#v: dr. bloom: the heart is a home; it was meant to be lived in. (crimeloyalty)

[godblooded]

@crimeloyalty asked :  let me take care of you. just once, need me. ( alana )   ​

how misery sneaks up on her and whispers into her ears until the world fades to a greyscale, how simple it is for it all to just... break. how one day, everything will shatter, and nothing will ever make sense again. alana wishes she could open pandora’s box and it would be so careful harleen need only understand the feeling, blind to the trauma it would inflict. but she can’t ever share that. 

the good doctor stared into the abyss and it did not stare back, but it reached into her body and pulled her into its cavern and now she’s in the in-between for the rest of her life. everything reeks of death. 

the stale stench of cheap beer hangs in the air and the baltimore night is muggy, a thick soup of humidity. every inhale calcifies in her lungs, and her vision rolls hard like she’s in a dryer and it’s been turned on high. she’s going to be sick, she knows. she can’t drink anymore. when she’s unfortunately forced to guzzle the lowest alcohol content there is, it takes much more than she would like. cans of pabst blue ribbon rattle in her head, tin clanging. 

there’s some kind of shameful disgust she feels at herself, running back to old habits with her tail tucked between her legs. and when the old desire to instigate had burnt out, the embers left were just the ashes of total shame. embarrassment. and from there, it became easier to take an alternate route.

abigail’s body stares at her from around every corner. she wants to go to the cemetery. she needs to go to the cemetery. but she can’t bring herself to do it. now she’s at a roadside truck-stop bar, completely flattened off horrible alcohol. if it can be called that. 

making it halfway there was as far as she could manage. the gps 4.6 miles taunted her when she swore, kicked the door open, and wrenched the keys from the ignition. she’d been angry at herself, and she’s still angry with herself, except now she’s angrier. 

in the passenger’s seat is a bouquet of rosemary flowers. they’re vivacious purple. they mean remembrance, and petals scatter uselessly into the footwell. she hadn’t meant to half hurl the thing in her frustration. she feels guilty seeing it. harleen tosses it into the back as she helps alana in, like contorting a scarecrow in a finely tailored black suit that hangs like the ghost of who she once was. her head leans back, inclines, bright blue eyes opening and closing tiredly as the desire to succumb to drifting overtakes. her cheek meets the leather of her own seat and it feels achingly hot. 

“ always need you. ”

she would say it sober, too. but in this moment it’s in beer veritas. her hand darts out to grasp harleen’s, like in this moment it is urgent that she touch. it’s urgent that she keep harleen from moving before she makes it clear. 

“ harls. always. ”

[keeroo92]

Be My Nightmare Chapter 17

Coming Home

~~~~Previous Chapter~~~~

Word count - 3,124

Warnings for surgical procedure, somewhat graphic. Blood and gore, minor.

_________

~~~~Nico~~~~

Nico took a deep breath and stepped forward, ducking under the yellow tape criss-crossing over the open doors of the subway. The acrid stench of death hung in the air, mixing with the signature piss and sweat of the underground. Not a pretty smell.

But the view horrified her, too. Cracked glass and smeared blood, a few bullet casings and two blue-clad bodies lying on the floor like dolls discarded by a child with a new toy. Her comrades deserved so much better.

Her heart clenched as she saw their frozen faces. It was Franklin and Taylor; she’d chatted with them by the water cooler the other day. Taylor told her that stupid joke about the zero and the eight, and Franklin… he was only just learning the ropes. His whole life ahead of him.

It made her want to scream.

She wasn’t unfamiliar with the unfairness of life. It twisted her up and spat her out more than once over the years. She’d fought tooth and claw to get where she was, struggle didn’t surprise her anymore. Misfortune had a cruel tendency to affect kind folks more than those who deserved it, but she always hoped to change that, even just a little. To leave the world better than when she entered it was all she wanted from life, despite how difficult the battle was. She could deal with the bad shit.

Still sucked to see the bad shit, though.

We gotta catch this fucker.

