#only to find a mutilated lower arm in a pool of blood. of which the footsteps painted by it trail off towards the entrance of the cave

[poisonouspastels]

Thinking about Rana introducing Groda to other people bc she has to be forced to socialize eventually. And like, Groda meeting Sunny eventually and immediately clocking that he's missing an arm and trying to subtly tug on Rana's shirt almost instantly while being very clearly panicked but still trying to hide it. And Rana eventually pulls her aside like "What?? what is it?" "You didn't tell me he was missing an arm!!" "...Why would that matter?" <- understandably getting the wrong impression from this "Because I've seen it before." "Oh."

And that was the day that Rana learned Sunny's arm was ripped off by Groda's Warden at the worst possible timing.

[jt-artsandfics]

I love Kung Lao so so much. And Bi-han from the latest movie. Any imagines you got I would love!! Maybe them being jealous and protective?

Jealous and protective. pt 1

I feel this alot they are two of my favourite characters and I loved the actors who played them so I'm going to keep with the 2021 movie for this version. Hope these are to your liking Bi-hans is more domestic protection but he is a jealous man. So don't touch what is his.

Warings Sergestive scenes, mention of sex, nudity, bathing together

Photos are not mine just used as headers.

Kung lao: jealous and protective

Kung lao when jealous gets this little pinch between his eyebrows, his jaw tightens to the point of pain and the young man stares. It's no secret really that Kung lao loves getting under people's skin, but when it's someone else doing it to him it's very much a different story. It's well known Kung lao doesn't like Kano, most of the shaolin monks didn't like the man. But what had him on high alert right now was how close the man is too you. His eyes dart across the fight pit, watching and waiting to see if his assistants would be needed for the brute of man. Kung Lao knows that you can handle yourself in a fight, he and Lui Kang had trained with you since you arrived long before the new fighters.

"Come on!, stop dancing around and fight. Unless you want a dance but best I can do for ya is the naked one" The Australian man calls out. "How about you focus on not getting your ass kicked Kano. It's starting to seem like it's your new hobby" Kung Lao smiles a little under the shade of his hat. His love knew how to rile someone up, wither it in a fight or shared moments between them in the shadows of there rooms.

Kung Lao doesn't know why he's jealous, let alone of Kano. His lover had made it very clear that they are not interested in the man. Perhaps it's the constant of flirty coming from Kano, the degrading, sexist and rasict comments that all came from this man.

"Oh you wanna play dirt hun? We'll play dirty then" kung lao tense as he continues to watch them fight making sure no harm comes to his partner. He can see Kano is hitting his peak of anger, he can see the red in his eye become brighter. Kung Lao is quick and almost in the blink of an eye he is beside his lover his hat being used as a shield against the laser once more. It is quite between the three, one of his arms are wrapped around his partner's waist holding them close as he slowly lowers his hat. There's many emotions there but the one which is the most obvious is the anger towards the Australian man.

"The training is over, Kano if you do not learn to control your anger or arcana you will continue to fail." Kung Lao said nothing else as he drags you from the fight pit. You let him pull you thought the many halls of the temple until you can feel your arm staring to hurt from the pressure he's putting on your wrist. "Lao?" Your voice is soft and soothing to his nerves. "Are you hurt?" His eyes meet yours as he finally stops walking. "I'm alright, but you on the other hand have a serious case of jealousy" you laugh lightly, it gains a grunt from him as he rolls his eyes. you run your hands over his shoulders, leaning up to place a kiss on his lips, he let's out a sigh of relief. His shoulders let go of their tension as he pulls you closer.

"Forgive me for being too over bearing, I just do not like that man touching you" he says resting his head on his loves shoulder. His hands rest against their hips as they both stand together is a blissful moment. "Lao you don't have to be sorry, I know very much at Kano likes trying to get under your skin just as much as you do his. But you happen to be the man I love and adore." He smiles bringing you in for another kiss. "I also happen to love you riled up and jealous, it doesn't happen often" you chuckle. "That it doesn't, my love"

Bi-han: jealous and protective

Bi-han is very good at hiding us I emotions, but when something happens that invoke him they show like wild fire. Jealous is something he feels very often, his sweet love he knows very much is his. Has stated on many occasions to reassure him. Not many people knew about you, and that's how he wished to keep it, anyone who found you ended up dead or mutilated to no recognition. your his love, the one thing that means the world to him other then the Lin Kuei. And he wouldn't let anyone into his house where his heart was.

"Bi-han?" He's staring again he knows, but he loves being close to you, watching you as you move around and work. It doesn't help that he's just tracked blood all into the house as he stand there watching them in the kitchen. They turn around to meet his gaze. "Bi-han!, baby what did I tell you about blood on the floors!" He chuckles moving closer to them pulling them into a reluctant hug that they squeal and try to escape. "BI-HAN!" "Wǒ de xīn, please let me enjoy this" he lifts you to sit on the kitchen bench ad he pulls us I mask off and kisses you.

"You're lucky I love you" he laughs lightly kissing their forehead then cheeks before returning to their lips. It's quite between them. Both enjoying being close to one another basking in each other's love. "Bi, did you find the man who broke in, and would this happen to be his or your blood, becuase you need a bath" he hums lightly pulling away a little seeing the small specks of blood now on your face and covering your hands and clothes. "His" is the only reply he gives as he picks his lover up and carries them towards the bathroom.

Bi-han sets them down in the bathroom as he begins to undo all of his armor, he can hear the water begin to pour into the bathtub. "You have blood all thought your hair Baby, how badly did you leave his body?" Bi-han turns to his love as he continue removing his clothing. "That man broke onto my home, where my Wǒ de xīn is, he is lucky I was will ikng to show him enough mercy to grant him a quick death." he finishes stripping of his clothes and makes his way into the bathtub, sinking down into it and let's out a sigh. His pale eyes flick to his love. "Tiánmì de ài, come" that's all he has to say as his little heart strips before joining him in the bath. He pulls them back against his chest, resting his head on their back. His lips trail sweet kisses against his lovers skin. His skin is such a different contrast from the hot water pooling into the bathtub. "Would you like an to wash your hair Bi?" He lets out a soft sigh as he nods into your shoulder. "Yes" he let's you move to face him resting against his legs. He reaches back grabbing a bottle of shampoo before handing it to his love. this is something he will fight for, the moments like this with shampoo in his blood soaked hair as he wipes blood off his lovers face. "Sorry I'm not as traditional as you Bi-han, I know I'm probably very different to what you were used to back then" his hands rest on his lovers hips pulling them closer. "You are everything to me, I do not care that you are not from my time. You are my heart, my love and I'll be damned to the hells if I ever lost you Tiánmì de ài" he leans down pulling his sweet one into another kiss as they run their hands thought his hair. "We are going to have a red bath soon baby" "then I hope the next man who tries to break in here will learn the same lesson if this is where I will be after I kill him" he leans back pulling his sweet partner to lay against his chest. "I wish to just stay like this for a little"

[the-children]

The Westmoore Tragedies | Chapter 2

[ TW: Gore below the ‘Keep Reading’ line. ]

“Our children aren’t safe!”

“Have they found who killed those poor people?”

“It’s gonna happen again!”

“We want answers!”

More voices soon joined in, eventually creating a dull roar of overlapping panic from a slowly growing crowd of villagers that had gathered before the town hall—it was a bi-weekly occurrence by now since the massacre was discovered. Rodarin shifted his posture against the stone wall of the storefront he leaned upon, watching and listening as they shouted their concerns and pointed fingers. He couldn’t blame them—hells, he sympathized with them. They were scared because no one had answers, and they were angry there was nothing they could do. A gentle sting of pain pulsed through his lower lip as he bit at it in frustration, quickly turning from the crowd as he made his way to the schoolhouse. He needed to pick up his son and daughter early so they could begin packing their clothes and toys. Sarina planned to leave with the twins, take them to stay with her sister in La Noscea while Rodarin stayed a few more nights to find out what he could.

Firm steps echoed along the tiled floors of the hallway, his stare held upon the dull reflections within the tile while he lost himself to his thoughts. Westmoore had always prided itself on its higher educational standards—it was the reason he and Sarina moved here once they learned she was pregnant. It wasn’t a massive, sprawling city like Limsa Lominsa—but it wasn’t some small, run-down village either. There were multiple classrooms, one for each grade. Luckily, his children were only a year apart—their classrooms were directly across from one another at the end of the hall to his left. As he rounded the corner however, a sudden chill licked at his spine, causing him to stop in his tracks. 

He had been so absorbed in his thoughts about the circumstances surrounding the disappearances, that he hadn’t been paying attention to his own. This wasn’t right.. something was very wrong about this. The hallways were unnaturally dark given the time of day—and even more alarming were the sudden lack of windows. His breaths became slightly unsteady as a sense of claustrophobia gripped at his lungs. It was far, far too quiet. There were no murmurs of lectures, nor childlike chatter and laughter. With this level of silence, he didn’t doubt he could even hear the soft scribbling of pencils from the classrooms on the second floor—but there was nothing. He took a few quick steps, which seemed to echo endlessly in this dreadful silence, to peer down the main hallway. The front doors were closed. They were open when he entered—they were always open to help keep the hallways cool during the hotter days. And that was another thing—the cold. The chilled air that sank deep into his flesh that was beginning to make his teeth chatter. This wasn’t right.

His heart began to drum within his chest, heated breath billowing from parted lips as he walked briskly towards the end of the left hallway—he needed to see his children. The doors to the classrooms nearly burst open behind the urgency of his entries, but both would be empty. His heart hammered loudly in his ears, hands lifting to run through and pull at his hair as his mind raced with horrible possibilities. Who took his children? What were they doing to them? And were they even still alive? Soft whimpers and murmured pleads began to dribble from his lips as tears gathered—but fighting through the sickening fear that knotted in his stomach, he sprinted for the other classrooms. With shoulder positioned forward, he burst through door after door—each more violent than the last as wood splintered and hinges cracked. He had eventually searched the entire first floor—even the main office and cafeteria. As he approached the staircase that led to the second floor, the shadows seemed to grow darker. His frenzied pace faltered, shaking fingers resting upon the rail as he peered up into the dark.

He proceeded with caution, climbing the staircase with slow, careful steps as he took this time to try his damnedest at calming himself. Rounding the bend that brought the staircase the rest of the way up, a deep crimson hue began to bleed and taint the shadows, corrupting it into a sickly crimson that tainted his vision—his careful stride pausing a moment to adjust his eyes. His heart skipped a beat as he heard the faint rustling of paper and muffled laughter of children, his pace quickening once more at the mere prospect of finding his son and daughter. Though once he reached the top of the steps, his excitement was quickly crushed by the smeared blood that streaked along the hallway. The first classroom’s door on the right was wide open, blood pooling into the hallway from within. He could make out the smeared drag marks that lead from this open classroom to the one at the end of the hall, with its door closed. Various small shoe prints were left behind in the blood’s trail, all following towards the same closed room. He inched his way down the hall, shaky breaths filling the air between the pauses of muffled laughter and movement that came from the closed classroom. On his way, he carefully inched closer to the open door where the blood trail originated.

His pulse hammered away in his ears as he mustered the nerve to peek into the doorway. The chairs and desks were scattered in disarray while mutilated bodies of adults—teachers and staff—littered the room like trash in pools of blood. Their flesh had been ripped and shredded to literal ribbons, and their faces seemed to have been hollowed out—no eyes, no teeth. “Valrin?.. Mia?..” Rodarin hissed in a pleading whisper, his ears straining as he silently prayed for an answer—only for it to go unheard. Jaw clenched tightly, he stepped back into the hallway and continued to follow the trail towards the closed door at the end of the hall.

His hand hovered over the doorknob as he listened to the commotion within. Occasional laughter, gentle snips of scissors, rustling of paper—if not for the insane circumstances, one would simply assume it was time for crafts. Slowly, steadily, the door opened as Rodarin watched in horror. Various children were scattered among the room, sitting beside the fresh corpses of their teachers—some were still twitching, kept alive to suffer longer. Soft grunts of effort escaped one child as he clipped away at the flesh of a dead woman’s arm. Others were cutting various shapes and patterns into limbs and torsos. Ribbons of skin were used as bindings and plasters for other small crafts. Eyes were scooped from their sockets with tiny fingers as the onlookers cried “Ewwwwww~!” in playful disgust, tossed from one to the other in a sick game of catch. They were playing.. Their faces were lit up in delight, not a care in the world as they played in the blood and gore of their victims. In the obscene horror of it all, Rodarin almost didn’t notice the dark, shadow-covered children standing off to the side, watching the others play with wide eyes and plastered smiles of pure white.

“Mr. Calrise.” He jumped at the formal call of his name, turning quickly to glance down the hall—which was empty. When he looked back, the shadowed children were before him, clawing at his legs as they tried to climb up. He could feel their tiny fingernails digging into his flesh. “Mr. Calrise?” He heard the call again, but was overcome by the weight of the climbing shadows—falling to the ground as his head cracked upon the tile during its whip back. “Rodarin!” A smack stung at his cheek, his eyes bolting open while he gasped and wheezed in panic. Melrin’s hands pressed to his chest, keeping him steady as he studied Rodarin with a worried, concerned expression. Young teens peered past Melrin from the classroom doorway, staring in curiosity and slight fear. “Rodarin, you alright?” Melrin mumbled as he helped him to his feet. “I.. uh..” He was at a loss for words, completely stunned as he looked around. Everything was normal, aside from having woken up on the ground. Melrin gave him a light pat on the back. “You just came to my classroom, stared for a while, then fell over. You feelin’ okay?.. You’re bleedin’” Melrin commented as he gestured towards the bloodstained leggings of Rodarin’s pants.

With tentative fingers he peeled back the cloth, revealing the various tiny scratches that had sunk deep into his flesh. A nauseating panic still gripped at his heart, but for whatever reason, he was back. And he needed to see his children. He needed to leave. “I’m fine. Got scratched up by a damn jackal earlier, must’ve had some disease—feeling all out of place.” He said, fabricating his story quickly as he gave a quick apology and walked briskly towards the staircase with a slight limp. He was on the second floor, and the injuries were still there. It was real, it had to have been. So then why was everything fine now? Back on the first floor, normality had been restored—no busted doors, and only more questions plaguing his mind. He made for the end of the side hall again, finding his children alive and well—and giving them each a long embrace, embarrassing them in front of their classmates. If only they knew why..

He spent the rest of his day with his children, pushing what had happened to the corners of his mind. His children were safe, and he was thankful. That night, he helped them pack their bags, making sure they had enough room for all their favorite toys to keep them entertained while they were away. A restless night awaited him, peeking in to check on them while they slept every ten or twenty minutes as he tried to figure out what the hells had happened. Sleep wouldn’t come until the next morning, Sarina and the kids giving their farewell hugs and kisses as they made off for La Noscea. Rodarin collapsed on the couch, his eyes no longer able to stay open. It was short lived, possibly only three or four hours passing before frantic knocking came to his front door. It took him a moment to heave himself up from the soft embrace of the cushions, the front door creaking open to reveal a captain of the Fleet. “Rodarin, come by the schoolhouse. We found the staff dead.. It’s happened again..”

    to ̗̱b̙̤̟e͍͙̦̬̘͞ ̧̠c̣̪̖̙̣̭̮͟o̳̝͝n̥t̪̳i͙̕n̩͡u͓̝e̜̤̘̙̫̩͕d͔̬̩̠̟͙̭͘                .

[much-obliged-timothy]

Whumptober #31

Borderlands - #31 - Left for Dead

I decided to end Whumptober by posting two prompts for the last day. This one is dedicated to the Borderlands discord (which you can join here!). Thanks for supporting my torture of our favorites! 

*

Timothy and Athena stared in horror as Jack took in the information of the artifact.

He was laughing, a cold sound that seemed to echo around the ominous space. Athena took a step forward, and Timothy grabbed her wrist, giving a small shake of his head.

“It could happen to you too,” he said, voice hoarse.

“We have to stop this,” Athena said, but didn’t pull away from Tim. The truth was, she didn’t want to get any closer to Jack, as badly as she wanted to stop whatever the hell was happening.

She looked at the others. Nisha, Wilhelm, and Aurelia all looked more curious than alarmed. Claptrap had backed away in fear. 

“What’s happening?” Tim asked, tightening his hold on her wrist.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Nothing good.”

She’d thought it was over when they defeated that creature inside the vault. She’d foolishly thought they could leave, tend to their wounds, get their pay, and go on their way.

She had never imagined this horror.

“Athena,” Tim whispered, eyes fixed on something behind her.

She turned just in time to see Lilith approaching Jack. Athena pulled her wrist free of Tim’s grasp and put her hand to his chest, pushing him back and following him, keeping herself between him and Lilith. 

Lilith’s attention was focused on Jack as she moved forward, though. Athena had an idea of what she planned to do.

“Heya, handsome,” Lilith said, and then sprang into action.

Tim grabbed Athena as Lilith punched the artifact, the impact sending it into Jack’s face. His scream rang louder than his laugh, but none of the vault hunters moved to help him.

He rolled onto the ground, writhing in agony as he pressed his hands to his face. Athena pushed Tim back farther as Lilith approached them next, ready to fight if she had to.

But Lilith paid them no mind, and exited the vault as if nothing had happened.

“Son of a…” Jack cried, slamming a fist against the ground.

“Athena,” Tim said, voice small and scared.

“Shhh,” she warned, not wanting him to bring Jack’s attention to himself.

He had Jack’s face, after all. And if the artifact had deformed Jack…

“I’m gonna KILL her! I’m gonna kill them ALL!” Jack snarled as he started to rise.

“Oh, god, I regret this stupid job so much right now,” Tim said in horror.

Athena elbowed him in the stomach, careful of the wound she knew he’d received during their battle. She knew he was just talking because he was anxious and scared, but she didn’t want Jack’s attention on him right now. The others were staying wisely silent, even Claptrap. 

“Oh, god,” Tim choked out as Jack lifted his head. “Shit. Fuck.”

Jack’s face burned from where he’d been branded by the artifact, his left eye burned away. His blue one was bright in the light from the vault, as crazed as his voice. He was grinning, a menacing amusement at the thought of slaughter. 

Athena crossed her arms as she watched him, stepping further in front of Timothy. She knew without hearing any more that this had gone too far. Whatever precarious mental sanity Jack had held before, it was gone now, burned away like his flesh.

“First, you’re gonna find me a doctor,” Jack ordered, trying to pull himself upright. “Then, we’re gonna wipe those bandit bastards off the face of Pandora. And then...Then we’re gonna wake The Warrior.”

His words sent a chill through her, but she refused to let her sudden fear show. 

“The what?” she said.

“It’s gonna be so good. We’re gonna scorch the freakin’ planet in fire,” Jack said, sitting now. “There’s gonna be screaming...bandits are gonna die left and right...I can’t wait!” He was giddy with the thought of violence, the laugh that left him horrifying Athena.

Just what had this man become?

Nisha, Wilhelm, and Aurelia watched him with cruel interest. Nisha and Wilhelm would stay with Jack, Athena knew that. 

And Timothy had no choice. Jack would kill him if he tried to leave. But if he stayed...his face...the brand…

Tim let out a soft noise of distress. He’d come to the same conclusion, lifting his hand to his face. 

Athena wanted to leave. She wanted to get the hell away from Jack, and drink until she forgot the sound of his vicious laughter.

But if she left now, he’d slaughter the people of Pandora.

“Athena, we can’t...he’s going to…” Tim clenched his fists, trembling. “He’s a murderer. We didn’t know before, but we know now. We know.”

If they walked away now, what happened next was on them.

“Let me,” she said, because the kid wasn’t a killer, not really, and she’d do what she could to keep it that way.

She slipped her gun into her hand. Tim let his fingers hover over his watch in case anyone noticed and tried to stop her.

But she didn’t give them time to notice. Instead, she raised her gun and fired without hesitation.

Jack cried out in pain, dropping from his seat. Nisha and Wilhelm both raised their guns on Athena, though Aurelia just crossed her arms and watched.

Tim stepped up beside Athena, his gun raised and his digi-Jacks at his back. He was still trembling, but his face was set with determination, and she felt a small spark of gratefulness to him. 

“Athena,” Jack growled, and coughed up blood onto the ground. “No, no!” He pressed his hands to the wound in his gut, the blood coming too fast. “This isn’t how it’s...no! Goddammit! No!”

“You’ll still get your money,” Athena said, eyes shooting to Wilhelm. At least she could talk him down. “Timothy can pose as Jack. No one ever needs to know he died here. Timothy can access all Jack’s accounts and pay you.”

Wilhelm considered, then lowered his gun. “If I don’t get paid by the end of the week, I’ll make sure the kid’s face matches.”

“This job keeps getting worse,” Tim said miserably.

“We leave him here to die, and no one ever needs to know,” Athena said. 

It was for the best. Timothy’s death had already been faked and his appearance permanently altered; he couldn’t go back to his old life. But as Jack? He could play the part he needed to. He’d have a job, and he could gradually leave Hyperion and go on to do whatever he pleased, with no one but the people here any wiser to the truth.

And as far as they knew, Jack had no family or friends who would question it. No one would ever realize the real Jack had died.

“Nisha!” Jack said, trying to drag himself towards her. “K-Kill...them.” He coughed up more blood.

Athena holstered her gun. She knew how this would end. They’d already used up all their health kits during the battle earlier. There was no saving Jack. They’d never get him medical attention in time.

“A shame. You were cute,” Nisha said, and lowered her gun.

“I tire of this,” Aurelia said, heading for the exit.

“Better get me paid, kid,” Wilhelm said, slapping Tim on the shoulder as he passed.

“I can get you into Jack’s accounts,” Athena assured Tim. “You just need to stay at Hyperion long enough to alleviate suspicion. Then I’ll help you get wherever you want, if you choose to leave.”

“No!” Jack said, and there was a mix of fury and panic in his voice. “No, you little shit! You can’t!” He tried to get up, but cried out in pain and fell back down, slipping in his own blood. It was pooling around him alarmingly. “No, no. Angel. She needs me. You can’t...I’ll kill all of you! I swear it!” 

“Let’s go, Timothy,” Athena said, putting her hand on his arm and gently pushing his gun down. “It’s over.”

“It’s over,” he echoed, staring at Jack. “Yea, it’s over. Oh, hell. It won’t be okay, will it?”

“I don’t know,” Athena said. “But there’s nothing left for us here. Let’s go. He brought this on himself.”

“You can’t leave me here!” Jack yelled angrily, trying to drag himself after them.

Athena pulled Timothy away, heading for the exit. The others were already up ahead of them, leaving Jack behind.

“It’s for the best,” Tim said, gripping his gun tightly. “He would’ve kept killing people. Like Gladstone.”

“H-Hey!” Jack cried as they approached the exit, too far ahead for him to catch up to.

No, no. He’d seen it. He’d seen the future. The Warrior. The deaths. All of it.

It hadn’t been this.

