#tw: allusions to a child's death.

[brutalmasks]

' it's quite funny how the world works. suddenly, killing makes you a villain if you're not some high end fancy pants ordering men to die in the name of honour. a flag is a stupid think to waste your life over, but, it's made glorious and beautiful and honourable. nobody tells you about the rage that comes with it, with the understanding that war is man-made violence and, therefore, it isn't a part of the natural cycle of life and death. '

bunny mask's first thought when the other first began speaking that the other had a very powerful way of commanding her attention; a trait that bunny mask herself found interesting, for this meant whoever possessed it oozed confidence, in her opinion. and although the spirit herself would willingly listen to anyone given the chance, it made her wonder about who this woman beside her was already. or what all she had experienced, as it were, since life events seemed to often have a tendency to shape who you are. bunny mask was clad in her usual attire at the moment; her mask in the shape of a rabbit obscuring the upper part of her face completely, with only wide slits cut out of it near the top to accommodate her glaring white eyes, and the dress she wore a nearly pristine looking white color.

and i say nearly because of the soot that was smeared across her collar. however, she thought she knew what she was getting into whenever she followed the sight of smoke in the distance, so this was of little importance to her: what was important to bunny mask was seeing if anyone needed her help here. it was usually a bad sign whenever a deep, dark smog that screamed ' fire ' had created a wall of it's own in the sky. but it turned out that she was wrong. this place was clearly pillaged and completely torn apart brick from brick, as the places that people used to call home were reduced to piles of wood scorched by embers. a thick layer of ash seemed to have formed in the midst of the landscape, and bunny mask could feel in her gut that something terrible had happened here.

perhaps as part of a war, as mya highlighted. the spirit could feel her heart drop while the other described her perspective on the sometimes militaristic and bleak nature of humanity. no, was it her experience? bunny mask thought that the way she phrased her words made this all sound very personal. a frown tugged at her lips as she bent down to touch the ash, letting it run through her fingers. mya was right — this was nothing to be proud of. she looked up at the other from the side, then, and spoke, ❝ you are right. i sincerely hope you were not here to witness what had happened here, for that would be a horror that you would likely never forget. but the men who do things like this, who ordered their own to risk their lives to ruin other's; they simply refuse to think they are the villains of anyone's story because they believe they are doing it for a noble purpose. though they are certainly not. ❞

bunny mask stood up and took a deep breath as she surveyed the land before her. there looked to be no survivors here, so the people here were either all killed, or maybe some had escaped. the latter might've been wishful thinking but bunny mask wanted to have some hope that this place was not turned completely into a mass grave, ❝ was that what this conflict was born from? the excessive pride of a nation, who are of the mind that they're righteous and good, but commit barbaric acts such as this one? ❞ she had to tell herself to take a deep breath now or she would likely lose herself to anger. and that would not be a pretty sight, for neither her, nor the other who stood just an arm's length away from her. in and out. bunny mask could feel the claws of her right hand dig into her palm as she took a moment to inhale, then exhale, but she didn't care.

everything about this was wrong. bunny mask let her eyes become half-lidded with the sense of sorrow that had come over her suddenly, like a tidal wave. it was just as she feared. mya had experienced this for herself, ❝ it is not natural. that, i must agree with. i am of the belief that we are fated to leave this world at a specific time and the lives of the humans that died in this town were stolen. they still had much to experience, to love. and from what i am hearing, you were forced to partake in the wrongful robbing of people's lives yourself, were you not? through war. an organized form of slaughter, glamorized to appear necessary by the masses, where there is no true victor. where everyone loses something and you are left feeling full of rage because of what you were coerced to do. ❞

the chill running through bunny mask's bones only intensified when she saw it on the ground. a doll, abandoned by it's owner, within the ash. bunny mask's voice became low, ❝ i am sorry. i am... so sorry. ❞

[mad-hunts]

okay, so i know this is a million years late, BUT we're just going to act like i just posted that post about how i believe barton would actually come to peace with death rather quickly in the event that he was dying okok / j [ahahhh, i'm just messing around with you all (': but anyways, allow me to get back into talking about it; like i'm sure you all are reading this for LOL]

nahhh, but i honestly was working on this for a little bit longer than i thought because i wanted time to really try to explain my thought process the best i could, you know? because that is not the kind of thing that people would probably expect from a villain character... though, with good reason, of course. and the fact that barton is actually afraid of dying does make it a little more unexpected, in my humble opinion. however, i promise that everything about this will make sense by the time i'm done explaining it.

so, no matter the scenario, i've always seen barton as a character who's very stubborn and who's resolve and/or goal to 'fix' as many people as he can is the right one most if not all the time. this is, of course, due to a variety of factors: one being that this sort of ideology was introduced to barton at a young age, and he never learned how to 'break out of it' so-to-speak (though he knew it was harmful). another one is that he's been exposed to a lot of terrible sights over the years and believes that humanity isn't inherently good, like batman, for example.

no. i'd say that barton is much more pessimistic and tends to expect the worst out of people automatically. as a result, this has kind of implemented the delusion upon him that 'well, if everyone's already bad anyways, then who's to say that these people don't in some way maybe deserve it?' so yeah. that second thing is a lot to unpack there on its own, i believe, but that is the general basis of what kind of character he is.

but here comes the double-layered part of it: barton had never wanted for his life to turn out this way, with him self-sabotaging and hurting people all throughout it. he sees 'normal' people after all, especially those who are happy and often becomes jealous of what they have, in fact. barton had fallen into the unfortunate trap of growing up in a household that praised him for hurting people... and when he was introduced to winslow, it felt like he'd gotten whiplash because he was nothing like wesley.

he couldn't break out of that terrible way of thinking, but of course, one can't blame everything on their past and must take responsibility for what they're doing. barton in this scenario of dying chose to go down a path of becoming a god damn serial killer just like his father; effectively becoming similar to him in some ways even though he didn't want to. and at his time of dying, i think that barton would have this moment of clarity that is a bit complex, but that i'll try to explain the best i can here.

this would be that he hasn't done any 'good' in his life much, if at all, but in the event that barton had time to spend before he died and was aware he would... he could do one good thing, and that would be to — although this wouldn't even begin to make up for everything he put them through, barton wouldn't be expecting that or their forgiveness — make his kids promise to break that cycle of violence in their family because they could still make something good of themselves.

they'd still have their whole life ahead of themselves, after all. barton wouldn't be claiming that it'd be easy or anything like that, but he'd want for them to be able to live a simple life like he secretly wanted to. and it'd be alright if they only thought of barton once in a while, or even never again because he knows that what he's done to them can't be undone. but the thing about death is that it makes you realize stuff like what you put out into the world is what you'll get back; and you have to do this life right, because you only get to live it once.

so, yeah, he wouldn't have any unreasonable expectations that he'd be making up with them or act like he's a saint now because he's doing this. but he could at least do this one thing for them after an adjustment period because facing your own mortality is probably scary, as i can imagine.

and it'd make anyone really think about what they want their legacy to be. and does barton want his to be his kids continuing the family business by killing people + thus condemning themselves to a life of staying awake late at night, just like him, thinking about what could've been? no, though it might take him some time to realize that, too.

now, if barton was dying suddenly and didn't have much time to do anything, then things would be very different. if any of his kids were present for it, then he'd tell them not to cry and that they'll be okay without him. probably better, actually, because barton believes he's never been the 'nurturing' type. but he'd ask them to grant a request for him and that would be to live the rest of their life/lives in a way that they could be proud of. with anyone else, i think that barton would come to peace with it by saying that he's done a lot of things he regrets (again, a moment of clarity) but one of the best things he ever did was have his kids.

so, telling them to pass on a message for him that he loves them and accepting it because he's just caused suffering + as well felt like he'd been suffering for a good portion of his life, so maybe it was just... time for him to move on? that'd be the way he'd react to that. which is... yeahhh, it's got a little bit of a kick to it, but once again; complexity is basically barton's middle name and he's not going to expect anyone to treat him any differently for doing this.

even in death, i don't think barton would want pity and would likely laugh at himself for thinking this would 'never happen to him,' as a matter of fact. but he would be genuinely calm and sentimental in a way that's very rare for him. so, yeah.

this was one long ass analysis, but if you made it to the bottom, i want to say that i appreciate you and love you to the bottom of my heart MUAHHH!! y'all are amazing and i just want to say RPing with my moots on here is always a blast for me 🩷 plus, i'm so honored that you're interested in my probably overcomplicated (LOL i kiddd, but IDK. he might be) OC that i made based off of a comic book batman villain that's appeared in like... two batman comics, haha. it really makes my heart happy.

[ladyrosemone]

History does not remember blood, it remembers names

Using Google Translate here, sorry for any spelling mistakes or inconsistencies 🗣‼️‼️

Tw: allusion to child prostitution, prostitution, death of a secondary character, abandonment of minors, allusion to negligence.

It wasn't always like this, you know.

You weren't like this when was younger, when mom would put you hair in those cute braids or dress you up to match her on dress-up Wednesdays, or even when she taught you how to put on makeup instead of buying the bike you wanted, one that you friend Michelle had. It was metallic blue, with white streamers hanging from the handlebars, and you still remembers it clear as the sun because that was the first time you felt envious of something foreign.

You was never blind to injustice, you saw it every day; at school when the teacher took you away recess because some brats weren't silent, at home when mom didn't give you dessert for some stupid reason, but the most recurrent one was the one that took the bread out of their mouths.

You understood it when you turned nine, when you woke and you beloved mother decided it was time for contribute to the household; On you birthday she took you to a fat old man, whom she said was his boss, he dressed you the way her mother dressed on a Wednesday and a Thursday and a Friday and a Saturday and a Sunday and she put so much makeup on you that you eyes burned.

She didn't want to do it, she wasn't going to do it, but when your boss comes to your home to demand protection money and sees you child, what else do you do but make things easier?

That's what adults love most.

She was not a bad mother, she was loving and protective, affectionate and self-sacrificing, but she was also a woman desperate to fulfill the most basic needs of a human, to eat and sleep safely one more night, and if she must use her little girl for that, may God forgive her on his last day.

And you loved her too, but not enough to intervene when you saw being pulled into a car, or asked her boss for help when others did, and you'll be damned if you refuses to be taken to the police station to take a statement, poor baby.

"Is in shock" they say that word a lot, even now "Leave in a foster home, there is no room in orphanages"

Like divine intervention, an old but royal gentleman like a general entered his life.

Alfred Pennyworth took you to a large house one day; He apologized for taking a while to find her, saying that he would never have expected that a child of Bruce Wayne would have been born in a prostitution ring and lived there for eleven years.

Suddenly you had a father and a brother, but it was like you didn't have them at all.

Bruce not a father, never a father was distant, like one of those men who only rented you to pretend to be a therapeutic doll, and Richard was...annoying, angry, lashing out at everyone all the time, a brat who left you without dessert because of his tantrums.

But you were good at something, at pleasing; It was never touched, thank God, but you're observant and you've learned a few tricks to cajole people.

That didn't work in them, not until Jason Todd came along.

He was better than Richard without a doubt, and for a few years he was you best friend; two peas in a pod, vanilla and chocolate, brothers of everything but blood, and for a time you found home in him.

And then Joker took him away.

You were never interested in being vigilante, dressing up as a traffic light and running across the roofs at night, but in those years you wished could have gone with him, to be a Robin just so you could avenge your brother.

Shortly after, Tim Drake arrived, Bruce's shadow, his little chameleon copying his movements, his gestures, his personality and you hated him with every part of your being.

At that time you stopped trying to bond with Bruce, you would never be his son, and quoting what he said;

"I don't have time, not now, not for you"

But yes for Barbara, yes for Stephenie, yes for that spawn of hell with whom you share blood, and yes for her adored daughter, Cassandra.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back, finding out that Jason, your brother Jason, had come back to life and never came to you, the only person who has entered your heart besides your mother, had abandoned you, betrayed you.

And then a metahuman arrives and they open the doors to him as if it were nothing?

Well, fuck them.

Although in reality, it was not your plan to return to your origin, who would have thought that finding your old friend Michelle in an alley after being thrown out of a van on the verge of death was going to give you the biggest reward in Gotham.

Loyalty.

Unlike you, Michelle did not have a millionaire father who claimed her like a carnival puppy, and her fate was no different from that of her dead mother, but she had contacts, people who knew things about more people and that a third spectator like you could use.

And if you learned anything in that damn mansion, it was to sweeten their words, caress egos and say what they want to hear, you learned to deceive and pretend, to disguise your intentions and attack without killing.

You learned to be a snake instead of a bat.

And like sweet karma, divine intervention or whatever you like to believe, starting your business from the brothel where your mother sold you by giving that fat bald guy to his enemies and taking his place, wasn't a bad way to start his story.

"Don't you think that's a brutal origin story?" You ask, looking with amusement at the infiltrated man now slowly bleeding out on your rug, Is it considered a fur rug if it's the skin of the past boss?

—Liar —he mutters in pain, writhing in pain and under the gaze of your cruel eyes — You killed them in cold blood! Your poisonous tongue made us destroy ourselves from within! Two-faced whore!

“I always like how creative they get when they’re dying” you reply, leaning back in your leather swivel chair, because no animal cruelty for you, you are not a monster “Anyway, I hear Ivy needs test subjects for her new fragrances, but I think you’d make a better fertilizer, Michelle dear”

Your right hand opens the door, where two men grab the traitor and take him out while he continues screaming, varying between cursing her and crying out for mercy "I hope it helps Pamela before the hyenas eat him"

Now you're Gotham's super predator, and your heart is hungry.

[maevesheart]

only angel (2)

FINNICK ODAIR X FEM!READER

note: wasn’t originally planning on making a part two to this but it just seemed so unfinished??!?! and i love ruthless reader idk she’s a queen

summary: through your alliance with katniss, you and finnick rekindle some buried feelings.

wc: 5.2k

tw: violence, death, brutal!!reader, blood, allusions to forced prostitution

only angel (1)

SEVEN YEARS EARLIER, THE 68TH HUNGER GAMES

Brutus and Enobaria sat in front of you and Mace, your district mate.

They reminded you of strategies that you had been taught your whole life, ensuring that as long as you two played into the Capitol’s hands, you’d get plenty of sponsors and come out alive.

Mace and you had never been close back home, but you saw him in the shopping centers, had some mutual friends. It was someone familiar, and even though your two mentors spent more time perfecting your wielding of knives and crocodile tears, you hoped Mace could somehow make it far in the games. Like you knew you would.

Enobaria and Brutus had introduced you to the various other Career Tributes, taking their time to butter up the other mentors, ensuring a ticket for your survival.

You were small compared to the other tributes, even the girl from Twelve was bigger than you.

But you trained, and you trained hard, showing off the various knife and sword tricks that had been engraved in your brain since you were a child.

Enobaria helped with your endurance, shocked by how fast you were. She had instructed you to not show that off to the other tributes, don’t give too much away.

After the private sessions with your mentors, you were stronger, faster, and more agile than Mace could even dream. You almost felt bad, the way Enobaria and Brutus were setting him up for death.

But, at the end of the day, only one can make it out alive.

Enobaria was strategic, determined for you to win. She instructed you to not show too many strengths in the private session with the Gamemakers, just enough to get a respectable score for someone from a Career District.

You followed her instructions to a tee, refusing to be one of the 23 fallen.

For the interviews, Ceasar laughed at your innocent comments and jokes, complimenting the head piece you wore, noting how it looked like a halo.

“Beautiful, like an Angel,” he smiled, the crowed cheering in agreement.

You giggled, smoothing down the uncomfortable golden dress they had sewn you into.

The crowd roared with your unwavering confidence, the arrogance paired with your baby-face and innocent smile was enough to send them into a fit of convivial.

It was just too easy.

The night before the games you had snuck out of the floor for Two, going up to the rooftop in hopes of having a moment to yourself.

You perched on the ledge, a small nightgown barely covering your shivering body.

You closed your eyes to relish in what could possibly be your last moments of peace, before being snapped from your trance by footsteps echoing.

You whipped around, teeth barring and senses on high alert. You were already acting like the wild animal Enobaria had been training you to be.

“Not in the arena just yet,” a smooth voice sounds out, a boy a few years older than you coming into view.

You recognized him as Finnick Odair. He had won a few years back, and was now returning as a mentor.

You ignored him, turning back to the outline of the Capitol.

He approached you slowly, leaning his body against the glass railing you were propped against.

You looked up to him, tired-eyes meeting his, somehow seemingly sparkling.

“Unfortunately,” you spoke, your mouth in a straight line. Enobaria had introduced you to him during the parade, but his tributes were not ally-material.

He laughed at your response. You stared at him, unamused.

“Feisty,” he smirked, watching you look away from him and back to the skyline.

“Not really in the mood to talk about my fate,” you said, his eyes still burning two holes into the side of your face.

His smile dropped slightly, having once been in your position himself.

He reminded himself you were only 15. A year older than he was when he won.

He had only won 3 years ago, and stood on this same rooftop. Looking out on the same city skyline.

Your peripheral vision caught him lean both his forearms onto the glass, shifting closer to you.

“Is it just as scary as it seems?” You ask. You were a child. A child that had been trained to hunt and kill. But deep down, you were just a scared kid. How would you kill all those people?

Finnick hums, acknowledging the same question that wracked his mind the nights before his games.

“It is,” he recognized your fear, but refused to give you false hope that it wouldn’t be as brutal as it truly is.

The words Enobaria had spoken to you earlier bounced around your brain, it’s just killing. Self-defense. All of it. Don’t be scared to kill someone who isn’t scared to kill you.

You let out a long breath, closing your eyes.

“I don’t want to die,”

It was quiet, but Finnick heard it, head perking up and turning to stare at you.

The role as a tribute was meant to bring great honor to someone from your district, but you were terrified. You were young, passionate. You had so much to give and so little time to give it all.

“Enobaria told me to hide my strengths, and I did. I’ll be able to kill them, once it comes down to it. But how will I live with myself?”

Finnick asked himself the same question everyday. How did he kill all those people? Sure, it was survival. Him or them. But how do you continue your life, pretending like you hadn’t murdered people on live national television?

“I—“ Finnick fell short, eyes still watching the side of your face.

“How do you cope with it all?” You finally turned to him, salty tears on your cheeks.

He knew you were preparing yourself for the inevitable. He had heard Enobaria boast about you, and had seen you in training. Other tributes would be frightened to get close to you.

He didn’t answer, swallowing thickly. You would soon understand, you would be in his position.

You choked out a sob, hands wrapping around your body.

He watched with wild eyes, before pulling you into his warm chest, head burrowing in his body.

You made no move to remove yourself from his body, and his arms were snug against your back.

“Kill as many as you can, as soon as you can. Then lay low, hunt. Don’t fall for any of that ally-bullshit.”

His voice was rushed, eyes filled with emotion. He felt for you, a scared child. He remembered his fear all too well.

You sniffled in his chest, hands balling at the thin fabric of his top.

And you listened to him.

In those next few hours, during the bloodbath, you killed two, both with knives to the chest. The Capitol citizens cheered as your face reflected the highest kill-count. You knew it was nothing to be proud of.

That next evening, while the rest of the Career pack slept, you stole the boy from One’s — Yves — backpack, shoving their weapons into it as quietly as possible.

Your small size came handy, being able to stealthily move around them, you were lucky the arena was a desert, sand not making a noise.

The girl from One — Aithon — began to lightly stir, and you knew it was now or never. Finnick’s words from the night before mixed with Enobaria’s, and that was all you needed to take a sword in each hand and take down the two tributes from One.

Their deaths were quick, the canons sounding out and Mace waking up, his laying figure looking up at you. Small but powerful.

You stood over his body, one foot on each of his arms, keeping him from reaching up to you.

His face twisted in confusion, looking over to the blood pouring from Yves and Aithon, each who had just been sleeping soundly next to him.

Your knife neared his face in milliseconds, and you had to force your arms down as he began to scream.

“I’m sorry,” was all you could whisper, guilt beginning to cloud your senses.

But you pushed past it, knowing you had to come out alive. No other option.

“Y/N! Please!”

And then there was silence.

He wasn’t anything special, but he was from home.

You held in tears as the canon sounded, running from the three as quickly as you could.

Whilst you hid behind one of the large cacti around the arena, Enobaria grinned as Capitol citizens celebrated her and you, her star tribute.

Finnick watched, heart tugging, knowing that he had encouraged the killings, he had told you to trust no one. And you had listened.

And from then on, you became the Capitol’s angel, their winged symbol of purity, despite the blood and deaths of many on your hands.

When Snow placed the crown on your head, you smiled, naively, and thanked the crowd. Thanked them for their donations, and their belief in you from the beginning.

But that’s all you were to them: a spectacle. A little girl who killed five in one day, a little girl who’s life had been dedicated to these games, to win. A little girl who would never get her purity back, never get to sleep without seeing Mace’s terrified face before she killed him.

He didn’t deserve it, none of them did. But it was life or death. And there was no way you were going to die.

PRESENT DAY, THE THIRD QUARTER QUELL

Your group continued up to the Cornucopia, you and Finnick taking the tail.

Peeta and Finnick drew a map in the dark sand, you leaned against the side of the metal Cornucopia, Johanna plopping down next to you, and Katniss on your other side.

It all happened in a blur. One second, Wiress was singing her song about a mouse and the clock, and the next, Gloss was on top of her, knife straight into the heart.

Katniss’s arrow struck him, you grabbing your swords to get Cashmere who was standing behind him.

Finnick rushed after you. He knew you could take Cashmere, but what happened if Brutus appeared? Brutus had never been kind to you, and it was doubtful he would start now.

Your sword stuck Cashmere in the leg, and she screamed, falling onto the little amount of ground that the middle sector offered.

She turned over, knife in her left hand, grazing your ankle slightly. Luckily your stylist had dressed you in thicker socks; she had been an absolute idiot about most things, but at least she had your back in the arena.

Your thigh was still slightly burning with pain, but you pushed through it, sticking both your swords into Cashmere’s chest, a strangled gasp leaving her lips and her head falling back against the ground.

The canon sounded out, but you continued to pull your swords out and drive them back into her chest, more blood pouring out.

You were grunting now, mind hyper-aware of your actions, but refusing to stop.

You kept driving the sharp tools into her chest, her body slightly moving up when you retracted the metal, and then caving in as you pushed them back.

You weren’t going to die; you refused to.

Hands were on your shoulders, pulling you backwards, and you turned, swinging.

Finnick let go and backed away, hands held up. He knew you’d never hurt him, but once you’re in the killing mindset, it’s very hard to break it.

You dropped the weapons to your side, a long breath leaving your lips that you hadn’t realized you’d be holding in.

Finnick pulled you along with him, hand on your side as he brought you over to everyone else.

All of them were staring with wide eyes — besides Johanna of course.

Katniss knew you were brutal, but she didn’t realize how quickly you did turn into the angel of death. One second you were smiling, laughing at something Johanna had said.

Then your eyes were lit with a fire, teeth out, and running, faster than Katniss had ever seen someone move.

She had watched you kill Cashmere in seconds, continuing to drive the weapons into her, sounds of exasperation leaving your lips but you were unrelenting.

You felt like you were fifteen again, scared and angry, brutal to anyone who crossed your path. Your swordsmanship was uncanny, and Katniss dreaded the moment that she had to try and kill you.

And then the Cornucopia began to spin, extremely fast. You grabbed onto Finnick, a sword sucking down into the water, your other tight in the palm of your opposite hand.

You and Finnick fell to the ground, grabbing at the hard rocks to keep from flying to the water.

And then you heard Peeta scream Katniss’s name, and the two of you both yelled a loud, “shit!”

You pushed off the hard ground, crawling to the side of the island, hand reaching down to grab Johanna’s axe and try to hoist the two of them up.

You grunted, holding onto a small portion of the metal that wasn’t sharp. Your feet dug into the ground, sword shoved into the rock to keep you grounded.

You watched as Katniss went flying down, and then Johanna was on top of you, the two of you gasping for oxygen when the spinning stopped.

You and Johanna were back on your feet, rushing to help Katniss out of the water.

You all made your way back onto the sand, where it was relatively safe.

You discussed strategy, your fingers tracing different shapes into Finnick’s thigh.

“Who’s left then?” Katniss asked, eyes flickering between you and Johanna, the two of you having a conversation with your eyes.

“Brutus and Chaff, I think that’s all,” Peeta announced, all eyes shifting to you at the mention of your district-mate.

“I get Brutus,” you spoke clearly, eyes hard.

“Y/N…” Finnick spoke, hand smoothing down your arm.

“Just… I know him. I can handle it, I swear,”

He had helped train you, of course you would know his methods like the back of your hand. You had been seeking revenge for years, waiting for the day you could get him back.

What had the games done to you? Fantasizing about killing someone?

And then you were back there, back to the moment your life really ended.

You were dressed in clothes Snow had picked out, a hairstyle Snow had picked out, makeup Snow had picked out. You were his newest doll, malleable to his every demand.

It was your victory tour, and Enobaria and Brutus were accompanying you, helping you with speeches and coming to terms with your new life as a Capitol pet.

You were finishing up in the Capitol, the final destination. Snow had laid out his conditions for you: your pride and body now belonged to the Capitol, and with it, they could do what they pleased. Your company came with a high price.

He had threatened your family back in Two, describing in detail what would become of them if you didn’t comply with his wishes.

You had gone back to the train and told Enobaria and Brutus, eyes spilling hot tears when Enobaria pulled you into her arms, hands stroking your hair. At least she was kind.

Brutus, however, was not.

His boisterous laugh rang off the walls of the train, your eyes peeking out from Enobaria’s embrace to glare at him.

“Let me know when you start, sweetheart,” he smirked, a scowl overtaking your features.

You had been waiting to get him back, to show him that weren’t a little slave for his disposal. Finnick understood your rage, more than any other person could.

He wanted to kill Brutus just as badly as you did.

No one else asked any questions, and for that you were grateful.

And then the screaming started, and you jumped to your feet, eyes frantic and scanning the area.

Whoever it was, they were screaming for Katniss, and rather brutally as well.

And off she took. You were the fastest, so you caught her first, arms around her shoulders to steady her, but she kept moving, screaming back to the voice.

She stopped abruptly, and shot an arrow into a large black bird that was flying over your heads.

The screaming stopped immediately. And then it began again, this time, it was the voice of Mace. And you felt the blood drain from your entire body, legs suddenly shaking and threatening to go out.

The words he had screamed to you before you had slit his throat were wrapping around your body, swallowing you whole.

“Y/N! Please! Y/N!” You were running then, the screaming getting louder and louder, tears streaming down your face as you tried to escape it; the horror that would haunt you forever.

“It’s not real, they’re jabberjays!” Katniss assured you, running behind you, trying to catch up.

You saw Finnick and Johanna’s faces ahead through your blurry vision, and you sped up, Finnick’s arms wide for you to run into.

But it was a force field, and you collided right into it, falling to the ground in a heap of tears and painful memories.

You covered your ears, head digging into the ground to stop the noise, but it wouldn’t stop. You wailed, and Finnick was hitting the force field, which he was standing on the direct other side, but there was no avail.

He was screaming for you, to look at him, listen to his voice. But the field was soundproof, and he had to watch with a heavy heart as you sobbed, the sounds of the person you betrayed all those years ago the only thing you could focus on.

Finnick’s hands were all over you, smoothing down your hair, checking your face, helping you stand.

Peeta was doing the same with Katniss, the both of you having tear-stains down your cheeks and dirt smudged into your cheeks.

You were frozen solid, eyes big and wide, legs slightly shaking. You had never felt worse about something than what you did to Mace that dreadful night. His screams haunted your dreams, and to have the Gamemakers play into that weakness reminded you just who the real enemy is.

“Y/N, look at me,” Finnick’s hands were on the sides of your face, pulling you closer to his protective figure.

“It wasn’t real. It wasn’t him,” he shook his head lightly, your lips still quivering from fear.

You could only muster the strength to simply nod, telling him that you knew, but the Gamemakers were cruel, so cruel, and they had hit you right where it hurt.

Just as you were beginning to regain your usual automatic-kill mindset, a small box flew down, straight into your hands.

Everyone gathered around you, curious as to what could’ve been sent.

You knew Enobaria would have your back, and considering the sponsors this year were based upon what you had left over from your games, you were lucky. You had a large pot of donations under your name, not needing much assistance when you were in your first games.

