#farm stench greets you instead

[howdy-cowpoke]

TIMING: The morning after 'Hunter's Moon' LOCATION: Prickly Pear Acres PARTIES: Monty (@howdy-cowpoke) & Gael (@lithium-argon-wo-l-f) SUMMARY: Normally the mornings following Gael’s nighttime escapades weren’t THAT bleary. Half-lucid, he shows up back on Monty’s farm but this time the blood on him is from someone much more important. CONTENT WARNINGS: Drug manipulation [Tranquilizers], vomiting

—

…Clouded dreams of indecipherable shapes. The shock of pinching a nerve in your spine, an unholy chorus of whispering voices, surrounding him, all at once, unintelligible and fading into one another. A head lolled back, tilted and turned by a hand that was gentle one moment, then gripping the jaw tightly the next. Rolling through the dirt, the feeling of grass brushing against his stomach before the heat of twisting musculature.

One sound punctuated his thoughts on occasion, something familiar and like he’d heard it recently - a whistle, small and light but there. A bird that bites into his skin, the sting of an insect. Gael was pulled back into consciousness where he was made superficially aware that he was leaning against a tree. He thought. His lungs ached this time in addition to the normal sensation of feeling as though he’d been pulled apart and hastily reassembled. And not entirely correctly. And for some reason Gael was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Holding his hands to his stomach, which bubbled and churned and felt not unlike acid reflux, he took a few unsteady steps forward - slow, arduous, each one seeming to take every ounce of energy he had. He closed his eyes, lifting his head and pushing past this residual stench in his nose where he took another step before he turned slightly. Something familiar. He took yet another step in that direction instead, feeling his jaw grinding and his head swimming through a pseudo-conscious murk, the kind that was normally reserved for sleep. Sounds greeted his ears, more familiar sounds and he continued to blindly follow the scent that seemed to set him at each, which was perfect for the nausea that seemed to simmer in his system. ‘...ael?’ Was someone… was that for him? Gael blearily opened his eyes again and his blurred vision found a young man standing before him. “Gael?” The voice that belonged to the man repeated. Exhaling, he managed a small smile that crossed his bloodied features. “Mike,” He croaked in a low tone - he recognized the man before him from the fútbol match. “How are you doing?” He asked before unceremoniously falling forward, out from the treeline, rolling in the dead underbrush before sliding to Mike’s feet.

It was still early, but the hands were up and getting started with their chores, each of them as restless as the last without the need for sleep. Monty, on the other hand, was still cooped up in his house, staring wistfully out a window that faced the sunrise, wondering what he’d done wrong. Why hadn’t Kaden—ripped from his thoughts as he heard the front door bang open, the zombie jumped to his feet and hurried out into the hall, looking down it to see Daisy, Mike, Dallas, and Denver hauling something into his home. It was wrapped in a blanket of some kind, but he couldn’t—wait, that looked like a person. 

With a lump in his throat, he approached the others as they lugged what was clearly a body wrapped in that blanket into the living room, wondering why on earth they were bringing it inside until he finally caught a glimpse of a face. A very familiar face. 

Panic rose in his throat like bile and Daisy must have sensed it, because she was at his side just as quickly as he’d been gripped by the horror of seeing his friend—

“He’s not dead,” she explained quickly, knowing that was the most pertinent information to share. Then, “He ain’t doin’ good, though. Full of… somethin’. Can’t wake for more than a few seconds at a time.” While the first part seemed to have staved off the explosion, that fuse was still lit as the rest of the words came. Monty watched as the three hands set Gael gently down on the couch, his mind racing. 

“The blood, is it—”

“Ain’t one of ours, Monty. Promise.” He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. Denver was pulling out his phone and dialing, and Monty moved quickly toward him, snatching it out of his hand.

“No. No ambulances,” he asserted, giving Denver a hard stare. In a place like this (and being a zombie himself), it wasn’t a difficult request for the large man to acquiesce to, so he just shrugged and Monty handed his phone back. 

“You need anything, boss?”

“... no. No, you’ve—thank you. I can handle it from here. You may go.” Ushering the lot of them out of the house, Monty stood at the edge of the living room for a moment just looking at the man unconscious on his couch, trying to decide what to do. 

A few minutes later he knelt beside the couch, washrag in hand, bowl of warm water on the floor in front of him. He gently wiped some of the blood from the professor’s face, his brow furrowed with worry. 

“... Gael? Gael, can you hear me?” he tried, his voice soft. Probably not, but it was worth a shot as he tried to help get the guy cleaned up.  More subconscious murmuring floating through Gael’s head. This one sounded more familiar though, the sound filling his lungs with air and unsteady breathing led to an inhale, an exhale, slower and more controlled as they scraped through a throat rubbed raw with whatever he’d done the previous night. He felt something on his face and though he wanted to pull away from it, the sensation of water on his heated, sticky skin being inherently unpleasant at first, he didn’t and instead he pushed his subconscious to chase the voice as it drifted through his mind. Gael’s brow twitched and his eyes slowly opened again. Unfocused, as if he had gone blind which he hadn’t… or at least he thought he hadn’t.

Where was he? He had to use context clues. Soft, not outside. Air drifting through his senses, gentle light through a window. He was guessing but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been here before. Grunting quietly, Gael started to push himself up using his arms but he didn’t get very far at all, his muscles giving out and he crashed back to wherever he was laying on his back. “Sorry,” He muttered though he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to if he was even with someone or someone's. His mouth hung open stupidly, his eyes fluttering shut once more.

Stay conscious. You can keep your eyes closed but stay conscious. Gael inhaled through his mouth, becoming more aware of the ache that pulsed through him, leading up his brain which pounded against his skull. “I hear you.” He said, though he didn’t know who he heard, only that it was someone he knew. “Sorry,” he apologized again, the only feeling that seemingly remained with him through his slurred thought processes - wherever he was, whoever was speaking to him, he felt terribly inconvenient.

“It’s okay—you’re okay,” Monty breathed, his hands returning to the place they’d jumped away from as Gael had tried to sit up. There was an air of only partial recognition in his voice, which the zombie could understand, given his state. Whatever had induced that state was another matter entirely, though if he’d been on the prowl last night, Monty would hazard a few guesses. He must have encountered someone—

Baseless, irrational fear clawed its way up his throat. He thought of Kaden, and how the man had promised to contact him as soon as his shift was over and he’d had time to head home and clean up, so they could see each other. But that text had never come. 

It hadn’t come last night, and he still hadn’t heard from him today, either. 

Monty’s gaze was drawn to the blood he was trying to wipe away with a renewed sense of agony. What kind of animal did that blood belong to? A deer? An elk? Or was it human? It wouldn’t have been the fact that Gael had harmed someone that made Monty upset; he’d done his fair share of that, despite his best efforts not to. But it was the potential target—no. No, he was being ridiculous. There was no way that Gael had, in a blind, wolfish fury, attacked Kaden. It wasn’t possible, or rather… it wasn’t allowed to be possible. That would present a situation that Monty was sure he couldn’t handle. 

So whose blood was it?

Swallowing the thought and trying to instead focus on just taking care of his friend, Monty wiped away a bit more of the gore and sighed, dunking the rag into the bowl to wring it out. 

“It’s Monty,” he explained. “You’re on the farm. In the house. You’re safe. Don’t try to get up again, amigo. You need to give this time to get out of your system.” He had a feeling the chemist would only catch about half of that, but it was just as much a bid to get him to understand as it was a need to fill the silence and stop himself from worrying about last night’s events that were still a mystery to him. 

Still… he pulled out his phone, sending a short text to Kaden, just checking in to make sure he was alright. If he wasn’t, or worse yet, if he didn’t respond… that was a bridge that Monty was desperate to not have to cross.

A few words stuck around in Gael’s foggy mind long enough for him to be able to process them, the first of which being ‘Monty’ and even though he lay there on what he presumed was the couch (since another word he retained was ‘house’), content to die rather than deal with more of the pain that tore through his limbs, he also couldn’t keep a small but genuine smile from crossing his angled features. ‘Monty’, he mouthed and at first, he wanted to simply fall back asleep, place his safety and trust into the same farmstead, the same man that he relied on a couple of months ago. But he couldn’t, not in good faith. Gael wasn’t in this position often and the parts of his consciousness that were determined to stick around, trying to get his brain to think, told him that he should go, get off the couch, leave the house and sleep the pain and confusion off in the woods where he belonged when that brain injury acted up. But this sensation was two-fold, a strange new beast in his otherwise thumping body, filling him with an uncertain murk, making him feel heavy yet light. Gael did want to try again. He did want to get up, fall off the couch and crawl back out into the forest but he felt like gelatin, frustratingly helpless and yet very thankful that some part of him, in a time where he wasn’t certain of anything, could find familiarity. “I don’t know what my problem is.” The sentence was slurred and some of it mixed together in his delivery but he managed to say the thing and he guessed he was trying to lighten the mood, trying to swallow his embarrassment. “How are you?” He asked, attempting to be earnest but knowing that try as he might to listen to Monty, most of it probably wasn’t going to be retained in his brain soup.

Hard lines softened, the worry and distress that’d made such a permanent home in his visage making way for a softer, lighter smile when the werewolf asked how he was. In spite of everything, or perhaps because of it, Gael was asking Monty how he was doing. 

“It isn’t your fault,” he answered, resuming the slow, gentle strokes with the warm washrag. “And I’m—fine.” The water in the bowl was turning red. “I need to change this water, Gael. I will be right back. Please just stay where you are and try to relax.” He stood, bowl in hand, looking anxious about leaving the other alone, even if it was only for a few minutes. Biting his lower lip, the cowboy turned and headed quickly to the kitchen, dumping the bloody water into the sink and running it hot for a few seconds before refilling it. 

On his way back, he realized that this was a very familiar role he’d filled for a couple decades, just a century back—though none of those folks had been werewolves, they did manage to get themselves banged up all the time. 

“Sorry to say I don’t have any laudanum laying around to give you for the pain,” he mused as he squatted beside the couch again, pulling the blanket back a bit farther to get to the blood smears that dirtied the man’s neck and shoulders.  Gael wasn’t sure how honest Monty was being when he said he was fine - his eyes being closed opened his abnormally sharp hearing to more nuances in vocal delivery, not to mention this was the second time in as many months that Gael showed up bloodied on Monty’s rhetorical doorstep. He opened his mouth again, where it hovered but instead of saying anything, his mouth wavered and he closed it back up again.

Then Monty said he would be back. Change the water in the bowl. Gael assumed it was getting dirty because of the blood that he still felt on the back of his tongue, tucked between his teeth, that was smeared on his bare chest, trapped in his laugh lines, stained in his cuticles. The professor breathed deeply in an exhale, rolling his eyes under their eyelids as he started to turn onto his side; was he about to escape off the couch? He wanted to but as soon as he attempted to lift his head he felt like he was about to float off into space and he clutched a cushion of the couch with a white-knuckled grip, resting back into his position.

Try to relax. Gael forced out a husky chuckle when he heard Monty mention laudanum. “Cocktail of shit.” He muttered as he settled more into half-lucidity - he wanted to fall back asleep, again, but there was something pressing on his thudding mind. “You really are a cowboy.”

He gulped, loosening his grip on the cushion and he slowly, subtly moving his head around in an attempt to make it easier for Monty to maneuver the rag on his exposed neck. Once again his mouth opened and this time, he took a shaky inhale. “I think… someone got hurt.” The admission came barely above a whisper and it was punctuated by an emotion that heaved through him and he loosely, half-heartedly attempted to sit up again but all that happened was that he pushed himself further up onto the couch.

“Sure. Snake oil through and through, but it’d do the trick,” Monty countered with a soft laugh. 

His expression settled into something different from the gentle amusement as Gael went on, brows knitting and smile fading. Someone got hurt. Someone. Gael moved beneath his hands again and he sighed, letting him lean back before speaking. 

“I know,” he answered, not stopping in his task of getting the man somewhat cleaned up. Dipping and wringing the rag again, he dragged the cloth down Gael’s neck and stopped over his clavicle, his gaze lifting to find the man’s face. “It’s… I have hurt people before, too. By accident.” Plenty not by accident, but it wasn’t the time for that. “Do you… remember anything?”

Once the admission, the thought that tugged on his tired mind tumbled out of his mouth, the rush of panic reserved for fight or flight seemed to wash over Gael. He very rarely found himself in any of these moods, whether it was being tended to as he lay uselessly on the couch or experiencing an actual surge of fear through his aching body and his chest rose and fell unsteadily as more non-memories of what happened the last night danced in his brain. DID he remember anything? Gael kept his eyes closed though his eyebrows knitted in the middle and he began to gasp for air. Taking a deep breath, trying to get his breathing under control. Don’t panic. His stomach writhed, churning like seawater behind a man o’ war, foaming up the red from a bloody body that flitted in and out of his mind while he wasn’t there. It wasn’t his body but it was his body. Sleepwalking through the forest in the night with a set of teeth and claws incomprehensible and unreal. He needed to get up. Gael forced himself through the floating feeling in his head, giving his limbs this unattainable feeling of being too heavy yet not weighty enough though he were floating in a pool with weights looming dangerously overhead. He gently tried to protest against Monty touching him more and he stretched his cracking body in an attempt to climb over the arm of the couch. He only managed to place his arms on the wood, however when he stopped, hastily tried to cover his mouth to stem what was going to happen and retched. This time, his warm face grew heated with both nausea and deep embarrassment, mortified at what he’d done and he wanted to bury his face in his hands. Keep crawling until he was under a bed where the unexplained shadows of bad memories and shame hid away, a bottle to gather dust and not have to think about or acknowledge. “I don’t know.” He managed to mutter through watering eyes and a hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry.” He coughed an exhale. “I just…”

Monty was repeating his name as the man went to try and get up, pulling himself over the arm of the couch, and… oh. “Oye, Gael, it’s okay,” he assured the other sympathetically, bracing a hand on the man’s shoulder for a moment before getting to his feet again. “Let me get you some water.” 

Getting both a glass of water and a small trash bin with a liner in it, Monty returned to the living room with a roll of paper towels tucked beneath his arm. He guided Gael back into a seated position at least, handing him the glass. “If you start to feel woozy, tell me,” he instructed softly before pulling out a bottle of cleaning product from the empty bin and using that and the paper towels to clean up the sick on the floor. At least it was hardwood. 

“If you cannot remember anything, that is alright. Sometimes I do not remember, either. Or not until it is too late, at least. But… I have been dealing with this for a long time. Your memories might be… hidden from you for a while.” With the mess cleaned, Monty kept the bin close by in case Gael needed it again. Perching himself on the edge of the coffee table, hands clasped in front of him as he leaned forward onto his knees, he just watched the other. “I just… want to make sure you’re okay, my friend. You do not need to feel ashamed in front of me. ¿Entendido?” 

He wanted to curl up and disappear into himself. Both the inside and the outside felt awful, body and mind finally united in their guilt. Pull away from Monty– no don’t do that. It was Monty. …That made it worse and as he was helped into sitting up where he immediately had to keep himself from leaning against the arm of the couch once more, he felt the redness in his face deepening. “I understand.” He whispered, leaning forward instead and burying his face in one of his hands. “You’ve been doing this for longer,” Gael repeated quietly and along with is aching body, he did feel something small and familiar, something that he scraped past whatever was going on inside to hang onto - empathy. The experience of feeling what he wondered that Monty felt. Alan, whoever else had similar problems. The other thing Monty said, about how sometimes he didn’t remember until it was too late echoed in his brain. “I…” He faltered. If this was what Monty had to deal with for however long, that time he was supposed to die, what else subsequently happened, then what he said earlier about how he couldn’t imagine what Monty had to endure held more truth than he thought. It was suffocating. And Gael didn’t even know what happened, if anything happened. As his thoughts swirled around, his consciousness more firmly strengthening its grip on him though the floating sensation was still present in his musculature, he pulled his head out of his hand and his red-rimmed, sunken eyes found Monty’s, questioning, confused, sorrowful though it wasn’t for him, it was for Monty. “How do you… what do you do if…” He had trouble thinking of what he wanted to ask. “You aren’t… going to tell me to go, are you?” 

The silence that followed, hanging thick in the air like southern summer humidity and interrupted only by Gael’s ragged breaths and the ticking of the clock on the wall behind them, stretched on for a few seconds. Monty shook his head, never once looking away from his friend, his dark eyes filled with hurt. 

“No, I am not going to tell you to go.” His voice was soft, nearly a whisper, and strained with emotion. “I am never going to tell you to go. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He paused, swallowing his next words before deciding to replace them with something else. “The only thing you can do now is try to… learn how to control it, whatever that control looks like. First would be remembering.” 

His gaze finally dropped, landing on the glass of water in Gael’s hand that was otherwise untouched. “Drink that, por favor. It will help you feel better.”

Gael wanted to protest even though he believed Monty - sure, he didn’t doubt that Gael actually hadn’t done anything wrong but since Gael couldn’t remember, he couldn’t accurately say for certain if he hadn’t. First would be remembering, then control would come after. He had discussed that aspect with Alan before, the man who also had the same set of symptoms because of the brain injury both of them sustained after being attacked by animals out in the woods– he was going INSANE. These thoughts were literally insane. He felt like these insane thoughts were spiraling out of control. He couldn’t keep anything straight for longer than a few moments before it was run over by something else, a conflicting thought or a memory that might not’ve existed. Flaring his nostrils, he held up the glass of water and only considered not following Monty’s instruction for a moment before he grimaced and forced the beverage down. Gael didn’t drink all of it at once but he couldn’t deny that it made him feel better, refreshing on his stinging throat and calming the roiling acid and other things that frothed in his stomach. “What if I have done something wrong?” He asked as he gasped for breath when he drank the water. “I can’t… remember but what if it was… what if–” He gulped, taking a deep breath. Exhale. “I feel like it was… drugs.” He admitted. “Like… tranquilizers. Or morphine.” He explained, his eyes unfocused as they danced on the light in his glass of water. Gael placed a clammy palm on his exposed chest, resting over his heart and he made a small, circular motion imitating the bullet wound he remembered Monty had over his heart. “When I was out there.” 

Right. Well… there was that language thing, again. Gael had done something wrong, but— “There is no point worrying about what ifs when you cannot remember the truth,” Monty corrected him gently. “And… even if the worst thing you could imagine happened? It still isn’t your fault. That is what I mean when I say you’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t… control this. Not yet.” He could take precautions, but that would require a deeper understanding of his affliction than he currently had. And frankly, Monty was afraid to be the one to tell him. At least if they were alone like this, with no one to back up what the zombie was saying. He was afraid he’d scare Gael off, and it was that same reason that he kept descriptions of his own ‘curse’ vague at best. 

The word tranquilizers encouraged another wave of unease that crashed into Monty. Yeah, you know who used tranquilizers in his day-to-day life? Kaden did. And Kaden seemed like the kind of person to try and take down an animal humanely, even if it was trying to kill him, even if he didn’t know what the fuck it actually was. 

He felt lightheaded, which he was pretty sure was like a ‘phantom’ sensation, but it swelled all the same. The blood he’d been wiping off Gael’s skin belonged to Kaden, didn’t it? Fuck. Fuck. The urge to panic was rising, but Monty tried desperately to stave it off. He couldn’t freak out now, as much as he wanted to. Had to stay calm. Stay calm. The edges of his vision grew a little darker and Gael’s voice suddenly sounded very far away, but the zombie fought to keep focus.

“Could have been it,” he offered, staring blankly at Gael’s hand as it danced over his heart. Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead. “Someone might have… been trying to help.” He silently begged his phone to chirp and show Kaden’s name on the lock screen as it sat on the coffee table beside him. But nothing came, and he sucked in a sharp breath, bringing his gaze back into focus as it jumped up to Gael’s face. “Anyway. How are you feeling? You seem a little more alert.”

No control was no excuse. Gael didn’t know what control was as he sleep-walked through those nights, through last night. A car crash could’ve been an accident and if he was the one behind the wheel, he was the one responsible regardless of how much control he did or didn’t have. The gentle insistence that it wasn’t his fault, even as he killed livestock, other animals… the humanoid shadow that just made an appearance in his floating mind as he gained sobriety at an alarmingly fast rate, especially considering that fifteen minutes ago he seemed on the brink of falling unconscious again. That was just a nightmare. It had to be. The thoughts of control or lack thereof, the shadow, the blood on his chest sent him reeling again. ‘What-ifs’ were something the chemist tried not to dwell on but then again, that was a big part of the scientific process. The main difference was that Gael WAS in control of those variables. And they didn’t result in animals dying, at least not when he could help it. He wordlessly motioned for the small trash can Monty brought in as he carefully set the water down on the floor next to them. And for a moment, he just sat there, everything ambiguously hovering in an aether, the oil of memories on water of emotion, churning but not mixing well. That metaphor made no sense, he really must’ve been affected by something. Then Monty mentioned that his sensation could’ve been caused by someone wanting to help and if Gael needed to hear a specific series of words in combination with the crushing guilt that accompanied and followed after to help empty out his stomach, that was it as he lurched forward, losing the water and anything else that had managed to stay down before. “I feel like–” He wanted to make a joke about how reminiscent this was of the parties he used to go to in college, how awful he felt the morning after even though the night was amazing and full of fun. “I’m sorry to have put this on you.” Gael apologized wearily. “I feel like snake oil would help right about now.” He did decide to joke this time, lowering the trash can and collecting the half-empty glass of water once more. Fortunately, the lucid conclusion that he was wearing off of some sort of sedative, despite the thought that it was someone else from last night and he didn’t think it worked the way the other person thought it was going to work, seemed to help Gael’s reasoning and logic, if only psychosomatically. “I’ll… I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can.”

Even though Monty really and truly wanted to be the support Gael needed right now, it still took everything he had to maintain his composure. It was a battle hard fought, but won. Decades worth of practice bottling everything up and pushing it aside came in mighty handy, and after a few more deep, steadying breaths (that he tried to keep as quiet as possible), Monty had compartmentalized his fear for Kaden, knowing that nothing about it was going to change until the other man reached out. Or until an obituary showed up in the paper.

Christ, that was dark.

“Don’t worry about it,” came the semi-genuine reply, though he did a good job faking it. A small smile appeared on his lips and he lowered his gaze, finding it difficult to see the rusty-reddish stains on his friend’s body. “When you feel well enough to stand, ehm, you can of course use the shower.” Again. “And I will find those clothes you returned to me, since they seemed to fit you all right.”

A small chuckle managed to escape, a surprise even to himself. “Maybe you ought to keep an outfit of your own here, wey. Never know what might happen.” As a matter of fact, there was the shirt that Gael had abandoned after the fútbol game that he hadn’t yet returned—now would be a better time than any other. 

Giving the man a soft pat on the knee, Monty got to his feet and went to collect Gael’s shirt and the pants he’d borrowed once before, as well as a towel. He hadn’t really thought he’d be back in this exact situation again so soon, but… well, it was what it was. All he could do was be there for Gael and wait to hear from Kaden.

Maybe he was wrong about all of it. Maybe Kaden was fine. Maybe. Hopefully.

The other man’s breathing was disconcerting to Gael’s ears, which now that he was clawing his way out of the fugue he found himself in, brought in a myriad of sounds and smells that he wasn’t aware of before. Then again, he didn’t know what he would’ve done if he found himself with someone who killed animals on his couch, either. He supposed he would’ve been afraid for his life, or the lives of anyone under him. And Gael felt his heart hurt though he didn’t know why his friend was upset, if he was even upset. Gael’s own emotions were admittedly unstable at the moment. While the comment about having a change of clothes initially sparked a smile to cross Gael’s tired features, the feeling was quickly swallowed by the thought that bit at his brain that he wanted to avoid this place forever. He didn’t want to force anything else on Monty, he hated placing this expectation on anyone else. He was the one who carried other people and helped them with their problems, not the other way around. He wasn’t used to this and the thought of keeping a change of clothes at the farm out of some indication that this might become a habit felt like someone was slowly but firmly pressing a blunt instrument into his abdomen. Monty got to his feet and Gael’s red-rimmed eyes followed, a flash of terror coursing through him as for just a split second, he was gripped by the childish fear that once the cowboy disappeared from view that he’d never come back. It was completely ridiculous, as the flash was there and gone in the same five seconds. He was being obtuse. To be blunt to himself, he needed to get his shit together. What he was doing was completely unfair to everyone. Inhaling through his nose, he seemed to straighten up, finished his glass of water and slowly, with plenty of cracking and popping coming from his stiff bones, made his way to his feet. Swaying on the spot and leaning against the arm for support as the blood rushed to his head, he waited for Monty to come back before he pulled away carefully, taking the materials. There, Gael gave the man a look. His furrowed eyebrows twitched ever-so-slightly, he bit his lower lip to keep it from betraying him and though both eyes were glistening, a single tear fell from his right eye as he silently expressed how purely, unambiguously, genuinely sorry he was. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t feel like he could. He was standing in Monty’s living room once more, a mirror of what had happened not nearly long enough ago, holding some of Monty’s clothing, one of his towels, and a deep tar pit of embarrassment and guilt in both his stomach and his head. He glanced at the items in his hands and without having the strength to offer any words of lightheartedness or apology, humility or support of his own, he exhaled softly and started to make his way to the bathroom.

The look they shared as the clothing passed between their hands was one that Monty was quite certain he would never forget… and not for lack of trying. He wished there was more he could do, or say, to make Gael feel better about what had happened. But his own silent horror made that difficult—and besides, even if Kaden had nothing to do with this, what could he really say to uplift the man? He knew what this was like, after all. He knew it well. 

All he could do was offer an empathetic nod and watch as Gael wandered toward the back of the house, the corners of the blanket dragging on the floor behind him. A hand came up to cover Monty’s mouth and he stood there silently for a few minutes after the door to the bathroom had shut. His eyes were tightly shut, breathing even and slow until it wasn’t, and a sob escaped him. 

Turning away from the door, the cowboy returned to the coffee table and picked up his phone, checking for a message. Nothing. With nothing else to do, he went about cleaning up after the ordeal, making sure there wouldn’t be a single trace of it left once Gael left the bathroom. 

Then he’d take him home, and they’d both have to process this in their own ways. Monty was of no more use, here.

[keichanz]

Mistake

kay so i really don't care if some of this doesn't make sense because this is the first thing i've written in a while that i don't absolutely hate. well this version at least. ending up scraping the first draft because it just seemed wrong and went in a different direction. im glad i did cause im happy with it.

anyway i realize that this may not get much feedback because i took a different approach to it, aka the entire pov is from an OC but i can't bring myself to care too much because i wrote this purely for myself. got inspired, started writing, and i actually liked the content i was writing. end of.

btw the oc doesn't refer to inuyasha as a half-demon because he's unaware he is one and i was too lazy to delve into those waters anyhow.

also for the sake of this oneshot pls dont look too closely at the ranks of diplomat and ambassador. i was too lazy to put much research regarding positions of power so just...go with it.

inspired by @stillunderyourbed​'s art that can be found here.

It was…quaint. Smaller than what he'd expected. The housing structures looked subpar, there didn't appear to be any wooden walkways, and he could detect the distinct odor or fish in the air with hints of manure. There even seemed to be a perpetual dust cloud hovering at about waist high, thickening from the numerous carts, wagons, horses, and villagers kicking up dirt as they went about their daily lives. Already he felt like there was a layer of dust caked on the inside of his lungs and he wasn't even inside yet.

All in all, it was your typical countryside village, home to simple folk that made a living off of fishing, farming, and trade. The diplomat sneered in disgust. For being the rumored home of the creature strong enough to destroy the despicable Naraku, the village was…less than impressive. And to say that he was underwhelmed would be a vast understatement.

Shifting atop his mount, a chestnut gelding that had been his faithful companion for the last four years, Takeji frowned as he surveyed the sight before him. It was early afternoon, so men were out working in the fields, women were chatting amongst themselves as they laundered clothing at the river, and children were running about, playing and laughing while dogs barked at their heels. He could see the great red torii gate and the stone staircase that led to the shrine and he could hardly refrain from rolling his eyes.

