#mish has red hair and gold eyes

[divineslcyer]

waking up at 5 am again gdi.. anyway, I think I've got a basis now for Honkai!Mish, been torn on her being with the Stellaron hunters OR the express. But she looks like she could legit be related to Himiko so, gonna write up how Himiko could be cousins.. or that she was the first Himiko took in on the Express. ( pending ideas but i like my gurl on the train and also pom-pom is precious).

Her element would be fire, her path.. possibly destruction. Possibly.

[violetnotez]

Izuku x reader

⤷ Genre: Fluff, Mafia Boss AU!

⤷ Word Count: 3600+

⤷ Warnings: i think cursing? I think?

⤷ Synopsis: Working in a rundown bar kinda sucks, especially when the owner is you ex best friend, your crush, and now a mafia boss.

This is for the Izuku Month! Pls check out the awesome writers participating for this month!

You wiped down the grimy surface of the bar, your shoulders sagging from fatigue.

God you hated this job.

It seemed like such a long day, such a long time since you’ve been able to truly be completely calm. You felt how rigid your shoulders were, always seemingly expecting a fight or confrontation. 

Working and managing a bar under the control of the mafia wasn’t the most calming job in the world, you had to admit that, but you had to get money somewhere. You would be on the streets, scrounging for anything that resembled a meal if you didn’t have this job. 

As much as you hated it and all of its requirements, from the drunken brawls you had to pick apart to the back room deals in the dark, you at least were able to eat, to live in a somewhat decent apartment, to pay your bills. 

You constantly had to remind yourself of this, every time you had a man cat call you or a fight happened on the sickly white porcelain tiles. You would bawl you fists into balls, your lip quivering to finally let loose the pain and frustration being caged in your chest.

If you allowed yourself to be truthful to yourself, you'd admit just stuck, trapped, and powerless you felt in this moment. You felt like a little ant scrambling in a hug hive, under control of one leader who wouldn’t ever let you stop working. 

You wiped a brow of sweat off your forehead, your makeup long gone from the strenuous workday as you glanced a look at the corner of the room.

Each table was clean and pristine, (all thanks to you), the wooden surface glistening under the hazy yellow lights, the crystal vases holding a single rose bloom, the petals dark like blood. 

Some tables were occupied, men having late night conversation with a beer in hand, their tones surprisingly quiet and calm, as if  the alcohol had somehow changed their rambunctious demeanor from 2 hours ago. 

Everything around you was a typical late night on a Saturday, the clock reading 12:45 am as it ticked like a bomb ready to explode, the men oblivious to the ominous countdown as they chit chatted away on their tables. 

The only thing strange, the only thing that had thrown you off since he had arrived…..was the man in the corner, casually drinking at an empty table.

He was sitting in the VIP lounge, his shoulders hunched like yours as he surveyed the scene like a slinking cat, his scarred hands swirling an amber liquid. 

You had been watching him all night, after your boss had been thrown into an uncharacteristic frenzy when he first saw the man: it was him. Izuku Midoriya. The owner of this bar and the mentee of Toshinori Yagi, the late Mafia Boss.

Midoriya's rise to fame was infamous, it seemed-Yagi had plucked the poor boy off the streets, declaring him as his protege that very same day. All the mafia bosses in the city couldn’t understand why Toshinori had picked the boy at the time-he was barely 16, his short height and timid voice practically making all the others bosses double over in laughter.

He would never survive this hardened lifestyle, and the talk was they would slowly pick apart the Yagi legacy, taking over all of his territory once the boy became the new leader.

You were barely 16 yourself at the time, a poor girl who had watched her best friend get thrown into a world that wasn’t his. You had been friends with Midoriya since you were a child, playing with him in the streets after school and protecting him from all the bullies that would try to take advantage of his shy personality.

It was strange to see him now after all those years of silence, his change shocking you.

He was older, in age and in spirit. He looked so burdened with knowledge, his eyes coated underneath with a purple hue and his brow fixed in a tired expression.

 But he still had a youthful look, his eyes wide and doe-like and his freckles like stars in a clear night, his curly green hair as unruly as it was in his youth.

You couldn’t fathom why he was at this bar so late at night, or why he was even here in the first place. He was well known now-everyone knew who he was, whether they respected him or not. There was no need for him to be in a shady bar at 1 in the morning, drinking his alcohol as if he was bored by the whole scene in front of him.

But there he was, looking as placid as ever as his two bodyguards stood at the ready, surveying the spotless room for any intrusions or enemies that could hurt Izuku.

You looked down at the bar, the white rag turning brown with the dirt that had collected on the surface.  

You wiped a strip of sweat from your eyebrow again, the humid heat feeling suffocating as  your hand returned to the rag, swirling it in lazy circles on the shiny surface.

“Another whiskey please,” you heard a young voice ask, his voice sounding hesitant and slightly worried.

You looked up with exhausted eyes, only to feel all the air leave your lungs.

Izuku was looking at you with wide, apologetic eyes, his face expecting your response. He was wearing an expensive suit, the gold embellishments on the sleeves gleaming in the warm lighting.

You gulped as you willed your heart to slow at the sudden movement, moving a fallen piece of hair back behind your ear.

“Isn’t it a little late for that?” you asked dryly, your voice free of any emotion as you continued to clean the counter, your cheeks blossoming with red as you tried to contain your shock.

Even though you knew Midoriya for many years, it was embarrassing for you, seeing your once best friend becoming such a high and mighty figure in the underworld, so full of power and luxury, while you were stuck in a grimy job that gave you just enough to survive.

It also didn’t help that you used to have a crush on Izuku since grade school-you had thought you had gotten over those feelings, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Your heart still swelled at hearing his voice, it’s pace quickening like you were running a race just from the sweet sound.

He chuckled, a soft chime rumbling out of his chest. He sat himself at the counter, not minding the dampness as he rested his shoulders on the dark surface.

“Still always out to protect me,huh, y/n?” he asked, his voice sounding bitter sweet, “You were always looking out for me.”

You looked up, your eyes blown wide with shock. 

He still remembered you? It was strange to see  him after all these years, those pink cheeks bright against his brown freckles, as if he was cursed to always be blushing so adorably.

“More like I don’t feel like dealing with another drunk this late at night.”

He smiled yet again, his face lighting up at your sarcasm.

How the hell was he still so him, so innocent and sweet after all he must have seen, must haven been through?

Was he really still the same boy from your past?

You sighed, your heart feeling heavy with emotions. No, he wasn’t the same-he was a mafia boss. He was the boss above your own boss, the CEO of your whole damn life. You couldn't fall for his sweet antics, no matter how much they pulled on your heartstrings. 

You sighed, your hand slowly stopping the rag.

“What is it you want Izuku,” you quickly asked, your face stony and harsh. “Somebody like you doesn’t just come to a bar like this just for some whisky-at 12 in the morning might I add.”

He chuckled again, this time the sound more nervous as he scratched the back of his head. 

Izuku had to admit it, you were right-there was no reason why he should be here. No reason why he should be here at 12 in the morning, looking like a pompous rich brat with his two bodyguards as he peered at you from his lounge, watching you work.

When he had heard you were working at this bar, one that he owned on his part of the city, he felt like bricks had been dumped into his stomach. How did he not know you were here? 

After getting recruited by Toshinori, he had somehow lost all contact with you, his life becoming so hectic and terrifying that he has decided he didn’t want to see you. He was fearful of bringing you into this terrible life-you were his best friend and his crush after all, he didn’t want to see you get hurt because of him.

But you had somehow already gotten twisted into this lifestyle, this swirling mish mash of legal and illegal, family and foes, loyalty and lies. Now you were apart if it, being a manager of a mob bar. If you were apart of it, he felt like he could actually approach you now, because the fear of getting you hurt was far less. 

But he was scared for you still-you were around many shifty characters daily, dealing with your fair share of criminals. With his high status, he could help you now-he could keep you safe.

“I just want to know how you are,” he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked at you with concern, “it’s been so long I-I-didn't realize you were here.”

He grimaced slightly, weighing his words out slowly and carefully. “You don’t seem to like working here much.”

You grinned slightly, your eyebrows cocked up in an amusement and exhaustion. You set the rag down, your hands spread against the counter.

“You’re still very observant-did you catch that from talking to me or watching me for the last 2 hours?”

Izuku chuckled nervously, his cheecks on fire as he hands swirled the gold watch in his wrist like a worn out habit. Your eyes widened slightly at the expensive accessory-another reminder of how different this Izuku was from you. He had power, he had freedom, control, and everything in life- and you didnt. You were a bird caged inside, unable to spread your wings and free yourself of the troubles that followed you each and every day. 

Your smile lessened as the lump of misery in your stomach grew, his eyes catching the small gesture. He leaned against the counter, his green eyes searching your face. 

He felt so close, those tufts of green hair cascading against his forehead as his eyebrows scrunched in worry.

“Are you okay y/n? I’m worried for you,” he said quietly, as if he was revealing a secret to you.

Your cheeks blushed in red-how did he still seem so-him? He was so kind and caring like he was as a child, always making sure you were okay, taking care of you when you had scraps on your knees or tears on your face. His heart was made of gold, and you honestly couldn’t fathom why Izuku had turned to the life of a hardened, merciless mob boss.

You noticed his hands twisting again, wringing in worry as he waited for your response. Your eyes trailed down to those digits and the plethora of scars on his fingers, wrapping around his skin and trailing under his tailored suit, turning his smooth skin into a rippled, pink pattern.

Your heart broke at the sight, just imagining the terrible things he must have been through to attain those marks. 

Your fingers wrapped around his hand, your nurturing nature kicking in once seeing those pink tiger marks decorating his skin. Your finger trailed against the skin, following the pink river lines rising against his skin.

“You don’t look so good yourself Izuku,” you said, your digits touching and caressing the scars lightly as you examined each one.

Izuku gulped, his brain going into overdrive-you were touching him. 

No matter how much time had passed, he couldn’t forget how much he had fallen for you as a kid, and it was following him into his adult life. He missed your sweet smile, your laugh, your bright personality that could light up his whole day and week.

But now his sun was so bleak, your face cracked with fatigue as you stared at his scars with such intent it was as if your eyes were burning a hole into his skin. 

He sucked in air harshly, trying to figure out how to breathe again.

“How do you get these ‘Zuku?” You asked quietly, looking up at him, his wide, green eyes staring back at you.

He shimmied his hand away from yours, his cheeks a rosy red as he averted your gaze. It was sweet to see him so vulnerable, the hint of nervousness gracing his complexion, but you missed the feeling of his skin on yours.

“I-It’s not that important-“ he stuttered slightly, “I’m hear you see you, not talk about me-“

You gave him a thin smile, your lips curling inward from exhaustion as your head tilted onto your shoulder.

“So, what did you want to ask me?” you asked. You watched as he exhaled a small sigh, his body willing him to speak his next few words. You held your breath watching him look so nervous, like watching a dam slowly crumble and release the flood of water it had been holding back for so long.

“Are you happy-doing this?” he looked you square in the eye, those forest green eyes expansive and sucking you in whole. 

 “And you have to answer, no going around the question,”

He quickly pointed his finger  at you, his body manner stern yet his face betraying his thoughts. His face was still so soft, still so innocent looking and concerned as he leaned closer to you on the countertop.

You squinted your eyes at him-you honestly didn't want to sound mean, or well, bitchy, but-what was he playing at? Over the years you had learned that trust isn't something easily won over, even if you had known the person for years. You and Izuku had been friends since you could remember, that was true-but it had been so long, and you weren't quite ready to be rubbing shoulders so closely with the mob boss yet.

“I work at a bar where I get paid enough to survive and have to deal with drunk idiots who catcall me every 5 minutes,” you chided slightly, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “ So, no, not that much,”

“Do you want to change that?”

“Of course I want to but-“

“But what?”

You stared at him again, not knowing what to say. He was a puzzle to figure out- there were so many questions and clues surrounding Izuku’s nature and motives and personality. Once you found a piece to the ever growing puzzle it felt like 3 other pieces were missing, making the picture of who Izuku was full of gaps and holes. You couldn't understand him, why he was here, if he was truly the Midoriya you knew or if he was just a memory-but the way he looked at you with his doe eyes and his lips parted with concern made your heart pace and your hands squirm.

Maybe this was still the kind, nurturing boy you knew from your childhood-just maybe.

You sighed, willing your heart to stop beating so quickly and  to say your truth. “It-it’s scary. This is a mob bar after all, who knows what would happen if I left,”

“But what if you didn’t leave?” he interjected, his face still laced with concern but his voice quickening from anticipation,  What if you just-got promoted,”

You chin tilted up, your eyes scanning the boy with suspicion.

“What are you implying Izuku?” You asked him slowly, hesitantly, watching as he squirmed with uncomfort in his seat. A breath collected in his lungs, being held for barely a second as he slowly let it escape his body.

“Y/n, we’ve known each other forever- we were best friends and, well, you were the one who ever believed in me. I-I never forgot about you, and always wondered how you were. Once I found out you were working here, I had to come. To see how you were. I just wanted to know you were okay-and now I know your not.”

He leaned into the bar yet again, his hands folded, his green tresses bouncing against his skin.

“Please y/n, I want to make you my personal assistant. You’ll be safe, I’ll make sure of it-all you have to do is help me with my daily tasks and events and-“

“No, I won’t do it.” you interjected, your voice having a desperate quality, as if you were anxious for him to stop talking

Izuku gazed at you with confusion, blinking a few times with shock- you didn't want this job? He watched your face turn into a grimace, as if the mere idea was painful for you to imagine.

“You-what?” he asked quietly, unable to understand your words.

“Izuku, I cant just get a free card from you,” you revealed, your eyes looking down from guilt, “I’m not going to just be your desk girl so I can be a little bit better off.”

“But-but your not, I want you to be my assistant-You know me better than anybody else!” he exclaimed, his eyes wide as he tried to convince you, “ You’ll be the best person for the job because you’ll be able to make the best decision for me-“

“I’m not taking your pity Izuku. People pity me enough, I don’t need you to add to the list.”

Izuku gave you a good, hard look, his big green eyes searching your face. He could tell you were hurting inside- the way your shoulders sagged like you were carrying a heavy burden, your tired eyes signaling you hadn't had a good night’s sleep, the way your voice broke and your face cracked when you allowed yourself to be vulnerable. You felt scared. You felt trapped, and alone. Powerfless. He had never wanted to comfort anyone more in his entire life, to hug them and tell them that it would all be okay.

He took a breath, letting the air escape through his nose as he gazed with you with empathy.

“You want to know how I got my scars?”

He watched you blink from confusion, to then give him a numb nod in response. He smiled nervously, settling in his chair as he opened his mouth to speak.

“A lot of people didn’t believe in Toshinori when he said he had gotten a 15 year old kid from the streets to be his successor-many people laughed at him, laughed at me, even talked down to me. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t strong enough. I’d never be able to take over his empire.

“But I trained. I fought. I learned everything I could so I would never feel inferior ever again. Toshinori gave me leverage in life, yes-but I took advantage of it. I have some blood on my hands, I can’t say I don’t- but I proved my worth. I proved I deserved everything life had to offer and more-all I needed was a boost.”

“And that’s what I’m trying to give you-“ he gave you a reassuring smile, his eyes soft and his cheeks rosy, “a chance at a better life. A chance to prove your worth.”

“What do ya say?” His smile turned into a bright grin, his scarred hand outstretched and welcoming as he waited for your answer.

You stared at him, your lips parted and your eyes wide with conflict-where you going to do this? To just throw away everything in your life right now in the hopes it would be a little better? You were putting all your trust in Midoriya-would it all end up okay?