You screwed off the top, being met with a small vile of Crave Cure, the very concoction that she had sent you during your games. It came with a note reading: remember who the real enemy is. I’m always rooting for you. - Baria

That assured you of Enobaria’s stance, likely scheming with Haymitch and Plutarch behind the scenes, ensuring your protection by Thirteen.

Finnick smiled next to you, Johanna calling out with happiness.

“Finally!” Johanna cheered, axe thrust into the air.

You even broke a smile, suddenly distracted from the traumatic experience you had just endured.

You looked up, seeing the confused looks on Katniss and Peeta’s faces.

They would’ve never heard of Crave Cure, it was the most expensive thing a mentor could send their tribute, and required many sponsors. It was usually only sent to the Careers, both you and Finnick had received it during your games.

“Crave Cure,” you spoke, Katniss’s eyes meeting yours.

“One drop on your tongue and it cures hunger for 12 hours,” you smiled to them, picking up the vile.

“Enobaria is a saint,” Johanna spoke, watching as you dropped a tiny bit of the brown liquid onto your tongue, a content sigh escaping your lips.

Beetee went next, then Finnick and Johanna.

Katniss and Peeta stood awkwardly to the side, not knowing to approach or not.

“Oh, enough of that! We’re allied, aren’t we? Take a drop,” you urged, placing the vile into her hands.

Peeta nodded, and that seemed to be all the convincing Katniss needed before mimicking your action and gagging when she tasted the fluid.

You laughed at her expression, a light-hearted tease. “Not the best, but it does do its job,”

You figured you had really won her trust, considering how she walked next to you during the hike to the big tree.

The two of you talked about your families back home. You complimented her dedication, to protect her little sister.

She had killed your Cato and Clove; the two you had spent hours coaching, assuring they’d be okay in the end. Words you had needed so badly during your games.

Through talking with Katniss, you realized no one deserved to win as much as she did. She was selfless, willing to sacrifice herself for both her sister and Peeta, placing herself as a protector, not a victim.

And then the peace you had all been building crashed down, Katniss suddenly retreating from the trust you all had built after Beetee offered she go with you and Johanna.

“Why can’t Johanna and Y/N go? I’ll protect you with Peeta,” she spoke, and you met Finnick’s gaze. You read the fear in his eyes, knowing this the was now or never moment.

“Katniss,” you spoke, hands resting on her shoulders.

“You know who the true enemy is,” you whispered, holding her intense eye-contact.

Her eyes softened at your words, everything seemingly clicking into place. With a nod, you grabbed her hand, and pulled her with you and Johanna.

A look over your shoulder to Finnick, and a nod. Your eyes said it all: I love you. I’ll see you soon, once we are safe and out of the Capitol’s hands.

You and Johanna halted your movements, stopping Katniss as you did.

“Stay down,” Johanna instructed Katniss, grabbing her arm.

“What-“ Katniss was about to scream, and you could not let that happen.

You grabbed her face with your hands, eyes frantic for her faith.

“You can trust us,” you whispered, barely loud enough for the cameras to pick up on.

But the raw emotion in your eyes calmed Katniss, giving Johanna the opportunity to cut the tracker out, Katniss’s arm beginning to bleed heavily.

“It’s alright,” you soothed her, your arm out to Johanna, waiting for the inevitable sear of pain.

And then it came, and you placed your body over Katniss’s not allowing her to get up and try to attack.

But then you spotted Brutus over the rock, his hard eyes staring straight into yours.

“Y/N,” Johanna warned, watching the familiar fire begin to brew.

You were up in seconds, sword in one hand, knife in the other, running up the rocky hill. The pain in your arm was masked by the rush of adrenaline you ran high off, killing spree — if you will.

Johanna grunted in anger, but she knew not to expect anything different from you.

“Do not move,” she instructed Katniss, picking up her axe to follow you.

You had reached Brutus quickly, pouncing onto his back and driving your sword straight through his abdomen.

He cried out in pain, blood soon coating your legs that wrapped around his waist.

You pulled the sword out, taking the knife to his neck. He was dead in seconds, the familiar canon sounding throughout the arena.

After registering what you had done, images of Katniss flooded your mind and you internally cursed yourself, rushing back to the spot you had left her and Johanna.

Johanna was back to your side, but Katniss was no where to be seen.

“Fuck!” You cursed, sprinting back towards the tree where Beetee, Finnick, and Peeta were.

She had likely gone back to protect Peeta and kill Finnick, and you were not about to let that happen.

Johanna tried to keep up with you; but even with a gushing arm and slit leg, you were fast. Much faster than anyone else.

“Finnick!” You screamed, feet pounding against the hard ground, propelling you towards the tree, where you watched Katniss aim her arrow straight at Finnick’s head.

Beetee was on the ground, and you crouched, feeling for his pulse. His heart was still beating and you hovered over him protectively, in case Katniss decided to turn around and fire at you too. Which seemed very likely.

You watched as Finnick said something to Katniss, obviously resonating with her, the bow slightly lowering.

“Johanna! Give me your arm!” You swung around, panic-struck and searching for the familiar face.

And you saw her a few feet below, trying to climb the vines you had mounted with ease.

You looked between Finnick and her, torn as to which to try and protect. You knew Finnick would hold his own, so you turned back around and began to move for Johanna, quick feet avoiding possible injuries.

But just as you were in grabbing-distance of her, Finnick’s voice rang out, screaming, “Get away from that tree!”

A crack of something echoed around you, and you turned wildly, trying to figure out what had just happened.

Then you understand what Finnick had meant, a loud crack of lightening rained down and sent you flying, reaching for Johanna as you flew past her, her terrified eyes meeting yours.

The last thing you remembered was being pulled up into the air by a large claw, head and limbs limp as you were hoisted up; sword still secure in your palm, a protection habit you had picked up since your games. You always needed to be armed, after all, life was the arena.

You awoke to the sound of a heart monitor, steady beeping lightly calming your high-alert nerves.

You winced sitting up, large bandages wrapped around your forearm and thigh.

You inspected your surroundings, two empty mats in front of you, and Katniss sleeping to your left.

You stood, hushed voices on the other side of the door that reached the ceiling of the craft you were on.

You looked for a weapon of sorts, not willing to go in unarmed. On the other side of the empty room was your sword, glimmering and coated in blood.

You walked over to it, legs sore and aching, the familiar metal calming against your palm.

The door immediately opened as you approached it, Haymitch and Plutarch’s widening as they spotted your weapon of choice clutched in your ruthless hands.

But it dropped to the floor with a loud clatter when your tired eyes met Finnick’s, a relieved smile coming over your features.

You rushed to him, throwing yourself into his arms. His lips met yours halfway, melting into his strong hold around your body.

The two of you fit together perfectly, like you had been made in the same mold.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him tighter to your already close bodies.

You poured all your pent up feelings into the kiss, all the feelings you had suppressed since the fight that had ended your relationship.

It was the most relaxed you had been in the whole week, since your name was plucked from the bowl of living victors.

His lips moved against yours as he squeezed your hips, hands feeling everything they could, to ensure that it was in fact you, and you were alive and safe in front of him.

You pulled a part, a grin across your small face.

He smiled back, but your bliss was interrupted from the clearing of a throat behind you. You spun around, eyes meeting the expectant ones of Haymitch, Plutarch, and Beetee.

The look on your face said it all. And Haymitch nodded, validating all the thoughts that had been running through your head.

You were safe, headed for the secret hideout of Thirteen. All was okay.

You almost began to laugh thinking about how the Capitol would react, their Angel and Darling being two of the biggest conspirators in a rebellion. How ironic.

And Katniss was on the ship, you had successfully carried out your tasks.

“Where’s Johanna?” You asked, a smile still dotting your face.

Finnick’s composure broke, and your heart dropped, realizing the obvious.

“No, no, no, no,” you began to back away, spine hitting the hard metal of the table.

“I went after Brutus, I didn’t cut the tracker… fuck! Oh my god, Finnick, oh god,” you began to dry-heave, accepting her capture as your fault.

Finnick’s hands were on your biceps, steadying you and pulling you back into his chest.

“Johanna and Peeta are in the Capitol,” Plutarch spoke, your worst fears being confirmed.

“It’s all my fault,” you groaned, head in your hands. You had killed, hunted, and tortured. But the idea of a friend’s death being on your hands hurt more than any of those ever did.

Haymitch spoke reassuring words behind you, but Finnick’s hold and the idea of betraying Johanna was all you could focus on.

How would she forgive you? Was she alive? How would you ever cope if she wasn’t, and it was all your fault? Of course, you let the murderer take over, and went after Brutus.

Finnick’s arms soothed down your back, keeping your grounded as you were flooded with grief, with the heavy weight of betrayal.

Johanna and you were close friends, you were supposed to protect each other in the games. She had protected you, always by your side, and you neglected to do the same.

“We’re going to try and rescue them as soon as we can,” Haymitch said, even though you all knew that might be an impossible task.

And then Finnick slipped his hand into yours, fingers curling around yours and softly rubbing your knuckles.

You composed yourself, closing your eyes as you took in a deep breath, regaining focus on just your interlocked hands. Finnick always knew how to relax you.

All you had wanted initially was to get out of this quarter quell alive, to return home to your big mansion and family. To hug them again, to prove to the Capitol that they could take everything from you, but they couldn’t kill you.

But now, you realized that all had been in vain. Where you really belonged was here, holding hands with Finnick, discussing how you were going to break your friends from the Capitol’s mean grip.

You’d die for him, for them. You’d flap your wings once more to ensure they’d all live.

When Katniss first volunteered for Primrose, you hadn’t understood how she would sacrifice her life for another.

But now you knew, and you knew you’d do it too.

You finally had something to live for, someone you loved, who understood all that you had gone through better than anyone else.

Life was the arena, and if it came down to it, you knew the angel would sacrifice herself for the darling.

**

[sharksfrommars]

work is boring on Sundays, wrote some Dad Stan Drabble to get through it.

Stan adopts an infant child. I’m crying.

part 2 here

Tw: drugs, overdoses, allusions to suicide

and possible kidnapping. On accident.

Stan adopts an infant child. 

Bumfuck nowhere, Nevada-1977

Stan threw all the drugs he had left down the toilet. He flushed 3 times, staring town the swirling water. Some fish was probably about to have the time of its probably quite short life, but that wasn’t his concern right now. His only concern was the screaming baby in the other room, and their dead mother in the bathtub.

Stan had been her dealer. Clara, her name was. She was a street kid, by herself for the past 5 years. Turned 20 last May. Stan had been dealing to her for a while. Watched her tastes shift to harder and harder stuff. 

He had told himself that it was just a job. She was a junkie, who probably deserved anything that came to her. Like he was. Now, he reckoned with the fact that he never actually believed that. He just told himself what he wanted to hear, what would make it easier.

He didn’t know she had a child.

A child that would never know their parents. He looked into Clara’s eyes, misty with death. It had only been a few hours. They were getting high together. She hit more than she could handle, and Stan was too far gone to do anything helpful. He just fell asleep on the couch, only to awaken to the baby’s cries 3 hours later, hung over.

Stan knew he should leave. He’s the one who sold her the drugs. The neighbours would notice Clara wasn’t around, and surely they’d hear the baby’s screams. They’d come check, the cops would get involved, and Stan had to leave before they arrived. But somehow, he couldn’t. 

Clara was young, so young. Too young to be lying in the bathtub, dead eyed and blue. Too young to be leaving her child all alone, without anyone looking out for them. 

And it was all Stan’s fault. He sold her the drugs. He actively benefited from her addiction. He enabled this, and in that he ruined two lives. And the baby was still screaming, for a mother that would never come to comfort them again.

Stan figured someone at least should comfort them. So he crept into the bedroom, and saw the baby. They were tiny, couldn’t be more than a few months old. They were clearly malnourished, skinny and bloated like the babies in charity ads. It was a miracle they’d even survived. The baby’s crying subsided as Stan approached. They looked up at Stan with their wide baby blue eyes, begging for food, or comfort or any sign that they weren’t all alone in the world. 

Stan met their eyes, and understood something about himself, something he hadn’t admitted in a long time. He picked up the baby, held them close as he rubbed their back. Stanley pines may be a liar, a crook and an overall asshole, but he was built to protect. And by whatever god looked out for crooks and assholes, he was going to protect this child.

“It’s ok baby” he whispered in their ear, “you’re ok. You’re safe.”

Stan went looking around, first for baby formula. He found a mostly empty box in the kitchen, but no bottle. He mixed some up anyway, and found a syringe without a needle that he didn’t think had been used. He boiled it anyway, and hoped to all hell that it was clean enough. The baby seemed to accept it, and calmed down a little in Stan’s arms. 

He then changed the babies diaper, with much difficulty. 

“It’s a girl!” He exclaimed, “now, kid. Do you got a name?”

The baby blinked slowly, and Stan noticed a scrap of paper on the bed, right where the baby was lying. 

I’m so sorry I can’t take care of you, Lola. You deserved better than a mother like me.

The handwriting was shaky, the paper the back of an old receipt. Stan shoved the paper into his pocket, and looked down at the baby.

“I guess you must be Lola. Nice to meet ya, kid. Now let’s get ya to the hospital.”

Stan took Lola to a hospital in Las Vegas, made up some bullshit story about how his “bitch ex-girlfriend” had “abandoned their baby”. The nurses seemed to buy it, and they took her up to the NICU immediately. That whole week, Stan slept on the uncomfortable chairs in the hospital waiting room. Every time he saw her, Lola seemed a little healthier, and a little less stressed. She looked at Stan, wide eyed, any time the nurses would let him pick her up. Sometimes, he’d even convince himself that he saw a smile.

He thought about leaving often. Actually, that was his original plan. Leave Lola at the hospital. She was in good hands now, they’d find her a home. Doctors wouldn’t just let a baby die. But something kept him glued to that seat. He felt like he owed the kid, for killing her mum and ruining her life before it had even begun. It wasn’t a debt that Stan knew how to pay.

After a week, Lola was healthy enough to ‘go home’. Somehow Stan had stuck around an entire week, pretending to be her Dad. Stan wasn’t sure he wanted to take her. He couldn’t be a dad, he was too immature. He didn’t have a permanent place to live, or any money. He was pretty sure that Rico’s gang would be after him soon. And it’s not even like he knew how to be a Dad! He’d never actually met a decent one. Worst of all, Stan didn’t have any family that actually gave a damn about him. If Stan took her, wouldn’t he just be dooming her to the same lonely fate as himself.

But when Stan went to see Lola one last time, there was a social worker there. He explained that Stan likely wasn’t a fit parent, that Lola had been born addicted to opioids and that she was going to be taken into the system. Stan understood, he really did. He just asked for one last moment alone with Lola to say goodbye.

The next thing he knew, Stan had jumped out the window, Lola strapped to his back with a blanket, and was running to his car.  He didn’t completely understand why he did it. Frankly, it wasn’t a stupid thing to do. However, he somehow couldn’t bear to let some stranger take Lola. He’d met kids that grew up in the system, and most of them weren’t particularly happy. So Stan moved Lola to his front as he jumped into his car. He could hear security yelling as he sped out of the parking lot, and out of the city, and out of the state.

5 years later

Forks, Washington -1982

Stan decided a long time ago that Forks was a shit town with nothing to do. He moved around a lot with Lola, having taken numerous part time jobs across the Pacific Northwest under the name “Stanton Pinesly”, but for some reason, Forks was their permanent address. It was where Stan had a cheap apartment, and it was the place Lola had become most familiar with. 

Overall, it was a pretty safe town. Not much happened besides the odd rumour about vampires and werewolves or whatever, which was good. Rico would never find them here. Stan was pretty sure Rico couldn’t survive this far up north. 

“STAN!” Lola yelled, running out of her room. It was early morning, the sun still hanging low in the sky.

“Morning kid. Isn’t it too early for ya to have that much energy?”

Lola jumped onto Stan’s lap, attacking him with the biggest hug she could manage.

“Nuh-uh. I like morning time, Stan. It’s where adventure happens.”

“Sure, kid.”

Lola had always called Stan ‘Stan’. It was her first word, in fact. Stan never referred to himself as her father, not unless they got something out of it. Nevertheless, Stan had raised her like his own. She held his surname (well, his fake one, but she knew she was a Pines), and he kept her fed and healthy. He taught her to read (badly) and to steal (incredibly well). In all ways besides the one, she was his daughter. But Stan would never let the idea settle in his mind for too long. Somehow, being a father for real was a step too far. Into what, Stan didn’t know, but it was too far nonetheless.

Lola jumped onto Stan’s lap, trying to get his attention.

“Staaaan! What adventures do we have today?!”

The kid loved ‘adventures’. Which usually amounted to whatever odd job Stan was doing, or going to the park. Luckily for Stan, he didn’t have anything to do today. His plan was to just lay on the sofa and watch TV. Lola of course had other plans. “Nothin’ today ” apparently wasn’t good enough for her.

“STAAAAANNNNNN!” She whined. Stan hated when she did that. “I wanna go on adventuuuuuure!”

He picked her up like a sack of rice and looked her in the eyes.

“Tough, kid. Ol’Stan needs a rest day. My bones are old.”

Lola giggled. “You’re not old, Stan!”

“Is that so? How old is old then?”

Lola considered this a moment.

“Uhhh…. 20!”

“HA! Gee kid how young do ya think I am?”

“12”

Stan guffawed. Laughed till he couldn’t stand, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Gee Lola. Ya really think I’m 12?”

Lola nodded her head.

“12 is grown up, but still fun”

Stan’s heart melted a little; as sat her on his lap.

“Sweetie, I am 32 years old.” 

Lola gasped in genuine shock.

“Why aren’t you a skeleton then?” She asked. This set Stan off again.

Lola, it turned out, was incredibly funny. 

The phone rang, and Lola rushed to pick it up. She was expecting her ‘Gammy’ - Caryn, who called occasionally to speak to her “grandbaby”. She was really the only one who called these days. 

“GAMMY” Lola yelled, before she got quiet, and whispered “what are you, a cop?” Into the phone. Stan grew concerned. This can’t have been someone Lola recognised. 

“Sweetie, pass me the phone” 

Lola did so without a word. Stan stared at the receiver, he could hear faint maniacal laughing and the song “sweet dreams are made of these” on the other end. 

“…hello?” Stan asked tentatively.

“HI BROTHER, ITS SIXER!”

“…Ford?”

“I SPOKE TO YOUR CROTCH GOBLIN, IT SOUNDED GROSS AND SNOTTY?”

“Ford, what the fuck?”

“LOOK I CALLED JUST TO LET YOU KNOW, IM JUMPING INTO THE FROZEN LAKE TOMORROW.”

“Wait Ford what’s going-“

“IF YOU NEVER HEAR FROM ME AGAIN, ITS CUS I NEVER LOVED YOU!”

“Ford you can’t just-“

The line cut out. Lola looked up at Stan expectantly. Stan figured that Ford must be having some sort of mental break. But he could leave his Brother in trouble. He knew Ford lived somewhere in Oregon. Not too far.  Definitely drivable.

“Hey Lola, I think I might have an adventure for ya.”

[s-4pphics]

mourn. (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: grief: the curse of remembrance. 

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

WARNINGS: HEAVY ANGST—TW: MENTIONS OF DRUG ADDICTION, VIOLENCE, DEATH, AND EMOTIONAL/PHYSICAL ABUSE. be cautious and gentle with yourself pls.

retired*streetracer!ellie[envisioned as santabarbara!ellie], drugdealer!reader, lots of time skips, underage use of drugs, mentions of therapy/recovery and relapse, brief mention of weapons[knives, guns(future)], anxiety attacks, parental loss/grief, allusions to ellie having chronic insomnia, hurt/no comfort

A/N: uh. so it’s been over a year LOL. sorry💔. teaser and intro for context :) love u

She’s always loved the scent of burnt rubber. 

Tires have an acquired smell, much like the gas that gets them spinning. No matter how often racers get forced to inhale the scent of fire, their noses never adapt. 

Just hers, apparently. The odor brings an odd sense of comfort. Remembrance. Joel would get a crack at that if he knew: an estranged adoptee picking up his bad habit of secretly sniffing scorched oil. 

Even you hated the scent despite having always played backseat driver. Ellie secretly enjoyed listening to you rave about potential danger; the crashes, her dying from mechanical complications like an explosion. She found it funny. After all this time, it’s still just as satisfying to know that her allegations have always been right: you’re a fucking hypocrite, the last person that should be worried about danger. 

It’s what you embody. What you attract. All that you are. 

She had an inkling when she first met you, yet she still allowed you to bleed into her, overtake her own DNA, intertwine your cells until separation meant death. 

Temptations creep every once in a while to call and see if you’re still alive, especially in times like this. Sporadic, unpredictable. In a constant state of mourning. She’s known to be reckless no thanks to you; in and outside of her car, so what would a call hurt? 

She’ll always live the same way—the way you taught her; impulsive and dumb. Everything Joel instilled in her is long gone. 

She knows you miss her. It’s felt when the blinds welcome the sun into her bedroom in the morning, when she’s eating. Sleeping. Talking to no one. 

If the universe has written out that reunion, she’ll just have to accept it. She’s unsure if she misses you or not—a constant battle that she’s forced to internalize, she despises the topic. Linda only knows bits and pieces of your relationship, and with good reason. Ellie doesn’t have many great things to say whenever she remembers. Therapy is exhausting enough as it is. 

Her mother’s car, Joel’s driveway, the front yard, it’s all the exact same besides the dead plants. It feels like centuries have passed since she’s been outside. The summer air nearly suffocated her the second she locked the front door. 

After all this time, sitting in the driver’s side feels like a sin, keys nearly kin to a weapon. Overwhelmed with guilt; if Anna were here, what would she say about her only child? Her appearance? Her decisions thus far? One of the reason she hates driving this cursed fucking car; her mind reels into dark places, but she needs this. She’s dying for this release. 

So, she swallows whatever’s stuck in her throat and cranks all the windows down. She wants her skin to memorize the wind of her last drive. 

No music. Just her and her mom. 

The hot air always reminds her of the first time. 

Forced into battle with a bunch of strangers by you, but oddly enough, despite the bullshit… It was the best night of her life. The only birthday she remembers besides her first with Joel. 

The keys to the Supra felt like a nail bomb—sharp and cold, chain linked to a pocket knife that was linked to a dice block that was linked to something in another language. Micah’s most prized possession… she’ll never forget that son of a bitch. 

No one knew that you both were children: another thing you loved lying about. You loved feeling mature, fitting into a crowd you didn’t belong to. She doesn’t remember the last time you hung out with people your own age. It was always the two of you amongst college students, mid-aged fuckers, a few grandpas thrown in the mix at random periods. Fucking weirdos, but they never knew, because oddly enough, Ellie never snitched you both out. 

Sitting in Micah’s driver’s seat felt like getting stabbed with a thousand needles… while also being fed grapes like a king on a throne. The strangest sensations: pride, fear, jealousy, concern, fear. She had to adjust his seat multiple times just so she could reach the pedals. 

She studied the dashboard, just how she was taught: coolant temp, check engine light, mileage, brake systems. It was all there, shiny and seemingly futuristic, all while you strapped in beside her with your second cigarette, eyes filled with intrigue. You’d said something in your state of awe, but she doesn’t remember what. All she recalls was the reaction of her heart: thumping and eager to hear more. 

The keys shoved into the ignition, and the car roared like… 

Aslan. The door to Narnia unlocked to relinquish all fairytale creatures. She fell so deeply in love at that moment, the vibrations from the engine shook her from the inside out, hands squeezed around the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened and bones cracked. 

Surrounding cars had already revved up to pull out of the driveway, zoomed off to some fucking where; she blacked out with excitement on the way, but the destination had been wide enough to line up twelve rides. 

She’d been so timid, it’s laughable now. She purposefully missed the first countdown because spectators were snickering at her seatbelt being on and it scared her. That threat from Micah flashed through her head like floodlights. 

But they were kind(?) enough to let her start-up again. Maybe to laugh some more, she’s not sure. 

She lost that race—she lost all seven of them, but she drove, pedal to the metal through every single one no matter how the car spun out of control, going a minimum a hundred miles an hour, all while you screamed and laughed your head off with your eyes squeezed shut and hair wild from the wind. Ellie had never been so happy, never laughed that much, never had so much control. 

Dominance. A power she’d never experienced until that moment; the second she had it, it was hers, claimed for the rest of her life. 

No matter how high she’d gotten, the euphoria from that night was never found again. 

All nights lead to dawn, though. Soon enough, you two returned to that crummy garage on cloud nine. 

Only to crash back down to Earth with fear; you’d quaintly told Ellie to leave without you.

I’ll be fine, just go. 

I’m not fucking leaving you here! 

You never listen, do you? Just fucking go!

She prefers to block out the feeling when you shoved her away—pierced with negligence. Micah was on you like a shadow, lingering behind while his teeth glowed with that same sinister smile. 

Ellie called you a million times when she got home that night, but you never answered. Joel had to babysit her through two bone-rattling anxiety attacks. Because she was scared: of what would happen to you if she didn’t act, what would happen to her if you found out she sent the police to that same address of the party. 

Two weeks of radio silence. She couldn’t stop vomiting from nerves of unknowing: if you were dead or alive, harmed, injured, dead dead dead, that’s all she could think about. You were dead; that’s why her messages and calls went unanswered, why you weren’t in class, why she couldn’t sleep. Your soul was keeping her awake, punishing her with unrest for being a goddamn snitch. A rat. 

But that following Monday, you waltzed into third period like nothing happened. Like you weren’t missing. Just ridiculously bundled from head to toe despite the humidity that Spring. 

Whenever she asked of your whereabouts, she was met with laughter. Uncontrollable hysteria, beaming smiles before applying verbal band-aids. 

Just got caught up. Don’t worry about it. 

I’m fine, just had shit going on. 

I’ve told you a million times that I’m fucking fine! How many fucking times do I have to tell your ass—

… That was less of a band-aid. More like a knife to the chest, but you always patched up the wounds you left behind. 

Did you ever find out she called the police? Where are all those people now? How did you expect her not to worry? 

Questions that’ll forever go unanswered. 

After all these years, you’ve never reached out. Not to say happy birthday, not to give condolences when her dad died, never apologized for ruining her fucking life, nothing. You could be dead, who knows. She doesn’t dwell on the thought for too long, it sickens her all over again; she’s had enough loss to last ten lifetimes. So she settles: you were a figment of her imagination, her mind playing tricks on her, a mere hallucination that tempted her with man-made substances. 

It’s humiliating to acknowledge sometimes: what if she never got high with you that day? Would she still be overly passionate about cars? She likes to think so, just to feel her regret that much deeper: of meeting you, of allowing you to convince her that she’d be okay as long as she blindly followed. It’s a complicated punishment; she hates your guts, but you were her safe space for so long. 

…Will she ever really hate you? 

WINTER OF ‘19

Ay, Williams! 

Nerves sizzle underneath her nails at the sharp call of her name. If annoyance wasn’t already spurring in her chest, she would’ve welcomed any distraction. Anything to take her mind off her impending doom. 

But it’s Rodney. Fucking dipshit.

Her disdain gets masked to the best of her ability, but she’s agitated, lip curled with every scratch of his soles on the dirt as he chases after her. All these loud, rambunctious wranglers and somehow, she’s still his main spectacle. 

Darling! 

She almost vomits. The closer he gets, the more the wind wafts his scent in her direction. He smells like shit always, not to mention it’s fucking freezing, but she knows better than to voice her grievances out loud. The last time a minor objection was expressed, bullets went flying. No losses, thankfully. Only diminished trust and a busted windshield. Too many hotheads drive these plains. 

Why the hell did Ellie accept the offer to race in the fucking desert of all places? Every gust sends another whirl of rocky dust directly through her already blocked sinuses. The rough sleeve of her hoodie is scratching the skin below her nose. 

I know you hear me! 

A damning curse that she can. She slaps on the best toothless grin she can muster while envisioning his head stuck on a pike. One swift spin, and he’s already closer than necessary. It’s nauseating how comfortable people are in her space. 

I was callin’ you. 

Didn’t hear. My bad.  

