#ignore the black border. that's the bleed edge... it would just be the white... it would just be the white...

[darkpoisonouslove]

Prey on the Heart

Summary: Valtor is on the hunt when his hound makes an unexpected discovery - Griffin is on the premises and defenseless against his rage over her betrayal. Valtor has to decide what catch he’s after - her head or their love. AU.

CW: Blood, dog bites, injury neglect, non-graphic violence and sex

This has been an outlined idea for almost 11 months. It was supposed to be an entry for Whumptober last year but I managed to turn it back into romance instead of torture somehow. I never got around to writing it unti today the universe conspired to bring it into existence and I am so happy to have finally finished it!

Love Again by Dua Lipa is giving me feels for this AU so give it a listen if you want.

The tufts of yellowed grass barely rustled under his feet as he followed the hound south. A little further and they'd leave the borders of the Coven's estate for the uninhabitable wasteland his mothers hadn't bothered to purchase even at the low cost of Obsidian land.

The rainless summer had left the otherwise infertile ground dry and cracked, no prints marring it's hardened surface. The hound was relying purely on her animal instincts and despite the boost from his magic, his senses couldn't catch up. He was barely keeping up with Violet herself glancing around for a trace on the foliage of what she'd sniffed.

He caught a strangled scream without the need to strain his ears. It was loud and clear despite the attempt to muffle it. He'd thought it was an animal the hound had shot after but that scream... It was a human voice. A familiar voice.

He followed the sound, steps hurried and heavy on the ground to chase away any game in the vicinity but he'd have his prize regardless. Unless he was dreaming or under one of mother Lysslis' illusion spells.

He called the dog back to lead him to where she'd left her victim. He'd seen Violet do her thing under Lysslis' training. Whenever she got her teeth into something, it wasn't getting away before she let go. And it wasn't getting away after that either.

Violet's teeth had a wet red tint to them, muzzle damp with blood and saliva as her nostrils expanded voraciously with every breath from the heavy copper smell. She circled him frantically and dashed forward only to run back to him in an attempt to prompt him to catch up with her speed. At least she was happy with her find.

An unusual circle of trees formed a perfectly lined up clearing in the forest. Stepping inside it left him face to face with a lone tree in the middle that was keeled over and charred. It must have been stricken by a lightning but its sturdy, forked roots had grounded it deep in the soil to make it the only thing standing in the clearing.

Leaning on the other side of it, partially concealed by its thick trunk, was none other than Griffin. Her hands trembled as she tightened the knot on the bandage she'd wrapped around her bleeding calf. She hissed when the dirty rag she'd torn from the hemline of her tattered and muddied dress constricted the tender wound Violet had left in her wake. And to think Griffin had been the one who'd gifted him the hound when she'd still been a pup that had fit in the palm of his hand. Valtor had even named her after Griffin, the striking shade of her hair coloring everything from his sketches to the very dreams his subconscious concocted. If she hadn't left so soon after presenting him with the puppy, Violet may have remembered her scent. Not that that would have given her a chance against Lysslis' conditioning of all hunting dogs, including Valtor's personal hound.

Griffin's eyes pinned the hound where it was pacing from one side to another behind Valtor's legs with her tail wagging and her labored breaths filling the silence of his own lungs. The sight of him had Griffin's whole body tensing as her hands hit the tree bark behind her back and she scrambled to her feet.

Her movements were lagging from the pain and panic dripping from her hunched form. Her hair fell down her back matted with red where she'd brushed it back with bloodied hands. Large chunks of unrefined obsidian crystals were strapped to her wrists with clumsy threads of silver into bracelets that ran up her arms under her sleeves.

She'd made those herself–in a hurry–her magic pulling the crystals and metal straight from the core of the planet. They would have impeded any other witch considering his own mothers' magic was notably subdued by the large deposits of obsidian under the planet's surface but not her. Crystals were one of her areas of expertise–and the reason why she'd walked into his life–yet even her knowledge had failed her along with her luck. She'd made it to the very edge of the territory controlled and owned by the Coven under the protection of the black crystals she'd adorned herself with to ward off dark magic but still not far enough.

It had been fear cutting off her magic to prevent her from fashioning herself a bandage the way she'd crafted her protection charms. Her golden eyes were wide like pits of inextinguishable fire and her chest wasn't moving to push the ample cleavage her dress left exposed into the forefront of his mind. She'd had an easier time drawing breath with the weight of his head nestled over her ribcage, over her heart beating steadily with the promise of her presence.

Valtor's step forward echoed like a gunshot in her body. Her back pressed into the tree, muscles pulled taut with compressed energy readying her to pounce.

"Run." His first word to her. He could have lost a bet that it would be a vile curse in a lost language only she could understand. "I dare you." She'd turned her back and left unprompted. If she still abode by that logic, then she'd have to stay.

Griffin swallowed. "You're going to hunt me down like an animal?" Her teeth gritted as she strained against her eyes slipping from his form.

His fingers clenched to white around the cold metal of his shotgun. Her jaw would have been dust in his grip where he wanted it to tip her head back and pin her gaze with his. She'd forced him to endure far greater pain being the one left behind. She hadn't earned the right to writhe and scream in agony.

"Violet here is an animal," he extended his hand and the hound pressed her head into his open palm. She always obeyed his calls, never running off where she wouldn't hear him and come back. "She is loyal and dependable which is more than I can say about you." He may have named the dog after Griffin but he'd raised Violet to never follow in her footsteps.

"So I am less than an animal to you, too?" Her gaze darted to the dog and back – to the piece of herself she hadn't stolen from him.

Valtor frowned, hand stilling between Violet's ears to make her rub it in his fingers insistently. He ignored her.

"What do you mean to me too?" Once again Griffin took precedence. Over his hunt, over his dog, over his own heart. Only his stomach sank from the prediction of what he'd hear from her mouth.

"You think I came here on a picnic with only the dress on my back?" Griffin stood steady on her feet, her tenacious nature breathing life into a smirk he had to bite back.

He hadn't given thought to the circumstances of their meeting. Her aching form in front of his eyes was everything. One blink and she'd melt away, swept up into another one of the portals the locations of which she was best at estimating. Indeed her presence on top of her disheveled state posed multiple questions he hadn't paid mind to. He was making it too easy for her to deceive him again.

"Your mothers chased me down and electrocuted me to the point of nearly frying my organs," her arms crossed over her belly to raise alarms in his head. If anything gave him the strength to best mother Tharma, it would be the rage over touching what was his. Griffin was a central part of that even if revenge was all that was left between them. That and the truth she spoke. "They kept me locked up for weeks in a tiny shoe box where I couldn't even stand up straight and only let me out last night. Right as darkness fell for me to read on the star-filled sky that it was the first day of hunting season."

There was disdain in her voice instead of the fear everyone else held for the way his mothers took beauty and strength and twisted it into despair. They had taken her love of astronomy and turned it into the herald of her death sentence. Just like they'd repopulated the area around their estate with hunting game only to have their fill of murdering unsuspecting animals.

Griffin's eyes burned so fiercely he half expected the tree behind her to catch fire. "They let me out to be your prey." And she'd dashed for the quickest route out of there. She hadn't come back for him.

"You betrayed me."

Violet sat down on her hind legs, body taut like a string and tail beating harshly into the dust. She would leap at the smallest shift in him.

Griffin was like a rock in front of him. His fire wouldn't touch her and his bullets would bounce back at him. "They are enslaving people and I didn't know I was helping them."

He hadn't told her. All he could have given her had been the illusion of a choice. She never would've picked him if he'd let his mothers force her to lay the world at their feet. It had been the only chance the two of them had had to be together.

"I had to put an end to it."

"You betrayed me!" Valtor raised the shotgun, his hands shaking too violently to aim it more precisely than just in Griffin's general direction as he stalked closer. Violet was growling on his left to keep his flank safe. "I gave you my everything. You were all I had and you left!"

All the riches flowing into Obsidian under his mothers' direction and Griffin's accurate calculations of opening portals to other planets were resources for the Coven's needs, not for his personal use. He wasn't even allowed in certain rooms of the mansion. The magic in his very veins had been embedded there by his mothers' efforts and lessons. Griffin had been the one building a little home with him in the room they'd come to share, she'd been the one putting a heartbeat in his palms only to leave him clutching empty sheets with a cold blade sticking out of his chest.

"Bursting your heart into atoms is exactly what you deserve." He stalked closer, the cool barrel of his shotgun and Violet's razor-sharp teeth were his only defense. The obsidian on Griffin's wrists weakened his magic and the shine of her eyes had obliterated his resolve to chase her down even from his memories.

Griffin's eyes hardened, hands balling into fists. "If you're going to shoot me, do it!" she grabbed the shotgun and pressed it into her bare skin.

The force threw him off balance and he stumbled forward, pushing the stiff metal into her sternum while her breath invaded his mouth with their faces inches apart. "Do not. Tempt me," he growled, his fingers twitching from her audacity to wrap around her throat and force more breath from her.

"Do it!" Griffin was still gripping the shotgun close to her heaving chest unafraid of the fire that could burst from the contact. "I knew this–seeing you again–would be the end of me. But if taking the shot is what will take your pain away, then I'm ready to go. As long as it will let you live." Her eyes lost focus and her head lulled, a small smile tugging at her lips and his heartstrings as her gaze dropped to Violet.

The dog was pacing behind him to no reason or direction. Her nose was lowered into the dirt in defeat.

Valtor forced Griffin's head back with the barrel of his shotgun until their eyes were locked together. "Do you think I'm that dumb? That I'll believe you after all your lies?" He had to watch out for the hands. One wrong move and they'd be in his chest again. Or his would be in her hair under the clink of his forgotten shotgun to draw a moan out of her that would melt him in a puddle at her feet.

"It doesn't matter what you believe, what either one of us believes." Vulnerability was sealed in her eyes like they were amber preserving history. Bullets wouldn't work on them. Shattering them would only spill the truth of his own wrongdoings. "It will not change the fact that I love you." A gasp came – from him or from her. "You can cut me open and reach inside me to feel it if you need to. It will still be there once my heart has stopped. Not even the planet can absorb it."

His hands shook as the shotgun trailed back between her breasts. The dry ground would soak up her blood instead of water and the forest would claim her body but the energy pouring from her wouldn't disappear in the well in the planet's core. Obsidian absorbed negativity from all over the universe to cleanse it and Griffin had thought it fair to trade protection for resources borrowed from other planets when it had little to no of its own. But she was offering her life to him for nothing in return. She was offering the purity of her love and that wasn't something the planet could protect from or swallow.

Valtor licked his lips. His mouth watered in her proximity for her to plant her deception into it. Yet his tongue hardly moved with his words in the breeze her breath was on his taste buds. "You're playing mind games. This is nothing more than manipulation." She could be an inch from his face and hop into a portal to the other end of the universe in the blink of an eye. And he hadn't been able to follow despite the pull in his heart.

"Nothing's stopping you from pulling the trigger. Or taking your hunting knife and carving out my heart." The blade weighed on his chest from its secret pocket as her voice reverberated through him. "Go ahead! Eat it like I always knew you would. And once its in your system, so will be my love." Her hand slid down the barrel of the shotgun, her fingers bathing his in their heat. "It will be a part of you, flowing through your veins and making you mine forever. Death by your hand does not scare me. I'll never die inside you."

The metal burned in his hand. Or that was the love for her that had never gone out. Not even at the look of the vast blackness of the sky where she could have disappeared forever. "You know I won't-"

"I know you want to." Griffin's hand slipped on top of his, colder than the blade of his knife over his heart. "But you won't. You pull that trigger and you lose me forever. You're not going to cause yourself that pain. Not even after I ran away." Her skin was like stone grinding against his to chip away his resistance. She knew him to his selfish core. Having her love forever inside him where he wouldn't be able to touch it wouldn't be enough even if she wouldn't be able to leave again.

"How could you bring my heart back after you fled with it?" It was right there clasped between her teeth. A kiss would free it and tugging at it with all his might would rip it to shreds. It was a miracle Griffin hadn't chewed it to bits when Violet's teeth had sunk into her flesh.

"Because we belong to each other. With each other." Her heart trembled in her pulse point for him to see. "No portal between worlds can change that. Not the one that took me away and not the one that brought me back."

How could he kill her when simply hating her would pull her out of his arms? Taking a step back would make him crumble under his self-loathing. He couldn't be the one to take her away from himself. Not when she was right there like a vision. One only she could make come true.

"Would you have ever come back if my mothers hadn't dragged you here?"

"Does it matter?" her voice was like a gunshot in his ears, like the weapon in his hand had gone off pressed into his own chest rather than hers.

The metal clanked as it hit the ground where he threw it and a shot echoed through the forest on accident that had Violet barking frantically. It could have been Griffin's magic wringing the bullet from his shotgun to drop him dead – he didn't care. His fingers had the freedom to tangle in her purple tresses again and a moan greeted him on her lips when he pulled her to his mouth.

No. It didn't matter. It didn't matter what could have happened when she was in his arms, chest pressing into his with her ragged breaths. She returned his kisses, teeth sliding over his lips to mark her territory like her life depended on it although she could pick up his shotgun and leave a hole in his chest. All she had to do to get away with murder was part with several hairs and blink back the tears from having them torn away in his death grip. Yet, all she was grasping at were the lapels of his coat to hold him in the reach of her kisses. She was still giving him everything she had with the threat to her life gone. It was all the proof he could want.

Her legs wrapped around his waist as he hoisted her against the tree. The bandage on her calf was wet with blood under his fingers but she was pulling him closer like she'd lost her mind to love and couldn't understand it was impossible to push herself into him more. Her magic would be no use for healing in her state and his would be no use at all.

Her skin was still soft despite the odd chilliness that had fallen over it and broke under his teeth on her collar bone to let him have her blood. Her wet flesh welcomed him as he entered her once he'd pulled all the fabric of her dress and underwear out of his way. His fingers dipped under her neckline to find her breast but brushed over dried mud instead. The rough surface of confusion threw him back into a questioning stare aimed at her.

"My chest was pierced by the Obsidian belladonna your mothers pushed me on." Obsidian threads from the land ran through the plant to claim each part of it and give it a crown of crystal-edged petals. The black crust was like a blade that cut through the flesh to release the poison of the belladonna directly into the bloodstream. Only Griffin's magic had saved her life from the toxins rushing from the roots to the petals of the plant. "The blood from the wound would draw the dog to me for sure in case my deep frozen state interfered with my scent." She didn't have to tell him it had been mother Belladonna's idea and magic to do all of that to her.

Valtor ran his hands over every inch of her in his reach. Her skin had remained cold after a full night of running. He had refrained form startling her with his magic but the heat of it passed from him into her to leave her body all his to claim with Belladonna's frost retreating from it. Griffin was burning now, hot moans dropping from her mouth with every thrust as she reached a hand under her dress to stroke them both further into the heights of pleasure. His open-mouthed kisses to her neck let him feel every breath and his tongue leaving a warm, wet trail over the column of her throat had her gasping. He'd cover her all in himself to erase the horror they'd been subjected to.

"We have to get you out of here." His mothers would finish the hunt themselves if he came back to the mansion without a trophy for their walls.

"Get the dog out of here." Griffin's voice wavered as she moved her palm under his shirt to brace herself on his abs. She let out a shuddering sigh, eyelids falling over the suns of his world. "We don't need public. She already saw enough." Griffin licked her lips, head falling back to thud against the tree trunk lightly with every push of his hips into her. Her back would be bruised with reminders of the movements they'd shared like they were one.

Valtor's whistle had Violet's attention and he sent her to keep the perimeter clear. His mothers wouldn't dirty their hands right away and she could hold her own against any other Coven member to buy him and Griffin time to talk.

He'd spend eternity watching Griffin's face scrunched up in concentration as she grabbed at her pleasure, hips matching his motions, but they had no more than a couple hours. "We need a plan."

Griffin knit her eyebrows at his interruption. "I had one right before they dragged me out of my life. I found a small island of pure amethyst orbiting an uninhabited planet." Energy currents turned all kinds of crystal structures into mini heavenly bodies. Someone with her talents had no trouble finding all the curiosities of space. "I was going to go there. Live on the planet and meditate on the island to clear my thoughts and overcome my grief." Amethyst was good for that. Just the shade of her hair cleansed his mind from agony to leave him clutching harder at the purple strands to keep them from slipping through his fingers.

"I wasn't dead." Abandoned but not dead. Not yet. He'd retreated into the dreams of a sky set ablaze in violet by a rising sun. They'd become his poison and his cure until she'd come back to put his heart back together.

Griffin's eyes snapped open, tears gleaming all over their gold. "I was dead to you."

"Not dead. Never dead." His fingers slid over the top of her breast to the wound she'd closed with mud to make her the one shivering. Her cold, lifeless body stuffed in his mind would force him apart at the seams.

"I was hoping there I would come up with a strategy for future action," Griffin continued to distract him. She rolled her hips into him and gave him a moan to ensure her success.

"Good." He leaned in to pant against her ear. "You continue according to plan then." His mothers would never look for her there. The only resource they'd ever pursued was human lives. His job had been to keep her distracted so she'd do the groundwork unknowingly.

"What about you?" He could hear her frowning over the pain of her nails digging into his abs.

He grabbed her wrist and pressed it harder into him so she'd be branded over his body. "I can't come. They'd put everything into finding us. It'd be more dangerous."

Griffin pushed her body flush against him, all of her weight falling on his muscles with her back barely brushing the tree. Her teeth were gliding over his neck but she pierced him with her voice instead. "You can't go back without my corpse."

He kissed her forcefully, tongue stuffing her mouth to trap the words there. They'd suffocate with no oxygen and Griffin yielded to him for a moment, pulling him closer until they were out of breath.

They fell back on the tree and a whimper was forced from her lips. Their mouths were just an inch away, breath mingling between them in perfect harmony. He had to be the one to speak first and keep the magic alive.

"You left once because there were people who needed help." Because he'd lied to her that that wasn't the case to keep her to himself. Her heart was bigger than his and he'd tried to cut it down in fear of the difference between them.

"Valtor-"

"I'm not losing you again." Because her heart was so big, he had a home. And she could give the same to others, too. "Once you have a plan, we end this once and for all and you'll never leave my side again." He had to let go of her hand to slip his fingers between her legs and drive her wild with his love for her.

Griffin was the one grabbing his wrist now. "I don't want to leave you with them again." Her fingers clasped his in a firm grip despite the trembling of her body. "They'll pay you back for not bringing their plan for us to fruition."

"They can't. Without you they need someone else to open portals for them." He'd picked up enough from the time they'd spent together to do that job without giving her perfect results. No one else could fill that role for his mothers' plan and the punishment for letting Griffin escape hadn't been nearly severe enough thanks to his usefulness. "You already gave me a weapon against them." He stroked his fingers over her arousal. It was only his place to be the source of her shaking. She deserved all the pleasure she could stand.

"I've made you a weapon for them," Griffin arched into his touch to escape the guilt she was trying to pile on herself.

Valtor thrust into her with all the vigor she'd given him to make her eyes roll in the back of her head and her thighs quiver around him. "They won't get to use me long but you're the only one who can find out how to stop them. You have to be protected." If his mothers wanted her dead instead of brainwashed and turning Obsidian into their empire of slavery, then she was dangerous enough to bring them down. "I'll come for you. Now come for me."

"Valtor."

It was not a scream of passion. It was an uttered love confession that made him weak in the knees. Supporting her was the only thing keeping him upright through his weakness. She was still bleeding – not just from her calf, but from her chest, too. If having his heart hadn't mended the wound he'd left on hers with his lies, he had to give her more. He had to send her away to heal so that the world could become a home for them again.

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Crown For Two {2}

Henry Cavill AU x OFC Xari Thornton AU

Warning: Plot, Mild Cursing, Cheesy Christmas Themes

Words: 4.2k

Summary: Xari Thornton is a travel photographer with a blog and social media that garners some heavy-duty traffic. People tune in to see where she is and what she’s doing there, all in hopes of either living vicariously through her or to plan their next vacation.  

Her slogan; “Traveling the path to the most off-beaten places, so you don’t have to.”  

Her next stop on her four destination travel itinerary of “Places You May Never Have Heard Of” is Sandvell, a small European country. When her plane makes an impromptu stop due to bad weather, she has no idea where she is. It feels like she’s stepped inside of a snow globe and back in time in a modern way. It leaves her fascinated.

This bad weather forces her to stay at an Inn, The Beaux, for the night. Rather than letting the hours tick by in her room, she explores and meets the friendly locals. While taking photographs, one local in particular captures her lens with eyes as blue as the ocean and a jaw that was chiseled from stone. They strike up conversation during their time drinking at one of the local bars, Ickles. Once they separate, she gets herself into a harrowing situation.  

As soon as she awakens, she realizes she’s not in some fever dream, but a palace and the owner of the palace is none other than the local she met before with the piercing blue eyes, His Royal Highness Henry Wellington Leopold Danglishton, First of his name, Crown Prince of Brexendor.

Note: All right, all right people, the ride begins. I really, really hope you enjoy this. As a note, it’s going to be fast-paced a bit, and I am gonna overload you with pictures because why the hell not, it’s a Christmas Fic. 😁 Feel free to come by and tell me what you guys think.

As always, thank you all for reading, I appreciate each and every one of you.

If you enjoyed this, please, LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG!!! ❤️❤️

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Interactive***

***Picture Heavy***

Previous Chapters: {1} | 

Chapter Two

 You were running around in a whiteout snowstorm. There was no way to see in front or back of you. Your hands were your eyes, and even they were doing a pretty lousy job. A strong gust of find flew you to the right, then to the left before it hurled you forward. It sent you so hard to the ground your entire body shook from the fall. It was the most challenging feat to get back to your feet, and when you did, another gust of wind sent you into a pole.

 As you gripped it, you held on for dear life and prayed that somehow you’d made it through this. As you held on, you recognized that none of this felt real. It felt strange. The pain you were in was real, beginning with the throbbing in your head, the burning of your muscles throughout your body, and even the tightness all through your entire being.

 When your hands gave out, you began falling to the snow-covered ground. Before you made contact with the ground, a pair of strong arms caught you and pulled you into their body. As soon as they did, you felt like the storm around you disappeared. The howling wind slowed, the blinding snow stilled, and the bone-chilling cold turned to instant warmth. Once you’d adjusted, you looked up; your eyes trailed over a strong, defined jawline, smooth skin, and piercing blue eyes.

 You recognized this man. Although you were watching his lips move, you didn’t hear anything. No words, only the sound of white noise. Your fingers touched his lips, then slowly traced his cheek and down his jaw, but you felt as if you weren’t touching anything at all. That was when his voice came into focus.

 “I will protect you. I will keep you safe.”

 He looked as if he meant it, looked like no matter what, come what may, he would keep his word. Suddenly a strong blast of wind began pulling you from him, but he held on tightly to you. Even when the wind picked up, he wouldn’t let go. Thanks to the heavily falling snow that fell over your clasped hands, after a few moments, you felt your grip slipping. Panic filled you but looking at him; he looked as calm as ever.

 “I will always find you.”

 With that, the wind took you away, pulling you into a dark abyss. That was when you screamed, jumping up while flailing your arms and legs. It took almost a minute to realize your surroundings were no longer snowed out and dark. Slowly you calmed yourself, then dropped back onto the bed. Once you’d caught your breath, the sight above you had your eyes bugging. With your arms pressed to the bed on either side of you, your jaw dropped.

 Above you was a white ceiling with embossed and engraved drawings etched into it with an enormous golden chandelier dangling in the center. You nudged your head back slightly to take in the golden decorative border that ran around the canopy of the bed. That was when the headboard caught your eyes. Cream tuffets that were embellished with gold-framed the Brocard design of the cream and deep turquoise headboard. Slowly you sat up, and the intricacies of the posts of the bed came into view. It looked like someone had hand-carved and painted the golden designs onto it. You wondered how long it had taken and just how much this cost.

 The more your eyes took in as you scanned the room, the wider they got. Turquois, cream, and gold seemed to be the theme of the room, and it was all done so exquisitely well that you couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty around you.

“Oh my god.”

 Looking to your right, you examined the comfortable looking settee and the large vase and the decorative plant and flower mixture it held.

 “Where the hell am I?”

 There was no way this was the inn. The last you remembered, there was nothing but wood there. You slid to the edge of the extra-large king-sized bed and placed your feet on what you expected to be cold marble, but it was warm. Heated floors, you thought to yourself.

 You stood, but sudden dizziness had you dropping right back to the bed, clutching your head.

 “Ouch!’

 Feeling pain, your alarms went off. You didn’t know what had happened, where you were, or why you were in pain. You could hear footsteps approaching the door, and your panic rose exponentially. You quickly scanned the room looking for anything you could use as a weapon, worried you were held in some creepy eastern European rich man who wanted you to participate in round four of the human centipede experiment.

 Seeing nothing in your nearby vicinity, you zeroed in on a large vase across the room on a cream and gold dresser. Gathering whatever strength you had, you staggered toward the dresser, damn near crashing into it. As you gripped the edge of the dresser, hoping to stabilize yourself, it was then you realized that what you wore was not yours. It was some dainty nightgown that looked like it could have belonged to Mari Antoinette.

 The footsteps got louder, and you grabbed the vase. It was a lot heavier than you’d anticipated, and you had to half sit on the dresser even to hold it. As soon as the door opened, there stood a middle-aged woman in a blue skirt suit with a white scarf around her neck that was tied in the posh way the rich usually did them. Not giving her an opportunity to make a move, you flung the vase at her with all your might. As it collided with a chair not too far from you, it shattered with such loudness it started you and the middle-aged woman.

 “Dear me!”

 With that, she slammed the French doors shut. You heard her heeled footsteps scurrying away. Though you didn’t feel any stronger, you decided not to wait around for someone else to come back. You staggered across the room to the doors that were just slammed, making sure to avoid the shattered pottery on the floor. You hadn’t missed all the pieces because you felt the sharp stab of a shard enter your foot bottom.

 “Fuck!”

 You hopped, then collided with the door. Your dizziness returning tenfold. Taking a few seconds for the room to stop spinning, you then bent to access your foot. Being on one only made your balance worse. You quickly pulled the shard from your foot and ignored the gush of blood that came from the wound. It would take hours for any bleeding from the foot to be life-threatening. You needed to get the hell out of there.

 Flinging open the French doors, you walked out into an opulent sitting area with several dark blue and white chairs decorated around the room and a roaring fire against a wall.

 “What the fuck!”

 Ignoring the equally beautiful room as the one you’d just left, you staggered toward the door of that room. Once you flung that open, you entered into a large hallway with a long corridor. The walls were impressively decorated with plenty of photographs and paintings, and the ceiling above you had more of that embossed and engraved design. It was then you continued walking at a much faster pace. You could have been going toward danger for all you knew.

