#small children give me headaches and murderous rage

[enbyboiwonder]

What matters isn’t whether you like children or not, it’s whether you still treat them like the human beings with needs and wants who are deserving of respect that they are

[sparkypantaloons]

sm0l Jason Todd produces BIG angst

I'm so sorry. I know what it was you meant by this ask, but sm0l Jason turned into shrunken Jason and BIG angst turned into actual crack. Apologies. But enjoy - my first ever crack fic.

Red Hood's Barbie Dream House

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath.

"I feel like you're not taking this seriously." He says.

"No, we are!" Dick assures him, still trying to suck his cheeks in and stop himself laughing.

"Very seriously." Steph adds, eyes wide and nodding.

"Fuck you." Jason says from where he sits on the medbay cot, his voice ridiculously high pitched. "Fuck all of you."

Dick and Steph double over laughing again, clinging to each other for support. Bruce can feel a headache coming on.

"You're a pair of assholes!" Jason squeaks again, and jumps down to the floor. He barely reaches Dick's knees, shrunken as he is by whatever spell hit him. But it doesn't stop him from sinking his teeth into his brother's leg.

Dick smirks, reaches down and picks Jason up by the scruff of his neck. "Didn't even feel that, bro."

Jason let's go a string of expletives, too high to be understood.

"Dick." Bruce says in a warning voice.

"Okay, okay." Dick relents, but he's still smirking. He places Jason down, inside one of the glass tanks they use for potentially toxic and/or exploding items. Jason is too small to get out. "There you go Jay, nice and safe."

Steph is crying with laughter at this point, Jason's tiny fists pounding on the glass.

"Wait wait wait!" Steph says, gathering herself. Then she pulls off one of her boots and yanks the sock off her foot. "A sleeping bag, Hood. So you don't get cold." She drops it in the tank.

"Enough." Bruce intones, rolling his eyes, as high pitched squeaking echoes off the walls of the tank. It's coupled with little 'plink' sounds as Jason kicks and punches the glass. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Computer, call Zatanna."

~

The next day Steph shows up at the Manor, mid-afternoon. She's carrying a large box in her arms.

Bruce eyes it suspiciously. "What's going on?"

"Nothing." Steph smiles innocently, ponytail swinging. She walks through to the den. "Is Dick here?"

Bruce follows her, eyes on the box. "He's just picking Damian up from school."

Steph is looking far too pleased with herself. She plonks the box down on the coffee table. "And where's Jason?" She asks sweetly.

Bruce feels a headache coming on. "He's in the library."

Steph gives him a wicked smile. "I brought him some things." She says, then pulls an old Barbie Dream House out of the box.

"Stephanie..." Bruce starts and he doesn't know if he's chastising her or begging her.

"What?" She shrugs. "A little man needs a little house." She says, as though it were obvious.

Bruce picks up the sign that's been attached to the roof. Hand painted in big red letters. 'Red Hood's safe house. Keep out.' He raises his eyebrows.

Steph tries to hold back a grin. Busies herself with setting out the little table and chairs and bed.

Bruce sighs. "I'll be in the Cave."

~

"Bruce!" Jason's high pitched voice, squeaks through the comm. "Bruce, I swear I will murder your children in their sleep!"

"Please murder me first." Bruce mutters to himself.

"What?" Jason shrills.

"Nothing." Bruce says brightly. "What's wrong?"

Jason has been Barbie-sized for three days now, with no choice but to let the magic wear off, according to Zatanna. Though Bruce can't help but wonder if that's because she's still annoyed Batman banned her rabbits from the Watchtower. Either way, Jason is stuck dressing in Tim's old G. I. Joe's clothes for a few more days at least. And Bruce is stuck enduring the consequences.

Once upon a time he would have been thrilled at the thought of having Jason home for even an afternoon, let alone an entire week. Now, Bruce almost regrets insisting that Jason stay at the Manor until he returned to normal. For what his son now lacks in size, he is making up for in rage.

Unsurprisingly, the rest of Bruce's children are utterly delighted.

Steph not only brought over her old Barbie Dream House (which Jason had proceeded to try and destroy before Tim put him in a vase "for a time out") she also brought over Barbie's pink convertible. Jason had spent the entire first battery charge driving it repeatedly into Tim's ankles.

Damian meanwhile, had found an old Buckaroo game up in the attic and had taken to challenging Jason to a demented sort of miniature rodeo. Often plonking his brother on the horse when he was least suspecting it. The last time it happened,  Jason had spent the rest of the day learning to ride Titus. Then had made the old dog charge straight at his ten year old owner, knocking him down everytime Damian left his room.

Tim, on the other hand, had come home one evening with an expensive looking dress box. Only to reveal a tiny, white wedding dress with attachable wings inside. "You can be this years Christmas fairy!" He had laughed, setting off the rest of his siblings.

Jason had been furious, but had already realised that kicking, punching and biting had no effect on his much larger siblings. Instead, he had waited until Tim was asleep, creeped up on the younger man's bed and unceremoniously yanked out a fistful of nose hairs. Tim's yelling had woken the whole house.

Worst of all had been Dick, who lost any sympathy he might have had within hours, and spent entire days seeing how much he could annoy Jason. If it wasn't challenging the tiny man to lift up various house hold objects ("I bet you can't lift this fork. I bet you can't pick up a cufflink. Bet you're too puny to carry a plum.") it was leaving him in precarious situations - to keep his skills sharp, apparently.

Bruce had put a stop to it, when one of the tests was Jason tied to the toy railway tracks with hair elastics.

Cass alone had seemed uninterested in riling Jason up, content to let him sit on her shoulder as she went about her day. (Jason had tried to suggest he sit on her head like the rat in that Disney film Bruce had hated, but had Cass looked as though she'd rather have an actual rat on her head).

It had all been going quite well and then, unsurprisingly, there had been a fall out. Bruce didn't even want to know what, but Cass had been so annoyed she'd put Jason on the top shelf of the library and left him there all day. Bruce has been required to wear a comm 24/7 now, so Jason can at least call for help if he needs it.

"B, are you even listening to me?" Jason shrieks.

"Sorry, Jay. What were you saying?"

"I said, you need to chase up my clothes order! I can't wear these cargo pants anymore. I'll just go naked Bruce, don't test me."

Bruce sighs. He's beginning to wonder if maybe he should just beg a favour off John Constantine, put a stop to all the nonsense.

~

By the eighth day, Jason is a tiny storm, in an actual tea cup. Fed up with being pint sized and the smallest in the family, he sits in a mug on Bruce's desk, glaring at his father.

"If you loved me you'd fix this." He says, for the ninth time.

Bruce tries not to growl, swings the screen to face his son. "Literally all I do is try and find solutions." He says irritably. Given how small Jason is, Bruce is desperate for some space.

"Some great detective you are." Jason sulks. "It's been eight days Bruce! Eight days and you—"

There's a sudden poof of smoke and clang of breaking crockery and then a full sized Jason sat on Bruce's desk. Stark naked.

Jason's eyes widen - half in glee, half in embarrassment.

Bruce crosses his arms. "You were saying?"

Jason gives an awkward grin. "Err... That I love you and you're the best and now please give me your pants?" He says, trying to at least maintain some dignity.

Bruce rolls his eyes, pulls a spare pair of trackies out of his desk drawer. He shrugs when Jason gives him a quizzical look. "I'm Batman." He says, by way of explanation.

"Great." Jason says, pulling them on quickly. His face turns dark. "Now where's Dick?" He asks. "He's a dead man."

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel another headache coming on.

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

I know everyone likes the "secretly good villain whumpee..." but what about when the villain was a rat- bastard with very few redeeming qualities... just being injured and sick and oh so broken. Just begging for mercy, even though they were so arrogant and vicious before.

I melt at those scenarios.

I agree with that. If the villain is secretly good, you might as well call him or her a hero- or at least a vigilante.

Vicious and Bloody

Warnings: gorey(?) description of injuries, maggots, blood, vomit, mention of people dying, pus, field medicine, bathing, vomit, sleep deprivation, pills (tylenol and ibuprofen), attempted murder, implied past torture, hallucinations, fever, delirium

~

There was no rational answer for the scene in front of her. Not even the greastest minds in history could comprehend it- figuratively speaking. It was just so peculiar, odd and out of place, that it was like from a different dimension.

The said scene would be absolutely mortifying to the squeamish soul. Between the blood and the vomit and the maggots, the sight was more than revolting.

But still, ignoring her instincts to gag and run, Civilian crouched down next to the poor man- not touching, of course, it would only irritate his injuries further and be disgusting on many levels.

"Should I call an ambulance?" Civilian asked the man softly, brushing back the part of his grimey hair that wasn't intoxicated by maggots or too much blood.

But in doing that, she realized that the man wasn't even conscious. Which, was not surprising and brought a small relief to the nervous civilian.

But it also revealed his identity. Even without the foreboding mask, his features unmistakably were those of the most feared and vile human of the city.

Villain.

"If you ever see Villain, call the heroes. If he so happens to be incapacitated, kill him or injure him further to limit his ability of escape or to destroy."

That mandatory lesson rang through Civilian's ears nearly as loud as semi's horn. It was every civilian's responsibility- whether they were a certified hero or not- to hand it or dispose of any being against the government.

Especially Villain.

Especially without any doubt Villain.

Civilian sighed and observed the injured man's face. It was her responsibility to do this, the city would thank her, applaud her.

She brought her hands to Villain's neck and squeezed. His breaths hitched, but he didn't wake, not even to the sensation of suffocation. Civilian squeezed her eyes shut, but it did nothing to rid her mind of the horrendous sight of his already crimson stained face growing even redder... his lips paling then morphing into a grayish blue...

Civilian gasped, drawing her hands away from his neck. The villain's eyes shot open as he tried to fill his lungs, but as he heaved and wheezed, they kept rolling up and sliding closed.

"Hey!" Civilian exclaimed, tapping his shoulder. Villain's eyes shot open and he looked at Civilian with an expression filled with the unthinkable.

Fear.

Villain's lip trembled as he tried his hardest to scoot away. He whimpered something unintelligently and weakly held up a hand as if to protect himself from futher harm- as if the shaking limb could do anything other than wave aimlessly in the air.

Upon coming to the conclusion that escape was impossible, the villain resumed a position of pointless mewling.

"Don't hurt me," he whined, tears streaming down his cheeks, making the small cuts sting and itch. "D-don't hurt me. I've been bad, please don't remind me. P-please." He shifted his head into his elbow and sobbed.

Civilian didn't know what to do with the scenario, so she just allowed him to cry until he was too exhausted to do anything other than whimper pained pleas.

When his eyes started to droop, Civilian wrapped her arms around his upper body and heaved him into a sitting position- somewhat shocked of how limp and pliable he was.

Then she stopped. What was she doing? Villain was the most notoriously evil person in the city, if not the universe. He killed hundreds, thousands even including men, women, and children. He was undeserving of any level of comfort, whether that be love, care, or compassion.

Yet someone had to be worse than him to put him in such a nasty condition.

"Don't hurt me," Villain whispered, clinging to Civilian's shirt with all his might- as little as that was.

"I won't," Civilian promised, smiling down at the injured villain. The villain sighed and closed his eyes.

She had to help him now. It would be practically illegal to turn him in, or harm him even further. Well, metaphorically speaking.

Civilian dragged Villain into her house. Luckily, she owned a one-story, so bringing him to the bathroom was not too big of a deal- apart from the exertion on her slender arms, that was.

Immediately, Civilian stripped off the remains of his tattered clothing and sat him in the tub. Gingerly, she washed out the infection wounds, making sure all the maggots were gone.

After thirty minutes, she only finished the lower half of his body and his back and shoulders were much, much worse. It took another hour to get done with those.

Civilian took a second to catch her breath, she didn't realize how diligently she was working. The villain was completely clean, other than countless uneven holes that looked like someone grabbed his skin and pulled it out.

The next line of business was whether or not to give him stitches. Many of the remainding wounds were heavily infected and would benefit from being dried out.

Many of those infected wounds needed to be drained and removed.

Civilian sighed, thinking of her nursing classes. She had school tomorrow...

Someone was dying.

Someone with the name of Villain.

Civilian ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. She ran in through the sharpener a couple times before heating it on the stove to remove bacteria. Here goes...

Civilian cut into one of the infected abscesses and carefully drained the pus out. She sighed and wiped her hands on a papertowel. She should really be wearing gloves...

Villain jerked, suddenly awakening with a shriek. His eyes saw the knife and he froze, staring at it for a long time, before erupting into unstoppable sobs.

"Don't hurt me! P-p-please don't... knife," he wailed, trying to curl into himself.

"Stop it," Civilian tried to reason, clenching her teeth, as she pulled Villain away from himself. He started to rock, back and forth... back and forth... back and-

"Hurts," he whimpered.

"I know," Civilian whispered, rubbing the back of his head. "I'm trying to help."

"No. Pain."

"No pain?" Civilian repeated, trying to make sense of what Villain's intent of the statically said statement.

"No pain," he murmured, resting his head against the tub. "Take away."

"I don't have anything for the pain," Civilian told him softly. "Some nyquil, but I'd rather give you tylenol for the fever."

Villain looked up at her with pleading eyes. "Please," he begged..

"It's just gonna make you tired, not take away the full extent of the pain."

Villain let out a strained sob and kicked out with his feet. Pouting in the most pitiful way.

"Just," Civilian sighed. "Just. It's gonna hurt."

Civilian leveled the knife to another wound and drained it. Villain writhed in the beginning, but stopped when he realized his fate.

By the time each major abscess was drained, Villain was barely conscious, his head lolling groggily against the bath tub. Civilian gulped. She would have to disinfect the wounds now, but she didn't have anything for it...

Salt water, a saline solution.

Villain's screams did not leave Civilian's memory for a while, even when he was finally asleep on the couch. Civilian aimlessly rubbed his hand, whispering to him as he slept, but it all felt wrong. So, so wrong. All the people he hurt never got the same level of care that he was receiving- as if they had any at all.

But at the same time, it felt right. None of Villain's victim's injuries were as extreme as his- they either died or went to the hospital. Whoever tortured Villain wanted him to suffer, not that Villain wanted people to not suffer...

Crap, this was confusing herself.

Civilian cared for Villain throughout the night. The open textbook on her kitchen table did not even remind her of her class in the morning. Nothing could, especially when someone so sick seeked her hospitality.

Villain's fever raged and he was fed more and more tylenol. Eventually, she started to put ice packs around his neck and major arteries, but he was still so, so miserable.

He started to hallucinate. Sometimes whimpering about a bat flying around his head, or laughing giddily. But one of these episodes really stood out to Civilian.

"Curve, curve," he muttered as his cheek rested against the mattress- for some reason he kept flipping himself to his stomach. "Fall."

"Then cave." The delirious, but intense gaze the villain had made Civilian wonder if he was trying to tell her something in his fevered state.

"Man hurt."

Civilian shushed Villain and gave him a quick sip of water with an ibuprofen tablet. He sighed and closed his eyes.

"Don't hurt me," Villain whispered, scratching at the sheets. "Please."

"I won't, sleep."

Villain slowly, oh so slowly nodded as he allowed his eyes to slip closed.

Civilian took care of Villain as best as she could. She really needed to get supplies, but it was dangerous to leave the villain unattended as sick and injured as he was. Infection set in agai, fever rose...

Civilian groaned and rubbed her head. She had a horrible headache from stress and lack of sleep.

Maybe a short nap wouldn't hurt...

When Civilian woke up, seven hours later, she found Villain shivering on the ground with vomit all over him.

"Dangit," Civilian groaned and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

Just dangit.

[sodone-withlife]

let's play, my love

for @yourlocalheartbreaker , who posted this painful idea, i really hope you enjoy this! also, apologies in advance for the pain that this might cause you?

characters may seem a bit OOC. as per usual, this had little to no proofreading, so apologies for any mistakes. i might also post a commentary later since there are parts i kind of want to explain (or clarify)

warnings: substances, gun violence, canon-typical violence, abuse, suicide, character death

word count: 3.2k words

They were always good at acting.

He might have forgotten practically all of his lines up on that stage as the Fourth Pirate, but even that fiasco did not detract from his carefully cultivated image as the lone wolf, injured and bleeding but strong enough to rip anyone approaching to pieces.

The fact that she had single-handedly created the drama department in their small school that accommodated all of the children and teens in that little backwater town was enough to demonstrate just how good she was at both acting and standing tall in the chaos.

They were just as good as seeing through bullshit and picking apart facades, no matter how well-layered it might seem to be.

They were also just as good as ignoring what they didn’t want to see, and while that might have done well to keep them together, there was only so much they both could take.

So when he started feeling woozy in his home office hours before he normally hit his limit and two weeks into a local serial investigation, he felt something inside him shatter, giving way to an awakened creature crawling out of its sleep before he finally blacked out.

A gentle light was filtering through the curtains when he came to with a pounding headache. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted over him, and he slowly opened his eyes, only to flinch at the bright light that suddenly flooded the room when the curtains were jerked open.

Hotch blinked the stars away, looked back in front of him, and froze as he was faced with the evidence of his complicity, his weakness, spread all over the table.

The old birthday card.

A single faux feather that he had recognized to have been ripped off from that old costume hat.

An old ticket stub for the opening night of Rent.

A wedding ring.

Even though they were sealed inside plastic evidence bags, he could still smell the perfume he had bought her as a wedding gift, that she had sprayed on all of those keepsakes that she had left behind as taunts.

His breath caught in his throat when cold metal momentarily pressed against the back of his neck, but he forced himself to remain still.

This is the endgame. You have to play now. You can't avoid it like you have been, with your evidence pilfering and self-imposed isolation from the team.

“Don’t bother trying to move. Your handcuffs have been put to good use.”

Haley walked around the table, helping Jack up onto his chair before settling down across from him with a revolver deliberately placed on top of the table. She met his eyes unflinchingly, a cold sort of amusement on her face at the stone facade he was wearing that was quickly falling to pieces.

“It’s about time you are here for breakfast, instead of in the middle of nowhere doing God knows what.”

Hotch couldn’t help his flinch at the sharp jab, knowing all too well how true it was. He tried to force himself together, just so he could gauge the situation with a profiler’s eye, but there was only so much he could do as the once-hibernating creature tried to rear its head.

He focused back on his wife, who was still staring at him, anger simmering underneath an oddly genial expression. “When did you realize?”

It was genuine curiosity, he realized with some faint surprise as he cleared his throat. “I knew something was off two weeks ago, after the first murder,” he said, trying to sound offhand. “The pieces fell together with the third murder.”

“Was it a shock?”

His swallow was convulsive as he attempted to keep the bile down. “No,” he finally forced out, looking away as he thought about why.

My fault. I knew exactly why you did what you did within minutes of figuring out it was you.

“Look at me.”

Hotch flinched at the tone that was so unfamiliar and so strange, and forced his eyes over to Haley after flicking a brief glance at Jack, who was playing with his cereal on the other side of the table. “I know the others,” she spat the word, beautiful features suddenly twisting harshly in hatred, “don’t know that you have had a full profile ready for days.”

“Haley, I know you—”

“Do you?”