Bullshit! His jolly laugh scratches her ears in an unpleasant manner. A large arm rests around her shoulders and she nearly gags. Ellie always feels like a hypocrite whenever her stomach churns at the smell of cigars. I needa ask you somethin’.

He’s dangerously close to her ear when he whispers, Where’s that girlfriend o’ yours, huh? Needa borrow her for a sec. 

Not my fucking girlfriend. I told you that. She’s stayed calm this long, but she’s seconds away from slicing his fucking neck with her pocket knife. She shoves a hand in there for good measure. She’s not coming. She masks her shame as best she can, eyes glued to her feet. 

Speckles of saliva spray on her ear when he bursts into laughter. Aww, c’mon! She never misses a race! Trouble in paradise? She doesn’t have time to threaten to gut him where he stands before a harsh squeeze on her shoulder sends her body into shock. 

His tone is dark. 

Or is she finally done missin’ out on revenue for you? Pills stopped workin’, eh? 

Such a fucking sucker. How enraging is it to know that he’s spot on and he barely knows you? Incredibly.

She uses all remaining strength to shove him off before the wind whisks her towards her vehicle. Rodney’s laughter is almost demonic where it obnoxiously dominates the air: more suffocating than the dirt.

She dodges other racers, women that dream of tearing her from the inside out, and spectators praying that their bids on her winning were worth it until she plops into the driver’s seat of her ‘19 Supra. 

She can almost see your fingerprints all over the gearshift. 

The small baggie—your trail, the one proof of your existence—picks at her from the passenger's seat. A taunting call that shields dusted white, maintains its purity just for her. Who were you to toss such a precious gift so carelessly? 

Don’t fuckin’ call me anymore. This is it, Ellie.

How does one trust a liar? 

The bag feels like diamonds brushing her fingertips, teeth grinding together in sonics when she pricks it open. It’s mechanical; the way her pinky scoops the last remnants of glittery snow, dumps it right there on her ID. 

Impulse leads her after that. 

One sniff. That’s all it takes for time to twist before melting. She, with excitement, gums whatever remains, tongue suddenly dry.

Numb nose, numb face. A pleasant thrum that rushes down her limbs like an electric shock. It took no time to awaken from her 48 hour slumber. She’s focused, on like a fully charged battery, the voice of doubt finally silenced for what felt like centuries. She’d give anything to yammer on about her past grievances, yet another impulse, but what do they matter now? What do you matter? 

She nearly forgets that was her last. 

Her foot stomps on the pedal in her adrenaline and her vehicle thrums, trembles—breaks still on. Her window comes down ingest the cheers, the shouts of her name, the air pungent with smoke. 

There’s our girl! Someone shouts, whistles at her. 

Rides sketched with flames and dead smilies pull up next to her, revving wild and alert, pushing to intimidate in her own dominion.

Ellie grins. There’s slime in her teeth. 

In her truest form. 

SUMMER OF ‘15

You’re gonna get me in fucking trouble. 

Ellie’s shitting bricks. Fat bricks. Her leg thumps with the speed of a jackrabbit’s, knee hitting against the passenger door as she nervously inspects her home. 

What if they weren’t quiet enough when they shut the front door? What if the stuffed animals and pillows they shoved under the sheets aren’t suitable enough to be her? What if Joel is awake right now and waiting to catch her? She’s fucked if he finds out what she’s doing right now. She’s fucked, she’s so fucking fucked—

You love trouble, Bear. 

Does she? Did she tell you that before? You sound so sure. She definitely wouldn’t lie in her mother’s car. Guilt would eat her alive. 

Your smile is catastrophic when she whips to face you, thumbnail caught between her teeth while her eyes cry out for fucking help—for some form of sanity from you. For once. 

Your eye roll is playful. Teasing when your hand reaches into your pocket. A box that fits perfectly in your palm is retrieved alongside a lighter. Ellie’s brows crease when you whisper, I think you need one. You’re stressed for no reason. 

What is this? 

Cig. Here. A small, white and orange stick is held between your index and thumb. Right in front of her face. Her mom used to hide those in the bottom drawer of the kitchen counter. And the bathroom cabinets. And atop the living room tables. You never answer her questions. The hell is this? 

Don’t make that face, Your thumb is reminiscent of a feather when it brushes her cheek, gently and aimed to soothe. Her brows halt their strain, but her heart races with the beat of a thousand drums. She feels she shouldn't be doing this, but your touch overtakes her consciousness. 

It’s okay, you say. It’s what you always say. It’s fun. Makes ya look cooler. 

Ellie remains unmoving. She senses your agitation. 

M-Maybe another time? She rushes. Anything to extinguish the flame that begs to enrage you. 

What better time to try than right now? 

To an unaware ear, you sound fine. Indifferent and decent, but Ellie knows you. You’re seconds away from exploding and turning her mother’s car into a clump of useless metal. 

Before Ellie can say anything, you’re shrugging with a huff. The… cig rests between your lips before you flick the lighter, bringing the lit flame to the white tip of the… what the hell is this again? 

When you answer, a sphere of smoke dissipates right in front of your lips. My uncle said it’s nicotine. It’s a… calming agent or whatever. His words, not mine. But you don’t wanna try, so. 

It doesn’t matter what cards are stacked against you, Ellie is always the one left feeling guilty for declining your invitations for things she feels uncomfortable with, no matter how gently. She knows what nicotine is now; the smell alone resurfaces unwelcome memories of her mom, the remnants of each blow sticking to her clothes like glue. Wafted in clouds wherever she walked. 

Ready to roll, Bear? With a voice that drips honey, you stick the key in the ignition. 

As ever. 

You’ll love it, Ellie. You trust me, right?

Yes, she wants to say proudly, without a doubt in her mind, but she can’t, declarations only meant to appease you: you’re sensitive. Her insecurities are hardly a priority. 

Always.

But her grip on the armrest says otherwise when the car zips down the street, pure acceleration. In a residential area, but you never care. Never. 

Drums beat through her mother’s speakers while you scream lyrics to a song she doesn’t recognize, hair blowing in the wind. The further you drive from Joel’s house, the more tense Ellie feels. 

It’s always like that with you. Adrenaline replaces fear or the other way around, it never fails. A curse you carry.

The drives to these random places are never too long, but this was the shortest it’s ever been. Her mother’s car seems so out of place trapped between giant SUVs and Supras. There’s a few million dollars parked in this random driveway. Ellie tries not to nerd out in her seat. 

Dude… whose house is this? 

Pretty unimpressive and small given what’s being driven. There’s some people walking around outside. 

Adults. Adults she doesn’t recognize from anywhere. 

You told me it was a party. 

Is this not a party? You laugh while purple lights flash through the windows; the silhouettes seem so haunting from out here. They’re too big—too calm to be anyone from school.

Do you know anyone here? She pins, and your eyes roll. 

‘Course I do. Why would I come if I didn’t? Who do you think invited me? You scoff, Not to spoil the surprise, but you’re the special guest. 

Her heart plummets. Just before anxiety can sizzle from her nails to her palms, her cheeks are engulfed in warmth, wafted with nicotine as you coddle so gently. 

I set this up for you. I didn’t wanna say ‘cuz I thought you’d get mad at me. You said you wanted your 16th to be unforgettable, right?

That was a joke. She just regained the joy for celebration a couple years ago after being forced to not care. She grapples your wrist, uses your stability as a stress ball.

Just stay with me. I gotchu, okay? 

Instead of her silence being a warning to turn back, it’s taken as an invitation to pull up the block, too far from the driveway. One of your hands free the key from the ignition, body twisting to open your door before reaching over to open Ellie’s. 

Couldnta parked closer? is the only fight she can muster. All you do is snicker. 

Why does she trust you so freely? Her mistake. It always is. 

She clenches your hand tight on the walk to the garage, not a complaint about her sweaty hands dispelled from your mouth. A loyal follower despite your smoke—and now the smoke of others, infiltrating her nose until it leaks from her sinuses, passing through bodies that move in slow motion until you reach your stop. 

A large group of unwelcoming men… holding thicker cigarettes. Great. 

Look who's here!

Ellie’s able to keep her cowering to a minimum when they approach: on contrast, you seem to belong, not shaken at all by the dinginess, the cracked walls, the fat stacks of cash that some of them hold and trade with. She liked your outfit when it was just the two of you driving around, now she can’t help but notice how exposed you are. 

Where’s the birthday girl? A man asks with no courtesy. 

Right here, You lay an open palm of her sizzling cheek, be nice, will ya? 

Aren’t I always? And you reply with a hum like you’re flirting. Ellie’s hand clamps yours: in need of stability, of reassurance of safety, but you don’t reciprocate.

Ellie… A large hand extends in front of her, letters imprinted on each of his knuckles. Braun is the only way to describe him. 

Name’s Micah, tone cordial. Nice to meet you. 

You, too, she replies despite feeling the opposite. She’s never too fond of strangers. 

Micah’s hand drops when she doesn’t accept, just holds yours tighter, but you’re just as giddy and bright. Not intimidated in the slightest. On the outside, at least.

I like her already. He notes to you. 

Join the club, you mutter, Your goons can’t say hello? 

You wanna ask them yourself? 

An underlying jab rests beneath the invitation, something’s there that upsets you for a second. She feels it in the light scratches from your thumbnail: insecurity. 

Good thing she hates seeing you upset. 

I’m not new. 

A mindless comment. The world seems to freeze for a minute. 

The bones in Ellie’s hand nearly shatter when you squeeze, a signal meant to shut her up, but her gaze never falters, glued to the man that oozes satisfaction at her indifference, completely unaware of the warfare that crashes and burns in her chest. His smile is twisted, eyes carnivorous where they drop down, all the way to her dirty shoes. 

Seem new to me. 

C’mon, let her spin. You promised me. You flue to him, purposefully interrupting the sizing, but Micah’s eyes never drop from hers. 

You know how much that fuckin’ car costs? She crashes it n’ I got her head. And yours. 

It’s Ellie's turn to break your hand. Only then do you give a reassuring squeeze. 

Did he just threaten to kill you both? 

She won’t fucking crash it! 

What’s in it for me? 

Finally, he looks to you. A semblance of silence, a kind that sizzles. A mutual communication between you and him, and all Ellie can do is watch with unease. This is when you falter; blinks rapid and stuttered and your palm feels clammier. Ellie matches your squeezes. 

I gotchu, okay? You say with a pout and glossy eyes and that buttery tone, your silent weapon. A last resort. 

Promise? He hums. 

S… Swear. 

Ellie stiffens when he leans down, waist cut a few inches to whisper something unheard by her to you. You’re nodding, accepting, choking the life from her hand before Micah retracts, last statement barely caught by her. 

Tell your uncle to call me back. 

The air tenses with Ellie’s curiosity. You agree silently, and with that, he seems satisfied enough to pull away. 

Micah may know you—he knows your uncle, a privilege Ellie’s never earned, but he exudes trust in you, for that toothy smile that strains at its corners before he rounds up his friends with the flick of a hand, ushering them outside. Her heart pounds at the jingles from decorative car keys, boosting louder than the speakers, above mischievous laughter from strangers. 

Adrenaline kicks, the strangulation of her hand is proof enough. 

Micah may know you, but not well enough. 

That’s the difference between her and him. Learning your deception is a skill she’s mastered.

Keys land in the center of your palm, Micah’s fangs conniving and thirsty. The wind he leaves behind is ghostly, cold and rushed. 

You turn to Ellie, keys passed like a steaming torch from him to you to her. Your final whisper brings no comfort. Just ice. 

Happy birthday, Bear. 

—

Humidity makes her car wear. 

It's at least five decades old, so she can’t be too upset about it; she hasn’t tended to her dire needs for a while, but she moves, drives smooth enough, even through the dirt and rocks. The broken and cracked streets. Gets from point A to B without too much of a hassle. The stutters often go ignored.

Even without a destination, she comes in handy. 

Time seems to fly when reminiscing. Despite the gloominess of the memorial, there’s an inkling of something that keeps Ellie’s chest warm. Could be you, your idea. Your imagery that marks her so deeply. She’ll always be unsure why, but your echoes rest there, tucked away safely. Protected, even if she failed to do so when you were still around.

The warmth never lasts too long; always overtaken by despair: a heat that hollows from the center. 

Open plains. Sand, dead grass, dirt. So many rocks. The farther she travels, the fewer trees. Just her and the beaming sun. There’s no use in wiping her sweat when the beads are replaced every three seconds.

Hilly areas were always her favorite course. Below seems so small from that high up, making the world that’s nearly impossible to grasp more digestible. For her eyes, at least. Her body still feels its weight with every shift and turn of the road. From up here, buildings are worthless and people hardly exist to the human eye. 

Her therapist hates her use of perspective. In Ellie’s eyes, nothing mattered—a twisted change after her brain chemistry rewired the first or tenth time. It was readily accepted, like her body embodied autopilot. There was no necessity to add weight to things, conversations, ideas that had no benefit to her. The world doesn’t spin for me, so what actually is the point of caring? Of wondering or thinking or trying to be? There wasn’t one. 

Her world was simple: her, you, and your litters of bags. 

Bags filled with what she used to view as treasures, something locked away and sacred, only to be shared by both of you(and clientele)when no one was watching. Although a rarity—someone was always watching. It's otherworldly how Joel never found out until he did. She wore highs on her sleeve for two years. He must’ve not been paying close attention. 

Or he had trust that his kid would never partake in something so harmful. She prefers to go with the latter. Makes her feel slightly less like shit. 

But that became her purpose. To use and take and lie, much like your purpose was to give at the expense of others around you; entirely unconditional in your mind. You’re a force that lives to feed. A match crafted by the universe. 

She didn’t know how deadly you were at the time. 

Forgiveness is strange—more complex than hate or grief or anger. Forgive them, forgive yourself, forgive this and that and fuck all, in words of her therapist. It’s complicated and takes time—the process of healing, an undetermined amount but she imagines it's lengthy because she finds herself at phase one very often; the hardest pill to swallow, she’s hardly made any progress, her only trophy being that her skin doesn’t feel like it’s growing tiny legs every ten seconds. 

Forgiveness is always first. She hasn’t seen you in years, but that emptiness whenever she thinks of you is still fresh and ghostly, tickling her neck whenever she recalls. 

Forgiveness is earned. Forgiveness is a privilege, one that no one in her life deserved. Not meant in an egotistical way—her refusal to do so was neutral, not spiteful or out of defiance, but because… 

Why? Where would that put her? Everyone that she loved is gone. Progressing isn’t worth the effort if no one she values can witness it. She thrives off of approval, even now. 

To quote Linda, “That’s your greatest weakness.”

—

Anna is always at the forefront of her mind.  

Not with affection… sometimes with affection. There were good times on occasion. Not the widest selection to choose from, but enough to keep her spirit alive in a way that isn’t entirely tortuous. 

They made fresh ice cream together when she was six, bought fish and decorated their tanks when she was seven, rode bikes down the block together a few times. 

She didn’t know her mother was high during all of it though. That knowledge always sours her appreciation. 

Ellie blames her unknowing on naivety. She was eight when she caught her mother in the act: barely anything for the eye to notice, but it was heard—a distant sniff, then cough, then a breath that felt like the first in ages. She blamed it on allergies at first, but when her mother’s words started jumbling together, she put two and two together. Her mother always did love mafia films. They had a lot of that white stuff. She thought it was sugar.

Catching users' use is particularly horrifying. There’s a look they always have: kin to shame but much worse, like they know hollowness isn’t enough to make them stop, even if it’s their own kid begging them to. 

Ellie never begged though. Never out loud: silently, in her mother’s room with her heart beating in her ear, when she was an optimist and believed in God, she’d think of angels sent to heal her mom, that’d she’d wake up and see her best friend, idol, smile like she used to. Maybe if she cried, hollered, screamed like she did at Joel all those times, she’d have a mother that wasn’t sick; painful that she’ll never know. 

The tears never came, and neither did that joyous morning. The start of her addiction was always blurry. All Ellie can recall was the end. 

She thought her mom was asleep. Why didn’t she check her chest for movement before she layed on it? She thought an extra blanket would make her mom warmer. 

Her body lurches forward when a foot plants on the brake, tires screeching to a sudden halt with her hands tight on the wheel, tightness forming in her chest. No traffic, thank the universe there’s no traffic. 

The first bits of a spiral are always the scariest; the last attempt from the brain to grasp reality before crashing. She feels it whenever she thinks of that next morning. Why does she always think of that morning? She’ll never forget that morning, ever ever ever. 

Any and all imagery is used as a distraction. How far had she driven? The land is unfamiliar but it's pretty. Lots of green. The tightness grows tighter when she twists and snatches the keys from the ignition, the car dying from exhaust. Irregular breaths and her brain won’t fucking forget. 

“You’re fine, you’re fucking fine, relax.” 

Whispers, whispers from every corner of her mind. 

My mother’s safe underground, her spirit’s in the car. My mom’s safe underground, her spirit’s in the car. 

She’s safe, she’s safe, she’s safe. 

She’s no longer in pain. 

In moments like this, she would’ve used whatever shit you crushed up and left for her. Anything to keep her quiet, she’d do anything to quiet: no more you, no more mom, no more suffering. Silence and rest, that’s all she ever needed—all you’ve ever supplied, and then you fucking left her to suffer by herself like the heartless bitch you’ve always been.  

… In moments like this, she’s very tempted to use. A quick flash across her mind, always left with immense guilt because the temptation has never—will never disappear; a constant itch under the skin. 

All she wants is to forget. What’ll one more time hurt? The last time, she promised herself over and over again. She’s quit and un-quit so many fucking times that her brain recognizes it as a pattern; use and stop then rehab, use and stop then rehab. 

If her vice was within reach, she’d be high by now. Phase one is never too far behind, just a fucking failure. 

Her mother was always her last thought before she got high, and Joel was always the first when she woke up sober and in pain. Could be why she’d grown so attached during her vulnerable years. Drugs, alcohol—substances kept her connected to both of her parents, souls trapped deep in her psyche instead of the piles of dirt that submerge their bones. 

Joel always told her it was okay to cry about whatever made her upset, no matter how stupid… or not stupid at all. The body can’t decipher what is and isn’t significant. It just feels and emotes accordingly. Her sobs are as ragged for her mother as they are for the Tiktoks of unhoused kittens with no food. 

Everything hurts just the same. 

—

—

—

WINTER OF ‘18

I need a favor. 

I need a favor. 

I need a favor. 

I need, I need, I need, please…

Everyday since her eighteenth birthday, like clockwork. But recently… you can’t pin it exactly, but there’s something new. 

She calls, you answer, like always. You call, she answers after a few rings, conversations doomed with the same pleasantry. 

Can I please…

But you’ve always delivered. You’ve never said no. Maybe you should start saying no, but she knew you wouldn’t. You owe her this, everything. 

Can I come over? I miss you.

No, but you’ll meet her somewhere. Your uncle’s home. She can’t be here when he is. No one can. 

How’ve you been? I feel like we haven’t seen each other in a while. 

You saw Ellie yesterday. And the day before and the day before that. She was high and you babysat like always, maybe that’s why she can’t remember. You’re always together, although now, she doesn’t visit solely because she misses your company anymore. 

Can you meet me, please? 

You’ve accepted her invitation twice already. She sounded about ready to cry—you’ll never deny her when she’s like this. 

Can you bring the ones from last time? I—I forgot what they’re called, I need ‘em. Needa see you. 

She corrects robotically, but you pretend to not notice. Need. A pierce through the eardrums, a shock that signaled alarms. Something about that word… it makes you itch this time. For some odd reason. 

But you never say no. And she knows you won’t. 

The walk to the pond feels like a voyage through the Sahara, feet heavy with the weight of sand in your shoes. The trail you follow is always the same but there’s something different. Something about you. 

Ellie would usually be sitting on the bench, anticipating your arrival with tapping feet, and you see her—smaller with your distance, but she’s up this time around, steps frantic where she paces back and forth in front of the bench. 

Something about you. Something about Ellie. 

Ay, Stranger!

You holler, ignoring your unease. Ellie's ears jolt like a fox’s, miming your smile. Toothless and agitated. At least she’s still. For the time being.

Missed you. She calls back, as always. This time, your smile’s genuine. Smaller, but real. I missed you more. You look tired. 

Aren’t I always? She sighs. 

Not too long before you’re face to face with freckles. Your skin frosts; she’s never hesitated to hug you. But you never pry. That’s not your responsibility. 

Where you been? 

Around. You didn’t answer last night. Subtly accusatory. She’s never questioned about your whereabouts before. 

So, you allow your instincts to embrace you. Ah, yeah, unc had my phone. Sorry. 

All good. He gave it back, all that matters. 

You hum nonsensically. 

This fucking tone. Something about it. Then silence. Nothing from either. She simply observes and you do the same to her. Right on your bag strap. 

Are… are they in there? 

Yes. You never forget to carry. 

Is what in where? Forced from your throat, out of place. What did you just say?

What I asked you to bring. Are they… Is it in there? 

Yes. Always. I always carry. For you…

… Is what you always say, but the air hangs empty. Unanswered. 

All you can do is watch her crumble in slow motion as the silence widens. Her eye has an arrhythmic twitch like when the body’s dehydrated, but it translates downward. Her throat jumps with dryness, down to her chest that jerks with every breath, down to her arms that struggle to stay at her sides, to her fingers, to her knees that wobble and legs shake. 

Look at her. Are you stupid? Your brain is shouting signals to disengage. Have you never taken in how different she appears? Eyes sunken and red with dryness that matches her mouth that seems to be gnawed off, pale as can be. She’s worn those clothes for days now. No joy, no color. She’s so… small. Physically and…

Everything about her is small. Ellie’s never been small. She’s too large for life, too creative and spontaneous to be confined by whatever that is. 

You’re looking at her, but your brain doesn’t register familiarity. There’s a mental shock that’s earned whenever you see your best friend, but that didn’t happen this time. 

What the fuck is happening? What is that? Ellie? 

Can you just give—

Ellie—

FUCKING ANSWER ME! DID YOU BRING THEM OR NOT? 

Dry your throat is dry. 

Never once has Ellie yelled at you, ever ever. Not in her desperation, not in her sadness not in her disappointment with your dumb choices. Never. She’s never been upset with you—tone evident with conviction, never raised a hand to you, never touched where she shouldn’t never never never so why is she 

Dry. You can’t speak. Your mouth refuses. Hers takes up for yours—deep mutters as she paces. 

Fucking… fuck you. Why the fuck did you come if you didn’t fucking have… I needed you… One fucking job…

You always carry. They’re always on you. 

It crashes into you then. Something—still unpinned, but something is different. A bad kind. One that brings you unrest instead of adrenaline. Within you. Within Ellie. Your chest hurts strangely, too much to bear. 

That look on her face… so broken and hurt by your denial, your heart cracks. Whatever power you thought you had in this moment was faulty. Her baggie’s in your water bottle holder. You went out of your way to crush them for her.

When she sees it in your hand, she breathes like she couldn’t seconds prior, ragged and broken and painful sounding. 

Why the fuck did you lie? Said as a joke, accepted like a hot knife. You didn’t lie. You just didn’t answer. 

Why do her hands shake like that? She must notice your scrutiny because she sits right on the bench. Just like always. 

And you watch: watch her breathe powder that you crushed just for her as easy as oxygen, eyes shut in bliss. A sense of tranquility takes over her, she doesn’t shake as much: like her body whispers to her brain, finally. She laughs at your face, passes you the baggie. Tells you to relax. 

There’s a family playing with their dog not too far from you both. Why do you care so suddenly about its annoying barking?

Keep it. 

And she accepts without argument. She’d always acknowledge your hesitancy, your discomfort, why you won’t indulge with her. She read you better than anyone else. 

You never sit on the bench, and Ellie never asks why. 

Something about you. Something’s wrong with Ellie. 

—

—

—

FALL OF ‘15

…What does it feel like? 

You curious?

A gentle bite while you shove wads of cash into your uncle’s bill counter. Ellie’s interest is never short on you. It creeps up on her from time to time. It’s oddly entertaining, watching her struggle to understand why you do it. 

It’s weed. It feels like weed. Not much to it. 

Smells like shit. 

It smells good to me. 

You’re used to it. I don’t like it. 

Okay. Do you want me to waste it? The last bit was unnecessary: weed doesn’t waste unless you’re smoking with a fucking idiot, but Ellie doesn’t know that. Her brows crease with a jutted lip. 

No, ‘m just saying… 

Good. All it does is make you sleepy, You note casually, I think it’d do you some good. 

Are you insulting my irregular sleeping patterns? She jokes. 

Yes, you mumble between a grin. 

She just watches you toke and discreetly blow smoke into her face for an undetermined amount of time, all while the stutters of counted money slice through the air. You can’t help yourself; her upturned nose is adorable. If it really bothered her, she’d back away or go home. 

What if I do it wrong? 

Your brain’s emptying, draining out all wasteful thoughts from your ears until Ellie and her rampant curiosity are all that’s left. You snort. 

If you wanna try, just ask, n’ I’ll teach you. You mask the slur enough to ease her… you think. Or maybe she’s scared all over again. It’s hard to tell, your visions fuzzing at the corners a bit. 

Weeds for beginners, it’s not like… crack or somethin’. If that’s what you’re thinkin’. You’ll be fine. 

Pinched between your thumb and index, the half-smoked joint gets passed down. Ellie eyes it with alarm. 

Try not to think of bad things when you hit it. 

Wow, thanks. I definitely won’t be seeing the Boogieman anymore. Thanks, thanks a lot. 

Ellie flinches. Did you laugh too loudly? Probably. She’s funny. What’s expected?

Laugh with me, ya sucker. 

And much to your shock, after what felt like minutes of silent judgement, the joint is no longer in your hand. 

Your instructions don’t feel like they’re coming from you—more like an inner monologue. Your mouth moves but your brain doesn’t follow, doesn’t even know if the words being said are making sense. How much cash did you count? … did the machine count? 

You must be somewhat accurate because Ellie follows like a good student—that’s what she’s always been. A listener, an adapter. Faces challenges like a headstrong bull. All while you cower. Envy her in silence… 

Right before you teeter off into darkness, Ellie sucks in carbon until her cheeks are filled before… swallowing. Smoke glides from her nostrils. 

You don’t mean to laugh at her choking but her suffering has always been cartoonish. A bit silly. Her eyes bulge and water and she’s dry heaving like a Spongebob character desperate for water. 

She shoves the joint back into your grabby hand before dropping it into the ashtray, watching your friend shovel down water like drowning doesn’t matter, all while you gasp and choke on your laughter. 

The silence that follows is abrupt. 

Ellie’s quiet. You’re quiet. Even the money machine’s stunted with your room’s stillness. 

Your bestie’s adorable in this lighting, with the sun glowing from behind. Almost angelic. 

Your brain’s afloat, and based on her inattentive stare, Ellie’s there with you. She’s the coolest smoking virgin you’ve ever encountered. You despise tweakers. 

Sleepy? You think you say. 

Ellie says nothing, allowing herself to melt into your fluffy rug. Did you say something?

For an anxiety-riddled freak, she seems at peace. For once. Finally. 

You mimic her, shoving away stacks of money before laying out on your side, watching with intensity. Ellie often wears her heart on her sleeve: the easiest to read but now… 

You’re not sure what she’s thinking. She stares with voidness. 

You wanna sleep? You whisper. Ellie denies with a light shake of her head. 

How do you feel? 

She shrugs as much as she can with one shoulder. A grin pins your cheeks up. With a heavy arm, you twirl a loose bang behind her ear. 

She smiles then. Pretty. 

She’s always been pretty. She deserves this. 

She deserves peace. 

—

—

—

WINTER OF ‘19

I FUCKING HATE YOU! 

STUPID FUCKING BITCH! 

Please, baby, please open the door? Please, I need you, I’m hurting real bad, please… please… please? 

Fucking worthless whore, open the goddamn door, you—

I’m sorry, I love you so much. I didn’t mean any of it.

For three hours: berated and coddled. Then silence. After three hours, there's silence. 

With bloodshot eyes, you peer from the peephole. She’s gone. Or hiding. Waiting for the door to open so she can strangle you. 

You rush to close your blinds, dust flying from beneath their flaps. Protection. You’re too exposed. You need to hide, you need solace. 

No solitude. Not with that fucking bag sitting in the middle of your living room with an expressionless taunt, surrounded by glocks on the wall. All a mockery.