The village was obviously poor, possibly even teetering on the edge of poverty, and instead of feeding themselves for a good long while, they decided to construct that monstrosity. He would never understand the minds of simple common folk. Daft. All of them.

Barely keeping himself from scowling, Takeji reluctantly climbed off his mount and forced himself to move forward into the pathetic excuse for a village. Already he knew he would have to burn his expensive attire; there would be no getting the dust and stench out of it after his ghastly visit. A visit he had not wanted to make, but being a highly revered and prestigious diplomat, it was his duty to travel to far off lands in hopes of establishing a profitable relationship that would ultimately benefit his homeland.

Although, looking around and fighting against the urge to retch at both the nauseating stench and the mere sight of all the unwashed villagers milling around, Takeji wondered not for the first time why he even bothered to accept this task. True, it was said the slayer of Naraku did hail from here, but surely having his homeland associated with this hovel would garner nothing but loss. So why had he agreed to come?

Oh, yes, he mused, grimacing as he stepped over a large manure pile right in the middle of the road. Because apparently, being all chummy with the nation's hero will allow us to have him at our beck and call, because who doesn't want a powerful demon capable of slaying the most evil demon in all of existence as an intimidating presence during negotiations, and let's not forget he alone would be equal to about one hundred soldiers in battle.

Rolling his eyes, Takeji tied his mount to a hitching post, withdrew his satchel with all the necessary paperwork, and set about finding this Inuyasha fellow. He'd been told the demon wore scarlet robes, carried a sword at his hip, and had white hair so no doubt he would stick out like a sore thumb amongst the droll browns and grays of the common folk, which suited him just fine. The sooner he was done, the sooner he could leave because there was no way he was staying even a second more in this village than he had to. Even if the next inn was hours away, he'd make the journey; the inn here was probably as unclean and riddled with bed bugs or something. Ugh. How vile.

Shrugging the satchel over his shoulder, Takeji bit back a groan, sighed, and hadn't even made it a single step before the sound of screaming froze him in his tracks. He gasped and immediately started looking for the danger, body tense, preparing to hop back onto his steed lightning fast and make a hasty getaway.

But as he looked around with wide eyes and a frantically beating heart, Takeji couldn't help but notice that he was the only one that appeared to have heard the sound of terror. The villagers were just continuing to go about their day, calm as you please, either severely deaf or completely uncaring. Takeji was beginning to wonder if he was perhaps hearing things when it happened again, a high-pitched sound that he realized with dread belonged to a child.

Takeji gaped. A child was in danger and nobody cared?! What kind of village was this?! Another shriek pierced the air, and Takeji made a decision. Very well; if these imbeciles weren't going to do anything about it, then he himself would see to the danger. While by no means a swordsman or warrior, he did have some weapons training he could fall back on for this precise reason. Traveling alone was dangerous, and you never knew what you would encounter.

Resolved, the diplomat set his jaw, unsheathed the dagger at his waist, and darted toward the direction the screams were coming from. He meandered between houses, hoped over lazing dogs, dodged startled villagers in his path, and he came into a small clearing by the forest's edge. The sight that greeted him was…not what he expected.

Coming up short, Takeji watched with a befuddled frown as one child chased around two other, slightly older looking children. One might think they were playing a game of sorts, and the diplomat started to believe that was indeed the case…until the one doing the chasing, clad in red, suddenly jumped high into the air, over the heads of the other two children, and landed before them with hands raised.

Hands, Takeji noticed with growing dread and disgust, tipped with claws on each finger and he quickly realized what exactly was happening. That wicked little demon brat, that creature was toying with those helpless children! It was keeping them trapped, preventing them from running away by leaping over their heads and blocking their route of escape! They screamed, the demon child laughed, and so potent was his fury, so enraged was he for the fact that the villagers apparently did not care about what was happening right beneath their noses, Takeji failed to notice the wide smiles on all three of the young one's faces. The blood pounding in his ears prevented him from hearing the gleeful giggles as the two human kids scrambled away from the one clad in red, and without another thought, Takeji moved.

"Run, children!" Takeji ordered as he hurled himself into the clearing, dagger raised as he charged toward the demon brat with a baleful glare. "I will take care of his filthy animal!"

All three children froze in place, eyes wide as Takeji inserted himself between the two human children - twin girls, he idly noted - and the demon spawn that dared raised its claws toward them. The brat stared up at him with big brown eyes and it - she - actually looked confused. Takeji scowled. He would not fall for such a ploy.

"I will not allow you to harm them," he spat and pointed his dagger at her. The child blinked at him and then looked behind him at the two girls who still had not taken the chance to flee. In shock, perhaps? Stunned? No matter; they were safe, so long as he stood between them and the threat.

The demon child made a face and started to walk around him, completely disregarding the weapon trained on her, but Takeji shifted and stopped her once more. He heard the two behind him whispering as the spawn looked up at him once again, this time frowning at him with narrowed eyes. And was that a growl he heard? He snorted. Was she actually trying to appear threatening? Pathetic.

Scowling, Takeji lifted a foot, placed it on her stomach, and shoved. The demon gasped as she stumbled back and then landed on her behind with a small grunt. He heard a gasp from behind him, urgent whispering, and then hurried scrambling. A glance over his shoulder told him they'd finally gotten wise and ran away. He nodded. Good. Now he could deal with this vermin without innocent eyes to bear witness.

But as he stared down at the pathetic sight before him, Takeji wondered maybe if such measures would even be necessary. The beast was still lying where she had fallen and was staring up at him with wide eyes brimming with…wait. What? Were those tears? Oh, you have got to be joking.

Rolling his eyes, the diplomat scoffed at the pathetic play for mercy and careless waved his dagger at her. The child actually flinched and followed the blade with her gaze, wariness clear in her eyes. Well. It appeared her self-preservation instincts have finally kicked in.

"Cease your theatrics," Takeji drawled, unimpressed. "They do not fool me. Now lucky for you, demon spawn, the pathetic sight you project has made me decide to spare your life. Your tainted blood is not worthy enough to soil my blade, so I will say this only one and you would do well to heed this warning, beast."

Hardening his stare and curling his lip into a sneer, Takeji spat, "Leave this place at once and do not return. There is no place for the likes of you, an abomination that preys on helpless children. Now get out of my sight, afore I kill you on principle. Your vile presence disgusts me."

The child grunted and Takeji watched, stone faced, as she got to her feet. Then to his surprise the little demon balled her hands into fists at her sides and glared at him, but the effect was ruined by the tears he could clearly see brimming her eyes. He cocked a brow, unmoved. She sniffled once, twice, and then to his utter surprise and bafflement, her face suddenly crumbled, her lower lip trembled, and she promptly burst into loud tears before spinning on her heel and running away.

"P-Papaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Takeji frowned. Papa? Were the brat's kin nearby, then? Body tense and weapon raised, he waited, prepared to either fight or flee - because he wasn't a fool and knew when he was in over his head - but when no demons came bursting out of the tree line, Takeji slowly relaxed.

Bewildered and more than a little annoyed at the whole debacle - what a waste of time! - the diplomat scoffed in derision as he turned to watch the little demon brat scurry away. And then right at that exact moment, a figure donned in red dropped to the ground seemingly out of nowhere and Takeji felt a wave of relief sweep through him. Finally! This had to be his demon quarry.

Nodding, Takeji stepped forward and opened his mouth to call out a greeting—

And then froze in his tracks as the greeting abruptly died on his tongue. Because the little demon girl, the one he'd just pointed his weapon at and shoved to the ground, ran straight to the figure robed in red and Takeji could do naught but watch with a growing sense of horrified dread as the older demon knelt down to take the child into his arms.

All color promptly drained from his face and Takeji suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He glanced behind the pair and he was somehow not at all surprised to find the twin girls from earlier glaring at them and holding onto the skirts of their mother with a monk garbed in violet robes beside her. They too were staring at him in a not so friendly manner, but upon returning his gaze to the two demons, Takeji numbly thought that if looks could kill, he would surely be dead by now.

Because the demon robed in red - which was now unmistakably the child's father and none other than Inuyasha, the demon he'd come here for - was glaring absolute murder at him and it was obvious that he was. Not. Pleased.

Takeji swallowed and unconsciously backed up a step. With one small hand fisting her father's robes, the child had the other pointing an accusatory finger at him as she no doubt recited to him their earlier…ah, exchange. Inuyasha said nothing in response, but he didn't need to. The deep, nearly subsonic growl that erupted from his mouth, complete with fully bared fangs in a truly fearsome snarl, told him very clearly of his thoughts on his daughter's mistreatment by him.

Which, if Takeji had to guess, were not very Takeji-friendly. At all.

Somehow managing to fight against the urge to flee, Takeji swallowed hard as Inuyasha pushed to his feet and stalked toward him with that same murderous look on his face. Something told him, perhaps some deeply rooted self-preservation instinct, that if he even tried to run right then, it would not end well for him. So he remained where he was and tried valiantly to control the trembling in his body as he slowly, very slowly, tucked his dagger back from whence it came.

Inuyasha stopped in front of him and Takeji cleared his throat before attempting a placating smile, but it looked more like a grimace than anything. "Ah…I assume you are…In—"

One second Takeji was staring into the scowling features of one pissed off dog demon. The next there was a bright flash of light and then he was staring at the business end of a very large and very sharp sword. With the tip just a hair's breadth away from his nose, Takeji gasped sharply and stumbled back a step out of instinct.

Sweet merciful heavens! How—?

"Usually I'd ask who the fuck you are," the demon growled, his eyes twin slits of baleful gold. "But honestly, I can't really bring myself to care enough to know the name of the asshole who threatened my daughter when she was doing nothing but playing with her friends."

Takeji blanched for the second time and he could actually feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat. He fucked up. Oh dear god he'd fucked up so bad—

"There's—there's been a misunderstanding," Takeji tried in a voice higher than usual, raising his hands up in what he hoped was a placating gesture as he eyed the very sharp point of that blade. "I—I admit I've made a grave mistake—"

"Shut the fuck up and tell me why I shouldn't gut you where you stand," Inuyasha hissed, lips feeling back off his fangs in another fierce snarl. With his ears pinned back and those golden eyes glaring absolute death at him, the demon made quite the menacing picture. Takeji had the brief, if a bit ludicrous thought, that perhaps the demon Naraku perished from the sheer animosity that was coming off of the silver-haired demon in waves.

Swallowing once, twice, Takeji realized that he only had his quick wit to get him out of his certain predicament. So bracing himself, he opened his mouth—

"He's from the continent, Inuyasha. You can't hurt him."

Startled hazel eyes swung toward the source of the voice but amber eyes stayed locked on their target, the only acknowledgment of the voice a flick of an ear.

The owner of the voice the human diplomat could only presume was the child's mother, as the child in question was standing behind her legs and was actually smirking at him. He frowned.

"You're from Shenshi," the woman remarked and Takeji swung his gaze back to her. "Right?"

Though her expression wasn't openly friendly, it wasn't exactly unfriendly either, however the human diplomat still felt he needed to tread carefully. Because while her face didn't betray anything, her stare was hard and her mouth had tightened into a thin, flat line. She had one hand on her daughter's head while the other clutched a longbow, and belatedly he realized she had a quiver of arrows slung across her back. He barely held in a flinch as he realized this was one of the demon's companions that had assisted in slaying Naraku, possibly the young woman in which Inuyasha held a more meaningful relationship.

A much more meaningful relationship, if the child currently glaring daggers at him was anything to go by since she was more or less living proof of it.

Wonderful. So he'd gone and threatened the only child of two of the most powerful beings in Japan. Clearly he'd stepped over the wrong grave and pissed somebody off.

Clearing his throat and aiming a strained smile toward the woman who was still awaiting his reply, Takeji nodded once. "Ah, y-yes, my lady. I'm—"

"The diplomat Ambassador Sharaku sent to convince Inuyasha to join his ranks so he'd have the support and protection of 'The Great Slayer of Naraku.'" The woman raised a delicate brow at him. "How am I doing so far?"

Takeji had the good grace to look a mite sheepish. "Ah…well—"

"You can't kill him, Inuyasha," she repeated and Takeji thought she sounded disappointed. "If he goes missing, the ambassador will send his troops to find out what happened or if he returns injured, it could be taken as an insult and you can imagine what would happen after that. You would risk mine or Moroha's life like that, and you know it."

Inuyasha growled but said nothing to refute her words, so Takeji assumed he agreed.

"He threatened her, Kagome," the demon spat, inching the blade closer to his throat and Takeji flinched. "Called her a fucking animal, shoved her down, and waved a goddamn dagger in her face! You can't honestly expect me to let that—"

"Papa," the child - Moroha - suddenly said, successfully stalling her father's angry tirade. A quick glance revealed the girl, still sticking close to her mother, was staring at the older demon with big brown eyes, bright with the threat of tears as she worried her bottom lip. And evidently the sight was enough to calm the raging storm of Inuyasha's fury because he grimaced, released a low growl, and then Takeji watched in stunned amazement as the massive sword suddenly transformed into a rusty katana before it was sheathed at his hip.

With a weapon no longer at his throat, Takeji could breathe a little easier and he released a breath he hadn't even been aware he'd been holding. But then he sucked it right back in when Inuyasha suddenly stepped in close and got in his face, a low, threatening growl leaking past rightly clenched teeth bared in another snarl. Golden eyes bore into his own, filled with a lethal warning that had the human male's back straightening and his blood to run cold in his veins.

"You listen carefully, asshole," Inuyasha hissed, glaring so heatedly it was a wonder Takeji didn't burst into flame. "Don't you dare think that my wife's words have any sort of sway over my decision to spare your pathetic life. I'm not scared of your weakling ambassador and I sure as hell ain't scared of his little human army. No, the only reason that I let you live is because I don't want my daughter, the one you foolishly threatened when she had done nothing wrong, to see me sully my hands with your disgusting blood when I reduce you to nothing more than a bloody smear on the ground."

Takeji paled and swallowed thickly. That particular image was…not pleasant.

Inuyasha watched the color drain from his face. Satisfied, he sneered before saying in a growl filled with sinister promise, "Now get the fuck outta my village and if you ever touch my daughter again, I'll gut you so fast you won't even have time to fucking scream."

Then with that, Inuyasha leveled him with one last dark scowl before spinning on his heel and stalking away, a clear dismissal. Neither mother nor daughter even spared the frozen human male a glance as Inuyasha paused to pick his daughter up into his arms before striding away, his wife close to one side and his friends on the other.

From over his shoulder, Takeji could only watch in a mixture of shock and befuddlement as the little demon girl named Moroha smirked and then stuck her tongue out at him, safe and sound in her father's arms.

Left standing in a state of numb bewilderment, Takeji blinked, looked down at himself, and had the passing thought that it was a very good thing he'd decided to wear brown trousers that day.

[yeenybeanies]

Giant Cowboy Murder Mystery

forgive me it’s been almost two weeks since i posted the preview sdfjdfj but the full version Was released to the public on my patreon on time so you can’t be Too mad at me patreon will receive new chapters first!

3,790 words

mild mentions of nudity and injury

thanks for reading!

patreon | ko-fi

Cool, crisp air rustled the leaves of the tall conifer trees, and crickets sang their choruses, filling the calm evening with a natural symphony. A crackling campfire lent its rhythm, rounding out the song. It sounded peaceful. Serene. 

It smelled a lot different. A putrid stench permeated the air, filling the forest. 

A young woman ran. Ignoring her bare skin, her shrieking muscles, her burning lungs, she ran. She ducked and weaved her way through the trees, following the only thing she could really discern in the darkness: that campfire light. Its orange glow was a beacon of hope, of safety. Jaw clenched, the woman pushed her battered body further. She paid no mind to the branches and thorns that scraped her as she passed, to the stones that stabbed her feet. Her body was numb, filled with adrenaline and the need to escape.

As it came more into view, the woman realized with rising concern that the campfire was much bigger than she’d initially assumed. With some distance still to go, it looked more like a bonfire than a campfire, or maybe a forest fire. Her pace slowed some. 

No, it was too stationary, too contained to be a forest fire. Reassured, she continued her sprint. 

As she approached the treeline, the girl called breathlessly for help. She held her arms in front of her face and crashed through the underbrush, into the clearing. Her whole body shook. She doubled over, hands to her knees for support, and tried to speak, but she could only manage shaky sobs between her gasps for air. 

Instead of voices rising to meet her, the woman only heard wind and crickets and crackling. 

No, that wasn’t true. She heard another noise, like crunching and tearing. She looked towards the source of the noise, and toppled over from fright. Several yards to her right stood a massive, four-legged beast resembling a horse or a mule. It had to have been at least forty, fifty feet tall! Its head hung low at the end of a long neck, mouth to the ground to graze at the grasses. Each chomp it took left a bare patch of dirt big enough for her to curl up in. The beast paid her no mind, save for one long ear pointed in her direction, but she felt like she could no longer breathe. 

She didn’t know for how long she stared at the giant horse-thing. It felt like hours. Her lungs protested the lack of air, but she couldn’t bring herself to breathe, to move––not until something else grabbed her attention. A heavy, rhythmic thudding, something she felt more than she heard, yanked the woman’s gaze away from the beast. Eyes wide as saucers stared into the darkness between the trees across the fire. The sound grew louder, shaking the ground. From the darkness, she could make out a tall figure. It looked almost human in shape, save for the fact that it, much like the horse, was at least forty feet tall, and proportionally filled in. The figure pushed past the trees and stepped into the clearing, taking on orange tones from the fire’s light. It––he––was a man. A giant man. 

A giant man and his giant horse. 

It was too much. Like a switch had been flipped, the woman found her breath and her voice. She screamed. The shrill noise startled both the horse and the man, the former joining in with an alarmed grunt of its own. The man looked down sharply, his eyes landing on her. The lower half of his face was covered with a scarf, and he wore what looked like an appropriately-sized cowboy hat. As a matter of fact, his whole outfit gave her the impression that he was some sort of giant rancher or cowpoke, from his hat to his spurr-toting boots. 

For a long moment, the two stared at each other, neither moving nor making any noise over the night symphony. The woman felt herself start to shake, though not from the cold. The fire provided ample warmth to keep the chill away, even in her naked state. No, she was shaking, quaking, out of pure terror. With him staring her down, she felt even smaller, even more exposed. 

Wordlessly, the giant man took a step forward. His boot hit the ground with a heavy thud, sending a jolt through the woman’s body. Flight mode activated, she scrambled to her feet and rushed back into the forest, back the way she came. 

The giant hesitated when the human bolted. Of all the things he expected to see tonight, a naked human woman was not one of them. His mind swirled with questions: what was she doing here? How did she get here? Why was she naked? What had caused all of those cuts and bruises on her? 

Whatever the answers, clearly she was distressed and in need of help. 

He breathed a sigh and continued forward, keeping his pace slow and eyes sharp. She’d probably never seen a giant before, or so he assumed, hence her reaction towards him. He pondered over the idea of calling out to her, but he decided that his voice might scare her more. 

Humans: anxious little creatures. 

Carefully, he followed after her, making sure to mind where he stepped.

The woman ran as fast as her exhausted legs would carry her. Everything hurt, but she couldn’t stop––not with that giant on her tail. She could hear his footsteps crashing behind her, threatening to stomp on her. Were it not for the tight-knit trees, she was sure he would have caught up to her already. 

Which way was she going? She didn’t know. It was too dark to see much beyond the ground and the trees right in front of her. All she needed was to get away, maybe find somewhere to hide and wait for the giant to pass her. 

Then what? 

Would she have to spend the night in these woods? Alone? Naked? There was a giant man and a giant horse-mule thing; were there other giant animals? Where the hell was she? 

Her racing thoughts came to an abrupt halt when her foot caught on a root. The woman cried out in pain and fell bodily to the forest floor. She bit her lip and brought her knee up to her chest, hands cradling her now injured foot. Already it was starting to warm and swell. She didn’t have time to dwell on it, though; those thundering footsteps still followed behind her, getting closer and closer. The woman clenched her jaw and pushed herself up to her knees. She figured she wasn’t going to be able to run much further, so the next best option was to hide. That was a part of her skeleton of a plan. Getting hurt was just a bumpy start. Forcing herself to stay quiet, despite the throbbing pain in her foot, the woman crawled her way around the large, protruding roots of one of the trees. She found a hollow to sequester herself into and curled herself into a ball, hands over her head. 

The giant’s footsteps grew louder until they were practically on top of her. The woman squeezed her eyes shut and sent a silent prayer to anyone that would listen. 

Above and oblivious to her, the giant man scanned the dark floor as best he could in the moonlight. He should have brought a lantern with him, but he hadn’t thought to do so in the moment. It was such a bizarre situation. 

What was he going to do with her if he found her? Cover her up, surely. That would be step one. But after that . . .? He figured he could take her back to the cabin, but then she’d be surrounded by even more giants. If she reacted so poorly to just one, six more would surely send her into shock, or worse. 

The giant sighed heavily and shook his head. 

* * *

“Look who it is! Mr. Elijah Love! Where the fuck were you?” 

The jovial voice made the giant’s nose crinkle. Slowly, Eli lifted his head, tired eyes meeting the owner of said voice. Though the other giant wore a blue scarf over the lower half of his face, like everyone else on the farm, he knew he was grinning. He could hear it. 

“Shit, you look like you were up all night. Did you get more bags under your eyes?” 

“Not now, Smart.” He answered with a hint of warning in his tone, a signal that he was not in any mood for his fellow giant’s teasing. Unfortunately, Smart rarely minded any signals or warnings. Eli rolled his eyes and dismounted his horse. 

“If not now, then when?” Smart continued. His voice was already grating; the grin did not make it any better. 

Eli shook his head and ignored Smart. Reins in hand, he led his horse towards the barn. Once he saw to her needs, he could retire to his quarters. The prospect of much-needed rest sounded great in his mind, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get anything meaningful. The human still raced through his mind. He lamented that he hadn’t been able to find her; she’d clearly been in distress. Over what, he had no idea. What could possibly land a human naked in the middle of a forest? Surely it couldn’t have been good. The poor girl had been hysterical. She’d called for help. 

And she hadn’t expected a giant to answer her call. 

Eli mulled over last night’s events as he entered the barn. With muscle memory guiding him, he started to remove his horse’s tack. 

“Miss Blueberry Pie!” Called another voice. Eli sucked in a surprised breath, mind snapping back into the present. A young giant approached from the other end of the barn. His boots were covered in muck and soiled bedding. His face scarf nearly matched his bright red air in color. He stopped before the horse with treats in one hand. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d––oh! H-hello, Mr. Love.” As if just noticing Eli, the young giant stiffened, cheeks going red. 

“Gaffin,” Eli greeted. He took no offense to the oversight; it was well-known on the farm that Gaffin liked the animals more than his fellow giants. He’d probably sleep in the stables with the horses if he was allowed to. “We got in late. Is Pie’s stall still clean?” 

“Yes sir! Cleaned it out and gave it fresh bedding this morning. No one’s been in there since.” Once the horse had finished her treats, Gaffin started to rub her ears, much to her delight. She lowered her head and closed her eyes, a low rumble in her chest. 

Eli nodded. He hauled the saddle from Pie’s back and carried it over to a rack. “Would you take her from here?” 

“Sure thing! It’d be my pleasure, Mr. Love.” His eyes lit up with excitement. Normally, Eli would have been reluctant to hand Pie to someone else, since she was both his responsibility and his beloved steed, but Gaffin would often insist on overseeing care of all of the horses, and he did a damn good job attending to them. Pie was in good hands. Eli gave Gaffin another nod and exited the barn. 

* * * 

“Love.” 

The sharp voice unceremoniously yanked the giant from his snooze, making him flinch. He blinked his eyes to clear the sleep and looked up towards it. Standing over him was another giant, their dark eyes staring down at him from between their wide-brimmed hat and their yellow face scarf. They gave him an expectant look, one brow raised and arms crossed over their chest. 

Eli groaned softly in a stretch and pushed himself up to sit. “Slayne. What is it?”

“You sure you’re good for a night patrol? Smart said you looked exhausted,” they said. Their expectant look shifted into something more concerned.  

“Smart says a lot of shit,” Eli said tersely. “I’m fine.”

“Are you? It’s almost sundown and you’re still here.” They tilt their head towards the window, to the reddening sky beyond.

Eli cursed under his breath and lept up to his feet. Had he been asleep that long? He certainly didn’t feel very rested. His thoughts and dreams had been plagued with that woman, still lost somewhere in the forest…

“I’m fine,” he repeated. The giant pulled his scarf up over his nose and grabbed his hat from his bed post, then his gun belt. He pulled his boots on and brushed past Slayne, heading for the door. 

“Elijah,” they said, using that same sharp tone. It made him pause and glance over his shoulder. “You’re not fine. But we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” 

Ugh. He wasn’t looking forward to that. How was he supposed to explain to her what kind of a night he’d had? He hardly understood it himself. Nevertheless, he offered a shrug and pushed through the door. 

As expected, Blueberry Pie was out in the pasture, happily grazing away. Eli called her over with a loud whistle and led her to the barn to get saddled up, then, after getting a few more treats from Gaffin, headed off towards the farm’s perimeter. 

* * *

Eli was no stranger to the night shift. Most of the time, he prefered it. Save for the occasional pest trying to get at the livestock, nights out in the pasture were quiet. None of the other giants could pester him out here. It was peaceful. 

Usually. 

Tonight was an exception. Tonight, Eli couldn’t seem to relax. He was antsy, on edge. His horse felt it too. Blueberry Pie was normally a very placid horse, but tonight, her ears swiveled to and fro at every noise, and frequently flicked back towards him. He could feel her tension just as much as she could feel his. 

And the night was dragging on. 

Eli rubbed at his brow and stifled another yawn––his third in the past half hour. His body felt tired, and his mind even moreso. The moons in the sky told him that it was only around midnight; he still had several hours to go before the suns came up, and plenty of perimeter to cover in that time. Eli gave Pie a firm pat on the neck and nudged her ribs, encouraging her to trot on. 

They were near the clearing where the woman had appeared last night. A foul smell hit his senses, making the giant grimace. He’d noticed it the night before, too. It smelled rotten, like a dead animal. He’d made a mental note to investigate it, but the woman had pulled his attention away from it. 

The campfire he’d used last night came into view through the trees. It was a common stopping point for Eli on these night patrols. He’d often rest here for a little bit before continuing on his way. Tonight, though, he didn’t feel too interested in stopping to rest. Despite the heaviness he felt, his anxiousness kept him moving. Eli eased Pie to a stop and dismounted.

Almost as soon as his boots hit the dust, a shrill scream pierced the air. Both giant and horse startled, the latter whinnying in her own alarm. Eli felt his blood chill. That was the same scream from last night––the woman’s scream. 

Eli ran. He dashed into the forest, running towards where he thought the scream had come from. Another cry made him pause and readjust his route. With each stride, her distressed cries grew louder––as well as a rough scraping sound. Just beyond a wall of trees was a massive, dead oak. Scrabbling at its trunk was a huge, bear-like beast that stood nearly twenty feet in height. Its claws dug into the bark, clawing and reaching for something higher up. What it was, Eli didn’t yet see, but he could hear the woman still screaming nearby. He pulled one of his pistols and shouldered his way through the trees. The bear rounded on him, snarling. It was not something he wanted to fight; what it lacked in height––compared to him––it made up for in bulk.  The giant fired a warning shot into the air and yelled, cracking the beast’s aggressive facade. It too, apparently, didn’t care to have this fight. Whatever meal it sought up in the trees wasn’t worth it. It turned tail and ran off, vanishing into the forest. 

Once he was sure it was gone, Eli holstered his weapon. He kicked himself mentally for not shooting the damn thing. It was his and the other ranchers’ job to make sure that titanofauna didn’t come too near the property and the surrounding area. He’d have to hunt the bear down later. 