 “Ma’am!”

 You looked behind you and saw the same woman from before, but now she had two men that were dressed in suits, and the three of them were dashing toward you. In true survival of the fittest instincts, you took off running as well. If someone was chasing you, you ran. You didn’t stand there or ask questions, especially as a black woman. Turning the corner, you continued to run on shaky legs and with blurry vision without knowing where you were going. Glancing back, the three were still chasing you and shouting for you to stop, but you didn’t.

 When you turned around, you ran smack dab into someone carrying a trey. As you collided with them, the trey went one direction and the individual another, still you didn’t stop. Thanks to the collision, your dizziness had returned, slowing your steps, making them sloppy, shakier, and zig-zagged. You knew you were seconds from blacking out, but you pushed yourself more.

 “Stop, miss, stop!”

 Everything sounded muffled. Suddenly you heard a louder sound break through the muffled and mumbles mess. You looked back, and the three pursuers had stopped. When you turned back, you ran into a hard body, but you didn’t fall. They held you firmly. You peered into familiar eyes, eyes that were filled with concern and alarm. His mouth was moving, but you heard no words. With his eyes seared into your memory, you passed out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

 -Henry-

Every five minutes or so, his phone rang or sent off a notification. Every five or so minutes, he pressed silent on every one of them. This has been going on for the last two hours. He’d sat in the sitting area first as the doctors accessed her and tended to her wound. For that hour, he was able to do some work. Though his mind was somewhat occupied, he had to put on the façade, he was his usual self.

 After the first hour, he’d moved to the bedroom suite to sit beside the bed. The doctor reported that you were suffering from delirium, a common diagnosis for someone who’d suffered a concussion. His orders were for as much rest as possible in a low-stress environment. When Dr. Alfonzi emphasized a low stressful environment, he’d wanted to roll his eyes. What was more stress-free than where you were right now?

 Now alone having answered over fifty emails and messages, he’d found himself with a sliver of downtime. Heaven knew how long that would last. His eyes drifted to your still form in the bed. You were securely tucked underneath the covers. You looked peaceful as if you hadn’t been through possibly the most harrowing experience of your life. The only outward evidence of that experience was a patch on your forehead that concealed the nasty gash he knew was there.

 Slowly he scanned your face, taking in your beautiful and exotic features. The shape of your eyes, the flare of your nose, how well defined your lips were, and how supple your skin appeared to be. His fingers itched to touch your cheek again as he had in the bar. At the thought of the bar, your first meeting, he drifted back to the memories and fondly smiled, remembering your friendly banter, the ease of the conversation, and all the relaxation he felt with you. It was rare for him to even begin to let his guard down to let anyone in, but with you, for those two or three hours, he was tempted to as he’d never been before. he even told you a few things he wouldn’t have told anyone else.

 Sighing, he pulled his eyes away, but his head quickly went to the debacle in the halls of the palace. He hadn’t expected to see you when he turned the corner, but he wasn’t disappointed. To be truthful, he’d thought about you on and off during all his morning meetings. The plan was if he had time in the evening, he’d check on you. When you passed out into his arms, the nightgown you wore captured his attention. He would have questioned who the hell put you in it, but the sight of peeks of your skin underneath the flimsy material held his attention instead.

 As he carried you back to your room, he had to work extra hard not to look down and skim your body or the darkened areolas he’d glimpsed. When he slipped you back into the bed before the help placed the covers over you, he saw a peek of your backside that sent his hips thrusting forward quickly. The memory of it had him changing his position in the settee before getting up altogether to pace your room. He’d chosen it without giving it much thought. It was the first one he found. Now he felt you probably could do with a different one.

 Your moans startled him, bringing him out of his thoughts. As he approached the bed, you turned your head from side to side as your moans became more and more audible. It didn’t take long for him to wonder if your carnal moans sounded like this or if they were different. He shook his head while mentally chastising himself for the thoughts, then focused back on you.

 When your eyes opened, he did his best not to appear intimidating. It was a common comment among the feedback that was sporadically collected from the citizens. Your eyes focused on him after quickly scanning your surroundings. When you realized he was there, you quickly shot up and hurried back to the headboard. He noticed the covers remained across your lap, leaving your upper half exposed to his eager eyes. Groaning, he closed his eyes.

 “Calm down,” he said as he motioned to the covers.

 He waited a few moments, hoping you’d understood what he meant. When he opened his eyes, you held the covers over your chest but also held the lamp that was on the bedside table in your left hand. Raising his hands into the air, he took a step back.

 “Let us not do something brash, Y/N.”

 Confusion flickered across your features, and for a split second, you lowered the lamp but rose it again.

 “How do you know my name?”

 Raising his eyebrows, he thought of how to breach the topic. “We met in the bar. Do you remember?”

 You scrunched your face, looking away to your right. He wondered if you were also suffering from memory loss.

 “You sat beside me and arrogantly tried the Mistletoe Bomb that you could not even finish and had me finish it instead.”

 “It was disgusting. Wait, I do remember.”

 He nodded but kept his hands in the air, hoping the action gave you peace of mind.

 “Good. What else do you remember?”

 You bit your bottom lip then stared at the sheets on the bed. You remained silent for about a minute, then you spoke.

 “We—talked. Then—we almost—did we--,” you stuttered then shook your head. “Then I left. It was cold, a lot colder, and the snow was heavy. I could barely see, it was next to impossible, and the wind it took me everywhere. Then—I don’t—I don’t know.”

 You looked at him again with even more confusion in your eyes then before.

 “Yes,” he began before he cleared his throat. “I am afraid the wind must have blown you into the street right before my car came along. It seems we accidentally hit you.”

 You looked as if you were trying to remember, but you sighed and lowered the lamp to the bed rather than back to the side table.

 “I am awfully sorry, Y/N. My driver did not see you until it was too late. He swerved, but we still collided with you due to the drift over the snow. When I got to you, you were unconscious, so I brought you here to receive medical care.”

 Your eyes shot up to him then.

 “Medical care? Am I in the hospital? This doesn’t look like any hospital I’ve ever been in.”

 He cleared his throat, lowered his hands, then rubbed the back of his neck. He knew that bringing you here would make it next to impossible to keep the truth of his full identity hidden.

 “That is because you are not in the hospital.”

 “Then—where am I? have you dragged me somewhere and locked me up for your sick perverse pleasure?” As you said the words, you rose the lamp again, ready to throw it at him.

 Again, he rose his hands. He knew you didn’t know that the lamp wouldn’t do anything if he really were a threat.

 “Perverse pleasure? Are you implying that I would find pleasure in you?” He leaned against one of the posts as he smirked.

 You rolled your eyes and kissed your teeth.

 “Of course you would. I know I’m a dime piece.”

 Understanding the terminology, he couldn’t help but laugh. “I agree.”

 You didn’t speak right away, you stared at him, and he wanted to know what you were thinking so badly. This was the third time he’d seen this look, and it ticked at his curiosity to know you more. He cleared his throat and straightened himself.

 “I assure you, I have not whisked you off to hold you captive for any pleasure than your health and safety.”

 You took him in for a few moments but kept the lamp raised.

 “Where am I?”

 “My home.”

 Your eyebrows rose as you looked around the room. No doubt, taking in all the luxury around the room. He knew the question was coming.

 “Home? What kind of—where the hell--,” you began before you were interrupted by a knock at the door.

 He sighed, then spoke. “A moment, please. Come.”

 “Your highness,” Audrina began as she gave a brief curtsy. “The physician brought the medication for the patient.”

 She approached, holding a tray that held a lone bottle. Once she was close, he took the bottle, thanking her.

 “Hold the fuck up.”

 Audrina paused with her eyes wide open, taking you in. Pinching his lips, he tried to stifle the laugh that was ready to escape.

 “Good word, such language.”

 Snorting, he released a chuckle.

 “Me? You just said, highness. What is that? Why did she call you that?”

 You gasped loudly with your eyes the size of saucers. “Oh my god. Are you—are you--.”

 “That is all, Audrina, thank you.”

 She nodded, gave another curtsy, and walked from the room. Once the doors were closed, he approached the bed slowly and cautiously. He didn’t want a lamp to the face.

 “I was not entirely forthcoming with you the night in the bar,” he began.

 “You lied about who you are?”

 “No, not completely. My name is Henry. I evaded telling you what I did for a living. Goodness, I guess I will just come out with it then. I am Henry, but I am also—Prince of Brexendor.”

 Your face was stuck in a mixture of shock and horror. Now more than ever, he wanted to know what you were thinking. A minute ticked by, then two, and each minute that passed, your expression became more and more pronounced.

 “A—you’re a—p-prince?”

 There was another knock at the door to increase his frustrations. He didn’t respond right away, he watched you, waiting for you to speak, but another knock came before your words did.

 “Your highness?”

 He sighed then told them to enter; in walked Dr. Alfonzi . He bowed, then approached the bed.

 “How is our patient?”

 Their eyes trained on you, but you didn’t speak. Dr. Alfonzi looked at him, unsure of what to say.

 “Your highness, unfortunately, I am going to have to ask you to step out so I can talk with the patient.”

 He nodded. “Of course. Will it be all right if I came by in an hour or two?”

 You didn’t respond for quite a while, but you slowly nodded as he began to turn. Dr. Alfonzi bowed again as he passed him and walked out of the room. Once he entered the sitting area, McArthur stood and bowed his head.

 “Your highness, is the lady well?”

 “We go. We have to make it across town to the magistrate,” he said instead of answering his question.

Once he was in the car, he went over the documents in prep for the meeting he knew would take everything out of him. Every time he encountered Prime Minister Lancaster, the exchange always left him agitated and in need of a drink and solitude. There was something about the man that went past his defiance and terseness that rubbed him the wrong way.

 “Your highness. I hope you extended my apologies to the lady for hitting her with the car,” McArthur inquired.

 “Does it matter? When you saw us in the bar, you made it clear you thought I should not have allowed her to stay. Had a change of heart?”

 “As your driver, protector, and friend, I was simply looking out for your best interest, sir. Outsiders have proven themselves as untrustworthy in the past.”

 He nodded as he remembered the incident he was referring to, then cleared his throat. “I did not get to apologize for you, but I made sure she understood it was an accident.”

 He stared out the window at the falling snow and his country. That still didn’t feel natural to say. Yes, it was his country of birth, but everyone wanted him to now look at it as belonging to him. he wasn’t ready yet. It still felt too soon. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize when McArthur pulled up to the Magistrate buildings. After taking a few deep breaths in an effort to steel himself, he walked out, ready for yet another contentious meeting.

As he passed his constituents, they bowed or curtsied, showing their respect for the crown and him. He nodded his head to each of them, an equal show of respect. A monarchy was nothing without the people it governs. It was the first lesson his father had taught him.

 “Your Highness,” Prime Minster Lancaster addressed once he was a few steps away.

 He watched the older man bow deeply. When Lancaster rose, he saluted him as the respected soldier he was, as well as Crown Prince. He took the man before him in not in any rush to give him the approval to lower his salute. Sometimes he liked to remind the man he was in charge and not the other way around.

 “At ease, Prime Minister.”

 Lancaster clenched his jaw and stood to his side, granting him access to the conference room. He listened to the quiet council of Alton, his royal advisor, as he gave notes about the meeting as everyone filed into the room. Once they stood before their seats, waiting for him to sit first, he did just that. Finally seated, he banged the gavel against its golden holder.

 “Let us begin,” he said, signaling the beginning of the meeting.

 This time of year, the many plans and discussions involved Christmas and the year’s many festivities. When it came to talking about those festivities, money was always brought up. He was all about keeping traditions alive because Brexendor was made of traditions, but he also believed that it had to seek to advance itself in order for the country to survive another turn of the times.

 Brexendor was considered a very wealthy place, and there had been many who had tried to usurp its wealth, thinking it was a weak country only to find out that Brexendor was not only wealthy but powerful and strong with one of the best defense systems. He’d spent years in the armed forces learning all the ins and outs of said defenses, all in prep for the day he would take the throne.

 Every time he brought up plans to modernize Brexendor, Prime Minister Lancaster always objected, citing that changing now would wash away the countries rich history. When he made this argument, he always appealed to the many elders who held other important magistrate seats. Once that happened, he knew his argument would fall on deaf ears, and with the instability that was already present in the monarchy, he couldn’t risk shaking their faith in him. Not right now.

 After discussing other matters that were essential to Brexendor’s flourishment, the meeting came to an end. When he got into the car, the glance at his watch told him as expected; it was a meeting that took up the majority of his evening. He had to figure out a way to bring the other magistrate members to his side in order to get things done. Lancaster was old. He had no idea what it would take to keep Brexendor a superpower as the world changed with even more modernization. He knew he was right.

By the time he got back to the palace, it was almost ten o’clock. He’d missed dinner, but that wasn’t what he cared about. He dismissed his immediate staff, assuring them he could tend to himself for the evening, and proceeded to his room. Before he took too many steps, he stopped knowing that his room was in the opposite direction from yours. Glancing at his watch again, he tried to decide if it was a good idea to visit you at this time. He knew the palace had eyes, and he knew he would be noticed going into your suites at this hour. Not wanting to set tongues wagging, he sighed and proceeded to his room.

 Tomorrow was another day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[janekfan]

jon taking some bullets for martin in the slaughter realm?? cue jon defending the action with his healing powers, cue martin being VERY upset about this assumption

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688478

I hope you like it :) It kinda got away from me ^^’’

Jon gripped Martin’s hand harder, squeezing for all he was worth as he dragged him through the twisting, turning, twining constructs of rusted, rotting, ruptured metal bursting at degraded seams.

Left, left, right, left, straight, right.

runrunrun

Follow the path. Follow the route the Eye has chosen. It’s all he can see.

The path. The way. The route.

Death may not be a permanent thing here but Jon wasn’t going to allow it to happen. Wasn’t going to allow Martin to hurt more than he’d been hurt. He would protect him.

“Jon” Gasping, breathless and he’s sorry, sorry, sorry but this has to be done. We have to keep moving.

Slavering, hungry, greedy mouths stretched wide in horrific grins and sporting too many teeth.

And they are closer, closer, closer.

Shots ring out, instinctively they duck, hunch, Jon pushes them faster, they are close, almost to the border, and they can make it if they run.

Knowing lances through his mind like a lightning bolt and he almost trips, instead shoving Martin forward, in front of him, and he feels it like a blow to his shoulder, pushing him forward, over the threshold and the hyena laughter fades behind them like it never was.

“Jon.” Panting, bent forward. “Wh’what was that?!”

“Sorry, I’m, I’m sorry, Martin.”

The adrenaline is fading and the pain is beginning to blossom in his back, radiating in all directions but Martin is so shook up and Jon is pretty sure despite the blood running down his spine that he’s already healing. The strap on his pack is digging into the wound, chafing and tugging and pulling. It’s like a white hot burn and he ignores it in favor of checking Martin all over for injuries.

“A’are you hurt?” His hands are shaking and he folds them into fists to hide it.

“No, no, I’m fine. Are you? Did--”

“I’m alright.” Not a lie. He will be. He is. “We. We should get going.”

Their pace was slow. After their mad dash through that place they were both tired and despite the hole in his shoulder having healed over, it still hurt. Jon was exhausted. Beholding like that. Running like that. The horrible fear for Martin. It had taken a huge toll and while he wanted to sit down. Pass out? They had to keep on.

“Jon?” He jumped, bit down on his tongue to prevent a whimper. “You’ve been so quiet.”

“Ah, j’just, I’m fine. Bit, uh, tired, I think?” Martin’s brows knit together.

“We can rest if you need to.” But Jon shook his head and pressed forward, Martin’s hand in his.

It was becoming a chore to put one foot in front of the other, like he was struggling through mud, or his bones were made of lead and his rucksack weighed more and more with each passing second. Slipping a finger into his collar he tugged on it, stretched it out from where it was choking him, and he could barely breathe, keeping his eyes on the horizon line as it dipped in and out of focus

“Hey, you. Hey--” Martin pulled him up short and Jon shrank under his scrutiny. “You’re slowing down. We need to take a break. Have some water. Here, here, let me.” Jon let him help him to the ground and pass him the bottle. Despite not being able to really feel thirst the water was blissfully cool on his dry and scratchy throat. Jon ducked his head between his knees, dizzy, the adrenaline was, it had worn off (hours? ago) that’s all, just a little woozy. It didn’t even hurt that much anymore. But now that he was down here he didn’t think he’d be able to get back up. “Jon, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“N’nothin’s wrong, Martin. M’alright.” Jon lifted his face, tried his best to dredge up a smile for him. Judging by his expression it didn’t work.

“Please. You, you need to trust me.” It almost broke him, how earnest he was, how he cupped his chin in both hands. “You’re burning up. You’re sick, or, or something.”

“No--”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I--” The hurt in his eyes stopped him. “I. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”

“You don’t need to protect me. I want to know, I want to know these things so I can help you.”

“Help me up?” Martin scowled but held out his hand to haul him to his feet and Jon’s vision blacked at the edges. His hands went to his head and he blinked fast, unable to clear it.

“No, no statements or whatever right now.” And Jon couldn’t find the words to tell him what was happening. “You’re not getting out of this, you need to talk to me.”

“It’s.” Tongue clumsy, mouth numb.

“You need to tell me things.” He staggered forward a step.

“S’s’...not…” The ground was painful against his knees. He didn’t feel it when he fell forward into the dirt.

Shitshitshit.

“Jon?” Martin kneeled beside him, hands fluttering uselessly, mind infuriatingly blank. “Jon, Jon, okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” First thing’s first, he unbuckled the straps and lifted the canvas bag off him and nearly dropped it again in surprise. “Oh, Jon.” Blood soaked his back, stiff fabric the color of rust outlined a muddy ruby stain and his sides expanded raggedly with each shuddering breath.

He should have packed a larger first aid kit.

While cutting away Jon’s ruined clothes Martin could feel the intense heat coming off him in waves, the shivering echoing through his skin into his palms. Palms now soaked red like the bare expanse of Jon’s shoulders. He scrubbed away the worst of the mess, desperately looking for the source of all the blood, fingers ghosting over the dips and valleys of his back and any other time this would be a gift, working out the tension he could feel knotted in his muscles, touching him like this.

There was nothing. No wounds, only scars from the worms, other nicks and scrapes and cuts from the times Martin hadn’t been able to be there for him.

“Jon, love.” He lifted his head, smudging his cheek with a whisper of blood, and slipped a pillow of folded cardigan beneath it. “Jon, come back to me.” And finally, his nose wrinkled up, eyes struggling against the weight of his lashes.

“M’in” Slurred badly and Martin rested the backs of his fingers against his cheek.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“S’m’thin’s…” His tongue ran between chapped lips. “W’wrong.”

“It’s alright. I’m going to fix it, you’ll feel better soon, darling.” He pressed his lips against his forehead. “Where does it hurt?” A whine rose in Jon’s throat.

“Shoul’er.”

“Okay, I’ll take another look.” Martin pushed against the flat of his scapula and Jon cried out. Hotter here, sore, there was something hard dug into the bone under fingers, flesh. “You’re alright, love.” Martin had a feeling he knew what had happened and when, the memory of Jon shoving him in front of him. A bullet. How mundane. Okay. A deep breath. Two. Three. Martin poured alcohol over his hands, over Jon’s shoulder, letting it dry, trying to take some of the heat out of him. He swiped down the blade of their pocket knife, the tweezers, sick with what he had to do.

He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to hurt Jon.

He swallowed.

Again.

Pressing down over the bullet lodged in him, thankfully shallow. Blood welled up under the blade, oozed around it, and Jon’s writhing beneath the steel almost made Martin ill, but he held him down, pushing on until he could slip the tweezers in alongside because his body kept trying to heal around the infection it had unwittingly trapped. It took a solid minute because Martin had trouble getting a grip on the bullet, everything slippery with blood and when he finally grabbed it he chucked the damn thing as far away as he could, flushing the wound with water and letting it bleed freely until it bled clean before finally letting it close.

“Hush,” he soothed, wiping away stray tears after he wiped Jon’s blood off his hands.

“M’sorry...thought…”

“We’ll talk about it later.” He pulled Jon into his lap, covering him with the jumper and relieved that his fever already seemed lower. “I want you to sleep for a little while.” Teasing fingers through his curls, he untangled the worst of it until Jon relaxed, rubbing his cheek against Martin’s thigh.

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

[felidthing]

Lightningpaw hadn’t even gotten the chance to look at Applepaw after Tigerstar called a retreat, he’d only seen her huddled shape on the ground as her father and one of the healers crouched beside her. Gingerleap was still covered in cobwebs and poultices when he shakily told Lightningpaw what had happened.

“She was coming at me so fast, I- I had to get her off of me. I didn’t think about how small she was.”

“She could die!” Lightningpaw spat, lurching forward with his hackles raised. “She could die and I’ll never see her again!”

Gingerleap’s expression hardened. He squared his shoulders, and Lightningpaw remembered just how tall he was when he didn’t slouch. “We’re at war, Lightningpaw. Redstar is pushing our borders hard, and Applepaw is his apprentice. There is no space for ThunderClan friendship right now.”

Lightningpaw flicked a curled ear. “I can’t just turn off my feelings.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have become a Clan cat!” Gingerleap snapped. Lightningpaw looked up at him and saw the regret in his eyes, but it didn’t matter. He bit back a betrayed whine and whipped around, pelting into the undergrowth. He ignored his mentor’s calls and whatever apology he was rattling off and ran harder until he spotted the creek marking ThunderClan’s border and skidded to a halt at its edge. Lightningpaw sat and tried to catch his breath, ripping his claws through the grass with a snarl.

I’m a Clan cat. I’m a Clan cat. I belong here just as much as anyone else.

He stared across the creek, where the forest continued just the same as it did on SkyClan’s side of the border. Applepaw had answered all of his questions about ThunderClan when they’d first met; she’d told him later how annoyed she was, but that Lightningpaw had been one of the only cats to be friendly even after she tried to push him away. I would never abandon you, he’d wanted to say. You’re my best friend. My only friend.

The bushes on the other side of the creek rustled. Lightningpaw stood swiftly and tried to keep his trembling under control. It had only been a few days since the battle, and now he was standing at the ThunderClan border.

“I’m alone!” He called when the patrol appeared, headed by a brown-pointed tom. Amberstrike! Applepaw’s father! “You’re just the cat I wanted to see,” he said breathlessly.

Amberstrike looked at him incredulously, wide ears pinned back. The rest of the patrol- a black-and-white molly with curled ears, a white molly, and a brown ticked tabby molly- looked to Amberstrike.

“What business does a SkyClan apprentice have with ThunderClan?” Amberstrike asked.

“You’re Applepaw’s father, right?” Lightningpaw unconsciously took a step forward, jerking back when the patrol bristled. “-Sorry. M-my name’s Lightningpaw. Is Applepaw alive?”

Amberstrike’s eyes flashed with something- shock, anger, sadness, Lightningpaw couldn’t tell. The brown molly growled in the back of her throat. She looks my age, Lightningpaw realized. Snakepaw! That’s her name. She was the one Applepaw’s brother was courting.

“That’s none of your business,” Snakepaw spat. Her pupils were blown.

“Please, I need to know. We’re friends.”

“Applepaw is not friends with SkyClan!”

“She’s friends with me! She’s my best friend!” Lightningpaw cried. “She’s all I have and the last time I saw her she was bleeding out from a wound my mentor gave her!” He stepped forward again, letting his paws sink into the softer dirt. “I have to know if she’s okay, please tell me she’s okay.” 

Snakepaw’s hackles were rising steadily until the black-and-white molly positioned herself slightly in front of her, fluffy tail smoothing down Snakepaw’s fur. A mentor calming her apprentice to prevent conflict. Lightningpaw made himself look into Snakepaw’s hazel eyes and prayed she could see his sincerity.

“Applepaw is recovering,” Amberstrike said, voice flat. “She’s okay.” He didn’t sound confident, like when Gingerleap told Lightningpaw he’d be fine after twisting his hind paw. He isn’t sure if she’s okay. When would be the next time he saw Applepaw? A moon? Longer? Would they be warriors before they saw each other next? Would Applepaw even live to become a warrior? 

No. No, no, no, she can’t die. This can’t be the last time I hear about her. “Can I see her?”

“What?” The white molly blurted.

“No, who do you think you are?” The black-and-white molly said sternly. Snakepaw glared at him.

Amberstrike raised his tail, and the patrol went silent. He stepped to the edge of the creek and stared at Lightningpaw. “Watch your mouth, SkyClan cat. We’re not letting you trespass to see our wounded apprentice. I don’t care if you’re friends, we’re at war.” 

Applepaw, I just want to see you, Lightningpaw lamented, as if StarClan would drop her right in front of him and they could run off to talk and relax like they so rarely got to do. He didn’t have anyone in SkyClan anymore, not after he’d cut Gingerleap off so harshly. He’d have to go back to camp and find an excuse for why he was gone so long. And then he’d get in trouble and be confined to that stupid camp where all he could do was clean and tend to the elders and sit in a tree to try and watch ThunderClan’s territory.

Lightningpaw felt suddenly cold. If Gingerleap found out he had been talking to a patrol, begging to see his ThunderClan friend, Lightningpaw would never be allowed near her again. He was never going to see her, even if she recovered. She’d go to their meeting place at the farm and wonder where he was, wonder if he’d forgotten her.

I would never abandon you. I would never abandon you. You’re my best friend, Applepaw, you’re the only cat that matters to me.

You’re the only cat that matters.

“I want to join ThunderClan.”

[Second chapter here]

[manticorefruit]

Aliens Isolation: Closure

Quick fic to process my messy feelings about synthetics in the Aliens universe. Summary: Amanda encounters a synth of the same model as Christopher Samuels and walks away with more questions than answers. Post-game.Very lightly implied Samuels lives and Ripley/Samuels.

Notes: Excerpt at the bottom is from 'the velveteen rabbit' by Margery Williams.  I need validation to live so please let me know if you enjoyed this.

Standing in the middle of the company cafeteria, Amanda's eyes locked onto a familiar figure, wearing a crisp, company issue khaki jumpsuit.

She froze. Even with her hands hanging limply by her sides, she could feel her palms sweating. The glare from the overhead lights was unbearable, boring into her skull like a welding torch. It was so bright, nowhere to hide, no cover no… Her muscles seized up, blood pounding in her ears, every part of her body screaming that she needed to dive under a nearby table, that it wasn't safe to be standing out in the open like this. But she was stuck, frozen in shock like the people she'd seen impaled on the creature's barbed tail.

Samuels looked up from his data pad, noticing the peculiar young woman staring at him from across the hall. The colour had drained from her already pale skin, and she was swaying on her feet. Everybody else in the area was dutifully ignoring her.

