#trapped between two mirrors of his image and the others’ eyes he’s both the hunter and the hunted

[happy10thousandyears]

I feel like spending so much time thinking about 🪞 kinda made me immune to any disturbing media content (if it’s not visual). Like no matter the trauma depicted I’ve already spent enough time thinking about the marks it leaves on characters it’s like . Okay it can’t be worse than 🪞

[the-scandalorian]

Tempered Glass: Chapter 2

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit in later chapters) Word Count: 4.3k Warnings: slow burn, canon-typical violence, non-graphic description of wounds, cursing, sexy thoughts, pining Summary: Chance brought you and the Mandalorian together on Nevarro. Now, on his ship, you have to broker a careful trust with him, despite both his and your instincts to distrust others. Notes: I’ll be loosely following the events of the first season and see what happens from there. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Taglist:  @bbdoyouloveme​ @beskarhearts​ @dincrypt​ @honey-hi​ @just-me-and-my-obsessions00​ @red-leaders​ @zoemariefit​ 

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Before you could decide what to say to him, the Mandalorian rushed across the hull in two long strides and grabbed your shoulders forcefully, lifting you from your seated position and pushing you up against the wall. You exclaimed in surprise as a strong forearm came up to hold your chest in place, restricting the expansion of your lungs in a painful way. Your hands automatically scrabbled against his arms, trying to break his grip, but his hold was iron. He was leaning all his weight into you, crushing you into the wall, and even bracing your legs against his armored thighs didn’t budge him.

“Who sent you?” he yelled, his helmet inches from your face. The depth and rasp of his voice through the modulator made your stomach drop, and your fight instincts kicked into high gear.

Here’s the Mandalorian I was expecting.

Your upper arms were trapped against your sides, but you could lash out just enough to dig your fingers into his injured side, exploiting his weakness. He grunted and faltered, loosening his hold, and you took the chance to shove him off of you while pulling the long knife from your belt and whipping it up to his neck. At this same time, he recovered and yanked his blaster out of his holster to press the barrel into your stomach. His left hand had a vice-like hold on your bicep.

“No one! No one sent me!” you panted. Your right hand pressed your knife against the fabric at his throat, and your left gripped the back of his neck so he couldn’t move away from the blade. Your finger hovered over the activation switch on the hilt.

In this position, you had to tilt your head up to look into the t-shaped visor of his helmet. You tried to make out his eyes, but all you could see was your own reflection in the inky black surface. You were sweaty and out of breath. His breath was fast and loud through the modulator, chest heaving just inches from yours. This is not an opportune time to be turned on.

“Why were you following me this morning?” he demanded. So he had known.

“Why were you watching me in the cantina a few weeks ago?” you countered.

He tensed, surprised by the question, and cocked his head to the side, considering. “...You looked familiar,” he offered.

Maybe he really had recognized me from my bounty puck, like the bounty hunter in the alley today.

As you contemplated this possibility, the threat you each posed to the other became almost palpable.

He was worried that you were after him or the child—both of whom were clearly high-value targets. And if you had really run into him by chance and didn’t know that before, then you obviously knew how much they were both worth now. You could easily take advantage of that. You, on the other hand, suspected that he knew you yourself had a bounty on your head—and here you were, on his ship, mostly at his mercy. However, you’d say the stakes were higher for him. He had more than just himself to worry about. He clearly cared about whoever this child was.

“I wasn’t following you today. I wouldn’t have been so obvious if I was tracking you. Is that how you would follow a bounty? I was trying to talk to you,” you admitted.

He seemed unsure of whether or not he should believe you. His grip on your arm loosened almost imperceptibly. You reciprocated by easing the pressure of your hold on his neck.

Perhaps, the fact that you were both so vulnerable meant you could come to an understanding.

“Can we just talk? I’m not after you or the kid. I don’t even know why they’re after you. I saw you the other day in the cantina, and I was curious about why you were watching me, so I followed you to talk today. Then I got caught in the fray when I ran into you in the alley. That’s it. It sounds ridiculous, but that’s it. Let’s lower these and just talk.”

You hoped you could earn back the fragile trust you’d had between you just minutes ago on Nevarro, but you had no reason real reason to trust each other. It was clear that neither of you was used to trusting others.

Trust was a bad habit you’d had to unlearn to survive, and the same was true for bounty hunters. His was also a brutal, solitary profession.

But, there was also no explicit reason you had to be enemies.

He hesitated. “You first.” His voice rasped in the modulator.

You continued to hold him where he was, close to you, for another moment as you considered what to do. You didn’t want to hurt him, and it seemed like his instinct was to protect rather than attack.

You slowly released your grip on his neck and dropped your blade.

He lowered his blaster and replaced it in the holster at his side, still standing just inches from you. You knew that he was only open to this truce because there were several ways he could overpower you if he needed to. You hadn’t forgotten the fire that had erupted from his vambrace. He likely had a myriad of other deadly tricks up his sleeve—literally.

After a tense moment, you both stepped back.

“Why did you help me?” he asked.

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Why did you help me?”

“I... don’t know. It made sense at the time.”

“Why’d you let me on your ship?”

“I wasn’t going to let them kill you,” he shrugged, like that was obvious.

“Well, I appreciate that,” you laughed. He cocked his head in surprise. The tension thawed slightly.

You sat down on opposite sides of the hull, a safe distance apart, watching each other warily.

“Are you Guild?”

“I’m not a hunter.” He seemed skeptical but didn’t press the issue.

You reached for your bag, and he tensed.

“Just getting water.” You yanked your water bottle out of your bag and drank.

He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “What weapons do you have?”

“Blaster, knife, spare blaster. Not quite the arsenal you have,” you motioned to where his weapons closet was partially open, displaying an impressive array of firearms, explosives, and knives.

He nodded and explained, “Weapons are part of my religion.”

“Right,” you muttered, not really sure what that meant. You met his visor briefly then looked away again. Having his attention trained solely on you felt like sitting under a spotlight. And it wasn’t just the threat of danger that made you squirm.

You flicked your eyes back up to him when he shifted. You followed his movements as he pulled the blaster from his holster and stood to put it on its hook in the closet, then did the same with his rifle and vibroblade. He clicked a button on the wall, and the weapons closet clanged shut. You were still acutely aware that his whole body was a weapon, so this gesture of peace was largely symbolic.

Nonetheless, you responded in kind by placing your large vibroblade and both your blasters on a crate out of your reach.

You sat in awkward silence for a moment. You weren’t really sure if these empty gestures meant anything real... or were just that—empty. How likely was it that you were going to progress from strangers to two people who actually trusted each other in the confines of this tiny ship within the span of minutes? Not very.

“I’m going to use the refresher,” you announced. He nodded.

His searing gaze followed you the short distance to the door, and you suddenly forgot what you usually did with your arms when you walked.

It was a relief to close the door behind you and be alone for a moment. When you washed your hands, you noted the generous amount of the Mandalorian’s blood drying on your fingers, smeared there from when you made contact with his blaster injury. From the looks of it, his injury was worse than yours.

You scrubbed your hands clean and leaned down to splash water on your face, wiping away the sweat and dirt on your brow. Then, you rested your palms on the edge of the sink and took a few steadying breaths, studying your face in the small mirror before you.

I’ve been in tighter spots than this.

And this time, like every one of those other times, you steeled yourself and concentrated on the next immediate step you could take to improve your situation. You let your anxiety fall away as you narrowed your focus to a tangible action: treating your thigh wound. If you let yourself consider more than that, spiral in uncertainty and linger on every unknown and variable in this situation, you’d feel overwhelmed.

One step at a time.

When you returned to the hull, you opened your bag to pull out your med pack, sat back on your crate, and got to work cleaning the graze wound through the hole the blaster shot had left in your pants. 

The Mandalorian reached into a container and pulled out his own much larger med pack. With precise movements, he removed his cape, his bandolier, and the top half of his armor. He turned away to pull up his shirt and inspect his wound. He was careful to stay angled in a way so you couldn’t see any of his exposed skin—you weren’t sure if he didn’t want you to know the extent of his injury or if he wasn’t allowed to reveal any of his skin to you.

From the way he was contorting awkwardly, it was clear that he was struggling to reach the extent of the wound.

“Do you want help?” you offered, knowing he’d refuse. You felt compelled to try anyways.

He snapped his helmet up to look at you, like he was surprised you were there. You waited for his answer. Several moments delayed, he jerked his head slightly, like he’d rediscovered a lost train of thought, and muttered: “I’m fine.”

You shrugged and finished tending to your own wound. When you had finished tying a clean bandage around your thigh, you noticed he was squeezing a tiny amount of bacta from an almost empty tube.

“Do you need this?” You held your full tube out to him.

He looked up. Again, he seemed to have forgotten you were there, or perhaps, was so caught off guard by your question, that his answer came after a long stretch of silence. It seemed like a weird reaction to such benign questions.

“Thank you,” he replied, dropping his shirt to walk toward you.

He reached for the bacta, but instead of taking the tube, he grabbed your wrist, twisting it hard. You cried out in pain as the bacta clattered to the floor. His free hand whipped behind his back to grab a pair of cuffs from his belt. Despite your struggling and flailing, he wrenched your arm over and cuffed your hand to a rung of the ladder that was just a few inches to your left.

You kicked out a foot to trip him, but he evaded it. You reached for him with your unrestrained hand, but he jumped back.

Shit. You cursed yourself for placing your weapons out of reach. The small blade strapped to your ankle wouldn’t be of much help at the moment. You let out a frustrated huff of anger. You were better than this, smarter than this.

“I’m sorry. I have to,” he insisted. He started to pace back and forth.

“You really don’t,” you argued, as you slouched against the wall in defeat. He’d cuffed you part way up the ladder, so your arm stretched uncomfortably above your head when you sank to the floor. You rubbed your free hand over your face, thinking.

“I can’t risk it,” he continued, almost apologetic in tone. He seemed to be convincing himself as much as he was convincing you.

“What are you going to do with me?”

He tilted his helmet down at you: “Nothing?”

“I mean, what’s the long term plan here?”

“I’ll leave you somewhere nearby—you can choose the planet—but I need to sleep before I can do anything else. And well...” he gestured vaguely to you then to the compartment where the kid was sleeping.

You watched him resume his circuit of the tiny hull and weighed your options. There weren’t many, and the fact that he was so worried about what you’d do to him or to the kid made you feel less threatened by him. He was spending his time thinking about how you might hurt him, not about how he could take advantage of you. At least, you hoped that was the case.

“I understand,” you relented, letting out a heavy sigh. At least he didn’t freeze me in carbonite.

He froze midstride to stare down at you.

As annoyed as you were by the restraints, you couldn’t really blame him. Honestly, you’d do the same exact thing if you were in his position. You’d already started thinking about the safest way to get some sleep in his presence—your next clear course of action—knowing that your temporary truce was fragile.

He regarded you silently, as if waiting for the catch.

“You could have just asked. I probably would have tried to talk you out of it, but I really do get it. I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”

He stood, looking down at you, incredulous.

It was strange, but not unfamiliar, to have to read someone in full armor, to take all cues from body language and tone. And in the Mandalorian’s case, even his tone was somewhat obscured. You stared back up into his blank helmet but felt sure you were reading him pretty well.

You glanced up at the handcuffs and were comforted by the knowledge that you could pick the mechanism fairly easily with some combination of your small vibroblade, the bobby pin in your hair (which was only there for this express purpose), and—if it came to it—the underwire of your bra. You’d done it before.

He doesn’t need to know that.

It seemed like, as someone who regularly restrained people, he should assume you could pick locks, but you weren’t about to bring that to his attention. You were going to let him think you were completely at his mercy because clearly that’s what he needed to feel safe. Plus, you didn’t want him to resort to a more extreme means of restraining you.

“Could you at least cuff me to something so I can lie down?” You wiggled the arm that was stretched awkwardly over your head.

He tucked his thumbs into his belt and cocked his head as if trying to decide whether or not this was a trick. He sighed quietly though the modulator.

“Don’t try anything,” he warned, striding forward to unlock the cuffs. You held your hands up in surrender. He led you toward a spot along the wall where a pipe ran a few inches off the floor and gestured for you to sit by it.

When he leaned over your body to snap the cuffs to the pipe, you caught a glimpse of his neck, where a sliver of skin was exposed between his cowl and his helmet. His skin was golden brown—definitely not green like the child, definitely human. It was less than an inch of skin, but you couldn’t help but feel that you’d witnessed something scandalous or intimate, like you’d accidentally walked in on someone changing. You also couldn’t help but notice that he smelled good under the faint odor of metal and blaster residue.

He wasn’t rough when he secured your hand in the cuffs this time.

Walking around the hull, he collected a ration pack and a thick blanket from two different crates and grabbed your water bottle from where you’d left it by your bag. He tossed the items to you one at a time.

Thoughtful.

He picked up your bacta from where it had fallen to the floor and sat back down to finish tending to his own wound.

You pulled the blanket under you so you weren’t sitting on the cold, hard floor of the ship and leaned back against the wall.

You opened the ration pack, picking at the contents, and considered the man before you.

You had a million questions for him but somehow couldn’t think of one thing to say. Nothing seemed particularly pressing as the stress and exertion of the day were beginning to catch up with you. He wasn’t a particularly chatty guy and didn’t seem interested in conversation beyond determining whether or not you were trying to abduct his child—and the jury was clearly still out on that front as far as he was concerned.

Eventually, he finished treating his wound and replaced his upper armor. He disappeared into the refresher for a few minutes then returned to what you had assumed was a storage bay, where he had placed the child. After shifting the child gently, he climbed—in full armor—into the smallest, most ridiculous bunk you’d ever seen before closing the door and disappearing from view. Doesn’t he have a room?

You finished the ration pack, kicked off your boots, and curled up in the blanket to lie down. You were grateful that your physical exhaustion was absolute. Otherwise, you were sure your mental chatter would have kept you awake. You needed rest before you could decide your next move. Telling yourself that you’d just doze, not sleep deeply, your eyelids drifted shut almost unwillingly.

***

The next morning, you woke to the Mandalorian leaning over you to release your wrist from the cuffs. You started at his unexpected closeness, jerking back, and he looked down. Clearly, you’d fallen into a deep sleep for several hours. Whoops.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You still weren’t used to that rich, raspy voice. Does it ever not sound seductive? It didn’t help that you could smell him again when he was leaned over you like that. You closed your eyes, waiting for him to move away.

“That’s okay.”

He stood, clipping the cuffs to the back of his belt. You sat up, leaning against the wall, and rubbed your eyes.

He sat on a crate across from you, with the baby on his lap, feeding him little pieces of something gross looking. The kid was perched happily on his knee, wiggling his giant ears in satisfaction as he chewed and watching you with unguarded interest.

“Who is that?” you asked.

The baby was alert and cheery, periodically letting out joyful little chirps, a marked difference from their subdued temperament the night before.

“He was a bounty,” the Mandalorian stated simply, as if that explained the whole situation.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at his non-answer and didn’t respond. Obviously, there was more to the story, but he didn’t want to share it. That was fine. You didn’t owe each other anything (except maybe your lives, but in that regard, you figured you were even).

You watched the Mandalorian. He was sweet with the child—patient, too—but awkward and unsure. You didn’t have all that much experience with children either, but you knew holding a baby out in front of you with straight arms, as you’d seen him do for a moment yesterday, was not normal. He seemed caring and invested but inexperienced.

How long has he had this baby?

“I think we can help each other.” The Mandalorian spoke slowly, interrupting your train of thought.

This development surprised you, especially considering he’d made you sleep cuffed to a pipe.

From the moment you set eyes on the armored warrior, you had expected him to be cold, withholding: a lone wolf. In some ways, he was—the armor alone was enough to make him seem hostile and untouchable—but in other ways... He was almost... kind? He’d protected you, a stranger, without hesitation. The fact that he was caring for a wanted child was another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

“How’s that?” You fidgeted with the edge of the blanket in your hands.

You hadn’t had the chance to formulate a full plan for yourself, but you didn’t really need to. You’d do what you’d always done: disappear. You’d lay low for a few weeks, then return to one of the three places you had hidden supplies: namely, new identification and credits. And then you’d disappear again. Maybe change your hair. Find a temporary job somewhere. Same old routine.

“The same people are after both of us.”

You snapped your head up to look at him.

“They saw you holding the kid and board the Crest. They know you’re with me,” he continued.

The same set of questions played in your head: Did he recognize me as a bounty that day in the cantina? Or did he notice the moment when the bounty hunter had recognized me in the alley yesterday? Or does he really just think I’m caught up in this with him because of pure chance?

He took your silence as an invitation to proceed.

“I can drop you off on a nearby planet. We can go our separate ways, but I think they’ll be looking for you too. It might be best to stay together for the moment.” He spoke carefully, like he knew he was out on a limb, and he didn’t expect you to agree. This was the most you’d heard him say at once. When you really considered it, he was right. Based on they way the fight went down, with you and the Mandalorian protecting each other, everyone would conclude that you were a team. That’s how the word would spread. Hunters would come after you both. If they found you separately, they’d assumed you knew where the other one was.

Between bites, the kid let out the cutest, tiniest sneeze you’d ever heard. The Mandalorian wiped his nose gently with the edge of his cape, and the softness of the gesture made your heart squeeze. You looked away briefly to hide the smile on your face.

You turned back to him, expression neutral, meeting his inscrutable gaze once again. “We’d be harder to find if we went our separate ways. We could lead them in two different directions,” you reasoned, trying to parse out all the options.

“I... feel bad that they’d come after you for no other reason than you happened to run into me in an alley.”

Again, his thoughtfulness surprised you.

For now, it seems safe to assume he doesn’t know about my bounty.

And you weren’t ready to share that yet...even though you knew hiding it was unfair to him and to the child. They were both already at risk. If you decided to stay with him for the moment, you’d eventually need to admit that you were a liability all on your own.

Not yet though.

“What’s your plan?”

“Head somewhere deserted. Lay low for a couple weeks, then go from there.”

That’s what you would be doing alone anyways. He’d already proven his skill in battle. Would it be so bad to have someone looking out for you for once?

It would be a relief, if you were being totally honest with yourself.

“Okay,” you agreed hesitantly. “For now, this makes sense,” you gestured between you two.

He nodded once.

You posed the question that was plaguing you: “What made you change your mind about me? Why are you trusting me all of a sudden?”

“You stayed cuffed.”

You raised your eyebrows at him. Apparently, it had been a test, and you had passed. I guess he was being smart, not underestimating me. 

He seemed satisfied to leave the conversation there, but your curiosity got the better of you. You took the chance to build on this blossoming trust.

“So, does the helmet stay on all the time?”

He met your gaze for a moment before looking down at the kid and saying, “No living being has seen my face since I was a child. This is the way.”

Well, that’s super sad.

You thought back to the exchange between him and that huge blue Mandalorian. They’d both said the same thing then too.

Mandalorians have a catchphrase?

You wondered what this helmet rule meant in practice: for instance, does that mean he could be helmetless around someone if they couldn’t see his face... Like, were blindfolds or very dark rooms on the table? And what about the rest of the armor? Can he take that off? How bad should I feel that I’d seen a sliver of his neck? You wanted to know the answers to all these questions but obviously couldn’t ask.

Instead, you nodded and said, “What’s your name?”

“Mando is fine.” Impersonal. Business-like. It’s what Karga had called him.

His proposal to stay together for the time being had felt like an opening, but clearly peeling away all his layers of metaphorical armor would take a long time. He was so guarded, but it seemed like he didn’t really want to be. You related to that on a deep level.

“Mando?” You voiced the question that had popped into your head when Karga called him Mando the first time: “Isn’t Mandalorian spelled m-a-n-d-A-l-o-r-i-a-n?”

“...yes?” he confirmed tentatively, unsure of your point. His hand, which was in the process of feeding the child another bite, paused midair as he watched you. The kid made impatient whiny sounds and reached for his hand.

“So shouldn’t your nickname be Mand-a?”

He scoffed, making a sound somewhere between amusement and annoyance, and resumed feeding the child, who let out a contented coo as he chewed.

There was an awkward beat of silence while you waited for him to ask for your name. When he asked, you’d share your fake name, as always. 

He didn’t ask.

***

Chapter 3

[scribeofmorpheus]

Himmeløyne [22/?]

Pairing: Loki Odinson x Reader

Catch Up Here | Masterlist

Warnings: None

A/N: I have started my first original gothic story (it'll be much darker than this fic but can I offer you werewolves, vampires, 1970s Europe aesthetic as an incentive?). It's on Wattpad and I intend to update it every Wednesday, but I never stick to update schedules so... Here ya go: OUR LADY OF DARKNESS

Taglist is open! Reblog, comment or leave a like please ☺

~Y/N

The end of the abyss—that frightful stream of continuous fall and forceful uplift—it finally had an end. It was a large door. Smell of rain and storms, with the slick glisten of wet rock hugging the archway. A dark type of stone, jagged and natural, the door seemed to be carved into the side of a mountain. But the mirage ended where the rock began, there were no walls. No infrastructure. Just the green of the mirror world and two hunkering doors. The archway was carved in the shape of a snake; same as the kind that embellished the rigging of ships, tongue curled, eyes made of rings within rings.

A sequence of lettering—foreign, yet oh, so familiar—hovered in the mist, your mind scrambling to make sense of the words.

“Oracle, what is this place?”

The whisper was quiet, for a brief moment you worried that you were truly on your own in this stretch of emptiness.

I sense… something has been concealed from me. Its magic is fevered, dusted in loss. Pain. Desire. It is out of place. Out of time. The conjurer’s magic has the same energy as yours, only… stronger.

“Stronger?” You shuddered at the thought. After a pause, you asked: “You don’t see the door?”

Door? What door?

“What of the letters?”

I—No, I see nothing. Describe it to me.

“There’s a serpent on the door.”

A serpent? Does he eat his tail?

“No, his head marks the start of the archway, but his mouth is facing the ground.”

Then it is incomplete. An incantation must be needed to complete the image. What of the lettering?

“These letters, they’re different than common tongue or Asgardian runes. They aren’t Jotun either. They look… I don’t know. They look so familiar.”

Reach for them.

“What?”

Familiar magic has a tendency to want to be understood, that is why it feels familiar. Touch it.

You stuck your hand up, jumping on your tippy-toes to try and grab the incorporeal words floating above your head. In defiance, they simply rose higher up, further out of reach.

Do not reach with your body, Child of the Sky. Reach with your magic.

With an exhale, you stuck both hands high up in the air, conjuring the bristle of energy that raced across your spine during spellcasting. Remembering through muscle and memory of what it was like to be in control of your magic. Of what it was like to revel in its deliciousness, its wildness, its link to Loki. A swirl of warmth took shelter in your belly, that warmth you’d grown to love before it was ripped from you and replaced by the cold of Odin’s incantation.

Suddenly, the words began to sink, lowering themselves like feathers, at first, then with the heft of an arrow, and finally, a stone.

With a crash, the words burst into fire and embers, each ember digging into your skin in a sensory overload that formed echoes in the mist.

A version of you,—the shade whose voice you heard in the abyss—older, magic glowing a different hue of blue, in strange clothing, stood by the door. You were witnessing the construction of the doorway. Every splinter, fibre, rock and sand particle materialised as though you were undoing the wroth of a sandstorm to make way for a rock giant. A woman, with firebrand hair and soft features, stood beside you, she looked drained, weary. She had magic too, it was the colour of blood. The colour of fire. It flickered in and out around her body, as if fighting to take over.

There was a young boy clasping onto the shade’s hand. Aloof in expression, a scaly growth the colour of white sands on his elbows, ankles, neck and cheeks. He was a beautiful child, hair as soft as down, curls that fluffed in a way you could never get yours too. Eyes of a pure and deep blue. Ocean surface during a thunderstorm blue.

He looked at the shade the same way little Sigrid had when she’d waved her plump, little hand goodbye before following after the hunters. It made you yearn for something so pure with a fierce heart.

“There, that should do it,” the shade said as the door materialised from thin air. “Now, we need a seal so no one who wanders can know of this place.”

“Is this absolutely necessary?” the woman asked, hugging her frame as if she were cold.

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but this is the only way I know for certain that what we’re doing now happens.” The shade’s voice felt dark, wizened in years, the same way Frigga spoke of grave matters. “This fortress is the only way he survived in my time. If we can’t change things, as the sorcerer said, then the least we can do is ensure things continue on their set path.”

“He’ll be trapped… for who knows how long? Centuries? Millennia? He’s just a boy.”

“He’s more than that,” the shade got down on one knee to look at the boy. From that angle, you could see the mangled, L shaped scars over each of her shoulder blades. They resembled the scars birds would suffer when their wings were ripped for medicines. “This is the only way he stays safe. I’ve already cemented the other enchantments. Time will not be felt here. He will not feel sadness or regret or the bitterness of solitude. He will sleep, as I once did, except… he will not be aware. And he will dream of only happy things. Then, when the time comes, I will jump. I’ll take him back with me.”

The firebrand woman showed doubt for the first time, “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve already done it.” The shade touched the other magic bearer’s shoulder, a comradery there. A closeness built from time and triumph, much like that kindred fire you shared with Sif. “Now, a phrase. A word. Anything to bind this lock to. Something unique.”

“Why don’t you choose it?” “Because I know myself. It has to be something I’d never choose so that she never knows it, and no mind reader can ever guess it should they stumble upon this place.”

“Vision,” the woman’s lips quivered with loss, but there was a bloom of hope in the tweak of her lips as your shade repeated the word.

The biting of the magic ended, and suddenly, you were alone again.

What happened? Child of the Sky? Are you there?

“I’m right here, Oracle,” you choked out, a tightness in your throat.

You were gone. One instant here, the next… nowhere. Somewhere. Between.

“I know how to open the door,” you took several steps back and then cleared your throat. With conviction and authority, you calmly said: “Vision.”

What did the magic reveal to you?

Your head was spinning from the fabrics of this mirror universe being so amateurishly tailored, so lacking in its design and purpose. The more you discovered, the more you began to doubt if this world was ancient; or if it was barely into its adolescence. “I do not quite understand it, yet. You said you were imprisoned here?”

Yes. I have been without body or memory for as long as I can remember.

The snake on the door began to slither till its mouth was at the top, and its tail was tucked firmly in its jaws. Then its eyes glowed the same colour as the child’s, thunderstorm blue. With a groan and a strike of something loud, the door peeled back. Beyond its threshold was a mutation of worlds, all collided in exquisite syzygy; aligned, misaligned, human, Asgardian, Jotun, and even the liquid blackness of space with pepper spots for stars.

“And how long ago was that?”

I—I do not… Centuries? Millennia? Aeons?

To busy your mind of doubt and fear as you stepped past the threshold and heard the door seal shut behind you, you toyed with the idea of understanding more of this world. “You said you could hear the beginning of your name… What was it?”

The whisper grew soft, warm. It sounded like ‘see’. Or was it the sea? Sea? Sea. Sea!

A garden shifted into the plane, then with a breath, a lake, then a cave, then a temple, then a waterfall, then a tower made of metal and glass. The world wasn’t fixed to a temporal setting, nor a specific location in space. It was like watching fire tell a story; brief, bright and constant.

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

At the epicentre, laying on a stone tablet with a curtain of gold—that same curtain from the healing chamber—wrapped around like a fleece, was the child. Unaged. Beautiful. Asleep. He had no scaly growths like in the visions.

You took your steps with trepidation. Almost afraid to make a whisper even though the Oracle chanted ‘Sea!’ over and over. Its voice morphing into the very faint intones of a voice you knew all too well.

The world began to peel away the closer you got to the child. A presence was syphoning the magic, transmuting it for another purpose. A purpose that you now realised was meant to happen. Soon, a figure of pure light, with large wings of utmost magnificence, formed from the siphoned magics of the world. The Oracle was gaining form. The fleece turned grey and the boy began to stir. The magic of the sleep spell was broken.

You approached him slowly. Hands seeking out his aura. Then, in the most silver of voices you’d ever heard, he said, “You came. You said you’d come.” A smile of familiarity adorned his freckled laugh lines.

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

“Do you know me?”

He nodded.

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

 “How?”

 “From now.”

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

“What’s your name?”

He seemed confused. Reeling back from the line you’d cast him for with that question. Bait in hook, he fished in the muddy waters that were your consciousness. You could feel his magic, abrasive as sand between toes, cool and wet, but also warm and sea-salt thick. He replied, “You haven’t given it to me yet. But you will return hers to her.”