Balled fists held tight at her sides, she forced her eyes away from the corpses of her brothers in arms to scan the scene for any evidence that might lead to tracking down the psychopath who ended their lives. Anything would do, any thread she could tug to unravel the mystery and get to slap cuffs on the bastard. She’d never wanted to catch a criminal so badly, so deeply it kept her awake at night.

I’ll do whatever it takes. You’re going down, V.

The background check hadn’t given them much - he’d come from a middle class family, nothing remarkable about his childhood other than his fascination with art. By all accounts, while his young friends were off causing mischief, he’d be found visiting a museum or practicing his brushwork.

That is, until the shooting.

Regardless of his crimes, her heart went out to the poor bastard. Surviving a mass shooting by the sacrifice of a friend was enough to traumatize anyone. It was a damned shame (and an embarrassment to the healthcare system) that he didn’t get the help he needed afterward.

Still didn’t excuse killing folks, though.

At least they had one lead to follow - the doctor. After the dark-haired lunatic fled her apartment, it didn’t take long to get a search warrant. Techs were combing through the place, but they already had enough to put her away for at least a decade. Lobotomizing her own father, un-friggin-believable.

Tony was in shock, caught completely off guard by the doctor’s actions. His own hand-picked medical consultant, in league with the killer they hunted. A twist for the history books, he’d said. She’d never seen him so dumbfounded.

Despite being proven right about her suspicions, it turned Nico’s stomach to see the emptiness in Waras’s father’s eyes, the lack of humanity left behind. He was lucky to be alive, supposedly, but Nico had her doubts. Maybe death was a kinder fate than what the poor man endured.

He’ll never be the same. None of us will.

“I got a blood trail!”

Nico’s lips curved into a predatory smile. Franklin must’ve wounded the fucker, his last act one that could lead to the arrest of his killer. Cold comfort to his loved ones, but still. It was something.

~~~~Kotomi~~~~

The familiar click of her heels on cement vanished amidst the cries of the crowd. Enraged faces lined the entrance to Mundus Psychiatric Hospital, signs and shouts overwhelmingly oppressive. At least they weren't throwing fruit today. She’d count her blessings.

The protests first started a few days after the local news announced that V was the lead suspect in the recent killings, and that he’d escaped the historically secure facility. Citizens fearing for their safety flocked to the streets, calling for the hospital to close and the patients to go elsewhere, though nobody seemed to know where.  As long as it wasn’t here.

Nobody cares about an actual solution, just that the problem gets dumped on someone else’s lap.

Then one of the orderlies told the tale of the fire, heightening the rage and terror. Malphas still hadn’t figured out who talked, but when he did, heads were going to roll. The director’s professional reputation was irrevocably tainted, along with the entire staff (though his was the only name being slandered in the streets).

It shocked her to see normal people so furious. People who barely registered the hospital’s existence before, now vilifying it at every opportunity. It didn’t matter that the place housed mostly harmless individuals, or that the staff genuinely tried to help them heal. All the goodwill vanished in the wake of V’s rampage.

“Bitch! Don’t you care that folks are dying?!”

Kotomi flinched as a protester caught her gaze and stepped forward from the picket line, foam-flecked lips spewing vitriol. She moved faster; maybe she could get inside before it got any worse.

“How many innocent people have to get slaughtered before you fuckers close this shithole?! Give ’em all the chair, I say!”

She crossed her arms and curled her shoulders inward, her heart hammering as she tried to pass the man by. She only wanted to go to work. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone? She hadn’t done any harm.

That’s not quite true…

In a way, it was all her fault. If she hadn’t frozen up during the fire, maybe things would have turned out differently. Why did she always freeze when it mattered most?

Her thoughts stopped as the man grabbed her shoulder, his grip tight enough to bruise. His rancid breath fanned over her face as he shouted at her, the words lost in the wake of her terror. Quaking legs barely kept her upright as her body flooded with adrenaline, her pupils dilating and sweat blooming on her palms and forehead. Maybe if she stayed quiet, he’d let her go? Could she just wait it out?

What choice did she have?

And then a familiar voice called her name, a pair of worried brown eyes replacing those of the protester as Rob led her inside. Someone else coming to her rescue yet again, because she lacked the strength to save herself.

“Are you alright, Dr. Ishida?” he asked.

She forced her fingers to relax their iron grip on her purse strap. “I- I think so.”

Rob sighed and glanced back at the crowd, their shouting audible through the glass door. “They’re getting bolder. I’ll talk to Aaron again, there’s got to be something we can do.”

But they both knew there was little point. Until V was caught, nothing would quench the fury of the citizens or lessen their drive to close the facility. Maybe her mother was right, she should’ve gone into a different field. It might be time to walk away.