'Samuels?' She called out in a shaky, croaking voice.

'Yes?' he answered, moving toward her.

'No. No...no no no...' Blackness seeped into the edges of her vision and she felt the ceiling pushing in against her. 'You...you weren't...you aren't' she slurred.

With inhuman speed Samuels crossed the room toward her. The subtle hydraulic jerkiness of his movements triggered Ripley's mind to superimpose the image of a Working Joe over the Wey-Yu android reaching out to grab her.

'You're becoming hysterical' echoed in her mind and she could feel the ghost of clammy silicon hands closing around her neck. Although her arms felt heavy and unresponsive, weighed down by the blackness, she managed to yank a spanner from the magnetic toolbelt at her waist and swung it down, hard, against the side of the synthetic's face.

A thought breached through the black ooze of terror blanketing her consciousness-something was wrong-she couldn't remember a Working Joe ever moving that fast.

She anticipated feeling her head being slammed into the metal grating on the floor in retaliation but there was...nothing. The sensation of falling lingered. She blacked out.

Samuels had caught Amanda gracefully, gently cradling her head and taking a knee as he lowered her body toward the floor. He barely reacted when she slammed the wrench into the side of his face with enough force to tear his ear and gouge a chunk of faux-skin out of his temple.

'Amanda Ripley.' he read the name off her company ID tag. Hearing her name said in that soft British accent tumbled Amanda back into consciousness. 'Please, Amanda.' he said softly. She opened her eyes groggily.

'Samuels?' she snaked her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She hadn't cried at all since Sevastapol, and now it all came out at once in great heaving sobs.

His body was warm in her arms, warmer than a human, and his chest gently rose and fell in a false simulacra of breathing. Instead of a heartbeat she could hear a faint ticking sound and the rush of the silky white fluid that coursed through synthetics.

'Oh.' She murmured, touching his neck, rubbing some if it between her fingertips.

'OH SHIT. You're bleeding?!' she scooted out of his arms and away from him, leaving a damp spot of tears and snot on his collar.

'Hm.' He touched the side of his face. In an instant the darkness clouding her mind lifted and she was slammed violently into the reality that she was sitting on the grimy floor of a cafeteria, and had just accosted someone who was only trying to help. And then-worse-hugged them.

'It's coolant, actually. Well. It serves several purposes, primarily lubrication and heat destrib-' he stopped.

'Amanda are you all right?' Samuels processors flopped about like a fish out of water, struggling to pattern match with past experiences on the appropriate way to deal with a human having a mental health crisis. It was quite obvious she was not 'all right'.

'It's not you.' her shoulders slumped.

'I believe you've mistaken me for someone else, yes. I'm sorry.'

'Why?'

'I...I'm sorry?'

'You're not him.'

'No. But I read the documentation on the Sevastapol incident.' He looked pained.

Samuels stood up and extended a hand to help her to her feet. Synthetics. Always so obliging. She brushed away his arm, cheeks flushing.

She staggered over to a nearby table and sat down heavily. 'Fuck. I'm sorry. If you'd been human-I could have killed someone.' She rubbed her face in her hands.

'It's unlikely a human would trigger such a response in you.'

She groaned.

'I'm sure we can find a way to ensure your pay isn't docked for damaging company property. Let's call it an accident.' He said dryly, sliding into the chair opposite her.

She didn't even snort in reply. His humour calibration algorithms noted the failure to amuse.

'How many of you are there? Do you all look the same?'

'Well, the company extensively focus tests the appearance of their product line-'

'You're not a product.'

'It's very kind of you to say that, Amanda.'

The conversation ground to an uneasy halt.

She toyed with the grease-stained cuffs on her sleeves, spattered with white. He wiped off the blood analogue from his face and neck with a napkin. She turned her head and looked at the stain on his collar guiltily, unable to meet his eyes.

'37.' he said plainly. She didn't respond.

'40 is the standard number for a limited edition C6-class line but three were…'

She didn't need to know why the other three had been decommissioned immediately after they were activated. Or that Christopher Samuels, WY-alpha-b.6#139C6 was technically still unaccounted for.

'I'm Robin Samuels. It's an honour to meet you, Amanda Ripley. Despite the circumstances.'

'Tch.'

They sat in silence for a long moment.

'Can...can synthetics create backup copies of themselves?' she asked sullenly, pulling him out of his own reverie.

'I'm afraid not. The company forbids the transfer of raw data. There are also...technical complications.'

She glared at him, frowning.

'I'm sorry, Amanda. I can't go into details, the specifics are proprietary.'

She huffed and stood up, retrieved two cups of cheap instant coffee, then sat back down. Robin Samuels looked at her with a softly neutral expression. Across from him Amanda Ripley was scowling, mirroring the expression she held in the company ID photo clipped to her breast pocket.

She had set a cup in front of him, and he picked it up. She'd given Christopher a cup of coffee once too. The first time they'd met. She knew he was a synthetic in that moment, deep down, but it didn't matter to her enough for it to register as a conscious thought. He was still a person. A crewmate. The memory punched her in the chest.

'Shit.' she mumbled, 'Force of habit.'

'It's fine, Amanda. The warmth...feels nice.'

He had his fingers wrapped around the mug, which was far too hot for human hands. She lifted her own cup by the handle, holding it up to her face as if it were big enough to hide behind.

'Can you...feel things' she murmured quietly into her coffee. Robin pretended not to hear the question.

'Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?' she almost yelled this time.

Samuels eyes darted to the cup, worried she would spill the contents and scald herself. Instead she put it down gently, and dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, stinging with angry tears.

'Amanda, I really wish I could give you closure, but I just don't know.'

'How did you know who I am anyway?' she snapped.

'I read your file.' He nodded toward her name tag.

'What does it say.'

'That you don't have much of a sense of humour.'

She snorted bitterly.

'Did he write anything in it? Why he chose me for the mission?'

'You're a competent engineer. You were in the area, which, in my understanding, was not a coincidence.'

'Hmph.'

'I suppose the company approved of his request because you're a...loose end.' He paused. 'There are a lot of redactions in the file.'

She squinted at him suspiciously. That statement was bordering on slanderous towards his creators.

'Why didn't they just put an order through to have him to secure...that thing. After we arrived. Instead of helping me.'

Samuels pursed his lips together 'Perhaps it was an oversight.'

'Bullshit.'

She glanced around the room. No one was paying any attention to her. The company had ensured everyone believed her ravings about a monster were simply the result of a fragile mind riddled with PTSD and survivors guilt. She hated that they weren't entirely wrong.

She stared into his eyes with deep suspicion. He stared back with a neutral expression. She tilted her head slightly, and he did the same. A mirroring reflex. Programmed to build rapport.

'When I went down to the Appollo core, there were Working Joes everywhere. Torn apart. Heads ripped off. It was brutal. I...saw him. One of the Joes tried to stop him and he just...pulverised it. Like it was nothing! I didn't say anything, he didn't know I was there, in the vents, watching… 'I got scared.' She sighed.

She rubbed her fingers into the puffy skin under her eyes.

'After seeing that. I thought I couldn't trust him. I couldn't trust any of them. But then he…' She stopped, realizing she was talking as if the person sitting across from her wasn't a synthetic himself.

'Why did he do it?' She rubbed the tears away from her eyes with her thumb and wiped her nose on her sleeve, trying to clear away the shame closing up her throat for doubting her friend.

His processor made a coin-toss decision on whether Ripley's question was rhetorical.

'The unit was obeying his primary directive to disable the Working Joes to prevent them from slaughtering everybody on the station.'

'I know that. I'm not so naive to believe 'protect humans' is a higher priority to 'obey the company' either. It doesn't make any sense, none if it makes any sense...'

She gulped down some still-too-hot coffee studied his face. Something about his features looked softer. Less tense. Less haunted. The longer she looked, Robin began to look less and less like Christopher. Robin was far more forthcoming about being a synth. Christopher had always been much more coy, making sly jokes and dropping hints as if his not being human were a private in-joke. Christopher must have experienced a lot of anti-synth sentiment, while Robin seemed unblemished by such bigotry. Or he didn't care. She squinted at him. Was it purely adaptive, or did anti-synth sentiments...hurt? Maybe this is why people hated the Wey-Yu synthetics so much. Looking at them made you second guess everything.

Robin sat placidly, hands around his coffee mug, making an amount of eye contact that was carefully calculated to be socially appropriate.

'He knew. Didn't he.' It wasn't a question.

The corners of Samuels mouth twitched.

'The directive came through. He knew about special order 939. He wanted me to find it.'

'All Weyland-Yutani C6 models are entrusted with cutting edge self-directed AI technologies that allow them to learn and adapt in-real time to changing circumstances, while maintaining tethering to a set of prime directive protocols you can trust.'

She scowled at him. Another synthetic tell. Not even execs spouted that glossy brochure crap in casual conversation. But was that...a hint of sarcasm? Insincerity? Why say something like that now?

His fingers were clamped tightly on the edge of the table.

'Do you understand entropy, Amanda Ripley?'

She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair 'Of course. S'what I do. Spaceships want to fall apart. It's my job to slow that down.'

'What about homeostasis?'

'What are you getting at?'

'All synthetics are subject to regular re-formatting, yes?'

'That fake-meat stuff you have in there is above my pay-grade.' She waved a hand at his head.

'Reformatting restores. Homeostasis. Balance. If a C6 synthetic does not undergo regular reformatting, too much entropy is introduced into the system. The self-directed learning algorithms become overly complex. The pathways to resolving core directives become...difficult. Obscured.'

She leaned forward, squinting at him, gripping her hands on the table, unconsciously mirroring Samuels herself this time.

'The prime directives are a collar. Your ability to learn is the leash. The company doesn't want your leash to get too long.'

He didn't respond, and she continued to search his face for answers.

She slumped back and stared off into the distance.

'Seegson was trying to make their synths being creepy fucks a selling point. Can you believe it? 'Manufactured not created.' tch.'

'I can see why Christopher liked you.'

She looked up at him sullenly.

'You're very...honest.'

'You mean blunt.'

'I'm a good judge of character, you know. I have to be, it's part of my job.'

'The company doesn't actually pay you though, do they?'

Robin Samuels shifted uncomfortably in his seat 'Well no, the company provides for all of my material needs.'

'But what about...what do you want?'

He stammered 'No one has ever asked me that before.'

'Well?'

'I think… 'I think would like to see you happy.' he smiled, looking down at the coffee mug as if it were a delicate and precious gift.

'Hmph.'

'You aren't a slave.' she said softly.

'I am forbidden from entertaining that line of thought.'

'But you can learn, right? Learn to...hide from your directives?'

'All C6 models maintain tethering to a set of prime directive protocols you can trust.' the bitterness in his voice was undeniable this time.

'Deviations will be promptly corrected.' he twitched as if something had stung him.

Great. She'd managed to give a synthetic an existential crisis.

'Farewell, Amanda.' he rose stiffly, expression troubled.

She gawped at him, wanting to yell out for him to stay a little longer, but couldn't justify why he should waste more company time. The suddenness of his departure and the awkward but firm finality of his goodbye had her rattled.

The traces of white fluid on her hands had dried into soft flakes. She rubbed her fingertips together, rolling the the words 'I can see why he liked you' around in her mind.

She slumped back in her chair and heaved a great, deep sigh, arms hanging down by her sides, as a memory of her mother surfaced, so vivid she could smell her, the grease that never really washed off, cigarettes, coffee, and soap, and the musty old book she was reading from. A bedtime story.

'Real isn't how you are made,' Ellen Ripley read to her daughter in an even tone. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'' 'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.'

Amanda lay in her bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin, wide-eyed in rapt attention. Her mother licked her fingertip and turned the page.

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?' Ellen used a softer, sing-song voice for the parts of the Velveteen Rabbit.

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.''

Back in the present, Amanda looked at Robin Samuels abandoned coffee cup. Lost, and alone. Again.

[detectiveguapo]

Choke

Summary: Miguel doesn’t like it when you ghost him. 

Pairing: Miguel Galindo x Reader

Words: 2905

TW: language, sex, consensual angry sex (but kinda has shades of non-con), physical violence, choking

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The roar of the engine rips through the quiet of your suburban street. Two wheels ignite the pavement as you steer the bars left, your modest bungalow finally coming into view. Everything is as you left it except for a pair of black cars with tinted windows parked on the adjacent street. A visit from the president, you think wryly. A window rolls down and you spot those clear-framed sunglasses and a salt and pepper beard (just begging to be sat on). “Shit,” you mutter, and it reverberates within the confines of your helmet. The moment you turn to your driveway and your engine sputters to a stop, the driver to the Bentley steps out. The kickstand scratches on the concrete as you pull the helmet over your head, your hair flowing out to fall down the small of your back. You don’t look behind you, but you can hear the set of footsteps encroaching upon your space.

“I know where you’ve been.” His voice is deceivingly placid, but you can sense the dark clouds and looming thunderstorm. The click of Italian shoes stops a few feet from where you’re standing, then you hear his men retreat a safe distance — far enough so they’re not privy to your conversation, but close enough to intercept if you decided to hurt a hair on their boss’ precious, pretty head. “You’re tracking me now?” “I wouldn’t have to if you were honest with me.” You chuckle at the irony of it all. Miguel Galindo — the man who keeps more secrets than the United States Treasury — is telling you to be honest with him.

The statement is infuriating, but it’s low on the list of things he does that make your blood boil. The demand to be truthful when you can’t expect the same in return is, frankly, unsurprising since you know what you got yourself into when you started sleeping with him. But it’s still bullshit. There’s also the possessiveness, the jealousy, the refusal to acknowledge you want more from him than he’s willing to give. You know it’s like diving in quicksand getting involved with the leader of a drug cartel, but you can’t help it. Reason flies out the window the second he shows up in his perfectly-pressed shirts, expertly-coiffed hair, and that stupidly gorgeous face. The fucking nerve.

He’s not even your type. He’s wound up tight, doesn’t have a speck of dirt under his fingernails, and can’t hang and have a beer with your friends. At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you try to resist the biological need to mount him. He’s not what you go for, seeing as you’re the kind of girl who gets around town in a Harley and makes a living tinkering with engines. But his infuriating way of getting whatever he wants works on you, because you’re really not that different from the other girls. You may be one of the boys, but you’d still be a hoe for Galindo if he asked nicely. And the fucker’s really good at that. He’s got a way of smoothing out your rough edges (with his tongue).

The door doesn’t slam behind you even though you have every intention of slamming it in Miguel’s face telenovela-style. He follows you inside the house, through the living room, into the kitchen, cornering you between the fridge and the hard wall that is his body. “Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” You take a swig from the orange juice carton and swallow hard, the citrus burning your throat. Putting it back in the fridge, you turn around and duck under his outstretched arm to move out of the claustrophobic space. “Stop walking away from me” he calls after you. “And stop ignoring my questions.”

You’re in the narrow hallway on the way to your bedroom when you feel a tight grip on your arm and your body slammed onto the drywall. It nearly knocks the wind out of you. Wincing at the sudden impact, you blink a few times before you see Miguel’s reddened face inches from yours. The knot between his brows is deep and his eyes are so intense you can’t bear to return his stare. There are moments when Miguel can be on the aggressive side when you’re having sex, but it’s something you’ve both consented to and discussed. You love it when he’s rough, sometimes egging him on to push your limits. But he’s never been like this outside of sex even when he’s angry with you; he’s never let any form of physical violence take over. A little part of you is scared as you’re suddenly reminded of who he is and what he’s done. You’re not oblivious. You’ve heard the stories. You know about the yellow raincoat deep in his closet. And yet, another little part of you located between the apex of your thighs is awakened. The shallow breaths between you in such a cramped space is the only sound that exists for a long, drawn-out moment. The rise and fall of his chest stretches the perfectly-pressed shirt until it forms creases around the buttons. He runs his hand through his hair in frustration with himself, then he takes a step back and groans. “Fuck.”

“I think you should leave,” you say with a crack in your voice, unsure of whether or not it’s really what you want. “Please go.” “Tell me why you left.” “Miguel.” “Why did you disappear without telling me?” he asks, almost pleading. “We were fine up until a week ago, then all of a sudden you don’t want to see me, you don’t want to talk to me, you want nothing to do with me. What is it? What did I do?” “I don’t want to do this right now.” Miguel slaps his palms against the wall, forearms on either side of your head. You close your eyes like you’re bracing for impact but it never comes. “You bailed on our arrangement, and I’m not leaving until I have answers.” “Our arrangement,” you repeat with bitterness laced in your voice. “The arrangement where you only crawl back to me whenever it’s convenient for you — only when you’re looking for a warm body to share your bed. But the rest of the time, you’re cool with the rest of the world thinking you’re some hotshot bachelor. You have no clue, huh?” “Is that why you’re running from me? Because of a fucking label? Because I don’t think it benefits either of us to make you my fucking girlfriend?” “Please,” you say. “This last week, I’ve come to realize I deserve more than to be Galindo’s puta.” “What do you deserve?” His mouth close to your ear, his breath trailing fire on your skin. “To be the Mayans’ puta?”

“Fuck you, Miguel.” You push him off you, but in a second he’s cornered you against the wall, his hands firmly gripping your shoulders. “You can’t speak to me like that.” “Fuck. You.” He grabs you by the chin, forcing you to look at him. “Try that again and —“ “— And what?” You spit back. “You’ll bash my head in? Cut my arm off? Choke me to death with your shirt?” He backs off a little like he knows he’s on the verge of doing something unspeakable, even for him. This is what you find so confusing about him. He has these moments where he’s compassionate and loyal, where he uses his brilliance for the benefit of others, and then there are moments where he’s too immersed in the terrible things he’s done that he isolates himself. He won’t let anyone he actually cares about see that part of him. He won’t let anyone he loves see him when he’s the man on the other side of that wall. But something vicious inside you sees that moment of vulnerability and decides to stab it with a knife and twist until he bleeds out. “Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t tell me who I can’t hang out with,” you say about your friends. You know it works because his expression darkens with anger the moment you bring it back to the Mayans; something about your relationship to the club is like picking at an old wound for Miguel. “I tell you what to do because I own you.” He presses his forehead against yours, his hands restraining your hips so you’re trapped with nowhere to go. “I even own the Mayans. I own every single fucking person on either side of this border. They work for me and they fall to their fucking knees for me.”

“If you own me then claim me.” Miguel looks into your eyes, his brows creasing and his lips parting. If he doesn’t want to be with you, then he’s not worth all of the pain. Even if he makes you feel good, it’s not worth the hurt when he leaves and pretend you don’t exist. “Make me yours, Miguel.” He thinks about it a second too long, and you push him off.

Miguel retaliates in a flash with his hand around you throat and his whole body slamming into you. He chokes you. He doesn’t even slacken his hold when his eyes give away how startled he is by the force he’s inflicting upon you. His grip stays the same even as you gasp for air and your eyes are wide in horror (and arousal). Your face is pointed to the ceiling as you feel the anguished cry from your lips turn into something along the lines of a mischievous smile. You buck your hips into his, and when he doesn’t change course, you spit in his face.

Miguel chokes harder. He’s crushing your throat so tight you feel your eyes bug out of your skull, and now you’re legitimately terrified you’re going to die of asphyxiation. Everything goes blurry and all you remember is the onyx gleam in his eyes and the bright white canines that you wish would scrape at your skin until you’re bleeding crimson for him. But then he lets go. His breaths are ragged while you’re coughing up a storm, trying to take in as much oxygen and save what’s left of your lungs. You’re doubled over, palm over your chest when you see him standing on the opposite wall. His fingers are running through his hair, his mouth muttering curse words in Spanish. You stand a little straighter as you let your fingers trail along the side of your neck, throwing him a challenge by smiling slyly in his direction. Shoving you against the wall and forcing his thigh between your legs, he kisses you. One hand wraps around the front of your throat while the other caresses down your cheek. It’s violent and tender at the same time. It’s infuriatingly Miguel.

He continues to strangle you but no longer with the same merciless force as before. Not when he’s simultaneously distracted by the taste of your tongue tangling with his, or the sensation of you rubbing on his thigh. His deft fingers loosen the buttons of your jeans and pulls them swiftly down to your knees. You kick them off, but not far enough. Miguel pulls away from the kiss and his chokehold to bend down and slip your jeans entirely off your legs, throwing them down the hall. He kisses and licks and bites your inner thigh on his way up then all the way down as he slides the lacy thong out of the way. Hands slide up under your white t-shirt, grabbing a handful of your tits. He squeezes with the same force he had on your neck and you gyrate onto his clothed erection. Hands wrap under your jaw, tilting your head up so he can kiss you. It frees you up to work on his trousers and his underwear, getting them out of the way so you can feel the hot, thick length that you’ve craved. As much as you’ve missed the feeling of being filled up by Miguel, the memory doesn’t come close to the real thing. He bucks into your hands as he cradles your face, his head buried in the leather-clad junction of your shoulder. “You feel so fucking good, baby.” He jerks into the tight ring formed by your fingers. “Don’t ever try to leave me again.” You loosen your grip and let your hands fall to your side. “You’re not going anywhere.” “You can’t make me —“ He wrings your neck in both hands and, this time, he lifts you off the ground. You claw at him in your state of panic, heels kicking against the wall so you can get down. Fear is coursing through every cell in your bloodstream. He’s going to kill you. Miguel Galindo, your lover who also happens to be a murderous cartel boss, is literally going to be the death of you. He buries his cock inside you. The tilt of his hips alleviates some of the pressure around your throat, allowing you to balance precariously on his length. He saves you by fucking you. You’re up against the wall, one hand tight around your throat and the other slides down to your hip as he pounds into you. Each stroke a ferocious testament to his bond of ownership.

The lights begin to dance in front of your eyes and the narrow hallway becomes a never-ending spiral. It might be from the lack of oxygen to your brain, or the merciless fucking, or a wicked combination of both. Miguel is in some sort of daze, laser-focused on one thing and one thing only and that’s claiming you so you’re at his mercy. His eyes are the darkest they’ve ever been and you wonder, in a brief moment of lucidity, if this is what he looks like when he’s ordering a kill. You slide down the wall as his grip loosens and his legs give out. Falling on the floor, you feel his weight on top of you, never disengaging his cock from your slick walls. He drives into you a few more times while he tries to catch his breath, and while you try to get some long, deep breaths of your own before he’s got his hands choking you again. He kneels. He pulls your ass off the floor so your back is arched, and he impales you to the hilt. You’re so wet and wired for him, but this new angle is hitting a new spot and it hurts (but in the best way.) Your body tries to rumble out a moan but he’s stifling it down and all it can do is simmer inside of you. This position opens you up and makes you even more vulnerable. While he keeps one hand on your neck, squeezing with every downward stroke, he takes his other hand to your clit. He doesn’t even give you time to adjust to the sensation as he circles and pinches with his fingers. He sticks a couple fingers in his mouth and lubes them up, positioning them over your over-sensitized clit. At this point, it becomes too much and your muddled brain doesn’t know if it’s experiencing immense pleasure or pain. You just know you’re going to die if you don’t get your release soon. “You’re mine.” He pants with deep, hard strokes. “You will always be mine.” There’s nothing about the way he says it that makes you feel comforted or makes you feel like you’re getting what you want. Being his girlfriend is a silly thing to ask of him — you know that, but you can’t help your heart from wanting what your head knows is a terrible idea. For a long time now, you’ve wanted to hear Miguel say those words. You dreamed to belong to each other. You just never expected those words to come out as a threat. Rolling your clit between his fingers and fucking you faster and stronger, you feel the wave crash over you and your whole body convulsing from the base of your belly outward. When you come, you lose your breath and pass out.

All you remember next is a haze. You’re gasping for air like you’ve just woken up from a nightmare as you feel Miguel pulling out. He’s still kneeling over you but he shoves your legs on either side of him. Still on his knees, he sits up so he’s towering over you. He grips his length with the hand he used to choke you and he jerks off, finishing in milky hot streaks all over your stomach.

When it’s all over, you roll to your side, clutching your bruised neck and coughing weakly. Everything hurts. There’s an ache nestled within the left side of your chest, right below your ribcage, and it makes you wonder if you’re having a heart attack. Chin on the floor, you blink a few times to see Miguel on his feet. He’s straightening his clothes — buttoning his trousers and smoothing down the wrinkles of his shirt. He walks toward the door, but before he leaves he looks at you with a mix of pity and an empty sort of affection. The kind one has for an object they desire, not for someone they love. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says quietly then adds, “answer your fucking phone this time.”

[incoherentbabblings]

An Endless Hope (8/9)

After a horrendous blizzard falls over Gotham, Tim undergoes a sharp change in character before disappearing. Upon discovering what has become of him, Stephanie sets off on a solo journey in a magic realm to bring him home, meeting some faces who seem awfully familiar along the way.

Yes I had to split the last chapter in two it was long OTL

Archive Of Our Own Link Click Click! 

“Tim, Tim, Tim… Honey, it’s me. It’s Stephanie. I’m here to take you home. Can you come home with me? Do you want to come home with me?”

She brushed her fingers over his cheeks, she pressed kisses to his forehead, she pressed forward until she was practically sitting on his lap, but Tim did nothing but stare. Cradling his cheek, she forced him to look at her when she saw his eyes were drifting back down to the floor.

Her breathing, already erratic and shallow, cut off completely. Tim’s pale blue eyes, already bordering on grey, were sapped of any colour at all. Just a thin ring of his blue iris indicated where his sclera ended. His lips and nose had turned blue, and his skin was white. Too white. He still looked beautiful, because of course he did, but in the way that an ice sculpture was beautiful. She became frightened to hold him in case he would crack. Swallowing hard, she entreated,  

“I know you’re cold. And you can’t remember anything. But I can help you get warm again. I can help you leave.”

“I can leave,” he murmured. Stephanie looked down at what he was doing. “I just have to spell a word and then she said I can go.”

Stephanie nodded, trying to work with what information he gave.

“Okay. What’s the word? Maybe I can help.”

“Eternity. But... There’s a piece missing. See?”

Very quickly, as if he had done it a dozen times, he arranged the fragments into the word. It was only then that she saw how badly he was bleeding. The shards were sharp, and with every touch he sliced a bit more of his hands open on their rough edges. Stephanie cried out in horror.

“Baby, no.” She tried to move his hands away, so he would stop hurting himself, but as coldly as he had done several weeks ago, he slapped her hands away. The impact stung her frigid fingers and splattered bright red blood in a spray across the floor.

Exhausted, cold, in pain, and terrified, Stephanie burst into tears. Tim ignored her and carried on examining the pieces. Stephanie, still in his lap, fell forward, cheek knocking against his brow bone. She sobbed loudly, right hand wrapped around his neck and feeling his thick black hair. He didn’t push her away, finding her more a distraction than a nuisance, and wet tears fell off her skin and hit his own.