He pointed to the Oracle’s figure, pulsating into a more corporeal form. The boy opened his hand and you knew instantly what he needed you to do before you thought to ask. A reflex. His magic extended to yours, carrying thought, and the very genesis of thought in its energy. You placed your face close so his hand could cover the cavity where your eye used to be.

Sugar. Berries picked from the wild thickets. A prick into padded thumb. Ooze of blood. A slight sting, then a scab and finally nothing, no marks, no evidence of the thorn in your thumb. He was projecting images of what he envisioned as he healed you. What the berries would taste like; apples. “You can open your eyes now. It was gold when we met. I kept it the same.”

Feeling no different than before, you opened both eyes for the first time since you stepped into Verdenspeil. With a tickle, the runes drawn on your hand and forehead sloughed off like skin cells. You could see the world without them. You could see through both eyes again. The shifting world shifted to a hexagon of mirrors. One, the sky shifting blue of your mother, the other, the ancient, world piercing gold of your father, your face held two eyes again.

“It’s… beautiful,” you looked down at the boy with your eyes. He showed teeth with his grin, pleased with himself. Pleased with your laugh of awe. “There was a boy in my village. Half as beautiful as you are. Half as joyful, with a smile and constellations marking his nose and cheeks too. He showed me kindness. His name was Baldrick. I shall call you Baldrick.”

 “Now that you have spoken my name, remind her of who she is,” the boy said, glancing at the Oracle. “You know. You know but cannot believe.”

A gasp left your mouth. A mix of hope and disbelief. With the new eye, you could see the face of the Oracle beneath the light, beneath the enchantment that kept her hidden.

Sea! Sea! Sea! Sea!

“S-Sigrid.”

The Oracle hushed before exploding into a million, tiny pieces of energy. Out of the explosion was your mother, winged as the Valkyrie from legend, wearing the armour you had seen in the mirror prior to entering Verdenspeil.  

“Y/N,” she said, lowering to the ground. Her hand cupped your face. You could barely feel her. “I have waited so long for this moment.”

“Mother,” you hugged her close.

A swirl of black formed once the mirrors of the world broke. Sigrid looked at you with panic.

“Listen, there isn’t time. Take the boy, “Sigrid removed a bracelet and cast it into the black-hole. A portal began to form, leading to what looked like a stone temple. “Take him and jump, it’ll lead you to the one with answers.”

“I don’t understand! Why can’t you come with us? How are you alive?”

“I’m not alive dear, sweet child. But I can promise this isn’t the last you’ll see of me. We will meet again, soon. I promise. But you must go, the world has fulfilled its purpose. There is no reason for it to exist anymore. It has already began to unravel.”

The mist began to turn sour, choking like poison.

You coughed, breathing through your sleeve, “But, as the Oracle, you said I had to take you to the source.”

“You are the source. You and the boy. Your magics are entangled. The maze was a lie, one devised by you. This world isn’t ancient, it is young. A deception. I am the deceiver. My purpose was to ensure none but you found the boy and the portal to Mímir’s tomb. You enchanted this world so all would walk along the lighted paths until they reached a portal that would return them to a random space within the nine realms. You enchanted this world with your memories, so only you could follow them. Hear them.” Sigrid handed you a four-pronged dagger, “Take this you’ll need it.” She kissed your cheek, then her form started unravelling with the world too. Through transference, she gave you her armour, it was lighter than you'd expected, and it fit to cover your proportions through magical effect.

“Why can’t you come with us?” you reached your hand out to Baldrick. He took it with ease.

“I am not meant for the lands of the living,” she lamented. “Go! Before the world takes you with it.”

You rushed to the portal, but before you could step through you asked one last question: “What did you mean by ‘sins of the father’?”

“The war,” Sigrid fluttered her wings to hover in the green mist. “It was a lie. The Jotuns, they didn’t start it. We—the Himmel Kvinner—there’s a reason why only the women in our family inherited the gift. It’s not just power. It’s essence. A woman’s essence. Odin didn’t know we would develop magic from the artefact, but none of us were able to understand the complexity of her spell. Until you. You will discover the reason behind it all. You told me you did. I suspect it is because you are not fully mortal." Bitterly, she added as her body turned to mist as well, "You will bring the heavens to its knees. And your fate is that none shall remember it.”

One of Sigrid’s wings dissipated, she faltered in the air, then shouted: “Go!”

“I love you,” you whispered before hurtling through the undulating expanse of the portal.

“I know…” you heard her whisper back as Verdenspeil was destroyed.

[justanotherpersonsuniverse]

The Best Parts of Me

by @ether-solrac, a special non-canon scene I wrote for @justanotherpersonsuniverse Other Magic AU. Hope you all enjoy, although at 7 pages and 3,788 words, its a doozy.

The graveyard was in disarray as the various tombstones and mausoleums lay shattered and crumbled from the echoes of battle. The embers feeding off the dried grass were the only source of light as the thick fog suffocated the moonless night. But more than the echoes of death, the sight Chloe found most traumatizing was the image of her friends so very close to joining whatever spirits were too damn afraid to bear witness to this kind of threat. Juleka was propped up against a cracked tombstone and missing an arm. Kagami’s saber lay shattered beside her unconscious body, her flames worryingly dim. Alya’s coat was sporting a nasty tear that would take months to properly heal. And the two Sabrinas lay huddled protectively over the battered body of Aurore, not doing much better themselves if the chipped antlers and smell of scorched foliage were any indicator. But the part that stole all of her focus and pierced her heart with the fiercest desperation she’s ever felt, was the sight of the formidable hunter responsible for all this carnage, shimmering sliver skull mask and coat as dark as the void itself, and in his grasp, dangling helplessly like the prey he saw her as, was Alix.

“You know, you lot have been making quite the scene in both the magical and hunter communities. Tearing down glamour after glamour and forming bonds between races that have been in hiding for centuries. Disgusting. You can imagine my surprise when the supposed group undoing thousands of yeas of carefully crafted repression and giving these blasted freaks hope, was nothing more than a bunch of brats” the hunter monologued. He pulled Alix up further by her wrist, putting just enough pressure to cause Alix to cry out in pain and cancel out the small spell she’d been discreetly trying to cast. “Now now, none of that little witch.”

“You bastard…” Chloe forced out as she tried desperately to get up or do anything for that matter. She’d always been so conscious of what the full moon did to her, she never really stopped to consider how weak the new moon left her. The brutal beating she received probably didn’t help either.

“Ah, so the bitch is still conscious. Good. You’re the witch’s familiar are you not? The pain must be double for you two and yet you both are still desperately trying to save the other. I’d say it was romantic if you weren’t such perverse creatures” the hunter mocked. “The world of magic and monsters has had its day and its end is inevitable. I won’t let a bunch of brats get in the way of that.”

The hunter pulled an ornate dagger out of his cloak and if it was even possible, Chloe went even more pale. While she may not have much of a mind for magic, she’s spent enough nights curled up next to a studying Alix to recognize that rune was a huge no-no, a magic syphon… She had to do something! Anything! What the fuck was the point of being part giant killer werewolf if she couldn’t use it when she needed it! She was under so much pain it felt like it was only getting stronger and stronger, and all she could do was take a single step before it became too much and she collapsed, the sight of Alix’s tear stricken face calling out her name was the last thing she saw before her world faded to black.

 ——

Or at least that’s what she thought… Chloe awoke with a start back in her own room at the hotel except it wasn’t quite right. It was like the entire room had been petrified and turned to stone. Moss, dust, and rubble claimed the space as though it were some long forgotten temple. That, and she’s pretty sure her room didn’t have that massive skylight projecting a dark ominous storm that was practically leaking in through all the windows and doors.

“Well well well, look who finally decided to drop in” a twisted but familiar voice called out to her.

Standing before her was a grim twisted version of Chloe herself. Her skin was as pale as stone, her hair was a mesmerizing sliver that shined like moonlight, but what was most stunning were the deep wild red eyes and gleaming fang filled smile that sparkled with something incredibly predatory.

“I was wondering how long it would take for us to finally meet face to face. I’ve simply been DYING to meet you. Although from the look of things it seems like there’s someone out there has a similar idea” the odd Chloe spoke.

“You… You’re my wolf half…” Chloe mumbled to herself.

“And they say Blonds are dumb. You’re smarter than people give you credit for. But then again, its not like you gave them much to look for to begin with.”

“What do you want, and how am I even in here?”

“Awww, right to business? Alright then, you’re in here because you called for me. Because CHLOE wasn’t enough. And why would you be? you’re nothing but the scared heartless little girl that’s spent so long chasing after a bitch that won’t ever love you that you became one yourself.”

“W-what… no that’s- “Chloe whimpered out

“Not true?” the wolf snarled. “Why don’t we just take a look at your little friends and see for ourselves shall we?”

“Chloe, what’s going on?” came a voice from behind her.

Turning around Chloe found Sabrina standing there just as confused as she was. Out of the darkness the wolf Chloe sauntered up to Sabrina wrapping her firm clawed hand over Sabrina’s neck.

“let’s see, your oldest most faithful friend of oh so many years.” Wolf Chloe taunted pressing her finger more firmly on the redhead’s neck. “And what have you done to her? Oh, that’s right. You silenced her voice and then paraded her around like a servant and trophy.”

Before Chloe could even get the scream out, the wolf slashed across Sabrina’s throat. Sabrina stood there in shock, grasping her neck, completely void of her voice, and as the faintest drips of crimson seeped through her fingers, she was drained of all color and petrified into a stone statue. Chloe didn’t even have the time to grieve as the wolf made her way to yet another of her newly appeared friends, Juleka.

“Ah yes, Juleka, she really is something isn’t she? Underneath the shy girl routine, she’s rather gorgeous and fierce, isn’t she? And you couldn’t let someone outshine you, could you? So, what else would you do beside socially burry her where her fear of never being seen could destroy what little opposition she posed.” With monstrous strength the wolf pounded the ground, the entire room vibrating before the ceiling collapsed and buried Juleka under the rubble.

“Please… stop this!” Chloe cried out, but the wolf was a showman, and this dark performance was far from over.

Pulling her next victim from the void, Alya was the next star of the twisted tragedy. “Alya, oh she is a troublesome one isn’t she. Even more than Dupain-Cheng, she had the audacity to stand up to you day one. She was the first to see you for the demon you really are, and you couldn’t have that. She wanted to be the journalist, promote the truth above all else. You had to make sure she took a fall for it.” With a snap of the wolf’s fingers heavy steal chains began to wrap themselves around Alya and pull her to the ground where the weight kep her immobile. And as an added insult the wolf personally strapped a muzzle to Alya’s face, preventing her from speaking.

“But those were just the appetizers. I think you know who the main event is” the wolf Chloe spoke as she bathed in the tension and misery of the moment. And Chloe knew damn well who her other half was taking about, and she wasn’t sure she could handle anymore of this torture. If seeing her friends attacked like this twice could hurt her like this, then whatever she had planned for Alix would break her.

Just like Chloe feared, Alix was brought out of the same void that the others were and just like the others, the wolf wasted no time to start playing with her new prey. Unlike the others however, was how all over Alix the other her was.

“Oh, Alix Alix Alix. You seem to have special place in Chloe’s shriveled little heart. The girl with patience and determination. The one who reached out when no one ever would. You probably came closer than anyone to breaking through her walls and oh, how that SCARED her. She couldn’t let anyone in. She couldn’t have anyone know just how WEAK she actually is. So, what did she do? She locked you out and tossed you aside to fend for yourself.”

“Please!” Chloe cried out, the tears strolling down her face as her body refused to budge. “No more, please you can’t hurt her!”

“Oh sweety,” the wolf leaned in real close as it wiped a tear off of chloe’s face, “I haven’t done anything you haven’t done yourself.” And with a lazy flick of her wrist an ethereal mirror emerged from the darkness, and from it, shadowed arms pierced the veil within it, latching on to Alix from all angles.

“Chloe listen to me!” Alix called out as the shadows began to drag her towards the mirror. “This isn’t all that you are! you’re more than just your mistakes! You’re Chloe fucking Bourgeoius!” The shadows finally claimed Alix and trapped her behind the surface of the glass, lost and alone in its void. She stayed there behind the surface, banging on the barrier and shouting at Chloe, but her words too, were lost to the void.

“Why?” Chloe begged “Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” the wolf replied, an infuriating amount of glee in her voice, like Chloe was finally playing the game shed been waiting for. “Why, because your time is done of course. You were always too weak, and because of it you lashed out like a brat and not the predator that I can make us. Your fear kept us from having everything we ever wanted and I’m not putting up with it any longer. I want to hunt, I want a pack, and I want to take my rightful place as the Alpha. But to do that, I need you gone.”

With that the other Chloe finally let her claws reach her full majesty as she took slow measured steps to her counterpart. Chloe could practically feel them vibrate in tune with her own heartbeat that slowed to a crawl in her desperation. Here she was desperately seeking a way to save her friends and instead she found judgement for her crimes… maybe she really was the worse half of herself… maybe she didn’t deserve everything she had… maybe…

“Wait…” Chloe spoke, the tears paused as Chloe started down her other half in contemplation, the wolf stopping her approach with an equal sense of curiosity. “You said you wanted a pack but… this IS my pack…”

For the first time since her arrival, Chloe found herself able to move. Taking slow steady steps, she approached the petrified Sabrina first. Placing her palm on the outline of the wound on her throat, some of the darkness began to fade as the wound shimmered and faded, revealing a newly flesh and blood Sabrina, with Chloe now sporting the old injury.

“You told me that I silenced Sabrina… “Chloe rasped out as it became much more painful to speak. ”and you’re right that at one time I did…”

“But when she let me go…” Sabrina continued for her as she held Chloe close, “I not only found my own voice, I became someone she can have actual meaningful conversations with.”

Not letting the moment go to waste, Chloe made her way to where Juleka was buried, and from the bleeding wound she reached out with a handful of the blood and let it pour between the cracks. As she did so, her colors became more and more muted until she stood there fully monochrome save for her blood. With a bit of a rumble, Juleka emerged from the rubble, not only no worse for wear but with the purples and reds of her ensemble glowing brightly.

“You told me that I hid Juleka out of jealousy… and fear of being hidden myself…” Chloe began.

“And while she may have been a bitch about it at first, eventually she let me shine, and instead of her fading away, I lead her to a group where she never had to hide again,” Juleka continued as she took her place proudly by Chloe’s side.

Next up was Alya. She snapped the chains that held Alya in place and as Alya regained her strength, Chloe could feel hers leaving her as she nearly collapsed. Alya catching her before she hit the ground.

“You said I thought Alya was only ever going to tear me down…” Chloe began.

“But after butting heads enough times, I like to think that I helped make her even stronger than she was before” Alya continued as she lifted Chloe up, tossing the girl’s arm over her shoulders for support.

Together the group made their way to Alix’s mirror, Alix herself calming down from the other side as Chloe hobbled over. Chloe placed her hand on the glass and Alix did the same as they stared at each other longingly.

“As for Alix… you told me I was afraid of what could happen if she ever got close…. But now the only I fear…” said Chloe as her hand pushed past the veil and grasped Alix’s hand firmly in her own.

“Is to ever have to spend another day without her by my side” Alix finished as Chloe pulled her free with the little strength she had left, the two quickly embracing as though the rest of the world didn’t exist. As the emotions flowed so did the lights as they shimmered around the pair, and as they faded, there stood Chloe not only fully restored, but perhaps a little stronger as well. Turning to face her doppelganger, Chloe stood defiantly.

“You told me I was weak, and honestly you’re probably right. I WAS weak. But these people changed that. They made me stronger, and even more than that, they saved me from being alone. And it didn’t end there, because once I opened up to them, they invited even more into the fold.” From the shadows, shimmers of light appeared as others materialized, Aroure, Kagami, and Feybrina taking their place with the rest of the group. “Every single one of them became a valuable part of me. My pack and my power. But… so are you…”

The Wolf paused at that, not in aggression, but in curiosity as though it had been holding out for this exact moment.

“You’re me, all of this, the pain, the ferocity, the theatrics, this is all just a big show in my head to test me. You wanted me to think you’re this evil part of me but you’re not. You’re not just anger, you’re my passion. You’re not just my ferocity, you’re my focus. And you’re not just my instinct to survive, you’re my need to protect. So, let’s cut the bullshit and do this the way only Chloe fucking Bourgeois can. We want to be the Alpha? Then I think its about time to show that so called ‘hunter’ what happens when you fuck with the pack of the Alpha Bitch.”

And like a force of nature the storm and darkness swirled away in a flurry, revealing the brilliance of a massive shinning full moon through the skylight above. The Wolf bathed in the ethereal glow and was sporting the most triumphant feral smile as she approached her counterpart with open arms.

“My dear Chloe” she spoke as she embraced her other half. “I thought we’d never ask.” And In a flash the world retuned to darkness once more.

 —–

The hunter was prepared to strike Alix when he heard a rumble beside him. Now, towering over the hunter, stood a massive werewolf with a mane of silver hair that glowed in the moonlight and a pair of deep purple eyes that burned with righteous fury.

“No, that’s not possible!” shouted the hunter “Its a blasted new moon! I made sure that you wouldn’t be able to stand against me! How are you doing this!”

The wolf cared nothing for the ranting of the hunter as there was only one thought at the center of its focus.

“Unhand my mate…” the beast snarled, its voice briming with the commanding echoes of power that could send shivers of fear down the spines of the most battle-hardened warriors. “and surrender…” She took a single step forward and it felt as though the earth itself roared in reverence of the true predator. “or die…”

The hunter chose wrong as he tried to plunge the blade towards Alix as a threat. That was the final mistake as the beast lunged faster than most could even think. There were no screams. There was no struggle. The hunter got his wish in a way… there was a monster slain that night.

 —–

When Alix awoke it was to the sight of Chloe getting dressed in the darkness of the night. She blushed a bit as she waited a moment before calling casting a simple illumination charm, alerting the other girl to her presence. She’d vehemently deny peaking to anyone that’d ask.

“Hey” the wolf girl called out to her companion in tired acknowledgement, although the small smile spoke volumes to the shorter girl.

“Hey yourself, what did I- Holy shit! Chloe Your eyes! Your hair!” Alix responded.

As Chloe came in range of the small light, the sight that shocked Alix was clear. Where once was a head of golden hair now flowed a practical river of sliver threads, and where once there were deep sky-blue eyes now rested a pair of mesmerizing violet eyes that pulsed with equal parts compassion and fury.

“Yeah… might be hard to explain, but I think it’s a good look on me. Makes me feel… complete.”

“Chloe what happened… I saw you transform but after that… what happened to the hunter?”

“He’s been… taken care of. Let’s leave it at that… PLEASE.” Chloe made her way to Alix and cuddled up to her side, desperately hanging on to her like her senses demanded she make sure she didn’t disappear.

“Alright…” Alix responded, deepening the embrace herself. “I thought we were goners there for a while…”

“I would never let someone take away my pack” Chloe lightly growled. Alix let that sink in for a bit as she could feel Chloe’s emotions flow through their bond completely uninterrupted. She could feel Chloe’s protectiveness, her gratitude, her relief, and her regrets all at once, but try as she might she couldn’t ignore that single strand that refused to be hidden, as if asking her to reach out for it

“Chlo… before I passed out… I heard you call me your mate… does that mean-“ that was as far as Alix got before her senses were flooded both physically and magically as Chloe kissed her with all the force and passion she could muster. She was overloaded by the new physical sensations but what really took her breath away was the massive waves of pure love and adoration that Chloe gave off. She didn’t think a million conversations could communicate what Chloe could through their bond and she couldn’t help but return the favor herself. After what felt like a lifetime condensed into a mere fraction of a second, Chloe pulled away and with the most peaceful smile Alix had ever seen on her, she grabbed her hand in hers.

“We have an eternity to talk about this, but for now, I think its safe to assume that the answer to any of your questions is yes. What we need to do now though, is take care of our friends. You start healing the others. I’ve got Jules” Chloe said as she began to pull away.

“Right… and Chloe?” Chloe turned around to be met with Alix pecking her lips. And with that Alix went off after the others, her face almost as red as her hair and a dopey grin on her face.

With a smile of her own she made her way to Juleka who was only just starting to wake up. Offering her arm, she got Juleka’s attention with a small shake. “Come on Marceline, breakfast is ready”

Unable to resist her impulses in her weakened state, Juleka dove right in and began to drain blood out of the offered limb, Chloe’s accelerated healing likely the only think keeping her from being sucked dry. Juleka seemed to perk up more as she had her fill, and her missing arm began to rapidly grow into place.

“Ah shit” Juleka gasped as though coming up for air after so long. “Wow that’s potent stuff. Sorry about that by the way. I’d say I owe you one, but somethings telling me its more than just one I owe you.”

“We can talk about that later…” Chloe said as she sat down to rest next to the goth. “I actually wanted to say thank you…”

“Thank you? I’m pretty sure you’re the one that saved my ass. Nice look by the way, I expect the story on that too later.”

“Thanks, and It’s not because of that… it’s because you’re the one that started all this, I wouldn’t have this pack if it wasn’t for you. I wouldn’t be the person I am now without everyone, including you… so thank you.”

“Never thought I’d see the day Chloe Bourgeois went sappy on me.”

“Oh, shut it you. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.”

They were both silent for a minute before both bursting into laughter. When they both calmed down again Juleka couldn’t resist the one question hanging over both of their heads.

“Things are never going to be normal, or at least normal for us, again after this, is it?”

“No, I don’t think it will… but honestly, maybe that’s a good thing. We’ve made connections I’d never trade for all the treasures in the world.” As she caught site of the others all awake with grateful smiles as  they all huddled together, she couldn’t help but think aloud “I think as long as this pack sticks together, things are going to be alright.”

———————

OH SHIT. WELL HOT DAMN! NICE! FUCKING SUBLIME!

Very big shounen power of friendship vibes and bRO IM FUCKING THRIVING YALL KNOW I LOVE THAT SHIT

[atiny-piratequeen]

*Image of Jongho and Whiro posted is a paid commission from twt artist Hizu with permission. Please respect both Hizu and I and do not repost or use the artwork anywhere else. Thank you

Character Analysis: Choi Jongho, the 'Great Evil'

Languages: Māori, English, Samoan (Modern Day), Tahitian (Modern Day), Hawaiian (Modern Day), Japanese (Modern Day),  Korean (Modern Day), Icelandic (Modern Day), Haitian (Modern Day), Thai (Modern Day)

Crew Position: Gunner

Powers: Umbrakinesis/Darkness (Inherited from Maori God, Whiro)

Compass Position + Arrowpoint Stone: South West, Right Hip (Mirrors Yunho’s), Obsidian

Eye Color: Brown (Natural), Red (Whiro/ Full Demonic Form)

Hair Color: Black, Blonde (Demon Form)

Piercings: Jacob’s Ladder

Tā Moko: Along his left  pectoral, a complete ta moko from his buttocks down to his ankles,  along his face and arms (Situational, using his Umbrakinnesis and Whiro himself)

Likes: Fighting (Specifically with Whiro Nowadays), Being in Wooded Areas, Showing Off His Tā Moko, Having His Lovers Run Their Fingers Over His Tā Moko and Scars

Dislikes: People Being In His Space, Whiro’s Complaining, Excessive Amounts of Affection, Bell Peppers

Jongho, Māori warrior of Aotearoa.

The son of the village’s tohunga tā moko, Jongho lived most of his life in comfort. He had the honor of being one of the village’s most promising warriors, excelling in his training and being loved by all of the members of his village. 

They were all close, a family. 

No one is closer to him than Mateo, the chief’s son. Together, the two of them are inseparable. As long as they stay together, nothing can touch them, not even the rival tribe threatening peace as they know it. 

As long as they stay….together….

Bounty Hunter Jongho.

Loss shapes a man. Hollowed out and gutted of most emotion other than fury and rage, loss burns away all that you once were. Revenge is his mission now. Redemption. 

Redeeming himself is just a matter of bringing down more and more of the world’s lowlifes. The more people he takes out, the closer he is to redeeming himself for his past errors.  It’s just that simple. 

Life is simpler when you don’t have to think. 

Gunner Jongho.

Through some chaotic and unorthodox circumstances-though, at this point, its to be expected-Jongho is now surrounded by Hongjoong and co. He’s by no means welcomed by all, but as long as he can make amends for his mistakes, he’s willing to deal with the scrutinizing and disapproving glances cast his way. 

The winds of change are blowing for the young gunner. Though bullheaded and stubborn, Jongho will soon realize just how valuable he is to the crew. 

Ah, as soon as he can quiet that annoying asshole, Whiro first. Gods, he really doesn’t shut up, does he?

-Mythology-

Whiro-te-tipua (Whiro the demon) is the Maori god of all things associated with evil, darkness, and death. It is said the reason why people have darkness in their hearts is his doing. 

Whiro’s story begins somewhat at the same time as his siblings. As their father, the sky itself, Ranginui embraced Papatūānuku, their mother, earth, all of their offspring became trapped between them. This created a divide between some of them. 

For some, they enjoyed the darkness and crampedness that came from being so close together because of their parents. 

For others, namely Whiro himself, the dark and dreary conditions were ideal. 

The conflicting ideals lead to a struggle, as Tāne-mahuta, the god of forests and light came up with a plan to separate their parents. The amount of offspring that were against the idea and stood with Whrio were outnumbered by the ones who wished to be free and sided with Tāne, and as such, Tāne separated their parents, forcing their father Rangi up and away from Papa. 

Whiro despised the mere thought of separating their parents, for reasons ranging between not liking how cold and vast the outside would be if they did so, to disagreeing with the method of separating their parents being to sever their limbs. His words, however, were not as convincing as Tāne’s, and thy proceeded with the younger god’s plan.

As such, the sky was separated from the earth, and the offspring were allowed to finally separate. 

...and evil himself, Whiro, was also unleashed into the world, as well.

The ills of the world-including sickness and disease-are said to be Whiro’s doing in his constant mission to destroy man and mankind, as they are the creation of Tāne after he separated their primordial parents. 

In one of their neverending feuds, Tāne began an ascent to the heavens to obtain the Wananga (important and sacred knowledge and lore) on behalf of Io. Whiro, once again, flew into a jealous rage, as he offered himself to ascend to obtain the knowledge, but his method of ascent was shot down, while Tāne’s method was preferred by their siblings, and he was chosen over Whiro-again. 

Fed up with being bested, Whiro took matters into his own hands and decided to try beating Tāne to the heavens, getting a head start to try and obtain the knowledge all for himself instead. 

This did not go unnoticed, and Tane was accompanied by the Whanau-puhi (the Wind Children) to aid in his ascent as Whiro began sending animals and insects to try and slow him down. Flying insects, reptiles, and carrion-eating birds were all sent Tāne’s way to hinder him as Whiro tried to best him, even drawing blood from the god to be used later in potions that destroy life itself.

Getting cocky, Whiro didn’t utilize his advantage and stopped several times to taunt Tāne, waiting for his younger brother to continue before sending another horde after him, reveling in the fact that he had the upper hand for once. 

Whiro’s cockiness cost him the opportunity to get the knowledge he had set out to obtain, as Tāne somehow beat all the odds and got to the top, regardless. 

During his decent from the heavenly mountain, Whiro-now pissed once more at yet another loss to Tāne-sent another horde after him. The Whanau-puhi stepped in again, taking some of the horde as captives and bringing them to our world. 

Because of this, we have mosquitos, sandflies, mantises, hawks, bitterns, bats, owls, parrots, and keases. 

The two continued to feud, eventually breaking out into a full war.

One of which, again, Tāne won.

Whiro now resides in the underworld, and is considered one of the most active of Māori deities. His persistence is ruthless and neverending in his mission to destroy man.

He is represented by a lizard and other reptiles native to New Zealand, and as such, the creatures were both feared and incredibly respected. A lizard is said to be an emissary of Whiro and a harbinger of death. 

Some said when the gods themselves are ready and decide to destroy a man, they place a lizard inside of his body, allowing the creature to devour his vitals, ultimately killing him.

For now,  a mere fragment of the great god resides inside of our Jongho.

He really likes Yeosang’s cooking, so I doubt there will be any vital eating lizards anytime soon.

-Power Applications/Demon Transformation-

Jongho was born and raised a Māori warrior, and as such, is a force to be reckoned with even without Whiro’s assistance. Through training games such as ti rākau, poi rākau, tītī torea, and te whai wawewawe a Māui, his eyesight has been sharpened to pick up even the most minute of bodily or environmental changes in battles in an instant. His body is incredibly nimble and his footwork in battle far surpasses the others.

