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azulyrae · 1 year

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❛ —— 𝐈 : The Pawn.

his life had been but a recurrent and miserable passing of time; plagued by the constant questioning regarding his value; the nagging behind the point of his meaningless existence and the place he occupied in the reality in which he was inserted. azriel had not lived; rather survived, doomed to loneliness despite the amount of friends he had made. one could not be overjoyed with such a fate; one could not see the point to insist on the stubbornness of life, if one could not share it with a partner.

after five centuries, azriel had felt the bond snap inside his heart; a dagger that tore the flash of the muscle; whose blade twisted and spilled his blood. for once, his agony was but self-inflicted; the pain, a consequence of the emotional absence of [name] archeron, his lightning bolt. azriel had been a lonesome wanderer, grasping to an abstract concept and companion that had finally found him mid-travel. and after quiet ponder and the insistence of his mate’s sisters, the shadowsinger decided to steal her from the tortuous path of self-sacrifice, and led the queen and king of their chess game to quite an experimental and potentially catastrophic game.

the first chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

word-count: 10K.

“I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.”

― Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

The leisure room’s stillness brought the male comfort. His thoughts, once a swirl of revolt, were reduced to mere pondering. The sound of his pacing, incessant during the first half-hour of his arrival, ceased with the time spent in silence. Azriel sat on his most favored elbow-chair: made of charcoal-colored leather; with enough width to accommodate his wings; the one further from the hearth; and had not left since then. The hollow pair of his eyes were fixed on the peeling brown-paint of the walls near the shelves — even if they did not perceive a thing.

When he had reached the familiar space of the House of Wind, Azriel scurried to the least frequented room and enclosed himself inside. By then, the sun held itself with pride in the middle of the day sky, burning and fierce, while a warm whiff entered sporadically through the opened doors of the balcony and the wind swayed the linen curtains. The Shadowsinger poured himself a generous amount of aged scotch with ice and proceeded to lose himself in mute and almost betrayed speculation.

The male didn’t need, nor did he ask, for the eventual reports of his shadows regarding the time passage. Azriel could deduce the lingering of his presence according to the light’s position. Although he had drowned the first dose of whiskey inside a luminous room, by the time his twentieth one doused his sore throat, the full-moon shone, its bright light a rival to the countless stars in Velaris’ night sky.

The House lit the hearth at least three hours prior, and Azriel commanded it to extinguish the flames. It wasn’t the first time, and the Spymaster doubted it’d be the last too, in which he wasted precious periods of his day staring into the meaningless and oppressive void; seconds and minutes and hours converging into a single unity until Azriel could no longer discern, nor notice, their passage. Pale and ethereal, the weak moonrays entered the ambient — that grew more frigid as dusk arrived — and the peeled pattern of the old tint could scarcely be seen in comparison to the daytime’s. But Azriel would’ve been able to point each furniture with precision, or move without hesitation, for he knew every centimeter that constituted the House of Wind’s extension. More than all, the Spymaster could’ve reached a particular point of the leisure room even if he was tied and blinded.

His sight burnt figurative holes in the untouched chess board, still secured inside the store’s package, despite the fact that it had been gifted to her months before, during the Winter Solstice. It rested under a pile of unwrapped presents, each thoroughly thought and given by a member of the Inner Circle. His High-Lady, Mor and Elain had spent weeks trying to convince her to join them for the Winter Solstice, their promises of amusing and private festivities not fazing her in the slightest. So, before their departure, Azriel had told Clotho to leave their gifts somewhere in the library where she would see them, for not a soul managed to learn where she had ventured to. When he returned and found the damned pile, Azriel felt a sudden wave of rage trespass his very being. Because the Spymaster lacked Cassian’s patience, such an offense was not ignored.

Azriel was left both enchanted and wary once his eyes fell upon her figure for the first time. Prythian was close to war against Hybern then, and they were in dire need of allies. In order to contact the Mortal Queens, Feyre had resorted to her sisters, and though she’d granted them an overview of their personalities and shared past, the female was particularly vague regarding the older one. The Spymaster was half-expecting fidgeting and condescending women, quite uninteresting and avoidant. However, she held none of those said characteristics.

With briefness, she had informed Feyre of the occurrences the sister had missed after her return to the Fae Lands. Their father sailed to where she theorized to be the farthest west, and with the man gone, her, the oldest — [Name] — was in charge of their coin, the employees, and their mansion’s maintenance. Feyre once confessed that was it not for one of her sister’s sacrifices, she would never have survived a single winter to wield a bow. The fact alone granted the said woman great respect amongst them all, though her identity was only confirmed when Azriel and his brothers faced that force of nature.

Feyre had advised — rather threatened them — to maintain a certain and specific distance. The three were given no further details, yet, were all glad to adhere to her orders. Still, with her clear avoidance regarding the topic and the deep sorrow in her eyes whenever she covered her older sister’s brief character, Azriel had managed, to a certain extent at least, to connect the pieces of the puzzle. And with what he presumed to be a precise knowledge, the Spymaster expected a strong, yet secluded woman; one who’d offer her home out of consideration for Feyre without engaging with their troubles any further.

How wrong he was.

When the soon-to-be High-Lady informed the three sisters of their need, Nesta’s discontentment came in brisk and sharp words, while Elain remained silent and, in fact, quite nervous over the prospect of a discussion. But all [Name] had asked her sister was whether she’d need anything more. As if offering Feyre her home was no bother; as if she was willing to offer her entire being, if it meant granting the youngest sister a solace of her own.

She led them to the private office upstairs, and Azriel absorbed the small glimpse of her ferocious spirit, overwhelmed by her scent and presence in every centimeter of the room. A shelf took over an entire wall; there were countless maps of the Mortal Lands plastered on a mural, most with colorful arrows traced with either red or blue paint, as if to showcase hot and warm currents; and an enormous table placed on the center, with pages whose scriptures varied from long, handwritten notes to numbers and formulas Azriel himself couldn’t understand, despite the five centuries he’d lived. The chessboard was the last thing he saw. It was placed in a corner, a melancholic sight to a male as himself, who adored the strategies and competition the game’s matches granted him. [Name] had no opponent; no friend she could invite to play against.

The Spymaster had then noticed the clear loneliness of the Archeron sisters. He could still remember Feyre’s haunted and paranoid figure, resorting to self-isolation for she was not taught to accept the offering hand of potential allies. The parallels were absurd as [Name] fished a silver-necklace from her dress’ collar, using the small key hanging from it to open one of the many drawers from the center table. And from the inside, the mortal pulled a detailed plant of the mansion’s entire extension. She was distant, her words were sharp and matter-of-fact. Yet, the older sister was analytical and prone to listen, quick to action and unafraid to voice her opinions. Despite their five centuries of experience, [Name] somehow managed to catch on to a concept or idea the brothers oversaw, and didn’t hesitate to point clear errors on their strategies, nor was she embarrassed to acknowledge possible improvements regarding her schemes. And once Azriel noticed the manner with which Feyre’s eyes shone with pride and admiration; how close they held one another when the female was to return to Velaris; he knew [Name] had, unbeknownst to her, passed some of her coping skills to the younger sister.

During the first reunion with the mortal queens, they were all left with a sour instinct and anticipation. Yet, [Name] was the single one immediately sure of their betrayal, as if, somehow, the female grasped onto aspects of their stances and personalities the others overlooked. It was her certainty that drove Rhysand to order Azriel to return regularly to the Archeron mansion until their next scheduled reunion. While his High-Lord was off to the Summer Court, the Spymaster was inside that same private office, studying more recent mansion-plants that [Name], somehow, convinced the architects to let her borrow, as Nesta watched them like a hawk with an untouched novel in her hands.

As expected, [Name] was indeed detached and blunt; disdainful, even, when annoyed. The surprise of it all, whatsoever, came with the fact that she was also hotheaded. [Name] seemed to him as a powerful fortress. Her words coated in sarcasm, voiced with little forethought or regret; her ruthless honesty and logic. She was not warm, nor was she raised to. Instead, [Name] was reliable. The tree that never bent; the castle built on a mountain rock, impenetrable and magnificent. One would not imagine that under such coldness hid a chaotic thunderstorm. A well-phrased insult and he could almost catch a glimpse of her lightning; an arrogant grin to prove her wrong and he could see a twitch in her plain features. Azriel, surprisingly, noted that he quite enjoyed the act of annoying the oldest and provoking a reaction. Even better, for his own personal and secretive satisfaction, the male also proved to be great at it.

But once those banters were put aside, one would notice that [Name] wasn’t cruel nor prideful, and whenever Nesta grew tired of their technicalities, with Elain assuming the chaperone’s position instead, Azriel managed to strike less task-driven conversations.

He learned that [Name] first engaged in chess matches at the ripe age of seven, when, bored to no end, she saw their old mansion’s chief of cuisine play by himself. The man taught her well, and what he could not answer, she searched for in books. The mortal was dutiful to her studies, quick-witted and with keen observation skills that, combined to her well-chosen words, left every single one of her father’s late investors at her disposal, regardless of her young age. And when they weren’t lost in provocations and meaningless competitions related to who could come up with the most logical and efficient strategies to the possible outcomes of their encounter with the Mortal Queens, Azriel enjoyed sharing stories of Prythian with [Name], covering the continent’s territories, and listening to her theories. His favorite part of the whole interaction was noticing how the woman’s eyes would shine with anticipation, her imagination running wild at his words. He noticed then, her endless fierceness; how her core shook with thunder and catastrophe. There was more than the simple desire to learn more of the world; there was rage for what she would never see, resentment for her mortal limitations, and grief for the one she could’ve been.

Although he didn’t quite consider her a friend, Azriel wasn’t blind to their similarities either. The eldest of their respective families; the ones assigned to the ugliest, most dutiful aspects of their homes; the paranoid and distant personalities that granted both of them a fearsome first impression. He had no doubt she would’ve made whatever sacrifice, gone whichever length necessary, to free her sisters from related burdens. And — she had once said — if the trail ahead required her to taint her hands red, [Name] would comply, wash them after the process was done, and repeat the cycle for as long as it was needed.

Azriel had spent his almost half-six centuries of miserable existence yearning for a twin-flame; one that would be more pure and moral, empathetic and sweet, less prone to brutal logic and violence. The Spymaster once believed that if Morrigan, the female of pure altruism and resplendent strength, was to bless him with reciprocal love, she would purify the darkness within him; adore him until he learned to see himself through her perspective. Yet, during those comfortable conversations, Azriel couldn’t contradict the inherent truth of the fantastical feeling of being thoroughly understood. Although he remained sick and twisted, a vile creature built on hatred and violence and revenge, the male found that [Name], with her bottled rage and strength; her obstination to understand various concepts; to surround herself in theories and studies and schemes; to gather private informations from possible threats just in case; was a more comforting companion than a pure, immaculate female could ever be.

Azriel had no expectations, whatsoever, to match the mortal’s good heart. He caught a glimpse of her paperwork once, and noted that she was investing part of the re-gained family’s coin in business in less fortunate regions to increase the employment tax. Feyre had also told them that her sister learned not one, but three different languages in a decade, to communicate better with the foreign investors, and to aid the illegal immigrants that worked for their family at the seaport. And though it didn’t seem possible that [Name] could understand and match his struggles, during the quietest moments of dawn, Azriel liked to pretend otherwise.

Duties, however, were a constant call, and the Shadowsinger was assigned to spy on the Mortal Queens, rather than to return to the Archeron’s household. The bitterness on his tongue lingered through it all, both from the unforeseen difficult character of his mission, and from the sudden thought of Cassian visiting the mansion by himself. However, whatever infatuation Azriel labored for her, grew cold during the aftermath of Hybern’s mischievous plan.

[Name] was the first. She was chained, and struggled in her fight as the males threw her inside the Cauldron. The sight of her desperation was overbearing. He had wanted to slash those who held her in half; needed to protect her from the rising waters of her past. His sudden response to her screams was what granted him a week-worth of time spent on a sickbed, for the single movement to reach her had been enough for the poison to spread. Hybern was astute enough to catch on to the female’s importance to her sisters; he knew that, by destroying her fighting spirit, the other three would soon follow. However, the Cauldron expelled her after no more than half a minute, as if whatever happened between their brief encounter, whatever it saw in her, was too disturbing; vile; dangerous. It didn’t wait for Hybern’s soldiers to grab the borders and turn it, throwing the female on the ground in the process.

No, the Cauldron moved on its own, the pitch-black water stinking of surprise and desperation when the artifice fell and the female arose, reborn. Hybern himself had been shocked and afraid. For the months that ensued, Azriel wondered if his poisoned mind had deceived his sight, for he had met the sister’s eyes then, and stared into the thin pupils of a dragon; he wondered whether the poison was to blame for the devastating tug on his heart, the brief light that sliced through the darkness of his core and shook his very being with its power.

However, when he next saw her, [Name] was a High-Fae — taller, her movements more fluid, and a stance that was both terrifying and compelling. Yet, it was the sheer strength and promise of violence that undid him. The eyes that met his own were determined and hostile, challenging and commanding, as if [Name] noted her enforced physique and decided not to hesitate if the time urged her to use them. She was desirable and breath-taking as a mortal, with hypnotizing complexions, too; a woman aware of her attributes and influence and unafraid to use them as she saw fit. But being a High-Fae made her more lethal, a fantastic and splendid female granted with the means necessary to pursue her goals, to back up the violence hidden under the sarcastic retorts.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. He wasted precious centuries pitying himself, for he had been assigned the burden of aggression. His hands were scarred and eternally tainted with blood, vile things that were the living proof of his fate. However, [Name] embraced the future the Mother drew; she’d be the serpent and the bite and the venom; she’d be the tortuous pain that preceded death. And if that meant protecting herself and those she cared for, the guilt would be non-existent. Nothing but twenty-five, and the female made peace with the demons that had been plaguing him for five centuries.

She had a pile of books clutched against her chest, and maps that depicted what seemed to be the detailed territory of every Court and Faerie Realm of Prythian, rolled up and secured between her biceps and forearm. His shadows began to hum a soft and low ballad, dancing around their bodies. The Spymaster waited for [Name] to recoil, yet, she stared at the dark-tendrils of smoke with slight curiosity and the gleam of something else. Her eyes moved between his shadows, in a manner he learned to be those of her scheming. The hall in which the Spymaster stumbled upon [Name]’s renewed powerful figure seemed to diminish as he, enchanted, stepped closer. However, the curiosity that pooled in her eyes a second prior turned into hard-steel, a sense of despise and deception covering the grateful stare. Azriel noted the silver-blue color of the dragon’s eyes; the thin pupils of a violent storm retributing his entranced glance. His steps ceased; his shadows recoiled; and Azriel managed, a tad too late, to mask the hurt from his features.

The male wasn’t sure of what he had done wrong. Nevertheless, despite his initial surprise, and after a more attentive glance, he managed to find the hidden signs under the fearsome veil of those hard-expressions and astute irises. [Name] was in a disheveled state, with purple bags under the tired eyes and a mark between her eyebrows, of what he presumed to be left by constant worry. Azriel found himself wordless, sent into a foreign state of near-fidgeting. Ever since he’d left the burdens of a green-boy behind, Azriel had ceased to be nervous around females. He was desirable, confident, and managed to seduce them just fine, with no need for a repertoire filled with poems and romance quotes. But with [Name], it was as though the green-boy had returned, now laughing at his matured silence and nervousness. He yearned for the previous camaraderie, but had no clue of which phrases to use in order to reach it.

His hesitation wasn’t well-received. The female’s grip on her books grew tighter, and a sudden, powerful scent filled the air as she said: “If there’s nothing you wish to tell me, clear the way.”

He remained glued into place. Even if the Spymaster attempted to move left and grant her a free passage, his body had turned into nothing but a wayward bag of aching bones. For Azriel had words unsaid, his muscles were stiff and unnatural. He closed his fists in frustration, aware that his eyes were a pool of hatred. Not even his shadows ought to move, paralyzed in the scarce space between him and the female.

“You’re looking like crap,” he lied, for [Name] hadn’t demanded him to be true in his statement, only to speak up.

[Name] didn’t flinch nor showcased hurt, as if she’d found the real aspect of his thoughts somewhere within his cloaked expression. He wouldn’t confess his desire to hold what he presumed to be quite a heavy pile of books; to help her find whatever information she was searching for; to offer the distraction of a long and well-pondered chess match. Yet, her eyes flickered with acceptance and sorrow, the fate of a self-imposed loneliness one thought to be worthy of.

“I don’t need your help,” [Name] said. Grasping onto the late thoughts of lending an aiding hand seemed as though trying to capture water with a closed fist. Whenever the male found himself close enough to the instinctive wish to help, it slipped through his fingers as a volatile liquid. Despite his best efforts, Azriel caught himself fighting against the sudden lack of free-will, for, once again, nor his mind or body were his own. “You won’t offer to help me, either. I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”

“Of course you are,” he agreed in a haze, his words sounding slurred and disconnected.

The Spymaster hated himself for being susceptible to that treacherous manipulation; hated her for wielding it, too, and displaying all but a small remorse in the process of stealing his freedom. He connected the lines then; from the venomous scent of power to the abrupt fear of the Cauldron when it had expelled her. A hypnotizing voice, one that managed to control even his intangible companions. He wondered where the limitations of such power were placed, while fearing there were none. The previous concern related to whether or not he should propose to carry her books seemed small and meaningless in comparison to the inescapable authority he was trapped under. He, instead, began to fear for his entire Court, for there was nothing besides, perhaps, her sisters, capable of stopping [Name] from stealing Velaris from under their noses.

“I have no intentions to cause harm,” she said, waving his worries as though they were a nagging fruit-fly. Opposite from the female’s previous statements, this one didn’t feel as a demand of her part. The well-justified suspicions remained rooted in his mind, instead of slipping through his consciousness before he could even process the thought.

However, what scared him the most was the fact that [Name]’s mental-powers surpassed those of a daemati. The Shadowsinger never once left his mind-barrier unattended; it had been a wall of revested, pitch-black steel, ever since he learned of the existence of those able to read his thoughts. He was sure they were intact, and yet, she slipped inside as if it meant nothing.

“Meaning you draw the line at generalized battles, but find it acceptable to read one’s mind without their verbal permission,” Azriel retorted. The male crossed his arms against his chest, the anger overpowering the modest shine that accompanied the beating of his heart. The Spymaster looked down on her, resorting to the glance he used to terrify his opponents and prisoners. He had noticed a tad too late that his stance mirrored his father’s, and both disgust and regret enclosed his once arrogant and spiteful stance.

But rather than recoiling, [Name] raised her chin, the eyes of the dragon returning with a barely-contained rage that matched his own. “I was thrown inside a Cauldron without granting them permission to do so; I was Made and kept hostage inside a Fae-house I’m not allowed to leave. My youngest sister is gone, and I wield powers that are directly connected to emotions I’ve spent my entire life repressing. I can’t control whose minds I can read. This place is cacophony of thoughts and fears, and I would’ve given the entirety of my lost riches to be mortal again; to not hear the suicidal and terrified intents of my sisters.”