You killed your best friend. Sing-songy. The harder you sob, the louder it attacks. The voice that won’t quiet. 

You killed her, you killed her, you killed her. 

Your eardrums blow with your hollers. She sounded like she’s withdrawing and she’s alone because you refused to help her and if she dies or is dead it’s all on you, everything’s on you. 

Every sin signed by you. Every lie swindled and resold. You can’t calm down. The elastic snapping against your wrist isn’t enough, you can’t breathe, you can’t think. Your uncle isn’t here to compress you, to level you out, to nurture with knives for fingernails.

Ellie’s been alone, and now you are. 

Abandonment. It shouldn’t feel this painful. You’ve adapted for so long, it’s in your nature to be lonely. Why do you feel so damaged? Unfixable? This can’t all be on you, right? Ellie played her own part. You helped her, made life easier, gave her fun distractions because she deserved it. She deserved fun. Your uncle always told you kids should have fun, be free. 

Right? Your knees burn while you beg for confirmation from the universe. You’re always right. Your uncle’s always right. 

Please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die. 

Rushed and snot-filled and desperate. You should’ve opened the door, let her in. Made her happy. She would’ve at least been in your proximity. Watched incredibly close. 

She deserves happiness. She deserves, she deserves, and you supply. 

But there’s no succession this time. No internal praise, no elation, no adrenaline, no soul, no good. 

Dread. The purest form, the kind that tears from the inside, slashed to death by a thousand knives, surviving pieces left behind in a shell to suffer until their own end. 

Trapped with no one to call. 

Is this how Ellie felt around you all these years? 

Trapped. 

What karma. 

—

—

—

As long as it’s not cocaine. 

One little cigarette. Just as long as it’s not cocaine. Or acid. Or molly. Or that watery stuff. Cocaine, though. Especially that. 

Her tantrum is long forgotten, all because of one little cigarette trapped in the glove box. Like a baby sucking on their thumb, such an odd way to self-soothe. 

She’s parked even higher up now, car barricaded by a ragged freeway fence so she won’t drive off the green cliff. It looks weak and rusted. She probably could if she wanted to, she’s thought about it, but she’s a pussy. And she refuses to lose her last cig. 

She enjoys the last bits of it, ignoring her guilt, but not that much—it’s not cocaine—before tossing the butt out the window. Hopefully no fires start. 

Hours seem to fly with every shift of the ocean. The sun is barely peeking from behind the mountains, nearly dark out, yet it’s still just as hot. Her shirt is drenched, clinging to her; she can’t wait to shower. Or drown in the depths beneath her. 

Just a thought. She never learned how to swim. 

Joel is here if she doesn’t look at the passenger's seat, watching the moon slowly rise to dominate the sky. He loved night-watching, star-gazing… sky-staring? Inclined with mother nature and all that. 

Such a small thought has so much power over her. She just smoked, she shouldn’t be so ready to crumble. Not this quickly. Stop thinking about Joel, stop thinking about mom, stop thinking about… 

Somehow, trying not to think about you is so much harder. She wants to stop thinking. 

Fuck you for forcing her to mourn a quiet brain. Fuck you for everything.

The last bits of sun are telling her to go the fuck home, but she’s lost. She drove too much, too far. Followed her mother’s guide with no map. She can wait it out for ten, fifteen more minutes. Until the moon’s at her peak. 

…

Her mind always plays tricks on her. 

She vowed not to bring her phone on this trip. She had her wallet and keys in hand, so where the fuck is that ringing coming from? 

…

The passenger’s side. Underneath the coat she left in there a few months back… Did she leave her phone in here?

The device is yanked from her coat pocket. The call is marked unknown. 

Joel would’ve joked that the moon’s clocking into her shift. So stupid. A knot forms in her throat. 

She answers to distract. “Hello,” dry and cracked. She hasn’t spoken in a week. Maybe two. 

No response, but someone breathes on the other line. Stupid fucking kids prank-calling again. 

“Hello,” agitated. The breathing stutters, followed by another bout of silence. 

The universe is strange. Her thumb hovers over the red button right as a voice breaks through, cracked and timid and scared. Her mind… What a strong enemy. 

The screen frosts her ear. 

“… Hello?” 

A masked sob blares through her phone. Swallowed. Ellie feels the cliff beneath her crumble, trapped by her seatbelt, plummeting to her death, and somehow, that’s not as scary. Her heart crawling up her throat to splatter in her lap wasn’t as scary. Not as much. 

Not nearly as much as that buttery timbre that shakes with uncertainty. 

“Hey, Stranger.” 

[inkblot22]

Give You Something To Cry About

Yay, my time management skills continue to be straight ass. Sorry to the anon who has waited so patiently for this, and thank you so much for giving me an excuse to write this depraved ball of snot. Headers by @/cafekitsune. Also don't believe everything you see on the internet, there's no scientific proof that certain things work for your skin. I think Vil would know that, considering.

This Fic Is For: Anyone who can handle it! Once again, I tried to make it as gn as possible, considering Rook's use of Franglais, but I'm delusional and will say I did exactly that. Reader is referred to with they/them pronouns, and no real allusions to specific body parts are made for them.

TW for DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT, forced dieting, non/dubcon, mentions of death, questionable use of magic, captivity, someone has a case of dacryphilia and a strong sadist streak, won't say who, Rook Hunt because he freaks me out, unhealthy relationship dynamics, abuse, forced BDSM if you squint, I feel so bad for the reader in this one, toxic relationships, possibly OOC characters.

“I am not going to tell you again, my love.” Vil bends down to get in your face, already wearing his ceremonial robe and heels. He points a finger in your face, like you’re a small child or a dog, “If you continue to pick at your skin, I am going to let Rook punish you this time.”

You swallow and look away, and Vil pinches your cheeks between his thumb and fingers, pulling your head so you’re looking at him again. His violet eyes bore into you, and you swallow again.

He looks offended, almost, “Well? Have you forgotten basic manners? Speak.”

Your voice sounds dry and weak, “Yes, Vil. I understand.”

He seems satisfied enough with that, moving around as he continues to prepare for whatever school-wide assembly is happening today. He elegantly tucks his hair behind his ear and sighs, scrolling through some page on his phone.

You remain standing where you are, turning your head to look out the window. It’s so pretty outside, but you only get to leave this room whenever Rook is watching you or Vil sends you on an errand. It’s always spring, never too hot, never too cold, but you’re sweating anyway.

Vil approaches you again and tilts your face back so you’re looking at him with a hand on your cheek. His eyes narrow a fraction.

“Your skin doesn’t seem to like this foundation. Make sure you discard it today; I’ll get you a new one.” He bends down again, this time to press a chaste kiss to your lips. He rubs his own together after pulling away and smudges his thumb over your bottom lip, “Hmm. What lipgloss is this?”

Your voice doesn’t sound so dry, but it still doesn’t sound like you, “Uh… The dark red one with the metallic purple? ‘Electric Berry’?

He’s silent for a second, just staring down at your lips as he cups your chin, and then he sighs and turns away, “It’s sticky. I’d tell you to wash your face and reapply your makeup, but that’d be a waste. Make sure you put on lip balm next time.”

You swallow, “Yes, Vil. I understand.”

“I have to get going now. You’d better be at least halfway done with that list by the time I return.” He breezes towards the door and gives you a last, long look. He’s completely silent before he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Your palms ache. You stiltedly wander towards the list pinned in the closet, glad to see it’s not insane today. All you need to do is tidy the bathroom and skim through Vil’s mail to see if it’s anything but hate mail or advertisements. Tack on getting rid of that foundation and that’s it, at least until he returns at lunch.

You relished this time to yourself, even if it was just cleaning or whatever else. Vil always said that motion is good for you, a structure does the mind good. You didn’t care much anymore. As you sat down to search through his mail, finding nothing but the usual hate mail and what appears to be a poem from Rook (why did he even mail that? He’s not even down the hall from this room,) you catch yourself craving something sweet.

The diet Vil has you on sucks. He has assured you that your body is lovely, and he is having you eat like this to help clear your skin, but really you just want something. Anything, you’d even take a breath mint over this lack of junk food. You’re young, what young person doesn’t enjoy gratuitously unhealthy food? A basket of french fries? Ice cream? 

You frown to yourself and toss the last of the mail into the recycle bin. You know he’s just going to check it over again anyway, but at least you’re moving around. That’s what he would say.

By the time you’re almost done scrubbing the tub, you hear the door open. You don’t want to go greet him, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything and keep cleaning, making sure to disinfect the non-slip mat that resembles a bunch of ugly gems glued together. 

You hear him clicking towards you, and his hand rests on your shoulder, “Going above and beyond today? I have lunch, come eat.”

You school your expression and stand up, pulling off your cleaning gloves and hanging them on the rim of the tub before you follow Vil. He ensconces himself in his desk chair, leaving you to awkwardly lift the stool near his vanity. He hates it when you push the furniture.

He clucks his tongue, not even looking at you, “Lift with your knees, darling. As much as I’d love to massage your back if you pull something, I simply don’t have the time.”

You can’t help it. You shoot him the nastiest glare you can muster as you lift with your knees, right as his eyes flick up to meet yours. You nearly drop the chair as his lips curl into a cold smirk.

“Do you have something to say?”

You hastily shake your head, “No, Vil-”

“Then don’t allow me to see that expression on your face again.” He bites, “Come sit down.”

You put the stool down a little harder than you mean to and take a seat beside Vil at his desk. He passes you your nice little container containing one of several things he gets you- a pile of leafy greens and chopped veggies on a bed of quinoa, fresh fruit, and a murky green smoothie topped with chia seeds.

 You don’t like chia seeds. They remind you of frog eggs- a bunch of slimy lumps, sliding down your throat. You accept the straw Vil passes to you and stir the smoothie before eating in silence.

Vil doesn’t mind if you don’t thank him for feeding you. Since he’s keeping you here, it’s pretty much the least he could do. Still, it doesn’t make up for hearing about his boring day.

“This morning’s assembly was complete and utter chaos, as usual.” He muses, sipping his own smoothie. It’s a soft purple. “It’s ridiculous. Those brutes never wear their robes correctly.”

You don’t respond. There’s two reasons: first of all, you don’t care, and secondly, there’s a knock at the door. Vil hums, as though he’s been waiting for someone, and turns to face the door.

“Who is it?”

That boisterous voice you are so used to hearing echoes past the door, “‘Tis I, Roi du Poison. I have come to join you for lunch.”

You can hear the smile in Vil’s voice, “Oh, of course. Come in.”

As Rook walks in, you feel a stab of jealousy in your chest. He takes a breezy seat on the loveseat in front of Vil’s bed and glances at you. You break eye contact and dully pick at your salad.

Vil treats Rook so nicely. He considers his feelings and opinions, although he doesn’t always listen. He speaks to him as though he’s a person. You suppose Vil’s obvious care for Rook trickles down to you in some capacity, but it hurts. Vil claims that the two of you are lovers, but really you’re more like a doll.

“Do you mind meeting me in the lab later on, Rook?”

Rook chuckles from where he is and you cast another glance at him. His eyes meet yours, again, and you look away, again.

“I can always make time for you, beautiful Vil.”

You lamely pick at the fruit, having finished the salad, before you decide to save it for last. You take a sip of your smoothie after stirring it again and openly recoil, trying not to cough. You didn’t smell it, but there must be ginger in there, because there’s a mellow burn alongside the bitterness from the kale. It makes your eyes water and settles in behind your nose.

“Mmm. Something wrong?” Vil smiles at you.

You shake your head, blinking rapidly so you don’t start crying. There’s not enough tears to fall, but taking your chances is stupid, “No, Vil. The ginger just caught me off guard.”

“Oh. My apologies, I should have warned you. I don’t want you catching a cold, and you’ve been a little irregular. The smoothie also has spinach, kale, avocado, chia seeds, and, of course, a little mango.”

You nod and force yourself to smile, taking another sip and soldiering past the rush of that aromatic pain in your sinuses. “Oh, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, darling.” Vil turns away from you to speak to Rook again, “What else did you have planned?”

“I thought I might take a walk. It is a wonderful day, non?” There’s a slight mocking tone to Rook’s voice, “Hardly the type of day to be cooped up all day, hmm?”

Vil furrows his eyebrows as you choke down the last of the smoothie. His voice is curt, “You can say what you mean.”

“Est-ce que je peux? You are not very open to suggestion.”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, taking a deep sip of his smoothie before he places it on the coaster sitting upon his desk. He uncrosses his long legs and stands, walking over to sit with Rook on the loveseat. Rook watches him approach with a smile, the same pleasant one he usually wears before he shoots you a beaming grin and turns to look at Vil.

Their conversation is hushed, and you can’t really make out all of what they say. You can hear someone say your name, Vil’s tone swiftly turns vitriolic, then sweetens once more, and Rook chuckles under his breath. When their little meeting is over, Vil walks back over and finishes his smoothie before petting your head like you’re some kind of cat.

His hand strokes the crown of your head, then smooths over your cheek, he cups your jaw and thumbs over the swell of your lip, all while staring at you with a look you cannot read. And then he tilts his head, and smiles.

“Make sure you thank Rook. And you mistook a letter from my father as garbage.”

“Yes, Vil.” You reply obediently, “Sorry, Vil.”

He smiles. Your palms ache, and you have to bite back the urge to move, to peel at your cuticles or scratch the sides of your fingers.

“I’ll see you in class, Rook.” Vil says politely before he tilts your face up and pecks you on the lips.

You’re left alone with Rook. He doesn’t get up, not yet. You remain where you are, looking at your slippers. You hear Rook stand up and discard his garbage. You can feel him come up to stand behind you. 

“Has today been particulièrement difficile? My poor dear… You seem so sad today.” His arms wrap around you, looping them around your shoulders so they warm your collarbones like a scarf and he can rest his cheek against the back of your head. You hear him take a deep breath in.

With Vil, you don’t even try to speak anymore. You know he won’t really listen to you, because he knows better than you… But with Rook, as long as you wait a moment to make sure he is done speaking, he welcomes and even encourages you to speak your mind.

Your breath hitches and you swallow, “Uh, I mean… I guess I’m just having a bad day. It’s really been the same as usual.”

“Hmm.” Rook hums, completely devoid of emotion. You feel him turn his face so his nose is buried in your hair. He presses a kiss against your hair and sighs, “Ah, yes, the monotony of life is très épuisant, mmm?”

You wait for a second, then deliberately don’t answer the question in favor of asking your own, “Um, he said I should thank you?”

“Perhaps you should ask why more clearly. I have convinced our very own Vil to allow me to arrange a surprise for you.” Rook removes himself from your back and turns you around to face him, “And thus, I believe I have earned a kiss from you.”

“Wait, what?” You don’t get time to really back away or tell him to explain, as Rook squishes your cheeks with one of his gloved hands until your lips part.

His grip isn’t as harsh as Vil’s, but this is still something that only happens when you’re in more trouble than usual, so you involuntarily wince and close your eyes, cowering away from Rook as he dips his tongue into your mouth and slithers it between your teeth.

It is very easy to like Rook. He is passionate, and he’s far more kind to you than your supposed lover is. He’s intelligent and has an adonis-like form, and if not for the taste of blood on his tongue from whatever he ate for lunch or the grip he has on your face, maybe you would enjoy this kiss. But the big issue is that Rook honestly frightens you a little.

It’s absolutely not his fault, not entirely. Upon first meeting him, it was hard to tell if he was being genuine. He’s difficult to read, as he is often wearing the same set of expressions and his tone is always a bit melodramatic.

His hand releases your face to clamp around the base of your head, his tongue twisting in your mouth, pressing against the crevices in your teeth.

Not only is Rook hard to read, he is also uncannily observant and will not hesitate to ask somewhat invasive questions about his observations. The fact that he dresses in a way that conceals his mass is also disconcerting, as you were unaware that he had such a build until you saw him roll up his sleeve one time. You were aware Vil could do a lot of damage, but that was the day you realized that Rook was capable of doing about as much as Vil, if not more.

He purrs into your mouth, the vibrations feeling oh-so-wrong, and his other hand clamps down on your shoulder. He sucks your tongue into his mouth. It’s not a good feeling, as he is literally stealing what little air is in your mouth. When you feel something feather light flutter against your lashes and cheek, you feel a bit confused for just a moment, not even a second, before you realize that Rook just blinked. His eyes are open. 

He pulls away and sighs, almost dreamily. You suppress your distressed sputtering, holding your breath as Rook stares at you.

“Ah, enough time has passed. I will need to leave you, mon lapin. Thank you for indulging me; your kiss was divine and tasted sweeter than the finest fruits!” He presses something into your palm and adjusts his hat before he casts you a wave and shuts the door.

You stand there, your lips drying out from the saliva left on them and your cheeks feeling a little odd from the way he was holding your face. You’re processing, because, ever as always, Rook is simulated spontaneity. So many things just happened, and you don’t… 

You blink a few times and look down at your aching palm stupidly. The crimson cellophane crinkles as you unclench your fist. He gave you a piece of candy.

Just looking at it makes you start crying. One second you’re staring wide-eyed at the little lump of sugar, and the next your vision is blurring and you’re crying off your makeup, plump tears cascading down your face. Your nose begins to run and you sniffle. You can’t find it in yourself to sob, because you’re mostly certain that these are happy tears. 

Unfortunately, you can’t eat the candy now. If you threw the wrapper away, Vil would notice it in the garbage and you’d get in trouble for “breaking your diet plan.” So you hide it in the very back corner of the drawer of Vil’s armoire. You’ll be tidying it on your own anyway, and Vil never reaches all the way into the back of it.

Once your tears have stopped, you stand up and go back to cleaning the bathroom. It’s spotless and smells like lavender and lemons about an hour before Vil gets back, so you decide to skim one of the books on the shelves. 

It’s not long before you’re bored with that as well. You carefully put the book back and wander over to the lattice window, staring out of it. The window, paired with your usual low mood, made you sort of feel like a bird in a very ornate cage. 

From where you are, about three stories up, you notice a familiar figure notching an arrow before he unnotches it and takes a knee. You blandly spectate as he fiddles with the bow.

Partway through him notching the arrow again, you see his hat tilt. He’s far away enough that you can’t see his eyes, but you can feel his stare. His gloved hand bends his brim and you jerk away from the window, only to bump into someone.

You don’t get to shriek, as a hand clamps over your mouth. It’s just Vil, but you don’t relax yet as he drags you towards the bed and deposits you there.

“How many times must I tell you to stay away from the window?”

He’s never once told you to stay away from the window. Not as far as you can recall, at least. Your lips tremble and you decide it’d be more wise to keep silent.

Vil glares down at you and you feel the rest of your body start to tremble. His lips curl into a displeased sneer, “You didn’t wash your face after crying?”

“N-no, Vil-”

“We do not stutter.” Vil hisses, bending to get in your face. He stares at you for a moment before standing straight again, “Speak up.”

You swallow and clench your hands into fists, “No… Vil. I… got rid of the foundation like you, um… asked me to. I wouldn’t have been able to redo-”

“Alright. Go wash your face.” Vil interrupts you again.

You jump up and rush into the bathroom, going through your skincare routine. You can feel Vil staring at you, your skin crawling under his gaze. As you rub moisturizer into your skin, Vil finally says something.

“Did Rook do something to you, darling?” His tone is soft, tentative.

You glance at him, blinking a few times. What does he mean by ‘something’? He did do something, but it wasn’t bad, or particularly different.

“Um… Not exactly.” You say, massaging your forehead.

“I see. What did he do?” 

You look down at the sink. You’re not saying anything about the candy. “Rook kissed me?”

“That should not be a question.” Vil says. You see him shake his head through your peripheral, “Would you like to change your clothes before I redo your makeup?”

You’d like to ask what he’s talking about, but instead, you look down at your clothing. You don’t have a proper Pomefiore uniform because you’re not a part of this dorm. You’re an interloper- or a caged bird.

You don’t know what to do here. You don’t want to say something wrong and unintentionally offend Vil. Your palms ache. You give him a confused look from where you are.

He doesn’t look impressed, but before he can say anything about you gaping at him, you speak up, “What… am I supposed to do?”

You’ve only seen Vil surprised a few times. He raises his eyebrows and looks at you as though you’ve grown two heads, then sighs, “Well, I suppose I’d like to see you in something else. I’ll choose your outfit.”

That’s nothing new, he always does that. You wait in the bathroom for him to return. He strolls back in with a mockery of the Pomefiore uniform. There’s a deep purple cloak and capelet, which Vil drapes on the bed before handing you the actual clothes. It’s a very ruffled dress shirt, the long, puffy sleeves cinched into more ruffles at the wrist paired with a pair of black bloomer-style shorts. The buttons are all white and gold, marbled together. 

Vil leaves the bathroom and you change, neatly tucking your previous clothing away in the hamper. When you leave, as usual, Vil picks at your clothing, making sure it looks as good on you as he pleases, and then he steers you to sit down.

For however vicious he can be, Vil can be oddly gentle. For every time he grabs you roughly, his touch is feather-light ten more times. He hums a soft tune as he puts light makeup on you, just your eyes and lips, and then he drapes the cloak around your shoulders and places his hands on his hips.

“You look lovely. Go put on the pair of gold boots with the black decals.”

You do as told. He very likely wants to just take pictures of you or something so he can ask that Mira app about it.

Except when you stop in front of him, he doesn’t tell you to go sit in the loveseat or on the table near his window, no, he scoops you up and presses his forehead against your jaw.

“Oh, when did you put on this cologne? What a ravishing smell on you.” He presses a kiss on the column of your throat and breezes out of his dorm room's door.

Almost immediately, you go limp in his arms, like a doll. He never gave you explicit verbal permission to leave this room, so the curse he placed on you when he decided you should be his smashes into you like a giant wave at the beach.

Vil carries you all the way outside and looks at your face, then happily struts along the path behind the dorm. Since you can’t turn your head, you can only go off of the view of Vil’s neck and chin, the sky, and whatever you can hear.

“Ah, I am glad to see you did not change your mind, Roi du Poison. J'aurais été très déçue et triste pour notre chéri.” You hear Rook say. 

You can almost feel Vil get a mite warmer, “Yes, well. Hand me the basket. Since you want to make out with them and make them cry, you get to carry them as an apology.”

Rook happily scoops you out of Vil’s arms, giving you a cloying look as he strolls along. He and Vil chat as they walk, something not really worth listening in on, just boring musings about class and “this teacher did x” or “that student did y”. An insect lands on your cheek and you are incapable of batting it away or expressing your discomfort. Its legs tickle the peach fuzz on your face and you remain still, like a corpse.

Rook slides you into a seated position, posing you like a toy before shooing the bug off of your face. Now you can see that you’re in a clearing in the woods, seated on a picnic blanket. There’s a few lanterns staked into the ground, and Rook and Vil are busy with whatever is on the floor. You can’t look down, so your best guess is that it’s a picnic.

Vil leans over and snaps in your face, smiling kindly at you, “Now. If I release you, you are not going to run. You are not going to so much as consider running. We are going to have a nice picnic with no shenanigans from you.”

You can’t nod, so you just stare at him, trying to telepathically communicate.

He looks pleased enough, “Wonderful. I give you permission to leave our room.”

Your muscles relax and you look back, finding that you’re leaned against a log. The picnic spread is very nice, as well. It looks like finger sandwiches. You’re not expecting to get to eat one, as you haven’t had bread since Vil switched up your diet. Vil passes something to you.

“Oh.” You mumble, staring at the plate Vil hands you. 

It’s a sandwich. A very wonderful looking sandwich, cut into triangles and with the crusts still on. You blink at it a few times and look back up at Vil.

“Don’t expect this to be a pattern. This is a treat for good behavior.”

You look back down, “Yes, Vil.”

“There’s no need to remind them. They’re being obedient.” Rook’s voice is more firm than you expected to hear him ever speak. Usually his tone is buoyant, and you’ve never seen him outright pick a fight with Vil like this.

“Please. You give anyone an inch, they’ll take a mile.” Vil cuts back, then turns to you and pets your head like a dog or a cat again, “Eat your food, beautiful.”

You take a bite. Bread is just as good as you remember it. The air feels thick, like you’re in a bubble as Vil and Rook communicate through eye contact alone. Before you know it, your sandwich is gone and your hands are covered in crumbs. Rook, still staring at Vil with that happy little smile, wipes your hands and places a glass in your hands. Whatever is in it smells sweet. You take a tentative sip.

Were it Vil, you would have never drank whatever this is. It kind of tastes like a mellow mixed berry juice. It’s very pleasant, actually. Better than the potion Vil used to lace your food and drinks with. You smile into the cup and Vil snatches it from you.

He takes a sip and frowns, handing it back, “Mmm. I have an even better surprise.”

Rook pulls your legs into his lap and gently kneads your calves as you watch Vil rifle through the picnic basket. What is happening? You sip your juice and Vil produces a triangular container. He places a fork on top and hands it to you.

You finish the last of your juice and accept the box, looking conspiratorially at Rook. Something you can’t put your finger on dances in his eyes and he digs his thumb into your shin a little strongly. You flinch and cautiously open the box. It’s a piece of fluffy white cake, with even fluffier meringue and an uncannily perfect cherry wedged into it.

You look at Vil, expecting some kind of trick. Not that he’s ever done that before, usually he’d just take it from you or make some snide comment, things like that, but he and Rook are acting really strange today, 

“I know how much you long for junk food, so I spent some time after club activities today whipping up some angel food cake. It’s got agave instead of sugar so it won’t completely break your diet and your skin won’t suffer as much.”

Yeah, this is weird. The cake is good, though, it’s fluffy and sweet. You pace your bites so that Vil won’t make a comment and you can savor this. You can feel both of their eyes on you and it makes your skin crawl.

You lower the cake box and look at Vil, who looks a bit offended for just a second. The fleeting expression is replaced by a pleased little grin, the mauve lipstick making the curve of his lips all the more sinister in the dimming light.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, Vil.” You glance at the cake and then back at him, “I’m… I’m sorry, I’m a little confused.”

“Why?” Rook asks.

Your shoulders jerk as you turn your head to look at him. You weren’t expecting him to say anything. His chest swells in what appears to be a suppressed chuckle as he squeezes your knee. It seems his hands have climbed.

“Uh…” You swallow, “This is just… not what I’m used to.”

“The cake?” Vil looks hurt. Why does he look hurt?

You shake your head rapidly, “No! Oh- No, Vil. I… It’s just been so long since I’ve been out here…”

“Do you want to go inside, chéri?” Rook murmurs.

You do, but you also don’t really want to risk sounding ungrateful. Being outside has stressed you out more than you’d like to admit. You’re not really sure what to do because Vil has you trained like a dog, and none of what he’s hammered into you involves picnics. You’re scared.

Rooks eyes narrow as you just stare at him. Your chest hurts from how hard your heart is throbbing, and on the other side of you, Vil sighs.

“Well, I’ll start cleaning up, then. When we get back, I expect you to take a seat on the bed.”

That sounds like what happens every time you get in trouble. A terror shudders through you and your eyes water a bit as you gnaw on your lip. Your palms ache as you fight to keep from picking at your cuticles. Vil packs up everything and Rook offers you a princely hand to help you up.

You can feel the calluses on his hands through his gloves as he essentially lifts you to your feet. You keep between Rook and Vil as you walk back to the dorm.

It’s quiet, since everyone else is winding down for bed. For a moment, you think you spot Epel, but you’re not sure. It doesn’t matter anyway. None of your old friends talk to you anymore. Not since Vil started having eyes for you.

Just as you were told, after taking off your boots you take a seat on the bed and retrieve the silver ruler from the side-table’s drawer. You place it beside you as you look down at your feet. You look down at the streaky bruises on the lighter skin on your palms and try not to start crying. It’s always worse when you cry.

He adds smacks by twos. Depending on what you did, you start with four or six, and then any time you flinch or pull away or make a loud noise, he adds two more. Last time, you spilled one of his nail polishes, and after watching you clean it up, you ended up getting ten lashes.

At least Rook didn’t do it then. He tries to make it quick but that just makes it hurt more. A tear slips down your cheek.

You don’t even know what you did. You tap the tear track dry with one fingertip and Vil and Rook fully enter the room.

“Why is the ruler out?” Vil asks, and then his voice goes sharp, “Are you crying?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Vil.” You sob.

