#only to disappear and be found again on a new inch of flesh she’d forgotten she had.

[thebookworm0001]

i just need you to know that i re-read your solavellan fics constantly 😭 i love them so muuuuch (especially the post-trespasser series) 🖤

I- oh 🥹 Thank you. I’m. beyond flattered that you like them so much. 🫂����

[yanderenightmare]

dude I would kill for more DADDY DEKU, the last one gave me liffff, maybe like... "embarrassed to ask".... some anal?? plez and thank you Mizz Nightmare <3 I love all your work!

yandere dom ! MIDORIYA IZUKU

TIP-JAR

goodiebag WARNINGS: condescension, degradation, coercion, profanity, abuse, DUBCON/NONCON, yandere, manipulation, suggestive language, slight infantilization

BUNNYHOLE

She’d started to lose track of how much time passed during their session, forgotten what she’d done to get in the position she was in, forgotten what it was Deku felt the need to remind her of. Too much blood rushing to her head in her position of kneeling over his chest, her ass arched up and her face pushed down, cheek resting on his pelvis, running her tongue up and down the length of his cock nuzzling in her small palm, lips locked and sucking on the pulsating veins bulging from his erection. Or perhaps it was her way of forgetting where she was, her way of escaping, becoming numb to spare herself the humiliation, the frustration, the hopelessness and desperation of being subjugated, of being taken against her will, where becoming mindless was her only option when being in the hands of the madman.

Deku’s larger than life hands held onto her hips, held her in place, stroking the dome of her ass affectionately yet wantonly every now and again as his mouth swallowed down on the juices starting to spill drizzly down her thighs. Fat fingers, lined with muscle, coming to delve ghostly over her folds, with his tongue prodding at her entrance. She’d managed to block most of his praising and coos out of mind, focusing on coming, yet now… having lost count of how many times she’d done so on his experience dedicated tongue, with her oversensitivity blaring and buzzing in her lower abdomen, gnarling and crying for it to stop, it was getting harder by the minute to forget where she was and who she was with when he was still so very intent on lapping at her sensitive heat with his thick tongue again and again and again.

And he knew it.

“Such a good Bunny.” He cooed, slurping at her opening, the stiff pinching scratching of the beard on his chin an extra factor of teasing friction on the lips of her pussy, the action sending vibrations to simmer through her and a moan to spur from where she was nuzzling on the hill of his hairy thigh, her mouth guzzling down on one of his balls, letting go with a wet pop to allow the noise to leave her throat unstrained. “Getting so wet for her Daddy.” 

His sloppy tongue continuously licked up the ravine presented to him, making its way farther up than usual, playing with the other unused, and preferably so, tight hole.

She made a jump, hopping further down on his lap, face buried in his ball-sack, yet was quickly pulled back by the strong hands on her hips, cheek thoroughly smeared with a glistening mix of saliva and precum and tears.

As though understating yet not caring about her distress, his hands comforted by messaging circles on her ass-cheeks, perhaps in an effort to keep her at bay as well. “Just play with Daddy’s cock while he plays with your cute little butt, okay Bunny?” She’d gotten so very used to instructions, so used to bending her own will. 

His tongue found its way back to prodding at the tight hole, pummeling his fatness inside, seemingly trying to pry her open. “But, Daddy-” She tried, still in an effort to scramble away from his ongoing attack.

He would not have her disobedience, that time had passed long ago. His fingers starting to carve their presence into her midriff, stifling her attempt of escape. “Play with Daddy’s cock, just like I taught you.” He was firm in his demand this time, yet the same whine of condescension, of whiny patronizing correction, was still so disgustingly present in his tone. The voice that made her want to rip her hair out and strangle him with it. 

Yet, she obeyed. Mouth proceeding to slobber over his massive cock, suckling on every inch of his girth, licking paths over every enhanced vein, making him groan and buck his hips into her face, letting her head disappear between his strong thighs, massive thighs that could snap her neck if she made the wrong move. 

“Good little Bunny.” He drawled before he too continued. 

Mewls and adorable small whines escaping her focus on pleasing his cock, as his tongue crammed into the tight space of her butthole. More tears gathered at her eye-sockets, falling onto his cock, making her taste her own despair on her tongue gargling on his balls. 

“Bunny’s so hungry… sucking on Daddy’s balls like candy-apples.” She felt like gagging, not out of reflex, but out of disgust and wholehearted cringe for his words, but wasn’t given much space to feel anything but anxiety for too long, what with his thumbs making to spread her ass-cheeks further apart. He was happy to see she stayed in place, yet not surprised as the marks on her hips were already blooming with defined raw redness, evidence of just how intolerable hesitation and especially disobeying hesitation was in his cruel eyes. “Good girl.” He praised, hammering the thickness of his tongue inside her tight ass, now with the new easy access.

One hand shifted from its position of spreading her ass, pointer running over the budding hole curiously. 

She felt her guts churn at the act, fear riding her body full with goosebumps. “Daddy?” She squeaked uncertainly, sucking in a breath, relenting from her sloppy activity between his legs, fingers curling into the bedsheets in a manner of bracing herself.

“You’ve such a pretty little butt.” He stated, where the amount of adoration was terrifyingly present in his calm and collected voice. 

His finger quit its tormenting haunting and she sighed a relieved sigh, wet slicked face falling back onto his glistening manhood, tongue making to lick up his girth yet again. 

“Does Bunny want one of Daddy’s fingers inside?” Her fear rushed back, causing her to go all light-headed while his tongue lapped at the bud again, wriggling over the ring of muscle, drawing circles on it, ignoring her growing anxiousness fully. “Hmm, I bet Bunny would love Daddy’s finger inside her little butt.” She’d gotten used to his suggestive language, knowing what was best for her, but still she couldn’t help but way her options, even though deep down knowing how if Deku wanted something from her pliable little body, he was sure to get it no matter the struggle and fight she put up. “Filling her up-” His musings were cut off, the little girl on top of him fighting ever so slightly to move further away from his antagonizing mouth, pleading with her face shoved into his cock.

“No, Daddy please, I don’t-” He didn’t like that, holding her back with his harsh grip, keeping her ass well arched and presented for him to ravage.

“To me it sounds like Bunny is begging to be punished.” He warned, still playing his games, still with his disgusting tone masking the true sentiment of his words. “Do you want Daddy to punish you, Bunny?” One hand stroked over the plump flesh of her ass, threatening to strike the unprotected skin again and again until she complied with his wishes. She knew from experience she didn't  handle the pain well, always folding.

She backed down, better now than later with blooming bruises and a discomfort to sit for a week. “No, Daddy please, I’m sorry, I’ll behave.” She scurried back, scared into position, promptly sloshing over his cock with newfound devotion, moaning happily with his precum smeared on her face, anything to spare her from what cold hell he would show her if she didn’t.

He smiled, kissing the doughy flesh of her ass-cheek, welcoming her back. “Well then… tell Daddy how much you’d love his finger in your butt.” Hand returning. “Come on, don’t be shy.” Stroking over the bud of firm flesh, letting her feel the size of his fat finger, begging her to disobey him, begging her to cry and plead or to sob and force herself to obey his commands.

She chose the latter, knowing what other harsh torture awaited her was she not to comply like a good little girl. “Please, Daddy, please finger my ass.” He hummed contently in response, poking the hole ever so slightly, his fingertip sliding in the wetness of his drool. “I want your finger in my ass so badly, Daddy.” She whined, just like she knew he liked, wiggling her ass at him impatiently like the entitled brat he wanted her to be only for him to correct and humiliate.

“Bunny wants a finger up her little butt?” He spoke hurriedly in the spiked frenzied rush of her words, having them slur in drool as he kissed the hole sloppily, lightly biting the flesh of her one ass-cheek, again to scare her into playing the game.

“Yes please, Daddy.” She suckled on his girth desperately, letting false moans pass her lips as though she couldn’t get enough of his cock choking her throat. Playing the game, playing her part, surviving.

“This little butt right here?” He questioned, tongue flicking over the hole.

“Yes, Daddy please!” She started grinding her hips back into his mouth, knowing her enthusiasm is what his anticipation beckoned.

“Well, if you’re a good Bunny and play with Daddy’s cock then I’ll give this butt what it needs.” He needed her devotion, he needed her to understand just how under his thumb she was, he needed his ego satiated, his cruel sinister sadism fed.

“Thank you, Daddy…” She sobbed, fearing while knowing what he’d do if she were to disobey, resulting to dragging her tongue up and down his cock, hands working the base as she sucked, head bobbing up and down as she made cute little glugging sounds that had his stomach fluttering in utter bliss. “I love your cock, Daddy.” So sweet, just like he trained her.

He hummed at how precious she was, feeling somewhat proud of himself for having brought that out of her. “What do you love about it, Bunny?” His words pushed, but it wasn’t the only thing that was tormenting her. His tongue, burning and wet and forceful, dug into her backside, worming its way into her little hole as she tried her best, fighting with every nerve of her being, fear motivating her to stay perfectly still, though not managing to stifle the whimper.

Her breaths were shaky as she spoke to answer him before he grew impatient. “Daddy’s cock is so perfect and big, feels so good inside me.” He didn’t seem to care that she spoke with a cry in her voice.

His hand, having had rested on her ass as a warning, swung under, calloused textured rough fingers rubbed the bead of her clit, making her moan through her cries onto his cock. She was happy her position didn’t allow her to see his smirk. “I think Bunny thinks Daddy’s cock is scary, hmm?” His finger swirled, sandpaper-fingertip dragging over the sensitive swollen pearl again and again with little regard to how her stomach was curling. “A little intimidating, perhaps?” She rested her head on his thigh, her own thighs shaking, though his other hand kept her steady as his mouth sucked on her tender ring of muscle. “But Daddy’s a hero, Daddy would never hurt you, Bunny. Daddy loves you. You understand that, don’t you?” He asked, knowing damn well her answer would be scattered with how ruthless he was being with his fingers in her clit, abusing what power they had to make her bow.

“I love-ve you too, Da- daddy…” She drooled and sobbed out on his lap, wanting so badly to wind her thighs shut, protect what was about to burst, eyes closing and fluttering as her one hand dug fingernails into where they held her steady in the thick stiff muscles of his thighs, her other hand holding his cock, trying her best to guide him into her mouth so she could do as he demanded and save herself being scolded for not listening even though he was the one making it almost impossible to do much of anything except lie there and take it.

He stuck one finger, on long thick finger, into her sopping wet folds, felt her writhe before she could control herself, another finger still held firmly on her clit, drawing careful patterns he knew would make her mewl. “Daddy knows exactly how to please his little girl… and Bunny knows exactly how to please her Daddy, doesn’t she?” He asked rhetorically, words still carrying even though they were muffled into her ass. “I taught you so well.” His finger pumped, curling, scraping, hooking up into her spongey walls, making her mew. “Do you think Daddy’s a good teacher?” She could feel the curl of his salacious smirk as his teeth grazed past the lips of her pussy, tongue flicking, zig-zagging through the wet tender folds.

“The b- best.” She strained, inching further back as he was dragging, hauling her with his finger clawing at her insides.

“Good girl…” He purred, licking up and up until he met with the bud that now seemed to pulsate, her fear so endearingly on display for him. “I think Bunny deserves her prize.” His voice lowered, and she sucked in a breath with caught in her throat as she felt his hand, scathed and scarred and strangely rough and angled with how many times he’d broken his fingers.

He gave her much time to prepare, finger swirling circles onto the hole before dipping the tip inside. She scrunched her eyes shut at the feel of the tight skin of her hole stretching, forced apart to accommodate for Deku’s fat finger. The tight ring feeling as though ripping at the intrusion, tearing as he drove the digit slowly inside, a digit that seemed foreverlasting, growing thicker the more it inched inside her, until he was finally knuckle-deep.

She sucked with fervor now, in a way to pacify herself, gobbling down on his cock gluttonously. “Does it feel good, Bunny?” He asked, voice like honey so sweet it was burning. “My finger in your cute little butt?” He whined and mocked as he wiggled the length inside her, churning her guts in the prosses, earning small cries of discomfort from her slobbering on his cock.

“Yes, Daddy.” It was barely audible as she whimpered it into his thigh.

“Speak up.” He ordered, stern and stoic voice, still with his finger pumped and prompted into her tight ass, with the other hand’s fingers rubbing circles and pinching her swollen clit between them.

“Yes, Daddy.” Her back sloped as she tipped her head up. “I’m sorry.” Her one hand steadying her, placed in support on his thigh as the other tugged on his cock, fingers not managing to enclose around his girth as she messaged his length in long tentative strokes. “Thank you, Daddy, you feel so good.” She wasn’t exactly lying, and it was clear by the slick dripping that coated her thighs.

“Are you proud to have Daddy’s finger in your ass?” He asked, making her scrunch her brows, strangling herself with how hard she was trying to keep from crying. “You should be.” She cursed her existence, wishing she could take back whatever it was that had his eyes locked on her in the first place, whatever had him kidnapping her only to torment and use her as some slave. “To have Daddy’s number one hero finger pleasing your little quirkless butt.” And there it was, the reminder of how crucially inferior she was, such a perfect quirkless toy to feed his superiority-complex. “Tell me how grateful you are, Bunny.”

This was her life. Subjugated to a mere ragdoll for someone who’d do whatever the fuck they wanted to her, a life of belonging to someone, a life of a pet. “I love you so much, Daddy…” He groaned at her words, yet his fingers dug even harder into her hips. “You take such good care of me.” She just needed to tell him what he wanted to hear. “I’m hopeless without you. Thank you, Daddy.” Seems she did a good job, because he was shifting beneath her, hands letting her go for a second only to pull her into the new desired position.

“Come here, turn around.” He ordered, still in his frenzy, turning her around on his lap, making her sit with his cock smearing drool and precum over her stomach, hot against her skin where it bobbed up between the two of them. His hand and fingers glossy with juices from her pussy, came to grab her chin, cupping her cheek to still her as he pushed his lips onto her face, kissing her with hunger, as though in a hurry, his finger finding her ass again, sinking knuckle-deep inside her once again while grabbing onto the soft doughy flesh of ass, making her yelp against his lips, before he parted once more, a string of spit connecting them. “Does Bunny want Daddy’s cock inside her ass?” He mushed her face between his rough finger-pads, her lips puckered like a fish at him, eyes glossy with tearful plead, her thighs beginning to quake against him as she sat uncomfortably with his finger spearing her in the wrong hole.

Her bottom lip quivered then, eyes wide and brimming. “No- please… Daddy.” She would at least try to sway his mind, bargain her way out of it.

His look hardened, cocking an eyebrow at her resistance. “Is Bunny disobeying Daddy?” His grip on her face was past painful now, bruising, nails marking their presence, close to breaching her skin.

“No, Daddy, please-” She started, scrambling for something to save her, trying to make his hold relent, but falling short of making any savory excuses, reduced to mere whimpering as she accepted a preferred compromise. “My pussy would feel so lonely without you filling me up…” His fingers detached, yet only barely, still holding her chin, still controlling, though looking fascinated by the turn of events, pleasured with his little pet openly submitting to him, all with that adorable sweet voice. “I want your big beautiful number one cock inside me, please, Daddy please, I want you in my pussy.” She pushed forward to brush her breasts against his chest, grinding up into him in the process, hands brazenly stroking his cock all on their own command, forehead pressed against his as she did her best to seem seductive, licking her lips and maintaining eye-contact even as his green orbs seemed crazed and fervent and so dangerously feral.

“Bunny wants to come on Daddy’s cock, doesn’t she?” His tone was weirdly condescending, like he was talking to a toddler about getting ice-cream, and though she despised it with every fiber of her being, feeling like the tone itself was gasoline to a roaring raging fire, she did her best to swallow the smoke, knowing it would get her nowhere.

“Yes, Daddy. Pretty please.” She begged, and he wrapped his one hand around the small of her back, pushing her against his chest, his other hand still not having left, with its main finger inside her butt, doing small curious pumps into the tight flesh.

He licked the shell of her ear, a small chuckle coming out as huffs as his hand moved once again away from her back, to line his cock up with her still slick with spit clit, rubbing his cockhead over the bead before sliding it down to push open her sopping hole. “Can Bunny take Daddy in her cute little pussy with his finger inside her pretty ass? Yeah?” Tapping his thickness into her tightness while watching her nod in agreement, only slightly disappointed she didn’t repeat what she said once more, especially when it sounded so delicious dripping from her defeated lips. “Good girl, sit down on Daddy's cock.”

She eased down like she’d done for the past couple weeks, always surprised by just how thick he is, how stingingly and fearfully painful it is, always thinking it couldn’t possibly be as bad as she made it out to be previously though always proven wrong, thinking she ought to have stretched out to accommodate his size to a comfortable fit, yet not having achieved the pleasure still with how many times he’d ripped her apart.

“Hop on that dick little Bunny.” He whispered as she eased herself all the way down, cock fully sleeved inside her, feeling as she was about to burst, so full, so blown, yet he hadn’t any mercy left to spare. She felt his finger wiggle where it penetrated her backside entrance, how his cock and it messaged the wall that separated her two holes, feeling a new type of dangerous, giving her another worry even as the anxiety for what pain treading herself over his cock was already overwhelming enough on its own. “Come on, little Bunny, hands on my shoulders and jump.”

She hadn’t the mind to hold back the whimper, letting her seductive mask slip as the pain mingled pleasure demanded her attention more, hands unsteady as they gripped his shoulder, fingers running over those deep healed scars on his skin she’d gotten so used to tracing. She folded her feet over his legs, given her better balance as she began sliding him in and out slowly, at a pace she could hope to handle and hope was fast enough to please him and his beastly member.

He hummed, free hand coming up to toy with her breasts, grabbing it with those labor-knuckled fingers. “Such a happy little girl bouncing on Daddy’s cock…” He licked over his toothy-grin, salacious green eyes glistening with drunk toxic love-sick madness as he felt her tight suction on his manhood, gliding up and down, in and out, full and hollow. “What do you say?” He decided to tease, decided to make the hurt worse.

A soft whine left her and he couldn’t describe the sick bliss that fluttered in his chest because of it. “Thank you, Daddy.” She forced out yet again, her voice all shaken and adorable.

And still he felt the wanton desire to push. “For what, Bunny? Be specific.”

She knew the drill, what he wanted to hear, but that didn’t make it any easier to force from her throat, even harder to relent from seething the words through grit teeth where she knew such aggression wouldn’t be tolerated, because nothing but her complete and full submission would be tolerated by Deku. “Thank you, Daddy, for giving me your big beautiful number one cock.” What was funny was that it was in a sense still true, despite her hating every word of it, despite her cursing the sentence, the praise, the gratitude. It did feel good, behind the pain, behind her disgust, it felt good. What more, Deku was the number one hero, not just the strongest man alive, but intelligent, knowledgeable and ruthless too, where it really would be unwise to not feel grateful for having been chosen by him, where people should be grateful he even chooses to be a hero at all, when he could just as easily be a villain, or a bloody tyrant. She should be grateful that she was given the honor of being his. Her body sure knows how to show its humility, doing its best to please him, showing him just how appreciated and welcome his touches are with how undeniably wet her pussy gets each time, clenching around his shaft as it drills deep into her, filling her out, completing her, pushing into that spongey spot deep within her, making her stomach flip, toes curl, clit buzz with pleasure, shamefully come all over him.

He made a moan of awe, patronizing in its nature. “Are you gonna come for me? All over Daddy’s cock.” She wanted to scream, throw herself off his lap, slap him, claw and bite and kick, but instead she was doing exactly what he said. “A happy little Bunny stuffed with Daddy's cock and his finger up her bum.” He whined, hand having glided down from holding her chin in favor of wrapping around her throat, nose touching nose, emerald steel-eyes keenly watching her every move, feeling her clench around him, making him hiss with pleasure like a snake.

“Yes, Daddy please.” She never liked snakes. Her new life was made of snakes. Snakes taking the form of ropes, tying her down, chaining her up, snakes in her guts, swirling and coiling and tickling that strange pleasure that had treacherous venom drip onto the snake that penetrated her, his arms like snakes around her waist, thick constrictors holding her still, keeping her trapped for devouring.

“Beg for it.”

She sucked in a beaten breath, forcing her will to comply to his wishes, swallowing her pride, subduing the fighter in favor of having her fall on her own sword, instead of digging her own grave. “Daddy, please can I come on your cock?” One would think the human soul gets used to humiliation after some time, but the ball in her chest hadn’t softened no matter how many times she’d offered up her dignity, no matter how many times Deku had forced her to her knees. “You feel so good inside me, Daddy.” She mewed in gratitude, moaning as he hit the right spot again and again, making her go blind as she tried focusing on what sweet nothings she needed to say. “I wanna come for you so badly, Daddy please.” He gave her a kiss to her nose then, meant to be sweet even though it would have revolted her had she been in the right mind to feel anything but forcibly good, all sweet with chasing her release, riding him, jumping on his length like a good bunny should.

“Good Bunny.” He purred an she had not the mind to feel like cussing, only desperately waiting for him to allow her release. “You see? Things are so much easier when you do as you're told, when you do what Daddy tells you.” He bottomed out into her tight heat, filling her up to the hilt, felt her body spasm with half panic at how deep inside her he was and half pleasure with how dangerous it felt to have her cervix molded by the shape of his cock-head burying itself in the spongey spot. “Come on, come on Daddy’s cock, make Daddy feel good.” She couldn’t refuse, even if he’d told her to hold it, she couldn’t, couldn’t stop the lightning to shoot through her, pussy clenching around his cock like a death-grip, strangling his length, sucking on him, milking his shaft, unsure whether she wanted him to pull out or stay inside her warmth, but luckily that decision wasn’t up to her, all she needed to do was not forget her manners.

“Thank you, Daddy…” It dripped from her mouth like sweet-tasting poison, tongue dripping with thick drool as she panted and mewled with how he continued warming his cock inside her, trying to push further and deeper inside even though there was no more space to be filled, resulting to a deep thrusting that felt as though he was about to push through into her womb.

He kissed her cheek as she numbed down to a relaxed exhausted limp body in his arms. “You’re welcome, Bunny… but Daddy isn't finished with you yet.” She felt her stomach twist despite knowing how she wasn’t done until Deku shoots his thick cream and paints whatever part of her body he had the appetite for.

Pulled from her high by the knowledge of how it was a psychotic madman who had granted it, as she felt said green-haired man guide her to lay on her back. 

“There you go, Bunny… such a cute mess.” He licked his lips, where she only barely tried to scurry away from his hungry lips gaining on her sensitive raw orgasm-glossed sex. 

She whined when his tongue dragged up her slit to drink her juices, flicking over her tender swollen clit, hands in his hair, trying their best to refrain from yanking him away. 

“Oh, Bunny’s so sensitive… did Daddy make you feel too good.” She squirmed beneath him, convulsing as he teased with his tongue and his lips and the light grazing ghosting of his teeth. “Look at you… Daddy’s little Crybunny.” He snickered, smirking as he gorged himself beneath her legs, loving the whiny moans and whimpers she couldn’t hold back, and how her hands tried ever so sweetly to nudge him off, how she dug the balls of her feet into the mattress to try and shuffle away from his attack, but not allowed to go anywhere with his arms locked around her thighs, keeping her just where he wanted her, shivering beneath him and only seconds away from crying and begging him to stop. “Does the little Bunny need her pacifier?” He hummed in askance. “Don’t you move a muscle, Bunny, I have a treat for you...” 

He hopped off the bed with a speed that went unnoticed while she blinked to find him position behind her, hovering above her face, thick and fat and veined from hilt to tip, tidy shaven green-stubble above his strutting proud cock, a path of longer hairs trailing up to his belly-button and sprinkled into a pretty growth of chest-hair the higher up his chiseled abs it went. 

“Open up, Bunny.” He tapped the glossy mushroom-tip onto her lips, smearing what concoction of precum and juices had mingled together there. 

She did as commanded, parting her lips yet making sure to wrap her teeth, knowing how he didn’t appreciate being bitten either by accident or not, having little understanding to how hard it was to fit him in her mouth without letting her teeth graze his impressive girth. 

“Taste yourself.” He groaned. “Suck me clean, Bunny.” He lightly patted the side of her face, fingers drumming on her cheek, telling her to hollow them in and suck on him. “There you go.” He praised, watching her struggle not to gag as he began lightly fucking the back of her throat, pushing farther down, liking how her already tight tunnel began clenching around him, trying to hold back the coughs. “Be a good Bunny and swallow all of me.” 

Usually he’d enjoy the feel of her nose dipping into his pelvis, but now with her upside down, he could feel his balls being poked as they smothered her only remaining breathing option. Still, he took his time, knowing how she could take a few seconds without air, enjoying the look of his fat cock down her throat, his hand testing a daring stroke over her jugular, watching to see if she would convulse and gag and splutter out coughs like she did the first couple of times he ventured deep, yet was proud to see her stay in play with only a few panicked spams of her chest. He probed even further as he lightly pinched the outline of his shaft between his thumb and index-finger, listening to her begin to whine, a submissive little prayer to let her breathe again. 