You looked down at your hands, the fingers sticky with grime and spilled alcohol, making your spine crawl with disgust. 

Fuck it-never again did you want to be underestimated, to be barely surviving and another ant in the hill. No-you were going to make a name of yourself.

“Fine-,” you placed your hand in his, your heart pacing. His skin was surprising soft on the inside, the pads of his digits coarse against your own flesh. “But if my uniform is a tiny ass skirt I’m going to kill you.”

A bright laugh tumbled out of his chest, his curly tresses bouncing with the motions.

“I promise I won’t,” he smiled at you, his cheeks as red as ever.

He loved the feeling of your skin on his, and the way your eyes light up like lightbulbs on a dark night. A glimpse of your previous self seemed to surface, for barely a moment, but he drank up the rare moment and locked it in his memories. 

You sighed, your hand leaving his reluctantly as you looked up at the clock, the ticking entering your mind and banging against your head like a headache. 

“I gotta lock up the bar…” you grumbled, your hand reaching out for your rag, “thank god Ill be out of this place-“

Izuku smiled, his green eyes trailing up to the clock. His eyes widened as he noticed the placement of the hands, the irises glistening with stars as he recognized something in those numbers.

“It’s 1:11,” he stated, his pointer figure drawing your attention as he nodded his head at the clock, your eyes trailing to the device. “You know what that means?”

You cocked your tired head, a small smile gracing your lips: Izuku was always the bookworm, his brain soaking up information like a sponge and giving it out at the strangest times. It was quite endearing, and you surprisingly missed it.

You leaned against the counter, your face closer to his.

“What’s it mean?”

He grinned at your face, his cheeks bright and on fire- 

“New beginnings.”

Taggings:

@weebartistinc​ @orokayagi​ @leeeah-loooser​ @bakarinnie​

[wu-sisyphus-gang]

Motion Sickness Chapter 50

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

Neo helped me find what I was looking for. A place called The Den. I could feel the music even from outside. Neo led me by one hand down a set of long stairs deep into the Atlas rock in her typical silence. The steady beat of techno dance music hammered away at me.

We opened the door to the place and the sound of it rocked me back onto the balls of my feet. I could feel the sound of the music against the hairs on my arms. It was the sort of sound you felt as well as heard. Wump, wump, wump, wump, wump. It was like holding a jackhammer against my stomach.

We came out onto a dance floor of black and white. There were rich golden lights that shone down in alternating fashions. The yellow light alternated with purples, whites, and blues and gave the place an otherworldly feel.

It felt like a stranger's dream. Smoke breezed through the atmosphere of the place and the flood lights poured through the stuff. Both nicotine and Mary Jane filled the air. It was thick enough to cut through like butter. It wafted about and was dense enough that I felt like I could peel away at it.

There were people dancing on the floor in front of us. The women wore satin and silk dresses. Short skirts and slitted outfits were everywhere. The men wore white and blue button downs that played hell with my sense of color in the light. They wore black and brown khakis held up by nice looking belts.

Drinks were served around the edges of the dance floor. There were tables lined up against the walls. Red velvets adorned the seats of the first floor. Alcoholic beverages and cash were exchanged over the circular bar near the center of the dance floor and against the walls.

It was gorgeous and full of life. It was nothing like the Malachite's bar back in Mistral's lower floors.

This was a place the good folks of Atlas could use to get away from it all. And boy were they. The dance floor was a mish-mash-mosh-pit. Flailing limbs raved against day jobs as people tried to waste their evening away.

Wump, Wump, Wump . The hypnotic tune of the dance music battered away at me. It was the sort of sound you felt as much as you heard.

We walked through the raving limbs of the first floor of The Den.

There were other scents on the smoke. Probably other things being inhaled besides traditional stuff and Marijuana. Flashing lights strobed and warbled through the heavy weight of the air.

Neo was holding her nose. For my part I pulled out my own pipe and took a take. My exhalation was lost to the chaos of the first floor.

Atlesians were everywhere. Taking part in those finer things in life and trying to escape their evening. It was all about booze and dance.

Near stairs leading up to the second floor a man in a black shirt and jeans stopped Neo and I. He was armed with a pistol in a holster attached to the side of his chest. He wore dark sunglasses despite being inside which I kinda understood considering the strobe lights and all. He was about my height and broad at the shoulder but the pistol didn't look huntsman class. He didn’t look huntsman class.

I could take him disgustingly easily.

I stopped anyways at his gesture. I tried to read his lips as he spoke into a walkie-talkie on his collar but didn’t get anything. He pressed a finger into a wired microphone in his ear. He must have gotten a response he was looking for because he stepped aside. He swung a red velvet rope with him as he did.

I blew smoke and felt the relaxation take me over. Nobody wanted a fight in a place like this. Not me, and not this guy's boss.

I ascended to the second floor, away from the raving pit of people down on the first. Up here people were smoking harder things. There were razor blades and lines of hyper ready to be taken. In one corner there was an orgy going on. I watched someone do a shot out of a young girl's belly button, too.

I was starting to figure out why this place was called The Den.

It was a drug den, sure. That too. But it was more than that. It was a place to get away and be animals. It was about letting loose. I found the thought a touch hypocritical considering the racial segregation of Mantle and Atlas.

It was a touch quieter on the second floor and there were couches and balconies strewn about. One such couch with the red velvet covering had a gold haired man sitting on it. He peeked over glasses to reveal golden amber eyes. He was surrounded by security guards in that same black shirt and jeans uniform. He was also wearing a golden suit that I thought was tacky and flashed in the light.

I stepped closer and someone put a gun in my face. I turned to look at him in shock. Not because I found the weapon threatening, but because of the precise opposite. He couldn't kill me with that water pistol.

I blew smoke right in the guards face. Nice, and long. He coughed and I laughed. I enjoyed my little high and it was still loud enough that I couldn't hear my own madness. The whisperings of Mother were drowned out by the sheer volume. I picked at a bug in my ear, though, you couldn't have everything.

The golden haired man waved an arm and the pistol was removed from my grill. The man holding it looked away and rubbed his eyes from the smoke.

I walked up to the man on the couch and pocketed my pipe.

"Aurum?" I asked. The name was probably fake. I knew that. His hair might even be dyed. The suit was a bit hard on the eyes too. But if you were going to call yourself Aurum then you better work for it.

"You know my name but I don't know yours." He pointed to the side of the couch, offering me a seat. I took it and he started pouring three amber shots for himself, Neo, and I.

"I'm Cloud Strife."

"I've never heard of you."

"No one has."

"I know her, though, you're working with Neapolitan. Are you perhaps her new handler? I was wondering what would happen with Roman dead. You seem to fit the bill."

"Maybe a little." I let him read into that as much as he wanted. Neo moved like she was going to sit on my lap but I blocked her to the side, placing her next to me. She sat down on the far side of the wide couch of Aurum from me.

I turned back to Aurum.

"What can I do for someone like you?"

"I'm looking for information on General Ironwood. I want to know the facilities he and his friends visit nearly every day."

He poured himself another shallow shot on the table in front of him.

I took mine. It tasted like oranges and was smooth and rich. It hit the back of my throat like a golf swing.

"The general doesn't have friends, by the by. That's a free-bee."

"Even still."

"I hope you can pay for information like that."

"I can. For every facility he and his associates visit everyday I'll pay you ten grand."

"Oh is that all." His voice came out low under the beat of the music.

"There's extra in it for you if it only started since Black-Out day."

"Well that is interesting," he purred.

"Something catch your attention?"

"Maybe a little," he shot back. Throwing my own words in my face as he did. "There's Winter Schnee."

"Winter Schnee…?"

"Special Operative Winter Schnee. She works closely with General Ironwood. "

"Oh?"

"She visits this special bunker nearly every day. Since Black-Out day no less."

“I can pay you two-hundred grand for the name of that facility and the details on it.”

Aurum took his second shot and poured me and Neo another. “Now we’re talkin’,” he growled. “What if I don’t need your money, though.”

“What? Do you need people killed?”

“People, plural,” he laughed out in a rich baritone. “I like you. No wonder you’ve managed to capture Neapolitan. You’re violent.”

“Well we are all products of our upbringing.”

“I don’t need people killed but I could use Neapolitan’s skills.”

“What for?”

“A little job. You see some of my men got locked up by Atlas Security."

"Sounds unfortunate."

"They're going to be sentenced to forced labor down in the mines."

Why wasn't I surprised that that was how Atlas dealt with its criminals. You just chuck the dissidents and anyone you can arrest down in the mines and you got yourself a slave labor force.

Gross.

And typical of Atlas. Nobody cares what happened to prisoners. I bet the prison system was for-profit here, even. Anything to make a buck in Atlas. The more the place tried to have redeeming qualities the more I hated it.  

I listened to a brief pause in the wump, wump, wump of the music.

"You need us to bust them out."

"I need her. I don't need you beyond that."

"We'll see. I'll need the details. What's security look like? When's the transfer?"

"In two days. They're being held in an Atlas police station. Security is tight. That's why I could use Neapolitan's help."

"Their names?"

"A boy named Obsidian. And another called Cobalt." He summoned photos of a dark haired kid with dark eyes. There was another frame which held the blue haired boy with pale eyes.

"We do this for you and those facility details are ours. Everything I asked for."

He held out a hand for me to shake. "It's a deal. What do you say?"

I shook on it and he grinned golden teeth at me.

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

I didn't trust Aurum. I thought he'd double cross me given the opportunity. I didn't have any real safeguards against him doing it beyond the threat of myself and Neo. Which if he knew who she was it was a pretty big threat. If he knew who I was it would be even bigger.

I think that's how shit worked up here. There was as much backstabbing as could be managed. Even still I had little choice but to help him and deal with the consequences later. If he tired to cross me I'd just kill him and torture him and not in that order.  

The operation was going to be a simple one. We knew when and where they were going to be transferred on the gondola down to the lower city.

I was going to fly down, open the gondola like a tin can, and we were going to grab them.

Nice and easy. In and out. No questions asked.

We arrived at the station in Atlas and fought our way inside. It was on the under belly of Atlas and had some guards to it. I slammed one to the side with Crocea Mors and jumped-kicked another. I was way too fast for some simple guards to stop me. I was just far too strong, too.  

"Stop right there!" Neo and I didn't listen to the guard.

We rushed Atlas Sec at the top of the gondola station and made our way down to where the gondola hung. We watched the car shuttle off with our prisoners in question inside. I could see more guards on board through the windows.

The station was all dark greys and blue lights. With a single tram line running down the middle where people could get on and off, it was lit by soft blue and white lights. It was manned by Atlas Security at the moment. I wasn't sure if this station was permanently owned by Atlas military forces or if this was a special occasion. Either way I was crashing their party.

I vaulted a security gate. With ease, my sprint turned into a hovering dash as I went over. I slammed a knee into a sentry's face. He went rolling down.

I grabbed one guard and slammed him against the ground. Then I hammered him into a wall. His armor shattered as I did.

I launched a high kick that brought down a third. It was going very well. Neo came hurtling alongside me and whipped her body weight around an Atlas Security agent's neck.

She teleported ahead of me and knocked another agent's gun upwards while I crossed the gap. I cut his gun in half and pulled the rifle butt out of his hands and smacked him in the head with it.

I swung my sword and knocked down the security officer before me. I kicked down another and punched the lights out of a third hard enough to shatter his helmet. Neo slowly choked out a last and we listened to the sound of communications failing between Atlas on the gondola and up here.

"Report! Soldier, report! What's happening up there?!"

I listened for a moment before I jumped up on the cable with an easy flip. I balanced for a moment and Neo reached out and grabbed a hold of me. I leaned forward and I flew down the cable on a pocket of air at the gondola car.

It took a few moments to reach it with the wind whistling past us in the clear Solitas sky. I felt and heard Neo hold on with bated breath.

I arrived on top of it and sliced into the metal with Crocea Mors as I flew and ripped into the roof so I could start to pull it off. I put the sword on my back as we dangled out over the open air above Mantle. I jammed a hand into the jagged slice I made in the metal and I peeled the metal back as I hovered with a casual strength. Glass shattered and fell down onto the lower city as I pulled the car apart.

Guards inside peppered me with fire but Neo teleported off my back and into the gondola. She jumped around inside  bringing down the guards with grace and ease. She swung her weight around and slammed one into the jagged glass where a window used to be. She flipped and shoved another into a twisted bar of metal from where I ripped the roof off.

She jumped up with her umbrella and teleported first Obsidian out to me who I grabbed. Then the other. I reversed my momentum, I was tractionless for a moment as I reversed directions and began to fly back up the thick cable of twisted metal wires. I rode up on the gondola cable and flew back up to the top where we'd already disabled Atlas security.

I watched Neo jump out of the car and begin her descent down with her parasol. We'd meet up later easily enough back at the motel.

I carried the two guys, one in each arm all the way back up to the top of the tram station. I held them by their handcuffs and it was easy enough to glide along the cable back to the station.

We made it look simple, too. No casualties, even. Probably. None up here but I could make no promises about what happened in the car. Neo hadn't exactly been gentle from what I heard once she got inside.

I set the two guys down and flipped to a landing in the grey gondola station. The members of Atlas Security we already disabled were still down.

"Well you're off then." I shattered their restraints with my sword and set them loose.

"What, wait! Who are you?" The black haired kid asked. I called him a kid but he was probably about the same age as me.

"I'm Cloud Strife. Run to your boss and tell him our business is done on my side. Go! Before more security shows up."

I kicked a rousing Atlas Security agent in the head and went back down with a muted grunt.

They bolted and I looked out of the station at the distant form of Neo.

I didn't need to fight my way out. I just charged Limit and jumped off the side of the station.

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

-WG

[joonclouds]

The Price Of A Wish | 1

The third time you meet Jung Hoseok, you realise the last ten years has done nothing to the way you were drawn to him, with a force as sure and inescapable as gravity.

CHAPTER INDEX

Hoseok x Reader 

Genre: Idol!Hoseok, Chaebol!Reader, OT7 bangtan show up too, Slow Burn, Unrequited feelings, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Fluff, (we might include some other things later let’s see)

Warnings: None, but emphasis on the Slow in slow burn.

____________

The official opening night of your art conservatory marks your first independent venture from your family’s Aurarts Corporation. The press and public fawn over you, commending your initiative to increase representation opportunities for budding artists. You wanted this place to celebrate all types of art.

The opening ribbon is cut, champagne, popped. Compliments were given on the new space - one with high ceilings, a fully functional theatre, practice rooms. Crafting studios with expansive skylights and clean white walls wait to house artists and their masterpieces. Mirrors have been strategically placed to make the main hall and foyer look even bigger than it is.

The silver gown and warm smile you wear belies the eighty-hour work week you’ve had leading up to today and the way your feet scream in protest at the new satin Manolos that haven’t yet been seasoned by wear. Maybe you eat more than your fair share of tiny canapes, but you are the perfect hostess - you laugh, shake hands, exchange jokes - always sincere, never past the point of oversharing.

So yes, it’s an important night. It has to be perfect. But that isn’t why you’re nervous.

You feel a warm hand on your elbow and you’re pulled into a gentle hug. It startles you, but once you catch an eyeful of colourful prints that smell like a woody bergamot, you relax.

“Hey, ____.”

“Tae! I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Who will save you from all this social interaction otherwise?”

Mirroring Taehyung’s smile, you return his embrace. Though it’s not till you’re pulling away that you realise what’s different about him tonight.