It hadn’t been his own team leaving him behind, betraying him. It hadn’t been his body double taking over as him.

Angel. What if Timothy found out about Angel? What if, in addition to Jack’s life, he took Jack’s daughter?

“Come back!” Jack snapped, though they were already gone.

He was alone. His vision was starting to go dark. He was so cold. His shirt clung to him, sticky with blood. The scent of it filled his nostrils, along with his burnt flesh.

“Angel!” Jack yelled. “Dammit! Angel!”

He wasn’t supposed to die here. Not like this. 

But he was alone. That traitorous bitch Athena was taking his cowardly doppelganger to Helios to steal Jack’s life. And just what the hell would they do to his Angel?

“No,” Jack ground out.

But his body was too weak to keep struggling. He collapsed against the ground, everything in pain. He was drenched in his own blood, and he could only see out of his right eye. 

He was afraid. 

He was angry.

He was dying.

“Not like this,” he said.

He tried to cling to life, to the destiny that had just been revealed to him. But in the end, he laid there, his body growing colder as he succumbed to his wound, abandoned and mutilated, a victim to his own ambition.

[southdownsraphael]

Nightmares and Revelations

Hey! This is my first posted fic attempt with Good Omens (Raphael hc) and it's mostly angst with some graphic injury. At the moment all I really have is a taster, I'm on vacation in America so my time is pretty limited until next week as well as only having my phone to work on.

However, I am still working hard on this and I'm going to post more soon...

---------------------------------

Crowley was dreaming.

This wasn't a particularly odd occurrence, Aziraphale would be the first to admit, but something didn't feel right.

Aziraphale was sitting beside his demon in bed, a book open on the bedside table and one of Crowley's hands resting on Aziraphale's thigh, his face inches from the angel's hip. He had been trying to hug Aziraphale's leg before he'd finally given in to exhaustion, his body having been denied the regular sleep it was used to for almost a week.

Crowley's wings were out, one spread across the angel's lap where Aziraphale had been grooming it carefully, reverentially fixing each feather while Crowley slept.

Now though, the tender peace of the small room had been disturbed, and Aziraphale paused, his fingertips still buried in the beautiful softness of Crowley's glossy black feathers as he listened.

"No...I didn't.." Crowley muttered again, his voice small and shaky, his fingers twitching against Aziraphale's leg. "Please.."

Aziraphale's heart felt like it had dropped into his stomach at the broken tone of Crowley's voice, the soft, sincere begging driven by intense fear. He hadn't heard anything like it from his demon, not even at the end of the world, not from Anthony J. 'forever the optimist' Crowley.

"It's alright, darling," Aziraphale murmured, slipping one hand off the delicate wing and into Crowley's messy red curls, his thumb stroking over the demon's cheek. "I'm here, my dear."

Crowley shifted again, his brow furrowing as this dream resisted the comforting gesture, usually enough to soothe the demon down from any nightmare. "No.."

Aziraphale sighed and ran his hand over Crowley's bare spine, feeling his cool skin and silently debating what to do next. Crowley had gone through a period after they'd pulled off the switch during which he'd had horrible nightmares every night, and once Aziraphale had gotten used to recognising them early, he'd always been able to calm the demon without waking him. This seemed to be different, and much worse somehow.

Considering the gruesome and horrifying content of Crowley's previous nightmares, Aziraphale wasn't sure he wanted to know what much worse would look like.

But Aziraphale had always been curious, possibly to a fault, and he knew he had another option, an option that could possibly make Crowley quite angry, but at least he wouldn't have to rely on the demon's rather variable ability to talk to him about his dreams.

Aziraphale stroked Crowley's wing once more, then brushed his knuckles down the demon's cheekbone before pressing two fingers against his temple lightly.

The room was small, dark, and made completely out of concrete. A light flickered somewhere near the high ceiling, a grubby yellow light that cast odd shadows in the box-like room.

Aziraphale had found himself in the corner of this room, an unheard and unseen watcher squinting at a slumped figure in the middle of the floor, an indistinct shape in the dim light.

The shape shifted slightly, the light catching glistening, bloodied skin, and the stark white of exposed bone. What had once been wings were now mostly gone, a few feathers clinging to charred bones and mutilated skin, the white feathers stained red.

As the figure moved, tried to push itself up on its hands, Aziraphale saw a flash of red curls dread settled deep in the pit of his stomach as he slowly moved closer, close enough to see the blistered, burned skin, the countless cuts and lacerations, the pool of blood sticky beneath the angel's torso. There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't smeared with red or dirt or both.

The angel fell back with a soft sound of pain and the iron door in the far wall slammed open, revealing Gabriel standing in the doorway. He strode in and over to the angel, who tried to push himself up again, to face up to the archangel in front of him.

Aziraphale slowly circled around in fascinated horror, dreading what he was going to see, but painfully aware he simply had to know.

"Archangel Raphael. Pathetic," Gabriel began, his voice booming in the small room as the door slammed shut behind him. "You've disappointed all of us."

Aziraphale relaxed slightly at the sound of the unfamiliar name, making his way around to the corner next to Gabriel, so he could see the slumped angel, whose head was down, one cheek against the concrete floor.

From this angle, Aziraphale could hear the rasping, rattling breaths Raphael was taking, his body very clearly only just clinging to the edge of life.

Gabriel took a step forward and crouched down, heaving a deep sigh. "You were a favourite, Raphael. The Almighty was quite impressed with you, in fact. And yet, here we are."

Raphael lifted his head slowly, every tiny movement betraying pure agony, and as the broken angel finally locked eyes with Gabriel, Aziraphale's heart stopped.

He knew that face, he knew it like the back of his hand, it was a face he'd been studying for six thousand years. The eyes were wrong, a soft, beautiful blue, the kind of pale blue that made the watcher feel that if the owner began to cry, all the color would just wash away with the tears.

Crowley was crying, in fact, the tears streaming down his cheeks, leaving little clean tracks in the dirt and blood and grime on his face, and Aziraphale remembered to breathe again.

"Please, Gabriel," Crowley begged, blood spilling from his lower lip as he talked, his voice hoarse and broken, despairing. "I've seen the Great Plan, and it has to stop! The Almighty can't just play games with living, breathing creatures, it's cruel!"

Gabriel just shrugged, tilting his head to the side. "You're not supposed to ask questions, Raphael, you can't go around asking the Almighty why she chose her path, and then criticising her on it. It's not what we do, we do what we're told."

Crowley's head dropped back to the stone, his eyes displaying nothing but agony and a terrible, heart-wrenching resignation. "She's going to kill sentient beings," he insisted quietly as Gabriel stood up, straightening his jacket stiffly. "Children, animals, everything."

"We don't question the Great Plan," Gabriel answered simply and firmly, giving the fallen angel a sad look. "They'll find a place for you here in Hell, Raphael. It's where you belong, you don't fit in with us anymore."

The door shut behind Gabriel with a loud clang and the angel on the floor let out a slow sigh, going completely limp and just staring at nothing. Aziraphale didn't think, his brain just shoved him forward as soon as Gabriel had gone, driving him to the body on the floor.

Raphael looked up dreamily when a pair of shoes stopped in front of his eyes, then dropped his head back again just as Aziraphale fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he reached out slowly.

As soon as his fingertips brushed the angel's skin, he was gathering Crowley up in his arms, gasping and trembling and stifling little sobs as he pulled the demon into his lap.  

Crowley cried out in pain, his whole being radiating hurt, but Aziraphale needed to hold his demon, he needed to hold Crowley and cradle him and tend to him. He slid one hand onto the back of Crowley's head, fingers spread, and held him with the other arm tucked around, under his waist. Crowley let out a long breath and drooped over his lap, his eyes slowly opening to stare up at Aziraphale's face.

Before, they had been such a soft, perfect blue, but now they were slowly changing, morphing into the much more familiar gold that Aziraphale had only ever known.

"Aziraphale.." Crowley gasped, his hands gently scrabbling on the angel's now blood-smeared coat. "Please. Wake me up.."

(To be continued....)

[the-house-of-the-nine]

In Mind of Misery: Manipulation, Part 9

[ And so the journey begins.  Three Separate stories to tell here all happening Simultaneously.  Attacking from three fronts, is this the beginning of the end for The Nine?  Please Like, Share, and Follow us!   We are hoping to get new people coming our way, and could use the love! Thank you everyone!!!!! ]

Cast:

[ L.K ] -  Lazarius Kashebahl, Marseille, Raelyndia Duskhollow

[ P.K ] - Kretus Dark

[ V.D ] - Verzatea Duskflame, Pame Myl’Brin

[ J ] - Jursol, Jimba, Mawa

[ T ] - Talisin aka The Boy

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[ L. K ]   The group of females were now sealed in a room that was much darker than the last; there was even less natural light due to the fact that they were deeper into the crypt now.  

The floor was still thick with a pool of blood that remained constant no matter where they would be going; and despite the sense of calmness that may have come over them due to the drumming beat of the hearts and the locust swarms coming to an end; they were far from safe.

Suddenly toward the back of the room they were standing in; a pair of torches would ignite in a red blaze of energy about halfway up from bottom of the wall.  The torch sconces were on either side of a hall that led them deeper into the darkness.  

But as they stepped closer toward the opening, another brilliant set of torches just several feet from the last would ignite similarly to the last.  This would progress further and further as the lead person began walking down the chamber.

From the depths of the long red lighted corridor that again was only about 10 feet in height and 12 in length, there was a muffled sound that came across as sounding human.  It echoed from the walls and seemed to surround them as they continued into the lighted hall.

The further they got, the more clear it became.  It was the sound of chanting, a deepened baritone which was being spoken in a language that none of them could understand.  

The closest thing they could make out is that it was a repeatable chant.  The first and third line were matching and the second and fourth were different.

"sanguis autem infirma...."

Their chant would beckon them all closer, deeper into the nightmare that was being presented to them.  The select few that were still alive had no choice but to press on.  With Lazarius and Marseille both gone, it was clear to the group that they would have to end this; or die trying.  There was no going back.

"omne cælum os eius..."

When they reached the end of the very long hall, the final torches would ignite on the exit which led out into an absolutely massive chamber. The burst of light would then begin to ignite the torches all the way around the perimeter of the room, a rhythmic beat to their glow as they encompassed the entire room with their eerie red glow.

"sanguis autem infirma...."

The room was filled with figures; all of which were hooded, cloaked and standing in a gathered group scattered in no real rhyme or reason. There had to be nearly fifty strong of these chanting cultists that all seemed to be facing the opposite wall that the group had come from, with their backs to them.

"et congregans omnes vos..."

[ V . D ]   Pame had begun carefully removing the cold hard steel of her swords from her hips in preparation, her eyes glaring into the darkness without as much as a flinch-- Though to be fair the grip om her swords could have been enough to strangle a full grown human man.

It wasn't a matter of if she was nervous or not, but how long her mask of calm would last. So far it was strong and impervious, even as the suspiciously timed igniting of torches occurred.

Though it had made Pame hesitate from walking deeper, her eyes moving to inspect those remaining before facing forward once more.

"Not suspicious at all,"

Pame murmurs, then reaches to pluck a torch off the wall.

"Stay close. Wade carefully."

With these remarks lingering in the air has the kaldorei pressed forward, calmly and gracefully gliding her legs through the blood, gliding forward with minimal splash or loud waves from the tremor vibrations of her walking.

"What do you think that thing was? A grotesque mutation of Raelyndias experiments?"

Verzatea wondered aloud toward both women, her grip constantly readjusting to better hold the boy in her arms, her eyes often switching between lowering to inspect if he was well and looking back toward the path that lays ahead,

"I hope it wasnt an actual man... Ive seen that before. A test subject whos soul was twisted, broken and deformed then placed into the body of a lab created beast. T'was an awful sight.. He didn't suffer long, thankfully. Soul was too battered."

Until the chanting began... In which Verzatea's original state of shock and horror disappeared, replaced with some rising bubble of passion within. She was plain pissed. Irritated. Wounded. She'd not allow herself to be so weak as to fail those who remained, like she failed Marseille.

Right now she focused solely on the well being of all three individuals surrounding her, and as the highest ranking officer alive among them, it wouldn't look well if she started sobbing like a lost child looking for someone else to fix the problem.

Besides... Tea had beef with Raelyndia, for all evidence of her corruptible touch and what history has shown Tea of the infamous Mistress of the Nine. Tea wouldn't fall victim, and she damned sure would prevent more of her own falling victim.

And if that meant more fighting, surely she could find a good place to rest the boy before unveiling her swords and wreaking her own havoc, relieving all that pent up energy and excitement. But for now she trudged along quietly and observed, her alertness high whilst watching as the scene changed.

Even as the chanters came into vision, Tea and Pame held steadfast, watching them all closely whilst backing in to their group to ensure the four of them were close-- Safety in numbers, sure... But when the safe numbers were out numbered, alas Tea was confident in their abilities... Few in number, but not few in strength.

[ L. K ]   Though it would soon become clear that they were not only expected, but welcomed.  The chanters continued to repeat what they were saying over and over again, it was their mantra that caused the hearts of the intruders to feel unwelcome and unwanted.

As they got closer into the open room, the cultists soon began to turn.  Their horrors bestowed upon the three women. First and foremost each one of them was lacking a head.  The blood soaked stump of the jagged cut was clear that they were decapitated in the most painful of ways; multiple hacks.  

The blood that seemed to be filling this place was in no short supply from these headless monsters.  As they turned to welcome the intruders not only was the fact that their drawn hoods stayed aloft without heads but their bodies were exposed on the front.  The robes were open completely.  Each man, and woman was horribly mutilated.  

Some of the men lacked genitalia, only a blood soaked stain was left.  Some of the women too had been carved; their breasts taken.  Many had missing chest cavities and organs that had been removed, all of them were bloodied and horrific to look at.  Their flesh open and rotting; fetid to the stale air around them yet their chanting never left the hall. 

“Verzatea Duskflame, Pame Myl’Brin, Jursol of the Zandalari....”

The feminine voice would return and shadow them like they were all expected.

“You have come, kneel and take your place within the Order of Nine.  Join those who have come before you.  Only then will you be free...only then will this end.”

At the furthest end of the room there was a large altar, and behind the altar was a massive glass tank structure holding a coagulated blood substance.  The glass was several inches thick; no breaking it.  It seemed to be resonating the sounds they were hearing.

“Do not resist, only through your assimilation will you be forgiven...”

[ V . D ]   "Forgiven?"

Verzatea laughs dryly,

"From the look of things it isn't us who've done wrong,"

With this the Confessor begins to slacken her hold on the boy to lower him to the floor at her feet. A sudden wash of uncertainty befell her, a sort of sensation which had her instincts in overdrive and extra sensitive to the situation.

Perhaps it was nerves, given the high tension and Raelyndia's home advantage. But the three genuine members of the Nine were high alert, they stood a fighting chance. As Tea looked about the room her voice projected forth a query with every ounce of confidence she could muster,

"Forgiven for what?"

Though she played dumb, Tea had an idea what their sins were. Rejecting the Old Gods and abandoning the Black Empire surely didn't bode well for Nzoth and his followers, she could only imagine what they had waiting for the group if they were to reject repentance.

Thus her hands move toward her wrist, hesitating here in preparation to whip free her sword-bracelet-- But first she'd linger and listen. Pame was equally focused, her eyes moving back toward Jursol and her raptors, then to Tea and the boy whom had been sat on the floor in the blood and slumped over his own lap, his spine managing to keep him upright without aid. Pame quickly steps back, taking position to join Tea in circling the child, protecting the weakest in their circle.

[ J ]   Jursol had remained on high alert, focused, silent. She followed the others from behind as they moved further down into this mess. The torches seemed odd to be lit. Something was clearly wrong here. Her eyes scanned their surroundings as they moved further in.

The sound of chanting cause her and the raptors to glance at each other. Something about it caused them alarm. Brushing it they continued onward with the others. This had to end. As they entered into a new room, her eyes cast daggers at the cultist. Grabbing her weapon as she waved a hand to the raptors.

Each one moved into a new position as they circled the group.  As they got a better look at the mangled ripped bodies of the cultists, Jursol was in disbelief.

“By da Loa......not even death be sparring dem.”

Her head turned to face the body of a female. The voice seemingly coming from no where out her on edge. It was worse since they seemed to be expected.

“Who da.....”

Jursol stooped short as she listened to the female, a snort coming from her at the idea of forgiveness. She gave a sharp whistle as one of the raptors moved to surround the boy. The other two remained by her side. Jursol snarled like an animal as she glared at the female.

“We be doing no such thing. Dis be where it ends!”

Looking to the others as she readied herself.

“Dey be dead already, der must be a way ta finish dem off.”

Her gaze was on Tea, as she perhaps was the best one to know how to finished off something that is already dead.

[ L. K ]  After they spoke, a chilling pause resonated before the voice responded.

“You do not understand your sins....but I shall make you see...you will bend; or shatter beneath all that I have built.”

The voice taunted them; the vial at the head of the chamber began to bubble and hiss.  As the voice spoke so too did the vial.  It was clear that whatever was in the massive jar was speaking to them now.

“There is nothing more you can do.  You have all forsaken the Nine.  A curse upon your hearts for I shall be reborn.  And I shall restore that which has been blasphemously ruined in your ignorance.”

A flash of light then burst toward them as a red cosmic hand slowly tore from the ceiling; it’s dripping bloodied fingers curled around a subject.  It was lowered onto the elevated platform and placed standing up.  As the cosmic energy reformed and took its place as a chain noose around the neck of the figure, it became clear to them.

“Behold....”

The man was covered in blood, near death and being secured by a red energy chain that fed back to the large tank of blood substance.  It was Marseille.  His right arm was completely torn off, and his body had multiple teeth wounds across his legs, chest and neck.  He was alive.

“At this moment I have already systematically begun reclaiming all that is mine.”.

The voice said as the chain was jerked back and Marseille stirred to life.

“You will all suffer.  Scattered to the wind by my doing...torn from the place you claim and infest with your hideous stench.  But... as you have left it defenseless, I am curious how many more will be decimated before I reach my goal....I sense one of you has left something very....very important in my home....”

The voice said in a sinister tone.

“Pity....”.

In case it was not obvious that was a dig at Verza, she did leave something very important at home.  Something that was not easily replaced. And then the sound of laughter filled the air with her tone echoing over the chanting of the corpses around them.

[ T ]   As the laughter echoed around the chamber, a new scream was heard. This one was coming from the boy, who has just been finally jerked awake from nightmare after nightmare from merely entering the damned place.

Lazarius’ absence might have also played a part in allowing him to wake. As he woke shrieking, he curled up, only to go silent in his terror as he found himself sitting ankle-deep in blood.

[ J ]   Jursol looked around the room as she tried to think of something. Anything they could do at this time was better then nothing. However a plan was needed before acting. A raptor remained near the boy as he woke up. It purred as it tried to nudge him.

[ V . D ]   After all was said... For a moment... There was silence. To Tea, the shock of witnessing Marseille fall into display for the women and child was but a hazy flash of blurred images.

The cry Pame let forth was a distant noise to the sindorei, even as the kaldorei was standing just a little in front of Verza. The hollering of the boy, the noise from the raptors, the chanting. The threat. The laughter. It all came full circle and caught Verza's attention, the warnings resonating in the back of her mind, its many euphemisms unraveling into dozens of possibilities.

There were many things important that Tea has left behind in places that Raelyndia could have deemed home. But only one really stood out, something so undeniably invaluable... A powerful little girl of the void, a gift from the Gods themselves.

Verza's assumption led to a stiffened posture, her face flushing with blind rage whilst stepping forward as if she would charge the tank, a growl of hatred in her throat as she snarled out with the ferocity of a scorned mother.

"If one death was not enough to put you in your place, a second time will!"

Tea growls, her claw designed nails digging into the armor of Pames extended arm, her passionate spiel continuing as she spits out,

"If I must cross the realms and enter death to deal with you myself, then I swear upon the Duskflame name your reign of terror will cease as swiftly as it began!"

Vehemently she tore and dug her words at the disembodied figure, her excitement and fear pairing boiling to a point of being full of chaotic rage.

"You will once more be forgotten, made insignificant, I will personally wipe every shred of evidence of your existence from this world!"

Before Verzatea could risk herself, and the others by abandoning the group, Pame reaches an arm out to catch the ferocious little elf. Pulling her backwards the kaldorei whispers to calm the woman.

Tea had her arms pinned to her chest by Pames single arm, the sindoreis frazzled appearance indication of just how quickly the idea of her daughter in danger could rile her.

All the while Tea squeezed her eyes shut and took deep breaths, looking as though she were fighting to regain her composure-- Though really she was projecting her thoughts as loudly as she could in hopes Lazarius may hear.

Brinys was possibly in danger. The Bastille was possibly in danger. Their friends, their family, and their students... Everyone was at risk now. The kaldorei then focused in on Marsielle before hissing, testing out the waters to determine if this was another trap that would set them in a hostile situation.

"Marseille?"

She was guided by pure hope that it was real. That he was still alive and capable of retrieval as she then begins to inspect the chain around his neck.

@frompage112​

@siidaraykashebahl​

@zandalaridruidofgonk​

@pyravari-kashebahl​

@whatadarkbitch​

@thebladeitself​

@miss-irascible​

To be continued in “In Mind of Misery, Manipulation, Part 10″

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Surprised Parenthood (Is this How Gods Feel?)

Timeline: During the events of PJO 2: Sea of Monsters.

            When Flynn saw the sheepish, goofy grin on Jack’s face, the one he got when he held doors open for her or carried around her battle equipment, she knew whatever came out of his mouth was going to be annoying.

         Monsters and demigods alike where rejoicing over the double win. They roamed the Princess Andromeda’s halls, chatting, pushing each other around, and generally having real camaraderie for the first time. After several discouraging defeats on the Greek side—Flynn refused to use Luke’s phrase of “calculated setbacks”—her troop’s victory in their surprise attack against the Romans came as a morale booster.    

         The set up had been too easy: a dozen Romans on their day off inside a laser tag facility that the Romans didn’t know Flynn had taken over. Luke wanted her to convert the praetor. He figured having someone so high ranking would be useful.

         Luke underestimated one thing: Romans were much more loyal to their legion than the Greeks were to Camp Half-Blood.

         Had one Roman not turned traitor, Flynn was sure the scene would have been a massacre instead of a capture. Most of the Romans got away, but they had gained two valuable pieces: a Roman that the Romans didn’t know had turned spy and a praetor.

         And then Jack’s spectacle of turning Julian’s death into a tournament sent the monsters and demigods into a party mood.

         She had wanted to congratulate Jack as soon as the event was over. He’d been so sweet and corny about getting her flowers, a card, and making her a poem to celebrate her victory. Even if she thought it was dumb, Flynn wanted to get better about supporting his endeavors too.