Right now, he had another priority. A few feet above the gouges in the bark, a shape trembled in the moonlight. It was the woman. She shook like a leaf in a windstorm, and her breaths came in uneven gasps. 

She was terrified. Not just of the bear, but of Eli. 

Slowly, the giant knelt down before the tree. He studied her for a long moment. She was still naked, the poor soul, and she’d acquired many new cuts and bruises. Her legs and arms in particular were a ragged mess. Eli pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, but the woman shrank away as best she could. 

“Here,” he said, trying to keep his voice low. He gave the handkerchief a little shake. “Cover yourself.” 

The woman stared at him, eyes wide as the moons themselves. Save for her shaking, she didn’t move. Eli frowned. He lifted the handkerchief and dropped it over her, making her cry out in alarm. It was comically large compared to her, like a bed sheet. She struggled under the fabric for a minute, limbs flailing, until she managed to get her head out. Her hair stuck out at odd angles, making her look feral––or more feral than she already looked. 

“You should drink something too,” Eli said. He pulled his canteen from his belt and removed the cap, then held it to the woman so that water pooled at the lip. Again, she shrank away. Eli sighed. “I don’t wanna dump this on you too. I suggest you just drink.” 

Much to his surprise, the woman complied. She dipped her hands into the pooling water and pulled a handful to herself. Her first drink was tentative, but her next two were more eager. Eli figured it had been a while since she’d last had water, and he could guess food as well. She took two more handfuls of water before she backed off again. Some of the water had dripped down her chin and neck, washing away some of the dirt. 

“Alright.” Eli capped and stowed the canteen. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me what’s going on?” 

The woman stared at him. She looked marginally calmer, but fear and distrust still painted her demeanor. 

“Got a name?” 

Silence. 

Under his mask, Eli pressed his lips together. He didn’t blame her for being afraid of him, but it made it a lot more difficult to help her. 

“Okay,” he said with another sigh. “Come on out of the tree. I’ll get you somewhere safe.” He raised his hand, palm up, to her level. She yelped and tried to retreat further, but the giant handkerchief got tangled under her and threw her balance. The woman fell from her branch, dropping nearly five feet, directly into Eli’s palms. Her sudden weight startled the giant. She wasn’t heavy, but having her in his hands reminded him of the fact that, in his forty years, he had never actually held a human before. 

The woman lied in his hold for a few stunned moments, then bolted upright with realization. She glanced at the fingers and flesh around her, then up to the masked giant’s face, and screamed. He flinched, eyes closing and brows furrowed. For such a small body, this human had a set of lungs in her. He felt her lurch, which made him curl his hands around her. That, in turn, made her struggle more.

“Miss––I’m trying to help–––” Abruptly, her scream faded, fizzled out like the cries of a dying elk. Eli opened one eye, and then the other, to see her body limp in his hold. A pang of alarm struck him. “Miss? Hey–––” He opened his hands to see her better. He hadn’t squeezed her at all––or so he thought. Gingerly he prodded her side with a thumb. When she didn’t react, he gathered her in one hand, and gently rested two fingers to her chest. He dared not even breathe, not until he could feel the faint, fluttering beat under the cloth and flesh. Her heart was still ticking. She was still breathing. She was just unconscious, likely having fainted from shock. Eli released his breath and let his shoulders relax a little with relief. 

Though she didn’t seem too keen on going with him, Eli couldn’t just leave her here. That wasn’t an option. Carefully he wrapped the handkerchief around her so that it was a bit more secure, and so that it might keep her restrained, should she wake up violently. He brought her nearer to his chest and stood up. 

The breeze picked up, carrying with it another wave of the vile smell. Eli grimaced and fought off the urge to gag. He really needed to find out what the hell was causing that stink. It was probably what attracted the bear.  

But that would have to wait another day. Tonight, he needed to focus on getting this mysterious woman to safety. 

Keeping her cradled to his chest, Eli returned to where he’d left his horse. Blueberry Pie lifted her head, her ears angled towards him as he emerged from the treeline, and grunted in greeting. He returned the greeting with a pat to her forehead and a soft hello. She leaned in towards the bundled handkerchief, nostrils flared, and gave the woman a curious sniff.

“Easy, Pie,” he chided gently. “She’s not a treat. We ought to get her back to the farm.” He patted the horse’s neck affectionately, then rounded to her side and pulled himself up into the saddle. Having only one free hand made it a little bit more difficult, but, once he was settled, he took the reins and gave Pie a nudge to start walking. 

There was still some perimeter left to patrol, but he had a feeling the woman wouldn’t be waking up for a while yet. He’d keep her safe with him until they reached the farm, and then he’d figure out what to do with her. 

[crescentmoons-and-stardust]

Twisted Tales: Pumpkin Guts

Peter was empty inside. His organs were missing, his blood, his heart. So he filled himself up. He was barely old enough to talk when he first saw his father, the pumpkin farmer, carve his harvest. Peter saw the orange slimy insides and knew that’s what he needed. He was that empty shell that sat on the table in front of him, and he needed to fill himself.

And so, late at night, Peter filled himself up with pumpkin guts. Alone in the patch he’d carve and scoop and eat and eat until his stomach hurt with fullness. Peter suspected his father knew, but he turned a blind eye. 

Lumina was the town beauty, even as a child. She had a fiery head of long hair and smooth pretty face speckled with freckles. All the boys tried to get her attention but it was strange hollow eyed Peter that caught her attention. When the boys flirted with her, Peter did as well. Awkward and stiff, like a puppet that wasn’t in control of his own actions. He did what they did because it was the norm. Lumina saw right through him though.

“Peter, Peter,” She’d say affectionately. “My sweet, strange Peter.”

It wasn’t until he overheard some gossiping ladies in church one day that he realized what pursuing Lumina could mean for him.

“Such a beautiful girl,” They whispered. “So full of life.”

And that’s when it hit him. Full. She was full and he was empty. She had life and if she were his, she could give some to him. As the days turned into years, he watched the other boys flirt with her, and he went out of his way to stand out from them. He ate his pumpkins and as he scraped the insides with his fingernails, drawing up the stringy guts, he imagined it were golden liquid life, given lovingly from Lumina.

Peter grew and his father died. He inherited the farm and the harvest thrived around his hands. He grew the best pumpkins and all the children clamored for wares come Halloween time. He experimented with different soil and nutrients and set out to grow the largest pumpkin he could. As he tended obsessively to his patch, Lumina grew more fascinated with her strange friend.

“Peter, Peter,” She said one day. She had worn her finest dress but he barely looked at her. It thrilled her in a strange way. “Whatever am I going to do with you.”

He knew Lumina didn’t like to be chased by the other men, so he let her chase him instead. By the harvest moon of their 21st year, he asked her to marry him and she said yes.

They were happy for a time. Peter no longer snuck away at night to get his fill of pumpkins. Instead he filled himself with Lumina. But the more he had of her, the more he wanted. At first Lumina was pleased, then miffed, and eventually it turned to fear. She saw a darkness in him that she hadn’t before and she wondered what had happened to the quiet boy she once knew. 

Lumina did what she had always done with boys, she ran. She ran straight into the arms of another man. A man who desired her but didn’t want to consume all she was. Peter was observant. He followed her one night and saw the things she did with that other man. He watched and felt nothing and knew it was wrong. That was his wife with another man and he felt nothing. It’d been a while since she’d filled him and now he was empty. He went back home and cracked open every last pumpkin. He ate and ate and ate. And when his wife returned he greeted her covered in orange slime.

“Peter, Peter,” She said sadly. It all seemed to make sense to her now “What have you done?”

Lumina and her lover ran away together. That’s what the town said and what Peter did not deny. Shortly after he unveiled his life’s greatest work, a pumpkin, six feet tall and six feet wide. The children marveled at the sight but didn’t dare get too close. For it soon became apparent that as wondrous as this pumpkin was, it had a strange odor to it. A rotten stench that made one shiver in fear. No one got close enough to the pumpkin to realize it was hollow. Hollow but not empty. Not like Peter was. 

Why does that large pumpkin of his never seem to wither or die? Why does its stench only grow worse as Peter’s smile grows bigger? Why can Peter sometimes be found at night whispering to it....gently...lovingly. “Peter....Peter,” He laughs softly at himself. “Peter...Peter…” Comes a haunting reply.

Peter had had a wife once. A beautiful wife full of life. He would not let another man take her from him. So he hid her away. Made her a home with no windows or doors. Kept her life for himself until she ran dry. Now she’s the one who is empty while Peter is full. Full of rot and full of secrets. 

And so our story ends the same way it began, with an empty shell and pumpkin guts.

[chuuyas89bottleofpetrus]

CHARACTER PROFILE: MARGARITA CONCHITIA

Name: Margarita Conchitia

Age: 15

Stand: ｢La Vie Bohème｣

(Later ｢Seasons of Love｣)

(I am currently drawing my own picture of ｢Seasons of Love｣, but have this picture from Magic The Gathering for now)

Powers: ｢La Vie Bohème｣ is capable of creating life not unlike ｢Golden Experience｣. It can only create plant life, and it does not use nonliving objects. The user only needs to touch an area and the plant life of the users choice will start growing, and the user has incredible control over the plants that grow. The user can do anything from make pictures out of the plants to wrap thorny vines around their enemy’s body.

At the attainment of ｢Seasons of Love｣, the user can make the flowers grown give their life force to an injured person to heal them, or even sometimes give the life force to a dead person and bring them back to life. There is specific criteria for revival, and it also takes a huge toll on the user’s own life force. Although their life force can “recharge”, if the life force runs out, the user will die

Appearance: ｢La Vie Bohème｣ (see picture above)

｢Seasons of Love｣ is a warm-colored humanoid snake. It is about 7ft in height and has vines wrapping around its arms and waist. Instead of the flower dress that its previous form had, it instead has armor made out of non-sentient sea life such as seaweed, anemones, and coral.

Backstory: Margarita was born the youngest and only girl out of seven brothers. Her mother was American and the owner of a popular concert venue and her father was Hispanic and the owner of Wine Like Blood, a multi-billion dollar alcohol company. They met when her father was providing alcohol for a concert being hosted at her mother’s venue, and you can see how well they hit it off because they had EIGHT KIDS.

Even though she had seven brothers the only important siblings would be the oldest set of twins, Alexander and Alejandro. Alejandro was the older twin, making him the oldest sibling. The family almost never saw him because he was always studying or taking a class. Alexander was closer to his family, always helping them with something, whether it be homework or cleaning their rooms.

The night of Margarita’s eighth birthday (which is Christmas), she was woken up by gunshots. Alexander burst into her room only a few seconds later, the doberman puppy her mother intended to give her in his arms. He shoved Margarita and the pup into her closet, telling her not to come out until twelve hours had passed, and he left

The gunshots continued, accompanied by screaming and crying, but Margarita obeyed her brother and stayed in the closet. She watched the clock hanging in her closet wall for hours, and went to the living room once all the noise died down. She threw up at the sight that greeted her

Her mother? Bloody and bruised, her clothes torn off and a bullet hole was on her head. Her father? Laying in a pool of his own blood, face swollen, two black eyes, his head cracked open. Most of her brothers were beaten to a pulp, each with a bullet hole in their heads. Two brothers were missing. Alejandro, who was supposed to fly in the next day from England where he was studying law at Oxford, and Alexander, who she could only assume was dragged away by whoever did this.

Alejandro inherited his father’s company and his mother’s properties, and Margarita got her share of the inheritance, but Alejandro was in heavy grief and didn’t know how to cope, so he bought land in Italy, built three houses on it, and shipped his sister over there, cutting off all contact with her aside from the 200,000 lira he legally had to give her every month. He felt horrible about it for years.

Margarita was very, very smart. She figured out Italian was almost the same as Spanish and easily became fluent, and her mother taught her all the math and grammar she needed to know to be successful in life. She was perfectly capable of living on her own

For her first year alone, Margarita did considerably well. She used the mansion on her land to paint murals, the farm house to grow a valley of flowers and other plants, and then the normal two-story was just used to live in. She even came into possession of five other dogs, a bullmastiff (Rose), a German Shepard (Marigold), a giant schnauzer (Lillie), a St. Bernard (Seraph), and a Great Dane (Bella), alongside her doberman, Orchid, who was her closest friend and companion.

But she couldn’t keep herself happy for long. Six months after her ninth birthday, Margarita started falling down the rabbit hole. She gave hundreds of lira to liquor stores to permit her purchases of strong alcohol, and bought thousands of dollars worth of weed and heroine, but of course it was just pocket change to her. She opened a coffee shop where she also sold flowers at ten years old to give her something to do so she could stop her bad habits, but alas, it didn’t work.

Three years passed, and Bruno Buccellati was sent the shop. The Bodega became a popular spot for students studying after school, business had went up, and Polpo wanted the owner to pay rent even though they had no idea it was on mafia property.

It was after hours, and Margarita was smoking a cigarette while painting a picture of the city view outside the shop’s glass window, her sleeves rolled up due to the warm weather. Buccellati came through a zipper in the back door, but Margarita didn’t flinch, saying that the store was closed. Buccellati very quickly noticed the stench of alcohol, and saw the needle marks on Margarita's arms. So, instead of asking for the rent, he introduced himself, and offered a membership to Passione.

[katelynn-a-fan]

Somewhere Over the Rainbow: Chapter 6

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Summary: Remus has done as best as he could for the child. Now he has to get back to Patton to show him what happened. And perhaps... he was feeling a guilty for leaving Patton hanging. Perhaps.

Word count: 4.4k (4377)

Warnings: Remus type imagery, mention of throwing up, exhaustion

The smell of hospital cleaner invaded Remus's nose and spread through his senses. The more Remus breathed it in, the more Remus was filled with the stench of cleanliness.

Pretty soon it was as if his very blood was full of cleaner, and Remus grimaced at the sickeningly clean sensation that it reminded him of. He only suffered through being clean when he had to sterilize between treating patients when their lives and his job were potentially on the line. 

He was a bastard, not an idiot.

And that was when he remembered he actually had a face… and a job.

It should’ve been odd that he had forgotten he had a face, but right now his clean senses were telling him to try to create a new mess by evicting the contents of his stomach. Or maybe that was just because of the smell and how it turned his stomach into a tumultuous sea of stomach acid rolling around his gut. 

Remus’s face, what he could feel of it at the moment at least, turned to a very slight smile at the absurdity of how he was disgusted with cleanliness and satisfied with being dirty. To others he might have been absurd for desiring to be unhygienic, but he was Remus, and Remus could do whatever he wanted with his dislike of cleaning products because fuck societal standards of hygiene. 

Hygiene was optional, just like anything else.

With that, Remus’s nose full of cleaner smell finally gave him a different sensation, the sensation of something against his nose. A physical sensation.

That was new… ish…

Remus sniffed, the physical sensation of his nose expanded to (for some reason) bring in more of the scent around Remus. The movement created a tingling sensation down his face, like a thousand bugs were crawling in a wave down Remus’s body. In their wake, Remus was finally able to take stock of his body and where his limbs were where moments before the feeling was distant to him at best.

Having sensation down most of his body, he eventually deduced that he was at least standing, which was a feat considering whatever state he was just in. 

His forehead was resting on something smooth and as he was able to peel his eyes open for the first time since… whenever he had closed them.

Staring at a blank wall, Remus’s eyes threatened to close once again as 10 pound weights felt as if they were strapped to them.

This fogginess and lack of memories was growing old quick. Remus just wanted to remember and get on with it, but it was like he had a worm in his brain sucking out all of his most recent memories.

Except the worm had missed one memory, and Remus latched onto it like a man possessed as a grip on his arm tightened and he slowly registered it was his own grip on his arm.

A crystal clear memory broke through the fog, the image of a child with their front soaked in blood and his own hands pressing down on the wound. It nearly sent him reeling, but the memory led to others in his head. Patton opening the door, him walking up to the child and then panicking and rushing about to get the child to the car and then…

The memories of what happened after that crashed down all at once, everything blurring together until Remus found himself…

There.

Remus blinked away the memories as the direct realization he had left Patton in the waiting room to worry chilled his limbs. Memories of pranks some would say are cruel flitted through his mind only for a moment. This wasn’t one of his jokes; this was one of the scarce times he had unintentionally fucked up and fucked up bad.

He had to get to Patton.

Before he even registered he was doing it, he lurched forwards off of the wall, surprisingly keeping on his feet even as the world swam slightly. It only struck him after a few steps that he had no idea if he was going the right way.

Even when Remus looked up at the overhead signs that told him where he was, the word turned to fuzzy white inchworm-looking shapes in front of his eyes instead. 

The signs were useless inchworm farms, he didn’t need them. He knew the hospital like the back of his hand. It didn’t matter that his hand was slowly turning into a fuzzy blob as well, he could still navigate the hospital. Hand or no hand.

He wasn’t one to be discouraged by a fuzzy hand, so he blinked a couple of times and the hallway he was in resolved just enough so that could tell he had actually been going the right way.

Starting up down the hallway again, he swore someone was talking to him, but that was lost in the fog that still pulled his limbs down. The fog was like physical gravity laid on every inch of his limbs and he wished it wouldn’t hang on him so heavily, but no matter how much he mentally pleaded with it, it just hung on him like a snake who had sunk its fangs into something. 

The voice that might have been talking to him grew quieter and quieter with every step Remus took, so he was confident he could get back to Patton without a hitch now.

Shambling down the hallway, Remus had the presence of mind to wonder what in the heck he looked like walking down the hall. Did he look like a zombie with his body nearly skin and bones, and the skin and flesh starting to peel? Or those zombies that looked human until they noticed you and attacked? 

Whatever he looked like, it was enough to warrant a few passing concerned looks from anyone who caught his glance. And if they said anything, Remus again wasn’t paying enough attention to care about their words.

In any case, he ignored everything else that wasn’t important to continuing forwards and made his way in the twisting and turning halls back to the lobby.

Wonder how Patton had been holding up? Hope I haven’t left him in too dire of a strait. He is never too good about worrying. He’s even gotten me worried about him. Ha! If Roman were here, he’d never-

Remus stopped in his tracks. His thoughts cut off as something became lodged in his throat and his vision grew blurrier once again. Fists clenching tight, he screwed his eyes shut to stop the blurriness once and for all.

He couldn’t do that, not now. Remus didn’t have to think about that if he didn’t want to.

Now, he just had to think about getting to Patton.

Breathing in past the tight lump in his throat, Remus opened his eyes. The world was swimming even more now, like a swimmer who was trying to get away from a ravenous shark that would tear them limb from limb if the shark got them. 

Remus was close, he had to be. But time seemed to stretch into infinity with each step he took, and it was starting to get on Remus’s nerves. He wanted to do something nice for Patton for once and time was being mean and not playing fair! 

A dull throb of pain alerted Remus to the fact that he had been digging his nails into his arms without meaning to. He looked down to see thin crescent moons dug into his arm, and one was even lightly filled in with a bright red moon of blood as well. Amusement teased his face, though for what reason he was amused even Remus was in the dark about it. Perhaps it was just the weight on his limbs talking, making him as delirious as a man in the desert finding an oasis that likely wasn’t there.

His ears suddenly perked up, the sounds of someone familiar filtering through the hallway out of what was a bigger, more echoey space. The lobby was just around the corner.

Taking his cue, he sped up his efforts forwards, ignoring the fact his limbs were dragging more and more heavily the closer he got to the sound. 

The sound changed as he pushed forwards faster and faster, but Remus wasn’t paying attention to that as he gripped the wall that had come up to greet him. Remus wasn’t in the mood for a chat with the wall, so he pushed himself off the wall only to stumble into a gurney that made him cringe at the clatter it made. 

Gurney forgotten the moment he looked away from it, Remus’s vision immediately zeroed in on Patton. There were other vaguely familiar people there, but Remus could only see Patton. 

Patton was tired, bags under his eyes and hair sticking out a bit, but he looked better than Remus had been worried he was doing. Remus’s heart jumped in joy and relief at the sight of him.

He desperately pushed himself away from the other wall that came to say hello to him. The world was angry and swam around him like a speedboat now, and Remus had only one thought in his mind.

“Patton.” Remus croaked, a vague surprise rising in him at how hoarse his voice was.

And then the floor abruptly came up to his face and tried to slap him.

It was very rude of the floor to do that to be frank, that was what ran through Remus’s head in that moment as his body crept closer and closer to the ground.

However, something stopped the floor’s hand in its swing as a pair of warm arms caught him. 

Had he been cold all this time? Remus had no clue, but he had warmth wrapped around him as consciousness began to flee further and further from him.

Words were uttered above him, but just like his trek down the hallway, the words weren’t important. Patton was okay, and that was what was important. 

Remus let go of the last thread of consciousness, content that Patton was okay.

That was until the sounds above him filtered back in, forcing themselves into Remus’s consciousness like a reverse alien chest burster.

“-mus. Remus! Please wake up! You… I can’t…” Remus’s stomach dropped as Patton’s voice entered his ears, on the verge of sobbing.

Fuck. Fucky sloppy fuck.

Remus couldn’t leave Patton like this. He was worrying Patton again, the one thing he didn’t want. He… had to…

A ghost of a groan came from his lips as he forced himself to leap for the thread of consciousness, grabbing it as tight as a boa constrictor ready to devour its prey.

“Remus?” The disbelieving but hopeful sound of Patton above him had his hand squeezing a hand that was already in his. He was still awake damn it.

Putting more oomph in it this time, Remus parted his lips in a groan again. He had no clue what he was trying to say. Sorry? I’m awake? Poopy?

Whatever the case, he was able to part his eyes open as a surge of energy, probably from some good old adrenaline, swept through him. The shot of adrenaline even gave him enough strength to right himself a little, before that swimming world was back and forced him back on the ground again.

“Woah, hey Remus, you don’t have to get up just yet. You collapsed from what’s likely exhaustion. You feel really tired, right?”

Remus pursed his lips a little, his face scrunching up automatically as his ‘thinking face.’ 

Exhaustion? Was he exhausted? He… yeah, maybe? In any case, he was too tired to think too hard about it, so he nodded.

“Well before anything, we need to get you somewhere out of the way. Oh…” Patton’s voice grew quiet as Remus watched through cracked eyelids when he turned to someone he couldn’t see. “Can… we use this vacant stretcher? He’s just exhausted from everything this morning, from what I can tell, so he just needs it until he can get up again.”

A voice Remus recognized as Ava’s came from even further away, and though Remus couldn’t hear what exactly she said, Patton nodded and responded to her.

“Okay,” Patton looked down at Remus with a patient smile as he wrapped his arms more securely around Remus, the distant knowledge that Patton would’ve been the one who caught him finally registering in his brain. “Hey Remus, we’re going to get you on the stretcher okay? You’re not hurt from what we can tell, so we’re putting you on the stretcher because you don’t look like you’re in any state to walk.”

Remus would beg to disagree, but the feeling of multiple hands lifting him up prevented him from giving a proper rebuttal. He drifted a little as his body was lifted, the strange feeling of rising doing odd things to his sense of balance. Part of him found the addition of other hands odd, but that part of him was being smothered under the exhausted part of him.

He picked up a few words spoken around him here and there as the feeling of Patton’s hands gripping his returns. But the feeling that something was missing slowly spread through his gut as his mind drifted softly, he was oh so heavy and he just couldn’t keep his eyes open and something was probably wrong…

“What happened? I- we- We thought you-” A voice Remus knew he should know exactly who was speaking said, but it slid off of his groggy mind. He fought a little to stay awake, fighting the feeling pulling him down once again. Why couldn’t he decide whether he wanted to be awake or asleep? It was infuriating to say the least.

Whatever, it was just how it was at that moment.

Remus craned his ears to absently listen to what was said.

“Well, first things first, I’m fine. Please don’t worry. Second, try not to freak out or worry more about what I’m going to say.” Patton’s voice slowly edged into near panic, but a small squeeze from Remus on their clasped hands gave him pause. 

Managing to peel his eyes open a crack, Remus quirked the corner of his mouth at Patton. Patton, who had been looking at something out of Remus’s eyesight, smiled down at Remus gently. It was like Remus was sick and had woken up to someone caring for him when he thought he would deal with it alone. Except of course, he wasn’t sick, not with any ailment other than sleepiness, he hadn’t just woke up, unless he had slipped under and hadn’t noticed and… the last one was… technically true. Sort of.

Still, the sight was… comforting.

His body reacted without him, a sigh escaping his lips as Patton pushed back a single strand hair that had fallen into his face. Eyes slipping closed, Remus hummed softly as Patton’s hand retreated.

“It’s alright Remus, you can sleep if you want. You need it after working so hard, right?”

Had he worked hard? He didn’t remember, but with what he did remember he had to have worked hard, right?

Even though he didn’t completely believe it, Remus let his head bob up and down a few millimeters each way as his tongue was leagues heavier than it should’ve been. Patton was a lot smarter than him at the moment, so Remus took his judgement as what had likely happened instead.

Patton continued, thumb running over Remus’s distant knuckles. 

“Getting back to what happened, I had settled down on the couch with some hot chocolate as well as some cookies I had made,” Patton sounded apologetic about the cookies for some reason Remus couldn’t fathom. Cookies were cookies. What was wrong with that? “And that was when I heard a sound outside the front door. I thought at first it was someone trying to get in to rob the house and/or hurt me, so… I wasn’t prepared to see what was actually behind the door.”

Patton paused, and by his constricting grasp on Remus’s hand, he was likely trying not to cry. Remus hoped Patton had received Remus’s own squeeze in response, but if he did, he didn’t comment on it.

“I uh… had that vase that was in the living room as a weapon even though one of my crutches would’ve been a more solid thing to hit an intruder with, now that I think about it. In any case I uh, opened the door to face the ‘intruder’ only to find… a child on my front door step.”

Above Remus there were a couple of muted exhalations, like someone had been holding their breath for a long time. Patton didn’t slow down, though in fact he only just sped up.

“They had no coat, no gloves, and no shoes. Their limbs were nearly purple and blue from hypothermia and they were just so small-”

Patton's voice broke, jaggedly cutting off as Patton drew in a shuddering breath. Remus forced another hum, trying to sound as comforting as possible as he squeezed Patton’s hand as hard he dared. He hoped Patton got the message that he was trying to comfort him through the simple gesture.

In any case, Patton’s breathing slowly evened out again, his hand settling.

“I’m sorry… they… looked so young, like kindergarten or preschool at most and nearly a toddler at the least. I had to bring them inside, and I think I dropped the vase when I saw them? I… it’s still a bit of a blur.” Patton paused and gulped a little. “I… didn’t know exactly what to do at first, because I had no idea if I could just keep them at home because for all I knew the child could be okay without a hospital. So I uh… panicked a bit, I got my afghan cause they had likely been outside for long enough that they would need something incredibly thick and insulating to warm them up before. I didn’t even think to call Remus ‘cause he was a nurse until I don’t know how after and-”

Patton’s voice cuts off, and Remus was too out of it to do more than wonder why he had stopped and wait patiently for him to continue. He wasn’t crying, as Patton’s voice was relatively steady. After an amount of time that nearly bordered on concerning, Patton shifted slightly away from Remus, his hand nearly leaving Remus’s limp grasp.

Fluttering slightly, Remus’s hand nearly clawed at Patton’s arm before it hit Remus that Patton wasn’t fully pulling away, stopping just before Patton’s hand was out of Remus’s grasp. 

What’s… going on? Is… who…

“Thank you. It’s just… hard…”

This time another voice that was much less familiar to Remus soothingly comforted Patton.

“Hey, no pressure, you can just give us a brief overview of what happened after that. I don’t want you to make yourself panic, okay? We don’t need to know everything right now. Tell us at your own pace alright?”

Patton’s hand bobbed in Remus’s grip, giving the impression Patton was nodding against something, whatever it actually was was beyond Remus.