Before being paired with Whiro, Jongho could hold his own with his weapons from home and his bare hands. He carries three weapons on him at all times, at the very least. 

The first of these weapons is his taiaha, a weapon made of either whalebone or wood that is very similar to a quarterstaff and a spear. Feathers were attached to the neck of the weapon, just below the sharpened end of it used for stabbing. The purpose of the feathers was to cause a visual distraction in the form of the ruffling feathers, be it from a sharp or subtle movement from the wielder to catch the attention of an opponent. Once distracted, the wielder would use both their footwork, flexible wrists, and speed to strike with the other end of the weapon and either go for a bludgeoning shot with the blunt end or a stab with the sharpened one. 

The second weapon Jongho usually keeps on his person is a blunt weapon that sports intricate carvings in it. It, like many Māori traditional weapons, was made either by whalebone or wood. They are striking weapons used for close quarter type fighting and with the right amount of power and force, can break bones or dislocate shoulders. 

They are also used in important meetings as a tool to command attention and punctuate important points to pay attention to. 

The final physical weapon Jongho carries on him at all times, even in Modern Day AtT, is the mere pounamu he took on when Mateo passed away from battle wu.  Highly prized and considered to be one of, if not the most sacred of Māori weapons. It is a weapon passed down generations and used as a sign of chieftainship. The weapon is teardrop-shaped, and made from jade stone. There is a hole drilled into the base of it for a wrap to be attached to the wrist to keep it from slipping during combat. He used it faithfully to honor Mateo after his death until Yunho gifted him with a mere he and Geb crafted themselves created from charoite. 

Though the two of them butt heads, Whiro and Jongho come together for combat, with Whiro often forming beside Jongho as a mirror image of him, sans the tā moko that covers his face and his hair taking a blonde color. Both of their eyes turn a crimson red, and when they are further attuned to each other, Jongho also gains a tā moko across his face, the most sacred type of tā moko (though all of his tā mokos that are formed from Whiro’s umbrakinesis are temporary and can be dispelled at any time). 

Though the two don’t get along at all when they first merge, they fight in unison, with both of their warrior instincts tugging them through battle with the combined strength and knowledge of a warrior and a god. 

Jongho’s shadows can fluctuate and are one of the stronger of the powers the crew members has. He can still create shadows in a completely lit room from nothing, though Whiro thrives even more in darker conditions. They can be solid forms, forming powerful tendrils to lash out with, or be shot at like projectiles, but they can also be used for reconnaissance, with the shadows able to go under doors and the like. 

Though, recon isn’t Jongho or Whiro’s thing. 

When not in combat, Jongho uses his powers, even when resting, keeping Whiro’s shadow form stretched across his arms like a tā moko. At first, this was solely because Jongho didn’t trust the god not to try and strangle him in his sleep (despite him being immortal) or inconvenience him if he fully let his guard down, but the more the two spend time together, the more it seems neither minds each other’s presence as much, and it comes second nature to them.

Maybe there’s even a base level of fondness and respect forming. Though you didn’t hear that from me. 

-Character Song Breakdown-

All of the main boys have a song assigned to them in the AtT playlist to go alongside their origin chapters. Jongho’s character song is Lose My Life by Papercut Massacre. I will go over some spoiler things, but if you made it this far, you may know this already.

Trigger Warning: Jongho’s self-destructive behavior, while not intentional on his behalf, is borderline suicidal, so please tread with caution when reading the short character song breakdown, if not, feel free to skip to the character blurb and take care, everytiny.

Jongho’s song breakdown will be on the shorter end, but the song was chosen because of Jongho’s disposition during the majority of his chapter after Mateo’s death.

As a warrior, losing your life in battle is the highest honor one can have, but Jongho takes the full brunt of the blame for Mateo’s death for not being with him when he was fatally wounded.

-Don’t fret, they’re coming

They’re lining up to join me

To save us all

Which ones will fall

They don’t even care we’re here

How do you save someone without fear?

The voices screaming

Stop!

Look what we started

The heroes falling

Could you say that you would give your life tonight?

The sky is burning

The fear consuming

I’ll live forever if I lose my life tonight.-

Jongho spends years of his life completely uncaring if he lives or dies, as long as he can redeem himself for, in his own mind, being the one who let Mateo down and lead to his death. This develops a form of dark hero-complex within the warrior-turned-bounty hunter that persists after Wooyoung and Hongjoong save him and take him aboard the ship. 

In his mind, for a while, he’ll be redeemed if he can give his life protecting or saving someone else, and it isn’t until he does so and is saved by being the last man turned by Hongjoong that he lets go of the self-destructive behavior and learns to be more cautious when protecting the people around him.

-Character Blurb-

Jongho stared out at the waves, the black lines on his arms shifting every now and again as he stared at the horizon. The air was good today, and he breathed in deeply before he stiffened ever so slightly when the wood behind him creaked. 

“It’s just me.”

His shoulders relaxed marginally as Wooyoung appeared at this side, watching the horizon with him. Jongho sent him a look before he turned his head back towards the ocean. 

“Sorry. Force of habit.”

“No, I get it. I should know better than to come up behind you like that.” 

The two fell into silence again, just enjoying each other’s presence. Jongho pursed his lips for a moment before he looked down at Wooyoung. 

“Why did you save my life back then? Why didn’t you let me get what I deserved?” He inquired. Wooyoung sent him a look, opening his mouth to rip him a new one when Jongho waved his hands, slightly flustered. 

“No, no, I don’t mean it like that. I mean, at the time I did but like. Ugh just, why did you save me?” 

Wooyoung stared at him for a moment before he laughed lightly and looked out at the sea.

“You reminded me of San. Just...you kicked my ass a bit more than he did. But you reminded me of San so much when you actually listened to me...well, when you read what I had to say. I thought ‘well, if we could save San and bring light to his eyes, maybe we can do it to this dude too, y’know, if the others don’t kill him for crushing my windpipe and shattering my voice box.’” he chirped nonchalantly, despite the way Jongho cringed. Whiro barked out a laugh in his head, but he ignored him for the time being, running a hand through his long hair.

“The same eyes, huh. That’s something.”

“Yeah. I may have been naive, but following my heart lead to me saving another piece of myself so I think it’s okay.” Wooyoung mused, a soft smile on his face as he reached down to hook his pinky with Jongho’s. The younger man looked at their hands and fully pushed them together, lacing their fingers together as he gave him a squeeze. 

“I’m glad for your naive heart, then.” 

“Ew, all of these soft ass emotions are going to make me barf. I’ll do it, you know. Right in your mind. Mind barf, everywhere. Dunno if I can actually do it, but I’ll find a way.” 

“Whiro, shut the fuck-”

-M.List-

[winchest09]

Shatter Me - Chapter Twelve

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4439

Summary: The Winchesters were your world. After joining their hunter ranks, you quickly became attached to the brothers. After a successful hunt, you insist on going out celebrating with the boys – only for a loose end to catch up with you. You’re trapped in a world without hunger, thirst and the Winchesters. With the brothers beside themselves, they make preparations to say goodbye until Dean starts to connect to you through his dreams. Little do they know that you’re much closer than they think…

Chapter warnings: 18+ angst, lot of angst, a few swears, mentions of death and grief. 

A/N: We’re getting closer and closer to the end! Three chapters left! I cannot wait for you guys to see what’s to come but i’ll just keep my lips sealed for now haha. Thank you to everyone who reads, and reblogs. You guys are the best <3

Also, look out for a teaser for my new Dean x Reader upcoming fiction in the next chapter, i’ll be linking it n the notes :) 

—

If you do read, please, please let me know your thoughts! Reblogs and shares mean the world. Feedback is fuel for writers, it sets a fire under our asses to churn out more for you lovely lot :)

Love all of you guys <3

(Please do not repost my work anywhere however reblogs are fine and welcome :) x)

Shatter Me Masterlist  

Main Masterlist

Let me know what you think!

With a stiff neck, Dean awoke on the couch in the library only to find it empty. The tables laden with books and lore but the chairs were bare of bodies. Groaning slightly, Dean sat up and rubbed at the base of his skull, trying to ease his tension. The images of you in pain flashed through his mind. The way your skin cracked, the way your screams pieced his ears; he never wanted to see you in that much pain ever again.

He jolted from his seat, rushing his way through the library, past the kitchen with the intent of getting to his room. He didn’t even question why the library was empty, his mind wasn’t on the likes of his brother, the witch or the angel. His mind was only on you and the damn snow globe that was your prison. His mind on you and his gaze to the floor, his shoulder collided with a body that made him grunt to a halt. The body of his younger brother.

“Dean! I-it’s Y/N, she’s-”

“-yeah I know Sam, I saw it happen,” Dean somewhat snapped, pushing past Sam to get to his room, “we need to get her out, now!” He barked, forcefully opening his door causing it to bounce of the wall. Sam followed, holding out his hand to keep Dean’s door open.

“But we don’t know where she is,” he said as more of a statement than a question, his brow creasing as he watched his brother march to the other side of his bed.

“Yeah, we do,” Dean corrected as he made his way to the snow globe that was perched on his bed side table. The globe seemed almost luminous in the darkness, a faint blue hue emitting from it, the same blue hue that appeared when you got trapped in there the first time.

Dean hesitantly picked up the globe, in fear of breaking it. He did as you suggested, he scanned the globe and sure enough, there were cracks surrounding the glass at the base. Thick, deep cracks edged into the globe and Dean felt himself vibrate with anger. All this time, you’d been right next to where he’d been sleeping. How did he not know? How did he not see it?

“Son of a bitch, it’s been here, she’s been here, all along.” Dean’s eyes shot over towards his little brothers, Sam’s expression mirroring his own. Shock, relief, worry. Dean held the globe at the base as he gingerly made his way around to his bedroom door. Sam’s eyes were trained on the globe, he himself not believing that you had been under their nose this entire time.

“So how do we get her out?” Sam questioned, shutting Deans bedroom door behind him as he followed him into the corridor.

“That’s what we’ve got to figure out,” he mumbled as he continued to stare into the globe. He didn’t know what he was looking for, he didn’t know if he would be able to see you actually in there or not but somehow, he couldn’t look away.

Both brothers made their way to your room where you were currently being monitored and looked after by both Rowena and Castiel. When the curse took a hold of you, and hastened its progress, they both rushed to your bedside. Castiel did his best to use his grace to try and slow it down whilst Rowena was using all manner of spells to keep you healthy but it was proving to be a hard job. Nothing was touching it. Nothing was stopping it. You were deteriorating minute by minute, from the curse and from malnutrition.

As Dean entered your room, he wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Your body seemed more lifeless than it was before, if that was possible. You were pale, your skin greying, the cracks marking your skin. He placed the globe on the side, quickly and gently, in fear that he might drop it with the emotions that he was feeling. Sam joined Dean’s side and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as Dean turned to look at you once more. He rubbed at his face, before placing his hands on his hips.

“How’s, how’s she looking?” He questioned, swallowing a lump in his throat. Dean noticed how Castiel and Rowena shared a look and he frowned, stepping forward slightly.

“Dean, I-I, it’s not good. She’s probably got 24 hours, if that” Rowena stumbled over her words, not wanting to upset the boys but unfortunately, it was inevitable. Dean’s eyes grew wide as he brought his first to his mouth, turning around and looking away. Sam’s face read panic as he moved around his brother, facing Rowena.

“24 hours?!” Sam exclaimed looking between the angel and the witch, not understanding how they had such little time left. Rowena opened her mouth to speak but she was cut off by Dean as he turned back to face the group.

“It knows we’re on to it,” he scoffed, “it’s like it’s self-aware, how can a curse be self-aware?!” Dean almost growled, his gaze zeroing in on Rowena, looking for an answer which made her feel slightly uncomfortable.

“It depends on the magic.” Was her simple reply, and it was true. It did depend on the magic. However that response only infuriated Dean. He balled his fists at his sides, his jaw ticked as his voice roared.  

“Don’t try and justify it Rowena!” He shouted, “your kind, magic and witchcraft, it’s what got her here in the first place!” He accused as he got dangerously close the witch. Rowena flinched back slightly, her hands behind her back reaching for a surface to ensure she didn’t fall.

“Dean, enough!” Castiel commanded, mirroring Dean’s stance from the other side of the bed. Dean’s expression didn’t change, his blood was boiling as he pointed towards Cas in a manner of authority.

“No! You weren’t there. You didn’t see what it did to her. You didn’t see how it literally tore her body apart when she remembered what happened, when she figured out where the hell she was,” he exclaimed, his voice laced thick with emotion. With Dean’s last admission however, Castiel’s frown weakened as he looked between Dean and Sam.  

“You know where she is?” Castiel urged, walking around to stand next to Dean, strategically trying to get him to move away from Rowena. Dean didn’t move, his stare was firmly planted on you laying still on the bed. He leant forward onto his knuckles as he lowered his head, his heart pounding in his chest. The air was tense around all of them and Sam knew that Dean could blow at any given moment, he was emotionally charged. Trying to be of comfort to his brother, Sam began to explain.

“Y/N went into the store to buy this particular snow globe the day it all went down. Look at the base of the globe, it’s covered in cracks just like…just like-”

“-she is.” Dean’s voice was low, gravelled as he cut in, “she remembered. She remembers the curse, the feeling of her soul being torn from her body, she’s remembers everything and if that witch was still alive, I would make her pay over and over again!” Dean’s voice started to elevate in volume towards the end of his sentence as he pushed himself off the bed with anger, turning his back to Rowena.

“Dean…” Sam cautioned, raising his eyebrows at him slightly, warning him to calm down. Dean nodded slightly, understanding his brother’s silent looks to tone it down and keep his cool. He ran a hand across his forehead before turning back to the redhead.

“Did you find the answer or not?” Dean pushed, his tone still sharp but his delivery low. Rowena nodded, her hands slightly jittery as she turned the pages in her journal.

“Yes, we did and now we know where the wee less is being kept, we can get her home,” she explained, her fingers brushing the ink on the paper, “we’ll just need some time to get the ingredients together.”

“DAMMIT ROWENA, WE DON’T HAVE TIME!” Dean roared, his temper exploding, his emotions flooding out of him. He batted away Rowena’s books before roughly running his hands through his hair, pulling at the strands.

“ENOUGH DEAN!” Sam interjected, grabbing onto Dean roughly and tugging him towards the doorway, “enough, come on, you can help me get some of the stuff.” He pushed Dean out of the room before sending Rowena an apologetic smile, grabbing the list of ingredients from the side table. He looked at Castiel and nodded towards the witch and Cas knew that Sam wanted him to look after her and make sure she was ok.

Sam marched Dean down the hall, heading towards storage. One of his hands on Dean’s shoulder and the other on the top of his arm, ensuring that he kept him walking in the one direction. Two pairs of footsteps echoing down the empty halls, Dean’s huffing the only other sound to be heard. Before they reached the room, Dean snapped and pulled himself forcefully from Sam’s grasp.

“Get off me Sam, you don’t get to frogmarch me out like I’m some damn kid!” He roared, shrugging his shoulders before slamming open the door to their stocked supplies. Sam just huffed himself, frowning at his brothers actions.

“Yeah, then don’t act like one!” he chided, following Dean into the room and placing the list of ingredients onto a shelf, “what the hell was all that about?!” He questioned, annoyance lacing his tone. Dean just rolled his eyes as he flicked from one item to the other, his attention not really on what he was looking for.

“You know damn well,” he grunted. Sam just allowed his frown to deepen, one hand running through his brown locks.

“No I don’t Dean,” Sam retorted, “but wait, let me guess. It’s about how much you hate witches right? Yeah we know but that does not give you the right to blow up on Rowena the way you just did. She’s here, helping us Dean. No strings.” Sam crossed his arms across his chest, his eyebrows in his hairline as he shot Dean a look. Sam knew that he was right, Dean did too as he sighed and ran a hand across his brow.

“I know, dammit, I know,” Dean almost whispered before grabbing the list of ingredients off the shelf. He took a moment to glance over it before looking back up at his brother, “but come on Sammy, Rowena’s just said Y/N has twenty four hours at most and we still have to wait around for ingredients. If I lose her, I-”

“-we won’t Dean,” Sam interrupted, taking a step close to his brother to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Hey, remember the day she came into our lives? What a ball of fire she was? Man the look on your face.” Sam laughed, he remembered the day well, and it was a fond memory for him as well as Dean. The eldest Winchester smiled fondly, a smile tugging at his lips.

“How could I forget,” Den conceded, “werewolf hunt, Idaho, about a year and a half ago”

 The house was run down, beads of water dripping from the ceiling creating an eerie atmosphere as the brothers scoped the place for their target. They were in the middle of some woodland, they had tracked a pack of werewolves to this exact spot only to be greeted with nothing but silence. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck were standing on end as he surveyed his surroundings. A clash from the kitchen made both brothers point their guns towards that door. Dean made the signal to Sam that he was going in first to which Sam nodded. Slowly, Dean reached for the round door handle and turned it to open, pushing the door away from them.

Taking a step inside, Dean curled his nose at the smell. He almost miss the quiet shuffle to the right of him, he almost missed the 6ft werewolf that was waiting in the shadows, preparing to strike. Unfortunately for the werewolf, Dean’s reflexes were faster than he was. As he pounced, Dean swiftly moved to the left, allowing himself to come up behind the man and knocking him just hard enough with his gun to make him immobile. He also shot a silver bullet in his kneecap for good measure. Grabbing the werewolf by the collar, Dean slid him up onto a chair whilst Sam made work on binding the man’s hands. Dean bent down in front of the wolf, his green eyes scanning his face as a slight smirk sat upon his lips.

“You know what Fido, being puppy chow is not on my to do list for today,” he quipped, waving his gun around slightly as he straightened up. The werewolf just sat there, a smug smile planted on his face as he leant back in his chair.

“That’s what you think,” the wolf retorted, “you can kill me, go ahead, I’m loyal to my pack and they’ll be loyal to me,” He said with an aggressive tone to which Dean just laughed. Sam’s face remained stoic as he looked around the room, he was looking for any kind of sign as to where the rest of this werewolves’ pack could be. They had been tracking them for a couple of days, he was almost certain that this was their home.

“Loyal? They left you high and dry” Dean scoffed, waving his arms around wide to back up the fact that this wolf was alone. But the wolf just grinned, his posture relaxed despite a silver bullet in his kneecap.

“That’s what you think,” he replied as he leant forward slightly on his chair, his eyes boring into Deans. The eldest Winchesters face became void of emotion at that statement, a million variables running through his head, that was, until he heard cars and trucks pull up outside. The headlights beaming through the small cracks in the boarded up windows. Realisation dawned on Sam quicker than it did on Dean.

“He’s bait,” Sam stated, squaring out his shoulders as he looked towards the werewolf tied up on the chair. The werewolves smile got wider.

“…and bingo was his name-o,” the wolf sang, almost mocking Dean’s earlier quip as he stared down the brothers.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean exclaimed, as he ticked his jaw. Sam moved silently, holding his gun close to his chest as he snuck to the front door, aiming to scope out as many as he possibly could. The wolf chuckled, bring Dean’s full attention back to him.  

“You’re surrounded. So much for the all mighty Winchesters,” the werewolf taunted. It only took a second but the monster’s smugness turned to fear in seconds when he saw how Dean’s face had changed. His eyes were dark, his shoulders were square and his gun was pointed straight at the werewolf’s heart.  

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” Dean hissed before pulling the trigger. Crimson painted the already dirty surfaces as the silver bullet entered the wolf.  It took only a second, but the life drained from the monsters eyes as it slumped forward. Dean pulled up his nose in disgust before joining Sam by the front door. Dean didn’t even have to ask his little brother about the situation, his look was merely enough for Sam to respond.

“I counted ten but there could be more,” Sam said in a hushed tone, not wanting to give away their already vulnerable position. Dean just nodded his head slightly, puffing out his lower lip.

“Good job I brought enough bullets,” Dean quipped, motioning for Sam to step back so they could take their defensive positions. Sam nodded, turning what small lock was in the door before retreating next to his brother. Luckily the place had already been barricaded, whether this was a tactic by the werewolves so they knew the Winchester brothers would have only one point of entry was a mystery, but it was certainly working to their advantage now.

It didn’t take long before the door handle starting to jimmy before banging came upon the front door. The lock wasn’t going to hold for long, pieces of wood already falling from the blocked out window thanks to the strength of whoever was outside. Dean and Sam raised their guns, with one point of entry, they knew they had a good stand. They would be able to hit each one as they tried to enter, at least that’s what they thought.

The banging on the door soon stopped only to be replaced with a commotion amongst the pack. Screaming and shouting could be heard echoing outside which had the brothers confused. Taking steady steps towards the door, now being able to use the freed up window to see better, they were greeted with members of the pack being assassinated where they stood. They were all in a panic, none of them knew where the silent kills were coming from. Some were cowering behind others, some were sniffing the air to try and get a scent of an intruder but before it could register, they would be taken down by another bullet.

Noting that there were only a few werewolves remaining, Dean and Sam decided to unlock the door to aid the assassination of the pack. They had no idea who was behind the shots but they were thankful that the assassin was on their side. The few remaining wolves were cowering behind their cars to shield themselves from the silent bullets but they had forgotten about the Winchesters. Taking a few kills themselves, they thought they had done. Bodies surrounded them on the floor but as Sam stood up straight, he didn’t see the young werewolf stalking him. It was over in seconds, just as the young wolf was about to pounce, a bullet pierced its way through its heart before it landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. Both of the Winchesters eyes were wide as they looked around once more, this time ensuring everyone was truly dead.

In that moment, Dean heard footsteps and cocked his gun in the direction of the sound. Only to be greeted with a young woman, sniper attached to her back with a pistol in her hands as she held them up in a surrendering manner, showing she meant no harm.

“You boys ok?!” You asked, your voice full of genuine concern as you approached the brothers. Your gaze flickered over Dean before focusing on Sam. Dean frowned slightly as you stepped closer to them, the lights from the headlights now highlighting your face and features and Dean’s mouth went dry. You wore a khaki coloured v neck top and same coloured jacket paired with dark jeans and combat boots. Gun holster on your thigh, sniper strapped to your back and the concern etched in your features, you were beautiful.

“Yeah, yeah we’re good,” Sam replied, disarming himself by placing his pistol in the back of his jeans. Dean still had his gun burning his palm, his stare not once leaving you. Naturally, he was on guard, you could be a rival wolf from another pack or you could have been someone who they had pissed of recently. However, he still couldn’t help his attraction to you.

“…and you are?” Dean asked, his tone softer than normal as he tried not to sound like a dick. You just turned to him and smiled a warm smile as you holstered your gun.

“Y/N,” you answered, holding out your hand to shake his, “Y/N Y/L/N.” You hand was left lingering in the air as Dean’s eyes bore into yours. He didn’t move, he was dumbstruck by you and it was confusing him. Dean Winchester was never dumbstruck around women. Instead, Sam made the move, not wanting the situation to become any more awkward than it already was.

“I’m Sam Winchester and this is my brother, Dean,” Sam introduced and noticed how your smile grew into a wide grin as you placed your hands into your front pockets of your jacket.

“Ahh the Winchester brothers! I’ve heard quite a few tales about you guys,” you mused, your smile turning coy as you still felt the eldest Winchesters gaze upon you. He hadn’t stopped staring, even though Sam had nudged him. Noticing his gun was still in his palm, Dean also decided to disarm himself.

“I’m sure,” he quipped as his eyes were trained to the supressed sniper on your back, “hey, where did you learn to shoot...that…thing?” He questioned, he was curious, naturally. He had to admit that he was impressed. You had taken out several of the werewolves with that gun which in turn had helped the brothers immensely.

“Oh you mean my BFG?” You retorted, one hand exiting your pocket to point to your back. Dean just frowned slightly in confusion and looked towards Sam who only shrugged.

“BFG?” Dean asked, looking back towards you in hopes for an answer. He had heard of many guns in his time but nothing of a BFG. The only BFG he knew was the one written by Roald Dahl. You laughed slightly, looking between the brothers.

“Big fucking gun,” you explained, emphasizing it with your hands, “it is much easier to pronounce and remember that than the actual name of the sniper. My dad trained me, he was a hunter too. Spent most of my younger years shooting cans from afar,” you admitted, a sad smile on your face at the memory. Dean noted how your expression changed slightly and although he didn’t know you, he wanted to see you smile a happier smile once more.

“Well you saved our asses, so you know, thanks,” Dean praised, a soft smile resting on his lips, his features gentle. You just nodded, placing your hand back into your pocket before looking over your shoulder into the distance.

“How about you boys thank me by getting a round in at that bar down the road? I sure could use one after all that,” you prompted, turning back towards the brothers only to see them having some sort of silent exchange with one another.

“Sounds good.” Sam nodded, already walking off in the direction of where Dean had parked the impala. Dean nodded also, rubbing his hands together as he walked to your side.

“Sure, I could use a beer”

 Dean smiled fondly at the memory, nursing his glass of whiskey Sam had brought him before going back to search through all the ingredients that they had in storage. In that moment, he was infatuated with you. A woman who could hold her own, a woman who could use a sniper effectively, a woman who had made him look at life in a completely different way.

“You know, in that moment, I swear…I just knew no other woman would do it for me the way that she does,” Dean admitted, his focus never leaving the box in front of him as he continued his search, “I was taken in by everything she was, by everything she is.” Sam just nodded, he knew how deep Dean’s feelings ran for you, and he knew that Dean loved you. Sam knew that from the moment you agreed to help him research the next case over a bottle of Jack, Dean’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Yeah, she’s definitely something special,” Sam agreed, nodding himself as he went over the list, checking off what they had already found, “I’m happy for you man, I am. Letting your guard down, allowing yourself to love someone.” Sam looked over at Dean as his brother had stopped searching, he was now leaning against the shelves, head in his hands as he combed through his hair in frustration.

“Yeah well look where it’s got me. Sorting through year upon year old shit to find the right ingredients to bring Y/N home because I wasn’t fast enough to save her. That’s even if this damn spell will work!” Dean exclaimed, his stress levels rising. His knuckles became white with irritation at the whole situation. It was becoming too much. The image of you in pain was still in the forefront of his mind. The cracks, the burns, your screams. You were his everything and he didn’t want to lose it. He couldn’t lose it. Sam noticed his brothers stress and offered a sincere smile, walking slowly over to his brother.

“Go back to her,” Sam said softly, offering a comforting hand upon Dean’s shoulder. Dean just shook his head slowly, standing straighter to go back to searching for what they needed.

“What? No Sam, we need to find this stuff,” Dean replied in exasperation, his voice tired. Sam just nodded, not one to give up so easily.

“Yeah and I’ll get Cas to help,” he stated, encouraging Dean away from the boxes as he carried on explaining, “look, you need to spending whatever time you have with her. She’s weak and she needs you right now. Go, we will get you out when everything is ready,” Sam clarified, a reassuring look resting in his features. Dean only had to look into his little brothers eyes to know he was telling the truth and deep down, he wanted to spend every one of his minutes with you. He patted his little brother on the chest twice, a gesture of thanks as he turned to the door.

“Thanks Sammy.” With that, Dean made his way back to your room. In hopes that Castiel will help him lose consciousness so he could be with you once more.

Going over that memory, remembering how you came into his life, Dean knew he had to tell you everything. He loved you. He loved everything about you and he needed you to know. In his heart, this spell was going to work and you would come home, everything would work out the way it should. In his head, he had doubts and those doubts were the ones that ate away at him, the ones that tell him that this is it, this is your last chance.

So Dean wanted to take that last chance with both hands. He was coming back to you and he was going to tell you how much he loved you and he was going to tell you the exact moment that he realised his love for you ran deeper than friendship. Just in case it happened to be game over.

A/N: Hope you liked it! 3 more chapters to go...just what could happen?!

Any feedback would mean the absolute world to me so if you have the time, i’ll love you forever! If you love it - please comment/reblog and let me know!

Also if you want to join us for the rest of the ride let me know - TAG LISTS ARE OPEN!