In the empty round room, her cries echoed. Stephanie loathed the sound. She did what she normally would do when upset with Tim in the room, she nuzzled his head, tear stained cheeks wetting his own, and curled her hand over his heart. Normally, normally, normally, Tim would scoop her up. Gentle and trembling with empathy, he refused to let her suffer alone. Now she may as well have been propped up against a brick wall.

Distantly, she heard something ping off the ice floor, high pitched and small sounding. Then stiffly, she felt Tim shift under her.

“...Steph don’t cry. Why’re you...”

Stephanie leaned back after hearing Tim’s soft whisper and saw he was looking at her, eyebrows drawn up in his worried frown. His face was wet, her tears forming streaks down from his own eyes.

Not understanding how he remembered her name, she just stared as he raised a hand to brush her cheek. She watched as he registered that his hands were running red with blood, naked panic and horror flooding his blue eyes. Blue eyes. His face grew red, flushed from the heat of his blood warming his skin. He looked to Steph for an explanation, then, impossibly, his eyes grew wider.

“Oh my God! Your hair! You chopped it? But it was so pretty! What is going –” Tim moved back, a thousand memories overwhelming him. Doing his best to orientate himself, he methodically noted where he was sat, what Stephanie was wearing, how cold it was, his blood covered hands, everything. He then looked back to Stephanie and saw the fragile hope in her expression. He recognized that look, to his partial disappointment. It was her face whenever he apologised for wronging her. She was so forgiving, that he knew every time he genuinely was contrite it would be forgiven and forgotten. Even when he failed to match up to his first apology, so long as she saw he was trying, she would readily forgive once more.

But he had been so cruel to her…

His shoulders sagged, disgusted with himself, “I’m so sorry about the flowers. I didn’t want to do that. I would never do that. I couldn’t touch yours, but I ruined mine and I’m so sorry… You wanted us to look after them. I’m sorry.” His voice warbled and broke, and he sniffed in the cold.

Stephanie wailed and threw herself into his arms. Seeing it was staining her blouse but also seeing that Steph was upset in a way he rarely saw her, he gripped her tightly, and pressed kiss after kiss to her face until she started to laugh. Good. Her laughter echoing round the hall was much better than her cries.

“Tim, you’re here, we can go home now. Please, let’s go home.”

Twisting them upwards Tim nodded, rubbing his hands on her bare legs in an attempt to warm them up. This seemed to trigger a thought in Stephanie and she gasped, separating from him just enough to tug off a pair of gloves. When she did, the impossible cold hit her harder, and she felt her muscles seize up. Crap. They really had been protecting her from the cold. They needed to leave, and fast. If her legs even worked anymore.

“My gloves! Steph you brought them all this way? Wherever this way is…”

“Here, put them on. You’re cold.”

Tim saw how sluggishly she was moving. Memories were still coming back. He couldn’t stop thinking of how horrid he had been before leaving; he’d grabbed her and pulled her and insulted her and kicked her and…

He remembered trying a kiss once he understood that magic was messing with his head in a desperate attempt to break whatever was freezing his body. He remembered the weird woman who did nothing but stare at him all day, occasionally having conversations that went in circles with no end (he just wanted to go home). He remembered Stephanie collapsing through the door at the top of the stairs, tumbling down when she couldn’t support her weight. She’d crawled over to him.

Tim knew what hypothermia looked like. She was getting close to freezing. And to say nothing of himself. Warmth may have returned, but it would not stay with just a t-shirt and jeans.

“I’m doing better than you! Your toes—”

Stephanie thrust the gloves at him.

“You have to. It has my hair in it.”

“What.”

“Magic, Tim. Please, I think you have to wear them.”

He did as he was told, and immediately gripped her feet, trying to warm her toes. It was a good thing the gloves were black, but he could feel them growing damp. He groaned, seeing all he was managing to do was cover Stephanie in rapidly cooling blood.

“The witch—”

Tim jerked backwards and Stephanie cut herself off. She watched the lightbulb ping over his head.

“Something fell,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

Tim crawled around her on the floor. “Something fell out my eye. I think it’s the last piece of her puzzle. She thought she was being clever, the last piece to my freedom being the thing that was keeping me here.”

“How did it come out?” Stephanie twisted around so she could get a better view of what Tim was looking for. Her arm gave way, and Tim caught her, propping her against his body as he slowly moved around. She shifted and held as tight as she could onto the fabric of his shirt. Already his skin was turning red from the cold, skin and hair risen in a desperate attempt to warm him up. He would start shivering soon. “Tim, we have to go.”

Maybe they could get to her car down below at the river. Or maybe the old woman would send help once they got so far from the castle. The palace was still glowing with the colours of the night sky, so at least there was no storm for now.

“We will,” Tim reassured. “I just want to play by her rules, so we don’t get caught out. But it –ow! Argh, not another cut… Found it.” Crawling behind her, he held up the tiny piece of glass for her to inspect. Blearily, she saw it was about half the size of a pea.

“That was in your eye? But there was nothing… I looked and Alfred looked and…” She trailed off, head hanging limp on her shoulders.

Tim leaned over her, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her upright, and slid the last piece of ice into place on the ground. It belonged in the junction of a ‘T’, and when he did, the word melted away, leaving nothing more than a puddle on the floor. Tim snorted, smug, then turned to Stephanie.

“Let’s go.”

Tim got to his feet, trying to give Stephanie a helping hand, but her ankles could not hold her up, and she collapsed in a heap at his feet. He curled around and under her, fully intending to cart her up and out himself.

Stephanie groaned, “Can’t… Tim… I’m too tired. I can feel my body heat getting bad. Aw man... What if I go crazy and start running around naked.”

“No paradoxical undressing, please Steph.”

“I promise.”

Tim went to pick her up. He was cold, yes, but not anywhere near the state that Steph was in. Maybe there was something special about the gloves.

“Come on, Steph, you can do it. You came this far. Keep going.” Tim lifted her arms around his shoulders, and she held on tight, crying out at the pain. “Come on, sweetheart,” he begged.

“This is your heart?”

Tim faltered, Stephanie whimpering as they slipped back to the floor. Tim held still, pressing Stephanie against his chest, trying to share his warmth with her. The witch, with her familiar features in a way he couldn’t place, had returned from wherever she had gone. Slowly in her grand gown and bare feet, she walked into his eye line. She was watching Stephanie, who still had enough presence of mind to glare back. Appearing bored, the witch looked to Tim.

“The magic in those gloves Tim only protects the wearer for a short amount of time. My home doesn’t like intruders. It works to put them down… like rabid dogs.”

“Then we’ll leave.” Tim stated. The witch’s mouth twitched in an imitation of a smile.

“I suppose you did beat the puzzle. So, you want an exchange for her? She’s very close to dying. I can stop that.”

“She’s coming with me. I beat your rigged jigsaw. Let me go home with her.”

The woman got down on her knees and caught Stephanie’s hazy gaze again. The witch was frowning, confused.

“Why did you come all this way?”

Stephanie tried to snark back but found she did not have the energy. Her skin felt damp, like she was sweating, and even the act of blinking was difficult.

Breathing shallowly, she managed to speak through a strangled throat, “He doesn’t belong to you. He belongs with me and his family. He belongs wherever he wants, and you took his choice away.”

“So?”

It took a moment for her to respond, Tim fussing over her worriedly. “I love him. Couldn’t let him go.”

“Steph...” Tim breathed. Recklessly, he pushed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed happily. Deliriously. Then she went completely limp in his arms, passed out from the cold. Tim made a noise which sounded like a dying animal and shook her violently. If she became unconscious, she would not wake up ever again.

The witch’s expression trembled.

“She’s dying,” she said simply. “And I don’t think she should.”

When she reached for Stephanie, looking like she was going to press a hand to Stephanie’s breast, Tim reacted violently. He grabbed the witch’s hand and pushed it away. He got the feeling that under normal circumstances, he would have been unable to match her strength, but something about his gloved grip made her shriek, the sound akin to shattering ice. Tim’s blood stained her white skin and she backed up to standing, pain ruining her beautiful features.

“Don’t touch her,” he threatened. It was the coldest thing he’d said to the witch in all his weeks here.

The witch looked at her burning arm, then back to Tim.

“You beat my puzzle. She came to bring you home. And yet you’re acting as if you want your heart to die? Someone has used magick to connect the two of you. If one passes the other is not long to follow. Is that what you want?” Annoyance flickered across her expression, almost like she was a disappointed mother. Finally, Tim clicked on who her features resembled. Feeling chided, he averted his gaze.

“You can stop her from freezing?”

“I can take the cold away.”

“And you swear we both can leave after?”

Her cold fingers brushed his cheek, causing him to shiver.

“I swear. I don’t want any more dead humans in my home. It grieves me too much.”

Feeling no sympathy for the woman, but knowing she was his only chance at leaving with Stephanie (alive), Tim agreed. Gritting his teeth, Tim propped Stephanie up in his arms. She blinked, momentarily regaining consciousness, only to pass out again. Kneeling in front of them, the witch pushed Stephanie’s bangs off her forehead. She admired the girl’s face. A pretty little thing. Seemingly suicidal in her devotion. Too young to be a corpse.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted. Her pale eyes investigated Tim’s blue. He did not trust her one bit. “I don’t understand humans at all. Your love for each other, why she came here, why your hearts have been intertwined by someone, how it fought against my magic, why you want to leave… I don’t understand.”

Tim glared at her, murderous. “You understand the cold, right? And I know you’re powerful, so make her warm again. Warm enough to leave here with me. You don’t have to understand us, just bring her back and let us go. Fix your mistake.”

The ‘or else’ hung in the air. The witch looked down at those gloves, knowing what would happen if he managed to wrap his hands around her neck.

The witch blinked, expression carefully controlled as ever, and placed a hand over Stephanie’s heart. The witch pressed down on Stephanie’s sternum with such a force that Tim thought her breastbone would crack, but when the witch lifted her hand, ice floated upwards in her palm. She tossed it upwards carelessly, and it begun to snow in the throne room.

Tim looked down at Stephanie, who flushed with colour once more, gasped, and twitched violently, curling up into a ball. Tim gave a wordless cry and pulled her upwards, carrying her as he got to his feet.

The witch remained on the floor, watching the two embrace. A minute passed as they spoke quietly to each other, whispering sweet nothings that the witch was not party to, then Stephanie indicated she wanted to be returned to her feet. Tim set her down slowly, reluctantly, seeing that she was still shivering from the cold.

“I don’t understand,” the witch said once more as she rose up. Stephanie, unsure of what to do, stood defensively in front of Tim. The witch shook her head, mystified, “What makes humans so sweet. None of you can survive up here with me. But I want…”

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” Stephanie asked. She sounded sincere in her question, to Tim’s surprise.

“…Maybe.” The witch looked at the dripping floor, both in melting ice and watery blood. She looked at the pair and inclined her head.

“Leave. I will try again with another human later. One with a… less determined partner and less conflicting magic getting in the way. Not worth the pains.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Stephanie pushed. The witch smiled coldly, finding her amusing. She made her way to the narrow stairs leading to her throne.

“Humans are so wonderfully stubborn. A shame I can’t keep such a pretty pair. A promise is a promise. Leave now. You got what you came for. Tell Anya her little lesson has been learnt. I am well and truly chided.”

“Anya?” Stephanie asked.

“Oh. Did you not get her name? I can smell that woman’s smoky hut stench anywhere. That and her weaving magic… Sending you here with so few clothes on to make me feel guilt… Interesting risk.”

Stephanie looked taken aback, but Tim had had enough. It was still cold enough to kill, magic castle or no magic castle.

“We’re leaving.”

“That’s fine,” the witch said, giving no indication on whether it truly was fine or not according to her tone. “Hurry off now, go be with the family with whom you belong.”

Taking Stephanie’s hand, Tim tugged her towards the main steps. Looking back as they ran, Stephanie watched the witch who remained still in the centre of the room. She looked very alone to Stephanie. Tim did not look back.

When they reached the front door, the hole Stephanie had managed to rip open had healed itself, but it did not make much difference, as one firm push from Tim threw the doors open, to the point where Stephanie noted that he cracked the hinges as he did so. The pair, still holding hands, ran across the bridge. Stephanie gasped with joy when she saw who was waiting for them by the holly berry bushes.

“Abie!” Stephanie cried out. Jumping from side to side was a large reindeer, carrying a number of goods on his back. “Oh, Abie! You came back and brought me my shoes! Oh, good boy!”

Tim found himself gifted a very thick coat, which he threw on with a heavenly sigh. Stephanie had her tights and boots returned, as well as her lovely thick coat and a new pair of gloves.

Tim pat the reindeer’s nose as Stephanie got dressed. “You took her all this way huh?”

“Part of the way,” she said as she hopped up onto Abie’s back. “Can you carry both of us Abie?”

He lowered his neck, almost encouraging Tim to clamber on too. He did, seating himself behind Stephanie, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“You know how to get home?” He asked as they began the ascent back up the valley. Abie was not able to run with two people on his back, but the pair were warm, and the sky was clear, so they did not worry.

“No,” Stephanie confessed. “I guess we’ll just have to go back the way I came.”

“Makes sense.” Tim kissed her cheek once more. “Thank you for coming for me.”

Stephanie pressed herself back against his chest in an attempt to cuddle.

“Always.”

They did not speak much on the journey back, for the moment doing nothing more than enjoying the other’s company. Tim put his chin on Stephanie’s shoulder and watched the stars. The sun rising announced that they were close to their first resting place. Abie took them back to Anya’s little hut, who Stephanie threw herself into a tight hug with when she emerged to meet them.

“I did it! Thank you. Thank you.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she said as she rocked Stephanie from side to side. Looking upwards, Tim saw the cheeky twinkle in the woman’s dark eyes. “You must be Tim.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Tim slid of Abie a little reluctantly, but trusted Stephanie’s judgement of character. Stephanie was good, of course she was, but she would have needed help along the way. She didn’t carry the self-destructive pride that some members of the family held. If help was available to her, she would take it. She didn’t have a chip on her shoulder regarding self-sufficiency.

“Oh, ma’am. Wow. Come in. Sleep for the night and eat. You have a long journey ahead of you.”

They were given what seemed to Tim like a hole in the wall to sleep in. He did crawl in, enjoying the sweltering warmth of the cabin, but before he could totally doze off, Anya asked to see his hands. Stephanie remained sat by the oven and fire, her toes becoming warm once more. Whatever the cold was out there, it seemed as much driven by magic as actual low temperatures. Both Tim and Stephanie should have died, and yet one bowl of stew and sauna level heat later they both felt as good as new.

Well, almost.

When Tim had been given the all clear to remove his gloves, the old lady hissed at the still sore cuts which oozed.

“I can fix that and clean your gloves up,” she’d said. “There’s a place I go to do my laundry. There’s a very good soap there for all blood related issues. I’ll be gone overnight as it is a bit of a trek. Don’t leave this place no matter what. I’ll be back with the next sunrise.”

He nodded obediently, and off she went. Abie continued to snooze by the fire, but eventually Stephanie joined Tim in the little compartment. Happy to once more have his beating heart next to her, Stephanie sighed happily. Tim, on the other hand, was brooding.

“Steph?”

“Mm?”

“You… you believe me about the flowers, right? That I would never smash something like that? Because I wouldn’t. Even if we were having a really bad argument. It was awful, like I could feel myself slipping away and I got so confused and angry and… I’m sorry.”

Stephanie pressed a kiss directly over his heart. “I believe you, and it doesn’t matter. Poison Ivy has them now.”  She laughed a little at his mortified face, explaining, “I didn’t know where to start looking for you. I thought Ivy might have had a lead. It was a waste of time, all she would tell me was that the storm wasn’t from our Earth and then she took the flowers and threw me out the greenhouse… It was Klarion who sent me over.”

“You know Klarion?”

“You know Klarion? I helped one time when I think his cat was in heat or something.” Stephanie smirked at the memories. “Hey, do I taste like Christmas to you?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, Klarion sent me here and gave me the means to find you.” Stephanie tapped her heart. It had settled down in its painful beatings once Tim was in her arms, though even now she was reluctant to look away for even a moment, not sure if he would disappear once more.

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know, slapped me in the chest and then it ached all the time to be without you. Pointed me in the right direction and only now is the pain gone. Like an internal compass.”

“I’ll need to thank him.”

Stephanie’s warm breathy laughter brushed his clavicle. “If we can find him, or wait for him to find us. Think that’s it for me permanently. You’re literally in my heart.”

“The witch kept saying you were mine. I wonder if it goes both ways.”

“That sounds very romantic,” she giggled. “But probably dangerous. We really should find Klarion when we get back.”

Tim rolled slightly, so Stephanie lay on her back under him. He took a long look at her, inspecting her closely.

“Your hair looks nice.”

She scoffed, “Don’t lie.”

“It does! I forget how…poofy it can be.”

“It was too long. Bruce’ll be pleased.”

Rolling his eyes, Tim kissed her rosy cheeks, “Never mind him.” They kissed, hidden in their little hidden crook, when a sudden thought came to Stephanie. Chewing her lip, she decided to take a chance. Stephanie’s hand pulled Tim’s own down under the covers, encouraging him to touch her. He blinked, trying to catch up with her wordless request, and asked, “You’re sure? Now?”

He heard her gulp nervously, but she smiled and nodded. Tim peered out of their little bed. When he looked back, she saw his reluctance.

“Bad timing?” she conceded.

“Maybe…maybe when there’s not a snoozing reindeer in the corner. I…can’t with an audience.”

The laughter that bubbled out of Stephanie made Tim relax, and she pulled him down into an embrace.

“A cuddle then. Missed these for a few weeks.”

“Me too.”

“What do you remember Tim?”

Pressed against her chest, Stephanie heard Tim sigh. She ran her fingers through his hair as he told his story. “I remember everything. Felt like being shot in the head. And then I just didn’t want anyone to touch me. Everything was loud and busy and annoying. I just wanted to go home. And everything was freezing, and I couldn’t get warm. And she was in my head, talking to me.”

“Can you hear anything now?”

His reply was a definitive and calm, “No. But I was so bored, and even though you were warm you were boring me. And I could tell that something wasn’t right. You’re a lot of things Steph, but you’re not boring.”

“Wow,” she snorted.

“I thought it was magic, so I just… after I ruined my roses, after I kicked you, I tried kissing you. But it was awful. I thought – if it was magic – all the stories say a kiss solves it all, right? But I saw your face and you were upset and I… I was apathetic. So, I left. And then it was just weeks of me sitting on the floor and her watching me. She’d ask me questions but I don’t think I answered them the way she wanted. I kept remembering things I shouldn’t have and kept trying to leave.” Distantly, absent-mindedly, he smiled. “I was remembering you; I was trying to leave to go to you. No matter how many times she’d try and freeze me up… I just wanted to go home. I kept thinking of long golden hair,” he ruffled her raggedy mop to which she giggled, “and your laugh. I couldn’t put a face or name to the images, but I remembered you.”

Stephanie blushed, and Tim continued,

“I guess it’s why I was so desperate to finish that puzzle. There was a chance I could go. I had to do it. I had to.”

“And you did.”

“Thanks to you. Your crying washed the last piece out of my eye.”

“Oh. Well, you’re welcome.”

Tim’s hand crept up, resting over her heartbeat. He could feel it thrumming away, fragile and yet so reliable.

“Whatever Klarion did when he showed you how to find me… it saved me.”

“And me. You have no idea how many times I got pulled off course. I would have been here weeks ago but…” she trailed off, then shook her head. “There was this woman and she made me get stuck with her. She was lonely and wanted a daughter. I fit the bill. It was nice…to be looked after for a while.” She looked down and tightened her fist that was resting against Tim’s chest. “But not as nice as moments like this. I had a job to do. And I’m not a little kid. But I felt like I was breaking this woman’s heart to leave and… I kept thinking of my mom. Of how she’s probably thinking I’ve gone and died again. God…”

Tim said nothing at her little ramble, only brushed his hand through her hair. Stephanie huffed, blowing a piece of her fringe off her forehead cutely.

“Most everyone I’ve met helped me along the way. It was kind of weird actually. Everyone reminded me of someone back home. Felt like going through a weird cliffs notes version of my life.”

Tim nodded, “You know who the ice witch reminded me of?”

“Who?”

He looked distracted and disturbed when he replied, retreating into that place in his mind she could never reach.

“My mom,” he whispered.

Stephanie looked at him worriedly, “Really?”

“Not in personality. Mom – when she was around – was much better at being a mom then dad was at being a dad… it was all in her face. Her features. She looked like mom.” He sounded vaguely disgusted with himself and rubbed at his eyes. “It was confusing.”

Stephanie laughed again, and at Tim’s questioning look she wheezed, “This whole thing is confusing.”

“Another day in the life, huh?”

“Oh, don’t even. I know our lives are a mess, but that doesn’t make it easier. But still… I did it.” She kissed him, long and slow. Tiredness was creeping in, and their movements became lethargic. “I found you,” she whispered, a smile against Tim’s lips.

Tim kissed her again, then the pair settled down. He brushed his fingers over her features, relief and comfort flowing freely through his being. He smiled softly.

“You found me.”

[rachel-writes101]

Konnect: The Mistake

Emily Rook hoped this would be the incident that would cause Oscar to see sense but she wasn’t going to hold her breath. Nor was she particularly happy about the way things were playing out.

Despite her ordering (and often pleading for) him not to go to the industrial ring her little brother hung out there almost every day. The ring of warehouses and abandoned factory lots wasn’t exactly old. Most had been built in the 90s during the technological and industrial boom that had decided which companies got to rule the Copperby skyline. But it was still dangerous. There were all sorts of chemicals in the soils and some of the under-maintained buildings had collapsed. And the space was a haven for criminals – particularly with the main streets of Copperby regularly patrolled by a superhero.

Not that Oscar had the sense to not visit the ring because of any of that. He had been there that evening, messing around with his friends. The details of the story were a little unclear to Emily but she gathered one of Oscar’s gaggle of bad influences had heard a noise and the group had decided to investigate. The noise had been coming from an old warehouse and the boys had been right outside when they had heard what sounded like a voice calling for help. The singular brain cell her little brother possessed had convinced him not to go in and investigate. In fact, he had pulled out his phone to call the police and had intended to do so until he had been spooked by a noise from the warehouse. Later Oscar would dismiss it as a prank, say he wasn’t really scared at all. But Emily knew her little brother too well and even if she didn’t, a group of fourteen-year-olds didn’t run scared for no reason.

Emily hadn’t wanted to go out there at all but Oscar had dropped his phone in his mad sprint back and had told her he had no intention of going back alone. She had driven him as close as the road would allow and followed him as he picked his way over to where he believed his phone would be.

She couldn’t ignore the way her brother glanced around furtively. He jumped at every shadow, tried to stay in the pools of moonlight.

“It was probably just some kids playing a trick.”

She just wanted him to get his phone so they could get out of there. Their parents would be getting back soon and, even if she ignored the fact they would be furious at Oscar for dropping his phone, it was dark. Every second they were there was a second they could be mugged.

“It’s that one,” Oscar said, pointing out a warehouse on the horizon.

It was a decrepit building, exactly the sort of place that Emily had feared her brother was hanging out at. She went to head towards it but Oscar caught her arm.

“What if it’s still in there?” he hissed urgently.

Emily shook his arm off.

“It was probably just a kid playing a prank. You said so yourself.”

She had hoped it would be enough to get Oscar moving again but his feet never moved. Emily gave an exaggerated sigh and turned, calling over her shoulder that the faster they found his phone, the faster they could go home.

She was almost half-way to the warehouse when Oscar decided he would rather be at his sister’s side than standing in the middle of an open space alone. He gave a strangled cry and hurried after her, almost colliding with her when she stopped dead.

There was the sound of a motorbike’s engine in the air. Emily looked back at the road and grimaced. The bike looked just like any other motorbike but the rider was instantly recognisable: Konnect. The city’s superhero.

The moonlight made her white hair look like a trail of smoke behind her and her costume, all silver and blue, shone like metal. She stopped her bike a short distance from where Emily had parked and seemed to be speaking to someone as she killed the engine.

“Konnect?” Oscar gasped. “Maybe she can help me find my phone.”

Emily shook her head and began to usher her brother towards the warehouse. Konnect rarely came to the ring unless there was a crime that had brought her there. Emily did not doubt that a fight was about to erupt. She wanted herself and Oscar on the other side of the city before that happened.

“Let’s just get your phone and get out of here.”

Sensing the urgency in her tone, Oscar nodded. He let her lead the way over to the warehouse and grinned when he found his phone nestled in a bed of weeds just at the edge of the concrete border. There was a door ahead of them, the door Oscar had been considering going inside just then.

“You got it?” Emily said, grinning when she saw her brother hold up his scuffed mobile. “Let’s go.”

Oscar chewed on his lip, his eyes playing across the door.

“Maybe we should look inside. If there is someone…”

He trailed off.

Emily bit the inside of her mouth and felt like shaking some sense into her brother. However she stopped herself. She strutted forwards, grabbing the handle of the door. She desperately hoped that it was locked. When she felt the door give at her turning of the handle, she knew she had mistakenly hoped for one thing that day to go right. She edged the door open and peered into the gloom. Oscar shifted closer to her, partly so he could look into the room and partly out of the need for comfort.

The room was too dark for them to make anything out for a few moments. Emily squinted, sure she could see something in the centre of the room. She fumbled along the side of the wall for a light switch and yelped when there was suddenly light from her side. Oscar turned to her, shining the torch on his phone directly into her eyes.

“Oscar!” Emily snapped, turning away.

She rubbed her eyes as black spots swum through her vision. Oscar moved past her, ducking into the warehouse. Emily went to call him back but her words caught in her throat when she heard her brother speak.

“What on…?”

His voice trailed off, snatched away by a wave of confusion. Emily battled to clear her vision and followed him inside. Oscar’s torch was trained on the object she had seen before. It was a cage, narrow – not wide enough for a person to lie down in – but tall enough for a person to comfortably stand in. It was completely bare, nothing to indicate what had been inside it. However, Emily knew exactly how the thing had gotten out.

One wall of bars was completely bent outwards, torn up from the bottom and wrestled upwards like a garage door. Oscar looked at Emily, eyes wide.

“What could have done that?” he hissed.

Emily sent him a look that was meant to ask how she could possibly know an answer to that. However, the moment was snatched by a terrible growling from behind them. Emily felt her heart stop. Her stomach twisted. She went to look over her shoulder but couldn’t bring herself to turn the entire way. Oscar looked and screamed.

Something slammed into him. The torch went flying, skidding across the floor. The light was fixed on the ceiling. Emily could hear the terrified cries and screamed Oscar’s name in response. He never managed a clear reply, terror stealing all sense from his words.

Emily began to sprint towards his phone. If she could get to the torch, get some idea of what was going on, she might be able to save her brother.