“Good Bunny…” He pulled out, large hands cupping her cheeks, telling her to remain lying there as he bent over to kiss her spit-slicked lips, his hand reaching over to palm her breast while the other reached farther to rub rough patterns into her terribly oversensitive clit, making her gasp out a strangled uncontrolled moan into his receiving mouth. “Come on, one more time.” He straightened himself, taking the opportunity to push through her open-mouthed panting with his dripping cock. “Get me nice and wet for your little Bunny-butt…”

Her eyes shot open, hands flailing instead of holding onto his thighs. “No-” She tried protesting, as she lightly tapped at his firm muscled ass with the face of her palm, slapping to get her discomfort across.

“No, no, Bunny, do as you’re told, do what Daddy says.” Deku chastised, grabbing her bothersome hands by the wrist and holding them behind his back, feeling her try to recoil away, yet well-trained enough to not bite as his cock pushed down her throat again. “Be a good Bunny and suck on Daddy.” He rocked his hips slowly back and forth, jutting lightly into her mouth. “Just like Daddy taught you.” His voice remained sweetly stoic, like a teacher or a parent, made her want to throw up on him, yet knowing how he didn’t stop last time she did, he just kept fucking her skull, even with the bile and acidic liquid burning in her throat. “Wash out all those filthy protests.” She whimpered at how his hands tightened around her wrists, balls lightly clapping over the bridge of her nose, swinging into her face each time he pushed until his entire length was enclosed to the hilt. “Teach you some manners Bunny-girl.” 

Her eyes stung now, with the built-up tears that now flowed freely, dampening her hairline before dripping into the sheets. 

Deku moaned, releasing her hands, needing his own to reposition his toy in the new desired position. “Up on your knees.” He remained staining at the edge of the bed, helping his darling kneel. “Posture, Bunny.” He chastised. “Arch that ass up for Daddy.” 

His hand spread flat in the space between her shoulder blades, pushing her upper-body down into the sheets, gliding to enclose around the back of her neck to keep her still while the fingers of his other hand stroked chaffed fingertips up and down the tender lips of her pussy, diving between her folds to gather slick wetness he used to push into her sore hole, curling two digits into the spongey velvet walls, making her moan into the pillow she was forced against. 

“Stay.” He ordered, all his warmth leaving her as she remained clutching and balling up the fabric of the sheets in her tiny useless fists, keeping her ass presented in the air, waiting with eager horror for Deku to return. 

She heard him open a drawer, then click open a lid, the squirt of something she had an educated guess of what was, listened to the slick sounds of him messaging the liquid into his hands, before his heavy steps carried him back to his position behind her. 

“Look at this precious little bunny-hole.” His fingers felt slippery as they rubbed and palmed her ass-cheeks, left hand lifting the plump flesh on one side, whilst the other moved to slide up and down the ravine before hooking a finger inside the top tight little ring of muscle. “Bunny needs Daddy’s cock inside her little butt, doesn’t she?” He pushed it in with ease now with the lube covering his hands, preparing the tightness by pumping the digit in and out, tickling the unsuspecting nerves that had never been played with before, the feeling strange yet surprisingly pleasant as his finger scraped downward, rubbing against a spot that had her pussy gushing around nothing. “Bunny’s tight little butt is just begging to be filled with Daddy's cock isn’t it, Bunny?”

She wasn’t too sure anymore. “No…”

He stuck another finger in with the first one at her reply, making her whine out a wail, toes curling, her one leg thumping up and down into the mattress, trying to shake and crawl away but not allowed to go anywhere with his hand reaching to recover the position it held before, holding her down, pressured around the back of her neck. “Up until now Bunny has been enjoying herself, but this attitude… tch, tch, Bunny... perhaps she needs a little reminder of who she belongs to?” 

She whimpered at the feel of both his thick fingers gliding alongside each other in and out of her tight tender hole, as she clenched around them and around nothing where juices were dripping down her thighs. 

“And there is no punishment without a little pain.” 

He’d only been dipping his digits in halfway, and she realized this once he decided to go knuckle-deep inside her, making her jolt at the foreign feeling of something going inside, much deeper now. 

She was arching her back up like a cat, trying to hide her ass from his antagonizing hands. “What have I told you about posture, Bunny?” His hand let partially go of her neck to glide up her spine, resting on the small of her back. “Give Daddy your hands.” She hesitated, taking her time to breath, feeling his fingers sink in, making her knees tremble, before she listened and folded her arms behind her, again like he’d taught her. “Now, arch your little Bunny-butt up for me.” 

She took small shallow breaths as she readjusted her back into a slope again, knowing what was coming, however as she felt it, big and warm and slick and soft like velvet, riding up her drooling pussy, his fingers disappearing from playing with her hole to make room for what would soon take their place, something much bigger and much longer, both his hands grabbing each her wrists, but not before making a cross of her arms, perfectly immobile for him as he lined his aching eager cock up with her pulsating little hole, she couldn’t hold back.

“No, please, Daddy, I’ll be good.” She begged, trying to scramble away, but being to late as she was left simply sobbing into the mattress, unable to move to any other position without it hurting with how his hands had bent her arms behind her back, yet despite knowing this he still took it upon himself to raise his foot and place it down over the side of her face, stomping slightly on it as a warning to keep still. Her movement obliged, coming to a halt, though not able to contain the trembling. “Please…” She tried one last time, though knowing he had no mercy nor patience left to spare her.

“Don’t disobey Daddy.” He fit his cockhead into the dip of her back entrance again, lining up the attack. “Now Bunny, beg for Daddy to fill your little butt up.” She tried shaking her head beneath the pressure of his foot, feeling her heart in her throat, pouting and scrunching her eyes shut, sniffling so adorably, yet he couldn’t take any pity on her when this was a lesson she needed to learn. “I said beg.” He pulled her arms back, as she screamed with how her shoulder-blades were close to popping out, his foot mushing her face harder into the mattress.

“Pl- please Daddy… fill me u- up…” She blubbered, every inch of her quivering.

He quit his torture, leaving her to simply snivel. “Good girl.” And then he started pushing.

Big bulging mushroom head entering slowly as she whimpered, butthole seizing around it, swallowing it up. “You see, Bunny?” His movements stilled, letting her get used to the new feeling of having something so big fit in the firm taunt hole. “Your little butt is sucking on my cock like a lollipop.” 

He aimed a drop of spit at where he was cramming inside her, the cold wetness hitting her with surprise as she slightly jumped on her knees, bouncing in the soft sponge of the mattress, the movement inadvertently making his cock rock with shallow thrusts in and out of her, messaging her opening. 

He moaned at the cute gesture. “Bunny’s so eager to receive Daddy’s cock, isn’t she?” He slid farther in, making her moan as his cock dragged along the wall that separated from her pussy, making everything tighten up, her pussy feeling so empty, clenching on nothing at all, yet feeling his fat length in just the wrong place, teasing her, making her so unbelievably wet. “Tell Daddy how good it feels, Bunny.” He pulled out again, beginning a slow tempo of lolling halfway into her.

He looked to her face, flushed red and squished together beneath the sole and weight of his foot keeping her down, lips puckered and bloated, cheeks tear-stained, eyes sparkling as she mumbled on small bubbling purrs, unsure pleasure painting her face, looking like such an endearing hopeless mess as he squeezed into the tight fit of her perfect plump ass. “It feels good, Daddy.” She quavered, shaky breaths and small sniffles leaving her adorable expression.

He hummed in return, sinking just a little bit farther inside her, feeling her tense as he did, an open-mouthed whine leaving her, drool hanging like silver string from her lips. “I think Bunny can be more creative than that, can’t she?”

She knew better than to disobey, especially when he already had her in such a compromising postion, knowing he wasn’t far away from pushing all the way inside her still accommodating ass, make her scream and possibly bleed as he fucked her through yet another punishment. “Daddy’s cock feels so good. So good with your number one cock inside me. I love you, Daddy. I love Daddy’s cock. Thank you, Daddy.” She drooled out as sweetly as she could, which was sweeter than honey with how hard it was to breath in her position of being pushed into the pillow beneath her, body slunk with no way of getting up, a proper prayer-pose as Deku stuffed her even fuller, making her mew.

“That’s right…” He groaned, hips rocking slowly and carefully back and forth, opening her little butt with his thickness, messaging her insides, teasing all the sensitive provoked nerves, poking shallowly into the spot that usually had her coming were it not on the other side, in her other hole who was begging to be stimulated in a way that wasn’t half-way fulfilling and half-way terrifying. “And to think Bunny thought she didn’t want this. Daddy still hasn’t heard his apology…”

“You’re right, Daddy, I was wrong… I do want this…” Another moan was forced from her as he inched even further inside, pushing into uncharted and unsuspecting tender areas, making her bleat and sigh ever so sweetly, unable to do anything but lie there and feel every inch of him stuffing her full, taking his time enjoying her tight hole.

He moaned in awe at her words, nearly slobbering. “Daddy knows what’s best for you Bunny.” Another inch had her feeling even fuller, as though he was in her stomach. “Daddy knows what Bunny wants and needs.” He fucked with the added length for a short-lived while until pushing another full inch inside, having her whine out a moan, her ass shaking like a little tease, wiggling at him, her arms also trying ever so slightly on reflex to pull out of his grasp. “Daddy’s always right, Bunny only needs to please Daddy.” 

He started sinking in inch after inch, unbothered or perhaps coaxed by how she struggled now, opting to bottom out fully, have his balls squished against her glossy pussy, his cock completely enclosed by her tight spasming butt, grunting out a shuddering groan of potent pleasure while feeling her little futile struggles trying so desperately to make him stop or slow down as he filled her up completely. 

“You just need to listen… and obey.”

TIP-JAR

[stanbillyhargrove]

Ghosts Prologue

Billy Hargrove x Katrina

A/N: as with my previous fic, this is a multi chapter story that will contain smut, angst, death and substance abuse. Be aware.

She was six years old the first time. The first time she met a new friend and tried to bring them home to meet her mom only to be scolded for wasting time with imaginary friends. Her bright green eyes were dewy when she walked away, her friend silently walking beside her.

"You're not imaginary, are you?" She asked the woman beside her.

The woman smiled down at her, her voice was wispy, like the wind, "they don't understand. You're special, Katrina."

A light pink dusting rose on her cheeks as she smiled, "will you teach me how to braid my hair like you?"

The woman smiled brightly, ran a hand over her blonde braid, "of course my dear."

With the patience only a loving mother could have, she sat with Katrina and showed her how to weave her hair into a perfect braid and whispered, "I always wanted a little girl."

--

When Katrina was eight she met a boy at school. He had no hair, was thin and sickly, his face hollow. When she insisted to her teacher that there was a boy hiding behind her desk she got sent to the principal's office for disrupting the class. There was a meeting with her parents and a counselor about her imaginary friends. Katrina had cried and swore that the boy was real and that's when the endless line of doctors started. Bored old men who shoved pills at her, told her she was crazy, broken and called her friends hallucinations.

The blonde woman's blue eyes burned with tears, "I'm real, Katrina. They're trying to take you away from me. Please don't leave me."

Her parents forced the pills into her and told her to be good for once when she cried about it.

--

When Katrina was ten the doctors thought they had fixed her, she didn't talk to imaginary people anymore. The blonde woman wasn't holding her hand as she walked beside her anymore, wasn't patiently teaching her how to do her hair. There were other people missing too, the little boy that liked to wander the playground with her and the old man who sat out in the garden admiring the flowers and other people Katrina saw every day but had never talked to. She felt their absence like a hole in her chest. Except at night, then they were all there in her dreams, smiling and laughing and happy to have her back. The blonde woman would wrap Katrina in her arms and squeeze her tight and hold her hand as they talked and she would cry when it was time for Katrina to leave, would plead for her to stay.

"Please, Katrina. Stay with me, I always wanted a little girl."

But every morning her parents shoved the pills into her, told her if she didn't take them she'd be sent away. That her friends weren't real and she needed to realize that, grow up.

--

Katrina was fifteen she had mostly forgotten about her imaginary friends. They were just part of her dreams now, she didn't think anything of it anymore. One night she was pulled from her dreams and dropped back into her bed. Her eyes were open but she couldn't move, her limbs felt like they were full of cement. A looming presence made her start to panic, her heart racing as she tried to move, scream, anything. A man appeared in her line of sight, all shrouded in darkness. Her lungs were ready to explode with a scream that wouldn't come out when he got closer. His face was gnarled, skin ripped away and twisted into a bloody mess. He moved in a jerking, twisting motion, limbs at odd angles like most of his bones had been broken. He loomed over her, so close she could see her reflection off his black eyes and drug one crooked, pointed finger down her cheek. Katrina felt like her heart was about to explode, like she was going to die from the pressure in her chest from the scream that wouldn't come out. His mouth opened, thick, black blood pouring down his chin with a gurgling, choking sound. She woke up screaming, limbs flailing wildly and drenched in a layer of sweat. When her parents came running they said it was a nightmare, totally normal but to tell the doctors if she started getting them a lot. Explained away the scratch down her cheek by saying she probably did it during her sleep. But Kristina never found the courage to tell anyone that now when she touched someone images and memories popped into her head that weren't her own.

There were a few beings like him, horrible, twisted things who made her feel like she was dying and left red scratches or purples bruises when they touched her. The doctors told her it was sleep paralysis, that she hurt herself waking up and that it was okay. The marks she could live with, they went away after a few days, it was the flash of memories in her head that scared her more. The choking smell of burning flesh or the feeling of lungs filling with water, the white hot agony of twisted bones or the slow burn that spread from gaping wounds, the sound of screeching metal and bright lights. She saw so many different things from their touch but they all had one thing in common, an all consuming rage.

--

By eighteen, Katrina had forgotten about her invisible friends from childhood. They were just figures in her dreams now. She still got sleep paralysis and would still wake up with scratches and bruises but it was just a weird quirk she thought. After graduation, Katrina fell in love with another girl, named Elle. Elle had grown up in the south, had sun streaked hair, lightly tanned skin and a slight twang to her voice that made Katrina swoon. But when she brought Elle home to meet her parent's they couldn't control themselves.

"Are you kidding me? I won't have it," her mother had spat, "you're an embarrassment."

"A fucking queer," her father growled, "I'm not having a fucking queer for a daughter."

Katrina was cut off, disgraced and treated like she didn't exist to her parents anymore and so she moved in with Elle. Elle was loving and gracious and was always there for Katrina. She loved taking Katrina away from the day to day, whether that be climbing a mountain or creating date nights in their apartment, Elle was always finding ways to brighten Katrina's life.

Katrina didn't usually see bad things when Elle touched her, Elle was too happy to be consumed by bad feelings. Instead she felt the warmth of the sun on her face, saw them walking through a forest, glimpses of Katrina's smile and tasted sweet tea on her tongue. Elle's happiness was infectious, seeping into Katrina's head with every touch.

--

It was October and Katrina and Elle were twenty three and planning a wedding when Katrina had a dream about Elle. Katrina was used to the crushing fear that accompanied sleep paralysis but Elle had never been in the dreams. This time, Katrina was watching as the twisted man from her nightmares lurched towards Elle, blood running in rivers down his body. Katrina tried desperately to move, to scream, to somehow alert Elle, but of course nothing worked. She watched in horror as the man inched closer to Elle's sleeping body. When he was right next to her he looked over at Katrina with black eyes and twitched his mouth in what she thought was a grin. Katrina's mind was screaming as she watched his mouth open to let black blood pour down his chin and onto Elle's chest, then he reached out and tapped the centre of her chest with his pointed finger, once, twice. Elle's body twitched as her eyes and mouth opened and a scream echoed in Katrina's ears, the same black blood now pouring from Elle's lips in thick rivers.

Katrina was waiting for Elle at home two days later when she saw a smoky figure appear out of the corner. The room filled with the smell of old books and the feeling of crackling energy, like before a lightning strike. The figure swirled and billowed, tendrils of smoke curling off it as it moved through their apartment. Katrina stared in shock as it moved through their apartment and disappeared through the front door. She thought back to the morning, trying to remember if she had taken her pills. She had, she always took them first thing.

An hour later Katrina got a call from the hospital, there was an accident. Elle was dead when Katrina arrived, she'd had a brain hemorrhage while driving. Other than being sickly pale and frozen, Elle looked fine, the only mark on her was a black bruise in the centre of her chest. When she touched Elle's hand, she felt nothing, just a terrifying darkness that spread and threatened to consume her.

Katrina stopped taking her pills after Elle died, she couldn't get herself out of bed long enough to get the refills. She started seeing people again, the blonde woman and the little boy, they stood by her bed and tried to comfort her. Being crazy was manageable, she thought, better than lonely.

Katrina had been alone in their house for months and when there were only two months left on the lease of their house she saw Elle for the first time. She was lying in bed and rolled over to search for the TV remote and instead saw Elle lying next to her.

"Elle? Am I dreaming?"

Elle's face split into a warm smile, "wide awake, my love."

"B-but...you're...no that's not true, you can't be," Katrina sputtered, backing away.

"Aren't you happy to see me?"

"No..no, I must be dreaming.."

Elle reached forward, ran a cold hand up Katrina's arm, "don't you love me?"

Katrina's eyes swelled with tears when she felt the sun that usually came with Elle's memories. It wasn't right, it was muted like there was something blocking the feeling.

"I can't...you're gone, Ellie."

The smell of Elle's perfume wafted through the air, light and citrusy, it made Katrina's chest hurt.

"But I'm right here, Katie. I missed you."

Tears slid down Katrina's face as she slid off the bed, whispering, "no, Ellie, this isn't real. You're not real, please. Please, go away."

She closed her eyes tight and when she looked back at the bed, Elle was gone. Katrina saw her a couple more times before she decided to move out a few weeks later.

[artificialqueens]

It's a rich mans world (Brooke/Detox/Vanjie) - Part 1 - TheDane

A/N A gift for my darling @barbiehytes. Betaed by PoppedtheP

Detox hates the company party, but as her wife spots a sweet little thing, who is she to deny her anything?

///

Vanessa groaned as she shifted her shoulders, desperately trying and failing to get comfortable as a polyester seam dug into her side. For a hotel that had crystal glasses, they should really be able to afford to give their waiter staff cotton uniforms.

“You’re needed for cleanup outside.”

Vanessa put on her best smile as the manager Brita told her what to do with a point of her thumb. The New Yorker was a bit brash, but Vanessa couldn’t help but love how her giant smile always managed to take over her entire face.

She wasn’t supposed to be on shift, wasn’t actually even working for the hotel anymore, but she was covering for A’keria whose nephew had broken his arm again again, the little boy always climbing every tree, playground or even building he could find.

Vanessa made her way through the crowd of lawyers who all stood around in their fanciest dresses, none of them noticing the small woman in a waiter uniform who zoomed in between them.

Some giant law firm was celebrating something or another. Vanessa hadn’t exactly listened as she had been briefed.

A rich asshole was a rich asshole, and as far as Vanessa was concerned the only interesting thing about a night like tonight was watching the arm candies, glamorous women and even glittery men carried around like they were trophies, wives and husbands, boyfriends and girlfriends shown off like prizes.

Vanessa had told herself that she was done with this place, was done with being overlooked, was done with rich assholes that all acted like she didn’t exist, but A’keria had called her up, a desperate tint in her voice, and who was Vanessa to deny her best friend anything?

One of her best friends that is.

Vanessa could just about see Silky on the edge of the crowd, the large woman who made up the other half of her nearest and dearest working security for the night. She waved quickly, Silky smiling back at her and tipping the little cap on her head.

Vanessa grabbed the door to the terrace with one hand, quickly checking her makeup in the black window.

Her Dream Girls had made fun of her love for makeup at first and laughed when she told them she’d do makeup on celebrities one day.

Vanessa would have been mad, would have felt hurt, but A’keria was the one who had found the advert for MAC, and Silky had given her the ride there, all three of them popping a bottle of champagne to celebrate when she was offered the job, and promptly switching to vodka when they realised that none of them liked the bubbles.

The outside was pleasantly cold, but Brita was absolutely right in her assessment to send Vanessa out to clean.

“Excuse me Miss-” Vanessa put on her best white people voice as she spoke to one of the smokers who was hanging out on the balcony. “May I take your glass?”

Vanessa hated having to pretend to be someone she was not, a fuck or a bitch always dancing at the tip of her tongue when she had to play nice.

She had to pretend to be someone else at MAC too, but her new supervisor already left her do so much more of what she wanted, her makeup wild and colorful every single day unlike the beige nightmare she felt she had on her face, even though she knew she looked God damned good.

“Fuck-” Vanessa cursed on her breath as she tried to fish a napkin out of a cocktail glass. She hated when people did that, touching nasty wet napkins one of the banes of her existence. “Come here you lil bitch, don’t you go acting-”

She was aware it was probably done to be polite, maybe even nice, but it was disgusting as shit, and Vanessa was halfway glad that she hadn’t gotten her nails done, the manicure ruined if she had been wearing one, not that she couldn’t since she was tragically, completely and fully single, and it sucked.

Vanessa still missed her last girlfriend Aquaria sometimes, but she was too proud to call her, though she still checked in on her Instagram once in a while from a dummy account she had set up for that exact purpose.

“Babe-”

Vanessa heard the groan come from directly behind her, and she froze in place. It was a distinctly feminine voice, but she thought everyone had gone inside.

She turned slowly, looking over her shoulder, and she was met with an absolutely stunning display.

Two exquisite women were tucked into a little alcove slightly to the side.

One of them had short brown hair and a sharp nose. One big golden earring dangled from her lobe, her body wrapped in a form fitting purple suit and it would have been business boring if it wasn’t for the fact that she was clearly wearing nothing beneath it, the fabric laying perfectly on the globe of her tits.

“Just a sip.” If anyone else had said it, Vanessa would have categorised it as a whine, but coming from this woman it was somehow both demanding and enchanting, her voice filled with untold promises.

“No.”

Vanessa couldn’t see the face of the other woman, but what she could see was gorgeous blonde locks cascading over her shoulders and down down down all the way to her waist. The back of the blonde silver dress was open, smooth white skin on open display, strong back muscles flexing every time she moved.

Vanessa knew instantly that their clothes cost more than her annual rent, and as she looked on, the brunette reached out, attempting to grab the glass in the blondes hand, but she held it up and out of her reach, the inches she had on the brunette claiming her victory.

“D you know your doctor told you not to drink.”

“My doctor isn’t here,” The brunette, D, ran a hand up the blondes arm, and Vanessa could see her shiver, her palm sliding over flesh, “and if he was-” D pulled the arm down, the glass disappearing from sight, “he’d tell me that with all of these assholes around, I should be allowed.”

“You’ve never enjoyed big gatherings.” The blonde giggled, her resolve apparently melting as she moved her arm, and Vanessa shuffled to the side, so very aware she shouldn’t look, but she was unable to tear her eyes away.

D took a drink from the glass, her long elegant fingers intertwined with the blondes on the glass, glittering rings telling Vanessa that they were either married, or the most casual cheaters she had ever witnessed.

“Fuck that hits the spot.” D groaned as she savored her drink. She leaned in for more, but the blonde stopped her.

“No.”

“Brooke Lynn-” Vanessa straightened her back. D and Brooke Lynn. What strange names.

“Don’t call me that.”

“You’ve already given me one.” D smirked. “What can one more sip really do?”

“Your stress levels are too high. You know that” Brooke Lynn’s voice was soft, tender, filled with love.

“Concern for my health?” D raised an eyebrow, her eyes glinting, her lips slightly parted, and Vanessa could see how Brooke Lynn looked down. Before D could react however, Brooke Lynn’s mode changed completely, the blonde putting the glass to her lips and chucking the liquid, leaving D behind with her mouth hanging open.

“You little bitch!”

Brooke Lynn’s giggle carried in the cold evening air, and Vanessa was sure she could get addicted to the sound. “Best behaviors.”

“That’s what you call this?” D put her arms around Brooke Lynn’s waist, turning them around and Vanessa almost gasped as she got an eyeful of D’s ass in her pants, the fabric straining to contain the globes.

She saw Brooke Lynn’s face for the first time, her eyes a gorgeous blue, but what Vanessa couldn’t help but focus on was her lips. They were plush perfection, painted in the most delicious shade of pink, begging to be played with by teeth or forced between legs.

“D-” Brooke Lynn was protesting, another laugh leaving her as D reached under her dress. Vanessa was almost expecting her to go for her panties, and her own fingers tightened on the rim of her tray, wondering desperately if she should make her escape as she felt her own heat collect in her belly, but then, D was pulling Brooke Lynn’s skirt up, and Vanessa saw a pack of cigarettes that were fastened to Brooke Lynn’s garterbelt.

“My my my-” D reached and Vanessa almost squealed as she saw the fingers so close to the snap, the entire thing most of all like the plot of a lesbian porn made for straight guys. Instead, D took the pack, switching it from one hand to the other and tapping it against Brooke Lynn’s nose.

“Babe-”

“What have we here?” Vanessa could hear the smirk in D’s voice, her smug satisfaction at calling Brooke Lynn out.