 As a tiny droplet of something fell onto Remus’s hand, Patton continued, his voice a bit more steady, if but a little smaller and quieter than before.

“Okay… uh… I....called Remus to come over and he of course came over. Together we found blood on the front of their shirt that I didn’t notice before and then we rushed the child to the hospital. I got stuck in the waiting room because I wasn’t a medical professional and I tried to stay awake for a bit in case Remus came back but I fell asleep at some point.”

“So Remus helped you?” The more familiar voice asked.

“Yeah, he is my friend, and he’s owed me a ton of favors by now and this for me expends all of them.”

A strange mix of emotion flows through Remus. His chest tightened, but there was a tiny spark of indignation in his gut as well and it all flowed together into a weird mire of confusion. 

At that point, Remus didn’t know why he was still awake. Patton had everything under control, even if there was something that didn’t completely add up, it was probably fine...

After that, everything got fuzzier and fuzzier, just as Remus was temptingly on the cusp of sleep that he had been so desperate for for the last… who knows how long. That was the moment when somehow every little thing he had missed fell into place like a giant thousand piece puzzle assembling itself and what was once a scattered mess in his head before finally came to make sense.

The collapsing in exhaustion, the hands of other people, the concerned tones of Patton’s voice, and the overwhelming feeling he was missing something super obvious and important. 

But the most important thing was… he recognized the voice that was talking to Patton. 

With that, he suddenly pounced on Patton, shifting his weight as fast he could to grip onto Patton, his slightly wrinkled shirt kneading under his grasp.

“Woah, Remus!” 

Remus held on for dear life to Patton as Patton also clung tightly back. Patton seemed afraid Remus would keel over again out of exhaustion, which could have been a possibility if not for Remus’s gaze searching his surroundings.

Looking through slitted eyes lids, Remus searched hard for who he had heard and quickly found him by his bright red coat.

Roman.

Roman was here.

He… Roman shouldn’t be there in the same room, not with him. With Patton, sure, Patton was his own person and could be in the same room with Roman, but not with Remus. 

Remus anticipated the same glare that always met him when he and Roman met face to face, but strangely there was none. Sure, Roman definitely didn’t look happy to see him as always, but he wasn’t scowling or anything like he usually did. In fact, Remus could dare say Roman looked… concerned?

“Wh- Wh-” Remus could barely speak, his words failing him as he looked back to Patton in confusion, but Patton was only looking at Remus in concern. Out of the corner of Remus’s eye, he saw that Janus was there as well, but that was merely a passing thought that quickly gave way to more confusion

“Hey, Remus. You don’t have to get up or talk, everything’s going to be taken care of. Alright?. Ava said she called for a doctor to talk about going to see the child as long as everyone followed the rules. But you look exhausted and I don’t want you to overexert yourself more than you have.”

And with that, the last key on Remus’s memories turned in the lock of his mind. What his exhausted mind had kept failing to remember and realize hit him at full force as the words soaked into him.

The child.

They were…

He had to show Patton. And fuck anyone if they tried to stop him.

Leaning forwards, Remus jumped haltingly off the bed, holding onto Patton for dear life as they both dangerously came close to falling over, but miraculously both of them managed to hold themselves so that neither fell.

Patton blinked in surprise, mouth opened to likely ask Remus what he was doing. But Remus wasted no time, he pulled on Patton’s arms firmly, leading Patton down the hall.

“Whoa Remus, did you hear what I said? I said a doctor was coming to escort us. I… Do you have the authority to even bring us? ‘Cause we are not their family and…”

If Patton said anything after that, Remus didn’t hear it as now he was intentionally tuning Patton’s words out because they were irrelevant. Patton had to see the child was okay so they had to go see the child now. It was only logical. Not that Remus was an expert in logic, mind you.

All Remus was focused on was tugging Patton down the hall. A slow smile grew on Remus’s face as it became easier and easier to bring Patton along. 

Patton gets to see them. He needs to see the child. Patton gets to see them. He needs to see the child. Patton gets to see them. He needs to see the child. 

The words went in circles in Remus’s head. One morphed into the next in an endless loop with each step Remus took.

Now in reverse, Remus brought Patton down the same path he had stumbled down minutes before, his memories complete, though he didn’t have to think about those now.

Remus only slowed when the room the child was in was in his sights. 

Patton had fallen silent by then. He wasn’t even trying to pull out of Remus’s grasp anymore. Patton wanted to check on the child as much as Remus did.

Remus grasped the doorway tightly as he swayed slightly, but he half-pulled Patton into the doorway to let him see.

The child was on a hospital bed, and somehow they looked even smaller than before. Remus hadn’t noticed that. But they had all the standard workup; an IV, a heartbeat monitor. Under the swanky hospital gown they had on, Remus knew there were bandages over the wound in the child’s stomach that he knew had been from… something that Remus couldn’t think of. They were so pale.

Snapshots of the others’ expressions caught Remus’s eye, even as the fuzziness was closing in again. Patton covering his mouth as tears pricked at his eyes at the sight of the child. Roman’s expression flipping immediately from confused and concerned to concerned and some emotion Remus couldn’t place. And lastly, Janus’s curious expression becoming one of horror.

Remus had no clue what he looked like. His face was probably mostly blank, but happy. That’s what he was right then. 

Happy.

Now that Patton was here with the child, exhaustion swooped over Remus faster than ever before. He had done his job. He… had done a good job. Like Patton said, he… did… good….jo….

And like that, Remus’s world went finally, blissfully black.

[gemlinz]

Fulcrum ch. 2 - a Working Relationship (Levi x f!Reader)

Summary: It was a cruel world, she knew. She also knew better than to ask for more than her lot: being a full time barmaid and a part time thief. She helped where she could, bitterly accepted where she could not. Feared the monsters lurking outside the walls.  But still - being near him, taking in his strength, his resolve - she couldn't help but hope for more. For herself. For him. For humanity.

Warnings: Swearing, Non-con Groping | CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 |

Read on A03

It turns out “great things” amounted to digging up whatever dirt F/N could on the filthy rich.  It wasn’t particularly difficult - the rich and powerful had plenty they were trying to hide.  Their status granted them an inflated sense of security - and she exploited it to the fullest.  Six months she had been thwarting the nobilities best efforts to gut the Survey Corp funding.

Her latest mark had left his dirty laundry splayed across his desk; literally. F/N watched from her perch as the honorable Judge Forge pulled out of his mistress and tucked himself back into his pants.

Grimacing in disgust, F/N double checked the description of the woman against her sources - it was definitely Avery Lynch, daughter of Adam Lynch - a representative from Wall Rose and very influential in the courts.

Mission completed, then.  Honestly, mission completed 15 minutes ago when the pair stumbled into the judges office trying to eat each others face, but she needed to wait until the guards shift changed - which left her with another 30 minute wait.

Shifting uncomfortably at the bark digging into her back, the young thief-turned-spy opened her notebook to pen her report.  Apparently Erwin was a stickler for them - verbal communication of any pertinent information was avoided where they could.

F/N wondered if it had to do with the errand boy he sent back and forth.  Did Erwin not trust him to get the information right?  Or, more nefariously, was he worried he’d tamper with it?   She sure as shit wouldn’t put it past the runt. Her nose still throbbed in phantom pain every time she saw him.

She finished her report just as the sun began to set, tucking the sealed letter into her waistband. 

Slipping down from the tree, she quietly made her way to the perimeters of the grounds, melting into the surrounding forest.

It still boggled her mind that these nobles had so much room - they could fit a farm to feed 100 people here.  The wound of injustice, slightly scabbed over, still itched and the more she was around these pigs the more she scratched at it.  If Erwin didn’t make good on his promise soon, she wouldn’t be able to stand it much longer.

Exiting the wall of trees behind an old tea shop, she brushed off the dirt from her dark cloak and made for the pub.  Irritable as she was, she wasn’t looking forward to a full shift behind the bar.

Walking through the familiar streets, she thought back to Avery Lynch and how fucked she was;  from what she could tell, the girl was half the judge’s age.  Barely legal, definitely not smart enough to realize the consequences of her actions.  If Judge Forge didn’t do whatever it was Erwin wanted, the poor girls life would be over.

It was unlikely the Judge wouldn’t comply though.  The implications would end his career overnight.  F/N wouldn’t lose any sleep over that.

Finally at the pub, she entered through the back door, still paranoid about homicidal assholes sneaking in behind her.

Louis greeted her almost right away, wiping a glass with a towel.

She still felt the sharp bite of betrayal when around him, but F/N had no real choice but to trust him. He was both her employer and landlord - not to mention the things he knew about her could get her hanged.

He was also her only friend.

“There you are. We’re swamped tonight,”  He began, “And your admirer is back, sat him in his regular corner.  Nice and secluded for the two of you.” Winking the man walked back out to the rowdy front, patrons already many drinks deep, even at the early hour.

Rolling her eyes, F/N pulled her apron off the hook, tying it off at her waist.  Taking a deep breath, she followed him out.

“I prefer my men less abusive, Louis,” She murmured only low enough for him to hear as she passed him, checking the board to see which table was sat first.  She hadn’t meant it to come out so harshly, but she saw him flinch slightly in guilt.

Knowing better than to approach her contact right away, she waited her tables like normal, charming her patrons into larger tips.

In the beginning, the idea of conducting business in the pub worried her. Mixing her two lives like that went against everything she had been taught.  You don’t shit where you sleep.  But Erwin had insisted, and Louis encouraged it, so she had no choice but to comply, as much as it set her on edge.  Apparently it was less suspicious for someone as recognized as “Humanity's Strongest Soldier” to be seen publicly and not in some dark alley.

In reality, her weekly meetings with Levi weren’t as awful as she first had first thought.  Sure, there was still a healthy dose of fear and caution on her part - the man had threatened to kill her, multiple times.  But as far as the bars regulars went, he was significantly more tolerable.

For one, he never seemed to drink - alcohol that is.  She’d admonish his lack of forethought at how suspicious it looks being the only sober one at a pub , but every week he proved her wrong with the confident stoicism he displayed calmly sipping away at his tea.  No one questioned him, or even paid him a second glance.

F/N for her part did her best to treat him like any other patron, with the addition of occasionally slipping him secret reports that would get them both executed if discovered.

That’s not to say she enjoyed his visits. Treating him like a regular patron also meant trying to start small talk - trying in that he shot down most of her attempts with one word answers or outright silence.  The only time she had been able to get more than a few words out of him was the night he had stayed until just before closing, about three months after their operation began.

Louis had already called it a night, and F/N was waiting on the last of their customers to finish up, getting a head start on cleaning.  Levi had critiqued how she was wiping down the tables.  Once she got over her shock, she had laughed at him, claiming that the alcohol on them killed any germs and anyone coming into this bar didn’t typically give a crud about a little stickiness.

He had tsked at her and launched into a rant about the benefits of a clean establishment for an hour.  She would have been more annoyed at the tirade if he hadn't used that time to also demonstrate his suggestions by deep cleaning the bar.

They finished closing the pub much later than normal, but she couldn’t find it in her to complain when she somehow tricked this runt into doing her job for her.

After that, every so often he would stay past close to clean the bar.  She was eventually able to decipher by the tension in his shoulders when he would be staying.  Wherever she noticed the signs, she began kicking people out just a bit earlier; they were too drunk to notice, and she fancied getting to sleep at a normal time.

Levi never talked except to criticize her own efforts, before he moved to do it himself.  F/N was no saint - she took full advantage. 

He either didn’t notice or didn't mind.

Today didn’t seem to be a bad day for him, glancing at him as she darted from table to table.  He looked relaxed - or, as relaxed as he ever looked.  He didn’t wear his uniform but instead a dark suit, complete with his signature cravat.

After helping three tables, she made for where he sat.  Not three steps in, the door opened to the front, and a group of three MPs strolled in.  They were in uniform but already deep in their drink, if their volume was anything to go by.  

Drunks she was used to coming in - but not once had the Military Police visited this bar.  It was far from the barracks and more importantly, too low class.  Her regulars weren’t usually locals, but those who worked in Mitras and stopped in to forget whatever shit they were made to do that day.

Briefly meeting her contacts' grey eyes, she forced a smile before turning to shout over her shoulder to the newcomers, “Seat yourselves and I’ll be right over!” Not missing the greasy smiles shot her way from the group, she continued to Levi’s table.

“Friends of yours?” She said around a smile, tucking her hair behind her ear to better eye the group. 

“Hn. I’ll have a Black tea, thanks.”  He said with no inflection.  Confused, she could only play along.

“Ok?  I’ll go...get that then.”  When her confusion went unanswered, she made for behind the bar to apparently brew some tea.  Louis shot her a look, apparently just as lost as she was.  Was it just a coincidence, or were they already compromised?

Her mind raced with where she went wrong, moving mechanically.

The MPs sat themselves by the door, khaki jackets thrown on the back of their chairs.  She couldn’t avoid going over there for any longer without looking suspicious.  As the tea steeped, she made her way towards them, swallowing her building panic.

“Hello gentlemen, what can I get for you tonight?”  She asked, saccharine sweet even as she shook inside.

“Hmm, well I know what I want,” He slurred, salaciously looking her up and down, “but I don't think it's on the menu, sweetheart.”  The oldest one cackled, the stench of alcohol noticeable even inside the bar.  She pictured breaking a bottle over his head, but kept her smile up.

It had been awhile since she had been met with such boldness;  the patrons had been fairly well behaved recently.  Maybe it was the new cleaning regime. It’s tough to be filthy in a place where you could now literally eat off the floor.

“Shut up Stewart, you old pervert.”  His friend elbowed him, saving her from replying.  Mr. Chivalrous didn’t seem to want to look up from her chest, however.  He seemed only slightly more sober.  “We’ll both have an ale.”

“Make that three.”  The last MP grunted out.  The most sober of the three of them, he didn’t look at her at all when he ordered - his eyes were fixed to a point behind her.

Where Levi was sitting.

Shit.

“Three ales, coming right up!”  She chirped, fighting her flight instinct and walking away at what she was pretty sure was a normal pace.

Heading back behind the bar, her eyes searched for Levi’s, but apparently whatever was on the table was more pressing than the actual military fucking police in her pub, tonight of all nights.

Tea finished, she walked back over to him as slowly as she could manage, all but throwing it onto the table, eyebrows raised in panicked inquiry.

Not meeting her gaze, he used his sleeve to wipe the edge of the cup clean - the asshole - and took a tentative sip.

Grimacing, he finally met her look.

“This is fucking disgusting.”  He stated and F/N was sure she was about to strangle him.

“Well, sir , this is a bar.”  She said around her teeth, sticky sweet smile still in place, “Tea isn’t exactly what we’re known for.”  And it was good enough for you every other night, jerk.

“Make me another one.”  He demanded, pushing the cup away from him.

He was dead.  She was going to murder him.  Fuck Erwin, this shrimp had it coming.

At her silence, he looked back up at her with an eyebrow raised.

The look in his eyes however gave her pause - something was up.  F/N had no choice but to follow his lead.

Steaming, she snatched the cup from him, not even wincing when some of the hot liquid splashed over onto her fingers.

“Fine.”  She bit out, heading back to the bar, noisily dumping the mug into the sink and setting the water back onto boil.

Pouring out three glasses of ale, she made her way back over to what was now the rowdiest table in the pub - the MPs.

As she walked over, she noticed that even though they were supposedly in varying states of drunkenness, all three were casting surreptitious glances at Levi.

Placing their drinks on the table seemed to snap them out of it, redirecting their attention back to her.  Skillfully dodging their wandering hands, she shot them a smile and walked away to finish making Mr. Precious his tea.

Not sure what she was meant to do differently, she walked back to his table with it, brewed in the same manner as the last one.  The asshole needed to stop making a scene while they were surrounded by the ene-

Something caught on her foot and she stumbled forward, the tea filled mug flying out of her hand and…

Spilling all over Levi.

The entire bar froze at the commotion and all eyes were on the two of them.

“I-” she started, horrified - not only was this not conducive to what was meant to be a clandestine meeting, she was genuinely scared at the murderous look in his eyes.  Not too long ago, he had held a blade to her throat.

Louis came up beside her, clearing his throat.

“So sorry about that, sir.”  The older man mediated, “She can be a bit of a klutz, you see.  F/N, take this young man to the back and get him properly cleaned up.  I’ll take care of the spill here.”

Nodding, realization was slowly dawning on her.  This was the perfect opportunity to get him her report away from the watchful eyes of the MPs. 

As she led him to the back however, it dawned on her that he had orchestrated this by deliberately tripping her.  Once they were through the doorway and out of sight from the main bar room, she turned to make her displeasure known, loudly.

She flinched back when he held one hand up to her mouth to keep her quiet, pulling her in by her arm with his other.

“Not here.”  He whispered, nodding towards the back door leading the alley before pulling her along behind him.

What a perfect place to commit murder, she thought darkly, glaring at the back of his stupid head.

As the door closed behind them, they both cast looks up and down the alley - they were alone.

“How did they find us?”  She started immediately, “Are we compromised?  If they know about the bar, I need to let Louis know.”

He shook his head.

“They didn’t find us, they found me.”  He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, “The info you’ve been giving us has resulted in unprecedented wins for the Corp - other branches are starting to get suspicious.”  

“So they just guessed?” 

“Yeah, looks like - I don’t think they suspect you yet, their eyes were on me the entire time.  Trying to see if I was meeting anyo-”

“Someone's coming.”  She interrupted in a rush, hearing footsteps.

Levi cursed, eyes darting for an easy exit - when he didn’t find one, his eyes turned back to her, calculating.

Too quick for her to follow, he grabbed her.  Hands rough, he twisted F/N around and slammed her face first into the wall, crowding in behind her.  One of his hands tangled in the hair above her neck, and he forced his knee between her legs.

“Get off!”  She yelled, struggling against his hold.

He didn’t let up, and she cursed at him, trying to push off the wall.  He slammed her back down, none too gently.  She was effectively pinned.

“Keep struggling,” He leaned in to breathe into her ear, voice a whisper, “In a second, nod, say ok.  Pretend I’m threatening you.  Force some tears, if you can.”

You are threatening me she wanted to say, feeling as helpless as she did that night six months ago when they first met.  Tear’s weren’t that hard to come by as his front pressed against her back, rough brick digging into her cheek.  

“Nod.”  He commanded again in that harsh whisper, as the footsteps stopped at the end of the alley.

She did, wincing as the motion pulled against the hold he had on her hair.

“O-ok.”  She sniffled, eyes watery.

When nothing happened, Levi shoved his thigh up to meet the apex of her own at the same time he leaned in to bury his face in her neck, able to use her to hide his look at the end of the alley.

All three MPs stood at the end, two barely holding themselves upright.

“Bah - he's just fucking the whore from the bar.”  One of them said, waving at the pair, “Lucky asshole.”

Both Levi and F/N looked up, as if just noticing the newcomers.

Levi scowled.

“The fuck do you three want?”  He deadpanned, “Find your own, this one owes me for making a mess of my clothes.”

One of them - Stewart, she remembered him called - guffawed.

“Guess the rumors are true - you are a clean freak.”  He took a step forward, threateningly, “But that doesn’t seem fair to the poor missy, now does it?”

“Ah Stewart, don’t be jealous, let him have his fun,” His friend spoke up, “Survey Corp needs all the charity it can get.”

Levi grit his teeth as the two bickered, seemingly forgetting about him and the woman he currently had pinned.

Only his steel nerves stopped him from jumping when she grabbed his free hand, on the side facing away from the MPs.  F/N led his hand up her waist, passed her hips and then under her shirt.

Eyebrows raised high, he tried to guess at her intentions, but his mind had gone blank.  She pressed down on his hand and he braced himself to feel her the warm skin of her stomach - but felt the rough texture of paper instead.

The report.

He hid his smirk in her hair.

Eyeing the MPs and realizing they had all but forgotten about the two of them, he lifted it from her waist band and tucked it into his coat - besides the two of them, none were any the wiser.

The argument at the end of the alley was turning more lewd than his patience allowed, so he released her and shoved off the wall with a loud “Tsk.”  

“You shitheads ruined whatever mood there was.”  He walked up to them, pausing until F/N recovered and scurried back inside, the sound of the door locking behind her.  “Fuck out of my way.”

“The hell did you say to me, you little runt!?”  Stewart slurred, indignant, “I’ll kick your ass, punk!”

He attempted a swing at Levi, but missed so badly he stumbled over his own feet and fell on his face.

Cradling his broken nose, the fallen MP tried to stifle the flow of blood. Levi scoffed and walked out of the alley, eyes challenging the other two.  Neither seemed keen on avenging their friend.

Once out of sight, Levi walked a few blocks before doubling back.  It was unlikely the shitheads had gone back into the bar, but he couldn’t risk the Corps asset falling into their hands.

Approaching the pub, the MPs were nowhere in sight.  Through the window, he could see F/N behind the bar, slinging drinks and smiles at her regulars, as if she hadn’t just been assaulted.

Satisfied, he made his way back to barracks to deliver Erwin her latest findings.

[self-proclaimed-chaotic-good]

The Governess and The Doctor’s Hunt for the Copper Beeches (4/4) | Sherlock x Reader

Prompt: Drop

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Words: 4128 (?!)

Warning: Mentions of abuse and drugs

A/N: Fourth and final part of Hunt for the Copper Beeches. Kind of tried to wrap up the story in this one. I’m two days behind in Writer’s month again, but hopefully after this, I stop making it too complicated for myself.

-

The plan was set into motion. As soon as most of the men leave the farm, that’s when you and Molly start moving. The reverend will have people making sure the men stay away as long as possible while he has other people keeping a lookout around the farm. Elise McGregor told you the rough layout of the estate and where to find the key to the basement. The problem was sneaking past Elise’s husband and another farm hand that decided to stay.

“I’ll do what I can,” she said.

“And what if you get hurt because of this?” Molly worried.

Elise chuckled bitterly. “I’ve been married to him for ten years. It’s no different than any other day living with him.”

“I’m honestly surprised you hadn’t tried to kill him yet,” you said.

“(Y/n)!” Molly scolded you.

Elise’s bitter disposition broke, a bright smile appearing on her face as she laughed. “Yes, well, there has been an attempt or two in the past, but then I remember how much this town depends on this farm. No, I needed to make a plan, and this is the perfect opportunity.”

“What about the wife of the younger brother? Lottie, was it?” you asked.

“She… she doesn’t talk much. They got married because her parents owed the family money,” Elise said, “She just does the chores around the farm, then return to her room to knit.:

“Will she be okay?” Molly asked.

Eilise nodded. “We get along just fine and I know she loves the animals there. She can stay with me.”

“Then, it’s settled then.”

The walk to the farm seemed to take forever, the long dirt road stretching out far enough so those on the main road could barely see the estate. Luckily, you had sturdy boots on, though Molly only had sneakers with her. You tried to steady your breathing, feigning calmness as the estate became more visible. Once the boys are rescued, you’re going to give them a big smack on their heads for this.

Nearing the barn, you shifted your bag around to your front and Molly took out two large bones from the butcher shop. Elise said there were two dogs on the farm, but they’re easily distracted when it came to treats.

On cue, you and Molly heard growling from the barn coming towards the fence. You heard Molly exhale slowly as she gripped the two bones in her hands, waiting for the right moment to throw them to the opposite direction. At the first sight of their heads popping around the corner, she chucked it to the other side with all the strength she could muster. Once they ran towards it, you hopped the fence and quickly helped Molly over.

“Oi, what are you doing?” A man shouted.

Your heart leaped out your throat as you grabbed Molly and flattened against the side of the barn. Molly slowly peeked around the corner and saw a lean man with straw blond hair talking to the dogs with their newly acquired treats. His footsteps eventually faded away, allowing you a temporary sense of relief.

You scanned the house a few feet away, spotting the wooden doors to the basement, a large padlock holding the heavy chains tight. One of the keys should be nearby in the barn, but you need to work quickly and time it right.

Molly kept watch until the man left for the large field across before signalling you to hurry in. You slipped through the barn doors, the stench of cow and horse manure stronger inside. If it was any other barn with all the time in the world, you would have wanted to talk to the animals or just sit and watch them munch on their food. But, time is of the essence.

You sifted through the crates and bags, hopping over stacks of hay to get to one of the corners where a few gallon buckets sat. You heard a crunch from outside and immediately ducked. The farm hand muttered and cursed to himself about a broken part in the tractor, moving crates around to find something. You spotted the toolbox across from you and quickly looked around for something to cover you with.

You carefully moved a tarp over and covered as much of you as you could, his footsteps growing louder and louder. You squeezed your eyes shut and gritted your teeth, his breathing sounding just above you.

Blood was pumping hard in your ears and for a moment, you were worried that he could sense it. You tried to calm yourself down by thinking of Baker Street, playing with Rosie, handing out in 221B while Sherlock played the violin and John typed away on his computer. You thought of the time you grabbed Sherlock’s violin while he was in his room. You had barely drawn the bow across the strings when Sherlock snatched it away from you.

“This requires grace and patience,” he said, tucking it under his chin and laid the bow across the strings with a flourish.

“You don’t really have either of those qualities either,” you muttered under your breath.

Sherlock’s playing had abruptly stopped as he shot you a glare. You gave him a toothy grin before taking your place on his chair. From the corner of your eye, you could see John smiling in amusement at your exchange while he bounced Rosie on his knee.

Oh, how you wished you could go back to Baker Street with the boys while Mrs. Hudson would make tea and Rosie trying to find anything hazardous to play with. John better be giving you a raise after this. It felt like you were looking after three kids instead and the actual baby was giving you less stress..

“Now how the hell did it get here?” the farm hand said, the sound of metal clanging as he lifted the toolbox.

He paused for a moment, seemingly standing still with the only sound in the barn was the animals. Suddenly, the dogs began to bark, drawing his attention away. He let out a string of curses, stomping over to wherever the dogs had gone. You felt yourself relax once he left.

You removed the tarp and continued your search. It didn’t take long for you to find the key under one of the crates. You creeped towards the door, looking both ways before rushing out to find Molly. She waved you over as she crouched behind one of the thick bushes near the house after she had texted the Reverend. He and another member of the church had walked up to the house, alerting the dogs and drawing the attention of the farm hand and, hopefully, McGregor.

“I got it,” you whispered to her.

She nodded, slowly making her way over to the basement doors. You passed the key over to her and she made quick work in unlocking the padlock. You held the chains as she removed the padlock, slowly dropping them onto the grass. She swung the metal latch out and looked at you with wide eyes. This was it. You grabbed one door and she grabbed the other. Together, you swung the basement doors open and were immediately greeted by the faces of Sherlock and John, their hands bound behind them with rope.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock commented.

You were about to give him a snide remark when Molly shouted. “Watch out!”

You turned a second too late as the butt of a gun made contact with your temple and you felt your body drop into the basement.

-

When you came to, you heard John shouting at one of your captors to release him so he could at least see if you needed any medical attention. You leaned back, your head feeling heavy on your neck. Your hands were tied behind your back next to one of the wooden support beams. In front of you were the farm hand and another man that was taller, but less fit, with a shaved head hidden under a worned out baseball cap. This must be McGregor. Poor Elise.

“We don’t want no trespassers here,” McGregor said, “Look at you city folk. Coming here and telling us how to run things! Only putting value into people and things that will benefit you. The moment we provided the chance to smuggle out goods around the country and to the docks, you people quickly see worth in us.”

“You’re farmers,” Molly said from the other side of the wooden beam, “How are you going to smuggle out paintings?”

McGregor smirked. “The crates, the piles of hay, anything we can hide something in that no one suspects.”

“Why are you doing this?” you asked.

His smirk morphed into a snarl. “Because, suddenly the farm ain’t enough anymore. Suddenly, our roads are being worn down and buildings falling apart, and no help or funding were ever  sent. We needed to think like the city folk and use their greed against them. Now we’re moving onto bigger fish, not just some damn paintings. Clever, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve been patting yourself on the back,” Sherlock said sarcastically, “And I bet it helped your wounded ego after being raised in a toxic household where your father was a cheating alcoholic that would come home and release his anger on you and your siblings and mother. Yet, no matter how much you insist you weren’t like your father, you had only ended up repeating history.”