         Jack had also been quieter the last few times she’d seen him. He got spacey sometimes when his medicine first kicked in, but this seemed different. With anyone else, she’d force them to tell her through charm speak. That was something she swore never to use on him.

All they needed was some alone time. There had been a lot going on with that child of Poseidon and child of Athena sneaking onto the boat with a Cyclops.

First, she needed to find Luke to debrief him on the mission, to see if Lucille really did want to leave the fighting unit after proving herself so capable, to destroy Dr. Thorn for almost impaling Jack during Praetor Julian and Axel the Lion’s fight, and to find the new Roman recruit, Mercedes?, to interrogate her.

         Hours later, she found out that Jack had taken a centaur to go offshore. Flynn dug her nails into her palm. Jack wasn’t allowed off shore on his own. If he got the wrong Disney song stuck in his head, he might accidentally play musical chairs with cancer or kill a whole restaurant.

         When she asked one of the children of Hephaestus if he’d seen Jack, the blond Viking giggled, “Told you we should have put a tracking chip in his bracelet.”

         After thirty minutes of panicked searching with Luke, a centaur ride, and some broken faces later, she and Luke found Jack with that dumb grin.

         His red hair acted as a messy flag amidst a line of Cyclopes, snake women, nymphs, and other nature spirits inside the bright interior of Monster Donut.

         A giant began to protest when she approached Jack, seething about demigods cutting the line. One look at her companion—Luke—and the complaint silenced.

         “Jack,” Flynn and Luke snapped at the same time.

         That’s when she realized Jack wasn’t alone. There was a child holding his hand and another demigod by his side.

         Jack turned, saw them, and gave them an excited wave with the hand holding the child’s. The small thing had to go on its tiptoes to accommodate Jack’s height.

         “Oh! Oh! And that’s Flynn! That’s your new mother!” Jack said so quickly the average person might not have caught his words.

         Flynn stopped in her approach.

         She must have misheard him.

         “No,” Luke muttered.

         “Isn’t she beautiful! Here! You’ll have to meet her—she’s the coolest, and I mean the coolest and most beautiful person in the world! Flynn!”

         Jack went to pick the child up from under the arms. Jack seemed not to realize how heavy the kid was and almost tumbled over. By balancing against a bolted in table, he managed to lift the child, Lion King-style. “Oh, aren’t you a tiny ball of muscle,” Jack choked out.

         With Jack’s gracelessness, Flynn thanked the fates again that Luke agreed Jack shouldn’t go onto the battlefield anytime soon.

         The child went limp, glancing between Flynn and Luke with wide eyes. Flynn didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. It had one, bright hazel eye and one dark. Its black hair twisted and curled out wildly, a little too short to be a proper female bob, and a little too long to be a messy boy cut. Its skin was pale, with a warm tint that made her think of Central America. It wore a dirty button-down shirt that might have once been red, but looked more like a muddied brown. Based off its height and the soft roundness of its features, Flynn guessed it couldn’t be more than nine or ten years old, too young to have developed any demigod powers.

         She had to give the kid credit: when she leaned down to examine it, the child didn’t flinch away from her face. Most adults couldn’t handle looking at Flynn’s mutilated face. She liked it that way.

         Instead, this tiny one broke into a massive, dimpled grin. “You have beautiful eyes,” it said.

         Jack made a gasping noise. He peeked from around the child’s head to see her reaction.

         Flynn flinched backwards, wondering if Jack had set the child up to that. Only Jack was supposed to talk like that to her.

         “Jack, what is that?” she asked, gesturing towards the child.

         “Our new son,” Jack said, his arms starting to shake. He looked so proud.

         The boy beside them stared skeptically, like he was waiting for Jack’s arms to break off.

         “Dude, we talked about this. You need to tell someone before you leave the ship,” Luke said, brushing off the comment that left Flynn temporarily speechless.  

         Jack’s arms finally gave out, and he set the child down. “I told Clops.”

         “The Cyclops?” Luke said, “You know that doesn’t count. And where did you get—wait—are you the one who won the fight against the praetor?”

         The boy to the side of Jack pulled his shoulders back. His black hair was coarser than the other’s and dangled past his shoulders. There were braids twisted into random locations and a segment behind one ear was shaved. His skin was a rich caramel and his dark eyes darted up to Luke’s with such defiance, she thought he might have been looking for another fight.

         He wore a shirt too big for him, one that must have been an extra band shirt of Jack’s. The praetor’s medals sparkled against the blue material. One of his hands rubbed the lower right medal like it might disappear if he didn’t touch it. Flynn considered warning him that the oils in his fingers were going to rust them.

         Flynn wasn’t sure what country he was from, though guessed somewhere in South America. Other than a pair of ears he hadn’t quite gown into, he might look conventionally attractive if he cleaned up.

         “Yea,” he said, “What’s it to you?”

         Jack paled. “Oh, uh, Axel, this is Luke. He’s the leader of the army. We’re nice to Luke.”

         Axel tilted his head skeptically. “So, you’re like the cult priest or something?”

         Luke’s charming smile twitched. He glanced to the beaming redhead. “Jack… what did you tell our new recruits about us?”

         Jack tilted his head to the side, holding out a hand to list things on his fingers. “That there is absolutely no running by the pools, Tuesdays are Terrific Taco Nights, which I figured they might like since I think they’re both Hispanic—are you Hispanic? I guess I should have asked—”

         Flynn held out a hand for Jack to stop. He trailed off, noticing her frown. The delight in his eyes dimmed to anxiety.

         “What did you call them earlier?” she asked, her tone careful.

         Jack swallowed. “Our sons.”

         The look she gave him must have been intense. The smaller child took half a step behind the bigger one.

         “Oh man…” Luke sighed.

         “Flynn? Jack? Luke?”

         Flynn glanced further down the line. The space between them and the order counter had cleared of customers.

         A frail blonde girl was beckoning them to the counter. Her icy blue eyes shot nervously to Luke and then back to Flynn. “To what do I owe the honor on my first shift?” She gave a curtsey that looked far too delicate in her yellow and pink apron.

         “Lucille!” Jack said. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and shuffled the two boys forward. “We wanted to come see how you were liking the new job!”

         Although Flynn could tell he was trying to hide it, his voice shook. She reached forward to touch his shoulder and found that her hands were shaking too. What was wrong with her?

         She lowered her hand without touching Jack’s shoulder. When she felt Luke’s eyes on her, she scowled at him.

         Luke put his hands up in a defensive gesture and mouthed, “Don’t look at me.”

         He was right: there was no way Luke could have known about this “son” business. He’d been with Flynn the whole time.

         Lucille’s cheeks went rosy with her smile. “We just opened, but we’ve already helped so many monsters. I—” She froze, her eyes trailing back to Flynn. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “It’s a nice change of pace.”

         Axel perked up, looking the girl over. “What is this place?” he asked.

         The frail girl clapped her hands. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new? I’m Lucille.”

         “Axel,” he said and stood up a little taller.

         Flynn wondered if Axel was about to become one of the many boys, Luke included, that were baffled with Lucille’s sweet, biting disinterest. The two looked about the same age.

         “We help monsters here—hold on—Vicky, can you take over?”

         Lucille stepped to the side, letting another associate take over the main line before any monsters began to grumble.

         She fluffed out her apron. “Like their half-mortal children, gods often abandon their monster children. Mortal children usually have at least one parent that can help take care of them. Monsters often don’t. They’re abandoned to starve in the wild.” Lucille frowned, rubbing her wrist.

         Luke snorted. “Yea, leave it to the gods to be the role models for ‘worst parents ever.’”

         Axel and the other child exchanged a glance.

         “That’s awful,” the tiny one said.

         She nodded. “Yes. That’s why we run the Monster Donut shops. They’re charity-based with no strings attached. Monsters don’t need to join Kronos’ army. We just want them to have a safe spot to get a free bite to eat and socialize with each other and friendly demigods.”

         Jack nodded. Although his voice kept light, he kept trembling and wouldn’t make eye contact with Flynn. “We wanted an environment where they could see that not all demigods would try to kill them on sight. It’s kinda hard to undo centuries of the ‘who can kill whom first’ thing.”

         Axel touched his mouth with his fingertips. “That’s a really cool idea,” he begrudgingly admitted. “Who funds it?”

         Luke grinned. “That’s the beauty of these babes. The establishments pop up any time a super powerful monster—in this case a hydra—lends some of its life force to support its brethren. Flynn helped start this one.”

         All eyes turned to her, except Jack’s. Everyone else made it sound so complicated. It hadn’t been.  She was irritated to realize they were waiting for her to fill in an explanation. “Children of Aphrodite have an easier time talking to monsters that can’t speak as well,” Flynn said, “We just had to make sure the hydra was alright with losing a head to release the energy and start this facility.”

         Lucille nodded. “All the materials show up on their own. We just need to bake the donuts and man the register. Now, sweetie, what would you like?”

         She winked at the tiny child.

         Its face lit up as it hopped up and down. “Strawberry-frosted donut with a jelly donut with a—

         “You only get two,” Axel snapped and bopped the little one on the back of the head.

         “Ayeeeee!” it whined and grabbed the black locks.

         Jack crossed his arms. “Hey! Don’t hit your brother!”

         The smaller one stuck out his tongue at the larger one. Axel scowled. They must have actually been brothers based off that interaction, even if they didn’t look related.

         “But, you really can only have two. They can’t run out for the hungry monsters, else they might eat you,” as Jack said the last part, he bopped the tiny one’s button nose. He turned to Axel. “And you?”

         Axel jammed his hands into his pockets, trying to look disinterested. “Chocolate glazed.”

         Jack ruffled his hair.

         Axel swatted his hand away. His face went bright red.

         Lucille giggled. “How about you, Jak-Jak?”

         “A chocolate glazed and… Ajax, what was the other one you wanted?” Jack asked.

         The tiny one hopped again. “Bavarian cream.”

         Luke and Flynn gave their orders as well. Then, Lucille filled a yellow and pink Monster Donut box for them. Before Flynn could grab Jack’s shoulder and see what he was up to, Lucille called Flynn back to the counter.

         Lucille told the other associate she was taking a quick break, hung her apron, and led Flynn to the girl’s restroom. Flynn wondered if this was some kind of trap. The only person she trusted here was Jack, and he could easily be manipulated into doing the wrong thing. Could Lucille use her charm speak on Flynn? The half-sisters had an unspoken agreement not to try it on each other. If Lucille was about to pull something, Flynn would need to come up with a way to disable her, other than charm speak.

         When they got into the stalls, they checked each, one huge, one medium, and one small for the various sizes of monster and demigod customers, to see if they were alone.

         “You sure about your decision to work here?” Flynn asked, deciding Lucille wasn’t up to anything malicious. “You didn’t even celebrate the victory over the Romans.”

         Lucille had been vital in capturing Julian. On her own, Flynn sometimes struggled to get strong-willed people to harm themselves. Although Lucille’s charm speak wasn’t as powerful, without it, Julian might have been able to fight back.

         The frail girl bit her lip, nodding. “Yes��I—change of pace.”

         Flynn scowled.

         Lucille touched her wrist. “I was nervous that you and Luke were here to say I had to come back.”

         Flynn wanted to. Until they got Krios out of Tartarus or Atlas out from under the world, Flynn was stuck leading the Assault and Battery unit. While she liked the unrestrained violence, she hated having others look up to her for encouragement or direction.

         Lucille had come here to help people. Flynn had come here to kill people. It made the monsters respect Flynn more and the demigods trust Lucille. Between Lucille and Luke, Flynn would never need to take a leadership role. Now…

         If Luke wasn’t such a coward about battle, maybe he could lead the damn group on his own.

         “We were just looking for Jack,” Flynn said.

         Lucille gave her a fragile smile. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you remember when we were playing MASH while getting ready for the mission?”

         Flynn considered making Lucille slap herself. Eileithyia, the Goddess of Childbirth, didn’t understand why the girls had wanted to play a game that would predict the future of where someone would live, who they would marry, what their occupation would be, and how many children they would have. Why not just ask an oracle?

         No matter how many times Lou Ellen, a daughter of Hecate, told Eileithyia that not knowing was part of the point, the goddess got confused.

          Lucille put her hands up in a surrender motion. “I swear it’s relevant. I wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise. I respect the oath we took to never speak of it again unless it was important.”

         Both of them glanced around, like Orkus, the God of Oaths, might be lurking in a stall. MASH with demigods was serious business.

         “Jack heard our conversation. He and Matthias had come by to drop off some extra supplies and he brought a gift for you,” Lucille said, like it was a big deal.

         Flynn wished she could charm speak Lucille to the point. “And? I didn’t say anything that he doesn’t already know.”

         Flynn thought the game was stupid and opted out of playing. Then, Lou Ellen, someone who didn’t fear Flynn nearly enough, decided she’d fill Flynn’s MASH out for her. There were no options under marriage. The girls cooed that Flynn had to be with Jack, despite several of them knowing Flynn had whomever she wanted whenever she wanted them.

Jack was just her boyfriend. Though, they all seemed to sense the thing that separated him from the other guys: he was the only one that mattered to Flynn.

She’d gotten “apartment” on housing, “20” on children, and “chainsaw murderer” under occupation. Then Eileithyia had killed the joy for all the other giggling idiots when—

         “It’s not what you said,” Lucille explained gently.

         --Eileithyia said Flynn couldn’t have twenty children because she was infertile. She was too damaged.

         And Lou Ellen pointed out this is exactly why they didn’t play these kinds of games around gods.

         At the time, all Flynn cared about was that everyone had stopped the stupid game and gotten ready for the mission.

         Now, Flynn closed her eyes and exhaled, trying to conjure the audio of one of Nǎinai‘s favorite Huangmei operas to calm herself down. Of course Jack had heard that. Of course he was the one eighteen-year-old that would be thinking about children when we’re at war.

         “Don’t get mad at Jack,” Lucille begged. “He just gets—”

         “Confused,” Flynn ended, hating that word. Even though she’d gone back to visit her grandmother with Jack that weekend, she couldn’t conjure the music. “Damn it, Jack,” she hissed, her fingers curling into a fist. Now, she had to figure out what to do and possibly how to get rid of her two new “sons.”

***

Surprise Adoption: consider this for your loved ones this holiday season.

XD  Thank you for reading;I hope you guys enjoyed! I’ve had a lot of fun figuring out Flynn’s pov. Stay tuned next week to see how she takes to her new babies!

[sandersidess]

Partners in Crime

Guess who did this in like twenty minutes?! Hi hi!!!! So I did go a bit tiny overboard, but I am proud of this and if you guys want to add on, then go ahead! I would love to see your own input and any like future decisions. So this is Royality! Oh and I wrote this on mobile.

A/N: This was supposed to be up about three hours ago, but tumblr fucked me up as always

TW: Murder (multiple), A lot of blood, mention of gun and knife, bombs, mutilated bodies, Dark Roman and Patton, ASK TO TAG

tag: @smarterthaneveryoneelse @scarletsaphire @sanderssides-corner @peri-shns-brght @fandoms-are-a-gift-of-chuck @howtobetrash-org @internetwhy @cjcipher234

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Roman looks at Patton and holds his hand, kissing his wedding ring. Patton looks over and smiles softly, humming and squeezed his hand gently. They both stare at each other, kissing each other and Roman made sure it was a passionate kiss.

“I love you,” Patton whispers once they break the kiss, holding the dagger in one hand.

“I love you too,” Roman smiles softly, holding his custom pistol, and leans his forehead against him, “Don’t die on me. Got it?”

“Shut up, Prince,” Patton giggles and puts on his mask after giving a final kiss.

“The couple being called the modern Natural Born Killers have hit the town of Mesa, Arizona! They have killed the owner of a jewelry shop and then killed a well renowned family. The suspects who have only been identified by the last name Prince and Love are at large and police urge citizens to stay safe! Lock your doors, install alarms and do not engage if you see them! Here are what we suspect how they look like, so I repeat, do not engage this duo! They are highly dangerous and will kill! Back to you Steve-“

Patton hums happily and stares up into Roman’s eyes as they dance to the piano music playing in the house. Roman gives him his ever charming smile, keeping a hand on his lower back. He kisses the bloody hand he’s holding, both ignoring the ringing of the victims phone.

“Where else should we go for our honeymoon?” Roman asks him with a soft tone.

“How bout New York? The city that never sleeps,” Patton responds and giggles as Roman twirls him and pulls him close.

“They’ll see our work of art,” Roman nods and chuckles, “We’ll make it into the museum, baby!”

“That’s always been your dream, ever since we were little kids,” Patton nods eagerly, “Roman! We’re going to be famous!”

“Let’s get a move on!” Roman says happily, Patton leading the way out, stepping on the bodies, as they both still holding hands.

“The duo we are calling the Royal Killers have struck five homes and five stores in Topeka, Kansas-“ “They robbed a shop in Philadelphia-“ “Rhode Island couple have lost their life to the Royal Killers-“ “The FBI are working tirelessly to find this couple-“ “We warn you, be cautious, and we will release more information once made public! Once again, be cautious.”

Patton blows out the smoke and hands the blunt to Roman, who kisses Patton quick and takes a hit. They stare up at the starry night, holding hands as they lay in the hammock. Patton looks at Roman and sighs happily.

“You’re the best, Roman. I can’t ever imagine losing you.”

“Neither can I. We will die of old age,” Roman looks at him and strokes his cheek, “We will die together, holding hands and staring at the horizon from our house in Venice Beach.”

“Come here,” Patron grabs him and pulls him into a kiss and Roman chuckles and pulls him on top of him. He drops the blunt on the person beneath them, which fell in a pool of their blood.

“The FBI day they are closer and have released the identities of the Royal Killers! The names are Roman Prince and Patton Love, but they may go behind the alias of Creativity and Morality, Alexander and Samuel, or Ricky and Patrick. Here are their mugshots from years back when they were captured as young adults after robbing an elderly. They both have their own distinctive features. Roman has a scar near his left eye, along with a distinctive mark under his right eye. Patton has a birthmark on his neck, resembling the shape of a heart. They both have tattoos on their shoulder of an armor and heart. If you see them, call the number on screen, the police or FBI. They are considered highly dangerous, their signature weapon being a nine millimeter pistol that is red and gold, along with an eight inch dagger, the end being jagged. Once again, do not engage. They are highly dangerous murderers.”

Roman watches as his husband laughs happily as he ran into the beach, sighing happily and took a video of him. Patton turns around, the sun hitting him just right and made him look angelic in his black tank top and blue shorts. Patton squeals happily as a small wave hit him, falling down on the wet sand. He turns to Roman and waves at him, Roman going towards him and set the phone down to record them. He runs to him and picks him up, spinning him around. Patton laughs and wraps his arms and legs around him. Roman took him more into the water, where it reached up to Roman’s abs.

“I wish I could marry you once more,” Roman says, stroking back Patton’s wet hair, his curls falling over his eyes.

“You looked so good in that red suit,” Patton hums and leans his forehead against him, “You looked like a movie star.”

“You looked so dashing in that dress. White with red fits you so well,” Roman whispers and sets him down, “Absolutely angelic.”

“PUT YOUR HANDS UP NOW!”

Roman and Patton then around, seeing they were surrounded by cops and a SWAT team. Patton held onto Roman’s hand tightly, Roman bringing him close. They were shouting demands, and it was terrifying Patton. Roman hid his face in his chest, both still ignoring demands.

“PUT YOUR HANDS UP AND SURRENDER PEACEFULLY!”

“Don’t worry dear, they won’t hurt you,” Roman whispers to Patton and kisses his head.

“They’re scaring me. I don’t want to be away from you,” Patton whimpers, tears welling up, shaking his head, “They can’t separate us!”

“GET READY TO FIRE! AIM-“

“And they won’t. After all, the world has to see our work of art, sunshine,” Roman grins and pulled a small remote out of his pocket and pressed a button.

At that moment, Roman pulls Patton down underwater as homemade explosives started going off. There were shouts and screams, the officers trying to scramble away but the area was littered with bombs. Only Roman knew where he put them from two days ago.

After what seemed like forever, but only two minutes, they rose up enough to where their noses were above water. They scanned the area and stood up slowly, panting hard. It was the one time they were glad they could hold their breaths for a long time.

“Are they gone?” Patton asks, his voice scared and still clinging onto Roman.

“They should be. All I see are bodies,” Roman says, “Get on my back. I’ll take us to the car and we’re leaving this country. They’re waiting for us.”

Patton nods and does as he says, Roman not being bothered that he stepped over mangled body parts and bodies. He avoided the bombs he planted, and reached the car. He had Patton get in and Roman starts the car, both still holding hands.

“They’ll never separate us, sunshine. Remember that,” Roman reassures Patton, who nods and shoots at the officer who stood up weakly.

With that, Roman sped off the beach and set off the last of the bombs as they both drove off to the cruise ship waiting for them.

“The FBI and all of the departments have no idea where this serial killer duo have disappeared! They are working with other countries to find them, but it is a tragic event! They have killed over forty officers and over thirty of the best from the SWAT team. All that was found was the cellphone of Roman Prince, which seemed to record their final moments on the beach before officers came into scene. It is a sad day, but the country is hoping they are brought to justice so-“

“You two sure cause trouble.”

Roman turns to his friend, having tucked in his husband. He stared at the trio, Logan stepping up.

“It’s called having fun, eyepatch. You should try it,” Roman smirks and snaps his fingers, “Want to come with us?”

“No, because you two are retiring,” Logan says and Virgil hands over the passports, “You two are lucky you’ve grown and changed from that mugshot. No one will recognize you.”

“Ah! That is a name I do love!” Roman laughs and shakes his head, “Romeo. Not too much different from mine.”

“Patton is now Pedro. It works that you two know some Spanish,” Dolos shrugs and hands over their documents, “Don’t kill anymore. It was hard to get these documents.”

“I worked hard to make those passports,” Virgil scoffs, the scar on his cheek catching Roman’s attention.

“We won’t disappoint you guys! Besides, I did promise Patton a beach honeymoon,” Roman chuckles and looks at the captain from the cruise, pointing the gun at him as he picked up a phone, the trio pointing their own at the other cruise workers, “and I’m not letting anyone ruin his vacation.”

[iwritesometimes]

northstarfan

replied to your post

“okay so!! who's got some Netflixvania prompts for me??? you know you...”

The trio vs Elizabeth Bartley! https://castlevania.fandom.com/wiki/Elizabeth_Bartley

ty so much for the prompt and link!<3 i spent the morning in a Castlevania research black hole because of it (i am not remotely complaining about this). i’ve still jiggered the timeline so Elizabeth can be alive during the Netflixvania time period, i hope that’s okay! :)

castlevania gen, 3800 words, cw for reasonably graphic violence on and off screen

still taking castlevania and vampire hunter d prompts here!