The ringing question struck him straight in his core, sending the creature in his chest skittering back as he swallowed convulsively, unsure how to answer. She scoffed derisively. “Well, we’ll find out then, won’t we?” she asked rhetorically, fixing him with a cold stare, rage simmering underneath. “Tell me your profile.”

It was an order.

And with a revolver clenched in her hand and their son only a few feet away, he could only agree.

“The unsub is a woman—”

“Wait.”

Hotch stopped, attention drawn to Haley’s hands, which were fiddling with the barrel of the revolver. Dread pooled in his stomach when he saw her empty the cylinder of all but one bullet.

Russian roulette

“You know what this is, so let's play, my love,” she said mockingly, closing the cylinder and spinning it. She looked him square in the eyes, steely resolve barely masking an anger that was becoming more and more clear. “I read your notes. You get something wrong in your delivery, and we play a round.”

He took in her clenched jaw and trembling hand and tried to summon up his years of expertise only to find himself at a complete loss, the storm in his mind frozen for the first time in years as he was faced with a situation he never could have anticipated. Haley tilted her head mockingly when he didn’t start speaking.

“Show me what you keep leaving me behind for,” she sent towards him tauntingly, hand twitching on the revolver as she lifted it up and let it linger as it was aimed towards his chest, only to bring it to her temple.

She lifted it up and let it linger as it was aimed towards his chest, only to bring it to her temple.

No—

She knows all of your pressure points, of course she would use them.

Use that brain of yours and think.

Eyes unable to leave the weapon, he forced himself to verbalize the stream of consciousness he remembered going through his head as he was writing notes three nights ago.

“The unsub is a woman in her mid-30s to mid-40s and exhibits traits of both an organized and disorganized killer. The killing of the first couple was spontaneous and unplanned, as shown by the messy crime scene. But it triggered something within her, and she killed again within a few days.”

How is it that, out of the two of us, she snapped first?

“This time, the scene was markedly cleaner and demonstrated rather high organization, which helped us narrow the age range. While the wife was killed quickly and efficiently, she loses all control when it comes to the husbands, evidenced by the immense overkill and the destruction of the mens’ belongings.”

How does someone so good snap before someone who didn’t even know love until they were a young adult?

Hotch abruptly came back to the present—you're not at a precinct, dammit, focus—as he swallowed, throat dry. He sent a quick look to Haley who seemed to have turned her attention to Jack, but the gun was slightly lowered and he could tell she was listening. He continued, now choosing his words carefully. “Victimology suggests she was inserting herself as the wife of- of absent husbands. She projects her rage at her own husband towards the male victims and her self-hatred towards the wives—”

“Stop,” Haley suddenly ordered, voice trembling in suppressed rage, and for a brief moment, Hotch wondered how far she had devolved since the last killing.

Look around you. Jack is just feet away.

She took a few deep breaths, trying and failing to return to the level of composure she was at before. In frustration, she slammed the revolver back onto the table, the noise startling both him and Jack, who only looked around in confusion.

She's losing control.

Well done for stating the obvious.

Didn't I tell you long ago not to listen to your heart?

The malicious voice of his father echoed through his head, an oft-ignored presence in his head louder, more present than it had ever been.

And look where that's gotten you.

“I'm surprised at how good your memory is, especially since you forgot about Jack's school performance two weeks ago,” Haley's scornful voice jerked him out of the storm that was once again gathering in his head. “No matter, there is another way we can do this,” she continued, pulling what he recognized to be his phone out of a pocket and dialing a number.

“I'm calling your team right now,” Haley said to him lightly, her tone a stark contrast to the manic anger that remained in her expression. “It takes about forty minutes to get here from Quantico. During that time let's tell them about all the secrets you've been keeping.”

The malice in her voice was like a blow to the chest, forcing all the air out from his lungs.

Haley…

Old lessons from the Academy profiling classes floated back into his consciousness—

Once someone devolves too far…

Years of working in the field, and faced with the woman he helped turn into a killer, he could only turn to the basics of profiling he had learned ten years ago.

Did I do this to you?

He flicked another look towards his son at the side, who was still happily entertaining himself and blissfully unaware of the sheer danger he was in.

… there’s no telling what they could do.

“Hello, Agent Gideon,” Haley suddenly greeted, voice still in a strange calm.

The team—

“Don’t talk, just listen..."

They'll kill her—

"I have a revolver on the table and we're about to play a little game of Russian roulette..."

They wouldn't—

“You would do well to start heading over here.” She sent Hotch a derisive look over, then turned back to the phone. “There are some things I'd like you and your team to find out about Aaron that I think you should know.”

Would they?

She placed the phone on the middle of the table and looked back at Hotch. “Here are the rules, husband. You cannot flinch, you cannot react, you cannot break eye contact with me, otherwise, we go through a round,” she began, her stare boring into him as she carelessly swung the revolver around. “Do you know why I'm doing this?” she asked, making her voice sound saccharine sweet and grating to the ear.

Hotch remained silent, all too aware of the team that was probably listening to him through the phone. Suddenly, his head snapped to the side as a sharp pain bloomed across his face, and the creature in his chest snarled.

“Say it, Aaron Hotchner,” Haley brought the revolver up. ready to hit him again. “Answer the question, or take the gun.”

Finish this.

His traitorous brain superimposed an old memory over her, his father's pose fitting perfectly, and something in him snapped.

A weight disappeared from his chest, it suddenly became much easier to meet her stare with his own dark look, the one he vowed never to bring home, to leave at work with all of the darkness that trailed after him.

Finish this before they get here.

Play the game.

“Uncuff me,” he requested simply.

The creature purred in satisfaction at the surprise that came across her face, but all he could think about how easily he was breaking his promises, ripping through them like they were tissue paper, why was it so easy—

“Try to leave, and I’ll kill everyone in this room,” she hissed into his ear, pressing the revolver up underneath his chin as she slowly freed his hands.

And there’s the threat.

He glanced towards Jack again, reassuring himself and the creature that the child, so innocent and so ignorant of what was happening, was still safe, and then at the revolver that had been placed in front of him.

To be a coward, or to lose everything. That is the question.

“You know I don’t want Jack to go through what went through, a vow I had made years ago. You’re doing this to punish me because in a way, this is worse than what I went through.”

The answer easily flowed from his lips, much easier than he ever would have expected, especially knowing that the team was listening in. The creature in his chest was strangely settled, and he vaguely wondered what that meant when his attention was pulled back towards Haley, who had sat back down across from him.

He looked closely at her, and the high that was in her expression was easily recognizable to him.

How many times had he seen that in unsubs desperate for control, no matter how temporary?

Hadn’t he recognized it in himself for weeks after that night, twenty years ago? When he finally reclaimed control from the alcohol-induced monster that prowled his childhood home?

Taking a gamble, he decided to ask a question. “Haley, you’re entirely in control, and you can choose what to do to me,” the familiar buzzwords fell from his lips, tinged with desperation while trying to be coaxing.

He couldn’t help but flinch at the loud smack that sounded when she slammed her hands onto the table and leaned over towards him, the sound bringing up too many old and unpleasant memories that easily broke through the odd veil of calm that had set over him.

“That’s right,” she began, an odd note to her tone. “I’m entirely in control, so here’s what I’m going to do,” she said, snatching the revolver from his side of the table and opening the chamber again to rearrange the bullet so that it was in the next cartridge.

Haley walked back over and pressed the gun into his right hand so that she was controlling his finger over the trigger. Slowly, she shifted the chair he was sitting in so that it was facing Jack in his chair and brought the revolver to his temple. Hotch could only freeze, mind rapidly moving through scenarios that accounted for his miscalculation, and—

“Game over, Aaron,” she said quietly. “It’s been lovely playing with you, my love.”

He felt the warm blood splattering across his face before he registered the gunshot and the body dropping to the floor behind him.

Slowly with his ears ringing, he stood up, turned around, and stared.

And stared.

The image shifted, and suddenly he was in the doorway of his parent's old bedroom, smelling the sharp tang of blood that was diffuse in the air.

He blinked, and he was back in his house in Alexandria, staring at his wife’s cooling body on the ground with an apathy he thought was left behind in his youth.

But reality suddenly crashed over him in a wave, and all of the emotions he had cycled through in the past two weeks sent him crashing to his knees and the creature in his chest fell silent and still when he realized—

Haley killed all those people.

She killed all those people because of me.

All of those people are dead because of me.

She forced me to pull the trigger

I killed her.

…

And Jack—

He whirled around to pick up his son who was crying his heart out in fear of the loud bangs and wanting comfort from his parents, but he saw that a few droplets of blood had made their way onto his face.

And as quickly as the grief had cascaded over him, an inferno of rage was suddenly ignited within him, burning through his grief.

Stronger and more wild than he had ever felt in his life, it scorched its way through the remnants of his person, burning him from inside out with all of the passionate emotion and hatred and anger he had suppressed over the years until all he could hear was the roaring of the creature inside his chest and all could see was the child that had been the catalyst to a series of events that got his mother killed—

she protected me and he beat her to death

—had gotten the woman he had loved so much killed

she showed me what kindness was, she was a mother of two

–killed because of the one who should have loved her with all his being—

she was too good for this world, and even the darkness of their home couldn’t dampen her spirit, so she had to be killed—

The front door burst open just as another shot was fired.

And then silence.

Silence.

…

Aaron? Is Mama okay? I heard loud noises.

Mama’s fine, Sean She's just sleeping. The noises were my fault, I’m just making sure I didn’t wake her up.

Oh. Okay.

Go with your friends, I know they’re waiting for you.

He knew they were looking at him in horror.

Why wouldn’t they?

He was, after all, standing above the bodies of the two people he was supposed to love and cherish until his dying day.

But they only saw the obvious. They didn’t see that it was his own fault this happened, they didn't see the masks fall and they didn't see the creature prowling about, preparing to rip anyone approaching to pieces.

They didn’t see that this was the only way to make things right, to make sure his cold, ravenous darkness didn't swallow everything now that it was free after twenty years of waiting.

The cold metal tasted of bitter victory.

He smiled.

His father remarried within months, and Sean grew close to their stepmother.

But his little brother was forgetting their biological mother, and soon, he would be the only one in the family who thought about her.

That revelation had hurt more than he could bear.

Over the years, though, he had hardened, and the creature in his chest that was born when he saw his mother take her last painful breaths had learned to bide its time.

He knew of his father’s plans already.

He knew where the note was, where the will was, where the gun safe was.

He was supposed to be on the way to college for his freshman year, and Sean was over at a friend’s place for a sleepover.

It was a warm night, and his father hadn’t raided his stash of alcohol yet, hadn’t turned into a creature of rage.

Which meant they were both fully aware and cognizant when he shoved the metal into the man’s mouth with an ease and apathy that shouldn't be seen in a healthy, well-adjusted teenager—

His smile had always been too sharp, his eyes too dark.

His love was twisted and broken.

Hidden, it lay in wait, ready to destroy everything that posed a threat.

…

He tilted the gun upward, pressing into the roof of the man’s mouth.

He pulled the trigger.

[msmarvelwrites]

The Winter Ghost - Part 12

Info: A Devastating car crash causes you to lose your memory and start over. The only thing left in the wreckage was the horrific nightmares which plagued your mind. If you knew what today would entail you would have just stayed in bed. But you didn’t and because of that, everything you knew was about to change.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: swearing, ptsd, agnst

W/c: 2k

A/n: I want to personally apologise for this. But honestly, this was the most fun chapter to write. I’m in love with this and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. As always, thank you to @cutie1365​​ for all her help with this one! Also the POV between Bucky and the reader jump back and forth alot through this one I hope it makes sense! 

The several punching bags Bucky had mutilated last night lay in the corner of the gym, now collecting dust as he bandaged his bloody knuckles. He hadn't stopped thinking about you all night... Hadn’t stopped thinking about the Winter Soldier who fired those three lethal shots into his mission's chest. The Soldier he once was, fighting the monster he knew he’d always be. They could take his trigger words, but they'd never erase the incoherent and disjointed memories of the gruesome acts he had so willingly performed.

He tried to piece together that fateful mission. How could he forget? He could still see the twisted look on the man's face as his eyes rolled back into his skull, falling off the bridge and into the murky water beneath him, slipping farther and farther from view. At the time, he remembered thinking how easy it would be to dive in after him. He wondered if he hit the water, would it kill him? Surly not. Most likely, he’d survive… But a guy could dream. Sinking deeper and deeper into the cold waters would be so peaceful. He almost did it. But the blood curdling screams from behind reminded him of the task at hand. 

He forced himself to relive that moment, over and over until the ringing of bullets in his mind became melotic, trying desperately to remember her face. Every time, drawing a blank. His memory of her, nothing but a tangled mess of wires, too rusted and corroded to connect. A headache pounded behind his sleep deprived eyes, scolding him. But he couldn't stop. 

How could he not remember your face. Or the sound of your heavy sobs as you crumbled into a hollowed out version of the woman he’s now so fond of. You begged him, he remembered that. Your screams only to be washed out by the sound of his pistol. The drum of bullets used to be the only comfort to him, but now he would easily trade it for your laugh. The way you sigh, soft and smooth when he says something that makes you smile. The way your eyes crinkle when you're happy, or how your hair always falls in perfect ringlets around your face. He knows he shouldn't have let it get this bad, but it's too late now. You've ruined any other woman for him, and for that he was grateful. But now, as fast as you had stolen his every thought, you were gone.

Truly the better criminal. 

He saw you, only in passing as you walked by the kitchen. Your eyes fell to his and he could see the hurt behind them. He wanted nothing more than to run to you, explain, apologise- but Nat stopped him before he could. 

“Not like this, Barnes. Not like this.” She solded. He knew she was right. If you were to ever be able to look at him again, he needed to give you space to breathe. But Bucky was at a loss.

With Steve away doing God knows what, he wasn't sure who to turn to. It had been over a week since he had exchanged words with his best friend and though he missed him, he also hated what he had done. Deep, deep down, Bucky knew he was trying to protect him, but that didn't dismiss the complete and utter mess he had made. 

So there he sat, battered and panting on the gym floor as he tried to fight the urge to run to your room and beg for forgiveness that would never come. He knew it. Perhaps that was for the best. You deserved more than a ghost of who he once was. 

…………………………

Dirty plates and empty liquor bottles scattered your coffee table. You sat up, noticing Nat fast sleep on the small sofa in your room. Sam was sprawled on the floor with an old teddy bear Tom had won for you at Coney Island years back. He cradled in between his arms, soft snores slipping from beneath his lips. 

You spent the rest of the night eating contraband snacks and watching some gorey action movie you picked to drown out your inner dialogue. It didn't really work, but Sam’s earth shattering snores that came half way through the movie helped in its place. As you listen to his staggered breathing, you wonder about the girl you left behind all those days ago. The one who forgot everything, but your mind tormented you with the memory of. You wondered if there was still a piece of her hidden deep down inside of you, waiting to spring forth at any moment. She wasn't broken. At least not the way you are now and you wondered, only for a moment, if maybe you liked the pathetic person she was. If only because she had no recollection of her duty, her honour, and could run back into his arms and forgive him.

But that's not who you were anymore. 

Quietly, you snuck out of bed and ransacked through your dresser drawer for something to wear. Nat and Sam had helped you put some of your clothes away between shots of tequila. 

‘That’s a lot of plaid’, Nat complained,  pulling yet another flannel out of your box of clothes. ‘And leather, did you make it out of the nineties okay, babe?’ Sam laughed. 

Grabbing your favourite jeans and vintage AC/DC shirt you stepped into the steam filled bathroom. 

After getting ready, you tiptoed out of your room, quietly closing the door and silently cursing when it slammed shut. 

Damn your super strength. 

You whipped around, ready to bolt down the hallway when you slammed into a tall hard frame. You looked up, hoping- no, praying it wasn't…

“Hi.”

You physically recoiled at the sight. There stood Bucky, hair pulled back off his face and a big lopsided grin on his lips. 

What the fuck? 

“Hi.” You deadpanned, pushing past him and trying your very best to not run away screaming. You were stronger than that. You were the youngest in your graduating class, hired by S.H.I.E.L.D, trained by the best agents in the field, and a goddamn Super Soldier. You weren't running from Bucky Barnes. You did however turn quickly on your feet and briskly walk passed him.

“Hold up a sec,” he started.

You froze. Why did you freeze? You didn't need him to say anything to you. The damage was done, and yet, there you were, breathless on his every word. 

“What?” You spat through a clench jaw. 

“Uh, I need to talk to you…”

“Well, good for you.” 

“Yeah, uh- Listen, I know you remembered everything and I just wanted to say that...” His words faded into the background as you began to see nothing but red. He was really doing this right now. Apologising for murdering Tommy, for dragging you back to Hydra, kicking and screaming, for being the sole reason you're in this mess.

Okay so you created the serum against your better judgment… But you weren’t the one on trial here. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” You sneer, cocking a brow. 

“I- I just wanted to-”

“And I just wanted to have a fiance that wasn't dead. What did you think? You’d apologize for what you did and everything would just go back to the way it was. Huh?” He gaped at you in shock, “That I’d just forgive you and jump back in your bed? Did remember me, Barnes? Did you get off on kissing me after you shot him in the chest?” Your voice began to falter at that. Hurt and betrayal clouded your brain. 

“No, of course not.” He finally spoke. 

“No what? No that doesn't do it for the Winter Soldier?” You shouted. So much for quietly sneaking out. 

“Y/n, listen to me- that’s not who I-.”

“Show him to me.” You took two wide pases so you were close enough to smell his body wash as you clenched your fist, digging it so hard into his chest you were sure you’d leave a mark. “Show me the Winter Soldier. Show me the ghost story they tell their children so that they’ll behave. I know he’s still in there. Cumon, Buck. You can't honestly believe he doesn't control your every move. You're a monster, you're just too much of a pussy to admit it. But I know-”

In seconds your back hit the wall, his metal arm crushing your windpipe as he held you there. If it weren't for your strength you were sure you would have passed out from the sheer strength of his blow. He was seething, eyes dark and all emotion washed from his face. 

You tried to look scared, you really did. But there was something about that hollow stare that sent a shiver down your spine. Maybe you were the one getting off on the Winter Soldier?

“There he is.” You choked out. His face softened at the sound of your broken words, but before he could slip back to Bucky Barnes your bedroom door flew open. Sam and Nat came barreling out, guns drawn and ready to attack. When Nat realised what was happening she gasped. 

Bucky involuntarily dropped you, eyes wide in shock. You tumbled to the ground, finding your footing quickly and taking the opportunity to send a sharp kick to Bucky’s chest, rocketing him back. 

“Y/n I’m so sorry I don't know what happened.” A rouge tear escaped and rolled down his cheek only making your rage intensify. 

“Oh, but I do. You may have everyone fooled around here. Hell, you had me for a moment there. But that's gone now. Dead. I see right through your act. It takes a monster to know one.” You scoffed, driving your point. And boy, was it a home run.  

“Bucky, what the fuck!?” Nat snapped

“Are you okay, did he hurt you?” Sam was at your side, checking your neck for any injuries. You healed quickly, and so only a faint pink line wrapped around your throat, the only reminder of the scene that had just played out. 

“Fine.” You mumbled, brushing the dirt off your pants. 