“I don’t know why.” He grabs the ruler and shoves it away before you can raise your hands, “Go wash your face.”

You stand up and shakily do as told, returning to sit on the bed. Vil goes into the bathroom after you and Rook takes a seat next to you, his hand on your shoulder.

He smiles at you, rubbing your shoulder, “You are très précieux, chéri.”

You look at him in a state of hollow bewilderment as he brushes his cheek against yours and presses a soft kiss to the shell of your ear.

You hear the bathroom door close and a tired sigh from Vil, “Do you have no patience?”

Your head jerks to look at VIl, “Rook is…?”

“Yes, he’s joining us tonight.” Vil plucks the loop of his sleeve from his middle finger and loosens his belt. You get the feeling that the next words he says aren’t for you, “Well, go ahead.”

You feel Rook’s chuckle more than you hear it. With his lips against your neck, his hands begin to slide. The hand on your shoulder rests on the nape of your neck and his other hand slides down to your thigh, then up to your waist. You try not to cringe against his touch, but it’s difficult.

His hand slides down again as he trails his teeth against the back of your ear. His thumb hooks in your pants and starts yanking them down. You outright flinch.

“Wait-”

“Relax, darling.” Vil mumbles, hanging his clothing in the armoire.

You try. You absolutely try. Rook throws your bloomers aside and rests his hand on your lower belly for a moment. He sighs into your ear and reaches up to unclasp your buttons.

You feel stiff. You want to push him away but you can’t move. It’s as though your body is frozen. It’s not due to a curse, so the only possible solution is that you’re quite literally scared stiff. 

He pulls away your shirt and glances at Vil, “Are you prepared?”

“Please.” You can hear the smile on Vil’s lips as Rook turns back and kisses you again, his hand smoothing along your collarbone and shoulders.

Your underwear is the next to go. Of course it is. You fight to keep from breathing oddly, because you’re aware that if you pass out, Vil will get annoyed.

“Mmm.” The devil’s hand glides up your back and you fight back a shudder as Rook leans you backwards into his arms. “How are you feeling, darling?”

You’re honest, “I’m scared.”

“I thought you would say that.” Vil freely manhandles you, shifting you so you’re leaned chest to chest. He slides something off of the side table and passes it behind you, then cups your cheek, “You would save a lot of time and stress if you’d just learn to trust me.”

“I…” You hate him. You hate him so much. He keeps you here like a pet, and you don’t know how he’s supposed to expect you to treat him like a lover when he treats you the way he does. 

Before you can articulate an answer that pleases Vil, a wicked burn besets your sphincter and you clench your jaw. 

Vil’s voice is sharp, “Rook, please.”

You hear Rook make a noise underneath the harsh sound of blood rushing in your ears and your own heavy panting. Something cool oozes around the ring of your ass and you press your face against Vil’s chest. His robe is lazily tied, which is not particularly like him, and you can see his cock poking out where the fabric separates. You let out a strangled noise and Vil shushes you, rubbing your back soothingly.

“Relax. I know, you weren’t prepared. Relax.” Vil soothes.

“I don’t mind if you remain tense, chéri. Mon plaisir n'en est que plus grand. And your little cries and whimpers sont terriblement mignons.” Rook mumbles behind you.

Rook is better than Vil in most areas, but once he gets his dick inside of you, it’s as though he forgets to be caring and kind. The tables flip, with Vil acting the part of a caring lover and Rook becoming a sadistic bully. You let out a ragged sob as Rook rolls his hips and Vil hisses something that you don’t quite catch.

It almost sounded like he was telling Rook to slow down. That very well could have been the case, as Rook eases back a bit and only shallowly thrusts.

Vil continues petting you, coaxing you so your cheek is pressed against his thigh. He is always a perfect warm. He is always perfect, so it sort of makes sense, but his skin is a pleasant temperature. He feels alive, a perfectly human temperature that tells you he’s breathing and his heart is beating. As he fingers through your hair, Rook gives a harsher than usual thrust and you cry out.

“Rook, if you’re impatient then you’re going to hurt them, and neither of us have the time to take care of them all day.” Vil chides, and then his tone softens as he rubs the space between your shoulders, “Are you ready for me as well, darling?” “What…?” You ask, blearily. Somewhere in the back of your awareness, you know what he wants, but you can feel Rook’s thrusts growing impatient and seeing as you weren’t given any prep, you’re in a bit too much shock to think straight.

“Mmm… You’re awfully cute but I need you to be a bit more lucid.” Vil snaps in your ear and resumes his petting, “This isn’t the first time, sweetheart. I’m not going to hold your hand.”

The soft tip of his member spreads his pre like lipgloss against your lips. As you shakily open your mouth, you figure you’re lucky that Vil doesn’t have a chaotic, unhealthy diet like Leona or Ace, that he doesn’t drink coffee for fun or often like Deuce does. The taste of his skin is lightly floral and dominantly human, likely thanks to the body lotion he applies daily. 

He hisses and presses against your forehead, “Ah-ah. You’re taking enough from Rook. Just the tip for me is fine.”

From behind, you hear Rook grumble under his breath, “Je n'en peux plus de cette merde…”

“Watch your- unf- watch your language, Rook.” Vil snarls, massaging the nape of your neck as you carefully lave your tongue over his glans.

Rook’s patience breaks, his hands clamping down on your waist, just above your hips. You have the sense to pull Vil’s cock out of your mouth as Rook begins battering into you.

As much as you feel okay about Rook, he is not a doting lover by nature. He’s mean and brutal, chasing his climax, and only after he cums does he bother to think about you or your needs. Your palms ache as you grab Vil’s member and gently tug on it. Vil flinches and snaps at you to get your attention.

You look to the side and for a second, as the pain ebbs, you assume you’re having an out of body experience, and then you realize that you’re staring into his vanity mirror. Rook’s hair exaggeratedly sways with his motion. He removed his hat but just haphazardly displaced the rest of his clothing. He’s not smiling, he’s making some sort of smug expression.

It’s funny. As Vil is satisfied with you weakly jerking him off, his touch gentle, Rook is wild on your other end. Every time you just barely begin to relax, he thrusts harder, which makes you tense and a spike of pain batters through you. 

You endure as best you can. You endure every day, enduring through eating the same unfulfilling food, enduring through walking on eggshells around Vil, enduring getting your palms beaten to hell for the most human of errors, so what’s getting sodomized in the face of everything else you can handle?

You bite back a shriek as a harsh pinch on your bottom, followed by a smack administered by Rook. He leans down and blows in your ear, snickering as he leans back, “I thought you had given up the ghost for a second there.”

Vil sucks in a breath and you quietly mumble against his thigh.

“Hmm? I didn’t hear you, mon chou.” Rook’s voice is almost mocking, like before.

“P-please… Rook, I can’t-”

“You can. You’ll live.” He grunts, the steady clap of your ass against his body punctuating his statement.

“It hurts.” You sniffle. You’re not particularly prone to crying, but, then again, Rook and Vil usually prepare you before deciding to fuck your ass.

You sob and Rook’s grasp tightens on your waist, a ragged moan punching out of his chest. He pulls your body flush to his and jerks his hips into you, drilling a bit harder for all of four or five thrusts. And then he’s no longer on you, and you feel your body getting shifted so your head is still in Vil’s lap but you’re lying prone.

You tilt Vil’s dick down to massage the head with your tongue and something warm drips on your back. You hear a noise of disgust from Vil, capped by a quiet moan.

“Absolutely not. All three of us are getting in the tub if you don’t clean that up right now.”

Rook chuckles and coos, “Hmm, but it looks so lovely. My alabaster essence creates a wonderful contrast with their soft and supple skin.”

A flush of humiliation crawls up the back of your neck and you hide your face against Vil’s belly, using your own arm to hide the other half. Vil shudders as he pushes your head down a bit, but his voice sounds incredulous.

“That’s vile. It doesn’t have any proven health benefits, you know that.”

You felt Rook’s hands spreading his semen into the skin on your back and your palms ache as Vil cums in your mouth. He doesn’t do that often, so it hits you like a shock.

You gag but force it down and Vil shoots up, fretting over you.

“Did you just swallow that?” He bends down to look into your eyes.

“Yes, Vil.”

“You didn’t need to do that.” Vil snips, sounding much harsher than he might intend, “I’m going to run us a bath, alright, darling? I’ll make sure you can brush that icky stuff out of your mouth.”

It didn’t taste bad. Vil usually cums on your face as an incentive for you to wash your face very well after a day of wearing makeup, or he has you jerk him off until he cums, but the few other times you did taste it, it was the same as this time. It was mostly salty, not too bitter, likely from his good diet. Regardless, he breezes away and Rook gives your bottom a light tap. You stand up and glance at Rook, who is looking a bit disheveled but pretty pleased with himself.

“How are you feeling, cheri?”

“That hurt.” Your voice is quiet, and your throat is still lined with tears.

“Does it still hurt?” He smiles and tilts his head.

The sound of the tub running is thunderous even where you are. Vil would never tolerate you complaining, but Rook is amicable, “A little.”

“The bath will do you good, then. Come.”

You let Rook guide you into the bathroom, his hand on your elbow. As he undresses and joins Vil on the edge of the tub, you look down at your bruised hands and glance at the slowly closing bathroom door, then at Rook and Vil where they stand near the tub.

You can’t say you prefer either of them, really, but you don't get an opinion. Do dolls at tea parties get to ask for a different kind of tea?

[rpmemes-galore]

Hozier : Hozier album ... sentence starters pt. 2

tw: allusions to drugs / death / abuse throughout. change pronouns as needed

"You know better, babe."

"Honey, make this easy."

"All you have is your fire."

"I need you to run to me."

"It looks ugly, but it's clean."

"And it's worth it, it's divine."

"Calls of guilty thrown at me."

"Always a well-dressed fraud."

"Honey, please, try to love me."

"The purest expression of grief..."

"Jesus Christ, don't be kind to it."

"Rare is this love, keep it covered."

"I know who I am when I'm alone."

"In some sad way, I already know."

"I prayed my mind be good to me."

"Jesus Christ, don't be kind to me."

"Don't give it a hand, offer it a soul."

"That's a kindness you can't afford."

"My dearest love, I'm not done, yet."

"She loves like sleep to the freezing."

"Oh, but she burns like rum on a fire."

"Oh, please, give me mercy no more."

"I will not ask and neither should you."

"You soon find you have few choices."

"I called your name till the fever broke."

"She tells me I'm hers and she is mine."

"Honey, don't feed it, it will come back."

"We should just kiss like real people do."

"Run until you feel your lungs bleeding."

"Honey, don't feed me, I will come back."

"I will not ask you where you came from."

"Don't let it in with no intention to keep it."

"Leave it to the land, this is what it knows."

"I've known the warmth of your doorways."

"You'll hear me howling outside your door."

"I turned and ran to save a life I didn't have."

"I heard a scream in the woods somewhere."

"Why were you digging? What did you bury?"

"I knew that look, dear, eyes always seeking."

"I found something in the woods somewhere."

"You've done me wrong. For a long, long time."

"So, I will not ask you why you were creeping..."

"You don't understand, you should never know."

"What caused the wound? How large the teeth?"

"You know better, babe, than to look at it like that."

"Don't let me in with with no intention to keep me."

"You should never know how easy you are to need."

"I've no language left to say it, but all I do is quake to her."

"Her eyes look sharp and steady into the empty parts of me."

"Something in it had a power... could barely tear my eyes away."

"But my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake."

"Still, my heart is heavy with the hate of some other man's beliefs."

"What did you bury Before those hands pulled me from the earth?"

"All that I've been taught, and every word I've got, is foreign to me."

"I know who I am when I'm alone. I'm something else when I see you."

"Don't you ever tame your demons, but always keep them on a leash."

"I will not ask you where you came from... I will not ask and neither should you."

"When I was a child, I heard voices. Some would sing and some would scream."

"I've known the warmth of your doorways. Through the cold, I'll find my way back to you."

[huramuna]

even in undeath - chapter 1.

lich king aemond x reader a 'world of warcraft' AU. prev | next

The Lich King is the master and lord of the Scourge. Consisting of thousands of walking corpses, disembodied spirits, beasts of the north, and damned mortal men, the Scourge is a terrifying and insidious enemy.

word count: 2.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, DUBCON, smut, heavy heavy angst, graphic depictions of violence, allusions to cannibalism, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, suicidal thoughts and ideation, mutilation of corpses, obsessive aemond, dark aemond, a happy ending is not in our future. PLEASE MIND THE TAGS! This story will be pretty dark.

story playlist

It was dark and cold. There was a faint dripping of water somewhere off to the side, but you couldn’t quite see where. The echoes of whimpers ricocheted off of the craggy walls, stinging your eardrums. 

This was the descent into madness, wasn’t it?

You weren’t sure how long you’d been chained up for— how long had it been since your village burned to the ground? Since you watched the ghouls rip apart the cow farmer from down the road. Since you watched hellhounds crunching on little Mary Jay’s bones. Since you had watched your mother and stepfather plead and beg for their lives, for forgiveness, for mercy, for absolution of their supposed sins before the death knight’s sword lopped their heads off. 

How long has it been? 

Shifting slightly, the chain tied to your throat clinked against the wall. There was no light, no passage of time to be had in the dank, pitch black cave they stowed you and a few select others in. You only had on a ragged potato sack as a dress, the sensation of dirt and grime caked on your hair and under your nails making you feel less than human. 

But— you were still human. For now. The Scourge had ravaged the Eastern Kingdoms without mercy, swiping through the North and South like a fast traveling plague, curdling and damning everything it touched. Hordes of undead zombies, ghouls and hellhounds were the first to raze the cities, driving out the people like mice from the walls. Then the banshees came, along with the necromancers to raise the dead, adding them to a forever amounting army.

Not even Quel’thalas had been able to resist it, an ancient elven city hewn in magic.

What chance did you have? 

More than most, evidently. Your mind wrought itself over and over as to why— why were you alive? Why were you still human and not merely a risen thrall? 

The clinking of armor scared you as it ascended the hallway. You pressed close to the wall and closed your eyes. 

Please don’t stop here, please don’t stop here. 

Clink, clink, clink… closer… closer… 

Then it passed, descending further away. You let out a breath, your blood still pumping in your ears. 

Clink, clink, clink. They were coming back. Clink… silence. You felt bile rise in your throat as you shook, the chains rattling noisily. You knew they were standing there, you knew they were here for you. 

A harsh tug upon your chain, your head hitting the floor— some words were mumbled, the voice sounding far away and broken. Your eardrums rang with the ferocity of your fall, drowning out any semblance of what your jailer was saying to you. Then, you were tugged upward, the cool metal of the collar biting into your skin as you were dragged like a petulant child away from your cell… 

You didn’t want to open your eyes. You couldn’t face the horror you knew was around you— corpses, living ones and dead, the clatter of bones, the heavy breathing of gargantuan abominations, bodies and faces of countless people stitched together into a new body, hewn with thread and necrotic magic until it gave way to something else entirely. Something unnatural, something made of nightmares. The dermis of those who were used to make the monsters would still twitch, reach out on its own, and if it had a mouth, it would be twisted into a scream. You swore that you heard them whispering as you were dragged by. 

The monstrosities were one of many abhorrent creatures at the Scourge’s disposal. Hellhounds, ghouls, gargoyles, wraiths, crypt lords, geists, banshees, and other things of horrific nature were only some of the power wielded by the Scourge. It felt like it was all pulled out of a child’s fairytale, changed and twisted and defiled into what it was now. 

It all felt like a very bad dream. 

Your eyes opened on their own and you took in the image of death knights, former paladins who served a higher power, the Light— now are nothing but undead heretics, glowing eyes and gaunt stares that bored through you. 

Some of the monsters chittered as you were dragged past them, leering and looking hungry. 

‘Scrawny that one. Perhaps she will suffice for hellhounds to pick their teeth.’

‘Speak for yourself, her skin will do beautifully on a new abomination.’ 

‘She won’t be knighted. Merely a maid’s bastard, I’ve heard.’

You forced your eyes to close once more, the sudden light stinging them. You forced yourself into another time, a better memory than what you were experiencing. 

They were right, you were a maid’s bastard. Your mother had served in the royal keep for years, with you under her feet. You didn’t know who your true father was, nor did you care.

You became attached to the second son of the King— Aemond Targaryen. He was a sprightly boy with near white hair and luminous violet eyes. The two of you were attached at the hip. 

Childhood friendship blossomed into more as you grew into teenagers and young adults— you shared your first kiss together, you held hands and shared sweet nothings. As he trained by day to become a paladin of the Light, he held you close by night, vowing to never let you go. You were both terribly in love and so terribly, terribly naive. He was your first in everything– your first friend, your first kiss, your first lover. You promised yourself that he would stay your first and only.

‘You can never marry a maid’s bastard, Aemond! You’re a prince of the realm-‘

‘I don’t care! I want her, father. I’ve always wanted her!’

Your mother quit her job at the castle— moreso, threatened into quitting by some of the King’s advisors. She was given a considerable amount of coin and told to take you far, far away and to not contact the prince again. 

Heartbroken, you left him your sapphire ring, the only thing of value you ever had, which had been passed down through your mother’s family for generations. 

It was left on his desk with a note of few words but much feeling. 

‘I love you. I’m sorry.’ 

That was over ten years ago. You hadn’t seen him since, but you missed him horribly. Especially now. You wondered if he was still alive, fighting against the Scourge like his knightly vows dictated. 

Maybe he was married and moved across the sea to Kalimdor where it was safer. 

Or maybe he was dead. Dead like almost everyone else you knew. 

You heard a rumor, fleeting and without much more information, that his father had died– no, that his father had been murdered. The fall of the king, Viserys, is what started the Scourge war. Did Aemond know, wherever he was? 

You imagined him holding his arms around you, kissing your neck and fanning his breath over your skin. He liked to encompass you completely with his body when you laid together— you never could emulate the feeling with heavy blankets and pillows, as much as you tried. Putting yourself back into that memory, you wrapped your arms around yourself, willing warmth into your body. 

But you didn’t feel any warmth. All you felt was cold, cold down to your bones. They felt brittle, like ice, splintering into shards as you were thrown on the floor again in a different room. Pain bloomed in your arm as it cracked at an awkward angle. Broken. 

Your ears rang again as your mouth opened into a scream, tears of pure anguish squeezing from your eyes. But you didn’t hear a thing besides the rush of blood dampening your senses— and the sickening crunch of your broken bones. 

‘What have you done to it, Lady Deathwhisper? It looks broken.’ 

‘It’s human bones are so brittle, it was merely a slip of the hand. I cannot help that their living constitution is so weak.’ 

‘His grace will not be pleased if it is broken beyond repair.’ 

‘Worry not, Lady Alys. Most things can be mended— and if not, it can always be raised.’ 

‘Physical defects aren’t the only issue. What of its mind?’

You feel an acute sensation over your skull, reaching into the depths of your cranium. Its cold, but not stinging— like a soft caress upon your brain as your mind is rifled through like a tome. You can feel your memories being perused, all of the most intimate moments of your life flashing in your head like playwright’s prose. The physicality of your mind being invaded wasn’t painful, but the act of your memories being ripped from you was damning. Tears fell down your face on their own, your mouth opened into a silent scream.

‘She is the one— I saw it. You are lucky that you did not break her mind completely, Lady Deathwhisper.’ 

‘As are you. You do not have a deft hand when it comes to memory perusal, Lady Alys. I am surprised that it still has a brain in its skull.’ 

‘Shut up and bring her to him. He will be pleased she is still alive. Barely.’ 

You felt yourself being moved again, still reeling from the invasion of your mind. You tried to put yourself back into the safe haven of memories, but they were… locked. Locked behind an iron door with no keyhole. They were lost to you. 

What were you trying to remember? 

Flashes of white hair and violet eyes flitted behind your eyelids, soft caresses and kisses, heavy breathing and love filled promises, the sensation of skin to skin… 

Your eyes opened, vision bleary. A helmed woman followed behind you, wings outstretched. You could see the glint of green eyes under her helm. Val’kyr. The woman behind you was a Val’kyr, a spirit guide who defected to the side of the Scourge. They could move between the realm of living and dead as simply as taking a breath. 

“The little human is awake,” she mused. “Your mind isn’t broken after all? I do see a glint of intelligence behind those eyes. Keep them on me, you shan’t wish to look upon Lady Deathwhisper.” 

You didn’t want to speak, words caught in your throat like food stuck in your craw. A val’kyr was basically an angel of death and talking to one must mean you are dead. 

You wish you were. 

The chains scraped against the floor, which was no longer stone like before, but rather, hardened ice. You were ascending upward, it seemed. The architecture of the building was nothing like you’d ever seen— dark metal was plated upon the walls, inscribed with glowing runes. The runes looked… familiar to you, somehow. But the memory that contained them was locked away, or mayhaps stolen by the Val’kyr, Alys. 

The temperature was cold, you were being lofted upon ice, of course, but you didn’t wholly feel it. You were partially numb, heat radiating from your broken arm. You knew you should be feeling pain— but you were just… numb. 

Your escorts stopped in front of two large doors, inscribed with the same glowing runes. Against Alys’ advice, you glanced at ‘Lady Deathwhisper’. She was skeletal, floating upon the ground with no legs to speak of. Her robes were purple fabric, molded around an incorporeal body. She spoke in a language you didn’t understand, the scratchy voice of hers coming out of a bone skull, but the mouth wasn’t moving, maw open as the words came out. 

You should have listened to Alys. 

The door opened with a rumble, opened by ancient magic, likely imbued by the runes, as they flickered and flitted above your head as it opened. The room beyond was open and bereft of almost anything, except for a throne. A throne forged of ice and swords. 

Someone was sitting upon it in a lazed position, one plated gloved finger tapping on the arm of the throne.

“We’ve brought her, your grace,” Lady Deathwhisper growled, shoving you forward. You skidded across the floor, which felt slick like grazing atop an ice-capped lake. “Alys confirmed it is her.”

The clinking of armor caught your attention, the sound of metal grazing against ice. It was irritating and made you grind your teeth. As whoever was on the throne got closer, the force was oppressive. Whimpers and tiny cries were ripped from you as they walked towards you, the aura exuding from them causing you to fall flat to the ground, feeling as if someone was sitting atop of your chest and not letting up.

The steel plated boot was in front of you now and your hair was grabbed rather harshly, pulling you up. 

Don’t look, don’t look. You cannot look.

“Look. At. Me.” the voice growled. It was quiet but commanding at the same time, rattling in your bones and making a home amongst the marrow. It felt familiar… so… 

You lifted your bloodshot eyes, not out of your own volition, but from the authority of the voice.

“Hello, little dove.” he mused.

It was him. It was… it… Aemond. You knew him so well, even with ten years gone. His chiseled jawline and chin and the dimple of the tip of his nose… 

But his eye was missing, a jagged scar bisecting it. In its place was a sapphire. The sapphire from your ring, grown into something to make home in the socket.

You felt everything and nothing all at once, your stomach flipped and flopped like a fish hoisted from the sea, sputtering for air. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t–

Your best friend, your lover, the one you vowed to never forget, to never forsake.

Aemond Targaryen. 

Aemond Targaryen was the Lich King. A defiler, a mass murderer, an unholy being in his own right.

“Now you won’t be able to leave again, will you?” Aemond murmured, his violet eye roving you. It was glowing slightly– his skin was a pale gray pallor, cheeks sunken slightly. He was undead.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, vision going black.

[lucky-bishova-42]

Kate Headcannons

(in the Malen’kiy Yastreb universe)

TW: allusions to child abuse

Kate and Eleanor were never close. They never really bonded, even before Derek Bishop passed away; things turned ugly two months after he passed. Eleanor blamed Kate for his death and basically forced Kate to become her housekeeper to make up for it: doing all the cleaning, the laundry, making meals, etc.

Kate still feels obligated to clean the apartment when Natasha and Wanda are working long days, despite being told multiple times that she doesn’t need to

Kate has ADHD

Even though Natasha and Wanda are together, Kate was a little nervous about admitting to them she had a crush on America because Eleanor almost kicked her out when Kate told her she was a lesbian

Kate’s favorite days are spent snuggled between Natasha and Wanda just relaxing

There is still a lot about Kate’s past (specifically with Eleanor) that she hasn’t told Natasha about, and she isn’t quite ready to yet

Kate starts looking for engagement rings, for Natasha to give to Wanda, three months after they started dating; she really does hope they thank her in their wedding vows

She still flinches sometimes when she is overwhelmed and overstimulated and Natasha or Wanda moves too fast, her subconscious still not getting the fact that she is truly safe with them

Kate had been calling Natasha ‘mama’ in her head since around Mother’s Day before she started calling her that all the time (she doesn’t remember calling her that when she was sick)

Kate likes to quietly read with Wanda in her favorite spot under the big oak tree on days were she feels too overwhelmed

On really bad days, Kate likes to rest her head on Natasha’s chest so she can hear her heartbeat

Kate is, and will always be, a cuddler

Dr. Cho believes Kate is slightly touch deprived given the way her and Eleanor were never close

No matter how bad Kate is panicking, Natasha’s calm voice, soft touch, and steady heartbeat always help start to calm her down

Natasha trains Kate in self defense in between archery seasons

Natasha, despite being very encouraging, is dreading the day Kate fully takes on the Hawkeye mantle

Natasha basically ‘adopted’ Kate after she met Eleanor for the first time and could see something was wrong

Kate is currently teaching herself Russian, but isn’t telling Wanda or Natasha as a surprise

Sometimes Wanda has to remind herself that Kate and Natasha are not biologically related when Kate makes Natasha’s signature face or says something in an eerily similar way to how Natasha does

There are probably more I am forgetting but these are them for now :) (these were mostly kate, nat, and wanda centered but what else is new lol)

[antinous-of-ithaca-but-cuter]

~ FLASHING BACK ~

~ OPEN RP STARTER ~

TW FOR DEFINITE ALLUSIONS OF CHILD ABUSE, MURDER, GORE, THE WORKS LOL

Returning to the beach was always hard for him. No matter what he did or how he wound up there, he was always nervous, on edge, afraid. Today was no different.

He had come to the beach with a gift for an old friend lost too soon. It was a simple children's toy, a wooden sword this time, but despite how light the toy was, it carried a heavy burden with it.

Slowly, Antinous dragged his feet through the pebbled beach of Ithaca to the waterline. Each step felt harder than the last, that's when the first shock wave of a flash back hit Antinous harder than a Trojan warrior getting hit by a Greek soldier's chariot.

The sound of children's feet running on this same beach started echoing in his ears as his pulse started picking up.

He couldn't deal with this now, not today, not on his death day.

His eyes widened as he then found himself on the ground, his father's cruel grin seared into his memory as he held a ram head dagger above Antinous' face. "You want to run away?" His Father's voice echoed in his head. "I'll make sure you never come home again!!!" He then felt that same knife strike his throat.

A scream tore from his throat as he found himself standing again, the toy sword long since forgotten by his feet.

He backed up, tears subconsciously streaming down his face as he gripped his hair tightly. He couldn't tear those memories from his mind and it's been damn near six or seven years since it happened.

The next thing he knows is he's laying on his back again, his throat bleeding from the cut. His father was no longer on top of him and his friend was pulling him to his feet hurriedly. "Antinous come on!!! Hurry up!!! We have to go!!!" At that, both Antinous and his friend started running down the beach again, but it was too late. Antinous watched as his father grabbed his friend's arm tightly, lifted the dagger up and-

"LET HIM GO!!!!" Antinous screamed, sobs tearing from his throat as he fell to his knees of the beach. The rocky shore tore up his knees, leaving small cuts everywhere, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his chest and head at the moment.

All he could focus on was his best friend's face. His face was indifferent, devoid of any emotion whatsoever. His eyes were rolled back in his head, only a sliver of those beautiful silver and blue irises being visibly anymore. His friend had thick red blood running down his face sluggishly as his father's dagger as sticking out of the top of his head like a unicorn's horn.

"This is your fault Antinous!!! Look what you made me do to him!!!" His father yelled at him, holding his friends face inches away from his to prove a point.

Antinous could only let out another scream, holding his arms above his head as he sobbed. Trying to block out the memories seemed impossible at this point.