“Your hair!” Your fingers come up to touch the strands at the nape of his neck which, previously bright blue, are now an ashy silver.

Taehyung grins. “You like? I did it to match your dress.”

The gray hair makes his skin glow.

“I love. It suits you.”

You give him an approving once over. Taehyung’s style is eclectic, to say the least. His hair colour changed depending on his mood, sometimes blue, sometimes pink. A few weeks ago, it was a fire-engine red. On most days, he chooses to dress in a mish-mash of designer jackets, some of which he’d taken a can of spray paint to, baggy cut clothing and odd sandals (rarely covered shoes). But that had never taken away from the fact that he was incredibly good looking - maybe even added to it, if that were possible.

Tonight he’s dashing, in a loose silk shirt with wild paisely patterns tucked into dress pants, and a smattering of silver and gold on his fingers and in his ears.

“Who knew Kim Taehyung actually owns proper shoes?”

He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his heel with a cheeky smile, showing you that he’s not actually wearing proper shoes, or even socks for that matter - just loafers that look like actual shoes in that they had no backing to cover the heel.

“Did you seriously wear bedroom slippers to my grand opening?”

Taehyung laughs and eyes your Manolos skeptically.

“They’re my best pair of Gucci loafers. If I’m going to have to endure all this small talk I’m going to do it comfortably.”

You groan quietly, shifting your weight to your other foot. “Don’t remind me. We’re not even a third through the night.”

Taehyung nabs two glasses of wine from a passing server and you accept one gratefully.

“Ugh - “ he pauses to take a big sip as he scans the crowd. “Remind me again why you invited half of the country to the opening?”

“Marketing says it’s good publicity, ecetera ecetera.” You take a substantial mouthful of wine yourself.

“That’s good publicity?” Taehyung tips his glass to point over your shoulder and you turn in its direction.

The both of you cringe visibly.

“Uh. She’s got a million followers on Instagram?”

He makes a small retching noise in the back of his throat. “She’s taking a duck face selfie in front of the - hey!”

Taehyung quickly gets the attention of a server and shoves him in selfie girl’s direction. “Tell her no flash photography, it’s a real Matisse, for fuck’s sakes.”

While Taehyung’s flagging down another server to refill his wineglass and muttering something about how can’t anyone have a shred of respectable gallery etiquette, you’re spacing out a bit.

The soft, unassuming lull of the string quartet sits underneath the rustling of expensive gowns and clinking of glasses. Anyone and everyone who was someone in the entertainment industry was extended an invitation. That tiny ball of anxiety still sits in the base of your gut. It’s like waiting in line, and it’s almost your turn - for what you’re not sure - but not quite yet. Your fingers pick at the thin seam of your dress.

“____.” It vaguely registers that this isn’t the first time Taehyung’s called your name.

You clear your throat quickly. “Sorry. I’m a little tired today. What was it?”

“When was the last time you ate? You better not say yesterday.”

“Don’t look at me like that. I ate.” Technically, not a lie. Stealing the canapes was considered eating.

Taehyung frowns, but he’s sufficiently appeased. “ As I was saying, I saw you chatting with President Kwon earlier. What’d you think of him?”

“I think - ” You suck in a breath through your teeth, taking a moment to find the right words. “He’s competent. Knows the ins and outs of the arts and entertainment businesses. He might be useful so let’s not rule him out yet.”

“Rule him out yet? He’s a big fish though.”

Your expression changes slightly - it’s still a smile, but Taehyung has known you long enough to be able to tell. Its what he likes to call your Politely Disgusted face.

“Like I said. Yet.” You emphasize. “While we were talking, I watched him hand his empty wineglass off to his wife instead of the wait staff. He’s definintely not being friendly to me because it’s his personality.”

He nods in understanding. You were quick on picking up little things like that - you had quite the talent for reading people. “He wants something from you.”

“Bingo. And when we find out what he wants, then we can really - “

A small change in the atmosphere makes you pause. Something’s different.

“_____?”

“Hold on. I’ll be back in a minute, I think someone’s here.” You murmur.

There’s a small hush about the air. It’s less conversation, heavier, quieter with a certain entrancing quality. Whatever it is makes you turn your head and take a few steps towards the main foyer, leaving Taehyung behind in a bit of a confused daze.

Without seeing, you know.

Of course he’s received an invite. But he’s a little late, having missed the opening ceremony. Systematically, you weave through the guests with murmured apologies, that tangle of anxiety bubbling over into something more - trepidation, anticipation, excitement… you can’t tell anymore.

You’re halfway to the main doors when you see him before he sees you.

He’s in a black suit - Dior, by the looks of the nondescript label on the jacket cuff. The bowtie has been forgone in favour of a matching silk neck scarf and the top two buttons of his white shirt have been left undone. His hair is styled such that errant pieces fall boyishly into his eyes as he nods politely to greet the attending press and guests.

Perchance, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in one of the mirrors - cheeks pink with a little flush, eyes wide and shining. It’s unlike you. There’s a tiny curl that’s escaped your bun, but you don’t reach up to smooth it back as you usually would. It looks quite charming, you think.

It can be quite a peculiar experience, to see someone after a long time.

The years make little changes to their appearance, the way they walk, talk, hold themselves, leaving only just enough familiarity for recognition. It’s like a weird sense of jamais vu, recalibrating your memory as you align the two faces - the one you knew, and the one that is.

One thing you know for sure. His face has always been smooth lines and pretty angles. Time has certainly taken those lines and angles, made them smoother, prettier. Made them breathtaking.

He spots you in the crowd threading through it to come stand in front of you. You’re taller now, and in your heels, you don’t have to look up much to meet his gaze. The mirth in his eyes is a little dimmer now, but it’s there and still the same.

“Hi, ____. It’s been a while.” He extends a hand with a smile and you vaguely register the sound of cameras clicking and flashes of light.

It’s not till he glances down almost imperceptibly that you realise your reaction has been left wanting for a second too long. Quickly sliding your hand into his, you smile and perform your part as best you can for the watching eyes that follow.

“Hi,” you breathe. He grips your hand firmly, warmly. “It’s good to see you.”

That short, polite moment is all you get before he’s swept away in the flow of greeting the other guests and influencers who clamber for a photo, but it leaves you with peculiar feeling. Like you’ve missed a step on the stairs and you’re paralysed in a hanging moment of falling and flying at the same time.

The third time you meet Jung Hoseok, you realise the last ten years has done nothing to the way you were drawn to him, with a force as sure and inescapable as gravity.

__________________

 References: 190106 Hoseok  For your enjoyment

PREV | NEXT

[lesetoilesfous]

Hey! could I get a small like, hawke/isabela/anders/possibly Fenris in 3 from the sensory prompts? OwO

HELLO! Well this is the polyamorous ask of my heart, thank you!! 

(If you’d like me to write you a da2 fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Hawke/Isabela/Anders/Fenris

Characters: Hawke, Isabela, Anders, Fenris

Tags: Modern AU, But with mages and Tevinter, an unholy mish-mash of the 21st c and the Free Marches, don’t think too hard about the worldbuilding, please, I beg of you

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

*

Anders had never seen snow before. Hawke meets Isabela’s eyes as one of their boyfriends runs outside, face red, eyes bright, laughing in a breathless sort of wonder. Fenris isn’t looking at either of them. He’s staring at Anders, in nothing but a sweatshirt and jeans and soft canvas sneakers, leaping into the snow. The sunlight is bright on his dark skin. He looks like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Above them the sky is thick with white clouds.

Hawke feels in her gut the instinct to move before Fenris even takes a step. She can still remember the first time she’d met him, voice raised as he argued with some member of border patrol in a thick Tevinter accent. She’d felt it then, this synchronicity, this ability to anticipate every movement of his body before he’d even made it. And he’d looked up at her, and met her eyes, and she’d known he’d felt it too. At her back, Isabela had sighed a happy kind of sigh, dark eyes fixed on the handsome elvhen man at the border. “Lucky number three.”

Now, Hawke runs with Fenris, outside into the snow after Anders. Anders is on his back in a snow drift. He’s staring up at the sky, and there’s snow falling white over his red-blonde hair like stardust.  He has his mouth open, tongue stuck out to catch snowflakes. Hawke crashes into the snow on one side of him, and Fenris folds on the other. Anders looks up at Hawke, and his brown eyes are gold and creased at the corners with the sincerity of his smile. 

“I’ve never -” He starts, breathless, and stops, laughing. The sound is light and high and childish, and Hawke bends and lifts him into her arms, squeezing him tightly. Anders lets her, huffing as he falls into her arms. Hawke presses a kiss against his cheek, and it’s pink and freckled and cold. Anders snorts, then turns and catches her lips. His mouth is sweet with snow.

Hawke grins at him. “I’d never have guessed.”

Beside them, Fenris sits loosely in the snow, more relaxed than he’d ever been in the first six months he’d spent in Kirkwall. “Is there no snow in Ferelden?” He asks the question lightly, without any hint of accusation.

Anders blinks and frowns. “They didn’t let us go outside.”

Fenris becomes very still. Hawke’s arms tighten around Anders’ slender back. Anders was the newest addition to their little family. Sometimes, it was all too easy to forget how far he had to go, how little he even knew had scarred him. 

There’s a soft impact of material on their heads as Isabela steps back outside, dumping a pile of coats on them. “I’m not nursing any of you back to health if you catch the flu out here, loves.”

Anders grins at her. “Sorry Bela.” 

His face is still pink, and his hair is stuck in damp clumps from the snow. Isabela’s expression softens, and she reaches out to push his hair back from his face. “Don’t worry kitten.”

Hawke pulls her coat on, not bothering to zip it. Across from her, Fenris does the same, mouth curling into a teasing grin when he meets her eyes. Anders glances between them, raising an eyebrow. “Ok, what did I -”

He cuts himself off with a loud, high-pitched squeak as Fenris and Hawke both stuff snow down the back of his coat. Anders wriggles away from them, and both Hawke and Fenris laugh, falling back into the snow without their boyfriend between them. Fenris takes advantage of their sudden proximity to press a quick kiss to Hawke’s lips, and Hawke grins against his mouth, kissing back. 

They break apart when Anders squeaks again, “Bela!”

They look up to see Isabela hiding her laughter behind her hand as Anders tries and fails to scowl at her. Then he crouches, scooping up a large fistful of snow. It’s loose, and not compact enough to hold a shape. Hawke isn’t worried. He’ll get it, with practice. 

Anders glares at them, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. “This means war.”

Suddenly, a snowball hits the side of his head, and he whirls to stare at Fenris, utter betrayal on his face for a moment before he’s hit again by a snowball from Isabela. There’s a crackle of magic, and a small flight of snowballs lifts up from the concrete paving of their makeshift garden. Hawke glances at Fenris, but he’s still smiling, long ears red with the cold. She grins, and there’s a fizz of magic, and then she dives for cover as Anders lets the snowballs fly.

Maker, she loves these people.

[trixcuomo]

Sunfury Brand, 2

((Part two of the kinda kinky Sunfury Brand story. NSFW, age 18+ and a 15 min. read.))

Staring over her shoulder at her own butt in the mirror for so long hurt her neck, so Trixany faced the empty room again.

Well, the tattoo had been somewhat hastily done back then. Other Sunfury soldiers had been waiting in line. And they didn’t exactly have the most exquisite enchantments the sin’dorei could offer, camped as they were in the war-torn wastelands of Outland. When Trixany got her Sunfury brand, the wonderfully inglorious phoenix ass tatt, Tempest Keep hadn’t happened yet.

Yeah, she could get her booty done again. The menacing, guilt-ridden light gold phoenix could become an elegant artwork.

Or she could leave that painful past with Kael’thas behind once and for all. She was finally in a place in her life where she wasn’t terrified of considering it. A lot had healed. A lot for her had stabilized. This was her chance to escape.

The beautiful Blood Elf woman sat there, squeezed a fistful of short tangerine hair. Trixany started to cry.

“This is stupid, it’s not supposed to be this hard.” She moved her leg, opened one of the dresser drawers. She took a hand mirror out, slammed it shut again. “Enough is enough. It’s been years and it’s bothering you. One last look, then you have to decide.”

She angled the hand mirror, bit her lip. For all she knew, this might be her last time really seeing it. Once the decision got made, she was the sort of person to settle it fast and not linger.

“Maybe it should go. It doesn’t belong there—”

But it was also SO pretty.

“Maybe… if I add some filigree around it? Maybe some tatted red gemstones?”

That’ll cover like half your butt, though. Are you kidding me?

There was one person who would have a definitive opinion about it, and he was also the perfect person to ask. Only, she wasn’t supposed to be talking to Sunthraze. Technically. Trixany narrowed her eyes, just thinking about it. Her red-headed brat, ex-fiancee was one of the most obnoxious Blood Elf men on Azeroth.

And he was the highly intelligent sort who also knew better than to talk to her, because she didn’t want to talk to him. He was capable of not answering her, ignoring her, moving on with someone functional and really beautiful, younger than her even. Well not just the new girlfriends, Sunthraze was younger than her by about fifteen years and he knew she hated being reminded of it. So he had this habit of moving in with other girls who were half even his age, had more money and a better reputation than her, and who spoke every pretty Elf language on Azeroth until Trixany finally had enough of it and sabotaged them.

Well, he always let her do it, though. Maybe Sunthraze just liked to run the full length of his leash?

Actually, it was getting late, wasn’t it? He might be good for a few things.

Knowing full well how wrong she was, she flashed her hand over the scrying orb on the other end of the dresser. “So hey, what do you think of this? Should I keep it?”

The scrying orb had taken the handmirror’s spot, nestled up close to her thigh.

Sunthraze was home at his desk, focused on paperwork. Dutiful Blood Knight that he was.

“Look, Trix. Just because I haven’t silenced your sequence yet, that doesn’t mean I’m your…”

She shrugged as she looked down at his visage in the glass globe and he looked up at the full length of her.

“Okay.” she clapped hands together and shrugged, almost gesturing like a Goblin on the mean streets of Kezan, “Cool! We can block each other right now if you want.”

“Hold on.”

The way he looked right then rattled her right back. The smirking redhead was in a three-piece suit it looked like, with one of those fine frilly shirts (should have made him look stupid, but instead he came off ruthlessly clever for having pulled it off). Nice dark cloth tie knotted at the opening of the shirt and vest. Fine cufflinks at the edge of his sleeves. His hair was dyed a deeper red these days, and his whole ensemble looked as if he was cast in this delicious ruby light. Crisp white shirt, nestled in burgundy, wine, blood red. Gold accents. He’d selected each piece very carefully. And so well. She wanted to see more of his hair but then that would have made her seem very obvious about the effect he was having.

Actually, where was he headed? Sunthraze had to be going out. Sunthraze had even done the whole ‘gold rings over the fingers of my gray gloves thing’ that was starting to get fashionable. Mainly among the upper crust at Court.

“You don’t have a date—”

Him, just as quick, “You don’t know that.”

“You’re going to the Sunspire?”

“Meeting with Lor’themar himself. Liadrin needed a competent, seasoned Nexite to go brief him on what we’ve been doing in our sect.”

“And so she sends you.”

“Yes. Me and not the lady in only panties and her ass on a shelf in my scrying orb.”

“It’s my dresser, actually.”

He put the pen down and sat back in his chair. It creaked. His voice dipped, willing to reveal how the vision satisfied him, “How may I help you this evening, Miss Cuomo?”

“I’m thinking of getting rid of this thing—”

“And could you move a little too, so that your amazing tits are also in the shot? I mean, I’m only guessing about you having one, single powder-blue thing on.”

“You ass.”

“Yours went first.”