“Y/n, let me explain-” 

“You're still here? Nah, man, stop talking. Get the fuck out of here.” Sam scoffed, looking at Bucky's broken frame. You didn't need the Falcon to fight your battles, besides you had won this one already. 

Bucky signed, knowing this was over. Nat eyed Sam while she walked the damaged man out of the hallway. 

“You sure you're okay?” Sam spoke when they were finally out of sight. You nodded, feeling your heart begin to pick up speed at the distance that was now between you and Bucky. 

“Okay, let's get you out of here for a little bit.” 

You followed Sam through the compound and out into the scorching African heat. Your mind was still fuzzy from your moment you had shared the Winter Soldier, your legs feeling like jelly. Maybe you should have taken your doctor's advice and kept up with those therapy sessions because God damn if that wasn't the hottest thing that anyones ever done to you. 

Like you said, it takes a monster to know one.

…………………….

“What the hell were you thinking?” Nat snapped, shoving Bucky into the kitchen. He didn't stumble, not like when you pushed him. 

She wanted to see him. He thought, but did not dare utter the words. 

“I don’t know Nat. She pushed a button, I lost control.” 

“Lost control? You almost choked her to death.” 

No he didn't. It takes six to seven minutes for brain cells to start dying. Ten for the eyes to start to pop out of their sockets before they would gasp their final- 

No. God no. He could hear the monster's voice in the back of his head. Always lingering. You were right, he was always there. Always watching. 

“But I didn't. So just drop it.” Bucky tried to change the subject but Natasha wasn't having any part. 

“You need to get your shit together. What the hell is going on with you? First Y/n beats you within an inch of your life and now-”

“You don't know?” He was shocked. All this time he thought they were both in on it. He thought at the very least you would have told her. 

“Know what?” She pressed. 

“I did it. I killed him.”  Natasha gapped at him so a moment before she cringed and looked away.

“Oh, god.”

......................................................................

A/N: Thank you for reading! And also shout out to @whateveriwant​​ for her support and all her amazing advice. If you haven't already, go check out her work. I feel like I drew a little dark Bucky inspiration from a few of her fics. As always feedback is welcomed! Reblog and like if you feel so inclined! 

@kalesrebellion​

@projectcampbell​

@calwitch​

[mcfreakin-bxtch]

Here

The Mandalorian x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, Some angst, A happy ending because I couldn’t bear giving them a sad one

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: After a million more years I finally finished it. Thank you to all who have been sticking with me and the story!

*Italics - Flashback

Out of Love // Lovely // Start Over

-

Din watched you from afar. 

Your smile radiated throughout the small little valley. He used to think it was the most beautiful thing in the world; your smile, your laughter, your eyes, your nose, your—he could go on and on. 

It’s not that he didn’t think any of that anymore, oh definitely not. He couldn’t imagine his life without you. 

But, there was his little girl. His little girl, with his hair and your eyes, grabbing a handful of flowers with small, grubby hands. The Child ran behind her, or as much as he could; he was having fun regardless. 

His little girl, who brought him nothing but happiness. Who gave him a whole new meaning to his life, who saved him from his own self destruction. The little human girl that Din would undoubtedly and unconditionally love for the rest of his days, and even after if that was a possibility; the one he would give up everything for. 

So yeah, you used to be on the very, very top of that list of beautiful things he’d seen in his lifetime. That was before she came along. And when he first laid eyes on your daughter, his daughter, he couldn’t stop crying after getting over the initial shock that this beautiful baby girl was a part of him. It amazed him that someone like him, hard, vicious, quiet, and dangerous, could create something so precious and small. 

Din, however, never planned for any of this. He never prepared himself for a family. For a quiet, settled life in a nice little valley. For you. Even watching his small but perfect family ahead of him, he still couldn’t fathom that fact that this was his. At first, it just didn’t seem… right. 

“Din?”

Cara thought she was going to have to grab Mando and shake him. Slap him even, if it woke him up from his anxiety induced trance. You stood there, swollen belly and a fury of emotions; shock, a double take, comprehension, grief, acceptance, then anger. Pure anger that even had the ex trooper scared. 

“Y-Y/N.” Din breathed. It felt—good, saying your name like that again without the pain punching him in the gut. The guilt, yes that was still there of course. But you were there, standing in front of him, carrying his child and looking like you were absolutely ready to murder him. It kinda made him feel whole again. 

“Cara,” you said with a calmness that made Cara shiver. “Can you please leave us alone for a minute?”

Din was rightfully terrified. You may have been heavily pregnant, but he knew without a doubt that you would and could destroy him. 

You were seething in your silent rage. He could sense it. And because of that, he didn’t dare say another word until you did. 

“Why?” You said calmly; a hidden storm waiting to explode with devastating rage.

That one word, so simple and short, was enough to make him shudder out a breath, so filled with unshed tears and a heartache so strong that it was going to kill him.  

“I had t—”

“Don’t,” you snarled, your voice layered with the tears streaming down your cheeks. “Don’t you dare say that, Din. You didn’t have to, you wanted to.”

His heart broke all over again. He made the love of his life, his rock, his world, believe that he—he didn’t want her. You truly believed him when he said it, and he knew it was no one’s fault but his own, but hearing it from you was a whole nother thing on its own. It made it feel even more real, a sin he couldn’t cleanse. 

“So tell me,” you continued when he didn’t speak. “Tell me why you’re here. If you didn’t want me, or…” she gulped, furiously wiping away the tears, not that it did much good. “Or love me anymore. Why are you here?” Then realization dawned on you. “Cara.”

“She brought me here. I didn’t know…” That probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but it was the truth. 

Your face hardened and your eyes became colder. “How long are you staying?”

He shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t find the words he wanted to say, the words that crippled him and ate away at him. The words he wanted to say to you. 

You laughed humorlessly, all the while cradling your bump. Din couldn’t stop staring at it, and at the same time he had a hard time looking at it too. 

“Fine. Just… just leave me alone, Din.” You said and started to walk away. 

It’s like time slowed down and his life flashed before his eyes. His heart pounded with a vengeance and everything just… stopped. 

And he couldn’t do it. Not anymore, and not this time. He let you go before, practically threw you out, and this had to be a chance, right? His second chance at redemption. Not just for leaving you, but for everything bad thing he had ever done in his life; every life he’d ever taken, every bad decision he ever made, it was all screaming at him, taunting him. 

“Stop!” He shouted. 

You halted right in your steps, stiff and back turned towards him. You didn’t turn around, only tilted your head to the side to let him know you were listening. 

“And why should I Din? You made it perfectly clear last time—”

“I’m sorry.” He stopped you. “I’m so fucking sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for leaving you, for not being there for you. I’m sorry that I thought of myself, I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you…” He could’ve kept going if you didn’t interrupt him. 

“Didn’t tell me what?” You demanded, now facing him. 

Your eyes held so much in them. Blurred and red from your tears but still just as breathtaking, especially in the sun. Din couldn’t take his eyes away from them, despite the fact that you couldn’t see, and took a step forward. When you didn’t flinch or step back, he took another, and another and another until your stomach barely touched him. 

“I—there knew your name.” He finally said. “Quarries, dangerous people. And I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Before, well it wasn’t as strong before—kriff you know what I mean, right?   Along the lines I… I fell in love with you and I never stopped. I’m weak. I’ve become so weak in my desperation to—to save you, that I just…”

He didn’t know how to finish it. He hoped that you could understand what he was saying to you. He hoped that you could see beyond his helmet, his armor, like he was so convinced you could do. He hoped that you could forgive him. It didn’t have to be now, but he hoped. 

You didn’t waver, only looked him over with hard eyes. He let you assess him, even growing increasingly nervous under the cover of the unknown. Your jaw clenched and you bounced on your heel; Din immediately recognized this as you breaking. 

“Din,” you suddenly whispered. “I can’t… if you have no plans at all, of staying and fully committing to this child.” You shook your head, biting down on your lip to keep yourself from sobbing. Sobbing at the image of Din walking away from you again, the man you gave practically everything to, the one who opened himself up to you—it was a sight you couldn’t stand, but you would do anything for your baby, and you would not let anyone, not even the Mandalorian, hurt him or her in any way. 

Din nodded. “I know.” He took a deep breath. “This is all… very new to me. I can’t say I’ll be a great father, or a—a lover.”

“Stay,” you said. “I—I’m not going to entirely forgive you right away, and there’s gonna be a lot of moments where I’m going to be very pissed off at you, and they’re going to come randomly. There’s going to be moments where I may not trust you to the fullest extent. We’re going to have to really work at this if we want it to work. Understand?”

He nodded to the point of giving himself a little headache under the weight of the helmet; the joy of another chance overweighed the uncomfortableness. “Yes. Thank you.”

You gave him a final stare and hard nod before saying, “Alright then, tin can.”

You smiled then, small but fuck. It was perfect. A whole new light of hope that he could touch. Speaking of—

“M-may I?” He asked nervously. 

It took you a moment to register what he meant, but when it clicked your face relaxed and warmed up. “Yes.”

It felt so… he couldn’t describe it. You were like an foreign object to him—no, it was the baby growing inside of you. His baby. He wasn’t sure on how to touch you, or how he was supposed to eventually hold this special creature. Din was going to try his fucking damnest to make it work. 

He recalled that memory with a fond smile. It brought him to this moment. Now, without the familiar weight of the Creed on him, he took a deep inhale of fresh, sweet air and exhaled with a tilt of his lip. 

“Din?” You said again.

Din blinked down at you lazily, smiling in his haze. “Yes, cyar’ika?”

You wrapped your arms around his waist with a lopsided smile and squinted eyes; there wrinkles around them now, and you were just as beautiful as the day he met you. His own wrapped around yours, holding you tightly to him.

“I think there’s a storm coming.” You mumbled into the crook of his neck, lips barely brushing against the juncture of it but still giving him shivers. “We gotta get the kids inside soon.”

“Hmm.”

You looked up at him curiously. “Hey,” you whispered. “Where’d you go?”

The laughter of his children continued to echo. It used to bring nothing to him other than an occasional longing for something more than the life he had. But now, it was so much more and he had you to thank. It all started with you. 

“No where’s.” He whispered back. “I’m right here.”

Tags: @scarlett-berserker​, @justlovetoreadfics​, @lil-baby27​, @mando-vibes​, @beepbeepyabitch, @that-void-witch​, @im-the-music-whore​, @certifiedhunter​, @softpedropascal​, @domino-oh-damn​​, @okaydacre​, @lemongrove​, @appreciating-chase-brody, @iwontforgettheapplepie, @mybabyboytony​, @olyamoriarty, @pcrushinnerd​, @elusive-ivory​, @dizzydazed​, @bluejeancntrygrl​, @dadzawas-eyebags​, @moonstruck-witchy @our-mrlangdon, @parody-the-emi​, @evalynanne​, @purplewaterbird​, @vikingqueen28​, @tedpicklez​, @blunt-cake-yes​, @agoldin​, @lustriix​, @readsalot73​, @kateb013​, @eupphoriaaa​, @imalovernotahater​, @everything-lost-and-unsaid​, @dlmafa1, @hoodedbirdie​, @drunkenliterary, @fioccodineveautunnale​​, @fangirlfree​, @mrsparknuts​, @amarvelousmandalorian​, @ironheart-hanako​, @bunniotomia​, @thisisthe-way, @sando-rann, @meganoid1997​, @adikaofmandalore​, @cahooter​, @charliepeaceout, @dreamgirl-67, @phoenixhalliwell​, @acrylics-and-sunshine​, @sunkissed-winter​, @oloreaa​, @equalstrashflavoredtrash​, @dyn-djarin​

[vosh-rakh]

a handsome hunt

Handsome has been tracking this particular mark for a year now. Her reputation depends on it: this argonian nearly killed the Queen of Wayrest, and under her watch. So through the East Wrothgarians she’s chased her, hunting from sighting to sighting, always one step behind. She’s a tricky one, this assassin, former sister of the Dark Brotherhood.

Handsome pulls her cloak tighter against the frigid air of this altitude. What a waste of time, she thinks, to be an assassin. It’s not much better than being a bandit, albeit a little more civilized. There’s a proper profession for people like her, like Handsome: bounty hunting, or at least other mercenary work. That way you can make money killing people legally. They had something like that in Morrowind, before it blew up: the Morag Tong. This assassin, an old member of the Wayrest chapter of the Dark Brotherhood, idealizes herself as one of those old state-sanctioned assassins. But there’s not much room for virtue in this kind of work in the 4th era.

Handsome’s last clue was a sighting climbing this path up Mt. Martag, spotted by a group of orc teens playing banditry in the valley. Not the best lead, but the trail is running dry. Handsome needs a little bit of luck on her side. The kids told her a story of a cave near the peak of the mountain, of an infamous marauder who hid his loot there before being caught by the Empire centuries ago. Many youngsters tried to climb to this cave to find his riches, but all either turned back halfway or were never seen again. There was a rumor that a vicious dire troll lived in that cave, but the adults knew the much simpler truth: the path was treacherous, and it was nearly impossible to reach it in the first place. Most never bothered to try to reclaim the bodies of the lost, and instead tried to instil the danger of trolls and dragons into the children to keep them away.

Handsome was experienced enough that she felt her odds were better. So she set out to climb the mountain, following the often narrow and icy path upwards. As she approached, she heard ominous sounds, almost like the roaring of a troll, but she convinced herself it was the wind. Now, as she nears the cave, she’s not so sure. Even if her target isn’t here, maybe she can make enough money killing the troll for the locals that she can run far away from Wayrest and start again somewhere else. 

-

Handsome stares into the dark, narrow opening of the cave and sniffs at the frigid mountain air, the cold stinging the lining of her nostrils. No smell of troll dung, which she takes as a good sign. But she does smell something: the faintest whisper of smoke, an even better sign. The brief roar of her torch igniting breaks the howling winds for a moment, and she draws her axe. Then she begins to descend into the cave.

The air in here is hazy, smelling more strongly of smoke. She follows that odor as she keeps careful footing on the damp stone. No signs of habitation anywhere in these early corridors, so she commits to delving deeper.

The smoke leads her to a larger chamber in the bowels of the cave. She waves her torch around to get a better look. The smoke clears a bit and she can see a bedroll, a doused fire, and a handful of small barrels. Lying near the bedroll is a pack, lounging open on the stone floor. Whoever lived here, they left in a hurry, and recently.

Handsome lays her torch on one of the barrels to give the room light as she investigates. Halfway tucked into the pack is a small book, a journal by the looks of it. She picks it up and leafs through it with one hand, her other still firmly on her axehandle. It’s written in daedric script, which Handsome can read, but the language is entirely unfamiliar. She studies the cryptic handwriting for a moment, trying to decipher the text, but to no avail. Her best guess is that it might be written in the strange language of the argonians, seeing as her target is one herself. But to Handsome’s knowledge, that language is completely oral, with no written equivalent. Puzzling. She sticks it in her back-pocket to study more later.

“Hello.”

Handsome nearly jumps out of her skin. She swings around instinctively, her axe-arm outstretched in an offensive arc to catch her attacker. But all it finds is air, as the speaker is at the entrance to the chamber, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Who are you?” Handsome asks, trying to gauge who she’s dealing with through the smoke and darkness. Looks like a dark elf, so not her target.

“Who are you, snooping around in my things?” The stranger draws a sword, but her arm is shaking. Clearly untrained. “I know how to use this.” No, you don’t, thinks Handsome.

“You live here?” Handsome waves her hand around, but keeps her axe leveled the stranger’s way.

“For the time being, yes. Why are you here?”

Handsome grunts. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Unless that person is Sivennis Dirale, I think you should leave.” She waggles her sword in what is surely meant to be an intimidating gesture.

Handsome grins. “Going to call the guards on me? The legion, perhaps? Or an ordinator?”

Sivennis drops her sword in a pleading gesture. “Please just leave me be. I’m just a hermit. I live here by myself.”

Handsome strokes her chin. “That may be so,” she says. “Tell me, have you seen an argonian around these parts? Possibly accompanied by an orc?”

“An argonian? Why are you looking for an argonian?”

Handsome decides to trust this poor woman. “I’m a bounty hunter. She’s wanted in connection to...an attempted murder. The orc’s her accomplice.”

“Oh! How awful!”

“I’ll leave you alone, if only you answer my question. Have you seen any suspicious argonians lately?”

“Well, no, why would any argonian come this far…” The woman bites her lip. “Oh Azura save me. I can’t tell you now that I know she’s a murderer. What if she comes after me next?”

“Attempted murderer. That means she’s not good enough to finish the job. Tell me what you know and I’ll make sure you’re protected.” 

“Well...she came to me one night, with her orc man, asking for directions. I think they were heading south, towards Cyrodiil. Something about meeting with a friend in Skingrad, I think. That’s all I know, really.”

“That’s good enough. Thank-”

“I’m home!”

The words bellowed and echoed throughout the cave, causing Sivennis to cringe and whisper, “Dammit,” under her breath.

Handsome’s eyes dilate. “I thought you said you lived here by yourself.”

“I did, didn’t I? Sithis damn his loud mouth.”

There was a space of time between the sword being on the floor and then appearing in the elf’s hand again. In that brief moment Handsome saw through the dark haze clearly enough to make out some of the finer details of “Sivennis’s” face; notably, dark grooves on the sides of her neck, and the faintly reflective scales on her cheeks. After that brief moment was another, briefer, when Handsome’s axe-arm instinctively drew upwards to defend against the incoming strike.

“I told you I knew how to use this,” Hla-eix the assassin said, pulling back from the parried blow. 

“You did, didn’t you,” quipped Handsome, readying her axe for a strike of her own. It came at the same time as one of Hla-eix’s, forcing her to quickly step to the side to avoid it. She certainly was a far cry from the quivering mess Sivennis had been, striking decisively like a viper, with a well-trained grace. 

The two slowly circled one another, blocking and parrying each attack. Handsome needed to finish her, and quick, because she could hear the orc coming, his steps heavy down the stone halls - she certainly couldn’t take them both on, if he’s anything like her. When they had completely switched positions from the start of their duel, Hla-eix made a mistake that Handsome jumped on: she catches Hla-eix’s wrist under the beard of her axe, disarming her, her sword clattering away. 

So much for the “alive” bonus, she thinks as she readies a finishing blow. She raises her arm over her head -

- but it won’t come down. She feels a weight on her wrist that holds her back. She elbows behind her and wrests her hand free, swinging it around to hit her attacker. She finds that the elbow connected with his throat, and her axe finds his side, but doesn’t manage to find much depth. 

But something manages to find depth in Handsome’s back, sucking the air from her lungs. She falls forward, knocking the wounded orc over but catches herself on the wall of the cave. 

Now, Handsome thinks, is the time to run.

She gropes her way through the dark cave, away from the light behind her, running as fast as her breath will allow. She realizes too late that she left her axe in the orc’s tough flesh but keeps pushing forward. Finally she finds the light of the moons and stars outside and follows it until she escapes the cave. She turns her head briefly behind her to see the orc hot on her heels, bleeding, holding her axe, eyes glowing red. No one escapes an orc’s rage, she remembers just as she realizes there’s nowhere else to run. She can’t manage the descent wounded like this, and all that remains is a nearly vertical cliffside. 