~~~~V~~~~

The artist grimaced as he limped along, his palm pressed against his thigh to staunch the bleeding and ease the pain. Each step he took brought another pang of agony, and he couldn’t find an exit wound- the bullet remained. He’d have to get it out and treat the wound. First, however, he needed to find a safe place to recuperate.

He leaned against a shipping container, cautiously lifting his palm to check the blood flow. It was slowing, at least. Progress. His belt proved an effective tourniquet. 

A gust of icy wind reminded him of his precarious position. The warehouse district wasn’t prone to pedestrians, which meant fewer eyes to spot him, but it also meant he stood out like a sore thumb to anyone who wandered by. He couldn’t afford to stay here long.

Keep moving. Can’t stop now.

He hobbled on, gritting his teeth against the pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead, itchy as it dripped through his hair. Aches ricocheted through his body, his muscles tired and close to quitting on him. He needed rest, a reprieve and a chance to plot his next move. Where could he go?

His friends stayed oddly silent. Did they abandon him? Unlikely, but he couldn’t discount the possibility. Either way, he had only himself to rely on.

Relying on others teaches one not to stand on their own. This is better.

Before long, his mind wandered to the worst three minutes of his life. It was inevitable after the reminders at the subway, the familiar crack of thunder as guns fired. How much pain had Nero endured that day? They said he’d been hit six times.

“Six… Six twelve Oak street…” he muttered. His vision swam and the artist faltered, shaking his head at his own foolishness.

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. Today was the day; he’d been looking forward to it. He’d had his doubts at first, but with each session Nero’s skill improved. The edges of his latest tattoos featured crisp definition, the whorls perfectly curved to follow the natural shape of his biceps.