Azriel felt a sense of shame creeping up his spine. Even if his anger of her commands for him to remain distant, and ignoring his every nerve rebelling against doing so, had lingered, the Spymaster found quite a soft-spot upon hearing her point of view. She seemed pained and confused, a lashing animal that adorned herself with claws and fangs, scales and poison, because she failed to envision a different perspective. The sudden reminder of Feyre’s tendency to self-isolate and self-sacrifice, and from who she’d taken said characteristics, went as a brisk breeze, refreshing his consciousness for too little: since the acknowledgement of [Name]’s pain meant he’d want nothing but to reach for her and help, and the female had denied him that right.

He had never resented her more, doubted he ever would. The pressure, placed upon his jaw because of the effort to struggle against those commands, was quick to bring an ache. The Spymaster had no doubt that soon, the too quiet hall would be filled with the sound of the crack of his bones.

“I can manage by myself, I don’t need nobody,” she repeated, the slight mark reappearing between her eyebrows as her expression shifted into one of obstinate confusion.

Despite the order, Azriel’s insistence prevailed; his words were near to spill, that fucking, stupid offering to carry her books, but the scent of her hypnotizing power managed to inebriate his senses at last.

“I. Don’t. Need. Nobody. It’s my tragedy alone to endure.”

The resistance must’ve faded from his features, for the female’s eyes returned to their normal appearance, and she passed through him. Their shoulders touched — Azriel’s bare muscles brushing against her clothed skin — and a terrible shiver went through her. The female gritted her teeth, searching for that armor of nonchalance and uninterest.

“I don’t need nobody,” she said, his back facing her own. “But Elain does. She’s lost, and I’m sure you owe me no favors, but my sister treated you well during our scheming afternoons, and isn’t the one to blame for my character.”

He hadn’t felt compelled to reach for Elain, enough an indicator that [Name] was but giving him the right to choose for himself whether he wished — or not — to keep an eye on said sister. As it seemed, [Name] didn’t care to wield her voice if the consequences fell upon her shoulders alone, but refused to drag others into her labyrinth of thunderous hatred. Azriel didn’t answer, and his shadows were in a mingled commotion of confusion as their desire to check on the female was countered by her own command to be left alone.

Rhysand had then approached from where he, for sure, observed their interaction. The male was quite conflicted, noticing the rebellious instinct Azriel couldn’t conceive. Instead of flying to the balcony, to then winnow to the River House, they decided it was less bothersome to dialogue inside the nearest, more private room of the House of Wind: that being the leisure room. His brother updated him of the most recent occurrences — those he’d lost during the week under an induced sleep — and Azriel himself was left puzzled at the end of Rhys’ report.

[Name]’s commanding powers bloomed after Feyre’s departure to the Spring Court. Upon failing to find the youngest sister, she invaded the private reunion of the Inner Circle — Rhysand, Morrigan and Amren, the three conscious at the time — and demanded to be informed of Feyre’s position, leaving them all aghast with their willingness to answer. Azriel observed, through the mental glimpses Rhys offered, the internal fight of his brother’s brain, and how she had, too, crushed his desire to uphold that particular information. A High-Fae whose mind was closed to the daemati, wielding a tongue that could put even a High-Lord to his knees. She suddenly was a threat twice as dangerous and unapologetic, willing to use her power whenever underestimated, and Azriel’s wariness increased with the fact.

However, [Name] hadn’t needed to repeat her orders until then. Her powers had been enough to intoxicate the minds of two of the most powerful Fae alive, and an ancient creature, at the same time. With that in mind, both were left to wonder why Azriel, out of all people, showed such resilience against her commands, and though the possible answer seemed obvious, the Spymaster refused to nurture such hope, especially since he wasn’t sure where his trust was placed with the Archeron sister.

Azriel maintained his distance. He, indeed, began to check on Elain. At first, the male did it as both a taunt and a peace offering. Yet, despite his efforts to grasp [Name]’s attention, she had enclosed herself inside the House of Wind’s library, the books she borrowed being supervised by Clotho. And with all honesty, Elain was rather a comforting companion, her silence matching his own. The female indeed was in need of someone; someone who had no expectations, nor judged her mad for her incoherent mumbling. She grew to be a friend, one that had catched on Azriel’s ragged breath when he laid his eyes on [Name] for the first time in days; who had then begun to state the burdens of her sister and how, although used to loneliness and with her heart buried deep within, she was desperate to see the day where her duties would no longer be overpowering, while also terrified with the idea of leisure. Azriel understood her better then, and was given the confirmation of their similarities once again. Yet, that meant nothing, for the female continued to avoid them all.

Her situation improved in the slightest when Feyre returned, and their shared conversation later-on influenced his High-Lady to encourage [Name] to accept Morrigan’s help. The females spent the next months vanishing during most mornings, whereas [Name] was nowhere to be seen later on, deciding to spend the remnants of her day lost within her studies inside the library.

Morrigan, who was Azriel’s loyal friend — and once, the biggest love he knew — understood his anguish. And though she seemed to empathize with [Name]’s motivations as well, the female made sure to keep him attuned on both [Name]’s physical and mental evolution. She kept most things to herself, of course. And considering the amount of time the two spent together, it was half-expected for [Name] to be a modest swordswoman; though she did improve, it became clear that they were discussing other things, too.

When the War was declared, [Name] abandoned her months of quiet isolation in the library or private training sessions with Mor to help them strategize and scheme. Azriel glimpsed the storm underneath the long period of sorrow and concern; fell victim to the same banters and competition and even went as far as to share a deep and meaningful conversation outside the Archeron’s sisters tent. At the time, Elain had just been rescued, and although the three of them slept inside, [Name] refused to do the same, choosing to guard them instead.

Azriel’s tongue felt heavy and useless on the morrow, when he attempted, once again, to offer his help. The male thought of a dozen synonyms and different speech forms to bypass her command, but they were all in vain. And even if she learned to control the mind-reading aspect of her powers, Azriel’s efforts must’ve been crystal clear, for she rose from the ground, her steps crushing the autumn dried leaves, and repeated: “I don’t need nobody.”

He grew tired and revolted then. It was easier to obey her desires when one had given up on contourning them. The last battle came, and Azriel’s mind was set, for he refused to keep walking around those walls’ borders, to venture on the female’s stubborn need to retract herself and put on a veil of feigned detachment. The Spymaster would no longer care, no longer offer help. And it was only when the dragon emerged from the battlefield — dark scales with blue and silver undertones — that he’d noticed those weren’t his desires, but the consequences of her command inside his mind. Though he was once resolute, a second later, the male wished for nothing but to claim the skies with the magnificent flying serpent. Considering the quickness with which his mind changed, Azriel grew both scared and amazed at the extension of her will. It was the first time he’d experienced what Rhysand and the others must’ve felt during her first morning at the House of Wind; the first confirmation that her imposition worked differently on him, as if he was made to pass through the venom curtain and sit close to the female behind it, granting her the companionship she didn’t deem herself worthy of.

At the time, the sight of the dragon was magnificent: the shadow of a flying serpent, covering the sunlight; the strong scent of ozone that hang in the air as the creature flew to the open sea, where Hybern’s fleet was seen in the horizon; the open jaw — one the size of a grown Illyrian warrior — that breathed not fire, but lightning. [Name]’s rage had resulted in the screams of a thousand soldiers, their pained cacophony reverberating as the water — the best conduit for electricity, he’d soon learn — helped murder whoever intended to plunge against them through the sea. Yet, the sight of the Fae’s eyes after such occurrences wasn’t at all welcoming. She was broken; shallow; tired. Even if he could still catch a glimpse of the brilliant and breath-taking dark scales under the common flesh, there was something amiss. Not guilt, but perchance, a sense of adamant worry and disorientation, as though she had no idea what to do next.

Azriel waited until the Inner Circle returned to Velaris. The Archeron sisters were granted the offer to find a home of their choosing, and although Elain agreed to live with Feyre, Nesta found herself a decrepit apartment in one of the poorest districts, while [Name] had insisted on staying in the House of Wind. It made sense. Between the three Made females, [Name] was the one that did not need to face the ten thousand steps whenever she wished to leave; she could shift into whatever winged-animal she saw fit, and fly to whichever path she meant to take. Although Morrigan and Feyre were quite harsh with both him and Cassian, warning of the consequences were they to invade her personal space, Azriel was glad — and hopeful, even — that she decided to linger for more than just the desire to resume her constant visits to the library, or the wish to part ways from her sisters. The future was promising without the war and the perspective of peace, and he’d have enough space to return to that old camaraderie.

Or so he thought.

The female gave him a single glance and repeated those four fucking words. Their first dialogue was built on sarcasm and bad manners, both mistrusting one another and wishing to test their motivations and boundaries. Of course the bond would sing the loudest then. Not when the dragon emerged or when [Name] was Made; not during their heartfelt conversation outside the tent; but when he was mad with anger at her obstination, wishing to grab her shoulders and shake her to her senses. Still, a malicious sense of victory, one his entire family would disapprove of, glowed with the unprecedented truth. [Name] enjoyed being several steps ahead but could not have predicted their mating bond in a thousand years. She wasn’t aware that with the unilateral snap, her commanding powers lost considerable strength against his mind.

So, when [Name] said she didn’t need his help, Azriel had answered: “Of course you don’t.”

Ever since then, in between the not-at-all accidental stumbles on different routes of the House, he made sure to pretend. Pretend to be at her words’ mercy; pretend to be affected by her commands. All in the while decreasing their late distance with poisonous phrases and acts of his own, that [Name] was quick to retort. However, he didn’t expect her latest one to be so vile and spiteful; never would’ve thought his mate would be so cruel.

Nuala and Cerridwen’s report was but a kneaded ball of paper, falling victim to the Shadowsinger’s unmatched anger. He stared at the pile of unwrapped gifts. Feyre had given her older and most admired sister a personalized chess board: the pieces had the texture of a dragon’s scale, and each group-piece was represented by a thoroughly designed flying serpent; the board was made of enhanced glass, and the structure underneath was a pitch-black pattern of the lightning of a violent storm crashing against the stones of a dozen mountains. Rhysand chose a long leather coat, its shoulder pads with silvery-blue spikes as those she had on her dragon back. Elain gave her a beautiful vase of colorful dragon-flowers, one he knew [Name] began tending to. Amren picked a silver necklace, the pendant with — according to her words — a blue kyanite, the rough stone carved as if to resemble a dragon head. Cassian bought three books, one being his most favored about battle strategies, and the other two — personal recommendations from Clotho, who said she was searching for the subject, and couldn’t find nothing close to it in the library — of The Story of Prythian’s Currency: Volume I & II. Whereas Morrigan was more subtle. The female said she’d give a gift related to her past experiences, one it wasn’t made to be seen by their curious eyes.

Each of the previous gifts stood in the unwrapped pile, but Azriel’s was nowhere to be seen.

He spent months trying to come up with something. It’d be the first Winter Solstice with his mate; the first gift he’d give her. Since his memories were no longer lost in a haze, the male was brought back to their first true conversations months prior. [Name] told him she had learned how to properly wield daggers and throwing knives, for someone had taught her, and she trained tirelessly ever since. Morrigan complimented that aspect, too, commenting that [Name] had quick-feet, with an agility that was made for close combat. So Azriel gave his mate two sai daggers. The butt-end was of dragons’ heads, designed in a way as not to hinder her moments; the grip was made of cool and weightless leather, with an undertone of dark blue, and one silver-colored bolt of lightning on both sides of the material; there was a stone in the middle of the wing-base — the shade, the same blue of his Siphons — and the steel from both the wing-base and wings had the pattern of scales. The shaft had a thin scripture written in the runic-language of Ancient-Fae — a courtesy of Amren, who, he was sure, felt the bond between them — that said: “The bolt that cuts through darkness, the light that breaks the night.”

Azriel placed an order to the smith for a set of throwing knives too, and this time, instead of choosing a dragon, Azriel went for two swallows taking flight and staring at one another, placed at each side of the guard. However, he prided himself more in the pair of personalized sai daggers. The Spymaster knew the Inner Circle would pick the dragon alone, for they didn’t know that at each dawn, [Name] shifted into a white and blue swallow, small and silent, and ventured through the night skies, returning on the morrow under the same form. What better metaphor for such a fast, small animal, if not throwing daggers? Regardless, he found her choice odd. Why would one prefer to be a swallow, instead of an eagle, or even a dragon? He came to the conclusion that perhaps [Name] and her unspeakable past did not wish to be perceived; after a lifetime of being placed on top of a pedestal, attracting both admiration and lust from those who stared from underneath, it seemed as though she was glad to be a merely invisible bird, rather than a devastating creature. He respected that, but nevertheless, [Name] didn’t seem to have enjoyed the gift.

When Azriel searched for the sai daggers and knives, he wasn’t sure what would’ve hurt more. The prospect of finding them yet wrapped, or in the same state as the rest of those on the pile. He never once thought they wouldn’t be there at all. The Spymaster left clear and severe orders to his shadows, and despite his companions’ wishes, they weren’t allowed to search the House of Wind — especially [Name]’s room — for the gift. Hope was an unreliable feeling, and nurturing it was a direct step into disappointment. Rage and resentment, however, came easier. Azriel was sure that his shadows had disobeyed him, and were desperate to share their information. Yet, he didn’t welcome it. Instead, the male fell straight into the rabbit hole of his duties, making it all the easier to ignore his mate. Summarizing it all, said decision was what brought him to that current dismal state, and guided him to the emptiness of the leisure room.

Not two weeks had passed since the Winter Solstice, and Azriel was already assigned to infiltrate Montesere’s barriers. Considering the land’s history of allegiance with Hybern, and the infertile political situation between the Courts after the Wall between Fae and Mortal Lands fell, his brother and High-Lady’s concern regarding Montesere’s silence was well-based. At first, the Shadowsinger thought it’d be an effortless task. Yet, during his first attempt, he was met with a barrier that countered each and every power he had at his disposal.

The male had faced such a bothersome obstacle before. The Mortal Queens once wielded a similar protection; one that had avoided his net of spies and his own shadows for months. Azriel still remembered the consequences of his failure; the fatal mission that had him laying on the floor with poison in his veins; that left Cassian with ruined wings and pain written all over his near-unconscious expressions; the yet-human Archeron sisters being thrown, one by one, inside the Cauldron. The fatality that led [Name] to her current state, one he failed to foresee and prevent.

There was a small knock on the ebony door. A crevice — all but large enough for the head of a winged-Illyrian warrior to pass through — presented Azriel with the sight of his brother, his ever-present grin appearing as soon as he laid eyes on the Spymaster at the elbow-chair. Azriel’s previous thoughts were put on hold, his surprise apparent, and his shadows moved around him, their whispered words sounding hurt and worried: “We warned you, we warned you.” But the male, once again, didn’t hear a single thing.

Those occurrences weren’t rare, nor something he was unfamiliar with. Azriel found himself frequently tangled within them, as if his thoughts were a labyrinth with deviant entrances and constant, creative traps, he never seemed to dodge. The worries and self-loathing gave way to a frozen and profound lake; the water was corrupted, viscous, carrying a darkness Azriel himself wasn’t used to. Avoiding those traps felt as though walking with heavy boots on the thin ice that covered such a lake. He was bound to fail — to fall, — and once Azriel was captured by it, he scarcely attempted to swim, to leave; no light could reach him there, no sound or positiveness, it was a place not even his shadows dared to enter. The Spymaster wasted hours inside it, and only managed to leave it once an external presence pulled him from the putrid waters of his thoughts.

As Cassian had done, entering the leisure room and choosing the elbow-chair in front of his own. His brother glimpsed at the near-to-be empty scotch bottle, an eyebrow raising in the process. The male seemed to believe Azriel had more than enough, for he grabbed it from the center-table and gave it a gulp directly from the bottleneck.

“Are you kidding me?” The Spymaster complained, his voice a mixture of both frustration and anger towards his brother. Azriel wouldn’t dare to pour himself more after that, finding it unhygienic; all in the while, Cassian was quite aware of his brother’s antics, and drank it on purpose.

“Don’t be all selfish, Az,” the male mocked him, drinking another mouthful of the scotch. Azriel rolled his eyes, placing his empty cup on the center-table with unnecessary strength. “You’re done for the night, at least.”

“I’m not even drunk,” he argued. Cassian — the bastard — shrugged.

“That’s because you have a high alcohol tolerance,” his brother’s eyes narrowed. He placed the bottle on the ground, near his feet, and sat with a straightened back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Azriel, in fact, didn’t. His scarred left hand clutched the kneaded report, the sound of paper ringing through his ears. That stupid piece of scribbling what was led him to that position in the first place. The Spymaster flew to the house his High-Lord and Lady shared, filled with a modest amount of shame. The twins had been surveilling Montesere’s magical barriers for almost an entire month, searching for a pattern, hoping to catch on to an immigrant or some poor other bastard attempting to leave. Azriel held that strategy to no hope, aware of the fact that it was doomed to failure. Yet, facing the predicted truth gave him a sour tongue.

Once he told the dreaded information, a reunion was summoned. However, with Cassian at Windhaven and Morrigan returning from Valahan, Azriel had a few hours ahead of him to wait for the reminiscent members of the Inner Circle, and decided to accompany Elain in the kitchen. The female, for sure, must’ve been feeling quite lonely since the twins’ departure to Montesere, and Azriel didn’t mind talking to her either. Elain, after all, was a terrific and attentive friend, with observant eyes and the willingness to listen. The Spymaster thought her thoroughly underestimated during most times, and made sure to let her know that he was, too, willing to train her if she ever thought needed.

Although he expected not much from the conversation at hand, Elain had trapped him a few minutes in. At first, the female repeated the familiar questions he’d been mostly glad to answer. However, at some point, Elain moved to place the trail of dough inside the oven, and her voice had reverberated from where she knelt.

“How is she?”

Azriel knew who she was referring to. Considering the male’s seen proximity with the oldest Archeron sister, and the fact that she barely left the House of Wind, Elain had but few choices besides the one to ask for his words regarding her sister’s state. During the past months, however, Azriel made sure to avoid [Name], and had no answer besides the honest truth no one wished to hear: she remained the same.

The entire Inner Circle grew worried. During the first stages of the War, [Name] spent hours inside the library, hovering over a pile of books, studying every subject regarding Prythian’s history and territory; memorizing each drawn line of the borders; trying to predict their enemies’ movements, and coming up with retaliations to those, too. She also had a peaceful relationship with the priestesses, and after [Name]’s self-isolation, Clotho was instructed by both Feyre and Rhys to send a weekly report regarding the female’s behavior. It wasn’t ideal, but his High-Lady’s heart rest assured that her sister was, at least, within physical reach.