She runs to the edge then stops, turning around. Hla-eix and the orc are both there, and Handsome is out of options. Hopefully there’s a soft snowdrift down there.

This is going to hurt, she thinks. She steps backwards.

-

Everything hurts, she thinks as she wakes up. Handsome tries to sit up but starts coughing so harshly that she has to lay back down. A little orc girl in the room notices and gasps before running away. She returns a moment later with an older orc woman, a shaman by her garb.

“You’re finally awake,” the woman says. “Was beginning to wonder if you would wake at all.”

“What happened? Where am I?”

“You’re in the village of Orsinium ag Martag, in friendly hands. You fell off a mountain. With a knife in your back. Which was poisoned. You also broke some bones. From falling off the mountain. I’m in the process of fixing you.”

Handsome raises a shaky hand to try to rub away a headache. “Is that all,” she whispers.

“It’s a miracle you survived,” the shaman says. “You should be thankful.”

“Yes, thank Malacath, I thought I was done for.”

“No, stupid girl,” the shaman shouts, slapping her on her unbroken leg. “Thank me. Malacath had nothing to do with it.”

“...sorry. Thank you.” Handsome slowly sits up, wincing all the while. “How can I repay you? I have gold. Drakes.”

“We don’t deal with Imperial gold in Orsinium,” the shaman says. “Tell me who you are and I call us square.”

“Okay. I’m Handsome. A bounty hunter. Just got my ass kicked by my current mark. Is that good enough?”

“I know you’re handsome,” the shaman says, “but what’s your name?” The little girl giggles.

“Handsome. It’s my name. Professionally.”

The shaman laughs deeply too. “Oh, I’m just playing with you. You outlanders are so fun to tease.”

“How do you know I’m an outlander?”

“People from here don’t climb mountains just to jump off them. Got more sense than that.”

“...Fair.”

The woman drags a sack over by the bed. Handsome looks through it, finding most of her things intact. She sees Hla-eix’s journal and pulls it out, puzzling over it again.

“We had to dig around where you fell to find a lot of this, so we may have missed some stuff,” says the shaman. “And you may be missing a few healing potions. We used them on you.”

Handsome acknowledges with a grunt, but is still poring over the pages. “You read daedric?” she asks.

“It’s all we write in,” says the shaman. “No cyrodiilic letters in Orsinium.”

“Can you tell what this says?” Handsome turns the journal out for the shaman to read.

The woman squints as she focuses on the words, but shakes her head. “Gobbledygook. Is it code or something?”

“I think it might be argonian talk,” Handsome replies, closing the book. “Know anyone who might know it?”

“Not out here. Maybe in the city.”

“How long until I can leave?”

[snusbandxknifewife]

Sticky ficky 7!

Have some Oak angst, some Vivi angst, and some Cardan angst feat. Bomb help! I actually made myself sad with this one so I hope y’all enjoy it!

~~~~~~~

Dear High King Uncle Cardan Sir,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you I can no longer engage in correspondence with you, nor can I continue to be your sticky hand supplier. While my alliances were with you throughout this long and trying war, I cannot side with you anymore, given the recent turn of events.

I don’t know what happened with Jude, or why she’s staying in our guest room, but I do know that she suffers. When she saw my green sticky hand in the living room her first night here, she broke down sobbing.

Uncle Cardan, I confess I have never seen my sister cry.

So I send this letter to inform you that I have washed my hands of The Great Sticky Hand War, as I now wash my hands of you. I wanted to be friends, but I must stand by my sister now, as I know she would stand by me.

Why did you have to hurt her?

With disdain,

Oak

Little Oak closed his thesaurus and put down his mechanical pencil, handing the letter to Vivi to proofread. Vivienne Duarte, for her part, had no idea why Oak had decided to stake his honor upon something as trivial as a sticky hand, but she dutifully read over his letter, correcting any spelling mistakes before sealing it in an envelope and promising to send it to Faerie.

If Oak was to become High King one day, he would need to learn diplomacy, this was as good a place as any to start.

So Vivi watched with raised brows as Oak gathered up all his sticky hand memorabilia, his collection and the propaganda posters he’d made for the war, and threw it in the trash without a second glance. His bottom lip wavered and tears seemed ready to spill from his eyes.

Vivi took him out for pizza that night, leaving Jude alone in her room, crying like usual.

~~~~~~

Two weeks had passed since the night Vivi took Oak for pizza, and while she had been confused then, she was now severely worried.

Jude Duarte was a shell of a person. She’d get up to go to the bathroom, but she had yet to take a shower or even brush her hair. She barely ate, and what she ate was anything but nutritious. She denied herself water to the point that her head pounded, and only then would she sneak into her sister’s supply of alcohol, leaving her to wake the next day with a headache already formed.

Vivi didn’t know what the hell to do. She couldn’t handled a normal breakup, one where her sister cried if a certain song came on or because her boyfriend had cheated on her. But how was she supposed to handle a newlywed, exiled from her home and throne? Especially when even the thought of a sticky hand or nerf gun sent her over the edge?

Honestly, Vivi didn’t know what kind of set up those two had had when Jude was still in Elfhame, and she didn’t ever intend to learn. The likelihood of some weird sex thing being involved was way too high for her to even consider asking, not when she already shuddered every time she passed a sticky hand in the toy aisle of the local Dollar Tree.

“Jude?” Vivi called out, knocking on the doorframe of her guest room and staring into the darkness, towards the pile of covers that shielded her sister from the rest of society. “I ordered Chinese food, it should be here in forty-five minutes. I made sure to get sweet and sour chicken, I know it’s your favorite!”

Her fake upbeat tone echoed back to her, but Jude refused to move. With a heavy sigh, Vivi walked forward and sat on the edge of her sister’s bed.

The girl looked like a ghost, her eyes staring blankly ahead and her cheeks stained with tears.

“Jude, honey, you know I love you,” she sighed, patting Jude’s hip. “But you smell like a dumpster. Please come shower in my bathroom.”

Jude, her mouth covered by her duvet, mumbled something Vivi couldn’t understand. Then, after prompting, she spoke again.

“Need help,” she whispered, the most pitiful noise Vivienne had ever heard in her—admittedly short—life. Jude Duarte, asking for help? Fuck.

She decided not to say anything, opting to just pull down the blankets and allow Jude to use her shoulders as support to sit up.

Jude’s time in the Undersea had been tough on her body, and her wallowing in the mortal world had worked overtime to rob her of whatever muscle and fat she had left. Starving oneself and laying in bed at all hours of the day was a terrible recovery strategy, but Vivienne couldn’t really bring herself to berate her sister.

Jude leaned heavily against her sister’s side and together they stumbled through the hall and into Vivi’s bathroom.

Vivi turned on the water, ready to leave to give Jude some privacy, and stopped when she saw the way her sister’s fingers shook. She knew then and there that Jude wouldn’t be able to undress herself, so she did it for her.

Just like when they were children, after Madoc had murdered their parents and spirited them away to Faerie, Vivienne Duarte helped her sister out of her clothes. When they were little, Vivi had been in charge of bathing the twins and helping with their hair. It’s been years since she’s had to do this, but she put Jude in the shower and washed her hair as the young woman sat, face first in the blasting water.

Vivi grit her teeth in anger as she took in the poking bones and concave stomach of her little sister, the girl who had always been full-figured and strong. Her body, her tenacity, her will to live, all taken from her so quickly. Jude Duarte looked broken as Vivi washed her hair, pulling fingers through tangles that had long formed into clumps the size of her palm.

Jude should’ve been safe, she should’ve been ruling in Elfhame, where food and wine abounded and excess was the name of the game. She shouldn’t be wasting away to nothing in a world she never claimed as her own. Cardan, who, by Vivi’s own observation, cared for Jude, should’ve known what banishment would do to her.

No matter what happened, no matter why she’d angered him, he should’ve never banished her. Not then, not so soon after she’d been tortured.

Vivi helped Jude out of the shower and helped her dress before steering her towards the living room, where Oak was waiting with the Chinese food, Teen Titans playing on the old tv.

Vivi took her food into her room and sat down with a pencil and paper.

Cardan Greenbriar, you worm-eaten husk of a man,

I don’t care who you are or what you are, I don’t care about curses or crowns or kingdoms or fate, I care about family. And, right now, mine is hurting. Fix things with my sister, or, so help me gods, you’ll be fucking mincemeat.

Sincerely,

Vivienne Duarte

The paper ripped in some places she was pushing so hard, but she figured that would help get the message across.

She sent it directly to the High King of Elfhame.

~~~~

The scent of smoke hung thick in the air of the unnaturally quiet room. The birds outside the open window knew to stay silent as the man on the floor threw a second crumpled up paper into the crackling fire.

The High King of Elfhame’s rooms were in shambles; furniture broken in rage, tapestries form down by hands with nails bitten down to the quick, books toppled from precarious places on overfilled shelves.

One man, the king himself, sat in the center of the carnage, his back pressed to the foot of his grand bed and his legs stretched out towards the fire roaring in the corner of his bedchamber.

His eyes were wide but unseeing, tears cutting ragged trails through the dirt smudged across his cheeks and his hands shaking in his lap. His tail, freed from his breeches, was the only part of him smart enough to try and hide from the flames. It stuck out behind him like a sore thumb, cowering under the bed in a way that he wished he was small enough to do.

What had he done to his Jude?

He’d thought for sure she would’ve put two and two together, would’ve figured out his riddle. She’d already announced herself to be the High Queen if Elfhame, all she had to do was say she pardoned herself!

He’d considered that maybe she had been to tired from her ordeal the day of her banishment to decode his words, but he was positive she would’ve been recovered enough to come back and claim her throne by now.

His Jude, his darling god, should’ve been by his side already.

When he’d received Oak’s letter a fortnight ago, his very heart, as scabrous and small as it may be, had felt like it was ripped from his chest. His nephew, his only family left—save his mother—so recently introduced and so quickly ripped away from him. He had to admit that one day Oak would make a fantastic diplomat, he was already capable of getting his point across with scathingly few words.

But when he’d gotten Vivienne’s letter, that’s when he began to realize he’d truly fucked up.

His head pounded and his stomach was in knots as he wondered what had happened to his wife in the past two weeks, what had warranted such strong words from his sister-in-law and former friend. Was Jude sick? Had she hurt herself? Was she refusing to eat?

Would she recover? He couldn’t even begin to picture a world where Jude didn’t recover, where she wasn’t fighting tooth and nail to better herself, where she wasn’t the powerhouse he always saw her as.

Deep down in his heart he knew that he’d done the one thing that all the torture in the Undersea wasn’t able to do: he’d broken his wife’s spirit.

He’d never forgive himself.

“Your Majesty!”

Cardan didn’t so much as blink as the Bomb screamed, entering the disaster of her king’s rooms and likely expecting to find his dead body on the floor.

When she saw the fire, she gasped in horror and grabbed Cardan by the shoulders, throwing him as far away from the fire as she was capable of.

The fire had reached halfway up the wall and was dangerously close to engulfing the bookshelf closest to the window. Anyone with a brain knew that, if she left to get buckets of water, the whole room would be up in flames by the time she returned. So, she made the executive decision to sacrifice his duvet—the duvet that he’d pulled up over his sleeping wife only two weeks and a day prior.

She threw the duvet over the fire and began to stomp on it, her thick rubber-soled boots making a hollow THUNK every time she brought her foot down.

When the fire finally stopped trying to fight back and the room was full of cloying black smoke, she pulled the remains of the duvet up.

And it stuck to the floor.

The Bomb furrowed her brow in confusion and pulled harder, bracing her feet against the stone floor and yanking with all her might until the duvet finally gave up and she went flying backwards, landing harshly on her butt with the ruined duvet in her hands.

The underside of the duvet was covered in black scorch marks and some strange, multicolored substance that she can’t quite place.

But Cardan knows what it is, and he reached for the duvet; his fingers running through the molten hot rubbery liquid, tears springing to his eyes once more.

“Your Majesty?” Bomb’s voice was quiet, confused as she watched the boy king spread boiling hot goop between his nimble fingers.

“I couldn’t look at them anymore,” he whispered back and Bomb put two and two together.

He’d started the fire to melt all his sticky hands. The gifts from his nephew, the game he’d played for weeks with Jude. All up in flames in the blink of an eye.

“Why hasn’t she come back?”

Bomb winced, reaching to try and pull his hand back. She could see boils starting to form on his fingers and she knew that if she didn’t get the melted sticky hand off him soon, his skin would burn so badly that it fell off.

“If you were her, would you?” Bomb asked, succeeding in grabbing his hand and worrying at her bottom lip as she saw the blood red burn marks on his hand.

He ripped his hand back from her, forcing her to look him in the eye, to see the wild devotion in his face and the desperation dripping from each tear.

“I’d always come back for Jude. Do you understand that?” He sounded ragged, broken and robbed of comfort. “Always. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of going after her, Liliver. Please, you must know that. You have to know that.”

The Bomb had never seen anything like this, not from Cardan, not from another faerie, not from anyone. This kind of pure, unrestrained pain reached out from every facet of the king’s being and grabbed her heart with a grip of cold iron, throttling her as she watched him suffer.

“Liliver I did it for her! Everything I did was for her, she has to know that. She can’t not know that!” He’d reached the point of sobbing, his burned hand hanging limply at his chest and starting to well blood from where the burns broke his skin.

“They would’ve killed her, Liliver, we both know it!” Cardan’s voice cracked and he folded over himself. “You saw what she looked like, she was wasting away! No mortal should ever be that thin, Liliver, certainly not Jude!”

“Your Majesty, please.” Bomb didn’t know what to do beyond grab his injured hand once more. She pulled him to his feet and hauled him over to the bathing chamber, but he stopped in the doorway. He refused to go in, refused to hard that brambles grew over the entrance and stopped the Bomb from trying again.

So she moved him to his desk and she sat him down. It took about a half an hour of work, but she was able to pull the ruined sticky hand mash off his hand, burned skin and blood falling away with every movement. The whole time he sobbed, he lamented, he worried. Cardan Greenbriar, High King of Elfhame, told her every word from the two letters he’d received because he’d memorized them both in his pain. He told her of his fears for his wife and he asked for her advice and she didn’t know what to tell him.

She didn’t know what she would’ve done if she’d been Jude and Van had been Cardan. She didn’t know how to come back from a betrayal like that.

“Write back,” she finally offered as she bound his hand. Around them ash was still falling and his room was still a disaster, but at least Cardan seemed to have recovered some of his composure; sewn together just like his ruined hand. “Write Jude, tell her what you meant. You can’t leave Faerie to go get her, not with Madoc on the prowl, but that doesn’t mean you can’t speak to her in your own way.”

He froze, his hand throbbing against the confines of his bandages as he looked at the Bomb. She was right. She was seldom wrong.

Liliver figured that she wouldn’t get his dismissal, not with the way his gaze had gone so distant so suddenly, so she excused herself. She arranged for the rest of the Court of Shadows to clean his rooms, ensuring that she was the one cleaning his bedchamber.

She watched as he wrote and wrote and wrote and she said nothing, not that he would’ve heard her anyway. He was way too far in his own head.

She found herself grabbing his jacket off the floor—no doubt thrown in a fit of anger earlier during the night—and she found herself walking towards his closet.

Cardan Greenbriar hadn’t gone into his closet since that night, his wedding night. Not since he’d been with his wife, his darling.

So it was Liliver who found the discarded blue sticky hand with the broken ring finger, the only sticky hand saved from the great sticky hand fire.

She didn’t even think as she grabbed it and hid it in her trouser pocket, slyfooting away and out into the hall. She didn’t think as she snuck into a back tunnel and worked her way up to the room that Jude had kept as Seneschal. She didn’t think as she opened Jude’s bedside drawer.

And when she was met with a pink glittery sticky hand, she smiled. When she set the blue hand next to the pink one, she thought that maybe, just maybe, these two would have a chance.

She hoped they’d have a chance.

~~~~~~~

Hope y’all don’t hate me yikes lol

Tag list: @cardan-greenbriar-tcp @hizqueen4life @slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @thewickedkings @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @cheekycheekycheeks @queen-of-glass @b00kworm @doingmyrainbow @andromeddea @jurdanhell

[ratisnotcrying]

you’ll get him back

Summary:  Morse had done foolish things before, on several occasions, often running alone into whatever half formed theory he had, and Jakes or Thursday usually found him bleeding, but mostly okay. Jakes used to be annoyed whenever he did this, thinking it a waste of time, but now he feels much the way he imagines Mrs Thursday does every time her husband leaves each morning.