“Hey, nicely done—when you know I’m worried about this thing on my butt!”

“What is all this really about, anyway? I mean, aside from the obvious.” Sunthraze looked at her, looked her dead in the eye for a time. “It’s just a tattoo at the end of the day.”

“It’s part of my past, it’s… what if I do get rid of it? I kind of keep worrying... Well, will I still be me?”

“You’re a mish-mash of a Goblin pin-up girl that isn’t a Goblin and a Blood Knight that plays by her own rules, even now that the Silver Hand is involved, so none of us know what you are if even you do.”

“Not helping, Sunthraze.”

“Oh, I’d definitely like to help myself.” He was only mortal, he couldn’t stay on track forever.

“I’m starting to see that this Sunfury tattoo is also my rock, my… it’s this thread that runs right through my past to today. It’s the decision I made to do something good and right for myself, and my people. I thought I was doing that this whole time, but what if I haven’t really done what I was meant to do, fulfilled myself—”

“So this is some kind of mid-life… uh, well, it’s a Human expression and we Elves live so long. But you can’t be having a crisis over an old tattoo, Trixany?”

“And then I feel like I’m the only one who still has theirs. Like… like I’m phasing out and everyone else is moving on. Whenever I have to explain it, I feel sort of panicked. Each time, I have to explain about how I was a Sunfury. About how I don’t think it was a bad decision, and see all these new eyes, these young faces that don’t understand how it was.”

“You feel old?”

“It’s more than that!”

No, he’d just taken a shot at her. Sunthraze could more than keep up with conversation, he was probably ahead of it and knew what advice he would give. But why make it easy for her? To just show up in his life and demand attention, get a shoulder to cry on, just like that? Without addressing anything that ever happened between them.

“Yeah, I can see the gray hairs from over here, I guess.” Sunthraze arched a deep red brow, played with one thick gold ring over his gloved fingers.

Trixany was frantic and slow to notice what he’d done until that remark. But when Trixany did, she gave Sunthraze the middle finger.

“Dang, girl. You’d better get those nails painted, too…”

[mistresstrevelyan]

Ten facts about Theresa Chiara Ryder please. I want to figure out which of my Ryder gals she would be BFFs with

YAY!

TEN FACTS:

Tessa rarely goes by her full name. Her father called her Resi and her friends and comrades on the Tempest call her Tessa. She’s also often called Sara, a mish mash of her first and second name: ThereSA ChiaRA Ryder.

Tessa is an absolute Tudor nerd. Biographies, novels, art, movies, TV shows, opera and even Cosplay. She brought GBs worth of Tudor content on two small external hard drives as part of the little luggage she could put into her locker on the Ark.

Connected to the above, she also loves creating Tudor costumes, be it dresses, doublets or French hoods. Back on Earth her work was used both in TV shows and theatre groups. She also made Cosplay costumes on order, though rarely.

She has her father’s eyes and hair. After Alec’s loss she dyes it red, the constant being told how much she looks like her Dad hurt her immeasurably. 

Reyes calls her Teresita when they’re alone. It makes her weak in the knees.

She settles down on Havarl, happily married to Jaal and Peebee (They’re in a V with Tessa at the centre) while also being in a triad with Reyes and Peebee. 

Jaal’s family adores her, especially his mother.  They live only a stone throw apart and often hang out together. Sahuna loves gardening with Tessa and once Tessa’s daughters are born (Her daughters with Peebee are called Amara and Theana and her daughter with Reyes is called Rosemary) they take care of them together. 

Depending on whether they next ME game will be ME:A 2 or something else, I have several headcanons re: curing Ellen with the help of the Moshae on Aya. 

Her brother, Victor Scott Ryder, eventually ends up with Vetra. This makes Vetra and her sister close family (Hell, all the Tempest crew can be considered such) and they absolutely love spending time with Tessa’s daughters. And Sid finally gets to be the big sister for a change!

Her favourite colour is buttercup yellow. (Even though she loves other shades too) Her second fave is gold. Even her wedding dress was yellow:

[eirabach]

Heathens [14/14]

Summary: After the events of Renegades, Emma finds herself the reluctant monarch of a struggling Kingdom, her only advisors a mish mash of those who’ve betrayed her in the past, and her only comfort one very uncomfortable pirate.

Believing her long lost parents could still be alive, Emma and Killian set out to find them and reunite them with both their daughter and their throne.

Easy.

Right?

THE FINAL CHAPTER - DIDN’T CLARE DO AMAZING EVERYONE?!

(Yeah, @katie-dub here posting again, generally being irritating, earning my keep as a beta, you know. When it came to betaing @phiralovesloki did most of the real work and both Clare and I love her for it.)  The truly fantastic @seastarved also has Clare’s thanks and needs some love from admiring fans for her incredible artwork (which you should totally check out and reblog too). I know that Clare loves every one of her readers - even if she hasn’t been able to reply to your comments!

Rated: E. Warnings for violence and corporal/capital punishment in previous chapters.

This chapter 3.1k

Other Pairings: Snowing

Catch up on tumblr: Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve or here on AO3

Chapter Thirteen: Every Little Fool

Snow White, as Emma had suspected she would be, is a consummate queen. She cuts a regal figure even in her peasant’s rags as she marches through the gates of Eric's castle to thunderous applause, Ariel’s squeals of joy only brightening her husband's delighted smile.

King Eric not only offers them a ship and safe passage, but also is happy to offer David pardon on bended knee while Snow watches beatifically from the sidelines, hastily adorned in one of Ariel’s crowns. He is even willing to offer Killian a swift handshake and a gruff “Don't come back” that seems to mean as much to the pirate as any proffered jewel.

Almost as much, Swan. Gold’s gold, after all.

Snow White also cries though. A lot.

It was only to be expected, Emma supposes, immediately after the curse had broken. Snow had been understandably overwhelmed by shock, grief, horror, and the sweetest of relief. So Emma had borne it with good grace when Snow had thrown her arms around her neck and wept into her hair. She’d smiled as she'd led Killian away as her parents reconciled, even had to bite back her laughter when Snow had latched her attentions and her tears onto a thoroughly horrified looking Killian, who'd spent a good half an hour patting the rightful Queen of Misthaven’s back while Emma had wrung out her filthy shirt in the water barrel outside.

By the time they’ve returned home, though, and certainly after the weeks that pass as Queen Snow and King David reclaim their kingdom, Emma begins to concede that the tears are getting tiresome.

“You will be careful won't you?” Snow asks for the fifth time, dabbing at her cheeks with a fine linen handkerchief. “We don't know what Regina could be planning next.”

“She can plot all she likes,” Emma scoffs, “I'm not worrying about her. Not today.”

“And what about storms? And mermaids? And - ”

“We've weathered them all before, Mom, I promise you.”

Emma wraps her arms around both of them, and buries her face in the collar of her father's fur lined cloak.

She’s spent almost all her life with no one to worry about but herself, and it’s overwhelming, sometimes, to be faced with the knowledge that she has people now. People who love her. People she can lose. Killian had offered to delay the trip, offered to forget it all together if she’d rather have remained at the castle with her parents, but she’d seen the light in his eyes when she’d suggested it.

(“For how long?”

“For as long as you want.”)

Plus, although she’s learning to love her parents, learning to appreciate their gentle words and protective instincts, there’s something to be said for escaping their smothering now and then.

“You be careful, okay? I've had much better luck with curses than either of you.”

“It's not the curses I'm worried about,” grumbles her father as he glares over her shoulder towards the dock.

Emma laughs, pulling back to wriggle her fingers and allow the setting midsummer sun to send rainbows skimming across the surface of her new ring.

“It's all perfectly proper, Dad,” she says, grinning. David looks unconvinced.

“There's nothing remotely proper about that man, Emma.”

“I know,” she says, biting her lip. “That's why I like him.”

David closes his eyes and shudders lightly.

“I don't want to think about it.”

“You sound like Blue. Is this because he beat you at cards again?”

“He cheated!”

Emma sighs, kissing her father on the cheek and then rocking back on her heels.

“Alright, alright. If it helps at all, I'm pretty sure he's too busy with his other woman to bother with me.”

The three of them turn to watch the proceeds at the dock. Killian is dressed, at Snow’s insistence, in the sort of princely garb he would have set alight were Blue to have suggested it, but he’s still clearly a man in his element as he stands at the bottom of the gangplank apparently interrogating every man who steps aboard his newest beloved. The words The Lady Swan are visible above his head in smart black cursive on forget-me-not blue.

“Does he have some sort of problem with the crew?” Snow asks, her brow furrowing, “Ariel insists they are the best men they can spare and I don’t think she’d risk - ”

“Don’t worry,” Emma assures her. “I trust Ariel entirely. Killian on the other hand…” She smiles as he whips a flask out of one man’s hand and throws it overboard. “I don’t think he’ll ever trust her to anyone but himself.”

“I’m not sure it’s the ship he’s worried about,” says Snow knowingly, giving Emma a gentle push. “Off with you then, before your father changes his mind about the blessing.”

“Bit late for that,” David mutters, “unfortunately.”

“Alright, alright.” She throws her parents one last smile, the sky glowing red behind them as the sun touches the horizon. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Do you mean that?” asks Snow. “Or are you just trying to get rid of us?”

“Hardly,” Emma says, and it still astounds her how much she’s come to mean it. “You were hard enough to find in the first place.”

Snow smiles.

“Then go.”

She doesn’t need telling again, jogging up to the gangplank as quickly as her rather voluminous cloak will allow.

“Emma.” Killian turns to her with relief, his hair standing slightly on end from the number of times he’s run his hand through it. “Thank god. We need to set sail before I change my mind, these men are - oi! You!” he gestures furiously towards a young man carrying a coil of rope. “Put that back! You don’t bloody - not there, you idiot!”

Emma stands on her tiptoes to drop a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“I’m so glad you’re taking this whole relinquishing command thing in your stride.”

“I’m just not certain this isn’t some sort of truly convoluted revenge plan of Eric’s,” Killian grumbles. “Sending me a crew so incompetent I daren’t relax for even a moment - Hey! You! You with the chest! That’s bad form, that is, put it back where you found it!” He looks down beseechingly at Emma who’s struggling to contain her grin. “They keep touching things.”

“It’s their job,” she says, resting her palms flat against his chest. “You’re not captain on this voyage, remember?”

“Believe me, it’s painfully hard to forget.”

Emma slides her hands a little lower and tilts her head.

“Well, maybe I could help with that. That is, if we ever get out of the harbour.”

“Very good point, love,” Killian says, still frazzled, but, she hopes at least, for a slightly different reason. “Tick tock.”

He rather gallantly holds out his arm for her to take, which she does whilst pretending not to see the grin he sends over her shoulder to her watching father, and leads her aboard the newest flagship of Misthaven’s navy.

(It might also be the only ship in Misthaven’s navy, but it hardly matters. Who’s counting after all?)

He stops as they reach the deck, bowing low over her hand and then dropping a kiss to it before he rises.

“Welcome aboard, your Highness. Here’s to a better trip than the last, aye?”

“Sounds good to me,” Emma says, nodding to the vessel’s actual captain as he doffs his hat to her. “I think I’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime.”

“Now that,” Killian says with a twinkle in his eye, “is almost certainly a lie.”

“You think?” Emma asks, raising her brow. Killian grins.

“So, there’s no way in which I can… tempt you?” He leans closer and whispers in her ear. “I promise warm sands and incredible sights. And privacy. Lots of privacy.”

“Hmm,” Emma taps her chin. “How much privacy are we talking here? No fairies?”

“No fairies, no dwarves, no disapproving fathers,” he agrees, wriggling his eyebrows. “No clothes.”

“Well,” she says, sliding her hands up his chest and leaning into him. “When you put it like that…”

“Weigh anchor!” bellows the captain, and the Lady Swan rocks beneath them, Emma flinging her arms around Killian’s neck in order to keep her balance.

“I am never getting used to that.”

Killian laughs, clear and joyous, and drops a kiss to the top of her head.

“I’ll make a pirate of you yet, Swan. Only fair, since you’ve made me a prince.”

“Yeah, in name maybe,” she says, grinning, as he leads her over to the bow of the ship. “But I reckon there’s a little pirate left in you yet.”

“How dare you?” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her as they two of them look out towards the purpling horizon. “I’m a gentleman.”

Emma hums, taking hold of his hand and sliding it between the edges of her cloak where she’s naked beneath, taking pride in the way his eyes widen.

“What a shame,” she mutters. “Cause I might have need of a pirate tonight.”

His fingers flex against the bare skin of her belly once, twice, and then he breathes out heavily, his thumb stroking gently just below her belly button.

“You will be the death of me, won’t you.”

Emma hums noncommittally as she encourages his hand higher, only stopping when his fingers brush the curve of her breast and she can feel his intake of breath.

“You did promise privacy.”

“Not here,” he mutters, and she grins to hear the scandalised note in his tone. “These are your father’s men!”

“And I’m their crown princess,” Emma counters. “What are they going to do about it?”

“Emma!”

“What?”

He groans, pressing his lower body against hers and dropping his chin to her shoulder.

“Five minutes, please, that’s all I ask and then I swear...”

“Swear what - Oh! Wow!”

The darkening sky lights up in a thousand sparks of colour, red, blue, gold falling around the bows of the ship in showers of light as Emma leans forward against the bow rail.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, “did you do this?”

Killian just brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, his voice a little raspy as he agrees.

“Beautiful.”

--

Snow and David remain on the dockside to watch the fireworks reflecting off the ship’s wake.

“I’m still not sure this isn’t a horrible idea,” mutters David as Snow presses herself into his side to avoid the cool dusk breeze. “What if something goes wrong?”

“Then they’ll deal with it, David,” Snow says. “They’ve got each other, they’ll be okay.”

David sighs.

“If you say so. You seem very relaxed about all this - we only just got her back.”

“And I only just got you back too,” Snow says slyly, “or did you forget?”

“Well there are a few advantages to a bit of privacy around the place,” David concedes, “although giving the pirate nightmares was rather enjoyable.”

Snow laughs, and burrows further into the warmth of his cloak.

“I know I should be sad, watching her sail away, but I can’t be. Not really, not now. Do you know why?”

David looks down at her as she turns her face up to his, her smile as soft and as gentle as any he’d seen on her in the time before, its brightness the sweetest promise of happiness she could have offered him.

“She called me mom.”

--

The sailors avert their eyes as the last of the sparks settles into the ocean and the Crown Princess of Misthaven leads her lover below decks by the curve of his hook. Not that Emma cares, she has more important things on her mind. The bloody cloak for one.

She’s halfway through shrugging it off at the bottom of the ladder, fiddling with the small silver clasps that had to work to protect her modesty back on shore, when Killian clears his throat behind her.

“Not that your eagerness isn’t a delight,” he says, a touch awkwardly, “and not that I want to appear ungrateful for the surprise, but first - what do you think?”

“About what?” she asks, and looks up.

The Lady Swan isn’t much larger than the late Jolly Roger, so she’s been expecting similarly tight quarters, but clearly Killian, or whoever he’s convinced to arrange the stateroom in his absence, had had other ideas.

There’s still a desk, ink pot and quill at the ready and several rolls of parchment tucked neatly into cubby holes beside it, and a large, leaded window that casts the last rays of sunset across the cabin’s polished wood floor, but it’s far larger than the Jolly Roger’s accommodations, brighter and warmer somehow too, as though the terrible events of the Roger’s life had lingered in her boards and walls whereas here is washed clean, renewed. Ready for a new adventure.

Emma takes a deep breath, and feels much the same.