“We’re at a party.” Brooke Lynn tilted her chin, her blue eyes shining with defiance. Vanessa was almost sure D and Brooke Lynn was married, the way they acted around each other not how you behaved with strangers or secrets, but they clearly still played with each other, still challenged each other and Vanessa felt a brief stab to her stomach, her chest tight with jealousy.

“Where are you hiding the lighter?”

“What makes you think I have one?”

“Come on Brookie-” D was still holding her against the wall, her hand still on her thigh, Brooke Lynn’s sheer white pantines just peeking out from underneath her skirt, her stocking still held in place.

“Where is it? Is it in your bra?” D leaned down, her free hand running over her stomach and up to squeeze her breast, but Brooke Lynn smacked her hand away before D had a chance to feel around, which caused her to laugh loudly.

“Babe-” This was the first time Vanessa had heard D use the nickname, her voice filled with teasing affection.

“I’ll behave if you do.”

“Is that a promise?” D smirked, and Brooke Lynn blushed slightly. D moved even closing, pressing herself in between Brooke Lynn’s legs, the other woman now fully trapped against the wall. “Best behavior tonight. Right gorgeous?”

Brooke Lynn titled her head up, their lips meeting in a kiss, and Vanessa ran, her tray forgotten on the balcony.

[chiauve]

The Man in the Dark - 2

“That’s enough TV for today,” Ally’s mother said, glaring down at her daughter the couch potato.

“But it’s a new season,” Ally argued, but at another look from her mom she paused her program and exited to the home screen before the remote was straight up taken from her and she lost her place.

Her mom had that look.

“I got a call from your teacher this afternoon. She says you haven’t been turning in your homework.”

Because she hadn’t been doing it, but Ally knew better than to say that. She also knew better than to argue that it was boring because adults didn’t care that it was boring just that it was important and had to be done. Instead of denying it or arguing Ally just gave a shamefaced pout.

Her mother sighed. “Alright then, until your grades are back up, no more TV and from now on I’m taking your phone and tablet after dinner. You can have them back in the morning before school.”

That got her attention. Ally spun around on the couch, facing her mother with large, beseeching eyes. “But I need my tablet if I’m gonna do homework!”

“You can use the family computer so you don’t get distracted.”

“But—“

“That’s final, Ally. You don’t need to be chatting with your friends or making videos that late anyway.”

Ally slumped back down into the couch, arms crossed and almost ready to throw a tantrum if she wasn’t aware she was too old for that. Spending her night hours stuck at her homework was a fate worse than death. Unless she could fake getting it done first...

“It’s easier to do my homework at Dad’s work. Can I go there after school instead? Until I do better?”

Her mother eyed her a minute and then shrugged. “All right. I’ll ask your Dad if he’s okay with that.”

“So I can keep my tablet tonight?”

“Fine, we’ll see how things go, but no more TV tonight.”

“Yes, mom.”

--

Back in her room, the door safely shut, Ally flipped through the photos of her recent foray into the basement levels on her tablet, mostly the ones from the bottom-most level. The large, empty room was intriguing in its emptiness; there were slats in the floor for something, and large chains lay discarded. It sent shivers down her spine looking at them even in the comfort of her bed.

Finally she reached the pictures of the keypad with its single little red light. Why was it still active? The entire floor was dead, even the water pipes and air cut off.

What was in there?

While some things remained on the lowest floors, they were items that could be replaced or that were no longer needed. Anything still of value was locked up on the second basement level, everything else below left to be forgotten.

There was probably nothing in that room at all, something was just left on by accident. Like the broken doors.

Or there was something really important in there. Or really scary.

She peered at the photo of the keypad closely, zooming in on the numbers. Some were darker than others, possibly pressed more? But even if she got the combination right, would the door even open? It had been sealed for years now, it could be stuck.

Well she wouldn’t know until she checked it, and she had every intent to try tomorrow. While she still managed to hold onto her bravery.

--

At the BSAA office building, Ally went to her supposed study space first, waiting until people coming and going settled in for the last few hours of work. When things got quieter she picked up and went straight to the basement, creeping onto the first level and then hurrying through each subsequent one, still remembering her rituals of Descent, until she reached the Last Door.

Ally paused in the doorway, faced with that dank, silent hall.

There was something down there. Something locked away.

Her fear crept in. She’d seen enough movies and heard enough stories in her life to know that things that were buried were never supposed to be unburied and when they were only bad things happened. Her fear begged her to go back upstairs, to stay away from this horrible prison.

But Ally took a step forward. And then another. She came from a line of BSAA folk, whether they were tied to a desk or not, and would not back down. She walked to the end where that tiny little red light blazed in this black place. She shone her light on the keypad.

There were numbers and the largest button on the bottom still had the O for ‘open’ visible. Skipping the numbers, she pressed that. Her finger sunk into a layer of grime and she couldn’t tell if the button actually pressed but she listened.

Nothing. She pressed it again, hard. Still nothing. Frowning, Ally began to run through combinations of the darkened numbers, over and over. She’d gone through so many when she began to fear she’d need a keycard as well, and that whatever was here was going to stay hidden forever.

The light turned green and there was a heavy, slow clunk and a release of hydraulics. The door shrieked and then only moved an inch before it got stuck on the track. There was a shivering noise from within that made the hair on Ally’s arms stand on end. She grabbed the door and shoved and was hit in the face with a blast of foul, fetid air rank with rot and she staggered back and gagged. Her lunch crawled up her throat and much as it revolted her she decided to let it go and turned and puked in a corner.

Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope nope...

She never smelled anything that awful and disgusting in her life. The closest she ever smelled was when a squirrel had fallen down their chimney and died on the shut flue and they didn’t know until it started to rot and the smell got in the house.

Something died in that locked room, was still dying.

Tears rolled down her face and she cried, spitting the taste of sick out of her mouth. She wanted to run; she did her job as an explorer and found something she shouldn’t have. Good enough, get back above, now.

She spat again and then froze.

There was that shivering noise again.

Something was moving in there, a lot of something.

She had to know.

Taking a deep breath of stale air that now seemed fresh in comparison to that, Ally pulled the collar of her shirt up over her nose and crept to the door again, her light dancing around erratically as her hand shook. She shoved the door hard and it reluctantly moved along the track, a few inches at a time. She could finally enter and slid the flashlight beam around the room.

Hundreds of red eyes stared back at her. A large pile of rats hunkered in the middle of the room and shrieked at her as her light struck them before they fled, scattering all ways and vanishing back into the dark. Ally yelped and backed out, making sure the rats weren’t following, and then slowly crept in again.

There was still something on the floor, a pile of black and red and brown that wasn’t rats. It wasn’t moving at all.

The smell was so terrible Ally had to step back out in the hall again, gasping and gagging. When she re-entered the red eyes of the rats were back, watching her. She shone her light at them and they disappeared. She took a slow couple of steps towards the pile in the room and her unease began to grow further.

Whatever it was, it was chained down. Enormous chains as thick as her arms criss-crossed several times over the form, the links vanishing into slats on the floor. It was lying in a puddle of red, thick and dried with rat droppings.

It was wet.

She froze and stared in horror. Open wounds were weeping blood and clear fluids slowly, some exposing the white of bone. What might have once been clothes were shredded to near nothing, bared skin so filthy and infected it was discolored.

It was breathing. Or at least it looked like it was breathing. No, it was her shaking light, playing tricks on her. Had to be. She’d been exploring these dark places long enough to know that’s what the dark did. It was a trickster and liked to play, to confuse.

Against her better judgment, she took another step, her light on the bloody pile on the floor. Her free hand raised her phone for a picture, and the flash went off.

It was slight but unmistakable this time. One end of the pile moved, a swatch of matted, filthy hair shifted and Ally was met with a single eye. It was red and reptilian and, locking onto her, began to glow.

The pile moved now, tensed against the chains, and then there was a clacking and a hefty clunk as the chains were pulled down with sharp force from below, several links pulled into the slats in the floor, forcing the pile, the thing, back down violently. The head, for it was unmistakable that’s what it was now, threw back and a blackened mouth opened in a pain-filled scream, but there was no sound. A rush of air and bubbling blood and remnants of dead flesh splattered the floor in front of its trapped face.

Ally screamed in its stead and ran, nearly slipping on the grime. She grabbed the door and forced it shut, putting as much between her and that awful rotting thing as she could, and then she ran and didn’t stop running until she reached the light of the main floor, until she reached a bathroom. She locked herself in a stall and threw up again, though nothing came up but she kept trying, trying to purge the smell, the rot, the terror from her little body.

Ally sat on the floor and scoot into the corner, clutching her backpack and started sobbing.

She should have known better. She should have.

What was that horrible thing?

She wanted nothing more than to run to her father and beg him to take her home. She’d never explore down below again, honest! Just make whatever that was go away!

But she was too scared to move, too horrified, and after long minutes of crying adrenaline leaked out of her and left her exhausted on the bathroom floor, hiccuping.

She finally got up and left the stall, staring at herself in the mirror. She splashed cold water on her face to try to get rid of the puffiness.

In a strange, relaxed daze, Ally wandered back to her usual place to do homework and sat down. She didn’t even pretend to work, but stared at the shoddy picture on her phone.

The flash lit the pile well enough, but the picture was blurred from shaking. Still, she could make out the form now. There was a head, the large hunch in the pile were shoulders, it tapered down to hips and then legs. A man-like figure, chained down on its side in a puddle of filth.

Ally hands gripped her phone tightly, the very image making her shake not only from her experience but from the horrible stories her grandpa used to tell her.

There was a BOW down there, a trapped zombie forgotten in the basement when all else had been cleared out.

She wouldn’t run to her dad, not yet. She wasn’t a little kid. And she didn’t want to surrender her explorer title just yet. This was still a mystery. She’d solve it first, and then be a good girl and tell her dad there was a monster down below.

She took a long, deep breath, and reminded herself to dig out her old bat from the closet for next time.

[naromoreau]

From the writing prompts. ‘ sit still and let me take a look! ’ For your choice!

Thank you so much for this! This one is my first John Seed/ F!Dep ficlet that turned out into idk what seriously. lol 

Thank you so much to @seedsplease for allow me to use her OC, Levi the peggie in this fic! ____________________________________________

It’d been a bad idea now that she ran her train of thoughts backwards. Attacking Seed Ranch under the moonlight, half-wasted and maybe a bit bliss-highed, under the blurry daydream that everything was just an extension of her Metal Gear Solid campaign was stupid. And it wasn’t even a pivotal stratagem because as far as she knew, the younger Seedling was still tucked away in his harrowing dungeon at the Bunker.

But she needed to prove a point. To herself. She needed to know she wasn’t afraid of coming back and jump head first into the free-for-all clusterfuck in Hope County. She unconsciously dragged her fingertips over her scarred chest while memories of her close encounter with the self proclaimed Baptist harred through her mind. No, she wasn’t afraid of John. But fuck, the injury still hurt her pride. And she’ll well damn return the favor, snatching his own house from under his very nose.

In a haze, her hand closed around the trigger of her sniper rifle and aimed. If only her targets would stop wobbling. Really, drinking while working. These peggies had no shame. She took the shot, but the bullet collided against a flammable cylinder next to the porch, exploding in a magnificent fire Sharky would definitely have approved.

“Oops.”

The flames licked the balustrade, now spreading to the stairs and she revelled with a devilish grin in the bewilderment and panic painted in the faces of the peggies.

“Put that fire down, and someone explain to me how this happened!” A man in a leather trench coat, probably the one in charge, moved hurriedly among the crowd that had gone haywire. “Brother John is going to be furious!”

She stifled a laugh biting the flap of her flannel, and adjusted her scope, drawing a bead on yet another red cylinder. Unfortunately the alcohol had damped her reflexes significantly and she tripped with the root of a nearby tree.

“You hear that?” A nearby man, dressed in the unfashionable peggie-mayonnaise craned his neck to where she was hiding, and slowly trod in her direction.

Oh fuck. She drew her pistol and turnt up as she was her shots missed the peggie’s head by good five inches hitting him in the shoulder. Mayhem unleashed at the first blast throwing to the trash bin her stealthy maneuvers.

“Sinners!”

The outside of the house crawled within seconds with a heavily armed crew, as bullets snickered in the air, rippling the silence around her. She rolled to a side, as her previous spot was soon overrun by overzealous goons looking for her blindly. She took one, two, three guards down, before dodging enemy gazes behind a bush at the very front of the house, choking with the smell of gunsmoke.

“There! Behind those bushes!”

Shit was getting problematic. Her attention snapped at the shouted words, her ears ringing by the bullets landing closer and closer to her, and before she could veer off course, two projectiles shredded the skin of her arm and abdomen.

She yelped loudly. It hurt like a motherfucker.

“Stop the fire!”

She paled to her lips. Damn. She knew that voice; that cloying tone still sending shivers down her spine. Fighting through the agonizing pain, she lifted her eyes and her ragged breath caught in her throat. Apparently her intel was wrong. Fucking Dutch. John Seed stood at the threshold, slowly descending the partly charred stairs with that smug walk of his that she found equally magnetizing and loathsome.

Everyone froze in place as he closed the distance to where she was hunched down, soaked in her own blood, drawing breath after breath to quell her…fear?

“Take her inside,” he said signaling to a burly man that stood with his head bowed next to him. The darkness and the loss of blood made everything seem bleary, so she wasn’t sure if his words really carried streaks of concern or was just her heart thundering in her ears. His blue eyes could’ve carved her soul, etching deeper than his needle.

“Fuck off John. I rather take a bullet to the head than spent a minute with you alone, again.” She hawked blood and saliva at his feet, glaring at him. She knew it was futile, like the pathetic little roars of a kitten trapped in a dark alley.

A gamut of emotions flickered on his face and she could’ve sworn pain waved back at her for a fleeting second, before disappearing behind a self-satisfied grin.

“Don’t tempt me my dear.”

She huffed and kicked hopelessly when his subordinate carried her bridal style into the house but her legs felt shaky and weak, and the effort puffed all the air out of her lungs. She shot a final glance behind her where another peggie picked up her forgotten rifle and pistol, dragging them away from her. She grunted.

Once they were inside, she chewed down a malicious comment. So much for humbleness. John Seed’s Ranch was lush and elegant, looking more like a luxurious lodge than a battle post.

“Put her in the couch,” John said standing at the center of the living room.

She untangled her arms of the unfairly broad shoulders of the peggie as he placed her down carefully. He gave her a final mistrustful gaze, and stood next to the door.

“Should I post guards at the door, Brother John?”

John fidgeted with a pocket knife before closing it, placing it on the coffee table, a lopsided grin tugging his lips. “No, Levi. She’s barely a threat at this point.”

His comment lit the fire in her blood. “Maybe you should listen to Levi, John.” She cocked an eyebrow, stomping down a wince, as her side and arm throbbed in pain.

“Leave us,” John said to the peggie, ignoring her completely.

Her heart was thumping so hard, she could feel it under every inch of her skin, whatever amount of blood left in her system pooling in her cheeks.

“Relax my dear,” he said sauntering towards her, his boots tapping against the wooden floor as the tickle of a doomsday clock, drawing closer and closer. “I’m not going to hurt you, trust me.” He sat at the edge of the couch, face relaxed and attentive.

“Ah- kinda hard to believe man,” she said, brows furrowed, trying to scoot backwards and away from him, “last time you were very determined to do some very hard damage.”

John drew a hand forward, as if he intended to touch her and she shivered. He heaved a sigh, pulling back. “I think you need medical attention first, Deputy.”

“Yeah, so ah- could you let me go?” she asked as he stood up, fumbling between the things of a near cabinet.

“So you can bleed out on your way to wherever is you’re going?” His voice came muffled as he was half stuck into the mahogany furniture.

Sweat beads fell down her forehead, flyaway strands of hair sticking to her temples. “You said so yourself, I need medical attention,” she bit back, fighting back a grimace.

He made his way back to her, holding a first aid kit. Oh great.

“And that’s what you’re getting,” he said sitting again next to her. “Now sit still and let me take a look.”

He took gauze and clean cloth along with a peroxide bottle and some antiseptic gel out of the box. She bit her lower lip. There wasn’t much she could do in her position, and who was she to look the gift horse in the mouth. If he was offering his help, she could well accept it to ebb away the ache in her body. After all, she didn’t want to see wrath flooding him as she’d seen in the bunker.

So she held her arm in front of him.

“This is just a scrap, you’ll be fine,” he said brushing gently the red burned flesh, grabbing her wrist with a merciful grip, almost kind. Almost tender.

What the hell was going on?

“That’s a relief.” The irreality of the situation was kicking her in the gut. Only three weeks ago this same man had thrown her into hell, alive and breathing, searing in her mind memories too gruesome to forget.

“Now, darling, where is the other?” he said, throwing the bloodied cloth on a trash bin and preparing a new one.

She flushed beet red. Modesty wasn’t something she particularly enforced, especially not under duress but there was something about John that rattled her walls, whether she wanted to admit it or not. “Ah…”

“We don’t have all day my dear Deputy.” He looked at her with a tinge of exasperation.

Her breath was shallow but she managed to control it. “Okay, fine, fine, hold on.” She pulled off her torn shirt, placing it in the floor and twisted her upper body so he could see the wound at the side of her abdomen.

There was a slight delay in his answer she didn’t fail to notice. “It looks- uh, it looks nastier than the other one,” John said, flicking out his tongue in an unconscious gesture, barely grazing her skin with shaky fingers in a place Rook didn’t feel any pain at all.

“Uh, John?” she side eyed him, watching him struggle to keep his charming, nonchalant facade.

He inhaled deeply and the air let out his lungs in a short blow. “I’m sorry my dear, I’ll clean this right away.”

He started working on her skin with the precision of a surgeon, shushing her when the pain of the chemics burned her skin and she cried out.

“Can I ask you something?” She said with a low moan as the pain began to subside, her head buried in her arms, as he kept working.

“I doubt a ‘no’ would deter you of doing so, darling.” He shot her a sincere smile and something tumbled in her stomach.

Pathetic.

“Am I leaving your Ranch in a coffin?” she spluttered, brushing aside the flurry of emotions galloping inside her.

“Don’t be absurd. If I wanted you dead I would’ve done so before you torched half my property and killed half my guards,” he said casually, as he spread the gauze, dressing her wound. “No, Deputy. I don’t want you dead. I want  you saved.”

And there he was again. The John she knew, but severely toned down, the maniacal edges that flickered to life during their last encounter, subdued.

“Thanks?” She offered. “I don’t understand, last time was so-”

“Rough?” He cut her off, chuckling. “I know, and I should apologize.”

Her face shifted from curiosity to certified wariness. “Excuse me?”

He finished his handiwork and leveled his gaze with hers. Christ in Heaven, those blue eyes. Sometimes cold as lakes in the winter, yet other times filled with warm, sparkling life as it was the case right now.

“After you left, Joseph spoke to me, and he, eh, he showed me my ways were wrong, that I wouldn’t get what I–,” he stopped and cleared his throat, “what the Project wants from you out of fear.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you truly accept us in your heart.”

A clear laughter rang in her ears. Her own laughter. The sound so unfamiliar, it cracked a shudder on her body.

“And how do you intend to do that?,” she asked, certainly curious.

He stood up and placed the first aid kit away and her body complained silently and unwittingly for his absence. “I want to show you that pain is not the only thing I–,” he sighed, shaking his head, “that we can offer you. I want to show you that is love what opens the Gates, and you should embrace it.”

Her mouth had gone dry, and she was barely able to resist as John came back and effortlessly swooped her in his arms. Solid, muscular arms, that lifted her as if she was light as a feather. The minty spice of his scent flared up her nose, eliciting a sigh she was determined to attribute to her dog-tired state. This wasn’t happening. Maybe she was stuck in one of Faith’s fucking Bliss crops, dozing off and any minute now Sharky was going to wake her up setting her on fire by accident. As a hundred times before.

He carried her up the stairs to an empty room with a full size bed, and placed her on top.

“This will be your home for a while,” he said sitting next to her and tucking auburn strands of hair behind her ears and everything she could do was look at him, astonished and rattled. “Don’t think about leaving, my darling, because everything you need is here.”

He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead and walked away. As she saw him disappearing from her sight the thought that haunted her the most was that to her dismay, leaving, was the last thing on her mind.  

[grumpyhedgehogs]

Make My Noose from a Daisy Chain

Summary: The Deputy is having trouble coming all the way home.

Part 1: Here Part 3: Here

Notes: A continuation for The Judgement Of Petals. This is Part 2 of 3, because I realized it was better to split the longer fic I had planned and give the Deputy their time in the spotlight alone. Also tumblr won’t let me write long things. Beware angst, depression, suicidal idealization, and references to brainwashing. There is little comfort in this fic. Also, less flowers than before. Sorry. You’ll just have to wait.

~

“Hey, you alright in there?”

The Deputy

The Ryes’ home was the first building they’d stepped into in months. It was warm and inviting, flickering with the soft light of a low fire in the living room. There were cushioned couches and loveseats and brightly colored blankets strewn about. The ceilings were vaulted, which helped with the claustrophobia.

Dep’s lungs still felt too small.

They’d been having a hard time not hyperventilating ever since they passed through the fence, and their vision was swimming at this point. But Carmina’s fingers were gentle and warm and kind against the rough, cracked leather of their glove. The daisy bounced a calming rhythm against their ear. They couldn’t bear to let go. (It was the first time someone other than the Father had touched them in- they didn’t want to think about that.)

Carmina had obviously sent word ahead to her parents, maybe radioed in when Dep was having their break down, because there was no one around. Perhaps they thought it would be too overwhelming to have too many familiar faces around for the first night. Seeing as Dep couldn’t breath just because they were inside a house, they couldn't really blame the Ryes for thinking that.

“Hey, look at me, Dep, okay? Just look right at me.”

They did. The air that the cracks in their mask let through was unsettling against skin that hadn’t seen the light of day in- they didn’t want to think about that either.

Carmina’s face was round and freckled and kind. They’d wanted to see her grow up.

“One step at a time, okay?” Carmina reassured, setting a hand against their mask, uncaring of the grime the Dep knew was caked there. “Nothing too much and nothing you can’t handle. We’ve got all the time in the world now, Dep. So let’s just take it one step at a time.”

Dep swallowed (their throat felt like sandpaper) and nodded without really agreeing. Carmina led them to a small, sparse room filled with only a utilitarian bed and a desk under the tiny window. Did they like it?

Yes. No. How did you know if you liked things, again?

They waited until Carmina let go of their hand and closed the door with a quiet click. There were no footsteps out in the hall. She was listening- making sure they didn’t bolt. Smart kid.

They didn’t take off the mask or the jacket or the boots. They didn’t turn down the bed or open the window. It wasn’t their bed, not their window, not their home to be comfortable in.

They curled up as tight as they could get on top of the cool, rough quilt on the mattress and felt their skin crawling; it was as if their very bones were screaming at them to get up, get out, this isn’t yours, you’ll just find a way to ruin it, make a mess, not good enough, traitor, murderer, YOU’RE A MONSTER-

They didn’t sleep much that night.

~

There was a hand over their mouth when they opened their eyes in the dark.

(Blessed are the wicked, my child, we’re family, my child, you’re mine own, my child-)

The fingers were too wide, they were cutting off airflow to both Dep’s mouth and nostrils; their lungs burned like a wildfire and Dep couldn’t move. Their limbs were lead, sinking right through the mattress and into the floor. The blankets were quicksand, bent on swallowing Dep whole.

(Blessed are the wicked who are healed by mine hand, my child, say it, say-)

Oh God, oh God, they couldn’t breathe, they couldn’t please don’t make them-

(say it, SAY IT, SAY IT, YOU ARE THE WICKED, SAY IT AND BE HEALED)

The body pressing down on their chest from above was heavy as stone. He reeked of old blood- their old blood. They tasted it on the fist shoving into their mouth, the knuckles against their tongue. Another palm wrapped around their throat. Dep tried to kick out but the blood flow to their legs had long since been cut off by His dreadful weight.

Dep was going to die down here in the dark.

(BE BLESSED MY CHILD)

“Dep, you gotta wake-”

(DON’T FIGHT ME, MY CHILD, I WILL SAVE YOU)

The new voice was but a gnat buzzing in the background compared to the megaphone in their ears. Not for the first time, Dep wished they could scream.

“Dep, wake up, for God’s sake, wake up-”

(SAY YOU ARE THE WICKED AND BE SAVED)

“Dep, please!”

They woke for real this time, jolting with unpleasant quickness into consciousness. Their mask was suffocating, the strap at the base of their skull too tight and cutting into flesh. They felt the layer of sweat that had covered their body in the night, damp and too cold in the Montana air.

They were slumped over on the floor by the foot of the bed- they must have rolled off in the night. Half sitting up, legs twisted in the quilt that had come with in the fall, they were supporting themself on one elbow and using the other hand to hold a knife to Nick Rye’s vulnerable throat.

(You must be ready to cleanse the land of infidels and sinners, my child.)