Pairing: peter jakes/endeavour morse, fred thursday/win thursday

Warning: graphic depictions of violence, canon typical violence, murder,  descriptions of murder

Word count: 2.5K

A/N: this is crossposted on AO3 under the same title - im working n a follow up piece but dont hold ur breath xoxo 

~~~

Morse had done foolish things before, on several occasions, often running alone into whatever half formed theory he had, and Jakes or Thursday usually found him bleeding, but mostly okay. Jakes used to be annoyed whenever he did this, thinking it a waste of time, but now he feels much the way he imagines Mrs Thursday does every time her husband leaves each morning.

The thing is, Morse was good at talking. He could explain obscure classical references in layman’s terms, in a way that meant Jakes didn't have to listen to any bloody opera to solve a case - which he was always thankful for. At first he had thought it was condescending, some young bloke lording his knowledge over the lowly Cowley coppers, but when he got to know Morse, really got to know him, he realised that Morse had a genuine interest in this, that all this music really meant something to him. In a way, it meant something to Jakes too now, seeing as most nights he fell asleep with Morse’s records on quietly in the background.

Morse was good at talking about nothing too. Peter couldn’t count the number of times he had found Morse after he had run off, hands up and definitely scared, though not in any real danger because he just kept talking, a steady stream of thoughts and theories about this and that, distracting the suspect long enough that Jakes could cuff them.

This killer though, the way he killed, seemingly without mercy and with no signs of stopping, he wasn’t the type to be talked down.

It was a rough case. The only good thing about it was that no children were involved. The list of bad things gave Jakes a headache; the long and the short of it was that young men were being viciously beaten and then strangled, and they were all found in some remote expanse of fields on the outskirts of Oxford. That would have been enough to put anyone on edge, but the only thing that seemed to connect the victims was their appearance - tall, slim, blonde academic types.

Dr DeBryn had always been something of a rock to the younger officers, always calm and collected, even in the face of danger, but it seemed that the good doctor was shaken by this one. After the first autopsy, Jakes and Morse had gone to see Max; and the latter pair had looked like they were about to pass out - their expressions grim, their already pale skin almost sickly, and both shaking so much that Peter reckoned he could feel it through the floor. He likely wasn’t doing much better - the body on DeBryn’s table looked a little too much like Morse.

“This young man went through… quite the ordeal. Knife wounds and blunt force trauma all over his body, both sustained over several hours, and if you look here,” Max pointed to the victims fingertips and ears, “you can see the beginnings of frostbite setting in.”

Jakes nodded, glancing at Morse to make sure he was still upright before asking, “What about these bruises, on his wrist?”

“Yes, he has them on his ankles too, which indicates he was tied to the arms and legs of a chair, and you can see from the angle of the bruising on his neck that the killer was taller than him whilst he was sat down. What doesn’t make sense, though, is that there are multiple ligature bruises. It could mean that he was brought to the brink of death multiple times, but I suspect that the killer simply wasn’t strong enough to do it in one.”

Thursday went alone to the second autopsy, which was for the best because the killer had escalated to cutting out his victims tongues, and Morse would definitely have collapsed had he seen that. The third and fourth were the same as the second, the cuts were deeper and bruises bloomed over more pale skin, but ultimately they were the same.

At ten o'clock the morning after the fourth body had been found, Morse was surrounded by Jakes, Thursday, Trewlove, Strange and Bright who were all trying to convince him to stay with another officer at all times.

“These are very clearly crimes of passion.” Morse snapped, slamming the newspaper onto his desk. Strange and Trewlove looked taken aback by his outburst, but Jakes just rolled his eyes, used to Morse’s dramatics.

Morse stood, planting both hands on the desk as he continued. “Likely someone has been wronged - or lied to, hence the tongues - and is going after men who look like the guilty party. I don’t know if you’ve ever actually been to Oxford, but ninety percent of the male population look like the victims; the chances of me personally being targeted are so microscopically small that it would be a waste of manpower to have somebody protecting me instead of searching for the killer.” Morse all but shouted before storming out, his coat billowing behind him.

Morse had become restless after the second murder - people had made the connection between the victims and started hovering around Morse. He didn’t like people fussing over him when he had been shot, so, what with the amount of attention he was getting now, it was really no surprise that Morse had done a runner, Jakes was only surprised it took this long.

That didn’t mean Jakes was happy about it.

He was, however, less happy to find out that Morse had been snatched off the street, in broad daylight, not fifteen minutes after leaving the station.

They’d had multiple calls from witnesses and it didn’t take long to put two and two together, which was all well and good, but they still couldn’t work out where the men were actually being killed. Trewlove had been coordinating searches of all buildings surrounding the fields, to no avail, so their only option was to split up and search buildings further afield until they found Morse.

It was freezing. In reality, Jakes knew that was because it was in the middle of winter, but he couldn’t help feeling as if the real reason he was shivering so violently as he sprinted across the field was the mind numbing fear that this time he would be too late. Or too slow, because despite the fact he was running fast enough to give him a stitch, the rundown barn he was trying to reach didn’t seem to be any closer than it was two minutes ago. He had always reached Morse before he came to any serious harm - he almost laughed when he realised that being shot or drugged no longer constituted ‘serious harm’, at least not when it came to Morse - this time though, this time his Morse could be killed and he’s not sure he’s ready to deal with that possibility.

His shirt was completely soaked with sweat when he eventually reached the building - if you could even call it that. The doors were crooked, barely hanging on; there were panels missing from all of the walls, and the one that were still holding on were more rot than anything else. There were tyre tracks leading from the doors away and cross the field - how the fuck did I miss them? - and in the cold glow of dusk he could see spots of dried blood painting a trail pointing towards what would no doubt reveal Peter’s worst nightmares come true.

There were footsteps behind him, likely uniforms who were only now catching up, but he didn’t turn to check - he just needed to find Morse, he just needed to move, but his joints had locked into place and he couldn’t find it in himself to push open the doors. At least not until he heard someone cry out over the sound of his laboured breathing.

He couldn’t stand there any longer and with a sudden surge of adrenaline, he yanked the door open and rushed inside.

For a moment it seemed that everything was moving all at once - Peter was still hurtling towards the centre of the barn, the unis behind him were cocking their guns, the killer was scrabbling for a weapon and there, bloody, but mostly okay, was Morse.

The next moment was deathly still. Jakes stopped a few feet from where Morse was tied to rickety wooden chair and inhaled sharply at how terrible he really looked: his hair was matted with sweat and blood, his eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, his skin as pale as the day he saw the first body and bruises almost as dark as the circles under his eyes after a long case.

“Do not come any closer or I will kill him.”

The unexpectedly feminine voice drew Jakes’ gaze upwards, where, standing behind Morse, holding a knife tightly against his neck, was a young woman.

“There are multiple ligature bruises. I suspect that the killer simply wasn’t strong enough to do it in one.”

“These are very clearly crimes of passion.”

Jakes could have smacked himself for not realising sooner that they were looking for a woman. Instead he raised his hands, signalling to the officers behind him to stand down.

“Alright, okay. No one else needs to get hurt, okay?” He hadn’t realised he was moving towards Morse until the girl waved the knife at him and he froze.

Looks really could be deceiving - Jakes reckons he should be used to that by now, what with Morse, but there was something about this girl that threw him off balance. Not necessarily because she was a woman, he thinks, more because there was something decidedly innocent about her. She was young, probably Morse’s age, though she looked much younger. Her hair was shoulder length and the dark curls bounced as she shook with rage; her pale yellow dress looked like a massacre in early spring, as did her coat which was discarded on some old equipment. Her eyes are what really threw Jakes off - a sort of unhinged sadness desperately looking for a way out that no one, especially not someone that young, should ever feel.

“None of the men you killed already are the one you really want, are they, miss?” Jakes said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt, though his shaking hands gave him away.

She seemed momentarily distracted, as if she wasn’t about to kill a policeman, as if she was remembering a happier time.

“No, I suppose not.” She laughed humourlessly, a few tears falling to the ground. “No, no one can quite live up to my Jamie. He always knew just what to say to me. It’s a shame he had another girl on the go - we could’ve been awfully happy.”

There was a door on the opposite end of the barn, and over the girl’s shoulder Jakes could see Thursday creeping through it.

“I thought he was going to ask me to marry him - I was going to be Mrs Sarah Jones. I went to his house and I was trying to calm myself down - worked myself into a right flap, I had. But,” she took a deep breath, “as I was about to go and knock, the door opened and some… leggy tart came out, draping herself all over my Jamie.” The girl - Sarah - was getting agitated again and so was Jakes. Morse looked bloody terrified and he had the strangest notion to call out and tell Thursday to get a fucking move on.

“He didn’t even apologise. Merely told me to pack my things by the end of the week. I had a sudden urge to do the women of Oxford a favour and make sure they couldn't get hurt like I did.” Sarah was still smiling, but it was more sinister now and time seemed to slow giving Jakes plenty of time to watch as everything went spectacularly wrong.

Sarah pressed the knife against the side of Morse’s neck just as Thursday reached her and began to pull her back. Morse looked at Jakes, all doe eyed and teary, and all Jakes could do was look on in static horror as Sarah drew a line of blood that immediately cascaded crimson onto Morse’s already ruined shirt.

Jakes isn’t sure he’ll ever forget the sound Morse made - weak and broken, slicing right through his heart.

He moved on autopilot; if anyone asked he couldn't have said with any certainty how he got Morse untied, but he wasn’t really concerned about that. Peter used one hand to support the back of Morse’s neck and pressed the palm of the other firmly over the cut. Almost immediately, blood started seeping through his fingers, and Morse’s whimpering went up an octave, his eyes were glassy and unfocused, gazing vaguely at the other coppers who were standing around as if Morse wasn’t bleeding out.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to get a fucking ambulance!?” He shouted over his shoulder. Morse flinched and Jakes turned back to him, ignoring the sound of now-moving heavy boots behind him.

“Morse, you need to stay awake.” Jakes pressed harder against the wound, trying to ignore the blood that was rolling down his wrist and soaking into his cuffs in favour of adjusting his hold on Morse’s neck as his head lolled and he fell silent, causing Peter’s panic returned anew. It was careless, what with the number of people so close to them, but Jakes couldn't help stroking his thumb across the cold skin of Morse’s jaw.

“Morse? Morse, come on open your eyes.” Peter was only rewarded with a feeble fluttering of his lashes, just as they had on their last day off: the sun had peered over the horizon and Jakes had kissed Morse awake, running his hand through golden curls and in return Morse had blinked up at him, grinning sleepily.

“Come on, Dev. Open your eyes for me, please?” This time he didn’t get a response at all. “Please, love?” Peter isn’t quite sure if anyone heard his voice crack. He’s not sure he cares.

It seemed an age before the ambulance arrived and when it did, Thursday had to bodily drag Jakes away. He was vaguely aware that, at some point, everyone except himself, Thursday and Morse had left - which was probably for the best.

“He’ll be alright.” Thursday said quietly, as if Jakes was a frightened animal. “Always is - he’s a stubborn bastard. Won’t let something like this stop him.”

Jakes didn’t really listen, too preoccupied with trying to light his cigarette. The matches were taken out of his hand, and he didn’t look up until he was exhaling the first lungful of smoke. Thursday pressed the pack back into Peter’s hands, guiding him out to the car, and in an almost characteristic display of kindness and acceptance, he handed Jakes his hanky to clean up with.

“You’ll get him back, Peter.”

[trikkidetroit]

THE REVELATION - GOD IS NOT DEAD

Do you believe in God? In Heaven and Hell and the fight for our souls on Earth against the false prophets who promise you more than they can deliver? If you do, these photos that I will continue to post (despite threats) might be of interest. If they deny God, they might ask me if "I'm okay" for posting something that makes them "uncomfortable" (LOL).

"Blessed are the pure in heart, For they will see God." Matthew 5:8

The photos above are from when I was paddle-boarding. I was living at a sober living house in Walled Lake. As my friend took photos from the shore, my body went translucent, I believe this was God sending a message to the astral projectors with demonic ability to make people fall asleep and drown while swimming. *Side note, when my mother was younger, she had a cousin that drown who knew how to swim. I avoided the pools this summer, I only went swimming twice, when I would get into the water, it was ICE COLD, but when I stuck my hand in to test how cold it was, it felt much warmer than it actually was. I believe the Angels were protecting me because people who have the ability to put people to sleep (albeit behind the wheel of a moving vehicle or while swimming) and it happens so fast, you literally pass out right where you are with no chance to either pull over in time and park the car or swim to shore/to the edge of a pool and get out in time. I have been put to sleep behind the wheel of my car while not under the influence of any sedating chemical substance, after drinking coffee or red bull and still I would begin to nod off while driving and while driving only. I believe that day at the pool, my core body temperature dropped so that I would get out and not swim that day, because the evil individual or individuals with the ability to decay a persons body from the inside out using demons could also sink me like a stone in the deep end of the community pool I was swimming in on that particular day. I feel that in the past 10 years I have been targeted for death by a small group of satanists in the Metro Detroit area, a group that has had all power over satanic/demonic abilities for over 70 years to cause severe bodily harm to people and they became addicted to blood. My family, friends, and I became targets and were forced into silence or else they can make you appear crazy, like you are "just imagining things", or that you "need psychological help" instead of what actually needed to happen, that GOD takes the satanists powers over our lives and the satanists get put in prison for the rest of their lives for their CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY. Not only has my whole world fallen apart since I started catching paranormal activity on film, but my physical body suffers weird and unexplainable pains and sicknesses, including but not limited to severe headaches, chest pains, body aches, nightmares, PTSD, and what seems to be an actual onset of cancer that they are able to grow simply by astrally projecting into people's bodies and chanting ridiculous words on repeat that are actually demonic incantations said with the INTENTION of causing physiological/psychological harm. The power of PRAYER IS POSITIVE INTENTION, A PERSON USING DEMONIC INCANTATIONS IS NOT PRAYING OR REPEATING A MANTRA, that is so disgustingly deceptive it is not even funny. People in my life went missing and when I considered going to authorities, I would instantly either feel physiological pain or would feel intense dread, like my life was in danger. I will continue my work in paranormal research because I believe my mission on Earth is to show the world that GOD is WITH US, no matter how bleak the situation or how trying things may seem, including the recent pandemic that is plaguing our world known as the Corona virus. This was Biblical misreckoning on the part of the satanists, and because of their ability to downplay the fact that they got away with exorbitant amount of stalkings/violence/murders that were made to look like accidents, then had the power (using demons) to downplay the fact that they murdered people/the severity of their actions. The ability to give a person cancer or a heart attack/stroke without even touching a person physically, using demons they know they can control, is BIOTERRORISM and ORGANIZED CRIME/CULT BEHAVIOR and the most violent acts I can think of because there is no way to physically trace it back to one particular person and bring them to justice via court of law. They can also blow up household appliances (including furnaces and computers) and crash airplanes/helicopters) using these same demons. They can shrink your hard drive space on your computer and cause software malfunctions, which is being looked at by the United Nations right now as Cyberterrorism. It's that serious. If they come to you and ask you to ask me if "I'm alright", just remind them that I am exercising my 1st amendment rights, then ask them "what exactly makes you think that Nikki Foglia is talking about you in her message that is clearly her just exercising her FIRST AMENDMENT RIGHT TO FREE SPEECH/FREEDOM OF THE PRESS?" They undermine the entire U.S. legal system and it is as insulting as it is baffling to very nervous and terrified heads of Government, worldwide.  IT'S ONE NATION UNDER GOD, NOT ONE NATION UNDER SATAN. IT'S "IN GOD WE TRUST", NOT "IN SATAN WE TRUST AND GIVE OUR SOULS TO" (because they don't "sell their souls" they give them away when they deny God so they can get away with murder, and they will bear the mark of the beast for doing so, which won't be some fucking microchip but rather a physiological decline in the physical senses that the satanists who were out playing judge, jury and executioner, took for granted to begin with. THE TRUTH MUST BE RESTORED SO WE AS A NATION AND AS A PLANET CAN BEGIN TO HEAL. WE THE VICTIMS ARE CHILDREN OF GOD AND MENTALLY SOUND, A SATANIST MURDERER IS NOT

APATHY IS LETHAL // AGITATE AGAINST APATHY // RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT

"No one lights a lamp and hides it in a clay jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, they put it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light." Luke 8:16

[fantasycaught]

                                             @initcne​  wrote a starter in  an undisclosed government facility.

             The drive alone was agonizing. Not that Darlene made the drive easy for anyone else in the car. Hours of screaming and kicking the divider that separates Darlene from the officers doesn’t get a reaction from them. And when she got tired of that, she folded herself into the corner of the back seat and continued to throw insults.  Following hours of being crammed in the back of a car, it’s almost a relief to see they’re finally pulling into the parking lot of a large building.

But then she’s thrown into another concrete interrogation room and left there alone. She pounds on the mirror and starts yelling again. “I know you assholes are out there. I’m sick of your shit!! Get your asses in here so we can get this over with!!” She waits for a few beats, gives the mirror another punch, and begins pacing the length of the small room, twirling a tangled lock of hair around her fingers. She stops abruptly and her gaze starts searching the ceiling until they land on what she’s looking for. The camera.

A masculine voice fills the room as she drags the chair into the corner and climbs on top. “Step away from that camera, kid.” She makes a mocking noise and reaches around to start pulling at wires. This elicits the response she was hoping for. The door swings open and there’s a large man entering the room now. Darlene huffs, and exclaims, “Fucking finally!! You drag my ass all the way out here and then have the audacity to make me wait even longer?? I’ve been waiting for one of your dickheads to get in here forever.” She hops off the chair and drags it back to the desk in the middle of the room, flopping into the seat and folding her arms across her chest. She tilts her head to one side and stares the man down. “So?? I know how this works. Get on with your questions. I want to go home.”

     𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 early in a desperate attempt to shut her the fuck up. it was a tactic he’d used as a profiler when he still worked in the behavioral science unit—before his wife threatened to leave him if he didn’t transfer. making serial killers wait had been less of a pain in the ass than leaving darlene alderson to sweat it out for an hour. apparently, she’d been like this on the drive as well. the two agents he’d sent to pick her up came back with a headache and a strong desire to strangle her.

     and here he’d thought being reassigned to the cyber crimes division would prove boring.

     bright red wires hang loose from the surveillance camera, rendering it staticky and useless. bill masks the irritation he feels expertly, maintaining a carefully neutral expression. letting alderson know she possesses the ability to set his teeth on edge would be too much of a concession on his part.

     in one hand he clutches a styrofoam cup half-full of black coffee, thrusting it towards the woman intent upon staring him down as a peace offering. as he sits though, metal chair scraping shrilly against the concrete floor, bill realizes he has better bargaining chips in his jacket pocket. something about the haunt of her eyes, the set of her mouth, gives him the distinct impression alderson is hopelessly addicted to the rush of nicotine, just like he is.

     a certain nervous energy courses through her, not completely masked by her false bravado.

     “ okay, kid. how does this work? ”  the chair creaks beneath him, and bill leans forward, slowly pulling his pack of marlboro’s from the left inside pocket of his suit jacket. leaving them to rest on the tabletop while he sips at the steaming coffee instead, the smell of it always more satisfactory than the taste.

     nothing can live up to the scent of freshly brewed coffee; certainly not drinking it.

     immediately following 5/9, they’d been awake for days, running on nothing but coffee and anger. anger at the group of hackers known only as ‘fsociety’ who’d brought down the house of cards that was the american economy, and anger at the soulless corporate criminals who had stacked it high for them to obliterate on a whim.

     rage and coffee had been the singular constant, and bill is done with both. he thought he’d left that kind of brutal overworking behind him with holden and the murdered children of atlanta, but 5/9 set the cyber crime unit into permanent, exhausting overdrive.

     “ go on, then. ”  bill stares at her expectantly, finally tapping a cigarette out of the pack and into his palm.  “ explain to me why you think you’re here. ”

[memories-are-mine]

Can you pretty please write something with pt being a better dad to Phillip than his actual dad and idk Phillip hurt in some way I think your writings great and I NEED MORE OF ITTTT

 Thank you so much you’re so sweet??? As for hurt Phillip? You got it

WARNING: PHILLIPS PARENTS HIT HIM AND EXPLICIT CHILD ABUSE/MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE

See The Other Side Part 2: 

See The Other Side Part 1

Or as I like to call it: Phillip’s parents return from the depths of hell and Phineas and Charity are actually about to kill a bitch.

So I wasn’t actually planning to have a sequel to See The Other Side, but then the opportunity presented itself. So here we are. Wrote with @teddystark she’s amazing and everyone go tell her how cool she is and how amazing her writing is. 

Summary: Phillip runs into his parents, but Phineas and Charity have his back. Phillip realizes he needs something he didn’t really know he needed before.  protective parents pt and charity!!!!!

Word Count: 4177

Enjoyyy!!!!!

Phillip strolled down the unusually quiet New York City street, feeling pretty at peace with things. The circus was doing well, and he was happy. There wasn’t much more that he could ask for. He was alone tonight, as Anne wasn’t feeling well, so he was anxious to get home to her. It didn’t seem like anything too serious, just a headache, but still, he wanted to see if she was okay.

What he had not expected that evening, was for his parents to be out on a walk through the streets as well. Phillip froze when he saw them. It had been some time now since they had last spoken, and he wondered if he could just put on his hat and disappear into the crowd of people that had just flooded the streets, coming out of the theater to Phillip’s left, without attracting their notice.

His wish was not granted.

Phillip froze when his father said his name, his voice full of the anger that Phillip remembered all too well from his childhood. It was the kind of anger that had gotten him bruises that stayed for days, weeks even.  

“Father,” Phillip said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. This was a public street, and he could very well walk out of this conversation whenever he wanted, he told himself. There was no reason to be afraid. Yet, despite his own sound reasoning, his fear lingered.

“We need to talk,” Phillip’s father grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him onto a side street, where they could ‘talk’ in peace.

“Whatever about?” Phillip asked innocently, knowing full well what they wanted to say to him. It had been thrown his way half a dozen times. He was used to hearing it all, by now, but this time the circus wasn’t around to protect him from the harsh words.

“Phillip,” His mother’s tone sent a chill down his spine too. Even at the circus, it hadn’t been this bad. And this time, Phillip was alone. “You need to get your head on straight. You need to come home, right now.”

“I have a home, thank you very much,” Phillip said bravely. “And you can’t order me around anymore. Miss having someone to smack around?” As soon as the words left his lips, he knew his parents’ wrath would be uncontrollable. What had happened within their house was not something to be thrown back at them as an insult, especially not in a public place, he had been taught that quite a while ago.

Still, Phillip wasn’t entirely prepared when his father slapped him across the face, hard. He stumbled backward, reeling from the shock of it. No one around them stepped in, knowing all too well that the lives of those in high society were their own to deal with. Phillip was terrified now, not sure what he should say or do. There was nowhere to run.

Phillip’s father caught his arm again, squeezing it so tight it hurt, preventing him from moving back any further. “Did that get your head on straight, boy?” He snapped. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be so defiant without your band of circus freaks watching.”

“We’re doing this because we love you, Phillip,” his mother said. Phillip could hear the malice behind her words as she said them. To Phillip, that was the biggest lie she’d ever told. And she’d told some pretty big lies. Phillip would have laughed if he wasn’t so terrified. “Now, you’re coming home where you belong.” 

“Oh, are you?” He managed. “Because I don’t think you’ve ever loved me. And I will go nowhere with you.”

He didn’t know where all this bravery was coming from, but he was glad that he was no longer such a coward that he gave into everything to please them. He knew bravery wouldn’t get him too far though, not in the face of the influence that his parents held.

His mother’s hand was the one that slammed into him this time. She backhanded him across the other side of his face, so hard that Phillip let out a small cry. He stumbled back further, right into someone. Someone that just happened to be P.T. Barnum, who was glaring at Phillip’s parents with an anger that even they couldn’t rival.

Phineas pulled Phillip behind him, standing between him and his parents.

Phillip felt some of the panic and fear leave, enough for him to be able to think rationally again. He knew Phineas would be able to handle his parents. Still, he definitely was not going to be leaving. His head still spun from the beating, and Phillip wasn’t sure he could make it very far.

“This is none of your business,” Phillip’s father said to Phineas. “Scram.”

“Oh, I believe it is very much my business,” Phineas growled. Phillip had seen Phineas angry at his parents before, when they had come to the circus, but never to this degree. Phineas looked like he was about to actually murder Phillip’s parents with that sledgehammer they had simply joked about the last time. “I don’t know how in this world or any other you could do that to your own son, but if you lay a hand on him again, I swear…” Phineas looked like he couldn’t think of anything painful enough.   

“You would threaten me?” Phillip’s father asked incredulously. Phillip would not have taken any threat to his father seriously either, had it been given a year ago, but now he knew that Phineas would make good on anything he threatened his father with. “How I choose to discipline my son is my decision.”

“HE IS NOT YOUR SON!” Phineas shouted, so loudly that Phillip flinched. His mother and father looked taken aback. “How dare you treat him like that?”