Those weekly-informations were scarcely enough. [Name]’s dragon form, and how she had saved them all to some extent during the last battle, couldn’t be forgotten nor ignored. Of course, the female’s acts to protect her sisters during poverty — and before that, even — weren’t overlooked by Rhysand, either. His brother had the bigger sense of gratitude between them all, and weren’t for Feyre and Elain, Azriel would state that he was the most eager to help [Name] somehow.

Despite Azriel’s attempt to change the subject, stating that he hasn’t been to the House much and that Cassian was a much better option to inform her, the female didn’t allow him to run. Elain insisted that [Name]’s self-isolation tendencies came from the fact that she, after the War, had no perspective. The female was taught to be of use to her sisters; to provide for them, no matter the cost; to be the anchor in which the three youngest ones could rely on during hardships. However, Velaris had changed that need for the better. And Elain was sure that, despite the fact that [Name] was glad the younger pair found solace and comfort and didn’t need her to sacrifice herself any longer, she was also lost and alone. Without her duties and the position of command that she was placed on at a very young age, [Name] was left to deal with the memories and consequences of her life’s decisions all by herself.

Azriel had lost it then. He’d been attempting to reach for his mate for months, and all she did in response was demand him to leave her alone, going as far as to use her hypnotizing voice to achieve such an end. And once he voiced his discontentment and the fact that self-isolation was [Name]’s choice, their first discussion ensued. Elain, shockingly, had snapped at him. Though she remained quiet on behalf of [Name]’s past, the female’s words were forceful and precise. She covered her sister’s relationship with both their parents and how she chose to be there for the three of them, while denying them to do the same for her; Elain pointed most of [Name]’s personality, and during it all, Azriel’s retorts grew short, since the male was again reminded of how much he related to his mate in levels he dared not confess.

His silence wasn’t wasted either. Elain argued that [Name] needed to be of use, to feel that she was protecting her sisters somehow, in order to accept her healing process. Azriel feared that the female found out their mating bond then, but no sooner that doubt was discarded and he regained his calmness, Elain’s next phrase threw that out the window.

“You should train [Name] to be a spy and assign her to Montesere.”

Azriel’s mind went blank. His rage was nearly blinding. He didn’t care how Elain had learned of his struggles regarding Montesere’s barriers, for all he saw was [Name] — his mate — under a complicated position, thrown into a territory they had no intel of, somewhere no one could reach.

“No.”

He refused to wear a more active and demanding voice with the members of his family. Azriel hated the possible wariness it could cause, for the sound of itself was enough to make their prisoners wet themselves in terror. But Elain didn’t falter. She gritted her teeth, meeting his gaze, her eyes a shade of silver, and continued to defend her sister.

“[Name] speaks four languages and is learning the Ancient Fae speech by herself. She has a commanding voice that worked in a room filled with High-Lords, can shift into different mortal-shells, a lightning dragon and smaller animals and beasts, too. She’s smart, light on her steps, and has enough physical training to face stronger opponents,” Elain closed her eyes for a second, as if trying to avoid the memory of a particular vision.

Azriel was reminded of the Seer’s words when she still lived in the House of Wind, staring at the window with no emotion plastered on her face: ‘The scaled-beast of myths that flies through the airway, destined to rescue those lost in dismay. The bolt that cuts through the darkness, the light that breaks the night.’

“All she needs,” continued Elain, the familiar brown back into her eyes, “is guidance.”

Because [Name] was meant for so much more, was so much more, than the astute, self-sacrificing and scarred oldest sister. Because regardless of Azriel’s unwillingness to train her, his mate’s destiny was calling to her; growing closer to her calves with each passing day. And with, or without the Spymaster’s interference, she’d have to face it.

Azriel sighed, the prospect of it all bringing a sudden headache that made him crease his forehead. “I’ll ask Rhys—”

“Rhys agrees,” his brother said, entering the kitchen. Azriel turned, half-betrayed by his shadows, who didn’t warn him of his arrival, and half-shocked with himself, for it had been a long time since he’d been so invested in an argument, he failed to hear a third person’s approach. “Do you agree, Feyre darling?”

His High-Lady entered the kitchen, striving for Elain’s freshly-baked biscuits. She shared a knowing, yet proud, look with her sister, and hummed her approval, giving Azriel an apologetic smile. Cassian, Amren and Mor entered soon after, and the Spymaster learned that their argument was, in fact, heard by all of them. Nevertheless, once the [Name] topic was cleared, the reunion began. After it was clear their kitchen wasn’t big nor comfortable to accommodate the entire family, they all moved to the living-room — Rhys didn’t want his office to be filled with biscuit’s crumbs — and covered other worrying subjects, such as the Mortal Queens’ sudden silence; Mor’s first week at Valaham; Lucien’s eventual reports about Jurian and Vassa; Nesta’s condition, and the twins’ report. Azriel was but a shell of himself during it all, his mind drifting to Montesere and [Name]’s training, the inevitable destiny that awaited.

Once the gathering was over, Azriel barely bid his goodbyes before winnowing the closest he could to the House of Wind. Rhys’ voice entered his mind as soon as he landed, his question the same as the one Cassian had made: “Do you want to talk about it?”

His brother would understand the dilemma the best. Rhysand had stayed an entire month without news regarding Feyre’s well-being when the female acted as a spy inside the Spring Court. Azriel wished to ask him how he had managed it; how could it be possible, or at least bearable, to wait in Velaris as his mate was risking her life somewhere he couldn’t reach. But their situation was different. Rhysand could’ve winnowed to the Spring Court to assist Feyre if the female was in need; Azriel had his wrists tied against one another, aware that if [Name] managed to enter Montesere’s barriers, he’d have no news, no way of learning whether she was safe.

So, he gave Cassian the same answer he gave Rhysand: “I’m fine, there’s no need to worry.”

And as the latter, Cass respected the boundary drawn between them, didn’t question any further. Instead, he stared with curiosity as Azriel rose from the elbow-chair.

“Where are you going?”

“To give [Name] the great news.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“She’s awake.”

Azriel didn’t care enough to continue that game of pretense, one where he didn’t voice his certainties regarding the female’s state in order to maintain their mate bond in utter secrecy. Considering Cassian’s lack of reaction — besides the clear amusement — the Spymaster was sure most of the Inner Circle’s members already had their suspicions.

“Good luck!” Cassian taunted as Azriel left the leisure room. The male’s hands grew sweaty with anticipation, and he rubbed them against the cloth of his trousers.

[Name]’s decision to continue living in the House of Wind came with an inevitable change of rooms. He had to walk up one extra floor, for the female chose the bedchamber placed on the hallway above the one he and Cassian shared, and his shadows began to move with a mischievous lack of control once they noticed the Spymaster’s intentions.

Azriel knocked on the door, announcing his presence through the shadows that peered inside. Not a second later, he heard [Name]’s frantic steps, and she, as expected, didn’t seem as though awakened from slumber. Her eyes were suspicious, and the female was dressed in traveling clothes. She didn’t care to state otherwise, nor to hide her provisions and backpack placed on the corner of her room.

“It’s a little late for a visit,” [Name] stated, although not surprised. Instead, the female seemed to analyze him, trying to find out why he was there in the first place.

“It’s a little late for tracking,” he mocked. If she was anyone else, Azriel would’ve supported his shoulder-weight on the door, a foot pushing against the crevice, inviting himself in. But [Name] left him wary of his words and acts; with a sense of unknown anticipation. Azriel felt, once again, as though a green-boy unaware of a female’s tastes. [Name] placed him on a chess board, and Azriel was left under the impression that she needed but a single misstep of his to steal his king.

“It was a spontaneous decision,” his mate answered, unresponsive as his shadows reacted to her voice-tone and began to flutter closer, like small and innocent butterflies.

“So was mine.”

“Bold statement coming from someone who’s been ignoring me for months,” she bit. Azriel didn’t allow his surprise to rise to his features. Both managed, after all, to wear a veil of nonchalance despite the implications behind their words.

“Bold judgment coming from someone who commanded me to do so.”

“You never seemed to listen,” [Name] answered, waving her hand.

“Were you sad that I did, for once?”

Her stance changed, if only for a mere second, but he caught on it. Mother be damned, he tucked that information closer to his heart than he should have.

“What are you doing here?”

“Your sisters are worried.”

[Name] accessed him, aware of the low blow; the mouse-trap he placed on the board. She ignored it. “They’re welcome to visit me anytime.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What are you doing here?” [Name] repeated, and Azriel was caught by surprise. Her commanding voice was, at least once, only triggered if she used an imperative phrase. The Spymaster never saw her use it as a question, which meant that she had been training somehow, it was only left for him to find out in whom.

Azriel was physically close enough to the point where pretending to be affected by her demand was useless. She would’ve noticed the absence of haziness coating his eyes; the overall alert state of his body. The male moved his pawn, the information he kept a secret for so long, finally clear for her to see. “There’s something we need your help with.”

Her eyes grew wide, a slight shift in her scent that indicated neither fear or anger, but excitement. Azriel felt a sudden tremble that went through his entire body. The fact that [Name] now knew would change every single damned thing between them for the better. The Spymaster could already anticipate the fierceness of their future competitions, her obstinate glance and taunting grin, the quick-pacing of his heart. Mother be damned, he already yearned for the sight.

“You’re immune,” she pointed out with slight wonder, clearing the path for him to enter the room.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

“This isn’t an answer,” [Name] bit, her tone assuming one of annoyance and anger. He forgot how good he was at bringing that side of her to the surface. Never again, Azriel decided. Never again would he be departed from her long enough to forget of their banters.

“It’s the one you’ll get,” he insisted, kneeling near her backpack. “Where were you planning to go?”

His mate grew quiet, as if pondering her next movement and the consequences it would cause. She seemed to decide whatsoever, judging the odds favorable. “The Mortal Lands.”

Azriel’s back stiffened. He had no doubt that the adaptation was rough, but he didn’t suspect, not even once, that she could’ve been missing her late home. The male rose from the ground and away from that pack, as if the object was forsaken — wrong, — turning to stare at her instead.

“Why?”

“I have unfinished business,” [Name] ignored his disheveled state, staring at him as though he — and his entire social-circle, for that matter, — were stupid for thinking she had left nothing behind after twenty-five years of living in the Mortal Lands. “Something that, coming to think of, I could use your help with.”

Azriel gave her a stare most would cower from. She returned with one most would lose their confidence against. The male envisioned that damned board, memorized the position of his pieces, and made his move. “I presume your sisters weren’t informed of your plans.”

“Obviously.”

“So why,” he taunted, moving closer while still leaving enough space between them, “would I cross my High-Lady’s wish, and help with whatever it is you came up with?”

[Name] crossed her arms against her chest, reading in between the lines of his expression and coming to terms with his words. “It will be faster with your winnowing, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He grinned, victorious, as her eyes trailed to the paintings on his forearms and exposed shoulders. His knight was so close to her king, he could almost hear the check-mate coming from his lips, even if that was all but a metaphorical game on a metaphorical board.

“You’ll help me get to the Mortal Lands, then what? What am I supposed to do?”

“Train with me outside Velaris. You’ll be the Court’s spy, and once judged ready, I’ll assign you to a mission in Montesere.”

[Name]’s eyes narrowed, as if seeing the plastered map of Prythian on her mind. Azriel had no doubt the female had studied the land’s expanse and history, had no doubt she wasn’t clueless, at least not entirely, as to why the Night Court needed someone inside the magical barriers. There was a gleam there, and her lips curved with the same malice she wielded during their strategizing, when she saw something he didn’t; when she was sure he wouldn’t be able to counter her movements. Azriel shuddered then, not with fear but with expectation. It had been ages since the last time his mate showed enough patience and will to strike, to enter a mental competition. That game of theirs, filled with taunts and strategies and low-blows, was exciting; the type of conjunction between a sense of immaculate victory and determination upon defeat one could only find when their competitiveness was perfectly matched.

One [Name] forgot she enjoyed until Azriel invited her to play again.

“As I see it, I’ll do as I’m told and then be given a reward,” she said, moving left to her murals. [Name]’s room was a bigger version of her late office, with books and maps and annotations plastered wherever the eyes could reach. His mate grabbed a white powder from the inside of a drawer, its scent sleep-inducing, and Azriel was left aghast at her abilities; her potential. “That doesn’t seem fair, especially considering that you might need me, but I don’t need you. Not crucially, at least.”

“Put me to sleep, and once I’m awake, I’ll inform the entire Inner Circle of your intentions,” the male answered matter-of-factly, because there was not a chance she thought that plan would lead somewhere.

“Then, what? You’ll follow my trail, because I could command everyone else to turn a blind eye? Where would that lead us, if not the Mortal Lands?”

“I’d find your trail before you even managed to reach the Day Court,” Azriel answered, his words filled with well-based arrogance. [Name] inserted two fingers inside the small, glass-made pot, and smudged her digits with the white powder. The female grew closer, and his shadows danced around her neck and waist; her thighs and arms; all of the places Azriel himself yearned to touch, but didn’t dare to.

“I don’t think you’re understanding your position. A dragon might be easy to find but what of a beetle? A serpent? What is a sparrow-hawk in the Autumn Court, if not a single bird between many others?” [Name] discarded the powder, and repressed a smile at whatever his shadows had whispered. “I’ll vanish and tend to my business, and you’ll have my sisters’ wrath and a lot of frustration to take care of.”

Somehow, a knight drew closer to his king too. Azriel’s smile was bitter, sleep no longer hazing his senses, as he glimpsed the situation, noticing the inevitable siege that had formed around his pawns. “I would’ve managed nevertheless, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He purred those words — her words, — and [Name]’s grin widened, voicing the phrase that would grant her a plain upperground. “I’m sure my sisters came with the training aspect, so I’ll follow along, if only for their sake. We’ll train outside Velaris, and once I’m judged prepared, you’ll winnow me to the Mortal Lands.”

“And Montesere?”

“I’ll go there after we see to my business, not a heartbeat before.”

The feigned training would grant coverage to their departure to the Mortal Lands. Azriel wouldn’t need to report his dismissal to either Rhysand nor Feyre, and [Name] would leave the House of Wind, as it was expected. Their small venture would prepare the Spymaster for the idea of leaving his mate, by herself, near Montesere’s barriers; perhaps he’d even find another possibility until then. He offered her an opened hand, the sign of his agreement.

“That’s a deal,” said the Spymaster. [Name] touched his palm with her own, seeming to anticipate a shudder that didn’t come. Azriel’s shadows tangled itselves in between their hands and stretched arms, accompanying the route of their tattoos, shielding the male’s gaze from his terrible burnt scars.

“That’s a deal,” she repeated. He felt as those words drove the magic to his back; traced the mark that seemed to form the letter S, from the bottom of his waist to his right shoulder. A dragon, his shadows had informed, surrounded with the illustration of scars left by a lightning strike.

Somehow, Azriel knew her back had been marked, too. And his first chess match against his mate had ended in a draw.

general notes: i am deeply thankful for all of the support this story has been given since the very first time i have posted about it. the entire thing is wrapped up in my mind, and i am so excited to see your further reactions to [name], that became such a beloved writing of mine. regardless, thank you once again! i hope you have enjoyed this bible of a first chapter. xoxo <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @rachelnicolee

#acomaf #acosf #acotar #acowar #azriel #azriel / reader #azriel imagine #azriel imagines #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel x female!reader

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cosmicallylyss · 2 months

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Blue Lock Baseball AU

Hello everyone I am a baseball/softball enjoyer and would like to share my thoughts about what positions I think the Blue Lock boys would play! This will be multipart as ideas will come to me sporadically, with analysis under the cut.

Characters included in this part are: Egoist 4, Raichi, Barou, Aryu, & Aiku

Isagi Yoichi:

Left fielder. Now you might be saying "lyss why are you putting the protagonist in the outfield??" and to that I say 1) this is baseball not soccer 2) if you don't think this position is important you don't know the sport. If a ball is headed for the outfield it's most likely headed somewhere between LF/CF and those players will need good communication in order to coordinate who's going for what. Despite Isagi being a beast on the field to his rivals, we know he can do teamwork exceptionally well. Left field also requires great knowledge of the game, and his meta-vision being able to predict what the runners will do will be able to help him by making the perfect throws to the infield for a given situation. He's got a great view of the entire field and although he probably won't be making any outs aside from outfield catches (which he can make a lot of!!!) he is indispensable when it comes to holding off the runners from advancing.

Bachira Meguru:

I want to put him at second base. The middle infield has him bouncing around a lot, as he'll have to cover both second and first base depending on which way the ball is hit, and I am solid in my belief that Bachira can handle that. As a technical player, I really like putting him in this position as I imagine him getting a lot of contact with the ball and being a playmaker for the team. Tagging runners, getting a cut from the outfield, and just generally getting a read of the field by being in the middle of it has me solid that he'll be able to make great plays from this position. I imagine that Bachira's monster/instinct has him making a lot of double plays. He'll be able to get someone out at second and then make a great, yet unexpected throw to first or home for another out.

Chigiri Hyoma:

He's so centerfielder to me. With how well he's performing in Manshine right now it makes sense to me to give him a sort of "leadership role" in the outfield. He'd definitely be the player in the outfield who has to move around the most and I think his speed would be best utilized here. Whether its for making amazing running/diving catches or running in to pick up a ground ball that manages to slip past second and short, I think putting Chigiri in centerfield gives him the opportunity to use a lot of his potential. Of course pinch runner Chigiri would be fun to see as well, maybe he's not in the batting lineup but when the pitcher or catcher gets on base he subs in for them to run the bases. Honestly thinking about CF Chigiri was what got me wanting to write this whole thing, he means so so much to me.

Kunigami Rensuke:

Third baseman. Yes I'm foaming at the mouth about this thought. Sue me. Not only does Kunigami's strength make him a great person to put here because of his ability to make great throws to both first and home, I think it's best to have your more physically dominant players toward the last bases. As the opponent progresses along the bases, it becomes more and more vital to get them out before they can make it home (duh). I think Kunigami, especially post-wildcard would be really aggressive on the base (occasionally to his detriment), enjoying tagging out players rather than going with an easier route of just stepping on the bag. He's probably also a clean-up hitter or at least close to the top of the lineup. I want to imagine he's also a lefty batter, maybe he's a slap hitter and it annoys everyone else. But yeah I really want to see him dominating third base and the whole foul line honestly.

Raichi Jingo:

He would be such a great shortstop okay just listen to me. The nature of middle infield is running around a lot (covering third, covering second, backing up second) and although it's not a lot of distance to cover, you're alternating between these positions a lot and Raichi definitely has the stamina to keep up with the demands of middle infield. We've seen it. I also think his tenacity is great for making him an awesome shortstop. He'll fully throw himself in front of a line drive to catch it (this works most of the time), ignoring the sting in his hand. I also imagine if a runner is about to steal third and Raichi is in possession of the ball, he'll charge at the runner to fully scare them back into staying at second before getting the ball back to the pitcher.