They flinched away, landing flat on their back; the knife clattered to the floor beside their head. They’d almost forgotten they’d had it up their sleeve. The collar of their jacket, which was not a hand but the real source of the restriction of oxygen to their lungs, let up a little. They gasped, wheezed, and then they looked up.

Nick hadn’t backed away an inch. He hovered uncertainly where he was leaning over them, one hand extended, lips parted. He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Dep, it’s okay. It was just a nightmare. You- do you know where you are?”

Their vision blurred. Dep wasn’t sure who was making that awful keening noise, but it grated at their ears and they’d like whoever it was to stop. Nick looked horrified; that was probably a good reaction to Dep, if they were being honest.

They scrambled away from him, flailing to get free of the blankets constricting their legs. Scooting back on their tailbone, Dep didn’t stop until they were huddled against the far wall, right under the window. The wood was rough and splintered under their hands.

(Sinners must not be tolerated, and you must JUDGE them harshly.)

Nick tried to take a step forward, and their chest heaved with a sob. Dep couldn’t catch their breath; tears flooded, and their face was too hot. Desperately, they clutched their head in their hands, rapped their knuckles hard against their scalp. They were here, not in the bunker. They were with the Ryes- one of whom they’d just almost killed.

They couldn’t do this. They couldn’t. Not if it meant waking up to find they’d stabbed- that they’d ever hurt- They’d made a mistake coming back. Maybe it would have been better for everyone in Hope County if they’d burned alongside Him.

Dep had squeezed their eyes shut at some point, so they felt more than heard him cross the room and crouch down next to them. Dep shied away, unwilling to taint Nick with their unclean presence.

(Not good enough for them, should never have come, you’re broken, did you really think you could stay?)

“Hey,” Nick’s voice was soft. He didn't try to touch them. “Hey, just look at me for a minute, yeah? I promise, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

There was a red line darkening on his throat, right over his jugular. They watched, mesmerized and sick from it, as a single drop of crimson leaked out and disappeared under the collar of his worn sweatshirt. They turned their head hurriedly and suppressed the urge to gag.

(you did that you did that youdidyoudidyoudid)

“You’re safe now,” Nick told them. He leaned back against the wall, near enough to be seen but not felt. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you anymore.”

The keening noise was back. They thumped a hand against their chest, cursing their muteness, and thrust a finger at the knife. They pounded their fist against their clavicle again for emphasis.

Nick’s face was greyer and more haggard than they’d ever seen it. He still looked strangely young without his cap on, but his lips thinned and he shook his head. His voice was heavy with authority and something in it soothed their jangling nerves. “You’re not gonna hurt anyone, Dep. I know you’re not. You know how I know it?”

They shook their head. He sighed, scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and leaned his head back against the windowsill. “Because you’re good, Dep. You just can’t remember that right now.”

~

Kim found them there in the morning, although Dep was pretty sure she’d been outside their room for longer. Maybe for the entire thing; they hadn’t gone back to sleep but she was quiet. Nick sounded like he’d dozed, and when Kim opened the door he jumped and hit the back of his head against the windowsill. Kim snorted.

“Oh yeah, laugh it up,” he muttered, prodding at the bruise, “not like I’m your only husband or anything.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Kim sauntered in like nothing was wrong. Like the bed wasn't a mess, like her husband sitting on the floor in the middle of the night with an insane ex-cop was normal. Like there wasn’t a knife stained with his blood lying there, just out of reach. “You want me to kiss it better?”

Nick perked up at that. “Would you?”

“Knowing what I do about your showering habits? Not a chance. Get downstairs before Carmina eats all the eggs.”

Nick hesitated for a moment, pointedly not looking at Dep. Kim held his eyes steadily and nodded at the door. Her foot nudged the blade and their stomach roiled like curdled milk.

“Go on,” Kim murmured, and Nick went, joints cracking as he stood and left. They could hear him give a low groan as he descended the stairs. They were left alone with Kim.

(You should go, get out, look what you’ve already done, are you going to put the mother of your godchild in danger now too?)

“I’d say I know that look on your face, but well,” Kim gestured to their mask. Their heart was beating too hard in their chest, and their ears were roaring. She took a step forward but stopped when they flung out a warning hand. Kim sighed and crouched down on her heels to get on their level.

How far from the window to the ground? Not that far, probably.

“But I do know you, Dep.” Kim told them with enough kindness in her voice that they retched quietly. “And I know you’re not going to give up this easily, are you?”

Yes. No. They wanted to, desperately.

(Take heart, my child. You are doing God’s work.)

Why couldn’t it all just stop?

They shrank away, tried to mold themself into the wood panels of the room when Kim stretched out welcoming fingers to them. Kim didn’t seem disturbed, and didn’t drop her offered hand. (How can she not be repulsed? You’re a traitor, monster, should have died with Him-)

“If you can’t see why you should do this for yourself, if you can’t find a reason why you want to stay alive,” Kim spoke softly, almost hypnotic in the early morning stillness, “then do it for us. We’re counting on you, Dep.”

Well. That was that then.

~

They stayed, however reluctantly; it was partly due to the fact that every single one of the Ryes had an amazing talent for puppy dog eyes. They could hear familiar voices on the radio in the kitchen, sometimes, but they never answered Kim when she asked if they wanted to talk to anybody.

(You don’t deserve it. Why are you still here?)

But the Ryes had nice flowers out back of their house, and Carmina had tentatively suggested that a plot of land be set aside for a garden. Nick was quick to jump on that one; he’d hauled hoes and rakes and shovels from the outdoor shed before Kim had pointed out that they’d need to find seeds and plan it out before getting to work.

Dep had silently turned around and gone back inside. They were getting used to the same four walls of their room; it would almost be comforting if not for the fact that once the natural light from the window was gone the gloom made the wallpaper the exact same shade as the bunker and they would start remembering-

The didn’t want to think about that anymore. They couldn’t think of anything else.

It seemed like every day Dep tried to leave. They were getting farther and farther every time; yesterday Dep had gotten to the woodline behind the fence before a heavy hand landed on their shoulder and they’d had to face Nick’s disappointed (worried, scared, he should be scared of a TRAITOR-) eyes.

They were sneaking out for another attempt (sixteenth time’s the charm, why can’t you just let go of them, they’d be better off) when they heard it.

“You’ve got to look at this practically sweetheart,” Kim admonished gently. “This isn’t like when you brought home a bird with a broken wing as a kid. This is a living, breathing, thinking person, one whom I was very close to, and I can tell you that it’s gonna be a whole new ballgame helping them heal from this. If we’re in this for the long run we have to face the facts as they are instead of turning a blind eye to them.”

“Like what?”

“Do you know what Dep does at night?”

Oh, fuck.

They thought they’d been so quiet- they didn’t exactly wake up screaming most nights. Although Dep had to admit that sometimes, when the nightmares got really bad (blessed are the wicked, we’re a family, a family, SAY IT OR BE DAMNED) they woke making this weird gurgling noise. And the dreams themselves hadn’t miraculously disappeared just because they had a warm bed to sleep in. Plus the sleep paralysis was worse because they’d end up rolling onto their back in the night.

“No,” Carmina was admitting over the rush in Dep’s ears. They couldn’t do this, they couldn’t hear Kim (Kim, Kim, Kim, so good, so kind, too good for them) condemn them to their nightly torment alone, couldn’t hear Kim tell her daughter they were dangerous (they were), that they shouldn’t have ever come back (they shouldn’t have) that they were going to hurt the family in one way or another, whether they liked it or not (they weren’t, oh God please don’t let them hurt the Ryes), that they had to go (they had to go). “They’re closer to your room than mine.”

Kim drew in an audible breath and Dep was going to throw up. It’d get all over their mask. It’d be so gross.

“They don’t sleep more than an hour or two; I don’t think they know that I can hear them leaving their room, but I’m jumpy in the night. They leave the house, and Carmina, they’re gone for hours.”

Carmina’s voice was small. “Where do they go?”

“I watched them once- they walk the perimeter of the property, as far as I can tell. They go around and around in circles for the entire night with that bow of theirs on their back.”

“They’re protecting us.”

“They’re panicking and terrified,” Kim cut in sharply. “They never sleep, they’re hyper-vigilant and they’re probably having flashbacks and panic attacks, but we can't do anything about that because they never speak to us. Hell, they won’t even be in the same room as Nick, and they never look me in the damn eye.”

“Well, what do you want to do? Tell them they’re broken and kick them out? They were tortured! For years, Mom.”

“You think I don’t know that? That I don’t think about it every goddamn time I see that mask?” Kim spat out. There was a moment of quiet. Dep realized their breath was wheezing softly, that their lungs weren’t expanding enough. Their head swam. “Like hell am I gonna leave them out in the cold. I’m just saying that we need to- do more than we are. They’re not going to get any better if we don’t try to understand them, if we don’t push them a little. I want them to feel safe just like you, but it’s been a month, Carmina. We gotta learn how to communicate with Dep if we’re gonna help them.”

“So…” Dep could almost see the girl pushing her fingers through her hair (so like her father) and worrying her lip, looking for an answer to a problem that never should have been hers to deal with. Their gut twisted into knots. “So, they’re not talking, right? We gotta communicate to get them the help they need.”

Kim sounded relieved. “Yes. Question is, how? They never were very talkative.”

Dep suddenly felt lightheaded and dizzy; this happened every time someone talked about their past with them. It always seemed like a fog surrounded their memories; as if someone had hidden it from them. Trying to remember only granted them a pounding headache and sleepless nights. (It was Him, He did it, but how, what did He do, why can't you remember, for God’s sake can’t you do anything right, something so simple as remembering?)

“Maybe,” Carmina said slowly. Dep backed away, hands clutched to their head, down the hall to that tiny safe haven (your cell). “Maybe we’ve just been speaking the wrong language.”

[otheroutlandertales]

A canon divergent story in which Bree and Roger go through the stones together.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

En Même Temps - Part 4

by @theministerskat

Boston, January 1971

Brianna read the passage in front of her for the fourth time, fingers gliding along with her eyes to ensure she processed every word and their meaning. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, she thought, then smiled at the appropriateness of using her mother’s favorite exclamation. Her mind began racing with the possibility of it all. Could it really be the same?

She shifted her position on the couch, moving her long legs out from beneath her and stretching them out over the edge of the cushion. Her feet made contact with a pile of papers instead on the hardwood as she set her feet down. Scattered around the floor were sheets of notes with important historical dates, photocopies of 18th century maps, large tomes lying open to pages that may be pertinent to their trip into the past. It was all evidence of how much planning and thought they had put into the journey.

Bree was satisfied with the amount of research they had completed. There wasn’t much more for them to find, but feelings of uncertainty still plagued her. She pushed those thoughts from her mind, knowing all the what ifs would drive her mad if she dwelled on them, and instead she found something else to focus on. Usually, that something else was Roger.

She looked up from the mess at her feet, eyes darting around the room, searching for him. Bree hoped he would interpret it in the same way she did, confirm what she had been suspecting for the last few minutes.

She looked to the right, and her gaze finally fixed on him. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, book in one hand, the other in his trouser pocket, completely focused on what he was reading. She opened her mouth to call him over, but stopped before getting the words out. His hand moved from his pants pocket to turn a page, then returned to its resting place. She had noticed this small quirk he’d developed as of late, his fingers making small indistinct movements within.

Bree studied him for another moment, enjoying the view. Roger’s dark hair had grown out a bit, hanging just below his ears, and a week’s worth of beard growth spread across his face, it had just crossed the point from being prickly to feeling soft, especially against her own cheek. He had ditched the layered academia look for more casual attire; she hadn’t even known he owned blue jeans until their second day back in Boston when he had exited the bathroom, hair still wet from his shower, in a pair of jeans and an old faded tee.

Today he wore khakis that hugged his hips in all the right places and a grey Inverness Royal Academy tee that stretched across his broad shoulders. A warm sensation crept up her body and she let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

Bree squinted then, trying to see which book he was reading. She instantly recognized the worn cover and the rounded corners of the journal Fiona had sent from Scotland, The Grimoire. In it were the musings of Gillian Edgars, the self-proclaimed witch’s thoughts and theories on time travel, all laid out within its pages. Brianna wanted nothing to do with it for the most part, believing much of what was in it to be unwarranted speculation, but Roger had been fascinated, if not also a little horrified, by its contents, and would amble through it, time and time again.

The days were passing quickly, and she was thankful they had been able to find some time to focus on one another between packing and research. Bree had taken him on a tour of her own history in Boston, showing him the Harvard history department where she spent many afternoons after school with her father and the old brownstone the Randall’s had called home for more than 20 years. They had seen The Wizard of Oz in all of its Technicolor glory at a local theatre that prided itself on showing old movies. She had laughed until her cheeks hurt as Roger sat next to her in the empty theatre singing along to all of the songs; it was a favorite from his childhood, he had told her.

Then there were the quiet nights spent in her apartment. Just the two of them, eating food from take-out containers and laughing at some odd thing or another, their minds focusing only on the moment. They would perch on opposite ends of the couch, watching reruns of Dark Shadows and I Love Lucy, only to end up in each other’s arms late into the night. Hands would roam over clothed skin, then dip below hems of shirts and waistbands of pants to feel the warmth of bare flesh, lips connecting in passion and urgency, the television forgotten in the background.

Roger, with a heavy sigh, would always stop them before anything went further than they intended. He would slowly pull away from Brianna, brushing stray strands of hair from her face, and suggest they turn in for the night. She would kiss him one last time and head for her own room, leaving him behind to settle into the sofa bed. Sometimes, under the covers of her achingly empty bed, Brianna fought to steady her breathing, the lingering feeling of Roger’s touch still electrifying every inch of her skin.

Looking at him now, calm, cool, collected, Brianna felt the need in her rise again. It wasn’t just a physical need -- it was emotional, too. He told her multiple times he would be there for her, and with him she felt supported, protected. And here he was, turning his entire life upside down to follow her on a journey that might actually kill them both. She wasn’t even certain if she’d shown him just how much everything he had done, everything he was planning to do, meant to her.

He must have felt her eyes on him because he looked up from the small black journal. The green eyes that she could lose herself in looked at her, a slight question there, but mingled with love, always with love. It was a kind of loving look she had never experienced before Roger; not one of a parent or friend, or even a romantic fling. It held an air of pure and utter devotion, full of possibility.

Roger quirked an eyebrow at her and it snapped her back in to the moment, finally remembering why she had looked for him in the first place.

“Rog-” his name caught in her throat and she cleared it before starting again. “Roger, I think I found something.”

“What is it?” He set his book down on the counter behind him and crossed the space between them in a few long strides. He leaned over the back of the couch, his face close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.

“It’s a book on the Native American tribes of North Carolina,” she told him. “You said mama and Jamie were in the backwoods of the region. They must have some dealings with them. I thought it best to know, right?”

“Aye . . . are they in there?” he asked, pointing to the book in her hand.

“Well, no. But there’s a section on the myths and legends of the region, and, well . . . here, see for yourself.”

He took the book from her and began to read aloud from the section she had pointed to.

“The island of Ocracoke, called Wokokkon by the native people of the region, was primarily used as a hunting and fishing ground. It was not permanently settled until Europeans arrived in the new world, but evidence suggests that temporary camps were established for occasional use throughout the year.” Roger looked up, an unsure look on his face.

“Keep going,” Brianna said to him with a nod.

“Oral history suggests it was also used as a ceremonial site for many of the tribes. A circle of standing stones is located on the island and it is believed to have been used to celebrate the quarterly equinoxes and solstices.”

He didn’t say anything as he finished reading aloud, but Brianna saw his eyes moving up and down the page once more, just as she had done. She watched as he took one long deep breath, his chest rising, then he let it out slowly.

“The notebook Fiona sent,” she nodded towards the journal that lay on the counter, forgotten for only a moment. “Geillis’ journal,” speaking the witch’s name sent an involuntary shiver ran down her spine, but she continued, “She- she speculated that it’s possible other circles of standing stones may have the same kind of . . . properties, as Craigh Na Dun.”

“She did,” Roger agreed, flipping the pages of the book on Native American tribes back and forth. “She listed out all the sites across Britain where there are standing stones, and the mysterious deaths or disappearances associated with them.”

“So, maybe the standing stones on Ocracoke would work the same way?” She could hear the  small inflection of pleading in her own voice.

“Possibly . . .” He handed the book back to her and straightened up, his brows furrowed.

“Roger, don’t you see? We could go through sooner. And here, in America.”

“Aye, it may be the same type of thing.” He ran of his hands through his hair, letting them come to rest atop his head as though to keep all the information in.

“We wouldn’t have to risk an ocean crossing. And we wouldn’t have to travel very far over land. It would put us right there, in North Carolina!” Her thoughts were pouring out of her, she finally allowed herself to feel excitement at the prospect of not having to wait another two months.

Roger paced between the kitchen and living room, hands stuffed deep into his pockets once again.

“When’s the next fire feast?” Brianna asked him, impatient, setting the book down next to her, and rose from the couch to move towards the kitchen where a calendar hung on the refrigerator.

Roger answered her without having to think about it. “February 1st . . .Imbolc. But Bree, that’s just two weeks from now. Ye think we’ll be ready?”

The apprehension in his voice stopped her and she turned to him. His face was a mix of emotions, but worry dominated all others. She went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him close to her.

“I don’t see why not,” she said in a reassuring voice as their eyes met. “We’ve already been through the majority of Daddy’s collection of books on life in the colonies, and the ones his colleagues recommended. And we won’t be there for long, shouldn’t have to know everything.”

She felt his body relax in her arms, releasing tension. She relaxed herself, thankful that she could give him the same type of comfort that he gave her. Bringing his own arms around her, he smiled.

“Aye, yer right.” He kissed the top of her forehead. “Alright then. We’ll try it.”

She smiled in response to his words. Moving her hands up to cradle his face in reassurance, she slowly lifted her chin and brought his face down to hers. His lips felt hot on her own, all the excitement and worry of the last few moments released in the connection between them.

Roger’s hands ran along her back as he pressed her tighter against him, the usual passion and urgency building between them. Her eyes were closed, allowing herself to be completely consumed by the feeling of him, of the two of them. When he pulled his lips from hers, she instinctually sought them out again with her own mouth.

“Bree . . . Brianna . . .” The way he said her name sent a warm wave rolling over her body and she opened her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “There’s one more thing I think we need to do before we go.”

“Oh?” She pressed her lower half into him in a suggestive way. “And what would that be?” She was teasing him and could feel the effect it was having on him.

“I want you, Brianna. All of you.” He took a breath to fortify himself and continued, “Will ye marry me before we go? I don’t want to risk this without making ye mine, before God.”

She felt her heart pounding in her chest, or perhaps his heart, pounding against her own. She didn’t need to think about it this time, it was exactly what she wanted, her way of comforting him, showing him how much he and everything he had done meant to her.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, of cour-”

His mouth was back on hers because she could finish. She moaned softly into it and let her entire body melt into his. They weren’t urgent or hurried kisses, but long and slow, worshipping each other with their mouths.

After a few moments, she felt the loss of warmth as he removed his hand from the small of her back, felt him fumbling in his pocket against her own hip. Bringing his hand back up, he took her left hand in his and slid a silver band onto her ring finger. A simple emerald was set in the middle of it, a color that was a perfect match to his eyes. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the ring there. Her chest felt heavy with emotion, filling her so that all she could do was stand there and look at him.

“Come on,” Roger said, and before she knew what was happening, he grasped the back of her thighs and lifted her into the air. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, as he set off down the small hallway, to her bedroom.

Continue to Part 5.

[yanderehopecounty]

Bird of Paradise

A Joseph x Deputy (kinda?)

Warnings: none Word Count: 1,449

Montana nights; broad forests teeming with life and cool waters, the waves barely hushed beneath the light of the crescent moon. The low thrum of crickets, a never-ending pulse, joining the swell of nature’s orchestra with an enthusiastic beat. Flickers of illumination beckon through the murk, between wide, thriving tree trunks and lush, green grasses. Curious little beings, creatures who call the wilderness their undeniable home, flit across the winding dirt paths, feral in nature yet desiring closeness to something unknown, something different from itself, something cursed to walk these paths until its utter end.

A lone deputy, starved for civilization and her own space to call home , trudges these woods, ever searching, ever fearful. Ghostly hands rise of their own volition, cascading through the sea of brush as if they could produce what they so painfully desired. The swarms of otherwise friendly lightning bugs part like the Red Sea, making way as if struck by the fear of God, Himself. Her curled, aching fingers grasp at nothing, deprived yet again, and she half wonders if this were all a vicious illusion, gripping her mind like iron shackles tethering her weary soul to this wretched plane of existence.

How long had it been? How long had she wandered? 

Time itself seemed to meld together into an unrecognizable amalgamation, the start being her forceful eviction by a horde of men she did not recognize. “Sinner” they had screamed so hatefully, marking it so with angry, white letters on her porch. Weapons raised and a fierce flame burning in their beady, accusatory eyes, they tried to take her but her conviction would not let them. She fled that humble home of hers, the one that housed her precious memories, kept her collected belongings safe and sound, and provided the shelter so necessary to her as a human being. Those times she gazed through the glossy windows, peering out upon the velvety landscape as the sunset cast hues of pink and purple across the darkening sky and the moments spent beneath a woolen blanket, steaming mug of coffee in hand as she reveled in the peaceful mornings, they would be no more. Lost forever, reduced to smoky ash carried off on the unforgiving winds of change as those strange men torched the place behind her retreating form.

She would never forget the lick of heat, lapping at her bare ankles, or the sick crunch of twigs and rock as her soles bared the full brunt of forest debris. If she paused briefly and pressed both eyes shut, she could muster up that feeling all over again. Her skin would prickle with a phantom scorch, warming every inch of bruised and battered flesh to discomfort, spreading a vengeful itch and setting her lungs ablaze. It would become more and more difficult to breathe, her system mimicking a victim of smoke inhalation, a disgustingly wet cough wrenching free from constricted airways. 

It consumed her even now as she thrust a stray tree branch out of the way. The gnarled appendage whipped back again, nearly smacking clean across her bared cheekbone. If it weren’t for the sickness broiling in her veins, doubling her over, she’d have been just another unconscious body discovered in Montana’s harsh wilderness; meat for the wolves. However, it appeared tonight would not be her end. She just had to keep moving. As long as she could press forth, she was safe. The fact her directionless hike led to unknown locations did not matter.

Civilization was out there…somewhere.

That desperate thought had just barely crossed her mind when her knees began to wobble with effort, buckling beneath their own weight. A needless cry of despair brushed past her scabbed lips and she tossed all limbs outwards, gripping aimlessly for a handhold. Her reddened toes squelched into dark mud, the oddly cool sludge oozing in between. With a short yank, she worked herself free only to slide atop the slippery surface. Yelping once more, her hands flailed at nothingness. The ink black sky, riddled with the constellations whose names she could never place, tumbled in her vision, overturning as her back fell flat against the muck.

For some reason, the star cluster known as Apus stood out as she blinked wearily through black, fluttering lashes.

The Bird of Paradise.

It’s name she would not forget, though it had no apparent myths surrounding its nature or even any notable stories. The particular grouping had only been brought to her attention once before, when a friendly neighbor had inhabited the cabin just across from hers. He had been a very polite man, a bit older in age, with sun kissed skin that always seemed to harbor a specific, ethereal glow. She never knew his name, only that he had not been born here and it always showed so evidently. He was primal in beliefs, yes, but he was like a whole force of nature, or perhaps something even mightier. She could never quite place her finger on just what exactly it was, though ‘mythical creature’ came quite close. The man had a tendency to appear only on occasion, when it seemed absolutely necessary, before disappearing without the slightest of traces.

She let her weary eyes drift shut, allowing herself to fully drown in the recalled image.

The night had been similar to this one, despite the biting chill in the air. Autumn gave way to Winter, the reds and golds faded to dull browns and washed away by pearly snow  banks. Her on and off again neighbor had been particularly peeved by the death of his flower garden to the inevitable frost. The crestfallen features on his face, once full to burst with an unending hope, had pierced through her like chilled icicles. It was so unnerving, an unnatural phenomenon that looked as if it could bring about the end of all times. She hungered to fix what was broken, so, she did as her father had done. She looked to the stars.

Surprisingly, he already contained some knowledge on the matter; far more than she did to be utterly exact. The once exuded charm returned within minutes as he excitedly began pointing out his favored constellations, a renewed vigor fueling every exaggerated wave of hands. The pureness that leaked from him and etched its way into her heart, oh how it lifted her wilted convictions. With every beat it grew stronger yet, pulsing vibrant life into her stagnant soul. A swell of long forgotten emotions permeated the hardened barrier imprisoning her body like a cage of ice. It filled up her barren chest with a warmth akin to the bonfire softly crackling only a foot away from them.   

Perhaps it was years of loneliness that left her bitter and cursing this rotten, twisted earth but, he consistently found ways to dig up the beauty, always excavating and dissecting as if a divine being bored of the Heavens he solely ruled.

She’d always had a sneaking suspicion, deep in her gut, that his admissions were as unmatched in this world as they would be in a Godly one.