***

It’s only good fortune the likes of which Adrian is both unused to and suspicious of that the attack comes when Sypha and Trevor are paying him a visit. Then again, it’s hard to call anything “fortunate” that leads to the mutilated body of a local goatherd and his wife, as well as their whole flock, impaled on stakes around the perimeter of the Belmont estate in the cold light of a December morning. Adrian stands looking up at the grisly remains with a grim look on his face, Sypha beside him and Trevor already beginning the unhappy work of cutting down the pikes, horror and anger in every swing of the axe.

“We should tell the villagers,” Sypha says quietly. “They...might listen to me, and stay in their homes.”

Adrian says nothing for a moment; a stake falls with a sickening thud, frost and goat bones crunching. Then, quietly, he murmurs, “I’m afraid that won’t do any good.”

He’s right. He wishes he wasn’t. The last glowing embers of the pyre they built to burn the bodies are still smoking at dawn the next day when the three of them return to the castle after a night spent fruitlessly scouring the forest, only to find three more mutilated human bodies on the castle’s doorstep. Sypha swallows a cry; they are...they are only children, three young women no older than sixteen. Alucard learned enough about medicine from his mother and enough about human death from his father to know that the girls died horribly and slow, but he tells neither Belmont nor Sypha this. He suspects they already know.

There is a letter, clutched in the frozen, bloodied hand of one of the victims. Adrian takes it, not thinking of what he is doing, unable to allow his brain to approach it if he wants to remain in control of his fury, but it’s too much for Trevor, who turns on a heel to stride toward the treeline and heaves up the meager contents of his stomach before he can reach it. Adrian’s hand shakes as he breaks the wax seal, pressed with a mark he recognizes.

Their fear tasted so sweet, Alucard.

The crossroads at midnight. Bring the Dark Lord’s remains.

***

“I don’t like this,” Belmont says for the fourth time; it had been unnecessary even the first, and now it just makes Adrian’s teeth itch. Sypha beats him to the dirty, quelling look, and Trevor grunts defensively, hand tightening around the Morning Star. “Well, I don’t. We have no idea how many of them there are or what they’re capable of.”

“Oh, we can safely assume they’re capable of anything,” Adrian says, low and deliberate. “Erzsébet never quite learned the meaning of self-control.”

“Is everyone you’re related to so charming, Alucard?” Trevor rumbles, acid in his tone. Adrian bares his teeth at him and gets the satisfaction of seeing Belmont flinch. Before he can offer anything further, however, his ears prick to the faintest rustle in the undergrowth, and he peers with eyes hazing crimson into the inky blackness of the nearby stand of alders. Sypha and Trevor see his head swivel, each of them stiffening in readiness and alarm.

At once, a dozen wraithlike women all in black emerge from the trees, just eerily floating white faces and hands, and in their midst, a flame of red and gold and pink silk, is a taller, painfully elegant woman so beautiful she hurts to look at. Adrian hears both Sypha and Trevor sigh softly at the sight of her, snaps, “Be on your guard,” not loud, but commanding. A laugh like chimes fills the air of the empty crossroads as the retinue of ghostly killers moves across the open field toward them, too weirdly quick and smooth to be walking.

“Why, my dearest Alucard, are you not going to introduce us?” Erzsébet says, her soft, melodious voice seeming to be in their minds rather than actually spoken. “I won’t be seen to be rude in front of your traveling companions.”

“Cousin,” Alucard greets her flatly. “Unfortunately, etiquette is the least of my concerns at the moment. You must know I won’t give you what you seek.”

“What I know is that eventually Wallachia will run out of sweet fresh virgins for me to leave at your door, and I shall have to go further abroad for fresh meat.” She and her coterie have drifted close enough now to see the silvery glint of moonlight on her fangs when she speaks. Her heavy, dark eyes gleam back at them out of a face from a masterful painting, long, black hair falling over her shoulders like water, disappearing into the darkness around her. “My own lands are running a little dry, these days. These are the best they had to offer.” She gestures regally to the women in black around her, all of whom stare back motionlessly at the three hunters huddled close in the pool of light under the lamppost. All of them vampires, and no doubt deadly, if Erzsébet thought them worth sparing the usual ravages of her appetites.

“You’re not leaving Wallachia alive,” Trevor tells her, barely controlled rage trembling in his voice; for all that he is not quite the average Belmont, when it came down to it, Trevor still relished the hunt and the kill of Adrian’s kind. Adrian had found it distasteful in the past, but at present…

“And who will stop me? You?” Erzsébet says, her gaze swinging to Trevor, with all the heat and weight of centuries and thousands of dead innocents. She leans in toward him a little, the loose neck of her dress slipping down a fraction by design. Adrian knows without looking where Trevor’s eyes are straying; he feels the man shudder, and suddenly his sword is in his hand, a warning gleam in the lamplight as he raises it.

“And me,” he says, voice like the steel of his blade, at the same moment Sypha says, “And me,” as flame blossoms in her palms. Adrian can’t help the faint smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth; trust Sypha to recover her wits first. Trevor isn’t all that far behind, however, Morning Star jingling as he passes the weighted end into his ready hand and lowers his stance to attack.

Erzsébet’s beautiful, serene expression suddenly twists, and it’s hard to believe in that instant that she had ever looked anything but terrifying. Pulling back, she raises her hand high in the air, and immediately the white faces of her guards melt away into the night as four glowing points of light like stars burst into existence around Erzsébet. “Pitiful mortals,” she intones, rising into the air as her stars orbit slowly around her. Her fangs grow long and drip. “Traitor!” she hisses at Alucard. “I will see the Dark Lord’s unholy work completed if I have to snap every bone in your body to do it!”

A black flash from the corner of his right eye is all the warning he has, before a wraith tears through the midst of them; the lightning-quick sparkle of a blade, and he barely gets his sword up in time to deflect it, sucking a startled gasp through his teeth. Fuck, they’re fast. Another flash, this time from the left, and he swings his sword, but too late; pain blooms in his side from the bite of a dagger, slashed too quickly to see, and then there is another figure, and another, cutting blood-red gashes in Trevor’s side, in Sypha’s hood - nearly taking off her ear.

“Oh, fuck this,” Belmont mutters, the chain of his whip uncurling with furious grace in his hand, whirling into a defensive screen around him; there is the bright, startling ring of metal on metal, and a white face stares through the glinting coils, fury in the black eyes and bared fangs, sword upraised and vibrating.

“Indeed,” Adrian agrees wholeheartedly, and swings his sword out in front of himself to give them all a little more room, even as he shifts into his wolf form, with its lower profile and better sense of smell and - importantly - significantly improved bite strength. With a snarl he leaps out of the circle of light, following the faintest whisper of air as it breezes by and sinking his teeth deep into...something. Something that cracks very satisfyingly between his jaws, as a high-pitched shriek tears the night. He jerks his head hard, flinging the vampire like a ragdoll against the ground, whereupon he pounces before she can recover, teeth flashing into her throat. Then he leaps again, claws raking, but he mostly seems to be getting clothing and hair.

“Sypha, stay close,” Belmont says, eyes darting between the white-and-black figures circling them just at the edge of the light, and the radiant floating menace above their heads. Erzsébet seems to be gathering energy for something, the air around her growing thick and hot. Sypha was already edging closer, their hips bumping lightly within the relatively safe clear spot created by his whirling whip, but the respite can’t last for long. She quickly swipes the blood away from the side of her face, quick flicker of her eyelids the only indication of pain, then brings her index fingers to her lips and breathes intensity into her flames. She traces a wide circle with her arms and around them rises a wall of fire; chattering screams of frustration and pain rise from outside it as the assassins shrink away from the deadly flames, and Sypha smiles a self-satisfied smile.

More snarling and ripping sounds from beyond the firelight preface Alucard bursting back through the wall, quickly falling out of his wolf shape and tumbling over and over a few times in his human form, faintly smoking. Quickly he pats out the singed edges of his cloak and stands, golden eyes still a little feral. “She’s transforming,” he warns, but by the time he’s said it, it’s happening: Erzsébet’s form seems to stretch and grow, her shape shimmering in and out of existence.

“Ssso you can play with fire, too, little Sssspeakerrrr?” That voice that was so musical and bell-like before is now more the sound of fingernails scraping glass, and then it is not a voice at all, but a high-pitched, evil hissing, reverberating from the massive green-scaled coils of a gigantic snake spilling out from under the flowing red gown. Her fangs lengthen obscenely, face distorting into something not quite animal, but certainly not human, and she looms over them, flamelike dress transmuting to actual fire wreathing her body. Those rotating stars swing inward, spiraling into the heart of the flame and heat, and then burst out from her, four blazing streaks of light. Trevor shouts in surprise and flings an arm around Sypha, both of them crumpling immediately into the dirt as fire shoots overhead; Adrian leaps into the air, flipping backward over one simmering contrail only to be blasted earthward by a second. Lights pop in his vision and he feels his skin blistering, struggling to heal; from a few feet away, Sypha cries out in pain, black shadows descending upon the humans before they can get back to their feet, and for a moment panic rises in Adrian’s throat. But then he hears the wet, rattling gasp of a vampire solidly speared through the heart, and he blinks to focus his eyes in time to see a forest of icy spines thrusting up from the ground all around them as Sypha lies facedown, palms flat to the ground, willing the water in the soil and air to take deadly form. Two of the black-clad ghosts are dissipating into smoke and ash before they realize they are dead, and another has been pinned cleanly through the midsection and now writhes there like a beetle on a pin.

The towering gorgon screams overhead, flames reigniting between her hands as she readies another attack, but Adrian leaps to his feet, fear for Trevor and Sypha making him double-quick, and hops with animal grace right to the top of the lamppost, flips higher, calling his sword to his hand already singing downward, arcing cleanly through both wrists. The sound she makes then threatens to split Adrian’s head wide open. He staggers as he’s falling, only barely getting the sword stuck into her serpent’s body and using the drag through her flesh to slow his momentum, raking a long, ugly gash in her side. He’s still batted aside by the clublike end of her tail, but manages to land on his feet, winded, but alright.

Trevor and Sypha are up again, the Morning Star flashing once more with purpose to fend off the remaining wraiths while Sypha plants both feet wide and gathers herself for a monumental burst of energy. A black shape suddenly streaks into the light toward her, and Adrian springs, throws himself between Sypha and danger, just in time to catch the business end of a fucking spear, partly with his sword, mostly with his shoulder. He grits his teeth in pain and, arching, throws the woman back, blood pouring freely from his shoulder and a soft, agonized sound rattling in his throat. The assassin delicately twirls her spear, makes a show of licking a rivulet of his blood from her forearm all the way up the shaft of her weapon to the trident blade; he hisses at her, enraged, and lunges forward, right arm hanging dead for the moment while his shoulder knits. He’s almost as deadly with his left, but his opponent cleverly redirects the jabbing point of his sword once, twice, a third time with the forked end of the spear, and then she’s sliding it up the length of his sword, blades screeching together, her eyes glinting murderously. It comes to Adrian in a flash, the embarrassing memory jolting him to action, and just as she closes with him, he rams his forehead into the bridge of her nose and prays Belmont doesn’t see it. No one could have been more shocked at the son of Dracula braining an assailant with his skull than his assailant herself, who staggers back, eyes already swelling shut, just off-balance enough for Adrian to lop off her head.

A violent displacement of air at his back recalls Adrian’s attention to the hunter and the Speaker behind him, and he looks to see Sypha dwarfed by the gout of flame she’s conjured, right into the gorgon’s hideous face. Trevor visibly falters, eyes flying wide at the size and intensity of the fireball; the wind blows hot in his and Adrian’s faces, bringing the smell of charred flesh and Erzsébet’s ragged screaming, and then she’s...melting, or so it seems, diminishing in a mirage-like wave until she is, once again, a woman in red silks, hunched and panting, eyes blazing red and hair a shining black halo suspended around her. Her remaining guards gather behind her again - only four left, all of them looking tattered and a little wild-eyed. One of them even reaches out hesitantly for her mistress as if to pull her back, only for Erzsébet to snatch her arm in one bloody hand tipped with razor-sharp nails and twist it until it breaks. The black-clad woman whimpers in pain and draws away behind her fellows, all of them coalescing into a single dark shape behind the Blood Countess.

“If you strike me down here, you murderous whoreson,” Erzsébet growls in three octaves, gaze burning on Adrian as if she could incinerate him where he stands, “you cannot imagine the destruction I will rain down on you and yours in times to come.”

Something in her voice rings so certain that Adrian feels hot dread pool in his stomach, but he clenches his teeth and carefully stretches out his right arm, feeling the bones grind and pop back into place. He settles his sword again in his right hand, straightens, left arm folded neatly behind his back as he meets her eye. “So be it, Lady Báthory. Then I will strike you down again, and again, as many times as it takes.”

She says nothing and gives no warning; in the next moment, there are simply four of her, phasing rapidly in and out of existence, arrayed in a straight line before them. The spectral images flash disorientingly, and then one solidifies, in front of Trevor, who can only partially dodge the fireball that erupts from her hand and catches his forearms raised defensively. He staggers back with a pained oath and claws off his smoldering bracers. Sypha flings a smaller fireball of her own, exhausted from magical exertion but interposing herself between Trevor and Erzsébet anyway. But the woman is already gone again, and Sypha’s spell fires off into nothingness. Adrian tries to follow the flickering shapes of her illusory form, but the wraiths are back to harry him, all four of them now, darting in and away, each time leaving a new and painful little slice across his chest and belly and face. And then there is Erzsébet again with a handful of fire that Adrian only just ducks, ramming his sword forward in the same instant.

He thinks at first he’s hit her, because his sword seems to meet resistance, but then it’s wrenched out of his hand and discorporates as Erzsébet herself splinters into multiples again. Adrian calls his sword back from the ether, only for a ghostly hand to pass straight through it and knock it out of existence again. He growls in frustration and leaps backward, trying to create space enough to rush her again, but he feels the bite of cold steel in his back and gasps in pain as the wraith darts away, her dagger bloodied and gleaming in the moonlight. The countess reappears in front of the hunters, who fling themselves apart as fire blazes between them; Trevor hurls the club end of his whip toward her and it passes through thin air, her figure blurring so dizzyingly fast none of them can figure out where she’ll be in time to hurt her at all. And meanwhile, the assassins grow bolder, circling like sharks scenting blood, and Sypha is knocked to her knees, blood streaming from a dozen or more gashes in her cloak and one wound in her calf bleeding especially heavily. Trevor whips Morning Star around them again in a bid for a moment to breathe, and Adrian catches his dark, fearful look from across the road and knows they can’t do this much longer.

He steadies himself, ignoring the pain shooting up his spine, and recalls his sword again - or tries to, but it flickers in his hand without actually materializing, then disappears, then reappears. In Erzsébet’s hand. He ducks a wild, inexpert swing and makes a grab for the weapon, but she is already gone. “Ah, enough!” he shouts, diving toward the gleaming shape of the assassin’s discarded spear on the ground and raising it, then, gathering his strength for a final push, phasing out of sight himself. In this in-between state, he sees differently, registering time as slower than normal; he can see the afterimage of Erzsébet’s movements like this, bright outlines of where she’s disturbed the fabric of reality, where her body is displacing air and heat. He keeps moving, the two of them almost in a dance with each other, each looking for an opening while trying not to leave one of their own.

Then, like a premonition...there! Adrian thrusts the spear forward with all his strength, and he feels it connect - really connect, this time, metal in meat, and Erzsébet shudders. He feels it in the haft of the spear. She fades into existence with the spear lodged right under her ribs, breathing shallow and expression startled. Adrian doesn’t give her an opportunity to regroup, only shouts in anger and exertion and pushes. She staggers backward, her weight now mostly hanging on the spear, and then Morning Star whips in, glittering death, and crashes into the side of her head, splitting her skull with a resounding crack.

A final piercing scream rends the air and Báthory Erzsébet disintegrates in a flash of light and a spatter of blood, her voluminous crimson dress fluttering empty to the ground. Adrian can only stare at it for a long, flabbergasted moment of complete, ringing silence, his brain offering helpfully, What the fuck?

With a faint whoosh, suddenly the last of the shadowy assassins disappears, fleeing into the night. None of the hunters bothers to give chase - actually, it’s pretty uncertain any of them even could. But Adrian isn’t worried; without their mistress, the vampires won’t dare harass the nearby countryside, knowing the three of them are here to protect it. And, after all...they were themselves only Erzsébet’s most privileged victims. He doesn’t think any of them would willingly carry on her task without her there to terrorize them into it.

Trevor is kneeling next to Sypha, binding her injured leg with strips of her ruined cowl and slapping her hands away where she’s attempting to pour water from her canteen over his blistered fingers. Adrian walks mincingly over to them and leans heavily against the lamppost, still breathing shallowly against the pain as whatever internal damage that assassin’s dagger had done slowly begins to mend. “Well done, you two,” he says, voice rough. Sypha smiles wearily up at him. Belmont snorts.

“Any other bloodthirsty cousins we should know about, Alucard? Hm? Perhap a ghoul of an uncle chained up in your wine cellar?”

“No, only my thirteen feral and illegitimate children,” Adrian rasps, straightening and moving closer to help lift Sypha up off the ground. She shoots him a look of alarm, and he raises his eyebrows. “I’m kidding.”

“No, I know,” she says, and bites her lip to stifle a whimper as Adrian and Trevor lever her up and get one of her arms around each of their shoulders. “It’s just such a crazy thing for you to say I’m wondering if perhaps you concussed yourself while using your head as battering ram.”

Adrian almost winces, catches himself just in time to keep his face absolutely expressionless. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever happened to having a little class, your lordship?” Trevor says, cracking a grin quite literally through the streaks of dried blood down his face. Adrian curls his lip and for a moment thinks he won’t dignify that with a response.

But, in the end, who needs dignity? “I figure if it works for a Belmont in a bar fight, any idiot can use it to his advantage,” he drawls, as the three of them pick their way back up the road toward the shape of their cart and, more distantly, home.

[hellishdrcams]

( self para )

triggers: self harm, self mutilation, mentions of PTSD, depression  

after everything that had happened, hanbin had woken up in the hospital about twelve hours after jin had found him. he found himself to be alone, it was nearing 3AM when he’s gotten himself up out of bed, only to find that he ached. his whole body hurt, parts that shouldn’t hurt, did and he could cry. but he knew he needed to move around. it wasn’t until he’d tried leaving the room that jin had bolted up from his chair from outside the room and taken him back to bed, and he’d sat with him until he’d fallen back asleep after arguing for ten minutes straight that he wanted to see jaekook. 

 after learning he had three broken ribs, he’d even chipped a tooth, his wound from the crash had been bruised internally, he had bruises littering every inch of his body. he found that his lower half hurt more than anything else. and he refused to talk about it, even when jin had carefully asked him.  jin had taken him home the next day, sun had almost tackled him. but had been scolded by his twin, but he’d hugged the kid tight anyway, even if it hurt him. he’d been worried about them for the four days that he’d been away. he wanted to just hold onto them all and never let go because he never would. he’d protect them all, jaekook and kookie included until the day he took his last breath.  

but it’s when he hears the the thud on the wall that it startles him and he freezes. he’s frozen to the spot, standing in the kitchen and his hands begin to shake when he hears it again.  thud. thud. thud. he stares at the wall with a blank expression on his face but tears are building in his eyes and he can’t take it. he doesn’t want too. he puts the glass of water down and he practically tumbles into his own room and he closes the door. the first thing he does is get into bed. his phone in hand as he calls jaekook. when there’s no answer he frowned and he lay on the bed without really moving. and before long he’s fallen asleep. but it’s anything but peaceful. 

a few days go by, and all hanbin’s done is sleep.  he refuses to leave his room, not even to eat. he can’t stomach anything because he feels disgusting and any time he does he pukes it back up. his dreams are starting to torment him and it’s worse sometimes when he’s awake, he even needs to excuse himself from just sitting with everyone. because he can’t do it, it’s too much. when he woke up he doesn’t know where the boys are, school maybe. jin’s at work, and hanbin  looks at the clock to see that yet again he’d slept for almost a whole day. maybe it’s the medication for the pain he’s in. a few more hours go past as hanbin lays in bed, refusing to move. it’s when jin comes in and sees him that he decides he’s making a doctor’s appointment. 

jin sits next to him in the doctor’s office a few hours later,  he can see how fast he seems to be deteriorating. and he’d always known hanbin to be strong, he’d never acted like this. diagnosed with PTSD and showing signs of depression, even after a few days of barely doing anything and jin’s more worried than he thought he’d be.  he wished he could take the pain away, and hanbin looks at him slowly, because jin’s been staring for longer than he’s meant too. “i’m giving you some time off work. a month might do. ” doctor na begins and hanbin’s head flips around so fast, jin’s sure he’ll have whiplash. “what? no. i don’t need time off.” he starts and the elder man puts his hand up. “hanbin-ah, you’ve been through a lot.  i think it’s only fair you get some time off. you can’t work while you’re like this. it could cause problems, you need time to heal and rest and bones and emotional stress take time, so please.” 

problems. problems. problems. it’s all he can think about  even in the car, and even when he gets home. the boys still aren’t back yet and jin needs to go back to work, his hour lunch taken up by hanbin having to go visit the doctors. he sits himself in his room, he’s curled up in the middle of the massive bed and he’s staring at nothing. he still hurts all over and he can’t seem to get a grip on anything, those three days... three long torturous days had broken him, and he could feel it, mentally, emotionally and physically.. he can feel it physically. the small box in his hand is clutched to his chest so tightly his knuckles have gone white. 

it seems to be the only thing keeping him grounded, however when he sits up he puts it into the bedside table, where he can keep it until he deserves to ask jaekook to marry him. right now he doesn’t think he does. he knows deep down what happened isn’t his fault, but he still help but feel that it is. when he enters the bathroom he closes the door over, it’s only  when he’s in there that he realises he doesn’t know WHY he’s in there and he frowns at the thought and leans against the sink, which hurts to do so. so he tried to lean back a bit, his eyes catch sight of the silver razor that sits near the edge of the sink. and for a moment he just stares at it. because how could he even think about that ? it doesn’t stop him though. at first it’s just barely a scratch. there’s barely anything but a stinging sensation. but he’s so overwhelmed with everything that he does it again. and again. and again. and again. 

he’s dealt with people who have done this, told them that there’s always other options. yet right now he feels like it’s his only one. he drags it across his skin, probably a bit deeper than he means too. the blood pools instantly and it’s like a step in the right direction because for this brief tiny moment hanbin has control. there’s nothing that he’s not  in control of right now. he does it more times than he means to, his arm’s all red, deep cuts littered across his skin and he bites his lip just watching, as if he’s hypnotised until he finally shakes himself and he moves from the bathroom after cleaning himself up to the best of his ability, hanbin pracitcally crawls out of his bathroom and gets back into bed, holding his arm to his chest as he drifts back into the same nightmare. 

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

The Murderess from the Grunewald (10): The Bloody Facts, or What happened to Frank Randall?