Just send me an ASK and i’ll happily oblige :)

My Forevers:

@squirrel-moose-winchester @researchandbones @negans-lucille-tblr @snffbeebee @cappsikle @couldabeenamermaid @spaghettiwoes @lynne1993 @maddiepants @alwaysdreamingforthebest @31shadesofbrown

 Shatter Me Tags:

@witch-of-letters @flamencodiva @gh0stgurl @jamielea81 @cocklesbelli @seppys-return-to-madness @sociopathicmadison @deansenwackles @emmysthoughts @doctor11ms @moodycastiel @just-a-fun-loving-girl @we-are-band-sexuals @sing4mejensen @owhatshername1 @toews-a-peek @geeky-princess @iikillerkitteh @btopper @darylsbxtch @alexisxwinchester @squirrellybaby67 @sincerelywithheart @deathofmissjackson @greenarrowhead @rainflowermoon @rainflowermoonlibrary @deans-baby-momma @big-sad-energy @pulyyaxley @captainfreecandyvan @winchestergirl82 @fandom-princess-forevermore @sandlee44 @squirrelnotsam @purpleclover82

(If there is a line through your name, it’s because your tag hasn’t worked! I’m sorry!)

[aquilaofarkham]

title: varulven rating: teen and up word count: 5,717 summary: After being bitten by a werewolf, Trevor, knowing he doesn’t have much of a choice, accepts his fate following a painful transformation during the full moon. He quickly gets used to his new body with the support of Sypha and Alucard, who uses his own wolf form to better connect with Trevor. Part two of this piece.

read on ao3 at aquilaofarkham

--

The forest overwhelms him; too many new sounds, new scents, and new sensations all happening at once. The newly born lycan can hear everything from the smallest mouse digging into the frozen dirt, readying itself for hibernation, to the subtle crack of an owl’s talons clawing into tree bark as it moves from branch to branch. It watches and waits, ever so patient for that very same mouse. 

This assault on his senses continues. All things previously closed off when he was human have suddenly been opened. Through his eyes, the world is closer, more intimate. No moment to breathe. His thoughts are bursting with excitement and uncertainty, confusion and fervor.

He lifts his head and sees a white wolf upon a nearby hill. Sitting on his hind legs, head raised high and tall, staring back at the lycan. The skies are dark, save for the full moon, but thank god it’s not snowing else they’d never find each other. He knows the wolf will stay there all night if he has to, but the lycan won’t keep him waiting for much longer. This is a comforting sight; one that compels him to move forward. To join his friend, now that the two of them share more similarities than ever before (unconventional as they are).

Contrary to what most people believe, vampires and lycans get along very well.

Trevor doesn’t know if he will make peace with this form. It’s too soon to tell. But joining Alucard on a run through the snow-covered woods seems to be a decent start. White fur and dark grey fur move quickly against a sea of pin straight black trees. Their swift paws kick up snow as one tries running just an inch faster and further than the other—whether either of them realizes it or not.

When Trevor arrived home a month ago with claw marks gracing his shoulder, Alucard and Sypha did their best. All of them did their best. The two consulted books, legends, and remedies while their hunter prepared himself for the worst. Trevor will forever be grateful to them, despite their failure to stop the lycan’s curse. After the pain of transformation ended, he suddenly felt nothing. He could see nothing, only blood red and an emptiness surrounding him. It was dark inside the wolf. A realization that his body was no longer his own. He had lost control over it.

The first thing Trevor heard was his name. Faint and very weak, not strong enough to pull him out of the darkness. Whatever force held dominion over his body, its immediate instinct was to bare its fangs and violently lash out.

“Trevor, it’s us. You remember, I know you do.” The second thing Trevor heard. Clear and recognizable, even in his state. Sypha’s firm, unwavering, yet calm voice, a voice he always hoped to hear again, was able to cut through the prison that trapped his human thoughts and sight. Another problem solved, another victory she could hang off her belt. Sypha needed one of those, yet she also knew it wasn’t time to celebrate. No premature smiles or breaths of relief.

Trevor vaguely remembers what happened next; low to the ground, he crawled towards the two human creatures in front of him. Uncertain of how much personal control he had regained. Nor was he sure of how easily it could slip away again. Then same another familiar voice, like a candle in a dark corridor leading him to someplace brighter. Trevor Belmont is always in want—or rather, in need of brighter things.

“Trevor...” Alucard was never one to reveal his true emotions especially in the way he spoke. Neutral, steady, and blunt. Most often rude if he were in a foul mood, yet he raised his voice sparingly. But if Alucard was attempting to hide a certain emotion in that single word, he failed. All Trevor could hear was a desperate plea for hope.

He put their fears to rest when the front of his head gently pressed into Alucard’s outstretched palm. Trevor didn’t move beyond that; too ashamed, too scared of this new form that dwarfed his friends. Alucard cautiously slid his hand up between the lycan’s eyes before scratching his ears. Something Trevor did to those old grey Belmont wolfhounds of his long gone home. A shockingly pleasant sensation, making him feel akin to one of said large, gentle beasts he misses so dearly. Large is obvious, but gentle? Trevor wants to try his best.

It was a good decision to leave the cellar with the now broken door. Trevor would have otherwise cowered in a corner come sunrise. Out here, deep in the snow and cold air, adrenaline rushes through his veins just as easily as blood. Mixed with his habitual tendency to compete against the dhampir, it’s enough to propel him forward, matching Alucard’s speed.

This forest is his. Theirs.

--

One should never underestimate Sypha Belnades. She’s sent demons back to hell in flames of her own creation. She stood against the vampires’ mad lord and burned him to ashes which flew off into the night sky, their final resting place unknown. She played reluctant peacemaker between two men, more like children despite their own abilities. A minimal accomplishment compared to others, but an accomplishment, nonetheless. All those moments when she held her bright fingertips close against their temples saying, “Grow up or I will light both of your skulls on fire”.

Keeping track of two wolf-like creatures seems easy compared to everything else. Stay close, stay watchful, and never stray too far from the fresh set of paw prints in the snow. A real-life Ariadne with her precious red thread. Sypha adored listening to those stories from her childhood, begging to hear one more before bedtime. It didn’t matter if they were real or not, though she always believed they were.

Belief is a powerful force; just as if not more powerful than her spells. She still believes in many things that cross bearing men reject; things good and bad. Of magic, vampires, and the myths that give life to both. Sypha loves her myths—even the unsettling ones. The ones that unearth truths that no one wants to hear. She once hoped some of them would help spare Trevor from his eventual fate.

She sat on the floor of their library, surrounded by piles of books like stone walls. A momen in time that feels long ago but in reality, happened only a few short days prior to the full moon. The words in front of her blurred together as she rubbed her aching eyes, yet she kept reading.

Sypha studied the lycan’s many origins: they came from a scorned lover of Gilgamesh, having been turned into a wolf against their will. No, they were punished by the god Jupiter for eating the remains of a sacrificed boy. Actually, they were merely by-products of the oldest vampires. On and on an on. She read of the symptoms: nightmares, vomiting, lack of an appetite. Increase in agitation. She wanted to scream, “I know that already” into the pages of those particular books. What she needed from these myths were cures.

While it made her hands twitch and her heart pound with anxiety, Sypha did what she promised Trevor: she kept searching. She kept reading.

So engrossed in her reading, Sypha barely noticed Alucard as he sat down beside her. A silence grew between them every time her fingers flipped over another page. He watched her eyes move from line to line, scaling down. A warm light filled the library; it would be dark soon and he wasn’t about to let her go through yet another sleepless night. Sypha’s sharp mind needed rest, but then again, they all did.

“You have that look again.” Despite how softly he spoke, Alucard noticed her jump. Sypha glanced at him briefly, then returned to her book, burying her nose in even deeper.

“What look?”

“The one that says focused yet angry. Calm, but disturb me and I will separate your head from your neck.”

She hid her amusement at Alucard’s dark brand of humour. “I am not angry.”

“Are you certain?”

“... perhaps a little. More frustrated. These books have nothing that can help us. There are apparently plenty of ways to tame a lycan after they transform.”

“But no methods of curing them.”

Sypha closed the book; Alucard took that as a yes. “What about you? I’ve seen you held up in that laboratory. Sometimes for hours on end.”

When they started rebuilding the Belmont manor with its library, bedrooms, armoury, and kitchen, they added a new room. A mirror image of the laboratory and clinic Alucard remembered so fondly. Full of medicines, glass tubes, and other devices neither Trevor nor Sypha fully understood but were willing to learn. He used it more often than them, carrying on important, irreplaceable work.

A local rumour began spreading amongst the neighbouring villages. Talk of a stranger dressed in black going from door to door, giving remedies to the sick while refusing payment. They never did manage to catch this good Samaritan.

Sypha once saw Alucard with his hair different. Still loose but tied with a simple hairband and hanging over his breast. When she mentioned it, innocently enough, Alucard went quiet. She hasn’t seen him like that since.

“Did... did your mother’s notes say anything?”

“Unfortunately, she didn’t have very many patients afflicted with the lycan’s curse.” Usually Sypha could recognize the sarcasm in Alucard’s tone; this time proved more difficult. “But I had more success reading the notes she and my father wrote together. I’ve started concocting a tonic using distilled wolfsbane.”

“And...”

Alucard didn’t want to give Sypha false hope. “It still needs work. With its current state, it will most likely kill him.”

“Maybe...” Sypha stopped herself. Never in her life did she want to admit defeat. Always too stubborn, too proud, tasting bile in her mouth if she even thought about it. Yet she told Trevor and Alucard to grow up. Perhaps it was time she did as well, especially if the life of someone she loved was at stake.

“Maybe it would be best if we let Trevor transform. We can use your tonic to ease the pain when he changes and then try taming him afterwards. These books annoy me beyond anything else, but I found a manuscript about northern lycan myths.” Shoving aside everything else, she grabbed a flimsy set of brown papers held together by thread and sheer perseverance. “It stood out the most. I think it may assist us.”

Alucard stared at the so-called “book” in Sypha’s hand. Its ink scrawls were barely legible to his eyes. “We would have to tie him down. Or lock him somewhere secure.”

“We have that cellar. I know you don’t like this plan.”

“I don’t think either of us does.” Sypha nodded in agreement. “I will tell him.”

“You do not have to.”

“No, it’s fine. I want to help him.”

“He won’t like what you have to say. He’s barely gotten any rest.”

“No one living in this house has.” He placed his hand on her back. “Don’t worry, Sypha. I will talk to him.”

“Gently. Remember to be gentle with him.”

“I shall.”

“Before you do that, we need to finish that tonic. I will help.”

“That won’t be necessary. You should—”

Sypha pushed the manuscript against his chest. “I said I’m helping. And you should read this.”

Alucard smiled. “There’s not much I can say that would convince you otherwise, is there?”

“Nothing at all.”

Deep in her memories, Sypha nearly trips over herself. Alucard was right; she hated that plan. It worked, but she hated it for making her think the worst. For making her feel as though she had willingly doomed Trevor to his fate. That she had been defeated.

Her feet begin to ache. She keeps reminding herself of one thing: this is not defeat. Only another obstacle to overcome. A door opening to a new way of life. Sypha is used to walking through those. She scales up another hill, her two boys off in the distance, still in sight.

She should have worn better shoes.

--

Wolves cannot run forever. Even those of supernatural origins must stop, which is what Trevor and Alucard do. But one still has mountains of energy to burn. His head is a flurry of different thoughts. Some take root while most leave just as fast as they entered. No matter where they came from or what they entail, they all succeed in contradicting each other.

One thought manages to rise above the rest: what else can this new body really do?

Alucard takes his rest not far from Trevor, who seems to be in his own little world. Not content enough to run around in circles, he takes to rolling about in the snow, attacking it the same way a pup would pounce at everything in sight, animate or not. A pup... yes, that’s what Alucard is reminded of. He watches in amusement as Trevor trips over his legs, too long and cumbersome for his liking. No normal wolf would be able to handle such abnormal bodily proportions of a lycan’s.

It takes some trial and error—more error than trial. Only when Trevor actually stops to think does he regain some control over his limbs. No more flopping around; now he can revert straight back to his playful demeanour, this time on much steadier footing.

—Quite the beacon of terror, the dhampir thinks. Villagers must be quaking with fear underneath their bedcovers tonight.

Alucard lowers himself against the ground. Let Trevor have his fun. Lord knows he deserves it after a month of hell. This might even count as a valuable lesson. There’ll be plenty more to come.

Trevor rolls off his back and makes brief contact with golden eyes against white fur. Gold like amber or the cinders of a well-used fireplace. He looks at Alucard and wonders if the dhampir’s transformation is ever as painful as his own. No, Trevor realizes the longer he stares. Not painful or ugly at all. A few gentle, graceful wisps of smoke and the deed is done. Seems everything Alucard does is gentle and graceful, no matter what form he takes.

A mischievous thought worms its way into Trevor’s head. Alucard maintains his statuesque posture; beautiful, regal, and boring. At first, he ignores the other wolf, occasionally glancing in his direction out of curiosity and confusion. Packs of snow get thrown into the air with every wag of Trevor’s shaggy tail. Alucard’s head tilts slightly, his ears pinned back.

—What are you planning? Why are you staring at me like that?

What can barely be described as a tense standoff ends when Trevor shoves Alucard. Despite being larger and arguably stronger as a lycan, this action does nothing to faze his companion. Trevor repeats the gesture; still not enough to crack his hard exterior—but not enough to deter his scheming counterpart. Trevor charges headfirst into Alucard, more a ram than a wolf.

Alucard, if he so wanted, could overpower the lycan. Push him off or knock him flat on his own back. Yet he stays in a somewhat defeated pose with his limbs bent and dangling. Trevor continues his attempt at what Alucard can only assume is... bonding? He nuzzles his snout into the white wolf’s fur while his oversized front paws push against his exposed belly. Another jovial act between his family’s cherished wolfhounds.

Trevor also recalls riding on their backs as they took him up and down the halls of the Belmont manor then outside through the gardens when he was still small enough. Sypha might be able to ride on his back, maybe even Alucard as well. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold.

Trevor becomes lost in this new, break-neck pace of thinking, one thought after another and then another. He doesn’t notice that the playful bites he’s been giving his friend have unknowingly turned aggressive. Alucard retaliates by baring his fangs and letting out a deep, guttural snarl.

—Not so rough.

Trevor instinctively backs away. As an apology, he lowers his head and tries making his body seem much smaller than it really is. The same action he attempted in the cellar following his change. Lycans simply take up too much space. Too large, too obstructive, and too rough, even towards similar creatures. He huffs out a frustrated breath into the frigid air.

Alucard ceases his growling when he sees this abrupt shift. He didn’t mean for his reaction to be so harsh. He’s supposed to be helping after all. Days before the full moon when Trevor quietly wept out of fear—fear of himself—Alucard showed his own vulnerable side. He let Trevor rest his head upon his chest, wiping away the tears and offering small words of comfort until he drifted off into a desperately needed sleep. How could either of them forget that evening?

His father taught him that even those most experienced in transfiguration often have difficulty controlling their emotions. Too dulled down or too impassioned, exploding at any spontaneous moment. It would explain Trevor’s excitable behavior.

Softly, he treads over to the curled-up mass of thick fur. Trevor pouts as though he were still human. He really is just a newborn lycan on his first night out; an overgrown pup. His playfulness should be seen as a blessing in disguise. Alucard gives his snout a couple gentle pats, apologizing himself. To which Trevor merely grumbles.

—Stick in the ass you are.

Alucard has no way of telling if that’s what he’s really thinking, but he can come to his own conclusions. He knows the Belmont well enough. He responds with a frisky bite to his ear, eliciting a surprised yelp from Trevor. Rows upon rows of fangs snap at Alucard, who always dodges them at the very last second, before getting pinned down.

They continue like this, chasing and wrestling each other, causing their own little intimate chaos. Even their growls sound happier. It took some time, but they’re finally playing the same game. All is well again—or as well as things could be.

It comes to an end when a sound off in the distance catches Trevor’s attention. He raises his head; ears perked up, and listens. It’s not Sypha, no doubt making her way across the rolling landscape, closing in on her two boys. It’s no human at all. Something else, perhaps an animal or more, scurries through the frozen underbrush. A certain primal urge suddenly rises within Trevor, one that all beasts share: the need to chase and hunt. He stands up, nose pointed in the direction of the noise, ignoring the white wolf’s yips. Before he can run off, Alucard bites down and pulls him back.

—For once in your life, wait. 

Trevor does pause. but not without growling at him for leaving teeth marks on his tail. He begrudgingly lets Alucard take the lead. They begin their hunt.

--

Somewhere, a clock hand strikes past midnight. Trevor and Alucard huddle together, their eyes fixated on a small flock of wild pheasants. Not quite the prize they were hoping for, but decent practice. Like before, Trevor allows the white wolf to go first, all while trying to tell himself that as a human, he’s still the better hunter.

However, he must admit, it is mesmerizing to watch Alucard hunt as a wolf as it is watching him fight as a dhampir. Every step is deliberate and creates no sound as eyes never leave their prey, inching closer. A calculated, flawless leap forward, the panicked scattering of pheasants except for one thrashing around for freedom under his paw, and then finally, the wolf twists the bird’s neck in his jaws. He makes it all seem so easy.

Alucard carries the lifeless, slumped prize over to Trevor. So quick and barely even a drop of blood. He finds the rest of the flock a few feet away. They continue pecking at whatever berries and frozen grub they can scrounge for, unaware or having already forgotten that one of their own is dead. Trevor enjoys a challenge in all aspects of his life, but for now he’ll a dumb prey over a clever one. He start by mimicking Alucard’s movements and everything seems to be going well. Cumbersome due to his size but after some adjustments to his stance, the dhampir feels optimistic.

Then Trevor loses his chance to strike by half a second. The pheasants begin to disperse, and he rushes into them, striking one with his claws. It tries escaping; Trevor tries catching it. There’s a struggle as both hunter and prey put up their own fight. Jaws clamp down on the bird’s neck, but instead of a clean snap, splatters of blood and feathers cover the white ground. Trevor stares down at his prize, mangled and torn beyond recognition.

—Too rough. Again.

Alucard expected something like this would happen and, in the end, Trevor was successful in finishing his first hunt. So, he isn’t disappointed. Yet Trevor dully paws at what used to be a pheasant with dejection in his eyes. Alucard tries cheering him up by licking his bloody snout clean. It helps.

They come across a drove of jackrabbits with their guard down, a rare but lucky sight. The second hunt goes much smoother. Alucard catches two, Trevor four, all of which hang out of his mouth intact. If Sypha were here right now, she would have a good laugh at the sheer ridiculous sight of such a beast with his jaws stuffed to the brim with rabbits. 

Speak of the devil. Out of the corner of Alucard’s eye, he sees Sypha in the near distance, two pheasants hanging off her hip. He motions for Trevor to follow him.

Trevor doesn’t acknowledge him, nor does he notice Sypha. If a new sound or smell no matter how faraway demands his interest, then he must comply. All else, even close friends, fade away. He can’t help it in this form. He meanders over the hills, leaving Alucard and Sypha to do little but trail behind him. Something tells them that this is not just simple curiosity pulling the lycan.

Silently, Trevor leads them to a clearing in the trees. Out of the darkness, shapes and silhouettes come into view. Not particularly large, but substantial. Some far apart, some close together. Houses, few of which still have candles inside, burning the night away. The softened lights illuminate each frosted window like small drifting halos. It’s deathly still in this hamlet; they might have never discovered its existence had it not been for Trevor.

—Trevor. Alucard joins his side, fearing the worst. His head is lowered as he violently bats at it with his paws, agitated by some unseen tick. Every breath comes out as a growling rasp while streams of saliva drip off his fangs. The look in his eyes, the one Alucard and Sypha know so well, is gone.

It’s happening again. Even the idea of being so close to other humans is enough to reawaken the hunger. Not to hunt or feed, but to rip and mangle and leave nothing unscathed. Trevor loses his balance, stumbling from foot to foot, shaking his head. God knows he’s trying to gain back control, and it hurts him. Alucard barks in his ear, deafening him.

—Fight it. Trevor, or what Alucard hopes is still Trevor, responds with a fierce snap of his jaws. They snarl, and bark, and brandish their claws. Sypha tears her eyes away, despite not wanting to. She can hear voices within the houses, villagers stirring from their rest at what they believe is the sound of two wolves tearing at each other’s throats. She pleads for them to stay inside. This doesn’t concern them.

—Fight it. God damn it, I know you can. Fight it!

Trevor doesn’t care for Alucard’s thoughts. With another swipe, he sends him skidding across the ground and into the base of a tree. The pain is sharp but quick. Alucard stands, thankful that he is no ordinary wolf. Before he can charge at Trevor, Sypha moves between them, her hands raised.

“Trevor, stop!” She’s not afraid, not anymore. Or rather, she doesn’t look afraid. Her expression is firm, brows furrowed. All concentration on this one spell. It needs to be performed without any uncertainty. There’s no fire or ice emitting from her fingertips, yet Trevor howls bloody murder.

Spells that can change the mind and its contents are dangerous. In the hands of a less experienced practitioner, too much can go wrong. If one doesn’t succumb to an early death, then madness. Which is why Sypha has always preferred to manipulate tangible elements. But she’s never been above taking risks. She focuses every bit of her energy into restoring Trevor’s conscience. Hopefully it will shift itself in the right direction and neither she nor Alucard will be forced to commit the unthinkable.

“Look at me... keep your eyes on me. It will be alright, I promise.” Sypha doesn’t make promises lightly. Trevor huffs, gritting his fangs, but his gaze never leaves her. He waves his head from side to side again, as if trying to shake off a terrible headache. The growls quiet until they disappear. Sypha breathes a relieved yet trembling sigh when Trevor’s eyes soften. She steps forward and wraps her arms around his head, so large her fingers barely touch. Her forehead rests against his.

“Shh, none of that. You did well. I told you it would be alright.” She strokes his fur, listening to every whimper.

As his senses return, so too does his memory. Trevor wriggles free from Sypha’s grasp and runs to Alucard, still whining. While shaken up, his body bears no serious injuries, only some out of place fur. That doesn’t stop Trevor from licking and nuzzling him like an overbearing mother wolf. Alucard appreciates the concern, but he can stop now. After a moment of calm respite between the three of them, he decides that this night should come to an end. Before Sypha can follow him, the tip of her hood gets caught in Trevor’s teeth.

“What is it?” He lets go and lowers his underside against the snow, gesturing to his back. He knows Sypha came here by foot, all on her own; he can’t just let her return the same way. “Oh... well, this is...” Does he really want her to...?

Trevor gives her a nudge before she can stutter out another syllable. Alright, then. When in Rome and all that. Grabbing handfuls of fur, Sypha climbs aboard. She fumbles a bit then finds a comfortable position. Moments like these make Sypha thankful for their isolated, self-contained life. How would she explain this to her grandfather or the other Speakers? Even so, she can’t help but bury herself deeper in Trevor’s warm fur.

They catch up to Alucard with his mouth full of dead jackrabbits. Using the light of the moon as their guide, a lycan, a dhampir in the shape of a wolf, and a Speaker magician retrace their steps back to their home. Back to their bed.

--

The next day arrives, bringing with it the sun as it crawls over the Wallachian mountainside. Sypha stirs awake and forces her sleep heavy eyes open. The hazy light of early morning shines through the snow-covered glass of the bedroom window panes. Curling into the fetal position, she holds her knees tight against her chest. Both hands massage her bare feet, alleviating some of their soreness after her midnight excursion.

Is it possible for a single night to feel stretched out to its limits? Lingering for longer than a few hours at the most? Sypha remembers the set of events that occured last night, despite them feeling like a dream. All of them tumbling into place one after another without rest. The last memory is of her in bed, safe, warm, and guarded. A bit suffocated but sleeping better than she did for the entire month. She knows who to thank for that.

Sitting up (a feat much easier said than done), Sypha believes she’ll look down at two wolves who are fast asleep. Just as she did before closing her eyes in the darkness, their bodies cuddled around her. One has white fur and a sleek build; the second, a lycan with thick fur and a mass that might have broken the bed in half.

She sees the white wolf, but in place of the other is a large blanket spreading out. As though the lycan had been neatly skinned and stripped of all its fur. The most curious thing about it is the human-esque shape protruding from underneath. Sypha lifts up one of the corners and with wide, bright eyes, she smiles. None of the books mentioned anything about this.

Trevor lies on his side covered by the fur blanket (or what must have been his skin), naked and in the grips of a deep, comfortable sleep. His breathing is gentle and every so often, a soft snore escapes. Sypha thinks she’s staring at an entirely different man. The tired, dark circles under his eyes are gone and his skin looks softer, healthier. Those years of turmoil and loneliness since he was twelve, all faded away after one night.

Tenderly, she runs a few fingers through his tousled hair. He will be fine. The fear she had when his fangs sharpened, and his eyes grew vicious was only momentary. Sypha wants to be hopeful, her most cherished emotion right after belief. She wants to hope and believe that Trevor might find the strength within himself to live with this curse. She also wants to bend down and hold him for the rest of the morning, no fear that he will disappear the next day or even in the next hour. But Sypha won’t wake him just yet. She slips out of bed, hurrying across the cold floor, a blanket wrapped around her shivering body, until she reaches the manor kitchen.

The lasting effects of a night well slept soon dissipate as Sypha abruptly stops, staring with surprised eyes at Trevor and Alucard’s midnight spoils. Namely, a pile of dead pheasants and hares complete with bloody feathers strewn along the wooden table where they have their meals together. They were all so exhausted, she almost forgot about those.

Sypha walks past the pile and begins preparing her breakfast.

--

Alucard is next to wake up. He opens his mouth in a wide yawn, licking dry lips, before giving his back a good stretch. After a few smooth wisps of mist rising into the air, he returns to his normal form. Fully clothed, wearing everything from his high boots, tight black pants, and the white shirt with the plunging neckline. He remains splayed across the bedsheets, straightening out the rest of his limbs. Letting out a tired yet satisfied moan, Alucard props himself up on his elbow and turns to Trevor. His reaction is just as pleasantly shocked as Sypha’s. Reaching over, he nudges him awake.

“Good morning,” he coos. Once Trevor’s eyes open and he gains an awareness of where he is, his cheeks go slightly pink.

“I didn’t expect this.”

“Did you feel anything transfiguring back?”

“No, nothing at all. If only the first transformation went this way.”

“So, you remember everything we did. Hunting, running...”

“I do... more than I remember most things when I’m human. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what it felt like to run that fast. Then there was... when I almost—”

“Nothing happened. It wasn’t your fault, and no one was hurt. Remember that as well.” Aside from a brief lapse in contentment, Alucard is relieved at how well Trevor is taking everything. He stares at him for a bit longer. His blue eyes, normally so tired and worn, look so much brighter in the winter sunlight. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Actually, I feel better than good. I felt so heavy before. Everywhere I went, even when I met you and Sypha, I was constantly carrying around all this extra weight. You could never see it, but it was there, beating down on my shoulders while I rotted from the inside out. I don’t know, it sounds like I’m being too dramatic. But now... I feel lighter. Newer, I guess. It’s as though I’ve just taken the longest fucking bath of my life.”

“Interesting way to describe it.”

“But, be honest with me.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“How hideous did I look? When I was... you know, in that form?”

Alucard doesn’t answer right away, preferring to keep Trevor in mild suspense. “It was not that terrible of a sight. You might actually look better as a lycan than a human.”

Trevor feebly tosses a pillow at his face. “Shut up.” Then comes an exasperated groan as he shoves his face into what used to be his “skin”. “Christ, that was a long night.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to go through it again?”

A valid question, and an important one. Trevor thinks about it at length. He can’t decide whether he wants his answer to be optimistic or his usual of reluctant acceptance. “I guess we’ll have to see in about a month’s time. Not like I have much of a choice.”

Alucard reaches over and grazes a couple fingertips along his stubbled chin. “You should know that I’m proud of you. We both are.”

“... don’t think I’ve heard that word come out of your mouth before.”

“Which one?”

“Proud. Of me in particular.”

“I’ve been proud of you many times in the past. I simply never vocalized it.”

“Well, my life’s purpose as been fulfilled. Guess I can die a happy man now.”

Grabbing the very same pillow, Alucard brings it down upon Trevor’s head again and again. “That was a horrible joke.” But the hunter, turn lycan, then turned back into a man only laughs.

Real laughter; it’s been too long since Alucard heard that sound.

[experimentalmadness]

Cin Vhetin Ch. 10: The Betrayal

Can I interest y’all in some good “let’s make you think your crush sold you out” tropes today? 

Synopsis: Din Djarin is hunted by a new mercenary, when they are forced to work together they slowly realize they are stronger together than apart.

Chapter Summary: After finishing their assignment together Din and Zethu are about to part ways when their mutual enemy catches up to them. 