His father's hands were on his, forcing him to hold the same knife that had once been in his best friends head to cut his limbs off one by one. Each time Antinous heard a sickening crack from his friend's body he would sob louder, and every time Eupiethes heard Antinous sob he would smack him.

Eventually, his father made him dump the body in the ocean, walking away after Antinous was done doing so. He could only sit there and sob, grieving the loss of his friends with gut wrenching sobs, unaware of the fact he had just left his mother vulnerable for his father.

Antinous tried to curl further in on himself, sobbing so loudly to the point where his head and throat hurt as he laid down on the shores of Ithaca.

What do you do???

Tagging people who I think would have an interesting interaction with him; @king-of-the-fish @lethia-not-athena @not-so-far-from-battle @4mph1r1t3 @lightning-wielder ( @antinous-of-ithaca appearntly.... /t ) @jorgeofithaca @just-a-mer @l-l-l-l-legendary @1ceyanonhasarrived @apollo-ask-blog @cloak-of-ares @penelope-is-waiting @the-epic-amphinomus @the-warrior-of-the-mind I THINK I GOT EVERYONE NOW

Other people who weren't tagged may still reply fyi!!!

[call-sign-shark]

Heaven in Your Eyes || Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC

Summary: Disobeying Tommy's orders, you're back in Small Heath. Your rebellious attitude starts to really bother him but you don't care. All that matters is that you're reunited with Arthur and John, the two men of your lives. From then, nothing can go wrong. Nothing, right? -- Featuring John Shelby x Reader.

Words: 5.5k

TW: Extreme angst - read at your own risk, graphic depiction of violence, canonical violence, graphic depiction of murder, major character death, allusions to self-harm.

Notes:

✞ Theme song on repeat if you want to break your heart: HERE

✞ Quotes from the TV Shows are in bold and italics

✞ Heaven is OP's original character but written with the use of « you » (Moodboard here).

PREVIOUS || Masterlist || NEXT CHAPTER

The deafening howl of the train’s honk boomed in Small Heath’s station, quickly followed by a whistling sound. The steel giant had barely opened its heavy doors when the foul-smelling wind of the city rushed into the wagon and made you wrinkle your nose in disgust. It was not that you hated Small Heath strictly speaking, but the stark contrast between the industrial city and the green landscape of the forest in which you lived now was difficult to process. The sound of your stiletto soon clicked on the metallic steps as you got off the train, attracting people’s eyes to your tiny frame. Yet, you weren’t really sure if this sudden attention came from their sound, or rather the sight of your short black dress adorned with the most expensive white fur coat you had ever owned, and the gold choker necklace you wore, whose shape was one of a barbed wire wrapped around your neck. When your heels found the dirty concrete of the platform, a gargantuan hundred pounds Cane Corso with a spiked collar followed you closely, like a silent but off-putting bodyguard. He was your shadow, mimicking each of your movements and grazing your steps,  except if told otherwise. Loyal guardian, Kaiser was even more protective since Arthur left. Without minding the fascinated or curious stares that were looking at you, you walked out of the station with the dog’s leash in one of your small hands and a cigarette in the other.

“Mrs. Shelby? Here is your bag.” A man told you, all the while putting the said luggage at your feet. 

“Thanks, sir.” You replied with a brief polite smile, before stubbing your cigarette on the nearest wall and throwing it away. At first, you had been surprised by the care the staff provided you during the whole trip until you saw the glow of fear in their eyes as soon as they noticed your family name on the ticket.  She’s Arthur Shelby’s wife, you better be ready to help her with her stuff if you don’t want her husband to knock at your door and break your skull. That was what the ticket inspector told one of his colleagues when he met him in another wagon a few minutes after this frightful discovery. Waiting in front of the train station with a slight feeling of uneasiness, you swept your surrounding with your celeste blue eyes, whose coldness equaled the freezing English wind.  Looking around you in the hope of catching sight of a cab, your fingers absentmindedly brushed the almost imperceptible white burn scar on your wrist. The circle-shaped wound the cigarette had left on your skin had miraculously healed in a matter of days.

“Welcome home, little Angel.”  A familiar voice echoed right behind you. You turned around in one swift movement, and your freezing gaze turned into a child-like expression: John’s smile welcomed you, its charms so blinding that it made you momentarily forget about the dreadful feeling you carried in your soul. 

“John!” You exclaimed, unable to hold your joy any longer. Kaiser’s bark followed right after when he recognized who the man was. Without further ado, you rushed into him to pull him in a hug. Amused, John could not help but chuckle at such a vivid reaction before wrapping your body with his muscular arms and tightening his grip around you with the firm desire not to let you go, “What are you doing here?” You asked, looking at him. Your enlightened expression adorned your doll face and made your hypnotizing eyes shine with elation.

“That ain’t the right question, love. What are you doing here?” He teased you, raising one of his eyebrows, then stared right at your eyes. His tongue pushed the toothpick that was in his mouth from the right corner to the left before he went on, “When Arthur got your letter he told me about your arrival in Birmingham. Hell, he was so happy and terrified at the same time I thought that bastard was having an aneurysm. I’m the one who came at the train station ‘cause Arthur still has to make a few last-minute adjustments to welcome you here.”  As he talked, the young Shelby brother had freed one of his hands from your delicate body to pat the big Cane Corso’s head. The latter closed his eyes, mouth wide open and tongue hanging in bliss.

“A few adjustments?” You frowned.

“Like, threatening all the men of Small Heath not to even look at you, and dealing with Tommy’s reaction. He’s fuckin’ mad at you, eh.” 

Of course, he was — you could not expect less from Thomas Shelby. God, you barely arrived in town he already found a way to bother you, even if he was not here. At this stage, he had real talent. “You know what? Fuck Tommy. If he thought I’d be dumb enough to stay out of the plan while my husband and you risk your lives, well it’s his problem, not mine. And if Changretta’s men come to my door, I’ll put them in the dirt myself.” That being said, you waved off the topic, “But let’s not talk about Tommy, please” You concluded, then laid a soft kiss on his chin.  As your juicy lips crashed against his skin, John half-closed his eyelids and let out a soft exhale from his nostrils.

“Yeah, I bet you will,” He stated, referring to you possibly burying Changretta’s henchmen six feet deep. John enjoyed the physical contact for a few extra seconds, then he gently parted from you and closed his fingers around your wrist in a soft grip. You raised your gaze to him, surprised.

“Wait a minute. I just wanna check something before you get in my car.” His smile vanished, handing over to a very serious expression that kind of unsettled you.

“What‘s the problem?” Your smile followed his somewhere else. You didn’t know where, but what was sure was that it had left your face. 

Without the slightest warning, John raised your arm above your head and made you twirl one first time, “Would you look at you, little angel! What a stunning outfit!” He exclaimed, before spinning you again to admire your otherworldly beauty, “Oh my God, I’m in love. Last time we met you were barefoot in the grass like some kind of ethereal nymphet and here you come in the shape of a goddess, dressed like a queen?”  You suddenly chuckled at his unexpected reaction.

“Hey fuck you! You’ve scared me!” You nudged him in the ribs with your free arm, but it only made him laugh louder. 

“My little heart can’t resist that.” He winked at you, his grin stretching in an adorably annoying smile only he could do before making you twirl again. Sometimes, you wondered if Tommy and he were really brothers. He is so different from Arthur and John. You thought.

“John! Shut up, dumbass. Your little heart can’t resist girls in general — or more like your cock can’t resist girls.” You rolled your eyes, faking an annoyed pout which only resulted in John protectively wrapping your shoulders with one arm. 

“That’s my mean angel! Fuck I’ve missed you and your quick wit so bad. C’mon!” He said, grabbing your bag with his free hand before you started walking away. Kaiser ran and hopped inside the car a few seconds before you did.

The whole trip went well, casual conversations and joking with John had managed to alleviate the anger in your heart, which was far too focused on the driver’s joyful voice and stunning eyes. He talked to you about the kids, about his new house, and about some childhood stories. Surprisingly enough, each of his sentences had snatched a smirk from you despite the anxious situation in which the Shelbys were embedded. Nevertheless, your mind drifted away at some point and you stopped listening to him though. Not that he bothered you, but it was rather due to the fact that you lost yourself in the contemplation of the smallest details of his face. The adorable freckles, his little round ears, his pinchable cheeks… Everything about John Shelby made you feel at home. 

“Is that fine with you?” His voice suddenly popped your thoughts bubble.

“Hm?”

“I was saying that you’re going to live a few days at me house just the time for Arthur to secure Watery Lane properly. You’ll spend Christmas with me, Esme, and the kids.” He repeated, noticing he had been talking to himself for a little while.

“Ah,” You started, batting your Bambi lashes quickly to chase away your daydreams. That was all you could say, for you dive into your thoughts right again. A comforting silence fell between you. After a little while, John slightly bit the inner of his cheek and glanced at you. The truth was he had been hesitating on his next move for five solid minutes. No matter how goofy John Shelby could act, he was a sharp observant. Considering his ease at analyzing people, he naturally noticed the way your fingers nervously played with the fabric of your dress, indicating your inner turmoil. The young gangster slowly moved his hand towards you, still conflicted about what he was about to do — Was it appropriate? Were you going to slap him? He hoped not, for he didn’t want to crash the car on the side of the road and explain the reason behind the accident to Esme. But worst than facing his wife’s wrath was to offend you.

No, no he wouldn’t want you to hate him. Yet, John was not the kind of man to let the demons of his mind win. Acting first, and thinking after was a motto he often applied in real life. He briefly looked at you again, his sky-blue eyes meeting your aquamarine iris before they shifted their focus back on the road. The young Shelby brother finally gathered his courage and rested his warm and strong hand on your thighs. 

“Hey. Are you okay? You didn’t tell me what you think about living at me house.” 

“Oh yeah,” You slightly shook your head, “That’s fine with me John boy.” You finally said, punctuating your sentence by gently covering his hand with yours and, to his greatest surprise, your small and cold fingers clenched around him. The physical contact almost immediately sent a wave of comforting warmth into your soul. John’s lips stretched in a caring smile and he replied to your sweet gesture by turning his hand to intertwine your fingers together.

That was definitely fine with you, for you knew that as long as John was around, there was no place for the storm.

Only for the sun.

A sun as bright as his smile.

“Get the fuck off my way.” Arthur’s gruff voice thundered in the hallway, followed by a noisy thud and Michael’s flourishing insults.

“Piss off, Arthur!” 

The tall gangster had been so eager to rejoin his sweet angel after two awful weeks of loneliness that he had shoved Michael right into the nearest wall for the sole reason that he had been walking too slowly for Arthur’s tastes.  All the while walking through the corridor, he had thrown his beret out of frustration and had brought his hands in his hair to nervously slick them back. He busted into the living room and his shiny steel blue eyes, sparkling with a gleam of hope, searched for you. 

“Hey, Arthur.” When your soft voice swirled in the room and reached his ear with the tone of a mesmeric siren’s chant, goosebumps of excitation appeared on Arthur’s skin. Moving your body with a wildcat’s grace from the sofa, you stood up and looked at your husband with an adorably shy smile, like a young bride seeing her groom for the very first time. All the confidence you’ve felt kinda disappeared now that you were standing in front of him — would he be happy to see you? Or did you deceive him by disobeying and coming back to town despite Changretta’s men lurking in the shadow? You hadn’t the time to think about the matter though for Arthur rushed to you without waiting any longer and, with an uncontrolled strength enhanced by the power of his overflowing emotions, hugged your little frame. The gangster then lifted you from the ground, causing a cry of surprise to break free from your plumped and glossy lips.

“Bloody Hell, angel! I’ve told ye to stay safe at home!” 

He said, putting you back on the ground right before cupping your face with his large, warm, and calloused hands, before you could even react, “I’ve told ye it was too fookin’ dangerous here! What if Changretta and his men would have attacked you on the train eh?!” He exclaimed, a bit more aggressively than intended. At first, you opened your mouth to reply but no sound came out. The sight of his pained eyes and his worried expression suddenly made you feel a bit guilty: if there was one thing you hated it was being the cause of his worries. “Hmm?!” He insisted when faced with your silence. His piercing blue iris dived into yours, looking in their celestial frost for the answer your mouth could not produce. 

“I— I don’t care. If you’re in trouble then I am too. If you fight, I fight. If you die, then I fucking die. We’re one, and I’m sick of acting like the good frail wife waiting for her husband to come back from the war,” You started, shaking yourself out of your silence; and the more you spoke, the more your confidence came back, backfiring, “I don’t care about the danger, Arthur.” A desperate smile stretched the corner of your lips, making your eyes squint a little bit. A smile both tainted with sadness and mad love, “The first time we met I’ve made the promise that you’ll never face Hell alone ever again and I don’t plan to back up now that we’re at its gates.” 

“Yer fookin’ crazy, I swear you are.” He replied. His eyes shone with dawning tears as he observed your holy pulchritude, “Out of yer goddamn mind, Heaven Shelby… Fookin’ bonkers.” His face relaxed, anger swept away by the winter breeze that had rushed into the living room through the open window. Arthur finally let out a nervous yet endeared little chuckle and shook his head in disbelief, "You're so much trouble eh."

“I’ve learned from you.” You straight off replied, gently pressing your forehead against his in this intimate gesture that was so proper to him. Yet, he didn’t reply right away, still shaken by your fierceness — these last two weeks had almost made him forget how untamable you were. He wanted to scold you for behaving in such a reckless way — He really did. But the truth was big bad Arthur Shelby couldn’t resist you. And God knew how hard it was to function without your heavenly and reassuring presence. If he had to be honest, he would admit that he wasn’t sure he could do it without you anymore. He was consumed by his love for you, body and soul.

A little sigh escaped from his lips as his boiling worries slowly faded away, drowning himself in the little details of your face. With trembling fingers, Arthur grazed your snow-white hair. Fuck, he had missed you bad. Very bad. To the extent of drinking himself to sleep almost every night and lashing out at the boxing ring, mercilessly beating his opponents, for these were the only ways he had found not to slip into pure insanity. 

“Angel —“ He started, wanting to say so many things at once, but words choked in his throat. Closing his mouth, Arthur swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he did. The joy of having you there was so intense that his mind could not find something relevant to say: he wanted to talk about Tommy, about the letter he had sent you, about the Changrettas but nothing mattered anymore. What did though was you and him. That was why he finally gave up everything to hug your frame again, his spine bent so that he could bury his face in your small breasts. “I promise I’ll protect ye with me whole life, Angel. No one’s gonna hurt ye. Not on me watch.” He finally mumbled, the sound of his words muffled against the soft pale skin your cleavage exposed, thus turning his plead into more of a symphony of low grunts than anything else. 

“I’m here, darling.” You reassured him. Arthur squeezed your body a bit too painfully in reply, but you didn’t mind. The uncomfortable pressure of his brutal grip chased your worries away and made your whole soul flicker — It made you feel so tiny, so fragile, as no other men did before, and you genuinely liked it. So, he could break you in half with his hug if he wanted, you would be okay if it was the price to pay to keep feeling his possessive and aggressive love all around you.

With the desire to soothe his heated spirit and confusing thoughts that were bumping into each other in his confused head, you let your small fingers lose themselves in his messy hair. Your gesture brought immediate relief, whose warm sensation spread in his bones at the contact with your frozen skin. Arthur’s whole being gradually relaxed, and he could finally let out the pressure of these last two weeks. All of sudden, you felt salty and wet drops running down your chest, “I’ve fookin’ missed ye.” He lamented, his crystal tears dying in your cleavage. Parting from you was the worst idea ever, he thought, and he didn’t want to experience it ever again. 

“I’ve missed you too.” You said in a whisper. Ceasing to caress his hair, you put your hand on the back of his head and pressed his face a bit more against your bosom, keeping him still until his grip finally loosen around you and his tears run dry. Now that the storm of emotions was slowly calming down, Arthur sniffed one last time and raised his head, his lips reaching for yours. The press of his kiss, eager and hungry, dissipated the last couple of clouds of his troubled mind the moment your flesh reunited. Weakened by his scorching passion, your legs shook at the sweet and liquored taste of whisky on your tongue, while his strong hands explored you just as if the tall gangster wanted to make sure you were really here. To make sure he was not dreaming. His hands grabbed you, rubbed the sides of your thighs, ran up the curves of your ass, and then clenched on your shoulder blades for a short while before going down again to seize your waist in a bruising movement. You squeezed your eyes tighter, shaken to the core by the way his fingers left streams of fire in their trail, melting the ice that had settled under your skin the night he had left the house without you. Arthur deepened the kiss, almost leaving you breathless.

After an undefinable while during which you both lost the notion of time, his tongue gave yours one last stroke before he finally broke the kiss and reopened his eyes. Yes… You were still there — to his greatest relief. You let out a faint feverish sigh, the sensation of his kiss still tingling on your swollen lips, then you tilted your head to the side. Betrothed by your adorable pout, Arthur’s smile widened until the crow feet at the corner of his eyes appears. 

“Look at you. You’re fookin’ stunning, little one.” He laid his big hand on your cheek and you gently rubbed it against his palm in reply.

“What about you tell me what you're up to instead of treating me like a little girl, Mr Shelby?” You teased, your reunion definitely erasing the worries out of your brain, even if the threat section D had sent you still lingered at the back of your mind. 

“Listen,” He started, his thumb brushing your lips with utter desire but he tried not to get too distracted by them, “John should have already told ye but you’re going to stay here ‘til Christmas hm? The house isn’t safe yet and you’ll be safer with Esme and the kids. Also, John will stick around to protect you. Just until Christmas right?”

“What about you?” You retorted, furrowing your brows. 

“As for me Tommy and I will figure out what to do. But don’t ye worry… " He brought his face closer, his mouth reaching your ear, "Each night I’ll be back in your arms and I’ll show ye how bad I’ve missed you.” He whispered, his low voice alike the growl of a starving wolf, “I'm a little afraid ye’ forgot what’s like to feel your husband, hmm.” A little amused snort came from your nostrils at the delightful perspectives. For sure, Arthur’s way to make up for the last two weeks of loneliness you’ve both been through was particularly exciting. 

“You think so? Little evil me is not so sure if she prefers Kaiser’s presence next to her in bed rather than yours. ” 

“We’ll see, love.” He was about to kiss you a second time to shut your bratty mouth when Esme appeared at the doorframe, arms crossed in her chest and one brow raised.

“There are kids there.” She reminded, her voice cold and slightly bothered. Of course, she wasn’t enchanted by your stay here, but it has been two years since you joined the Shelby family, which had given her all the time needed to tame her hostility toward you. Your relationship was still rocky, but at least she had stopped insulting you on every occasion. 

“Oops, sorry Esme.” You replied with the biggest and most charming smile you could do before taking a step back from your husband to help him —and you— resist the temptation of giving in to your burning desires. Arthur could not help but chuckle at the comment. He slipped his hands into the pocket of his long black coat, coming to the conclusion that it was safer if they stayed there.

“Alright, no need to bark Esme.” He grunted, but the sincerity of his grumpiness was definitely undermined by the faint smirk etched on his lips.

“I’ve made tea.” Esme went on, her magnificent brown eyes going from Arthur to you several times. Their dark color struck you for one second for their hard beauty reminded you of autumn leaves spinning in the immensity of her iris. You did not hate her. You never did. As harsh as her behavior had been, you had come to understand that her reactions were dictated by fear rather than spite. As a very catholic person, Esme was more than terrified by evil spirits — and she ultimately thought you were one, not seeing the enamored twenty-five-year-old girl you were, but the evil witch you could be. You could not blame her though, for she wasn’t entirely wrong. Somehow, you were convinced that Esme was the only one of the family who truly understood your dormant dangerous nature. What she did not grasp though was the sincerity of your feelings, “Hurry up.” She said, turning around and returning to the kitchen.

“Come on,” You gently wrapped your arms around your husband, “Kaiser is waiting in the kitchen. He’s going to be so happy!”

“Ah right, let’s see the man who took me place in bed.”

Arthur had barely stepped into the room when you heard the dog’s frantic barks, soon followed by his muscular body running toward his master to greet him with great enthusiasm. The sight of Kaiser almost reaching Arthur’s height, with his two front paws on his shoulders, filled you with joy.

It was at this very moment that you were almost convinced that nothing could go wrong.

The calm of the forest was a type of peacefulness nothing else could outmatch. All that was lacking from this grandiose landscape was the mighty shadow of the old and wise mountains of Haute-Falaise, whose silent lullaby could only be heard by those who paid close attention to it. From where you came, Christmas was always synonymous with snow along with the cold sensation of frosty wind biting at your face. Each time you would come back home after a joyful moment of playing games outside with your little sister, the warmth of the hearth’s fire would welcome you. But this Christmas, like many others since you left France, there was no snow. No mountains. And no little sister anymore. You were alone in the forest, wandering among the dead trees and the howling breeze.

Katie had woken up with a light fever, and she had cried in her father’s arms for twenty strong minutes before he managed to hush down her sorrow. Following a quick discussion with John, you informed him that you knew a natural remedy against fever and then, you went in the forest to collect the few plants you needed to concoct a healing tea. Esme would have naturally disagreed with the idea if John had told her, which hadn’t been the case. Instead, you simply replied that you needed some fresh air when she asked you why you were venturing outside the house on Christmas morning.

Oh, fuck it's you. Got nothing better to do on Christmas morning? // Tommy wants everybody at Charlie's Yard now, come on.

You’ve been wandering for over one hour when you finally found all the plants you needed for Katie’s tea. Satisfied, you headed back home with a light heart, already thinking about the pleasant breakfast that was waiting for you. A small grin flattered your lips at the thought of the children tearing their gifts’ paper apart and screaming with awe at the discovery of their new toys. 

What's gonna happen man, it's fucking Christmas.

Moreover, you could not wait for the adults to open their gifts too. Even if Ada told everyone to focus on the kids, you could not help but buy a little something for the house’s hosts: a beautiful silver necklace with a protective crystal pendant for Esme, and an expensive ring for John inside which was engraved the sentence “Le soleil brûle dans ton sourire” which meant "The sun burns in your smile". 

John. John, come to the meeting. All right? Think about the kids. Come to the meeting and if you want to leave, then fine.

For sure you could not wait to see their surprised expression slowly shifting to joy the moment you would give them their gifts! A little smile flattered your lips at such adorable thought. In truth, you had stopped celebrating Christmas for so long that the perspective to do it today delighted you. It was going to be a wonderful, wonderful day.

Get in the fuckin' house!

The petrifying detonations of gunshots tore the forest’s silence apart, which caused a cloud of afraid birds to erupt from the trees’ thick foliage. One shot, the surprise made you wonder if you had really heard that or if it was just the traumatizing memories of men chasing you down in the forest that was playing with your mind. Two shots, you turned towards where the noise was coming from, realizing it was real. Three shots — they stirred a brutal pain in your chest. A pain so vivid your fingers loosened their grips on the plants, letting them go, and grabbed the place where your heart was. It was drumming so hard in your chest that you felt it was about to burst your ribcage open. Crushed by the unexplainable ache and a crawling feeling of anxiety, you leaned against a tree not to collapse on the muddy soil. Your throat felt tight, to the extent you could barely breathe anymore. With eyes wide open, you desperately tried to calm yourself and comprehend what was happening to you. And suddenly the macabre evidence of the whole situation hit you like a train — a suffocating panic seized you again as you realized that the gunshots were not coming from hunters in the forest but from John's house.

No.

Your body moved slowly from the tree, taking a few wobbly steps.

“No!” Your voice yelled but no one was there to hear your desperate cry except the pristine nature, which had sent the wind to howl in pain with you. A surge of adrenaline ran through your body and, as if you had received the fiercest whiplash ever, you started running to the house as fast as you could. You ran faster and faster, with the cold breeze biting your face and brambles clawing at your exposed skin as you rushed past thick bushes. That was all you could do anyway for every other function of your being had shut down to focus only on your restless race. You could not think straight anymore. You could not hear anything else than the brutal beating of your heart resonating in your skull. Gosh, you couldn't even see properly, your vision narrowed into a small point in the horizon that was John's house. So you just ran, you ran no matter the insufferable burn in your lungs and the soreness of your legs.

"Hey! Come back, little doe". You could almost hear them behind you. The cruel men who hunted little thirteen years old you in the dark woods of Haute-Falaise. "We’re not gonna hurt you! Fuck — where’s that little slut?!"

Moving away the last branches aside, you jumped above a thick root and broke the last meters that separated you from the house. That was when you heard it, the agonizing scream of Esme. Her voice, filled with pain and fear, almost pierced your eardrums like the wailing lament of a Banshee. You reached the front of the house and suddenly, your legs made an abrupt stop, refusing to move anymore. In front of your wide-opened eyes, from which tears were already leaking, laid the inanimate body of both Michael and John in a crimson puddle of their own blood.

"John! Oh my God, John! No!" Esme yelled, her face contorting with indescribable sorrow and insufferable ache. She was kneeling on the pavement and hugging the motionless frame of her husband, whose skin already faded two shades paler. The young Romani beauty shook him but John's eyes remained shut. At first, you wanted to scream along with her, giving in to panic, but no sound came from your mouth. Instead, you let your quivering body drop to its knees and immediately put the moist palms of your hands on your best friend's wounded chest — The numerous bullet holes had made flowers of blood blossom on the white fabric of his shirt.

You took a deep breath, threw your head back, and closed your eyes in a desperate attempt to channel all the magic that was running in your blood to save him. After all, you had witnessed your mother performing similar miracles in your childhood. All you needed to save him was a faint beating of his heart, even the weakest would do the trick. Thus, you focused on your task the best you could and drained yourself of most of your energy in the hope of seeing John reopening his magnificent blue eyes and offering you one of his beaming smiles. You were pretty sure that he would come back to life, just like the bird you had found in the garden two years ago. Yes, you were going to bring him back to life, and this awful nightmare would be over and you would all have a good fairy tale ending.

— But life wasn't like the tales you loved: his heart had stopped beating for too long for you to do anything. It had been only a matter of minutes but still, you came too late.

You came too late.

When you understood it, a river of tears streamed down your angelic face. One of your hands gently moved up to his throat, and you pressed two fingers on his carotid artery to check his pulse in a desperate and last attempt to feel something, but there was nothing. Only the dull silence of Death. You slowly backed off and looked at the surprisingly peaceful expression on his face, forever frozen by the Reaper's cold kiss.

John was gone.

And so was the sun.

✞ A little note now that you've finished this chapter: Heaven did not ignore poor Michael by the way. When walking past him she noticed that his wound was not as serious as John's, so she decided to check on him after checking John.

✞ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

✞ gif by the amazing @fkmylif3

✞ Tag list: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @brummiereader @alexandra-001 @dearshelby

[sunflowerandsunshinebaby]

Misc. Six the musical Headcanons

Fandom: Six; CGs Aragon + Seymour, Little others

Request: Me

Tags: @bunnybabyjackie @alittlespa-gay-ceforme

TW: religious themes, mentions of self harm, allusions to past EDs with lingering symptoms

Info: I adore them <3 (OBC based) Color coding: Same as costumes & masterlist. (domestic based)

Translations: niña - baby girl, gatita - kitten, cariño - dear, querida - darling

💛 Aragon is a natural born caregiver especially with Cathy. She is doting but between her and Jane she is the strict one. She’s not afraid to enforce the rules on the little Queens. She is practically an overpacker when they go out and has things stocked backstage. Her faith is a big part of her caregiving and she has little faith based phrases on cards around her dressing room and room.

💚 Annie is a kiddo regressor usually 4-7 and is very high energy. She does not watch where she’s going at all and has ran into a stage door more than once. She loves playing video games especially Minecraft & out of all of them is the biggest prankster. When she wakes up from a nightmare she likes to set up stuffed animal concerts and dance and sing on her bed.

🤍 Jane struggled just a bit with caregiving right after all the Queens came back due to her death in child birth. However she adjusted and is very maternal with the girls. She is the pushover CG and therefore the queens go to her when they want an easy ‘yes’. She is the most stereotypical mum and is very into baking & her first method of calming down any of them is tea.

❤️ Anna is the oldest regressor and usually 8-12 and has very high but controlled energy. She’s very active when little and loves to organize games like tag. She loves to help the other girls out whether it’s helping Kat decide where to put her sticker or grabbing slime ingredients for Annie. She is surprisingly good at baking and when it’s just her and the littles likes to help them (always a mess).