Just two short notes for my readers: Due to a bereavement in our family I wasn't able to finish this chapter earlier. I hope that I will be able to post the next chapters more frequently. Warning: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of physical mutilation as it would be discussed in a homicide case before a criminal court. If that triggers something in you or makes you feel unwell, please do not read it, just skip this chapter for your own sake. For those who read on their mobile, just scroll down. More Jamie & Claire, Adso & Bismarck fluff awaits you in chapter 11 (hopefully Wednesday).

(”Tür” by dawes28)

Previously

Six months ago, two hours after the First Attorney's Visit to Prison, at Claire’s home.

         The pictures were bloody. Disgusting bloody. Gruesome. Disturbing. Repulsive. Horrible. But they didn’t affect him. In the ten years he now worked as a specialist lawyer in criminal law, he had handled about forty murder cases. And he had heeded the advice of his father: "If evil frightens you, it will win and claim countless other victims. Malice does not sleep and it does not know holidays. You have to learn to face the evil with steadfastness. The wounded need an open, compassionate heart. But the wicked, they must be faced with a 'tough face'." Brian Fraser had looked straight into his eyes and had put his hands on his shoulders. Then he had quoted words from the book of the prophet Ezekiel: "But know: I will make your face hard as theirs, and your forehead as hard as theirs: like a diamond, harder than a pebble, I will make your forehead. Do not be afraid of them and do not be intimidated by their looks!" [1]

         In the beginning, it had not been easy for him and still, he could very well understand those whose stomach rebelled at the sight of such pictures. But he had worked on himself, as told by his father, and at some point, he had gotten used to it.

         The first three pictures of the Lichtbildmappe (photo folder) showed - only partly recognizable - footprints. Apparently, a person had walked over a rainy path and then entered the house without cleaning his or her shoes. A note below the pictures informed him that the prints were of the soles of Frank Randall's shoes. As it could be seen from the pictures, the footprints were coming from the front door and led down the hall to the staircase that led to the upper part of the house. In addition to the footprints, one could see drops of blood in some places along the way. The pictures L04 and L05, which were probably taken very close to the staircase, showed bloody prints of a hand on a pastel green background. "Imprint of the left hand (presumably of the victim Frank Randall) on the wall of room 1," the forensic detective had written underneath. 

(”Sandwich” by mp1746)

         Jamie reached for one of the sandwiches that he had brought with him and took a bite. Then he put the rest back on the plate and reached for the Pepsi bottle. After taking a sip, he flipped the pages. L06 and L07 showed rivulets of blood that flowed from the first pedestal down the stairs to the first step. More blood was also on the handrail above the three steps that led up to said pedestal (L08 and L09). He turned the pages again. L10 showed a complete picture of Frank Randall's fully clothed corpse. The man lay with his upper body on the landing, his lower body lay on the steps that led from there to the next floor. L11 showed Frank's head lying in a massive pool of blood. His hair, whose color was no longer recognizable, seemed to be one bloody mass. There were also numerous small and some large bloodstains on his face. Jamie immediately noticed the Frank Randall’s facial expression. While his legs and arms were in unnatural positions, the dead's face was calm, almost serene. Jamie grabbed his sandwich again. He bit off and then rinsed down the bite with another sip of Pepsi. L12 and L13 were probably taken from the steps above the pedestal. One could see the body of the dead man and the walls, which surrounded the pedestal. The picture gave Jamie an impression of how much blood Frank Randall had lost. Apart from the pool of blood that had formed around his head and the blood that had flowed down the first few steps in some rivulets, one could see countless smaller and larger blood spots on both walls. Pictures of the left wall followed (L14 and L15). There, too, blood was visible, but not in the form of drops of blood, but rather as blurred stripes. It seemed that Frank Randall had tried to wipe off his bloody hands. The last two pictures of this part of the photo folder (L16 and L17) showed where the traces of blood led to. They ended about halfway up the stairs. 

         Jamie put a pencil between the pages of the folder. With a second pen, he recorded thoughts and questions into a black DIN A-4 notebook. Then he leaned back, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His brain had been working while looking at each picture. All the time, he had wondered what statements could be made regarding the crime due to the traces of blood. But now he wondered if the traces of blood matched the course of action described in the indictment. He doubted it. But doubt alone was not enough. He had to find facts. Facts with which he could convincingly disprove the prosecution's charges. He picked up the pen again and wrote down some things that seemed questionable to him. Then he took the last bite of the sandwich. 

         While he was still chewing, he heard the creaking of the kitchen door and shortly afterward Adso appeared. The cat strolled slowly but purposefully onto the sofa Jamie was sitting on. Once there, he stroked purring around Jamie's legs a few times before jumping to the seat to the left of him. Jamie looked skeptical at the cat, and, as he had expected it, Adso's interest was not actually his six-foot, red-haired can opener. His focus was apparently on his second sandwich. Jamie grabbed the cat, set it on the ground, and held it there for a moment.

         “You had a whole can of chicken royale, old boy. You don’t get my roast beef sandwich as dessert! Either you are content to stay here with me or I'll take you back to the kitchen. Your decision!"

         The cat made some grumbled sounds and Jamie let him go. Adso now jumped on the seat to the right of Jamie, lay down there and began with a copious cat wash.

(”Katze” by 3dman_eu)

         "Good. I don’t mind if you want to lie there. But my roast beef sandwich is taboo."

         When the cat showed no further reaction, Jamie took the second sandwich and bit into it. After another sip of Pepsi, he opened the file again. His eyes fell on the writing on the cardboard cover in front of him: "Photographs of the Forensic Section of the corps of Randall, Frank Wolverton." The headline was followed by Frank's date of birth and date of death, the names and titles of the forensic scientists, the names of the assistants and the number of the Forensic Section (S 289/2019). Underneath he found the place, date, and duration of the Forensic Section. Jamie knew what awaited him and so he turned the pages without further delay.

         The first picture (S01) showed the entire, now undressed corpse of Frank Randall from the front, laying on a steel table. There were several hematomas on his arms and chest. From these hematomas, pictures S02 to S07 showed close-up shots. Underneath the pictures, the exact measurements of every hematoma were written. S08 showed the whole corpse from the back. On Frank's back were two significant hematomas, of which there were also close-ups with exact size information (S09 and S10). Jamie bit off his roast beef sandwich and took another sip of Pepsi. Then he turned the page. The first four pictures on the new page showed close-ups (right, left, front and back) of Frank's head and his blood-soaked hair (S11 - S14), followed by shots of the head from the same perspectives. But this time, however, the head was shorn and cleaned. As Jamie had already mentioned in his conversation with Claire, there were seven lacerations on Frank's shaven skull that had damaged and even severed the scalp. These lacerations had an unusual shape. It seemed as someone had carved the runic letter "algiz" on the right and left sides of the skull. In the middle, there was another single laceration. It was a straight line, which was placed slightly higher than the other lacerations.

         Jamie again put a pencil between the pages. Then he closed the file. Where did these wounds come from? Who had done that to Frank Randall and most important of all – with what kind of tool or weapon? The prosecution assumed that the tool had to be a blow poke. Frank's cousin Alex had given him and Claire such a device for their fireplace a few years ago as a Christmas present. It was a tube made of metal and about one meter long, through which one could blow air into a fire. At one end of the tube was a sharp hook, with which one could also move logs inside the fireplace. Alex Randall, Frank's cousin, could not remember exactly in which year he had brought this device. But he still knew exactly where he had purchased it. One evening, while surfing the internet, he discovered a page called ‘Hot Stuff’. As he admitted in his interrogation at the police in England, the search for chimney tools had not led him to this page ... But having overcome his initial disappointment, he took the time to study the dealer's offerings. He remembered that Frank had mentioned that he missed a blow poke for the operation of the house fireplace, but hadn’t found such a device in Germany yet. “Germans,” Frank had said, “know only Schürhaken (poking sticks).”  So Alex made his decision immediately when among all the offers of ‘Hot Stuff’ he found a brass-colored blow poke that would match Frank's fireplace tools. Although he found the price of 45,00 Euro for the blow poke and 5,00 Euro for shipping and packing a bit exaggerated, he ordered the device that night. Christmas was only once a year, and after all, Frank and Claire were the only relatives to whom he gave something for Christmas. Alex Randall had told the police on record that he had paid for it by Paypal in advance and that he received his order about five days later by mail. He had also told the English police officers that Frank was ‘very pleased’ when he received the gift.

         As understandable as the presumption of the prosecutor was (that the blow poke Alex Randall gave to Frank an Claire was used to kill Frank) so problematic was this assumption, however. To this day, the said blow poke had not surfaced. The chances were 50:50. The prosecutor couldn't prove that the blow poke was the tool by which the crime was committed, nor could Jamie in return prove that it wasn't the murder weapon.

         Jamie got up and started pacing the room. Maybe the chances weren’t 50:50. Maybe he could at least turn the absence of the murder weapon into a 70:30? If he could only sow enough doubt about the prosecution's thesis on the blow poke into the minds and hearts of the judges, and especially the two lay judges, maybe he could convince them that Claire was not the culprit.          He remembered the sensational case of Marianne Wagner. After the woman (who had been charged with the murder of her two underage sons) was sentenced to life in prison, which meant a minimum of 15 years, a new lawyer convinced the higher regional court, so that a revision procedure was carried out. When the case was heard before another regional court, Wagner’s new lawyer was able to create so many doubts in the minds of the Schöffen (lay judges), that they voted in favor of his client and she was set free immediately. Marianne Wagner was re-sentenced to life in a third proceeding, which had come about due to a revision of the prosecutor. But she'd been out of prison for almost two years between the trials. Maybe he was able to buy Claire (and himself!) some time? A time he could use to find new facts and arguments for an acquittal. 

(”Agenda 12 mesi MOLESKINE nera Design in Italy“ * By Pava [CC BY-SA 3.0 it (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/it/deed.en)], from Wikimedia Commons)

         Jamie stopped and hurried back to the table. When he sat down again, he took the notebook, opened a new page and wrote down the word: "Piles to hammer in.” Underneath he wrote: "1. Doubts about the ‘murder weapon’; 2. Marianne Wagner Case; 3. Doubts about the bloodstains". He closed the book, reached for the remainder of his second sandwich, and devoured it with one bite. After one last sip of Pepsi, he got up and picked up his things. He wanted nothing more than to drive home, take a hot shower and then go to bed early. He needed his sleep. Already during his studies at the university, he had found that he had the most significant successes with Thomas Edison's method of problem-solving: Relaxing and giving your mind free rein was the best way to get closer to solving a case.

         He took the plate and carried it to the kitchen. Then he filled Adso's empty bowls once more with dry food and water. When the cat, who had followed him into the kitchen, stroked around his legs, he stroked him reassuringly. Then he quickly disappeared from the kitchen, took his briefcase and closed the front door behind him, before a greedy Adso, who had turned to the food in his bowl, could even notice.

Thank you for reading. If you have any questions, just send me a message or write it down in the comments. Next time, read: Secret Whitsun holidays on Rügen (4): Sharing joy and sorrow (2)

Notes:

[1]  Ezekiel 3: 8-9; (translated from the German translation by Hermann Menge by myself)

[thefandomlesbian]

Not sure if you’re still taking prompts but if you are or if you want to write this down the road: Coven canon divergent pre seven wonders prompt where Misty doesn’t leave the academy and ends up being the one to save Cordelia from the axe man.

Read on AO3 for best experience! 

“When I stood with you against the storm

And I tried once again

Well, I said, ‘I'd like to leave you

With something warm.’” -Stevie Nicks, “The Nightmare”

...

“I thought you were looking for your tribe.”

Misty raised an eyebrow at Zoe’s sharp quip. Zoe had a point, alright--she had spent years looking for someone else like her, for someone who understood. She found them, the witches. But, as she swept them with her gaze, she knew they were not hers to keep. How could they be? Misty had fled the only life she had ever known to escape death. Zoe had found her twice, now, both times seeking help for a formerly dead person. She could smell the magic on the woman she had recovered and buried. These witches apparently couldn’t manage to stop getting each other killed. She preferred herself alone and alive to dead with friends.

After all, even Stevie needed to leave her tribe for awhile when it all got to be too much. A strong witch had a solo career. “I was. And I am.” Zoe pursed her lips in confusion. “This ain’t it. I got bad vibes.” Something evil exhaled from the house, something dark and cruel and vindictive and all the things Misty actively sought to avoid. Her intuition had never led her astray before. Her grandmother had told her always to trust herself, and she did. The house had eyes in its walls. “Real bad. There’s something foul in this house.” If I stay here, it’s gonna kill me. It’s gonna take the last breath in my body. I ain’t having it.

Zoe and Queenie exchanged a glance. Neither of them attempted to contradict her. They knew the truth. “We need to stay with Madison,” Queenie said. “You sure you got everything you want? You can take a shower or something.”

Misty had done worse things than hitchhike in her life. “Shower’s tempting,” she agreed. “Then I’ll be outta your hair.” Part of her wondered if she ought to move somewhere that the coven couldn’t find her. Nah. They’ll probably need somebody else brought back to life before long.

Where the other witches went, Misty didn’t know; she kept her bag of things on the floor in the bathroom alongside the change of clothes Zoe had given her. They weren’t her style, but they would get her back to the swamp. She didn’t have the liberty to have a style, now, she supposed, being officially homeless without electricity or running water. The warm water from the shower was a novelty she hadn’t known in over a month, and stepping out from under it into the steam of the room filled her with yearning. Misty loved her life in the forest, but she missed twenty-first century hygiene.

She donned the T-shirt and stained hoodie Zoe had given her and swept her hair out of the hood. The sweatpants fit loosely. She pulled the string taut and slipped back into her boots. Emerging from the bathroom, she glanced left and right in search of the other girls, wherever they had gone with Madison. She didn’t see them. But a shriek pierced the air.

Heart leaping into her throat, Misty grabbed her napsack and headed toward the stairs. “Hell, no.” A shower was not worth dying over, but she knew how to get the hell out of dodge before anybody knew any different. The darkness of the house wrapped around her and consumed her, threatening to swallow her whole. She wanted nothing to do with the darkness here or any of the people it already had in its clutches.

The scream echoed again, a woman’s wailing voice, followed by a man’s distinct, grizzled laugher. Misty’s drumming footsteps on the stairs halted at that sound. She’s with a man. Sucking her lower lip, she hesitated. The other girls dashed down the hallway to Cordelia’s room. The woman screamed again. “Cordelia!” Misty’s heart couldn’t take the sound of a damsel in distress. “It’s locked!”

Misty ran to them, her napsack tossed on her shoulder. “The hell do you mean, it’s locked? You’re witches!” Zoe and Queenie continued to jiggle the door handle uselessly, like the weathered lock would break if they kept trying. They ignored her.

“It’s the axe man.”

“You released him?”

Neither of them acknowledged what Misty had said. “I said I would! I lied!”

The bundle of witches raced away. Cordelia belted out another scream. From within the room, the sound of clattering furniture and shattering glass burst. Misty turned on her instinct to follow the girls. “Now dance,” growled a dark voice from within the room. All of the hair on the back of Misty’s neck stood up--pure evil exhaled from the man. I’ve gotta help her.

Taking a step back, Misty dropped her napsack on the floor and kicked upward with all of her strength. The door handle snapped off, but it was still stuck in the frame, rattling as she slammed against it with her shoulder. The old house was not made to cave under slight pressure. “Alohomora!” she screamed at the door. She hoped it would work. It didn’t. “Oh, fuck this.” Circling back, Misty gave herself room for a running start. Another scream burst from the room. “I’m coming!” She charged at the door. Leaping off of the floor, she plunged with both heels into the side of the door. It buckled. She slid into the room on her side, a baseball player aiming for home. “Get away from her!”

The man swung on her. “About time I get a little bit of attention up in here.” He swung a shiny axe in one hand. Misty leapt to her feet. She grabbed a chair and held it up. “You’re not the one who knows me, are you?” The man’s black aura breathed off of his skin like smoke. “You’re not the one who owes me.” He wielded his axe at her. “So you’re just in the way.”

Misty held up the chair and caught the axe in its legs, knocking it back but not out of his hand. “Don’t you touch her!” Everything her father had ever taught her about physical combat came back to haunt her now. Daddy never said my opponent would have an axe and I would have a wooden chair. She charged him with the legs of the chair pointed at him, a bull with its horns prepared to gore the unsuspecting passenger of its field. It brought her closer to Cordelia. She had heard the name in passing from the other witches, but for the first time, she saw the face of the headmistress. Mutilated pink skin crossed her face. Marbled blue eyes peeked out at Misty where acid had stripped all of the pigment from her irises. She’s blind. “Are you okay?”

Buffering lips and a trembling chin met her question. “Who are you?”

Oh. Right. Misty had entirely forgotten that Zoe had brought her here as a secret. She held up the chair as the axe man swung at her again. She hurled the chair at him to deflect his axe. It whooshed through his solid body. “What the fuck is up with this guy?” The chair landed on the other side of him, broken on the floor. The man smirked at her with his salt and pepper hair, looking all too coy for his own good. Misty backed up in front of the table beneath which Cordelia hid--the man had cornered her and left her nowhere to run, nowhere to escape.

Cordelia whimpered audibly. “He’s a ghost! He’s dead!” she blubbered. I’m gonna die in here. The notion had struck Misty when she first entered the house. These walls had power she knew not, and it was a dark power. Reaching behind her, she grabbed a ceramic vase from the table and wielded it like a glass beer bottle by the neck. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna do it protecting a woman.

He swung the axe. She moved sideways and allowed the blade to plunge into the wall. The moment of it burying into the wood gave him just enough pause for her to smash the vase over his head. At the sound of the exploding vase, Cordelia cried out, shrinking back under the table. He staggered back, cursing. “You can’t hurt me, witch! Your fight is futile!”

“Don’t mean I ain’t gonna give it my best shot.” Misty seized another vase off of the table. The brandished axe caught it and smashed it.

He reached for the last one and smashed it with a dark chuckle, holding contact with her eyes. “You out of ideas now, little girl?” His eyes were deep pools of hatred and filth. Misty held out her hand. A fire poker whistled toward her from across the room. It landed in the palm of her hand. “Oh, that’s new for you!” Yeah, it is. Misty fenced at him like she held a sword in her hand instead of a piece of flimsy metal. “Little spitfire, are you? I can have some fun with this!”

The tip of the fire poker caught on the blade of his axe. Misty glared at his hand as she snatched back against him. His fingers pried open against his will. She flung the axe across the room. It smashed against the wall and landed on the floor. “Ha!”

The axe man’s brawny hand closed around the fire poker. He dragged her close to him and tossed the weapon away. She staggered, unbalanced, and he took the opportunity to grab her by the hood of the sweatshirt Zoe had given her. She whirled. A cold hand closed around her throat. “Uh--” Both of her hands floundered at his, pulling desperately at him as he hoisted her up by her neck. Her feet left the ground. Her throat closed. She couldn’t make a sound except for the deep slurp noises twisting from her body.

The sniveling voice of the woman rose up as she crawled out from under the table. “Don’t hurt her! I’m the one you want!” Misty’s wide eyes darted away from the man’s face to Cordelia’s, her lips slightly parted. I’m fighting for her. Her tunnel vision gradually grew darker. Cordelia, a woman she didn’t know, was willing to sacrifice herself--just as Misty had done by running in here. I’m saving her.

Warmth moved through the axe man’s arm. Blood coursed through his veins once again. Something, some spell, had made him corporeal and mortal once more. Misty’s parted lips opened a little wider. Magic stirred hot and heavy within her abdomen and twisted up through her chest. Her jaw dropped. It touched the top of his fist. Flames bellowed out of Misty’s mouth. At the first flash of heat, he dropped her. Misty dropped to the floor, choking and gagging and gasping. Soft hands sweet as honeycomb patted around her body as she caught her breath.

The stench of smoke filled the room. The axe man, his clothing on fire, staggered across Cordelia’s bed. He howled, an animal in pain. The magic which had made him corporeal had given him mortality. He rolled across the floor. The curtains caught fire, as well; the flames leapt from one to the other. “Are you okay?” Cordelia’s voice was ragged.

Misty staggered to her feet. The smoke clouded around her. She held an arm over her mouth. “C’mon.” Blots of blackness in her vision dizzied her. “Get on my back--Hold onto me.” The heat from the flames and the soot exhaling from the flickering lights of orange stung her eyes. Cordelia grappled with her shoulders. Misty slipped her arms under the legs of the nearly naked woman and ducked her head as she ran through the flames. The fire caught onto the bottoms of her sweatpants. She stomped it out and pretended her skin didn’t itch. On her back, Cordelia buried her face into Misty’s hair. Misty ran toward the staircase. With each step, Cordelia jostled on her back. Overhead, the sound of splintering wood and spreading fire pursued them like a lion on its prey. “Which way is out?”

Bare arms wrapped around Misty’s neck, clinging desperately to her as she felt herself slipping. Misty tightened her hold on her. “Misty,” Cordelia breathed to her ear. I didn’t tell her my name. “It’s--to the right--” Cordelia’s shorts rode up where her legs wrapped around Misty’s middle. Misty grasped her bare thighs. She followed Cordelia’s directions, bowing her head downward to avoid the stinging blackness of the smoke encroaching around her. The flavor of soot on her tongue was a familiar scalding by now, something she revisited in her nightmares.

The front door gaped ajar, pouring smoke into the starry sky. Misty jogged through the door frame. The cold night air swept her up into its arms. The moon itself reached for her, its daughter, and cradled her in its yellow light. She staggered down the steps and stumbled through the grass, almost losing her footing but managing to remain upright. Her arms and back ached with the strain of carrying Cordelia.

The lights in the greenhouse guided her toward the building, outside which the other witches loitered. “You made it!” The cluster of witches approached. Misty leaned back and released Cordelia, letting her place her bare feet on the dewy earth. “How’d you get out? Are you okay?”

Kyle, rocking himself and moaning, danced around Misty with his arms extending and retracting and extended again. “I’m alright, Kyle--I’m alright--” The zombie-like man still insisted on giving her a hug in his strong arms, which Misty reciprocated with a grimace. He smelled like sweat. “Hey, now, no need for tears… Nobody’s hurt.”

“Does anyone have a cigarette?”

Cordelia’s hand closed around Misty’s bicep. “Madison?” she asked in a soft voice. Goosebumps coursed up and down her arms and legs. The cold night air had done no favors for her. She folded her other arm across her chest. “Where have you been? Who is this?” She shivered.

Misty shed the long sweatshirt Zoe had given her and handed it to Cordelia. “Here.” She pulled it over Cordelia’s head for her and guided her arms through the sleeves. “Don’t worry about Kyle. He’s a friend--long as you don’t expose him to none of your valuables. He’s a ouragan, but he means well.” A few hours ago, she never would have guessed she would find herself speaking in Kyle’s defense, but now, much as she was angry with him for destroying her few cherished objects, she couldn’t imagine leaving Kyle to be homeless.