Pairing: Din x OC/Reader (however you prefer to read it)

Masterlist: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9 

Ao3 Link

The minute they reached the safety of hyperspace and were well on their way out of Coreworld space, Din felt the stress that had been pressing on him since they started this mission lift. He left the cockpit to find his former hunter sitting between two crates of supplies in what passed for a living quarters on the Razor Crest. The kid was with her, perched on one of the crates, watching her with concern. Its ears were pointed back and down with worry. 

He didn’t bother to usher it away this time. Zethu Desh, was no longer the enemy. 

Din took a hard look at the merc. All trace of that former cockiness and confidence was gone. Her shoulders were slumped, her head down. She was running a vibroblade over her fingers and back in an agility exercise, but she was hardly paying any attention. The bruises on her pale face had turned to a dull yellow-purple. 

“What will you do now?” He had thought about cracking some sort of joke, but humor, even his dry version of it, felt ill-placed here. 

She looked up at him, brow furrowed. “I don’t know.” She sounded lost. “Get a new contract, I guess,” a shrug. “Might as well stay on Numidian for a bit. Lay low. I can hitch a ride back to Nevarro to get my Lancer once the heat dies down.”

Defeat hovered around her. How hard it was to spend your whole life clawing to get to some semblance of normalcy and routine only to have it ripped away. For his sake. He wouldn’t feel guilty, had no right too, but Din saw keenly her displacement. “You could stick with us.”

Zethu’s shock mirrored his own. The offer came instinctively. She had been nothing but trouble to him since they had met, a constant threat that had come close to ending him more than once. Even now she could still be baiting a trap. He remembered his first meeting with her, how congenial she had been before turning a blaster on him. There were other things he could recall as well. Her pushing the kid out of the way of a rockslide without hesitation, her pushing him back away from blaster fire, and her leaning out over the side of the busted speeder as he hung over thin air, pulling him up out of the ether. 

I’ve got you.

“I don’t need your pity,” Zethu’s cruel snap brought him back to reality.

“Not pity.”

She regarded him with wary eyes. The blade still undulated across her fingers like water as she nervously fidgeted. “So...what? You just travel across the galaxy picking up strays?” she nodded at the child. 

“The child is a foundling,” Din ruffled the kid’s ears as he made his way over, sitting atop the opposite crate. “Until I can either find its kind or it comes of age, it’s in my care and under my protection.”

Zethu’s eyes shifted from child to man before her face split wide and she let out a surprised, disbelieving laugh. “What, are you serious? Do all Mandalorians just go around adopting helpless creatures then?”

“This is The Way.”

“Well, sorry but I’m not looking to be adopted by anyone. Disappointing one species is enough for me, thank you.” Zethu stopped fidgeting with the blade, letting it rest, half tilted down, the sharp tip still balanced between her fingers. “Lucky kid,” she said with a small smile. “Maybe if someone like you found me when I was still young my life would have been different.”

“Still could be.”

The process for conversion was different for adults than foundlings. It was rare, but certainly not unheard of and—why in the galaxy was he jumping so far ahead? Letting Zethu loose among his own kind brought back the images of the sleek vornskr she reminded him so much of. Predatory, proud, and dangerous to their core. Not two standard days ago she was still threatening to kill him. Zethu had a faraway look in her eye, and the same sad smile hadn’t moved from her lips. 

“You know I almost got sent off to some fancy school in the Core?” She turned her head towards him. “Was too young to remember much and the war was on in full swing. But I remember my parents arguing with some Togruta about sending me,” she shrugged. “Maybe it was some scam or other, but I never stopped wondering what I’d be doing with a fancy education offworld. Been brought up respectable. Away from Arkania. What about you?”

The little one had snuck into Din’s lap, curling up rather happily. He put a hand against its head. “Not much to tell.”

“Aw, come on. I spill my guts and you get quiet?” She leaned her head back against the metal wall, fixing him with a look of open curiosity. 

Din shrugged. “Grew up during the wars, too. Family died during a battle and the Mandalorians took me in. That’s all there is to tell.”

“Look at us—ship full of orphans.”

Short, silver hair fell over her eyes and Din made himself look away. When those colorless eyes weren’t trying to stab you with rage or hatred, a person could get lost in them. “So…” he cleared his throat, “we land on Numidian and you go your way, that’s it?”

“Simple,” she nodded. “I doubt the imps are going to take kindly to my reneging on our deal.”

The alarm signaling their drop out of hyperspace began to blare and with reluctance Din rose to his feet to head back to the pilot’s chair. Zethu stood as well, laughing softly to herself as the kid raised his arms to be picked up, which she obliged, pocketing the blade before the child could start reaching for it. 

“You are more than just a merc, Zethu Desh,” he said before he could stop himself. 

Confusion laced with something akin to panic flashed across her face at his words. “Sometimes what you see is what you get, Mando,” she whispered, almost as if she couldn’t fathom summoning enough breath to answer him.

He’d seen her fight like a true warrior, a protector first on instinct, the rest all learned behavior. A creature of pure survival, like him, she had been right he had no place to judge her and she had proven herself. But what use convincing her when she would not see these qualities in herself? “Strap in,” he grunted, starting the climb up. “Numidian is never an easy landing.”

***

She couldn’t get the Mandalorian’s words out of her head. Most of her life had been lived alone since her exile from the rest of the Offshoots. She was sure she had committed almost every reprehensible crime in the galaxy. She owed no one loyalty, and no one owed her. It was better that way. Survival above all. Every day alive was a victory over the Arkanians, over her parents, over every other Offshoot that had wanted her to be something she never would. 

So what did it matter what this one Mandalorian thought?

No one stopped them as they walked right through the outpost’s gates with the carbonite corpse of Gedos Sal floating between them. Zethu stared straight ahead, trying not to look at the body of the man who had cursed her with his dying breath. 

Shame. That’s all she was, and if the Mandalorian had any brains he’d see that, too. Maybe letting him and the kid go was the one good thing she would ever do in her life. It hardly made up for anything. She still could barely believe why she was letting him go when her every survival instinct was screaming at her to get the jump on him, get the job done, take the payout and regard her hesitation as a rare moment of weakness and never think about it again. 

She couldn’t. She couldn’t. No realization frightened her more. 

They were met at the loading docks by the same severe Corellian woman who had sent them on their assignment. No fancy pent house office meetings this time. That suited Zethu fine. She was already itching to get the credits, pay for passage, and get on her Lancer far far away from the chance of running into any other Offshoots or Mandalorians ever again. 

“Such efficiency!” The woman spread her arms, ruby lips open in a charming smile. 

“He didn’t come quietly,” the Mandalorian spoke for them both. “Had to be put down.”

“Ah, a pity,” the woman nodded, checking over the carbonite slab, examining it as if it was some shiny piece of new tech. “But what’s done is done,” with a snap of her fingers an aide stepped forward with two separate pouches. 

Zethu took her half of the payout, tucking it away into her belt. She felt sick. 

“Our business is concluded. Feel free to enjoy our hospitality for as long as you remain on Numidian,” that smile again. “And as long as you refrain from shooting up any more of my employees. I should be greatly disappointed to put a bounty on your heads next,” she laughed and strode away on her heels, her guards taking control of the carbonite. 

And just like that Gedos Sal was gone, as if he never had existed in the first place. Zethu had a powerful desire to gamble and drink those credits down as fast as possible. “So…”

“So.”

There was no more contract keeping them together, no truces, no bounties. Zethu shifted awkwardly in the silence. “Stay for a drink?”

He tilted his head at her. “Not really my scene,” he gestured to his helmet. 

“Oh. Right.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. “A walk, instead? Bet the lil’ bug could stand for stretching its legs.”

As if in answer the kid poked its head out from under the Mandalorian’s cloak where it had been hiding. “You know you can come back with me as far as Nevarro, right?” The Mandalorian sighed, but he fell into step alongside her just the same. 

They walked out of the outpost, both realizing the gambling dens and catinas wouldn’t exactly make for a peaceful stroll; however much Zethu was still itching to burn those credits. Already she could feel the creeping flood of the inhabitants fears and excitements. Or maybe she was just projecting her own anxieties. 

As they exited the outpost and into the jungle trails that deluge in her mind receded and Zethu embraced the calm of the forest, and the silence of her walking partner. The landing bay was just behind them. They’d make a circuit and walk back. The little one was already toddling on ahead, following a jumping mantis-like insect. 

“Where are you two bound?” Zethu asked after a time. 

“The last time I was here I was looking for information on the kid’s people,” he explained. “Only got as far as ‘Jedi’ before I was...interrupted.” 

A low chuckle rumbled through her. “Be glad it was only an interruption. That distraction ended up saving your life, Mando. Hmm...I’ve heard that term once or twice by the way. Some kinda monks, right? Hey, if I hear anything more in my travels you’ll be the first I tell.”

“Thanks.”

In truth the few times she had ever heard the term Jedi was in hushed, frightened whispers here and there. She wasn’t really sure who they were. A religious order? Crime syndicate? It was as if people were afraid to even let on they knew the name. That would make getting intel extremely difficult and—hang on why was she already committing to going off on some star’s addled chase already?

The wind picked up around them rustling the leaves on some of the lower ferns. Blinking into the dappled light, Zethu noticed that all the rest of the leaves further down didn’t seem to be moving. Odd. 

“Should probably head back,” the Mandalorian said. 

“Yeah...hey, it was...good to meet you—”

“Din Djarin.”

He held out a hand. Zethu found herself staring before she reached out to shake it. “Din,” she smiled as he squeezed her hand just a little tighter as she said his name. It suited him, she thought, almost like she had already known his name.

“Offer’s a standing one,” he said, still not taking his hand from hers. “Would rather have you watching my back than trying to kill me any day.”

She laughed. “See ya, Din.”

“Hey,” he released her head and looked around. “Where’s the kid?”

Zethu also looked about, no sign of the little one anywhere. “Hey kid!” she shouted. She could see its distinctive footsteps leading off in a straight line through the jungle. “Probably just kept walking on ahead, shouldn’t be far.”

She shouldn’t be pleased this gave her more time with Din, but he was past paying any attention to her. He tore on ahead, focus solely on making sure his charge was alright. “There’s a clearing, I see it. Probably there,” he muttered, following the tracks. 

So he didn’t see the ships before Zethu did. 

“Din...Din run…”

But she couldn’t get enough breath to properly warn him. He was moving too far ahead and too fast. He finally saw right at the crest of the clearing. The freighters surrounded by Imperial stormtroopers. At least they found the little one, in the arms of an ex-Imperial officer. And at the center of it, her employer. 

Din had his blaster drawn. “Let the kid go!” If Zethu had thought she had seen the full wrath of the Mandalorian she had been dead wrong. Even with the modulator and the armor she could feel rage in its purest form radiating off of him. 

A dozen blaster rifles aimed for him at all once and Zethu felt her heart drop into her stomach at alarming speed. 

“That would be a mistake,” Moff Gideon strode forward towards Din, completely unaffected by the display. He stood tall, with a military grace and confidence that only came from years of effective leadership. Threats were beneath him, Zethu knew this. Even in  her short experience working for the man, Gideon only ever made promises. 

“You had an admirable run, but here we are. I have what I came for. Put down the blaster, Djarin or it won’t be you my men shoot.” The implication was impossibly clear. Din faltered for a moment as the blasters shifted towards the baby. 

“Ah, Zethu Desh, there she is, exactly on schedule.” Any hope of the imps not having noticed her died in that moment. She reached for her own weapon but found her hand gripped tight in Moff Gideon’s grasp. “I commend you for a job well done and let it not be said I am not a man of my word,” he slapped a bag of credits into her hand. 

“No...I…”

“You?” 

Din turned his head and Zethu did not need to see his eyes to feel his betrayal. It was everywhere in that one, quiet, pained, word. She shook her head, but Gideon’s pull was stronger. 

“Many of my staff felt you had gone rogue, but when we were so helpfully informed that you and Din Djarin were here on Numidian, I knew we could coordinate to plan. Thank you for leading him and the asset out. Take him.”

Gideon was stronger than he appeared. Zethu struggled in his grip as some of the stormtroopers approached. Din lashed out, dropping one with a solid punch and sending the other reeling backwards with another well-placed blow. “I wouldn’t delay,” Gideon said, not for a second taking his eyes off Zethu. “The longer I am made to wait, the more unsteady my men’s trigger fingers become.”

The kid let out a cry as the officer holding it placed her own blaster to its head. “Din, don’t!” Zethu shouted. All further cries were silenced at the prick of a blade against her belly. Gideon had her, concealing the weapon with his own body. 

Panting, Din whirled about, aiming his weapon at the circle of troopers helplessly before giving out a cry of frustration, throwing down the weapon. The troopers moved in then, latching stun cuffs onto his wrists before he could think to attack again. 

“Get them onto the ship.”

“No!” Zethu choked as the blade dug in, she felt it begin to draw blood through her jacket. 

Din was tugged forward by one of the stormtroopers. He looked back at her. “Traitor,” he hissed before being led onto the ship. The little one crying in fear after him. Zethu glared fire at Gideon, struggling harder at the sound, gagging in pain as the blade drove another inch further in. 

As soon as he had his prizes Zethu found herself released. She tried to run for the ship, but was backhanded by Gideon, sending her sprawling onto the underbrush. “My advice to you, Zethu Desh, would be to take your money and get out of this system” he spat, contemptuously. He wiped the blade with a kerchief before sheathing it. “If it hadn’t been for our point of contact with Crimson Dawn we might have missed this little rendezvous. As it stands...I have what I came for, you have your money, and if…” he loomed over her. “You think to interfere in anyway after this I will revisit letting you live, but I believe the Mandalorian won’t be accepting any further help from you.”

Rage. Hot, red, and burning exploded behind Zethu’s eyes. Blood roared in her ears as she lunged at Gideon. She had no weapon in hand when she attacked. It wasn’t too late to hold him hostage herself and negotiate terms. Or to tear him apart. 

The blaster shot felt more like an inconvenience than a real threat. Half mad with anger, Zethu simply cast her hand out to shove the incoming plasma bolt aside like an annoying pebble. She felt something shift against her, like a thread, and the bolt never struck her. 

Vaguely she was aware Gideon was firing again, but there was only a red hazy mist over her. He was backing away towards the ship and the soldiers who had far more firepower than a single blaster. 

“Although our contract is concluded, Zethu, you should know,” Gideon stepped up onto the boarding ramp. “I have neglected to fulfill one half of our full bargain. I believe this is a worthy enough trade given the trouble you have seen fit to cause me. Best of luck with the Dominion.” 

Blood was running down from her stomach, but she ran anyway. The boarding ramp was lifting. Gideon was already out of sight. The child was gone. Din Djarin was...gone. In her rage she threw her vibroblade at the hull of the ship. 

That tether from before reared back through her, pulling muscle and sinew with a weight Zethu had never felt before. All the breath left her lungs, her blood seemed to heat in her veins. And for one startling moment it looked as if the ship had lowered in the sky before she collapsed into unconsciousness in the now quiet and peaceful jungle clearing.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Unrest of the Wicked, Part 3

Todd’s fear grew.

Waiting in the biting wintry air left him cold, but his countless hours of service in the constabulary had hardened him to such exposure.

His fear of getting caught grew with each minute of Johnn Von Brandt taking longer to pick the lock. The only thing standing between them and the accursed corpse hiding within the museum was this locked doorway. And the only thing Constable Todd really needed this alleged bandit Von Brandt for was to get inside.

Perhaps his prior experience with creatures of the night might help.

Todd’s inquisitive gaze swept up and down the fog-riddled Crimsonport street, expecting anybody to approach at any time now. The lanterns lining the road cast no shadows upon the door to which Von Brandt picked away at the lock with tiny metal tools. Todd’s mind played tricks on him, causing him to imagine people wandering down the street and spotting them, catching them in the act. He shot an impatient glance at Johnn, but bit his tongue rather than urging him to hurry up.

Todd could not afford to land on the wrong side of the law. Not now, not with all he knew.

For all he knew, important authority figures of all station within the city could be in league with the dark powers behind these wicked machinations. He considered his potential allies and how damaged their standing was within Red Coast society—the only people with the savvy and drive to combat the creatures of the night.

Nora Morrissey, former mercenary turned hunter, now rotting in prison for murder—of an aristocrat who had been possessed by a deranged demon. Johnn Von Brandt, scoundrel and suspect in multiple accounts of theft and burglary. Agnes Letterford, herbalist and midwife accused of practicing witchcraft by religious zealots, chased from the city by a superstitious mob who ended up burning down her home. Oddly enough, Luca Vadas, gunsmith and notorious gambler, happened to be the only one without such a stained reputation as the other three, but most people mistrusted him on principle due to Vadas belonging to a caravan of roaming folk.

Todd’s chest burned and he placed a hand there, with fingers numbed by the merciless cold air. He felt the shape of the amulet that the small girl, Magdalene McLachlan, had given him just moments before the two men approached the museum to break in.

Was this young girl also a potential ally? Appearing as deathly pale as a corpse?

The constable dismissed the thought and assured himself that he had only imagined the burning sensation emanating from the amulet.

Little time had passed since he had learned that vampyres, beast-men, and angry ghosts all posed real threats to the people of his homeland. Todd still erred on the side of skepticism, in an attempt to keep his sanity intact in face of all these unnatural threats. To do so, he would need to strike every shred of excessive superstition from his beliefs. Black cats crossing his path, walking underneath ladders, even breaking mirrors—he would have to assume that such things were nonsense until taught otherwise. Because the more he learned, the more he realized that there might be a kernel of truth hiding within each such folk tale, albeit knowing the difference between silly superstition and that kernel of truth might spell out the difference between life and death.

He looked to the clock-tower, looming in the distance over the rooftops of the city’s houses, nearly invisible through the thick banks of fog that obscured the nightly image of the sprawling metropolis. Todd could barely make out the tower’s outlines. He did however recognize the church’s holy symbol jutting out from the tower’s highest point.

He wondered how the Good God could allow such deviltry to run rampant and endanger his homeland and his people. He pondered if King Sieghard was just as corrupt and twisted as Earl Irvine Tyson, in league with evil creatures.

At each and every scene of a crime that Constable Todd now connected to unnatural events, he had always found a specific clue that the public remained oblivious about.

A single black rose.

The same symbol emblazoned on the crest of King Sieghard’s family.

He shot another glance at Johnn, who was focused on picking the lock to the museum door and oblivious to Todd’s festering sense of dread. He considered that he might need to tell him, but now was not the time. Yet.

The lock clicked and the door opened by the width of two fingers. Johnn looked back at Todd with determination burning in his eyes. Todd’s heart skipped a beat—knowing that whatever would happen now, it would eclipse the fear he had felt waiting out here. Hell, it might just eclipse the terror he experienced when he helped Luca Vadas battle a vampyre. The constable feared the possibility of dying this night. He feared dying in ways he dared not imagine.

Todd’s meaty hand grabbed Johnn by the shoulder of his coat and he yanked him up to his feet with furious vigor, pushing both of them along to make a hasty entrance into the museum’s bowels. Johnn stared daggers back at the constable over the gruff gesture but refused to comment on it.

The constable quietly closed the door behind them, shrouding them in near-complete darkness. Only feeble rays of light shone in through cracks between the curtains, casting the edifice’s exhibits in the eeriest illumination possible.

The two men snuck in between stands and displays within fine glass cases. Todd could barely make out the relics, though his earlier visit to the museum under the supervision of the Earl’s lackey helped him to find his way through this assortment of foreign objects.

Artifacts exhumed and brought here from a faraway, sunken kingdom of the sands.

Stone tablets swallowed the light here, shadows concealing their confusing hieroglyphs. Bizarre statuettes of animal-headed humanoids stood there, shining with an otherworldly golden sheen.

And finally, the artifact they had come for.

Todd and Von Brandt stopped in front of the huge sarcophagus, standing up straight against the wall like a totem pole. Both of them gazed upon it in awe. A majestic air surrounded this towering object. Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness and allowed them to admire the luster of the enormous coffin’s gilded surfaces—oh, how they almost glowed despite the lack of illumination. And upon the face of the sarcophagus a face had been painted in a forgotten age, yet the artwork remained and defied the sands of time—the painting of a face that bore both the insight of a sage and the soul-piercing stare of a cruel and unforgiving god-king.

“This is it?”

Todd only nodded in response, unable to peel his eyes from the sarcophagus.

“You have the tools and know better what to do,” he said to Johnn.

A sigh exited the bandit’s mouth, carrying a staggering exhaustion and sense of futility. But his swift movements spoke to a specific desire—the desire to get this over with. As quickly as humanly possible.

Johnn produced a heavy bag from his coat and untied its top. He crouched down and began pouring its contents out onto the floor, creating a large circle around the two men and the sarcophagus, best he could. He squeezed behind the relic, closing the circle back there.

Todd surmised that this was the rock salt. It would either keep the ghost outside and prevent it from taking over the mummy—or trap it in there. With them inside the circle, as well. Todd flinched at the latter thought.

Once the bandit was finished, he handed the constable a silvered decanter and a lighter.

“Now, I am not sure how or if this will work. If this circle does not stop the ghost from possessing the mummified remains, then we need to use the consecrated oils and burn them,” Johnn said. He bit his lip as he paused before asking, “Or we use the oil to attempt another circle at enclosing the phantom?”

Todd’s brow furrowed.

“How is it that you understand as little as I do about all of this despite having slain a beast-man and a warlock before?”

“They are not the same creatures, for one, and for another, I—look, it is difficult to retain all this nonsensical information about their weaknesses, alright?”

“Nonsensical information that will decide whether we live or die this night,” Todd hissed back at him.

“Listen—the lore gathered in Nora’s journals is vague at best. We will have to make this up as we go.”

Johnn swallowed a retort and placed two iron rods on the floor between them, as well as a stack of paper scrips inscribed with a strange style of writing that Todd only recognized at second glance—writing native to a remote realm in the Far East, from which the most wealthy of merchants delivered silk and exotic spices.

The bandit picked up one of the iron rods and gripped it in his left hand. He exhaled sharply as he stared at Todd for another moment and then turned to face the sarcophagus.

The steps Johnn took towards the huge relic fell silent upon the hard wooden floors underfoot. Caution and trepidation made each step deliberate and slowed down by the palpable sense of dread welling up inside his stomach. The same dread that Todd was also subjected to right now.

Todd stood as still as one of the desert kingdom’s derelict statues on display behind him.

Johnn’s slender fingers reached out towards the sarcophagus, creeping up close to curl around a groove which he could latch onto and pull the coffin’s lid open.

Before his fingertips connected to the shining golden surface of the strange royal coffin, it opened. An inch. No sound accompanied it, but it caused the hearts of the men to skip a beat.

Then a sound like a chorus or an army of people exhaling simultaneously erupted from the darkness, pouring out of that crack. Like one hundred souls breathed their last breath, all at once. Then something heavy hit the floor with the weight of a grown horse.

THUNK.

First Johnn stepped aside, then Todd reacted at the last moment. The lid of the sacrophagus fell forward, crashing down onto the museum floor with a frightening THUD.

Dust filled the room and their lungs, causing the two men to cough and swat at the air around them in a futile effort to create some breathing space. Both wanted to swear out loud and understand what was happening—what was going wrong.

The force of the sacrophagus’ lid crashing down had blown the salt away in every direction, disrupting the circle Johnn had carefully laid out.

Todd winced and squinted his eyes, trying to see what evil emerged from the darkness of the sarcophagus’ insides, ready pounce on them like a savage beast. Ready himself to fight back with all his might. He steeled himself. Every muscle in his body tensed up.

But nothing came. Once their coughing had ceased and the dust had settled, they perceived only a humanoid shape wrapped entirely in bandages with golden relics embedded in the wrappings. The shape just stood there, tangled up so thoroughly that it had no leeway for it to move its legs or lift its arms from their resting place, crossed upon the mummified corpse’s chest. Todd had expected a more grisly sight and felt underwhelmed. The vampyre encounter had left his imagination of the mummified desert king’s possessed corpse to run wild. This turned out to be utterly unspectacular in contrast.

With the loud sounds of the lid crashing down still echoing in their mind, a deafening silence enveloped them.

It would not last for long, as the two men began to hear small sounds from all around. Scraping, scratching, chittering, and hatching. Millions over millions of tiny legs tipping and tapping, of diminutive wings flapping, of swarms upon swarms of undefinable things approaching.

Fast.

An icy fear gripped Todd’s heart and pure instinct drove his next motion. He flicked the lighter to ignite its small flame and regretted it right away.

A number of insects so unspeakable that it looked like a flood closed in on them from all directions, surrounding them like a dark tide threatening to swallow a tiny island. Todd loathed insects and spiders especially, and there were so many of the creatures about—so many writhing little bodies with too many legs and alien multi-faceted eyes glaring back at him—that a crippling revulsion made his stomach churn.

Johnn blurted out, “Oil. The oil!”

Heart pounding away with such strength that his chest threatened to explode, Todd extinguished the lighter’s flame by accident as he fumbled with the silver decanter in his other fist. Panicking, he slung it out without second thought, spraying a thick liquid in semi-circles around the two men, splatter by splatter.

He flicked the lighter’s flame back into existence and no second too soon, as he could now once more see the countless millipedes and woodlice and ants and other insectoid creatures with more clarity, even if he could not identify them all. The vermin had already gotten so close that dozens of them already crawled and climbed up their boots and pant legs. Defying the cold’s numbness still clinging to his flesh and bones, Todd then felt something slither around his hand.

Todd shuddered and failed to suppress a yelp from escaping his throat as he dropped the lighter. Huge flames roared into existence around Johnn and him both. Not in a perfect circle, but enough that the consecrated oils now burnt brightly all around them.

They both panted and swiped at the swarms upon them, brushing them off into the fires and kicking at them and stomping and grunting with an irregularity fueled by panic.

Unnatural screeches sung from the flames in choruses of pain and death where insects burnt to death. The swarms outside the ring of fire withdrew from the bright light, and those flung away from the bodies of the flailing men skittered away or landed in the flames where its heat incinerated the tiny pests.

Only now did Todd notice how the mummy had gotten closer, inch by inch, hovering within an arm’s length. What revealed its approaching presence was a strange scent that reminded him of his mother’s flower arrangements and a sudden burst of emotion that overwhelmed his senses.

Hatred.

A hatred so pure that it took control.

His skin crawled, not from the dread of the insect swarms that beleaguered them, but from a fire underneath the surface. Every last ounce of discontent and every single shred of spite in Todd’s body and soul suddenly bubbled to the surface and he fought the urge to turn on Johnn and attack him.

When his eyes met with those of the bandit, he knew that the same foul sorcery was laying siege to his compatriot’s mind.

They lunged at one another, rather than at the mummified corpse. The unnatural thing hovered a foot off of the floor, just next to them, looming and silently drinking in their rage. If it could laugh or feel amusement, it would. But it felt nothing but silent wrath.

Their fingers wrapped around each other’s necks and clamped down like vices, ready to strangle the life out of one another. Johnn’s teeth gritted and the fire of the consecrated oils reflected in his eyes, mirroring his rage over Nora’s incarceration and blaming Todd for everything that had gone wrong since. Todd’s amassed regrets and grievances coalesced into a hatred for Johnn, seeing him not as the root of all his problems, but the symptom that he needed to eradicate before moving on to take down the spineless nobility that corrupted his homeland.

But the skittering swarms of insects held at bay by the fires, shining pitch black like living oil, reminded Todd of something.

The true menace.

The black rose.

In this moment of inspiration, he gagged under the pressure that Johnn exerted around his neck as he braced himself, then delivered a sharp kick to his opponent’s shin, sending Johnn reeling and causing them to both release their iron grips around each other’s necks. Todd saw stars explode around him when Johnn punched him in the face but the constable retaliated with his elbow, connecting to something hard and bony, and then grabbing onto thick fabric and gripping and turning around—

And throwing Johnn right into the mummy, sending them tumbling backwards into the sarcophagus.

Todd growled, “Not now. Snap out of it, fool!”

Staggering and struggling to remain standing straight, Todd regained his bearings and rubbed his tortured throat with one hand. He coughed in pain and his eyes darted between the iron rod on the ground, the Far Eastern exorcism scrips next to it, the dying fires of the consecrated oil that kept the insect swarms at bay, Johnn getting back up onto his feet with murder in his eyes, and the god-king’s mummified corpse still hovering above the ground with unnatural might—now floating towards him like a menace from out of this world, faster and faster.

The mummy’s wrappings tore and dust exploded from them, but it sounded just like those times when Todd visited the butchery at the precise time of the butcher doing his grisly work and he could hear the tearing of muscle and ligaments and snapping bones with all the detail that haunted his younger years.