His words could go on for eternity and she’d still be there, listening with as much enthusiasm as a five-year-old receiving a brand new toy. Alas, the evening would come to a close sooner than expected, but not before his encompassing arms, so breathtaking and warm and wonderful, graced her body with their benevolent embrace, sweeping up every piece of her as if she were a broken doll for him to put back together. The gasp of surprise from her open mouth was drowned away, trapped beneath the fabric of a crisp, white dress shirt. A caring hand had engulfed the back of her skull, cradling it against him with all the tenderness of a God imitating a mere mortal and the way her core burst to life, fragile chest heaving with each gasping intake of his golden, honey scent, it was enough to send tremors between them both.

“Bird of Paradise, O faultless one cast away from thine nest. Won’t you see about my garden? The rose bushes, the lilies, the baby’s breath, each of which I have prepared for you…”

The sudden ring of his voice boomed loud and clear, rushing into her eardrums with enough force to draw tiny whimpers from her pale, trembling lips.

“Lost in the forest of doubt, you took your journey with clipped wings and how painful it was to watch. My Bird of Paradise, it has led you to me.”

Those arms. She felt them wrap her up once more and it was as if she could rise up and touch the sky.

“It has lead you home.”

[rescueddetermination]

Doctor

Clawed footsteps echoed down the metal structure of the half-finished CORE.  The machine wasn’t operational, and workers moving among its components typically wore safety harnesses hooked to rails. The masked welder frowned when he realized he couldn’t hear the telltale sliding of a hook along the nearby rail accompanying those footsteps. “D-Doctor!” The young lizard yelled as she approached, loud enough to be heard over the sound of machinery and construction. “It’s t-t-time!” The welder leaned back, switching his torch off and lifting his mask. Three extra white-gloved hands flickered into view, lifting the torch away, and another pair started to unhook his mask. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was, nor that she’d once again gotten overexcited and forgotten to affix her safety gear. “Alphys, harness.” “Wh- oh! S-s-sorry, Doctor!” Alphys replied, fumbling with her hook and finally getting it onto the rail. “Y-you’re, just--”

She faltered as he stood. The welder was an imposing seven feet three inches tall, broad-shouldered and thin, and despite his relative youth he had the experience to back up the authority he’d been given. Still, when he turned, he had that same childish kindness in his smile that she’d come to know since he’d hired her on.  It was hard to think of Dr. William Dillon Gaster as being young, but every so often it did come to her mind just what he was, and it always threw her. As the only member of his race that didn’t simply disappear into seclusion when the war broke out, there weren’t many available points of comparison. He claimed, often with a sheepish look, to be “only” 85, and initially resisted King Asgore’s attempts to bring him on as the lead Royal Scientist. He had velvety-smooth flesh under pale skin that glowed lightly in the dark. His hair was more of a shock of white fluff that often simply seemed to have a mind of its own, and he had starry fields in the black sclera of his eyes, the irises somewhere between purple and blue with pupils like those of an octopus. Despite how alien they were, Alphys always found they were where his youth really showed. He looked at everything with at least a subtle hint of wonder, and had approached the CORE project with a giddiness that was hard to mistake.  “You’re g-going to want t-to look at this.” The lizard finished, once the Doctor had finished unfolding his considerable legs from his crouch. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” He said, walking over. He placed a hand on her shoulder and nodded, his eyes twinkling like the roof of the Waterfall caverns. “Let’s go see what we’ve got.” “It d-doesn’t make much s-sense, is a-all.” Alphys stammered, following her boss out of the CORE. “Y-you’ll s-see.” “That’s always the exciting part!” Will exclaimed. He put his hands in his pockets, more of those summoned ones appearing to untie and remove his apron. They placed a pair of thin-rimmed glasses on his face, then tossed the apron onto a nearby table with the rest of his equipment. “The part before it makes sense!” “N-no, it. Well.” Alphys clicked her hand-claws together, then shook her head. He’d see. Will was always like this. She wondered if he’d been like this back during the war.  He never talked about what he did back then. Nobody ever asked.  Will hummed on the way to the research lab. Built a good extra fifty feet below the surface-level station that would eventually monitor the CORE, the research lab was a sophisticated multi-team facility that housed equipment for every discipline that the Royal Science Academy supported and then some. It even sported a communal sort of scientist barracks, a rest area for team members who couldn’t or wouldn’t leave their project too far away.  And at its heart, William and his hand-picked team had been performing what he considered the most important research of their lives. Ever since the discovery that, with the right equipment, the actual structure of time could be observed on a macro scale, Will had made it his goal to oversee the project that would give them a conclusive view of it. It was beyond top-secret, the kind of research that could shake the foundations of society, and everyone working on it knew they might not like what they found.  Still, Will believed he wouldn’t be much of a scientist if the potential for unpleasant results dissuaded him from carrying out a non-harmful test. He ran summoned hands through his fuzz on the elevator ride down, taking a few deep breaths. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his construction uniform, and Alphys’ eyes drifted down to stare at how he was tapping the steel toe of his boot against the wall.  “Sorry.” He said, when he noticed her gaze. “Long trip down. You hear anything from Sans about his teleportation project yet? Would make this a lot simpler.” “Last I h-heard he was c-conv-vinced that he needed m-more power.” Alphys said, pushing her glasses up on her own nose. “W-wanted t-t-to wait for the C-CORE to be d-done.” “Sensible enough.” Will said. His hands fidgeted in his pockets, tracing symbols long forgotten and tapping melodies never heard against the fabric. “And has Asgore given you a budget for the robotic arm project?” “Yes!” Alphys exclaimed, and Will couldn’t decide if she sounded more surprised or relieved. “Y-yes, it’s. He d-doubled what I as-as-asked for. Couldn’t b-believe it!” “It’s a good project!” Will said, and grinned, flashing unnervingly human teeth. “You worked hard on the proposal, I’m glad to hear it! We’ll have to get you a proper work room set up.” “W-wow, my own...” Alphys trailed off, veritable stars in her eyes. “T-thank you, Will! I m-mean--” “No need for that.” Will said. Once the door opened, he marched down the hall with lengthy strides, nodding in acknowledgement to the various lab assistants and scientists that greeted him on the way. “You earned this, Doctor Alphys. Your understanding of both machinery and programming is far beyond what I could do. I can’t wait to see your results.” Alphys stammered, but managed nothing more than vague and overexcited starts at more thanks. Will beamed. She’d been barely capable of speaking at all when he brought her on three years ago to help work on the CORE project, and since then, the fresh-faced college graduate had become one of his closest partners on what he’d called Chronos Project. In her spare time, she’d built a prototype robotic arm from literal scrap, and at his urging had developed it into a proper research proposal.  Perhaps once he was done with the initial Chronos results, he would discuss whether she’d be interested in picking up some interns from the Royal University of the Sciences in New Home.  He pushed those thoughts aside and stepped up to the single most secure door in the Underground. Rather than presenting a hand or his face, he pressed his chest to the scanner, and sharply inhaled as it scanned his SOUL directly.  It wasn’t functionally dissimilar to the common ‘Check’. But there was something about the machine that still made it uncomfortable for him. Perhaps it was the warmth of the scanner.  Once the door finished unbolting itself, he stepped inside with Alphys at his heels. The control room for Project Chronos was illuminated almost entirely by a series of twelve monitors, arranged 6x2 across the back wall. Each one was magical tech, same as most of the lab equipment, and Will preferred his screens that way.  At the console sat two of his other team members. Both of them snapped their heads up as he entered, and he nodded to them. “As you were. What’ve we got?” Tenor, an armless lizard with light grey scales, gestured at monitor 3 with her tail. It showed timestamps in a format Will had invented, relative to a fixed point in time that they’d identified as occurring within a day of the results coming in. “Lookin’ like some relevant events, boss. But the numbers are fucked.” Tenor had endeared herself to Will as a Junior Scientist working on Soul research, one of Will’s original passions. When she started postulating theories about the power of the soul to affect the flow of time, it wasn’t just her crass language that caught Will’s attention. He’d brought her in to look at some of Chronos’ preliminary test structures, she’d improved them immediately, and he’d worked with her on it ever since. Will cleared his throat, then leaned in to look. Sure enough, he had to admit that they didn’t look right. There was a logged disruption over a hundred years in the future relative to their point, several in the proximity of that point, three trailing behind where they currently were. He quirked his mouth. “The hell...” “Timeline chart will be had in two minutes.” Said his other team member. A male spider monster with a yellow and black carapace and eight eyes that reflected the monitors, Jacob had been a valuable member of the team from the instant Will read his paper on time-space data analysis and representation. It was supposed to be a paper on gravitation for a freshman physics class. Jake had been pulled from his classes within a month and placed on Will’s team, and through the course of the next six months of work, he’d earned the right to participate in Chronos by impressing Will beyond his years. “Let’s get ready for that data, then.” Will said, sliding his work coat off and cracking the knuckles on a pair of summoned hands. He took a seat between the pair, and Alphys pulled a chair over to sit beside Jake. “Tenor, everything vetting properly?” “Hate t’admit, boss, but yeah. Hardware an’ software both workin’ as expected. It ain’t our tech. That data’s real.” Tenor said, clawed summoned fingers dancing across her keyboard. “Did five tests while Alphy was gettin’ ya.” “Well done. Damn. Jake?” Will asked, summoning a keyboard and plugging in to monitor 6. His summoned hands started typing, more restrained than Tenor’s rapid-fire commands. “The tests will have had to be adjusted for parameters I had been believing were out of range.” Jake explained. To his credit, he sounded more intrigued than upset, and Will thanked the stars for that. “One minute to be remaining.” Will steepled his summoned fingers in front of his face, focusing on Jake’s screen. Even as new data constantly flowed across some of the other screens, he squinted through his glasses at the empty grid, waiting for the information he so badly craved.  “Output is to be now.” Jake said. All eyes fell on the grid.  For a full two minutes, there was silence. Will stood, his mouth agape. Alphys dropped the keyboard she was using. Jake leaned forward on the counter that held the physical keyboards, and Tenor slid back in her chair with wide eyes.  “What in the absolute balls.” Will breathed, pulling his right hand from his pocket and tracing the loop on the screen. “That should be impossible.” “Even in my fuckin’ crazy talk theory thoughts I never figured there could be somethin’ like that.” Tenor agreed. “Fuckin’ stars, Will.” There on the screen, the red line of time’s flow stretched far into the future. Then it doubled back, a perfect loop that led directly backward to well before their current date. It then curved back again. And, in both directions of the loop, the path wavered badly as it approached...  “Nine fifty-six in the evening, tomorrow.” Will muttered, his finger hovering over that spot. “What the hell happens tomorrow night?” “There also seems to have been something else.” Jake said, pointing. There, scattered throughout the grid, but particularly notable at the very edge of the forward part of the first iteration, the team could just barely make out the presence--the very edge--of what Will could only describe as another line. “S-s-s-separate t-t-t-t-timelines?” Alphys stammered, rubbing her forehead.  “Multiple universes, maybe?” Will asked the room, squinting at those rare contact points.  “Can’t be us.” Tenor confirmed. “Else we’d see the whole thing.” “It is not having been signal noise.” Jake said, looking at his work screen again. “Having had signal noise eliminated for months.” Will pursed his lips, slowly sitting back down with his hands in his pockets again. He stared at the screen for a minute longer, then exhaled long and low and loud.  “Well.” He said, and paused. Closed his eyes to think for a moment, then opened them to look at his team. “Looks like we have plenty more work to do.”

[yulon]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 41)

Book Three: Trial of the Black King

Things aren’t all as they seem in Blackrock.

The blast sent them reeling back.

Heat and the roar of the explosion smashed into him. Something hard hit his shoulder. He grunted, turning away with the pain. Noise crashed and smoldered around him.

The ringing in his ears swallowed the passage of time and movement. Dead? No, he was in too much pain for death.

Thud thud. Thud thud.

He opened his eyes.

The world hazed around him; smoke and ash gushed around the room, curled around his legs.

He’d landed hard on his back. With a groan, he forced himself to sit up. Pain thudded in his shoulder, but it was secondary - secondary to watching the supply nook. His vision began to stabilize, and with it, he watched the flames gush from the room. More flames and smaller explosions boomed inside as the heat set off more flammable reagents. Something like lightning flashed within, and a low, ominous groan, the crackle of breaking crates and flasks, emanated from the doorway like the sound from a monster’s open gullet.

“Why,” groaned a voice behind him, “does everything go wrong when you’re around?”

Sabellian glanced back. Wrathion was sitting up, cringing. Ash fell around them like snow. It coated the two of them - no, three, there was Left, struggling to her feet - already in a fine powder.

He stared at the boy. The room no longer rang, his eyes no longer shook - he remembered. Someone tugging on him.

“Boy. Why did you do that?”

Wrathion rubbed his head and looked over. A gash lay streaked on his temple. Blood matted his bangs. He blinked. “I’m no good with explosives. If you really think -”

“You just saved my life. Or from an unfortunate maiming.”

Wrathion blinked again, slowly.

He looked at the door, then at him, then back again.

“I certainly did, didn’t I?” He opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned. His brows furrowed. “Hm.”

An unfortunate answer. Sabellian grunted as he forced himself to stand. He brushed the ash from his robes. The snake heads along his shoulderpads guttered back to life with a hiss, and their fel-green orbs cast an ill glow on the flames. Heat crackled around them.

Left was already on her feet. Ever a hare, that one, always moving and fidgety. She helped Wrathion up. Beyond the gash the boy was relatively unharmed. And so was he. Except his shoulder. He glanced around. Ah - there. A piece of the stone archway, next to where he had landed. It must’ve blown back into him with the flames.

Lucky. Too lucky. As the flames roared, he noted the rest of the debris, littered around them. Shards of glass, larger rock, even some nails that had been blown out of the foundations. He shook his head.

Massively lucky.

“What’d you see?” Sabellian approached the alcove slowly. A foul, bitter smell rolled out from the smoke.

“Trip-wire,” Wrathion said. He joined him. The heat and dying flames reflected, opaque, in the red of his eyes. He pointed to the side. A small, almost imperceptible wire lay snapped near the entrance.

“You saw that,” Sabellian said, disbelieving.

“I trained with rogues. Of course I saw it.” He looked around, squinting. “But that’s the only trap. Hmm.”

“Who knew we would be down here?” Left asked. Her crossbow was loaded, and she looked at the corpse of Maloriak as if he had something to do with it.

Sabellian and Wrathion glanced at one another.

“Seldarria,” Sabellian rumbled.

He thought back to when he had asked her for the stores. She’d seemed distracted, impatient for him to leave.

“And there’s reagents for- ”

“Yes, yes, yes! Now go on.” And then she’d turned and hastily retreated back into her cavern.

If she had set up the trap, she hadn’t done that much to assure he would fall into it.

Was it a trap left over by Maloriak? By adventurers? Something in his gut told him no. He rumbled, rubbed a hand over his aching shoulder. A shelf gave way inside the supply closet and smashed in a heap of char and flame.

Only one way to find out.

He waved a hand over the alcove. A tracking spell swept from his fingers, light blue and airy but intent, a bloodhound stiff-nosed to the ground. The smoky tendrils coiled around the wire, the destroyed door frame, the pieces of rubble.

The feeling that pulsed back wasn’t the energy he expected. In fact the energy went beyond him. A trail of the light-blue mist hummed into existence before them. It snaked around Maloriak, through the room, and back into the core of the lair.

A power source. The one that had fueled the explosion.

“What?” Wrathion prompted.

“Come.” Sabellian moved past the whelp and his orc and made his way back into the lair. The trail hovered twinkling in the dark; it coiled around to another of the chambers, its contents hidden in the dark.

Sabellian’s shoes clicked hard and clipped on the stones. Every bit of him was on alert, open to attack. On edge before? No, he was on edge now, truly, eyes narrowed and hands twisting back and forth against his sides.

He’d almost just died. A trap set just for them. He knew it. This was no ancient thing left behind. The coincidence would be insurmountable.

But Seldarria? She had only just known they were going into the Depths. No conceivable notion surfaced that could explain how she could learn they were going and then bolt down to set the trap. They would have run into her, and she couldn’t move so fast.

Anger built in his belly.

Someone had tried to kill him. Again.

They paced up the small set of stairs leading up into the chamber. Left stopped, crossbrow raised.

“Wait,” she said. “I’ll scout it first.”

Sabellian grunted, but stopped. Left looked at Wrathion. The boy nodded, but only after a moment’s hesitation.

The orc disappeared. The smell of her distanced into the chamber.

“If someone wanted to kill us down here,” Wrathion drawled, “they’re going to be surprised to see us come back.”

“And if they were clever, they would act surprised to find someone tried to kill us.”

Wrathion studied the chamber. The trail continued to hover before them, motionless and glowing in the dark.

“Seldarria,” he said at last. “She seemed the most harmless of them all, didn’t she? A little bit… hm… airy.”

Sabellian grunted. “And?”

“Why would she want to kill us?”

Sabellian raised an eyebrow and looked down at him. “The same reason the dragonkin attacked us. We’re not wanted here.”

Wrathion’s expression didn’t change, but there was a shift in his eyes, a glitter of something. “The corruption?”

“Yes. The corruption. Why am I the one suggesting that, and not you?”

Wrathion said nothing. He shifted his weight from side to side.

“They didn’t attack us on sight like the dragonkin.”

“No, they didn’t.”

Wrathion turned to look at him. “So why did she attack us now?”

Sabellian rubbed his shoulder. The ache remained, a steady beat. No doubt for a while. “We’re alone, away from our allies. Away from my children. An easy execution without witnesses.” The orc had better hurry up. If he was in danger, his children were too. Rexxar as well. He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot. Lead him away, kill him, kill his children. Cut out the “traitors,” as the dragonkin had called them.

But Seldarria had been caring for Vaxian.

Interesting.

Wrathion set his lips in a thin line and looked away. His eyes reflected his troubled thoughts.

“What are you thinking, boy?” Sabellian prodded. The whelp wasn’t rising to the corruption bait as easily as he usually did, all foaming at the mouth.

“Nothing,” Wrathion mumbled.

He glanced sidelong at the pit. Left appeared in a snap of smoke in front of them. Sabellian jerked back with a hiss.

“Sir. Come. Hurry.”

Wrathion raised his eyebrows. Sabellian didn’t like the look on her face - something like surprise and disbelief.

She turned and hurried up the stairs. The two followed.

The room was built in the same frame the other had been: all square and large and roomy. It smelled of forgotten rot and bone, a dreadful mix of damp and dry death that even he had to choke back a sudden gag. A large wall split the room in half, and doors bolted into the sides. It was a stable; a holding area; a prison.

His stomach churned. He could only imagine what had once been housed here. Kidnapped mortals, failed experiments, beasts that would be ripped apart and stitched together again. This place, too, was a supply nook - just not of herbs and reagents, but of flesh and blood.

Some of the doors’ locks were open. Left beckoned them toward the nearest one. The trail ended there, and as they approached, dissipated into the darkness. Its work was done.

“In here,” the orc said, and gestured with her crossbow. The door was large enough to allow an elekk to easily pass through.

“What’s in it?” Wrathion eyed it nervously.

“Open it,” she said.

Sabellian kicked open the door.

Despite the size of the door, it was a small room, the ceiling low, cramped. The smell of rot was strong here, but so was the smell of hopelessness, like a sour feeling in the back of his throat. Hopelessness and heaviness. Many had died in here.

But not quite its new inhabitants. Not yet.

Chained along the walls, tethered against hooks and sconces and spikes, languished nether-drakes.

The nether-drakes. Sabellian recognized some of them from hunting trips in Outland. These weren’t just random dragons, plucked from the Void. These were the ones who had vanished when Pyria had gotten hurt.

They looked up. Their eyes shined dull in the feeble light, hollow and sunken. The darkness of the place was like the Void itself, punctured only by the natural glow of the nether-drakes’ bodies. But even so their glow was as dull as their eyes: a dying candle.

“Sabellian?” croaked one of the closest.

“Finally,” wheezed another, this one purple. She was hooked up to a series of tubes and metal frames; needles lay positioned the pierce her at the edge of the tubes, inches away from her flesh. “Someone’s found -”

“What’s he doing here?” another said. His eyes flickered to Wrathion.

Sabellian strode forward. He counted seven drakes in total.

“Who did this?”

“How do we know you’re not with them, too?”

Sabellian glanced deeper inside. Another drake lay off to the side. He was so pale, of so little glow, that Sabellian had not noticed him in his first count. Was he dead? No, there was a breath, shuddering and anguished. He looked like a salamander, all jelly of flesh.

“Someone just tried to turn us to ash,” Sabellian said. Well, he had had Pyria worked up against finding the drakes. Here they were. Easy. Wouldn’t she be happy. “No doubt the same enemy who did… this to you.”

Wrathion slipped past him and started untying the nearest drake’s chain. She hissed. The boy did not respond.

Left joined him.

The drakes watched this suspiciously, and only then did they speak.

“The Dragonkin ambushed us,” one said: the one chained to the tubes, the purple one. “They dragged us down here.” Every word sounded a struggle. Sabellian started to help the others untie the drakes. The chains lay cold in his hands; he wondered as to their enchantment.

“What’ve they been doing down here?” Wrathion squinted at the dull dragon.

“Draining us,” wheezed another, a blue. “Taking our energy away in those tubes.”

“And I was supposed to be next,” the purple said. She gestured with a claw to the vials around her, the needles.

“Please help Ralfas first.”

“They took almost all of his nether -”

“Who is this they?” Sabellian demanded.

“I think her name was Seldarria,” said a yellow. “That strange-looking dragonkin called her that.”

Seldarria. Seldarria. He growled and glanced at Wrathion. He gave a small nod without looking back.

I’m going to kill her. And that little runt of a dragonkin.

They freed most of the drakes before they spoke again. Those freed stretched, groaned as their joints popped. Already some of their glow had returned.

The nether must have fueled the explosion. The lightning energy that had popped from inside… of course.

“Is Pyria alright?” the purple asked.

“She was left behind,” Sabellian said. “Apparently they didn’t need anything from her.”

“But she’s alright?”

“She’s fine.” Sabellian knelt down to inspect the drained drake. Ralfas. The netherdrake didn’t look up at him despite being conscious. He was like a corpse, half a moment from becoming undead. He’d never seen a nether-drake so… transparent. Even corpses had more glow. If he squinted, he could make out the dragon’s bones, his flesh was so see-through.

“What is she using this energy for?”

“I don’t know,” the purple said. She padded over to Ralfas and lay near him. She set one of her wings along his side. A hum grew from her. Sabellian took a step back as lightning-like energy arced from her body and nestled into Ralfas’s. She grew duller, he grew brighter. “Neltharaku used to tell us that some had kidnapped us for our energy before.”

“Yes, the Black Dragonflight did,” Wrathion interrupted. “For the Twilight Dragonflight.”

Sabellian rumbled. “She would need subjects for making more Twilight. If that’s what she’s doing at all.”

Why? Why? He’d sensed no energy thrumming in the chambers, and though he had never experienced a Twilight dragon, he knew they exuded chaotic, almost void-like energies. There had been nothing like that.

And make more Twilight? Laughable. What, were the Old Gods so desperate for some scraps they could do with one or two misshapen Twilights? How diabolical.

“We hardly know anything about her,” Wrathion added. “Left. Send some Agents to scour for some… reconnaissance on our new friend.”

“Should we report this to those in the cavern?” Left asked.

“No,” Sabellian interrupted. “We keep this as quiet as possible.”

“Our Agents can set up a perimeter,” Left argued. “If this dragon tries anything -”

“Then she is welcome to try it,” Sabellian snapped. “We are going to go back and get my children. Then we are leaving.”

“What about us?” said a nether-drake, one who hadn’t spoken until then.

“You’re free, aren’t you? You can go.”

Wrathion widened his eyes. “We’re leaving? Now? But - she - but someone just tried to kill us! They’re harvesting nether energy!”

“All the more reason to leave!”

“Oh, so someone tries to kill you now, and this time you let it go!”

“Yes, just as you are now the most amicable of friends with a black dragon you barely know!” His voice, unbidden, rose to a shout. It echoed off the walls. He growled and forced his temper down. “I came here to fetch my children. Do you think I care about what’s happening down here?”

“Seldarria’s lackeys did hurt Pyria,” mumbled the yellow.

“Yes. And make no mistake, boy. I will be killing her,” Sabellian growled. “Before we leave.” He gestured loosely to the nether-drakes. “Stay here for now. Join us at Nefarian’s old throne plateau tonight.”

He turned and strode out. Wrathion caught up with him.

“Surely you’re being dramatic.”

“I’ve never been less so.”

“I don’t know about that,” Wrathion mumbled. Sabellian eyed him sidelong. The ex-Prince drew himself up. “I don’t know what Seldarria is doing either. But whatever it is, she tried to kill us to keep it hidden. Surely that must’ve been why. It makes the most logical sense.”

“And?”

“And whatever it is, she knows neither of us might approve, hm? So clearly -”

“We are not going to waste time snooping around for some dangerous secret.”

“It could be another Twilight clutch! Some experiment she’s setting to unleash on the nearby human or dwarven settlements!”