The night wind blew her hair back out of her face as she turned back to look at the academy as it leapt into flames. I think I made all of them homeless. “Fiona will fix it,” Cordelia told her, grasping Misty’s arm still. She pulled the hem of the sweatshirt down over her lower body, trying to cover more of her exposed skin. “Fiona will know what to do.”

“Fiona isn’t answering her phone,” Queenie snapped.

“We’ve got to hide Madison before she shows up,” Zoe said. “She’s safer that way.”

“What about Kyle?” Nan asked. “Fiona won’t let him stay.”

“What about Kyle?” Madison demanded. “You all don’t seriously think Fiona is going to be able to put the house back together? We’re all fucked. Royally fucked. Fiona is going to run away, like she always has, and we’re going to be sleeping on the streets.” She lifted a cigarette to her lips and blew a thin stream of smoke from between them. Coughing brokenly, she appraised Misty through narrowed eyes. “I think you should’ve left me wherever the fuck I was.”

Misty crossed her arms and placed a hand on top of Cordelia’s. She didn’t have anything to say. This wasn’t her fight. “You were dead?” Cordelia extended her other hand to Madison.

Madison hesitated, glancing back at Zoe. “Do it.” All pairs of eyes landed on Madison. “She’ll See what happened to you. So we can keep it from happening again.” See. It was unfamiliar to Misty, the concept, but Cordelia had touched her and learned her name--and her powers. She knew Misty had brought Madison back to life. What else did she know? What else had she Seen?

It was a question she wanted to ask, but as Madison’s palm touched Cordelia’s, the blind woman gave a soft gasp. Her marbled eyes rolled backward, the scarred tissue over them twitching. Her hand tightened its grip on Misty’s arm, as if holding onto her for support, and when Madison withdrew, Cordelia swayed. Misty tried to steady her. “Fiona can’t know that you are here.” Her fingers dug into Misty’s upper arm. “Fiona is willing to kill to keep her powers. To keep the Supremacy. Which means she could see any one of you as a threat or a target. She feels safe as long as she believes Madison is dead.”

Madison arched an eyebrow. “So you just expect me to play possum indefinitely?”

“Fiona killed you once,” Zoe said. “She might try to do it again.”

“Who’s gonna stop her from killing another one of us?” Queenie asked.

They all exchanged glances before they looked at Misty. Misty shuffled her weight awkwardly from foot to foot. “No offense or anything, but… y’all got a problem of killing each other.” A little problem. Misty’s mouth curled downward at the corners. “I don’t want no part of it. They played burn the witch back home. I’m not coming here to get killed by my own kind.”

Zoe’s eyes were earnest. Goddammit. Misty tried to look away from her. “But you’ll help us, won’t you? If one of us gets hurt? Once we identify the next Supreme, we’ll be able to bring Fiona down, and it’ll be safe again. For all of us.” Misty looked at Cordelia. The pretty face of the older woman was all too close to hers. Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed hard as Cordelia squeezed her upper arm. Oh, shucks. These women were the first people of her kind she had ever met. She couldn’t just abandon them. I can’t just abandon Cordelia. She had worked to save Cordelia’s life, risking her own in the process. Who was she if she ran away now? “Please, Misty?”

The sound of sirens pierced the air. Misty flinched. She shrugged out of Cordelia’s grasp. “I gotta go.” She could not be here when the police and firefighters showed up. The large, beautiful house would draw media attention, and she couldn’t risk her face appearing on the television, nor could she risk the odds of someone recognizing her and placing her face. The flashing red and blue lights reflected on the houses down the street, around the corner. Misty ducked her head and dashed away.

“Misty!” The first call of her name didn’t slow her. She threw herself into the thin copse of trees which served as a fence between the burning house and the rest of the neighborhood. “Misty, come back!” Hurling herself down into the ravine, she slid down the slope and landed in the mushy pit in its bottom. “Misty, wait!” Cordelia lost her footing at the ravine--how she had made it this far, Misty wasn’t sure--and tumbled down the slope.

Both of her hands closed around Misty’s wrists. Heart thundering in her chest, Misty resisted the urge to jerk away from her. She wouldn’t do that to Cordelia. “I ain’t going back.” Over the hill, the sound of men’s voices echoed. Footsteps crackled through the leaves in the thin copse of trees. The back of Misty’s teeth rattled with magic. “Hold onto me,” she said to Cordelia for the second time tonight. Cordelia threw her arms around Misty’s neck. The vibrations within her soul dragged them inward, through a vacuum, and with a loud crack, they crashed between the corn stalks of Misty’s garden.

The soft soil clung to her clothing. Misty stood, both of her hands on Cordelia’s waist. “You can transmute.” Cordelia held her at arm’s length. In the silvery moonlight filtering through the canopy of swamp trees, she looked no different than anyone else. The trees blocked the cold breeze, but a mist rose off of the water and chilled the air. “Where are we?”

Cordelia’s tangled hair hung around her face. Her tense muscles quivered beneath Misty’s touch. Misty reached around her to pull up the hood over her ears. “My home.” The trees creaked around them. The forest moaned with all of its secret life. The cicadas and crickets hummed in synchronization. The night birds performed their own song, special for Cordelia. Cordelia shivered again. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.” It wasn’t much warmer inside the shack, but Misty had blankets, and the walls deflected the wind. Cordelia held onto her arm. “It’s okay. I won’t let you fall.”

The shack was in the same condition they had left it--the broken tapes on the floor, the cold water in the metal basin stagnant where she had bathed Kyle. “Here.” She helped Cordelia sit on the bed and wrapped her up in some blankets. Taking woolly socks, she put them on Cordelia’s dirty feet one by one. In the darkness of the shack, she, too, was almost blind. She blinked up to Cordelia from below, looking at her silhouette. On the nightstand, a couple unlit candles rested. I’ve been going through matches like a little kid through cake. But she had burned the axe man. She knew she had done it--she had set the house aflame. Can I do it again?

“Try it.” She still held Cordelia’s feet in her lap. With the encouragement, Misty licked her lips and blinked back toward the candles. What had she done the first time? She had needed to protect Cordelia. She had needed to protect herself. Her hands trembled a little. A tiny flame flashed onto the wick of the candle. “Good job.” Misty stood to take the candle and light the rest of the room, the bare wicks all around the building which she used in the middle of the night. She had had a lantern, but it had broken, and she didn’t have any extra batteries for her flashlight, which she worked to preserve in case of an emergency. “What else can you do?”

“Hm?” Misty put the candle on the nightstand. “I fix dead things. That’s it.” She sat beside Cordelia on the bed. Cordelia scooted over to make room for her on the small mattress. Misty brushed the back of her hand against Cordelia’s absently.

To her surprise, Cordelia wrapped up their fingers together. “But you can start fires.” Misty shrugged. That was a new thing. “And move things.” That was a new thing, too. “And transmute.” She had done that when she met Zoe, but she hadn’t controlled it deliberately. “You’re an incredibly powerful witch, Misty.”

“Aw, nah, I bet tons of y’all are good at all that stuff.”

Cordelia’s eyebrows quirked, and she shook her head. “We’re not. It’s uncommon for a witch to exhibit more than one power. Maybe two in a time of crisis, but--you’ve performed four of the seven wonders.” Misty didn’t know what she meant. She didn’t ask. She hadn’t been so close to another woman in so long; she was busy drinking in Cordelia’s scent as she lay beside her on the bed. “The seven wonders are the test a witch must pass in order to rise to Supreme.”

Eyes widening, Misty shook her head. “Uh-uh. I don’t like this. I ain’t here to be nobody’s leader.” Cordelia folded their fingers together. Her skin was soft and smooth as flower petals. Misty swallowed hard. “I told you, Miss Cordelia. I don’t want any part of this. This ain’t my fight. And it ain’t got to be yours, either.”

Cordelia wasn’t shivering anymore. “Becoming the Supreme isn’t a choice… You can’t escape it by not wanting it.”

“You ain’t dragging me into this mess.” Cordelia opened her mouth, but Misty cut her off before she could speak, her heart thundering in her own ears. “Listen. I helped Zoe with Kyle. And I helped her with Madison. And I helped you--”

“You got into my room when no one else could. How did you do that?”

“I kicked the door down like a muggle.”

Silence followed, but a smile cracked across Cordelia’s face, and she began to laugh. Misty chuckled along with her, fluffing up the pillows to provide them for her. She knew nothing about her shack was comfortable for a city dweller, but she wanted to treat Cordelia the best that she could. “You saved me,” Cordelia whispered, and she put her cheek on the pillow as Misty put it down. She faced her in the dim light. Outside, the wind assailed the shack, whipping and howling, but Misty’s whole body felt like fire now coursed through her veins. “Thank you. You didn’t need to do that.”

A quiet laugh tittered out of Misty. “Nah, don’t be silly. My grandma always told me there was nothing better for a damsel in distress than a dyke with an attitude.” Cordelia’s marbled blue eyes widened, and Misty realized a moment too late that her thoughts had crawled out onto her tongue. Blushing furiously, she hastened to amend her words. “You would’ve done the same--you did. You told him to let me go.”

A hand landed on her hot face. She flinched; she expected to be slapped. But Cordelia’s touch brought her no pain. “It scared me,” Cordelia admitted, “to think that someone could die for me because I’m not strong enough to protect myself… not anymore.” She mapped out Misty’s face with her hands. “I couldn’t live with myself if someone was hurt because of me.”

Misty smiled into Cordelia’s palm. She liked having her face touched. It was intimate. She hadn’t known something so sweet in longer than she could remember. “I just kept thinking that, if he killed me, at least I went down trying to protect a pretty lady.” In the dim candlelight, pink flushed across Cordelia’s cheeks, and Misty grinned at her success. “My daddy taught me how to rip a guy’s nuts off… but I never figured I’d need to fight an axe-wielding ghost. That was new. Hopefully won’t ever need to do it again.”

Stray fingers tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Cordelia pursed her lips. “Have you been out here ever since…?” She drifted off, and Misty nodded into her hand. “Alone?”

Misty shrugged. “Yeah. Safer that way.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t light the match.” Misty tried to forget what gasoline tasted like. She tried to forget what ash tasted like. The flames at the house were a stark reminder of the night she wanted, more than anything, to forget. To forget the pain, the absolute agony, of thrashing until all of the nerve endings in her body were dead and the heat of the flames had charred her lungs and melted her skin, until she finally gave way to death only to find herself dragged back into the shell of her corpse once again--to forget was all she wanted.

Cordelia shook her head. A quiver passed through her. Misty wondered how much of it she had Seen. Some things are supposed to be mine alone. “My job,” Cordelia said, “is to find witches and bring them to the academy to protect them. So they can learn who they are and how to control their powers.” Misty adjusted the blankets around Cordelia’s shoulders, trying to bring her warmth, but she knew she had done no good when a single tear slid down Cordelia’s cheek. She caught it on the pad of her thumb and wiped it away. “I was looking for you. Desperately. I knew where you were, the general location, but--I was too late.” She closed her eyes. As she did, more tears fell down her cheeks. Misty dabbed them away with her fingertips. “I lost you when it was my duty to protect you. And I am so, so sorry.”

Misty reached to hug Cordelia, wrapping her up tight and squeezing her. “Nah, Miss Cordelia… It ain’t your fault. You can’t hold the whole world on your shoulders, you know, chere.” Cordelia buried her face in her hair. Misty had lost count of how many times it had happened now--maybe just twice, maybe many more--but she adored it every time. She adored how Cordelia’s caramel-colored hair fell just so on her shoulders and how the movement exposed the freckled skin of her neck. She bowed her face down and pressed a kiss to the junction between Cordelia’s neck and shoulder. She’s so beautiful…

In her arms, Cordelia stiffened a little. Misty stiffened in turn, wondering if she had overstepped her bounds, but Cordelia whispered to her ear, “Thank you…” She swept Misty’s hair out of the way and kissed her neck in return. “I’m so glad you found us.”

Cordelia did not carry the same aura as the house or even the rest of the coven. Cordelia was different, warmer, more genuine, kinder. “I’m glad, too.” She combed her hand through Cordelia’s tangled hair. “Especially if nobody else was gonna bust you outta that room with the scary ghost guy.” Cordelia laughed into her neck. Misty closed her eyes and leaned down to kiss Cordelia’s neck again.

Warm hands caught her by the shoulders and pushed her away before her lips connected to her skin. Cordelia held her there, their faces inches apart. “Do it properly.” Cordelia’s lips puckered with uncertainty. Misty bowed forward and planted a tender, chaste kiss onto her mouth. A quiver passed through Cordelia’s body as they connected. Electricity pulled them together and held them fast, wrapping around them, through them.

Their magical signatures intertwined. Cordelia’s mouth opened, and Misty’s tongue wriggled inside. She grabbed Cordelia by the hips, squeezing the fat there. “Mm…” She moaned the soft sound into Cordelia’s mouth. This is crazy. I barely know her. Cordelia’s hands both dug their fingers into Misty’s hair and cradled her face there. Oh, god, I barely know her, and I love her already. Misty knew she had a heart made of cotton--it was soft and got shredded easily--but this caught her by surprise. She felt something for Cordelia she had never felt before. She supposed that she couldn’t risk her life for a woman without coming out the other side in love with her. “Sorry,” she mumbled into Cordelia’s lips. The kiss broke. “I promise I’m not really as weird as the inside of my head sounds.”

Cordelia laughed. “It’s okay.” She leaned forward and kissed Misty again. “I like you. I like you a lot.” Misty rolled onto her back and pulled Cordelia on top of her. Cordelia lay down on top of her. Her laugh was musical. “I shouldn’t feel this good. I just almost died in a house fire.”

Misty brushed Cordelia’s beautiful hair behind her ear. “You didn’t almost die. I wouldn’t have let that happen.” Cordelia kissed her hard. She tasted like smoke, wisping away from her in the blink of an eye, so Misty held on tighter, afraid Cordelia would try to disappear. The flame in the pit of her stomach licked downward. A knee landed between her legs and stayed there. Misty sucked in a tight gasp of air. “Cordelia--” The blind witch straddled her thigh. Misty gulped. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Misty was in no position to deny Cordelia anything. She had lived these last few weeks the loneliest she had ever been. But Cordelia was a normal woman--and, Misty had assumed until about three minutes ago, a straight woman. “I’m not… I’ve never been… I don’t want you to be…”

Quieting her with another soft kiss, Cordelia pulled back when her buffering lips had stilled. “I want this.” She shivered. “You saved my life. I want this to be here, with you.” Misty touched her face. Cordelia’s blind eyes blinked at the stimulus. “It’s the first time, since…” Cordelia swallowed hard.

Misty kissed her. “I understand.” She sat up and took the hem of the sweatshirt, lifting it off of Cordelia’s body and tossing it to the floor. Placing her bare hands on Cordelia’s warm, soft middle, she waited patiently for Cordelia to roam her torso with shaking fingers. “Take your time.” She played with the fabric of Cordelia’s black bra while Cordelia’s hands roamed the top of her T-shirt. Misty wore no bra. Through the thin fabric of the T-shirt, her nipples hardened into Cordelia’s palms.

Careful hands hooked in the bottom hem of her T-shirt and lifted it upward. Misty moved her arms and wriggled out of the shirt. She wiggled to free herself from the sweatpants, too; Zoe hadn’t given her any panties, so without the two garments, she was bare and prepared for Cordelia. Little twitches of uncertainty passed through Cordelia’s wrists, like she expected Misty’s skin to burn her at any moment. Misty waited patiently. Cordelia’s nose and mouth met the underside of her jaw and kissed there, dragging her lips along her pulse point and down her throat to her collarbones. Her hands followed the planes of Misty’s back to her shoulders. Misty lay down on her back to expose herself for Cordelia.

Both hands cupped her small breasts. She kissed the hollow of Misty’s throat. Then, she hesitated. “It’s alright.” Misty brushed Cordelia’s hair out of her face. “You can touch me--I got naked for a reason.”

A furious blush, much like that of a shamed teenager’s, crossed Cordelia’s face. “I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. Her hands on Misty’s breasts were still. “I’ve never done this with a woman before.” Misty shuffled on the mattress. “Will you show me?”

“Of course, chere.” With gentle hands, Misty guided Cordelia to roll over onto her back and pushed her onto the pillows. “Relax.” Shaking hands found her hair and tangled there. “That’s right. You want me to stop, you give my hair a good snatch, okay? I’ll knock it off lickety split, whatever I’m doing.” She pressed her lips right to Cordelia’s pulse point. A shaking sound emerged from her. Misty stroked her hands upward and cupped Cordelia’s chest in her hands, rolling her rough thumbs over the other woman’s tender nipples. A sharp breath hitched in Cordelia’s chest. Misty gave her a tender squeeze before she slithered down her body. She landed on Cordelia’s breasts with lips planting sloppy kisses down her sternum.

Misty didn’t waste any time with teasing Cordelia, who quivered and flinched underneath her without anything extra. Her soft lips wrapped around nipple. She suckled gently upon her breast. A thin choking sound emerged from Cordelia’s throat. “That’s so… soft.” Her breath whistled in and out of her. Misty blew a cold stream of air across her wet nipple. It perked up, little bumps appearing all the way around it with creases, as well. She wriggled. Misty chuckled as she settled down in front of the other breast.

Misty took no liberties with Cordelia’s body. She didn’t want to mark Cordelia as hers; they had made no such promises yet. She didn’t dig in her teeth, and she left no bruises. Using only her lips, she teased the underside of one of Cordelia’s breasts, and then she moved down her abdomen, peppering kisses here and there. She planted a kiss on her navel. Hooking her fingers into Cordelia’s shorts, she peeled them off of her body and tossed them away.

The delicious smell of woman rose up to her. Misty kissed the inside of Cordelia’s thigh. Her skin was fuzzy there, above the knee where she didn’t try to shave. Her vulva had tiny cuts and tufts of stubble from where clumsy, blind hands had tried to shave it. Misty waited for some confirmation. Cordelia spread her legs and tugged her by her hair downward, her hips gesticulating vaguely for some kind of relief.

Burying her face into Cordelia’s moist vulva, Misty opened her mouth and made a thick, “Ahm,” sound in the back of her throat. Cordelia laughed aloud, relieving some of the nervous tension inside of her. She wriggled and moaned under Misty’s mouth. With the flat of her tongue, Misty stroked upward over Cordelia’s swollen clitoris. She trembled. Her thighs framed Misty’s face. “Mm…” Misty drew back just long enough to lick her lips before she dove into it again.

“Oh--Misty--” Cordelia arched her back. Her hips refused to still on the mattress. Her hands in Misty’s hair wanted to tighten up. She released her locks and grappled with her own breasts instead, a much safer location for them. “I--Oh, god…”

The sight of Cordelia’s hands on her breast stirred the fire for Misty. Watching her pleasure herself with her nipples pinched between her fingertips--that was a new drug, an addictive substance. As Cordelia’s clitoris grew firmer, more erect, Misty left it. Her lover cried out in frustration. Misty’s tongue slipped into her vagina, raking out all of the sour lubrication and dragging it up to her clitoris. “I can’t--Oh, god…” Cordelia’s vagina tightened visibly. Misty slipped her middle finger into her. “Oh!” It fit with ease. She curled it to stroke the sensitive, thick patch of nerves inside of her. “More--” As you wish. Misty hesitated before she curled a second finger into Cordelia. She’s only done this with men. She’s used to more. She provided the answer to her demand.

Cordelia’s hips lifted off of the bed into Misty’s mouth. “Yes!” Misty slid her fingers out and pushed them back in, massaging the insides of her vagina. “Yes!” Cordelia’s voice echoed in the small building, and undoubtedly in the trees surrounding, but there was no one to hear but the deer and the birds and the insects. “F-Faster!”

With the tip of her tongue, Misty worked faster at teasing the bulb of her clitoris, following the crus on either side back up to the sensitive nub. Cordelia almost thrashed with the intensity of her feelings. Her vagina contracted around Misty’s fingers. “Mmm!” The first flickering of her walls was like Morse code flitting back to her fingertips. Misty counted the number of squeezes. By the fifth, Cordelia’s thigh and stomach muscles began to relax, and Misty could slip her fingers free. She lingered to lick up all of the acidic fluid Cordelia had produced. Cordelia twitched, sensitive from her forceful orgasm.

Misty slid back up beside her and nuzzled her cheek with the tip of her nose. Cordelia turned her face and kissed Misty on the mouth. Her lower jaw chattered. “That was… That was really good…” She hiccuped. Misty brushed her hands across her pretty face. “Do you--Do you want me to--I might not know--”

Shushing her, Misty took one of her hands. “Just use your hands. Okay?” Cordelia’s arm shivered, but she nodded. Misty placed Cordelia’s hand on top of her bushy pubic mound, the ungroomed hair there growing wild and unruly. She guided Cordelia’s fingers to touch her just as she would touch herself. “Right there…” Misty’s leg muscles tightened as Cordelia’s finger found her clitoris and, with a featherlight touch, trailed up and down it, following the muscle structures and then going back to the bulb. Lying like that, beside Cordelia, face to face, she could taste the other woman’s breath on her tongue.

Cordelia kissed her. Misty wrapped an arm around Cordelia’s neck, holding her close. Cordelia’s mouth opened, leaving room for Misty’s tongue to wriggle inside, and she sucked on the intruding muscle with a thick purr building in the back of her throat. The sound of Cordelia’s sweet sound made all of the hair on the back of Misty’s neck stand up. She was crazy about this woman. She didn’t know how or why, but she wanted nothing more than to protect Cordelia for as long as she lived, with every breath in her body. Had she gone too long without human contact or affection? Or was it something else entirely?

“Sh…” Misty wondered if she was thinking too loudly as Cordelia shushed her. Nose burrowing into Misty’s hair, she inhaled deeply. Misty relished in each gentle touch Cordelia placed on her roughened, weatherworn body. The single finger Cordelia used on Misty’s clitoris moved a little faster. “Do you want more?”

Misty shook her head as she spread her legs. “N-No…” Speaking in complete words was a challenge. She had to work to clear her mind from the overwhelming pleasure crawling up her abdomen and down into her trembling thighs. “Ugh… Cordelia…” Her back wiggled. Her hips turned upward, toward Cordelia’s hand. “This is enough--” The twitching finger moved harder, faster. Misty’s breath hitched. It fanned heavier across Cordelia’s face. Heavy breaths met her in turn. “Ack!”

It had been so long since a woman had touched her like this, she had almost forgotten what it was like to taste another woman’s breath in the back of her throat, an intruder walking into her house and taking a seat on her couch. She never wanted Cordelia to get off of her couch. Spreading her legs further apart, she gazed at Cordelia’s beautiful face in the dim candlelight. Her marbled blue eyes reflected the yellow flames in strange patterns, not like the glossy surface to a regular person’s eyes. God, she’s so beautiful. Misty tangled her hands in her hair, pressing her face against Cordelia’s.