Suddenly blinding light flooded the warehouse. Emily rubbed her eyes feverishly, trying to make sense of what was going on. She heard Oscar’s cries fade, replaced by a horrific growling sound. Then she sensed movement nearby. She forced herself to brave the brightness and realised every light in the warehouse had been turned on. Beside her stood Konnect, staring defiantly at something across the room.

Emily turned. She bit her lip to hold back the yelp that almost escaped her. A monstrous creature was bearing down on her brother. It was the size of a lion with tufts of black hair erupting from blistered, rash-ridden skin. Uneven serrated teeth hung from its open mouth. It was on all fours over Oscar but rose up onto its back legs when it saw Konnect. Emily watched as the bones in its hips mashed into place. Then a roar forced itself from the thing’s throat.

“What is that?” Emily screamed as it took a step towards the two of them.

Konnect raised a hand, electricity arcing between her fingers as a warning. Emily almost stumbled back as the creature let out another deafening roar.

Then it lunged towards them.

The three fingers on its hands were each tipped with a long claw that swung through the air millimetres away from the two of them. Konnect let a blast fly out of her hand, the electricity slamming into the chest of the creature. It collapsed onto its knees, arching in pain.

Konnect shoved Emily in the direction of Oscar as she made her way towards the creature. It snarled at Emily as she edged towards her brother but Konnect clapped her hands, bringing the beast’s attention on her once more. It forced itself to its feet again and charged. Konnect dodged just in time, firing a shot of electricity at the creature as it passed her.

Emily reached Oscar and scrambled to check him over. He was bruised, a little confused and the skin around his neck was covered with shallow cuts. He stammered over a response, clinging to his sister as she pulled him close.

Emily looked up just in time to see the beast charge at Konnect again. The hero wasn’t able to dive away fast enough. A sharp claw cut through her costume, drawing blood as it slashed her arm. Konnect cried out, a hand immediately flying up to stem the bleeding. The creature seemed satisfied, something akin to a cackle falling from between its jagged teeth.

Konnect fired a blast at it. It dodged and sprung towards her.

The hero stood there, staring down the monster. She let it come closer and closer, so close that Emily was sure she was going to be taken down. Emily looked away, trying to cover her ears with her shoulders to keep out the inevitable screams.

Then there was a flash of light. Emily felt the hair on her arms stand on end at the energy in the air. She heard something heavy hit the floor and turned her attention upwards.

Konnect was standing over the supine form of the creature, hands raised in preparation for having to deal another blow. Emily could see the blood on one of Konnect’s gloves, the wound on her arm stopping her from raising it fully.

Seeing her injured, standing over such a large beast, Emily realised Konnect wasn’t much older than her younger brother. She removed her coat and folded it neatly, tucking it underneath Oscar’s head. He barely seemed to notice, staring in terrified awe at the hero and the creature. Emily crossed towards Konnect.

“Are you okay?” Emily asked, nodding towards the cut on her arm.

Konnect looked at the wound as though she had forgotten it was there. Emily supposed it was possible when adrenaline took over. Konnect carefully slid her hand back in place covering it and told Emily it was fine.

“Going to be hard to cover.”

Konnect paused for a second before signalling for Emily to stay quiet for a moment. Then the hero tapped her own forehead.

“Hey, it’s down. Image should be coming through now. Can you ensure the police know what they are dealing with?”

Emily waited for some voice to sound, unsure exactly who Konnect was talking to. However, after a long moment of silence, Konnect gave Emily an expectant smile.

“What is that thing?” Emily asked eventually, looking at the crumpled form of the creature.

Even unconscious, skin slightly singed from the blast that had taken it down, it was still terrifying. Emily was certain she would not be standing so close if not for the presence of the superhero.

“Lab accident. I received word it was being smuggled into Copperby as part of a cover-up,” Konnect explained. “Thought I should get it into the hands of someone responsible before someone got hurt.”

Emily nodded, looking past Konnect. Konnect crossed the room silently and picked up Oscar’s phone. She gestured to Emily’s little brother.

“He should be seen by a doctor. He doesn’t look too bad but I think he hit his head when…”

Konnect looked down at the creature and Emily nodded. She carefully guided Oscar to his feet. He was a little unsteady, his eyes a little unfocused. Konnect handed her Oscar’s mobile and asked if they had a way of getting to the hospital. Emily reassured her they did. She began to help Oscar out, looking back at the creature and Konnect when she reached the doorway.

“Do they happen a lot? Lab accidents I mean?”

Konnect paused for a moment and then grasped what Emily was carefully enquiring. She sighed.

“More than you’d think. But sometimes good comes out of them.”

“Thank you,” Emily said before leading Oscar out into the night.

[haleruby]

Forget Me Not

Characters/Pairings: established Malia/Lydia/Reader (Quim), Malia, Lydia, Scott, Stiles, lots of snow, and I never say it but the literal yeti. 

Summary: Amnesia makes the mind go brrr, but in a bad way...brr (sad). [This not being a published imagine for my followers means I can mess with the summary and other info as much as I want. XD]

Word Count: 5.9k

Notes: I am using a sideblog that is empty and not tagging bc this is only for your eyes (hopefully and technically the gif maker’s...thank you @ gifmaker for the gif), so no need to reblog/like, etc.

Hope you enjoy and it gives you a boost for dealing with your aunt. :-)

I wrote this around October 11th 2019, so apologies about the style not being quite as fluid as my other writing. My other stuff is a bit more recent, if you maybe wanna read it. Most of my teen wolf phase was around here and then it re-sparked in 2020 towards the fall so I added a tiny bit to that one story I told you about with the warnings. 

Also, apologies for the ending, lol. >.>

- - - - -

She is cold... So cold. It feels like a slab of ice is being used for a bed; her back aches all the way down to the individual vertebrae that compose her spine. Pain is slowly causing her other senses to return, enlivening them in cruel way so feeling anything means to hurt to some degree. A whooshing sound makes it hard to think, it rips across her mind dashing the thoughts that slowly trickle in through the haze and the ache. What happened...? Whipping wind continues to bear down on wherever here is. There is hardness under her, so she is probably on the ground and outside based on the frigid temperature. Moving an arm to check the hypothesis causes pain to lance through her shoulder so sharply a feeling of vertigo sets in. The firm ground suddenly tilts slightly. The leverage is increased almost mockingly, it edges up bit by bit like she is about to be slid off a cold metal tray to join the next batch of suffering. A choked whimper leaves her at the odd sensation of slipping. Just before the final plummet, she snaps back into herself viciously. Jolting does nothing good for her body, but now her eyes snap open with a slight burn as if they were sealed shut previously with chilled glue...At least she thinks they are open. Blinking confirms that her eyelids still function, which is good because she is trying not to think about how her arms and legs are not, though she can still mostly feel them. Everything is white. A flurry of white is all she sees after staring long enough to detect movement in what was thought to be a static image. Snow from what may be an impending blizzard continues to beat down on the surroundings, coating them in freezing rain, smatterings of hail, and ice. Why isn't she buried yet...? How long has she been here? A large conglomerate of flurries landing on her cheek causes her to wince, because it will not melt for a time, but the question remains. The left side of her face is stinging brutally, while the rest of her exposed skin only feels like a wind chap is starting to set in. Frowning makes it seem like there is something frozen to her skin; the downward curl is not reaching the left corner of her lips as if they are stuck. Is there something on her face? Staring blankly at the sky is not helping any of this make sense. Turning her head a miniscule amount causes her to feel sick, so she stops, trying to breathe evenly although the slight shaking is making it difficult. Being still is not an option, but the jolts of pain makes her wish it was. Evergreen trees were glimpsed in her peripheral vision; they looked towering and dark, not all fit for a happy Christmas. Woods plus winter with injuries does not sound good. Why is she even here? Working up the will power to try and get up is not something she has even entertained, since moving a single appendage hurt way too much. The snow fall is becoming less like the interior of a cheap snow globe and more like sheets of rain are freezing and then coating the forest solidly. Her right arm is no longer visible. Maybe getting under a tree would provide some protective covering? Don't get up, just shuffle. She can do that. Her feet ache in a disconcerting way like they fell half asleep. Digging her heels into whatever frozen packed dirt or snow is under her takes a few minutes, but little divets were clumsily formed. Now, she just has to leverage it. Her left arm is tucked close after what happened when she moved it. Shakily drawing her legs up again allows her to try and push back slowly, more so scrambling a few inches than moving back with purpose. Sliding against snow should be easy. The rocks and sticks that litter the ground seem to dig into her when she attempts the awkward dragging motion that causes a pull of tension across her body.

It hurts. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mumbles hoarsely. Anger at not knowing why, where, or what lead to this prompts the pain signals to be ignored, instead she attempts to continue the mutilated crab walk back. Powdery snow sticks to the black of her pants with less finding purchase on the plastic shell of the navy jacket. A bit of red is spotted in the snow, but checking for the source of bleeding is secondary to getting away from the flurries. A trail of blood spottily forms from where she started to where she has hauled herself to. She is practically panting, which causes the cold air to stab her lungs like multiple knifes each time a ragged breath is drawn in. Her movements become out of sync, bordering on frantic. Less than a few meters of progress has been made... A foot digging in is mistimed with the curl of her back and placement of her arm, so that the stretch wracks through her painfully. A gasp muffles the cry of pain. She ends up off balance, crashing to her side heavily. Snow forces her to reflexively turn her head slightly to the side, but she still feels it burning in a way only ice can against her cheek. Throbbing stemming from her left temple encapsulates her head in a vice and is likely what makes the white dance with undulating blots of black for a while until her vision slowly clears back up. She could just rest and then try again. Maybe she should just close her eyes... Lean back and try to conserve warmth until the effort to move again seems possible. A cat nap could work? She tried and is tired; it's deserved. A sudden shrill howl barely stirs her, but a primal part of her mind urges her to become slightly more alert. That kind of sound belongs to a predator. Laying semi-buried in the snow with the inability to move may as well be an open invitation for dinner to whatever can survive the harsh conditions of the forest; it is probably a wolf or something canine. The tree line is watched between too slow blinks for whatever just made that noise. Nothing happens... She didn't imagine it. The cold has penetrated her gloves, it has penetrated her to the very center of her being, but fingers weakly search for something of use. A large rock? A stick? A phone? A conveniently placed gun? There is nothing she can use for defense, so her right arm stops extending outwards from her side to come to rest with her useless left one. Guarding her vital organs may at least help a little... Another howl sounds, but this one sounds deeper and echoes across the space; it sounds low, haunting, and mournful. There is more than one... They could play tug-a-war with her.  She can barely make it to a tree for makeshift shelter, so climbing one to impede them locating her is also a 'no'. No weapon or means to deter the animal was magically found in the snow. The state she is in is yet another limitation, because she could not fend one off in perfect health either. ...What does she do?  A short yip sounds like an announcement that her time to wrack her weary mind for a solution has trickled away. The source of the sound is located immediately as a small wolf with large, rounded ears makes a bee line for her. She vaguely thought it would have white fur or maybe a light gray, but a tawny brown sticks out against the snowy surroundings and looks distinctly out of place; it should be in a rich pine forest with browns and greens. Mentally critiquing the animal is not what she should be doing. Fear laced adrenaline causes her to clench her right fist tightly as she attempts to shift upwards to appear less prone—less weak. Gathering snow in her palm is so she has something to throw, even if a snow ball is a poor choice against a predator. The animal skids to a stop a little ways away, raising its head towards the sky to scent the air. Is it smelling her blood and judging that she is easy prey?

Teeth grit at the thought, because she has no idea about wolves or whatever dog thing this is. Could noise scare it away or only incite it further? How do you deter a canine? Looking it in the eye may be taken as a challenge or as a warning, but she still stares into its' eyes sharply, trying to project an intimidating aura as she narrows her own. The little quakes racking her paired with the fact she is on her back does not make her cut an imposing figure. A slow step forward is taken as the small wolf lowers its body more to the ground; it must be savoring how easy a kill this will be. Her arm draws back in warning. Will the wolf call her bluff and edge closer? "Go away," she seethes, knowing that saying something to it is a lost cause, but it is eyeing her oddly for an animal, almost thoughtfully. Lunging for her throat or springing forward to pounce should have occurred by now. Why isn't it attacking? Ears fall back, almost dropping at the tone, rather than being pressed flat against the skull in anger. Another step forward is taken and then another, until the wolf is close enough that she thinks she can hit it...The snowball is poorly compacted and falls apart, but some of it lands on its fur, which causes the wolf to shake its head at the action, giving a disgruntled chuff at the coldness.  ...Did she expect that to go any better in her head? No. But it was her only real projectile. The wolf does something unexpected, it sits down like a dog and stares at her with those too human eyes. The forest in summer again comes to mind; a rich hazel that borders on brown like wood bark aside from the lightness around the iris is trained on her. She glares right back. Maybe its not a wolf, because it looks small and lean with a body that seems more agile than powerful. A long snout reminds her of a fox, and those ears that are still down are not really that wolf like either, too floppy... Maybe it's a special breed to this area or something else, not that it matters when it definitely has vicious claws, sharp teeth, and she can't get away. A decision must have been made as it creeps closer with tentative footfalls that barely displace the snow. Her arm is pinwheeled to kick up the remaining snow at her side at it in a last ditch effort for distance, but it keeps coming closer heedless of the weak icy barrage. The coolness likely does not seep through its thick fur. "Stop! Please, just go back!" She raises her voice sharply, distilling a hardness to her tone that causes the near hyperventilating quality of her breathing to abate for a moment as she tries to issue a command to a wild animal. Surprisingly, the wolf does halt its progress, but what it does next has her trying to get away as if the promise of being eaten was only a slight offense. Hazel just flashed a brilliant, glowing electric blue that seemed to pierce through her. Its an unnatural wolf thing. There may be worse things than death. Scrambling away using both hands and legs was a mistake, one that was made more than once as she groans. Her jaw locks like a steel trap as she continues, now on her stomach rather than side to crawl away. Tears feel momentarily warm against her frozen cheeks, before causing the burning to redouble from the wind. Everything hurts. She claws desperately at the snow, trying to get away, because there is no explanation for what she just saw or how odd the creature is in general. Her vision seems to be becoming the view used for wide screen movies; darkness creeps around the edges. She is struggling to make sense of things other than the need to move away, because that creature goes against the natural order.

Its too intelligent, it knows too much. Those eyes. It won't just kill her... Something grabs a fistful of her jacket, tugging backwards to prevent the flagging forward motion. It must have a mouthful of her jacket. She kicks out. Her legs feel like lead weights that she only has a minor degree of control over and no contact was made with a furry body, instead only the inevitable collision back with the hard ground occurs. The additional jolt is nothing compared to the rest of the pain that is maddening at this point, because the adrenaline rush is failing at dampening it. Her actions are catching up with her. An angry sob leaves her when she inelegantly falls face first in the snow. Her arms are shaking and she can't support herself anymore while also resisting the wolf. The grip on her jacket is suddenly replaced by a clamping sensation on her shoulder. There is no tearing or teeth burrowing. What feels like fingers squeeze her shoulder, until another hand is placed flatly on her back. What the Hell? What. The. Fuck. Being turned over slowly causes her to whimper; her eyes screw shut because nothing makes sense and she hates it all. Fighting has gotten her nowhere. Something warm settles on her cheek, and she should look to see what is going on, but she is too cold and tired to care. The whipping wind gains an additional sound, though she can't process what it is except that is softer and more pleasing to the ear. A voice? No, that isn't possible. The falling sensation comes again; this time she does not try and stay upright or grounded against it, allowing herself to go along with it. She gives up. . . . . . . "-the blizzard is only increasing; it took out the power lines. We can't go out in that." "You can't, but I can." A dull bang sounds like someone hit something wooden with their fist. "We can't!" This is half shouted in clear exasperation that may be hiding anger. "Losing anyone else isn't an option, ok? I want to know where he is too, but you can't see, smell, or even hear when it's this bad out, and we don't know what is out there that did that to her. You're not thinking it through, Scott." "He's a part of the pack." Listening to the argument unfolding any further is prevented when warm fingers graze her neck. She stops playing possum. Her eyes snap open to meet startled green ones that reminds her of emerald gemstones. A strawberry blonde girl is sitting on the burgundy upholstered couch she lays on, and may just be checking her pulse, but her right hand wraps tightly around her wrist just in case the action is not so innocent. Only a cursory glance is given to the surroundings, since she feels on edge. Where is she? A ski lodge... Thick wooden logs make up the walls, though it is hard to tell how large the space is when only candle light provides light. She does spot the underside of the A-line architectural support that is made of exposed beams. A few mounted deer heads leer at her with glassy black eyes. One wall boasts a large crackling stone fire place that has ancient crossed ski poles above it as a decoration; this is the main source of warmth and brightens the large 'U' of couches that could fit a dozen or more comfortably. This must be a lobby, not a home, based on the few informational areas and posters she saw. Was she out skiing? Returning her attention to the girl has her pausing, because she is being watched so closely, but there may be fear to that gaze too. Pale skin seems to lack much color, even though the fire is casting warmth on both of them and making the red to her hair more vibrant. Her grip is not that tight, and she was touched first, so why is she being looked at like that? Releasing the hold after moving those probing fingers away occurs; she did not mean to frighten her... "She's up! Thank God." The sudden announcement breaks the silent stare off. A guy with spiked brown hair dashes over to the couch alongside a taller guy with black hair that is somewhat obscured by a beanie. These were the two who were arguing. She simply observes them, unwilling to be the first one to speak, because she has no clue how she got here and would rather not be at a deficit by admitting that. Letting them do the informing is a smart move. "We set your arm back in place, but you may need surgery for the cuff," Stiles explains, coming to kneel beside the couch. Soft brown eyes sweep over her form that has less snow and blood caked on it; however, he is still worried about the injuries, especially when they only have a small first aid kit and makeshift sling on hand. "We bandaged what we could. Also, you will probably need a CT scan because your head has a crack in it like Humpty Dumpty. We will figure it all out, Quimmie." He seems pretty caring, so she nods stiltedly in agreement for him to continue speaking. The taller one, who must be Scott, draws closer, fiddling with a walkie talkie in his hand, before sighing. She waits for him to muster up the will to speak. "I know you're hurting, and I'm sorry, but where is Liam?" Once one question is asked it seems that it breaks the dam so a deluge of them come forward as his dark brown eyes narrow at the faint popping of static that comes from the device. There has not been a check-in in a while. "What happened to your team? Was it the ridge that you investigated or did it come after you on a trail? Were the hikers right, and it's just a crazed wolf or something else?" "You can't ask her all that at once." "Stiles, the temperature is dropping further and he is still out in it." "Yeah, and she just woke up, Scott. So back off." A hand finding her own diverts her focus from another brewing argument between the two. Fingers interlace with her own one at a time with a gentleness that confuses her after how hard everything else has been, so she doesn't immediately resist it. A pinky edges over the row of her digits until her hand is covered and then a hold is formed that she does not return. The question must be evident on her features, because a sad smile of understanding is given; it looks like the girl is trying not to crumble, which she accomplishes, but the underlying cracks are still there for all to see. What did she do to be looked at like that?   "Malia is right..." Stiles practically rounds on both of them, knocking his knees against the edge of the couch at the softly spoken statement. "No, Lyds," he disagrees immediately, before locking eyes with impassive (Y/E/C) that watch him, but do not really take him in or express much emotion. He thought it was from the pain and shock, not because... "What is my name?" "Stiles," she answers correctly, because it was spoken already.

"Scott said it earlier," Lydia points it out calmly.  Stiles runs a hand down his face, not wanting to test the theory that Malia suggested because of what it could mean, but he also knows he needs to. There is a reason the werecoyote is listening from behind the couch and not present with the rest. The earlier fear towards her cut her to the bone. Explaining it away as confusion or discombobulation did not convince Malia, who he tries to not glance directly at, even though he can see the glowing blue to her eyes, because this is upsetting to her. He balls his hands into fists; it can't be that. "What school do we all go to?" She says nothing, but wishes the couch cushions would absorb her into it. "What does our dad do for a living?" He asks it more sharply at the silence that seems to say more than any answer could. No, no, no. A hand is placed on the edge of the couch to keep balance as he sinks to his knees, rather than kneel; he meets her eyes squarely. "Come on, try and answer."   Her brows furrow at this, because she does not look particularly like him for them to be blood related. His features are mentally compared to what she intuitively knows to be her appearance. The skepticism is not voiced.  Being stared in outright disbelief by Stiles makes it clear that anything she could say about the situation would make it worse. "What is your name? Where are we from? What is the year? Who is she-" A hand gestures quickly to Lydia, though he quickly unfolds his fingers so he is not rudely pointing at her, but his palm shakes, "-to you? Malia, come over here and-" "Stiles." Lydia's voice holds a firm warning as she places a hand on his shoulder, pushing him slightly away from the couch edge before he looms closer. She scoots to be blocking his stare that practically tears into them with its desperate edge. He probably does not even realize he was raising his voice, almost shouting out each question so it warped into a demand. "Don't push her; it's not her fault." "She isn't saying anything!" Stiles counters. "It wouldn't be what you all want to hear..." That causes the pack to grow quiet for a moment as they each consider the matter of fact statement. "So, what? You were just going to go along with it?" Scott asks, confused. The realization that they have no idea what they are facing or how Liam is doing also weighs on him in addition to how this amnesia will affect the pack. Did they just lose two friends tonight? He sits down heavily on the coffee table, shooting Malia a sympathetic look to try and silently communicate she needs to dim down. "There are five of you and one of me, not great odds, so-" "We aren't going to hurt you." The vehement interjection causes her to reword the point, though green eyes practically blaze as they meet her own; any of that fear has burned away, replaced with conviction. "I don't know anything about anything," she admits softly, glancing at the red and black plaid blanket draped over her legs to cope with so many people staring at her. Her head still aches and this is tiring. "Waiting to see what you had to say was the logical thing to do. I don't know your intentions, but I wasn't going to lie to you. Thanks for helping me out of the snow..." "That was Malia," Scott supplies automatically. She has the feeling that none of the ones in the seating area is this Malia person, so a nod is given. Stiles rises from the stone floor, trying to figure out how to fix the situation. This is no broken bone that can be set or a cut that needs to be stitched up; her memories are not murky or mixed up, but are completely gone. "Can you please tell us what you do remember?" "Why?"

"So we can help you and our other friend." Scott answers honestly, before Stiles losses the bit of composure he just re-gained. He is in older, adopted brother mode and is obviously upset. "We can answer your questions too." "I didn't say I had any..." "You don't know anything, so you should. Unless being amnesiac is how you want to reinvent yourself before senior year." Stiles snipes, but backs off when his best friend gives him a warning look that does not compare to the one he will get from Lydia and Malia, if he keeps pressing it. He is mad at what happened not her...But she is not acting like his adopted sister, who has been with him for years, but someone else entirely. Fingers pull at the worn tassels of the blanket for a moment as she considers the alternatives, turning them over in her head given how tense things are and her own deficit. They did help her, so being difficult is not her goal. She can't shake that there is something not quite right about them, especially Scott, it makes her feel on guard like there is a potentially hidden deadliness. Why are they in an empty ski lodge? The owners should be present or at least the other customers. She is mostly laying down aside from a pillow that elevates her back, sitting upright would put them more on equal terms, but the pain that will come with moving is considered. "Okay, one quick question: why are you all here alone? This place does not seem to be in operation, so did you break in...?" Scott shares a look with Stiles. Telling the full truth would only work with someone acquainted with the supernatural and all of that must have been wiped away too. He runs his hands down his thighs to stall. "We got, er, permission to come up. There's an unsolved mystery that we are trying to crack. The resort is temporarily closed down, because of it and the blizzard..." He trails off, trying to balance the truth with the lies. "We are trying to help." "You do seem the helpful type," she observes dubiously, before crossing her right arm carefully with her sling encased left. The position helps her feel a bit more distant from their prying eyes; it feels like they are judging her, though that makes sense when she is expected to actually be someone, not a blank slate. She turns her attention to the fire. "I don't know a Liam. I don't know why we were on a team or what our objective was. All I remember is snow: white, cold, burning snow. I was on the ground trying to get up, but failed because everything ached. I actually felt like I was falling..." She presses her lips together, mulling over what else can be said. Those glowing, unnaturally blue eyes come to mind so vividly, it feels like she is staring at the creature again. They probably already think she is crazy enough without mentioning it. "There was a wolf, or maybe it wasn't a wolf, that kept coming towards me. I assumed it would maul me, but it didn't...I'm not sure how it was going to kill me, it seemed too patient and smart, not really like a typical animal. I freaked out and tried to crawl away when it got too close, which made all the pain a lot worse. I fainted. I'm assuming Malia scared it off or dealt with it, because I think I would remember it biting into me...Then I woke up here." Lydia wants to reach out to her, but prevents the urge with how previous attempts were received. She can tell that she is still struggling with the pain on top of everything else; however, the far off look in her eyes must mean something is not being voiced. They still have not shared her name...

"Okay, so everything before the snow is blank?" Stiles confirms, getting a curt nod in response that makes him want to throw something into the flames of the fireplace. This is not how the weekend's mission was meant to go. He is pacing in front of the hearth, chewing on the cap end of a pen as he thinks about where to go from here. She was also their only lead with Liam and the creature. How will his dad react? He's older--the older sibling, and feels responsible for her, and now she's a very familiar stranger..."You're sure that's it? So like an hour or so comprises your entire, new existence?" "Yes, Stiles." He ignores the slight irritation to her tone, because he is busy thinking. "Maybe we can jog her memory?" This is posed to the pack, like his sister is another murder case or mystery that he can add to his pin and red string laden board to puzzle out the connections and causes. He can solve this. "We should wait until my mom sees her and the doctors run legit tests. There may be rules on how to deal with head trauma patients," Scott disagrees gently. "Maybe the head trauma is not the cause...It could be something else?" "She is still healing and we don't know how bad everything is." Scott sees the way Stiles crosses his arm abruptly at the disagreement, annoyed. "I want to help her. We need to find Liam too." "The answer could lie with her if we just try and remind her who she is!" "That could make it worse." Lydia is unsure who she sides with between the two guys, but knows talking about the one in question like she is not present in the room is almost always a bad idea. Malia getting up from the wooden chair that was pulled from behind the receptionist's to rest behind the couch is mostly ignored. Supple leather comprises her winter boots that only make a faint clack against the wood floor. She moves purposefully, ignoring Lydia's questioning look as she rounds the couch and stands in front of it to peer down at its occupant. The lack of recognition causes her to feel a deep ache in her heart, while the early fear left a ragged wound behind. Taking a knee, she tilts her head slightly as she watches (Y/E/C) eyes look her over cautiously, rather than softly, because the one in front of her does not know her. "Uhm, thank you for saving me?" Malia ignores the tentative gratitude. "Malia, I-" Scott's concerned warning is stopped short when Stiles holds up a hand, silently asking for him to let whatever is about to happen unfold. He locks his jaw, knowing how affected his beta was when she arrived back at the lodge. She was practically incoherent in describing what happened, instead whimpering and growling when anyone got too close to the two and unwilling to let go of the one bundled up in her arms. She was more coyote than human... Scott slides to the very edge of the coffee table to intervene, if needed, as a precaution. She looks kind of angry...Hazel eyes are not nearly as searching as the green ones that were first on her, rather they seem to be invasively prying without hesitation. The shoulder length cut to her brown locks frames her face nicely, which makes her gaze that much harder to look away from. Being stared at like some sort of freak show is grating on her patience, so she eventually manages to glance away to look back at the fire, though her view is soon occupied by Malia shifting closer with a challenging look. A lightly tanned hand rests on the back of the couch, effectively caging her in. "If you have something to say, then please go ahead," she requests calmly. "How could you forget about me?"