Barou Shouei:

The most egotistical pitcher you will ever meet dear god. His whole king shtick with the whole field revolving around his playstyle??? You literally can not put him in any other position. He's a menace on the field, trash talk both to his team and his opponent, but his money is where his mouth is. His great physicality would lend itself to fast, accurate pitches, but I imagine pre-development his short temper would lead to a lot of outbursts that affect his accuracy. He will get angry every time he doesn't pitch a no-hitter. Every time he's reminded that he has a whole team behind him to back him up if the batters hit, he'll bark that it's just him versus the batters and he will strike them out. Barou is the guy you don't wanna hit against, because he's good and he's annoying about it.

Aryu Jyubei:

This is a first baseman. Hear me out. First base gets quite a bit of action so Aryu's got the opportunity to be flashy and get a lot of notice, but that's like 10% of why I'm putting him here. Functionally, we see him dominate in air battles and with his long limbs it makes the most sense to put him on such a pivotal base. He's gonna get thrown to a lot, and it's undeniable that some shitty throws will be sent his way. His height/limbs will allow him to still catch virtually any ball sent his way even if it's far from the bag/overthrown while still keeping a foot on the bag to hopefully get an out. He's got the bag on lockdown but also a good few-foot radius around it.

Aiku Oliver:

Alright everybody act surprised when I say catcher. I know it's the obvious choice but that's because it makes so much sense. Obviously whenever your team isn't at bat you're on defense, but catcher is definitely the most defensive position one can think of, and that's where Aiku excels. I think his strength will be an asset behind the plate, as it'll be easy for him to throw to any base necessary, and he could also be a pretty formidable player to run toward for any opponent trying to steal home. I think his leadership that shines as captain of the U-20 team would also allow him to sync nicely with whatever pitcher he's teamed up with, and I also think his game sense will allow him to make quick decisions on where to throw the ball if he doesn't try to throw out someone stealing and just send the ball back to the pitcher.

#blue lock #bllk #blue lock baseball au #blue lock headcanons #egoist 4 #isagi yoichi #bachira meguru #chigiri hyoma #kunigami rensuke #raichi jingo #aryu jyubei #oliver aiku #barou shouei #bllk baseball

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indecisivekitty · 9 months

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“Why didn’t you call? Or text? Or anything—something! Just something to let me know you were still alive.”

Gaz’s jaw clenched, and he licked his lips at your words, trying to figure out what to say while he watched the stream of tears cascade down your cheeks till they fell to the ground. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he said finally. But he does know. He knows how the distance weighs on you both. He knows what it does to your relationship. And he knows he doesn’t have the heart to tell you he wants you to leave him so you’ll be free from all this.

If he doesn’t stay in contact with you while he’s working, maybe you’ll start to forget him (or even start to resent him), and it’ll be easier for you to move on when he finally breaks up with you. At least that’s what he thought.

Now he’s here, watching you pick at your skin with tears staining your swollen face. Your breathing was sporadic, and your chest was heaving.

And he wonders how he could go back in time and send you the letters he wrote before burning them.

a/n: distance is hard with the one you love though would he really do all this to “set free” the one he loves because he feels bad for how much he’s gone? i wanted to write something angsty because i’m bored but i’m not sure how i feel about this. gaz is the levelheaded king but he has his moments and limits huehuehue (⇀‸↼‶)

(i just assume the constant distance is weighing on him and making him torn about helping people or keeping you) ((like is losing the love of ur love worth the lives of everyone else? especially when u know u can and have the ability to help? lol)) 😥

#— 𝒌𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x you #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #kyle garrick x reader #gaz cod #kyle garrick cod #cod mw2 #gaz x reader #cod mwii #cod mwiii #cod mw3

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whatthefishh · 2 years

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omg first of all CONGRATS ON 500 BABES OMG

Second, I want Jake with ALL SIXTEEN of the sinful sentences, but I'll take this one:

“Please, mark me.”

If you want to :) Idk why, but I need some Jake. If you wanna toss the other two in there as well feel free but no obligation.

(also if you felt like doing a playlist or moodboard for A Bit Dodgy I wouldn't stop you but no pressure because one thing is already so much I love you and congrats you hoe)

I LOVE YOU. Have some Steven.

Okay 500 words of jake smut under the cut lmfaoo, love you THANK YOU ❤️

Your nails were digging into his back on every hard thrust, your leg draped over his shoulder. He was starting to huff a little heavier, grunt a little deeper and thrust a little sloppier.

Jake had already made you come once on his fingers, and the way he was grinding into your clit on every push his hips had the next wave already threatening to pull you under. He had come to you a little worse for wear, and on some days he wanted to let out his tension on you, while on others… Well. He wanted you to make a mess of him.

You started with pushing him down on the bed and all but ripping his pants off of him until your mouth found him, sucking him off until he was fisting the sheets and begging you to stop before he came. Quickly flipping you under him, he slid into you ridiculously easy, not surprised in the slightest at how wet you were from just having your tongue on his cock.

Fast forward to now, the air being punched out of your lungs from the heavy slams of his hips and his noises getting louder with every second. Mustering up the energy to encourage him, to really push him over the edge as you knew he needed, you spoke up.

“Come on, Jake, you can fuck me harder. So pretty when you let go for me like this.”

You didn’t sound in control in the slightest, especially with the way he was gripping your hips only to ram his own into them on every pass. His eyes were focused on where you were joined, on where you were soaking the sheets. Your arms trailed down to his pecs, scratching his nipples and making him hiss.

“Please,” he growled at you. You didn’t know what he was asking for. “Please… touch me. Mark me.”

It was said so lowly you almost didn’t register it over the slap, slap, slap of his hips into yours. But his eyes flashed to yours for one desperate moment, you lost the ability to breathe and you know that’s why he said it again.

“Mark me.”

Wordlessly moving forward to latch onto his chest, you obediently sucked a mark into his skin, laving it with your tongue drunkenly. Licking the sweat off his neck you moved your mouth to leave another mark on his collar bone, on the junction between his neck and shoulder, and right under the skin beneath his ear.

You think you know why he asks, but you don’t ask to confirm. He wants reminders of you, when he’s not home and when he’s not in control. The others waking up with no clue as to how they got their love bites and hickies but he knew. He could see from where he was in the headspace and felt some sense of reassurance in knowing he didn’t just make you up.

That you loved him, cared for him. That you were real.

That he was real.

The pressure was at an all time high and after one more grinding thrust on your clit, you came all of a sudden, his groans of pleasure almost drowning out your release. Not like it stopped him from fucking you, though.

“I’m here, Jake, come on. Come, please.”

And he did, he grunted his last few thrusts loudly and sporadically and came so hard his vision blacked out for a second with his head thrown back.

Pulling out and dropping on the bed next to you, cheers heaving as you caught your breath. Your hands found their way to each other and loosely intertwined even as your dumb stare was on the ceiling.

“What if they-“

“They won’t. It’s fine.”

“I just worry sometimes,” you tried again.

“I know, bebita,” he was rubbing his thumb on your hand now. “I know.”

Idk if that makes any sense but I hope you guys understand also Ty for reading love you all

#inbox 💌#mona’s 500 celebration #jake lockley smut #melody tag #moonknight smut #moon boys #Jake lockley #jake lockley angst #mona writes???

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haz311bl0gs · 11 months

Text

Backstory under the cut (He's not a Tav, he's just a BG3 OC).

Kitt (real name unknown) is a selfish and narcissistic man but extremely powerful. Kitt comes from a noble family that had vast amounts of arcane knowledge and priceless arcane artifacts. Bored and in love with himself he feared aging, death and missing out on the carnal pleasures youth could provide. He struck a deal with Raphael to become his immortal agent and live a life full of pleasure, Kitt would want for nothing. For this Kitt gave up the souls of his family (5 souls total) along with all the arcane knowledge and artifacts that the house possessed. His family was forgotten and vanished like they never existed.

Kitt's memory was mostly wiped clean, he remembers what he sacrificed but he doesn't remember what the importance of the items and knowledge he gave up were. His ability to wield magic like a master and fight with his dagger also remains intact. Kitt basically remembers everything in order to be Raphael's perfect guard dog and messenger boy.

Kitt idolizes and loves Raphael to a fault. He takes great pride in being the property of the man that gave him eternal life and pleasure. His admiration for Raphael set in slowly but when it set in, it hooked into him, and that hook has no plans of letting go. He would lick Raphael's boots clean if he was told to.

Some points about Kitt:

Kitt is immortal but not unkillable and there are two ways to take him down. He must be stabbed in the heart by Raphael with a special dagger named "Warm Embrace" that Raphael gave to him as a gift. The other condition is that Kitt perishes should Raphael meet his demise.

The dagger is magically bound to him and will return to him if out of a certain radius. It’s pretty much his leash.

Kitt met Raphael in his 30s which means Kitt has been in Raphael's service for almost 2 centuries.

Although Kitt is very sure his Master cannot be slain, he will often be found at Raphael's side in moments of danger. Kitt is selfish at the end of the day, and he will do whatever it takes to make sure Raphael does not come to harm.

Raphael chooses Kitt's clothing.

Kitt's good looks were another driving force behind Raphael making a deal with him. He finds Kitt very attractive, but Kitt wishes for more attention than his Master can provide.

Kitt is a play on the word Kitten. Only Raphael can call him this, anyone else with this knowledge will not be able to utter the word towards him but only in the House of Hope the rest of the world it is free reign but not everyone knows this little fact.

He detests being asked his age. He loathes the concept of aging and even though he doesn't show it physically he is over 200 years old. He also can't really recall as he stopped counting 100 years in.

His fighting style is quick and sporadic. He moves in flashes with teleportation and creates illusions. Fighting him can be very disorientating.

He's all about pleasures of the flesh, he loves sex.

His favourite fruit is pomegranates, he likes things messy.

He's never been with Haarlep, he hates them, and he won’t without Raphael’s say so (and that’s never happened). Raphael knows how weak Kitt is for carnal pleasures and fears Kitt may do something stupid if left unattended with Haarlep.

He doesn't get to lay with Raphael as much as he would lead you to believe, and he hates it.

He is so jealous of Tav/The MC it makes him sick to his stomach but he’s very good at hiding it.

Fun or not so fun fact, if you slay Raphael, you can find Kitt's dagger and bones in the teleportation room in the House of Hope. (I'm still fleshing this and his ways of tying into the game out). But because I can be mean to my OCs I like to think he sensed something was wrong a bit too late and was trying to get back, but his attempts were in vain.

You can find out that his name is short for Kitten and use it as a fun little dialogue option to piss him off. He will call Tav/MC a "little rat" in response.

I’m still figuring out romance with him, but it would be a one-night stand if anything. If you ask him about Raphael post sex he will be amazed that you even needed to ask and he will tell you how he sleeps with him every other night (a lie) and how wonderful it is (the truth to him at least).

Anyway, that's all I have on him for now. I know it's a bit wild just inserting him into the game like that but hopefully he's believable and stuff.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #oc: kitt #raphael #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #mygifs #if you don't like this just ignore it ok?#this shit is making me happy thanks

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roetrolls · 8 months

Text

DREAM SEQUENCE RECAP PART ONE: The Arc Thus Far

As you all know, my dear beloved Chase @sasster and I discovered around two years ago that we really like making stories together. We've gotten very good at it, I think!

But no matter how good at it we are, it can be a bit hard to follow a plot that's moving along as sporadically as this one has been. That's not a knock against us, life can be demanding.

But, for both our sake and yours, I thought it might be helpful to write up a summary of everything that's happened in this narrative so far. So sit back, take a nap, and let's go over what we know ✨

FIRST: THE MAJOR PLAYERS

The Church of The Divine Dreamer - A non-clown religion built upon the worship of dreams. According to its devotees, dreams take place in the divine world, which we are linked to through subconscious thought. They believe that the act of dreaming is in itself holy.

Nymira - A spacey blackblooded mutant who is, purportedly, a fledgling god. With a host of abilities related to dreaming, she is seen as a bridge between worlds and the personification of divinity. She can conjure objects from her dreams into the waking world, and though she is less practiced in it, she also possesses the ability to traverse the dreams of others and pull them into her own.

Cylion Lefera - The current head of the church and eldest child of its founder, Cylion serves as Nymira's prophet, mouthpiece, and even guardian at times. He claims to possess no abilities of his own, but trusting anything he says could prove to be a mistake...

Somnia Poppet - The middle child between Nymira and Cylion, Somnia proselytizes for the church and acts as its head of security. He's a weaselly little thing, but he's powerful in his own right. Though perhaps there's a caveat?

Favion Lefera - The church's founder, Nymira's first (and imperfect) prophet, and the father of the trio above. There is something wrong with Favion... But we'll get into that later. For now, what you really need to know is that Nymira loves him dearly, and she even uses her powers to create a tonic that can help with his condition.

Little Friend - Nymira's dearest buddy and closest confidant (a position he happened to steal from Cylion). LF is a doll, created in Nymira's dreams and brought to life through the generous aid of the Restorer-- It seems the Roatus clan might just be wrapped up in this too!

THE BACKGROUND

So now we know who's on the board... But perhaps we could understand these players a bit better.

First, just a quick peek into the dynamics at play within the COTDD. These are less crucial to the actual events of the plot, but say a lot about the characters themselves. Have some drabbles about:

Nymira and Cylion Favion's lovely treatment of Nymira One of Cylion's core memories With the supplemental reading out of the way, let's jump back in time, shall we? Because it turns out Favion and Ailzea have some history...

Childhood Woes - In this drabble from the Restorer's youth, we learn several important things about Favion. The first is that, once upon a time, he was a under the thumb of Ailzea's abusive ancestor. The second is that he loves torturing Ailzea's dolls. Third, he has always been fixated on getting a true reaction out of his "friend." And fourth? Favion has died at Ailzea's hand.

That last point is especially vital, because unlike most people Ailzea revives, Favion possesses the innate ability to dampen the powers of other trolls. He came back... But not quite right.

And he really hates the Restorer.

Good thing he doesn't know about his daughter's greatest treasure, huh? Cylion knows, though.

And Cylion loathes that thing.

It doesn't help that Little Friend knows about some of the secrets Cylion is keeping from Nymira... Like the fact that he has the power to manipulate dreams, and many of the messages she receives to guide her hand come straight from him.

Table Talk - We learn that little tidbit here. Somnia thinks it's hilarious. It also helps explain a little semi-canon something that happened earlier. See, Nymira sometimes struggles to tell whether or not she's dreaming. So when the same person who helps someone differentiate the two is also able to dictate what they dream?

Well. Sounds like a recipe for dictating that someone's very reality.

That fact might be why Nymira's had so little practice with her second ability. She can't exactly go visiting dreams while she's having custom-made ones pumped into her head, now can she? Still, the dream-hopping she does manage to do is very important to her, as we learn in Hallways, a drabble about Nymira's routine and thoughts inside her own domain.

That drabble ends in a rather unique way, though. One of the visitors she comes upon speaks her name, cementing her certainty that these are real people and real dreams that she is poking into, not just figments of her subconscious mind.

Cylion wants her to believe that's not the case. As much as she trusts her brother, it's frustrating to feel that he's not listening to her.

Hello, seeds of unrest. Shall we uproot the status quo?

UPROOT WE SHALL

Have you ever met Marrie? She's Ailzea's daughter, a life-sized marionette with an adorable smile and a heart of gold. She's also friends with Nymira! Little Friend needs to visit the House of Restoration regularly to stay in working order, and Marrie delights in the task of ferrying him between the churches. Especially because it allows her to speak with Nymira, even if Cylion sometimes tries to keep that time short.

Quick Visit - This time Cylion's busy, though. And that's about to cause him quite the headache. You see, Marrie's bought Nymira a journal... And some pens...

Thing is, Cylion goes to great lengths to keep writing utensils out of his sister's hands. After all, when he benefits so much from being able to decide for her what's real and what isn't, what could he possibly stand to gain from allowing her to leave notes about? No, that won't do at all.

Missing? - No worries. It doesn't take long for Cylion to notice the pens, though he doesn't know where they've come from. In fact, he assumes Nymira must have conjured them herself. Easy fix, then, right? He probably thinks so! Until, of course, he discovers that someone else can corroborate their existence... Time to think fast.

Too bad for him, it seems Cylion has forgotten something about his sister–– she's trusting. Not stupid. And even the most naive troll can notice a lie if it's sloppy enough.

Especially one who combs through details with such idle frequency that they've formed an absent tick of counting how many fingers they have.

Nymira is uneasy.

And then Marrie meets her dad.

SHIT HITS THE FAN

Pretty Doll - Remember that thing we learned about Favion? The one where he really, really likes breaking Ailzea's creations? Marrie is one of those. You can see where this is going.

Or... Where it would be going, at least.

Interception - Because Cylion and Somnia aren't the only brothers hanging around this arc, and Archie Roatus will be damned if he lets someone hurt his sister and get away with it. Welcome to the narrative, Archie! You're gonna have a great time, don't even worry about it.

Archie gets Marrie out with minimal damage, just a single arm left behind. That's minimal, she's made of wood. She's fine. It's fine.

Reminder - Except it isn't. Because Nymira's here to witness the aftermath, and she is not happy. Especially after overhearing that Cylion intended to hide Marrie's arm before she could see it. In a fit of near hysteria and with her pens bled dry by her brother, she takes drastic measures to ensure she won't forget what she's learned. Black blood must look remarkably like ink, don't you think?

White Bear - And she's not the only one keeping this incident in their thoughts. Archie's back, and he's having trouble moving on from what Favion has done to his family. He promised Ailzea not to act on those feelings, but, well... Ever heard of the white bear experiment? Archie accidentally activates his powers and teleports to Favion. Whoopsie!

In the resulting interaction, he realizes that Favion's abilities mitigate his own, and he buys time to get out by mouthing off and generally being a little shit.

And there we go! That's all we've got, at least for now... Let's see what we dream up next.

#long post #dream sequence arc #dream sequence curated #nymira things #somnia things #recap #lore #archie things

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nicsnort · 29 days

Text

Trial by Fire (part 7)

A Nightcrawler/Fem!OC romance, drama, and mystery fanfic, with lots of Quicksilver thrown in for fun and even more drama.

Intro (with link to full Ao3 story) First Previous

Quicksilver had slept on and off yet again. While he found the human more tolerable, especially after seeing her magnificent writing skills about his part in the rescue, he still didn't trust her entirely. Not that he needed so much sleep to function. He was accustomed to a few restless, sleep-deprived nights. It was part of the job sometimes.