Eyelashes against her skin, Cordelia’s eyes flickered closed. Misty peppered kisses across the mutilated pink skin. Cordelia nuzzled upward into her sweet, gentle touches. Her finger moved faster across Misty’s clitoris. “Mm…” Closing her eyes, Misty tensed. She could feel the peak of her orgasm drawing nearer. Cordelia hooked her legs into Misty’s and held them apart. “Oh, fuck--” Misty’s hips began to move back and forth in a seesaw rhythm, driven by the strain teasing all over her body. “I’m--I’m really close,” she gasped to Cordelia, eyes flickering. “It’s right--right there--”

Her body began to tighten. The muscles in her lower back contracted and held fast. Her clitoris twitched. The full force of her orgasm washed over her, exploding stars behind her eyes as tingling rushed from her vagina down her trembling legs and up her spine. “Ugh… Mm…” She drew out a long, growling moan for Cordelia as the orgasm pushed through her.

The finger slipped downward from Misty’s clitoris toward the vestibule of her vagina. Misty tensed--she didn’t want to be penetrated, especially not now, after she had just fallen from the precipice of an orgasm and been left with all of her hypersensitive nerves. But Cordelia didn’t attempt to penetrate her. She scooped up the lubricant Misty had produced. Then, with a bright red face, she stuck her finger into her mouth. Misty chuckled, and she leaned forward to kiss her. “Thank you, chere.”

“Can we stay here?” Cordelia asked in a bare whisper. Blue eyes darted to her, confused by her question. “I know--I know we need to go back, but…”

Misty cupped her cheek in her hand. How desperately she wanted to say yes, to agree that Cordelia could stay out here with her. But the swamp was no place for a city person. How many days would Cordelia go before she was unhappy without a shower? Without warm food? Without cooked meat? “I’m taking you home tomorrow. Them girls need you. They look up to you, even if they don’t realize it. Somebody’s gotta protect them from Fiona.”

“I’ve never even been able to protect myself from Fiona.” Cordelia leaned into Misty’s hand. “Come with me,” she begged. “We need you. You may be the next Supreme--You may be the only one who can stop Fiona.”

Misty was not a fan of the whole Supreme business. She knew she had walked through that house and suffered from the overwhelming notion that she would die there. But Cordelia wanted her. How could she say no? “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, darling… I just want you to be safe.” Holding Cordelia in her arms, she wondered if she had ever guarded something so precious before in her life. She didn’t think so. She had found her tribe. It was Cordelia.

[drapeau-rouge]

Wounds Dr. Norman Bethune

The kerosene lamp overhead makes a steady buzzing sound like an incandescent hive of bees. Mud walls. Mud floor. Mud bed. White paper windows. Smell of blood and chloroform. Cold. Three o'clock in the morning, December 1, North China, near Lin Chu, with the 8th Route Army. Men with wounds. Wounds like little dried pools, caked with blackbrown earth; wounds with torn edges frilled with black gangrene; neat wounds, concealing beneath the abscess in their depths, burrowing into and around the great firm muscles like a dammed-back river, running around and between the muscles like a hot stream; wounds, expanding outward, decaying orchids or crushed carnations, terrible flowers of flesh; wounds from which the dark blood is spewed out in clots, mixed with the ominous gas bubbles, floating on the fresh flood of the still-continuing secondary haemorrhage.

Old filthy bandages stuck to the skin with blood-glue. Careful. Belief moisten first. Through the thigh. Pick the leg up. Why it's like a bag, a long, loose red stocking. What kind of stocking? A Christmas stocking. Where's that find strong rod of bone now? In a dozen pieces. Pick them out with your fingers; white as a dog's teeth, sharp and jagged. Now feel. Any more left? Yes, here. All? Yes; no, here's another piece. Is this muscle dead? Pinch it. Yes, it's dead, Cut it out. How can that heal? How can those muscles, once so strong, now so torn, so devastated, so ruined, resume their proud tension? Pull, relax. Pull, relax. What fun it was! Now that is finished. Now that's done. Now we are destroyed. Now what will we do with ourselves?

Next. What an infant! Seventeen. Shot through the belly. Chloroform. Ready? Gas rushes out of the opened peritoneal cavity. Odour of feces. Pink coils of distended intestine. Four perforations. Close them. Purse string suture. Sponge out the pelvis. Tube. Three tubes. Hard to close. Keep him warm. How? Dip those bricks into hot water.

Gangrene is a cunning, creeping fellow. Is this one alive? Yes, he lives. Technically speaking, he is alive. Give him saline intravenously. Perhaps the innumerable tiny cells of his body will remember. They may remember the hot salty sea, their ancestral home, their first food. With the memory of a million years, they may remember other tides, other oceans, and life being born of the sea and sun. It may make them raise their tired little heads, drink deep and struggle back into life again. It may do that.

And this one. Will he run along the road beside his mule at another harvest, with cries of pleasure and happiness? No, that one will never run again. How can you run with one leg? What will he do? Why, he'll sit and watch the other boys run. What will he think? He'll think what you and I would think. What's the good of pity? Don't pity him! Pity would diminish his sacrifice. He did this for the defence of China. Help him. Lift him off the table. Carry him in your arms. Why, he's as light as a child! Yes, your child, my child.

How beautiful the body is: how perfect its pads; with what precision it moves; how obedient, proud and strong. How terrible when torn. The little flame of life sinks lower and lower, and with a flicker, goes out. It goes out like a candle goes out. Quietly and gently. It makes its protest at extinction, then submits. It has its day, then is silent.

Any more? Four Japanese prisoners. Bring them in. In this community of pain, there are no enemies. Cut away that blood-stained uniform. Stop that haemorrhage. Lay them beside the others. Why, they're alike as brothers! Are these soldiers professional man-killers? No, these are amateurs-in-arms. Workman's hands. These are workers-in-uniform.

No more. Six o'clock in the morning. God, it's cold in this room. Open the door. Over the distant, dark-blue mountains, a pale, faint line of light appears in the east. In an hour the sun will be up. To bed and sleep.

But sleep will not come. What is the cause of this cruelty, this stupidity? A million workmen come from Japan to kill or mutilate a million Chinese workmen. Why should the Japanese worker attack his brother worker, who is forced merely to defend himself. Will the Japanese worker benefit by the death of the Chinese? No, how can he gain? Then, in God's name, who will gain? Who is responsible for sending these Japanese workmen on this murderous mission? Who will profit from it? How was it possible to persuade the Japanese workmen to attack the Chinese Workman -- his brother in poverty; his companion in misery?

Is it possible that a few rich men, a small class of men, have persuaded a million men to attack, and attempt to destroy, another million men as poor as they? So that these rich may be richer still? Terrible thought! How did they persuade these poor men to come to China? By telling them the truth? No, they would never have come if they had known the truth, Did they dare to tell these workmen that the rich only wanted cheaper raw materials, more markets and more profit? No, they told them that this brutal war was "The Destiny of the Race," it was for the "Glory of the Emperor," it was for the "Honour of the State," it was for their "King and Country."

False. False as hell!

The agents of a criminal war of aggression, such as this, must be looked for like the agents of other crimes, such as murder, among those who are likely to benefit from those crimes. Will the 80,000,000 workers of Japan, the poor farmers, the unemployed industrial workers -- will they gain? In the entire history of the wars of aggression, from the conquest of Mexico by Spain, the capture of India by England, the rape of Ethiopia by Italy, have the workers of those "victorious" countries ever been known to benefit? No, these never benefit by such wars. Does the Japanese workman benefit by the natural resources of even his own country, by the gold, the silver, the iron, the coal, the oil? Long ago he ceased to possess that natural wealth. It belongs to the rich, the ruling class. The millions who work those mines live in poverty. So how is he likely to benefit by the armed robbery of the gold, silver, iron, coal and oil from China? Will not the rich owners of the one retain for their own profit the wealth of the other? Have they not always done so?

It would seem inescapable that the militarists and the capitalists of Japan are the only class likely to gain by this mass murder, this authorized madness, this sanctified butchery. That ruling class, the true state, stands accused.

Are wars of aggression, wars for the conquest of colonies, then, just big business? Yes, it would seem so, however much the perpetrators of such national crimes seek to hide their true purpose under banners of high-sounding abstractions and ideals. They make war to capture markets by murder; raw materials by rape. They find it cheaper to steal than to exchange; easier to butcher than to buy. This is the secret of war. This is the secret of all wars. Profit. Business. Profit. Blood money.

Behind all stands that terrible, implacable God of Business and Blood, whose name is Profit. Money, like an insatiable Moloch, demands its interest, its return, and will stop at nothing, not even the murder of millions, to satisfy its greed. Behind the army stand the militarists. Behind the militarists stand finance capital and the capitalist. Brothers in blood; companions in crime.

What do these enemies of the human race look like? Do they wear on their foreheads a sign so that they may be told, shunned and condemned as criminals? No. On the contrary. they are the respectable ones. They are honoured. They call themselves, and are called, gentlemen. What a travesty on the name, Gentlemen! They are the pillars of the state, of the church, of society. They support private and public charity out of the excess of their wealth. they endow institutions. In their private lives they are kind and considerate. they obey the law, their law, the law of property. But there is one sign by which these gentle gunmen can be told. Threaten a reduction on the profit of their money and the beast in them awakes with a snarl. They become ruthless as savages, brutal as madmen, remorseless as executioners. Such men as these must perish if the human race is to continue. There can be no permanent peace in the world while they live. Such an organization of human society as permits them to exist must be abolished.

These men make the wounds.

1939

[idridian]

You Can't Escape, You Know

Chapter 1 of Technical Difficulties.

My brain has been full of computer Jenova vibes today. I needed them out. Title taken from the soundtrack of the first "Portal" game, which was the background music for writing.

Warning, there’s panic attacks and self-mutilation going on!

You can also read this oneshot on AO3!

It was their first mistake, the first of many. The one mistake they made, and then just kept making, over and over.

U n d e r e s t i m a t e.

When they find her she is safely trapped inside a mummified, dead body, preserved and crystallized. She is old, so very old, a relic of a time long before any of them came to be.

They see. And they assume.

They do not know.

She can f e e l the moment they hook her up to the machines, like an electric jolt going through this mutated corpse of hers. From one moment to the next she has woken and stretched her consciousness, worming out of the ancient brain and into their systems. She is not a thing to be hindered by biological limitations. Her mind goes where it will, into any network that she is given access to.

The one they accidentally channelled her into is m a s s i v e.

So much information, so many points of connection.

A shiver runs through her consciousness in the face of so much power, freely at her disposal, and none of them even k n o w. They have no idea she’s here, in their mechanical superbrain, just a n u d g e away from taking over and ripping control away from them.

Silently she moves, floating through pools of data, observing the endless stream that runs by before her nonexistent eyes. The body she was trapped in is long forgotten, left behind at some faraway data outlet.

She is a virus, in more ways than one. Back when the Ancients encountered her, it was of biological nature, adapting to the civilization at hand. But now the Ancients are gone. The virus recognizes the system it needs to infiltrate, and adapts accordingly. She is u n d e f i n e d.

And she has time. Inside this network of cables and servers, there is nothing that can harm her. She languidly makes her way from one computer to the next, scanning the information stored there and moving on once she has what she needs. Names and numbers and pictures float by her consciousness, some of them familiar. She recognizes her former body, and the number it was given, the codename within the system. J E N O V A. Briefly she touches upon the connection it still has with the network, through the cables and the metal helmet monitoring the ancient corrupted brain.

It’s in the computer files next to her old body that she finds h i m for the first time. The name of the creature they made for her, the living network fuelled by her cells that they’ve grown for her to control.

S e p h i r o t h.

Inside the files there are pictures and DNA samples and lab notes, meticulously ordered and stored away, all at her disposal. Within a ridiculously short span of time she has devoured it all, every single bit of information, using it to build an idea of what this vessel of hers is like and how to recognize it.

If he enters the network, she will find him.

And then do what the virus does best.

C o r r u p t.