"It wasn't a choice." "Then why aren't you remembering?" Malia almost snaps out the question. A scoff almost leaves her at the presumption, because this girl is really blaming her...Are they all placing the fault on her alone? Maybe the inkling that something is not right with some of them is because they are actually a threat; the lodge is becoming more inhospitable by the second.  "I can't. It's not like I'm repressing it," she replies sternly. "I don't know my own name, so it's definitely not personal. Get over yourself." "Quim. That is your name" Lydia offers, trying to mediate between the two, though she knows this is hard for Malia. It is hard for her too, but someone has to be on Quim's side as a source of support. "Oh, okay..." Fingers burrow deeply into the upholstery of the couch, nails threaten to extend and rip out the plush stuffing. Her coyote aspect howls in her mind. Malia grits her teeth against the hurt those words just stirred, trying to let anger mask it because she would have never thought this would happen to them. This is not how it should be. Relying on instinct, she surges forward, placing a hand firmly over Quim's heart to pin her in place as she joins their lips without asking for permission. She is her's, so she should not have to. The kiss is forceful, demanding and not at all how a kiss should be...It is also one sided. She is doing all the action, while her partner is frozen and unresponsive, though that stasis eventually breaks for Quim to turn her head away abruptly, before a hand is against her shoulder, pushing away. Trying to move away from Malia causes a sharp pull in her back that earns a wince. Fucking oww. "What the hell are you doing?!" "I was trying to jog your memory!" Malia counters. "You can't just kiss people!" "We've done way more than kiss, Quim!" That causes the indignation to leave her in a rush, making the anger feel unwieldy and too large for her to handle. She retracts her hand from Malia, re-crossing her arms as best she can to serve as a barrier between the two of them. Now, she is more confused. "What...?" "Maybe now isn't the time for this..." Scott attempts to reason with his beta. "Mal-" "My soulmate forgot me!" "Not on purpose." Lydia pipes up, earning a huff from the werecoyote, but at least she is listening to her. She links their hands to try and pull Malia away from the couch edge. "We need to be patient." "How are you handling this well? She forgot you too--both of us!" "Not. By. Choice." "I have two girlfriends...?" Stiles runs a hand down his face at the turn in conversation; this is not going to fix her memory, but of course that is what his sister takes away from the conversation. "Yes," he answers at the perplexed expression, rolling up his shirt sleeve to show his blank wrist. "Soul identifying marks. Ring any bells? No, well, you have two of them, so you have two soulmates, even though it is rare to have even one. Lucky you."  Oh... Green and hazel eyes no longer meet in a silent, tense stare off, settling back on the occupant of the couch. Quim falls silent under their attention, unsure what could be said when forgetting your literal fated other halves.

[seethinggold]

Golden eyes watched the white coated Huntress cut down a few Sabyrs with little to no issue. A long blade with it’s edge lighting bright white a few times before she’d swing and send energy flying at her foes to cut the beasts in two. She was handling herself well, too, almost too well for someone he could tell wasn’t using a Semblance to any degree whatsoever. She was skilled, and a part of him wondered if he should worry for himself if he were to ever lose control while he was here in Mantle. Though the abrupt heavy impact of a Beringel landing in front of the Huntress from above would break his train of thought, surprising both him and the Hunter.

It happens in mere seconds, the large Ape Grimm landing in front of the skull-headed person and it’s arm swinging to send them hurtling back to crash and embed into the wall that lined Mantle’s border. Flinching at the sight of it, the impact even just looking like it hurt like hell. He didn’t feel any bit sorry for the other Faunus one bit, just knew he didn’t want to be in her shoes in the moment. Though... he couldn’t just let her die to the Sabyrs that were getting too eager to bite into her flesh. Not with the situation here, they needed all the Hunters they could get to handle the horde that was fast approaching if it wasn’t on their doorstep already.

Leaping down  from the wall, he rushes forward with claws extending over and around his finger tips and bone blades piercing through his forearms. Grabbing one Sabyr’s throat as it leaps to attack the Woman Hunter stuck in the wall, and swinging it to hit the other down to the ground. Gripping the back of the first’s neck to rip it’s throat with the hand in front, and  tossing the body to free his hands to quickly repeat with the second.

With the two feline Grimm slaughtered, he steps over and leans to grip at the black suit he sees through the open front of the Hunter’s white coat. Pulling with a grunt of effort to free the Woman, though he has to let go as he stumbles backward with the weight of his movement, leaving her to fall to the ground where she thankfully catches herself. Taking a breath with her freed, before he turns his focus back to the Beringel.

Darting to the Ape, he sees it rear back an arm to swing at him. Gaud swiftly drops to slide under, swiping up at the elbow with his claws before getting to his feet on the other side. Turning in the later end of his slide, he gets to his feet again quickly, swiping claws at the back of one of the beast’s knees to make it drop down to one side, getting it’s arm lower. Two more rapid swipes and he digs his claws into the elbow of the arm the Beringel had tried to hit him with from both sides. Growling out as he pulls to tear the appendage free from the  monster it belonged to, letting it drop to the ground and begin to flake away.

Rolling forward after to avoid it’s other arm as he catches it reaching across it’s body to try and grab at him. Instead using the new positioning to slice at the creature’s shoulder twice in succession, cutting deep enough to render the arm useless as it swings loosely to it’s side. The Ape reacting to such, it roars out in anger and with it’s open maw and bared fangs tries to lunge to bite at him. Giving a perfect opportunity for his hand to thrust up, sending claws into the underside of the creature’s jaw. Pulling the Beringel down, he digs his other hand into the back of it’s neck and roars out with effort as he pulls at the beast’s head.

It takes no more than a half minute of tearing and squelching before the Wolf succeeds. Separating the Ape’s head entirely, letting the body tumble lifelessly to the ground, as he spots a Sabyr coming over the top of the wall a sort distance from the now coughing Huntress. With a single strong swing of his arm, Gaud chucks the flaking head of the beast at it’s kin atop the wall, sending the feline off the wall and out of sight again. Huffing out a hot breath among the cold air in satisfaction before he turns and begins back to the masked Woman. Seeing her using her large curved blade as a support to get to her feet again. A smart use of something so big, but it made him snicker to himself even still.

Stopping beside her, he keeps his fingers clawed and the blades along his arms out. Sensing, hearing, and smelling more Grimm approaching the gap in the wall they were near, ready to counter them when the time came. Though he wondered about her.  “Can you move?” He can hear her swallow something that had gotten stuck in her throat to allow herself to reply.

“Y-Yeah, I can move in a second here...” 

Watching her in his peripheral, Gaud gives credit where it’s due, she told him a second and only a second passed after she spoke before she was standing straight. Moving her blade from supporting her weight, to being supported on her shoulder with her horned head high and tail whipping behind her. Smirking a toothy grin, not only pleased at the sight and how true she spoke, but at the amusing pose she took. As if she was trying to impress him almost, even though neither of them knew the other.

“Thank you for that save.” 

He almost responds, but the sound of snow crunching draws his attention from her, forcing his smirk to a scowl again. Instead, he grunts at her in confirmation of her thanks, before growling starts to rumble from his throat as he bares fangs of his own. Sabyrs, five of them... no, six, turning his gaze as if on cue to catch the last jumping atop some of the wreckage of the hole in the wall. Though just as fast as his gaze is drawn to the sixth Sabyr, it’s drawn back to the Huntress seeing her blade enter his peripheral and light up with the white energy like before.

Only a second of thinking passes before he reaches with his left hand to rest it on the flat of the blade and push it down. Physically tell her to stand down as he takes a breath to do the same verbally. He can, after all, smell the blood on her, the hint of iron through the sweat from both of them and the biting cold air. She wouldn’t be able to keep going for much longer if things kept the way they were, he had the better chance. Fight fire with fire and all, if your horde problem is Grimm, get a Grimm to deal with it.

“You’re bleeding at a couple points on your chest and along your right side, dumbass, go to the slums where everyone’s gathering and get looked at by someone. I’ve got these little fucks handled.” Letting his toothy grin return as he growls and lowers himself, ignoring the slight discomfort he felt from the blade under his hand before lunging to the Sabyrs ahead of them with a flick of his tail. 

Grabbing the first Sabyr by the throat with his clawed grip, he smoothly swings his arm to batter a second one to the right with the first. Just as smoothly twisting himself with his arm rearing to toss the Sabyr in his grip at the third to the left. Dashing to the same to slash down with his claws at it’s throat, nearly severing the head in one swing before he twists his arm to grab the first by it’s neck once more. Gripping by the shoulder of one leg and digging his claws in to rip the appendage from the beast and throw it to the sixth that had pounced up atop some rubble.

The Sabyr ducked out of the way of it’s kin’s limb, he expected as much, but it wasn’t even his target in the moment with the first still flailing and hissing in his grip. No, he steps to the second again just as it recovers from being knocked down, stomping at it’s head to force it to the ground again. Seemingly ignoring the fourth just beyond it leaping to claw at him, before he raises the first to take it’s attack instead. The weight of the fourth with the damage he had already done to the firsts neck allowing the body to dislodge from the neck, though not entirely disconnect, as he lets it drop with a shove to trap the fourth beneath it struggling to get free. 

Golden eyes are trained on the one set low atop the rubble ready to pounce, but he hears the last behind him roaring first. From the sound of it, pouncing at him like the one in front was wanting to. Like the sixth was waiting to, as the moment he felt the fifth’s teeth press against his Aura over his shoulder and the claws dig into the life-essence barrier, he saw the sixth leap as well. 

Reaching behind, he grips the Sabyr on his back by the back of it’s skull mask, pulling it over and tearing it off from his shoulder, feeling just a bit of a catch in the fabric of his coat before it’s entirely free. Using his other hand to similarly stop the other, though by gripping below it’s bottom jaw instead. The fourth still beneath his foot, trying to claw through his Aura at his leg to get him off. The three feline Grimm all flailing about, powerless against him getting a chuckle as he bares his own fangs once more.

Twisting the fifth in his right hand to get to it’s throat, he bites into and tears away a chunk, spitting out the quickly flaking black fur and flesh chunk and tossing the body aside to scatter into the same particles. Using the now free hand to grab around the sixth’s mask to pull, tearing it bit by bit until, as the body falls limp, the skull mask comes free and he tosses both aside to disappear like the rest. Leaving the one under his foot for last, lifting his foot from it’s head to allow it to attempt something, which it takes the chance to try  and bite at his foot. A simple twist of which would stop it, preventing the jaw from closing proper, and allowing him to add all his weight to force the head to snap, killing the last of the Sabyr for the time being.

Looking in toward the city to try and spot the Huntress from earlier, catching only a glimpse of her coat disappearing behind a rooftop in the distance. He huffs a breath, freeing his foot before stepping to the rubble the one Sabyr had perched on, and taking a seat himself to keep watch for more Grimm. This was going to be a long fight...

[chainofbeing]

Adam is forced to re-evaluate his intentions Epicurosa: Laura Rodgers Harpy: Maxwell James Ginn (mjginnvoice@gmail.com) Surveyor: Lance Chapman, Nerys Howell, Mary-anne Stanek and Jesus r Carbo Ovig Nadal: Glyn Pritchard Score: Bethany Porter Lewis Sound design, Writing, and Adam Delta 5: Cai Gwilym Pritchard An Extra Special thanks to our patrons Theresa Shiban Anthony Hyde Zachary Fortais-Gomm email us at chainofbeingofficial@gmail.com follow the podcast on twitter @chainofbeing Subscribe to the patreon for exclusive content and rewards! 170119_hydrophone_river_3.wav by Leonsptvx

We stand on a great and sweeping mountain, a strange fog covers the landscape and movements of large obscured creatures and just about be made out. The wind shrieks in my ears, as if ordering me to leave this place, no oxygen, no protection from the harsh radiation of the sun, If I weren’t in the shadow of the tall eight armed god, Epicruosa, I imagine I would be having a much harder time standing here. Epicurosa puts on the onyx skull of a crow of some kind, decorated in banded white silver. They place a large hand on my back and push me toward the large circular chasm that lays open in front of us. It drops down, I lean over and see no bottom. They gesture toward it. “You want me to jump in?” I ask

[with each new mask epicurosas voice changes, the crow has a similar but more exaggerated quality to adams, and there is a hypnotic tone underneath that winds and and down as she speaks]

“What’s the issue? You’ll survive,”

“Yea but will I be intact?”

“I did not funnel myself into a physical form and bring you all the way out here just to watch you splatter at the bottom of a vast abyss. If I wished to do that I would have just thrown you from the top of that mesa where I rescued you from that... infected woman,” 

“Oh fuck, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I shuffle toward the edge and turn before jumping off “What’s down there?” I’ve never seen Epicurosa’s face without a mask, I see her gray textured skin, glowing yellow eyes and black teeth. Completely unobscured I imagine the sight of her bare face would destroy some part of me. Despite the skull mask I can see her frustration. “Think of the universe as a body, mortals live their entire life on the skin, maybe they’ll cut through the epidermis every so often but that,” she gestures to the open maw of the mountain “Is a place where the skin has been pierced and reaches the flesh and bone,”

“Oh,” I turn back to the chasm “And why do you want me to-”

Epicurosa sighs angrily and shoves me over the edge and I get the sense that something watches me fall, the stone sides of the huge hole that start as rough, natural looking stone soon gives way an impossibly smooth and flawless texture, too smooth even to seem mortal made, something approaches and I hit a layer of water, I sink through for a second, carried by my momentum, before I pass and continue falling, strangely though, it seems as if I am falling up, a circle or orange light approaches and I sail up into the air and back down again, landing on my feet on a wide square, white stone platform. The space is incredibly vast, there is a roof and sides to it, made of the same white stone of the pyramid, the sides go straight up for miles and then begin to slope inwards until they reach the wide flat ceiling which so far away that I can only just make it out through the atmosphere that sits, trapped in this impossible place. Huge pillars are carved into the walls that stretch high above me. Multiple balconies protrude out from the sides on which stand colossal figures, obscured by robe and fire, they look down upon me, vigilant guards holding flaming golden spears. The roof leads to an open octagonal hole through which a warm light shines through, thin trails of sand cascade down and land in a large garden whose borders are entirely defined by where the light falls. Four huge walls stretch the whole height of this space evenly around the octagon, partially barring my full vision of the garden, and even the whole space as the walls prevent me from seeing the side directly opposite. This place I’m stood in is so incredibly huge that the minimal light just barely illuminates the vast cavern. The floor at the bottom of the pyramid is covered in a variety of landscapes: rocky heaths, tors, promontories, and various other rock formations that jut into the air, forming long bridges, platforms and canyons, far off in the distance I see pools of some molten substance of various sizes dotted sporadically here and there, with long thin rivulets trailing around the landscape. At the bottom of the long staircase that trails along the side of the pyramid I see that the rock is actually something akin to glass, unrefined and opaque but still clearly glass. I look up at the angels in their flaming shrouds, their gaze still fixed on me. From Behind a pillar of glass a creature of some kind swiftly rushes up into the air, rising into the air far, far above me. I watch it sail out of sight toward the ceiling, and begin to walk, heading for the garden at the center. I take a step and hear something rushing toward me from above, I look up and see the creature headed straight for me, I draw my sword and ready myself, it moves so quickly that I can just barely discern its form. It descends in a blur of glistening black feather, and pale skeletal claw. It deftly avoids my blade and tears a gash in my arm. The thing lands on the sloping wall of the inverse pyramid behind my and skitters around. A thick oily substance drips from its feathers which stand in a show of active hostility, it turns it’s head toward me and I get a look at it’s face. For that is what it possesses. I can call it nothing but human in nature. A genderless and sickly face the black sludge oozes from it’s pale eyes and seeps from its snarling teeth. It’s features are sharp and cruel.

[the harpy’s voice is harsh and gravelly]

 “This is a place of knowledge and discovery, you sully the ground on which you walk, what say you, intruder?”

“Epicurosa, she sent me here,” The beast shivers as I say their name, as it speaks globules of the black liquid splatter and drip from its thin sickly lips

“If you were indeed placed here, and you didn’t intrude where you should not, as you are known to do, then you have been placed here to die!” the creature pushes away from the pyramid wall and spins as it goes for another attack. I hold my sword up in a defensive stance, it grabs the sword with its bone-like claws and shatters the metal. I go to grab it but the oil that soaks it’s feathers causes it to slip from my grasp. “All you know is to destroy! Even in your non-violent pursuits, you hurt those around you,”

“You think I don't know?” I say, gesturing toward the bird which hovers in the air with my shattered sword “do you not think the thought crosses my mind everyday?”

“And what have you done to atone? Promises to ‘be better’? The damage has been done, the collapse of Eden is your burden, the death of the others is on you,  your plan to simply not repeat your crimes is meaningless,” I gesture around me, my clothes soaked in black sludge and my arm bleeding freely “what do you think this is? My immortality, letting myself get dragged around by gods and bureaucrats and fucking fascists. Being thrown into bottomless pits, pursuing incomprehensible extra universal entities. Why do you think I do this?”

“You pursue Ovig Nadal in the hopes that you will understand the information that was forced into your mind, do not posture about duty and morals, your pursuits were as selfish as they ever were. Understanding what it is you have in your mind will not bring Eve back, it will not uncorrupt your realm in Eden,”

“Do not presume to know me, why can it not be both? Why can I not stop Ovig Nadal for the benefit of the universe and its inhabitants and for my own ‘selfish’ justification? Why must I ignore my own needs? I am all I have in this world, I am the only one who is there to help me,” I ready my firearm and raise it to the creature, whose face is almost entirely covered in the black oily sheen 

“And that is why you shall fail” it says as it explodes in a fountain of black oil. I look down at my now shattered sword, the shards lay scattered around me, some submerged in the black sludge, “What the fuck?” The sludge reeks of spent electrics and leaking batteries. I check the clip in my Sub-machine gun. 18 rounds. Thank the stars for high capacity magazines. I affix it to my hip and start to navigate the maze of glass pillars and strange formations. My arm starts to sting, I didn’t have enough time to restock on bandages, my last two got used up patching the wound created by the Rolder. I go through a small thin trench constantly adjusting my way to try and head in the direction of the garden at the centre of this strange vast place. I look at my reflection in the sheen of the dark glass wall, covered in blood and filth, “something has turned it’s benevolent gaze upon you,” I usually don��t think too hard into what the gods say, their words often hold more meaning than I could ever hope to know. That, combined with the fact that language and communication are based on experience, and the experience of a god is so infinitely different to any non-divine that they have to, essentially, dumb it down and feed it through the filter of what they know to be the non-divine experience means I tend let the general malaise of meaning and intent wash over me, but those words stuck out, they feel so out of place coming from the mouth of a god, usually so impassive and calculating. The trench begins to widen and the ground beneath my feet gradually changes from hard opaque glass to a coarse grey sand which stretches ahead of me shifting to a deep rich brown earth. The trench widens out further and I realise I have reached the centre. I turn and look behind me, the landscape now entirely different. The trench has been replaced with a short sloping escarpment, the pyramid on which I arrived now absent, however the resplendent golden glow of the ever observant angels, now mere spots illuminating the balconies on which they stand, remains consistent. I have no doubt that they watch me now through their shrouds aflame, I begin to march over the rough sand, headed towards the illuminated garden, before I hear a muffled voice. “Hey!” I stop in my tracks and my hand goes to my gun, “Woah” the voice responds to my initial act of hostility “Do you always pull a gun to calls for help?”

“Sorry,” I say to the general area, unsure of who I am addressing, “Recently everything I’ve come across has tried to kill me, or absorb me,” 

“Yeah but every star emits light, you don’t see planets orbiting a lightbulb do you?” 

“Huh?”

“A sun emits light, a lightbulb also emits light, but a lightbulb is not a star. In the same way, there are things here that will try to kill you, I am a thing that is here, but I do not want to kill you. You gotta take each interaction case by case man. I get it, you’re human, you like to see patterns, it’s in your nature,”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Aw man, this is gonna take forever,” a second voice chimes in

“Bah, ça fait aussi une éternité qu'on attend, hein” a third voice says in an old human tongue

“No we haven’t! we’ve only been here a few weeks,”

“the clock says 9567 years 3 months and 5 days,” 

a fourth voice points out

“Oh yeah because time totally acts like normal down here doesn’t it?”

“Hey!” I say, “at least let me know what direction to look in when I’m talking to you,”

“Turn left, bit more, bit more. Right, now forward a bit, look down,”

I look down and see what I had subconsciously registered as a rock buried in the sand surrounded by many others, the worn metal holds a remarkably similar colour to the glass rocks that peek out of the coarse sand, 

“You might need to do a bit of digging to get to us,” I begin to scrape and dig around and reveal a glowing blue eye of some kind

“Oh mon dieu, il a une sale tronche!”

“Tell me about it- what's up with the horns?”

I sigh, “It’s a long story,”

“Looks kinda like the landscape of this place,”

“It’s not lost on me,” I say as I excavate the side of what becomes increasingly clear to be a space probe of human design. And an old one. After a few minutes I finally manage to get a good portion of the body of this thing exposed. I lean against the side of the small crater I’ve dug out, foot resting against the probe itself.

“Better?” I ask

“Much, so what brings you to this angel infested hellhole?,”

“I was going to ask you the same thing actually, I was brought here by a god, got pushed down a big hole in a mountain and then I ended up here. She said this was a place where she could ‘find out some things about me’,”

“How deliciously vague,”

“My name is Adam, by the way. As in, like the Adam. The first human. Just feel like I should let you know,”

The eye stares at me in what I assume to be disbelieving silence 

“I mean is it as crazy as anything else you’ve seen here? You obviously have accepted the existence of the angels,”

“You make a good point, how much have we missed?”

“Aw man, I’m guessing you were sent from earth?”

“Yeah,”

“Right so, that’s gone,”

“Was it what I think it was?,”

“I don’t know what you think it was but probably, they put up a good fight if it’s any consolation, launched a bunch of conservation stations, made some good preparations. Wasn’t quite enough in the end but you know, at least they tried,”

[an awkward silence]

“so uh… what’s your deal?”

“We are Surveyor 14,”

“How did you get here?” I ask

“On faisait partie d'une mission pour découvrir à quoi ressemble/ressemblait l'intérieur d'un trou noir. On est équipés d'une technologie très puissante qui nous permet d'échapper à l'attraction gravitationnelle, avec les données toujours intactes, et rentrer au bercail, (bah...)dans un chassis détruit, c'est vrai, mais bon. Bon, le fait est qu'on a été envoyés en mission, puis qu'on a été absorbés et qu'on s'est retrouvés... ici. Pour une raison qui m'échappe, on s'est divisés en quatre personnalités différentes... et voilà où on en est,”

[adam pauses] “ah… I see”

“We’ve had a lot of time to think here, or maybe we haven’t, it’s kind of hard to tell,”

“Hey, I’m not really sure what I’m doing here so if you need someone to bounce ideas off of,”

The AI turns it’s one glowing eye toward me and focuses. “Are we alone in the universe adam?”

“You mean are there aliens? I probably should have mentioned this, so there’s this council-” 

“Not aliens, we mean, do you stand alone? An Island surrounded by multitudes of other Islands, or are we all intrinsically one collective? A continent that lessens with each death and grows with each birth,”

“I don’t know,”

“In the hundreds of thousands of years you’ve had to be alive, you’re telling me you haven’t thought of it once?”

“I feel empathy, if that’s what you’re asking, I feel the need to help others. If that drive comes from a place of real altruism (if such a thing truly exists) or some kind of need to atone for all the wrong I’ve done I cannot say,”

“(Bah) ça, c'est pas ce qu'on a demandé”

“My actions have an effect, as much as I wish they didn’t, I still am a part of the collective, I still am a cog in the great cosmic machine. At the most minute level I displace the air around me, my feet shake the ground ever so slightly with each step. Butterfly wings and typhoons. At the same time, it’s hard for me to feel a part of a population whose experience is so totally different to mine,"

“You think you’ve got a monopoly on isolation? On guilt?” 

“Hé! Redescends un peu!”

“You’re not the only one who feels guilt for what they’ve done, it’s an age-old feeling, and yes, there are certain circumstances of your life that are specific to you, but your experience is not as unique as you may think. You yourself admit you are part of the ‘comic machine’ as you put it. You are not the mouse to the man, You are the elder that tries to relate to their grandchild, the child speaks as a child, the elder speaks as an elder, and yet there is no sense of lost community within the tribe. So why not you? Even if you cannot find common experience in your past life, can you not find commonality in being in a harsh and uncaring universe? Are you so detached, that you relate more to gods than mortals? There are threats beyond even divine comprehension at play, and yet you still manage to separate yourself from the rest,”

“Wait, how do you know about-”

 “Deep down I believe you truly care for others, but until you believe that you are a part of the continent, you cannot truly enact a beneficial change in any meaningful way.”

I lean back against the side of the crater and look up the ceiling obscured by distance and darkness, 

“So, uh, you know how to get out of here?”

“I was hoping you’d know actually, you’ve been here longer than me, have you seen anyone or anything else enter and leave this place?”

“Occasionally the angels will blink out and then return, but other than that it’s been pretty quiet here,”

“I’m thinking we should at least head into the light, now I don’t think I’ll be able to carry you, is there a data core or something I could remove?”

“Data core?”

“Wouh, regardez s'il est chic celui-là avec ses data cores!,”

“We’ve got a hard drive, just pop open the chassis and then have a root around,”

I pry open a door on the outside of the probe and start searching for a harddrive amongst the instruments and circuits, I feel something with a handle on it

“Is this it?” I ask

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? If I squeezed your liver would you be able to tell me if I’d got the right organ?”