Sabellian grunted. “That has nothing to do with me,” he said. “If Seldarria unleashes what it is she’s doing, then it is not my problem.”

Wrathion stopped.

“For once,” he snapped, “Can you be a little less selfish?”

Sabellian narrowed his eyes.

He stopped and slowly turned around to face the young dragon. Wrathion had drawn up to his full height, and held his hands as fists to his sides.

“Selfish?” Sabellian repeated. “I’m selfish for caring for my family?”

“At the sheer extent you do, yes!” Wrathion insisted. “I know you well enough by now that if - Titans forbid someone isn’t apart of your approved circle of selflessness, everything and everyone else may as well be hot air!” He pointed at the nether-drakes, none of which were trying to politely look away. “We just freed them from being sucked just shy of their souls, and all you can think to do is run away?”

Sabellian growled. He approached Wrathion. The boy didn’t move or flinch.

“My family,” he growled, “is all I have left, and all I will ever have. There is no reason for me to care about Seldarria, or them, or the mortals that might be in danger.” He parted his lips in a scowl. “And don’t try and act like you are some pinnacle of goodness, boy. I recall you killing nether-drakes.”

“At least I’m trying to be better!” Wrathion exploded. “I’m not the self-centered relic who already thinks his life is over! And at least I’m not taking out my helplessness on everyone else!” Sabellian snatched Wrathion by the collar and yanked him close.

“I. Live. For my children,” he hissed. “I live to protect them from -nonsense like this.” He jerked his head in the nether-drake’s direction. “My life isn’t over unless they die. Why should I try to be better when I know what I am and what I’m going to do? I am going back up, getting my three children, and getting them away. If it makes me selfish -” He jerked Wrathion closer. “I. Don’t. Care.”

He threw Wrathion away. The boy stumbled back, caught himself.

“Don’t worry, boy. I don’t expect you to understand. You don’t have a family. Of course you cling to Azeroth so dearly. At least one thing on this world tolerates you.”

Wrathion snarled. Fire flickered against his fingers, but he could launch no attack: the Celestial Vow forbid him.

“I’m trying to do my duty to this world,” the whelp snarled. “I’m trying to protect her. Which is why we should investigate this -”

“Oh, shut up,” Sabellian said. “You want to feel like you’re worth something? Worthy of the Titans’ grand and noble duty?” He pointed at the pit, where his dead siblings lay. “That’s your reward. Do you think Azeroth saved them? Or my Father? Or me? No. She failed us.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that -”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure she assured you that it would be safe from what befell our kin. Just like she protected us last time.” He snorted. “Did she say that we could be saved now? She did, didn’t she? She gave you hope, perhaps. Something for you to cling to. It’s why you hesitated about Seldarria’s corruption before. My, how a conversation with a god can’t change one’s convictions. How enlightened and good you are. Did that little blond rub off on you too much?”

Wrathion ground his teeth.

“I want to help. Forgive me for not wanting to be like the rest of you.”

“You’re just like the rest of us,” Sabellian growled. “You can try to change, you can try to hide it or pretend you’re different, but you’ll always be a black dragon.” He pushed Wrathion away. “Just like me. Selfish. And if I am terrible and wrong for being selfish for my family, then so be it.”

He turned and strode down the stairs. “Come. We’re leaving. And you had better follow.”

---

Sabellian found Seldarria where he’d seen her lounging every hour: in front of her cave, dozing idly, head on her paws.

As he approached, he transformed down into his human form. The shift of energy caught her attention. She opened one eye and looked at him.

Nothing changed in her expression. No surprise. No fear. Just the same lazy, smug look.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re back.”

She craned her back back and yawned.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Oh, dear? About what?”

Sabellian nodded into the cave. Seldarria paused. She flicked her tail.

“In private.”

The dragon tilted her head at him. For only a moment there lay some unease in her eyes, but she sighed and then it was gone.

“Oh, alright,” she breathed. “But do make it quick. I’m the one who needs to go hunting soon, and I do need my rest for it. I really should have never trusted Serinar with such a simple task. He probably got himself captured again, the useless dolt. At least he has a nice set of fins to look at. Very curvy. No offense, yours are just much too stiff.”

It took every inch of his willpower not to just shift into his true form again and rip her tongue out.

Smoke gushed over her form and shrank down with a languid flourish. A human stood in her place, tall, dark-skinned, and a little plump. She wore a gown-like robe that even he was a bit jealous of: black silk and jewel-tones trimmed along the hem and sleeves. Some ceremonial armor lay as if forgotten on her shoulders and chest: a silver cut, emblazoned with symbols he didn’t know the words for.

Mortals always said it was hard to match a dragon’s face to their mortal guises’. Sabellian never understood why. She still had the same wide-set eyes, the small nose, the lazy smugness to her expression.

Then again, most mortals were stupid.

“Shall we?” she said.

Sabellian swept past her, into the dark of the cave. Another trap could lay within; an ambush; a Faceless One, for all he knew.

But he was prepared this time.

He waited until they were out of earshot, and far away from the opening of the cave that no one could see them inside. He turned at once on his heel to face her. She startled back.

Too slow.

He grabbed her by the shoulder and squeezed. Hard.

She yelped. Before she could pull away, he backed her deeper into the cave and smashed her against the wall.

“Thought you could get rid of me?” he growled, teeth bared. “Thought you were going to be clever?”

Seldarria’s eyes darted back and forth. Anywhere but him.

“I don’t know what -”

He smacked her back against the wall.

“I am not in the mood to play this game,” he snarled, inches away from her face. “Why did you try to kill me?”

Seldarria locked eyes with him at last.

“You’re here to ruin everything,” she hissed. “You and that murderer!”

The paranoia which had lingered in her eyes the first time they had come to the antechamber returned, all flashing and rabid. Her pleasantries were gone; her manner less refined. All it’d taken was a small chisel to break open the outer layer, and not even with a hard hit. More like a tap.

Her answer, though… the stupidest and most obvious answer she could have given. He growled. “I told you before and I will tell you again: I’m here for my children. If you had listened, and stalled your hand, then maybe you would be alive to see another day.”

“No!” she shrieked. Her fear returned, and she struggled against his hold. “Don’t kill me! You can’t!”

“Do you think I’m going to send the message that anyone who tries to kill me and harm my children are allowed to live?”He tightened his hold on her.

“You can’t,” she insisted. Only then, up so close to her, did it become obvious that though she kept glancing back and forth, eyes white and wide like a scared animal, she favored looking deeper inside the cave.

He narrowed his eyes. He’d said he didn’t care, and he still didn’t. But something about her responses, her desperation and body language, felt… familiar.

“What’s back there?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. She went still.

He pulled her away from the  wall and started pushing her deeper in the cave.

She said nothing. There were times where she tensed, like she was about to try to push him off or maybe shift into her true form, but he responded by growling and she would still. Unlike the boy, this dragon knew how to pick fights, and this was not a wise one.

They turned around a quiet bend. Inside lay a cavern with wide, smooth sides and a great heat blowing from a gap in the ceiling.

Sabellian stopped.

Titans help him.

“Whose are these?”

In the center, nestled in cave moss, were eggs. A dozen, maybe, their spikes already grown and glinting like polished stone in the heat.

“Mine,” she whispered. “And my mate is dead.”

Sabellian glanced at them all. They were older eggs, fall along in the shell if they had as much scabbing as he could see.

“Please ease my worries, then, Seldarria: you can’t possibly be using the nether on these. On your own eggs.”

“You found them?”

“Answer the question.”

“They’re sick,” she said. “They should be moving more. I can’t feel them moving as much as I should be.”

Sabellian shook his head slowly and glanced down at her. Her wide-eyed stare had returned, but now it took a sheen of new desperation, a sort of unseeing paranoia.

“They don’t move much,” Sabellian said distantly, thrown off. “And somehow you think that the nether energy can help them.”

“The nether energy is strong,” she insisted. “The first infusion has already done so much.”

He looked up and narrowed his eyes at the eggs. No nether; no energy. On these eggs? No. Perhaps on others he couldn’t see.

“How on Azeroth did you think that would help?”

“I had a feeling when the Dragonkin captured them. I just knew.”

Sabellian looked at the clutch. He had a feeling of just how she’d gotten such an idea.

The room felt all the darker.

“If you kill me they’ll die,” she said. “Please -”

“Furywing was a broodmother. She can -”

“Furywing is an insect,” Seldarria hissed. Her voice was guttural, full of vitriol. “A mewling coward. She didn’t like this. Didn’t like how it made him shake. But she’ll see. Of course she will. She usually does, eventually, the poor thing. Always quivering like a leaf...”

“Him.” Seldarria went still. Sabellian dug his claws against her shoulders. “Who is him?”

“No one to concern -”

“Why were you healing Vaxian?” His claws popped against her robe, into her skin. Red tinged his vision.

The first infusion has already done so much.

She looked up at him.

“You don’t belong here.”

He tightened his hold on her. She glanced down at his throat - where Chi-ji’s pendant clasped tight around his neck.

She lunged for it.

Sabellian jerked away. Seldarria’s fingers closed around the amulet. His hand found her wrist.

The other dragon snarled. A flash of power erupted between them. Sabellian didn’t move, didn’t dare to.

She tried to pull it off with all her strength but he had her with all of his.

She wheezed. “You’re a coward,” she said. “The great lieutenant Sabellian, reduced to an ant. No wonder she speaks so lowly of you, oh, haha! No wonder indeed!”

He snarled. He snapped his hand back. Her wrist snapped with a crack. She shrieked.

Smoke began to envelop her form. The fool was going to crush her own eggs in this small space if she transformed.

He roared and threw her into the wall. She landed, grunting, shatter-marks signaling the power of the throw. Rocks fell from the ceiling. They crashed over her, pinned her to the floor.

“It’s too late, lieutenant,” she called to him as he turned and ran from  the tunnel. Vaxian. Samia. Pyria. “It’s too late!”

---

Ebonhorn looked the young dragon over.

Vaxian breathed in short, shallow breaths, and his face fell clammy and drawn.

It would have been far easier if he could shift the dragon into his true form. He still had to take a look at the dragon’s wing. It wouldn’t heal correctly if it didn’t transform soon.

He pulled back at the bandages stuck around his back. The wound underneath was ugly, a puncture wound struggling to heal. Crushed herbs lay stuffed along the flesh. Puss and purple flesh striated along the dark skin.

Ebonhorn sighed.

Ten thousand years old and he had so little training with the healing arts. He’d have to ask some of the shamans to relearn some of the basics.

“Looks pretty bad,” a voice said from the other side of the room. He glanced over and smiled tiredly. The other dragon, Pyria, was sitting up in bed and watching him.

“We’ll hope that the herbs your Father brings will cool the infection,” he said.

Pyria continued to stare at him.

“How are you a tauren?”

He flicked his ears.

“I was raised in Highmountain, among the Thunder Totem tauren,” he explained. “I couldn’t walk around as a human or dwarf.”

Pyria leaned forward. “What was Highmountain like?” Something in her eyes felt hungry, desperate.

He studied her for a moment before speaking. “Full of life,” he replied, smiling. He turned and pulled some fresh bandages from the shelving. “Fauna and flora of all kinds. The mountains are full of air and sun. Not as… grim as these black peaks.”

“Oh,” she said, wistful. “That sounds so nice.”

“Where does your family come from? Somewhere in Outland, Wrathion said? It must be strange, coming to a different world.”

“Yeah. Well, I was hatched here. In Azeroth. Most of us were, actually, except for the whelps. I don’t really remember this planet much. Only Samia and Vaxian and the rest of his clutchmates do.”

“Hm.” Ebonhorn reset Vaxian’s bandages.

“We live in Blade’s Edge Mountains now. It’s nice and hot and dry. Not a lot of lava or anything though. And definitely not a lot of flora and fauna. We eat raptor, like, every day. Sometimes arrokoa. Have you ever tried one? They’re so stringy.”

“I don’t know what an arrakoa is,” he confessed.

She raised her eyebrows. “Really? Wow. Huh.”

He waited for her to explain what they were, but she did not. Very well.

“Outland is more than your mountains, surely?”

“Oh. Yes. But Father doesn’t let us go anywhere. For our safety.”

He frowned. “Do you have so many enemies?”

“Not that I know of. Anymore, anyway. But those were in Blade’s Edge. If you asked me we should have moved out of the mountains and into Nagrand.”

“What were they in Blade’s Edge?”

“I don’t really want to talk about them,” she said. “But they killed a lot of my siblings.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s just why my dad is kinda of crazy.” She paused, frowned, and added: “That’s probably a bad choice of words.”

Ebonhorn snorted in amusement.

“Maybe so,” Ebonhorn said. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to go home.”

“I do miss it,” she said. “But it’s been nice to see Azeroth. I wish we could actually live here.”

He smiled at her before turning back to her brother.

It fell from his face. These poor dragons. No wonder Sabellian was so stiff, angry. It felt cruel for Azeroth to send him here among them when he could do so little.

But he had to remember what Wrathion had seen. What she had told him. There had to be hope. For what? Even now he wasn’t sure. Peace? Unity? Freedom? It seemed far-fetched, a dream he might have had as a whelp.

He supposed he should just trust whatever it was that the World Soul wanted or had planned. She’d never strayed him away when he’d asked for her aid to help Highmountain. Why would she now?

He finished wrapping up Vaxian’s shoulder wound. He didn’t move or wake - same as always. He only shook, mouth slightly agape, his lips sometimes move to form silent words.

“You like Wrathion, huh?”

“He is… enthusiastic.”

Pyria giggled. “Yeah. He’s a little funny, isn’t he?”

“A little… funny?” he repeated. “Hm… yes, I suppose.” He eyed her. Odd way of speaking about someone who had killed some of her siblings.

“I know, I know,” she said, and sighed. “It’s going to seem really crazy -er… weird, but it’s just really nice to meet other dragons,” she said. “Even murdery ones like him. I mean, I love my clutchmates, but it’d be nice to be with someone else besides the dragon I hatched with, you know? After a while you run out of things to talk about!”

Ebonhorn snorted.

“I agree. You are all the first dragons I’ve ever met.”

Pyria stared at him. “So who taught you how to fly? Or hunt? Or -”

Vaxian’s eyes flew open.

He gasped - a great, gulping gasping that seemed to be his very first breath, desperate and hungry.

He looked around wildly, blindly. His eyes sparked with a strange, lightning-like pulse.

“You’re alright,” Ebonhorn said. “You’re safe.”

Vaxian’s eyes found him. In that some breath, he clamped his hand around his wrist. Ebonhorn grunted in pain. The dragon was squeezing him with all his strength.

“You have to go,” Vaxian said. His voice was harsh, low from lack of use.

“I’m not here to harm you -”

“No.” Vaxian’s eyes were blind in their intensity. “You have to go. They’re going to come find you.”

Had this been any other patient, he would have dismissed it as rambling from fever.

But his gut felt like ice.

“Who?”

“Go!” Vaxian roared, and shook him by the wrist. “They’ve almost got me and they are going to get everyone else.” His eyes rolled in the back of his head. He gasped. “A thousand  eyes. They’re watching you.  They’ve got her too. She’ll kill you or turn you.”

“What’s going on?” Pyria asked, voice quaking.

Vaxian blinked. His eyes were back to normal.

“Run,” he said again. “Run! Tentacles reaching. Close. You have to go.”

Ebonhorn stood up.

“The others. Go! Get them! Run!”

“Your sister -”

“I’ll be fine,” Pyria said. “Just go. Find my dad. He’ll know what to do.”

She smiled at him, and her eyes flickered in fear.

“Pyria. You don’t have to do this -”

Vaxian grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes stared, glazed with fever and blindness.

“Go!”

He turned -

And threw him through the archway.

Ebonhorn turned in the air. It shrieked around him. He looked up, saw Vaxian’s blind eyes looking down at him, saw him turn away, saw lightning and shadow pulse from his body-

He landed on his hooves; the rock shattered and cracked. A shock of pain rain up his legs.

When he looked up, a great slab of rock smashed up the archway, blocking the room from the outside.

---

Sabellian almost ran into Ebonhorn on his way out of Seldarria’s cave.

“Watch where you’re going!”

Ebonhorn took a step back. The tauren flickered with tension, alarm.

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Ebonhorn looked around. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. What is it?”

Ebonhorn took one last look around before fixing his eyes on him.

“My vision is coming true,” he rumbled. “We need to set up some defenses or leave before -”

Sabellian grabbed him by the tunic.

“What happened?”

“Vaxian woke. His fever is ravaging him. He said that we’re being watched. That we’re being looked for.”

It felt like the world around him began to turn red.

“I think he may have gone mad,” Ebonhorn said slowly, pain on his face. “Or he’s nearly there.”

Sabellian let go. He looked around blindly. His head swam, rang like he’d just suffered another explosion.

“What are you doing here?” Ebonhorn said, his voice distant to his ears. My son. Mad. Seldarria. I will make her suffer.

Her words in his ears.

It’s too late!

“Seldarria tried to kill the boy and I,” Sabellian said distractedly. “Move. I need to get my children and leave.”

He shoved past Ebonhorn. The tauren followed.

“Pyria? What about Pyria? How did you know about Vaxian?”

“I was healing him. Pyria - I don’t know. She -”

“You were healing him and you left?” Sabellian snarled, turned on him. “You left him there? You left Pyria with him?”

“The boy threw me from the room,” Ebonorn said, nostrils flared. “I would not have left -”

Sabellian cut him off with another snarl. He turned and hurried forward again.

“Where is Wrathion?” his brother asked.

“With his orc pet.”

“Seldarria. Where is she?”

“Back there,” he snapped, then jerked his head behind them. “Are you done asking questions?”

“One more. What are we going to do?”

“Get my children,” he rumbled. “And leave.”

“Vaxian -”

“I know what Vaxian is!” His roar echoed down the tunnels. He stopped, put his hands in his hair, closed his eyes. Fool. Fool. He should have known. Should have known they weren’t safe. He’d gone soft since Wrathion’s defeat. He should have known.

Slowly, he exhaled, dropped his hands, and opened his eyes. “I know what he is,” he hissed. “I will get him last. First, we find Samia.”

“What if she’s -”

“She is not,” he snapped. “She can’t be.”

Words, and desperate ones. Words were wind.

He saw Talsian before him, shuddering in pain and instantly, before he’d taken the drake’s neck in his jaws and snapped it.

Titans help him, he was not going to lose any more children.

He moved past the tauren again, his heart thudding in his ears. Not from anger, or rage - but from fear.

---

Wrathion slumped down against a boulder and breathed out hard.

“Oh, Left,” he groaned. “Why am I such a target for disaster?”

“I think it might be because you like the dramatics,” Left drawled. She was reloading her crossbow.

Wrathion looked up with a raised eyebrow. “What gave you a sense of humor?”

Left glanced down at him before looking back at her bow and snapping in some more ammunition.

“At this point, I think I have to have a good sense of humor to deal with all of this.”

Wrathion laughed. “I wish I could get one.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “You did save Sabellian’s life. I thought that was you having a sense of humor.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose. “I only did it on instinct.”

Left smiled. “Mhm.” Her smile dropped. “I don’t like this waiting around. I can still send out an alert. It’s not too late.”

Wrathion played with the tassels on his cloak. The cave was cold.

“I’m still thinking about it. Trust me,” he rumbled. A dragon had just tried to kill him. The same one who’d been draining nether-drakes for energy. Doing Titans knew what with it. And he probably wouldn’t find out before Sabellian dragged him away through the dark portal.

He sighed and leaned back against the boulder.

Just like the rest of us. Wrathion growled softly. Sabellian’s words kept circling in his head, and it didn’t help that he was sitting here and doing nothing - and so the words kept coming back, repeating, itching at his skull.

Truly a black dragon. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, felt some of the dried blood in his bangs catch and crumble away from his fingers. All harsh words, set to poison and insult. But didn’t he want to be like his own kind?

No. Not like the kind Deathwing had corrupted with his blood. Not the overly cruel, manipulative, selfish …

But he’d been all those things before, without thinking. Some part of him wondered if that was really what Black Dragons were and always would be.

And yet… Azeroth. She trusted him. He closed his eyes, remembered the fierceness in her, the righteousness, the power. How she had embraced him; put her faith in him. She wanted to help with them. With his own kind. Somehow, someway. Would a World Soul want to save dragons like him when their evil was all they could ever be?

No. No, he didn’t think so.

“I don’t get him,” he sighed. “Something like this and he just wants to run away.”

“At least he seemed serious about killing her.”

“If he was so serious, he’d be back by now,” Wrathion mumbled. “He was awfully stringent on getting out of here as fast as he could.”

He drummed his fingers on his knees.

Left stood up straight. She looked over at the entrance; Wrathion followed her eyes.

Samia rounded into the cave.

She looked surprised to see them alone. She raised her eyebrows.

“Where is my father?”

“Visiting one of your friends,” Wrathion said.

Samia eyed him. Wrathion eyed her back.

“Which friend?”

“Seldarria.”

“What for?”

Wrathion and Left glanced at one another without moving their heads.

Should they tell her? Was it safe? Was she?

“Seldarria tried to kill us,” Wrathion said. “Through an explosion.”

Left stared at him. Wrathion didn’t take his eyes off Samia. He was taking a calculated risk. He knew how to take one.

Samia shot upright. Her eyes blazed.

“She what?”

“In the herb stores,” Wrathion went on. “An explosion.”

“Is my father okay?” Samia put her hand on the hilt of her sword and stalked into the room. “Did anyone get hurt?”

Wrathion pointed at the cut on his forehead.

“A rock hit me.”

“I don’t care about you,” she said with a huff.

“But you did say anyone.”

“Listen, is my Father okay, or not?”

“He’s fine. If he wasn’t I don’t think he’d be up to killing another dragon.”

Samia stared at him. Then she cursed, turned around, and began hurrying from the room.

“Wait!” Wrathion scrambled to his feet. “Where are you going?”

“To stop my Father from hurting himself!”

Wrathion caught up to her. The cave was nestled in one of the squatter, quieter tunnels leading from the antechamber; Left had chosen it especially for its seclusion. Safe from anyone who might be looking for them. If Seldarria had friends up here, like Kyrak, she might want to finish the job.

“Is Seldarria so dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, steeled and unwavering. “But we can’t afford to let her be killed if she has any information.”

“So she seemed utterly normal before his.”

“Of course she did. I would’ve never  trusted Vaxian to her care if I thought otherwise.” She huffed, a scowl lifting her lips. “Unbelievable.”

Wrathion glanced at Left. The orc had silently followed when he’d gotten up to get to Samia.

How did she find us? Came the orc’s voice in his bloodgem. He paused, but did not anything show on his face.

“I don’t understand why you came here in the first place,” Wrathion pressed on. He began to slow. He didn’t like this.

Samia grunted. “My brother was sick and injured. I thought my father was dead. My sister was missing. I didn’t have a big choice.” She pushed through a curtain of cave moss. “Come on. Do you really think I wanted to go to my crazy uncle’s old mountain?”

“Could have been heavily suggested.”

Samia glanced at him.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing.”

They turned around a bend in the cavern.

“This is the wrong way to the -”

Samia turned on her heel. She thrust her hand out.

A wall of rock shot from the floor, separating Left from Wrathion. It smashed into the ceiling - cutting them off in the dark.

Left cried out in surprise, anger, muffled beyond the stone. Wrathion whirled around. Samia fixed her eyes on him, eyes glowing in the dark.

I think I might be the beacon for disaster.

Samia flicked her hand toward him. He raised a hand to defend himself. Too slow.

Earth smashed into him. He flew back against the wall. The jagged edges and the force of the impact sent out his breath and his sense. Thud thud. He sucked in a breath. The earth melded into the wall, locking him in place.

“What are you doing?!” He writhed against the bonds. His hands - they were free. Wrathion clenched onto into a fist and called upon his magic to push her away.

But he couldn’t.

It felt like he’d forgotten the words to a spell. Wrathion tried everything - but no magic came jittering into his fingertips.

“I think someone forgot their vows in the Celestial Trial,” Samia said. “You can’t hurt me, remember?”

Wrathion felt a rush of anger, indignation, fear. He growled at her.

Then he’d just get out.

He flexed his hands. Sparks flew. The earth holding him grew shatter-marks.

A feeling gripped him with such force, such suddenness, he gasped. His concentration broke. Void. Wrongnness. It assaulted everything he was. He desperately tried to curl away from it, but could go nowhere. It was every dark feeling in the world, and for a moment he was on Mason’s Folly, oozing Sha energy again, feeling all the hopelessness of the world on his shoulders.

Azeroth, he thought, help!

It was a desperate plea, and one that fell deaf. Azeroth wasn’t here. For the first time, Wrathion was alone. Utterly, terribly alone.

The room grew blacker, darker than dark. And on all sides oozed the same wrongness, the same terrible sense that sent every part of him squirming.

“I wouldn’t try using your bloodgems, either,” Samia said. She hadn’t moved since binding him; the dragon stood studying him, head tilted.

“What do you think you’re - urgh!” The stones tightened around him, sucked the air from his lungs.