The artist didn't notice the flush in his face and the dazed film in his eyes as he turned and set off in a new direction, his steps unsteady but determined. A slight smile graced his lips. What design would Nero add to the canvas of his flesh this time?  

~~~~Reader~~~~

You sprinted to your ancient car, barely noticing the absence of the undercover cop car as you forced the engine to roar to life. No doubt they’d seen V leave and given chase, which meant you didn’t have the choice of going back to your apartment. The police would search it from top to bottom.

They’re going to find the sketches…

It seemed so long ago that the artist first grasped that tiny nub of charcoal in your office, portraying your face in shades of grey. The roller coaster hadn’t stopped since that day, and it showed no signs of slowing.

But fuck it. No sense dwelling on what could’ve been, the life you could’ve had if you hadn’t requested his case. What was done was done. Time to get on with it.

You flicked on the radio as you pulled onto the main road. An aggressive guitar solo blared out and you winced as you turned the volume down, switching the channel a beat later. Social media probably had better info than the radio, but reading and driving didn’t mix.

“-unarmed but extremely dangerous. Police are advising locals to leave the area immediately. Last sighted exiting the subway station on 119th street, but current whereabouts unknown-”

The subway. Smart.

As if you’d expect anything less.

Within ten minutes, you reached 119th. Flashing lights and sirens greeted you, blue-clad officers milling around as one of them plastered crime scene tape over the railing. Mid-morning sunlight streamed down like a sick spotlight.

If V was here, he was beyond your reach.

Shit.

You turned at the next cross street. The police undoubtedly had your license plate by now, you’d need to do something about that. No sense lingering in a place chock full of them. But where to go? Where would V go?

A soft ding stole your attention; a new message. You crossed your fingers as you pulled over to check your phone.

It wasn’t far, maybe a five-minute drive. Thank the heavens, at least now you knew he hadn’t gotten arrested. Yet.

Still… the message had you worried. It lacked his usual eloquence and wit, and didn’t say whether he was physically okay. Shots fired, the TV said. You pursed your lips and pulled back into traffic, mind whirling with uncountable ways V might be injured. By the time you parked a block away from the quaint, two-story house, you could barely breathe through the anxiety.

Grabbing your backpack, you didn’t even bother locking the car as you speed walked to the yellow front door. What would you find within? If they hurt the artist, would you be able to help? What if only his corpse awaited you?

You swallowed thickly and tried the doorknob. Unlocked; you took a deep breath and entered. Nothing immediately jumped out at you. Photos of a white-haired teenager lined a nearby wall, a hall table holding mail and a dish to leave one’s keys in beneath them. No blood stained the walls, no sounds of pain echoed from another room. It was quiet.

“V? Are you here?”

No answer. Not good. You set aside your backpack and tried again, making your way through the home. Each second he didn't respond only heightened your fear, stinging your tongue with metal. He had to be seriously hurt or incapacitated somehow, and neither option helped the situation.

“V? Come on, where are you?” Your voice shuddered.

“...curse my stars…”

You spun and raced toward the voice, tearing open a door you’d missed before to find the artist, curled up on a massive bed. Blood stained the sheets, concentrated near his thigh. Sweat coated his brow and his eyes stared at nothing, unseeing in the grip of his pain and madness.

“...love so high…”

“Don’t worry, V. I’ve got you,” you murmured as you cupped his clammy cheek. Dilated eyes, sweat and warm to the touch. Most likely an infection. You shoved aside your feelings; time to get to work. Right now, he needed your medical care more than anything else you offered.

Fabric rustled as you took a seat beside him and searched for the source of the blood. Through the fabric of his jeans it was impossible to tell, so you quickly tugged them off, taking care to reapply his improvised tourniquet once the cloth was out of the way. Heart pounding, you finally found a darker spot in the tensor fasciae, close to his hip. There was no exit wound.

Oh, V… you walked here with a bullet in your leg?

At least it wasn’t too deep. Odd, but you’d take what you could get. A thin trickle of crimson oozed from the wound, but he wasn’t in danger of bleeding out yet. Assuming he hadn’t bled too much during his escape…

“I need to find supplies to treat you. I’ll be right back,” you said, stroking damp hair from his brow. His skin was on fire. He didn’t respond.

You pursed your lips and left him, searching the bathrooms and kitchen until you had what you needed. A moment more spent thoroughly washing your hands, and you returned. The artist hadn’t moved an inch.