He woke before the journalist, and for a while, he simply observed her. He knew her ribs had been injured in their tumble, but she seemed decent enough. He would leave her some painkillers if she needed them. They would be conspicuous on the bathroom counter. He got up and showered and dressed within minutes. Though the computer wasn't hooked up to the internet and the Brotherhood surrounded her, he wanted to keep near her. In a way, she was interesting, and he enjoyed the conversation they had sporadically. She wasn't entirely the 'humans are good' nonsense, which he appreciated since it would have grated his nerves.

When she woke, he looked over at her from rearranging his room, cleaning it just a bit to give both of them more space. "Did you recruit anyone for interviews?" He knew Magneto would want the article published soon. That meant the sooner she interviewed people, the better.

Most people would be unable to sleep well being held captive, but Bedelia had the fortunate ability to fall asleep anywhere. When she awoke to the sound and feeling of rushing wind, she knew that Quicksilver was doing something in the room. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes to remove the sleep. Instantly he was on her, asking a question.

Blinking slowly, she took a moment to respond. “I asked yesterday. They’ve had enough time to think it over. I will check in today.”

Moving past him into the bathroom, Bedelia savored the short moment alone without eyes upon her. She spotted the pills and gave a small smile. Now that was kind of him. She must have gotten to him just a bit yesterday. Taking the pills, she also took the opportunity to wash her hair. Her ribs were still too sore for a proper shower. Once she was feeling cleaner and the pain medications had kicked in, she returned to a waiting Quicksilver in the bedroom. “May I go out to inquire if anyone wants to interview? If they do, I would like a notebook and a pen. It is easier to take notes with.”

Quicksilver had been thumbing through a magazine he picked up yesterday, reading it without really reading it. It was mostly to occupy his time as he waited to see what the journalist would do. When she came out at last -- it hadn't been that long, but to a man who traveled across a state in a few minutes, anything was too long -- he looked up at her. She was surprisingly comfortable with this situation, he thought. Other humans would be constantly terrified of being confined by the Brotherhood.

"That would help, wouldn't it?" He got up and said, "Wait here." With more than a hint of glee, he entered Wanda's bedroom, glad she was out and took a journal and pen that he thought to be blank. When he returned to Bedelia, he offered the items. "Let's go see if anyone took your plea." He thought they better have, or the article wouldn't be quite as good. Even if they had to make something up…

When they got outside, he stepped back at seeing a mangy dog creature sitting off to the side. He grimaced as he watched him transform back to a human, though even the human form didn't look that great. Long black hair and scars galore. But the man didn't seem bothered by the reaction. "Hello Sarah, I am Skinwalker. We met yesterday."

Seeing the mutant, Skinwalker, transform was a disturbing sight. He would not have looked out of place in a horror movie. But Bedelia kept as neutral a face as possible. She smiled at him after his reintroduction. “It is nice to see you again. Have you given any thought to my request?”

"I have. I have decided to allow you to interview me. But I ask that I can read it to be sure everything is... appropriate." He said carefully. "I believe that if I do this, you will have several others lined up and willing as well."

A smile came across her face at the acceptance. “Thank you. My notes will be in shorthand, but after we talk, I can show you my current draft of the article and how the interviews will fit in.”

They moved off to the side where they could be alone. Bedelia could see Quicksilver moving around the camp, his eyes ever on her. She flipped open the journal and paused slightly. The first several pages were full of what seemed to be personal notes...like with the laptop, she had expected this to be a brand new journal, no reason to complain, though. Flipping to the back, she looked at Skinwalker with a soft smile. “Let’s begin with some general questions first. How long ago did you arrive in Genosha?”

“I arrived at Genosha ten years ago. I went with my wife. We were both...unique in our powers. As you know, I can appear quite frightening. So did she. She looked similar to a spider. She was beautiful to me, though. We wanted a peaceful life, a place where we could have and raise children. My people...they thought I was a bad omen. I reminded them of a creature of evil from our culture, so they cast me out. She had lost her family when she was young. Genosha seemed the logical place.

As he started to speak, Skinwalker's shoulders were tense, his body ready to flee at any moment. “We were separated once we arrived. We were shackled. They started experimenting on her, as she was not as strong as they wanted. The last time I saw her, she looked...nothing like she had before. She was sickly...and she died.” Skinwalker took a deep breath once again, fighting away the surfacing pain. It had been many years since he thought of her. “I spent most of my time in the fields, building foundations for buildings and the like. Only once did I find myself in the sad excuse of a hospital -- it was when I was in grief for my wife, I attacked the soldiers. I stayed in bed for three days before they sent me back to work -- with broken limbs still not healed.” He quieted, thinking.

When Skinwalker started talking, Bedelia was glad he volunteered his story. Just one question, and he was speaking freely. And what a story it was. The abuse and torture were not to be taken lightly. What was happening on the island was far worse than her greatest imaginings. It was indeed reminiscent of the stories of Haitian slavery in its cruelty. Bedelia kept a sympathetic but still neutral expression on her face. This was not a therapy session. He was not here for comfort.

“Were you ever experimented on?”

Skinwalker tensed and stared ahead. He nodded briefly. “I was. More than a few times. I could never see the man, but they called him...Mr. Sinister.” His face darkened. “What is your next question?” The memories that were surfacing were not pleasant ones. He didn’t want to dwell, tempted to transform and flee.

That was foreboding. This man obviously did not hide what he did. He knew his deeds were immoral. A true psychopath. She wrote down Sinister’s name and circled it. But Bedelia saw the look on Skinwalker’s face. She knew right now was not the time to press. The experiments seemed to be the worst part, and it was understandable.

“We do not need to go further if you do not want to talk about the experiments. Tell me, what was your usual day like? Walk me through from morning to night.”

His shoulders relaxed, and he didn’t feel the need to flee now. “We were woken at five in the morning and given ten minutes to dress. Breakfast was usually a pitiful bowl of slop, some questionable eggs, or bacon on a holiday. The food reminded me of the things children draw. A gray mess meant to represent real food. Nothing was ever fresh. We would have twenty minutes to get it and eat.’

‘Then we’d be off to work -- the fields, the labs, the projects, wherever we were most useful. Hard, manual labor. We had breaks that lasted mere minutes and only one in the morning and afternoon. Dinner was six, but we had limited time to decide between that or a shower. The water was always cold and the soap filthy. We would be allowed to return to bed at seven or so, given some time to converse, and the others in Genosha, the humans, were not the only ones encouraged to procreate. Lights were out by ten. Some of the mutants...were picked up by officers.” He gave a pointed look at the journalist, encouraging her to read between the lines.

Of course, they were encouraged to have children. Genosha could not rely on chance from their human population to create mutants or refugees. The actual work part of this slavery was not unexpected. Indeed it was what she thought would be going on. Bedelia took notes on all that he said. It was good to have it made it believable. The experiments were a hard sell. She might need to break up her articles. First, sell the slavery, and later, when she had better evidence, sell the experiments. Maybe she could find something on this, Mr. Sinister or the ever elusive Essex Corporation.

“You said you ended up in the hospital at one point. What usually happened when you were injured?”

Something flashed in his face. He had a grim smile that did not compliment his already scarred features. “Very little. I will say this, the work and attention of the red mutant...Azazel, was it? The work and attention he paid to us is ten times more than what we got.” He glanced at the journalist. “The continued attention is foreign.” He wondered if “Sarah” saw Trance frequently or if the journalist herself had reason to be under such watch.

The rest of the interview was smooth, with Bedelia asking clarifying questions and gathering specific stories. Once Skinwalker had finished his interview, two others had come over and volunteered. By the end of the third one, Quicksilver seemed finished. She would have taken all she could but knew that time was short. The Brotherhood would want results quickly; each day she was delayed was a chance they would lose their patience.

By the end of the third mutant’s interview, he walked over to her. He wondered if she’d be able to stand by herself given her injury and held his arm out to take if she needed it -- after all, he reasoned, mutants were watching. “Is that your last one?” His stomach growled pointedly.

“For today, I can finish my draft with this, but a couple more wouldn’t hurt.” Bedelia made to stand, but her ribs twinged. The pain medication had worn off. “Thanks,” she said using Quicksilver’s offered arm. “I should be able to finish tonight, but food first would be helpful.” Her stomach had rumbled just like his.

“What do you want?” He would cater to her for now if it meant she finished the draft that night and, more importantly, it was good.

He spotted a few female mutants looking at them and whispering -- oh, no, they were looking at him. He smirked and puffed his chest out a bit, the bruise and cut on his face be damned. The females giggled softly.

Bedelia thought for a moment, wondering if he actually would get whatever she asked for. She wasn’t going to press it, but with Magneto reading her draft tomorrow, it might be her last meal. “Chicken anything would be nice, with some veggies. Good for brain work.”

Noticing the women, Bedelia smirked. She certainly wasn’t attracted to him, given the circumstances, but she could see how he was attractive. “I’ll set back up in the kitchen if you want to talk to some of the others you aided.”

Quicksilver gave the women a sorely tempted look but shook his head with a muttered: “later.” Refocusing on Bedelia, he replied, “Chicken and veggies...got it. Don’t move.”

With that, he took off. Quicksilver was gone about a minute before he returned with food.

“Ready?” He held up the container, still piping hot in a to-go box. “There’s coffee inside.”

She raised an eyebrow at the food Quicksilver presented: Bruschetta chicken with roasted veggies and rice. “Thank you. It smells delicious.”

They headed back inside, and as she said, Bedelia set herself up in the kitchen. The food was delicious, and before she knew it, Bedelia had eaten the whole meal. After getting some coffee, Bedelia gave Quicksilver a nod and began working.

It took about four hours for her to finish the draft. She drank three cups of coffee during the process. When she had finished, she looked up to Quicksilver. “Done with the first draft.” Turning the laptop around, she presented it to him.

Quicksilver’s attention - ever needing 5 or 6 distractions to switch between - shifted once she spoke and turned the laptop around. “Let’s see it.” He settled onto his chair and started to read. The interviews were well organized and asked the right questions. Of course, the answers were disgusting, anger-provoking, and heartbreaking. It was just the information they needed to encourage viewing the Brotherhood as heroes in the Genosha battle. Still, he had to admit he was impressed with her writing.

As Quicksilver read, she could imagine what lines caused his reactions. She knew she had several lines that would be minable for quotes, ones that would stick with whoever heard them. A couple were quotes from the interviews, but most were her creation.

“It’s good.” He admitted. “Real good. I can’t imagine anyone reading this without crying their guts out. Should get the right people motivated.” The ‘right people’ being mutants who refused to be subjected to such horrors. The added bonus were the humans who would side with mutants -- smartly so.

At his approval, she smiled just a bit in relief. “That is my job. There are still questions I want answers to. I spoke to three males, and having a female voice would be good. And I don’t have enough information to discuss this "Mr. Sinister" they mentioned was in charge of the experiments beyond a passing mention. And the Essex Corporation, I’ve heard the name before…” Bedelia shook her head. That was a different story. “But the main story is written, too many more details would bog it down….I presume Magneto will want to read it and pass judgment before I start revisions.”

“He will,” he agreed, “I think he’s...busy tonight. He’ll have to read it in the morning.” He glanced at the clock. It was late, but not terribly late. “I look forward to the second article.”

Quicksilver grinned as he picked up his mug of coffee and finished it off. Yes, that would have to be the next thing, a second article with more information. And a third and fourth and so forth. Quicksilver would be sure to insist she be watched by someone else though if she would be staying with them for the foreseeable future. It didn’t occur to Quicksilver that she might have family, friends, or the like who would like to see her. But surely, he thought, she knew this was more than a one-time deal. “After all, you owe us your life twice over.”

She nodded. Yes, between the caffeine and the stress, even her sleep would be restless tonight. At his mention of a second article, her lips tightened just a bit. This was expected but not welcome. One of her mentors had told her a story of a war journalist in IRA Ireland who was reporting on the IRA for the foreign press. They had let him write an article about their work and get inside information. They press-ganged him under threat to become their personal journalist writing what was essentially propaganda.

“Yes, I do, and I am grateful for it.” Grateful or not, Bedelia knew she had to find a way out of this mess.

That was what Quicksilver liked to hear. He stood and stretched. The night was still young, but he found himself rather...tied down. “Hm. I’ve got an idea,” he said, “wanna go ask if Azazel’s girl wants to be interviewed?” He recalled what had happened before, but that was before he was there. Plus, whatever had upset her, surely she got over it by now.

Bedelia tensed just a bit at the mention of Trance. She remembered how the woman had been so furious. Still, her friend had interviewed with her...though Bedelia wondered if this was a cruel joke on Quicksilver’s part. Nodding just a bit, she stood and picked up the notebook. “Why not? I’ve had three cups of coffee. I'm not going to sleep anytime soon.”

“Fantastic,” Quicksilver nudged the chair under the table with a sharp kick of his foot. “Come on.”

______

Fanfic Masterlist

#fanfic #xmen #quicksilver #pietro maximoff #nightcrawler #kurt wagner #fanfiction #long reads #Trial by Fire

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zannithinks · 7 months

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Fathom, please!

Thank you for the ask! It's so motivating ♡ Apologies for the delay, I got sick :( but here's a bit more of my crazy Fathom story. Be Warned: there are inconsistencies abound, this thing has a lot of context going on behind the scenes. If you're confused, don't worry, so is Jim. (This occurs just a few lines after the first snippet I shared, which is linked below) Fathom Snippets Part 1 | Part 2

“Gown off.”

“What?” Jim hunches like the guy is about to rip it off of him. Rationally he knows a doctor wouldn't do that, but the frequency in his head flickers enough to sow deep rooted doubt. Someone’s ripped the clothes off his back before, it tells him, it could happen again.

“Visual inspection for edema, lesions, rashes, the sort. It’s just me here, kid, ‘aint no one you gotta impress.”

Jim doesn't move. The moment he reveals his skin, he’s gonna reveal something that shouldn’t be found out, but a snowstorm of static in his brain keeps him from remembering exactly what it is, and Bones keeps looking at him like- like-

“Doesn’t the tech tell you that?” Jim’s hands curl over the edge of the biobed like the grip will ground him into the here and now. He’s pretty sure the doctor just glanced at the readings, probably seeing his elevated heart rate, but Jim can’t do anything about that, he’s too desperate to stall and too frustrated about not knowing why.

“Don’t trust the machines with everything, that’s why they still hire me, don’t they?”

This guy’s cocky. Not in the bold way Jim can be, more in the sheer amount of confidence he has in his own abilities to pick up more than bioscanners can. Competence is always a turn on, but Jim can’t focus on that. Really, he can’t focus on anything. Not since the red alert started blaring. His chest tightens at the reminder of his nightmare. Or was it a memory?

The doctor settles into his stance, looking perfectly ready to stand there all day. “There’s no rush, Kirk. When you’re ready we’ll continue.”

He flinches. “Don’t call me that.”

Bones doesn’t call him that unless he’s pissed off or trying to be annoying. The doctor’s not angry, but his frown is deeper, so Jim’s gotta be doing something wrong. This isn’t his life. Sporadic bursts of small truths come through his brains buzzing static. Jim's from a place where he's going to live alone and die alone, and that's how it's supposed to go.

“What should I call you?”

He risks a glance. Bones looks tired and worn out, but his tone remains patient.

“Jim.” “Ok, Jim.”

It teases a smile out of him, even though this Jim wouldn't understand the huff of irritation is actually disguised amusement.

This world belongs to him and Bones, and he’s fucking things up for them. He needs to stop fucking things up.

“Ok.” Jim nods, and this has to be the first time he's ever had to psyche himself up to take his clothes off. Or maybe just the first time he remembers.

Jim yanks the tie at the back of his neck and rips the gown off like it’s personally offended him. There. It wasn’t that hard. There was no reason to get so bent out of shape about it.

Then he catches the doctor's expression.

#zanni writes #wip #Fathom #the scene is #mckirk #but the overall fic will include spirk #this scene is soo rrooooouuugh agh sorry #ask zanni #zanni answers

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mayxthexforce · 8 months

Text

Your Dazzling Hue || Sev'rance & Thrawn

Starter for @thrawnur

The sound of smooth jizz flowing through appeared to mix well with the various tones of conversations transpiring in the large room. The atmosphere was perfectly lively for a celebration, as the Emperor —even if he currently stood out for his absence— and all officers and influential families involved, were celebrating the great expansion of the Empire's territories. It was one of the few instances in which Sev'rance had a chance to really relax– that is, if conversing with a load of people about business and political endeavors while having to keep things on a FRIENDLY basis could be deemed as relaxing.

For someone who took great pride in the vast ability of her own memory, Sev'rance almost lost mental count of the various department heads, senators, Moff, and officers of varying ranks she engaged with as far as the current stance on success they were on, and offered her own insight into how they could improve things in their respective systems and outposts. When Sev'rance spoke, people listened. Intently. They always did. And that was because she forced herself to become well-read in the different events taking place around the galaxy, as well as know how to keep the attention of an audience. Several different audiences, in this case, as there was a huge difference between small talk with a lower ranking officer, small talk with a senator and/or their spouse, and small talk with a Moff. Her expression through each conversation she engaged in was one of serious relaxation or collected amusement, depending on what each individual situation called for.

She carefully calculated when and under what circumstances to allow her lips to curve almost imperceptibly upwards into a pleased smile, a quite sporadic, blink-and-you-miss-it gesture that had people engaged in conversation with her because of the aura of mysterious sophistication she made a point to surround herself in. Many people had heard the stories of ruthlessness that had her as the protagonist. But in person, she gave away nothing. Some might have even pondered if they remembered wrong, if the ruthless former Supreme Commander of the Confederacy was a different Chiss. They never asked, not wanting to be the ones to make it obvious they couldn't tell Chiss apart. But Sev'rance could see the conflict in their eyes.

It amused her, greatly.

Until somebody else seized her attention. As it seemed she wasn't the only one keeping people on their toes. Across the dance floor she spotted a man in a white uniform– but it wasn't the uniform that intrigued her, it was the one wearing it. Blue skin, dark hair, red eyes– another Chiss.

Even if aware that she might be biased due to the fact this was the first time she had seen another Chiss in... far too long, Sev'rance had to admit it was rather impressive to watch him navigate the crowd in a way that was so much like hers yet different enough to keep her entertained. They moved in opposite directions: counterclockwise VS clockwise. He was easy to spot despite the visual obstacle that the people dancing posed. The contrast of his white uniform against blue skin made him stand out in a similar way to how the contrast of her own dark red dress against her own blue skin most likely did for her.

Yet, and even as she continued to be pulled into different conversations, she made sure to keep an eye on him.

#may the queue be with you #||in character: sev'rance tann||#& thrawn #||rp: your dazzling hue||#thrawnur #||verse: the tactician; sev'rance tann||

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midnightfire830 · 1 year

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Hi, I have a question on ghost au! how did Mug perceive his transformation(?). I mean, they were kids, didn't that scare him? and how did Cups take it?

Ooh! Good question!