“You shut your damn mouth!” McGregor snapped, pointing the gun at him. The dogs began to bark again. His eyes wavered before he growled, turning to the farm hand. “Well, what are you doing standing here for? Go and check what’s going on!”

The farm hand clambered out, stuffing his gun in his jeans. His footsteps retreated, then returned, his panting figure leaning against the doorframe. “It’s Reverend Chris again,” he said.

“What?”

“Reverend Chris. He said some of our boys were causing a disturbance back in town and wanted to talk to you.”

The knocking at the front door became louder as Reverend Chris called out for them. You could hear Elise’s voice greeting the reverend before calling for her husband. McGregor let out another growl, looking over at your tied up group before stomping up the stairs. The farm hand climbed back out and went to lock the basement again. Just as they left, you shifted around until you could feel your pocket knife from your back pocket.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t escaped sooner,” you said to Sherlock.

He grunted. “Well, it was rather annoying. I might have underestimated them-” You let out a dramatic gasp, which he chose to ignore “-and they kept constant watch on us. When we do manage to untie ourselves, we would be easily outnumbered and tied back up again.”

“And I’m assuming you lost your gun?” you asked John. You felt one of the ropes fall and you continued to saw through in earnest.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “Are you two okay?”

“Yeah. Molly?”

“I’m good.”

You sighed as the ropes around your wrists grew slacked and you were able to free yourself. You turned around and quickly got to work on Molly’s ropes.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Mols,” you said.

“It’s fine, (Y/n),” she assured you, “I chose to come and suspected that there would be a bit of danger when Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are involved.”

“You’re too good to us.”

Once you got Molly free, she looked around for any cutting tool she could find and helped you free the boys. They slowly got up, stretching their limbs and getting circulation back. As soon as John regained his bearings, he brought you and Molly into a hug. You both hugged him back, feeling relief to have finally found him alive and relatively well.

Sherlock cleared his throat, standing awkwardly as he dusted off his shirt, searching around for his black trenchcoat. Molly smiled and gave Sherlock a hug, too.

“I’m glad you two are okay,” she said.

Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. “Well, we still have to escape this asbestos ridden basement and have them arrested.”

“Can you just enjoy the moment, please?”

“Right. Sorry.”

You smiled at the two of them, then looked away. Your eyes flickered over to the locked basement doors before landing on the staircase that led into the house. It was hard to tell what was going on upstairs, but you could faintly here conversing. You couldn’t find the rest of your things in the basement, so they must have taken them upstairs.

“We need to get up there,” you said. “We could try and make it up the stairs once they’re outside.”

“We don’t even know the layout of the house. That’s just reckless, even for you (Y/n),” Sherlock said, “Stumbling through the corridors, only to get caught again.”

“But we know Elise McGregor,” Molly piped up, “She told us about every room and hidden secrets of the house.”

“Oh.”

“We can outhumber them now that there’s four of us. Five or six if we count Elise and Lottie,” you said, pacing around, visualizing the map of the house in your mind. “As long as the other men don’t come back, at least.”

You stopped as you spotted a metal bat and handed it to Molly. “Why are you handing that to me?” she asked, surprised.

“I’ve seen you slap Sherlock before. Your arm is pretty strong,” you said, shoving it in her hand.

She took it reluctantly, then turned back to John and Sherlock. “Who’s going up first?”

John decided to go up first, walking up the stairs to find the door was unlocked. You watched from the bottom as he slowly opened the door and peeked out. With light feet, he walked out and scanned the area. The men were talking out at the front of the house, slightly out of view. John looked over his shoulder and waved for Molly to come up, followed by you, then Sherlock.

You stuck close to each other with Molly telling John when to turn. He found the stairs and carefully climbed up, being cautious of any creaking wooden boards. You all stepped where he stepped and once he reached the landing, Molly told him where the master bedroom was.

Elise to you and Molly that she had been in charge of accounting and had kept the records in a locker box under the bed. Molly walked into the bedroom first, lifting the mattress for the small locker key while you crouched down to pull the box out. John stayed by the closed door while Sherlock went straight to the windows, peeking through the lacey white curtains to check on McGregor.

Papers of transactions were neatly sorted in the box, filled with names, prices, items, and locations. Molly quickly flipped through them, seeing things from paintings and sculptures to more dangerous dealings. You looked up at Molly with a shocked expression.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t think McGregor is that smart to be dealing with drug smuggling,” you said.

You saw Sherlock stiffened as he leaned closer to the window before whipping his head towards the door. He signaled at John to watch the door, Molly silently handing him the bat. All of you fell silent as you heard soft footsteps approaching the door.

There were three knocks, followed by a timid voice, “Hello?”

“Lottie,” you mouthed at Molly.

You all scrambled to hide as the door knob turned. Sherlock shoved you into the musty closet with Molly before he closed the door behind him. John hid behind the room door, readying himself with the bat if needed. You squeezed Sherlock’s arm in an effort to calm yourself and dull the throbbing in your head. He squeezed your arm back in reassurance.

Lottie walked in, the sound of struggle and a muffled cry followed. The bed creaked as something, or someone, was thrown down. Lottie sighed, picking up the locker and flipping through the papers.

“How rude of you to go through my things, Elise,” Lottie chided, “I was looking for these. What were you planning on doing with them, exactly? Without these, this town will turn to shit.”

Elise coughed. “This isn’t how we’re supposed to do things. Drugs, Lottie? That’s too dangerous.”

“So is living like this. I thought you’d understand. Once we’re able to run things on our own, we could get rid of those McGregors and still keep this place. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I won’t let you drag innocent people into this,” Elise said, “One mistake, and it’ll backfire on the whole town. Please, Lottie. I know a way to be rid of those men while getting what we want, without smuggling that damn cocaine and without killing anyone!”

Lottie let out a tired sigh. “Then, I guess you’re in my way.”

There was a click, signalling John to come out of hiding. “Don’t you dare,” he said firmly.

“Or what,” she laughed, “You’re gonna swing at me?”

Sherlock rushed out of the closet, grappling Lottie and trying to grab the gun from her. In the midst of the struggle, Lottie pulled the trigger, shooting a hole in the ceiling. Elise jumped and covered her head. You rushed over to Elise’s side and dragged her away. Molly collected the papers and closed the box, taking it with her as she followed you towards the window. The gun flew out of Lottie’s hands, skittering across the floor. John quickly picked it up, pointing it down as he went to check the window.

“They’re coming upstairs,” John warned.

Molly scrambled for her phone, when she remembered that they had taken it off of her. Her eyes widened when heavy footsteps started making their way over. You searched the room, grabbing a sash from the curtain and used it on Lottie’s wrists as Sherlock pulled them behind her back. John trained the gun at the door, standing in front of Molly and Elise.

The door burst opened, McGregor and the farm hand storming through. They slowly took in the scene before them and saw the gun in John’s hand and the bat in Molly’s.

“You’re outnumbered, McGregor. I’d advise you two to put those weapons down and tell us where you had put our belongings,” John ordered.

“Or what?” McGregor dared to ask.

John cocked the gun and shot an inch away from his foot. “I’m a trained soldier. I won’t miss the next time.”

They exchanged a look and the farm hand lunged forward. Molly gasped, her bat swinging on instinct, instantly knocking him unconscious. McGregor grimaced, lowering John’s stolen gun and kicked it over to him. Molly knelt down and checked for a pulse on the farm hand and sighed in relief when she found one.

McGregor glared at his wife. “How could you help them? He spat.

“It was a long time coming, Frank,” Elise said, sticking her chin up, “The divorce papers had been signed, I just need your signature.”

-

Lestrade was busy as he went to work rounding up the McGregor brothers, the conspiring farm hands, and Lottie, all of them in handcuffs. Once they were all put in the vans, Lestrade walked up to your group.

“You guys alright?” he asked.

“You must be having a field day, Jeff,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade sighed, giving a tired look at John who just shrugged. “It’s… you know what, sure. I’m just glad you and John are safe. You know, (Y/n) wouldn’t stop looking for you. How she managed to trace you all the way here is beyond me.”

Sherlock smirked, looking over at you with pride in his eyes. “She’s a clever girl.”

“How did you know to leave those clues?” you asked.

“The McGregors were already on to us the moment we stepped foot in the town and continuously followed us. Given their attitude towards outsiders, I figured a plan B would be in order. So, I sent out directions to my network to leave clues in a way that you would be able to solve them,” Sherlock explained.

“Well, those records you found will help us big time in hunting down the other smugglers and dealers,” Lestrade said, “Lots of work to do and papers to fill out and all that.”

“So I’m guessing raincheck on dinner then,” Molly said.

You stepped back, replaying what Molly had just said. You looked between her and Lestrade, then at Sherlock and John. Sherlock looked bewildered while John smiled. You suspected that he already knew about their relationship. Yours and Sherlock’s jaw dropped as Lestrade and Molly hugged in front of you.

“When?” you asked. “I mean congrats, but… when? How?”

Molly smiled, ducking her head in embarrassment. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” She looked over at Sherlock. “Can we talk?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to give a blunt comment, but shut it as Molly gave him a warning look. He sighed, then nodded, following Molly to the side. Lestrade shook his head, turning back to pat you and John on the shoulders.

“I’ll see you guys on a more pleasant occasion, yeah?”

John nodded. “See you.” As Lestrade left, John eyed your head, touching around with a practiced hand. When he pressed the area where you were hit, you winced, shrinking away from his hand. “Sit down so I can examine it better.”

You pouted. “Fine.”

After John finished checking on you, the four of you made your way towards the cabs that Lestrade had called over for you. Molly walked over to the cab that John was climbing into, leaving you to take a cab with Sherlock.

He cleared his throat, mechanically opening the door before you could reach it. He glanced over at Molly who gave him a nod of encouragement before ducking into the cab. You thanked him, ducking first and scooted all the way down to the other side.

The ride to the train station was long, and so was the silence between you and Sherlock. You turned away from the window and looked down at your lap.

“Why didn’t you call Lestrade for help?” you asked, thinking back to those two weeks that you were worried sick about them.

“Why didn’t you?” Sherlock countered. You remained quiet. You didn’t have the patience or energy to debate with him. He sighed. “I’m sorry. I underestimated the situation and got us captured. You were the only one I could think of that could get us out of there.”

You frowned. “Why me?”

You would have thought that he’d ask Molly for help. They’ve worked together and known each other for a long time and Sherlock always confided in her. You were just a babysitter for his flatmate’s child until she grows older and needs someone to tutor her.

“You’re clever,” Sherlock said, “We could go for hours talking about any subject that we indulge in. You’re extremely bearable compared to the others. The banter is quite… fun. You follow quickly on how my mind works and lower the difficulty so idiots like Anderson could understand. You understand… how important friends and family are. You were quickly accepted in my very small circle of friends, all who I knew have good judgement when it comes to getting close to people, though I’m technically considered their friend for some reason. You’re just… brilliant.”

You sat there in shock. “I… never knew you thought of me this way, I…”

Sherlock turned away. “Yes, well, Molly insisted that I tell you all of this. It frustrates her, apparently. John as well. He wouldn’t stop going on about it.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that…” he sighed, “That I am quite fond of you and it is no longer enough to be friends.”

It took you a minute for his words to fully register in your brain. Even then, you couldn’t understand how that was possible. You were under the impression that he was either not interested in any romantic relationships or just attracted to equally intelligent people.

“You’re silent. Silence is not good,” Sherlock said.

“I just… let me get this straight. Are you saying you like me as more than a friend?”

Sherlock frowned. “Isn’t that what I said? Did they hit you in the head that hard?”

“Since when?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Me, too.” Sherlock’s head whipped around to face you as you said this. “It just happens all of a sudden, right?”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well. The way back home is quite a while. I’m sure we have plenty of time to set down some ground rules for our relationship.”

[dawninlatin]

Queen of Peace, Chapter 1

A manorian high school AU

Words: 1688

Warnings: This chapter contains mentions of both physical and psychological abuse.

AO3 Link: Click here

Summary: Manon Blackbeak is flawless, untouchable. From the outside at least. Her grandmother pushes her to achieve greatness, and she doesn't let anyone get too close in fear of being hurt. How can anyone love her when not even her parents could?

Dorian Havilliard has always felt safe and confident around his friends. He might not have the greatest of families, but with Aelin and Chaol by his side, nothing can go wrong. That is until he tries keeping his greatest secret from them.

What will happen when Dorian and Manon gets to know one another? Can two lost souls find their way back together?

And we climbed onto the roof of the museum

And someone made love in the grass

And I forgot my name

And the way back to my mother’s house

-Florence + The Machine, South London Forever

Dorian Havilliard had never been happier to be with his friends. He was currently standing in Aedion Ashryver’s kitchen, drinking a beer and chatting with Chaol. The final third of their trio was busy sucking face with Rowan Whitethorn.

A lot has changed while I was away, he thought.

While his friends had been here - going to parties, hooking up with people, making memories - Dorian had been stuck at his family’s summer house, 700 miles away.

He knew he shouldn’t complain, it was a nice house - with a pool and everything - but if he had to take another day of his mother being wine drunk by 3pm, his little brother’s tantrums or his father’s extremely racist, sexist and homophobic comments he would go crazy.

Of course, not everything about his summer had been bad, but he didn’t want to think about that now.

Instead, Dorian leaned back and took another sip of his beer, enjoying the fact that he was back. «I am not drunk enough to watch this,» he said to Chaol, nodding towards Aelin and Rowan, the former now licking - actually licking - the latter’s neck.

«I know, gross right?» Chaol said, mimicking himself throwing up and earning a chuckle from Dorian in the process.

«When did this even happen?» he asked. Last time Dorian had checked, Aelin hated Rowan. Thinking back on how she always complained about the star quarterback being an annoying pain in her ass with his alpha-male bullshit, Dorian couldn’t quite fathom the sight before him.

Chaol looked towards them again with a disgusted look on his face. «No idea, I think they hooked up over the summer,» he replied, turning towards Dorian. «How about you? Met any cute girls?» Chaol wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis.

«Ehm..no,» Dorian replied quickly, finishing his drink.

Liar, he said to himself. He had hooked up with someone. Had even been in a relationship, brief as it was. That relationship had been the only good thing about his summer, the only thing making it bearable. Yet he couldn’t get himself to tell his friends about it. He couldn’t get himself to utter the words:

You know what? I did hook up with someone over the summer. His name was Vaughan and he looked like a god. Oh, I’m bisexual by the way.

Dorian had known for a few years now, but he still hadn’t come out to his friends. It shouldn’t have been this hard - he was living in 2019 after all - and they had been a trio for as long as he could remember. Dorian knew they would support him no matter what, but he couldn’t get himself to say it.

His spiraling train of thought was thankfully interrupted when Aelin finally came strolling into the kitchen.

«What’s up, losers,» Aelin announced, hopping onto the counter. She tried giving them her usual smirk, but all snark and bravado was replaced by blushing cheeks and a huge grin.

Chaol handed her a drink, before saying: «Who are you and what have you done to our Aelin? I can literally see hearts in your eyes.»

Dorian expected some sassy comeback, but she just giggled, looking towards the backyard where her boyfriend stood, talking to his friends.

Oh yes, things had definitely changed over the summer.

«I’m in love,» she declared, flinging her arms out and nearly hitting Dorian in the chest. «You should try it sometime,» Aelin continued, winking at Chaol.

There is the Aelin we know and love, Dorian thought.

She turned her gaze from Chaol to Dorian, giving him a once over.

«You,» she said - pointing at Dorian - «got hot over the summer.»

He felt a blush spread over his face at her words. He guessed he had changed a little over the summer. He had grown a few inches, let his hair get a little longer - the raven black curls almost falling to his eyes now - and put on a couple pounds of muscle. His mind wandered back to Vaughan and how he had shown exactly how hot he thought Dorian was.

He tried to change the subject over to something else, and said the first thing that came to mind: «I can’t believe we’ll all be seniors from tomorrow on.»

Both of his friends looked at him then. «I know!» Aelin said. «But I’ve got a feeling this year is going to be great.»

She threw her arms around their shoulders, before exclaiming: «I’ve got my boys with me after all. What could go wrong?»

And as his best friend grinned at him - the feeling of summer and freedom still lingering, music playing long into the night - Dorian couldn’t help but grin back, letting all worries and secrets fade away.

For now, at least.

-

Manon Blackbeak was sitting in her room, reading Animal Farm. The semester didn’t start until tomorrow, but the curriculum was always published a few days ahead, and her grades wouldn’t suffer from coming to class prepared. Her grandmother would only accept the best, after all.

She put away the book as she heard something rustle inside her closet. Seconds later Abraxos emerged, his head stuck inside a t-shirt. Manon sighed at the sight of the little black cat, but stepped over to help him.

Once she had freed him, she was awarded with a loud purr, his head pushing against her thigh. Manon rolled her eyes at his antics. «You stupid worm,» she mumbled, but gave in and stroked him behind his ears.

«It’s getting late,» she said to her companion. «We should head to bed, so we’re well rested for tomorrow.»

As if he understood what she was saying, Abraxos hopped onto her bed and laid down on his usual spot, right next to her pillow.

Manon turned off the lights before laying down next to him.

I will be a senior from tomorrow on, she thought.

Her summer had been rather uneventful, as usual. They never went anywhere, never did anything. Manon’s grandmother was always very busy, so she only had her cousin Asterin for company - whenever she was home, that was.

Manon spent her summers waiting for school to begin again, getting the time to pass by reading herself up on various subjects, always working to maintain her perfect GPA.

Only the best will do. Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind. You don’t want to end up like your mother, do you?

Manon had never met her mother - since she had died right after Manon was born - but her grandmother liked to remind her of how big of a failure the woman was, having dropped out of college after being knocked up by Manon’s father.

She had never met her father either. Apparently the man was a drunken nobody, wanting nothing to do with his daughter.

Her parents wasn’t something she thought about often, but once again she heard her grandmother’s words. You will do better. Be better. Understand?

Manon’s summer hadn’t only consisted of tedious schoolwork, she had also spent countless hours at the dance studio, practicing new moves.

Dancing was her one great passion. She loved closing her eyes and getting lost in the music, her body moving to the rhythm on its own accord. On the good days, dancing felt like flying.

That was the other reason to why she was looking forward to school starting again. She hadn’t danced with her team in months. They called themselves the Thirteen, and she was their captain. As soon the semester started they could get back to practicing, working towards their goal of beating Iskra Yellowlegs and her team’s ass.

As she closed her eyes, ready to drift off to sleep, her mind wandered to Asterin. Manon hadn’t seen her cousin all evening, so she came to the conclusion that she had most likely snuck out to go to some end-of-summer party. It wouldn’t be the first time.

As if on cue, someone knocked quietly on her window.

«Speaking of the devil,» Manon said to no one in particular as she got out of bed, walked over to the window and opened it, only to find Asterin standing outside.

The girl looked wild, wearing her usual leather jacket, wavy, blonde hair hanging loose, make-up smudged around her eyes.

«Move your ass and let me in,» was her cousin’s only greeting as she stealthily climbed inside, barely making any noise.

Manon chose to ignore her and crawled back into bed. Asterin followed, shoving Abraxos out of the way and laying down next to Manon.

The cat gave Asterin an offended look before running inside the closet again.

«How drunk are you?» Manon asked her cousin, trying to ignore the stench of alcohol. 

This was going to be a long night, she thought.

Asterin turned to lay on her back. «Not too drunk, I can walk in a straight line,» she said, turning her face towards Manon’s and wiggling her eyebrows.

Manon wasn’t too sure about that, noticing the slur in her voice. All of a sudden, Asterin started to giggle.

«What’s so funny?» Manon asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice.

Asterin didn’t seem to care that her cousin would much rather sleep as she answered: «I’m just happy about life I guess. I have a boyfriend now.» She giggled some more, drawing out the syllables in boyfriend.

Asterin kept going, «His name is Hunter, and he’s perfect.»

So that’s why she’s been out so much lately, Manon mused to herself.

She went quiet after that, probably asleep already. Manon turned to lay on her side, -facing away from her drunk cousin - when Asterin spoke again. Her voice was quiet and surprisingly sober this time. «You didn’t tell her, right? That I was out, I mean. You know how angry she can get.»

Yes, Manon knew first hand how angry their grandmother could get, the small, white mark she bore on her left cheek proof of that.

A/N: If you finished it all, congratulations!

I never thought I would write a multichapter fic, but I got the idea for this and was unable to put it away, so here it is!

I have the full story plotted out already (although it is a mess), but don't know how often I will have the inspiration to write the chapters and post them. I don't want to make a posting schedule either because consistency is definitely not my middle name.

I just have to say that writing Manon is extremely difficult. She is one complex character. But I am trying my best, and decided to write her like I think she would be, had she been a human teenager.

Also, if it seems like the writer of this fic has never stepped foot inside an American high school, you're correct. I'm just a simple Norwegian trying my best.

Feel free to leave a comment:) Constructive criticism is always welcomed, as I am working towards improving as a writer.

Peace&Love -Dawninlatin

[jarienn972]

A Simple Spell - Chapter Five

A Captain Swan Supernatural Summer Tale

Sorry for the week delay in posting this new chapter of my @cssns story, but between the rough week at work, and an even rougher weekend in my personal life, I barely had the time, or the energy, to write. This chapter also ran a little bit longer than I originally intended but that was partially because I decided to add a brief glimpse into Emma's everyday life as a Storybrooke deputy to bridge the time between her two "dates".  Just a little bit of comedy to lighten things up because a big revelation is coming soon that will shake Emma’s trust.

I want to extend my thanks to everyone involved in this event!  @kmomof4, your commentary leaves me in stitches every week!  I have to also thank @cocohook38 for the incredible artwork above and @lassluna for her time as my beta to help keep this tale on track.

I also want to give a little head’s up that since next week is my daughter’s birthday, it will be another 2 weeks until I can post Chapter six.  Party planning is a lot of work!

Read from the beginning on Tumblr: One  Two  Three  Four    AO3  FF.net

Thursday morning came way too quickly. The sun hadn't even risen yet as Emma reached across her nightstand to squelch the incessant beeping of her alarm clock, wishing the whole time that there was a similar button that would cease the throbbing inside her skull. She was going to pay dearly for overindulging last night, but despite the hangover, she didn't regret everything she did last night and she was actually looking forward to the day. Well, more specifically, the night.

The past few hours had also given her a stark reminder as to why living with her brother was a bad idea. Her sister-in-law had still been awake watching television in the living room when Emma tried to slip in the door unnoticed. Mary Margaret had a huge, exuberant grin on her face, probably hoping that Emma would spill all of the lurid details of the evening - especially the part that included why she was trying to sneak into the loft after midnight, but Emma wasn't going to be quite so forthcoming. Not tonight at least.

She gave her sister-in-law an embarrassed smile and feigned a yawn as she practically darted across the room to the stairs. Mary Margaret simply nodded and whispered "good night" but Emma had little doubt that they'd have the full conversation later. The woman definitely had a way of pulling information out of people without even breaking a sweat, or her sweet demeanor. She'd probably make one hell of an interrogator if she wasn't a third grade teacher, Emma thought as she ascended the stairs to her bedroom.

Now that it was morning, she had a bigger challenge facing her - getting downstairs and out of the door before David realized that she was running nearly half an hour late. She really wanted a steaming hot cup of coffee with a side of ibuprofen, but it would have to wait until she got to the station since she wasn't going to have time to stop at Granny's on the way. She tiptoed down the stairs as stealthily as she could, crossed through the kitchen to grab her bag and jacket by the front door - instantly freezing and cringing at the sound of two words uttered from the living room.

"Late night?"

Damn. Of course, David was already awake. "Yeah. Sorry… I'm on my way in…" she apologized without making eye contact with her brother. She absolutely needed to get a place of her own.

"Give Anton a call when you get to the station. He left a very strange message on my phone this morning and it sounded very much like a problem that will take someone with your particular skill set to deal with…"

"Really? What kind of problem?"

"He said that a couple of his pigs escaped their pen and got into the bean fields…"

Emma swung her head around at the mention of Anton's beans with a puzzled and slightly worried expression on her face. "Do I dare ask - which beans? String beans? Beanstalk beans? Or…"

"That would be the or. Apparently, they ate a few of Anton's new experimental anti-gravity beans that he's been testing to make climbing those big ol' beanstalks to his realm easier."

"So… we've got flying pigs?" she deadpanned, too hungover to even find the humor in this ridiculous situation.

"Technically floating pigs… I mean, they can't really go anywhere due to the protective field around Anton's farm, but he needs someone who might be able to do a little magical piggy wrangling."

Emma shook her head and exhaled a frustrated sigh. This definitely wasn't the start she needed for this day. She had to think of a spell that would either counteract the effect of the beans or somehow figure a way to confine them to a safe area until the beans wore off - however long that may take.

The ironic part was that two days ago, if someone had told her that she'd have two handsome, eligible men vying for her attention, she would have replied when pigs fly. Now she was about to contend with actual airborne swine while thinking about both of those wonderful men. But she was also trying to ignore a niggling thought deep in her subconscious that kept saying that this wasn't necessarily a good thing. She just wasn't clear-headed enough to want to listen to it yet.

**********

A few hours later, after battling three very unruly pigs at Anton's bean farm, Emma was now certain she'd seen everything. She'd attempted three different spells trying to get the pigs to come back down to earth, but none were successful. So, with Anton's assurance that the floating effect would wear off in a few hours, as a last resort, she used her teleportation abilities to relocate each of the pigs into the general area of their enclosure. Once all three were back in one place, she utilized a protection spell to put a separate force field around the pig pen so they wouldn't be able to fly off again. She just couldn't promise Anton that they'd have a soft landing when the beans wore off, so he'd made the decision to make the enclosure as muddy as possible to help cushion their descent.

Mud that had clung to her boots as she'd wandered into Granny's, already exhausted only two hours into her morning. Who would have thought that wrangling flying pigs would be such hard work? It had certainly been enough to leave her famished so she'd left David a message to let him know she was taking her lunch hour early so she could get breakfast. Graham could handle things until she got back she told herself as she slid onto one of the stools at the diner's counter.

The little devil on her shoulder urged her to order some bacon and eggs, but when Ruby came over to take her order, she decided on a Belgian waffle with strawberries and a heap of whipped cream on top instead. She did go ahead and order a side of scrambled eggs, but what she really wanted brought out to her first was the biggest cup of Granny's strongest brew. Ruby took her order to the kitchen, then returned to fill both Emma's stainless steel travel mug as well as a ceramic mug to drink here. Emma thanked her bubbly friend, silently questioning how anyone could be so perky this early in the morning as took a tentative sip of the steaming coffee. She relished the beverage's aroma but didn't realize how much she'd been craving it until the welcome warmth reached her belly. Now this morning was improving.

After a short wait, Granny herself emerged from the kitchen with Emma's food, immediately scrunching her nose in disgust as she approached the deputy.

"What the hell is that stench?" Granny scowled, glaring at Emma - and the muddy footprints that the deputy had left on the floor when she entered the diner. "And where did that mess come from?"

"Sorry, Granny," Emma flushed with embarrassment while digging through her jacket pockets in search of her wand. "I was out at Anton's farm and I sort of forgot…" Brandishing her magic wand, she waved it in the direction of the dirty floor and recited the spell - "Et abiit lutum. Dirt be gone." With a swish of her wand, the floor was sparkling clean once again and Emma repeated the spell over her boots, not daring to leave behind even the slightest trace of mud when she left the building.

"That's better," the elder woman grumbled as she placed the plates of food onto the countertop directly in front of Emma. "Next time, please clean the boots before entering my diner." Emma nodded in agreement as she stabbed her fork into a chunk of scrambled egg. You just didn't argue with Granny. Ever.