All around them are reminders of the place that they now call home. Misthaven’s standard is painted on one wall, the gold and cream filigree around the window echoing its curves and warmth. There’s a small portrait of her parents on a nightstand, a full length mirror at one wall, the barrel of honeyed mead Granny had gifted them tucked in the corner beside it and weighted with sandbags for safety.

And in the centre of it all, lit by red-gold sunlight and covered in sheets of fine white silk, is an absolutely enormous bed.

“I hope you like it,” Killian says. “It was a real bastard to get in.”

“You really went all out, huh?”

“Well,” Killian says, slipping from behind her to stand before her, his hand on hers where they’ve frozen on the clasps of her cloak. “It isn’t everyday an old pirate like me gets to bed a beautiful princess, is it?”

“It kind of is, actually,” Emma says, smiling as she moves her hands to rest on his hips and allows him to work the fastenings free. “What did you think we’ve been doing so far? Because I promise you we weren’t playing cribbage.”

“Ah,” he says, dropping a kiss to the exposed flesh of her throat as the first clasp comes undone. “But this is different.”

“Is it?”

“It is.”

He pulls back, smiling broadly, and she sees in him the same light, the same joy she’s seen that first evening on the Jolly Roger so many months ago. A man at peace. A man at home.

“Happy honeymoon,” he murmurs.

“Happy honeymoon.”

She shrieks with laughter as he pushes her back onto the bed, her cloak falling open around her as she wriggles up onto her elbows and grins up at him.

“Well?” she asks, crossing her bare legs at the ankles, “what do you think?”

Killian groans, dropping to his knees at the end of the bed, and, sliding off the silk slipper she wears, presses a kiss to the arch of her foot.

Emma snorts with laughter and jerks away reflexively before raising her other leg enough to kick the second slipper free.

“Alright there, Swan?” asks Killian, grinning as she settles back down. “Ticklish?”

“If I say yes, will you ever let me live it down?”

He tilts his head as though considering, and his grin turns sly.

“I think I could turn it to my advantage.”

“And I think I could kick you right in your pretty face,” says Emma. “Maybe let’s not test it tonight.”

“No,” agrees Killian, his expression softening. “Not tonight.”

He rises to his feet, the intensity with with he looks at her making her feel strangely self-conscious, her teeth biting into her lip as she keeps her knees together.

“What?”

“I can’t believe,” he says, and she’s astounded to hear his voice crack. “That I’m your husband. That I - that you - ”

“That nothing,” she says softly, sitting up to rest her palm against his rough cheek. “I love you.”

“Aye,” he says, and smiles, a small, quiet little thing. “That you do. And I, you.”

“So enough of that, okay?” she says as she works the buttons loose on his shirt. “Enough of worrying and doubting and protocol and all that shit. You and me, okay? That’s all that matters. As long as we have each other, we’ll be just fine.”

Killian sighs, a long, satisfied sort of sound.

“Sounds perfect to me, love.”

He drops his forehead to rest against hers as she pulls his shirt free of his breeches, his breath coming in gentle puffs until she’s worked the fabric over his shoulders and onto the floor to be followed by the solid thunk of his hook and brace. Only then does he move to kiss her, his mouth warm and insistent over hers as he leans over her, the two of them falling together into the comfort of the feather bed, and all Emma can think is perfect.

Finally, everything is perfect.

--

So the lost princess has married her pirate prince, and is no longer lost. The girl whom nobody wanted has became the darling of a nation, the boy whom nobody cared for knows what it was to be beloved. The frightened are now fearless, the lonely safe in the bosom of family.

The kingdom rejoices as the queen regains her throne, her consort steady at her side, and many a bard sing many a song in their honour. She rules with fairness, her people’s champion, and the lands grown rich and bountiful beneath her glory. The people sing her name in the taverns and the streets, and no longer do they look for a saviour. No longer do they fear the forces of the dark.

The lands are peaceful. The seas calm. Both beautiful and bountiful.

It is noon in the realm, and the hours of darkness seem far away, the people free to love and laugh and dance through all the hours of the daylight.

But daylight never lasts forever, and darkness always must fall.

--

She watches them through her mirror, the warped, spotted surface twisting their faces into caricatures of themselves as the princess and her new husband move together. So sweet. So romantic. So terribly doomed.

Shame really, she thinks as she taps at the glass with a long fingernail. They’re rather pretty.

“Are you enjoying the show, dearie?”

The witch drops her mirror and turns to the figure in her fireplace with a scowl.

“Would you begrudge an old lady a little entertainment?”

The Dark One smiles with his flame-lipped mouth, sparks flaring within his fiery eyes as he peers out of the smoke.

“Later,” he says. “But first…”

“But first,” agrees the witch, picking the mirror back up and running a gnarled finger over the mottled glass, a bloody cloth tight in the fist of her hand. “There’s those what must pay, and we shall collect.”

“Yes,” agrees the Dark One, his teeth flashing red in the flames. “We shall.”

--

FIN

[unsettlingshortstories]

Hello, Moto

Nnedi Okorafor (2011)

“African women in general need to know that it’s OK for them to be the way they are – to see the way they are as a strength, and to be liberated from fear and from silence.”

—Wangari Maathai, Kenyan environmental activist and Nobel Laureate

This is a tale you will only hear once. Then it will be gone in a flash of green light. Maybe all will be well after that. Maybe the story has a happy ending. Maybe there is nothing but darkness when the story ends.

We were three women. Three friends. We had goals, hopes and dreams. We had careers. Two of us had boyfriends. We owned houses. We all had love. Then I made these… wigs. I gave them to my two friends. The three of us put them on. The wigs were supposed to make things better. But something went wrong. Like the nation we were trying to improve, we became backward. Instead of giving, we took.

Walk with me. This is the story of How the Smart Woman Tried to Right Her Great Wrong.

Dawn

With the wig finally off, Coco and Philo felt more distant to me. Thank God.

Even so, because it was sitting beside me, I could still see them. Clearly. In my head. Don’t ever mix juju with technology. There is witchcraft in science and a science to witchcraft. Both will conspire against you eventually. I realized that now. I had to work fast.

It was just after dawn. The sky was heating up. I’d sneaked out of the compound while my boyfriend still slept. Even the house girl who always woke up early was not up yet. I hid behind the hedge of colorful pink and yellow lilies in the front. I needed to be around vibrant natural life, I needed to smell its scent. The flowers’ shape reminded me of what my real hair would look like if the wig hadn’t burned it off.

I opened my laptop and set it in the dirt. I put my wig beside it. It was jet black, shiny, the “hairs” straight and long like a mermaid’s. The hair on my head was less than a millimeter long; shorter than a man’s and far more damaged. For a moment, as I looked at my wig, it flickered its electric blue. I could hear it whispering to me. It wanted me to put it back on. I ran my hand over my sore head. Then I quickly tore my eyes from the wig and plugged in the flash drive. As I waited, I brought out a small sack and reached in. I sprinkled cowry shells, alligator pepper and blue beads around the machine for protection. I wasn’t taking chances.

I sat down, placed my fingers on the keyboard, shut my eyes and prayed to the God I didn’t believe in. After all that had happened, who would believe in God? Philo had been in Jos when the riots happened. I knew it was her and her wig. A technology I had created. Neurotransmitters, mobile phones, incantation, and hypnosis- even I knew my creation was genius. But all it sparked in the North was death and mayhem. During the riots there, some men had even burned a woman and her baby to death. A woman andherbaby!

I didn’t want to think of what Philo gained after causing it all. She never said a word to me about it. However, soon after, she went on a three-day shopping spree in Paris. We could leave Nigeria, but never for more than a few days.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I meant well.” I opened my eyes and looked at my screen. The background was a plain blue. The screen was blank except for a single folder. I highlighted the folder and pressed “delete.”

I paused, my hands shaking and my heart pounding in my chest.

“If this doesn’t work, they will kill me,” I whispered. Then I considered what they’d do if I didn’t finish. So many others would die and Nigeria would be in further chaos, for sure. I continued typing. I was creating a computer virus. I would send it out in a few hours. When they’d both be busy. Then all hell would break loose…for me, just me. Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better.

My name is Rain and if I didn’t get this right, the corruption already rife in this country would be nothing compared to what was to come. And it would all be my fault.

The Market

I am beast. I am lovely. I am in control. I was born beautiful.

All this Philo thought as she walked through the fruit and vegetable section of the open-air market. Around her, women slaved away. They sat behind tables and in booths selling tomatoes, peppers, plantain, egusi seeds, greens, yams. All those things that they’d have to cook at home for their families after a long day. Philo didn’t live that life. She’d chosen better. She was above all of them.

Philo was tall and voluptuous, as she sashayed past women and men in her pricey high heels and brown designer dress that clung to her every inch. Her foundation make-up made her skin look like chocolate porcelain. Her eyelids sparkled with purple eye-shadow. Her lips glistened bright sensual pink. Perfect. Sexy. Hot. And her wig was awful. A washed-out black with auburn frosted tips, it looked as if it were made of colored straw and sat on her head like it knew it did not belong there.

“Here,” a woman said, running up to Philo and handing her a roll of naira. “Take. You will make better use of it than me.” The woman paused and frowned, obviously confused by her own actions and words.

“Thank you,” Philo said, with a chuckle. She grabbed the money with her long nailed painted fingers and stared into the woman’s eyes. Philo felt her wig heat up and then a dull ache in the back of her head. Then she felt it behind her eyes, which turned from deep brown to glowing green. Philo sighed as the laser shot from her eyes into the woman’s eyes. The woman slumped, looking sadly at her feet. It always felt so good to take from people, not just their money but their very essence. Philo quickly moved on leaving the tired sad-looking woman behind.

She passed a group of young men. They stared and she stared back, zapping and taking. Their ravenous looks grew blank. Philo smirked knowingly. She felt amazing. She strolled into a booth where a man sold hundreds of Nollywood movie DVDs. She glanced over the array of colorful dramatic covers where women and men scowled, wept, grinned, pointed, accused, laughed. “I’ll take this one,” she said, picking a DVD at random. She’d watch it. She’d enjoy it. She loved Nollywood. These days, she enjoyed everything. The world was hers. Soon it would be, at least.

She tucked the DVD into her purse and left the booth without paying. No one stopped her. As she stepped into the sunshine, she turned, absolutely loving herself. She knew everyone was looking at her, just as she knew she was sucking the life from them as they stared. Her wig’s heat increased and her brown eyes glinted a bright green as she smiled at any man who caught her eye. By the time she left this market, she’d be weighed down with naira given and life juices taken. Market by Market. It was like this every day.

Her cell phone went off. A male voice happily drawled, “Hellllo Moto,” then upbeat music began to play. Everything about Philo rattled as she stopped and lifted her purse- the jangling bangles on her arms, her jingling earrings, and her three gold chain necklaces. She was clicks and clacks, shines and sparkles.

“Oh where is it,” she said, digging in her purse, mindful of her long nails. “Where, where where.” She pushed aside her lipstick, her unnecessary wallet, tissues, compact case, a pack of gum, wads and rolls of naira. Her cell phone continued going off. She laughed. She already knew who it was. Rain, the weakest link in the chain. She could tell by the ring tone. However, she could also tell by more than that. In her mind’s eye, Philo could see Rain standing outside her compound, next to some flowers, holding her cell phone to her ear, waiting. Philo found her phone, flipped it open and held it to her ear. It clicked against her long gold earring.

“What?” she said, grinning with all her teeth. She heard nothing. “Rain, I know it’s you. Say someth…”

She felt it before she saw it. A coolness that contrasted horribly with the heat of her wig. She frowned as the phone made an odd beeping sound. She held it before her just as the phone glinted a deep green similar to the one her eyes flashed when she sucked psychic energy from those around her. Her phone buzzed, an electrical current zipping across it before disappearing. Green smoke began to dribble from it.

“Chey!” Philo exclaimed staring at it. If she were smart, she’d have dropped it. But Philo was never really that intelligent. Just greedy. Rain didn’t know that before but she knew that now. A text message appeared on the screen but Philo could make no sense of it. It was a series on nonsensical symbols, rubbish. She dropped the phone, pressing a hand to her wig. “That bitch,” she snarled, looking around with wide enraged eyes. “How dare she even try.” In the sunshine, her canines almost looked pointed.

Right then and there, Philo disappeared in a flash of green.

His House

Coco had just lit a cigarette. She leaned back on the plush white leather couch and crossed her legs. She held her glass of champagne up to the photo of her husband on the wall. He was out. He was always out. Working. For her. She laughed, scratching under her itchy wig with her long-nailed index finger. Scritch scritch. It was spiky, dark red and short and no one in his or her right mind would wear it. She got up and looked at her reflection in the glass that protected her husband’s photo. Her skinny jeans and t-shirt fit wonderfully snug. Her face was flawless. And her hair was power.

“Mwah,” she said, blowing herself a kiss.

She ambled into the living room where two fans were blasting. She stood very still between them, her wig’s “hairs” blowing about her face. It felt secure, despite the blowing air. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. Behind her eyelids, she could see. Then she began to draw it in from…

The busy street. People sitting in bustling bush taxies and perched atop hundreds of okada motorbikes. Market women walking alongside the road. The mish-mash of old and modern buildings of Lagos. Disabled beggars in the road. Boys playing soccer on a field.

When she opened her eyes, they glowed a deep green and the wig glinted an electric blue. The blowing fans made the heat from her wig more bearable. Her cell phone went off and she nearly jumped. “Hellllo, Moto,” it said as it played its dance music.

“Ah ah, what now?” she muttered. But she was smiling. The wig. It always left her feeling so good. Minus the heat, which left the actual wig feeling like a burning helmet. She ran to her cell phone on the couch. It was Rain. What did she want now? In her mind, the wig showed Rain standing outside her compound looking worried. The woman always looked so worried; she should have been at the top of the world.

Coco held the phone to her ear as she brought out some lipstick. “Hello?” she said, smearing on a fresh coat. She grinned, sure of what she’d hear. She frowned. “Hello? Rain, what is it? Speak up.”

But she heard nothing. She held the phone to her face when it suddenly became like a chunk of ice in her hand. “Iiieeey!” she exclaimed, throwing it on the couch. As she stared at it, appalled, the cell phone began to dribble green smoke. A text box opened on its screen. Coco squinted trying to read it. It looked like rubbish. But, like Philo, Coco understood what was happening.

“Oh,” Coco said, out of breath. “You want to play now, eh? Ok.” She threw her lipstick on the leather seat, the lid still off. It left a smear on the pillow. “Someone will die today, o. And it will not be me.”

She disappeared.

*

I have made my choice. That’s why I am still here, standing in these lilies. I run my hand over my shaved head. Waiting. The sun shines bright and happy in the sky, unaware of what’s about to happen to me. Unaware of what I have done and will soon suffer the consequences for. Unconcerned.

Philo appears. She is standing on the lilies, mere feet away from me.

“What is wrong with you?” she shouts. She looks beautiful and ghastly in her tight brown dress that probably cost more naira than a market woman makes in two years.

“I’m…” Fear pumps through my veins like adrenaline and blood.

“Why is your wig off, eh? You look horrible.” Her wig flashes as the digital virus tries to cripple it. Notice I say “tries”.

“I took it off,” I snap. “This is wrong, o! This is wrong! Wake up!”

Philo chuckles. “And what is wrong about it? We have everything we want.”

“Stealing from people is not what I made these for! I made them to help us give! To cure the deep seated culture of corruption by giving people hope and a sense of patriotism. Remember??”

She looks at me as if I am crazy. The wig has made her forget. Na wao. Tricky tricky things, these wigs.