I’m like half awake when I’m writing this so this might come across as kinda sporadic. Pls bear with me. TWT

First of all, Black Hat was the one who told Mugs that his brother died. Cup was taken to the Devil and stayed in Hell to recover for several weeks. Mugs found out maybe a week or so after the experiment. He was absolutely hysterical. His brother died from a horrible experiment, and was taken to Hell to see the Devil, and he hasn’t seen him for several weeks. My guess is Mugs might have been around 11-13 years old at the time. That’s a lot for a kid that age.

When Cup did come back from Hell Mugs immediately became super clingy and protective over him. Wouldn’t leave his side, freaked out when he was alone for too long or in danger. Eventually he let up about it and got used to the new situation. He’s currently fine when his brother switches between ghost and human form, it’s just when someone asks about HOW Cup died that Mugs has a problem. He shuts down, avoids it, or changes the topic. He hates thinking about how his brother died. (Plus I’m pretty sure in IM Mugs was in the room when Cuphead had the demon blood experiment, so he likely saw his brother die.)

I should mention that while Hat TOLD Mugs about how Cup was a half-ghost now, it still didn’t really prepare him for when he saw his brother turn into one. Mugs probably saw it for the first time either during training or when Cup first came back from Hell. (Cup didn’t have a very good handle on transforming between a ghost and human at first. There were a lot of accidents.) I would imagine when Mugs first sees Cuphead turn into a ghost he’d burst into tears.

Cuphead when he first found out would have been in Hell. His reaction would have been ranging from shock and anger. I mean, Hat made him do this experiment and resulted in his death, of course he’d be absolutely PISSED. He definitely freaked out when he first turned into a ghost. Didn’t know how the hell to move around, float, or control transformations and likely hated transforming because it just reminded him of the fact that he died. Eventually he’d get more used to it, and maybe even enjoy it some. (The prank opportunities available to him now was definitely a plus. And he’s now harder to hit. And can freaking FLY) Knowing Cuphead he’d learn to get past it and use his new abilities to get a leg up in fights.

Thanks for the ask!

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muertarte · 1 year

Text

PARTIES: @magmahearts @muertarte

TIMING: A few days ago

SUMMARY: Cass and Metzli go to the zoo to watch Blossom give birth to her calf.

WARNINGS: Mentions of past Emotional Abuse and Physical Abuse

The crowd of people surrounding the giraffe enclosure wasn’t surprising, but that didn’t exactly bode well for the anxious vampire. Having the sun shining was another issue, but the only thing on Metzli’s mind was seeing the calf being born. The hooves had already breached, it was only a matter of time until the nose peeked through as well.

“I wish there was way to make people go away.” Metzli muttered as they ushered themself and Cass through the crowd. They sucked in a shallow breath, trying to get to the observation dome. Children were pushing and shoving trying to get to get, most not even tall enough to reach the higher dome.

“Blossom is in hour four of labor. Nose will come soon.” Metzli breathed, scanning the area and adjusting their headphones with their shoulder. “Want to go in there,” They pointed at the dome with their chin, pausing at the wall of people trying to get a better look at the enclosure. Blossom was still standing, stomach contracting sporadically as the calf made good headway. The buzzing of the crowd began to die then, the sensations of people bumping into Metzli no longer at the forefront of their mind. Just Blossom and the small oread at their side.

It felt like she was walking on very thin ice. With all she’d been through in the last few days — the mare, the cave-in, the injuries that the masked woman had helped her with that still ached beneath her clothes — Cass was a little more fragile than usual. She’d released Metzli from their promise bind without even really meaning to, though she wasn’t sure she regretted the decision either. Metzli didn’t deserve to be forced into a friendship they didn’t want.

Only they were still here, anyway. Dragging Cass through the crowd at the zoo like nothing had changed at all, like they were still forced into a friendship they’d made it clear they were unhappy about. Cass wondered if there was some strange delay on the promise release, if it worked differently on a vampire than it would on a human. She’d never bound a vampire before, as far as she knew. Maybe it took a minute.

But in any case, she intended to enjoy this while it lasted. And maybe, just maybe, make herself useful enough for Metzli to decide she was worth hanging out with even after the magic faded. She looked up at the dome the vampire wanted to go to, a determined expression on her face. Tapping the shoulder of the man in front of them, she smiled. “I love your hair,” she told him.

“Oh,” he replied, bringing a hand up to touch his bald head. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome!” Cass beamed. “Go stand over there.” Obediently, and bound by the thanks, the man left, leaving an open spot for Cass to tug Metzli into. “Come on,” she said with a grin. “I can get us in there, no problem! It’ll just take a couple of minutes, okay?”

A smile almost took shape, watching Cass use her ability to get people to move away. For a moment, Metzli almost allowed the girl to do such a thing, but there were other ways to get people to leave. As much as they wanted to see Blossom have her calf, it didn’t feel right to take away a person’s free will. Not only that, but Metzli had a feeling Cass was still in her pursuit to deem herself useful to them, to anyone who was willing to be around her.

They’d seen it more than once, watched her carefully since they had the fortune to thank her. She desperately wanted to squeeze out every moment possible for as long as it would have her, even if it cost her pieces of herself. Metzli wondered if it’d always be that way, even if they told her they didn’t need anything from her. Something they wished they were told when they were in her position.

“Girl,” They called out, bending at the waist to become eye level with Cass. “It is okay. Do not need you to do this. Have other method.” Metzli bonked their head light against Cass’s, handing over the umbrella for her to hold while they retrieved their wallet. “People like money.” They chirped, grabbing ahold of a few bills and handing them out as payment to people who moved away. In a matter of seconds, a path was cleared, parents ushering their kids out of the way to make room for the pair to enter the dome.

“See?” Metzli moved forward, crouching into the small space to finally view Blossom right in front of them. A grin formed on their face, and they pulled Cass to their side, pointing at the future mother. “She is beautiful, yes?”

Cass was fully prepared to move the entire crowd through little binds, but Metzli’s voice stopped her. She turned to look at them, meeting their eye as they bent to her level. Her heart fluttered with a quick fear as they told her to stop, wondering if she’d done something wrong. Was Metzli angry with her for binding the man? Did it remind them of what she’d done to them after they’d thanked her, the way she’d taken their will away?

If they were angry, they didn’t say it. Instead, they began handing out bills to people who agreed to move out of their way. Cass followed the vampire as they cut through the crowd, a little more subdued than she’d been before. If Metzli didn’t need her, then how long would they really keep her around? If they didn’t like the way she bound people, how long would they continue to accept her presence?

Metzli’s method worked just as well as the one Cass had planned, and while it should have made her happy, it only served to leave a sour taste in her mouth. Being unnecessary was the first rung in the ladder towards being unwanted. Cass knew that better than anyone.

Still, she forced a smile when Metzli turned towards her, glad that an expression didn’t count as a lie. “She is,” she replied, and that was true, too. The giraffe was pretty amazing; Cass had never actually seen one this close before. Concern etched its way into her features as something occurred to her. “Does it hurt?”

With her plan interrupted, it was obvious Cass was either disappointed with how Metzli intervened, or worried that they were upset. That certainly wasn’t the case. Cass was fae. Bindings and deals were ingrained in her.

Metzli could never fault her for using what she knew, what she existed in. It only felt like they could when they had become entangled in what felt like a con. As if the free will they had worked so hard to obtain was stripped from them. Things had changed though, and the fae they had disliked so quickly had turned into someone they wanted to care for. Even share special moments.

“¿Qué dijiste?” The vampire blinked, unable to fully tear their attention away from the animal they adored. Her stomach was moving, signs that life was on its way. “Oh,” Metzli breathed, finally registering what Cass had asked. It made their chest bloom with something they couldn’t quite decipher, but they knew it was kind for the girl to take the mother’s pain into consideration. At Cass’s core, she was empathetic, often feeling way too much for others. “It hurts, yes. She is pushing out a whole life.” Metzli continued to stare at the giraffe, eyes sparkling with adoration. “But when it is over, she will see pain is worth it. Love is pain very often, but that is what makes it real. Effort.”

Metzli didn’t say anything, and it was better that way. The vampire had often assured Cass that they detested lying and didn’t participate in it themself, but it was often hard for the nymph to grasp this. When Metzli told her that something was fine while her instincts screamed at her that they weren’t, it felt like a lie even if logic told her it wasn’t. And she didn’t like thinking that Metzli was lying, not when she knew how much they hated it. She didn’t like doubting her friends; she just didn’t know how to stop.

Her brow furrowed as Metzli responded to her in Spanish, expression making it clear that she didn’t understand what the words meant. Some of the nymphs back in her aos si had spoken it some, but none had bothered teaching it to Cass. It was only thanks to an elder in the community who had found the idea of any of their number misunderstanding their native language that she’d been taught Hawaiian. No one had wasted time going the extra mile beyond that.

Metzli seemed to correct themself, switching back to English in a way that came as something of a relief, though the words offered nothing of the sort. Cass ached with the idea that there was an animal in pain, and that so many were watching it. If she were hurting, she wouldn’t want an audience for it. But Metzli made a good point — this was a different kind of pain. It wasn’t one Cass understood. Maybe she’d understand the sentiment better if she’d been loved herself. “And she’ll… take care of it? The baby.” The mother giraffe wouldn’t leave her baby on someone else’s doorstep, wouldn’t abandon it somewhere where no one would really care about it. Cass found herself frustratingly jealous of a stupid giraffe, and a giraffe that hadn’t even finished being born yet at that.

Cass wouldn’t know it, but she wasn’t alone in her jealousy. There was something that ached inside of Metzli at the thought of a being able to follow their parental instincts. They couldn’t recall a time that either of their parents did, or if they could for that matter. It was as if Metzli were a monster, and they were treated as such, long before they were even bitten. Both Cass and Metzli understood what that was like, longing for a family they were prohibited from having. No reason given. The blasphemous act of simply existing was enough.

“She will take care of it. The herd will help too.” A tinge of pain attached itself to Metzli’s voice, and they had to take to twisting and tugging one of their curls to keep from reacting emotionally. “It is nature for this. The calf will grow big and then will do the same when another mother has a calf. The cycle will continue.” With a deep breath, Metzli leaned slightly away from the glass dome and looked to Cass. “I wonder a lot what that would feel like. To have care. I know you do, too.”

Most people took Metzli’s quiet disposition as a means to ignore, but that was far from the truth. If anything, they utilized the quiet to observe more, to take in what hidden truths lay around them. It was no different with Cass. She may have even been one of the people Metzli observed the most. In many ways, they were alike, something the vampire wanted to ignore. Now, though? They leaned into it, eager to discover if they could create a cycle similar to the nature giraffe’s followed. “We…can have herd. Like them. We can make one.”

The herd will help, too. It made the ache inside her grow a little more, and she thought of the aos si she’d been given to. In a perfect world, they would have come together to help raise her just as the herd would come together for this calf. Maybe in that perfect world, her human mother would have been welcomed into the community to help, or her oread father would have stuck around to show her how things worked. But in this one? Cass had been alone. And Metzli had, too. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, but it was how things were.

She stared into the enclosure so that she wouldn’t have to look Metzli in the eye, watched the soon-to-be mother giraffe strain and struggle with the labor and tried not to wonder if her mother had done the same. She wondered, sometimes, if her mother would have kept her if she’d been human. She wasn’t sure which answer would hurt more. “I don’t know that I would have been good at it,” she admitted quietly. “Being someone’s daughter. I don’t know if it’s something I would have been able to do right.” Was there anything she could do right? Sometimes, she wondered.

When Metzli spoke again, Cass turned to look at them without meaning to. She searched their face carefully, looking for some sign that they might be lying. There wasn’t one. There never was, with Metzli. If they were a liar, they were the best Cass had ever seen. The alternative option — that they were telling the truth — was a more likely one. And a much more tempting one to believe. “You think so?” Her voice was quiet still, but hopeful now. She looked back at the giraffe. “I’d really like that.”

“You were not given chance, girl.” That’s all the vampire said at first, eyes shining with fresh tears.

Sometimes it felt like maybe being locked away was a godsend, like it was protection against the outside world. Out in the crowds of people that overwhelmed them, Metzli would tremble and scream as a child, begging for the noise to stop. Outside was worse most days. Having to rehearse obedience and closing off the insurmountable sensation of existing in a world too loud, too bright, and too textured. There was no name for what caused that then, and Metzli still didn’t know exactly why they were different, but they wanted to be special enough for their parents. So they created a world where they were. Somewhere where maybe, just maybe, there was a loving trait to being told to not be seen or heard. That they were this precious piece of their parents that was kept hidden because if anyone else discovered them, they may get taken away and that would break their parent’s hearts.

But that was a lie, and Metzli hated lies. They always hurt worse when the truth shattered the illusion like heartbreak.

That moment with Cass, though? It wasn’t an illusion. There were no lies to tell. No longer were either lost children alone, broken away from a family tree that stemmed from a rotted log. They could graft themselves together and shape a herd—a family that could be worthy of a definition that began with the word love. “I think you would do well if you got one chance.” Metzli finally spoke again, watching as Cass stared away at the mother. “Me and…and Leila can try to show you. I only have bad examples from my parents, but I know what to not do now.” They inhaled deeply, hoping their words weren’t wrong. They’ve never been any good at talking. No one ever gave them the chance to practice. “I would like that. We-me and Leila—would like that.” Avoiding any possible look of rejection, Metzli looked back at Blossom, seeing that her calf was almost out. Tears began to fill their eyes and the world went silent. They stared away, not realizing they affectionately placed their hand on Cass’s shoulder, pulling her closer.

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly, “I guess I wasn’t.” It wasn’t fair, was it? There were few things in the world that everyone was supposed to be born with, Cass knew. There were few things that everyone was entitled to by default, but there were supposed to be a couple, at least. You were supposed to have parents. It was a biological fact. Everyone who was born had a mother who bore them, and a father who made it possible. But what were you supposed to do when that was all they did? When they brought you into the world and left you alone? It felt cruel, somehow, that even animals did a better job at it. The giraffe in the zoo would have her calf, and maybe she wouldn’t love it — maybe animals weren’t capable of that in any way that made sense to people — but she’d raise it. She’d make sure it was fed, she’d teach it how to be a giraffe. And maybe it was the bare minimum, but it was so much more than what Cass had gotten.

It was more than what Metzli had gotten, too.

And it was so supremely unfair, wasn’t it, that this was a thing they had to have in common. It wasn’t right. Your parents loving you, caring about you… It was supposed to be the norm, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be something everyone got. So why was it different for them? Why was Cass alone? Why was Metzli? She wanted to scream, wanted to pull her hair out, wanted to break something.

But then Metzli was speaking again, and some of that anger faded. She turned to look at the vampire, swallowing around the lump that had formed in her throat. “Really? You’d want to?” Her voice was small, tone uncertain. “I know I’m not… I mean, I’m not an easy person to… to want for that. I know that.” If she were easier to love, someone would have done it. “But if you — If you really want to, I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.”

There was no rejection, no sweeping crash of pain that accompanied the pair in that small dome. Cass had accepted the offer Metzli had placed in front of her, taking into consideration that love and peace could actually come at a bargain. For the small price of vulnerability, Metzli was building a family, experiencing a more pleasant side to emotion.

“Yes. I want to.” The vampire replied, a lingering hope laying lightly in their tone. It was a miracle, really. Finding people and bidding loneliness farewell, something Leila and Cass and Metzli knew for so long. With a subtle smile, they looked back at Cass, and then to the mother. “L-look!” Metzli’s eyes lit up, watching as the fruit of Blossom’s labor would finally lay bare for all to see. “It’s here. It’s here!” They grinned, eyes full of awe.

A cheer escaped them and they began to jump up and down with excitement. Lifting Cass into a tight embrace, Metzli let go of tension they didn’t even realize they were holding. “Thank you for being here, mija.” They knew what they were saying. Both the affectionate name and the possibility of a bind. What did it matter, though? If Cass needed a bind, they would oblige. Whatever she needed, as the person taking care of her, Metzli would sacrifice any free will so she’d have a chance.

Yes. I want to. They were words Cass had wanted to hear all her life, words she’d longed for since she was a child. Hearing them now, from someone who she knew wasn’t using them to manipulate or twist things up, filled her chest with a genuine warmth. Neither of them had ever had anything like this before, but together, they could build a family.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, the words heavy on her tongue. Metzli knew what they meant, and Cass trusted them not to take advantage. If Metzli wanted to bind her to her thanks, she knew they’d only do so for something that mattered. She looked back into the enclosure just as the giraffe finished her labor, a grin spreading across her face. “Whoa,” she said quietly.

And then she was being lifted off her feet, giggling as Metzli embraced her. Another thanks, a word that she knew the significance of even if she didn’t speak the language. “I’ll be here whenever you want me,” she said quietly, squeezing them into a quick hug before letting go. She knew Metzli wasn’t really the biggest hugger, and that was okay. “You don’t have to thank me for that.” Looking back into the enclosure, she smiled. One family in there, and another out here. It was nice. “What do you think they’ll name it?”

Metzli Cass meant it when she said she’d be there whenever they wanted. She couldn’t lie. There was no contortion of her face and no tension in her body to indicate a false statement. They patted her head and leaned into the dome again, watched as Blossom hovered over her calf and cleaned it up. “I do not know.”

Datura!

The familiar voice perked Metzli’s ears, and they smiled just a bit wider, grabbing a hold of Cass’s hand. “Grab umbrella. Honey is here. Maybe she can help us convince the workers to let us name the calf. She has better eyes too.” Pulling them away from the dome, Metzli took one last look at the spot the pair had been standing in just before Honey wrapped her arms around them both. She was always so affectionate, and though Metzli was reaching their cap on stimuli that day, they welcomed her with ease.

“Let’s go see calf, mariposa. It’s here.” They looked down at Cass reverently, smiling subtly. “You ready, mija?”

#wickedswriting #writings #bloody ink #cass and metzli #watch us as we bloom #emotional abuse tw #physical abuse tw

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formulax · 2 years

Text

ANGLERFISH: Journal Entries of a Mourning Man Who Cannot See

My creative project for a class on horror aesthetics.

“So,” Andy began, one day three years ago, as we sat on his porch and watched the sunset. He fumbled a can of beer between his hands, and from the glazing over of his eyes, and the anxious biting of his lip, I could tell what he was going to ask me. “Have you seen him?”

“No,” I said, taking a swig of my drink. Andy swallowed nothing and leaned forward, arms resting on his legs as he stared at his feet.

“Good. Maybe he’s moved on,” he reasoned, though something in him, something selfish, was disappointed. I could tell from the tense, guilty way he held himself.

“Without a proper goodbye,” I muttered.

“Cristian, just—” Andy sighed. “Just try not to worry about it. Don’t look at me like that, alright, I know that’s easier said than done. If you don’t see him, good. It’s good, for everyone.”

I never understood why he said that.