By the time she'd finished off the eggs and devoured half of the waffle (but all of the strawberries), she heard the tap of shoe soles on the magically clean tile approaching her. A quick glance over her left shoulder revealed that the figure nearing her was Walsh, seemingly off to a late start this morning. She noticed that his pace slowed a bit as he got closer, his steps becoming tentative as he reached the counter - and Emma, for that matter.

"Good morning, Emma," he greeted her, his voice a little timid. "I hadn't expected to see you here. Would you mind if I joined you?"

"The seat's not occupied," she teased, still very aware of the awkward way they'd said goodnight last evening. He was partially responsible for her hangover so she didn't feel the least bit guilty taunting him a bit. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could wrangle an explanation out of him for his weird behavior yesterday without having to outright ask. "Thank you again for dinner last night. I had a great time catching up on lost time. Can I return the favor and buy you breakfast?"

"How about just coffee?" he suggested as he took a seat on the stool to her left. "I have a meeting with one of my suppliers this morning so I'm short on time."

"Sure. Hey, Ruby - can I get another coffee for my friend here?"

"Just a sec. I've got a fresh pot brewing," Ruby responded, fishing a second ceramic mug from beneath the counter. She brought the empty mug over to where Emma and Walsh were sitting, giving Emma a sly wink of approval as she placed the cup in front of Walsh. "Be right back, hon."

Emma shook her head at the waitress' actions, although she secretly appreciated the affirmation. As promised, Ruby came right back over with a fresh pot of coffee, filling Walsh's mug and topping off Emma's before scurrying off. They each waited until she was out of earshot before continuing their conversation.

"Emma, I think I owe you a bit of an apology over how our evening ended last night," Walsh spoke up, his confession catching her off-guard. She hadn't imagined that he would bring up the subject without even the slightest bit of prodding.

"An apology?" she feigned ignorance. "For what?"

"I guess I didn't like how things ended rather abruptly and that's entirely my fault. I let myself get a little too comfortable and I completely forgot that it wasn't the old days. I'd fully expected to see you off with a goodnight kiss, forgetting entirely that we weren't on a date. It wouldn't have been appropriate and I'm very sorry if you sensed any disappointment on my part."

"The thought never crossed my mind," she insisted, shoving another forkful of waffle into her mouth before her tongue had a chance to betray her.

"Phew," he sighed loudly. "I was honestly worried that you'd be upset with me this morning and I'm really glad that you aren't because I'd love to have dinner with you again. If you'll have me, that is…"

"I would love to have dinner with you again, Walsh," she replied after she finished chewing and swallowing her food. "How long do you expect to be in town?"

"Through the weekend, for sure and it looks like probably Monday since the shipment I'm awaiting seems to be delayed by a storm in the Atlantic. That's what my meeting this morning is about - to get an update on the ship's pending arrival. Are you free tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow's Friday, right? I can't tomorrow. I have a meeting…"

"A meeting? At night?"

"Well, more like a training session - to help me work on refining some newly-acquired skills." She wasn't entirely sure how she should explain that she was actually attending a coven gathering at the height of the full moon, but since Walsh had hinted earlier that he was familiar with Storybrooke's less-than-secretive other side, she didn't think he'd be opposed to discover that she was dabbling in magic. "I've been studying to become a witch."

"A witch?" he asked incredulously, although she didn't sense he was overly surprised by her revelation.

"Yes. Technically, I guess I already am a witch, but I'm still pretty much a novice. I've been studying with some of the town's most powerful…"

"The Mills sisters?" he interrupted, again catching her unprepared for his query. He was definitely well-versed enough to be able to drop names.

"Yeah, I've been learning from them as a part of their current coven."

"Excellent teachers, I'm sure."

"They are, but just how do you know about them?" she asked skeptically. "You've crossed paths with them?"

"So to speak. I've been doing business in Storybrooke for years and through my contacts here, I've learned a lot about this little town. As I mentioned yesterday, this town is a great source for unique discoveries."

"Alright then, I have to ask - do you practice magic at all?"

"No, I don't dabble in it myself, but I've picked up a few potions here and there from Mr. Gold at the pawn shop. He's an excellent apothecary as well. I've been told that both he and his wife were members of the Mills sisters' coven until maybe a year ago. I guess they mostly stopped practicing magic when their son was born but Mr. Gold is still a wonderful source of information and trinkets."

"I haven't really gotten to know the Golds that well, but as you know, Storybrooke is full of surprises," she chuckled nervously, for some reason feeling ill at ease with the direction the conversation had taken. She glanced up at the clock on the wall near the old jukebox and made a very animated display of being late. "Oh, crap! I hate to run off on you again, Walsh, but I really better get to the station before my brother sends out a search party. I'm probably free Saturday though…"

"I'll take a look at my agenda, but I'm pretty sure I'm free that day too."

"Great. Call me later then." She forced a smile to her lips as she gathered up her things and dropped a ten dollar bill and a couple of ones on the countertop to pay for her meal and Walsh's coffee. "Thanks, Ruby!" she shouted to her friend as she snatched up the travel mug. "I'll see you around town, Walsh."

Walsh stood up to see her out before returning to his seat. Ruby swiftly whisked away Emma's empty plates before asking Walsh if there was anything else she could get him. He politely declined, staring at Emma through the window as she made her way through the diner's courtyard and disappeared beyond the hedge. Ruby gave him a smile and a nod as she vanished into the kitchen with a huge grin on her face knowing that tomorrow night she was absolutely going to grill Emma to learn everything about her handsome friend.

**********

Despite clearing the air with Walsh and making tentative plans with him for the weekend, Emma had only a singular thought on her mind the rest of the day - her date that evening with the infuriatingly charming Captain Jones. A relatively light afternoon of patrols allowed her to leave the station on time - and to take a much needed shower to wash away any remaining traces of Anton's bean field mud. Tonight, she was going on a proper date, albeit on that modern day pirate ship, and she wanted to look her best.

She'd selected a soft pink chiffon dress from her armoire and drew her unruly hair back into the neatest ponytail she could manage. She wasn't sure why, but she really wanted to project a softer image tonight, to showcase a more feminine side than the tough-talking, hard-drinking deputy that the captain had witnessed so far. She'd even added a rare touch of makeup to her face - a little mascara, a bit of shimmering peach eyeshadow and a hint of shiny mauve lip gloss - not that she was intending to kiss anyone tonight. It just seemed appropriate.

At quarter to seven, she scurried down the stairs, grabbed her tan leather jacket from the rack beside the front door and slipped out before her sister-in-law, Mary Margaret, could even say "have a good night". She'd decided it was best to drive to the harbor since the gathering clouds overhead were threatening a storm and the last thing she wanted to do was walk home through rain-swollen puddles in dress shoes. It was just before 7PM when she pulled her yellow Bug into a parking space opposite the Jolly Roger, and she couldn't quite figure out why she was experiencing increasing anxiety.

It was just a date. She'd been on dates before. Why was she suddenly so damned nervous?

Her heart was pounding as she ascended the gangplank, cursing her choice of footwear as her heels made an awful racket on the metal ramp. Once aboard, she noticed that there were a few lanterns illuminating the deck but there was little activity. She could hear the creaking of the old wood and the waves lapping against the hull, but not much else. It would appear that the captain had been true to his word about giving the crew a night off.

One individual was on the deck to greet her though and that was the jovial Mr. Smee. At the sight of her, he scrambled to get to the top of the gangplank before she did, offering a hand to aid her in stepping down onto the slippery wooden planking.

"So lovely to see you again, Deputy Swan," the first mate gushed, welcoming her with a huge smile. "The captain hasn't stopped talking about you all day and he's expecting you in his quarters."

"He's been talking about me, huh?" she responded with a nervous chuckle, thankful that the darkness of the night obscured her blushing.

"My goodness, yes, dear… He had Cookie prep a lovely meal for the two of you and,if I do say so myself, it smells absolutely divine!"

"Sounds wonderful."

"Well, now - right this way, Deputy," he instructed with an animated gesture towards the hatch she'd seen Killian Jones emerge from yesterday. Smee led the way and even raised the hatch for her. "Right down below, Miss. Just watch yer step…"

"Thank you, Mr. Smee," she replied, getting a look at the steep, angled ladder that descended into the Captain's quarters, wishing once again that she'd worn anything but heels tonight. She was also regretting her choice of attire as a sharp breeze across the stern nearly gave her an unwanted Marilyn Monroe moment. They were way too early in this relationship for her to be showing off her undergarments and she could only hope that her date was enough of a gentleman to allow her to descend this awkward ladder without peeking up her skirt.

The cozy room below was decorated with surprisingly eccentric style and smelled faintly of rum, candles and the musty scent of old books and maps. She found Killian in the center of the chamber with his back to her, lighting the second of two slender, ruby red taper candles atop a sturdy looking wooden table. In addition to the candles, the table was set with two plates that appeared to be actual fine china, flatware that was likely real silver as it has just the slightest blemish of tarnish and two crystal goblets. A pair of matching wooden armchairs with brocade seat cushions flanked the table and in the center of the display sat a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of wine he'd brought out to chill.

"Good evening, Swan," he greeted her, spinning around to face her with a single, long stemmed red rose clutched in his prosthetic left hand. "For you, Love." He extended the mechanical hand toward her, offering the flower that she accepted with a blushing grin.

"Thank you," she replied as she brought the bloom to her nose, inhaling its fragrance. "No hook this evening?"

"I decided to go with a softer persona this evening, although if you prefer the other attachment, I'll be happy to swap them."

"A softer persona? Were you afraid of intimidating me?" she asked him with a snicker.

"Well, I do cut an intimidating figure, do I not?"

She wasn't entirely certain if he was being serious or facetious but with a challenge like that, she couldn't help but give him a visual once-over. He'd traded out the black denim from yesterday for a pair of black dress trousers which he'd paired with a black wool sweater that hugged the curve of his biceps almost indecently. Her brain immediately reminded her about his off-the-cuff comment yesterday about seeing anything she liked and right now, she only had one answer - yes. She was enjoying everything she was seeing.

"Still full of yourself, I see," she quipped as he ushered her to one of the armchairs so she could sit down.

"Merely confidence, Love," he assured her with a sinful smirk as he withdrew the dark green glass wine bottle from its icy bath. "Would you care for some wine? I have this lovely vintage chilling here, but if you prefer, there's always plenty of rum."

"After last night, I think I'll start off slow. Some wine would be perfect." As she took her seat, he yanked the cork from the wine bottle using his teeth, filling her goblet before his own.

"My cook will be here momentarily with tonight's repast. I do hope that you enjoy seafood as I inadvertently failed to ask."

"I grew up in New England so I think seafood was one of the main food groups - at least if frozen fish sticks and tater tots count."

"Ah, a classic combination," he chuckled. "This may be a trifle more haute cuisine though."

"I certainly hope so, Captain, or I'll be sadly disappointed in your standards," she countered sarcastically as she took a sip from her glass, quickly realizing that if his taste in wine was any indication, dinner should be an absolute treat.

In fact, the only real disappointment Emma experienced that night was that it had to come to an end. The food was delicious and the wine he'd selected complemented it perfectly. This roguish captain surprised her at every turn. For all of his posturing and machismo, she'd found Killian Jones to be a perfect gentleman and a well-educated, excellent storyteller. True or not, he'd entertained her with tales of his voyages around the globe and when he'd finished, he listened intently to her exploits. She'd not been on a date this enjoyable in a very long time but unfortunately, tomorrow was still a work day so she knew she needed to wind things down.

"Well, Captain Jones," she began with a deep sigh, "you do indeed know how to show a girl a good time, but unfortunately, my time is running short."

"Alas, the real world interferes," he replied disparagingly. He was enjoying the evening as much as she was, but he knew that they each still had duties to attend to in the morning. "We wouldn't want you turning into a pumpkin at midnight, now would we?"

"I can assure you, I've never turned into a pumpkin… A bear, maybe, but never a pumpkin... But yeah…, sometimes the real world sucks."

"In Storybrooke, I would hesitate to take any unnecessary chances at the witching hour."

His choice of words caught her attention and for a moment, unnerved her until she recalled that she'd been toying with Magic last night at the Rabbit Hole. He'd probably observed her for a while, deciding if it was safe to approach, but clearly not adverse to her powers.

"I really hope we might be able to do this again before you set sail," she mentioned, hopefully that he'd be open to the suggestion.

"I can certainly make that happen, Love. We're awaiting supplies from another ship that has been delayed by a foul Nor'easter. We won't be leaving port for a few days, at the very least. Just let me know when you're free and I can make arrangements to be there."

"You can just drop everything for a date?" she wondered.

"It's good to be the Captain," he assured her with a wily smirk.

"I'm sure it is," she smiled broadly. This man was just too much. "Well, Captain, I will let you know when I have some free time. I'd really like to do this again."

"As would I, Swan. Now, how about I walk you out to your vehicle?"

"Actually, as wonderful as that sounds, I'm going to walk myself out so I'm less likely to give in to temptation. After being burned one too many times before, I'd rather not rush into anything…"

"Then I shall bid you goodnight, Emma. Until we meet again?"

"Absolutely." There was no way she wasn't going to plan a second date with Killian Jones but she was treading cautiously with both potential romances. The spell promised that she'd discover true love but it didn't say it would be easy.

[renaissancedweeb]

Prompt #6: Agony (Self-prompt)

     Being a Yellowjacket meant protecting the people. As a former pirate, protecting others was something that she should not have been terribly concerned with. Sure, she had protected her best mates and the captain, when he was not being a giant arse, but when Merlwyb had declared an end to piracy she had needed to find a new line of work. Farming, while pretty with incentives, had held no appeal despite being something that would have gotten her hands dirty. She needed blood, sweat, and tears that all belonged to other people as she cut a swath through enemy ranks. That the enemies were mostly local fauna that took offense to people trying to make a living on land as opposed to the sea rather than rival pirates was certainly less exciting, but it was better than nothing.

     It was that civil duty that had sent her out to Lower La Noscea to investigate claims of wild aurochs having wandered to the area. The need for action, something to prove her strength against, and no small amount of personal interest had sent her running at the herd. If their path had been redirected then her duty would have been complete. That the herd had been aggressive served her well enough, however, but she had not counted on her own instincts betraying her. She knew it was what she got for agreeing to bring in a greenhorn, though, and as she shoved the young recruit aside she only had time enough to hope that no one would let her husband and son see her body before she was hit head on by a charging auroch.

     No one still living had ever accused Minerva Mauglein of being rational. She was a swing first and ask questions later kind of woman, strong and possessing a self-confidence that bordered on arrogance. She was also barely clinging to life when Solkwyb arrived to administer much needed healing, and several days later she found herself opening her eyes only to be greeted by the familiar stone surrounds of Limsa Lominsa. Her hearing came a moment later followed by her nerve endings screaming into consciousness with pain so immense she actually gasped.

     “By the Navigator, y’scared the shite right out of me!”

     Turning her head with a groan, Minerva noticed a lalafellin nurse standing on a stool. She had been in the middle of doing something but had stopped to put a hand over her heart as if to keep it from bursting out of her chest. Wetting her lips as best she could with a tree bark tongue, Minerva almost considered keeping her thought to herself.

     “Explains the smell,” she whispered dryly. Almost.

     She ignored the look of reproach she had earned in favor of scanning the rest of the room. It was a standard issue medical facility, with its hard bed, stiff sheets, and rows upon rows of bottles filled with all sorts of potions and nix tongues. There also was a whiff of something foul in the air but coming from a pirate background told her that it was only the stench of a body gone unwashed for too long. That would have explained the basin and sponge on the table the nurse was standing at; it was bath day.

     “How long?” she asked, voice still nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

     “Almost a fortnight, altogether. Been only a week here. You had to be stabilized before you could move. You’re lucky to be awake at all, honestly. I’ve seen smaller scrapes do a man in that what got you.”

     “Good thing ‘m not a man.”

     The exasperated sigh that met her response was clearly meant to cover a laugh. Letting it lie--it was too hard to breathe to carry on a conversation--she instead focused what energy she had on feeling herself out. Her hands were working, fingers wiggling as much as she dared to let them while her elbows crooked ever so slightly. There was less fire in her arms and shoulders which was a good sign save for the inferno that flared in her chest; freshly knit ribs and collarbone then. Her left leg seemed to be in decent order as well, sluggish only from lack of use, but as she attempted to move her right foot she noticed something was off.

      “...What-?”

     “Oh, well would you look at this,” the nurse interjected, now at her bedside and firmly grasping the sheet that was covering her in one hand while the other waved frantically behind her.

     Were she her usual self it would be nothing to rip the cloth from the other woman’s grip. Diminished as she was, Minerva knew there was no way she would be able to see what was under there, what the nurse was hiding. What she did see, however, was something much more pleasant as she spied eyes the color of storm clouds. New lines had formed around them and they had begun to sink into a nest of dark circles, but they still belonged to her husband. In his arms was another familiar sight, a pair of wide yellow eyes that shimmered in the sunlight pouring in from the window and framed by wild, dark hair that had a pair of large, dark ears poking from the top.

     “‘Allo, loves,” she whispered.

     “Ma! Mumma!”

     The fire in her chest turned to ice as little Artevael reached out for her from his father’s arms only to be gently shushed and pulled tighter to his chest. She wanted so badly to take him, to tell him everything was fine, but she and Devereux were doing their best to teach him not to lie so how could she tell one so blatant? Especially when she did not even know the full extent of her injuries.

     “It’s alright, sweetling,” Devi cooed. “Mumma’s awake, but she’s still hurt. We have to be gentle, alright? Can you be gentle with your ma?”

     A tiny smile crept onto her face when her boy nodded even as her husband’s words echoed in her head as something surreal. Gentle? Minerva Mauglein? The woman who carried unprocessed logs as exercise? Who had wench toted her not-then-husband from the tavern because no one would let her fight the barmaid? Minerva Mauglein, who had often been described as a bladed whirlwind in the heat of battle? That hurt almost as much as not being able to hold her little boy.

     “‘M glad you’re awake, Ma,” Artevael whispered as he stood next to her bed. Apparently gentle also meant a soft voice and that made her smile again. “They said...they said you was gonna sleep a long time.”

     “Ah, sleepin’ too much is boring,” she said only to have a cough follow her words and contort her expression into one of pure pain.

     “Mumma?!”

     Before Devereux could reach for him, she moved her hand from beneath the now loosened covers to take Art’s little hand. Tiny fingers rubbed at the weapon calluses--once an action of awe at his mother’s strength and now one of reminder of it--before he gripped her as tight as he dared. Her baby boy was so strong, the same way Devereux was, and she was so proud.

     It was that quiet strength that had drawn her to her husband in the first place, and the first thing she pointed out when people asked why someone like her would go after a displaced elezen man over the rough-and-tumble types found all over Limsa Lominsa. After that, folk had questioned the adoption of a baby miqo’te when her ears were round and his were pointed just not on top of his head. Those questions were met with a fist and curses that made even the most seasoned sailors turn crimson. That was why she had been glad to see Artevael taking more after his father. She was proud of her strength and unapologetic of her past, but hers was not a life she wished for her son. That both he and Devereux loved her regardless was a boon she knew she did not deserve and why she held tight to it. It was also that love that she knew she would need in the coming days.

     “So, since little miss is gone,” she breathed as she looked up at her husband, “you tell me what’s wrong with me.”

     “Other than you being entirely too reckless and taking no less than five years off my life?” he asked and he grinned when she rolled her eyes. She woke in good spirits. He did not know how long she would keep them.

     “Don’t give me that look, Devi. Just spit it out.”

      Even little Artevael looked uncomfortable, his ears sticking out flat to the sides. Obviously the news was bad, but whatever it was she had at least woken up. There were probably at least three people back at command who were cursing their luck at losing the pot. She could probably name them, too, and she would see to them later.

     “Broken ribs, shattered collarbone, broken arms and legs, a concussion; if it’s a bone it was probably broken, except our hands. Somehow your hands were unscathed save for cuts. Someone was watching out for you there,” he said. He then ran a hand through his hair, clearly nervous and wanting to stall, but he knew it was useless. “About your leg, you-it...there was no salvaging it, Minnie. They had to take it off or infection would set in and kill you sure as that auroch almost did. ...I’m sorry.”

     His words reached her ears, but they did not fully process at first. It was not that she could deny something was wrong, and considering the nature of the rest of her injuries compared to what she had seen with others amputation was not necessarily out of the realm of possibility. The thing was, it could not have happened to her. She could not have had it happen to her. How would she still be a Yellowjacket without two legs to stand on, to move her forward, to keep her balanced as she swung her axe in the name of safety and State mandated bloodshed? The answer was, she would not be. At least, not in the capacity she had been serving.

     “Huh,” she finally said as she turned her gaze away from her husband and to the ceiling. The ceiling could not look at her with sympathy and sadness; Devereux knew better than to pity her. “Guess this is it for ol’ Mean Min.”

     “Minnie…”

     With more gentleness than anyone but her family would have thought her capable of, Minerva removed her hand from her son’s grasp before moving it to stroke his hair. He was crying now, and she could not even muster up the strength to tell him that there was no need. It would also be rude to get him to stop when she felt like it herself.

     “I’m glad y’stopped by,” she rasped, her voice betraying the tears that were threatening to fall. “I know I said sleep was boring, but I’m thinkin’ I hear it callin’ again. Isn’t that was the physicks say? Sleep cures all? Or s’it alcohol?”

     Devi knew the joke for the shoddy mask it was, but he was kind enough to offer a smile before he scooped their son back into his arms.

     “You rest up, love,” he said softly. “We’ll come see you again soon.”

     “I love you, Mumma.”

      Unable to summon a reply for fear of loosing the sobs that tore at her throat, she instead blew them both a kiss, stilted and painful as her movements were. It was only when they left that she let the tears fall. The Captain did always say that her life would end in blood and ruin, but even he likely never thought it would come as it had. Still, it was not the loss of limb, and life as she knew it, that hurt most. It was the silence, the waiting for the other shoe to drop that never would because some auroch had run off with it. It was being thankful to be alive while at the same time thinking it might have been better that she had died. For the first time in her life, Minerva was powerless and that was a pain worse than what she felt in the limb she no longer had.

[animalsoffarmsanctuary]

Reintroducing Beeley Pippin and the Chickens of Painted Meadow Farms

Let’s meet the chickens of Painted Meadow Farms and see just how far they have come since their rescue last spring.

From this trash-filled scene to our scenic farm in Watkins Glen, NY, these birds have had quite a change in their lives.

Tad, Tupac, Bethany, and Sarah after their cage was cleaned. Still no way to live, and thankfully, we got them out just a week after this photo was taken.

This is Tad with his turkey pal Lizzie. He’s shown above in a tiny cage where he and three other chickens — his brother Tupac and his sisters Bethany and Sarah — were discovered living in months’ worth of feces and suffering from horrible respiratory infections. A little fresh air and sunshine made all the difference!

Brother Tupac also looking better and growing stronger. These boys were in a cage in the middle of an ammonia-filled barn, suffering from respiratory illness and lots of parasites. 

Every animal who arrives at one of Farm Sanctuary’s facilities — from the largest Holstein steer to the tiniest Bantam rooster — gets a name, has a documented history, and receives the individualized care that they never had before coming to us.

Luther, a few months after he arrived, was able to come up on the main farm. He still looked thin and in poor feather condition, but that has definitely changed.

Luther now — much more confident and a whole lot chubbier. This boy has grown into quite a beautiful rooster with a very happy happy life that he clearly appreciates. 

Each of the incredible chickens who came from these horrific conditions has now come around and is displaying a very unique personality all his or her own.

The outdoor housing at the facility was not much better than the indoor housing, and many of the birds suffered frostbite along with their other illnesses due to filthy conditions. 

Retina enjoying the grass under her feet. Before her rescue, she lived in constant garbage and mud, and she seems to really enjoy her new world. 

Everyone arrived frightened, and very sick. The girls who had been living in indoor housing were in such horrific condition that the vets from APHIS required respirators to enter the enclosure. The stench burned your nose and eyes, and you could see the dander and manure dust in the air.

The beautiful Scarlet Crofton, a stunning Ameraucana gal, looks amazing in comparison to when we found her, when she was nearly featherless. As the birds recovered, it was fun to see what breeds of chicken they were, since they looked very different at the time of their rescue.  

Those who had been living outside were faring no better — and all of them had respiratory issues as well.  And everyone had some type of parasite issue — from horrific scaly leg mites to lice and internal parasites. These chickens had not been getting care, and weren’t being seen as the very cool birds that we know and love today.

Chinook and her friend Ingrid Marie enjoying time under the bird feeder —  hoping for some dropped seeds. Chinook is friendly with people, unlike her sister Cellini, who is very shy.

As important as good physical health is to our bird residents and all of our animal friends, the psychological needs of every animal must also be met. We allow the birds to pick out their own people and put them in flocks accordingly. We do not allow chickens who are picked on to remain in that area, and instead find them a new place.

The shy Cellini is much more active and on-the-go than her now-chubbier sister Chinook, who has become laid-back and friendly. (These girls still hang together, but Cellini is harder to get pictures of.)

And we watch everyone closely. We try to place birds who are friends — who clearly spend time together — together in homes, and we do the same at our sanctuaries. Birds do have some serious cliques. 

Joe Boo on the move. He is quite the good-looking young roo. 

All of our bird residents have their own spaces, and they are accounted for each night — no bird left behind. Birds are vulnerable to predation, and we ensure that they are inside at night — safe and sound. Each bird area has a whiteboard that gives the daily head count of the animals who live in the barns. That makes one feel secure, as well — since a constant level of fear of being killed can be stressful, I would think. 

Norm and his lady friends enjoying an early spring day. Norm is quite the character and always has a hen sitting under him — odd but true. 

And so we want to introduce you to the happier, healthier, and more psychologically secure birds who were rescued last year from Painted Meadow Farms — we hope you’ll visit and get to know them a little better.

Jumping for joy when you realize that you are seen, you are appreciated, and you are finally someone, not something. 

And remember that all the animals of Farm Sanctuary are individuals — from the smallest to the tallest, they are each someone, not something — and now with all the love and attention they are getting, they know it too!

[soprana-snap]

Assassin’s Creed: Bonds #38

Finally graduated college so I’m going to finish this beast or else!

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Revival

Her hands tangled in the leather reins as her mount began to climb the final hill, the constant clatter of iron horseshoes the only thing keeping her mind grounded at this point. The scabbard bounced at her hip with every stride, clanking against the stirrups and reminding her she was safe with the sword at her side.

The ride from Cedar was uneventful, the images that she remembered from the first trip null and void. Farms and fields smoldered, not a single bird chirp reaching her ears. The forests were stripped, the only branches remaining at the very top of the pines and oaks. It had taken days, days where Lucy dared not dismount and slept on horseback. Mostly, they kept to the woods, the roads far to dangerous and open.

A few bodies littered the road too, unlucky travelers ad bandits alike. The stench was unfathomable and she had to take a few detours deeper into the forests before her horse spooked at the fog of flies that lingered.

Now, as the crest of the hill came into sight, Lucy held her breath at the sight of smoke spirals beyond, her thoughts concluding that Magnolia had endured a visit from the army and still burned days later. Igneel had mentioned about them not responding.

Her horse nickered, tossing its head and tugging at the bit in annoyance. That was when Lucy realized she was pulling back on the reins, hard.

“Oh, sorry.” she breathed pointlessly, relaxing and patting the mare's neck in apology. “I just do not know what to expect. Or, I do--but I am not ready. Never will be.” A tiny sigh escaped her lips. “Maybe I should just take the long road to Hargeon.”

The mare stomped her front hoof and snorted, making a point to trot lightly before continuing up the hill, ears pointed ahead in interest. Lucy almost assumed the animal wanted to make her suffer after the trip they just had...until she heard a far away whinny.

Her horse answered with enthusiasm, picking up the pace despite her gentle tugs on the reins, marching right to the crest of the hill outside of Magnolia and the farms.