“Put it back on,” she says, pointing a long nail at me.

“No,” I say. “It has made us cruel witches. Look at you!”

Coco appears behind me. She hisses like a snake. She is in no mood for words. Her wig flashes. The virus is not working. When you mix juju with technology, you give up control. You are at the will of something far beyond yourself. I am done for.

See how it all ends? Or does it begin? I am watching them approach me now. I tell you while my life hangs on its last thread. I am putting my wig on. It is so hot. I should have paid more attention to the cooling system when I made these. I hear the heartbeat of everyone around me now, including the irregular rhythm of Coco and Philo’s. But oh, the power. It rushes into me like ogogoro down the throat of a drunk.

See Philo bare her teeth. They are indeed sharp like those of a bloodsucker. The virus is working through her wig now. But something has gone very wrong. They are both smiling. For a year, we have been psychic vampires but now as they come at me, mouths open, teeth sharp, I see that they have become the blood-sucking kind.

I feel my own teeth sharpening too as I prepare to defend myself. This is new but I can’t think about that right now. I tear the wig off and throw it aside.

“Come then!” I shout. Then, I…

[dixseptdixhuit]

Sunrise (12x23 coda - sort of, but not really)

Note: thank you to @amirosebooks for the handprint idea. Hope it lives up to your expectations!

And of course thank you @procasdeanating for the great beta-ing ♥

Dean sinks down on his knees besides Cas' body, looking up, waiting for someone, something to come and undo what just happened. It can't be. Cas can't be dead. Finally he lowers his gaze on the beloved face. So still, like he's sleeping, and Cas so rarely sleeps. Dean's throat hurts, his chest hurts, he can barely breathe now. He doesn't know how much time passes, all he knows is that this is too much to bear, and the tears that finally escape him won't soothe him. He falls on Cas' chest and heaves through painful sobs, endlessly.

*

“Cut! And stay in position as much as possible, please! Okay, that was good. We have about fifteen minutes before sunrise, so I'd rather the transition goes smoothly.”

Nobody claps, as would probably be the case if they had filmed such an emotional scene during day time. The on-set crew is reduced to the minimum at this hour, and everyone is exhausted. People are talking low and moving around without paying attention to Misha and Jensen still lying on the ground.

Misha opens his eyes and puts a hand on Jensen’s back. He knows he shouldn’t move too much if he wants to find the exact same position again, but Jensen’s sobs aren’t stopping, and he doesn’t like that. Tears are starting to wet his shirt and they aren’t fake. A tired Jensen shooting an emotional scene at 5 am was probably a bad idea, and Misha would have said so if he’d been asked.

“Shhh, babe, it’s okay,” he whispers. He’s not even sure Jensen’s heard him; he continues weeping against Misha’s chest. Misha tries to take him back to the reality of the situation. “Come on, Jens, you’re going to smudge all your makeup on my wardrobe, and I can’t get up to change.”

Misha keeps running his free hand through Jensen’s hair, and slowly the crying calms down, but Jensen stays in the same position, face hidden against Misha’s chest, as if he is ashamed to lift it and look at Misha. They just lie there, and the cold is starting to seep into their bodies from the ground when a PA comes to them, carrying a blanket. She doesn’t speak, just makes eye contact with Misha who nods silently, and she spreads the blanket clumsily over them.

It takes several minutes for Jensen to start to relax. Misha watches the sky gradually lightening, and the crew around them beginning to busy themselves again.

“Okay, people, we need to do this one in one shot, you know that! No mistakes allowed, so get ready!”

The PA comes back to take the blanket away, and Jensen finally stirs as if he is coming out of a deep slumber. He lifts his head and catches Misha’s eyes.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, “I… I’m sorry.”

Misha can’t answer as someone comes up to reapply their makeup. The sky is starting to show a deep pink shade behind the mountains; in a minute, everyone except them draws back behind the camera line, and they hear a clap and a loud “Action!”

 *

The door of the small wooden house opens but Dean doesn’t move from where he’s slumped over Cas’ chest. A scrawny teenager, in a much too big flannel shirt that reaches his skinny knees, comes out of the house. His eyes glow gold and he’s smiling, a weird ecstatic smile. He goes down the few front steps, walking straight to where Cas lies. Behind him, Sam hesitates on the threshold, as if knowing he can’t change the boy’s actions in any way.

The boy stops next to Cas, and Dean finally looks up when he hears him say, in a clear, high-pitched voice: “Castiel.” It’s not a question, not a plea, more like an affirmation, a simple statement.

The sky has taken a bright hue of pink and gold, and exactly as the first ray of sun shines from behind the mountain across the lake, a blinding beam of light springs out from the Nephilim’s eyes to Castiel’s heart, right where the angel blade stabbed him. Cas’ body seizes as the dazzling light spreads through it, and Dean falls back on his ass, his eyes squeezed shut. He’s still numb from the shock of what happened in the last couple of hours and when a searing pain burns his shoulder, he doesn’t react except for a full-body flinch - and then the pain is gone, just like that, and the light too.

When Dean opens his eyes, blue ones are staring back at him. His left shoulder throbs with his heartbeat, but he doesn’t care about it right now, doesn’t even want to glance at it for a second, because Cas is looking at him. With eyes full of life. And he’s breathing, and saying the one thing that Dean wasn’t expecting to hear ever again, “Dean”, in his unmistakable deep baritone.

“Cas… is that you? Really you?”

“Yes. You are hurt. Let me...” and he lifts his hand towards Dean’s shoulder. This time, Dean looks down left, and he gasps. His shirt sleeve is burnt and there, on his shoulder, angry-red and swollen, is the same handprint he wore nearly ten years ago when he rose from his grave. Castiel’s handprint.

“No, don’t,” he says as he stops Cas’ gesture. “I want to keep it. I want to keep you.” He’s dizzy and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but it doesn’t matter, because all that matters is Cas, not why he’s alive or how. He flings himself at Cas, and clings to him. He doesn’t want to ever let go.

 *

“Cut! Awesome, you did it, guys!”

This time, the whole crew cheers. They all knew that they had to do it in one take, while the sun was rising; there was no room for errors, and it’s done. It worked, and now everyone just wants one thing: going to bed.

“Y’all have twelve hours to rest, and we’ll start again this evening for a few hours only, so please come back well rested!”

Jensen takes several minutes to loosen his grip on Misha’s coat and let him draw back. They stare at each other, dazed and exhausted. Finally, Misha grabs Jensen’s arm and pulls him to his feet.

“Come on, cowboy, let’s get you to bed. I’m sure you can at least walk to the car.”

“Mish… I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” Misha offers, his tone softer than the words themselves. They’re approaching the car now, not having bothered with anything else, even saying goodnight (or day) to anyone, or removing their makeup.

“Can I… Please come and stay at my place,” and Jensen’s voice isn’t pleading, but strained and thin, and Misha knows he won’t deny him - and himself, if he’s being honest - the comfort. There’s no point in pretending he doesn’t need it too.

“Of course, assbutt.” The reference makes Jensen smile, at least. Misha opens the car door and they both slide on the back seat, squeezing close together, touching from shoulder to thigh. Jensen leans a bit stronger against Misha’s side until Misha, with a sigh, lifts his arm to allow Jensen to snuggle up to him.

While they ride in silence, the sun keeps rising.

(in this ficlet, Jensen needs to be forgiven by Misha for something, but I don’t know what. Feel free to imagine!)

[wildefiction]

Of Course...Mr. Collins

TWENTY

Shifting beneath the weight of the duvet, you cracked open one eyelid while snuggling into the comfort of your pillow. Sunlight streamed through the shaded windows across the room, shafts of light partially illuminating the bed. Tensing briefly in the unfamiliar surroundings, you took note of the person next to you. Norman was still deeply asleep, both arms thrust under his balled-up pillow. His bare back rose and fell in a steady rhythm, shaggy hair clinging to his forehead and falling across his eyes in a messy heap.

Pulling the sheet around your naked body, you turned in an attempt to quietly move from the bed. Judging by the position of the little sunlight that was visible, it was early. Settling both feet into the plush carpeting, you bent forward to stand up just as a strong arm curled around your waist. 

“Where ya think yer goin’?” Norman effortlessly hauled you back against his body, burying his face in the side of your neck. The warmth of his embrace and his slow, even, sleep-laced breathing had your own drowsiness returning.

“Some of us have to work today, Mr. Reedus.” “Go back to sleep.”

Slipping from his side, you padded across the room and climbed back into your dress from the night before. Looking back over your shoulder at the sleeping man you’d spent the night with, you couldn’t help but smile. The wistful expression on your face was short lived as the reality of what had happened with Norman came rushing back to you. “Don’t go getting all googly-eyed [Y/F/N], it was a one time thing. Time to move on.” 

With a final glance in his direction, you slipped out the door, the soft click of the latch catching as it closed an obvious sort of finality.

Back in your room you turned immediately to the comfort of a hot shower. As you peeled off your clothing, soft clouded bruises met your eyes. Oblong purple-ish green ribbons decorated your hips while a few small maroon bites marked your breasts and collarbone. Running your hands across each of them jolted you with the memories of how they’d occurred, and you were still shocked at the things he’d done and the pleasure you’d experienced. For the first time in your life, you’d been utterly satisfied at the hands of another person, and a shiver raced through your bones at the memory.

After you were clean and dressed; choosing a pair of denim cut-offs and an Alice in Chains shirt - you headed downstairs to the green room. Intent on keeping your head in the game today, a whistle fell from your lips as you threaded your way through the crowds. Pulling the phone from your pocket, you texted Misha good morning with a picture of the beach to check in. 

“Hey Mish, I’m stopping off at the coffee shop across the street. Want anything?”

Today was your last day in Hawaii. You’d miss the beautiful weather and the picturesque beaches. It really had been a once in a lifetime experience. “Hey [Y/F/N]!” Turning, you smiled as Jared approached, one large hand held up in greeting.

“Jared!” With as little as you’d spoken to the man you were surprised at how easily you’d been accepted as part of the family. 

“How did things go with Misha the other night? Did y’all get everything worked out okay?”

Stepping away from the hug he’d wrapped you in, you nodded.

“Yeah, I think so. Just needed to clear up some parts of our relationship.” 

The furrowing of Jared’s thick eyebrows had you laughing as he fell in step beside you. Unsure what all he knew of Misha and Vicki’s relationship agreement, you changed the subject. By the time you walked into the green room Jared had invited you to come to Texas for a visit. “It’ll be great, we’ll do some good southern barbecue, properly welcome you to the family.” He gave a final wave before turning with Jensen to head for their early morning gold panel.

Looking around the room, you were surprised when you didn’t see Misha. Grabbing the phone from your back pocket, you began to worry when there were no messages there either. 

“Hey Rob, have you seen Misha today?” Flopping down on the cream colored overstuffed sofa against the wall, you turned your attention to the man who sat running his fingers across the strings of an acoustic guitar. 

“Can’t say I have, sorry [Y/F/N]. I wouldn’t worry too much though. You know how Misha likes to wander off.” 

An easy smile lit his face. Closing his eyes, his body swayed and he began to sing. You’d enjoyed Rob’s voice since first hearing him sing in Supernatural and since Misha wasn’t answering his messages, you figured there was no better place to wait for your boss than here in the green room. You knew he had group photo ops today, he had to show up eventually.

**************************

Removing the dark sunglasses covering his eyes, Norman scanned the crowd gathered in the small cafe. Leaning towards the hostess who stood wide-eyed at behind her podium just inside the door, he smiled 

“Hey, I’m waitin’ on someone, dunno if they’re here yeh or nah though?” Nodding a little too quickly, the small girl beckoned the taller man to follow her. 

“We were told to expect you Mr. Reedus, your party just arrived a few minutes ago.”

Winding his way through the clusters of square tables, Norman was led to the west side of the restaurant where an outdoor terrace overlooked the ocean. Thanking the woman who still looked flustered as she scurried away, Norman dropped into the wrought iron chair on the left side of the table. 

“Reedus, man, thanks for coming.” Extending a hand, Misha’s face lit up into a genuine smile.

“Sure man, what’s up?” The puzzled look crossing over Norman’s face seemed almost apprehensive.

**********************

Pulling the folded paper schedule from your back pocket, your finger scanned over the color codes. You had to squint to read the small font, so much text was jammed into the schedule that it took a few minutes for you to recognize that the lavender words represented photo ops. It’d been nearly two hours and there gad still been no word from your boss. 

“Here we are…” the J2M photo ops were set to directly follow Jared and Jensen’s duo op. 

The boys had left for those about thirty minutes ago. Glancing up at the small black clock on the wall, you noticed there was about ten minutes until the start of the next session. Gathering your phone and drink, you tucked the schedule away in your pocket. Perusing the catering table for a moment, you decided on a bottle of water and bag of Gardettos. Opening the snack while pulling open the heavy wooden door, you tossed a few rye chips in your mouth as you set off down the hall.

A small outdoor bar spread out around the cluster of elevators that led to the photo op room. You could hear Chris’ music drifting down from the room upstairs and it instantly put a smile on your face. Stopping for a moment at the outdoor establishment, you ordered an iced green tea with honey for Misha. When you got to the top of the stairs, the line for the J2M photos wound around the hallway, everyone chatting animatedly about the poses they’d chosen or the number of pictures they’d purchased.

Slipping in the side door, Cliff smiled and showed you to a group of chairs out of the way of the lights and backdrop. The last few J2 ops were lined up, the boys laughing and smiling in each of the pictures. A few minutes later, while Chris reset the lighting, Jared and Jensen wandered over to chat for a minute.

As the con-goers began to filter into the room and line up for their photo ops, even Jensen began to look worried. “Where the Hell are you Misha?” 

“I’m sure he’s on his way, he’s still got…ha..about a minute..” Glancing up from his watch, Jared’s face wore a look of incredulity. Just as Chris was starting his music again, the door opened and Misha came flying in. His hair a disheveled mess, several muffled screams from the other side of the room let him know the little detail hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Heading straight for the director’s chair you sat in, Misha smiled, brushing his lips across your temple in greeting. Holding the cold beverage out in his direction, he nodded his thanks and took a few long drinks. 

“Alright fuckers, ya ready to get this show started?!”

Beaming, he danced over to his mark in front of the large purple backdrop, the red leather jacket he wore over the simple black t-shirt stood out against the vivid screen.

Resting your chin in one hand, you were having a great time watching all of the photos being taken. So many amazing signs and poses that you’d have never thought of made the time fly by. A handful of people even begged Chris to be in their photo as well, to which he happily obliged. A couple of times you looked towards the people waiting in line. While most everyone seemed to genuinely be enjoying the wait, a few people met your gaze with steely glares. Frowning only momentarily, you quickly forgot about the mean looks when one group had Jensen acting like he was diving for a fallen pie. Doubling over in laughter, you had to wipe tears set from where they threatened to spill over your eyes.

When your phone vibrated in your pocket, you lifted it to your face, confused by the unfamiliar number. The text message scrolled across your lock screen. Eyebrows disappearing behind the fall of your hair, you jumped from the height of your chair and slipped behind Cliff and out the door into the hallway.

“Hey [Y/F/N], are you busy?” Tilting your head in confusion, you were surprised when the Skype app opened on your screen - the same unfamiliar number flashing as the call sent the melodic sounds of your ringtone dancing through the hallway. Hesitantly you swiped a finger across the screen, accepting the call. Though surprised, you were happy when Vicki’s face filled the screen. Assuming Misha must have given her your phone number, you smiled at the woman before waving.