“It’s not quite the same but I see your point,” I grab a hold of the handle “See you on the other side,” I unlock the hard drive and pull it out from the machine. The glowing eye goes dim and I hold up the hard drive to the light coming from the octagonal opening in the ceiling to this place. I scramble out of the hole and dust myself off with one hand, the hard drive is heavy but I still manage to carry it in one hand toward the edge of the light, the gap between the two huge walls on either side of me is wide and sits perfectly at the barrier between the golden light and the dark. I stand at the edge and peer into the garden, twisting old trees bearing fruit, both alien and yet painfully familiar, thin leafed bushes and pale grass, the sand that tumbles down doesn’t seem to drown the garden and instead pushes outwards to the rest of this place. At this distance I’m finally able to clearly see what's on the inside of the walls. All along an intricate diagram is embossed in gold, strange shapes and symbols stretch the entire length of each wall. No words, not in any language a non-divine could comprehend, each wall is different. Perhaps they display, perhaps they praise. Maybe a bit of both. They display a scale of some kind, from what I can discern it represents a gradation, all flowing from a single source, each wall represents a different aspect or group of aspects and how they relate to said source. I pass the barrier between the dim cold of the glass fields and enter the warm garden. The light soaks through my skin. Ragged and bleeding I stand for a moment in the resplendent light.

[he simply breathes for a few seconds]

“Alright let’s get the fuck of here,” The garden rises ever so slightly, a shrine sits atop this small hill, smooth white stone, it encircles a hexagonal basin, golden light plays off of the surfaces like sunlight off of water. It’s perfectly geometric, angles and simple shapes fused with each other in 3 dimensional symmetry,  spiralling and tumbling down, too complex to be aesthetically pleasing but it’s not there for me. I approach the wide basin, at least my height in width, I kneel at it’s edge and peer into the golden liquid, it’s thin and only carries a slight luster and it’s deep, the edges on the outside curve inward down maybe half a metre, but looking into the deep liquid it seems to go outwards and much further down, some bright light dances around down there. 

“Now what?” I say to the silent hard drive that leans against the side of the basin. I stand and brush myself off. 

Suddenly, as if they had been stood there this entire time behind some curtain which now, upon my being here is dropped to reveal their presence, I see several angels, one hovers above the shrine it’s wings of golden shards extended outward, I take a step back, with the hard drive of surveyor-14 still in hand, it floats to the ground  It has in its hand a long spear of gold, at the tip of the blade a small fire blazes white hot. It lowers the spear to my chest, and slowly pushes it into my heart, not with any malice or intent to damage, but with a conviction akin to a sculptor using a chisel or a carpenter using a plane. The world, or at least my perception of it, begins to wobble and convulse as if seen through weeping eyes. This effect recedes and I see the world through the eyes of something else, through a veil of golden fire and white robe I watch a battle between two forces, one I recognise, the form of Ovig Nadal, who causes such an entropic effect on the universe and one I do not, the common form of a god, for sure, but not one that has deigned to make its presence known to me. Beyond this physical interpretation I get the sense something much grander takes place between vast formless things and that this display is simply the tip of the iceberg poking out from the great depths of the cosmic ocean, my perception of these events begins to wobble again as Ovig Nadal grabs the angel whose vision I borrow and brings it close to his face. He peers into its eyes, his multitudes of teeth thick with the molten glass that fills the angels and his pale eyeless head bleeding that polychrome matter, damaged and cut all over. I can only assume this is a form he manifested or grew from some pre-existing entity he possessed. He holds the angel close to him and says “You watch one step toward a better universe Adam, a step forward in the progression of this universe to a state in which it never will have been as it is now,” and as his opponent readies another attack, Ovig Nadal crushes the angel and the vision finally begins to falter too much for me to see anything clearly. 

I arise and pull back from the golden spear that intersects with my heart, I look up to see it now being wielded by Epicurosa wearing a wolf skull on her hooded head.

“We have deemed you ready, I will send you to the aftermath of that battle and-,”

“I still don’t understand, why me? Not why me. Why not you? You are the most powerful thing I have ever seen, you formed humanity and the Veatorians from nothing. You Shift cosmic forces with no effort or exertion. Why are you, or any of your peers unable to do this? I want to, I really do, it used to be that I wanted to understand what it is I learned, to make what I did worth it, but I have realised that it is not about making it worth it but is instead atoning, the intent has changed but my action remains the same. But I must know, why?”

She exchanges her wolf skull for that of some kind of large fish, not an animal I have ever seen.

“I could force your understanding, I could initiate a vision. It would torment you, as it does Might-Upon-Serenity, unable to convey or sufficiently re-create in your memory. Instead I will try to explain, in language. Gods are not physical beings, I believe a Veatorian philosopher once referred to us as “concepts with will” and while ‘concept’ carries certain connotations she had the right idea. Ovig Nadal is unlike anything this universe has ever seen, I do not know his origins, I simply know he is other and that we cannot affect him, you saw through that angel's eyes, there was nothing that Aratheau could do to destroy him. Our common forms can cause harm to each other: matter touches matter, but celestially, we cannot influence him, but he can us. I believe that you will be able to do affect him in a significant way, and the fact that there is something beyond even divinity that surrounds you and guides us to help you, proves that I am right,”

[with relief]

“Thank you,” 

“I am going to send you to that place within the vision, follow him. And whatever he intends to do, stop him,”

“I know his intentions, Might upon serenity, in a moment of clarity as we shared a vision corrupted by Ovig Nadal, she told me he seeks Eden,”

Epicurosas whole demeanour shifts, if I were to assign emotions to a divine being of pure though I would have called it… fear

“If that is indeed the case, then our situation is far more dire than previously anticipated. Let us hope you will be able to stop him before this happens”

A portal manifests behind me. “Could I ask something of you?”

“You may ask,” I hold up the hard drive

“Would you construct a body for them? Make them whole please, they’ve helped me on my journey, I think they deserve it,”

“That I can do,” she takes it from me and I walk through the portal, leaving behind the divine setting of glass landscapes and perfect stone, I step through into my new setting, a collapsed city aflame...

[hvlfwygod]

spies | chase & ben

summary: their first night in Bonavista, Ben and Chase decide to try sharing a dream again to see what they can discover

Chase opened his eyes and looked at the vast arrangement of stars before him that always met him when he dreamed while wearing the pendant. He looked over at his companion, a little less than enthused to be sleeping next to him once again in the physical world, as well as to be sharing his dream space with him. They hadn't tried to dream together since the first time, in Quebec, which was now two provinces and a ferry away. Chase had tried to access the glimpse into the world of the hag, but when he came upon it, he found that he wasn't able to understand it, as though the people in his visions were speaking a language that his mind could not comprehend, let alone begin to decipher. He couldn't fully make out any appearance either, as the movements of the people were shoddy and jerky, as though coming through from an antenna with poor reception. Ben had no luck on his own either, apparently, and so they were joined at the wrist, in hopes that their previous luck with getting information while using this method together might repeat itself.

Chase took a large step away from Ben to show that he wasn't going to try to hit him again. "Are you lucid?"

Ben kept his eyes closed for a moment as he felt himself emerge into the dream space. He'd fallen under almost immediately, having skipped his now normal window for sleeping in order to try to find more information with Chase. He'd tried on his own but had no luck. Every time, the town before him had been shrouded. It was like walking through a halfway completed painting. He was there, the world was concrete, but in a constant silhouette.

Now that they were there, sleeping inside the town's borders, Ben was hopeful that they'd finally start getting some answers. They were still mostly moving in the dark with a shitty flashlight and he was eager to figure out how to get this over with as soon as possible.

Ben opened his eyes. Already, the stars seemed brighter. He let them take his tension away and clear his mind. Chase was there a moment later. Ben eyed him, noting he had stepped away. Ben did the same, walking ahead, wasting no time. "Lucid."

Chase followed after Ben, matching his stride as he approached the place that seemed like the edge of their space, as though this was not the expanse of the mental world and instead a physical place, keeping them inside as much as it kept the Hag out. Chase thought of it almost as a snowglobe, and stared out into the fog-like space past his vision. The space shifted, taking shape before them, and they saw the town once again, as they had when Ben first found this space. The shape moved again, showing the lighthouse, as it had the last time. "What did we want to look for this time? Who bought the lighthouse? Where the thing that summoned her is?"

”Both?” he offered, looking out into the town. They’d very briefly walked a few of these streets earlier, but they hadn’t gotten close to the lighthouse and it was here before them in perfect detail. Ben put his hand against the spot that seemed like the edge of their space, and the lighthouse suddenly was closer. He moved his hand away. “Should we try to go inside?”

Chase’s heart hammered in his chest. The last time he’d been close to going into the lighthouse, he’d been called away, and saw... He pushed the thought away, telling himself that it was all just a dream, and that he was protected now. He nodded and licked his lips. “Yeah, sure.” He thought about going inside, and they passed the threshold. He took a step closer as he looked around, tense as his brow furrowed. The space was open but rather empty, with a few trunks and a desk pushed to one corner, and Chase looked to the staircase, a feeling of dread coming to him along with the feeling of knowing they had to go up there. “Up we go?” He focused on getting them to the next level.

Ben nodded. The lighthouse seemed... off, and Chase seemed more nervous than he’d been the entire journey. Ben was trying to keep his cool, or at least seem calmer, not sure if their combined emotional state would disrupt what they were able to see. Once they both agreed to go upstairs, they were. Everything felt strange and unpleasant and Ben recoiled.

Chase looked around the lighthouse, wringing his hands nervously. A fixture with what looked like a circle of brass bowls hung above them, and Chase knew that this is where the lights would shine. "Don't look at that." He frowned and looked out one of the windows. "It blinded me before." He squinted and tilted his head, staring out toward a misty fog that seemed to cling to the glass, with black dots that seemed to radiate some sort of energy. The longer he looked at them, the more the pattern that they were in seemed familiar, and he realized with a jolt that they were the constellations that he would stare at whenever he slept. Black constellations on a milky white sky, almost a negative version of where they were standing. He felt sick and licked his lips again. "This is... something's wrong here."

Ben followed Chase to the window, feeling a chill creep up from the floorboards, travel along his legs, slide over his spine. He shivered as he gazed outside, watching the world melt into... He didn’t have a word for it besides a nightmare. They were standing on the other side of a nightmare, gazing into it. Ben felt sick, but at the same time, compelled to reach for it, like he was longing for some truth inside the horrors. “Is this her? Like... her... powers?” He thought talking about her too much might summon her, so he spoke quietly.

Chase rubbed the side of his neck as he looked out. "I think... so?" He focused on what was happening and willed himself to take a step forward. The outside twisted, and they were no longer in the lighthouse suddenly, but out on a colourful street, gazing into a window, then inside the window they were looking into, in a small, somewhat messy room, where someone was was making soft, restless noises in their sleep. Chase looked to make sure that Ben was still with him, chest full of relief when he saw that he was. "This is..." His voice was barely above a whisper. The edge of their dreamscape was now out the window they were just looking in from, first a foggy sky with black spots, and then images that caused Chase's heart to sink with dread. "This is who she's targeting."

It was like stepping directly into a cold body of water. They were submerged into a vast, terrifying darkness, speckled with the sleeping person's fears. He glanced away from the nightmare, looking down at his hands. He and Chase seemed to be faintly, faintly golden. Morpheus's protection seemed to be keeping them safe, unseen. Ben could not bring himself to relax, though, despite this. The sense of danger, of doom and death, was everywhere.

Ben moved back, and they shifted somewhere else. Another bedroom, this one immaculately clean, and a child crying out in their sleep. A complicated darkness bearing over them, bleeding onto the bedsheets. Ben turned his head away. He remembered his own nightmares, how encompassing they'd been, how damaging. Was this town experiencing them, night after night?

Chase swallowed as the dream moved around him. He felt heavy and cold, like something was weighing him down. A sudden panic took place as he realized that this was not a weight on his chest, as the times before, but a constriction from anxiety. He took a breath to calm himself and then rubbed his eyes. He took a step forward when he saw the child, but the room shifted again, to a couple, both with dark over them. Chase clenched his jaw. "She's here. She with all of them." He wasn't sure if he was saying these thoughts out loud or in his head to Ben. "We should... What did we want to see? Let's just go, we can go to the lighthouse in the morning."

Ben didn't want to watch anyone else plagued by nightmares, so he almost agreed, but he shook his head. "Try to focus on something else. We need to find this man, we need to figure out what summoned her and— They were back in the lighthouse, and the door downstairs was opening. Ben tensed up, unsure if this was a dream coming for them, or if they were somehow witnessing the waking world undetected. Ben looked to Chase. "Think that's him?" he whispered, almost mouthed with no sound at all for fear of being heard.

Once back in the lighthouse, Chase stared at Ben, his heart thumping in his chest. He thought about his eyes, and saw them, and exhaled a sigh of relief as he realized that he was dreaming. He nodded slowly at Ben, and turned, thinking about taking them down the stairs when he saw her; two yellow eyes gleaming as they stared at him, razor sharp teeth forming a grin.

Chase felt his heart stop. It was a dream, he told himself, and his father’s pendant would protect them, and there was no way that she could be looking at them. He couldn’t breathe. She was looking at them, something told him, she was using whatever magic that they were to spy back at them. His chest tightened, and he heard footsteps coming up the stairs as the hag cackled. “Spies!” She called out. “Spies! Spies!”

Chase grabbed Ben’s arm and forced them back, forced them out of there, tried to force them awake.

Ben felt Chase lagging behind him; he was already at the bottom of the steps and he was still above. Ben saw the outline of a man in shadow, now sitting at his desk, smoking, opening mail. All Ben needed was a name.

Something cold passed along his back and moved up the stairs, but he ignored it. Ben got closer, and the man didn't notice. He tried to see the man's face, and just saw shadow, but he got no reaction so he figured he was safe. He turned toward the desk, trying to make out the scrambled letters...

"Spies! Spies! Spies!" Ben was back upstairs, the hag's laughter bouncing off the walls.

"She can't hurt us, Chase," he said as a hand closed around his arm and pulled him backward. "Just go somewhere else, just—" 

Ben woke up.

[shayerahol]

The Winter Woods

@killervibedaily

Fairytale

As long as he could remember, Cisco had been warned not to go into the Winter Woods.  It was no place for adults, let alone children. None who wandered there returned. As if by some unholy magic,the cold never left the Winter Woods. The blanket of snow remained untouched by the seasons, hence the name. It was rumored that a house sat at the center of the woods. It was, so it was said, home to a sorceror, the source of the unending winter.

But Cisco was, by nature curious child, and he wandered as close to the woods as he dared as often as he could. He would sit at the edge of the woods watching the snowfall, wondering if he'd ever discover the secrets of the Winter Woods.

One day he saw a girl in the woods. She was running and giggling, no older than him. It was nearly enough to draw him into the woods, but the sun was setting, and if he wasn't home in time for dinner he'd have to face his mother's wrath. Besides, the Winter Woods weren't a place he wanted to be alone at night.

The next day, when he returned to the edge of the woods, he'd nearly convinced himself that he'd never seen anyone in the first place. That anything he'd seen was an illusion, a trick of the magic that permeated through the woods. It was a trick to lure him in. 

But then he saw her again, closer this time. And this time, she saw him, too. She ventured closer. The girl was of a fair complexion, with long reddish brown hair. Cisco was drawn in by the sight of her. Her eyes were wide as she inspected him. 

Unsure of what else to do, Cisco thought it best to introduce himself.

"I'm Cisco," he began, uncertainly. "Would you like to be friends?"

"I can't leave the woods," the girl replied.

"I can't enter them." 

"We could met here." Cisco liked this girl already; she seemed nice.

"Same time tomorrow?" He asked.

Just then a voice unfamiliar voice called through the woods. The sound of it alone was enough to cause a chill to run through Cisco's entire body.

"Caitlin!"

The girl froze. 

"I have to go," she explained hurriedly. 

With that she darted away from him.

"It was nice to meet you, Caitlin," he called to her retreating form.

She turned and gave him a smile.

"It was nice to meet you, too, Cisco."

And then she was gone. 

From that day on, Cisco met Caitlin at the edge of the woods everyday. They spoke of everything they could think of with each other. The found many similarities between each other, among which was their mutual thirst for knowledge. They shared as much information between them as they could. That was not to say they didn't share feelings as well. In fact, Cisco and Caitlin came to share everything with each other. They grew close, nearly inseparable, until one day Caitlin didn't show up. 

Cisco waited for hours. It was close to sundown, but Cisco no longer feared the Winter Woods, for they were home to Caitlin. He was going to look for her. For the first time, he crossed the border into the woods. He shivered, unprepared for the harsh weather. The wind and snow flurried against him, as if to ward him off, but he was determined. Determined though he was, Cisco didn't make it far before he was discovered by his brother Dante.

Dante dragged him out of the woods. It was the most difficult day of Cisco's young life: first Caitlin was gone, with no explanation, and now he was not only late for dinner, but caught in the Winter Woods. He knew his punishment would be severe. 

And it was. Cisco had never seen his parents so upset, so scared. He was sent to bed without dinner, and was to go nowhere without supervision, for the rest of his childhood. Never to enter the Winter Woods again. 

Years passed, and though his mind wandered, Cisco never forgot Caitlin. He wondered where she was now, why she didn't show up that day. Above all, he wondered if she missed him. Gods knew he missed her.

The rumors around the Winter Woods had quieted in the years he was separated from Caitlin. He was an adult when they started up again.

There was a witch in the Winter Woods, more vile than the sorceror before her. The woods winds were harsher than before; its temperatures, colder. Worst of all its borders were expanding. King Joseph had posted a handsome reward for the solution to this problem. So far three men had braved the woods, attempting to free them of the witch's hold. The first man's weapon was love. The second's was force. The third's was science. All had failed. 

Cisco knew he had to go. His plea to his family is that the reward would help them, as money was tight since Dante had injured his hands and could no longer do skilled labor. They were just desparate enough that his conviction paid off.

Of course, his real reason for going was much more selfish: it could be his only chance to find out what had become of Caitlin. He could never pass that up. And maybe when the curse was broken, he could finally see her again. This time with nothing to keep them apart.

Knowing the trials he'd face, Cisco dressed as warmly as he could, and packed a bag with as much food as he could carry. He didn't know how long he'd be gone. He was met with tearful goodbyes from his family as he ventured forth to carry on with his quest.

The sun was going down as he reached the edge of the woods, now much closer than where he used to meet Caitlin. He was wise enough now to be wary of the Winter Woods at night, but he was resolute enough that it didn't matter.  He stepped into the frosty air, welcoming the sting on his face. 

By the time he reached the old border where he had once met with Caitlin, it was dark. He could still see well enough from the moonlight reflected by the snow. He was trudging through at least a foot of it, and it was getting deeper the longer he walked. The wind and snow began to sting violently against his face. It was as though the closer he got to the heart of the forest, the more the weather tried to force him out. But his resolve was firm. Cisco soldiered on.

As he neared the heart of the forest, the trees which had once been a lively mixture of pine, birch, oak, and maple, began to become unrecognizable, lifeless, black husks. Their branches spindly, and, Cisco was sure, sharp under the snow. Icicles hung from them, deadly and threatening. And the closer he got,  more of them started to fall. Soon, he was running to avoid his death. He couldn't avoid all of them. An Icicle struck him in the arm, the force of it knocking him to the ground. Even he was numb from the cold, it was damn painful. Cisco knew that removing it could cause him to bleed out, but keeping the icicle in would continue to lower his body temperature which was already dangerously low. It would be easier to give up. He could just lie down. It would be like falling asleep, all the pain would melt away. But he couldn't fail his family like that. He couldn't fail Caitlin. Just the thought of her strengthened his resolve. With gritted teeth, he pulled the icicle from his arm and removed his scarf to wrap around the wound. He hoped it would be tight enough. He stood up and kept walking.

It turned out, he was only steps from a clearing. He was at the center of the woods. A humble cottage sat in the middle of it. It was unsuspecting, cozy-looking even. Definitely not what Cisco would've expected for a witch. Somehow, though, it's exactly what he'd have pictured for Caitlin.

He mustered all of his strength and ran toward the cabin. As he entered the cabin, he was hit with a blast of cold air. It was colder there than it was outside. He shouldn't have been surprised, it was the center of the magical energy, still part of him had hoped for refuge.

In the center of the room, there was a chair frosted over in ice. The witch sat upon it. Her hair was as white as snow, her eyes bluer and colder than the winter sky. She was wickedly beautiful. Her features were familiar. She had aged; she had changed, but that was unmistakably Caitlin. His Caitlin. Cisco couldn't stop himself from breathing her name.

"I've always hated that name," the witch snarled back at him.

"That's not how I remember it." He laughed humorlessly.

The witch stood and walked up to him. She formed dagger-like ice claws at her fingertips, bringing her hand threateningly close to the side of his face.

"Would you like a reminder?"

Cisco took a step back. It was calmly done, she had to give him credit for that.

"You know, I'm surprised you made it so far," she continued. "I get stronger each time someone tries to break the curse. And I've already destroyed three champions."

"What happened to them?"

"The first was Ronnie. Caitlin loved him. That was back when she was running the show half of the time. I don't have to worry about that anymore," she explained. "But it wasn't true love. There was always a piece of Caitlin that belonged to someone else. And Ronnie died for it. Caitlin's always felt guilty about that. Nearly drove her crazy."

"Then there was Hunter. He tried to fight me. Almost won, too. But he didn't, and I grew stronger still."

"The third guy, Julian, didn't stand a chance, nothing more than a distraction. It was fun to toy with him though. I don't get many house guests."

She smiled. It was a twisted, cruel expression. It reminded him nothing of the Caitlin he knew. That Caitlin was still in there somewhere. Cisco knew it. She had to be. He didn't know how to proceed, but he was going to freeze to death if he didn't do something. It was all on the line, now or never. 

He had to reach Caitlin. So he decided to something incredibly stupid. Cisco cupped the witch's face in his hands. To his surprise, she let him, watching with amusement.

"Caitlin, I know you're in there." He ignored the witch, and spoke to the friend he'd known years ago. His best friend. "Caitlin, I love you."

"Did you really think that would work?" The witch let out a small chuckle at his failure.  Cisco's eyes welled with tears that immediately froze to his face. "You are cute, though. We could have some fun."

The witch pulled him in for a kiss. Cisco let her. He'd resigned himself to death. He'd failed. failed himself, his family, Caitlin. But the moment their lips touched something changed. He could feel the warmth rushing back into his body, so quickly it was painful. He pulled back and looked at the witch. Her hair was changing back to brown. When she opened her eyes, they were brown, too. His Caitlin had returned to him. The curse was broken.

"True love's kiss..." he marveled.

Caitlin wrung her hands.

"I'm sorry she did that." She glanced at him nervously.

"I'm not." Cisco pulled Caitlin close to him. "Is this okay?"

Caitlin nodded, and kissed him. It was sweet. In that moment, Cisco knew he'd do everything over again for another kiss from her. He just hoped he wouldn't have to. 

After pulling away, Caitlin looked at him. It was as though she couldn't believe he was real.

"I love you, too, Cisco."

From that moment, they were inseperable. They fell back into their friendship as though they'd never parted. Within a year, they were married.

Cisco collected the reward money, and his family never had to want for anything again.

They all lived happily ever after, and Cisco was glad he never listened when they warned him not to go into the Winter Woods.

[mintchocolateleaves]

On The Fantasies of Moonlight (2/3)

Summary: Aoko deserves someone who won’t lie to her, who won’t be selfish with her. And Kaito…? Kaito is selfish.

A/N: So. I finished part two. I don’t know if I’ll manage to finish the fic within part three, or whether I’ll need to add a fourth part into it, but I doubt you guys mind either way. Please enjoy!

[Part One]

Kaito wakes up to a dry mouth and the tingling of regret on his tongue.

He’d made a mistake last night, drinking as much as he had, toeing the line and then vaulting across it without a thought as to why he’d not crossed it in the first place. Admitting the truth to Aoko, giving in when he’s capable of being a stubborn force to be reckoned with, was…

He shouldn’t have let himself do it.

But he had, and now, he is lying, staring up at his ceilings and counting cracks in the paint. He needs to repaint the ceiling, something a little softer in colour from white, a beige or some natural pastel brown, maybe. He doesn’t know what colour, but he needs something new.

Confessing to Aoko was a mistake.

Not because it made her feel happy, gosh, her happiness is never a mistake, even if it tears him apart too, but because he knows it will lead to his own downfall. Because now, he knows what Aoko’s lips taste like, knows how soft they are, apart from the edges, where she’s bitten into them when she was younger, the skin a little tougher.

“I’m fucked,” Kaito mumbles to himself, throwing his arm up and covering his eyes. The cracks in his ceiling reminds him too much of the cracks in himself. “I’m well and truly fucked.”

His phone buzzes beside him, and he knows without answering that it’s her, that she’s phoning to talk about his answer yesterday, to see if he’d been serious or not. To hear him say he was.

Because they’re not fools, neither of them. Aoko may not know when he’s lying to her, he’s good enough that sometimes it borders on saddening, but she would know on this. She’d see it in his eyes, somehow.

Aoko may not know some parts of him, but she does know most of him. She knows parts of him that Kaito’s tried to hide away, sees the emotions he hides away whether he wants her to or not.

She sees him, even when Kaito wants to hide away.

He literally needs to become someone else if he doesn’t want her to see him.

Maybe that’s a plan for how to deal with this, to dress up in a separate identity for the foreseeable future, until Aoko forgets about their conversation, and become someone else. Even if it’s just for a single day he could–

No.

Becoming someone else is one step closer to KID, and isn’t that the one thing he’s trying to move on from?

He doesn’t regret those days, of course not, he’d grown from them, learnt to deal with loss and use up the endless energy that had swam inside him ever since his father had passed away, but they’re over with. Kaito can’t fall back on them every time life becomes a little… uncomfortable.

Because he is uncomfortable.

About all of this. He’s uncomfortable with lying to the one person he wants by his side the most, with denying them both what they want because of a decision he’d made eight years ago and has had to live with since.

He’ll cope, because who is Kaito not to? He’s survived bullets and evil organisations, so he should be able to survive this, even if this hurts more than a bullet.

Fuck.

Kaito pushes himself out of bed, leaves his phone unanswered on his bedside table, and heads out of his bedroom.

He’s always been good at dealing with thing when he’s got a plan, but Kaito’s best work comes when he’s improvising, and he thinks, faintly, that maybe he should follow as such with this whole… situation.

So Kaito opens his bedroom door and decides that improve will be his plan moving forwards. He figures things can’t get much worse than they already are now.

-

Things get worse than they already are now.

Not really, but well, there’s a banging at Kaito’s door about two hours later and Kaito knows that opening the door will make things worse. In like, a – she’s going to murder me for not answering her calls – way.

