, trying to judge if he was being serious or not. 

“And why ever would you want me to do such a thing?” She asked, now straddling his lap to better look at him, semi convinced of his serious...but still somewhat skeptical as she narrowed her gaze at him.

“We need the extra Healers, for one.” He shrugged. “It is a lot handle for only Tovi and Helga. They are the most trained, aside from you now.”

“And?” She pressed, knowing that couldn’t possibly be the only reason he’d be asking.

“And I think it would be good for you to see more than just Kattegat.” He added. “Just because you are technically a slave, does not mean you can’t travel.” 

“I don’t know.” Freya sighed as she relaxed a little, though her gaze was still skeptical.

“You only need answer yes or no.” He replied. “I will take care of the rest. At least promise me you’ll think about it?” She nodded in response but said no more, sighing as she realized the sun was starting it’s decent into early evening, and that she should be getting back. 

Pushing herself to her feet, she pulled on her now mostly dry clothes before extending her hand out to Ivar; helping him to his feet and handing him the crutch that aided his walking nowadays. Allowing him to lean some of his weight on her as they walked back to the Village in comfortable silence. Though Freya couldn’t stop her mind from wandering back to their previous conversation. 

It being the only thing on her mind for the remainder of the evening after they parted ways; and well into the night as she tossed and turned, the welcoming embrace of sleep, held just far enough out of her reach by the many questions that had begun to surface in her mind.

Was he telling the truth?

Did they really need more healers?

Why was this different than any other trip?

Was he really that afraid of losing her to someone else?

Surly taking her into battle couldn’t be much better...could it? Twice as many Viking men --lonely and aroused by gore and violence-- to contend with. Not that she saw herself venturing far from his side in such a situation. Why not just admit his feelings? She knew they were there, buried beneath his rough exterior. He wasn’t fooling anyone, no matter how much he thought he was. Even his own Mother could see it. Whether he wanted her too or not was a different story.

The endless possibilities were enough to drive her mad with exhaustion. But sleep still hung just out of her grasp as the faint light of a new day began to dawn. Leaving her even more vexed than she had been all night. Grumbling under her breath crankily as she dressed for the new day, knowing it would be twice as long due to not getting any sleep.

“Damn you Ivar Lothbrok.”