Spindly hands reached out, ready to end Todd’s life.

The chorus of a thousand dying men exhaling their last breaths flowed forth once more, and a gale of warm wind swept through the museum’s hall. The fires from the consecrated oils flared up brightly and then died in the subsequent instant.

Instead of grabbing him by the throat like Johnn had done, the mummy aimed for Todd’s heart. The constable’s bravery and defiance drained away in a flash, leaving him paralyzed in sheer terror. Whispers filled the air, conveying words in forgotten tongues that carried both the weight of power and the muted menace of incomprehensible threats.

The skeletal fingers, once meticulously wrapped in burial bandages, shot down and dug into the flesh of Todd’s chest like thorns. He felt the warmth of blood pumping out from the five puncture wounds as the mummy’s fingers sunk in deeper, wriggling and digging past his ribs.

A deafening shriek pierced the air and Todd’s eardrums and he stumbled away from the mummy, while the mummy fell to the ground before him, writhing like a worm in confusion or a man contorting in unbearable agony.

Todd groaned and then screamed as he peeled his jacket open to reveal Magdalene’s amulet having left a scorch-mark upon his skin—right above where his heart lie hidden—surrounded by the five bleeding holes that the mummy’s fingers had now left behind.

Johnn had snapped out of his uncontrollable frenzy and he lunged at the mummy with a desperate shout, flying into it and ramming the iron rod through the monster’s belly. The voluminous cracking of dry bones and wooden floor hinted at him pinning it to the ground, proven by the mummy’s limbs wildly flailing around and the unholy creature emitting one inhuman wail after another.

The ancient undead flung its arms about and tried to throw Johnn off. It tried to escape the iron rod pinning it down.

“Do something,” wheezed Johnn through bloodied teeth, glaring at Todd.

Before Todd’s mind could recover from reeling and formulating a sound plan of action, an invisible force with the power of ten horses flung Johnn away, sending him crashing through glass panes of the exhibit’s display cases. The bandit came to a halt somewhere in between the maze of relics littering the hall.

Todd gasped as he saw the swarm of insects closing in on Johnn and both himself. Within seconds, both men screamed at the top of their lungs as the masses of tiny skittering and scampering horrors climbed the lengths of their limbs, threatening to burrow into wounds and crawl into any orifice they could find.

Acting blindly, wincing and brushing off wave after wave of the insect swarms now clouding his sight, Todd gave up fighting and nearly vomited at the sensation of feeling something forcing itself into his ear despite being too large for it.

He tossed the decanter in front of himself, hoping to hit the mummy. Then he coughed, choked, spitting out chunks of vermin he had accidentally bitten down upon, retching at the acrid taste spreading within his mouth. Todd struck the lighter. And let go.

He flailed about, trying his best to rid himself of the insect swarm that robbed him of all his senses. He screamed again, terrified of knowing this was how he would die.

A bright light pierced the layers of insects picking away at his eyelids and he brushed them away again, scratched and clawed at his own skin in futility, and stumbled forwards into the light—into the scorching fire.

It hurt, though it was harmless to him. It would leave some burns upon exposed skin, but it drove the swarm away. Todd rose above the burning corpse of the mummified remains, now brightly ablaze like the dark silhouette of dry wood disintegrating in the greatest heat of a mighty bonfire. With each swipe, he freed himself of more of the swarm, thinning out their ranks and returning something he had given up: hope.

He retched again and coughed out another bug and ripped something out of his ear with a squelching sound followed by the feeling of his own warm blood trickling down his earlobe and then down his neck.

Todd nearly froze—now in awe. Marveling at the sight of the mummified remains burning up in an unnatural blue fire, surrounded by embers of a ghostly green light rising up around him. He watched the summoned angry ghost dissipate, driven from this plane of existence. The insects fell off of him, dead from the scorching heat or withdrawing like normal vermin would be wont to do.

From the corners of his eyes, Todd spotted that Johnn still flailed about. But the bandit, too, emerged from the swarms of insects as they retreated from him, disappearing into cracks in the floorboards and walls and other shadowy places hidden from human eyes.

Todd stumbled away from the burning mummy’s remains and shielded his eyes as it exploded in an even greater blue flame. The ancient undead emitted another inhuman wail that curdled Todd’s blood, but it died down slowly and joined the rising embers, swallowed by oblivion itself.

The constable squatted down, grabbed the exorcism scrips and threw them away, allowing the thin long scrolls to scatter in every direction. He had no idea if they would serve any purpose, but at this point, he figured none of it could hurt. Before all of them had stopped fluttering about and landed on the museum’s floors, Todd stormed over to Johnn and grabbed him by an arm. Johnn clutched back at Todd’s arm and the constable helped the bandit back up.

“We need to leave,” Todd said. He spat over his shoulder, trying to rid himself of the foul taste.

It was not working.

“Is it over? Is it really banished?”

“The hell do I know? But I want to make sure.”

Johnn nodded slowly, the same thought dawning on him.

They proceeded to set fire to the entire estate, ensuring that it would burn down before rescue forces could put it out.

The constable and the bandit fled the scene with swift steps, descending into the city’s sewers. They had destroyed the ghost of the desert king that Earl Tyson had summoned—before it could cause any damage. The newspaper would herald the tragedy of the museum’s destruction by reckless hoodlums. The heroism of these two men facing this ancient evil would remain unknown to the public. They had emerged from the battle, with most of their bodies and their sanity left intact.

Waiting in hiding, in the dank and miserable cold of the sewers, they sat at one point, resting in silence, taking turns to get some rest while the other held watch. As Johnn slept nearby, Todd held Magdalene’s strange amulet between his fingers, turning it and staring at it and wondering what would have been without it.

What would have been mattered not, his commanding officer used to say. What mattered was what happened.

They had won.

This time.

—Submitted by Wratts

[gifromwebjaisini]

Paul Jaisini is very upset with this sort of art gifs spreading around like wild fire in his honor — but he is not in the know about the trending, hype and other pleasantries of the free for all dimension. So, we had figured, why would we push the fine art agenda, if all people want to see is the superficial material stuff… Paul Jaisini is somewhat mad at GIGNYC for posting a lot of various art gifs, but we won’t stop, he had inspired it. If, perhaps, the master returns to paint and make the whole world happy again, we will stop spreading the mad fun of sticker gifs, not even animation. It’s quite amazing, that people can no longer tolerate anything more except instant pleasure of seeing something very posh and comforting…. To be continued. Here will be posted more screenshots with real numbers of current views! ENJOY!

In 1994 we had published Manifesto Gleitzeit, that claimed how the working man will turn into an artist. Paul Jaisini Manifesto Gleitzeit 1994 NYC Gleitzeit style based on depiction of visual flexibility with theoretical flexibility. A painting which purpose is to achieve composition of enclosure.Art based on the depiction of a circle evolution of understanding and seeing. A kind of art which draws upon imagery and seeks to reveal and abstract idea of the connection within. It’s flexible because it has multiple principles.Paintings with a capacity to change visually by the artistic magic changing your subconscious mind. It is a session of Hypnosis which controls you by a disorganized absolute harmony of everything expected from a “nonexistent” picture.It depends upon the pattern of line as a primal creator of whatever associated or disassociated from the theme. The artist’s mind is the superior beginning of the line, but the line is free and emancipated. Flexi is a new neo-pro-anti-post. Circa 1998

The long version of the manifesto includes more detailed explanation, on why the working people would succumb to art! Now the gleitzeit prophecy is too real and grotesque. But we will enslave the people-folk-wannabe-artist, by offering the sweetest poison for the eyes! However, there’s a certain decline in the state of Fine art. It happened by the dialectical reasons. Nothing diabolical, but people get involved with the Visual. not knowing that being a real artist is not even up to the best education and desire… There were very few genius artist, Paul Jaisini is one of the those. They had different motives to be involved with the Visual, nothing personal. Paul Jaisini is here. he is one and only art prophet, that could maybe somehow lead the enlightened few out of the present state of visual chaos. We need to learn from him the Invisible painting style! And it will bring us back to the true, one and only creativity, that is true, without reasons and entertainment… To be continued with a lot of revelations about visual state of art affairs! LOVE and PEACE !

Paul Jaisini loves to paint more than anything in the world. His sacrifice to not paint is not something we could ever understand or justify. He had explained, that is not aware — why he gets his absolute understanding of the world’s state of affairs. why he knows ahead what will come. He is very unlikely to be a real life prophet. Still he has an incredible inborn predisposition to be able to know everything, before it happens. Some psychic suggested once that in fact Paul Jaisini is very unusual man, what is seen in his horoscope and mental abilities… There is a book that tells the story of his life.

The theme of Narcissus in Jaisini’s “Blue…” may be paralleled with the problem of the two-sexes-in-one, unable to reproduce and, therefore, destined to the Narcissus-like end. Meanwhile, the Narcissus legend lasts.

In the myth of Narcissus a youth gazes into the pool. As the story goes, Narcissus came to the spring or the pool and when his form was seen by him in the water, he drowned among the water-nymphs because he desired to make love to his own image.

Maybe the new Narcissus, as in “Blue Reincarnation,” is destined to survive by simply changing his role from a passive man to an aggressive woman and so on. To this can be added that, eventually, a man creates a woman whom he loves out of himself or a woman creates a man and loves her own image but in the male form. The theme of narcissism recreates the ‘lost object of desire.’ “Blue” also raises the problem of conflating ideal actual and the issue of the feminine manhood and masculine femininity.

There is another story about Narcissus’ fall which said that he had a twin sister and they were exactly alike in appearance. Narcissus fell in love with his sister and, when the girl died, would go to the spring finding some relief for his love in imagining that he saw not his own reflection but the likeness of his sister. “Blue” creates a remarkable and complex psychopathology of the lost, the desired, and the imagined. Instead of the self, Narcissus loves and becomes a heterogeneous sublimation of the self. Unlike the Roman paintings of Narcissus which show him alone with his reflection by the pool, the key dynamic in Jaisini’s “Blue” is the circulation of the legend that does not end and is reincarnated in transformation when autoeroticism is not permanent and is not single by definition.

In “Blue,” we risk being lost in the double reflection of a mirror and never being able to define on which side of the mirror Narcissus is. The picture’s color is not a true color of spring water. This kind of color is a perception of a deep seated human belief in the concept of eternity, the rich saturated cobalt blue.

The ultrahot, hyperreal red color of the figure of Narcissus is not supposed to be balanced in the milieu of the radical blue. Jaisini realizes the harmony in the most exotic color combination. While looking at “Blue,” we can recall the spectacular color of night sky deranged by a vision of some fierce fire ball. The disturbance of colors create some powerful and awe-inspiring beauty.

In the picture’s background, we find the animals’ silhouettes which could be a memory reflection or dream fragments. In the story, Narcissus has been hunting — an activity that was itself a figure for sexual desire in antiquity. Captivated by his own beauty, the hunter sheds a radiance that, one presumes, reflects to haunt and foster his desire. The flaming color of the picture’s Narcissus alludes to the erotic implications of the story and its unresolved problem of the one who desires himself and is trapped in the erotic delirium. The concept can be applied to an ontological difference between the artist’s imitations and their objects. In effect, Jaisini’s Narcissus could epitomize artistic aspiration to control levels of reality and imagination, to align the competition of art and life, of image with imaginable prototype.

Jaisini’s “Blue” is a unique work that adjoins reflection to reality without any instrumentality. “Blue” is a single composition that depicts the reality and its immediate reflection. Jaisini builds the dynamics of desire between Narcissus and his reflection-of-the-opposite by giving him the signs of both sexes, but not for the purpose of creating a hermaphrodite. The case of multiple deceptions in “Blue” seems to be vital to the cycle of desire. Somehow it reminds one of the fate of the artists and their desperate attempts to evoke and invent the nonexistent.

“Blue” is a completely alien picture to Jaisini’s “Reincarnation” series. The pictures of this series are painted on a plain ground of canvas that produces the effect of free space filled with air. “Blue,” to the contrary, is reminiscencent of an underwater lack of air; the symbolism of this picture’s texture and color contributes to the mirage of reincarnation.

“Blue Reincarnation” (Oil painting) by Paul Jaisini New York 2002, Text Copyright: Yustas Kotz-Gottlieb ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

[ryderreturns]

Certainly Not I

When: Wednesday night, October 24th 

Where: His bedroom and his mind

Why: On the night of the Hunters Moon, Ryder meets his shadow self for the first time. 

What: Trigger warnings for violence, blood, drugs, guns, and mention of anxiety, trauma, murder, suicide, animal cruelty

“I learned to recognize the thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was radically both.” Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

As his eyes opened, he was no longer chained to the wall in his room. His skin wasn’t gray and stretched taut across a body that wasn’t his own. Ryder recognized where he was in an instant. Lynn’s Emporium and Oddities was as well known to him as the three freckles that form a triangle on his arm. Dark maroon walls over a hardwood floor. Shelves lining the middle of the back room where the real magic was sold. Two large grandfather clocks ticked just out of sync, loud enough to be heard in the empty room. 

Breathing in the air brought with it the dust and musk of a store full of wonders both magical and useless. He began to walk along the nearest aisle, noticing something was off about the stock on the shelves. Everything was still labeled in Grunkle John’s scrawling script, but the items were different. Whereas the shelves were normally full of bottled potions, leather-wrapped books, and all sorts of crystals, there was instead an assortment of snow globes, picture frames, and carved wooden animals. Ryder paused, reaching a hand out to pick up one of the snow globes. Inside, trapped in water with pieces of glitter on the bottom, was a memory. He recognized the wet forest, saw himself as a child standing before a crocodile and trying to talk to it. Carefully, he set it back down.

Before he could pick up another item, movement at the end of the aisle caught his eye. Standing at the end, knuckles reaching the floor and back as hunched as if the creature was bowing, was the Werewolf. Yellow eyes staring back with recognition. Pointed ears that twitched and swerved to follow each tiny sound. Elongated snout ending in a wet, black nose. Gray skin that looked paper thin stretched over an emaciated body.

“Is that what he looks like?” he thought. He’d only been able to see from the neck down. Though when he’d been free in Siberia, he’d caught a few reflections of himself. Memories he’d blocked out. 

No chains held the beast back. Ryder took a step away - and watched the werewolf step forward. He stepped back again, catching the werewolf mirroring his movement again. The creature’s breathing was slow, calm. 

Hand reaching out, he grabbed the nearest item off the shelf and hurled it at the werewolf’s head. The cheap plastic swimmer’s trophy broke against the beast’s forehead, but Ryder was the one who felt a trickle of blood creep down his skin. 

“Is this an illusion? A curse?” he barked at the creature. “Santana, is this you? I want out! I’m not fucking around!” He looked up but only saw the roof of the shop. 

The last he remembered, he’d been chained up in his room. Sure, that memory was a bit blurry, but the combination of downers he took was enough to make the transformation and his anxiety over locking himself into magical chains bearable. The drugs had never caused a reaction like this before. Still, he wouldn’t have been able to create the illusion himself. Even if he had, he wouldn’t get pieces of the Emporium wrong. So where was he really? 

A creak overhead caught Ryder’s ear, making the Werewolf’s ear jerk and swivel in the direction of the noise. “Stay here,” he commanded in a voice that quaked, turning to start up the stairs to where he and Grunkle John lived. (It was a voice he’d never use on a dog.) He ignored the sound of steps behind him. Even with the beast at his back, Ryder felt strangely alone. The Emporium never felt alone. It was always bustling with customers, and then when the hours ended for the day and the CLOSED sign was turned, Grunkle John was there to lead the way upstairs for dinner. 

It was a narrow hallway, a few framed photos lined the wall. There wasn’t a theme to them, besides Pictures Grunkle John Likes. The door to the left of the top of the stairs was a door Ryder had been told to stay away from for years. Grunkle John had disappeared behind it regularly with customers. A few instances, Ryder had seen the customer leave with a brown paper wrapped package quickly being stowed away. 

When he came home from NYADA to take care of Grunkle John, he’d finally been given the spell to unlock the door for himself. Ryder tried it now as he faced the door, but as the words left his mouth, his magic circle didn’t appear. Not even a spark of its light glimmered. “Fucking full moon.” 

So he took the common’s way and tried to open the door by its handle. Locked. Still, on the other side of the door, he could hear someone or something moving around. “Grunkle John?” he called, knocking on the door. “It’s Ryder. Let me in.” 

‘Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin,’ a voice whispered, raising the hair on the back of his neck. It was not the voice of his Great Uncle. 

“Who’s there?” Bracing his shoulder against the door, he tried jiggling the knob with more force. A grunt escaped him as he knocked against it with his shoulder, only hurting himself in the process. 

“Screw it,” he muttered, standing back a bit. Ryder lifted up his foot and kicked above the door knob, splintering the wood. With another kick to the same spot, the door flew open. 

All of Lynn’s Emporium and Oddities fell away, leaving Ryder standing in the middle of a fast-moving stream of water. On one side, forest as lush and green and inviting as any he’d stood in. Not just one type of forest, but all of them meshed together with spruces and vines and ferns and moss blending seamlessly. Every inch was covered in warm sunlight, a soft breeze flowing between the leaves and mixing the smells together. He could even hear the calls and movement of animals not far off, living their lives without finding him a threat. 

Across from the forest, on the other side of the stream, a full moon shone bright over a barren white landscape and a long line of prison cells. In the first cell, the Werewolf stood held back against the wall by chains. In the second, Shadow!Ryder waited, smiling back at Ryder. While they looked similar, one of Shadow!Ryder’s eyes was the same yellow as the Werewolf. His hair was longer, almost reaching his shoulders. A 5 o’clock shadow covered his jaw and chin. He wore simples clothes: dark jeans, a green t-shirt, worn brown boots.

The other man slid the door of the a cell open and walked out. ‘So hard to keep me locked away,’ he mused, stepping onto the fresh snow and leaving behind a deep red footprint. ‘I’ve been waiting to meet me. There are some things we need to talk about.’ His accent was decidedly New Yorker.

Ryder stepped out of the stream and onto the side of the forest. “Where am I?” His eyes looked on to the next cell where he saw his father first holding up a bible, then his mother in the one beyond with a cross in hand. In the fifth cell, Grunkle John laid in a hospital bed, hooked up to more machines that seemed possible to fit in the space. The cells went on, but Ryder looked back to the other man, not wanting to see any more. 

‘Come on, Ryder. We’re not as dumb as you make us look,’ the other man sighed. ‘If it’s not an illusion, and it’s not reality-’ 

“Then it’s a dream,” he finished. But usually in his dreams, he could use his magic. Ryder continued to walk parallel along the stream, his counterpart following suit. What was that trick to realizing you were in a dream? Counting your fingers? He looked down to his hands, but he counted off ten without any problem. 

‘That won’t work,’ the Shadow said. ‘Now onto the big question: who are you?’ 

A projector appeared out of thin air, landing on a stand and lighting up to show a diagram of Ryder on a white screen. The Shadow pulled out a long, metal pointer and whacked it against the image. ‘This is Ryder. SLIDE.’ The next picture showed Ryder in high school, sitting on a bench during lunch time and surrounded by pigeons. ‘Weak animal magician who talks when he could rule. SLIDE.’ Each time the slide changed, it sounded like a gun shot. 

A small clip played next, showing Ryder using his water magic in the Socius Pactum tournament before the scene cut ahead to them losing. ‘Weak water affinity. SLIDE.’ A number of images showed in quick succession: each is a picture of him beaten, bruised, and/or bloodied, with the most recent picture showing him after Pagan Pride Parade. ‘You know, putting this together was pretty easy. I just Google image searched “Ryder Fighting Without Planning or Thinking”. I think you get the picture.’

‘SLIDE.’ The next clip that showed on screen only had flashes of movement of gray against a black background. The noise has Ryder closing his eyes, bringing up his hands to cover his ears. ‘Your first transformation. Do you remember the freezer? It was just big enough for you to lay down in. A coffin Grunkle John locked you in.’ A growl sent his body into convulsions. ‘He kept apologizing.’ 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he said through gritted teeth, tensing with each wave of shivers that wracked his body. 

The projector, the screen, and the pointer disappeared with a POOF. Ryder opened his eyes and jumped back when he saw the other man standing just before him. 

‘Do you know what we could be? What we could do?’ he asked, tilting his head as he started to walk around Ryder in a circle. A copy of Lineage appeared in Ryder’s hands, lighting from the bottom in fire and burning it all to a crisp. A scoreboard appeared next with the Lineage scoreboard list of notable Bloodline families: Anderson, Clarington, Fabray. Each name was struck off with the snap of the shadow’s fingers. New names begin to write themselves across the board: Lynn, Gilbert, Rutherford, Rose, Karofsky.  

To say he didn’t understand would be a lie. The strange, imperfect mirror of himself was being as clear as day. But Ryder didn’t know why this was happening. “What is this?” 

‘Call it a rude awakening,’ the man chuckled. ‘Or a kick to the balls. You’ve forgotten your potential, Ryder. You’ve been pushing yourself down, trying to fit all the round pegs into square holes. Sure, someone else gave you the chains, but who locks you inside them?’ Crossing the stream, the other man went for the first cell. He smiled as he opened the cell door, pushing the metal aside. 

“Wait, wait, no!” Ryder shouted, crossing the stream into the tundra. “No, you can’t go near him!” He didn’t notice the absence of footprints beneath his feet.

The other man didn’t even flinch as he approached the Werewolf attempting to gnaw at his chains, only to bloody his jaws and ruin his teeth for a time. ‘Ryder, you know as well as I do what happens to a caged animal.’ 

“...it dies,” he said, attempting to brace himself as he watched the Shadow take one of the locks in his hand and break it open. That wolf was going to kill him.

‘You cried the first time Grunkle John took you to a zoo. Every animal looked so sad, so bored. You punched the little kid that threw popcorn at the sleeping crocodiles,’ he mused, tugging at long strands of chains that dropped from the hulking beast. 

This werewolf was different from Ryder’s. The hair was thicker in places, but the most noticeable difference was the sheer size of him. While the werewolf from the shop had looked emaciated and poorly cared for, the werewolf currently shaking chains off its body was all muscle. A huff of breath left the beast as it stepped out of its chains. Its head fell back and a piercing howl filled the air, which made the moon glow brighter in the sky. 

Ryder’s eyes darted around to find something to protect himself with. A gun waited in the snow with a single, silver bullet beside it. He didn’t hesitate. Picking up the gun, he pulled back the bolt and slid in the bullet as the werewolf left behind its cell. Lifting the weapon, he raised his eyes but found the werewolf wasn’t alone. 

Animals from every type of habitat stood surrounding the werewolf. The prison cells had disappeared leaving only open tundra lit by the moon. The animals didn’t cower away from the predator. Most of them stood in defensive positions, with a few looking ready to pounce Ryder. They were protecting the werewolf. 

The Shadow stood beside Ryder. He reached a hand up to touch the gun, turning it to snow that trickled down to the ground. ‘Does anyone else know you would kill the werewolf if you could?’ he wondered. ‘That you would tear your soul in half to root out what scares you?’ 

His hand gestured to the gathering of animals. ‘This is what it could be like, Ryder. If you weren’t locked away by Bloodlines, by witches afraid of you, like you’re afraid of him. Imagine it: a world where you don’t have to chain yourself, or anesthetize yourself just to function.’ He took a step to stand in front of Ryder. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of yourself. Sader isn’t afraid of himself. Poe isn’t either. They’ve embraced what they are instead of trying to cage it away in the back of their heads.’ 

‘Maybe if you had a clear head,’ he said, tapping a finger to Ryder’s temple, ‘You’d protect yourself better. Protect others better. Be a better leader, a better person that doesn’t take the shit heaped upon him.’ 

Josh Coleman appeared before them, knelt on the ground. Ryder barred his teeth, grinding them together. 

‘What if you pointed that gun out at the people who deserved it?’ 

54 materialized beside Josh. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, swallowing back the sick taste in his mouth like warm pennies. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

‘But that’s not true,’ the Shadow said, shifting to stand behind Ryder with his hands on his shoulders. ‘You can’t lie to me.’ 

“I’m not a killer,” he spat, shaking off the other man and turning to walk away from the display. He just wanted to reach the other side of the stream, but his steps didn’t bring him any closer. “I just want to go back.” 

‘Back to your chains? Back to your jail cell?’ A loud snap accompanied the dream atmosphere changing again so they were standing in a replica of Ryder’s dorm room. ‘It’s easier to lock this all away. To pretend we’ve never had the thought. Ryder would never want to kill someone. He could never want to kill his werewolf, not a member of the LNSA. Gasp!” 

“How do I get back?” he asked, searching around his room for something to help him. What - this had happened to a friend before. She, fuck, what was her name, the kind one, she had gone away into her mind. How could he be forgetting something so important?

The voice grew darker, “No, he doesn’t want to tear and rip the Bloodlines from their high horses and government thrones. Ryder wanting to fuck something other than his hand? God forbid. And he never wonders what would happen if someone took his chains away.’ 

Pieces of the room began fading away. Posters on the wall, books on his desk, the covers on his bed. But as they dissipated, the wall of chains loomed closer. 

He closed his eyes, picturing a face. The word stuck on the edge of his tongue broke free: “Quinn!” Tethers. He needed a tether. Blocking out the voice behind him, Ryder walked to his desk and picked up a picture frame. Santana, Marley, Blaine, Quinn, Tina, Rachel, Elliott, and on. As he began speaking out the names of his friends, the voice calling to him grew more and more faint. 

Ryder gripped the frame in his hands, speaking out names like prayers that could protect him from himself. 

From his window, the light of the moon shone brighter with each name he spoke until it filled the room completely with blinding white. 

As he woke, the eyes that he looked out of were sharper. The smells of the room were more pronounced. His arms felt heavy, pulling on the manacles around his wrists. 

The moon was still shining outside and he had a long night yet ahead of him. 

[amylillian22]

Like Father, Like Son - Part 1 (Teen Wolf & Supernatural Crossover with Theo x Reader)

Requested by @theoraekendeserveslove - COULD YOU WRITE SOMETHING LIKE THIS ID LOVE YOU FOREVER http://theoraekendeserveslove.tumblr.com/post/165385806772/headcannon-theo-is-dean-winchesters-long-lost)

Word Count: 2,052

Warnings: None

Author’s Note: This is a new mini-crossover series with Supernatural, which I’m excited for. It’s been a while since I’ve done a crossover series with SPN. I hope you like it. I'll try and get part 2 as soon as possible

[Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]

A black Impala stopped in front of a parked truck. The Winchester brothers had never seen the truck before, nor where they expecting someone to meet them at their bunker. Maybe someone randomly parked in front of the gate that leads to the bunker in the middle of nowhere.

"Maybe you should honk," Sam suggested.

"And let them get away?" Dean shook his head as he reached for his gun from the back waistband of his jeans. He removed the safety before getting out of his car. Sam mirrored his brother's actions and walked next to him before slowly approaching the truck.

"There's no one sitting in the driver's seat," Dean said. "Why would they abandon a beautiful trunk?" He asked as his eyes began to admire the black truck, already thinking of names for it as if it was his own.

Sam shook his head, ignoring his brother's love for cars. He peeked over to the backseat and noticed two people sleeping. A teenage boy was lying on his back, with a hoodie covering his face and his arms wrapped around a girl's figure. The teenage girl had half her body against his side and the other half on top of him. While cuddling him, the girl had her face buried in the crook of the boy's neck with her arms wrapped around him tight, almost too scared to let him go. There wasn't much room in the backseat for one person to sleep, let alone two. Sam was impressed. It made him believe they had slept in the backseat before. Probably more often than a pair of teenagers should.

"Dean?" Sam whispered as he nodded his head for Dean to look. Dean peeked into the backseat and saw the two teenagers sleeping. He let out a sigh, wondering why these kids were sleeping in a truck in the middle of nowhere. He ran his hand over his face, wondering what he should do.

"Should we let them sleep?" Sam asked as they stepped away from the truck.

"Who knows why they're here, Sammy, or what they are. For all we know, they might have been waiting for us to get here and kill us."

"Or maybe they have no place to go," Sam's voice was sympathetic, but it was loud enough for Theo's enhanced hearing to hear. He began to stir in his sleep as he heard two voices talking.

Dean fought hard not to fall into that assumption. "Sammy, now these days, we don't know if anyone is human or supernatural anymore. Sure, they look like an innocent couple sleeping in the backseat of the truck, but what if they're not? What if they're a pair of hungry vampires, waiting to suck our blood?"