“Titans, I hate hearing you talk.” Samia flexed her hands, and her eyes glinted in the dark, flickering like a candle.

The wrongness was becoming overwhelming. Wrathion blinked back stars. It was like a fog, but one alive, one clawing into his mouth and nose and eyes.

“Where’s Serinar?”

“What?”

“Serinar,” she repeated, each syllable stressed, pressed mockingly from her mouth. “Where is he?”

“What is - going on here?” he said. “Sabellian -”

Samia smiled a cold, mean little smile. “Seldarria won’t manage much,” she said. “She’s a bit of a dolt. And if she does manage it, well, I guess that’s just less for me to do.”

He narrowed his eyes. His heart thundered in his ears.

“Oh, Samia, no,” he groaned. She couldn’t be -

“Where is Serinar?”

“What do you care?” He sent out his feelers beyond the earth - but nothing. He hit wall after wall. The more he reached out the smaller the room felt. A little black box, and he was trapped in the center, the walls pressed so close he could feel his quickening breath bounce back into face.

“Serinar was supposed to help me with something,” she said. “Imagine my surprise when you came down here without him.”

“He’s with my Agents. Probably still trying to recover from your father’s poisons.” His voice drawled, felt drugged.

“Tell your Agents to release him.”

Wrathion looked at her, incredulous. “Release Serinar?” He stopped. “Serinar didn’t have to convince you to come here at all, did he? The corruption overwhelmed you at the Vale.”

Samia’s face flickered with rage. For a flash he saw the shift of her eyes, all wrong like a badly tuned clock, subtle enough to be easily hidden but obvious enough to cast an uncanny pallor to her expression.

“I am not corrupt!” Her teeth flashed sharp in the dark. She rushed forward and grabbed him by the shoulder. “You know what I am? I’m my own. For the first time since Outland. My Father is a coward. Forcing us to stay in Blade’s Edge. Hiding like bugs under rocks from the Gronn. Shuffling us away from what we are. What we could be.” The earth trembled around them. Nausea roiled up his gut. Her words came quick and heated. “Never allowing us to explore our power, either over ourselves or the earth. But I’m not a coward.” She pushed her weight against him. He struggled to breathe. “I am a Black Dragon. I won’t allow my Father to deny me or my siblings that anymore. To pretend we aren’t what we are. To hide. To be forgotten and alone in a dying planet.”

The conviction in her voice -the anger, the sorrow, the frustration - felt so genuine, so real, that he knew at once this was truly her. Her thoughts, her feelings, that had festered deep inside, and what had become fuel for the corruption to gorge itself on. Here lay the feelings of the real Samia, but corrupted into the needs for those infesting her blood.

It chilled him more than he could say.

In Samia’s eyes he saw the madness as it was: not just garbled proclamations of murder and maliciousness, but a corruption of purpose and intent. A push into one’s most carnal futures, their most violent, chaotic roads to their wishes and wants.

It was no wonder They had so easily warped Neltharion. Earthwarder to the Destroyer.

The fabric pop-pop-popped as she dug her claws into it.

“So you’ll kill him? You’ll kill your father?” he barked a laugh. It trembled shaky, desperate from his lips. “You came here to save him, but here you are now, proclaiming to take his place. That doesn’t sound - oh, I don’t know, mad to you?”

She shook him hard. His head smacked against the wall. His head rang.

“I’m taking care of what my Father could not,” she hissed. Power rolled off of her. The same power from the earth, an ugly power, a dead power, unnatural. He almost gagged. “Like getting rid of you.”

“Your dear Father already took care of that.”

“No. He didn’t. He was apparently weak enough to keep you alive.”

She spoke with spite, with poison. The room writhed.

“Your brother isn’t ill at all, is he?” he wheezed. “You just said that to get us to stay here.”

Samia shrugged. “He’s sick enough. Just not with what I said with.”

Wrathion pulled at his bindings, but still: nothing.

“You were supposed to burn into a nice crisp in the stores,” Samia said. “Whatever. An easy fix.”

“Samia,” he said, slowly, flexing his hands out as much as his bonds would allow, in however feeble a gesture of peace it was. “I know what you’re thinking. I certainly don’t know what having a family is like, but I know what caring about something is. When you met with me and I told you he was dead - I know what I saw wasn’t relief -”

“Convictions change.”

“Listen to me!” Wrathion fought back his nausea. “Why would you suddenly want to kill your Father only after you went through an explosion of Void energy?”

Her eyes flickered. She frowned at him.

“Why don’t we just… calm down... and put me down from the wall -”

“And what? Let you go? Let you go off to snitch on me, set your dogs on a new scent?”

Damnit. The hardness, the conviction, had returned to her face, all fervor and flickering anger. “Tell your Agents to release Serinar.”

“Why would I ever do that, and why would you ever want that?”

“It’s not your import to know,” Samia said. She smiled. “And you’ll want to do that because of your orc in the other room.”

A pained cry flew muffled through the stone.

Wrathion stiffened. Left. Samia studied him.

“Don’t try to bluff,” she said. “I know she’s your closest Agent. She’s pretty well named, isn’t she? Always next to your Left. Didn’t there used to be a Right?”

Another cry of pain echoed from beyond the stone.

Wrathion bore his teeth in a snarl.

“Maybe it’d be best if we just got rid of your Left, too,” she said. “Fix up the symmetry.”

A fizzle popped: a bloodgem trying to project. But Samia had been right: the connection was broken.

“Just free Serinar. That’s all I ask,” she said. She nodded at the stone wall. “And I won’t crush her up into the walls.”

Wrathion locked his jaw. Locked his jaw so hard his head throbbed. The bloodgem-fizzle hissed again in his eyes. Left must’ve been trying to get to him. If he could hear her, then Left could hear Samia. And Wrathion knew what she wanted him to do.

Let her die.

“Samia. You just want to free Serinar so They can have another arrow in their quiver,” he said, knowing the tinge of desperation was in his voice and uncaring. “Think. If only for a moment -”

Samia’s face twisted into a scowl, inhuman, all wrong for a person’s lips to make.

“Last chance,” she said. She started to clench her hand into a fist - slowly, agonizingly slow. A wheeze from the other side. Then coughing. Then -

“Fine! Fine! I’ll let him go!”

Samia stilled her fingers but didn’t retract them.

“But I can’t contact my Agents outside without -”

Samia waved a hand. Wrathion gasped. Some of the pressure in the room released, and he could breathe again. “Try now. And speak aloud your instructions. Don’t play games with me, kid.”

Wrathion breathed in deep the smell of the earth, pure and damp and living. A chance: take the moment of clarity to try to free himself. The risk: Left’s death, and possibly his own. Titans, he couldn’t even attack her.

So Wrathion bit his tongue and did nothing.

He reached out with his mind’s eye, felt out all the pinpoints of energy. There was Left, of course, right by him, though he dared not even send her a whiff of speech lest Samia overhear. Others, far away, distant, faded stars in the darkness, those Agents beyond the Great Sea. Agents and Anduin Wrynn, lingering still in Pandaria. Had they begun to siege Orgrimmar? The thought felt alien to him now.

He blinked, and when his eyes opened, he was connected with the bloodgem of the Agent he had left in charge: a droll worgen named Yellow.

“Yes?” came her voice, ringing in his head.

“You still have Serinar?” Wrathion spoke this aloud, eyes fixed on Samia.

A pause.

“Yes. He’s tried to escape a good handful of times.” A sigh. “Very annoying.”

“Very good. Alright. Let him go.”

He tried to sound confident. He wasn’t so sure it’d worked. His chest spasmed painfully, his nerves crackled like fire. Samia didn’t move, didn’t blink, certainly didn’t relax her curled fingers. All it would take was for her to clench them together, and Left would die.

Once, he might think it a necessary sacrifice. Free an Agent, or free a corrupt dragon? But he couldn’t lose her now. Wouldn’t.

He’d already lost enough, and he was not about to lose the last thing to a friend he had down here.

“Sir?” came Yellow’s unsure reply.

“Get rid of him,” Wrathion said. “Take him to the lava gorge in front of the mountain and let him go. We don’t need him anymore.

���With all due respect, sir, I don’t think that’s the brightest idea. Did something happen down there? Are you alright?”

Samia raised an eyebrow at him. Wrathion’s throat grew dry, raspy. She could hear his Agents. He was sure of it. How?

“Fine,” she said. “I’m fine. Just let him go.”

“As you say, sir,” the worgen said, her unsureness like a smell upon her voice.

And she was gone, the connection severed, the choking, void depth of shadow consuming its place. Wrathion choked back bile. He almost fainted.

“Good making negotiations with you,” Samia said. “I guess we all find leverage, huh?” She relaxed her fist, and Wrathion relaxed in turn. Relaxed, but couldn’t breathe. The room wasn’t spinning as much as it was rotating slowly on its axis.

“Now what?” he wheezed. “Going to raze some human settlements to the ground now?”

She pat him on the cheek. Her hands were cold.

“You’re cute,” she said. “Hopefully, my father will come to his senses and step down so we don’t have to do anything rash. Maybe he can come back down for you. Probably not, though.”

Wrathion’s stomach fell, deep and sour to his ankles. “You’re leaving me down here?”

“I said I’d let your orc go. I didn’t say anything about you.”

His breath quickened. The thought of being left down here - in this void - in this dead space - “Wait! Wait. Surely I can help you? I wanted to kill Sabellian before, and -”

“Don’t lie,” she hissed. “Don’t try to weasel your way out of this. You think I’m going to give you some semblance of mercy? Please. You didn’t give my family much mercy.”

She waved a hand. The earth opened up behind her with a shudder and groan, the soil and rock writhing and trembling in the unnatural shift. The dark feeling gushed fiercer into the cavern. Wrathion struggled to keep conscious.

“Good luck,” she said. “Either you’ll starve to death or fall mad. I almost hope for the latter.”

And she smiled at him, turned, and left, earth closing up behind her and leaving her in the dark.

---

Sabellian quickened through the tunnels. The earth was dark, black around him like he was talking through a living shadow. The orbs around his snake spaulders cast flickering lights along the walls; itl bounced and hissed like disturbed water as he made his way through the maze of rock.

“Lightning in his eyes, you said?” he barked back toward Ebonhorn. The tauren was struggling to keep up.

“A kind of blue energy, yes.” The loose beads and bones on his headdress rattled.

Anger, hot and black, roiled deep in him. It’d been churning in his belly since Seldarria, and now it felt like he could summon a storm.

“Stupid of us to stay here,” Sabellian growled. “Stupid.”

“You’ll leave at once, then.”

“I’m certainly not going to linger, am I?” he growled. And there was the fear. It brimmed underneath the anger, stoking it like coals on a furnace. Fear not for himself - no, never for himself. Vaxian, Pyria, Samia. A fool he was, to linger for even a moment. With Wrathion he had played with a small match - this was playing with real fire now, a poison even he was not immune to. And he’d practically thrust his hand in the brazier.

Stupid.

“I fear for the others,” Ebonhorn said. Sabellian frowned. “Something must have triggered Seldarria -”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why they only just attacked now.”

“Because the Old Gods don’t want us here,” he said briskly. “They made that apparent enough when those brainless dragonkin tried to kill us.”

“But they could have killed us the moment we appeared,” Ebonhorn insisted. “Something changed.”

“Yes. They  received gentle thoughts of explosives and treachery.” And so will your children. His heart thundered like a rabbit’s.

“Furywing, Seldarria - we should try to help them too, should we not? If the corruption is -”

“Help them?” Sabellian repeated, incredulous. “One of them tried to kill me, and I wish the other was already dead.”

Ebonhorn frowned. “The corruption must have awakened in them after our arrival. Don’t we owe it to them to aid?”

The fool. This tauren and the boy were made for one another, merely by their willing ignorance. “Awakened in them? It was always there. They just didn’t strike until now, when we were open and trusting.” He snorted. “And they cannot be helped. Nothing can help them now.”

Ebonhorn said nothing. His face belied his troubled thoughts: all furrowed brows and glinting eyes.

“I may sound like the boy when I say this,” Sabellian continued, “but sometimes we can’t save them all. You can’t afford to be a bleeding heart. Choose those you really care about, or you’ll lose a lot more than you gain.”

The tauren glanced sidelong at him. “Has that gotten you far?”

“Farther than most.” He thought of Nefarian and Onyxia, rotting in the pit.

“What about you, then?”

Sabellian glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.

“What about me?”

“Your own corruption.”

Sabellian hesitated. Unbidden, his hand went to the pendant. It had grown hotter and hotter with each footstep.

“This was a gift from a mortal. Infused with some powerful charms, some powerful magic,” he explained, gruff. “Some sort of time-nonsense, some sort of Wild God-nonsense. It’s halted the corruption… for now. I fear it hasn’t much time left, especially in this dark place.”

Footsteps came echoing down the tunnel. The two brothers stopped. Energy tingled at his fingertips, and beside him, Ebonhorn gave off a wave of heat.

Shadows loomed around the corner: and there she was: Samia.

Sabellian relaxed. If only a little. The dragon was wild-eyed, dirt smeared over one of her cheeks, her hair peppered with gravel and dirt.

“Oh!” She came to a halt. “Father. Uncle.” She glanced at Ebonhorn. “I was looking for you.”

“What a coincidence,” Sabellian said. He looked her up and down. Relief, nausea, fear.

My daughter. My eldest.

“Why?” he pressed.

“I ran into Wrathion. Seldarria tried to kill you? With an explosion? And you found the nether-drakes?”

“Keep your voice down, girl!” Sabellian closed the distance between them. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you in the first place.”

“Oh?” She frowned at him. “Why?”

He ignored her. He pressed his hands on the side of her face and looked deep into it. He looked. Looked for shattered pieces, a stone out of place, flickering lights without shadow.

“Are you alright?”

“Father.” Samia pulled away, her face creased with nerves. She fixed her bangs. “I’m fine.”

Sabellian let his hands drop. He studied her face.

“Why are you asking about me, anyway? Are you alright? You were nearly incinerated!” She crossed her arms over her chest and bit her bottom lip. “I thought Seldarria was alright. Kind of a louse, lazy as an ass, but alright.”

And there it was.

Something in her eyes.

A flicker, a glint of light, light with no shadow.

“Vaxian. Who told you he was ill?”

Samia’s face fell. She looked at him, frown deepening. “What? No one had to. He grew ill on the flight over.”

“It was no regular infection,” Ebonhorn added. “Even if it did fool me at first.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Seldarria was infusing him with nether energy, girl. As a test subject for her eggs,” Sabellian said. An iciness grew in his belly, all sharp and stony. “The nether-drakes were captured not long before we arrived. Vaxian couldn’t have been ill before.”

Samia’s eyes darted between them. “The Dragonmaw broke his wing -”

“But you said he was ill,” Sabellian hissed. “You said he’d been ill since you arrived. With infection.” He took another step toward her. My daughter. My eldest. The pendant felt hot against his chest. He should have given it to her. Why hadn’t he given it to her? “Why did you tell me that? Why did you want us to delay another night?”

At last her eyes fell upon him, and in them lay the broken clock.

She lunged forward.

He fell back. Samia’s hands wrapped ‘round his throat - no, not his throat at all.

The pendant, the crane pendant Anduin Wrynn had gifted him, the one keeping him from madness, the one he should have given her -

His hands clutched her wrists. She fixed her broken eyes on him.

They knew. They knew about the pendant. With Seldarria, a fluke. With Samia -

How? How had They known?

“This thing’s clouding your mind, Father,” she said, and her voice was deep, dark, like a thousand voices speaking through one, his daughter, his eldest. “Let me help you.”

She pulled back, despite the pull of his own wrists on her, a strength she should not have been able to overcome, but she wasn’t her now, not anymore, and the chain of the pendant came snapping off.

Blackness exploded into his mind. He gasped, stumbled back, back against what? Space was meaningless. All was black. A flood of acid, bile, tar. He fell to his knees, sucked in ragged breaths.

No. No!

A foreign feeling rushed through him. Not light, not dark, but power, vaulting, righteous. It bled into the blackness, intertwining, suffocating.

It was like a storm, and he a small boat lost on its waves. He couldn’t - the pendant - Titans, They laughed at him, the terrible laughter echoing in his skull ---

---

Sabellian fell silently onto his back; he didn’t make a sound even as he hit the ground. The pendant hummed furiously. It’d gone flying from Samia’s grip, skidding off to the side where it’d stopped near the turn of the tunnel Samia had come through.

Ebonhorn stood frozen. The pendant - had she known? -

Samia smiled at him, all good-natured and shiny.

“Pretty rough, huh, Uncle? Honestly I didn’t think he’d fall. Or go unconscious.”

He glanced back at his brother. Sabellian took in shallow gasps, and his eyes darted back and forth underneath his quivering eyelids. He grew paler by each passing heartbeat, face drawn.

Samia took slow, clipped steps toward her Father. Ebonhorn stood in front of her.

“Whatever you plan to do, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you.”

Her eyes darted over to him. Some of the humor left her face, some of the unnatural shininess.

“I really don’t think you want to do this,” she said. “Take a step back. This isn’t your business.”

He drew himself up to his full height. Samia was exceedingly short. Shorter than most humans he’d seen, though he hadn’t seen much. He could probably throw her if he really wanted. His shadow consumed her form, all hulk and body and broadness. He stamped his hoof. The clang rang down the tunnel, echoed down the recesses.

“He is my brother,” he rumbled. Smoke began to curl from his nose. How good it felt to release the truth of his form in such base ways, how good not to hide. If only it were better circumstances. If only he wasn’t facing down his corrupted niece, stopping her from doing An’she-knew-what to her Father. “It is my business.”

“Listen, Uncle,” she drawled. “We all know you’re not supposed to be here. You’re more out of touch than Wrathion, and we can at least let him slide for that because he’s - what - two? Three years old? But you’re as old as Father is, and you’re more of an outsider than the kid is. Look at you. You’re probably more mortal than dragon, too. How about you leave this alone? It’s not your place. You’re not one of us.” She jerked her head over to Sabellian. “And you just met him. You don’t have to get yourself hurt over it.”

Ebonhorn glared. The words twisted in his gut, coiled like a rope of needles in his belly.

“I am one of you,” he growled. “It is my place.” He glanced at the pendant. Sabellian hadn’t moved. He needed to get it back, before the corruption consumed him too. Then they would all be lost.

But he dared not come to blows with her. How could he? This was a talking puppet. The real Samia was in there somewhere, his niece, one of him. His family he’d never known. Anger gripped his neck, and his fire bubbled. Them.

If he could incapacitate her, hold her in rock -

Samia sneered. “You can keep thinking that. Leave.”

The two stared at one another.

Ebonhorn lunged for the pendant.

Samia lunged for him.

Rock smashed into his side. He skidded off, grunting, and crashed into the wall. His hoof cracked into the pendant. It went spinning off into the cave.

“Try me again, Uncle!”

He snorted smoke, thick and black. Slowly, he rose to his hooves.

“I will if I must,” he rumbled, turning to face her. “I am here on Azeroth’s wishes. And I will stay to help.”

A sureness built inside of him. It mingled with his fire, already burning bright. All his life he had advised. He had protected. He had cleansed and read signs and found the right paths. This was what he was here for. To help. Somehow, staring into her twisted face, he knew that this was not the head of the whale. She was the fin, a first sign above the water. Something was coming. Rising. And she was the start of it. Azeroth had sent him here. For this. For whatever was to come. He didn’t know, Wrathion didn’t know, but it was their future. All of their future.

Samia took a step forward. The future of the Flight, a future Azeroth had begun to guide them on. And he would guide the others.

As he always had.

“There’s no audience for you, Ebonhorn,” she hissed. “You don’t have to be so inspiring for mortals here.”

“Your Father will grow corrupted. Vaxian is too, if he has not already. Pyria. You will deny this. You surely don’t see yourself as mad, either. But you don’t have to go through with whatever you’ve planned. What you all have planned. Seldarria, and Serinar, perhaps. Rethink this path. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You won’t.”

She thrust her hands out to her sides. The earth sprang up, spikes of obsidian.

They came flying at him - whistling, screaming.

Ebonhorn snapped his hands out. A wall of stone flung up. The shards collided, exploded against the earth. The cavern shuddered.

More and more shards came screaming toward him, each one faster, sharp, then the last. He struggled to keep up - they drove him back, slowly, inevitably, each time they struck his barriers. He grunted with strain as they crashed again and again into the defensive wards.

She was strong. Stronger than he’d guessed. Stronger - but among shadow, terrible and black. Something about the earth she weaponized felt sickly, ill; the feeling panged through his barriers, echoed through his arms like a distant sound.

His hooves backed into the wall behind him. A quick glance back: Sabellian behind him, laying sprawled. His eyes were open now, but unseeing, blank.

Ebonhorn turned back to Samia. A black shadow emanated from her, choking the air. If they stayed here long, it would consume them all.

“You’re not giving me much choice,” he said. Samia snorted, her face twisted and broken, a dragon’s expressions on a human face.

Ebonhorn growled. He flexed his hands. The world around him came alive. Everywhere: he could see everywhere now. Each faultline, each crack in the wall; each soft patch of earth, each deposit of mineral and gem. Each air socket, each cave, the layout of the tunnels.

Above: soft earth, cradled along dried lava. Before them, the exit of the tunnel, spitting out into the main chamber. No great faultlines to his left or right. No chance of collapse, only expansion.

Samia raised her hand.

He lunged.

Growing, stretching, transforming. His horns - antlers, wide and painted - scraped against the ceiling. It gave way underneath their points, all the soft earth he’d seen, opening up and falling on top of him, giving room for his true form. The great bulk of his draconic body crushed through the rest of the cavern mid-lunge. He grabbed Samia, charged forward - and exploded into the main antechamber.

They went tumbling down the small incline. A surge of energy surrounded him: Samia changing mid-fall. He landed on her hard, dragon now with dragon, their two massive forms leaving a great crack in the stone below.

She roared and kicked her hind legs into his belly. He grunted; rolled off.

The ground groaned underneath him, and he crushed it back down before it could rise and impale him.

Samia had already gotten to her feet by the time he managed to turn around. She bared her teeth at him.

They stared at one another, uncle and niece, as the mountain growled and rumbled around them.

Some air pockets, some unopened caverns, peppered the antechamber: underground lava rivulets that had never pierced through the soil, and had dried up and left recesses. Trap her inside? But she would break out again, and come for him two-fold. He’d never fought another dragon, and he’d never thought he would fight one with the same powers over the earth as he had. His bloom hummed, sang with the adrenaline of battle.

Samia approached with a hiss, shoulders hunched, smoke curling not only from her mouth but from her body.

He couldn’t hurt her.

He glanced back at the tunnel. They needed to get away. They needed to escape her; regroup. And if Sabellian fell too…

Ebonhorn turned back to Samia.

“You have a lot of skill,” he said. “I wish I could be seeing it under better circumstances.”

Samia smiled. “And I’ll be able to teach all my siblings once I take over the brood. When I bring them here. To our home.”

She thundered forward. He met her in the middle, and crashed into her with enough force to make his lungs shake. Her paws swiped into his face. Blood pooled down into his eyes. He roared, bent his head, and smashed his antlers into her neck.

Samia shrieked. She tried to jerk away, to free herself from the pinning hold, but his horns were broad, built for this, built to crash and charge and pin; they were a yoke on her neck, fixing her in place.

He pushed forward, forward, forward. Samia stumbled back, shrieking in rage. She collided with the wall. The antechamber shook with an ominous grumble.

She rose onto her back legs and swiped with her front. Pain raked across his belly. He grunted. Deep, a deep tear.

“You’re alone here, outsider!”  Samia said. “You should have stayed home!”

Earth gurgled up. It snapped around his paws, holding him in place.

Then pain. Pain. It exploded at the end of his tail. He roared.

A spike of obsidian had pierced straight through his tail: pinning him as he had pinned her. Blood gushed.

A crackling appeared above his head - and there it hovered: a spike as tall as he was long, dangling above him, twisting serenely back and forth. It looked for all the world like one of the chimes hanging from the doorways of so many tauren homes.

He tried to push it away. But as soon as his mind touched that earth, bile rose in his throat. He pulled himself away.

“Uncle,” she hissed, and the spike fell.

A great form collided into him. He tumbled away. The shard cut through his side; his tail came free, the shard snapping from the root. Blood splattered red and hot.

“Furywing!” Samia’s voice shrilled, high above even the buzzing of pain in his head. He forced himself to stand. His attacker - no, savior - stood before him and Samia. The thin, whip of a dragon shook faintly. The red striations on her wings looked like dripping blood in the darkness.

“Tell Sabellian this is for Outland,” she called back to Ebonhorn. “I hope we are even now.”

Ebonhorn didn’t wait - he had learned about hesitating with Vaxian. He turned and ran back to the cavern. Behind him, Furywing and Samia came to blows. The scape of scale on scale, the great booms of paw smacking against flesh, reverberated through the chamber.

He thundered into the ruins of the tunnel. Mid-leap, he transformed back into his tauren guise - ignoring, as always, the rush of relief he felt as he donned the more familiar form. Now was not the time for such things.