She expected near Armageddon, a flattened city that continued to burn with death all over the land. She expected beggars and survivors to litter the outside road, waiting for aid that would never come. She expected to see nothing of the home she had left so long ago.

What Lucy saw was completely different.

The walls still stood despite the many breaches and crumpled towers, small fires burning within the limits. Some buildings still stood in the slums, damaged, but still livable. The middle circle was worse for wear, many holes printed into the stone and concrete. Roofs had holes a plenty, many arrows still embedded in the shingles.

The Atria still stood in the center, walls broken and crumbled. But, where there was once a flag of arms for Fiore...now rested a bloody canvas with the Fairy Tail symbol stitched on. It flapped proudly in the wind, boldly declaring to the world just who defended this city.

What really took Lucy's breath away however was the sight of people moving outside and within the city, cleaning or working to repair the damage. Survivors taking back what was left of their home with working hands.

Magnolia was alive.

Her heels squeezed the mare's side, spurring the horse to take off at a gallop down the hill, her heart in her throat. The flag beckoned her with every flap, bringing her closer to home than she had been in a long time. Everything flew from her mind as they both flew on winged hooves over the land, everything blurring to her eyes except the tattered gates.

They flew through the gates, past the burning pyres of broken wood and bodies. Her and her horse flew by a crowd lined up for bread, hearing the startled shouts and cries of her name. They flew by the slums, now purposed as healer huts.

Into the Commoner's Circle they rode, witnessing the fires now burning in the forges, the sounds of metal clashing and creating inside. Broken swords and shields piled up on one side of doors, newly forged and fashioned weapons on the other.

Then, her mare carried her into the Aristocratic District, giving her home a passing glance of contempt. It was still standing strong, a reminder of what she left behind so long ago. Only, a few bricks and roof shingles missing. Her father must have been out of his mind trying to hire a competent contractor to repair his 'castle'.

She rode on, deeper and deeper until she tore into the Atria, her horse finally slowing to prance  between the fallen pigeon posts, as well as the demolished benches and gardens up to the Grand Meeting Hall. It was shabby now, painted in red spatters along the stairs and base.

Somehow, she knew it was not paint.

Still, atop the building flew the Fairy Tail flag, hastily tied to the top with more rope than necessary. It would not fall or blow away until a brave enemy clambered to the top and forcefully removed it: as if any of them would let that happen.

A few people watched her, mostly the crowd of hundreds of civilians between her and the hall, but the people she had eyes for were frozen at the top of the stairs.

Even after being gone months, Lucy could identify them.

Even after a hard battle they lived through, their faces were still recognizable. Mira and Laxus.

Apparently they recognized her too, for they were pelting down the stairs—two at a time—calling out her name.

Everything fell away once more, and for the first time since leaving Cedar, Lucy allowed the tears to fall as she slid off her horse and ran to greet them. The people parted for her like wheat in a field, letting her pass with only hands reaching to touch her: to make sure she was real. Whispers of her name hissed in her ear, a few familiar faces in the dirty mass.

Survivors, she thought, breaking through and reaching the base of the stairs.

She collided with Mira first, wincing at her brutal squeeze.

“Mercy, Lucy! What the Hell are you doing back here? Where are the others?” Mira hissed as Laxus reached them, looking ready to envelop them both in an embrace but thought better of it. Instead he stared, slack jawed at her armor and weapons.

“You have been trained.” he murmured carefully, eyeing her with almost an approving stare. “But you still should be back with Igneel and the others.”

At this, Lucy's face shuttered, the memories jabbing at her once more. Alas, she could not out run them for long.

“Cedar has fallen. Igneel...Metalicana...they are dead.”

At this, Laxus and Mira paled, shooting a glance between them before soft eyes fell back to her. Silently asking. Silently digging.

Behind, a few people closest to her had heard, and where whispering the news to others.

It was only a matter of time. Members of the Order were missing. Someone besides her had to know.

“Gray's gone. Juvia too. They disappeared during the attack. I...I did not find bodies.”

Laxus' eyes got stony, his face hardening even as Mira covered her mouth with her hands.

“Gajeel and Levy evacuated with the civilians. I do not know if they are alright.”

Her voice clogged, catching her mute.

Nobody spoke. Until Lucy swallowed thickly, eyes burning with renewed sorrow. “A-After Igneel-” her cracking voice shaky. “Happy and...N-Natsu left. Chasing Acnologia-”

“Acnologia?” Laxus barked, now tense as a bow string. “That idiot is after Acnologia?!” At his side, his fists were white, knuckles creaking. He looked like he had when he met her, only adding a raged face.

“It was he who killed Igneel...right in front of Natsu.” Lucy answered quietly, ignoring Mira's gentle hand on her shoulder. Still, she appreciated the gesture.

At that, Laxus lost his color, his eyes flickering with an emotion she could only describe as pity, a rare thing for the Dragon Assassin before her. “I see.”

Silence stretched between them again, comfortable and somber. Behind her, the murmurs were steady like the rivers.

“Lucy...Magnolia has been ravaged and cleansed of Templar's while it happened. In the carnage, we lost some men as well-” Mira began, but cut off suddenly, eyes wide at something behind Lucy. Laxus, too, looked wary.

Curiosity growing, Lucy turned her head over her shoulder and froze.

The hundreds of people, the people of Magnolia, pressed forward. Bare feet were quiet on the stone, the silence of their breaths unnerving. They were like the wind, silent and scared.

Lucy's heart ached, especially when she saw the hope glimmering in their eyes. Hands were pointing, lips were smiling, whispers began to dance among them as she stared.

'Lady Lucy' echoed through the Atria, getting louder and louder. It grew like the fires outside the city, burning brighter and hotter than the sun. Lucy wanted to look away, to turn her face down for she did not deserve their praise. In danger, she had run and hid.

“I am truly sorry.” she said, echoing over the crowd before she could stop herself. Mira's hand tightened on her arm, but Lucy was beyond stopping. She had to apologize. She had abandoned them all in an hour of need.

The hundreds of souls silenced, all watching her now. The smiles were starting to waver now, more concerned and curious.

“I abandoned you. I abandoned Magnolia. I was fighting in Cedar, but I was not here to defend you...to help you.”

Acid ate at her throat, her body trembling.

While she was off having picnics and spending time with Natsu...her home was being destroyed. Who knew how many had died. How many deaths she could have stopped?

“But you are here now.” Someone shouted from the mass. A chorus of cheers answered it.

You came back to us.” Another bellowed. More cheers followed.

“You came home.” It became a roar. There was a man without an arm. A woman with a bandaged leg. A child with a patched eye. They were there, smiling.

“Welcome home, Lady Lucy!”

Applause started, first one, then ten, then all. Cheering and applauding roared louder than any battle cry Lucy could recall.

“Well, that was a welcome I did not expect!” Laxus said over the noise. “When I made my speech about rebuilding, I told them you were away helping other cities and you would devote time to them when you returned. I expected to see you in years, not months.”

Lucy jolted. “You told them I was fighting?”

Laxus grinned. “We got a few progress updates.”

She blinked.

The Dragon Assassin rose a brow. “What? You think we would just forget you? May I remind you that you are a member of our Order now. Gramps would—we take care of our own.”

If Lucy noticed the tone he used, she said nothing. Instead, she smiled and turned to address the city now.

“Forgive me for not fighting your enemies when they were here.” she spoke clearly, her voice carrying as if she were back on the stage. “I am here now for my home...my people...my family and friends. For Magnolia. For peace. For healing.” She says louder, drawing her sword and pointing it upwards to the sky. “I believe in humans, in our choices and our ways. We are not to be controlled by fear.”

“I am sorry I ran away, hiding rather than fighting for you all. I beg your forgiveness, and these hands are for getting Magnolia back on her feet! I am with you all...if you let me.”

The crowd answered her with cheers of her name, and at last Lucy felt like she was home.

Behind her, Mira shot Laxus a stern look.

He dutifully ignored her, opting to watch Lucy move to greet the crowd and clasp a few outstretched hands. Of course, she had to know. He had the responsibility.

For now, he let her have hope and give hope.

He was the last person that wanted to give her more bad news: like her father's passing...and Master's. So, he would wait until they were alone, so the hopeful people freshly bitten by war would not see their idol shed a sorrowful tear.

What she wouldn't give for a hot bath and a foot rub.

Still, Juvia kept silent and just followed. Every time Gray stopped, she fluttered to his side to nurse his wounds; pulling out stolen supplies and ointments to rub all over his ailing body. For his thoughts, however, she had nothing but silent understanding.

Gray stopped fighting her after the fifth time, just sighing and letting her tend to him.

Juvia pretended she did not witness his silent tears.

Around the eleventh time they stopped, it was her that fell to her knees and needed a breather. To Gray, it was as if she had been fatally shot. He was upon her in an instant, cradling her to him as his hands roamed her body for outstanding injuries, his eyes wide and almost blind in panic.

“No. No, no, no-” he hissed, his voice breaking.

She managed to silence him with a gentle hand cupping his cheek, her eyes watering at the pure emotion in his gaze. “Juvia is fine. Just tired, love.” she eased, smiling with more cheer than she actually felt. “Juvia is fine.”

He did not relax, but he did press his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. Juvia supposed that was the best she was going to get at the moment.

“Are we almost there?” she found herself breathing, thumb brushing his long eyelashes.

Gray did not answer for a moment before he nodded and pulled away, ignoring her whine of disappointment.

“Almost. She has always been pretty hard to reach. Not far now.”

Juvia stiffened. Another woman?

If Gray noticed, he said nothing. He helped her stand, grabbed the weapon bag he had dropped in his haste, and started walking again.

Scorned, Juvia made a great point to march up to his side and grasp his free hand. He flashed her one concerned look, saw her defiant glare, and gave a weak smile. He did not let go, not until they clambered over the closest hill and looked down into the gully.

The air was fresh, crisp. Juvia felt the chill on her skin and the renewal of her lungs. The trees were tall and aged, draping down in canopies as if wise mentors to the small and weak. She could hear the rush of running water, a waterfall, she supposed.

This had to be the birth place of the first tree, the first bird, the first human. This had to be the place where the universe began, so serene and gentle.

The Garden of Adam and Eve, possibly.

“Here we are. She is home. I see the smoke.” Gray murmured, releasing her hand much to her dismay, and starting down the hill at a jog.

Juvia, bitter acid in her throat, followed. How dare this other woman hide in this paradise, waiting for Gray.

When Gray reached the door, he finally hesitated with his hand on the knob. He flashed her a careful smirk, using his free hand to extract a dagger from his belt. “You best...uh, wait here.”

Oh Hell no. Juvia bristled, boiling rage bubbling at her rib cage like lava. “Juvia said she will follow you so that is what Juvia is going to do!” she hissed, teeth bared like a wolf.

Gray, taken aback, blinked and then nodded, looking more frightened of her now. His hand twisted, and the door creaked open.

Curious and still stoking her fire of love, Juvia peeked over Gray's shoulder, bitterly wishing he would move aside and let her in first. She never liked not seeing where an attack was coming from.

Righteously so, because from within the dark cottage, a screech burst forth. Gray took a step in and, from the depths, a cleaver whizzed. Juvia had a scream in her throat but Gray brandished the dagger, catching the cleaver with practiced ease and knocking it to the floor.

“Meredy! Stop! It is me!” Gray called, raising his hands. “Gray!”

The silence and darkness blended seamlessly. Then...

“Gray Fullbuster?” A small voice said.

Light blasted into the cottage, curtains pulling away to let the sun finally enter. The hearth gates opened too, revealing the crackling fire and a woman rising from behind a counter. Or, a girl on the cusp of womanhood.

Juvia curled her lip in distaste. Puppy love, then.

A grin so bright flashed across her face, and in a whirl of pink hair and dress, the girl bounded from behind the counter. “Gray!”

Gray laughed, stepping in and opening his arms. Opening himself like he never had to Juvia until recently. She felt sick, her heart stone heavy.

They embraced with such familiarity that Juvia's eyes felt prickled. So, that was how it was? She had been his side girl, this younger and prettier woman his true love.

“And who is she?” Meredy asked, curiously, short enough to peer at Juvia from under Gray's armpit. Though her tone held no malice, Juvia bristled anyway.

Gray turned, a radiant smile on his face for the first time since after Cedar. Something foul and hateful festered inside Juvia's chest. Perhaps she was never meant to have his affections. She was never meant to have anyone's affections.

“Meredy, this is Juvia.” No added title like 'my lover' or 'my future wife'.

“Juvia, this is Meredy.”

It came from her throat before she could stop herself. “And she is, what, to you?”

Gray blinked in confusion at her bitter snap. Never had he heard such hostility from her. At least, not outside battle.

Meredy, however, blinked and understanding dawned faster than a hummingbirds wing beat. She laughed, loud and deeply.

Juvia felt nothing but offense, until Meredy thumbed a tear from her own eye.

“Oh no, nothing like that. You see, my adopted mother...is his late sister. He is my uncle.”

Oh. Oh.

Realization dawned on Gray as Juvia had the mind to look ashamed of herself.

“Oh. Juvia. No. No, she is my niece, although I should have mentioned as such-”

“Then what is Juvia?” she asked, now desperate to know.

Gray flushed scarlet, obviously unprepared for such a question and Meredy coughed into her hand.

“I guess we will need tea. Come inside.”

Chapter 37

Chapter 39

[elfnerdherder]

Magnum Opus: Chapter 14

You can read Ch. 14 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 14:

           Will spent the night at the hospital, and he didn’t go to school the following day. Hannibal left him with parting words of general comfort, and he tossed and turned that night on the too small couch with a crick in his spine. He woke, stared at her still form, then stared at the stag that stood just at the foot of her bed. It blinked large, dark eyes the color of bottled ink and turned, walking out of the hospital room with heavy, surefooted steps. By the time that Will got up to follow, it was gone.

           He stood in the small diner off to the side of her room, blinking at the dour light from the fridge. Everything inside was for the guests, a nurse had assured him, and he could help himself. He grabbed two juice boxes and a cheese stick before he shuffled back, blinking the remnants of his dreams from his eyes.

           Jack Crawford stood in the room, studying Abigail pensively. He turned at the sound of Will’s footsteps, and he nodded towards Will’s jacket that’d been abandoned.

           “Thought I’d find you here,” he said by way of greeting. “How are you feeling?”

           “I’m alive,” Will said, as though that were all it took to be well. When he’d gone to the restroom, he’d ignored the livid, large black marks of bruises along his neck. He’d have to get a scarf to hide them until they faded to something less obvious.

           “Yes, you are,” Jack agreed. Will sat down, and he strolled over to him, a casual step that was belied by the tense, taut hold of his shoulders.

           “We found evidence of the girls he kidnapped in his home,” Jack said. “Nothing obvious, but there was the hair of one in a throw pillow, and in a small container of what seemed to be putty, we found traces of human DNA. We’re scouring everything now.”

           “Good,” Will said passionately. He grabbed his glasses and slid them on before he forgot about them. Jack shifted from one foot to the other, itchy about something.

           “I know you’re going through a stressful situation, Will, but I needed to ask you a few more questions,” Jack continued, studying Will as though he could strip him down by looks alone.

           “Shoot,” Will said, opening his arms. His dry smile was lost on Jack, too dark for comfort. He lowered his arms and leaned back into the couch.

           “Was there any indication, from what you heard and saw the other night that made you think that Abigail Hobbs was involved in her father’s activity?” Jack asked. Will wasn’t sure what question he was expecting, but that wasn’t it. His gaze cut to Abigail, still sleeping, then back to Jack with a disappointed frown.

           “No,” he said slowly. “No, she wasn’t involved. He tried to force her to kill me, but she couldn’t.”

           “He may have tried to force her to kill others in the past, and I need to know if she knew anything at all and kept quiet. Do you think she could have been an accessory? A lure?” At the mention of a lure, Will’s blood ran cold, and he had to fight to keep his facial expression the same. A lure, a lure; Abigail Hobbs had been a lure. He swallowed with difficulty and shook his head, aware of the way the air pressed too tightly against his skin.

           “I don’t think so,” Will said slowly. “She looked just as afraid and surprised as I was.”

           “Her mother was murdered before they made their way to you,” Jack said, as though that explained anything.

           “All that says to me is that he killed her mother in a fit of rage and then dragged her off to find me,” Will said.

           “Why you?”

           “Because I was becoming her friend, and he didn’t like the competition,” Will retorted sharply. He reached up to tug at his hair, then paused and ran his fingers through it instead. “It wasn’t like those other girls. Those were replacements of her, but I was…getting in the way.”

           “Getting in the way,” Jack repeated, and he rubbed his mouth to rub away whatever thought followed that. He placed his hands on his hips and looked back to her, brow drawn down dangerously. “And you’re sure you’re not just protecting her? You wouldn’t lie to me to save her life?”

           “I watched her almost die because she refused to hurt me,” Will said curtly. “She wasn’t part of those other murders.”

           Jack nodded, and he looked to be at the edge of something. His piercing eyes scanned the room, searching, and he shook his head, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. Never let it be said that Will wasn’t nervous; he waited for the shoe to fall, the ball to drop. Liar, liar, Jack would cry, and Will would be an accessory, too.

           “I need your help with something, Will,” Jack said slowly. The words curled from his lips like molasses. “I’ve asked Dr. Du Maurier and Hannibal Lecter about you, and Dr. Du Maurier informed me that she’s recently passed the study of your psyche onto Hannibal, as she was too busy to be of service.”

           “Yes,” Will said, uncertain.

           “He informed me that the past comments you’ve made about the minds of these people have to do with something like a hyper-empathy, where you can see into their minds as though you were there, too.”

           “Sometimes,” Will replied reluctantly.

           “Well that sometimes allowed us to recently make the arrest of a Mr. Eldon Stammets, the culprit of the bodies that you found. It also allowed us to know where and how to search for remains of the girls that Garrett Jacob Hobbs abducted and murdered, and it gave insight and understanding to Jared Freeman.”

           “I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” Will said sharply. He scrubbed at his eyes behind his glasses and peered up at Jack, resisting the urge to stand up so that he was level with him.

           “You say that Abigail Hobbs wasn’t part of her father’s behavior and activity, and I’m inclined to believe you. I’m also inclined to ask you to come with me and see something, and give me some insight as to what I’m seeing.”

           “What sort of…something?” Will asked. He didn’t care for the look on Jack’s face.

           “A crime scene. I think there may have been another victim in Garrett Jacob Hobb’s killing spree the other night, but I need it confirmed.”

           “You think my brain is the thing that can confirm it?” Will inquired skeptically. He stood up and grabbed his jacket, a mechanical act that puzzled even himself. He wasn’t willing to admit that he’d sub-consciously already agreed to help without knowing the details.

           “I’m willing to give it a try before this spreads all over the news. Is it the same killer, or is it someone new? I need you to tell me. You’re over eighteen, so I don’t have to get parental consent.”

           Will didn’t bother to tell him that his dad probably wouldn’t notice that he was gone anyway. The Wolf Trap Bill Graham probably hadn’t even checked to see if Will was in bed when he came home, let alone care that he was stomping through crime scenes all across Virginia.

           He rode in the front seat of a sleek black car, non-descript like the rest of the FBI. Jack played jazz music, a light background noise that made the silence not so tense. He drove out past farms and miles of trees until he turned onto a dirt road and took him out past a large, unassuming field in the middle of nowhere. Other vehicles parked there, and a dozen or so agents moved about, caps and jackets on against the breeze.

           Will followed Jack through the myriad of cars until they reached a roped off area warning people to not approach. At the sound of Jack’s whistle, his men moved away, casting looks of confusion and curiosity Will’s way. He ignored them, just as confused and curious as they were.

           He walked closer, and he smelled her before he saw her; the sickening tang of blood, the heated stench of dead flesh. Then, the gristly appearance of what a chest cavity looked like while missing vital pieces came into view, mounted on the head of a long dead and stuffed stag. Will was glad he’d only managed to drink one juice box; it threatened to come back up.

           “Are you supposed to be showing things like this to people like me?” Will asked shakily. She was naked, arms spread with the force of how she’d been impaled, eye wide to the sky. She was brunette with brown eyes, and her mouth hung open in a scream that would never be heard.

           “What do you see?” Jack asked.

           “I see a dead woman impaled on a stag and missing lungs,” Will said, taking an unsteady step back. “Not a hand in the dirt, not a…not the confession of a psychopath, but a real person.”

           “You saw your teacher, Miss Avery, after she’d been killed. You saw Jared Freeman,” Jack said, and when Will took another step back he lifted his hand and pressed it between his shoulder blades. “Can you look at her and tell me what you see?”

           “I see pain,” he whispered, and he shook his head. “I see real, tangible agony. I hear her scream suspended in the air, strung up on a fine wire.”

           “One of my guys said her lungs were taken out when she was still breathing,” Jack said with a nod. “What else? Is this Garrett Jacob Hobbs?”

           Will wanted to run. In that moment, staring at the bare and exposed body of the woman, he wanted to run and run far. He wanted to run until his legs gave out, until his breath no longer could come. The air about him was frozen in time, and that time held nothing but pain and the inevitable end that caught up with everyone eventually. At the mention of Abigail’s father though, his feet dug into the earth. He couldn’t run; not from that. He let out a slow, rattling breath.

           The waves are slow, a steady pulse that comes only when ready. In one breath, I am Will Graham, and in the next I am not. I am nothing, and the next wave tells me that no, I’m not nothing. I’m something; I’m someone. A golden radiance touches me, washes away everything that once was so that it could become something anew, something better. Something stronger.

           Something smarter.

           This is not honor. This is not consumption of all the parts so that it can be laid to rest. This is covetous, and this is greed. This is anger, condescension in its proudest form, and I’m elated by it. Are we not the apex predator? When we see, do we not consume? When we touch, do we not wish to take, to triumph?

           There is no mourning in this loss. It is art in its rawest of forms, a tribute to what once was and what can never again be. Pigs pass by the thousands, the millions to the slaughter daily, and not one tear is shed for them. There are no tears for her here. There is no mourning. There are only silent screams, wide eyes and heart palpitating as her time comes its final, beautiful moments. Death is intimate, although it is detached. No one else in the world shared her final breath, saw the moment that her eyes went dim. One such as Garrett Jacob Hobbs could not do as I do. He was too soft, too moved by things that could not move back, and I am something greater, something stronger. Can’t you see?

           I am so much better than what he intended to be. This is my design.

           Will jerked from his trance, surprised to find himself peering down at her glassy, lifeless eyes. He gave a start and stumbled back, bumping into Jack who stopped him with steady hands. Jack stared down at him, and the knowing expression on his face said he knew Will had something.

           “Well?”

           “He…this isn’t Garrett Jacob Hobbs,” Will said jerkily. “He didn’t do this.”

           “How do you know?” Jack asked.

           “This person…he thought this girl was a pig. He thought she held the same worth as animals, which is why she was butchered like one.” Will raked his fingers through his hair to try and dispel the euphoria, the joy at the artistry. “Hobbs loved those girls, just as he loved Abigail.”

           “He loved them?” Jack asked dubiously.

           “In his own way, they were his daughter. He loved them, so he honored them by using every…every part. This person saw that, knew that, and had to contradict it,” Will said. “He thinks they’re animals, to be taken as he sees fit, whereas-” His voice cut off, and he nodded, everything clicking into place. He could see. He could see.

           “Whereas…?” Jack prompted.

           “Those girls were sacrifices, Agent Crawford. When you sacrifice something, you choose the best of the stock to give to the gods. You find one unblemished, and when it’s sacrificed every part is used. The girl that was put back had something wrong with her, didn’t she?”

           “Cancer,” Jack said with a nod. He stared at Will with fascination, but Will wasn’t paying attention to that. He circled the stag head and pointed at it, at the girl whose arms were spread for her salvation.

           “He was killing them so that he didn’t have to kill Abigail, but he felt sorry for killing that one because she couldn’t be used and honored as she should have been. This man, though…he doesn’t care.” Will threw his hands up, and he could see. “He doesn’t care who you are or what you do. We’re all just…we’re all just pigs to him.”

           “Do you think he was glorifying Hobbs’ work, then? A copycat?”

           “No, no, this one is…he’s smarter than Hobbs,” Will said. “He knows he’s smarter, and this is just a game. The method itself is just artwork to him, as nuanced and varied as his moods. As long as they die in the end and he gets what he wants, all is well.”

           “So you’d say that if and when he strikes again, he would change his pattern?” Will nodded curtly, a single jerk of his head.

           “He’d change it every time –apart from taking his trophies, he’ll change it. This isn’t the first, either…this is experience. This is time and confidence. This is a display to end all displays.”

           “Hobbs kept all of his abductions and behaviors a secret,” Jack said to himself.

           “And this man wants you to see it. He wants you to see it, and he wants you to know about it. He put it in the field so everyone that passed by would have to witness. This was theater…this is like a play,” Will said, and he had to suppress a hysterical laugh.

           “This isn’t Garrett Jacob Hobbs,” Jack murmured.

           “This isn’t Garrett Jacob Hobbs,” Will agreed, and he stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, ignoring the thrum of pleasure along his spine as he truly saw. “But he’s something even worse.”

-

           He was driving home when he saw a dog in the road. At first, Will thought to tell himself that it wasn’t real; after everything that’d happened, he had to be imagining things once again. After the last two times of him being proven wrong, though, he found himself pulling his truck over and leaving the lights on, watching the dog move about the road skittishly. It didn’t seem injured, but it was definitely scared, shifting and hopping back when Will tried to grab him.

           “Come on,” Will coached, but the dog leapt away last minute, a low whine issuing from its maw.

           “You’re going to get hurt,” Will urged to the dog, moving off of the road when he saw lights. The dog moved to the opposite side and observed him, tilting his head. The car passed, and the dog took off, following the back lights. Will watched the dog rushing off into the dark, and he shook his head, climbing into the truck and driving away.

-

           Abigail was moved to a psychiatric hospital now that she was stable. She still hadn’t woken up, but the doctor assured him that she would, and that everything was going to be okay. For her sake though, after such traumatic events, they wanted her in a controlled environment with specialists to aid her when the time came. Will was given the address, and he kept it in the jacket pocket right above his heart. As he drove, he periodically reached up to touch it, to remind himself that it was there.

           His dad was surprisingly home when he got home. Bill Graham looked up from the couch, and two other heads popped up, foreign and unwelcome.

           “You’re home late,” his father said, and the other men nodded and shifted about, getting comfortable. It was clear that they’d been drinking, from their flushed faces to their unfocused eyes.

           “I was working on a project at school,” Will lied. It should have made him feel guilty to lie, but it didn’t. Clearly Jack Crawford knew not to call, and clearly the school wasn’t going to question his absences just yet.

           “I brought the guys over for poker night,” Bill said, and Will nodded. Poker night was going to perpetually be every night from now on, it seemed.

           “Nice to meet you,” he said to them, darting into the kitchen. A man closed the fridge door and straightened, casting him a curious glance. Will ignored him and reached into the cabinet, grabbing the painkillers and a glass of water, swallowing them. He could feel the incoming pressure, the ache in his neck that said a headache was fast approaching.

           “In there’s Charlie, then out here’s Vince and Toby. Y’all can figure that’s my son,” Bill said to them. Charlie hovered in the kitchen and popped the tab on a beer, taking a sip while the other two murmured their assent.

           “He don’t look like you,” Toby said.

           “Takes after his mom,” Bill grunted.

           “Mom take off?” Vince asked.

           “What woman doesn’t?” Bill wondered, and the three erupted into laughter, the noise drowning the TV out. Will grabbed a TV dinner and tossed it into the microwave, turning it on. It seemed talks of mom were going to tread down dangerous road; Will would eat in his room for the night.

           “Do you remember her?” Charlie asked quietly. He was younger than Will’s dad, early thirties with sandy hair and green eyes. His shifty, darting hands turned the cold beer about before he took another sip.