“Vicki! Hi!” Leaning against the cool plaster of the hallway you slid to the ground, tucking your knees up in front of you.

“Hey [Y/F/N], are you free to talk for a couple of minutes?” 

“Sure, what’s up?” The smile on your face wilted slightly at her soft tone. 

“Haha don’t worry, nothing’s wrong. Mish just asked me to talk to you about your …uh..situation. He seems to think you’re still upset about what happened Friday night and he wants to make sure we’re all on the same page.” 

Nodding at her concern, you shrugged “I figured it was a one time deal. He’d had some drinks an-” 

Suddenly your face paled, did Vicki know what all had happened? If so, was she angry? Were you about to be yelled at by Misha’s wife? Was she going to fire you? Darting your eyes around the screen, you scrutinized her face for any hint of anger or disappointment.

“Relax love, I’m not upset. In fact, the other night was my idea.You’d been prepared for her to be angry with you, you’d hoped for her understanding, but you hadn’t expected her to be okay with it and certainly not to have suggested it. As the confusion spread across your face she laughed. 

“Let me explain. I keep forgetting that you and Misha haven’t had a lot of time to talk.” With a huff, you nodded. 

“Interruptions seem to crop up every time we sit down to talk about anything remotely serious.”

“Well, I’ll just cut to the chase then. Ya know…just in case a mob breaks out or something.” Dipping one eye into a wink, you laughed at Vicki’s chiding.

“So. About a year or two into Misha’s role on Supernatural, he began to be away from home more often than not. The stress of not seeing each other began to wear on us, not to mention the lack of sex. When I set out to write my book, I did a lot of research. Misha supported me the entire time, even if it wasn’t quite his cup of tea.” 

Laughing at the surprised look on your face, Vicki nodded. “It’s true, Misha used to be quite…reserved. Especially when it came to sex.” “Long story short, we were at a friend’s house one night, and we’d all been drinking. One thing led to another, and we all ended up in bed together.” 

Looking to the left and checking over the top of her screen, Vicki leaned in closer to the monitor, “It was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life! Absolutely mind blowing..and hot? Holy damn.”

Leaning back, she huffed, a grin spreading over her face. “Anyway, fast forward a couple more years. Now Misha is going to nearly every convention, and when he’s not traveling the country for those, he’s filming or working with his charity. So. I suggested he find a personal assistant. One who could keep him company during those long stretches of time when he wasn’t home.”

The realization of what she was saying took a few minutes to slide into place. Once it did, you weren’t quite sure how you felt. Sure, Misha’s wife had basically just given you her blessing to sleep with her husband..and yet at the same time your heart sank a bit. Feeling a bit like a means to an end, the look of confliction in your eyes prompted Vicki to continue. 

“Just so you know, because I totally recognize that look in your eyes - in the ten years Misha has been on the show, and of the six assistants he’s had during that time, only two have slept with my husband. You and just one other.” “He always brings the idea to me before he does anything. We talk about it. There are rules and everything.”

Vicki continued to explain the agreement she and her husband had come to. At the end of it all, you took a few minutes to soak in all the information. “And [Y/F/N]?” Lifting your eyes to meet her sparkling chocolate irises, color burned across your cheeks at her next words; “Just wait, when Misha and you come back on Monday, I’ll be sure to welcome you properly.” With a wink, she drug her fingers along the collarbone that peeked up from the garnet camisole she wore.

After you’d ended the call, you rose to your feet. Certainly a bit unsteady. “How…what is happening? This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to people like me.” The thoughts swirling through your mind numbed you as a shiver rolled through your body.

Slinking back into the photo op room, you were surprised that only a few people remained from the line that had wrapped around the room and down the hallway earlier. Had you really been gone awhile or was Chris just that good at his job? Apparently, the answer was both. When the last guests had filed out, Chris sauntered over, resting an elbow on your shoulder. 

“Hey, you must be [Y/F/N], welcome to the clan.” He, like a number of the other men you’d been around lately had an infectious smile and gorgeous blue eyes that were so light, they were nearly white. Looking around at the room, you laughed self-consciously 

“Is it some requirement that everyone who works for or on television has to be gorgeous?” Playing at being bashful, Chris squeezed you into a hug as he pointed to the corner of the room where his second photographer was pointing a camera at you. Laughing just as the shutter released, you stepped away from the man before turning to look for Misha. Unsurprisingly, he was nowhere to be found. 

“Really?!” “He was just here!” With a groan, you said good-bye to Chris and turned in the direction of the stairs. You were quickly realizing that keeping track of your boss was easier said than done.

Busying yourself in your phone as you descended the stairs, you didn’t notice the group of people staring at you and whispering to themselves as you rounded the corner. Disappearing into the sea of people who milled about the vendor area, you decided to head back to your room. It was nearly four o’clock and you were starving. The small cup of coffee that had served as your breakfast clearly hadn’t been enough.

You’d been so busy the entire morning that you’d completely forgotten about the previous night. With a resigned sigh, you flipped through your phone. He hadn’t called. Or sent a text. Nothing. As much as you’d been expecting this very thing to happen, you couldn’t say you weren’t disappointed.

As the elevator slowed to a stop at your floor, the soft ding of the bell cut through your thoughts. Deciding that you’d order some room service at sit outside on the patio to soak in some much needed Vitamin D before you headed back to the characteristically grey Northwest weather, you smiled.

Thirty minutes later, you were enjoying a turkey and bacon wrap, a tropical fruit salad and a large glass of iced tea as you smiled up into the sun. Ten days from now, you’d be packing for California. Luckily you’d be home for Thanksgiving. As much as you enjoyed traveling, it would be nice to be home.

The rest of the afternoon passed with little incident. You spent your time checking emails and making sure all of your reservations for San Francisco were correct. You knew they were. You’d looked at them twice since you had booked the airline tickets and hotel rooms.

When your phone began to ring, you nearly jumped when you saw it was Misha calling. 

“Hey!” 

“[Y/F/N], hey, could you grab something from my room for me?” Nodding absently, you pushed your chair back, rising to step into the cool darkness of your suite.

The quiet padding of your feet over the plush carpet paused as you stepped through the door that connected your room to that of your boss’ 

“What am I looking for Mish?” Your eyes scanned the floor of his room for the bag he’d told you about. Abruptly, strong arms snaked around your waist, pulling you back against a broad chest. Hot breath fanned over your neck as Misha growled against your skin “You found it.”

Twisting in his embrace, you wound your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the dark hair curling over his ear and stepping up on your tiptoes to press your lips to his. The dress shirt he wore was unbuttoned, the golden tone of his chest and stomach a stark divergence from the crisp starch of the white fabric.

“Clever, Mr. Collins.” A low sound of contentment rumbled through his chest when you turned your head to rest against his warm skin. The heavy thud of his heart-beat comforted you. Inhaling deeply, you suddenly understood all of the discussions you'd read where other people had tried to describe the way Misha smelled. No one could agree on the same answer, most could only describe it as being comforting. Perhaps each person who'd been lucky enough to experience being wrapped in his arms had a different version of what comfort meant to them. To you, it meant rainy Sunday mornings in bed, the smell of pancakes, a backyard bar-be-que with friends, easy laughter and clean laundry fresh from the dryer.

Misha’s grip around your waist tightened, and you could feel his body heat radiating through you. Cupping one cheek with his broad hand, he tilted your chin up, meeting your questioning expression with his dark blue eyes. A ring of indigo so deep as to be nearly black framed his spectacular irises, and suddenly, you were gone. Lost in the depths of those perfect sapphires.

Tilting his head to one side, voice lowering several octaves, the gravelly tone of Castiel filtered through his stubbled jaw. 

“[Y/F/N]...are you well?” While you had liked the angel he played on television, Misha as Misha had always held the biggest spot in your heart. “Meeting" Cas first hand, however, you found your throat dry - though that may well have been the only part of yourself that was.

“Cas?” The question was soft. Brows knitting together in his characteristically bemused expression, Misha leaned in and gently touched his lips to yours; hesitant.

A loud knock sounded from across the room, shattering the illusion the two of you had become wrapped in. Insistently demanding, the intrusion came again and you sighed, stepping back from the man in front of you. Turning towards the noise, you didn't notice the knowledge mingling with the smile on his face as he followed you to the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TAGS: @jamielea81 @wings-of-a-raven

[andya-j]

This is a tale you will only hear once. Then it will be gone in a flash of green light. Maybe all will be well after that. Maybe the story has a happy ending. Maybe there is nothing but darkness when the story ends. We were three women. Three friends. We had goals, hopes and dreams. We had careers. Two of us had boyfriends. We owned houses. We all had love. Then I made these… wigs. I gave them to my two friends. The three of us put them on. The wigs were supposed to make things better. But something went wrong. Like the nation we were trying to improve, we became backward. Instead of giving, we took. Walk with me. This is the story of How the Smart Woman Tried to Right Her Great Wrong. Dawn With the wig finally off, Coco and Philo felt more distant to me. Thank God. Even so, because it was sitting beside me, I could still see them. Clearly. In my head. Don’t ever mix juju with technology. There is witchcraft in science and a science to witchcraft. Both will conspire against you eventually. I realized that now. I had to work fast. It was just after dawn. The sky was heating up. I’d sneaked out of the compound while my boyfriend still slept. Even the house girl who always woke up early was not up yet. I hid behind the hedge of colorful pink and yellow lilies in the front. I needed to be around vibrant natural life, I needed to smell its scent. The flowers’ shape reminded me of what my real hair would look like if the wig hadn’t burned it off. I opened my laptop and set it in the dirt. I put my wig beside it. It was jet black, shiny, the “hairs” straight and long like a mermaid’s. The hair on my head was less than a millimeter long; shorter than a man’s and far more damaged. For a moment, as I looked at my wig, it flickered its electric blue. I could hear it whispering to me. It wanted me to put it back on. I ran my hand over my sore head. Then I quickly tore my eyes from the wig and plugged in the flash drive. As I waited, I brought out a small sack and reached in. I sprinkled cowry shells, alligator pepper and blue beads around the machine for protection. I wasn’t taking chances. I sat down, placed my fingers on the keyboard, shut my eyes and prayed to the God I didn’t believe in. After all that had happened, who would believe in God? Philo had been in Jos when the riots happened. I knew it was her and her wig. A technology I had created. Neurotransmitters, mobile phones, incantation, and hypnosis- even I knew my creation was genius. But all it sparked in the North was death and mayhem. During the riots there, some men had even burned a woman and her baby to death. A woman andherbaby! I didn’t want to think of what Philo gained after causing it all. She never said a word to me about it. However, soon after, she went on a three-day shopping spree in Paris. We could leave Nigeria, but never for more than a few days. “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I meant well.” I opened my eyes and looked at my screen. The background was a plain blue. The screen was blank except for a single folder. I highlighted the folder and pressed “delete.” I paused, my hands shaking and my heart pounding in my chest. “If this doesn’t work, they will kill me,” I whispered. Then I considered what they’d do if I didn’t finish. So many others would die and Nigeria would be in further chaos, for sure. I continued typing. I was creating a computer virus. I would send it out in a few hours. When they’d both be busy. Then all hell would break loose…for me, just me. Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. My name is Rain and if I didn’t get this right, the corruption already rife in this country would be nothing compared to what was to come. And it would all be my fault. The Market I am beast. I am lovely. I am in control. I was born beautiful. All this Philo thought as she walked through the fruit and vegetable section of the open-air market. Around her, women slaved away. They sat behind tables and in booths selling tomatoes, peppers, plantain, egusi seeds, greens, yams. All those things that they’d have to cook at home for their families after a long day. Philo didn’t live that life. She’d chosen better. She was above all of them. Philo was tall and voluptuous, as she sashayed past women and men in her pricey high heels and brown designer dress that clung to her every inch. Her foundation make-up made her skin look like chocolate porcelain. Her eyelids sparkled with purple eye-shadow. Her lips glistened bright sensual pink. Perfect. Sexy. Hot. And her wig was awful. A washed-out black with auburn frosted tips, it looked as if it were made of colored straw and sat on her head like it knew it did not belong there. “Here,” a woman said, running up to Philo and handing her a roll of naira. “Take. You will make better use of it than me.” The woman paused and frowned, obviously confused by her own actions and words. “Thank you,” Philo said, with a chuckle. She grabbed the money with her long nailed painted fingers and stared into the woman’s eyes. Philo felt her wig heat up and then a dull ache in the back of her head. Then she felt it behind her eyes, which turned from deep brown to glowing green. Philo sighed as the laser shot from her eyes into the woman’s eyes. The woman slumped, looking sadly at her feet. It always felt so good to take from people, not just their money but their very essence. Philo quickly moved on leaving the tired sad-looking woman behind. She passed a group of young men. They stared and she stared back, zapping and taking. Their ravenous looks grew blank. Philo smirked knowingly. She felt amazing. She strolled into a booth where a man sold hundreds of Nollywood movie DVDs. She glanced over the array of colorful dramatic covers where women and men scowled, wept, grinned, pointed, accused, laughed. “I’ll take this one,” she said, picking a DVD at random. She’d watch it. She’d enjoy it. She loved Nollywood. These days, she enjoyed everything. The world was hers. Soon it would be, at least. She tucked the DVD into her purse and left the booth without paying. No one stopped her. As she stepped into the sunshine, she turned, absolutely loving herself. She knew everyone was looking at her, just as she knew she was sucking the life from them as they stared. Her wig’s heat increased and her brown eyes glinted a bright green as she smiled at any man who caught her eye. By the time she left this market, she’d be weighed down with naira given and life juices taken. Market by Market. It was like this every day. Her cell phone went off. A male voice happily drawled, “Hellllo Moto,” then upbeat music began to play. Everything about Philo rattled as she stopped and lifted her purse- the jangling bangles on her arms, her jingling earrings, and her three gold chain necklaces. She was clicks and clacks, shines and sparkles. “Oh where is it,” she said, digging in her purse, mindful of her long nails. “Where, where where.” She pushed aside her lipstick, her unnecessary wallet, tissues, compact case, a pack of gum, wads and rolls of naira. Her cell phone continued going off. She laughed. She already knew who it was. Rain, the weakest link in the chain. She could tell by the ring tone. However, she could also tell by more than that. In her mind’s eye, Philo could see Rain standing outside her compound, next to some flowers, holding her cell phone to her ear, waiting. Philo found her phone, flipped it open and held it to her ear. It clicked against her long gold earring. “What?” she said, grinning with all her teeth. She heard nothing. “Rain, I know it’s you. Say someth…” She felt it before she saw it. A coolness that contrasted horribly with the heat of her wig. She frowned as the phone made an odd beeping sound. She held it before her just as the phone glinted a deep green similar to the one her eyes flashed when she sucked psychic energy from those around her. Her phone buzzed, an electrical current zipping across it before disappearing. Green smoke began to dribble from it. “Chey!” Philo exclaimed staring at it. If she were smart, she’d have dropped it. But Philo was never really that intelligent. Just greedy. Rain didn’t know that before but she knew that now. A text message appeared on the screen but Philo could make no sense of it. It was a series on nonsensical symbols, rubbish. She dropped the phone, pressing a hand to her wig. “That bitch,” she snarled, looking around with wide enraged eyes. “How dare she even try.” In the sunshine, her canines almost looked pointed. Right then and there, Philo disappeared in a flash of green. His House Coco had just lit a cigarette. She leaned back on the plush white leather couch and crossed her legs. She held her glass of champagne up to the photo of her husband on the wall. He was out. He was always out. Working. For her. She laughed, scratching under her itchy wig with her long-nailed index finger. Scritch scritch. It was spiky, dark red and short and no one in his or her right mind would wear it. She got up and looked at her reflection in the glass that protected her husband’s photo. Her skinny jeans and t-shirt fit wonderfully snug. Her face was flawless. And her hair was power. “Mwah,” she said, blowing herself a kiss. She ambled into the living room where two fans were blasting. She stood very still between them, her wig’s “hairs” blowing about her face. It felt secure, despite the blowing air. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. Behind her eyelids, she could see. Then she began to draw it in from… The busy street. People sitting in bustling bush taxies and perched atop hundreds of okada motorbikes. Market women walking alongside the road. The mish-mash of old and modern buildings of Lagos. Disabled beggars in the road. Boys playing soccer on a field. When she opened her eyes, they glowed a deep green and the wig glinted an electric blue. The blowing fans made the heat from her wig more bearable. Her cell phone went off and she nearly jumped. “Hellllo, Moto,” it said as it played its dance music. “Ah ah, what now?” she muttered. But she was smiling. The wig. It always left her feeling so good. Minus the heat, which left the actual wig feeling like a burning helmet. She ran to her cell phone on the couch. It was Rain. What did she want now? In her mind, the wig showed Rain standing outside her compound looking worried. The woman always looked so worried; she should have been at the top of the world. Coco held the phone to her ear as she brought out some lipstick. “Hello?” she said, smearing on a fresh coat. She grinned, sure of what she’d hear. She frowned. “Hello? Rain, what is it? Speak up.” But she heard nothing. She held the phone to her face when it suddenly became like a chunk of ice in her hand. “Iiieeey!” she exclaimed, throwing it on the couch. As she stared at it, appalled, the cell phone began to dribble green smoke. A text box opened on its screen. Coco squinted trying to read it. It looked like rubbish. But, like Philo, Coco understood what was happening. “Oh,” Coco said, out of breath. “You want to play now, eh? Ok.” She threw her lipstick on the leather seat, the lid still off. It left a smear on the pillow. “Someone will die today, o. And it will not be me.” She disappeared. * I have made my choice. That’s why I am still here, standing in these lilies. I run my hand over my shaved head. Waiting. The sun shines bright and happy in the sky, unaware of what’s about to happen to me. Unaware of what I have done and will soon suffer the consequences for. Unconcerned. Philo appears. She is standing on the lilies, mere feet away from me. “What is wrong with you?” she shouts. She looks beautiful and ghastly in her tight brown dress that probably cost more naira than a market woman makes in two years. “I’m…” Fear pumps through my veins like adrenaline and blood. “Why is your wig off, eh? You look horrible.” Her wig flashes as the digital virus tries to cripple it. Notice I say “tries”. “I took it off,” I snap. “This is wrong, o! This is wrong! Wake up!” Philo chuckles. “And what is wrong about it? We have everything we want.” “Stealing from people is not what I made these for! I made them to help us give! To cure the deep seated culture of corruption by giving people hope and a sense of patriotism. Remember??” She looks at me as if I am crazy. The wig has made her forget. Na wao. Tricky tricky things, these wigs. “Put it back on,” she says, pointing a long nail at me. “No,” I say. “It has made us cruel witches. Look at you!” Coco appears behind me. She hisses like a snake. She is in no mood for words. Her wig flashes. The virus is not working. When you mix juju with technology, you give up control. You are at the will of something far beyond yourself. I am done for. See how it all ends? Or does it begin? I am watching them approach me now. I tell you while my life hangs on its last thread. I am putting my wig on. It is so hot. I should have paid more attention to the cooling system when I made these. I hear the heartbeat of everyone around me now, including the irregular rhythm of Coco and Philo’s. But oh, the power. It rushes into me like ogogoro down the throat of a drunk. See Philo bare her teeth. They are indeed sharp like those of a bloodsucker. The virus is working through her wig now. But something has gone very wrong. They are both smiling. For a year, we have been psychic vampires but now as they come at me, mouths open, teeth sharp, I see that they have become the blood-sucking kind. I feel my own teeth sharpening too as I prepare to defend myself. This is new but I can’t think about that right now. I tear the wig off and throw it aside. “Come then!” I shout. Then, I… The End