❖

I was watching TV one night, when it happened. Some kind of nature documentary was on, something about the vastness of the ocean, greatly unexplored, with a myriad of possible unknown creatures. He’d love this, I thought. It’s why I watch docs so often, sunken and alone on my couch; to imagine him next to me, enthralled by the magic and mystery of the world.

First came the sound of small but thumping footsteps. They were loud enough to make me turn, but I live in an apartment, so after an initial uneasiness I didn’t think much of them. My documentary continued. It spoke of bioluminescence, the ability of these sea creatures to produce their own light. Did you know, the anglerfish sports a bioluminescent lure on its head, thanks to certain bacteria, that helps it attract curious prey?

Then, it happened. I heard the sound of a child—of him—laughing. In an instant the TV was off, and I was sitting in the dark, listening for a noise I should not have heard, with a heart that was beating too fast, and too hard, for my own good.

“Luca?” I called. I wasn’t sure if I was breathing. “Luca, you can come out.”

The TV blared back to life, and I jumped. The lights around me began to flicker sporadically; or, I thought so, until I noticed most lights were changing to the rhythm of the documentary’s soundtrack. I couldn’t help but laugh, my heart spilling over with warmth.

❖

Not a lot of people know this about me. It’s not something I really care to share with others, mostly because it’s an intensely private matter, but also because I tend to become somewhat of a spectacle whenever I tell anyone. But it’s hard to explain the things that come next without at least mentioning it.

I see dead people.

That’s the line, right? You’re rolling your eyes right now. But, that’s exactly how I told Andy. I wasn’t very good at being serious about things in college, but we were going somewhere, he and I, and I felt this strange, uncomfortable, but exhilarating urge to open up.

So, I blurted it out. “I see dead people.”

“You see what?” Andy asked me. His slight southern accent was much more noticeable back then. We were at his place, drinking bad beer. I suppose, in hindsight, I might have been a little tipsy.

“Dead people—spirits. I see them.” I glanced away and took a swig of my drink. I could feel Andy staring at me. The room was suddenly very warm.

“Cristian.” I loved the way he said my name. “Elaborate.”

“Well, you know. After someone passes on, they might have some unfinished business. So, they stay here for a while, wandering, until they figure things out. I happen to be able to see them, when they’re still here,” I explained, setting my drink down. “I know how it sounds. But I swear, it’s real, and it really sucks sometimes, like—”

“Cristian. Is there a particular reason why you’re telling me this now?” Andy asked, frozen in place, his face pale. I figured, by then, that he had caught on to the fact that I kept glancing just a few inches to his right.

❖

It’s been three years since I’ve heard my son laugh, but I know that was him. I know it.

After this long, I’m not sure whether I would ever really see his spirit, but now that he might be here, now that I might see him again, I can’t keep my mind off it. I can’t bear to imagine him there, all alone, waiting for some kind of chance to get my attention. I feel guilty. I feel horrid. What if he looks like he did when he—oh God. Oh Jesus.

God, please, I hope he doesn’t look how he did in that goddamn hospital bed.

I don’t think I got an ounce of sleep; I stayed on the couch all night. All I can think about is my son, stuck between realms with a restless soul. Why should I rest, when he cannot?

Luca got sick; it happened so fast. One minute he was climbing trees, peering under rocks, the next he was frail and exhausted, a shell of himself. He kept smiling only for our sakes, maybe for self-comfort. The doctors couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with him, and in the blink of an eye, whatever it was, that vile, putrid corruption, had sucked the life out of him. Seven years old and suddenly gone forever. It’s no wonder he’s still here, aware of his deserved time lost but unaware of his killer.

I wish I could sleep through the month of November. But this year, I can’t. My son is here, and he needs his papa. I’m sorry, honey, for losing faith in you. I’m so sorry.

❖

Whenever I go AWOL and stop answering calls, people always call Andy. It gets annoying, the constant wellness checks from my ex-husband, but I suppose there’s no one else I’d want at my apartment during times like this anyway. He is the closest anyone has ever gotten to understanding me in a way that matters. At least, I thought so.

“Cristian,” he called on the other side of my door, voice overflowing with concern. I removed my eyes from the documentary on the TV screen and stood, expecting him to appear sooner or later. Evidently, it was later; somewhere around nine. “Let me in. I’m serious.”

I marched over as he knocked, holding the doorknob and bracing myself. “Andrew,” I said. “If I let you in, you have to promise to listen to me. You have to promise.”

“Cris, just let me in.” The youth had long disappeared from his voice, replaced by a perpetual exhaustion.

“Andy.”

There was a loud sigh. “I promise.”

I opened the door. Andy pushed it open the rest of the way, and lifted a plastic bag that smelled of Thai food. “I got takeout,” he said, stepping past me as I shut the door behind him. “You’ve been out of work for three days, and your coworkers, who care about you as a friend, by the way—”

“I get it,” I muttered.

“Are concerned,” he continued, “about why you have been dodging their calls.”

“This is infinitely more important than work, you hear me?” I reassured, grabbing hold of Andy’s shoulders. “I have been communicating with Luca.”

The takeout fell to the floor, and the lights in my apartment flickered. I grinned and shook Andy’s shoulders as he stared, pale.

“You see that? He just said hi!” I exclaimed, turning to the couch. “Will you come out for your dad? Is that what you need?”

“Is he—um—is he right there?” Andy asked, pointing with a shaky finger to the couch. I shook my head.

“No, no, I haven’t been able to see him yet. He hasn’t shown himself, technically, but I’ve heard him. I heard him laugh, and he’s been flickering the lights, and moving things around. Andy, I couldn’t go to work like this, you must understand.”

“You haven’t seen him,” Andy observed, tilting his head. Slowly, he reached down to grab the food on the floor. “But he’s spoken to you.”

“Well, no.” I shrugged, and Andy sighed, running a hand down his face. “But the lights, they flicker like—like he’s responding to what I’m saying. He likes this documentary, about the deep ocean, I’ve just been playing it for him. So he can feel safe.”

“How about you eat something?” Andy urged, walking to the table and setting the food atop it. As he untied the bag, the lights flickered again. He flinched, and I smiled. “You sure you don’t have an… electrical problem, Cristian? Have you asked anyone else if they’ve experienced anything?”

My stomach was beginning to sink. My face twitched into a frown. I flexed my hands, and balled them; stimulation to ward off the anger growing in my chest. The lights seemed to dim. “I told you to listen to me,” I said.

“I am listening,” Andy said. “And I’m not liking what I’m hearing. You said when you see ghosts, it’s straightforward. This isn’t very straightforward. You haven’t even seen him. And why now, after three years of radio silence? Are you absolutely certain, certain, you weren’t dreaming when you heard—”

There was an electrical noise, a zap, or a spark, and my apartment was plunged into darkness. For a moment, we were both silent. I heard Andy’s wavering breaths, interspersed with my own. I heard him fumbling, and breathing, and whispering to himself, until the light of his phone illuminated his panicked face. He turned on the flashlight and angled it downwards; I saw the focused light tremble with his hand.

“Cristian,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Come on.”

“He’s here,” I said. “It’s him.”

“This is not my son,” Andy declared, raising his shaky voice. “This is not our son!”

“Your son,” I repeated, scoffing. “Interesting.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Things are clearing up now,” I said, nodding to myself. “I see now. Andy, I’m sorry that he couldn’t show up at your place, I’m sorry I can see things you can’t, but you don’t have to try and pretend this isn’t real to make yourself feel better.”

“Feel better? FEEL BETTER?” Andy laughed, exasperated. “At least I’m working on feeling better! Every time I talk to you, on the other hand, it drags us both backwards! I try, you know, to push you forward, but you never internalize a word I say. Instead, you keep waiting for a call that will never come.”

With a quiet gust of wind, an object flew right past Andy’s head, and embedded itself in the wall beside him. He froze; we both did. With caution, he lifted his trembling hand, and the phone’s beam of light rose with it. He turned it upwards towards the wall, and his breath left him. He stumbled back and shouted. I held a hand over my mouth, feeling my own hot breath against my fingers.

It was a knife from the kitchen, wobbling, with its point firmly stuck in the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” Andy yelled. “Jesus—Cristian, we need to get out of here.”

He reached for my arm, and I pulled away. The knife stilled in the wall. “No, you need to get out of here.”

“Oh my God! Are you insane?”

“He didn’t do any of this when we were alone,” I said, stepping away. “You’re making him mad. He just needs to adjust, and you need to go.”

“You just want me to leave you in a house with a poltergeist?” Andy’s voice was frantic, dripping with misled terror. My face reddened; I felt my heartbeat.

“I taught you that word, don’t go around using it wrong!” I pointed towards the door. “Get out!” I lowered my voice, and leaned towards him. “Before you turn him into one.”

I couldn’t see Andy’s face, but I could feel him fuming. I could remember the intense blue-eyed glare and the proud, puffed out chest.

“I’m coming back for you, I’m not leaving you here,” he said, and with a huff, he marched out. As the door slammed shut behind him, the TV came to life, and the documentary resumed.

“I’m sorry,” I told my son. I sighed, quietly, lamenting progress lost. “I know it’s hard.”

❖

A poltergeist is just a spirit that causes threatening or harmful physical disturbances. It isn’t anything evil, necessarily. Just an angry, scared, frustrated soul, trapped and unable to leave, but not quite sure why. I’ve seen plenty of them, and have had enough terrible life experience to resonate with their rage. It’s a pain I can understand, on some degree.

Andy will come back, and I am afraid. He’s too stubborn for his own good, and if Luca becomes a true poltergeist, things will go south fast.

❖

I saw him. For a split second, I saw him.

I was heating up dinner, frozen lasagna, when the oven turned off on its own. Again, I heard my son’s precious giggle, and running footsteps somewhere in the apartment, towards my bedroom. Forgetting my food, I called my son’s name.

“Luca?”

“Papa.” It was a whisper in my ear. I couldn’t help but flinch, and I spun around, looking for him, expecting him to be there, tugging my sleeve, looking up at me with that ever-curious stare. But he wasn’t anywhere near me. “Papa,” he whispered again, and finally my eyes settled on the door to my room.

There was a small silhouette peeking out from my bedroom. His hair was brown and tussled, and his skin was pale with death. The eye I saw was wide, and blank. His fingers scraped against the doorway and made a grating, uncomfortable noise. Upon my seeing him, his face seemed to scrunch up, and he disappeared inside my bedroom.

“Wait—Luca,” I breathed, abandoning the kitchen and running for the bedroom door. Just as I reached it, the door slammed shut, and I was left placing my hands against it, tapping it, desperate beyond words to see him. “Luca, honey, you can come out,” I begged. “Luca. You can come out. I’m sorry if I scared you, okay? It’s going to be okay. I don’t care how you look, I just want to see you, I just want…”

I glanced back towards the front door, and I huffed. “Are you worried about your dad?” I asked. Through the crack in the bottom of the door, I saw flickering light, and the shadows of two small feet. I gasped, and covered my mouth, smacking the door again with my free hand. “Oh, oh Luca, it’s okay. I’ll talk to him, I’ll keep you safe. No one’s gonna hurt you, I won’t let it happen.”

I watched, in horror, as the two shadows disappeared. “No—no I can—Luca please,” I cried, hot tears welling behind my eyes. “Please.”

The door opened, and I stumbled inside. And my son wasn’t there, not under the bed or in the closet, not anywhere. I ran my fingers through my hair, gripped it tight, and cursed.

No one is going to step foot in this apartment. Not Andy, not anyone. He is scaring my son.

❖

Luca loved the ocean with the enthusiasm and fervor of any child. Through his interest, I absorbed plenty of information that still lays somewhere in my mind, filed away next to my memories of him. Memories of ocean-themed birthday parties, toys, decorations, clothes, school supplies. Memories of playing pretend, and being the big bad shark who always, always turned good in the end. I remember these things. I remember how he smiled. You can’t forget something like that.

But I see him there, smiling, laughing, and then the memory corrupts, twists, transforms into a sinister reminder of his hollow face, his labored breathing, his crying, his restless sleep. Beautiful brown curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, dark eyes glazed over with exhaustion, terror, confusion, small hands holding a stuffed shark like a lifeline. He’s hooked up to breathing tubes, heart monitors, IVs, wires, a mess of tendrils that keep him alive but make him look almost inhuman, almost monstrous.

From my chair I see the woman leaning over him, who no one else can see. A woman who died in childbirth, still in a gown, long dark hair in a sagging bun. I see her whispering in my son’s ear, and I want to tell her to go away. I’m sick of seeing ghosts everywhere I go while my son lays, still alive, in a hospital bed. I tell her to get away from him, he’s not hers. The heart monitor beeps. She looks up at me, holds out her hand, one parent to another. I do not want her help, but still, I do not approach even to take her place.

She knows something I do not. She cradles his face, and to my shock, she can touch him. I stand. Luca wakes up. He turns his head. He looks at her, and he sees her. She tells him it’s okay. He looks at me, and he is scared, and then he is gone.

I scream, and machines beep, and connections sever, and Andy comes, and even though we’ve been divorced for a year he holds me, grabs my clothes as I sob and look around, look for Luca, but he isn’t there, he isn’t anywhere.

And it just plays over, and over, and over, and over, and I can’t make it stop. No matter how many stupid documentaries I watch I can’t make it stop.

❖

Andy returned again at night.

“Cristian, you don’t know what you’re doing. Let me in.” His voice was cold, but there was a slight waver in it. He was afraid.

“I have it under control,” I growled, pressing my forehead against the door to stare through the peephole. He was glaring through the door right into my eyes, a hand in his pocket. “I can handle my own son.”

“Okay, Cristian. Then tell him to move on.” His voice dropped and gained an edge, underlining his command.

I held my breath. “What?”

“You can see ghosts. You know how this works. Tell him it’s time to go, time to end three years of prolonged suffering. Time to rest. I’m sure that’s what he really wants.”

Behind me, a cabinet slammed open and shut. I turned and chewed the inside of my cheek. “You don’t understand,” I warned. “You should. He needs to warm up to ideas, he won’t listen to me if he’s not ready to hear what I—”

A pot hit the wall right next to me, and I recoiled with a yelp.

“Cristian!” Andy’s voice. “What was—you know what, that’s it, I’ll unlock it myself.”

I heard the jingle of keys, then a cacophony of doors slamming, pots and pans flying, and plates smashing. I had forgotten. I gave him a key. WHY DID I GIVE HIM A KEY? I pressed my body against the door, and held the knob before he could turn it.

But he was always stronger than me, and after a few good pushes the door gave way, and he grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me aside. “This isn’t tracking,” he told me, holding me by the shoulders as I shook my head and tried remarkably hard not to hear him. “He wouldn’t do any of this, I know I’m making sense right now, he was never an angry kid, never violent, you are being haunted by someone else.”

I forced out a laugh. “You’re wrong, Andy. I saw him. He spoke to me.”

“What?”

The lights shut off, and the front door slammed behind us with a click of the lock. For the second time, he and I were confronted with darkness. I heard his breathing, felt his hands squeezing my shoulders too tight.

A single light flickered dimly on: the light in my bedroom. Following the tug of my heart, I started to move, but Andy held my shoulders. “Cristian, what are you doing?” he whispered, pulling on my jacket, breaths fast and fearful.

I smiled. “Andy, it’s okay,” I said, nodding my head towards the light. “I think he’s ready to see you.”

After a moment of hesitance, Andy let go of me. I stepped slowly away, and moved towards the light, smiling wider, getting giddy, ready to talk to my boy, ready to help him, ready to avenge myself, make a new memory, be a better father. I felt Andy moving behind me, heard the quiet steps of his boots.

The door to my room was cracked open. I reached out, pushed it inwards. I stood in the doorway and scanned the empty room. “Luca?”

“Papa.” A child’s hand, slow and gray, reached out from under the bed, palm outstretched. Andy inhaled and seized my arm, but I waved him off. I took a step forward, then another. Then, I knelt, and lowered my head to see my son.

“Hi,” I said. Luca cowered and watched me, big brown eyes glazed over and terrified. I tried to keep smiling, for him, but his skin was sickly, and his hair was slick with sweat. I couldn’t fight the tremble in my hands, but still, I reached out and held his, rubbing my thumb over cold skin. “Hi, honey, it’s okay.”

His eyes flicked to Andy. I nodded and motioned for Andy to kneel down. “This is just dad; he wants to say sorry. Andy?”

When I turned to look at him, he was still standing in the doorway. “Cristian,” he breathed, eyes wide.

“Andy, come on,” I pressed, struggling not to raise my voice. If he could just—

Andy shook his head.

“Cristian, I shouldn’t be able to see him.”

I opened my mouth to counter him, and froze. He stepped back, petrified, beckoning with his arms outstretched towards me. Andy can’t see ghosts. The hand, the hand I was still holding, gripped mine, and squeezed, fingernails digging into skin. My face went hot, and pulsed, and my breathing started to quicken, and in the living room, the documentary played.

Did you know, the anglerfish sports a bioluminescent lure on its head, thanks to certain bacteria, that helps it attract curious prey?

I turned my head back. The Anglerfish was grinning, with a mouth that stretched too far, and eyes that were open too wide. It giggled, then laughed, then cackled.

The light went out. I heard Andy shout, felt him grab my arm and pull me. The claws in my hand held on, dragged, and I yelled as pain sprung from my hand up my arm. I saw Andy’s silhouette lunge forward, saw him stomp down on the limb holding me hostage. There was another laugh, one that echoed all around us, and the claws set me free. I scrambled up, gritting my teeth and holding my wrist. My hand throbbed and stung. I felt blood dripping down my palm, to the edges of my fingers.

“Cristian!”

“Andy.”

“What is—what is that thing? How do we stop it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But I think it’s hunting us. Andy—Andy.” I fumbled for his arms, slid my good hand into his. “I’m sorry, Andy. I’m sorry for what I said to you.”

“No, no no no no! Tell me later!” Andy yelled, yanking me out of the bedroom. Together, we ran for the front door. An agonizingly familiar figure in the way stopped us short. The Anglerfish cocked its head, in a form that did not belong to it.

“Papa, I thought you’d be happy!” It stomped its foot. “I thought you wanted to see me!”

“You’re not my son!” I snapped, cradling my hurt hand, afraid to look.

“Does it matter?” the Anglerfish asked. It held out its arms, and some instinct deep within stirred, twisted my stomach, told me those arms were too long, and that head was tilted too far to the side. Its disguise was slipping; no, that thing was not my son.

Blood and tears dripped and fell onto my crappy carpet, in my crappy apartment, in this crappy city. The TV was still playing, rehashing the same program, over and over, waiting for me to come back, to sit down and watch. It occurred to me that there was something worthless about my life. It occurred to me that when I stopped being a father, and when I could not help my son pass on, I ceased being a functional human being. I had a job, but I heard their talk. They’d watch and wait for me to plunge underwater again, to call in sick under the enormous weight of grief, staring at a TV screen, trying and failing to remember the good and forget the bad. And through it all, Andy held my hand, would always hold my hand, no matter how far back it held him. There he was again, next to me as I dragged him somewhere he didn’t deserve to be.