The cavern shook. Shards of rock and dirt came falling onto his head. The place was full of dust and smoke.

He skidded to a stop. There stood Gravel. They held Sabellian in his arms. The dragon was still limp.

Ebonhorn flared his nostrils, raised his hands warily.

“Friend or foe?”

Gravel blinked owlishly at him. “I live to serve.”

The next scream was Furywing’s. No time. They had no time. The corruption was exploding, and would consume Furywing next, and soon, he had no doubts.

“Do you know a place to hide?”

“Yes.”

Ebonhorn nodded. He looked around for -

“The pendant?” Gravel drawled. They nodded to Sabellian. There it lay, sparkling on his chest, the chain wrapped around his neck. Someone had mended it to fit securely again.

“Who -”

“Furywing aided,” they said, monotone. “As one should. The strongest of blood is -”

“Good,” Ebonhorn said quickly. “Go to this hidden place. I will follow.”

Gravel bowed his head, turned, and headed deep into the cavern.

Ebonhorn followed - but cast one last look back, where Furywing slowly rose, belly scraping the floor.

[ncmadiic]

&. —— ❝ 003. ❞

                                             ( washington dc - march 2014 ! )

By the time evening struck the city, Anabelle had all but forgotten her father’s instruction and she found the deserted streets of the city quite eerie. But she ignored her intuition as the events of the next morning worked their way into prominence of her mind. After she’d dropped her daughter off at her mother-in-law’s house, the overwhelming feeling finally took over. It was all too much. First, her brother, Andrew, then Tom, now Jake--- all the men that she’d cared about wound up being trouble, some way or another. 

Andrew was spending the rest of his life in prison because he took the fall for a criminal--- Tom’s disappearance after she gave birth, and now, all this--- it simply was just TOO MUCH. 

Anabelle parked her car behind an old warehouse, knowing that hardly anyone passed through. She checked her surroundings, making sure that she was completely secluded before she went for the briefcase, albeit, her convictions were hesitant. She placed her thumb on the print reader, before punching in the combination--- 0424 and the case opened with ease. 

As Anabelle flipped through the itinerary, reviewing her new ID, passport, and home of record, a knock on the window startled her. She gasps, dropping the file in her lap, thankful the pages didn’t scatter. “GODDAMNIT.” She curses, flicking her eyes between the person at the window, and the Manila folder. Father, please forgive me for cursing your name. In Jesus' name, I pray, Amen.

She rolls down the window and is surprised to see Steve's face as she expected a police officer instead. He changed out of his stealth suit between the time she’d seen him and now, and he was dressed in a brown leather jacket, black Under Armor shirt and a pair of jeans. She looked at him incredulously, brows knitted together before spitting, "What are you doing here?"

“I thought you said you weren’t working?” He replies, coolly, resting his forearm against the roof of her car, hovering over the opening of the window. 

 “What’re you, stalking me now?” She returns the quip, with a half-hearted smile. 

 “No.” Well, yes, but that was solely for the mission he’d been appointed. 

“Then go away.” She’s still irritated from their previous interaction, but Anabelle had all the intention to be left alone. 

 “I just wanted to check on you.” Rogers pushes his weight off of the car as he lowers his form to be at eye-level with her. 

“Why?” She doesn’t look at him as she edges the loose pages neatly within the folder before placing it back into the briefcase before closing it and allowing it to lock automatically. She fails to notice Steve's curious gaze on the piece of luggage. 

 “I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer and when you left HQ, you didn’t sign out, so, here I am.” This catches her attention, and she finally looks at him with her eyebrows furrowed. The sun catches her eyes and the flecks of green enveloped within the rich sky-colored hue shimmer with confusion. 

She was almost POSITIVE that she signed out with security, but then, again, with what happened in the elevator being on her mind, anything was possible. 

“Oh, yeah. I’m sorry about that,” she conceded, though still doubtful, “Hey, you want to sit in the car with me? It’s a little cold and---”

“You sure?” A grin splits his face. 

“Yeah, let me just---” Anabelle tosses the case into the back seat hastily before unlocking the passenger door. Steve wastes no time making his way around the hood of her car before opening the door and settling in her passenger seat. A few moments pass as they sit comfortably in silence before she's the one to break it. 

 "Steve, I---" she hesitates, feeling pride grip her apologetic words from spilling from her lips, though, as if the soldier could read her mind, he interjected. 

 "No, Ana, I'm sorry. I was being an ass and honestly, with everything going on with the Lumerian Star, I've been kinda stressed. You didn't deserve the way I've been treating you." He knew she'd be eating from his palm with him confessing fault first, and this would be his leverage against her to lower her guard. 

"Hey, it's okay, to be fair, I think we both were under a lot of stress." A smile lifts the corners of her mouth and her posture softens into a more relaxed position. He notices this and takes this as his opportunity to distract her before he incapacitates her. She may have been much smaller than him, however, he'd trained her himself, along with Agent Romanoff upon direct orders from her father upon her post-initiation into SHIELD after her daughter was born. He thought it was foolish of Nicholas to drag his own flesh and blood into the organization as this could compromise him, though, he'd made no comment.

This was all valuable intel to pass over to HYDRA and he did. Steve did have to admit that Fury was not the fool that he expected him to be, though, as he did not assign his daughter to covert ops where she could be compromised herself, instead he had placed her in Records, like the good father that he was to keep her from harm. He knew that Anabelle was fully capable of pushing paperwork all day, despite her experience in the US Air Force as a combat medic. 

"Ana," Steve's voice comes in a soft breath as he attempts to catch her gaze. He'd done as he was ordered; befriend the woman and wait for the perfect opportunity to use her as leverage against the director--- Even if it took years. And now that Captain Rogers had been shown the agenda of Project Insight by the man himself, he'd received confirmation of his directive: take the woman hostage. 

She remembered the last time he said her name like that and it made her smile stretch just a fraction wider. She remembered the way her lips had melted against his and how warm his hand was against her cheek. Even with her ex-husband, she'd never felt the way that Steve made her feel that night and she could feel herself longing for that same feeling once again. She turned her head to meet his gaze and she'd noticed that his pupils were dilated. 

Maybe this was meant to be? 

She remembered how she'd pushed him away, as her divorce had not yet been finalized and she couldn't bear to live with knowing that she’d committed adultery, regardless of her circumstances. Though, she couldn't shake the guilt of doing that to him, even after a year and a half, she'd always felt bad for the situation. She never forgot his tinted cheeks, flushed from embarrassment (or so she thought) and it continued to haunt her to this very day. 

Now, however, it was different. Her husband had departed from this life, therefore, she was no longer obligated to him. Anabelle's eyes trailed from his, down the bridge of his nose and in finality, she'd settled her gaze upon his lips and hesitated a moment before flitting her eyes back up.

This was the signal he was waiting for, and it was more than one reason that drove him. His lips were on hers in an instant and he cradled her jaw in his hand, pulling her closer to him. Her hands were placed on both his shoulder and his the back of his neck as she grazed her nails against his skin. He let a low moan slip from his mouth into hers before he wraps his arm around her waist to lift her and settle her into his lap. His hands now wander from her waist down to her backside giving a gentle squeeze before he trails a hand back up to entangle in her hair. She shivers from the gesture and her body responds as she presses her chest into his, deepening the kiss. 

As the woman is distracted, Steve takes the time to slowly reach into his jacket pocket for the syringe filled with a dose of some sedative that could easily render her unconscious. As he grasped the toxin, she'd moved her lips to his neck, kissing and nibbling at the flesh which distracted him from the task at hand and he'd almost given in to his lust, savoring the feeling for just a moment longer before he decided to take matters into his own hands. She'd sensed the shift in his demeanor and when she pulled back, the expression on his face had turned almost animalistic. 

Everything in her had screamed for her to stop as she was just about to commit a sin against the Lord again, but she was willing to ask for forgiveness later as finally admitted to herself that she wanted this just as much as he did. 

Screw it. 

He moved his hand from his pocket, absent the toxin and he moved his hand to her backside once again, taking no pause to squeeze it, much harder this time and he relished in her reaction as a soft moan had slipped from her lips against his neck. There was no time limit for him to return with Anabelle tonight, so he was content in getting his rocks off first. 

He bedded many women since he'd been retrieved from the ice, but in this moment Anabelle was among his greatest conquests. From the night that he met her, he wanted nothing more than to ravage her, regardless if she were pregnant at the time and he’d succeeded at one point after Grace was born--- but it only left him wanting MORE. 

"I admit, you two are putting on quite a show and I'd like to stay and watch, but you need to wrap it the FUCK up." Rumlow's voice was hushed through the earpiece. He watched the two through his sniper scope from the vantage point barely 500 yards away from where she parked. 

Damn you Rumlow, can't you just let me have something?

"No." He muttered, loud enough for his comrade to hear, though Anabelle thought that he was rejecting her and he could tell by the way she pulled away from him, and it wasn't hard to miss the look on her face. He saved the moment, however, by following up with "I wanna do this in the back." Rumlow sniggered, shaking his head before pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"I gotta do everything around here." He doesn't hesitate as he re-positions his rifle and fixates his cross-hairs onto Anabelle's back and before he pulls the trigger he mutters, "Gotta admit, the bitch has a nice ass." 

The dart sinks into muscle, missing her spine by two inches and the toxin instantly hits her bloodstream. "Ouch!" She exclaims before she realizes that there's a hole in her windshield. before she can register what has happened, her vision fades. 

"Steve?" She slurs before she slumps in his arms. 

 "God damn you, Rumlow."

[canisaries]

AGAPE - Part 7: I’m Not a Liar

canis writing agape? what is this, 2016??

In this part, Red continues to be weird and Canis reminds her readers that oh right I think this fic was about Helix at some point. As a slight change of pace, this one is also not like 4000 pages long or something.

(Originally, Part 7 was going to also be the final part, but then I noticed how long it was getting and how much I still had to write, plus I found a nice place to stop, so I decided to split it in two after all. Now that I’ve done it, I’m pretty satisfied with the call, since now the atmospheres don’t mix as much.)

Enjoy!

---

It had taken quite a lot of potions to fix her up from the beating she’d received, but by the time Red had finished healing her, she’d looked like she was in the best shape of her life. Her life in her new malamar body, to be exact.

Next, he washed her of her blood and anything he might have left on her. Prints, genes, et cetera. Soon it would be time for the memories.

She was a lot heavier now. That, and the fact that despite Red’s rubber gloves - disinfected, of course - her body was still considerably slippery when held, made the process a bit more challenging than he’d expected, but he managed nevertheless.

Having cleaned her and the floor she’d hung above, Red removed his gloves for a moment to retrieve his book of symbols. He’d decided to use the hour variant. He hadn’t used the day variant before, and he wanted to play it safe.

He’d have to carve it on some part of her body where she couldn’t see and nobody would think to look. Such an area would probably be small, so the strokes would need to be small as well. A scalpel would have been optimal, but Red didn’t want to risk infection of his wares, no matter how well he knew he cleaned his equipment. If he happened to deliver faulty products, he might get snitched on. Then, he wouldn’t even get to snitch on the snitch. The snitch’s connections might try to get even. Red didn’t know if the people he dealt with had such connections, but he was certain that, in any case, they would always have more allies than him. But, wait... if he were to get caught, and everything was to get out - everything - would he even end up in the same place? Would he be deemed too different? He wasn’t just some brute with an anger problem. He had access to ancient forces modern society had no idea even existed. He chose his cases carefully. Would…?

...No. No, of course not. He shouldn’t think so highly of himself.

He shouldn’t be thinking any of this now. He had things to do.

He placed the open book on the floor in clear view. He put his rubber gloves back on and retrieved the knife the mon had held to the back of his neck before. Red felt a bit of disdain for it, as if it had betrayed him itself, but it was still the sharpest.

He surveyed the malamar. For a moment, he felt a bit ambivalent. There were so many things he wanted to do to her, but he couldn’t. Maybe, in a year or two, after everyone had forgotten about her, he could…

The thought made him smile, which made him feel worse, since he knew what a stupid idea it was. She still had family, and assuming her parents were malamar, she’d still be accepted there. He couldn’t choose anyone with regular connections to others. If they disappeared, their friends and family would worry, and finally alert the police. Then an investigation begins. Then they find him. And then, all this would have been for nothing, since he’d ended up losing Him nonetheless.

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the mon on the ground.

Under the mantle? No, too much work, and probably still too visible.

Inside her beak? No, she’d most likely feel it.

Between her head tentacles?

It seemed like a safe bet. Red dug his hands in between her hair-like arms and parted them to see better. They seemed tight. That was a positive sign.

The space on her scalp was far too small to fit the carving on. He decided to use one of the tentacles’ base instead.

He picked up the knife and, after very carefully assessing how much space he’d need, sunk the tip of the blade into the skin and drew the first line of the symbol. Small pearls of dark blue surfaced to fill and flood the paper thin crevice in the flesh. Meeting the metal, the fluid stuck to it and flattened into thinner layers, revealing its true, rich range of colors - turquoise, teal, deep blue… Ah, not now.

He moved on to carving the rest of the main symbol, every now and then wiping away the excess blood that rose to view from the fresh cuts.

After finishing the final line, he had to choose the number of strokes to add beneath the seal, one for every hour he wanted to erase. He’d left a lot of room below, so space wouldn’t be an issue. But how many hours? He’d have to make her forget everything that took place right after the show, since - while there had been a lot of hours of her just being unconscious - she’d recognized him in the shower. Not that being attacked was a normal memory to have in general.

Red looked at the clock. It was about midday.

He decided to play it safe again and erase the whole show last night from her mind. She maybe wouldn’t forget that far with her normal drinking, but she’d probably just shrug it off nonetheless.

He chose to draw 16 strokes. He saw that a whole inch had been left unused, which made him feel a bit stupid, but he soon made himself dismiss the thought. The symbol was small and far enough down the arm to not be seen without someone specifically looking for it.

Unlike the psychic nullifier, this symbol’s effect didn’t wear off with healing - however, it had to remain for at least the amount of hours set on it, or its effect wouldn’t last for good. This meant not being able to use potions to stop the bleeding, so Red had to wait it out.

When the wounds had finally dried up, Red carefully cleaned away the blue hue and let go of the mon. The tentacles drew together again and, closing up, hid the symbol almost entirely. Good enough.

Next, he cleaned the bottles he’d had her drink. When they finally shone like new, he took them to one of her longer arms.

What a graceful arm. He had to stop to admire it.

But he had to continue. He grabbed her arm by the tip and pressed her suckers onto the bottles until her prints were all over them. He then slowly moved the bottles inside a plastic bag. Finally, he recalled her to her pokéball and, along with the bottles, placed her in his backpack.

The room looked a lot less alive without her. Only the shivering candlelight remained. He sighed, not sure if it was out of annoyance or relief.

Having blown out the candles and put away all his tools, he began to shift the bookcase. Bright light from the basement hallway flooded in, hurting his eyes a bit.

It was in that light that he noticed the seal on his wrist again. It had almost healed already, but it could still be seen. He should cover it.

After going back to rebandage his arm, Red slipped out behind the bookcase and pushed it back into its original position, leaving behind his hidden room.

He lightly bumped the bag on his back with his elbow to ensure it really was with him.

Good. He was all set.

Hanging his coat on the rack, Red couldn’t help but laugh out of sheer contentment.

It was done. It was done! He’d finally gotten rid of her for good. He’d finally be reunited with Him. Now he only needed to wait. Wait for her career to crash and Him to lose interest. And given how quickly He’d fallen for her, He likely wouldn’t miss her for too long.

Red threw his bag onto the floor, smiling, and let himself fall back on the couch. He glanced at the clock. Ah, what great timing! His lord would return home soon.

Red would make sure to be on his very best behavior and as friendly as possible. His lord would see him with new eyes, appreciative eyes. Red would always be there for Him. Red was His most humble servant, His high priest.

Red could now hear some noises from outside.

Elated, he jumped back up and rushed to open the front door. A startled Fonz was looking up at him from the front yard.

“Come in, come in!” Red greeted with great delight. The freezing temperatures stung his skin and yanked every hair on his bare arms fully erect, but he kept the door wide open nonetheless.

Fonz rushed towards the house, though slowed down when ascending the steps as not to slip. He shielded the ball of fabric with his sturdy arms. Red dodged him as he moved inside, and promptly shut the door softly behind him.

“You’re chipper today,” commented Fonz, surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” replied Red, and snuck past the nidoking into the kitchen. He began to prepare a meal.

“It’s Friday, isn’t it?” he said, half to start a conversation and half to add to his previous words. Red did seem awfully chipper. He wasn’t often like that. He himself knew why he was so happy, but Fonz didn’t, and Fonz shouldn’t, either.

“Yeah, that’s true,” said Fonz, removing Helix’s scarves. “No school tomorrow.”

“You must happy about that, then, my lord,” called Red from the kitchen, a bit louder to ensure He could really hear it.

“...He is,” responded Fonz after a short pause.

“How was school today?” asked Red as he placed the basket of berries onto the table.

“It was alright for Him,” answered Fonz. Red tensed his expression. Why wasn’t He saying anything?

“That’s good to hear,” Red said and moved away from the table. “Food’s ready.”

Fonz got up, holding Helix, and silently walked by Red. Red’s eyes followed Helix the entire way to him.

“Hey,” he greeted Him with a sincere smile as He passed by.

“...Hey,” Helix responded awkwardly. Somehow, his eyes seemed shy, even… fearful?

Red nodded and went to sit on the sofa. He let his smile finally melt away.

What was that? Had the news got out already? But He didn’t look sad… He looked anxious. Bothered. Worried. Had something happened at school? Or had He found something out about him? What was the matter? Red wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to disturb Him now that He was having His meal.

Red could hear Him and Fonz mumbling about something. What was it? He couldn’t make out any words.

Red noticed his bag was still lying on the floor from before. He dragged and lifted it to himself. Nothing explicitly incriminating there anymore, just an empty plastic bag and an empty pokéball… He should still get rid of both, just in case. But there was no hurry. Yet, at least.

After a few minutes of waiting, Red could hear the slight screech of a chair being moved. He mentally prepared himself. Steps could be heard, and they approached him. Soon, Fonz arrived in the living room with Helix in his hands. The nidoking lowered the omanyte onto the other end of the couch.

Red refrained from looking in their direction. His lord seemed stressed, and it seemed to be because of Red, or the feeling at least strengthened around him for whatever reason. But he needed to know. I should do it now, thought Red, before it gets more awkward for Him. He tried his best to appear nonchalant as he adopted a more casual pose.

“Oh, I forgot to ask,” he began, attempting to sound like he’d just now remembered to say it. “How was the concert last night, my lord?”

“I, uhh...” Helix mumbled, but stopped to look at Fonz. Fonz promptly picked him up again and held Him close to himself. The nidoking looked at Helix again and nodded in a way that clearly meant something, but something only the two understood, then looked back at Red with a stern expression.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” Helix hesitantly continued.

“Oh?” Red turned to face Him fully.

He was going to tell him face to face? It couldn’t be too bad, then. At least Red hoped so, dearly. His lord wasn’t ready to hear about the worst things. Not now, not ever. Or, maybe someday, much later, but definitely not now, for several reasons. Granted, He’d already seen a lot, but wasn’t like He could even remember half of it...

In any case, He was going to be straightforward, and that was good. Red wouldn’t have to try to find out by himself.

“Getting me those tickets was… really cool of you,” Helix started, “but you shouldn’t… I don’t want you to do that again.”

Red tilted his head. “What do you mean?” he enquired. Had the press really found out already? Had He really changed His opinion of her this quickly?

“Wh-What I mean is,” He bumbled, “I don’t… I didn’t enjoy it that much after all. I don’t wanna sound ungrateful, I just...”

He searched for the right words, but couldn’t seem to ever come across the right ones. Instead, the room was left with a tense silence that just kept on going.

Red utilized this moment to review what he’d just heard.

He… He hadn’t enjoyed it? He hadn’t enjoyed the show? When she’d still been an inkay?

Before Red had ruined her?

That couldn’t be right.

Surely, that couldn’t have been right.

Helix was still trying to continue His sentence. Red didn’t want to interrupt his lord, but he saw it to be the best course of action to take.

“My lord,” he said reassuringly, “it’s fine.”

“But I haven’t even told you what it is…”

“Whatever it is, my lord, it’s fine,” he repeated. Red wasn’t lying, but he was guilty of wanting the conversation to proceed faster.

“Getting those tickets must have been hard or expensive or both… I just don’t want you wasting your money and time on something I won’t even like,” Helix said, but instantly regretted His choice of words. “I-I mean, not that I think you should waste your money on things that I do like-”

“My lord,” Red interjected again, feeling ashamed of it right after, but still deciding to continue. “No money spent for the sake of your delight is wasted.”

Fonz gave Red a strange look. Red ignored it.

“Well… okay, but still,” said Helix. “Thanks one last time for the tickets, but… I just wanna let you know that that was a… phase. Abba was right, she… She was pretty lame this whole time. I only realized it last night.”

So, a phase. It had only been a phase. A momentary attraction. A crush. A fixation spanning only a few days. Nothing serious. Nothing actual. Just a mishap.

Huh.

Really should have seen that one coming.

Red blinked.

“...You’re not mad, are you?” peeped the omanyte.

Well, was he?

Eh.

He’d think about it later.

“Of course not, my lord,” responded Red. “There’s nothing for me to be mad about.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely. Getting those tickets wasn’t that much of a hassle. And even if it had been, it wouldn’t matter.”

“...How so?”

“I got to see you happy for at least a while, didn’t I?”

It sounded so sweet said aloud. It should have been the reason he’d done it. But it hadn’t been. Why couldn’t it have been? Why, why did he always have to be so impatient, thoughtless, rash, idiotic… The list went on.

Red stared at his lord’s eyes. They were mostly avoiding him, but every now and then they still crept back to see if he was still looking at them. Every time the answer was yes, and every time they hastily darted elsewhere again.

They were so… alive. Big, black pupils and snow white sclerae. Their wet surface reflecting the light from the surrounding ceiling lamps. Occasionally blinking.

They didn’t have to be so anxious. What were they afraid of?

Then His tentacles, nervously coiling around Fonz’s fingers. From afar, they didn’t look like they were too cold, even if Red knew it to be otherwise. They moved slowly but stressfully. It didn’t feel good to look at them like that. Red wanted to take them into his hands and stroke them until they relaxed. But he couldn’t do it. Why? He couldn’t, not right now.

Then His shell. Red still vividly remembered what its surface had felt like against his lips a few days ago.

Of His beak, Red could only see a sliver. Chitinous and black, it would split through the middle and lose its color upon evolving. Red couldn’t say which member of the omanyte family he preferred. They both had their pros and cons. Omanyte were small, light and easy to carry around, but they weren’t as powerful. Omastar were bigger and stronger, but also heavier, and their big shells made it harder for them to move around… But omastar also had their beautiful beaks and striking eyes. Not that omanyte eyes and beaks weren’t pretty as well...

But, in the end, this was his lord. It didn’t matter what form He took. Red would serve Him, no matter what.

“So...” started Helix suddenly, snapping Red out of his daze. “We’re cool then?”

Red chuckled. “We’re always cool, my lord,” he replied, smiling.

Red’s smile soon slipped away, however, as he remembered his situation again. This all had been a lot to take in.

“My lord...” he began, standing up. “I would like to excuse myself now. I’d like to go for a bit of fresh air.”

“Uhh… Go ahead,” said Helix, sounding slightly disorientated.

“Thank you,” said Red, bowed slightly, and left for the hall.

Outside, it was snowing and rather quiet. The noises that could be heard were mostly the swooshing of faraway traffic or winds. The sky was a light shade of gray all around, and the snowflakes were relatively big. The temperature must have been around freezing or a bit above.

Red turned away from the wind and pulled up the hood of his winter coat to prevent the snow from hitting and sticking to his hair.

He really didn’t have to do any of it then, huh? His lord had come to His senses all by Himself. Red really should have had more trust in Him and His judgment.

And omanyte did mature fast, too. Unlike humans. Red sighed through his nose and closed his eyes. When was he going to mature? He couldn’t wait.

Had it really all been for nothing? The seal, the trip to Celadon, the abduction, the forced evolution, all of it? He’d had fun with the inkay, sure, but now it all seemed so pointless…

Was it even all that fun? Why had he even done those things? Why couldn’t he just have waited this all out? He wouldn’t have had to bother with any of this. He wouldn’t have needed to fear getting caught or found out. Any more than usual, that was.

If only he’d realized sooner, way sooner, that all he ever needed to do was wait. Perhaps the first times it wouldn’t have worked, since back then he hadn’t yet had a clear picture of how it all worked - but nowadays, he had no excuse.

He opened his eyes. He felt tired. Not in his limbs or his eyes, but in his spirit. He didn’t want relief anymore, and he’d never wanted regret. He wanted to ignore both of those feelings. He wanted to forget it all.

There was no room behind the bookcase, ShirLee had been drinking last night, and there was no reason for him to be out in the snowfall.

He decided to go back inside.