This is a tale you will only hear once. Then it will be gone in a flash of green light. Maybe all will be well after that. Maybe the story has a happy ending. Maybe there is nothing but darkness when the story ends. We were three women. Three friends. We had goals, hopes and dreams. We had careers. Two of us had boyfriends. We owned houses. We all had love. Then I made these… wigs. I gave them to my two friends. The three of us put them on. The wigs were supposed to make things better. But something went wrong. Like the nation we were trying to improve, we became backward. Instead of giving, we took. Walk with me. This is the story of How the Smart Woman Tried to Right Her Great Wrong. Dawn With the wig finally off, Coco and Philo felt more distant to me. Thank God. Even so, because it was sitting beside me, I could still see them. Clearly. In my head. Don’t ever mix juju with technology. There is witchcraft in science and a science to witchcraft. Both will conspire against you eventually. I realized that now. I had to work fast. It was just after dawn. The sky was heating up. I’d sneaked out of the compound while my boyfriend still slept. Even the house girl who always woke up early was not up yet. I hid behind the hedge of colorful pink and yellow lilies in the front. I needed to be around vibrant natural life, I needed to smell its scent. The flowers’ shape reminded me of what my real hair would look like if the wig hadn’t burned it off. I opened my laptop and set it in the dirt. I put my wig beside it. It was jet black, shiny, the “hairs” straight and long like a mermaid’s. The hair on my head was less than a millimeter long; shorter than a man’s and far more damaged. For a moment, as I looked at my wig, it flickered its electric blue. I could hear it whispering to me. It wanted me to put it back on. I ran my hand over my sore head. Then I quickly tore my eyes from the wig and plugged in the flash drive. As I waited, I brought out a small sack and reached in. I sprinkled cowry shells, alligator pepper and blue beads around the machine for protection. I wasn’t taking chances. I sat down, placed my fingers on the keyboard, shut my eyes and prayed to the God I didn’t believe in. After all that had happened, who would believe in God? Philo had been in Jos when the riots happened. I knew it was her and her wig. A technology I had created. Neurotransmitters, mobile phones, incantation, and hypnosis- even I knew my creation was genius. But all it sparked in the North was death and mayhem. During the riots there, some men had even burned a woman and her baby to death. A woman andherbaby! I didn’t want to think of what Philo gained after causing it all. She never said a word to me about it. However, soon after, she went on a three-day shopping spree in Paris. We could leave Nigeria, but never for more than a few days. “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I meant well.” I opened my eyes and looked at my screen. The background was a plain blue. The screen was blank except for a single folder. I highlighted the folder and pressed “delete.” I paused, my hands shaking and my heart pounding in my chest. “If this doesn’t work, they will kill me,” I whispered. Then I considered what they’d do if I didn’t finish. So many others would die and Nigeria would be in further chaos, for sure. I continued typing. I was creating a computer virus. I would send it out in a few hours. When they’d both be busy. Then all hell would break loose…for me, just me. Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. My name is Rain and if I didn’t get this right, the corruption already rife in this country would be nothing compared to what was to come. And it would all be my fault. The Market I am beast. I am lovely. I am in control. I was born beautiful. All this Philo thought as she walked through the fruit and vegetable section of the open-air market. Around her, women slaved away. They sat behind tables and in booths selling tomatoes, peppers, plantain, egusi seeds, greens, yams. All those things that they’d have to cook at home for their families after a long day. Philo didn’t live that life. She’d chosen better. She was above all of them. Philo was tall and voluptuous, as she sashayed past women and men in her pricey high heels and brown designer dress that clung to her every inch. Her foundation make-up made her skin look like chocolate porcelain. Her eyelids sparkled with purple eye-shadow. Her lips glistened bright sensual pink. Perfect. Sexy. Hot. And her wig was awful. A washed-out black with auburn frosted tips, it looked as if it were made of colored straw and sat on her head like it knew it did not belong there. “Here,” a woman said, running up to Philo and handing her a roll of naira. “Take. You will make better use of it than me.” The woman paused and frowned, obviously confused by her own actions and words. “Thank you,” Philo said, with a chuckle. She grabbed the money with her long nailed painted fingers and stared into the woman’s eyes. Philo felt her wig heat up and then a dull ache in the back of her head. Then she felt it behind her eyes, which turned from deep brown to glowing green. Philo sighed as the laser shot from her eyes into the woman’s eyes. The woman slumped, looking sadly at her feet. It always felt so good to take from people, not just their money but their very essence. Philo quickly moved on leaving the tired sad-looking woman behind. She passed a group of young men. They stared and she stared back, zapping and taking. Their ravenous looks grew blank. Philo smirked knowingly. She felt amazing. She strolled into a booth where a man sold hundreds of Nollywood movie DVDs. She glanced over the array of colorful dramatic covers where women and men scowled, wept, grinned, pointed, accused, laughed. “I’ll take this one,” she said, picking a DVD at random. She’d watch it. She’d enjoy it. She loved Nollywood. These days, she enjoyed everything. The world was hers. Soon it would be, at least. She tucked the DVD into her purse and left the booth without paying. No one stopped her. As she stepped into the sunshine, she turned, absolutely loving herself. She knew everyone was looking at her, just as she knew she was sucking the life from them as they stared. Her wig’s heat increased and her brown eyes glinted a bright green as she smiled at any man who caught her eye. By the time she left this market, she’d be weighed down with naira given and life juices taken. Market by Market. It was like this every day. Her cell phone went off. A male voice happily drawled, “Hellllo Moto,” then upbeat music began to play. Everything about Philo rattled as she stopped and lifted her purse- the jangling bangles on her arms, her jingling earrings, and her three gold chain necklaces. She was clicks and clacks, shines and sparkles. “Oh where is it,” she said, digging in her purse, mindful of her long nails. “Where, where where.” She pushed aside her lipstick, her unnecessary wallet, tissues, compact case, a pack of gum, wads and rolls of naira. Her cell phone continued going off. She laughed. She already knew who it was. Rain, the weakest link in the chain. She could tell by the ring tone. However, she could also tell by more than that. In her mind’s eye, Philo could see Rain standing outside her compound, next to some flowers, holding her cell phone to her ear, waiting. Philo found her phone, flipped it open and held it to her ear. It clicked against her long gold earring. “What?” she said, grinning with all her teeth. She heard nothing. “Rain, I know it’s you. Say someth…” She felt it before she saw it. A coolness that contrasted horribly with the heat of her wig. She frowned as the phone made an odd beeping sound. She held it before her just as the phone glinted a deep green similar to the one her eyes flashed when she sucked psychic energy from those around her. Her phone buzzed, an electrical current zipping across it before disappearing. Green smoke began to dribble from it. “Chey!” Philo exclaimed staring at it. If she were smart, she’d have dropped it. But Philo was never really that intelligent. Just greedy. Rain didn’t know that before but she knew that now. A text message appeared on the screen but Philo could make no sense of it. It was a series on nonsensical symbols, rubbish. She dropped the phone, pressing a hand to her wig. “That bitch,” she snarled, looking around with wide enraged eyes. “How dare she even try.” In the sunshine, her canines almost looked pointed. Right then and there, Philo disappeared in a flash of green. His House Coco had just lit a cigarette. She leaned back on the plush white leather couch and crossed her legs. She held her glass of champagne up to the photo of her husband on the wall. He was out. He was always out. Working. For her. She laughed, scratching under her itchy wig with her long-nailed index finger. Scritch scritch. It was spiky, dark red and short and no one in his or her right mind would wear it. She got up and looked at her reflection in the glass that protected her husband’s photo. Her skinny jeans and t-shirt fit wonderfully snug. Her face was flawless. And her hair was power. “Mwah,” she said, blowing herself a kiss. She ambled into the living room where two fans were blasting. She stood very still between them, her wig’s “hairs” blowing about her face. It felt secure, despite the blowing air. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. Behind her eyelids, she could see. Then she began to draw it in from… The busy street. People sitting in bustling bush taxies and perched atop hundreds of okada motorbikes. Market women walking alongside the road. The mish-mash of old and modern buildings of Lagos. Disabled beggars in the road. Boys playing soccer on a field. When she opened her eyes, they glowed a deep green and the wig glinted an electric blue. The blowing fans made the heat from her wig more bearable. Her cell phone went off and she nearly jumped. “Hellllo, Moto,” it said as it played its dance music. “Ah ah, what now?” she muttered. But she was smiling. The wig. It always left her feeling so good. Minus the heat, which left the actual wig feeling like a burning helmet. She ran to her cell phone on the couch. It was Rain. What did she want now? In her mind, the wig showed Rain standing outside her compound looking worried. The woman always looked so worried; she should have been at the top of the world. Coco held the phone to her ear as she brought out some lipstick. “Hello?” she said, smearing on a fresh coat. She grinned, sure of what she’d hear. She frowned. “Hello? Rain, what is it? Speak up.” But she heard nothing. She held the phone to her face when it suddenly became like a chunk of ice in her hand. “Iiieeey!” she exclaimed, throwing it on the couch. As she stared at it, appalled, the cell phone began to dribble green smoke. A text box opened on its screen. Coco squinted trying to read it. It looked like rubbish. But, like Philo, Coco understood what was happening. “Oh,” Coco said, out of breath. “You want to play now, eh? Ok.” She threw her lipstick on the leather seat, the lid still off. It left a smear on the pillow. “Someone will die today, o. And it will not be me.” She disappeared. * I have made my choice. That’s why I am still here, standing in these lilies. I run my hand over my shaved head. Waiting. The sun shines bright and happy in the sky, unaware of what’s about to happen to me. Unaware of what I have done and will soon suffer the consequences for. Unconcerned. Philo appears. She is standing on the lilies, mere feet away from me. “What is wrong with you?” she shouts. She looks beautiful and ghastly in her tight brown dress that probably cost more naira than a market woman makes in two years. “I’m…” Fear pumps through my veins like adrenaline and blood. “Why is your wig off, eh? You look horrible.” Her wig flashes as the digital virus tries to cripple it. Notice I say “tries”. “I took it off,” I snap. “This is wrong, o! This is wrong! Wake up!” Philo chuckles. “And what is wrong about it? We have everything we want.” “Stealing from people is not what I made these for! I made them to help us give! To cure the deep seated culture of corruption by giving people hope and a sense of patriotism. Remember??” She looks at me as if I am crazy. The wig has made her forget. Na wao. Tricky tricky things, these wigs. “Put it back on,” she says, pointing a long nail at me. “No,” I say. “It has made us cruel witches. Look at you!” Coco appears behind me. She hisses like a snake. She is in no mood for words. Her wig flashes. The virus is not working. When you mix juju with technology, you give up control. You are at the will of something far beyond yourself. I am done for. See how it all ends? Or does it begin? I am watching them approach me now. I tell you while my life hangs on its last thread. I am putting my wig on. It is so hot. I should have paid more attention to the cooling system when I made these. I hear the heartbeat of everyone around me now, including the irregular rhythm of Coco and Philo’s. But oh, the power. It rushes into me like ogogoro down the throat of a drunk. See Philo bare her teeth. They are indeed sharp like those of a bloodsucker. The virus is working through her wig now. But something has gone very wrong. They are both smiling. For a year, we have been psychic vampires but now as they come at me, mouths open, teeth sharp, I see that they have become the blood-sucking kind. I feel my own teeth sharpening too as I prepare to defend myself. This is new but I can’t think about that right now. I tear the wig off and throw it aside. “Come then!” I shout. Then, I… The End

From Horror photos & videos June 14, 2018 at 08:00PM