I freed my hand from his grip. “Let him go,” I ordered the Anglerfish. “He’s not your target, I am. He never fell for your trick, never followed your lure. I did.”

“Cristian, I’m not leaving you,” Andy said, hands finding my face. I shoved him back, and my shredded hand stung.

“I’m done dragging you down with me, get out of here!” I yelled. I turned to the Anglerfish. “Let him go, and I’ll stay with you!”

The creature was silent for a moment. Then, it grinned, that too-wide grin, and it looked between us, as if considering who might be the better meal. I blinked, and it was gone. I sighed, and reached for the door, pulling it open and letting the light flood in. I turned back, and Andy was crying, the blood from my hand staining his jacket. He was never one to cry.

“You can’t do this,” he begged, reaching for me again. I grabbed his jacket and shoved him outside. “Cristian, you just made a deal with—no, you’re not doing this, I’m not letting you.” He stepped forward, and I held his shoulders, hands trembling.

“Andy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I told you those things, it wasn’t fair of me. I’m proud of you, for moving forward, and I’m sorry you spent so much of that time hanging back with me. I love you, and I’m sorry, but you have to let me face my own problems. Go. It’s letting you go.”

“What if you can’t face it?” Andy asked, shaking his head. I sighed.

“Better one of us than both of us.”

Andy hit my chest with an open palm, and cursed. “I’m coming back for you,” he vowed, voice cracking. I forced a smile and let him go. He stepped back into the hallway, breathing hard, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. I nodded to him, and he stared back, afraid, unsure, regretful, but more than anything, incredibly tired.

The door slammed shut, shrouding me again in darkness. I closed my eyes, and tried to take a deep breath.

“You never answered my question.” The voice came from behind me, and I turned, facing the specter of my son. Its eyes, uncannily bright, glinted with malice. “Does it matter? If I am not your son?”

“Of course it does,” I hissed. I was shaking with terror and rage. I wanted this thing out of my apartment, out of my life, and I would not let it fool me again. I would not let it take a child so happy and warm, curious and brave, and warp him into something so unrecognizably evil. I would steel myself. I would fight back.

The Anglerfish laughed, as if reading my thoughts and seeing my supposed resolve. It stared at me, through me, and it seemed to tell me, If you say so. And its feet lifted from the ground. Its body twitched and convulsed, crackling in a simulation of broken bone, but still it was cackling, butchering Luca’s soft giggles with sharp edges. Despite my rising bile and my weakening legs, I covered my mouth and forced myself to hold my ground.

Then, the head jerked back, and from the mouth of the broken, vile body burst the outline of a tendril in the dark. Then another from its chest, another from its arm. More and more sprouted from the body, leaving it convulsing against the motion, cracking and popping, until the thing that was left was limp, and no longer recognizable as human.

And still, I saw my boy. I screamed, stumbling away and tripping over myself. I landed hard on my back, and as I wheezed, the Anglerfish hovered closer. Sobbing, hardly breathing, I dragged myself away from it, from the broken pale body, from the mess of tubes and wires, from the silent, monstrous thing that lured me in and would not let me go.

Finally, I was backed up against the wall, and the Anglerfish dragged dead, small feet against the floor. All I could do was heave and cry as it got closer, and closer, and closer.

Would it frustrate you, or leave you hopeful, if I ended it here?

❖

I don’t like to talk about my father. At one point, when I was a teenager, I almost wanted him dead. But I’d like to think I’ve grown since then, just a little bit. Now I just hope that when he dies, it’s quiet, and it’s alone. I hope that no one knows what to do with his body, and I hope he wanders the world, eternally unsatisfied. I don’t want him to wish he hadn’t left me and my mother, because I cannot say things would have been much better if he’d stayed. At least, when he was up and gone, I was not called a devil child for talking to my grandmother who had died years before. But I often wish my mother could have been spared the heartache entirely. What son wouldn’t?

I wanted to be better than him. I wanted to have the house with the yard, I wanted to pass on my mother’s recipes, and I wanted to make new traditions. I wanted to be present and be loving to a family of my own. If I had a son, I told myself, I would be what I wish my father could have been for me. I would have the family I wish I could have had as a child. No one, alive or dead, could keep me from that.

The divorce was the fault of no one, nothing but human nature. Young love falls through when you get older, and there’s not much you can do about it except sign the papers, move out, and move on. Still, I was up every night, pacing blindly in the dark, petrified that somehow, I would become my father, like it was some kind of inevitable, genetic truth. God bless Andy, for refusing every offer to stay together, to try again when it was so obviously done with. Friendship still came easy to us, and Luca bounced between homes like a champ, and for a second I thought it would be alright. I thought maybe I wouldn’t be such a failure, even if that’s how I would inevitably be seen. I could still be a good father to my son.

After his death, I clung to it. I could help him. I could still be a good father to my son. And I am still clinging to it, my unachievable goal.

My son moved on. Why can’t I?

❖

In the morning, there was a knock on my door, then loud banging, then the jingling of keys. I was sitting on my couch, and National Geographic was on, something about octopi, and camouflage. Andy burst into the room, out of breath, looking around frantically, hand against his chest. I turned the TV off and scrambled towards him. His eyes flicked, paranoid, towards me.

“Andy!” I exclaimed, arms outstretched. But he turned away, and walked past me.

“Cristian!” he called, running towards my room. I walked towards him, rubbing my arms, face twisting to a frown.

Something emerged from my room, pulling the door open just as Andy reached for the handle. I shouted, and started forward, until the creature revealed its face. I froze.

It was mine. “Andy,” the Anglerfish said, breathy, feigning panic. It held out its arms, and Andy fell into them, swaying, holding the back of its head. I looked down at my hands, and shook my head. It dawned on me that I was not quite breathing, anymore.

“No.” I reached out to grab Andy’s shoulder, to pull him away, but I couldn’t seem to find a grip, and he didn’t seem to notice at all. “No no no.”

“I’m so glad you’re okay—you—are you okay?” Andy smiled through tears and checked the Anglerfish’s false face. “What happened?”

“ANDY!” I screamed. He did not hear. Andy can’t see ghosts.

“I faced it. I faced it, and I won,” the Anglerfish declared, shaking Andy’s shoulders with a grin just too manic to be me. It faded quickly, and the deceptive thing cast its eyes down. “But Andy, I’m not sure I want to be alone anymore.”

“I can stay here,” Andy offered, and I cursed, running my fingers through my hair.

“Can I stay at yours?” the Anglerfish countered. “I really wanna get out of here, man.”

“Of course, Cristian. I’ll make you something to eat.”

The Anglerfish hugged Andy again, squeezing tight, and it cast its gaze up to me. It grinned at me, with a mouth too big and eyes too wide.

❖

ANDY PLEASE COME BACK. FIND THIS JOURNAL. ANYONE. FIND THIS JOURNAL AND SAVE HIM. THAT IS NOT ME. THAT THING IS NOT ME. I CAN’T LEAVE THE APARTMENT PLEASE GOD DON’T LET IT TAKE HIM.

#anglerfish #still living #my ocs #my writing #for class #horror #sorry about the formatting

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moderncryptid · 1 year

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Furry Little Bastard Chapter 1

It really was shitty, Damien had long ago decided, that your world could come to an end and everyone else’s could just keep moving on.

A metaphorical meteor could turn your life into a smoking crater and people will just step over and around you, maybe sparing the occasional glance at whatever’s left with a mixture of pity and vague disgust. The kind of look that makes you wish you still had it in you to tell them to mind their business so you can smolder undisturbed.

That was how it felt in the beginning. No ability, no direction, nowhere to go and nobody to talk to. The last three conditions weren’t unfamiliar. But leaning how to navigate without his ability felt like trying to maneuver around in the dark. Like losing one of his senses.

It was like being in a hotel room when the air conditioning or heat suddenly shut off. That was the only thing he could compare it to at first. That sudden extra layer of quiet. He might have gone all night without noticing the sound and its sudden absence was disorienting.

Now the “sound” of other people’s minds was gone. A hum that was more sensation than noise; like the low buzzing of feedback from a speaker at a concert he could feel at the base of his skull. People’s minds, their wants, the lose threads he used to be able to pull at without even the conscious desire to do so. Gone like turning off a light switch.

For the first few weeks after the AM, he swore there was something wrong with his ears. Noises seemed so much louder, and silences felt so heavy. It took him a while to put together what he was missing. He was so used to the company of other people’s minds inside his own that being without them….

“It feels lonely.” Was what he told Mark. And he hadn’t yet come up with a better way of putting it, as much as he’d like to.

It was, to put it lightly and with the least amount of profanity possible, incredibly shitty. He used to believe he was cursed, or born with bad luck, or maybe the universe just hated him personally. These days he was beginning to suspect that maybe it didn’t hate him at all. It just found watching him struggle really, really funny and didn’t want to stop laughing any time soon.

He tried making a life for himself in this new normal. Really, he did. Not that anyone would believe that, or would think too much of what he had to show for it.

He worked sporadically here and there, mostly at restaurants and other places that didn’t check backgrounds too closely or care very much about experience. He got kicked out of one apartment, and then another before one finally stuck. He learned how to take a bus and learned how much he hated taking the bus. And along the way, he developed a deep-seated hatred for thin walls and people who had the energy to start loud arguments with their roommates or partners after midnight.

It was actually his neighbors fighting that drove him out of the apartment at around 11pm one night. He'd given up on trying to sleep until they quieted down and stepped outside just to get away from the noise that was starting to give him a headache.

It was still early September. So, theoretically it shouldn't have been too cold. September was all pretty trees and warm afternoons according to books and tv. In reality, he was freezing his ass off the moment he stepped out in his oversized sweatpants and hoodie; his shoes half shoved on in his haste to get out. It was also raining. Not a pretty little misting of water, but the kind of torrential downpour only shown in apocalyptic movies. He briefly hoped it would wash the whole damn city away, then broke off those pleasant thoughts to mutter a string of curses when he stepped in a puddle and soaked through one of his socks.

I used to like cities.

The thought came with a wave of melancholy nostalgia. The only kind he seemed to be capable of. Back when he had his ability, cities were easy. It was easy to get lost in the crowd, easy to slip by unnoticed, easy to disappear. Now they just felt entirely too big and weirdly empty in spite of all the people. And disappearing in the mix was somehow even more lonely.

Mark mentioned wanting to live in a big city once. Like New York or L.A. He said he liked the idea of having something to do all the time; new people to talk to, shops popping in and out, a constant rotation of artists and musicians. Damien had no idea if this city had any of those things. Hadn’t had the time or energy to seek them out. Crowds made him nervous long before he lost his ability and that certainly hadn't improved how he felt about them. As far as he’d seen, this place was just a lot of cars and faceless buisnesses.

You’d probably hate it here. He thought. Another entry in an endless, one-sided conversation that was the one constant in his life. An extension of all those embarrassing, shitty letters crammed into his backpack that he could never actually bring himself to throw away.

Damien sighed and leaned his head back against the cold, wet brick. He’d just closed his eyes and was starting to let his mind drift to all the places he’d be better off not drifting to when he heard a noise that sounded like a long, low wail.

His eyes snapped open and he looked around the alley. He couldn’t see anyone but himself, and there was nothing else out here but the dumpsters along the far wall overflowing with plastic bags. The streetlights to his left and the greenish bulb glowing on the outside of whatever building he was living next to cast a sickly, dim glow over the narrow space. It was eerie on a good day. And as he was just beginning to consider maybe sitting through another argument from his neighbors was better than whatever was out here, he heard it again. Another heartrending wail coming from the bank of dumpsters.

It didn’t sound much like a person. Person-adjacent maybe. It was hard to tell with all the cars rushing by on the street and that damn buzzing light.

Am I about to be the person who dies in the first five minutes of a horror movie?

Well, at least then he wouldn’t have to go into work tomorrow. Never let anyone say he didn’t know how to look on the bright side.

He wondered if this was one of those situations where he was supposed to pretend not to hear anything. Investigating certainly didn’t sound like a good idea. But the thought of turning his back to go inside right now didn’t really appeal to him either.

“If anyone’s planning on stabbing me tonight can we please get this over with?” he groaned with what he hoped was enough exhaustion behind his words to convince any curious lurkers to move on. Maybe if he could convey how shitty his life was in a single sentence he could make any potential murderers see that they would be wasting their time on him.

Still. He waited with his breath catching in the back of his throat until several tense seconds had passed.

You’re a paranoid idiot. He told himself. Then nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt something cold and wet brush against his leg.

Damien had never gotten his door open so quickly and he’d closed it again before giving himself time to figure out just what had touched him.

What the hell kind of murderer grabs someone’s ankles?

He decided that weirder things had happened and slid the little metal lock into place. Not that it looked like it would do much against someone who really wanted to get in. Damien was pretty sure a determined rat could break the whole door down with enough momentum.

“Well that was fucking weird,” he said aloud to himself. Wishing, not for the first and probably not the last time, that he didn’t live alone. His heart was still pounding and he was sure the whole situation would have been more funny than creepy if he had someone to commiserate with. Someone to make fun of him for being scared by literally nothing so he could stop thinking about how useless the lock was.

A little comfort would be nice too. Maybe just a brief squeeze of a shoulder or someone asking sincerely if he was okay. He’d brush it off and say he was fine, yeah, but it was about the asking more than the answer.

Instead, he had himself. And that eternally critical voice in the back of his head that loved to remind him how bad he was at being a person, telling him that it was really embarrassing to start whining about being lonely because he got a little spooked.

He ran his fingers back through his damp hair and sat down on the floor; the universal sign of giving up that he was very familiar with. Too tired to drag himself to bed, he drew up his knees and dropped his face onto them, letting out a sigh he was sure would be heard through the paper-thin walls.

Hey Mark. Your city idea blows. In case you were wondering. And I wish you were here so I could tell you that to your stupid face.

He did his best to think about it angrily. And to not dwell on the fact that he could just hear him laughing at the whole situation. Making light of it all. Responding with a teasing, “Aww. Poor baby.” that would make him want to gag. Because if he thought about that for too long it would start to make his ribs ache and the apartment would seem more empty than it already was.

Damien let out another sigh, one that shook far more than the one before it. Which, he told himself, was only a result of the cold. He was just starting to repeat it to himself, (Because he was not going to cry on the floor for the second time in a week.) when something butted against his arm.

Damien jerked back from it so hard that he would have fallen on his ass if he wasn’t already sitting on the floor. His heart lodged itself somewhere in the back of his mouth, and though he’d somehow managed to avoid actually letting out any noise, he came pretty close when he saw a pair of eyes staring at him from the hallway. Until he realized they were too small and close to the ground to be human. And probably too big for a rat.

Did I let a fucking possum inside?

That was something he’d actually done once back in Nebraska. Possums were decently amiable; or were at least willing to act like it in exchange for food. He’d never been good at making friends his own age even before his ability made that pretty much impossible, but he’d found animals to be pretty judgment-free as a rule. There wasn’t anything non-human he didn’t at least try to approach in his younger years even when his parents tried to discourage the habit. Once they were gone and he stopped going to school, there really was nobody there to stop him from making nice with the local vermin around his house.

The possum was part of the collection of squirrels and birds he’d share his leftovers or failed baking projects with. His mom would be horrified, but he had a pretty decent crowd going that would wait out on the porch for his evening offerings. Damien actually got it to the point where the possum in question would take food right out of his hands. A point of personal pride.

One afternoon he left the side door open. And it just came waddling into the kitchen like it owned the place. Damien remembered walking around the corner, locking eyes with it, then panicking after a moment’s mutual confusion.

His brilliant solution had been to try and pick it up so he could set it back outside. He was a very lonely, stupid kid who was thinking in terms of pets, not wild animals. And in exchange for his moment of stupidity, he ended up getting bitten.

Luckily it was nothing serious. It hardly broke the skin but the shock and sight of blood made him call for his mom.

It was just habit. A reflex like pulling your fingers back from a hot stove. He tried to pretend he hadn’t done it the moment the word left his mouth, but the ringing silence that followed the little animal scampering out of the house was still deafening.

Nobody wants you. Even animals know there’s something wrong with you.

He was probably being dramatic. It still didn’t feel any less real. So he’d done his best to keep his distance from wildlife after that. Until it decided to come to him and take up residence in his hallway.

Much like the possum, for several moments they just stared at each other. Then as he laid there on the shitty carpet, the thing he’d let into his apartment poked its head out a little further.

It was a cat. Probably. Its fur was so wet and dirty that it could have been just a very, very big rat. It was impossible to guess what color it was under the grime, but it had green eyes. Huge, luminous green eyes.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It chittered at him. Like he was a damn bird.

“Absolutely not.” Damien stood up and opened his door. Then pointed toward the alley outside to reinforce his point. “Out. This isn’t a hotel.”

The fucking creature that had somehow slipped inside continued to stare at him. It looked at the door. Then back at him. Then made a noise very similar to the one he’d heard wailing out by the dumpster.

“Hey- don’t give me that shit. Your issues are not my problem.”

Okay. That sounded a little too familiar.

“I’m not your owner,” he amended. “Go bother them.”

The cat got up, wandered a bit closer, and Damien thought it was actually going to go out. Then it veered off course and decided to wind around his legs, feeling very much like whatever had grabbed his ankle.

You little bastard.

He was standing right in the doorway. It would have been easy to use his foot to nudge it out, and he was about to do just that when he glanced back at the alley. It was still pouring; maybe harder than before. His breath was coming out in misty clouds, and the overhead light in his apartment made it seem even darker out there by contrast. From what he could see, there was nothing out there but the garbage, a busy road, and a dozen other doors shut for the night. With their residents probably sleeping, given it was nearly midnight on a Tuesday.

Damien looked back down at the ugly little thing pressing up against his sweatpants. It blinked at him, and he decided that even if he was heartless, he just didn’t have it in him to be quite that cruel.

It wasn’t his problem. But it had to be someone’s.

“Ugh. Fine,” he groaned, letting the door slam shut. “One night. Sleep it off, and in the morning you’re out. Got it?”

It didn’t even wait for him to stop talking. The moment the door shut it detached itself from him and scampered off, managing somehow to disappear in the small, nearly empty apartment. Not that he spent much time looking for it as he finally managed to drag himself to bed. After shucking off his sweatpants that were freshly streaked with dumpster residue, courtesy of his unwelcome guest, that is.

He did wonder if he’d need to worry about it crawling up to chew on his face in the brief moments before he finally passed out. But in the few seconds he listened for the sound of paws on the mattress, it hardly occurred to him that he’d stopped worrying about the lock on the door.

#cat fic begins #i'll be putting this on my ao3 as well. same title #damien gorham #damien gorham fic

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