The people on the street were giving them a wide berth now, looking over their shoulders to see the spectacle play out. Phillip’s father seemed to be at a loss for words at the moment, and Phillip hoped it would stay that way. He wanted them both to just go, so that he could be left alone.

Phillip’s mother pushed past Phineas, making her way towards Phillip, who was practically using him as a shield at this point, but another hand grabbed her arm and pushed her back, hard.

Charity Barnum had been with Phineas when they heard the commotion and had promised to wait while her husband saw what was going on, but had come to investigate when she heard the shouting. When she saw what was going on, she understood instantly. It was no secret that the high-class snobs were less than parental toward their own children, Charity herself had experienced it to some degree, but she was lucky. She had never seen it this bad.

And it was Phillip who was subject to it. Charity had gotten the notion that Phillip’s parents had hurt him, but seeing it happen, right here in front of her, made fiery rage boil up within her. She wanted to slap Phillip’s parents and see how they liked it. She wanted to hurt them as badly as they hurt their son.

“I think that is quite enough,” she said so sharply that it actually stung the ears to hear her words. She put a protective arm around Phillip. “You are making fools of yourselves, trying to hit your own child on a public street. What sort of monstrous people do that? Phillip is old enough to make his own decisions, and it is hardly surprising that he chooses to stay away from you. How dare you treat our boy like that. How. Dare. You.” Those last repeated words were filled with such venom that Phillip was surprised that his parents weren’t poisoned.

“You keep calling him ‘our boy’ like he’s your son,” Phillip’s mother said, sounding a bit at a loss for insults to throw at them. “You are not his mother. And we love Phillip.”

“Actually,” Phillip managed to look at his parents bravely, head still spinning, but he managed it all the same. “She’s more of a mother than you ever were. And you do not love me one bit.”

“No mother hits their own child,” Charity snarled. “No mother leaves her son to die in a hospital bed over a disagreement about joining the circus. There is no love in your heart for him, or at all for that matter. And you are not his mother. Now get lost, before Phineas and I decide to give you a taste of your own medicine.”

That seemed to truly get the point across that Phineas and Charity Barnum weren’t going anywhere. And that neither was Phillip. So his parents left, grumbling under their breaths about how he would regret his decision later. Phillip knew that he would not, but he also knew that there was no point arguing with his parents, who had a view of the world that was so twisted that they could not see the good in anyone who wasn’t just like them.

Phillip managed a tired smile for both Phineas and Charity, not sure how he would have managed without them. “I am glad that you came by when you did,” he said, knowing that they would only scold him gently if he tried to thank them.

“I can’t believe your parents,” Phineas muttered, glaring at them with surprising intensity. “I just can’t….” He turned to Phillip. “Are you hurt?”

“I… I’m not sure.” His cheek still stung from where his mother had hit him, and the ring on her finger would probably leave a bruise the next morning.

“Come home with us for tonight,” Charity said gently. “I can look at your face, and you can have somewhere to sleep.”

Phillip hesitated for a moment. “Anne’s sick. I wanted to go check on her. She might worry too, if I don’t come back home tonight.”

“I’ll make sure she knows,” Charity said. “Why don’t you and Phin go on ahead, and I’ll go tell Anne. Your place isn’t far from here. I’ll check on her too.”

Phillip nodded, knowing they wouldn’t let him go on alone. “Alright.”

He hoped Phineas would understand that he really didn’t want to talk about it, but he knew that the chances of that were slim. He reached into his pockets to make sure that he had a few pieces of candy to give to the girls and nodded at Phineas to lead the way.

On the walk back home, Phineas didn’t ask Phillip about what had happened. He knew the boy needed some processing time. He would carefully bring it up later when it seemed Phillip was ready to talk. What he had seen that night made him sick, and he hadn’t even seen the whole thing. Who knew how much Phillip had endured before he had stepped in? He couldn’t imagine what Phillip must be feeling.

When they arrived at the Barnum’s home, Phillip managed a smile for both the girls, handing out the pieces of candy he was carrying. Both girls greeted him with a tight embrace that Phillip admittedly needed right then. They didn’t question why he was there, they knew enough about Phillip’s parents, and when Phineas told them to go back upstairs and play by themselves for a while, they listened without protest.

Phineas walked into the kitchen without a word and brought Phillip a glass of whiskey. It was not necessarily a habit he approved of, but what they had just experienced definitely called for a glass.

Phillip gulped the glass down faster than usual, ignoring the familiar burning sensation it left in his throat. “Thanks,” he said. His hand went up to his cheek, and he blinked rapidly, trying to brush away the memory and everything that came with it.

Phineas watched him carefully, deciding whether or not to broach the subject. He decided that talking was not a good thing right then, so he simply put an arm around him. A touch that didn’t hurt.

“I’ll be alright,” Phillip reassured. He didn’t want anyone to worry. Now that his parents were no longer around, he knew he would be fine, once he had shaken off the unsettling feeling of fear that had made its way into his heart. He hated it, and hoped it would wear off soon. But his cheek still stung where his parents had hit him.

He saw Phineas’s expression and knew he wasn’t convinced. “Phillip…” He didn’t seem to know what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Phillip said quickly. He didn’t need to hear empty words of comfort, even though he knew Phineas rarely used empty words at all. “I was just taken by surprise, that is all. I did not think I would have to see them again, but I was somewhat foolish to believe that.”

“I know I don’t have to say anything, Phillip,” Phineas said gently. “And nobody thought you were going to see them again, not after what happened last time. But Phillip, that couldn’t have been easy for you. Has it happened…”

“Before?” Phillip finished. He hesitated before saying. “For as long as I can remember.” He would never admit it, but part of him actually wanted to talk about it with someone who cared about him. He had never told anyone, not even Anne, how bad it had been.

“What happened tonight?” Phineas asked in a soft voice.

Phillip, as usual, wasn’t sure where to begin. “I saw my parents out while I was walking tonight. I was hoping I could just hide from them, but of course, they saw me right away.”

Phineas nodded understandingly, waiting for Phillip to finish the story. He had a fair idea of what Phillip’s parents would have wanted from him, the same thing they always had, for their son to fall back into the place where they could control him. He was proud of Phillip for having stood up to them.

“When I realized I couldn’t avoid the conversation, I was hoping, since the play had just gotten out and there was a crowd of people around, that they wouldn’t try anything, but they pulled me onto a side street, so that we could ‘talk,’”

Phillip put a lot of sarcastic emphasis on the word talk. Phineas couldn’t blame him. All of the interactions he had seen between Phillip and his mother and father were less than conversational.  

“They asked me to come back home with them, as usual, ” Phillip continued, “When I told them that I didn’t want to, and they really just missed someone to shove around, then…”

He didn’t have to continue for Phineas to understand. He wanted to tell Phillip that the young man deserved better parents, but for all intents and purposes, he considered himself and Charity as Phillip’s parents, not the Carlyles.

“My father was first,” Phillip said. “Then my mother. Although I think you saw my mother.”

Phineas nodded. “You don’t have to explain more,” he said quietly. This couldn’t be an easy discussion for Phillip, and now that Phineas knew how the fight had begun- not that he had any doubt that Phillip was innocent- he could do… something? Not tell the police, they wouldn’t do a thing. But there had to be some way that he could ensure the Carlyles couldn’t hurt Phillip again. The sledgehammer idea was sounding more and more appealing.

As though he could tell what Phineas was thinking, Phillip shook his head. “There’s really nothing to be done about it,” he said, in a voice that showed he had resigned himself to mistreatment from his parents a long time ago. “I do not think anyone can change the way they behave around me, there are very few people who would tell them to change at all. It’s just the way things have always been.”

“That doesn’t mean they should be that way,” Phineas said firmly. His own father had never had much to give him, but he had never treated Phineas with the sort of hate he had seen from Phillip’s father today. “It’s wrong, Phillip. It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. It’s absolutely disgusting. I just wish there was something…”

“I know it is,” Phillip said. “You don’t think I know that? I know it’s wrong but we can’t change them.”

Before Phineas could retort with how that was hardly a correct mindset to have either, that they could figure out a way that they could keep Phillip’s parents away from him, there came the sound of the front door opening, and Charity stepped into the room a few moments later. She smiled at Phillip, ignoring the tension in the room for the moment. “I told Anne that you were going to stay over tonight. She’s doing just fine, and said that you shouldn’t worry about her.”

Phillip nodded. “Alright, thank you, Charity.”

Charity nodded to him with an affectionate, gentle smile. “Phin,” she addressed her husband. “Can you go put our little monkeys to bed while I take a look at Phillip’s face?”

Phineas nodded. “I’ll be down later,” he said, squeezing Phillip’s shoulder as he left and giving his wife a kiss as he passed her.

Charity gathered up some ice in a towel and gently pressed it against Phillip’s cheek. He hissed in pain at the sudden cold, but then the ice started to soothe his stinging cheek and he felt a little better. “Thank you,” he said with a sigh, closing his eyes to shut out the world for a minute.

Charity didn’t ask him to talk about what happened. She understood enough to glean the gist. He could talk when he was ready. Right now he clearly just needed a moment to sort out the thoughts in his head.

“Charity?” Phillip asked abruptly. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but did your parents ever…”

“No,” Charity said. “My parents were not fantastic, but they never did anything to me as horrible as your parents did to you. They share that same sense of superiority, but beyond that, they simply left me to my own devices. Well, once I married Phin, at least. They tried to control me as a child, sent me to finishing school to teach me to be a ‘proper lady,’ but they never once came and tried to drag me back.”

Phillip nodded, not sure where to steer the conversation. Charity pulled the icy towel away to check his face. It looked better to her now, but there was a small gash that Phillip’s mother’s ring had left. “Oh, Phillip.”

“I’ll get you something to put on that,” she said, but he quickly shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he said.

Phillip didn’t want to draw any more attention to what had happened than what was necessary, and he also didn’t want to be left all to himself, at least not yet.

What he wanted more than anything was a little company. Charity saw it on his face instantly. It was a sort of childish vulnerability that the girls showed sometimes when they were upset. She figured that for Phillip, showing that vulnerability when he was younger had only earned him a slap across the face.

She settled down in the chair opposite him. “Alright,” she said. “Just take care that you don’t get too much dirt on it.”

Phillip nodded. The awkward silence descended once again, and Phillip wondered if he had been wrong to want her to stay. Surely, she had better things to be doing than keeping him company when he wasn’t even talking. Charity looked at his face, and gave him an understanding nod, showing him she knew exactly what he had meant when he had shaken his head and said it was fine. He was most certainly not fine.

“It is like I have always told you,” she said finally, “You always have a place here with us, no matter what. You were brave today, and you should not think any less of yourself because of what happened. If you want to talk about it…”

Phillip wondered if he did. Part of him wanted to retreat under bed covers and hide. Another part of him wanted to spill to Charity. Not just the events of tonight, but everything.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” he said, as he tried to get the words out. Maybe if he told someone who cared for him as a mother should, someone like Charity, the pain wouldn’t be so…present.

“Start wherever you like,” said Charity patiently. She did not mind waiting, no matter how long it took.

“What happened tonight….” Phillip started. “It wasn’t as bad as most.”

He just started to ramble. He didn’t hold much back. He told Charity about his young life, something he’d never told anyone. He told her about how his parents would hit him, kick him, leave him with cuts and bruises and scars. He told her about how, when they were especially angry, they would lock him in the cellar for hours, even sometimes days on end. He told her about the one time that Phillip had seen his father drunk, and he had been knocked unconscious when he had been hit with a wine bottle.

Phillip hadn’t realized a tear was forming in his eye until it splashed onto the back of his hand. He quickly wiped it away and went on. It wasn’t like he was crying over the hitting. He had gotten used to it long ago. It just felt so good to get out the emotion that Phillip had been trying to drown in alcohol since the age of seventeen. Looking at the love in Charity’s eyes, a love he’d never experienced before this, that was what had made the tear fall.

As Phillip talked, Charity got angrier and angrier. Not at Phillip, of course. Obviously, he had been bottling this up for his entire life, and she was happy to let him talk about it. But she never knew that she could feel this much rage at two people as she now felt at Phillip’s parents. It wasn’t like Charity Barnum to get angry, but boy did she wish that she had punched Phillip’s parents halfway down the block when she’d had a chance.  

“How could they?” she asked. “How could they possibly do that to their own child?” What had happened to Phillip was horrific, and she wished that someone had been there to step in and help. She wondered how someone as nice as Phillip had ended up with parents like that. “You deserved a childhood much better than that,” she said, glaring in the general direction of the Carlyle estate. “Nobody deserves a childhood like that.”

Phillip shrugged. There was no point now, in talking about what he deserved and what he didn’t, the past was gone. What had happened would always be a part of him, and he did not think he would ever be able to face his parents in a civil conversation again, but he was alright with that. “There’s no changing what happened. The girls are lucky to have parents like you who care about them so much. And so am I.”

“And our girls are lucky to have such a wonderful, brave big brother,” Charity leaned over and hugged him tightly. “And Phin and I are lucky that we have a son now.”

Phillip melted into the hug. He’d never really been hugged before he met Phineas and Charity, but now he couldn’t get enough of them. He had never admitted it out loud, but he was sure that Charity had figured out he liked them. Nothing much got past her, it was what made her such a good mother.

“It’s late,” Charity said after a while. She had just held him for a long time, sensing that was what he needed. Per usual, she was spot on. “You should get some sleep.”

Phillip nodded, reluctantly pulling away. “I know what you’re going to say, but thank you.”

“And I’ll say it again,” Charity said gently. “You don’t need to thank us for anything Phillip, it’s what family does. They look out for each other, and nobody touches our boy. Now, go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Phillip stood. “Goodnight, Charity.”

“Goodnight, Phillip.”

Once he was lying down, it took Phillip a little while to fall asleep. He wondered how it was possible that he was feeling so much better so fast, after what had happened tonight. Maybe it was what he had needed all along, to talk to someone about what had happened to him. Someone like a mother, a mother he’d never had except for when he’d met the Barnums.

Or maybe he was just going crazy.  

Whatever it was, it was more comforting than the blankets on the bed. More comforting than the soft glow of the streetlights outside the circus. More comforting than well… most things really. Except maybe Anne.

Peace washed over Phillip, and he fell asleep knowing that he was safe at home with a family who loved him, and his old life began to just…fade away. 

[lunaragk]

FMoI Ch 4: Ugly Truths and Broken Detectives pt 1

4/20, Wednesday, Cloudy.  

-?-

The three high-schoolers balked slightly at the elementary student’s introduction, coupled with the facts Yu himself had stated.  Yosuke started loudly as usual.  “Wait, are you telling me the ‘Kid Killer’ is your neighbour?! AND he followed us into the T.V.?!”  The young man seemed to be panicking, badly.  

Yu sighed, trying to stay calm for his team as he gripped his friend’s shoulders, squeezing them slightly to get him to focus.  “Yosuke, focus.”

He froze up for just a moment, before looking at Yu.  Yosuke took a deep breath before letting it out.  “Okay, okay, I’m good.”

Chie on the other hand looked between the young boy and her classmates, confusion on her face.  “I get the kid introducing himself as a detective is surprising, but why are the two of you freaking out so much?  And what’s with this ‘Kid Killer’ business?”

Conan snorted, “The news papers coined the ‘Kid Killer’ nickname because when I attend his heists, the Kaitou Kid never gets away with his target.”  He looked up to the young woman in green, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.  

“As for them freaking out, well, elementary student regularly stopping a famous jewel thief from getting away with his targets, and in the papers for helping solve other crimes…” He lets himself trail off, before adopting the kiddy nature, realizing the oddity of the situation had caused him to slip.  “They’re being silly, aren’t they, Nee-chan?”

She stared at child before her, turning to her two teammates that were watching the boy carefully, a shaky hand pointed at him.  “He’s joking, you’re both joking about what this kid has done, right?”  Her voice had gone slightly high at the end of it.

Both Yu and Yosuke shook their heads.  Their de-facto turned to Chie, “He has been in the papers numerous times, more for solving crimes more than stopping the Kaitou Kid.”  

Yu pushed his glasses up to massage his head, this situation was beginning to give him a headache.  “Mostly murders, shockingly enough, either by himself or with a group of other children called the Detective Boys.”

The fact that Yu knew this about Conan’s exploits had the young detective on edge.  He kept himself outwardly calm, keeping his childish mask at the forefront.  “I’ve learned alot from Mouri-ojiisan and Shinichi-niichan.”  

Chie was confused by this, “Mouri-san and Shinichi-san, who are they?”  New apparently did not travel far out into Inaba.

Yosuke was starting to get worn by her cluelessness.  “Really, Chei, have you never picked up a paper or checked online before?”  He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation, “They’re two of the biggest names in the media for solving crimes.”

That left her confused, and slightly impressed,  “Wait, if the kid’s that smart, then let’s take him with us!”  Chie was becoming excited.  “If he’s had that sort of training, then he could be a huge help with us finding out who did this!”

Yu started to shake his head, before he stopped, and thought about this a little more.  “That might not be a bad idea, so long as he sticks close to Teddie.”  Yosuke looked at them both like they’d gone nuts.

Conan chose that moment to speak up, “You may as well accept you’re not getting rid of me, and I can be a lot of help!” The shrunken detective put his hands behind his head, “Besides, a fresh perspective might help.”

“Alright I give up, the kid can come, IF he wants to.”  Yosuke threw his hands up and turned around, “Now let’s find that dumb bear and get going.”

That left Conan confused, “Bear?” He quickly got his answer in the squeeking footsteps coming up behind him.  “Oh, this is bear-y unexpected, a new face?”  That got him to turn around, and come face to face with the oddest mascot costume he’d ever seen.

He held up one finger, ready to say something, before dropping his hand and letting his mouth click shut, “You know what, I don’t want to know.”  He turned to leave, only for a fuzzy paw to grasp his shoulder.

“Hey there kiddo, what’re you doing in here?”  The blue bear, whom could only be Teddie, turned the him around, looking up at the trio, “Is he coming with us, Sensei?  Or should we send him back?”

The grey-haired teen walked over and lightly removed Teddie’s hands from the young detective.  “He’s coming with us for right now Teddie, but I want him to stick by you once we get to the castle.”

The blue bear fired off his best salute, “Got it, Sensei!”  Conan wasn’t sure how much of the cheery bear he could take.

“Alright, let’s head to the castle.”  Yu directed the group, letting Teddie take the lead so his sharp nose would keep them from getting lost.

Conan couldn’t help but wonder at the fact there was suppose to be a castle near by.

-Yukiko’s Castle, Entrance-

...Though it was a bit hard to make out through the fog, there did indeed appear to be a European style medieval castle sitting in the middle of where-ever the hell they were.

The not-child turned to the teens and the mascot.  “So, Amagi-san is in here somewhere?”  He tilted his head to one side,  “Why hasn’t she just left on her own?”

The group shared a look,  “You’ll see when we get in there.”  They all has various levels of unease on their features.  “It’s something that has to be seen to be believed.”

Conan had an expression on his face that said he would be the judge of that.

-Yukiko’s Castle, 5th Floor-

Conan did admit that the masked blobs that resolved into strange, and in some cases terrifying monsters, Shadows, did have to be seen to be believed.  As did the three teens summoning giant figures with names from mythology to fight them.  Persona, huh, what an odd power.

He almost collided with the back of one of the boy’s legs, the whole of the group seems to have frozen in the doorway to a large room.  Confused and worried chatter passing between them.

“What’s going on, why is there someone else in here?”  Chie was concerned, even though she didn’t recognize the figure in the blue suit, in here, it was hard to tell if it was human, or someone’s Shadow.  The brown hair was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place where.

“But it can’t be, I’m bear-y sure I haven’t smelled anyone else come in here but you guys.”  Teddie started wracking his mind to see if he could remember anything else.  No, he hadn’t smelt anyone else come in today.

“What do we do, Partner?” Yosuke had his hand gripping Yu’s shoulder, the beginnings of panic starting to thread into his voice.

Yu looked over the figure before them carefully, it did look slightly familiar, but from where?  “We take it slow, if we can get past it without instigating a fight, for now, that would be best, since I don’t see the person it belongs to.”

Conan was confused as to what they were concerned about, he managed to get himself out from behind the group spying the figure.  Caution turning to quiet rage as the form turned around.

“...What, is this?”  Conan’s voice dropping in pitch as steel filled it.  He turned to the group, his eyes far harsh, harder, than any grade schooler’s eyes had a right to be.  “Who is that?”

The change in tone and stance startled the Investigation Team.  Yu glanced between the child and the young man in the blue suit.  “Do you know who that is, Conan-kun?”

“Someone pretending to be Kudo Shinichi, again,” he bit out, turning back to face the stranger.  He’d been impersonated one too many times.

“The Missing Highschool detective of the East, Kudo?” Yu turned to look at the two of them, “How do you know it’s not really him?”

The figure walked slowly closer to the group, eyes opening to reveal bright Shadow yellow, a harsh, humorless laugh ringing out.  “Yes, do tell, Conan, how do you know I’m a fraud?”

Yellow eyes flicker to the rest of the group, “All of you can leave if you like, save for the little liar.”

“Conan-kun?  What’s he talking about?”  Chie’s eyes darted back and forth between the boy and the Shadow.   All eyes fell on the young detective.

The small frame locked up, for just a moment, but all present caught it.  He bit out his reply, “I don’t know.”

That caused the Shadow to grin even wider, “Oh really?  Maybe I should show them then.”  Its gaze dancing up to the teens before locking back onto its target.  “We’ve gone against everything we stood for.  EVERYTHING!”  Shadow Shinichi shouted, its form flickering, being replaced with Conan’s own form.  “Remember Kudo, ‘There is only one truth?!’ “

The members of the Investigation Team took a step back at that.  Even with everything they’ve seen so far into their brief venture into the TV World, that, if the Shadow was to be believed, the child in front of them was actually a teen their own age sent them reeling.

Conan stood silent, seething at the creature wearing both his faces as it flickered back to his original for.  Another humorless bark of laughter, “Not going to say anything for yourself?”  Harsh frowns etched across both faces.  “Your silence speaks volumes, Lair.”

“So, let’s try something else then.”  The Shadow had drawn closer, “Tell me then; which is real, and which is the lie, Shinichi?  Or Conan?”

Silence spanned the space between the two.  “Of course you can’t answer, because both are the lie!”  The Shadow’s form began flickering erratically between Kudo and Edogawa.  “Edogawa Conan doesn’t exist, and Kudo Shinichi died that night at Tropical Land!”  

It stabilized once more looking like Shinichi, the Shadow now looming over the not-child, “We don’t deserve to exist anymore, not after all the pain we’ve cause, especially to her!”

That last line cause Conan to break his silence.  “Shut UP! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”  The Shadow’s expression was blank for a moment, before splitting into a rictus grin.

That response seemed to cause the teens to snap out of their daze at what was occuring in front of them.  “Don’t say it!”

Their plea fell on deaf ears, rage in every line of his small body.  “You’re not ME!”

Hysterical laughter and dark black-red fog started to fill the room.  “You’re right! I’m not you, not anymore!”  Shadow Shinichi had been completely encased in the fog now,  “And soon, I’ll make sure you can’t lie or hurt anyone again.”

The haze burst apart, Conan was blown back, weakened, but aware, as the twisted form his Shadow had take was revealed.  A mirror, encircled by a shark floated before them, the team moved in between the two.

“Don’t interfere!”  A dark, bloodied claws slammed into the glass from within, joined by more, breaking it and sending shards scattering to the carpet below.  Dark, tar-like substance dripped out as the two stained hands grabbed the edge of the shark and broken glass, heaving itself out.

What emerged was a caricature of Kudo Shinichi, wrapped in bandages, tar rolling off it, sharp shark teeth in a manic grin under the single exposed yellow eye. A bloody hole in its chest over its heart, black feathers driven into it.  Long clawed limbs snaked out of the tar-like substance, winding around it, holding fast.  “I am the Shadow, the TRUE SELF, and I will see that one truth, prevails.”

[araglas1989-writing]

The long journey

This story containts some Flashbacks which are not in their chronological order. So to know what happenes in which order I made a fixpoint (the day the chantry blows up) and counted from there. At the beginning from each flashback stands a shortcuts. for example 1y6 b.ch.b.u. means 1 year 6 months before chantry blows up

Chapter 1

"So it begins", Meredith stated icily, "I must gather my forces at the Gallows - meet me there as soon as you can Champion. I'll leave this... murderer for you to deal with. He's your companion. Do as you see fit."

Hawke nodded to her as she left, turning to Anders who sat motionless on a crate, his back to the other mage.

Anders seemed to sense his approach. "There is nothing you can say that I haven't said to myself. I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the justice all mages awaited."

"Did the spirit tell you to do this?" Asked Hawke, attempting to give Anders a loophole. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt any of his companions after all.

Hawke still couldn't process what had happened. Couldn’t accept that this was really Anders’ doing, that he himself had helped to blow up the chantry.... But small glimmer of hope he had had was crushed by Anders next words.

"No. When we merged he ceased to be. We are one now. I can no more ignore the injustice of the circle than he could. The world needs to see this. Then we can all stop pretending that the circles are a solution." Anders’ voice was cold, so devoid of emotion that it hurt to hear it.

"So it's up to you to decide how things should be?" Hawke's voice trembled slightly in disbelief.

"It's obvious how things shouldn't be. And if I pay for that with my life... then I pay. Perhaps then justice would at least be free."

Hawke sighed and turned to his other companions. He would not decide this on his own.

"Opinions?"

Sebastian’s raged filled voice was first. "If I'd been in that chantry today, would you wailing? You know what must be done!"

"Bold plan. Well I thought so." The pirate stated next, not really being of any help at all.

Aveline's voice sounded strained. "Belief is no excuse. Sincerity does not justify this." As always, she demonstrated nothing except strength, but those who knew her could see that this wasn't easy for her.

"I think I'm sick of mages and templars" Varric spat in disgust, aonce again not being of any help insofar as the decision that Hawke had to make in respect to Anders.