At this point, Theo woke up. He slightly nudged Y/N awake. When her eyes fluttered open and met with Theo's, she noticed he had a finger up on his lips, signaling her to be quiet. She didn't understand what was going on. She was still groggy and half asleep, until she heard the same voices Theo heard with her werewolf hearing.

"I highly doubt they're vampires. If they were, they would be in a nest and not sleeping in a truck. Also, hungry vampires would be leaving a trail of dead bodies, not cuddling in the backseat of a truck," Sam argued back.

Dean rolled his eyes at his baby brother, who had always been smarter than him. "No need to get all logical on me, Sammy."

"Maybe we should just let them sleep," Sam suggested again.

Dean shook his head. "How the hell are we supposed to get through the gate and sleep? In our own comfortable beds?" Dean asked without sounding like a whiny little kid. It had been a long day and night of hunting and he just wanted to be in his bed.

Having enough of this, Theo sighed and slowly unraveled himself from Y/N's embrace. Y/N nodded, understanding what he was about to do. Theo sat up before he opened the door and got out. Sam and Dean immediately stopped talking and aimed their guns at Theo. Being the protective girlfriend that she is, Y/N immediately shifted and quickly stood in front of Theo. Her eyes glowed yellow as she bared her canine teeth and claws at the hunters.

Dean and Sam shifted their guns at her. The mere thought of someone wanting to kill Y/N was enough to make Theo shift. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her behind him as he growled at the older men.

"Well, at least we know they're not vampires," Dean muttered to Sam.

"Look, we don't want any trouble," Y/N retracted her claws and canine teeth, but still glowed her yellow eyes.

"We just needed a place to sleep," Theo added as he also slowly shifted back to normal. "We'll leave."

"You can't leave without telling us what you are," Sam said.

"Watch us," Theo growled as he turned around to open the door for Y/N to get in first.

Dean pointed the gun at the ground and fired it. The sound of a bullet firing off echoed in the night sky. Theo immediately growled as he turned around, his hoodie falling back. Dean quickly pointed the gun at him, and before he could threaten the boy again, Sam noticed something. He couldn't help but think he might have seen the boy somewhere before. His hair was kind of long and styled how the 90s heartthrobs did. He had an impressive jawline structure for his age. He had a clean-shaven face, which almost gave him a baby face look. Yet, he also had a bad boy image about him. Sam couldn't help but notice how much he resembled his older brother when he was around the same age.

"Wait!" Sam yelled. He placed his gun on the ground, letting the young supernatural creatures know he wasn't going to harm them. "What's your name?"

"Why do you want to know?" Theo asked.

"Yeah, Sammy, why do you wanna know? Why does it matter?" Dean asked with his gun still pointed at Theo.

Sam turned around to look at his brother. "Does he remind you of anyone?"

Dean looked at the boy, long and hard before he shook his head. "No. Is he supposed to?"

"What's your name?" Sam asked again. "Your full name."

"Theo Raeken," the chimera answered.

"Raeken?" Dean asked. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"Where are you from?" Sam followed up.

"Let's go," Y/N whispered as she wrapped her arms around Theo's waist and pulled him to her chest. "Look, we promise to leave and no one will get hurt, okay?" She asked the hunters.

"Theo..." Sam asked carefully. "Where are you from?"

Theo had a deep, twisting feeling he's never felt before and he couldn't figure out what it meant. He just knew he had to answer the question. He had never seen a man pleading so hard for an answer over a simple question. He swallowed hard. "Beacon Hills."

Sam nodded. "Dean, put the gun down."

"Like hell I am!" Dean snapped in surprised.

"Dean, I want to try something, but they won't trust us if we don't put the guns down. So, put the gun down. Now." He demanded.

Dean gave his brother a hard look, one were his lips formed a straight line. He was usually the one to call the shots, but suddenly all the memories of when Sam got hurt because Dean didn't listen to Sam or he didn't do what Sam suggested to do, crossed his mind. Dean didn't know what the outcome of this situation would be, but he wasn't going to risk his baby brother getting hurt, or worse, lose him.

Dean let out a frustrated sigh before he placed his gun on the ground. "Okay, Sammy."

Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders and stood in front of him a few feet and paralleled with Theo. "Okay, now if you could just squat down a little bit," Sam told Dean.

"Squat? What is this? Gym class?"

Sam ignored Dean's comment and placed his hand on top of his older brother's head before slowly pushing him down. Sam pushed until Dean's head covered Theo's. "Don't move," Sam said before he took a few steps back until it looked like Dean's head fit proportionally with Theo's head. Sam's eyes widened.

"What?" Dean asked worriedly as he shot up and stood up straight.

"Give me a second," Sam shook his head as he walked back to his brother. "Could you come with me?" Sam asked the girl.

"You get her, while I get him," Dean whispered as he winked at Sam, assuming this was a trap to get both of them.

"We can hear you," Theo and Y/N said in unison.

Dean turned around. "You did?" The couple nodded their heads. "What are you?"

"Chimeras," they said in unison again.

"Kai- what?" Dean asked confused as he moved.

"We'll ask questions later, because believe me, I have plenty of questions. But for now, just stand still and don't move," Sam said, earning a groan from Dean before he placed Dean back in his previous spot. "What's your name?" Sam asked the girl.

"Y/N."

"Okay, cool. Could you come with me for a second, Y/N? I promise I won't hurt you and neither will my brother."

"Fine," Dean muttered before Sam pushed him down in the same squatting position as before and walked away from him again.

"Just so you know, if you try anything, I won't hesitate to kill you," Y/N said as she walked up to Sam and stood next to him.

"Noted," Sam said. "Now stand right here," Sam moved out of his spot and let Y/N stand where he was. She saw what he was seeing, Dean with Theo's long hair. She arched an eyebrow before looking back at Sam. Sam nodded, surely thinking the same thing she was.

"What's your brother's name again?" Y/N asked.

"Dean," Sam answered.

"Babe, what's going on?" Theo called out.

Too intrigued by the possible similar features between her boyfriend and Dean, she ignored Theo's question. "Dean, can you stand next to Theo?"

"Would a please kill you?" Dean whispered under his breath.

"Please?" Y/N said sarcastically with an eye roll.

"Do Kia-whatever you two are - have enhanced hearing?" Dean asked as he walked towards Theo.

"Yes," Theo answered as they finally stood next to each other. They both faced forward, looking at Sam and Y/N. They couldn't help but noticed the somewhat similar facial features between the two.

"You don't think..." Y/N trailed.

"What did she say?" Dean called out.

"She said, 'you don't think...'" Theo answered.

"Think what?" Dean asked.

"I don't know. She didn't finish the sentence. We're not mind readers," Theo sassed back.

Sam rushed forward with Y/N by his side. "Dean, years ago, I mean yearsssss ago, do you remember that one time dad had a hunting gig in a Beacon Hills and we snuck out of the hotel to eat pancakes at some diner?"

"Beacon Hills! I knew that place sounded familiar. Dad was hunting down the Demon Wolf."

"Deuc?" Theo and Y/N asked in union.

Dean's eyes widen. "He's still alive?"

"Not the point! But we'll get back to that later," Sam said to the young couple before he looked back at Dean. "What was the name of that waitress you lost your virginity with?"

Dean's lips formed a smile, instantly remembering the teenage girl that was 2 years older than him. She was a senior in high school and worked the night shifts at the local diner. "Patty," he sighed.

At the name, Theo stiffened.

"Do you remember what her last name was?" Sam asked Dean.

"I don't know-"

"Raeken," Theo answered. Sam nodded, knowing his assumption Theo might be related to Dean was right, while Dean's eyes widened. His eyes were so wide, everyone thought they were about to pop out of their sockets.

Dean cleared his throat. "How did you-"

"Patty Raeken was my mother," Theo answered. 

[stunudo]

Technicolor

A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction

Featuring: Spencer Reid x Female Reader    

Setting: Season 11

Requested by: Anonymous

Warnings in the tags, A/N at the end.

Your name: submit What is this?

It was the blue of the scrubs on Grey’s Anatomy. The vague blue color that people generally refer to as “sky” blue. It wasn’t vibrant like robin’s egg blue or slightly toxic as cornflower blue always felt. It was simultaneously solid and unsubstantial a hue on the spectrum of all blues. This blue dropped your jaw, shut off your thoughts and changed the entire course of your future. The little line intersecting the generic horizontal strip was the blue of a positive pregnancy test.

You were with child.

What kind of absurd phrase is that? The English language is full of useless and uncomfortable words and expressions. Most of them outdated and dealing with socially awkward topics like menstruation and masturbation. You didn’t feel like you were with anything. You felt shell shocked. Then another color flooded your mind, a bright chocolate brown. The warm orbs that would be instantly enraptured with the tiny bunch of cells replicating inside you. Spencer’s excited eyes were the richest color you could imagine. It was then that the hope for that forming person sparked within your heart.

The pressed suits and the briefcases, the credential wallets and the wing tips. The streamlined professionalism of FBI black was notorious. Films were made and phrases were coined about the men in black. The secretive nature of the work elaborated into conspiracies by the media overshadowing the mind numbing details each case required. You wore a muted grey pantsuit with a saffron silk scarf around your neck for cheerfulness.

Hotch, the definitive agent, for the expression of FBI black entered the round table room more somberly than even his stoic norm.

“Everyone, I need your utmost discretion at this time.” Hotch locked eyes on every member of the BAU team. “At 8:17 this morning, a single shooter entered the Forest Glen School in Ellicott City, Maryland.”

Garcia stood, her red lips a grimace as she quietly stated the known casualties. “The principal was discovered by one of the assistants shot multiple times. The shooter seems to have a dedicated list of targets, as none of the others in the surrounding offices were shot. One administrator was knocked unconscious with the butt of the rifle.”

“Have any of the students been shot?” JJ asked stone faced.

“Not according to the latest reports.”

“Has anyone identified the assailant?” Morgan looked over the grainy stills of the security camera footage.

“He is a white guy, medium build, early thirties.”

“What age are the students?” You asked before Spencer could interject his statistics.

“Middle school.”

“So we have a school full of tweens who could panic at any moment.” Lewis muttered.

“According to the daily attendance and an estimated staff roster, there are an additional 430 potential victims.” Garcia dropped another harrowing fact into your laps.

“He is not acting like a school shooter or a vigilante. I think our unsub has a clear purpose. Garcia, start searching any parents or former employees with grievances against the principal and school specifically.” Your genius squinted into the provided rough floor plan of the school.

“Cross check that with a military or police background, this guy got inside without anyone noticing or stopping him.” Rossi added, his salt and pepper features accenting the wizened creases to this face.

“We are going to assist on site, Morgan and I will drive. See you out front in five minutes.” Hotch dismissed the team.

Spencer leaned down and collected the physical files while the rest of the team moved along after grabbing their tablets. His brunette curls sliding down to obscure him from your view. He wore a blue Oxford shirt with a dark gray sweater vest that nearly matched his pleated pants. How could the world exist in this paradox? In one breath there was a madman shooting up a school and in the next there was the absurdly long lines and soft angles of the man you married. A man whose hands knew only gentleness and dramatic expression. Spencer Reid, gentleman personified, was going to be a father and you couldn’t even tell him. Not yet. Not until this case was behind you all. And so you stood for an exaggerated moment in quiet appreciation of your husband and all he embodied.

The fall foliage whipped passed the tinted windows of the government issued vehicles. Marigold and tangerine merging as if into flames. It was oddly quiet in the cab, despite having four agents occupying the space that only two would normally. The taupe interior reflective of the muted atmosphere. Spencer mindlessly held your right hand in his left as he examined the exits and perimeter established by the local police. You weren’t focusing on the case, you weren’t focusing on anything. You traced gentle patterns onto his knuckles.

“You usually only do that when you’re trying to stay awake through one of my documentaries.” Spencer murmured without looking up.

You smiled at the image of you two cuddled on the couch instead of driving into danger, again. “I guess I am pretty tired, I only had one cup this morning.”

Spencer’s eyebrows jumped somewhere between shock and impressed. “Are you feeling alright?” His smirk, hollowed his cheeks. You rolled your eyes. Slyly he checked the rear view mirror in front of Hotch, before he stole a kiss on your exposed neck. You stifled the squeal he elicited, but the knowing glint in the Unit Chief’s dark eyes told you, he didn’t mind your barely hidden affections.

The dark vests were stacked in the back of the SUV that Morgan drove. Rossi handed them out as you inserted your communication earbud. The playground stretched before you, surrounded by a monumental blacktop. White painted lines indicated different courts and games, the silence and stark nature of the scene sent chills up your spine. Spencer held up his elbow, with a slight nudge of his chin, you rechecked his vest. Working together had always been part of the relationship; it was these unspoken routines that showed others you were a unit. The navy blue accented his outfit nicely, Spencer’s scanned the crowd of law enforcement surrounding the barricades from his higher vantage point.

You doubled checked your weapons and he rolled up his shirt sleeves. JJ and Hotch were talking with the locals, trying to keep the media out until more evacuations could be made. Rossi, Morgan and Tara were quietly discussing triggers for the unsub. This was Tara’s first case with kids in the line of fire; you found situations like this brought a new understanding to the term ‘clear and present danger’.

“We should be communicating by now. The most successful hostage negotiations begin within the first hour of stand off.” Spencer’s brow is furrowed, he is on edge. Not everyone would be able to tell that this pucker of his pink lips means agitation instead of concentration. You do.

“We aren’t dealing with a typical hostage situation. We’re dealing with an assassin or a bounty hunter.” You conclude, shielding your eyes from the crisp autumn sunlight.

The stone halls of the school were cavernous, the same multifaceted shimmer radiated from the floor and up the walls. The power had been cut, so the deep shafts of light from the vaulted windows gave the space an added hush of a library. The adrenaline coursing through you and your teammates was more fitting a boxing ring than a courtyard for four square. The children on the first floor had been safely evacuated. There were two classes whose rooms were left unchecked and two newly deceased victims.

The goal was to talk the shooter down and ensure the school was completely evacuated. You were set in two teams; Morgan, you and Rossi on unsub detail while Lewis, JJ and Spencer were set to secure the potential remaining students and faculty. At the first fork, stairs rose in both directions. You locked eyes on your tall husband before following Morgan’s sweat coated head. His face softened briefly, you blushed, damning hormones and distractions. You signed the American Sign Language for ‘I love you’ before turning up the south stairwell. He nodded and followed his team up the northern set.

It’s the dark ringed yellows of a negative, the darkness that isn’t black but cannot be defined as anything else. Your mind is protesting against the strain on your muscles, your shortish legs taking the stairs in two or three step intervals. The heartbeat is rushing through your ears, the comm device loose against your collar. You wouldn’t listen to their pleas to stand down, their calm voices trying to rationalize a retreat, a detour to find the students, anything to break your direct route to Spencer. To the perilous trap that his team had found themselves in. You were sprinting down the hallway faster than you had ever been clocked. The shadows overtaking you as your reached the final bend.

You were going to hide it in a book for him to find. The plastic cap secured over the test strip so not to sully any beloved pages. You couldn’t remember what he was reading last, but you were hoping for a classic like “The Origin of the Species” or “Fathers and Sons.” You hadn’t planned it out much beyond that.

You weren’t expecting to get pregnant right away. After the wedding and honeymoon costs, you both agreed to save for a house before actively trying to create a miniature genius. Sometimes crazy schedules make for inconsistent taking of medication, such as the pill. Your bodies worked, despite the exhaustion and stress of the BAU. In a moment of joining with the man you adored and who had sworn himself to you, not five months ago. Some part of him had truly become part of you. You held possibilities, impatiently, yearning to share those with the great calculator himself.

There was a man’s voice shouting at the end of the hall, a pale oak door swung limply, having been forced open. You steadied your pace and readied your Glock, JJ’s voice came wafting out faintly. “We— help you. Just put— no. Drop it!”

Shots were fired before you reached the doorway, the unsub’s body half blocking you from entering the room. You checked for a pulse before scanning the room. The old blackboards had been replaced with glossy whiteboards, giving the chaotic scene unfolding before you a clinical overtone. JJ’s voice was barking into her vest walkie, words that meant nothing when her hands were coated in scarlet.

Her golden locks flipped back and forth calling to you, calling to Lewis. Lewis had been shot in the leg, you should check on her. Spencer was with the two other female agents, they were meant to secure the students. Where was Spencer? It was then a ripping sound drew your glazed attention to a light blue Oxford shirt with a pooling stain, much like spilled ink spreading across the front.

“Y/N, Y/N talk to me. Y/N, he needs you right now. Can you do that?” JJ was pleading with you. You snap to it. You kneel beside your convulsing husband and take the sleeve that JJ ripped to try to stop the bleeding long enough to get paramedics through. You haven’t looked at him yet, you are following orders. You are disassociating like a trained professional. Or a sociopath. Whichever shoves her hand in her husband’s side and gapes at the warmth of his spilling blood.

Your hands are caked when JJ speaks again. “I am going to check the last classroom for survivors. The medics are on their way, powers back, so we can get a gurney up the elevator now.” JJ checks her cartridge before stepping over the bulk of murderer left at the door.

There were no desks in the room. There were bleached wooden tables cut into semi-circles. The chairs were splattered around the room like uncollected jacks. Spencer’s cool touch found your forearm, this was real. The gold of his wedding band shone against the anemic pallor of his hand. You closed your eyes, trying to dam the tears back.

“You were supposed to be clearing the remaining classrooms.” You bit at your husband. Spencer’s eyes flashed with the briefest confusion with your tone before shining with the challenge.

“And you were supposed to be talking down the unsub, we both suck at our jobs.” Spencer smirked, but his eyes were drooping.

“Well, can’t call it a day, yet, Doc. I need that big brain of yours.”

“Okay, shoot.” Spencer chuckled, nearly dislodging the makeshift bandage. “Poor choice of words, forgive me.”

You readjusted your position, you now straddled Spencer’s thighs, to give you equal pressure to the GSW. “Alright, so what the hell was this unsub’s deal?!”

Spencer’s eye sockets looked deeper than ever, the pink from his lips was fading. Every ridge of his chiseled face was accentuated. Somewhere behind him, you heard Lewis inching towards your huddled forms. “Y/N, Y/N can you hand me Reid’s belt?”

Your head snapped up, there five feet away was Tara Lewis sprawled out and bleeding from a lower thigh shot. “Oh god, Lewis, I’m sorry, I, shit!” Keeping one hand on Spencer’s wound, you undid his belt, clumsily.

“You pick the weirdest times to get fresh with me, Mrs. Reid.” Spencer’s voice cracked and his eyes couldn’t stay open.

“Yeah, well, just keep talking, Dr. Reid, you know how we like to hear you ramble.” You try to keep him engaged, try to keep him conscious. You have to roll his body to get the belt completely off, it was difficult, but Lewis had reached you to help. After securing her own tourniquet, Lewis took over for you. You shook your arms out and stretched before kneeling down again, cradling Spencer’s face in your lap. He was completely unconscious now. It was then the white shirts and metal frame of a stretcher burst through the destroyed door.

A nurse in stylized Mickey Mouse scrubs was washing your hands in a manila tear drop basin. Her teak hands were warm and steady, prying the flecks and remnants caked under your pale nails. It was a tender thing, letting someone take care of you. Vastly more intimate than a manicure; you felt child like. A memory of sitting on the lemon yellow toilet lid with a skinned knee and elbows flashed into your stream of consciousness. Those cloth band aids that caught every piece of fuzz and dirt one could happen across.

The nurse wiped some smudges from your face and neck, your outfit was destroyed, the outline of your Kevlar vest obvious for lack of splatter. Finally they were letting you into see your husband. It had been three hours of surgery before sleep over took your anxiety riddled body. Four hours of almost dreams and glimpses of memories before they woke you up to say he had pulled through. Thanks to you. No, thanks to Tara and JJ, you thought. Words were useless, arguing didn’t change the outcome. Spencer lived.

The sore joints from tension and sleeping in the mint coated hospital waiting room rocked through your bones. Waiting had been arduous, seeing the love of your life helplessly connected to a tangle of wires was a pitfall. Your aching body acted on its own, one foot in front of the other, closer and closer to Spencer’s unconscious body. He seemed so frail, his animated expressions hidden inside this cocoon. You placed your freshly scrubbed palm on his cheek, his natural warmth was returning. You blinked through the relief, taking his right hand in yours.

You stood there, whispering prayers of thanks to any heavenly entity who would hear you. The soreness in your bones had stretched into your lower back, yet you ignored it. The scuffle of shoes entered the recovery room.

“Mrs. Reid? His anesthesia will be wearing off shortly. Are you sure we can’t give him something for the pain?” You had begun shaking your head before the same nurse had finished speaking.

“No, he wouldn’t want any narcotics. He’s been clean for so long.”

“There are other options for pain management. A gunshot and surgery is very traumatic to the body, his heart rate would remain elevated and he might lose consciousness often.”

“What would you suggest?” You didn’t look her in the face, instead kept staring at the peaceful face of Spencer, the face before the pain returned.

“We can give him an epidural?”

“As in a spinal, like for labor and delivery?”

“Exactly, the same anesthesiologist can administer it once he is awake. It would numb him from the waist down.”

“We’ll talk about it, thank you.” You met her concerned hazel eyes, finally. They were shining, her brain firing along endless synapses. “Can I? Can I lay with him?” Your body felt suddenly heavy.

“Sure, just let me adjust his wires.” Her name was Simone, her nimble hands sorted and realigned each gadget, she worked silently and with care. Her long braid heavy on her small frame.

JJ entered Spencer’s room and found the couple asleep on the hydraulic bed. The slight beep of the monitors and their heavy breathing the only sounds that met her trained ears. She set Y/N’s go bag on the small coffee table near the solitary tan leather recliner in the corner. Her strong hands rubbed gently on Y/N’s arm, trying to rouse her.

Spencer came too first, the grimace hard on his features. JJ knew all too well that her best friend would have refused pain killers. “Hey, Spence, is there anything I can get for you?”

He took a second to gather his surroundings, absently patting Y/N’s head on his chest. “Just some water, JJ, maybe a nurse? I think I might need a change of dressing, it feels sticky.”

Y/N shifted as Spencer tried not to jostle her, the threadbare canvas colored blanket fell back and JJ gasped. Spencer’s face became alarmed. 

JJ had grabbed the call remote attached to the bedside, “We need a gurney in room 712…. no, not for the patient.”

The layers of red, burnt sienna, rust, deep auburn all layers of yours and Spencer’s blood mixing on the fabrics of your clothes, the rayon and cotton soaking and deflecting the viscous liquid in various stages. You nodded in understanding, the deep muscular ache was a familiar one, a regularly worked through pain. JJ had sat with Spencer once the doctor and nurses had readied an exam room. Your eyes glared at her, screaming ‘protect him’ from this. JJ’s fierce nature, the only person you would trust with Spencer during this time apart. The examine was over quickly, just like the pregnancy. You were allowed to shower and change once cleared. The bleach white towels in the private bathroom heavier than the innumerable hotel counterparts you had used in the three years with the BAU.  You were with child and now you were without. It had barely become a thought and it was taken from you. You sighed out a ragged breath, staring at yourself in the mirror.

You were without.

Two years later

Spencer patted the tuft of brown curls as he laid the tiny bundle into her bassinet. She was swaddled and breathing that reedy rhythm you had come to need as much as your own breath. She was perfect. Her tiny hands already showing strength and dexterity. You watched from the bed, the heavy shadows cloaking the exchange.

It was in the early morning hours that life’s colors became memories. The sepia tinged room filled with exhaustion and devotion. There had been many tears shed from that first pregnancy until these late night feedings. There would be many more ahead. But life had begun again, filled with the hope of a brighter world of tomorrows.

Request: “Could you please do an imagine where Spencer and the reader are a couple that work at the bau together and the reader gets pregnant but wants to surprise Reid and they go on a case together on which Spencer gets shot and the reader is left holding him and waiting for help and she gets a miscarriage, thank you I love you”  

A/N: Alright, so this request was pretty notorious when I first received it. I accepted it because I don’t get a lot of requests and it was content I hadn’t written before. It is rather detailed. Thank you for thinking of me and all the other people who turned it down (and if anyone else wrote it, I’m sorry I only saw the passes). I hope this covers all the angst the request suggested! I wanted to do something a little different style-wise. I hope you liked it. Also I am not a doctor, I am not sure if an epidural would be the first suggestion in this scenario, but I found it symbolically effective. xoxo Stu

[lovingzombiechaos]

The Mulligan Chapter 4

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three

As always NSFW.  Word Count: 1700 Summary: Nayna and William reunite. 

Also, I hate tumblr’s formatting. What a PITA. 

Taglist: (Will add anyone who asks). @a-distantdreamer @dusty-cookie @withsilverleaves @negans-network @sweetsweetpeach @vizhi0n

She pulled her jacket tighter around her as the wind whipped her skirt around her thighs. Stuffing her hands under her armpits, she danced from one foot to the other. Her eyes stayed glued to the pier where her husband’s ship was moored.

Soon he would walk off the ship, towards her and she would have to start anew. Her mind raced a thousand miles an hour, images of her and William flashing through her brain. It only made her heart beat faster and her soul ache. Beside her the other wives huddled in groups, whispering about the chill of the May morning and occasionally shooting her furtive glances. She pointedly ignored them, as she always had. She needed less drama in her life, not more. 

Especially now.

Her insides were all twisted as she craned her neck to peer over the crowd. God, they needed to call liberty already. She was tired of the jitters running from her heart to her belly. Tired of shaking every time she thought about him.

Up until that morning, she hadn’t known she wanted him so bad. Even at their worst, they were still great friends. She never realized how much she missed him until he was a stone’s throw away. It was the same with Lexie.

She’d never handled loss all that well. When her father died it was tragic, but she’d forced herself to move on. Just as she had with the ending of the world. Just as she had when the world began again. What was the point of wallowing in it all?

Her phone buzzed from her purse. She pulled it out. “Hello?”

“Hey, babe.” William’s gentle tones made her heart clench.

“Hi,” she said in the shakiest of voices.

“My phone died.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “They’re about to call liberty.”

“I’m here near the turnstile thing, near the front parking lot.” She cleared her throat and turned away from the crowd.

“Should be a half-hour at most.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t freeze to death before I get there.”

“Only after. Got it.” She tugged on a stray piece of hair.

“See you soon. Bye, babe.”

“Bye.”

They hung up and she pressed the phone to her chest with trembling hands. Shit, she needed to get it the fuck together.

It didn’t take long for the mass exodus from the ship to begin. Nayna felt herself being jostled and bumped as happy, happy reunions took place all around her. She hoped William wanted her as much as she wanted him.

She wanted him. She didn’t want that divorce. What if he did? She didn’t know if her heart could take it.

She blinked and then, he was there, walking towards her with an armful of roses and a tentative smile. She pushed past the crowd and met him halfway, arms outstretched to grab his backpack from his already overburdened person, though she craved a hug.

He misinterpreted her eagerness to help for an embrace and she grunted when her body thumped against his. He smelled like boat. She wrinkled her nose into his whites. Boat and William. And his breath was as awful as it was when he graduated boot camp. She laughed in his shoulder.

“That bad?”

“Awful.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He turned his face and her forehead connected with his nose.

“Ow! Fuck,” he said, stepping back and clapping his free hand over his nose.

Meanwhile, she rubbed the back of her hand on her forehead and started to giggle.

William shook his head and sniffed. “Zero days accident free. Here I am, home again and you’re already abusing me.”

His cheeky grin and twinkling eye only made her laugh harder. People were looking at them, but for once, she didn’t care. Nayna slipped the backpack from his shoulder and hoisted it onto her back. She thrust out her hand for his laptop case and slung that over her shoulder. She cocked her head to the side and headed for the parking lot, preferring to have their true reunion in the privacy of her car.

“Hey, wait,” he called after her. “I can carry that stuff.”

She grinned at him over her shoulder. “You can carry your duffel and my flowers.”

After they’d safely tucked his things away and shut the trunk, William grabbed her hands, his dark eyes searching her face. “I don’t want to divorce you.”

A rush of warmth nearly overwhelmed her. “I know.”

The relief on his face was evident and she reached up to cup his soft shaven cheek. He closed his eyes and turned his face into her palm, giving it a dry kiss. 

“Thank you.”

“This doesn’t let you off the hook for the shit you said to me.”

“I know.” His voice was hoarse. “I was a shit husband.”

“You still are. But I forgive you.”