🩷 Kat is the youngest regressor and can be anywhere from babyspace to 4. She is a fairly bubbly regressor most of the time but when she's triggered it is a mess. She's the most artistic out of all of them and loves to doodle & hum. Only little kitty feels safe doing that big kitty struggled hard with the idea of a musical. She sticks with Annie mostly and is usually dragged into mischief.

💙 Cathy is usually pretty young but she is older at times being 2-6. She is a quiet little and while she will play games with the others she prefers to be by herself while little. She is a big reader and loves to be read to. When she’s on the older side of her range she will make up little stories.

💛 🌈Aragon has taken to occasionally teaching the other queens bits of Spanish. It started with Cathy asking for a bedtime story but it was all in Spanish. Sure it wouldn’t be too hard to translate but she enjoyed helping the other queens. ‘Lina told the best bedtime stories (if properly convinced she would do voices) so naturally the rest of the girls crowded in front of her. She taught them te amo first and then nicknames. Cathy - Niña, Kat - gatita, Anna - cariño, Annie - querida.

🌈 Catalina teaching the others Spanish led to Annie doing her own version but it was mostly through her dropping french words into conversation and people asked her to translate. Kat caught on very quickly and would stumble through French conversations with Annie. Anna opted to teach some German but it was mostly cuss words and ‘lina + Jane had to watch chaos unfold when Annie accidentally called Cathy a b*tch in Spanish and ‘lina got really annoyed. Cathy decided to teach everyone how to write in cursive even when little and she was very serious about it handing out little whiteboards and markers she had begged Jane for from the dollar store.

🩷❤️ Kat and Anna are very close mostly due to Kat being her lady in waiting while Anna was queen. But their bedrooms are right next to each other so when Anna is staying up with Th a documentary or Kit is woken up from nightmares they’ll usually sneak into each others rooms. They love to play tag and hide-and-seek but there has to be the occasional reminder to be gentle due to the big difference in their headspace ages.

💛🤍 Because Jane is seen as (and arguably) is the pushover CG the girls know they can go to her and get her to let them do what they want. Catalina however keeps a careful eye on this and is quick to step in and shut it down knowing Jane gets too worried about the girls not liking her. She’ll pull whichever queen tried to pull that aside and give a gentle talking to. Usually it's not pulled again but if one of them is feeling bratty or tired they’ll try again.

💙💛 Cathy & ‘Lina are arguably the closest due to Catalina being cathys godmother. Cathy is usually a fairly quiet little around the others but around Catalina she will infodump. Catalina loves to have her cuddling her or have Cathy on her lap and she’ll look up with her big eyes and very seriously say “Mama” and then just start rambling.

🩷💚 Out of all 6 queens Annie & Kit have the most nightmares and when they do they're horrific. Kat will wake up screaming, thrashing, clawing at every sensitive spot on her body and Annie scratches at her neck sometimes till bleeding. If they've managed to not wake up the other Queens whichever had the nightmare will sneak into the others room. Usually minecraft or animal crossing will be played.

🌈 Food is a touchy subject throughout the household. Kit is very very picky about her food due to past issues and has a few safe foods. Kid Cathy forgets to eat a lot and has issues with insomnia so usually she just pops in for a meal unless she's straight told to eat. Annie has a lot of sensory issues and that has issues with her food. The other queens are mostly okay with their foods but the 3 of them having issues can mess with the meals & snacks.

💛💚 When they were first brought back Catalina and Anne still had many issues between the two of them however when Annie regresses any issues between the two of them are dropped. Catalinas main focus is making sure that Annie is okay, safe, and happy when regressed. Annie tends to be a lot brattier with Catalina but ‘lina tends to enjoy it and doesn't mind too too much.

🤍 Jane does the best when any of the littles (mostly Kat & Cathy) are in babyspace and is very nurturing. She loves it when they're talkative but she also knows that with babyspace the girls can be very fussy. When it comes to babyspace Jane was the first to subtly suggest gear & having her look after them. It helps her feel more healed after losing her son in childbirth.

[cptsadist]

Wrote a little something for Rey that's been on my mind.

"Violet"

TW: Animal death, child abuse (mental with allusions to CSA), violence

“No….no, daddy, please don't make me… she'll heal! She's just a lil’ hurt!”

“Rey, you know better. We don't keep nothin’ around that's no good…It's as good as dead already!”

The man pushes his son towards the young injured horse, ignoring the young boy's sobs of anguish.

A gray fillie lays curled up in the field, her coat covered in lighter gray speckles and her nose black. Neighs of distress leave her as she moves her legs slightly, one of which is bent at a strange angle.

Rey shakes his head and looks back at his father. “Please, Violet'll heal!! I'll take care of her, I promise!! You don't gotta worry about her!”

His father shakes his head, forcing a rifle into the young boy's hands. “She's too young. She won't heal right. She's sufferin’. Now, she's your horse, ain't she? So you gotta do it.”

Rey looks at the gun in his hands and frantically shakes his head, tears streaming down his freckled face. “No no no….I can't do it, she's my horse… I can't kill her, daddy, please… Let me take care of her…”

“Man up, boy!! Life means you gotta do stuff that ain't pretty, and this is one of them. So if you've got any balls, you'll do it!”

The boy simply sobs, cradling the gun in his arms and shaking his head. His golden hair hangs down in front of his face and he tries to step away, but his father holds his shoulders firmly, making Rey tense and whimper.

“Do it, or I'm gonna make you do it.”

“Please….” Rey whispers, trying to pull away from the man's strong grasp. “She's just a baby…”

His father moves his hands to Rey's arms, forcing the boy to hold the gun properly, trapping him in place with his larger form. Rey yells out in distress, continuing to try and pull away, as his finger is forced over the trigger.

“NO!! Daddy, please!!”

Despite Rey's struggling, though, the gun is aimed at the young animal, and before the boy can stop it, he's forced to pull the trigger.

◇ ◇ ◇

“Boy…. Help your old man up, I….mmm…I fell off th’ couch….”

Rey stands in the doorway to the living room, watching as his drunken father tries in vain to push himself back onto the couch, arms folded over his chest and blue eyes fixed on the form of his father.

“Rey!! Where the fuck are ya?! Useless boy….”

Rey clenches his jaw and makes his way over to the older man, looming over him and watching him continue to struggle.

“There you are! Help your old man up!”

Rey bends down, his hands looping up underneath his father's armpits, but rather than pulling him up, Rey begins to drag him across the floor, and his father begins to weakly kick his legs out.

“Hey!! The fuck do you think you're doin'?!”

“You're stinkin’ up the house….” Rey mutters as he finally drags the drunk male out the front door and uses his foot to nudge him down the few steps, watching him roll and grunt as he hits the dirt. “You reek of beer and piss…”

His father sputters and spits out dirt, lifting his head to glare at his teenage son. “You're gonna regret this, Rey… I'll make sure of that…”

Rey inhales softly, shutting his eyes at the threat and the shiver that instinctively runs through his body at it before looking down at his father again. “I don't think you will.”

He walks over to where his father lay on the ground and brings one of his feet up before slamming his heel down on his father's ankle. His father yells out in pain and tries to scramble away, but Rey continues to do it until he finally hears a loud snap that has his father's shriek echoing across the farm.

“Oh shit! Your ankle’s broke! Well, you know what we do with things that ain't no good, right?!” Rey yells down at his father, watching the old man writhe in pain. Huffing, the teenager grabs one of the man's flailing arms and begins to drag him again, this time towards the barn.

His father sobs and tries to pull away, but Rey keeps a strong grip on him.

“What's it that you always say, huh, dad? Just man up, right?!”

Rey finally drags him into the barn, shoving him to the ground.

Then he grabs an axe.

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes-Chapter 13

Notes: So, long time no post. I'm truly sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I've had some bad bouts of depression pop up and also had a switch of hyperfixations. This chap is actually one I had already written up, I just didn't post until now. I'm hoping this will motivate me to start writing again. Lots of misunderstandings between Daryl and Pheonyx going on right now. It won't last for long though, Pheonyx is very direct but they need to work through this before they can confront each other.

TW/CW: smoking, talks of past drug/alcohol abuse, past child abuse, allusions to past sexual assault, scars from abuse, animal death(possum and woodchuck), gore, blood, body insecurity, depictions of a walker,

If you want to be added to the taglist please let me know. I also post on AO3 and FF so you can subscribe there too.

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

Banner by: @liminal-creations

Prev Masterlist

In his 39 years of life, Daryl was more than familiar with the concept of losing time. He had his first sip of alcohol when he was 11 and 13 when he first got blackout drunk. Alcohol was something that had always been a constant in his life, although not as much in the recent years. After a while, his forms of escapism were molded by Merle’s. When he first started following his older brother around, he was immediately introduced to a world of doing and dealing drugs. For years, he’d watched his father shoot up and snort shit on a regular basis. So the idea of getting high was something he avoided for as long as possible. But his brother had a way of getting into his head and making him do things he wouldn’t typically do. It wasn’t long before he was dabbling in various illicit substances. Mostly weed, but he tried almost everything else. His limits being fentanyl and smack. He’d seen too many good people fall into those traps and he couldn’t bring himself to fully destroy his body, no matter how much he hated himself. Daryl was aware of his family’s inclination for addiction, his mother being an alcoholic, his dad being both an alcoholic and a drug addict. Because of that, he refused to allow himself to follow fully in his family’s footsteps. Despite his urges to do more, get high more, he held his ground. Which ultimately led to a knock out fight between him and Merle. The older Dixon had goaded Daryl, calling him a pussy and asked Daryl if he thought he was better than him. But Daryl knew the anger his brother was spewing wasn’t pointed directly at him. It was a manifestation of Merle’s internal demons, ones that hated that he couldn’t cope without some sort of substance coursing through his bloodstream. So, he let his brother lay into him a few times before he ended the fight. One well-placed right hook and his inebriated sibling was laid out on the stained carpet of the trailer they were renting.

 After that fight, he cut back on the hard drugs, sticking mainly with weed and alcohol as his vices. Lots of alcohol. Looking back, he could admit that he’d avoided one addiction by picking up another one, but in his mind, being a drunk was a better option. A slower death, riddled with lost time and moments of fleeting happiness and contentment. The walk back to his tent after seeing the scars that covered Pheonyx’s back, was probably the first amount of lost time that didn’t result from some sort of vice. All he knew was the feeling of shock, the itch to run, and suddenly his ass was planted on the grass in front of his tent. 

Shaking hands patted his pockets, searching for the packet of cigarettes that Pheonyx had given him earlier in the day. He pulled them out, fingers almost numb, and pulled a lighter from his other pocket. Placing one of the smokes between his lips, he flicked the lighter four times before his tingling fingers finally managed to get a flame to stick. Lighting the cigarette, he inhaled deeply and allowed the smoke to permeate his lungs. It had been almost a week since his last hit of nicotine and the rush of it pulsing through his veins helped to calm his frazzled nerves. Hands still shaking with the remnants of haunted memories personified, Daryl ran trembling fingers through his short hair. 

The only words going through his mind were four lettered words and one resounding question: How? How did Pheonyx get those scars? Was this all a mistake? Did Daryl misinterpret the long lines and rounded imperfections? Was it the product of some freak accident and not what he had assumed? If it wasn’t an accident, who would have done it? The scars were old, the coloring of the ones not covered in ink were a big indicator. They were  most likely from childhood. If it wasn't an accident, like his gut was telling him, then who could have done it?  Was it Pheonyx's stepdad, Hershel? No. Daryl didn’t think so. While Pheonyx had seemed uncomfortable earlier when his stepdad was around, it seemed to be more about the old man and his stupid beliefs on the walkers sentience. There wasn’t any fear in those fern green eyes. Not like the kind his own eyes held for his Pa. It could have been Pheonyx’s mom but he only seemed sad when he mentioned her death earlier. There wasn’t any relief to be found in his words. Briefly, Daryl wondered why he cared so much. They were scars, similar to his own, but they were on someone he had known for less than 24 hours. Why did it matter?

Taking another deep drag from the quickly burning cigarette, Daryl knew the answer was complicated. He’d only known the other man for a short time, but there was something there. A spark of something. Something he was unfamiliar with. Something that scared the shit out of him. So even if he had only known Pheonyx for a day or even just 5 minutes, he felt like he would still care. He wanted to know who had hurt the younger man. Maybe just so he would have somewhere to direct his anger. Because he was angry. Pissed. Furious. And every synonym in between. Those scars had him seeing images of his own past but also images of a tiny Pheonyx, being broken in the way he had been all those years ago. Was that why he had panicked earlier when Daryl asked about his gender? 

“Fuck!”, Daryl cursed, dropping the cigarette nub to the ground. Instinctively he pulled the side of his index finger to his mouth, soothing the small burn with his cool saliva. He’d been so lost in thought that he hadn’t even noticed it burning down right to the filter, where his dirty fingers were clenching the little stick tightly. The slight wound wasn’t really painful, more of a shock to his already frazzled brain. Shaking his head in frustration at his foggy mind, he used the heel of his boot to put out the tiny stub, red embers fading into the grass, and unzipped the tent behind him. He crawled into the small space, barely remembering to turn around and zip the polyester flap closed. Before he flopped down onto his sleeping bag, he made sure to place his bow within reaching distance. 

In the span of less than half an hour, Daryl went from being wide awake to dog tired. The scratchy pillow under his head suddenly felt like a pile of cashmere. His eyes felt heavy and he covered them by flinging his arm over his face. 

He was so lost in a haze of sleep, he didn’t even notice the shuffling outside his tent, followed by the slow unzipping of the entryway. 

Pheonyx fucked up. Really fucked up. 

When he’d first walked out into the woods, he fell into a familiar rhythm. There was no trouble. Just the whispering of the trees and the resounding answers of wind chimes in every direction. With his bow raised, he walked with purpose, keeping his ears open for the sounds of nocturnal critters. It wasn’t long before one of his arrows was piercing through the night air and impaling a possum through the eye. Leaves crunching under his feet, Pheonyx walked towards his kill and knelt down next to the small animal’s body. This was one of the worst parts of his nights. He had to find fresh meat to bait his traps. The windchimes worked wonders to draw in the shadows to the stakes of his traps, but it usually wasn’t enough to entice the creatures to push themselves deep onto the spikes. That’s why he needed the meat as a final nail in their proverbial coffin. The shadows prefer fresh, breathing meat but if no other options were around, they would indulge on already butchered flesh. 1-2 days dead at most. A few weeks after the world fell, Pheonyx had found the body of a woodchuck, killed by a long forgotten bear trap closing on its foot. He’d taken the bear trap but left the body(after recalling Kismet to stop him from rolling in the dead animal), with full intentions to come back the next day and give it a proper burial. Instead, the next day, he stumbled on the walking corpse of his high school English teacher chowing down on the slightly decomposed body. This knowledge had helped him complete the plans for protecting his home. He had originally thought about rigging up small cages to the trees to house small animals as bait for the shadows. But the idea of putting an innocent creature in a box and emotionally torturing it just didn’t sit well in his stomach. Killing them still made him feel horrible, but at least it didn't prolong their suffering. 

When prepping kills to eat, a hunter would normally slit an animal’s throat to allow the blood to drain from the body. Pheonyx didn’t do that now. The blood was what drew in the shadows.  He picked up the animal, gently petted its soft creamy fur, and sent an internal thank you to its soul. Opting to leave the arrow in, to prevent anymore blood loss from the small body, he slung his bow over his shoulder. One would be enough for at least 5 traps, so he wanted his other hand–the one not holding the dead animal–to be free if he needed to grab his cutlass. Most nights, he would spend 8 hours clearing and checking each trap in the woods, but he didn’t have the time or energy to do that. His ultimate plan was to hit the ones, about half of them, that were closest to the farm, on the right side of the creek. Sophia seemed to be sticking to the left side of the water, which meant he would be able to check some of the others during the search the next day. He wouldn’t be able to check all of them, doing so would put them off course and be detrimental to finding the girl. But some were better than none. 

So far, he’d been lucky. The amount of shadows that wound up in the traps was manageable for one person running on little sleep and high levels of stress. Pheonyx wasn’t dumb. He knew that eventually he would crash emotionally or get hurt.  He needed help and Rick’s group was a beacon of hope for him in regards to his family’s safety. Not only were they experienced with the dead, but they also were motivated to stay and protect the haven of the farm. 

It was that train of thought that ultimately led to Pheonyx’s fuck up. His body moved on muscle memory to check the first four traps. While his body was working on protecting his family, his mind was back at the farm, back in the stables. As he was pulling off the rotted flesh from the trees, tossing it into the burn pit and replacing it with a chunk of the dead possum, his mind kept flashing back to the paleness of Daryl’s skin and the look on his face before he ran away. Pheonyx’s internal demons reared up, their raspy voices grating across his ear drums. 

He’s disgusted by you. 

You’re so weak and broken.

Why didn’t you fight back?

Why would he want you?

Shaking his head, Pheonyx tried to pull himself from the darkness. If he allowed himself, he could easily fall back into old habits. Self-destructive ones. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he dabbled in drugs and drank way too much in the past. Sometimes it was easier to find solace in the bottom of a bottle than to actually face his problems. If it wasn’t substances, his mind had its own ways of destroying itself. Constant self-berating and internal insults could make him physically ill sometimes. The end of the world wasn’t the time to be getting drunk or allowing his internal demons to claw the walls inside his body until the blood seeps from open wounds. 

Pheonyx finished refreshing the fifth trap, stabbing the leg of the possum onto the railroad spike that was already impaled into the old oak. He had tossed the head of the possum, the last piece of the animal’s body, to the side near his bow and quiver. Looking at his hands, he saw clotted blood soaked his fingers and stained his fingernails, the red color turning more brown as it dried in the evening air. Copper fragrance permeated his nostrils and he suppressed the gag from crawling up his throat. Pheonyx went to wipe his hands on the back of his jeans, as they needed to be washed anyways, but stopped when his hands met a soft fabric hanging from his back pocket. 

Pulling out the red rag, he noted the walker blood from earlier had dried and stained the cherry colored fabric. He could already see the possum blood soaking into the area where his fingers were. It blended more seamlessly than the black sludge from the shadow. Something about the idea of letting the threadbare cloth get even more dirty didn’t sit right with him, so he wiped one hand on the back of his jeans and then the other, moving the rag to the other hand in between. Although he didn’t want to admit it, he knew the rise of sentimentality surrounding the simple object was due to who it had belonged to originally. But the ultimate question was why? Why did he care about Daryl Dixon or what he thought? Growing up, he'd cared what everyone thought about him, ashamed of not fitting into their boxes and trying so hard to himself small enough to fit in them. After he came out, he’d learned to think less about it, and to follow his heart as opposed to chasing after the elusive judgements that people bestowed on him. That night had derailed him severely from his progress in those regards, but moving away had helped him become more independent when it came to freeing himself from the binds of society’s rigid standards. So, why Daryl Dixon? What about the older man made him want his acceptance so much? It wasn’t even really acceptance, Pheonyx wanted him. There had been flirting in the past. Brief glances of possible futures with girls and some guys, plenty of people he could have opened his heart to, to fall in love with, but he never had the urge to. Until him. 

That was where he messed up. While he was lost in his head, hand still rubbing the softened red rag, it snuck up on him. 

He smelled the shadow before he saw it. The scent of decay from the walking corpses was even more distinct than that of a dead animal or even a normal dead human. It was that sickly, rancid smell that filled his lungs. From experience, no amount of coughing or gagging could clear it away. Dark miasma coated his inner nostrils and flowed down the back of his throat, like the nasty cough medicine his mom would make him take when he was sick as a kid. Fear and adrenaline began to pulse through his veins and Pheonyx whirled around just as the sound of hissing and groaning reached his ears. 

The shadow was much too close to him, he could practically feel the fetid air escaping its lungs as it raised its hands to grab at his shoulders. Pheonyx barely had a second to sidestep the gnarled fingers, gray flesh hanging from under its fingernails. If he hadn’t moved, the monster would have pushed him directly into the spikes of his own trap. 

Heart slamming against his chest, Pheonyx grappled at his waist for the handle of his cutlass, but the shadow turned around. Instinctively, he took another step back and felt the air come out from under him as his foot slipped on a loose stone. He fell back onto the damp forest floor, a sharp pain ripping through his ribs, causing his lungs to constrict and his eyes to water from the pain. 

Before his senses could come back to him, the spongy weight of the decaying corpse fell directly on top of Pheonyx. Gasping loudly, not only for air but out of shock, he pushed against the shadow’s skinny collarbone with his right hand. His fingers practically melted into the mushy flesh, and black blood trickled between his digits and down onto his shirt. Midnight stained teeth snapped in front of his face and he had to breathe only from his mouth to avoid the rancid scent of blood and pus coming from the orifice. He pushed hard against the creature’s shoulder but despite its putrefying muscles, it was still incredibly strong. The hunger and need for flesh intensifying its strength. With his left hand, Pheonyx tried to search along his waist for the handle of his hunting knife, but he couldn’t reach it on the other side of his body. The walker’s hands dug into his own chest, trying desperately to gain any purchase. He threw his arm out, searching along the forest floor for any sort of weapon. Just as the tips of his fingers brushed against something soft, the hold that Pheonyx had on the shadow’s collar bone slipped. His fingers slid into soggy flesh and more black blood poured from the area his nails just slipped into, dripping onto his neck and chin. The texture of the decaying flesh was like chunky mud against his hand. This slip gave the creature all the leverage it needed to lean down and clamp its teeth into the sharp bone where Pheonyx’s shoulder met his neck.

 Letting out a cry of pain, Pheonyx grasped onto the furry object that his fingers brushed against and used a burst of strength to push the heavy body up, breaking the seal its mouth had on his body. Teeth snapped in his face, barely missing the tip of his nose, and Pheonyx instinctively shoved the unknown object into its muzzle. Now in his sight, he could see that the object in question was the possum head that he had tossed aside earlier. The monster’s teeth tore into the skull, crushing the bone with inhuman strength, causing fresh, red blood to pour onto Pheonyx’s face. Smacking and sucking noises as it chewed were sickening. The smell of copper filled his nose and the metallic zing of the fluid flooded his mouth. 

The distraction of the meat in the shadow’s mouth was enough for Pheonyx to gain the energy to push it back with one hand and reach around his body with the other hand to grab his hunting knife. The familiar textured hilt felt like heaven on his tired fingers. Pulling out the sharp blade, he pushed the chewing creature back and raised the knife up, bringing the weapon down into its skull. The soft bone caved under the pressure of his stab and more black sludge trickled down onto his already coated hand. 

Frantic movements ceasing, the shadow went slack against Pheonyx’s body and the partially macerated possum head fell directly onto his face. Suppressing the retch that his brain finally sent the signal for, Pheonyx shoved the body off of him, inhaling the fresh air deeply. There was still a remnant of decay in the air, and the lingering scent of copper from the blood that coated his body, but it was better than the acrid smell of the creature’s mouth inches from his face. 

Pheonyx laid there for a moment, his side and shoulder throbbing in tune to his still accelerated heart rate. That was the closest encounter he had ever had with a shadow that didn’t involve one of his traps. The closest he had been to death in almost 5 years. And he still could die. The pain in his shoulder was a reminder of that. He turned his head to look at the area, his hands beginning to shake as he thought of what happened when his brother and mother were bitten. The pain of watching them slowly die was excruciating. He wouldn’t put that on his family. If he was bitten, he would take the hunting knife from the monster’s head and push it into own skull before he allowed his sisters to see him slip from the world. 

In the darkness of the night, he couldn’t see much on his denim jacket besides blood. Black and red blood was splattered all across the chest like a morbid Jackson Pollock painting. He grabbed the fabric near his neck and pulled down to see a perfect black outline of the shadow’s teeth imprinted into the thick material. Each tooth mark a testament to how close he came to becoming one of the walking dead. While it didn’t look like it had torn through the jacket, he had to be sure. He pushed his hand under the collar of his t-shirt and used his fingers to prod the painful area. There was pain but he didn’t feel any scratches or broken skin. 

Pheonyx let out a deep breath of relief. He got up slowly, careful not to jostle his side, and began to gather his stuff. The few minutes before let him know that he wasn’t in the right state to be out. A flash of red on the ground next to the walker’s body stopped him mid step. He bent down to retrieve Daryl’s bandana he dropped when the creature attacked him. The cloth had been dirty before, a mixture of oil stains and blood. Now it was coated with more of the latter. At some point during the struggle, it must have gotten caught on a root or rock because there was a large tear through the center, nearly splitting the square in half. Red threads hung limply from the perforation and Pheonyx couldn’t help but feel a bit saddened. The shadow hadn’t gotten him but it did break something important. A normal person would have simply tossed the bandana, but Pheonyx had never been normal. His feelings about Daryl might have been full of confusion, and some anger from his earlier actions, but he couldn’t find it in him to part with the cloth that had seen better days. Maybe he saw a bit of himself in the insignificant object. Torn and stained by past events but there was still some life left in the old bones of thread. He gently folded the bandana and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He had an idea of what to do with it but that would have to be done later. 

Weapons in hand, and in sheaths, he began the trek back home. It was slower going due to the pain in his side and just general tiredness. The adrenaline had faded and now he needed to sleep. But a shower was needed first. 

By the time he made it to the farm, Pheonyx guessed it was around two in the morning, based on the position of the moon. He stopped briefly into the stable to drop his weapons off near his pallet. The horses were all asleep. Baker did wake when Pheonyx dropped his bow and quiver onto the ground. The old horse gave a snort that roughly translated to “Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep.” before flicking his tail and turning the other way. 

Grabbing some clean clothes from his bag, Pheonyx headed out of the stables towards the farm house. The yellow aura from the moon hit the old glass windows, reflecting the luminescence like a lighthouse, sending a beacon to let him know the way home. 

Carefully, Pheonyx walked across the porch and slowly opened the door, wincing a small bit when it let out a loud squeak. He really needed to fix that. The journey through the living room and up the stairs was filled with more squeaks and winces. Each sound a memory of Shawn or Maggie getting caught sneaking out in the middle of the night. Pheonyx never had that problem. He didn’t have any reason to be sneaking out like his siblings did. Friends and dating were not part of his teenage years. He could barely handle his own internal problems, adding anyone else to the mix just seemed like a recipe for disaster. 

The sounds of Hershel and Maggie snoring greeted him at the top of the steps. And yes. Maggie snored. No matter how much she denied it, she was louder than a New York construction site. Pheonyx made his way into the bathroom, making sure to avoid the third floorboard after the stairs because it was the loudest, and carefully shut the door. He flipped the lock and reached to turn on the bright camping lantern that was resting on the white countertop. While the Greene farm did have a generator, they only ran it for a few hours each morning and evening. Just enough to keep the fridge cold, to make meals, and to take hot showers. Taking his showers in the early hours before the generator was on, meant that Pheonyx wasn’t benefiting from the last reason. Luckily, with the Georgia heat being prevalent even through the night, the showers were bordering on lukewarm rather than cold. The pristine bathroom glowed for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the light. 

Unbuttoning his jeans mechanically, Pheonyx’s thoughts trailed back to his fuck up earlier. This wasn’t the old world. He couldn’t afford to lose himself like that. He needed to have his whole focus on this farm. On his family. Protecting them and making sure they didn’t have to deal with the darker side of this world. The one that had always existed but had fully unmasked itself when the dead began to walk. His boots were heavy on his feet and the relief of feeling the cool air on his sweat soaked socks ripped a small groan from his mouth. Tossing the socks into the hamper by the toilet, he hooked his thumb under the waistline of his jeans and boxers and pushed them down, his blood crusted fingers brushing against the thick hair on his legs. Kicking the bundle of clothing by the door (he couldn’t have his sisters or Patricia cleaning out walker blood from his clothes), he pulled his arms out of his jacket and took a moment to run his thumb over the black bite mark imprinted into the thick material. Again, he was reminded of how close to dying he had come. If he hadn’t been wearing the jacket, he would be a shell walking in the woods. Probably would be caught up in one of his own traps before the morning sun made its way over the horizon. Before he pitched the jacket to the side, he pulled out the dirty and torn bandana and set it onto the sink for safe keeping.   He reached over his head to tug the collar of his shirt–the band logo on the front was completely disfigured by the carnage on it– over his head. The stretch of his skin over his ribs hurt, but it wasn’t as sharp as it had been earlier. The threadbare fabric stuck to his skin, the blood still wet in spots. Tossing the shirt onto the pile with his jeans and boxers, he reluctantly looked in the mirror to take stock of the damage to his body.  