~~~~

After the threat of the mages was resolved, Fenris stood a apart of the others. The warrior still felt the buzz of magic leftover from the fight in his markings, still tasted the metallic taste of it at the back of his tongue. He couldn't believe what just had happened. Or rather he couldn't believe that Anders hadn’t told him what he had planned. After all they had been a couple for one and a half years now...

Somehow Fenris' thoughts wandered to their first touch… the first that wasn't meant to hurt. It was after Anders took care of him while he had the flu.

The warrior hadn't wanted to the help, but the Mage had been patient and came by every day with soup, potions or salves to help the headaches and take care of him regardless.

First the blonde left as soon as he had made sure that Fenris took everything he had brought, but later, after Fenris settled in with the routine, Anders stayed longer.

(2y2 b.ch.b.u.)

 The warrior was finally back to full health. Anders had come one last time to check up on him, to make sure he was fully healthy. When once the Healers presence felt natural, it now felt...strained, awkward.

 "I just wanted to check, if everything is alright..."

 "It is"

 "That's good... uh... yeah stay healthy, yes? Okay I... will just go now..." Anders fidgeted a little, brushing away a non-existent mote from his robe and turned to leave.

 "Mage?" Fenris took a step closer at the exact moment that the healer turned back around, standing now in his personal space. "You look tired. Stay a while."

   Without thinking he had reached out to touch Anders' shoulder, but when the mage's gaze shot to his hand, he hastily removed it. Fenris' eyebrows went up in surprise, when Anders’ own hand shot forward, caught his hand and entwined their fingers. Judging from Anders’ facial expression, the healer was also surprised at his own actions. Fenris squeezed Anders’ hand gently to reassure him, glad that he wasn’t wearing his gauntlets.

   A small smile appeared on Anders' lips "I would like to stay"

Gradually, little by little, they began to trust each other...care for each other. It was nearly one and a half years ago that they had decided to give a romantic relationship a try.

Without the spite, their arguments turned into normal (if sometimes heated) discussions. But being intimate with each other helped them to understand each other, to learn to see things with from the others point of view. Fenris now believed that Anders might be right, mages deserved to be free. But they also agreed, that when the magic first manifests, the children needed to be separated from the rest and be schooled by older mages in order to learn to control their magic. AND, most importantly, that the parents should be able to visit them. They further agreed that as soon as the young mages learned to control themselves and learned their specialities they should be free to go where ever they wanted.

This is why Fenris couldn't understand what had just had happened. Why would Anders destroy everything he had fought for? and why would the healer destroy what they had? Why would he betray Fenris?

The Warrior had noticed that Anders had been behaving a little strange these days, but he had thought it was because Anders wanted to separate himself from Justice. He’d been wrong. Now Fenris knew that Anders had lied to him, and that hurt so much more than Fenris would have believed possible. Still, with the hurt also came burning fury and that was an emotion that Fenris greeted like an old friend. Fury he could comprehend. Fury he could handle.

~~~~

Merrill watched Anders for a moment, thinking about what to say: "He should come with us. Do what he can to put things right. "

"And fight side by side with templars? That's insane! I would rather die than do that!"

It was the anger in Anders‘ voice that brought Fenris back to there here and now, hate filling his entire being as he snapped.

“I will show you why Mages are feared' " he snarled with disgust "is this not your battle cry? Because that is exactly what you just have done, fool mage! Do you not see what you have done? You have thrown every mage into war! Do you think the templars will stop when it comes to the untrained children? To the Tranquil? To the weak you wanted to protect? They will all die. And what about the innocent non magical people? They will be caught in the crossfire! There is no way for the mages to win this. Even if they eliminate every last templar all non magic people will fear them. You pathetic fool doomed all of your kind!"

"Better they die in the war for freedom than as no better than a slave in the Circle. You of all people should understand this!"

"And it is up to you to decide how they should die? Congratulations, you are just as bad as the templars. You...." Fenris shook his head in disbelief. "You know what? You are dead to me. You destroyed everything. Not only the future of the mages but also ours."

Anders opened his mouth and shut it, then opened it again just to shut it once more, shaken by his own rage. He even glowed slightly, but his eyes were still honey coloured.

"So... your vote is for killing him?" Hawke turned at Fenris, an eyebrow raised. He paused in surprise when Fenris actually nodded at him. He turned back to Anders, drawing his dagger and stepped close. Anders was just staring at him, deflating again ready to surrender his fate.

With his fade step Fenris was next to Hawke, holding his dagger hand at the wrist. "Stop." He stared at Anders. "Go. It is my fate to kill you and I will, if I ever see you again. GO!" He screamed the last word with all his hate, his hurt, his fury, his despair.

Anders swallowed visibly, before he turned and started running.

Fenris felt his heart break, but he turned around his face blank of every emotion other than his want to kill. "Let us get this mess cleaned up."

~~~

A fight this big without a healer was more than just a bit messy. Hawke knew a little about healing magic but he was no spirit healer. So it was a small miracle that none of their party were mortally wounded.

After order was restored, Hawke made certain that no mage was killed who surrendered and stopped countless assaults on those mages from the templars. Every one of his companions went back to their homes and treated their wounds.

Fenris stayed for four weeks to recover properly from several nasty injuries, long enough to see Hawke become the new vicomte.

The surviving mages were brought back to the circle. But not before Hawke came to and understanding with Cullen that they were treated much better than before. When Fenris was sure that Hawke had everything under control, he decided that his time with the former champion (now the new vicomte) was over.

Everything here reminded him of Anders. He could not stay. So, he bid his goodbye to everyone, promised to keep in touch through letters and took his leave.

[gplusbfics]

“The Wire” - Synopsis

The following synopsis is from Deep Space Nine magazine Vol. 9 (1994). “The Wire” was written by Robert Hewitt Wolfe. Synopsis is by John Sayers. I will be posting the photos from this again separately. I will also be sharing the one for “Crossover,” which appeared in the same issue. -Wendy

On the Promenade of Station DS9, Dr. Julian Bashir and his enigmatic acquaintance, Garak -- the "plain and simple" Cardassian tailor -- walk towards the Replimat for their weekly lunch. As they discuss Cardassian literature -- for which the Starfleet Lieutenant has yet to develop a taste -- Garak experiences several spasms of headache-like pain, which piques the Doctor's medical curiosity. 

But when Bashir suggests a trip to the Infirmary, the Cardassian's usual charming demeanor turns sour. "There's nothing wrong with me that a little peace and privacy wouldn't cure," Garak barks, and storms off -- leaving Bashir looking after him in curiosity and concern.

Afterwards, Bashir discusses the incident with Jadzia Dax while attempting to diagnose an ailing house plant. He can use the station's medical database to treat the foreign flora, but his records are woefully inadequate when it comes to Cardassians. Bashir's professional pride is also wounded when Garak won't come to him for medical help. 

The Cardassian tailor turns not to his occasional luncheon companion, but to Quark for aid. Bashir only catches the end of their conversation, but it's obvious that the Ferengi will be making some sort of illicit transaction on Garak's behalf. 

Later, during a conversation with Chief O'Brien, Bashir is summoned to Quark's Bar, where Garak is on his third bottle of Ferengi booze. "Anyone who talks about the numbing effects of liquor," Garak says, in considerable pain, "is severely overstating the case." 

Bashir tries to coax the Cardassian to his office, but Garak will have none of it -- until he collapses to the floor in agony. The Doctor beams them both to the Infirmary -- where scans show a small, artificial implant embedded deep within Garak's brain. Constable Odo can offer no insight into the device's purpose, but agrees with Bashir that Quark may know more. "Quark has sent several coded messages to Cardassia Prime in the past few days," Odo says.

The pair monitor the Ferengi's latest transmission -- to a Cardassian military operative named Boheeka, an old friend from the Occupation. Quark offers to pay him handsomely in return for some Cardassian bio-technology. But when Boheeka enters the requisition code for the item, he freezes in horror. "Quark, you idiot!" he cries. "It's for classified bio-technology -- even the cursed number is classified!" The request will be traced back to him by the Obsidian Order. 

At the mention of the name, Quark abruptly ends the transmission. Odo explains the mysterious Order to a curious Bashir. "They're the ever-vigilant eyes and ears of the Cardassian Empire," he notes, even surpassing the ruthless, information-gathering efficiency of the Romulan Tal Shiar. If Garak's implant is some sort of Order-related punishment, then why is he trying to obtain another one? 

The questions will go unanswered for now. When Dr. Bashir returns to the lnfirmary, Garak is gone. Bashir finds his patient in his quarters, in the process of injecting enough anesthetic to knock out ten men. "Not nearly enough, I'm afraid," comments the agonized Garak. 

Bashir reports that Quark couldn't get the item he requested. "Really? That's most distressing," Garak replies, his charming facade finally crumbling under the pain and hopelessness. When he goes to inject himself with a fatal overdose of the pain-killer, Bashir intervenes, revealing his knowledge of the implant. When he suggests that it's some sort of punishment device, Garak can only choke out an ironic laugh. 