Is he having an episode, too? Maybe that’s for the best, it’s possible he won’t notice when I take out the bullet.

The best you had was a longer than average pair of metal tweezers. If they didn’t do the job, you’d have to widen the wound. Thankfully it wasn’t close to any major arteries, so you were confident you had the skills to remove it safely. A few inches to the left, and he would’ve already been dead for an hour.

“Okay, this might hurt,” you told him, pausing for a moment before dousing his thigh with a mixture of bottled water and table salt. After a moment you turned him so the excess fluid spilled out, leaving the wound clean and ready. You gave him one last look as your fingers wrapped around your tool. The head lamp you found in the kitchen flared to life with a touch and you straddled his injured leg, keeping it as still as possible.

“Now for the really fun part…”

The artist twitched feebly as you probed the hole. For once it seemed his episodes were a blessing; if he were even remotely coherent, he surely would have screamed.

Centimeter by centimeter, you searched for the signature resistance of metal surrounded by human tissue. More blood leaked from the wound, drenching your hands and slowing your progress. Muttered verses occasionally interrupted the squelch of your work, but you paid his words no mind. A distraction surgeon never helped.

At last you found it, an unrelenting hardness amongst the fibrous muscle. You tapped around the bullet, getting a feel for its dimensions before making your move. The tweezers barely opened wide enough to take hold, but they did the job and you felt the bullet disturb the surrounding tissue as you slowly drew it out with a satisfying plop.

You sighed and set aside your prize. Another round of improvised saline later, you carefully sutured the wound closed and bandaged the area. The artist still made no indication of awareness, just lying there as you put him back together.

The moment you set down the roll of bandages, you started trembling. V’s blood covered your hands, the sour stench of sweat and chemicals hanging in the air. As pointless as it was, you couldn’t help but wonder why life had to be this difficult. The last twenty-four hours alone had your nerves begging for a break. What a sick world, where you had to remove a bullet from the man you lo-

Holy shit.

Air slipped from your gaping mouth as you fell back against the wall. A manic chuckle followed, then another. Was this what love was like? You’d never come close to it before, to this burning like fire in your soul. The thought of losing V mere hours ago had you in tears, falling apart like an infant without its mother for the first time. When you were with him, despite his murderous and unpredictable nature, you felt safe.

And the things you’d done for him - withholding medical information, lying to your boss and risking your medical license, everything you’d spent years working towards; not to mention what you did to your father.

He’d forced you to face yourself, someone you didn’t even know anymore. Changed your understanding of the world and of art, torn asunder your preconceptions and lit the way to new views. The eloquence of his speech, the grace in his movement, the curve of that smirk and the way his presence changed the atmosphere of any room…

I don’t know if this is love, but I don’t have another word that fits. Not even close. 

It was twisted; it was soaked in blood and violence, but you felt more authentic than you ever had. You smiled. Decades ago, you accepted that you might not be capable of love. 

How wonderful to be wrong.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

[a-productive-manor]

APM’s Cabin Fever Reading List

Cloistering got you down? Need somewhere better (or worse) to escape? 

APM will be offering a rotating reading list of stories: for now, by APM authors, but we’ll be adding reading recs more widely as we update.

Do you need a massive longfic to get lost in? No problem, we got you. 

Don’t have the spoons for anything longer than a one-shot? We have those too. Different genres, pairings, and fandoms.

[[[~Multichapter~]]]

The Voidling Dragon Age Inquisition; Explicit; F/M; MGIT; Solas/OC @othanas​

Having awakened in a different time, place, and reality- the Earthling Andromeda's introduction to the brutal landscape of Ferelden is a quiet and suspicious one. With no known language to readily communicate, an arcane resistance that halts all magical intervention, and the forcible implant into a culture so vastly different from her own, Andromeda must accept that her tale on Earth has come to a violently abrupt end. However, unknown to Andromeda and those within the ranks of the Andrastian Inquisition, her story lights anew with a cosmically malformed and hungering purpose. Pray for planet Thedas.

Rara Avis  Dragon Age Inquisition; Mature; F/M; MGIT; Blackwall/OC, Cullen/OC @convenientcoma​