The first thing that stood out was the large black bruise on his shoulder, bisecting the snake that trailed up his shoulder and over his neck. He gently prodded the skin, leaning into the mirror, to make sure there weren't any perforations. Even the slightest cut by a shadow’s teeth was a death sentence. Despite the deep pain, the skin was unbroken. If he hadn’t lost his faith so long ago, he might have believed it was a miracle as opposed to pure luck. The bruise covered a good portion of his shoulder, but with the right shirt choice, he could easily cover it. He knew if Maggie saw it, she would freak out. And he wanted to avoid upsetting his sister as much as possible. 

His hands roved down to his ribs and probed the darkened skin over the quote inked into the skin there. The bruise wasn’t as prominent as the one on his shoulder and thankfully didn’t seem to penetrate too deep, a superficial bruise. Nor did it seem like one of his ribs was broken. Another stroke of good fortune it seemed. At this point he was just jacking off luck. Eventually it would all come to an explosive deadly end but for now he could just be happy that it was just an awkward metaphorical handjob. 

Pheonyx turned the water on and listened to the soothing sound of it beating down onto the shower floor. He ducked his head and body under the flow, letting the individual drops massage his back. The scarred skin was a myriad of sensations. Some scars were completely numb, others tingled, and a select few made any sensation painful. His doctor said it was due to varying degrees of nerve damage. Aside from pain medication and experimental treatments, there wasn’t much to be done. So, he simply learned to deal with the feeling. 20 years later and his dad was still getting his lashes in it seemed. Pheonyx grabbed the bar of soap on the shelf by his knees and began to scrub his skin. 

Blood and dirt swirled around his feet, the lukewarm water and cheap soap baptizing him from the day's sins. He washed his hair using Maggie’s shampoo and conditioner. The products made his hair softer than the cheap products he brought with him from his apartment so he allowed himself the small indulgence of stealing some of his sibling’s stuff. Maggie often stole his flannels and hoodies, so it was only fair. 

As the water ran clear and his skin metaphorically sighed from the feeling of being cleaned, he took a moment to just indulge in the simplicity and luxury of the water trickling down his arms, legs, and chest. It was a small reprieve from the outside world. Just a small one. After a few seconds, he pushed the wet hair off his face and shut the water off. Cool air immediately made goosebumps appear on his arms. 

Because the water had been room temperature, the mirror wasn’t fogged and he was greeted by his own reflection in the glass. Grabbing a towel from the rack, he began to dry off. Scrubbing at his hair with the towel, his eyes fell down to the red bandana sitting on the edge of the sink. Shadows casting onto the stained fabric from the lantern in the corner. Tossing the now damp towel into the hamper, Pheonyx used one hand to run through his hair, smoothing the spiky mess, and the other to grab the cloth. He plugged the sink and filled it with a small bit of water from the faucet, enough to begin cleaning the bandana. 

It took a while but he was able to get most of the blood stains out of the red fabric. Or at least enough of it to be able to blend in with the already red dye. Unplugging the drain and wringing out the water, he laid it onto the edge of the sink to dry while he got dressed. He slipped into the clean boxers and jeans that he brought. Sitting on the toilet, he slipped on a pair of clean socks and pulled his worn boots back onto his still aching feet. 

“Fuck,” Pheonyx said as he picked up the shirt he brought. He thought he grabbed a t-shirt, which would hide the bruise on his shoulder, but he had accidentally taken one of his gray undershirts, the straps of which would cover only a quarter of the baseball sized bruise. 

It’s 3AM. No one is awake right now. I’ll be fine, Pheonyx thought while slipping the clean tank over his head. 

Within 3 minutes he was eating those words. As he walked downstairs, dirty clothes in hand and the red rag tucked into the belt loop on his side, he slammed into someone walking out of the kitchen. Instinctively, Pheonyx dropped the items in his hands and reached for the hunting knife at his side. The knife that he had left in the stable. 

“I’m so sorry, Pheonyx.”, a whispered familiar voice eased the tension in his muscles and he backed up to get a better look in the dark at the person. Straight brown hair and brown eyes glittered in the moonlight that poked through the windows behind him. Lori. He let out a breath of relief and smiled softly at her. 

The corners of her lips lifted, attempting to smile back, before her eyes darted to his shoulder, drawn to the dark contusion that was peeking from behind the strip of his tank top. Concern filled her gaze as she looked at him, “What happened? Do I need to get Hershel?”

Pheonyx hurried to reassure her, almost rambling with the need to not worry her. “I’m okay. I swear. I messed up and had a run in with a walker.  But I was wearing a jacket, so it’s just bruised. It didn’t break the skin.”, he kept his voice low, not wanting to wake anyone in the house. “I go out at night to make sure the woods are cleared of the dead.”

Lori’s lips turned down in a concerned frown. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to worry my sisters. And Hershel is already mad at me for putting up the traps in the woods. This would just set him off even more.” 

Sighing, she placed her hands on her hips but nodded. “I won’t tell them, but you can’t keep doing this.  Going out alone? In the middle of the night? You’re going to get hurt. Or killed.” 

He knew that. Those were constant worries that floated around in his mind. But to hear them out loud made his chest hurt. “I know. I just- I have to protect them.”

Lori didn’t even need to ask who Pheonyx was referring to. Rick and she had talked about the man in front of her. Her husband told her all about the traps in the woods(she had seen them for herself the day before but Rick explained how Pheonyx used them to protect the farm), and also how the other Greenes seemed to be in a separate world. One where the dead were simply people who had the sniffles. Pheonyx had taken up the helm of family protector. At the Quarry, all the men had taken on the task of protecting the camp. Making schedules for watches and runs. And even with 10 men working hard to protect the rest of the group, they had been attacked and decimated by the dead. The Greene son was taking on an almost impossible job. A job that one man couldn’t possibly handle alone. Not for much longer anyway. Even in the darkness of the room, the moon being her only source of light, she could see the bags under his eyes. His shoulders were slumped and he just seemed exhausted. 

“You have. And you protected my son too. Now it’s our turn to help you.”, she reached out and took his calloused hand, not noticing the subtle flinch at the contact of her skin. “Rick and the other men are going to be doing some chores around the farm, but we’ll talk to them about making a schedule for checking the woods too.”

Pheonyx didn’t know how to respond. One part of him was entirely focused on her hand touching his and how it made his skin crawl from unfamiliarity. The other part was resigned, yet still relieved, to accept help from the strangers on the property. Instead of a verbal response, he opted to nod and slowly pull his hand from hers, as not to offend her. 

Lori smiled at him and glanced at the bundle of dirty clothes that he still held in his other hand. “Carol and I are going to work on laundry tomorrow, your family’s and ours. I can take those for you and make sure to wash them before your sisters or Hershel sees.”

The older woman held her hand out to take the clothes from him and Pheonyx handed them over readily. That was another thing off his list to worry about and he could physically feel the weight on his shoulders lifting a small bit. He whispered his thanks to her and they bid each other good night afterwards. 

The warm fingers of night air threaded through Pheonyx’s still damp locks, both cooling and heating his skin. He could feel the slight breeze rustling the rag hanging off his waistband as he made the walk back to the stables. 

Once again, the only animal to acknowledge his presence was Baker, who snorted and released a sound of flatulence that Pheonyx was absolutely convinced was directed at him. Petulantly, he stuck his tongue out at the horse before walking into his personal stall. He stripped off the tank top, tossing it back into his bag of clean clothes because he’d only worn it for a short time, and pulled out an actual t-shirt from the bag. He didn’t want Maggie to come in early and catch him before he could change. After slipping on the old shirt, Pheonyx fell back onto his cot and stared up at the ceiling. His fingers found their way down to the red bandana at his side and he twisted it around in his hand, the fabric was still damp and felt clammy against his fingertips. 

The image of Daryl’s face flashed through his mind again and Pheonyx had to swallow a swell of embarrassment and sadness. He had truly been hopeful that the archer would be different. He hadn’t seemed to care about the fact that Pheonyx was trans. But when faced with the scars that lingered on his back, the man had fled, a look on his face that Pheonyx could only guess was disgust. 

Steeling himself, Pheonyx decided it didn’t matter. He’d work with Daryl to find the girl. They didn’t have to be friends. Hell, they didn’t even have to talk to each other. Once they found Sophia, they could go their separate ways. It’s not like Pheonyx could change the fact that his back looked like minced meat. Even if he could, he wouldn’t, the scars were a testament to his survival. Especially not for a man he had just met. Even if the man did make his stomach feel like tv static. 

 The morning breeze and chirping birds were nature’s alarm clock, and one that Daryl had learned to abide by in order to become an expert tracker and hunter. Most animals were early risers, so if he wanted to keep a steady pace on their trail, he needed to work on their schedule. Daryl was used to waking with the morning sun. Sometimes he even woke before the moon had finished its descent into the horizon. 

The morning after his jarring interaction with Pheonyx was no different. He had slept deeply after crashing into his tent but nightmares had infected his mind. Ones that involved his father and the things he had done to him as a boy. Those kinds of dreams weren’t unusual for him. In truth, he had grown accustomed to them. To the point that he didn’t even wake up screaming anymore. They were inevitable really. But that night had been different. Instead of Daryl being on the floor of the trailer, his back torn up like an eviction notice, it was Pheonyx. Those green eyes locked onto his, begging him for help as Will Dixon brought his belt down onto the fiery bird on the younger man’s shoulders. But Daryl couldn’t do anything. He screamed at his father to stop but Pa just smiled and brought the belt down harder. He tried to shove the man away but each time he ran into a wall. So Daryl was forced to watch. Over and over the belt smacked into Pheonyx’s skin, until the green of his eyes faded to a milky white. Despite the torturous images, Daryl had a hard time waking up. 

His body was so entrenched in sleep that his brain came into wakefulness before the rest of him did. The dewy morning air was sharp, even in the tight space of his tent, and made his lungs ache from the slight chill. His ears perked at the sounds of birds trilling in the distance and he made out the low murmurs of Glenn and T-Dog divvying up chores for the day. 

A musty scent reached his nose. His eyes still closed, Daryl’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. Over the past couple of months, he had become accustomed to the smell of his own body odor and this smell wasn’t that. He peeled his sleep-crusted eyes open, his vision swimming before becoming clear again. 

In front of him, he was met with the sight of……. 

Balls? 

More specifically, Daryl woke to the blinding sight of a dog’s rear end. Asshole, neutered sac, the whole nine yards. The only thing that broke through his fog of shock was the tail attached to said rear end. It began to thump against the ground and ended up whacking into the archer’s forehead. 

Daryl shot up and fell back on his hands, “What the fuck?!”

Having realized his human companion was awake, Kismet rolled from his side position onto his belly. He lifted his head up lazily, eyes droopy and a small string of drool hanging from his mouth. His upper lips were stuck on his teeth, showcasing his pearly white fangs. Out of context, and without the dopey look in his eyes, one might assume the dog was mid-snarl. Still half-asleep and teeth still exposed, Kismet cocked his head to the side in confusion at the look of distress in Daryl's eyes. Obviously deciding it wasn't his problem, the dog stood up, arching and stretching his legs out in front of him, making the muscles in his body bulge out even more than usual. He let out a big yawn and then shook himself, the metal pieces on his collar making a clinking noise with each movement. 

A faint whistle sounded from the direction of the house. Despite the tent flap blocking their vision, both man and dog turned their heads in that direction.

"Kismet! Breakfast!", a female voice called. 

Kismet's eyes widened and he didn't need to be told twice before he dove out of the small opening from the tent’s zipper that he had nosed open the night before. The dog moved so fast he didn't even realize his back leg had kicked out, subsequently knocking the archer's crossbow into his thigh. Daryl cursed again at the sharp pain and rubbed the area. 

Daryl had always loved dogs, but he was starting to think he needed to make an exception for this particular one. 

Taglist: @yoongibaybee @edgyboi10000 @dixonsboy19 @clairealeehelsing @mrrumplebottom

[zombocomme]

Please, interact with us, our music cues will be highlighted for your convenience

[The Haunting of Hill House (Main Title) plays as ambience intro:]

Zombocomme: What fun we have had in playing in the proverbial sandbox. One really can have it all, when we multiverse our stories, and this is the Multiversity Center, you know, MinistryTV, after all…Surely there are cameos and crossovers hmm? Well, esteemed guests and fellow content creators, 

Welcome to another

✨️⌛️Combiverse⏳️✨️Special.

This time, we are pulling a spin off of an episode from the Between The Lines /AU: Vault. We have lovingly throttled it  and tossed it through a blender to give us a little treat, that truly made us dance!

*cue audience clap* 

From one AU to another, MinistryTV would like to thank 

@frjimdefroque

And 

@ask-miasma-ghoul

 Zombocomme: For their combined efforts and RB/RP.

Give them a follow, they have been regulars featured on our Show, and it was high time to see them come together as one, and of course, well, have a beautiful bastard child that is this story; These folks had a vice grip on a chemistry that began breathing new life into a story I have wanted to tell over and over, 6 ways to sunday, and well, It is Sunday now. And here is  a little BTL/AU: episode, that has made it into our AU.

Call it a one shot, call it fun, who cares, do what you want, this is MinistryTV after all.

[AU note: What is more Ghostier than, well, GHOSTS, in and around… and I couldn't think of a better sound track backing for a ghost story than the Album for the Netflix show “The Haunting of Hill House”, music by The Newton Brothers.

A Special satanic “thank you” to those lads and the people behind the production, for making the gears turn and the environment solid, with the music that turned a story into reality…

also quoted *verses from Psalms 23 and Mathew 6, KJV*]

*cue audience clap* 

And Now, Ministry 📺TV presents.

Featuring @frjimdefroque and @ask-miasma-ghoul in

RBRG/ FRJD and AMG:

✨️🧣🚪🥀Combiverse🪻🪞☔️✨️

Spin off Episode: Part 1

Between The Lines, Episode 7 PART 1 of ?: “So help you god…you're set free”

Enjoy

🔞NFW: MDNI : Rated-R: 🔞

⚠️(Mature themes, TW )⚠️*mentions death and dead bodies, bugs, gore and frontier diseases and violence, guns, religious interpretation of trauma, consumption of body and blood, allusions to murder/self and description macabre, and ghosts of the espooky kind.

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” KJV- Mathew 25:37-40

Please, interact with us, our music cues will be highlighted for your convenience

[In The Shadows of Ghosts plays:]

Lucius Oraclese, the reborn , now grey, Oracle demon stared across the desk he sat in, the green infernal flames dissapaitinf from his hands, dancing their way back into the hearth beside him, while Jim and Miasma the Ghoul, sat in their respective chairs, feeling the heat in the demon’s eyes as he narrowed them. “I could care less if that makes you uncomfortable, as you put it. But if you want this to end, I’ve given you the solution,” Lucius pushed back and irritatedly spun around  on his heels, standing tensely,  brooding in front of the fire. He stretched his hand out to let the flames lick and scorch between his fingers. He groaned softly as the hellfire soothed him from within, his gift demonic, despite his “human like” form. None held love for that demon. But even now, no one could hide the fact that even less loved, was the Ghoul Miasma, his eye trained on the flames, still feeling the pull of the darkness whispering.

Lucius was easily what one would consider a “Memory Eater”  typed demon. Much like a profession is not the definition of self, his oracular gifts meant nothing more than his current form.. For first and foremost, he was a demon. 

“Whether or not you abide by the passage for the journey I’ve laid before you is of little consequence to my conscience. Do with it what you will.” Lucius muttered dismissively. He had penetrated Jim’s mind as one would invade their fingers through the soupy inner cavity of a throttled skull… it made Miasma feel ill to watch, and yet morbidly intrigued, when he saw Jim’s jaw go slack with horror as his eyes rolled back, his head held like a hand on a puppet head Lucius was merely scrambling for information. 

It was painful to the demon to exercise his abilities as a memory eater in this human form, hence the need to maintain his infernal fire… but, ever the masochist that he was, Lucius thrived on the limbic fear and motive of man. And their deepest fears when invaded by outside influences, such as that found in the Bloodstone that Miasma had worn in his old Crucifix… The wicked blood of mankind was powerful and could mar the very face of the earth, if it all burns down. 

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[Missing Things plays:]

Honestly humans and their deliciously uncanny, instinctually feral drive for self destruction was at the very least amusing to witness from Lucius’ point of view. Over the centuries Lucius had consumed this within the memories, even rewriting them like one would replace the fabric tear of a consciousness… sort of, trauma, affected memory and all its ailments. It's why he was considered a necessary evil, even useful, ah yes the flavor of that golden ‘pride’. But for a demon such as he, he both desired and craved the duality of innocence destroying him, and of his sensuous, almost lustful need, to consume and destroy others like a withering vine…and the intrigue of watching pride wither in man, and creature, like a husk, kept him “paid” in the services of the ministry. So of course when a Bible-thumping Cleric and a Traitorous Prisoner approached him in his offices, begging for help, for a relief from their insidious desires and dreams, why of course, Lucius just had to sample it…he couldn’t wait to taste their fear and darkness…but it had tasted sour.

And yet, despite the particular ill will He and Father Jim had for one another, there was indeed more to this story than what was written in the stars, as he once put it… soon… These two pathetic creatures will go against all odds, and write a new line of consciousness for themselves. The inevitable consequence of confronting one's greatest fear… and that was exactly what Miasma, and Jim, would have to do, to make it out of this alive…

Lucius did want to see the ending of it. He wanted to play with the mortals like little pawns in his silly games of tempting fate, letting his oracular powers try to guess the accuracy of his visions.. More often than not he was correct. But in this case, seven hells, he actually hoped he would be proven wrong…

[Feel Nothing plays:] musical jumpscare warning, perhaps turn down the headphones]

The snow was cold and even as thin as it was, the flurries sticking together in patches over the soil, somehow it seemed the place was shrouded in something colder, and Jim knew why immediately… a vision of bodies. Rotted. Consumed by his friend, horror had made  his blood run cold. But now his veins ran even colder… and where there is this chill of cold, there are always, *ghosts*…

Miasma kept his mind focused, to really feel the sudden indescribable weight of the very ground they tread. They couldn’t see into the past of this logging camp, but they certainly could tell the dark energy surrounding that blood stone originated from here. And it was a terrifying sight…

The camp was as if a capsule in time, untouched by nature, a ghost town, but clearly, like the ghost towns of the gold and silver mines of the U.S. west coast, it had the same both peaceful stillness and haunting air of a stone cemetery, interred with the dead, except despite the quite, the energy felt far from “resting in peace”... more like… pieces…

This certainly wasn't what they thought they would find here, this, this place, where that wretched blood stone had come from.

That wretched blood stone… from this valley, between looming mountain peaks, snow capped twins like white teeth to champ and stand still…and the valley, the stomach where the hibernating world waited to be digested in its shadows.

And as the duo moved through the empty dirt streets, if you could call the paths that, the damned place was certainly, honest to god, devil be damned, *Haunted*. The million mummy dust dollar question was, why…

Miasma could sense the low icy feeling like lead in his stomach. He had been summoned from the pits and faced the void on more than one occasion, madly screaming into the storm of his emotions, cursing the indifferent heavens and its false promises in the stars… but what he felt in Jim's energy, even without his quintessence powers, it was like a sour metallic taste in his mouth… a taste he knew from whenever the juices of meat sped through his fangs to the back of his throat… *fear*...

Jim’s hands shivered slightly. He had not felt the effects of Copia’s dark gift before. Not like this. That secret between them, what they shared in common, and most importantly what they share in common apart. Though Copia fully blooded Jim, waking the dormancy of the gift within, it also came with a roll of the dice, of what abilities may surface... For while they were suspected to be rival bloodline threads, “the Beloveds” in the Vampiric tapestry of time, one thing was for Certain- Jim had been awakened, and the power that flowed through him made him a natural. And his abilities for being related to the dead, there was a chance he had the powers of a “Necromancer”, animating, seeing, encountering, visions, powers, experiences sensed that connected like tiny threads beyond this plane into the fields of the dead, and they teemed in earnest over Jim’s skin. Goosebumps trickling down the sweat  running down his spine…

That blasted blood stone had done something to him, an alchemic change in the very religious sense. The connection was unwanted for the preacher man, who believed in eternal life as something that began at the end of things. One to another. He didn’t believe in ghosts. He hardly believed in god. But what he did believe was that there were things that had happened he couldn't explain. Dreams that seemed to bleed into the waking world in ways that terrified him and made him sleep with the light on…

 but there was no turning back the time to make it different…to make things alright. He had come this far… he had to see it through.

Months of research and travel had led him and Miasma to this place in the middle of the woods near a low stream that had once roiled high and traveled far. Now it was a dead creek bed he could just step over… 

Now that they were here, the rest of the plan laid before them was simple and yet seemed impossibly perilous…

Return to the Blood stone’s place of origin. 

Find the entity that haunted it, that cursed it. 

Defeat it by either destroying the entity, putting it to rest, 

or die trying.

Armed with only their wits, and a crude map to this place that they had to leave behind at the edge of the clearing, as instructed by Lucius, they were going in blind. They were going in on blind faith that the Oracle Demon had given them enough to break the curse, and yet, hidden enough from their minds to enter the place without the magical barriers stopping them…

They had to go it alone. It had to be them… 

The man who beheld the vision and had the power to connect with the dead, Father Jim Defroque, 

and the Ghoul Miasma, the one that the stone was desperately trying to possess. 

Even now, Miasma itches to sink his fangs in the soft flesh of Jim’s neck… and it seems in this place the urge flared through him even stronger…

The fear Jim felt radiated out, and Miasma had the dual sensation of hating the rotten taste, and feeling himself salivating over it…a need that felt so human, so animalistic, that he was horrified by it himself. He obsessed over the man he had placed on a pedestal, and despised the very thing Jim had set foot on. But while his thoughts were occupied with such duality, it was Jim who was occupied with seeing the forest for the trees…

They noticed one of the buildings seemed to have succumbed to fire, A collapsed brick structure that surely had experienced fires scratch, the earth scarred beyond normal recognition. And it wasn’t just skin deep. But the rest of the buildings stood perfectly sound, the only evidence of time was the layer of dusting and cobwebs to chronicle the emptiness Jim and Miasma beheld.

[Science Vs. Religion plays:]

As Miasma and Jim approached the largest cabin at the end of the path, it felt like they were entering somewhere they shouldn't. And it felt like they were trespassers here, waiting to be confronted by something, or someone…

“The hell happened in there you think.” Jim swallowed. Miasma blinked away from his maelstrom of thoughts and shook his head. He eyed the evidence of the rubble behind them, and the cabin in front of them suspiciously. Both he and Jim had encountered the existence in “the other side” and while the rubble seemed to call out to be investigated, Jim felt a deeper pull coming from up ahead. For even as Miasma and Jim mounted the steps of what would have been the cabin quarters of the Captain of this camp, it felt like this particular structure, standing so proud and tall, untouched, and looming, was too much to ignore. It felt like a trap. But it also felt like it had answers…

Miasma and Jim entered to find the place and its objects standing where they likely had been since abandoned; however, the various wood furniture had been hacked six ways to Sunday, piled near the small fireplace. “You think someone was trying to get rid of something?” Miasma said, lifting a piece of wood with carvings of acanthus leaves in the handle- perhaps a cane. “Or to get warm”. 

[12:00am plays:]

God it’s freezing in here” Jim huffed, trying to rub his arms. It had been a warm spring day. But the ghost town felt like they had stepped into a freezer, and they were ill equipped for such extreme temperatures. Miasma was less affected, noticing the drop but mostly unaffected. The main affectation being the strange whisperings around him that were not sensed by sound, but almost as if by residual energy. Momentarily they distracted the Ghoul, who turned this way and was trying to gauge where the voices seemed to come from in the space.

“You think this cabin is haunted don’t you” Miasma said, more to himself, yet out loud for Jim to hear. 

“No” Jim said confidently, pointing to a small writing desk overlooking the rubble from an open window, cold air drafting in. It was untouched. And sitting on its table top next to a pair of broken  wire spectacles, was an old Bible. 

Jim could feel the strange energy emanating from the book. He swallowed, feeling apprehensive to investigate the unknown, except… when he glanced at Miasma, the ghoul was absentmindedly reaching for the crucifix. There was no way in hell the blood stone in it would be safe to carry around his neck now. But Lucius had insisted the Ghoul continue to wear it despite its dangerous influence…Miasma had attempted to give it to Jim after nicking it from the vaults some time ago, hoping the gesture would ease the tension between them. But it seemed the damned thing had been cursed. And before it could dig its icy fingers into Jim’s chest like invading worms through a ribcage full of wet lungs and beating heart blood, he had seen the vision of death. And a vision of Miasma consuming flesh of the mound of rotting corpses in the fly infested pit, and Jim forced to face it, and to smell the rot even when he had woken screaming…

Jim swallowed, his breath pluming in front of him as the room seemed to darken and the color saturation seemed to dull out to almost monochrome. Pale and dead,, there was no doubt this place was calling to them. The same sound of flies and flesh tearing vibrated through the strands of dimensions and time, and Jim could sense every one of them, like an insect feeling the many feet of a spider, crawling towards him in the dark. Jim approached the desk and bible hands visibly shaking now, his body trembling, his eyes beginning to turn milky and white…

Miasma was not so affected.

Oh no.

 In fact he felt sure himself, though his heart was hammering out of his chest, the sensation making him feel like he was gulping water and air at the same time, the painful spur of sharpness traveling from his tightened throat down his chest. Something wasn’t fucking right about that book laying before them as Jim trembled, reaching for it, Miasma stopped him, “No Father, let me…” his face was wide and fearful but determined. If he was more resistant to the damn pendant around his neck enough to not have nightmares, over and over, perhaps such a fate could be spared of Father Jim, if he investigated this object first…

He had gotten Jim into this mess, he'd be damned he wouldn't override the screaming alarm bells in his head to get the man out…

[Missing Things plays:]

He pressed Jim’s hand back down, the touch while warm in intention, meant to be assuring, only served to make the heaviness around Jim intensify, and he felt like he was trying to breathe through a 100%humidity in the dry frigid air. 

Miasma reached for the bible with both hands now. And surprisingly, it seemed that there was nothing special about it. Except, the uncanny sensation that seemed to make Jim’s face tighten. Meanwhile Miasma could feel the whispers growing louder, as if there was talking right behind his ears though no one was there to have done it. “The chill is colder now” Jim said almost absentmindedly.. Repeating the humming he felt in the air around him. His eyes now fully clouded with white, there was no question about it, haunted wasn’t the word for it. The word that fell into both of the minds here about the abode was “possessed”.

Miasma opened the bible, letting the delicate pages flare. The bible was certainly old.  The publication date on the back of the leather is embossed with the numbers  1853. 

“It is hidden” Jim said, his voice like a whispering hiss as he almost seemed to gently rock on his heels. His state almost trance like as his sense and sight seemed to move about the room, searching. Using “The White Breath” Jim sucked in the frigid air and blew out, stretching his hands out as he circled them around, conjuring the mist. A Mist that would awaken any final breath and utterance in the immediate area, making the dimensional thing come forward, to be used, to bend to the will, and in the practice he had trained with Lucius, had now Conjured the mist to hone into the space, “Reveal to me your Secrets” Jim chanted softly, his eyes white and his entire body focused on his task…

“So vulnerable. So easily able to be throttled… such easy prey…” Miasma thought as he stared at Jim from behind. Unsure if the predacious sensation was his own, or was to do with the pendant pressing against the dull thumping behind his chest. 

“Perhaps… but I don’t see it” The ghoul said tensely. His eyes darted around. No one was watching. And yet it felt like the very eyes of God and the judging intercessors were glowering down at his back. He willed the dark whisperings to quiet, and with much effort, stole himself to focus on what was in front of him. 

Miasma held the old bible in his hands, shaking it out, examining it, finding nothing except a page that stuck to the inside slightly, as if the fingers of the very pages were trying with all their might to protect the secrets it held. With a soft ripping sound, the paper lifted revealing a list of names and dates handwritten inside...