           “No,” Will said, turning to watch the microwave. Instead of crossing into the living room, Charlie stayed in the kitchen, leaning against the counter.

           “Does it upset you when he drinks so much that he speaks of a woman you don’t recall?” Charlie asked. His voice was velvet smooth, a silky cadence to it. Will glanced back at him, then turned to look back at the slowly cooking dinner.

           “I don’t care,” Will said.

           “Liar,” Charlie said. Will chewed on the inside of his mouth angrily. “I’m good at seeing liars.”

           “Are you?” Will sneered.

           “I am,” Charlie affirmed.

           “That’s good for you,” Will retorted, and Charlie laughed. His voice was too low for the others to hear, a gentle, lulling sound.

           “Are you going to lie about what happened to your neck, too?” he asked.

           “An accident,” Will said. Charlie nodded.

           “You weren’t working on a project at school so late, and that was no accident that put choke marks on your neck,” he said. Will opened the microwave and took the package out, ripping off the plastic and tossing it back in, hitting ‘start’.

           “Why would I lie about that?” Will asked.

           “That’s the question, isn’t it? Don’t worry, son of Bill; I won’t tell.” Charlie huffed a laugh and looked out towards the TV. “We didn’t even know he had a son until you called the yard.”

           Will figured as much. He leaned against the counter but didn’t speak, and when the microwave went off he grabbed his dinner and a fork, maneuvering around Charlie in order to head towards his room. His father grunted a good night, the others waving lazily towards him, and the last thing he saw was Charlie standing between the living room and the kitchen, watching him with a knowing smile.

           He locked the door behind him when he stepped into his room, and he turned on the light. He tried to avoid the signs of a fight as he sat down on his bed, but his gaze kept floating back, caught in the trap of seeing his own vulnerability splayed out so potently. The desk was askew, the chair was knocked on its side, and there were the unmistakable signs of fingernail scratches on the floorboards. He could almost see Garrett Jacob Hobbs hauling him back from the window, the precise place that he was thrown to the floor, and as he chewed a questionable mouthful of carrots, he saw his eyes bulge, his hands flail, and his mouth gape. No one came for him. No one knew of his strife. When he went slack, he was carried bridal style, a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.

           At least this time, the lamb survived.

-

           Miss Avery lay impaled on the stag head, her arms spread out by her sides. I stare, but it doesn’t quite connect, doesn’t quite reach me that someone got to her before I could. I cross the distance between us, and I’m acutely aware of the fungi that grows before me, a connection that transcends speech. They make the path, and I stare down at her when I reach her, aggrieved.

           “Who did this to you?” I ask, but she can’t answer. Her mouth is open in a scream that will never be heard, and her chest cavity is gapes wide, displaying herself to me. I reach in, and my fingertips caress the heart that was left. I have the heart. I have the heart.

           “They didn’t honor you,” I tell her, and I weep. I take the heart and I hold it, shaking with the indignation of her death, how she was not honored or loved. My breath is fire, and I let out a furious scream.

           “They didn’t honor you!” I roar, and I press the heart to my chest, willing it to beat. It doesn’t, and I am unseen in my pain. I’m unseen in my agony. There is the sound of another living being breathing, and I look up to see the stag before me, poised over Miss Avery’s head. It’s not Miss Avery, though; when I look down, it’s Abigail, and she reaches for her heart, blood pooling and running from her lips as she screams and screams and screams.

           Will woke to the sound of barking. There was a moment of innate instinct –from one breath to the next –that told him that that wasn’t normal. Another inhale told him that the air was too cold, the light too bright. He exhaled, and his arms prickled from the early morning breeze, urging him to put on a coat. He opened his eyes and stared into the sun.

           He gave a start as he realized he was standing in a field.

           “This isn’t real,” he said, and he closed his eyes tightly. His bare feet sunk into the soil though, and no matter how long he stood with his eyes closed and his breathing becoming erratic, he didn’t magically appear back in his room. He opened his eyes and looked about frantically, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

           Just behind him sat the dog from the road.

           He didn’t look hostile or afraid; at Will’s stunned, stiff movement, he tilted his head and whined at him, concerned. In the distance, he could see his house wasn’t too far away, and he let out a raspy breath, rubbing his stiff throat. As he stiffly walked towards the house, he heard the soft padding of paws and knew that the dog was following.

           “I don’t have dog food,” he told the dog. The dog wasn’t deterred. When he reached the house, the dog followed him in, and Will was at a loss as he hopped up onto the bed in the front room and made himself at home, laying down despite muddy paws and dirty fur.

           “You need a bath if you’re going to stay here,” he said, and he cautiously walked over and held his hand out to the dog. The dog whined, then sniffed his hand and licked it. With a small, barely-there smile Will said down on the edge of the bed, and the dog inched closer, allowing him to pet his head.

           Once he could pet him, bathing was easy. He was dubbed Winston, a cross between what seemed to be a lab and a golden retriever, and once he was dry he stretched out on Will’s bed, completely and utterly content. Watching him, Will could almost forget about the how of him being able to find him. Thinking on it though led to worse thoughts, thoughts about how he’d gotten in that field and how long he’d been standing there before he’d woken up. Where else had he gone? Where else was he going to go? Not knowing somehow made it worse.

[timoriia]

The villages nestled in the the foothills on the outskirts of Navori hardly count as a conquest.

The Noxian force in that region blazed through the farm towns and quiet villages with the ease of one sweeping aside a sheet of paper from a cluttered desk, and the commander in charge reckons they put up about as much fight as one; Commander Sinclaire - before shipping from Noxus - had given the Ionians far too much credit. If the populace inhabiting the provinces of the shore bore any resemblance to the forces awaiting them in the center of the island, Ionia would all but be handed over to him.

This makes his fingers twitch - slaughter is for butchers, not soldiers, and Sinclaire does not liken himself to the former.

One of the very last towns to stand between Sinclaire and a worthy fight is, like all the rest, unremarkable; there are no mages at all that stand to fight, and the men that take up arms are easily dispatched by the soldiers. If not for his need of information, Sinclaire would have wet his sword with the blood of them all; instead, he forces the few who survived longest to their knees and binds their wrists with rope that rubs their skin raw. He imagines that is the least of their problems.

Slowly, casually, and with the air of one who has tasted nothing but victory, Sinclaire approaches the remaining villagers with languid steps. He is seemingly unaffected by the stench of blood and sweat and worse, and he gives no indication that the scattered, lifeless bodies around the ravaged village haunt him in any way. There is one bound villager that is brought before the others by one of his soldiers - a woman who had taken up a bow and managed to fell two of his company, who glared at him with the kind of fire in her eyes that was only born in those who took another life for their own. She was made of something hard, something unrelenting, and Sinclaire almost respected her for it.

Almost.

He wipes the tip of his blade clean on her shirt and slides it into its sheath, and inspects her at length before speaking.

“The pass through the mountains,” he says. “Tell me where it is, and your death will be clean.”

That is the respect he offers to her. His men could attempt the find the hidden pass themselves or simply force their way through the Ionian wilderness, but Sinclaire didn’t want to waste any more of his time than he had to. He assumed pulling information from her would be as simple a task as eradicating her home, but the woman seemed eager to prove him wrong. She spits at his feet, though the effort to do so drains the color from her face and sends a spasm of pain down her spine. Judging by the way she curls in on herself, her ribs are broken - it must be very painful indeed to spit or to speak. And yet, she does.

“The gods will not grant you the same favor.”

Sinclaire breathes a weary sigh that seems exasperated at the most, as if the villager has only mildly inconvenienced him; he steps forward once more, crouching in front of her so that her eyes are almost level to his own. Really, the fury he sees there almost resembles what he might find in his own soldiers; in another life, perhaps she would have mattered.

“Then burn.”

All things come slowly to Pallas.

Even war does not race to the pit as it did the rest of Ionia; resting atop one of the largest hills sweeping away from Navori, the Pit of Pallas is tranquil while Ionia is laid to ruin. Unaware, Varus is at peace. Pallas has greeted him once since waking, and has remained quiet since then. The silence is a gift he is so seldom rewarded, so he intends to enjoy it.

And for a few hours, he does.

The gently waving forest that separates him from his family and that beast from the world seems undisturbed for the better part of the morning. From his hill, the archer watches a distant, blurry streak of color rise from the green; at first, he mistakes it for a trick of the distance. He blinks, narrowing his gaze, and the billowing shape becomes unmistakable.

A column of smoke rises above the treetops, dark and oily and entirely foreboding. It’s far too big to mistake for a camper’s fire, and because he’s stared at that point in the distance every day, every hour he could since he left his home, Varus knew that the smoke signaled something unimaginably terrible.

That point in the distance is where his village rests, and if not for Pallas, he would have run to it without a single thought to leaving his post. 

The ancient thing stirs, pulling at Varus’ fear, his terror, picking from him the sharp thoughts he usually doesn’t allow himself to have. The hum of its voice ( for the first time since hearing it ) is not unwelcome.

Go to them, archer.

Varus has been offered everything by Pallas, but this is the only thing he ever accepts; without him, without his body, the beast cannot leave that pit, and it is only that thought that comforts him enough to leave. He slings his bow over his shoulder and vaults from his watch place, sprinting into the forest that lays between him and his family. The path is one he will never forget, and he runs faster than he’s ever before, his muscles burning and his lungs screaming but his mind refusing to let either slow him down. Kleio, he says to himself. Theshan. For them, he cannot stop.

He runs until the smoke is close enough to choke on, curling heavy in his lungs, searing what is already burning. Varus pulls his scarf over his nose and blinks his watering eyes at the thick blanket of grey, charging through the smothering fog until he breaks right through it.

Though the smoke has clogged the forest, it’s begun to clear from the village; the fire has already consumed all it can. The houses, the grass, the trees the flowers everything - ashes.

Varus isn’t immediately aware he’s stopped moving, because the world still seems to spin around him; he cannot force his mind to accept that this place is the same as the one he left. How could there have ever been something here, in this wasteland?

Kleio. Theshan.

And he’s running again, stumbling through the thick blanket of grey that covers the ground; the soot sticks to his legs and his hands, softly beckoning him to slow and to rest, but Varus is only of one thought.

My family, my family, where is my family?

Not here. Not anymore.

His former home is gone. The foundation is there, a nod to the past, but nothing else. The only thing left is a carpet of ash, and a few glowing embers that no one has cared to tend to. It’s such a silly, asinine thought - what does one coal matter when there is nothing left for it to burn?

He’s stopped moving again.

It isn’t Varus who wades through what remains of his home, but a ghost; the specter walks to the middle of the ruin and falls to his knees, ignoring the disrupted ash that flies around him, clinging to his face and clothes. It lowers its hands, searching through the grey, but there is nothing to find.

And the ghost chokes, terrified that the aching throb of his heart means that he is dying, and horrified that it doesn’t.

Kleio, Theshan. Gone gone gone.

With a snap, the ghost is once again Varus, but ignited with something sorrowful and furious; he screams his despair at a smoke-filled sky, but no one hears it. Hot tears cut tracks through the grime on his face, but there is no one to see it. Varus claws at the space where his heart used to be, but he is the only one to feel it.

And when he can scream no more and the tears refuse to come, Varus looks back to where he’s come from.

The urgency is lost; he doesn’t run to the temple, but his anger is such that he does not stop. The sun has dipped behind the world and Ionia has gone quiet when he arrives, and Varus throws open the temple doors. The sound of them colliding with the wall is sharp and echoing, but he pays it no mind. There lays the pit he’s guarded unfailingly; it is as unassuming as it’s always been, but Varus goes to stand at the abyss, his toes edging over it, but he is not afraid. He is blistering fury and consuming sorrow, but he does not fear the ancient thing at his feet.

Now?

So gentle and calm compared to the tempest that was ripping him apart.

“Now,” he whispers. “Now, damn you.”

Because Pallas is all that remains.

[forbidden-creepypasta]

Wampus Collection: The Doctor’s Orders

Here's a story from /x/ credited to some chick named Wampus. Nothing in this thread has been edited in anyway. This is good shit. Shit that can shrivel Josef K's manhood. - Tower ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Since it seems /x/ related, I’d like to tell you some stories about my family. I’ve never really thought to write this down, but people seemed to enjoy my last thread so I thought I’d share more. Plus, /x/ is a little out of sorts tonight, and I’d like to help if I can. Hopefully there are people around still interested in hearing. In my last threads I talked about my mother’s side of the family, and their curious beliefs and practices down in the Deep South. I told those stories, not because they were especially paranormal but because I’m most comfortable with them. My childhood was filled with them. I grew up down here, and although it’s a strange place, these are eccentricities I understand. Unfortunately, while the stories about Often and my mother are cute and occasionally spooky, they don’t really compare to the /x/-factor that leaks down from my father’s line. If it's okay with you guys, I'm going to repost the backstory before I begin since I don't think the thread is in the archive yet. I can also post the first story if that would help too, but there's no plot or anything, so it's not important to the grand scheme of things. To say that these stories have been difficult to come by might be sugarcoating it. Up until a few years ago, I had always assumed that my grandmother’s family was filled with a bunch of alcoholics or petty criminals. Something vaguely tragic but hardly interesting enough to warrant juicy gossip. Asking after them would usually make my already cold grandmother clam up and either deliver a smack to the wrist or tell you to go play in the yard (read: in traffic). Recently though, she’s started to open up about her strange past. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe she realized that after all these years of running from it, that world has finally died off. Maybe she’s actually begun to look back at her life and miss what she had. I don’t really know, and I guess it’s not that important. What is important for you, /x/, is that my grandmother ran away from the circus. And not just any circus. She ran away from a travelling medical show. As always, I make no claims toward the truth behind these stories. Most of these are cobbled together from my great grandfather Max’s journal and the notes of his brother Arthur. Max may or may not have been somewhat of a drunk, and Arthur really only wrote about things his good nature and soft heart would never allow him to speak out loud. My grandmother gave my brother and me these journals a few summers ago, and I was hoping to get some scanned pages for you, but if I keep waiting for my brother to do that, you may never get to hear these stories. What I do know for certain is that these people did exist. I’ve changed around some of the names and locations to protect those involved because it’s surprisingly easy to Google them. So whether or not you choose to believe Max’s stories, know that he is real, as is the show and the performers mentioned. The only thing I’m adding are some adjectives, transitions, and the supporting details my researching drummed up. The stories included are only a few from the years and years they spent on the road. These are the ones I find most /x/-related and in some cases most disturbing. I’ll start before my grandmother was born. If you like these stories, I’ll continue. If not, that’s fine too. While I’m no expert on anything relating to circuses or performances therein, here is what I know. Max and Arthur were brothers. Max was a bear of a man who spent his youth winning boxing championships and had hands so fast his favorite game was to dodge the hammers of men driving tent stakes into the ground. Arthur was more sensitive, a gifted musician and talented gymnast. Both were absolute gentlemen and both loved to put on a show. The brothers somehow fell in with a man who went by the name of Doctor DuMonde (like the café in New Orleans). The Doc, as they called him, was likely not a real doctor, but he prided himself in his travelling show of medical wonders. The show featured acupuncture, herbal remedies, medical oddities, and the usual circus acts to catch the less scientifically minded. Arthur and Max performed as magicians, acrobats, clowns, assistants, barkers, and anything else the doc needed, while other performers included an amazing trick rider, a man who performed with bears and dogs, a sword swallower/fire breather, and a psychic. Over their years together, DuMonde came to appreciate the fact that Max and Arthur’s many talents made them valuable allies, while the brothers came to appreciate the fact that the Doc was a couple rings short of a circus. Doc was forever hunting down medical oddities, if not to recruit them then to at least examine them. While he may not have held a medical degree, by the end of his life, no one could claim they knew more about the abject horrors the human body could produce. So when Max answered a knock on his wagon one early August morning, his stomach had good reason to lurch with unease. “Max, my boy,” Doc greeted. “We have an errand to run.” If you need a title, you can call this one “The Doctor’s Orders” or “What became of that unfortunate soul.” Unlike the larger circuses that dominated the railroads, the little medical show still puttered along in the old ornate wagons and trailers. This made travel much harder but allowed for the doctor to make his own curious, meandering paths. Max often wondered how his life had been hitched to every whim of this strange little man, but as Arthur reminded him, if he really cared that much they could have just quit. This particular detour had led them to a small town in eastern Iowa. A brutal drought left the fields near scorched, and summer heat made the small crowds sluggish and irritable. The morning sun had only just begun to crawl up above the treetops and already Max felt his shirt clinging to him. The Doc wore his standard three piece suit and kept time with a polished cane. The old man rarely ever showed the wear and tear of the roads. Probably because his trailer had an icebox. As they made their way on foot, DuMonde informed Max that this was a house call. He was responding to a letter mailed by a desperate family seeking help for their unfortunate child. And why had he brought the former boxing champ along? Simple a precaution, rest assured. The young man had his doubts, but the farm house they were aiming for was no more run down than any other lonesome homestead in the middle of nowhere. As they approached, a solitary donkey sounded the alarm, and his braying brought the owner of the house out the door. He was a short, stout man with a weathered face and an unnaturally tired look. Max thought he saw others peering through the windows at them, but after very brief introductions, they were lead away from the house and over to a storm cellar. “Heard about you coming to Des Moines last season,” the man explained. “Thought you might be able to do something about this.” He threw back the cellar doors and led them down into the darkness. It was difficult to see much of anything with nothing but the morning light shining in to guide them. The stench down below was unreal. The unmistakable odor of rotting meat and feces reminded him of neglected monkey he had once seen locked in a barren cage. The only thing that kept him from gagging was the fear that the smell would get into his mouth, and even the decorous doctor covered his nose with a handkerchief. Once Max’s eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he realized there was a pile of badly stained blankets near the wall to their left amidst piles of dung and fly-ridden scraps he couldn’t identify. The farmer took a rake that had been resting near the stairs and poked at the lump. The thing that shot out from beneath the blankets was such a confusing flurry of limbs that even Max had a hard time understanding what he was seeing. It was human, though really only by technicality. The boy crawled about on four twisted limbs, but a fourth and fifth leg jutted out from his midsection and right thigh respectively. Though shriveled, these forgotten appendages twitched and flexed as he scurried about. His mouth was torn by a severe cleft palette, though that didn’t stop him from hissing and snapping with teeth grown long and somehow sharp like rodent incisors. He was naked but covered in sores, growths, mud, shit, and rust colored stains Max didn’t want to think about. One eye bulged out slightly, causing it to look off in a different direction, though the odd shape to the iris raised doubts over its ability to see anyway. The boy darted wildly to the end of the rope that had been tied around his neck and presumably anchored somewhere out of sight. He nearly choked himself trying to reach for the three men, and when that didn’t work, he resorted to spitting and finally pissing at them. “Don’t have a right mind,” the farmer said as he stepped away from the spray. “It’s our second boy, but you can see why we keep it down here. Eats just about anything and doesn’t do much but raise hell. Killing it would be a sin against the Lord though.” Max had to hold his tongue to keep from asking what that made keeping the boy alive down there. “Very unfortunate,” DuMonde agreed. He kept his face covered with the handkerchief, but leaned in as close as he could without getting hit. For a terrifying moment, Max thought the Doc might actually take the boy. While he understood wanting to put it out of its misery, accepting the thing instead meant trying to integrate it into the show. And that meant Max would have to deal with it. “I am sorry,” DuMonde said finally. “While this is a very sad case, I’m afraid I have no room for such a child in my show.” “What?” the farmer asked. His look of detached exhaustion gave way to a visible wave of grief and then rage. “You said you handled this kind of thing! You take these monsters off those folks’ hands! Now take this away!” The man’s rising tone made his son launch into a frenzy of yowling and jumping. Max was more focused on the rake the farmer was brandishing, however. He stepped between the farmer and the doctor and took in a deep inhale. He instantly regretted doing so, but at least it puffed out his chest and straightened his spine. The farmer was no weakling by the looks of him, but Max was well over six feet and nothing but muscle. He stared the man dead in the eyes. “Now, the doctor said there was nothing we can do. We’re real sorry about your son, but that’s all there is to it. If you don’t mind, we’ll be going now.” Max let his words hang in the foul air between them for a moment before waving his hand for the man to lead them out. The farmer looked as though he might argue but swallowed whatever bile he had brewing and said not a word to them as they took their leave. The only response a farewell from the Doc got was a spit straight into the dust. The pair got the message and wasted no time getting back on the road and putting the house far behind them. “Such a shame,” DuMonde murmured as the safety of their tents slowly came into view. “Such a poor, poor child.” “I’m glad you didn’t take it though,” Max admitted. “I would have made you carry that thing back.” If the story ended here, I’m sure that everyone would have had a good laugh, learned a little something, and the credits could roll safely. Obviously, that’s not the case. This wasn’t nearly the last time Max and DuMonde had to deal with the Unfortunate. Their troubles were only beginning. The next night, Arthur was called to the ticket booth by one of the few roadies that travelled with them. Max was tied up helping with the bears, and DuMonde had no interest in dealing with the ordinary nuisances of running the show. He approached the depressingly short line and was directed to a wooden box sitting off to one side. “A wagon rolled up and dumped it off here,” the roadie explained. “They ran off before we could stop them. Thing split open and some kind of animal jumped out, but crawled off into the bushes faster than we could catch it.” “What kind of animal?” Arthur asked, but the roadie only shrugged. “Didn’t get a good look. It didn’t look like a dog though. Too big to be a cat. One lady said it might have been a person, but who knows.” “Box’s firewood then, I guess,” Arthur replied. Secretly he hoped it was a monkey. Arthur loved monkeys and never did understand why their show had horses, mules, bears, birds, and dogs but not a single monkey, especially now that Ringling had Gargantua the Gorilla. Later in the evening once everything had closed down for the night, he mentioned this to Max. Max went pale and stared at his brother as if the young man had grown a third eye. “Was it a person? Did they see? Was there a man in that wagon?” “I’m sure there was a man in the wagon,” Arthur answered. “Someone had to drive it.” Max was in no mood to argue with his brother. Instead he rushed off to DuMonde’s trailer, and Arthur followed close at his heels demanding to know what was going on. When Max gave a hurried explanation, Art shut up and helped pound on the Doc’s door. Dumonde listened to their concerns with his usual stone-faced quiet. When they finished, the older man smoothed out his heavily waxed moustache and nodded. “Gather the dogs. Tell the young ladies to remain in their wagons. Search the area for it, but if you find nothing, then I suppose we have nothing to worry about. “ Max roused Carl, the dog and bear trainer. Carl was a short man who loved alcohol and had been occasionally accused of letting his beloved bears drink with him. His dogs came in all shapes in sizes, and though he insisted during the act they were all purebreds, he had once admitted to Arthur they were nothing more than strays he couldn’t possibly turn away. They gathered up the four largest mutts and a couple of guns, and met up with the other roadies Arthur had called out. The only woman among them was Ellen the token bearded lady who was probably at least as strong as half the men there and refused to be left out of the fun. “We’re looking for…something,” Max tried to explain. “You’ll know it when you see it. Just be careful.” “That narrows it down,” Arthur muttered helpfully. They took up lanterns and fanned out through the brush surrounding the campgrounds. They’d taken up temporary residence in a lightly wooded area on the outskirts of the small town. Much to Max’s dismay there were plenty of places for an evil little monster to hide, and every rushing bush or snapping twig made him jump a good foot in the air. He wasn’t entirely sure what the boy could actually do to them, but the pit that was weighing down his stomach told him nothing good could come from this situation. Unfortunately, he didn’t have to wait long to find out. Two men’s screams shattered the nighttime stillness, and Max and Carl went racing towards whoever was yelling. One voice rose above the other in obvious agony, and the pair tore through the bushes fueled by instinctive panic. They arrived close behind another search group, but that didn’t stop Max from nearly getting clubbed by a hammer. “He broke my hand!” a roadie leaning against a tree wailed. “My hand!” “There was a monster on you!” the one with the hammer insisted. Max took the weapon away from him anyway. The man’s eyes were wide with shock and terror. “And then you broke my hand!” the injured man yowled. The man had more than a broken had to worry about. According to the pair, a monster had rushed out of the bushes and attacked the man, clawing like a monster and ripping a good chunk out of his arm. In an effort to save his friend, the roadie had swing blindly but was too slow to connect with the creature and instead had shattered the poor victim’s hand. “You think that thing had rabies or something?” the roadie asked Max as they dragged him back to the camp. “You think I’m gonna get sick?” Max thought back to the conditions the boy had been held in and didn’t have the heart to tell the man about it. He ordered everyone else back to the camp. Searching the brush in the dead of night was just going to get more people hurt or worse. Instead they opted to lock doors, sleep with guns, and get the hell out of this place as soon as dawn hit. With all the yelling and nervous energy in the air, every animal in the show was riled up beyond hope and the humans weren’t all that much better. Max and Arthur found themselves sitting up in their trailers, playing cards and casting nervous glances out the window. “Why would they dump that thing on us?” Arthur asked. “Because they’re cowards,” Max replied. “They’re probably hoping we’ll kill it for them, and then we can go to hell instead.” “Is it really that bad?” his brother asked. “You can let me know if you get a good look at it,” was all Max would say. Some time after midnight they had both managed to dose off. Max was fading in and out of restless dreams, and the incessant barking of Carl’s dogs kept jarring him back to the waking world. He had almost gone under for the last time when a sudden sharp yelp of pain and vicious growling made him leap out of his bed and grab his gun. Both he and Art flew out of their trailer, but though they were the closest and first to respond, they were already too late. In the moonlight the Unfortunate was even more hideous than in the dark of the cellar. Its twisted spine heaved and pressed unnatural ridges against its skin, and the greasy, patchy hair on its head hung in oily ropes down to its shoulders. What skin wasn’t covered in blood and filth was a sickly white-gray, and its vestigial limbs were flicking wildly at the air. The monster had gotten one of the small dog’s cages open, and it was in the process of ripping the poor animal to shreds. When the boy jerked his head up to look at the brothers, the dog’s neck tore with a wet, meaty rip. The animal continue to try to yelp, but the only sound it could make were gurgling, trembling gasps as it shook and bled out. Max was too stunned to quickly read his gun, but another figure was on the scene. Carl took one look at what the boy had done to his beloved dog, and the little man’s face actually grew red with wild fury. While the Unfortunate was distracted by the brothers, Carl took the opportunity to jump onto its back. The thing thrashed and howled, trying to buck the man off or at least get in a good gouging bite, but this was a trainer who routinely wrestled bears, both friendly and not. Carl bellowed out obscenities and slammed the boy’s misshapen skull into the remains of the cage, and when those gave way from the pummeling, he pounded the monster into the earth instead. There was finally a sickening crack as the Unfortunate’s skull split from the force. When Max and Arthur finally dragged Carl off the boy, only his frail, shrunken limbs still flexed reflexively at the night air. By this time the whole camp was awake and watching the commotion. Doctor DuMonde made his way through the small crowd too look upon the remains of the fight. There was still a strip of the small dog’s neck between the boy’s rodent-like teeth, and Carl was now covered in blood and whatever else had been on the child. He was panting and staring at the body of his pet, making no effort to fight the brothers as they pulled him away. Pools of human and animal blood soaked into the dry ground beneath them. “What a shame,” DuMonde said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, Carl. Max, when you get a moment, carry the body to my office if you please.” The Doctor’s office was a wagon where he held many of his exhibits. At least the ones that weren’t living. The walls were lined with shelves filled with glass jars and odd creatures pinned to the walls like grotesque butterflies. There were some workers who refused to set foot in the place, but after so many years the brothers had grown accustomed to the good doctor’s collection. Max had to wrap the corpse in a blanket to avoid touching the filth, and ignoring the smell and the unpleasant stiffening setting in by the time he gathered the courage to pick the monster up was no easy task. The Doctor, however, could not have been more pleased. Not two days later, the stuffed and posed corpse had a place of honor on the wall behind his desk.