When Dr. Alberta Marieve Shaw left work on Christmas Eve, she was planning on a quiet evening at home before heading off to sit on a beach in the Caribbean for a week, but, things do not go according to plan. She finds herself in a completely foreign world, unlike anything she has ever experienced. At first, it seems that nothing in her past or training could have prepared her for this, but perhaps she is better suited to this world than she initially thought. She must navigate a war between mages and Templars, the brutality of Thedas itself, and the whims of a powerful Inquisitor to survive and find her way home.

The Slightly Tragic yet Very Inspiring Story of Casien Yedlin, Orphan, Scholar, and Mage TES V: Skyrim; Teen and Up; M/M; Ulfric Stormcloak/M!OC @curiousartemis​

Casien Yedlin is newly arrived from Solstheim. Unfortunately, Windhelm is not the paradise his aunt and uncle hoped it would be. It's funny what you learn to put up with to avoid dying from starvation and frostbite. (Or, the one where a young Dunmer servant befriends a Nord king, and somehow, against all odds, love begins to bloom.)

Scions of Lavellan and Untold Tales of the Inquisition Dragon Age Inquisition; Mature; F/M, M/M, Multi @eranehn​; galacticatart

After the needs of their clan took them in different directions, estranged twins Avril and Era'nehn find themselves embroiled with the Inquisition. Thrust into the turbulence of unfamiliar politics and burdened with unearned power, they each must individually navigate the straits of newfound friendships and enmities, all while finding their footing amidst agency, powerlessness, and slowly developing romantic attachments. This story follows their successes and failures through the official timeline, blending canonical events with original interludes told through the eyes of their friends, advisers, companions, and Inquisition agents.

In Violation Dragon Age II; Mature; Multi; Ser Agatha/Orsino @fandomn00blr​

Ser Agatha was sent to Kirkwall in 9:30 to help the Circle there with the influx of refugees from Ferelden, a few months before the new Knight-Captain, Ser Cullen Rutherford arrived.She was a serious woman who conducted herself with propriety, for the most part just preferring to keep a low profile and stay out of trouble. She rarely let her guard down or allowed her emotions to show through her heavy Templar armor. Few of her fellow soldiers ever saw or appreciated the subtle sense of humor she had, her quiet rebellious streak, or the anger she felt deep within her at the things she'd had to bear witness to as a Templar in Kirkwall before the Rebellion in 9:37. But when the time came, brought on by an apostate revolutionary's devastating attack on the Chantry, she stood firmly against Meredith's orders to annul the Circle, with Cullen and a contingent of Templars who still remembered the part of their vows that Agatha held most dear: their duty to protect the mages. Now, along with whoever's left in Kirkwall, she'll have to pick up the pieces...

Dead Bitch Walking Dragon Age Inquisition; Mature; Multi; Alistair/OC @grumpkinvicky​

She was dead, she’d accepted that the moment she’d woken up, looked at the night sky seen two moons and the stars. Having accepted this fact she was living life to the fullest. She had no skills whatsoever, or no usable ones in the middle of the Hinterlands.Breaking into places before the templar/mage rebellion had made things a little easier to loot old treasures. Knowing where there were rarer herbs helped too, after she’d watched a couple of other people picking them.Now she had some bombs, she had some more weather-resistant clothes and more importantly, she had a map to Therinfal where the greatest treasure of all would be found.

The Inquisition’s Dragonborn DAI/Skyrim; Explicit; Multi; Rylen/Female Dragonborn @inquisition-dragonborn​

Gwenaëlle, the Dragonborn, has completed her final challenge and defeated Alduin, the World Eater, but on her way home from Sovngarde she seems to have taken a wrong turn and ended up in Thedas where a fledgling group, led by a man with a glowing hand, struggle to save their own world. Does the prophesy of the Last Dragonborn still have more to play out? Will the Inquisition accept her or destroy her? A tale of action, adventure, dragons, and love.

Threshold Dragon Age Inquisition; Explicit; F/M; Delrin Barris/OC @sarenkascrawls​

Non-magical Thedas. The Inquisition has reached the stalemate in the war with Corypheus because of the expansion of Hasmali regime in the Free Marches, threatening the safety of their allies and the trade routes. The only way to negotiate with an authoritarian Hasmal is through an offer of a familial bond. Ser Delrin Barris sends out a marriage proposal in an effort to secure a truce. It seems a sacrifice worth to help end the war, even if it changes his life forever. Mira Surma, the daughter of voivode Surma, a Hasmali military general, has spent the last seven years serving as a lay person in the Chantry. One night her father’s henchman arrives to take her, and she knows nothing will ever be the same. Her entire life, Mira has tried to carve out an existence free of her father. His entire life, Delrin has tried to follow his duty. Their marriage acts as a political tool, but it is real. Amidst the war, they try to build a life together with the best intentions. 