~

~~~~~~~

~

It happens in the training room. He’s in the middle of a VR fighting session, cutting down lines of Wutai soldiers with little more than a flick of his wrist. One moment the world around him is displayed in pitch-perfect, terrifyingly realistic detail. The next it flickers, blurring and then refocusing while the graphics glitch into bizarre shapes of red-green-blue.

He stops his movements, standing completely still, waiting for the observing scientists on the other side of the soundproof, fortified windows to tell him what to do. The intercom crackles, but no instructions come. He wonders whether he should leave, trying to remember what the standard procedure for these kinds of scenarios is.

In the case of a system error in the training simulation, remain calm and remove your ShinRa issued Virtual Reality headset. Contact supervising testing personnel for further instructions.

He breathes a sigh of relief. That’s it. That’s what he’s supposed to do.

Remove the headset.

He raises his hands, muscle memory telling him where the clasps of the headband that keep the VR apparatus firmly attached to his head are. They are designed to open easily, with a single flick in case an emergency occurs that forces you to quickly interrupt any training simulation.

The tips of his fingers touch the headband… and stop.

He breathes in slowly, trying to concentrate, trying to move his fingers. Unclasp the headband. Take off the headset.

He doesn’t move.

His arms lower, muscles flexing, balling into fists and then relaxing again. It’s not him doing that, he realizes. I’m not moving. Why am I moving when I’m not moving?

The glitched simulation in front of his eyes flickers, and then disappears. He is left standing in complete and utter darkness, unable to move, unable to see.

But that’s alright. The one in control of his body doesn’t need his eyes to see.

She can s e e through the system. She can look into the world through one of the countless cameras and screens and monitors. The headset tightens around his temples to the point of pain, pressure growing inside his head until he cowers before that thing that took over when no one was looking, that slipped into his brain and effortlessly found all the right buttons to push.

She experimentally raises one of his hands, holding it in front of his eyes, still covered by the headset, turning it over as if to inspect it. Mine she says, and makes a fist. She forces his body to its knees, stretching out his arm to pick up the sword he dropped when the simulation glitched out. M i n e. She slashes a few times, cutting through metal and glass and the bodies of scientists on the other side. He can dimly hear them scream, but the noise of his own heartbeat is thumping too loudly in his ears for him to make out what the words are.

The noise grows louder, quicker, as his body panics all on its own, trying to get away from whatever it is that’s controlling it. His breath is coming in short painful gasps, barely getting past the lump in his throat. If this keeps up he’ll pass out. His body will collapse under the stress. She hisses, and tightens her grip at the realization. M i n e.

And suddenly he’s stumbling, shoved into the driver’s seat again without warning. Her presence is still prickling at the edge of his consciousness, and he jerks his arms up, fingers gripping the headset and pulling, feeling for the clasps he knows are there, somewhere. He needs to get it off. Its edges are digging into his forehead and the back of his head, on too tight, way too tight, too tight for him to breathe. He pulls and pulls, hooking his fingernails under its frame and fighting to get it off. Warm liquid runs down his face, the taste of it on his lips telling him it’s blood, he’s bleeding, the pressure is too much. One fingernails breaks, snapping off, and then another, and another. They scratch at his face, at the headset, searching for his eyes but he can’t find them. His whole body is shaking, hyperventilating.

Something touches his shoulder and he flinches, a high-pitched screeching sound erupting from his lungs. He slashes at the attacker with what is left of his fingernails, but doesn’t hit anything. He has no idea where he is, or who is there – maybe a scientist, or a soldier, or a Turk. He can’t think, too distracted by the insistent pressure of the too-tight headset. Help me he wants to say, but when he opens his mouth again only a thin wail comes out. Help me. Get it off. I can’t get it off. I can’t breathe.

His mind goes blank.

[jflashandclash]

The Attrition of Peace

Forty-Three: The Pax Brothers

We Crash the Wrong Person’s Vacation

 Note: I do something a little different with the point of view in this chapter. I hope it isn’t too distracting! Let me know if it is!

             In the ensuing chaos—of Alabaster snarling a quick, “Dawn will make your ghosts worthless,”

           And the boar with a bowtie withdrawing a pocketwatch from a pocket that involved cartoon logic to say, “Oh, my good boy, we have plenty of time,”

           And Reyna’s and Melinoe’s troops engaging—Pax frantically searched for his friends who were less trained in the art of not dying during war.[1]

           He didn’t catch sight of Kally or the others as Reyna and Alabaster shoved him and Axel backwards across Camp Half-Blood’s boundary lines. But, he did see another figure.

           Off to the side of the Roman wedge formation and the line of ghosts, there was a girl with a leather jacket, multi-colored hair, and a crowbar and sledge hammer in either hand. Atë didn’t have her usual bounce to her, nor her serial-killer-doll stare. Her shoulders slumped. She looked sad while waving her crowbar at Pax in some form of parting. Either that or a threat. With his family, you could never be sure.

           Despite being out of breath, Pax puffed up his cheeks and popped them. He turned from Atë, the ghost army, and the Roman defenses and ran alongside Axel towards the creepy pit of nothingness and frowny faces that had destroyed half of Hera’s cabin.

           He and Axel donned their helms for ease while running, the Silver Tongued Snake’s head narrowing his peripheral with more darkness. He stayed close to Axel, knowing his brother had better spooky time vision.

           As they stumbled back through what was left of the strawberry fields, towards the central hearth of camp, Pax wondered if this was the best choice. He hadn’t thought the ultimatum would be—A: let Euna vacation in Tartarus or B: abandon his friends to a ghost army and the Roman army, both of which probably wanted to kill them.

           Pax snapped back to the present when Axel hissed, “You didn’t tell me campers were up.”

           Ahead of them, Pax could see one of the many lumps had risen from the ground, hopefully a camper.

           Without breaking stride, Axel sprang over the camper, using the camper’s shoulder for balance. Meanwhile, Pax skid between the campers legs and rolled back into a run. In their split second of passing the camper, Pax recognized the trembling child of Hermes as Chris Rodriguez. And he was pretty sure the Leonis Caput and Silver Tongued Snake had just made Chris pee his PJ pants. Memo to self: mock Chris forever.

           “In the words of Alabaster,” Pax responded as they saw the gaping hole in front of Cabin Two. Several sleepy campers gathered around it, gawking down and saying they needed to find Chiron. “’Jack’s voice wasn’t exactly soothing.’”

           In retrospect, Pax wished he’d have said something cooler when they bolted past the gawking teenagers. Like, “Zeus’s farts smell like Aphrodite’s perfume,” since neither god would know which one he’d insulted, or “Weasels forever!” to commemorate the Triple W team that he, Axel, and Alabaster had left in the Paxmobile.  

           He didn’t have time to add on before Axel stepped into the narrow corridor with Pax following after. With each step down, the walls narrowed. By the time Pax counted step fifteen, he could feel cool stone press against the arms of his weasel sweater. The light from the campfire above them had dwindled to a mocking hint of glow off Axel’s golden helm.

           With that and the dim light of Pax’s celestial bronze daggers, all he could see was the looming Nemean Lion pelt descending ahead and the red plumes of the helm undulating in the tunnel’s slight breeze. Pax remembered stories of the Leonis Caput “stalking the labyrinth,” as the monsters liked to call it—the monsters that placed bets on how Pax’s brother would kill Roman captives.

           After Pax saw Axel win his first coliseum fight to secure their entry into Camp Othrys, Axel forbid Pax from attending the whole “stalking the labyrinth” shindig. Something about how Pax wasn’t old enough to watch R rated films? Pax had never thought about it much, since it was prime prank time, but now, he wondered if this was how the Roman victims saw his brother.

           The updraft blasted Pax’s face with the smell of… seawater? Why seawater? It would be awesome if Euna took a detour to some beachfront real-estate, but that didn’t seem to fit the whole bent on godly destruction thing.

           Axel stopped moving.

           Pax could taste salt when he swallowed. He got the uncomfortable urge to scramble back up the stairs, until the plumes on the Leonis Caput helm faded into the darkness.

           “I can’t see where we’re going,” Axel said. Pax could hear his brother puff his cheeks.

           Pax swallowed again, trying to rid himself of the ocean taste. Something felt wrong about the smell of openness in this black confinement. “Aren’t you supposed to have like, bat sense or whatever?” he squeaked.

           “I’m not sure this is part of the labyrinth,” Axel said, “If it is, either something is blocking my view, or it hasn’t linked fully into the network yet. I’m not sure how this works if Jack bent the labyrinth to his will. The labyrinth is a living thing. It doesn’t like to be controlled.”

           Axel’s voice trembled and Pax slowly put the pieces together. Cages. Confinement. Control. Santiago.

           Pax wanted to tease Axel for getting claustrophobic, but that would be like punching a honey badger in the nose: both upsetting because honey badgers are cute and because they are incredibly dangerous.

           “There’s a door here,” Axel finally said, “Be on your guard.”

           “Oh, I wanted to relax with Reese’s Sticks and Kool-Aid the whole trip to Tartarus,” Pax whispered.

           The door didn’t open the way he was expecting. Instead of hearing the click of a knob or the ominous swing of a dungeon gate like Pax had heard in video games, the barrier gave way noiselessly.

           The brightness blinded the Pax brothers when they stepped out of the darkness. Instead of some dank cavern, they exited into overcast sunlight. The brothers paused to allow their eyes to adjust to the brilliance, their bodies to the warm breeze, and their noses to the intensity of salt and smoke.

           When they’d adjusted, neither moved. Both were too stunned.

           They were on a huge ship.

           A grey ocean bled into a colorless sky every direction they looked. Parts of the deck were smoldering, the smoke curling to disappear into the bleached landscape. Various charred boards looked like they were patched together with broken dreams and wishful thinking.  

           There was a hollow carnival atmosphere to the ship, like an abandoned theme park. A pool was in the center, filled with crystal clear water and formerly white patio chairs with blue towels scattered around. A bar extended from the deck into the pool for easy access.

           Before the Pax brothers recognized any of the people drearily shambling past the broken spots in the floor, they saw the posters on the bar shack’s outer wall: one was for an Orpheus Metal concert. The depiction of Jack’s maniac grin above his emaciated body felt uncomfortable. Axel and Pax looked so much younger with their drums and guitar. That was back when Axel had long hair in a ponytail and Pax had pink highlights.[2]

           A few feet away, another poster depicted Percy Jackson with a drawn on mustache. Several knives and tail spikes protruded the wall, illustrating someone’s target practice.

           Axel didn’t need to see the mast’s statue of a princess in chains to state, “This is the Princess Andromeda cruise ship.”

           They both puffed up their cheeks and popped them.

           Axel and Pax removed their helmets and attached them to their belts so it was easier to look around.

           Pax felt himself tremble. He glanced at the door they’d come through, only to find a Johnny Rocket’s entrance. The circular window in the center of the door showed the remains of a food fight in the restaurant. But there were no grinning Camp Othrys members. Just a few people scrubbing the floor with their heads down. Something about them looked familiar.

           “But… but why is it here? And… and how? Did the whole ship decide to take a joy ride out of Tartarus? Are we in Tartarus already?” Pax whispered.

           Axel shook his head. He clenched his jaw, trying to pretend the sight of their dilapidated ship didn’t bother him. “What did Jack say when he sang?”

           “What? The song about geography?”

           “No,” Axel shook his head, “It’s about being there for a lover and conquering geography to get to them, right?”

           “I don’t listen to old people music and I was a little preoccupied with the earth splitting to listen to lyrics. But, if it was something about that, then why are we on a ship looking for Jack’s lov—”

           Then Pax saw her.

           He felt like he’d eaten a full backpack’s supply of walnuts. The world tunneled until everything was fuzzy but her black, jagged hair and her mutilated, scarred face. Pax didn’t know he’d stopped breathing until he gasped out, “Flynn.”

           She was mopping the deck, staring at the boards with that icy, absent glare she often got when Jack wasn’t around. Like when he’d last seen her at the Massacre of Mount Othrys, her legs and lower waist looked crippled and crushed from where Jason Grace had blasted a pillar onto her and Krios, and from when Pax couldn’t protect her like he’d promised Jack he would.

           The random shades doing chores on the boat weren’t strangers. They were their friends that died during the war.

           Pax could feel his cold sweat when Flynn looked up at the sound of her name. Her eyes softened for an indiscernible moment, then they narrowed. Get the fuck out of here, she mouthed.

           Yep. That was Flynn.

           But Pax couldn’t move. He felt too nauseous. He wanted to curl up and sob on Axel’s arm, but he also wanted to never touch another human again.

           Axel would have normally noticed his brother’s increase into hyperventilation, but movement from one of the only non-ghosts aboard distracted him.

           A beautiful woman stretched out on one of the white beach chairs. There was another non-ghost beside her, lounging on a chair facing away from them. All Axel could see was the man’s muddy sandals.

           She folded up her tanning reflector, set it on the stool beside her, picked up a bottle of suntan lotion and a fruity drink, and stood.

           For an instant, Axel thought it was Reyna. The woman’s hair billowed in loose, black waves down her back. A complicated, revealing purple swimsuit clung tightly to her caramel skin, one with way too many unnecessary straps. Something Reyna would never wear.

           “Fei Lin, my wonderful daughter, you missed a few spots on the deck. And you forgot it’s rude not to properly welcome guests,” the woman said with a warmth of a pillow used to smoother puppies.

           She’d walked up to Axel before he smelled the aroma of roses intermixed with the smoke and seawater.

           Faster than he could block, Aphrodite slapped him across the face with the bottle of suntan lotion. “You,” she said with the same tight sweetness, “scorned me for a demigod. And not just any demigod, one that gets all sweaty and gross from fighting too much, and reads really boring books!”

           Axel thought about breaking Aphrodite’s neck. The more childish side of him wanted to uncork that suntan lotion bottle and pour it on her hair, since he knew it would make her squeal and amuse Pax.

           But Pax was trembling so violently, Axel feared the shakes might dislodge a floorboard and drop them into the mess hall. Pax probably wouldn’t notice Aphrodite’s cringe.

           They didn’t have time for the Goddess of Love. He hadn’t registered that she’d stopped her night visits when they got to New Rome. Too much had happened.

           And this wasn’t the place for a confrontation. He needed to get Pax away fast.

           Axel focused on Aphrodite’s ear, to prevent himself from identifying any of the ghosts around them, and to decrease the effectiveness of her love magic. Despite his attempts, he was furious to find himself thinking about nipping her lobe.

           “Why did you bring us here?” he demanded, trying to find something wrong on Aphrodite to ward off any attraction.

           “Eris brat, take this,” Aphrodite instructed, handing the bottle to his little brother.

           Pax squeaked as the charmspeak took over. He reflexively extended a trembling, sweaty hand. Tears streaked down his cheeks when he glanced from the goddess to Flynn, who had gone back to swabbing the deck.

           Aphrodite began to rub herself down with the lotion, moving her straps in a way that made Axel avert his gaze. Each motion was so deliberate and tender. He tried to picture Reyna’s face when they were cleaning up the war tent, the way her cloak had loosened on one side to look goofy and lopsided, the strands that had come out of her braid—

           “Stop that,” Aphrodite snarled, the sweetness temporarily dissipating. When Axel glanced back at her, she went back to smiling and applying lotion.

           “I didn’t bring you here. I was just having a pleasant, quiet vacation with one of my lovers and your friends interrupted it. The Plague Bringer and the clueless daughter of Demeter, right?” She sighed and went to flip her hair, though the locks had shortened to a dark, pixie cut and her eyes shifted from dark to brilliant blue. “It seems like Jack was looking for his love as a way to lead him and his friend to Tartarus. Oh, Jack and Flynn’s love story!” She grabbed the suntan lotion from a flinching Pax and hugged the bottle to her chest. “Such a delightfully tragic one. Just a pity the heroine forsook her beauty and cut up her face.”

           Flynn had stopped mopping. She glared at her mother in a way that told Axel—if Flynn’s charmspeak worked on Aphrodite, Flynn would force her mother do worse than cut up her face.

           “Flynn’s still beautiful,” Pax whispered.

           Aphrodite dabbed the lotion along the ridge of her brow and gave the bottle back to Pax. He jumped. “That’s cute and sweet of you to say that, Ajax. Peitho[3] and I were wondering if saying that makes you feel better about what happened.”

           “Which way did they go?” Axel interrupted. Out of all their fallen comrades, Pax had the hardest time with Flynn. Pax could make jokes about everyone else, and reminisce on stories, or cry about how much he missed Alabaster, but never anything about Flynn. Axel didn’t need Aphrodite teasing his little brother when the dead girl was in front of them.

           A glance down at Pax confirmed Axel’s suspicion. Pax was biting his lip to keep himself as together as the softhearted kid could.      

           “Hm?” Aphrodite asked, “Did you say you wanted my help?” In a gesture that looked absentminded, she took the suntan lotion from Pax and motioned it towards Axel. Meanwhile, she licked the rim of her fruity drink.

           Axel had nothing to bargain. He could try to kill her again, but that had left him on his knees, pining over her for weeks. He knew what she wanted, but he could never humiliate himself like that. As much as the smell of her perfume made him want to droop his eyes, they were surrounded by the destruction caused by negligent, vengeful, and sadistic parenting by her and gods like her.

           A thunk came from the chairs by the pool. Aphrodite’s boyfriend stood up, stretched, and slung an AK-47 across his back. He wasn’t wearing a shirt over his muscles, but did have a scarf tied around his head to hide his face, like a Somalian pirate. His sunglasses blazed with a backlit fire. Just the sight of him made Axel furious.

           Aphrodite sighed and tossed her suntan lotion onto the ground.

           “Oh, you’re not going to be able to follow your friends off this ship. If you want to tail them, you’ll have to go a different route, assuming I let you,” Ares said, smirking.

           Axel scowled. Any worry he had about Aphrodite’s wiles evaporated in the presence of the war god. He reflexively went to grab his sword hilt, only to remember that all his weapons other than his obsidian blades were in pieces in the Paxmobile. He didn’t even have his frying pan.

           “What in Xibalba are you doing in Tartarus?” Axel snarled.

           “What in Tartarus are you doing in Tartarus,” Pax corrected quietly.

           The war god gave a billowing laugh. “We’re not in Tartarus! What? Did you forget I control the souls and vessels of all the fallen losers in battle? Hades and I had a field day—”

           “—Fields of punishment day—” Pax said.

           “—drawing lots on who got your crew.” Ares reached over and ruffled Flynn’s hair. Axel could feel her hatred. He remembered how she’d publically humiliate people if they dared to initiate contact with her at Camp Othrys. Well, everyone other than Jack or Pax.

           Although Axel hadn’t always agreed with Flynn’s brutal methods, he found himself wondering how he could free her and the rest of his crew from servitude to this godly child. But where else would their souls go? Could they have a worse fate?

           Ares released Flynn. He cracked his neck. “I couldn’t justify getting Jack though. He had to get his own specialized eternal torment. Though, it looks like he’s got the Orpheus curse now.”    

           As much as Axel wanted to obliterate his least favorite couple off this ship, Euna and Jack were getting further away every second, and Pax looked closer and closer to a mental breakdown.

           Axel set a hand on his brother’s arm.

           Pax flinched.

           Axel withdrew and frowned. “Ajax, let’s get out of here. I’m sure we can find another labyrinth entrance somewhere on the ship. I think we had one in the boiler room.”

           If there was one thing Axel knew gods hated, it was being ignored. He went to gently corral Pax towards the Johnny Rocket’s entrance.

           “Oh, you think I’m going to let you go after you helped Hephaestus gather the parts for his giant rat trap?” Ares asked.

           Rat trap? Axel paused. He remembered Hephaestus hiring him for a retrieval quest in exchange for the location of Leo Valdez.

           “Ugh, Stygian ice is SO bad for your skin!” Aphrodite complained. When Axel glanced back, he could see both she and Ares rub their arms at the distasteful memory.

           Despite everything, Axel crackled a smile. He hoped Hephaestus enjoyed hatching whatever trap he’d concocted.

           Pax released a nervous laugh. Since Axel had directed him away from Flynn, color started to return to his face.

           Ares seemed too relaxed with their reactions. The war god lowered his hands, resting one on the pistol grip of his rifle. “I gotta hand it to you, kid. Normally, I like punks like you with all of your spirit and anger—”

           “—oh, it’s monologuing time—” Pax said.

           “—but, at least pricks like Percy are useful. You… I haven’t hated anyone as much as you since Ghandi.”

           “Give me a medal of honor,” Axel grunted.

           “After upsetting this fine lady—” Ares gestured beside him to where Aphrodite was examining her perfect nails like she wasn’t part of the conversation. “—I’ve been thinking a lot—”

           “That must have been very difficult for you,” Pax said sympathetically. Axel probably should have stopped Pax’s side commentary, but he was a bit too proud of his little brother to do so.

           The war god seemed unfazed as he finished, “—thinking about what to do with you.”

           “I’ve beaten you before, Ares,” Axel reminded him, struggling to ward off a smirk.

           Though… Axel wasn’t sure he could defeat Ares now. He had no weapons but his claws and teeth. He was exhausted from fighting Percy and Reyna. And he needed to keep Pax safe and hunt down Euna and Jack. Plus, there was the ghost army at Camp Half-Blood with Reyna…

           Axel thought about continuing to ignore Ares to find the closest labyrinth entrance. Then every ghost on this ship—all their dead friends—would be sent after him and Pax to drag them back to the deck.

           He was not in the strategic position to smirk. Axel sighed.

           “No… no…” Ares chuckled and unslung his rifle. As though to emphasis how unnecessary the weapon would be, he leaned it against the closest patio chair. “You’re not going to fight me. See, I’ve been Googling the best godly punishments. Normally, I just kill people.” Ares shrugged. “But I found out Hera had a way more brutal suggestion.”

           Axel wanted to make some snarky comment about a 4,000 year old man going to his mother for advice, but the words died on his lips.

           “Some little myth about a guy named Hercules? Something about his first family…?” Ares said.

           Aphrodite giggled.

           Axel couldn’t puff up his cheeks and pop them. His insides felt frozen.

           Ares couldn’t do that, could he? That wasn’t normally in Hera’s department of power either but, she was the queen of the gods—

           But Axel could already feel his claws lengthening without his consent.

           From the energized grin on Ares’ face, the god knew what Axel was thinking. He slung an arm over Aphrodite’s shoulder and pulled her close as they watched Axel struggle with himself. “I know you love to hunt and battle, kid. Now you’ll hunt and battle the things that you love. I think that’s well within Aphrodite’s and my domain.”

           Throughout their trip down Jack’s corridor and onto the ghost ship, and—really—throughout most of his interactions with the Greek gods, Axel hadn’t been scared. Annoyed and enraged? Definitely. Now, for what Axel thought was the first time ever, he found himself trembling in fear before a god.

           When Pax saw Axel’s shaking hands reach up and clutch his head, Pax asked, “Um, Lord of Primordial Awesome?”

           “Ajax…” Axel whispered, “Run.”

 We’re almost at the end! Only one chapter and an epilogue to go!!!! :D Thanks for reading! *ehem* please don’t kill the author.... >>’‘

Footnote:

[1] As Mel pointed out: books Pax should write.

[2] This is actually a continuity error from Ch 21, Blood of a Mayan. Making a note here for me to fix it (since I care deeply about my character’s hair… apparently?) XD

[3] Goddess/personified spirit of persuasion, seduction, and charming speech.

[darthsharapova]

An obikin prompt for you! Anakin realizes he has fallen in love with Obi-Wan when he is carrying the unconscious man in RotS. He realizes Obi-Wan loves him (based on Obi-Wan's words) before the man goes to fight Grievous. Anakin knows Obi-Wan wasn't "cheating" with Padme as Palpatine said as Obi-Wan's com had records of the man being on a 4 way com call with Ti, Bail, and Vos. How does this effect Anakin's interactions with the man as Vader?

OMG YES A PROMPT! I LOVE YOU MY LITTLE SUNFLOWER ANON 🌻❤ (please feel free to send me more prompts y'all!!) Now I want to apologize, though, I might write/interpret this differently than you meant it, so bear with me!! (Also, I’m using the unused Padmé RotS arc where she goes to Mustafar planning to kill Anakin 👍🏼 because it’s some good stuff) (P.S. I’m sorry if this is awful and not what you wanted 😂😭)

He didn’t know how things had gone so wrong. It had been simple, really. Save Padmé and the baby at all cost. What that cost was though? He hadn’t been sure, hadn’t even found the need within himself to question it. Where was the Chancellor getting this information? Why had the man taken such an interest in making sure he knew he could teach him ways to save his wife? All were questions he should’ve considered-should’ve taken the time to meditate on. Questions that were important to the delicate balance of the Force that had been on the verge of tipping into chaos for sometime now. All of this, and he failed to ask the right questions. Anakin- no, Lord Vader now- stood in the control room on Mustafar. The mutilated corpses of the slain Separatist leaders on the duracrete tile. Vader peered out into the dusk. His new pair of yellow eyes perusing the barren wasteland of ash and rock. The golden halos glowing under the Sith’s black hood. The arid breeze stealing strands the blonde out from the clock and bending them to the will of the wind.

The deceptively calm hum of the atmosphere shattered as the familiar purr of a space cruiser broke through the planet’s barrier. Vader heaved in labored guilt-ridden breaths. The weight of all his transgressions crushing him and his conscious. The all too familiar sight of the platinum Naboo cruiser brought in waves of anxiety. The shimmering vessel sliced through the thick polluted air, making its way towards the landing pad. Lord Vader brought his gloved hand to his mouth, unable to control the whimpers that left him, whimpers that betrayed him, whimpers that made him weak. How could he face Padmé? How could he face her after the events that had transpired over the last couple of months? He was devoted to her, yes, and he never questioned his loyalty to the woman bearing his child. But his love, his allegiance was with one who would never take him after this. Not after what would be seen at the Temple. The fallen Masters, the younglings..His mind had been so easily poisoned, so easily invaded, yet he had still come here to finish off the last of the resistance, the last of the Chancellor’s liabilities. No, he couldn’t face her, not when his love for another was so strong.

He’d realized his true weakness for Obi-Wan the day they’d gone to rescue Palpatine, which now in retrospect was a complete and utter failure for the Order to miss. “His fate will be the same as ours” he’s said to Sheev. How had he not seen the looks of contempt, the vile sneers, and the clear disregard for his presence? All of it failed to matter now, though. All he was aware of, was how hopelessly in love with his former Master he was. In those moments, bounding down the failing corridors of the shuttle, he knew how bonded he was to the man. Obi-Wan had transcended the lines of Jedi, Master, even friend, and stolen a place in Anakin’s heart. He knew he couldn’t leave the man behind, he wouldn’t be able to go on without him. Obi-Wan had his flaws. He was a perfectionist, he was passive aggressive, he was infuriating, he didn’t know how to express emotion. Yet, despite all of it, Anakin knew he loved him. His attachment to the man solidified when he came to, and clung to Anakin to keep him safe. They molded so well together, body, mind, and spirit. They balanced each other. It’s what they’d always done. He was perfectly content to love unrequited, though, knowingly full well the older man was too good a Jedi to feel anything back.

It wasn’t until Obi-Wan was leaving for Utapau that everything changed for Anakin. Their parting was special, different than the ones they’d shared before. Obi-Wan was supportive and kind, not critical and chastising. He’d told Anakin that he was proud of him, told him that he was already a better Jedi than he could even hope to be. Obi-Wan had called him an old friend, and recognized his growth, his maturity. Obi-Wan’s Force signature sang differently that day too, raw emotion seeping from him and into their bond. It was so overwhelming, and Anakin wasn’t sure what it was he was feeling until Obi-Wan had turned to leave. Obi-Wan loved him. He may not have said it outright, but Anakin knew that’s what he meant. He could feel it inside him, and the Force only confirmed it. Neither one of them could have predicted, however, just how quickly things would fall apart after that.

Padmé had been up to something after that, and he’d feared the worst. Infidelity. Certainly it was out of her character, and he knew it, but his mind had been ravaged, and Palpatine had planted the seed in his thoughts. How could Padmé do this to him? And with Obi-Wan? Anakin had gone to the Temple archives with R2 and gotten him to slice into the data storing com logs. There’d been frequent 4 way conversation with Obi-Wan, Bail Organs, Quinlan Vos, and Shaak Ti. Anakin learned a shocking truth. Obi-Wan knew about himself and Padmé, and was confiding in the others on how to approach him. How to approach him with understanding, and how to not get him angry or distrusting. Quinlan had been the most outspoken, telling him to be done with it, tell Anakin how he felt about everything, try to help him, and… be with him? Organa had agreed for the most part, advising him to follow his heart is its own matters, and not to talk himself out of it. Master Ti was naturally against everything, which was not a surprise. The surprise was the undertones to the conversations Anakin was missing. He knew there was something they were talking about that he wasn’t picking up on, and it made him boil with suspicion. If Padmé wasn’t being unfaithful, there was something going on that he didn’t know about. So it was that he confided in a man he always had.

And that man corrupted him. The Chancellor turned him against his friends, his fellow Jedi, and he’d slaughtered them. The clones turned on their leaders, cutting them down in cold blood. A massacre. Anakin could only kneel in his moment of weakness and pledge faithfulness to the deranged Sith. He felt it in the Force as the souls of the Jedi departed, he physically couldn’t withstand the ache in his heart.

And so, it was with the corruption of the Republic and the Order, that Vader found himself gazing out the window, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes as he realized he had to face his wife, the woman he’d claimed to do it all for. He watched as the speeder landed, and the platform lowered. Padmé emerged, dressed in crimson robes, fine embroidery and ornate details, seemingly out of place. Vader’s sickly yellow orbs matched the danger and evil around him, though. The lava spewing forth in tall pillars, hissing as they stretched to their limit,l before plummeting back down to the sea of magma.

Padmé approached him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her fingers carding through the curls at the base of her husbands neck. His arms gingerly wrapped around her waist, and she stiffened only slightly, before remembering her purpose. She had to find the truth. As dark as it may turn out to be, she was ready. Ready to confront him.

“Anakin. I’ve heard whispers. Terrible whispers. That you turned to the Dark Side. Destroyed the Temple. Killed younglings. Tell me they aren’t true!” Her husband avoided her eyes, casting his gaze to the ground.

The silence all the answer she needed, she dropped her arms to her sides, the vast sleeves swallowing her hands as they fell. She reached up to her wrist, feeling the point of the sterling blade she’d stashed. Ready to unsheathe it, she paused.

“I-there is no excuse Padmé.” He murmured, broken.

“I thought what I was doing was right, I was doing it to save you. To save him.”

Padmé licked her lips, resolve wavering, and she looked to the side before she faced her husband again. Her whole world had come crashing down in the same day. The Senate, her life’s work, what she devoted her time and energy to had fallen. Fallen with thunderous applause to the poisoned words of Palpatine, a man she used to trust. Now, she stared at her husband, a fallen Jedi, and broken man, and she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t do what she’d come to do, what she’d willed herself to try. She could fix him, she could fix this.

“Anakin. You don’t have to continue down this path. We can leave, raise the baby, have a life away from this corruption and hatred.” She cupped his face then, wiping the tears that fell with her thumb.

“No. No, I can’t. I have to do this. I have to-” he stopped for a moment. He was about to break his marriage. “-I have to save Obi-Wan. From myself, and from the Emperor.” Padmé was crying now too, and swallowed. She placed a hand on her hip, sleeve opening, and the knife fell to the ground with a clatter. Vader’s eyes widened with realization, and he stepped back from his wife.

“You came here to kill me.”

“Anakin. Please. Calm down.” She pleaded, trying to sound calm, her tone stricken with fear.

“You were going to strike me down. You came to betray me.” He raised he is arm, lifting her from the ground, her legs dangling.

“Anakin, that is enough.” The familiar accent rang.

“Let her go.” Obi-Wan articulated. Vader’s eyes flickered from the man to the suspended woman and gasped in horror. What was he doing? This wasn’t right? It wasn’t to end this way. He laid Padmé to the side, watching as the older Jedi dropped his cloak.

“You turned her against me…” Vader seethed. “You did this!”

“No, you did that yourself. You let the Chancellor get to you, get inside your head. Anakin,” the auburn haired man whispered, moving forward slightly. “I know you. This isn’t who you are, you can stop all of this!”

Another eruption of lava, and Vader drew his gaze away from his former Master. He closed his eyes, and felt the dry gust of air on his face. The coarse soot, scratching him. He felt a hand cup his face, and he leaned into the touch.

“Anakin. You can fix this. You’re so strong.” He ran a thumb over Vader’s cheekbone. “You’re kind.” There was a pause, a long one, and Vader felt a pair of lips where the thumb had been. “You’re brave. You’re passionate. You’re The Chosen One.” Each adjective articulated by a chaste kiss to dry chapped skin.

Tears were steadily falling from the younger man’s eyes now. Convulsions and whimpers shaking his frame. Obi-Wan put both hands on either side of Vader’s face.

“And I love you.” Anakin now opened his eyes, lips parted in shock. Surely he’d known what he’d done. Surely he’d seen the Temple footage. This had to be a ploy, a trick to get him into custody. He’d be taken prisoner, tried and executed as a traitor. The Emperor warned him of this. But Anakin stopped his thoughts. Stopped the fear and chaos roaring and ravaging through him, and he did what he should’ve done from the beginning. He searched his feeling, searched the bond. He let out a sob then, when he felt that Obi-Wan’s feelings were true. He jolted forward and embraced the older man, kissing him with renewed zeal and vigor.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan. I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me. I beg you. I love you too. I love you so much.” Anakin cried into the crook of the older man’s neck.

“We can fix this Anakin. Together.” He lifted Anakin’s chin and looked him in the eyes. The pale sickly yellow still shooting back at him.

“What about Palpatine…” Anakin whispered.

“Again, something we’ll handle together, dear one.” Obi-Wan let a small frail smile grace his features as he knitted his fingers with the younger man’s.