"On Cardassia, I was entrusted with certain information," Garak reveals, "that needed to be kept safe, regardless of the situation. My implant was given to me by Enabran Tain himself, the head of the Obsidian Order. If I was ever tortured, it was designed to stimulate the pleasure centers of my brain to trigger the production of vast amounts of natural endorphins."

The device malfunctioned, he notes, because it was never meant for continuous use. "Living on this station is torture for me, Doctor. The temperature is always too cold, the lights, always too bright. Every Bajoran looks at me with loathing and contempt. So, one day, I decided I couldn't live with it anymore. And I took the pain away." 

Garak activated the implant, first for only a few minutes each day, then for longer and longer periods. "Finally, I just turned it on and never shut it off." That was two years ago. Now, the implant is breaking down, and Garak's body has become dependent on the higher endorphin levels generated by the unit. 

But Bashir won't let Garak give up to whomever has exiled him on D59. "Has it ever occurred to you," the Cardassian asks him, "that I might be getting exactly what I deserve?" 

"No one deserves this," Bashir says. 

"Oh please, Doctor!" Garak sarcastically exclaims. "I'm suffering enough without having to listen to your smug Federation sympathy! And you think that because we have lunch together once a week, you know me? You couldn't even begin to fathom what I am capable of!" 

"I'm a doctor," Bashir says evenly. "You're my patient. That's all I need to know." 

Garak tells Bashir the story of his days as a Gul in the Cardassian Mechanized Infantry, when Bajorans under his custody escaped to a Cardassian shuttle bound for Terok Nor. Garak's aide, Elim, boarded the shuttle to stop it, but the captain wouldn't comply. "So I had the shuttle destroyed, killing the escapees, Elim, and 97 Cardassian civilians" -- plus the daughter of a prominent Cardassian. He was stripped of his rank and exiled. 

But Bashir is uninterested in his patient's past. His duty is to heal. He finally persuades Garak to let him shut off the implant. Bashir sets up his medical equipment in Garak's quarters and begins a long vigil, waiting for his unconscious patient to recover. Bashir even denies Odo's request that Garak be awakened to be interrogated about past unsolved murders.

Hours later, Bashir is roused from a half-sleep to find Garak silting up on his bed, sobbing. His depression turns quickly to rage as his body reels from the withdrawal of the pleasure-creating endorphins. "There was a time, Doctor," Garak rails, "when I was a power. The protege of Enabran Tain himself. Do you have any idea what that means? Tain was the Obsidian Order. Not even the Central Command dared challenge him. And I was his right hand -- my future was limitless. Until I threw it away." 

Garak didn't shoot down the shuttle, as he had told Bashir before. On the eve of Cardassian withdrawal, he and Elim were interrogating five Bajoran children, when "suddenly, the whole exercise seemed utterly meaningless. All I wanted was a hot bath and a good meal. So, I let them go." 

He failed his duty and destroyed everything he had worked for, causing his exile. "And left me to live out my days with nothing to look forward to but having lunch with you." As Bashir tries to calm him down, Garak's rage erupts, and the two wrestle about the quarters until the Cardassian collapses. 

Bashir and the emergency med team stabilize him, but the doctor remains puzzled. "I shut down the implant. It can't be affecting his blood chemistry, yet toxins are accumulating in his lymphatic nodes," he notes. After studying Garak's readouts, Bashir finally finds the problem -- the molecular structure of Garak's leukocyte cells has been altered, causing the blood toxins. 

The only way to correct the problem would be to synthesize new cells. But with no reliable Cardassian medical data, the process could take weeks -- and Garak has only days. Reactivating the implant could keep the Cardassian alive for a few weeks longer, but a groggy Garak rises from his sickbed, his rage spent, to forbid it. 

"You've done enough, Doctor, more than I deserve," he says. "There's something you have to know ... the truth." 

"I've about given up on learning the truth from you, Garak," Bashir smiles. 

"Elim wasn't my aide," the Cardassian reveals. "He was my friend. We grew up together, we were closer than brothers. For some reason, Enabran Tain took a liking to us. Before long, we were both powerful men in the Obsidian Order. They called us the Sons of Tain -- even the Guls feared us." But then, scandal. Some member of the Order was accused of letting some Bajoran prisoners escape. Tain could do nothing to protect Garak, as he had retired to the Arawath Colony. 

"So, I panicked. I did everything in my power to make sure that Elim was accused instead of me. I altered records, planted evidence -- only to discover that he'd beaten me to it." Elim had betrayed him first. Garak was sent into exile. "And the irony is, I deserved it. Not for the reasons they claimed, but because of what I had tried to do to Elim, my best friend." 

"Why are you telling me this, Garak?" Bashir asks. 

"So that you can forgive me, why else?" Garak tells him, sincerely. "I need to know that someone forgives me." 

"I forgive you, for whatever it is you did."

"Thank you, Doctor. That's most kind." 

As Bashir complies, the Cardassian falls again into unconsciousness. The Doctor decides to head for the Arawath Colony -- "to find the man responsible for this."

After a journey in a runabout, Bashir arrives at the home of Enabran Tain, former head of the Obsidian Order, who addresses him by name and knows all about his journey -- even Bashir's taste in tea. The cheerful, grandfatherly figure has even made sure Bashir's entry into Cardassian space was met by a less hostile reception than he might have expected. Although retired, "I try to keep informed on current events," Tain chuckles. 

When Bashir tells Tain that Garak is dying -- and he's trying to save him, the wily Cardassian can only shake his head.  "Strange. I thought  you  were  his   friend."  

"I suppose I am."  

"Then you should let him die," Tain says. "After all, for Garak, a life in exile is no life at all." 

Nevertheless, Bashir contends that his job is to save lives. He asks Tain for information on Cardassian biochemistry that would let him synthesize replacements for Garak's damaged blood cells. "Besides, you're the one who ordered him to put that implant in his head, aren't you?" 

"I never had to order Garak to do anything," Tain notes. "That's what made him special." Oddly, Tain agrees to Bashir's request -- but not for kindly reasons. "He doesn't deserve a quick death," the old man spits. "On the contrary, I want him to live a long, miserable life. I want him to grow old on that station, surrounded by people who hate him, knowing that he'll never come home again." 

Whatever the motivation, Bashir is grateful to be able to help his friend. But he has one question before he beams out, regarding Garak's friend Elim. At the mention of the name, Enabran Tain only laughs. "That man has a rare gift for obfuscation. Doctor, Elim is Garak's first name."

Days later, Dr. Bashir pokes glumly at his lunch in the Replimat when he's unexpectedly joined by a fully recovered, amiable Garak, who asks about lunch as if the events of the past few weeks had never happened. "I, for one, Doctor, am perfectly satisfied with the way things turned out. And I see no need to dwell on what was doubtlessly a difficult time for both of us." He also notes that he has informed Constable Odo that he was completely mistaken about his impression that Garak was ever a member of the Obsidian Order. 

As a kind of thanks, Garak gives Bashir more Cardassian literature to peruse. But Bashir won't let go of the pursuit of truth. "Out of all the stories you told me," he asks a smiling Garak, "which ones were true and which ones weren't?" 

"My dear Doctor," the Cardassian replies, "they're all true." 

"Even the lies?" 

"Especially the lies."

The End

[vampiresmiled]

✩ nutkins

nutkins married life ? they’d kill themselves, just making that loud and clear. jot it down, memorize it, – show up at their murder-suicide funeral.

DISAGREEMENTS

who is more likely to raise their voice? not a question. luka raises it for absolutely no reason. they’re out of sauce for their nuggets at mcdonalds ? somebody’s getting ratatata’d … who threatens to leave but never actually does? i feel like it goes like this. they’ll say they’re going to leave but when they turn around to go the other person’s like “ also you stink ” so now they have to turn back around. they cannot not have the final word. they’re pathetic. who actually keeps their word and leaves? i think the first person to break the cycle would be scout. like, if she didn’t fight back obviously he’d bounce. but if they were doing that back and forth shit, she’d be the first to ditch ‘cos she’d get her feelings hurt or some shit, y’know. who trashes the house? um, considering it already happened … do either of them get physical? luka would slam her against a wall for the teensiest shit. he’s a bitch like that.how often do they argue/disagree? so much. it’s unhealthy but that’s business, baby.who is the first to apologise? my ass was gonna write neither but did she not just show up at his door with money and an uwu sorry x ? normal circumstances though, definitely neither. she just needs him right now, let’s not talk about it.

SEX

who is on top? insert that one gif of veronica lodge straddling reggie mantle. but let it also be known that all imagined scenarios of them fucking have been vertical, so. yes, i consider these things. who is on the bottom? get pegged luka. who has the strangest desires? i feel like they’re both pretty odd. luka could be like “ do you, per chance, wanna fuck on the bar in silhouette’s, m’lady ” and scout would be like “ i thought you’d never ask, mister ” any kinks? luka definitely has a thing for her cheerleading uniform, calling it right now. boy didn’t get to boink any of them in high school and now he’s projecting onto her. who’s dominant in bed? him. she’s a brat, though, as we all know, so she’ll make him work for it. is head ever in the equation? scout will blow him in his car. does he have one ? isn’t it a motorcycle ? she’s getting him a car solely for this purpose. if so, who is better at performing it? luka, unfortunately. she’ll still choke on it, though.ever had sex in public? did we not hc their first time to be in silhouette’s bathroom … who moans the most? scout is loud and annoying always.who leaves the most marks? luka. and she has to work real hard on hiding them. sometimes she gives him a taste of his own medicine and when she does, he’s not a happy camper. who screams the loudest? i refuse to engage in this question anymore. who is the more experienced of the two? clearly, luka. he’s slept with half the town and everyone she’s slept with are either a. gross, b. her step-brother, c. a girl whose name i never headcanoned. do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’? they don’t do romance. they fuck. hard. rough or soft? did i stutter.how long do they usually last? i feel like they can go on forever. like everyone else is getting one of them o’s but scout is out here channeling her inner owl all night, every night. is protection used? literally, no. she’s on the pill and he doesn’t like how it feels with a condom. that’s ought to end well.does it ever get boring? if it does, they’ll switch it up. i have so much faith in them in that department. where is the strangest place they’d have sex? ed’s desk. sorry pal.

FAMILY

do your muses plan on having children/or have children? hell to the no. scout is pro-abortion and luka is pro-beating-scout-up-if-she-wasn’t.if so, how many children do your muses want/have? none, zero, nada. who is the favorite parent? neither of them. i don’t see them becoming remotely successful parents if they opportunity presents itself. scout would want a nanny. she had one and she turned out just fine ! and luka would … not want to be there. who is the authoritative parent? the nanny. who is more likely to allow the children to have a day off school? luka. scout is all about that flawless academic record, y’know.who lets the children indulge in sweets and junk food when the other isn’t around? still luka. when he comes around during mandatory visitation, he gives them chips and then he lets them play video games in another room ‘till he leaves.who turns up to extra curricular activities to support their children? scout. for the image. now i’m gonna say something controversial. i feel, maybe, if they did luka would be into soccer games and such. he would be the weirdo to watch the games from afar and then leave. who goes to parent teacher interviews? scout, no doubt.who changes the diapers? the nanny, love that bitch.who gets up in the middle of the night to feed the baby? see the answer above.who spends the most time with the children? reluctantly, scout.who packs their lunch boxes? say it with me … THE – NAN–NY.who gives their children ‘the talk’? animal planet.who cleans up after the kids? you thought i’d say the nanny, didn’t you ? jokes on you … it’s the maid !who worries the most? scout. eighteen years of this shit ? she’s exhausted. who are the children more likely to learn their first swear word from? luka is out here cussing in front of his children that he sees twice a year ? oof. 

AFFECTION

who likes to cuddle? neither of them are big into cuddling, but … it happens, y’know. she sits in his lap a lot despite meredith’s protests. probably luka’s, too. he likes it, though. she can tell from his raging boner.who is the little spoon? hear me out … he won’t spoon her ‘cos he’s an asshole. but battered and bruised luka ? exhausted from whatever shit he just went through ? he’ll be getting a small latina backpack whether he cares for it or not. s*ft kisses against his back and arms tight around his torso … it’s kind of good shit, if you ask me. who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places? depends where they are. if it’s some fancy schmancy place, then luka. if it’s silhouette’s, then scout. who struggles to keep their hands to themself? luka has a tendency to like, always touch her to move her out the way or just make sure she stays doing nothing stupid. scout has no excuse and just straight up grabs his arm. “ stop taking my hand ” – rey to finn, the force awakens. how long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? sober, not even 2 minutes. high, 2 hours. thanks for coming to my ted talk.who gives the most kisses? scout, obvi. what is their favourite non-sexual activity? bickering. they do kinda like it. anything illegal is also exhilarating. but their favorite thing … smoking ! you know it is, bud. you can scrap everything i’ve said above if they’re high. high!nutkins are big time touchy-feely and they will snuggle. where is their favourite place to cuddle? he’s a big boy, so the bed. who is more likely to playfully grope the other? scout. she will smack his ass and he cannot stop her. that said and playfully erased, luka is the type to grab her ass when nobody’s paying attention. and frankly, i cannot blame him. it’s a good ass. how often do they get time to themselves? like all day, every day. they make their own schedules, bitches. 

SLEEPING

who snores? luka seems the snoring type. she’ll get him those nose strips to save herself some headaches. i say as if he stays long enough for her to take notice.if both do, who snores the loudest? GHHHHHGHHHH – luka snoring. do they share a bed or sleep separately? separately. but, but – when HIGH … uwu.if they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart? they start out far apart and then, you know . . . who talks in their sleep? i bet, I BET – if she has to stay with him ( in the many scenarios which we discuss in the privacy of imessage ), she will mutter shit in her sleep. like his name. tragic. he can pretend he didn’t hear that.what do they wear to bed? scout wears those fancy silk nightgowns and he prolly sleeps shirtless. if she’s at his place, though … t-shirt and panties. say it with me, PANTIES. are either of your muses insomniacs? maybe luka, maybe.can sleeping pills be found by the bedside? scout, she needs her snoozes.do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? side by side : her arms snaked around his and just her wittle chin on his shoulder. who wakes up with bed hair? he … got no hair. who wakes up first? in terms of bouncing after accidentally falling asleep, luka. he’s just out the motherfuckin’ door. otherwise, she’s an early riser.who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? she’d try, and then he’d have to swoop in to save the day.what is their favourite sleeping position? as far apart as humanly possible. who hogs the sheets? luka, that rat. do they set an alarm each night? scout does but, y’know.can a television be found in their bedroom? in luka’s, maybe. in scout’s, doubtful. depends on if she moves into the dang hotel or not.who has nightmares? i feel like he should have nightmares due to all the murders he commits but … scout sure as hell got none.who has ridiculous dreams? neither, they’re boring.who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed? luka and his long, annoying legs.who makes the bed? scout. and 2 minutes after she’s done he flops back down on it and messes it up. what time is bed time? 3 am. witching hour. ‘cos they’re from hell.any routines/rituals before bed? murder.who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? LUKA. that sun of a gun.

WORK

who is the busiest? scout. she has school, that’s a lot. he has murder, that’s easy and breezy. who rakes in the highest income? luka, but she still has more money than him.are any of your muses unemployed? i mean, technically scout. but not for long. who takes the most sick days? luka. without a shadow of a doubt.who is more likely to turn up late to work? luka. he’s never on time. fix that shit.who sucks up to their boss? luka sucks ed’s dick every thursday afternoon, but go off i guess.what are their jobs? he’s a cupcake maker and she’s a child of god.who stresses the most? scout.do your muses enjoy or despise their careers/occupations? i wanna say they do but they don’t, really, let’s be honest. time to move to paris and reinvent themselves.are your muses financially stable? scout is, he wishes.

HOME

who does the washing? nobody. i mean, i’m assuming he does his own but when he inevitable crashes at her place, the maid staff.who takes out the trash? he is the trash, so. get out of her hotel room, lukey boy.who does the ironing? hotel service, kay.who does the cooking? luka. and he’ll teach her. we’ve been over this. one day she’ll be able to make instant noodles without instantly burning the house down.who is more likely to burn the house down just trying? see above.who is messier? he is. but without, like, somebody to clean her shit up – she’s pretty messy, too. which is why she cannot live with him in his stupid trailer without maid service. who leaves the toilet roll empty? luka. and she hates him for it. who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor? luka and scout. they’re kin that way.who forgets to flush the toilet? they don’t have a toilet, actually.who is the prankster around the house? neither of them. despite acting like children, they’re more mature than that. who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere? neither. luka has to be organized and scout got her license revoked. lots to think about.who mows the lawn? what lawn.who answers the telephone? scout ‘cos he doesn’t have one. sucks.who does the vacuuming? me, personally.who does the groceries? nobody. she can’t cook and luka forgets.who takes the longest to shower? obvi, scout.who spends the most time in the bathroom? scout spends like an hour and a half in there. perfection takes time.

MISCELLANEOUS 

is money a problem? for him, lol.how many cars do they own? she’ll inherit her dad’s car, xoxo.do they own their home or do they rent? own, bitch. at least they will.do they live near the coast or deep in the countryside? don’t ask me this shit ever again.do they live in the city or in the country? eye – do they enjoy their surroundings? fuck, no. i said what i said, time to elope to paris, bitches. go get a passport, luka. it’s time !what’s their song? bang bang by miss nancy sinatra.what do they do when they’re away from each other? celebrate.where did they first meet? silhouette’s. super romantic. how did they first meet? she asked him to merk her father. it was real cute. love at first sight.who spends the most money when out shopping? uh, is this even a question. he doesn’t have the money to spend, she does.who’s more likely to flash their assets? SCOUT, obvi.who finds it amusing when the other trips over? luka, he’s an asshole that way. and he’ll make her walk in her high ass heels through the most difficult terrain just for the sake of seeing it happen, too.any mental issues? they wouldn’t be getting together if there weren’t any.who’s terrified of bugs? scout screams when she sees ants. she hates ants. don’t ask.who kills the spiders around the house? she’ll kill the spiders. swat them with her pumps.their favourite place? the hotel, xoxo.who pays the bills? scout.do they have any fears for their future? nope. i mean, she fears getting caught for merking her father but other than that, nope.who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? scout. we’ve been through this, kay, she’d buy him a nice outfit and she’d take him out for dindin. except, driver roll up the partition please. who uses up all of the hot water? scout, and she’s not sorry about it. if they showered together they’d save water :~)who’s the tallest? her, obviously.who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? both. she’d do it for cutesy purposes, he’d do it ‘cos he’s invasive and annoying and she’s taking too damn long. it’s not gonna go any faster with your dick up her ass, luka. who wanders around in their underwear? luka. and she absolutely loves it.who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? scout and then he turns the radio off.what do they tease each other about? she’s rich and spoiled, he’s dirty and emotionally stunted. who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times? scout would claim to but that shit’s hot, okay. he’d probably ask her to slow down with the polo’s. ain’t got nothing against those knee socks, though, now do you.do they have mutual friends? jesus. who crushed first? scout. oof.any alcohol or substance related problems? loads to go around.who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am? luka … that sloppy piece of shit.who swears the most? his middle name is i-cuss-to-assert-myself-as-masculine, if you didn’t know.