A Prince to Call Mine Vampire the Masquerade, Bloodlines; Explicit; F/M; Sebastian LaCroix/F!OC Crystal_Grace

What if meeting the man of your life meant dying? Marjory Sartore used to be completely oblivious to the true nature of the world, only worrying about climbing the ladder at her company and balancing her expenses. That was until a storm made her stay late at work and she saw the most alluring man right in front of her. Obsessed with a man nobody seemed to know, her attempts to find him again leads her to the most important change in her life: death. Made into a vampire and thrown into the middle of a power struggle, could she learn to survive in a much more violent world and come closer to the man of her dreams?

The Reluctant Alchemist’s Guide to Thedas Dragon Age Inquisition; Mature; F/M, Multi; Solas/F!OC @paraparadigm

Margo Duvalle likes her quiet academic life just fine. Her research on the history of botany is going well - until she finds an odd manuscript in the local special collections library. What starts as a promising source for a new article leads to a series of unfortunate events that hurl Margo into an unfamiliar world - and into a stranger's body. But a PhD in history doesn't prepare you for surviving in a world on the edge of collapse, especially when the organization that seeks to fix things is itself a sordid mess. As she tries to unravel the mysteries lurking behind young Evelyn Trevelyan's apparent incompetence, Margo is led into a tangled web that weaves multiple worlds together — and what waits in the shadows might be much bigger than whatever strife plagues Thedas.

[[[~One-Shots and Short Works~]]]

In My Heart Shall Burn Dragon Age Inquisition; Teen & Up; M/M; Delrin Barris/M!Levellan @curiousartemis​

Wine, Women, and Song - A First Day Story Dragon Age Inquisition; Mature; F/M; Blackwall/F!OC @convenientcoma​ Green for Hope Mass Effect; Gen Crystal_Grace

Is it Fate or Chance Dragon Age; Gen @fandomn00blr​ Just Another Night At The Hangman Dragon Age II; Teen & Up; Fenris/Carver Hawke @grumpkinvicky​

The Sleeping Dwemer’s Guide to Tamriel TES V: Skyrim; Teen & Up @inquisition-dragonborn​

Love Song for a Dying Man Dragon Age Inquisition; Teen & Up; Bastien/Vivienne @sarenkascrawls​

Memories of the Grey Dragon Age Inquisition; Explicit; Blackwall/F!Cadash @paraparadigm​

[ckret2]

Violet/Violent

Part 1, Hybrid Cultivar: Jonah’s got a Ghidorah head and he’s not afraid to clone it. Or, failing that, whatever stray biological matter his reluctant team of scientists finds inside of it.

Part 2, Violet/Violent: Dr. Shiragami and his fellow scientists are the proud accidental creators of an impossibility: a fusion between a rose, a human, and Godzilla. But Jonah doesn’t want a miracle. He wants a monster.

(KOTM one-shot, part 2 of 3. Stay tuned for part 3... *checks writing to-do list* ...eventually! If you want to read my other fics set in this KOTM ‘verse, click here.)

###

The pet rose/titan/human hybrid of Alan Jonah's gang of variously bribed and blackmailed scientists was growing faster than any of them had ever anticipated.

Her height had been holding steady for the last week, although she was still accruing foliage that spread her out sideways: an ever-spreading tangle of vines and branches. A matted mass of leaves enveloped the majority of her body like crocodilian scales or like great flakey layers of skin. They told themselves it was a mass of leaves, anyway. It was easier to look at her when they thought of the curtain of mass that made up her "hide" as "plant mimicking flesh" rather than as "flesh mutated to resembled plant," but in truth it was, by all measures—genetically, chemically, cellularly—a fusion of both plant and flesh into something entirely unprecedented and entirely new, in the same way that a mix of blue paint and yellow paint was neither "blue imitating yellow" nor "yellow imitating blue" but simply "green."

At most times, she was about seven feet tall, and typically she moved by undulating across the ground on vines and roots with motions like something between a millipede and a beached octopus. Other times, she pulled the thicket of her body in tight, weaving vines together like muscles and branches like bones, reshaping herself into something hunched but clearly bipedal, with stocky legs and a long thick tail and an array of grasping vines like undersized arms; and like that she stood just over ten feet tall. Most rarely, she would pull her vines and branches even tighter together into an even more solid form, stretching her legs long, straightening her back, lifting her head, sacrificing stability for height—until she stood fifteen feet tall, eerily humanoid, tottering like a toddler learning to walk. But a thick, crude, simple approximation of a human, like a golem made of trees rather than clay.