“Thank you.”

“I was a shit wife too. So, we’re King and Queen of Shit Mountain.”

He chuckled. “I forgive you too, Queen Shitface.”

“Let’s go home.”

He opened his eyes and pushed her hand from his face. His arm came around her waist and his own hand tilted her face up as he claimed his mouth for her own.

Her eyes fluttered shut and she marveled on the differences and similarities between William’s lips and Negan’s. Both were soft and warm. However, William’s kiss was filled with familiarity and love, whereas Negan’s was full of lust and a strange sense of security.

He broke off the kiss and left her heart aching.  Her fingers had coiled themselves into his blouse. She smoothed her fingers down the crumpled material, marveling at how warm and solid he was.

Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She thought she’d never see him again, thought there would forever be a hole in her heart where he was supposed to live. Seeing and feeling him made her realize she’d missed him more than she knew.

His thumb swiped along her lower lash line. “Hey, silly wife. I’m here. Don’t do that.” His voice carried that indulgent tone he used only with her and it made her smile.

“Shut up and kiss me again.” She tugged him down by the scarf and he obliged her with a sweet and gentle touch of his lips.

“Come on, let’s go home.” He tugged her back to the driver’s side and propped the door open with his hip.

She pawed at him. “You’re going to get your whites dirty. You know what a bitch they are to clean.”

He chuckled. “Fuck the whites, Meghan. I want to go home. Lie in bed. Fart on you a little bit.”

She sniffed. “God, you’re so unromantic.” Nayna slipped into the car and squinted up at him. “Norfolk home or Quantico home?”

He leaned down and nuzzled her face. “Home is where you are, babe.”

Her face relaxed into the first genuine smile she’d felt all week. “I love you.”

Cupping her jaw with his free hand, he rubbed his thumb along her lower lip. “I love you too. That’s the only reason I’ll ever consider taking any shit duty in Quantico.”

“What?”

“Unicorn fucking orders. Pulled some strings. You are one lucky motherfucker, babe.”

“You mean I don’t have to transfer down to shitty Norfolk?”

He grinned. “I heard it’s not that shitty. And it’s cheaper to live down here.”

She scrunched her face. “Mayhaps.”

“You just want to live near Lexie.”

“Duh, she’s my soulmate. Get in the damn car so we can leave this stupid place. Long ass drive home.”

“Soulmate, huh?” He put his hands on his hips.

She giggled. “Oh, don’t be a big baby. You don’t even believe in soulmates.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” He swiped a finger over the tip of her nose and sauntered over to the other side of the car. When he was properly buckled in she put the car in gear.

When she drove down yesterday, she assumed all these problems were little problems. Things that didn’t mean anything compared to the death and turmoil she’d faced already. And yet, she found herself extraordinarily grateful to him. She knew none of the shit mattered at the end of the day, and yet there he was, making concessions for what she wanted. It made her happy.

Had he grown up? Or was it because she stopped caring?

She pulled out of the lot and they rode in relative silence. He kept one hand on her thigh, though it felt heavy and awkward, she liked it.

For William, it had only been months since they’d been together last. For Nayna, it had been years. She would have to get used to his affectionate gestures again. All those years of shutting people out made her wince at anyone’s touch. Especially Negan’s, as his was directly affectionate. Even in ways William had never been.

She cast a furtive glance his way. He looked the same as ever. Dark eyes with impossibly long lashes, even longer than hers. Full lips underneath a sparse mustache, the only facial hair he was allowed. Determined chin and jaw. Heavy brow, that always made him look like he was thinking. And all that soft tufty hair. Baby chick hair, she always teased him.

He hadn’t changed one bit. But she had. This morning as she stood in the hotel room to get ready, she took a look at herself. A good long, hard look. And it shocked her how different she appeared.

There was no longer the hollowness of her cheeks, nor the anger or hunger in her eyes. Her face was fuller, rounder and her brows had been waxed and plucked until there was nary a stray hair to be seen. Still thick, but no longer unruly. Her skin was as pale as it used to be and the smattering of freckles on her nose were barely visible.

Looking in the mirror reminded her she was no longer Nayna. She was Meghan again. Meghan Hunter-Riganti. She was someone she didn’t know anymore. There she was trapped between two worlds. On one hand there was William, her lover, mate, husband. On the other, there was Nayna—the wild, untamable girl she’d come to love more than anything in the world.

She hoped she could have both.

[dracox-serdriel]

Orion - Chapter Ten: The Keeper of the Months (Orion)

Title: Orion [AO3] [LJ] [FF] [Tumblr] Chapter: The Keeper of the Months Universe: The Flash Pairings: SnowJay (Caitlin Snow/Jay Garrick), SnowHunter (Caitlin Snow/Hunter Zolomon) Word count: 4,800 Spoilers: All episodes through 02x18 Versus Zoom and all comic books that feature Zoom/Hunter Zolomon. Rating: NC-17/MA Chapter summary: Caitlin recovers from the trauma of the siege at the Comet. 

Canon-divergent as of 02x18 Versus Zoom. Caitlin Snow and Jay Garrick meet under strange circumstances, but the attraction between them is immediate and the connection, real. Stranded on Earth-2, Caitlin fights for her survival against Zoom, the seemingly unstoppable meta-human who has fallen in love with her.

Set immediately after the events in 02x18 Versus Zoom, Orion includes flashbacks to missing scenes during canon episodes of the season when SnowJay was developing.

Read Orion from the beginning.

Orion Chapter 10: The Keeper of the Months

Caitlin stared at the magnificent waterfall that stretched up, up, up into the sky, so high she couldn't see where it began. It was breathtaking.

She got close, so close that its roaring was deafening. She reached out and ran her hand under it, testing the pressure and temperature before she ducked under the cascade, letting it drench her to the bone, relishing the sweeping rush as it washed everything away.

A hand was at her elbow, warm and gentle, and she knew who it was before she turned to see him. He was already so close she could only see his face and a titillating glimpsed of his bare chest.

How much of him was bare?

She shuttered at the thought, thrilled with the possibilities. Then his arms wrapped around her as his mouth captured hers, and she became lost in his tongue and lips and teeth, drowning in his eyes, more black than blue, blown wide with desire. She drank him in as he lifted her, wrapping her arms and legs around him as she sank over his flesh, groaning helplessly into their kiss.

His thrusts reached a punishing pace, the rhythm wild, reckless, perfect.

"Hunter!" she moaned as her climax crashed into her like a riptide.

She gasped for air just before the undertow dragged her down, out of his arms, and into the ocean, covering her with salt and cold and panic. She struggled against it as she fought her way to the surface, desperate for her next breath.

She was nearly there when something stopped her. It was as if a glass wall held her beneath the waves. She kicked, frantically maneuvering to escape, only to find herself completely boxed in: encased and submerged.

Caitlin threw strike after strike to no avail, and with the very last of her breath, she screamed, unleashing nothing but a flurry of bubbles.

Caitlin snapped awake, clawing at the blankets and reeling in confusion. She had just enough awareness to stumble out of bed, down the hall, and into the bathroom, where she nearly fell to the floor as she wretched over the toilet.

Her throat burned as a horrible taste filled her mouth, her stomach churning furiously and bringing up nothing but bile.

She collapsed. Now she was awkwardly splayed across the cold tile floor, reality returning slowly.

She was in a medical gown, light and loose over her skin, but she couldn't remember putting it on. The last thing she recalled was overlooking a wreck of a building as blue lightning streaked in the morning light. She had been wearing the Bellatrix suit - her suit.

No, that wasn't right. She had been called away. Blink had taken her to Totem because... because...

A wave of nausea overcame her as the images flashed through her mind: Hunter's injury; his pale, vacant body; and his blood... his blood everywhere, but most especially on her hands.

Caitlin pulled her knees to her chest as she fought the sob rising in her throat. Her memory collided with her last dream - the waterfall red with blood and his warm embrace as cold as a corpse - jumbling together into a kaleidoscope of pain and passion.

The lurid images of her unconscious mind were entirely unnecessary. She already knew that Hunter had dragged her down and now the weight of him was crushing her, holding her under. She was trapped.

And there was no going back. Not to Earth-1 and not to who she used to be, assuming she survived that long.

You've made it this far. Don't give up.

She wanted to laugh, but it caught somewhere in her chest. She didn't know how she'd gotten back to the Comet - Blink, probably - but it was only a matter of time before the MTU or some revenge-driven metahuman came calling. Hunter was - had been - the only one on Earth-2 who cared if she lived or died. With him gone, she was truly alone.

The soft padding of paws on tile drew her attention. A gray fox stood a few feet away, staring at her with... concern.

Must be one of Totem's familiars.

"I'm fine," she said, assuming Totem could hear her. "Fine."

It took everything she had to pick herself up off the floor. She flushed the toilet and washed her hands before driving the horrible taste from her mouth with her toothbrush. After she splashed cool water on her face, she caught sight of a figure in the mirror. Someone was standing behind her in the bathroom doorway.

It can't be.

Caitlin whipped around, certain that the man she saw couldn't be there.

"Ronnie?"

No, he was dead. Not just her Ronnie, but Deathstorm, too. So how was he here? She wondered if she had died in that forest, and all of this just echoes of her dwindling mind, complete with the ultimate wish fulfillment: reuniting with her husband.

But then she noticed that Ronnie was holding RJ on his hip. Their matching eyes stared at her, as if to say, "Come with us." So when Ronnie turned and walked away, she followed without hesitation.

Does this mean that Hunter is alone?

The question came unbidden and abrupt, and she stumbled in both her footing and resolve. He was dead because of her, because she failed to save him. She wondered if maybe he was waiting for her... wherever it was she was headed. Her thoughts churned and writhed, threatening to throw her into an eternal stasis of what-ifs.

She couldn't stop now.

Ronnie's long stride and quick step had already put considerable distance between them. She managed to climb out of her own head just in time to see him disappear into her room.

She scrambled after him, crossing the threshold mere moments later, panicked and thrilled at the same time.

The sheets were as she'd left them, carelessly thrown to one side of the bed, where RJ sat, his eyes sleepy and wide as he sucked on his fingers. She spun on her heel, scouring the room, but she and RJ were the only ones there.

She sat on the bed and wrapped RJ in her arms, desperate to feel something real. His weight and warmth grounded her and eased her breathing, yet she couldn't help but wonder if he, too, was a figment of her imagination.

"It's okay," she said, more to herself than RJ. "It's going to be okay."

She dragged the crib so it was right next to her bed before she placed RJ inside. As soon as his head touched his tiny pillow, he fell asleep, and she felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

"It's going to be okay," she repeated.

She almost meant it that time. Almost.

"You're awake."

Caitlin didn't look away from RJ. She recognized Totem's voice, but she wasn't ready to respond. She wasn't ready to accept that she was alive and awake, that some part of this was real.

"Bellatrix?" Totem asked. "You collapsed. Do you remember?"

Caitlin nodded her head, yes.  

"It is good to see you on your feet," she said. "But you should rest. At least until morning."

Caitlin didn't think she could go back to sleep. She was afraid that lying down would send her mind into overdrive, obsessing over what the morning would bring. Or worse, she might fall asleep and dream.

I'm losing my mind.

"No," Totem said firmly.

It took a moment to realize that Totem was responding to her thoughts. She finally looked at the other woman, somewhere between furious and relieved.

"I apologize," Totem continued. "I had not expected you to wake until morning. Ghost came to check on the boy before I knew."

Caitlin digested the words, her comprehension slowed from her jarring awakening. Then she remembered that Totem had mentioned that the children in the Comet had two caretakers: Cloak and Ghost.

"Ghost?" she repeated.

"You cannot look upon her face," Totem said, as if that explained anything.

"So, when I saw him... it wasn't him, just a meta's powers?"

Suddenly, a faceless metahuman using Ronnie's image as a stealth mechanism felt infinitely worse than losing her mind. It was an insult to his memory.

"Ghost cannot control who or what you see," Totem explained. "Apart from myself, the only ones immune to her affliction are children."

The word affliction was like a dagger, cutting through her emotions with a searing edge, leaving nothing but sadness in its wake. Exhaustion soon followed.

"I know you are tired," Totem continued. "But I must ask that you tell no one of this. Please. She does not deserve to be punished for my mistake."

Caitlin didn't understand why Totem was so anxious for her silence on the subject.

"Don't worry," she replied. "There's no one left to tell."

Something flashed behind Totem's eyes, and somehow, Caitlin knew that it was about Hunter. But that didn't make any sense.

"He lives," was all Totem said.

"He lives?" Caitlin repeated, unable to believe it.

"He lives."

Pure unrelenting relief swept over her. She hadn't failed him. She'd saved him. Hunter was alive. She wasn't alone.

Zoom lives. Because of you.

The thought was more accusatory than congratulatory, but she didn't care. She didn't care that a part of her hated herself for being happy that he was alive, and she certainly didn't care that she was being torn in two by the conflict.

He was alive. There was still time.

"You must rest, Bellatrix," Totem said.

Caitlin climbed into bed rather than replying. She doubted she would sleep right up until she closed her eyes.

Hunter returned to the house after midnight, stiff and drained from the day's battle. It had taken twelve hours to execute burn site protocol, and he had wasted another four recuperating in one of his old hideaways, fuming over the fact that his healing had slowed to such a degree. He wanted to check up on Caitlin, but he couldn't risk the trip with his injuries, so he sustained himself with the unbearably terse status reports from the Comet.

After hours with little more than confirmation that she was still breathing, he was desperate to see her face, to know irrefutably that she was alive and well. It took every shred of his will to step lightly up the stairs when every molecule of his being demanded that he race to her side.

And there she was, bathed in moonlight. She was beautiful like this, completely relaxed with her hair spread across the pillow. He could easily stand here and watch her like this for hours on end.

He had been so consumed with seeing her that he hadn't registered the crib alongside her bed, so close that it trapped some of her sheets. He hadn't forgotten about the boy, but he hadn't thought about him since he ordered Totem to make arrangements, either.

He tried to remind himself that this boy was likely no more than a patient, but there had been hundreds of children at the MTU facility. What set this boy apart from the dozens of other captives his age?

Hunter could stand in the doorway and watch her sleep all night. It would've been a welcome reprieve from the events of the last two days, but he couldn't afford such a luxury, not yet. The MTU would soon regroup, and he wouldn't let The Cause be unprepared for their next strike.

And he needed to identify this boy. Just in case.

Resolved to his next steps, he walked over to the far side of Caitlin's bed, leaned over, and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Sleep well," he whispered.

Then he left her room and descended into the basement, donning his Zoom suit before proceeding into the chaos he knew awaited him in the Comet.

Caitlin awoke to the sound of RJ crying. People always said that a mother knew her child's need by the sound of the cry, but for the life of her, she couldn't tell. Probably because - DNA not withstanding - she wasn't really his mother.

She took him to the bathroom and changed him, and the crying stopped. Then she put him back in his crib so she could shower.

She took longer than necessary under the water, trying to shake the stiffness from her limbs. She kept wondering if the conversation she'd had with Totem was real or part of a very bizarre dream.

She was relieved that he was alive, and she hated herself for it. She drudged up every one of his sins: pretending to be a hero, kidnapping Jesse, breaking Barry's back and stealing his speed. But no matter how many horrible things she thought about him, her righteous anger evaporated with the memory of him broken and empty on that surgical table.

She was too tired to be angry with him and too emotionally exhausted to hate herself. So, as she dried off, she made a mental list of all the patients she wanted to see.

She wasn't ready to face the day, but she tied her still-wet hair into a ponytail and carried RJ downstairs for breakfast anyway.

She should've expected him, but nevertheless, she stumbled when she saw Hunter waiting for her downstairs in a dark green t-shirt and jeans. The table was already set, including a new highchair.

"Caitlin," he said as he got to his feet. "Good morning."

It was so mundane - so painfully normal - that she wasn't sure how to act.

"Hi," she replied lamely.

"Here, let me take him," he said as he reached out.

She stepped back and clutched RJ to her chest, her first instinct to keep him in her arms. Hunter stopped dead in his tracks, his arms dropping, clearly stung by her unwillingness to hand him over.

"I thought you might be hungry. Both of you," he said, the tremor in his voice betraying his calm demeanor. "I... I would never hurt him, Caitlin."

"Oh, no, it's not..." she said, fumbling as if her tongue had swollen to twice its size. Luckily, she didn't have to think hard to explain herself. "It's just - your arm. The cast should still be on. Isn't it - "

"It's fine," he said, interrupting her as he stepped in close and put his hands on her shoulders. He seemed pleased with her answer. "I'm fine. Thanks to you. I thought breakfast was the least I could do."

Even though she was reluctant to let him go, she held him out. Hunter wouldn't harm him.

That's just what you want to believe.

Hunter took RJ to the highchair, which had cheerios and yogurt set out on its tray. She helped herself to pancakes and eggs, and he followed suit.

She did her best to ignore the image of a nuclear family sharing a meal. This wasn't real. It was just a passing mirage.

"I know that what you saw yesterday was... difficult," he began. "But there's more. It would be easier to show you."

"Show me? What about all the injured?" she asked.

"The Comet isn't expecting you," he replied. "You passed out the other day."

"Only because I hadn't eaten," she replied, more defensively than she intended. Then she added, "It's just - I'm needed here."

"You'll always be needed here."

Her mouth went dry, his sincerity as unexpected as his even temper. Everything about him this morning had her off-guard.

Only because you thought he was dead.

"Then tonight," he said.

She couldn't think of anything to say other than, "Okay, tonight."

He's manipulating you.

"And what about him?" he said, indicating RJ.

"RJ," she said automatically.

"He needs a nickname."

"He's not a meta."

"You don't know that," he said. "And even if he's not, everyone has an alias in the Comet."

She stared at RJ, unsure of what nickname might suit him. She could use another name from Harry Potter, but none of them seemed right. She considered his parents's aliases, Deathstorm and Killer Frost.  

"Frostbite," she said, saying the first name that felt right.

"Frostbite," he repeated. "Much better than Killer Frost Junior."

She started at his offhanded comment, but she shouldn't have been surprised. He probably went looking for RJ's identity as soon as he heard that she demanded to keep him at her side.

"Did you know that Deathstorm and Frost had a son?" she asked pointedly.

"I knew they had a secret," he replied. "They were far too powerful to be kept under Reverb's thumb for so long. I assumed he had leverage."

"You mean, keeping it secret from you?"

"Probably," he replied. "Little did they know, they had far more to fear from Reverb. I don't hurt children. Reverb, on the other hand..."

"So you didn't know that Deathstorm was a father when you killed him?"

She hadn't meant to ask that, and she regretted it immediately. But part of her - the part that kept reminding her that Hunter was monster that could never be redeemed - needed to know, even though Deathstorm wasn't her Ronnie.

Caitlin anticipated a raised voice and a grimace, but instead, all she saw was pained resignation, as if he had hoped for better but expected a response exactly like this.

"No," he said. "Even if I had known, it wouldn't have changed anything."

"How can you say that?" she asked. "You said you don't hurt children. What do you think happens when you take their parents away from them?"

"Would you have preferred I let him kill Barry?" Hunter asked, an edge to his question that was somehow worse than his usual anger.

She didn't have anything to say to that.

Thankfully, Hunter took that moment to rise from his seat and take his plate to the sink, even though he hadn't eaten much.

As he walked back, he stopped next to her chair and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Tonight," he said. "I'll be back at seven."

She nodded her head, yes, and he continued out the front door.

She turned to RJ, who was too happily playing with his food to be bothered with the incredibly odd conversation that just transpired.

Half an hour later, Caitlin carried RJ downstairs, his cheeks slightly pink from her scrubbing. She hadn't realized how difficult it was to wipe yogurt off a two-year-old.

She had expected to find the corridors brimming with people, but the top floor was empty and eerily silent. She walked into the room that served as her office, and no sooner had she arrived than a gray-and-white streak bolted out. She caught enough of a glimpse to recognize the fox from the night previous.

She settled RJ into the new playpen by her desk. She hadn't had time to consider what it would mean to take care of him, let alone what she'd need to do it. She was lucky that Totem had things in order.

She felt a twinge of guilt. Totem had been with her in the field and at the Comet, yet she had somehow not only anticipated her new needs but also arranged for the appropriate supplies. Surely she - and, frankly, everyone else - had better things to do in the aftermath of a siege.

But she was very grateful that she could have RJ within arm's reach.

She opened the rolodex on the computer. There were hundreds of new patients, though, thankfully, most were admitted for injuries like minor burns, broken bones, and lacerations. Even those without meta-healing would likely make a full recovery.

There were a dozen critical patients. Half had been brought in with gunshot wounds, and the rest had catastrophic injuries: extensive burns, severed limbs, and even one listed as near-decapitation.

She was so caught up in the admission summaries that she hadn't noticed the names. She jolted when she saw that both Colonel Cold and Heat Wave had severe burns and severed limbs. She was about to pull up their full medical charts when another alias caught her eye: Killer Frost.

Her doppelganger had been brought in after surviving multiple gunshot wounds and a lengthy field surgery to remove the bullets.

Caitlin typed frantically, trying to pull up any other details, but the digital medical chart hadn't been updated since her arrival over twelve hours ago. All she could find was that she was in Unit C on the second floor.

Caitlin scooped up RJ and went to the elevator.

The second floor was teaming with people, all too busy to notice her ducking into Unit C.

Frost was barely conscious, but her bed was set to support her in a semi-upright sitting position. Her normally-blue skin was white as marble, and, if the machine read-outs were correct, her vitals were alarmingly weak.

Caitlin grabbed her medical chart. It appeared more detailed than its digital counterpart, but she couldn't tell because she only had one hand free with RJ on her hip. Unable to flip through it, she scoured the top page, hoping she'd find something to explain Frost's condition. She had been admitted hours ago. So why wasn't she healing?

She's not metahuman.

Somehow, Frost had obtained powers without the expression of an active meta-gene, which meant she couldn't assume that any of her knowledge about metahumans applied here. It was possible that Frost didn't possess any kind of accelerated healing.

Or that something the MTU used on her suppressed whatever regenerative powers she does have.

Her stomach tightened as she recalled Scrap's screams, Lullaby's terrified eyes, Grodd's separated-yet-still-living head, her - no, Frost's - mother, half-frozen. Her hand tightened against the chart as her mind wandered down a dark path, wondering what the MTU had had in store for RJ.

What they could have already done to him.

"Get out."

The words were hoarse and harsh but also so quiet that Caitlin wondered if she imagined them. Frost looked no more lucid now than she had a few minutes ago.

"GET. OUT!"

Her lips barely moved, but there was no doubt it was Killer Frost speaking. Clearly, she didn't want visitors right now.

"When you're better, we'll be back," Caitlin said.

She returned the chart and left for her office.

With all the new staff on hand, she didn't know who to ask to make a copy of Frost's chart, and she couldn't just take it, not without risking Frost's care.

As she placed RJ back in his playpen, she thought, Would it really be so bad if she didn't get better?

She bit her tongue. Whatever crimes Frost was guilty of, she didn't deserve to die. Even if she did, RJ didn't. He had lost too many family members already.

"Bellatrix," Totem said from the doorway.

"Thank you," she blurted, remembering the guilt. "For... everything."

"You should not be working," Totem said bluntly.

"I - what?" Caitlin replied, fumbling at the unexpected response.

"You are still under Doctor Midnight's care," Totem explained. "You were relocated to your room after being successfully rehydrated, but you were not discharged."

"I'm fine," she replied. "You must need help here. After yesterday - "

"All patients have assigned medical care," Totem interrupted.

"Did Zoom put you up to this?"

"No," she replied. "A number of tests were ordered for you and are still being processed in the lab. You cannot be cleared to treat patients until those results verify your health."

"Totem, I - I can't go back upstairs and do nothing," she said.

"Then wake my son up," Blink said as she joined them.

Blink Junior had been scheduled to come out of his induced coma, but a stable patient like him wouldn't be a priority. Not with so twelve critical admissions on top of hundreds of minor cases flooding the same facility.

"I'd have to review his latest scans," Caitlin said to Blink. "To make sure he's ready."

"He is," Blink said. "I can feel it."

It was clear Totem didn't approve of this idea, and Caitlin wondered if her wariness came from having seen or sensed something.

Before she could ask, Totem spoke, an unusual edge to her voice, "I recommend that you take Frostbite upstairs and rest. If you will not, I must ask that you remain on the top floor and treat only Blink Junior."

Caitlin considered protesting but put it out of her mind. Even without patients, she still had a tremendous amount of Earth-2 medical research to read. She also could use the computer to find out how her other patients from the siege were doing.

Maybe it's not such a bad idea to take it easy.

"Okay," Caitlin said. "I'll treat Blink Junior."

"Hubris!" Totem shouted.

The silver fox raced into the room, sliding on its paws as it came to a halt beside RJ's playpen. It - no, he - looked up at her with wide, eager eyes.

"Be careful, Bellatrix," Totem warned before sweeping out of the room, leaving Hurbix the fox to watch over her.

After a tremendous amount of squabbling, Blink agreed to wait outside in the hallway with RJ as Caitlin brought Blink Junior out of his induced coma.

Hubris the fox eyed Scout the macaw as she worked, reducing Junior's intravenous medications to bring him out of the coma as gently as possible.

She had calculated the values carefully, taking his meta-healing into account, yet the boy snapped into consciousness as if she'd yanked him out violently.

It was clear from the look on his face that his vision remained compromised. She did her best to talk him through it, but he was too terrified to really hear her.

He's probably terrified of doctors after what the MTU did to him.

So she invited his mother into the room. Between his familiar and his positive response to his mother's presence, Caitlin decided it was safe to give them some space. They'd been apart long enough.

She spent the rest of the day in her office with RJ and Hubris, checking in on Junior and Blink at regular intervals, the hours slipping by quickly, probably because she was spending more time entertaining RJ than reading.

Then, at four in the afternoon, the computer came through with updated charts, including her own. Apparently, she was cleared to treat patients starting tomorrow afternoon.

She tried to pull up the lab results, but for some reason, they wouldn't load.

Caitlin didn't have trouble bringing up anybody else's files. She found that... suspicious.

Totem must be hiding something from you.

If something was being hidden from her, Zoom was the true culprit.

She really didn't like that possibility, so much so that when she checked in on Junior again, she asked Blink to obtain a paper copy of her lab results. To her surprise, the teleporter vanished immediately, returning less than a minute later empty-handed.

"Sorry, couldn't find it," Blink said. She put her hand on Caitlin's shoulder and added, "You ever need anything, Bellatrix, just ask."

She was disappointed until she realized Blink had slipped a note into her pocket. It read, "Upstairs bathroom between the towels. Don't let the fox see."

It seemed unnecessarily stealthy to hide it like that.

Unless Zoom gave the order.

So she went to her room and settled RJ into his crib before going to the bathroom, where, like Blink predicted, Hubris wouldn't follow her.

Still, she couldn't help but feel silly about all this. While Hunter could be concealing any number of things from her, what possible reason could he have to keep her lab results from her?

It was easy enough to spot. Blink hadn't just taken her lab results; she had stolen her entire medical file.

Caitlin riffled through to the most recent lab results. She had obviously been very dehydrated, given the electrolyte imbalance. Other than that, there wasn't anything out of the ordinary, except that her estrogen levels were off the charts.

Her eyes stopped at the bottom of the page, her mind and heart faltering at the result.

It's a false positive.

She flipped to the next page of blood results. They were the same tests, run earlier in the day.

No, it can't be. It's not possible.

The next page was likewise a repeat test, done the day previous. There was a fourth from yesterday morning, likely run when she was first brought in.

Four tests. Four. It would be unlikely that one would be a false positive. It was impossible for all four to be incorrect.

She stared at page, hoping it would sink in and start making sense, but all that did was sear the words into her mind: "Pregnancy: POSITIVE."

Chapter notes: The title of this chapter, the Keeper of the Months, is from an epithet for Átse Ats'oosí, the Navajo name for the constellation Orion, which translates as 'First Slender One' or 'First Slim One.'  Átse Ats'oosí always appears before the constellation Dilyéhé (the Planters), leading them safely through the night sky, making him a symbol of protection. He is called the Keeper of the Months because the calendar was built upon the movement of the stars, and it is the duty of Átse Ats'oosí to ensure that every star appears in its proper place and season, protecting the calendar that marks the months of the year.

Author’s notes: I hope you’ve enjoyed this latest installment. Hopefully the next chapter (entitled “The Saucepan”) will be out in about three weeks.

For next or previous chapters, go to the main Orion page.