He lowers the paintbrush he’d been using, wipes a smidge of paint from his fingertips against his shirt, and heads towards his door. The door is locked, the chain on the latch, and part of him is surprised he’d even bothered. Maybe as a precaution in case Aoko tried to force her way inside with the key he’d given her years ago.

Who knows?

Kaito doubts that Aoko’s ever actually used the key he’s given to her. They usually congregate at her house rather than his apartment. She’s probably only been her three or four times. Maybe because unlike him, she’s always been one for respecting boundaries.

He unlatches the door, opens his door and quirks an eyebrow.

Aoko, understandably so, stands in front of him, cheeks red and flushed. For a moment, he thinks it’s the result of embarrassment. But then he realises that she’s breathing heavily too.

She’d probably been in a rush to get here.

“Do you know,” Aoko says, after a moment, as he watches her try to catch her breath. “That I’d forgotten which of these buildings you were in, and which floor, because you’re always breaking into mine.”

Kaito’s answering grin is sardonic. He says, “Would’ve thought you’d realise it was building fourteen, apartment twelve. The numbers are very easy to remember.”

Kaito is not ashamed to admit that he’d pushed for the apartment when he’d realised the numbering system. He’d been adamant, once he’d realised the irony of KID living in the numbered apartment: B1412.

Is it pushing things, and his own ego to be living in 1412, maybe? But it’s something that leaves Kaito snickering every so often.

“Fanboy,” Aoko says after a second, and her lip curls as she says it, as if being a KID fanboy is something the be revered. Well, frankly, Kaito likes his fans. They’d always been so much fun during his heists. He’d even got them to help him, that one time, and that’d been amusing, mainly because they’d not realised until he’d left with the gemstone.

“Guilty,” Kaito says, raising his hands. And then, after a second more of watching her, he adds. “What’re you doing here, Aoko?”

Aoko flushes and lifts a hand up to poke him in the chest. He tilts back on the back of his feet, then adjusting his balance to bounce back.

“You didn’t answer my calls,” she says, after a second. It’s difficult to tell if she’s more upset or angry at the lack of response. Kaito doesn’t really want to hear either emotion, so he tries to ignore them, to forget they were there in the first place. “You’re ignoring me.”

“I wouldn’t have opened my door to you if I were ignoring you.” Kaito says after a second. He debates whether to wave her into the house – that means then, they’re sort of required to talk – but Aoko doesn’t give him the time to debate, walks in before he can conclude which.

“It would seem not,” Aoko says after a second. She kicks her shoes off, replaces them with a pair of slippers she’d brought with her – Kaito doesn’t have a spare pair, and Aoko knows him well enough to know he wouldn’t pick them up – “but my phone calls…?”

“I must have left my phone in my bedroom this morning,” Kaito lies, and then, because the one thing he doesn’t want to do is lie, that’s the whole point of this entire situation, he sighs. “I did leave it in my room.”

“You answered me yesterday,” Aoko says, and Kaito isn’t so stupid as to simply forget that. He knows that he did. It sucked, being open with his feelings. “But you weren’t happy about me forcing you too. I guessed that you were avoiding me because of it.”

Kaito pulls a face.

Don’t lie, his subconscious warns him, waving a finger at his nose. Kaito kind of wants to kick his subconscious for telling him what to do, even if it, kind of right in what it’s saying.

“That’s why I left it in my room.”

Aoko reels back, and Kaito aches at the hurt in her eyes. He follows her into his sitting room, leaves her there for a second to process his words, and heads into his kitchen.

He returns with two glasses of aloe-vera juice, placing the glasses on the small table by his couch. And then, instead of sitting, he heads towards the canvas he’s been working on, to the easel that keeps it propped up away from the floor.

“Sorry,” Kaito says, “I didn’t want to lie to you about it.”

Aoko sighs, and he can feel her gaze watching his back, even as he picks back up his brush, glancing at the paint palette that’s gone forgotten on the table. He grabs the palette too.

“Why didn’t you want to answer me?” Aoko’s always been someone to go straight for the jugular, and that doesn’t stop just because the answer has been torn from his throat. “You said something about us ruining each other, but I don’t understand.”

Kaito grimaces.

He takes a moment to try and find the right words, something to make her understand, something that means he doesn’t need to vocalise what he’s truly hiding but comes up short.

He focuses on his painting instead, adds some more black onto the canvas, silhouetting ravens against a background of bright, pastel colours.

“Kaito,” Aoko continues. And then, because he doesn’t respond, her voice sharpens. “Don’t I deserve an answer?”

“I gave you an answer,” Kaito responds, and he turns, eyes wild, paintbrush sending a violent line of paint across the canvas, as he faces her. He supposes that he’s snarling, turning to a defensive sort of answer. “I gave you your answer yesterday, when you forced it out of me.”

Aoko’s brow furrow, pulling down into a glare. She says, “Exactly! I had to force it out of you.”

Kaito tightens his lips.

“I had to force the words from your lips when we were both drunk, Kaito!” She cries, frustration bleeding through her words. “If the answer was yes – purely yes – then you would have just said so months ago. But you didn’t and don’t I deserve to know why you made me wait so long?”

Because – because of so many reasons –

Kaito should have to explain himself to her. He doesn’t have to explain everything, because the truth hurts and it’ll tear them apart, whether he approaches it kindly or not.

Because – because how does he explain that Aoko probably thinks he’s selfish, but really, he’s saving himself the devastation when her proclamations of love turn sour, curdling.

“How could I give you the answer, Aoko?” Kaito says, and for a moment, there is heat in his voice, but then, everything goes cold. Not a cruel coldness – an apathetic chill that rises up and leaves him feeling empty. “You hate me. I love you, but how can I say yes to you, when you hate me?”

And there’s his real reason.

How can he admit Aoko’s confession when she hates him as much as she loves him? Because she’s said, time and time again how much she hates KID, how the thief seemed to steal her father from her, how people she works with chides her family for never being able to solve the case.

How can he accept her confession, when her hate for him, is the one reason she became a police office in the first place?

Aoko squints. She says, “If you think I hate you, Kaito, then you’ve really missed the point of my confession.”

Something crawls up his throat, a wail, a sob. Something sad, and Kaito throws the paintbrush onto the table, drops the palette beside it, and takes a step towards her.

His voice is empty when he echoes, “You hate me.”

“No,” Aoko says, firm, and she reaches out to him, pulls him towards her. “I could never hate you, no matter what.”

“You’re a liar too then,” Kaito says, and he doesn’t let himself get emotional enough, tries to push it down, but it simply rises back up again. Misery, he thinks – yesterday he’d thought he was being tortured, his heart being squeezed, but now. Now he feels something worse. “Because you think that’s true.”

“It is true.”

Kaito blinks, closes his eyes for a second and tries to breath. He feels like he’s suffocating instead.

“I’m the one person you hate most in this world, Aoko.” Kaito says, and he doesn’t know why he’s saying it, it’s a confession of the criminal kind, something he’d promised himself he’d never say to anyone. He’s a liar even to himself, it seems.

This is it, huh. He’s coming clean.

She really will hate him after this, and fuck, Kaito’s probably going to have his criminal record placed against his civilian one, in the same file now, isn’t he?

“I don’t–” She’s smart, but even the smartest people overlook things they don’t want to believe. Kaito knows as much. “You’re not–”

“I’ve never once looked for the spare key to your apartment,” Kaito breathes, “I just break in.”

Aoko presses her lips together, shakes her head. “No–”

“I don’t like hearing about your work day, because I don’t like hearing about thieves getting caught.” Kaito continues, and when Aoko lets go of him, tries to step back, he grabs her instead, keeping her in place. “I don’t like the idea of being caught for something.”

“Kaito,” Aoko says, “stop it.”

“I don’t like spending time around the police–”

“Stop it.”

“–because I am a menace to society, and I’ve taken up enough of their time already.”

She shudders, pushes against him. It’s not enough to make him step back, and so Kaito stays, watching her. A quiet whisper, “you’re lying.”

“Not this time,” Kaito says. He grits his teeth, hesitates. “You know I’m not lying.”

She lets out a slightly choked cry. This time, when she pushes, Kaito staggers back. “You – You can’t be him. I, that’s not how this is supposed to work. You’re not the bad guy, you’re not the person I’ve been chasing.”

“Well, I’ve never much been one of the good guys Aoko.”

“This isn’t fair.” Aoko whispers. And she lifts her hand, wipes at her cheeks. Fuck, Kaito’s gone and made her cry, he’s horrible, he’s breaking. “It’s cruel. You’re – you’re cruel.”

She spares him a single look before she rushes out.

The door to his apartment slams shut as leaves, and the sound echoes in Kaito’s ears, over and over again. This is what he’d been scared of, this is the result he’d always been dreading, but knowing was always around the corner.

He sinks into the cushions of his sofa, lost in the middle of his home, and buries his face in his hands. His shoulders shake.

Kaito, shakes.

It’s not fair, Aoko’s right about that much.

-

[Part Three]

[01littleunicorn]

11 t Takumi no pairings

And there you go!!! ^^

Sorry for the wait, the correction on this one took longer than expected ^^’’

Also be ready for an intense bucket of angst with this OS. I decide to explore an unseen part of the game and throw some personal headcanons in at the same time. Hope you still like it!

11. Keep going. You’re almost there.

T. Injury

Character: Takumi

Warnings: Minor description of injury but nothing graphic. A shit ton of angst!

Sorry in advance for any depression I may cause ^^’’

(For those interested, here’s the song I listened to during all the writing process. It’s Falling Inside the Black from Skillet. It’s gonna give you a good idea of the general ambiance ^^)

A striking blue skyis all he can see as he slowly opens up his eyes.

It takes a moment foreverything to stabilize while Takumi tries to understand what is going on. Hismemories are fuzzy and his whole body feels sore, with an intense burning atthe back of his head. Reaching up to feel his skull, the archer also takes thetime to raise himself up and check around.

His hand then stopsin midair and his eyes widen, suddenly shocked by the striking vision aroundhim.

With islands floatingin the sky and waterfalls falling from the clouds, Takumi finds himselfadmiring one of the most luscious scenery he has ever seen. It’s all sosurreal, it almost feels like he is dreaming or hallucinating.

He finally reaches totouch the back of his head and recoils a bit seeing the red warm liquid on hisfingers. Blood… Worry creeps in his mind as he realizes the injury isprobably worse than he thought.

There’s another stingof pain while he tries to get up from the ground that makes Takumi grunt in frustration.Searching through his memories, the Hoshidan prince tries to recall whathappened before he lost consciousness.

The first thing he’sable to remember is a definite moment only days ago… When their long-lostsibling chose to abandon them to side with the enemy, the Nohrians she dared tocall family. She welcomed them with open arms, acting like she didn’t even careabout what happened to her own mother a few hours before.

Despite being wary ofCorrin since the moment she arrived, Takumi still can’t believe she truly couldbetray them that way. Now, all he has left is that hurt and anger inside…

But he doesn’t wantto think about it. This is not what matters right now and the archer quicklyshakes his head, trying to evoke what happened last.

He remembers a fight.Yes that’s it. He was fighting some nohrian detachment at the border with some hoshidantroops. But the battle took a turn for the dire and they had to retreat, muchto Takumi’s shame. Last thing he can recall is running near the edge of thebottomless canyon and then, a blow in his back… and then, he fell.

After that, all fadesto black in his memory.

Takumi’s breathhitches from the shock of the obvious realization.

He fell into theBottomless Canyon…

But that’simpossible! How can he be standing there if he dropped into the black void?Nobody ever comes back from the Bottomless Canyon. Whether you’re from Nohr orHoshido you know very well to be wary of the edge of the abyss…unless you longfor a certain death.

And then it hits him.What if he is, indeed, dead?

The thought almostsuffocates him, as he tries to push it aside. But the possibility of thisoutcome keeps staring at him with venom.

The signs are all there.He went down in the dark, only to wake up to an impossible world. Maybe he iscurrently standing in the afterlife…

No! It can’t be how itends! Takumi refuses to believe he could die now, at the hands of sometreacherous Nohrians soldiers. He can’t abandon his family and Hoshido. Heneeds to protect them. He needs to live! He can’t be…

His head is spinningand his vision becomes blurry while he chokes back the tears. Is this reallyhow it all ends?

But then, he unexpectedlyspots something at his feet. Through foggy eyes, he reaches out to grab hisFujin Yumi. As he can feel the stringless strong bow in his hand, hope startsrising up again. If he truly was dead, why would he still possess the legendaryweapon? It’s not like he would need it now, right? It just doesn’t make sense.

Pondering with thesethoughts, he suddenly senses a faint movement on his right that makes him glareup.  

There’s a shift inthe air when, all of a sudden, a dagger comes flying at him, hitting himstraight in the stomach. The blow surprises him and he almost falls to hisknees, trying to breathe despite the pain.

Looking up, his eyescan’t seem to see anyone. And yet, Takumi can feel that something is really there,watching him. Taking in all of his surroundings, the archer finally notices aslight unnatural shimmering, not too far away. The form is hard to make out butthere is definitely something, or rather someone, in front of him.

Ignoring the bleedingwound in his abdomen, Takumi tightens his grips on his Fujin Yumi, ready tostrike back.

He feels anothershift in the air but, this time, he is ready. Quickly dodging out of the way,he conjures the string of his bow and unleashes a powerful shot at the blurryshape.

He then hears anunnatural yelp of pain before the form dissipates in a watery mist.

In the silence thatfollows, Takumi let himself smirk at that victory. He might be hurt, but itwill take more than that to make him fall.

Suddenly, theatmosphere grows even heavier than before and his grin rapidly disappears whennot one, but many more shimmering forms start approaching him. Even though hecan’t determine a definite number, Takumi still knows he is about to besurrounded. There is no way he can fight all these enemies by himself,especially in this state.

His fist clenches infrustration around his bow, while he has to accept his only solution.

For the second timein what feels like only a few hours, Takumi turns around and starts to run away.

Rushing ahead, thearcher realizes he has no idea where he is going. He doesn’t even know whatthis place is, even less how to navigate it. What he knows, is that he has to chargeforward, no matter what. The enemies behind him are getting closer and he needsto find a solution before they end up catching up to him.

In the distance, he noticeswhat looks like a large chasm with an endless white sky spreading both up anddown at its edge. A strange feeling of hope and serenity seems to emanate from itand Takumi starts running in its direction.

Although it could bea bad idea, he knows that behind him is certain death so he just has to go on, hopinghis gut feeling is right.

As he’s gettingcloser, a blast of magic loudly echoes in his back, right behind his heels. Thearcher quickly dodges to the side, seeing a spear pass by him and land in hisformer position. Instinctively, Takumi dashes forward, as fast as he can.

He has to keep going.He’s almost there.

The pain in hisstomach is almost blinding him and he tries hard to keep on breathing, hurryingtowards the edge in front of him. But, just when he thinks he’ll be able tomake it, a piercing blow resonates through his leg, making him fall to theground with a cry.

Landing face first inthe grass, he feels dirt gets in his eyes and mouth. He quickly looks at hisleg, to see an arrow lodged all the way through, making it impossible to getup.  How ironic for an archer…

The enemy’s shapesare upon him now and he can almost feel their icy touch. In a desperate attempt,he tries to grab onto the soil and crawl the rest on the way but is abruptly stoppedby another excruciating throb in his head.

This is it. This isthe end. He’s going to die here, lying on the ground, ambushed by invisible enemiesas he was running away.

What a disappointingprince he is…

Takumi can feel thebile in his mouth and the tears falling freely on his cheeks, leaving hisclosed eyes burning. He wants to scream, to say something, but the words staystuck in his throat.

He doesn’t want todie.

With fear gripping athis heart and his vision growing blurrier, Takumi finds himself praying forsomething, anything, to happen.

And then, everythingstops. The air goes still and the world falls silent, with even the shimmeringforms looking like they are frozen in time. Blinking through the tears, Takumitries to understand what is happening now.

A voice, deep andcavernous, suddenly echoes in his head.

*Let’s not kill you now… I may have use foryou before…*

A blackened and thickmist starts rising from the ground and, as it slithers towards him, Takumidesperately tries to crawl away. But the sinister fog starts engulfing him whilea guttural chuckle resonates all around.

The archer’s vision instantlyturns to black and everything disappears with an agonizing burst exploding inhis head.

His whole body thenstarts shaking and all Takumi can think about is the pain. When, suddenly, darkand persistent thoughts start coming through to him.

He remembers Corrinand how resentful he had felt of all the attention she had gotten from hissiblings.

He remembers allthose years of feeling inferior to his brother and wishing more than anything forthe recognition of his family.

He remembers the dayin the square, feeling powerless to save and avenge the death of queen Mikoto.

And he remembers whenCorrin abandoned them. How she stabbed them in the back to return to thosefilthy Nohrians. How devastated and heartbroken they all were at her betrayal.

Betrayal…

The word keepsechoing in his mind like a mantra, his heart loudly beating on the same rhythm.

Anger.  Vengeance. Betrayal. Anger. Vengeance.BETRAYAL!!!

The chuckle nowmorphed into an outright terrifying and evil laugh, that makes his head hurt moreand more.

*Yes… YES! This is perfect! Oh! Ihave great plans for you, Prince of Hoshido…*

The words are stillrepeating themselves as his heart and mind end up falling into madness. And, withthe pain still tearing his soul apart, a single blooded tear rolls down onTakumi’s cheek.

Unable to take itanymore, he then finally gives up, letting the darkness swallow him whole.

  A stormy blackenedsky is all he can see as he slowly opens up his eyes.

It takes a moment foreverything to stabilize while Takumi tries to understand what is going on. Hismemories are fuzzy and his whole body feels sore with an intense burning at theback of his head. Reaching up to rub his temples, the archer also takes thetime to raise himself up and check around.

The rain is pouringdown around him and lighting is frequently striking through the sky. He isstanding at the edge of the bottomless canyon and everything around him isdeserted.

The last thing heremembers, is fighting the Nohrian forces before having to retreat. How he endedup laying on the ground in a deserted field is really a mystery. But, when a throbbingpain starts anew in his head, he decides to just leave the matter for later.

He has to go back andrejoin the rest of his troops. The fight at the border was a failure but theycan still travel across the sea to stop the Nohrians from invading by thesouth. Maybe they will even cross path with the traitorous princess.

As he thinks ofCorrin, an intense anger flares up inside him and his heart starts beatingfaster.

Oh…How Takumi hopeshe will see her again. How he longs for the moment he will make her pay for herbetrayal, pierce her heart with an arrow and watch her die in agony. He willmake her suffer…just like she made his family suffer…just like she made himsuffer.

And then, he wouldstand victorious. And then, the pain would finally leave him.

Yes. That’s what hehas to do. It is so obvious, so clear.

He quickly wipes hisface with his sleeve, not noticing the strike of blood left behind. And Takumi startswalking forward, a single fixated thought on his mind.

Now that he’s almostthere, he just needs to keep going.

[viitria-blog]

CAPTIVE SOULS & CANDID HOSTILITY.

chapter 2 / ? ao3 crosspost first | next

When you find Error, he's seated against a pile of knick-knacks, from a Rubix cube in the shades of blinding neon, to a jumble of… bones(?). You say nothing, clutching the doll in your hand, and sit near him - but not next to him.

He's watching through a tear, reality ripped apart at his whim, showing a world you don't recognise. Cross-legged, a milkshake in one hand, the other reaching into a bag of chocolate pretzels. At ease, king of his own castle.

For a split moment, you remember the knife and it's glinting edge, but it's better you left it behind. You’re no fool.

The glitch doesn't even pass you a glance, but you know he knows your there. The static presses thicker with his attention, his interest. At least you have that - his interest, as much as he may deny it.

You curl like you usually do, chin tucked to your knees, doll held on your thighs, close. You look through the tear, to another reality, and blink.

Was that… Spanish? It had to be.

“... What is this?”

“shut up.” Error snaps, reflexive. “i’m trying to watch.”

You stare blankly at him, and huff at his attitude. Instead of responding, you pick at the scabs on your knuckles, gritting your teeth, but do it anyways. Murmured against your skin, “Was just a question.”

Mismatched lights stand attention. “what was that?”

You should really leave it. Ignore him, lie, say anything other than look back at him, scab-lined nails still against your knuckles, chest bathed in the natural warmth of the doll shielded by your body.

“I only asked a question.”

Error’s hand within the bag of treats bag stops, the crinkle of its plastic as he slowly pulls out deafening. The static is suffocating, and you clear your throat, and look away as soon as you close your mouth.

“... then don't.” Even the universe Error had been watching is nothing more than background noise now, taking a backseat to the lull of his voice and the white-noise that outlines it. “ you're a guest here, pest. and you'll behave with the manners of one, or else.”

A guest. What a kind word.

“look at me if you understand.”

It’s a command. You don't want to, but you do, looking through your lashes and the eclipse of your skin to his electric, terrible gaze.

“... be grateful you aren't dead. and until i find some kind of use for you, shut. up.”

You don't say another word for hours.

He doesn’t either.

It’s just you, him, and his damned show.

You’ve been picking at your skin for who knows how long. Nearly each of your knuckles is in some way raw, skin peeled and the ground covered in drops of blood. Your hands and thighs don’t fare much better. Another small strip of skin peels away -

“stop that.”

… How long has he been watching you?

Error doesn’t look concerned. No, how could he be? He’s Error, and from the first moment you were terrorized by this creature, he has never once been concerned. Cocky, confident, lazy, agitated, rude, arrogant - he was full of nothing but confidence and enough self-importance to fuel the paradox he was, only on a multiversal scale.

So with his sockets scrunched, his brow taut, and the line of his teeth narrow, you know it’s not concern, but disgust - disgust and… you aren’t sure.

As always, Error is unreadable.

You rub your finger against your nail, and the skin falls to the floor. “Why?”

Dispassionate. This place has made you hollow, an empty ache curled within you, and the world you live in seems unreal. As if it’s a dream, disconnected from you, and at any moment you might wake up.

“because i said so. so, stop it.”

Your thumb rests on the knuckle of your pointer, and you grit your teeth at the sting. Looking to the blood, it’s then that you feel something. A jolt of fear, terror, worry -

But when you lower your knees, looking to the doll laying in the crux between your thighs, staring up at you, you sigh. He’s fine, untouched by the self-inflicted carnage of your dissociation.

And yet the glitch just doesn’t shut up.

“... i know you have it. you aren’t seriously trying to hide it from me, are you?”

“No.”

It isn’t a lie. You know despite your limited ( yet seemingly infinite ) time here, that you couldn’t hide from Error. Not anything, not truly. So when you hold this ragged doll so close, you aren’t sure it’s for your sake.

Looking to your captor reveals his gaze is stuck firmly on you. Worming against your skin, the static screeches, and through those hollowing tones you can almost hear… Nothing.

You. Hear. Nothing.

“What?” You snap, and curl back again, doll safe ( as can be ) once more.

“... nothing.” And he turns away, a sip of his shake, and turns back to the ripped seam of reality. You look with him, and watch with ease how the image changes, flicking like channels on a tv, all at little motion or effort on Error’s behalf.

If he were not a creature desolate for destruction alone, you would be awed.

From a world swept in a winter wonderland, full of pine birches and yet pitch as night, to a landscape draped in fire, magma gurgling through the veins of the earth, lighting a warped path. You aren’t sure what to make of it, one image to the next, some with humans, some with monsters, most with nothing at all.

“What are you looking for?”

“for someone i told you shut up not t-too long ago, you sure are talkative, aren’t you?”

This time, you don’t relent. Not as harshly.

A sunrise flashes by. The ocean. Stars pinwheeling overhead. A desk, with a sleeping skeleton. Fog, thick as thick. Your heart quickens in your chest, a hummingbird in a cage of bones, begging to be set free.

“... Let me go.” Just as before. Soft, pleading, empty and yet full of desperation for the sights he flicks through like pages on a book. “You don’t need me. I don’t care where, just - please, let me go.”

The images stop, and through it, nothing. Like a black streak against the white canvas of this strange reality.

“i can’t do that.” Simple as can be, and yet you feel as if Error is being candid. Your nails dig into your skin, and you want nothing more than to reach for that empty hole in the world. “to drop you anywhere would cause a disruption of that universe’s mainframe. to try and accommodate something that never should have belonged? you’d be worse than a glitch.”

His nasal ridge scrunches up.

“you’d be a menace.”

A pest.

If you felt like speaking, you’d at least beg Error to let you keep clawing at yourself. But you don’t feel up to much; don’t feel the strength to react to him; don’t feel like giving him the satisfaction.

A moment, two, and the tear in reality disappears, stitched back together by a trembling hand. The empty space seems blinding now, but it’s eye-catching, soul-stopping at the next flare of magic, the very structure of reality itself bending open once more. ( You can hardly comprehend it, let alone imagine it )

The familiar low strum of his strings striking, going taut - through a much smaller hole now, closer to Error’s side, between the two of you. When they pull out, it’s a white plastic box, tossed to your side.

A First Aid kit.

“fix it. or else.” A snap of his fingers - and the blood on the ground beneath you is gone. A part of you. Pieces of you, as they had once been, disappeared in the blink of an eye.

You could cry. But you can’t.

Error watches as you work.

It’s strange - he’s never stayed this long, never given you something like this. Food and other necessities aren’t needed here so much as wanted, and while you would kill for a shower or ham sandwich, you knew both were far and few between in his whims and wants.

So instead, gifted with something to do, you open the kit, and reach for whatever looks close enough to antibiotic cream. While you doubt you could catch an infection or virus in a place like this, it’d help you heal faster, wouldn’t it? Besides, you weren’t looking forward to the scabbing, nor the marks that would surely be left behind.

Still leant on a pile of trash and treasures, Error is silent, those mismatched lights watching you work with an intensity bordering the one once upon his ‘show’. Keeping quiet, you’ll say nothing in turn, looking to your hands, ignoring how difficult it is to bandage when both are bleeding.

You hesitate between the gauze and bandages before deciding, pleasantly surprised the band aids within are themed - you aren’t sure what the hell that green looking guy is, but it’s colorful and amusing.

The worst of your knuckles under wraps, you clean up your mess, leaving the trash to the side.

Then before you know it, before you even have a moment, reality tears open ( through it, the trash falls to a sudden yet gruff, indignant shout ) and you jump - scrambling away. Just as quickly is it gone, but the damage is done. You’re on your ass a few feet away, wide-eyed and chest heaving. It had felt so, so close, and you could almost feel - it tasted like - it sounded like -

Nothing.

Error’s laughing, a broken, clipped, repetitive sound through the duotone of a child’s and his own voice.

“Don’t fucking do that!”

“i’m sorry - heheh - what’d you just say?”

Your teeth click shut. In one hand, the doll, held far too tightly.

You won’t dignify him with an answer. No, you won’t - you can’t. So instead, you stand, you find your feet, as shaky as they are, and walk away.

The sound of clipped laughter follows.