Back when she'd been about the size of a basketball, they'd started testing her for human intelligence—speaking to her, showing her books for children, seeing whether she could be taught to read and write. Within minutes of being shown a thick cardboard picture book meant to teach the alphabet, she'd seized up a marker and began scribbling letters on every surface she could reach—including letters she hadn't yet been shown. They still wondered if she'd observed them in the lab, if she'd perhaps picked them up from the scientists through some sort of as yet unidentified telepathic sense, or if she remembered them.

Dr. Shiragami suspected she remembered. He had no objective proof of this. Just a feeling, an uneasy feeling, that there was something observing them through the hybrid's strange small eyes; something that, although not human, once had been—and could recall that past life. An ex-human staring out at her former peers from the other side of death.

The letter she wrote most often was V.

She'd write it on a wall and stand beneath it, or on the floor and stand before it, as if using its tip to point at herself. Dr. Shiragami wondered what had been the name of the human whom Monster Zero had devoured and whose DNA had been used for their accidental cloning project.

He had nicknamed their rose/titan/human hybrid "Violet"—he thought that perhaps her name had once started with V, and without any idea what it was, the name of a flower seemed fitting. In his accent, when he wasn't careful, it came out as "Bioretto," which was how it caught on with the other scientists working with her; and the name drifted over the days to "Biorante" until her official name in their documentation on here was changed at last to "unknown Godzilla genetic sample" to "Biollante."

Dr. Shiragami thought the name sounded too much like "violent."

A true golem, made of clay, had two letters written on its head that meant "death." Writing a third letter changed the word to "truth" and brought the inanimate figure to life; removing the letter changed it back to "death" and put the figure back to sleep.

He hoped that, unlike a true golem, adding a letter to her name wouldn't change her nature.

###

"Dr. Shiragami, I did not bring you on to work with Monster Zero so that you could play with a walking plant."

"I work in genetics, sir. Genetics with a specialization in botany. You brought me on to gene sequence an alien that doesn't have genes."

"Hm." Jonah was staring through the observation window into the room they'd set up for Biollante. It was little more than a large room with a soft dirt floor and a skylight, with a water pipe she could work herself, a board to write on, and plastic playground equipment for lack of a better idea of what kind of enrichment a titan-plant-human needed. It was apparently insufficient entertainment; she was currently amusing herself by struggling to lift up and tip over a plastic playhouse designed to look like a castle. She'd fit in the play castle just a few weeks ago, but now it came up to her thighs when she was humanoid.

Dr. Shiragami said, "There's nothing I can do with an alien head without DNA in it, but there's—there's plenty I can do with a plant. A remarkable plant that consists of a genetic splice between three unspliceable species. I'm helping in what way I can—"

"Except you're not helping, doctor, are you? Because my objective is not to create novel freaks of nature; it's to get back on track with unleashing something that can combat the biggest extinction level event in this planet's history, i.e., us. So unless this creature you're wasting my time and resources on can do that—" Jonah suddenly fell silent. He watched wordlessly as the miniature titan knocked over a miniature castle. "Can this creature do that, doctor?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How tall is it going to get? Do you know?"

Dr. Shiragami's throat went dry.

"Has it displayed any violent tendencies?" Jonah went on. "Or are we going to have to train them into it?"

"You can't—"

"Can't I? Will you stop me?" Jonah asked. "What have you got, a doctorate? I've got men with guns."

"This is a living creature! Possibly a person—"

"You know how I feel about people."

"—A child. And a completely new form of life on top of that! I won't help you turn her into a monster."

"Fine," Jonah said. "You're welcome to resign at any time. I wish you the best of luck finding another way to fund your daughter's medical treatment."

Shiragami's blood ran cold.

"I'll leave you alone to think it over, shall I?" Jonah nodded to him and walked away.

Shiragami stared through the window at Biollante.

###

Biollante sprayed spores when she was upset, a thin sickly yellow haze of pollen. It made the scientists' and soldiers' eyes burn and throats close up. They now approached Biollante with pollen-filtering masks and goggles.

The facility hadn't been airtight when they made the discovery. Now it was, but not soon enough to prevent the spores from spreading for miles around them in every direction, settling into the sand, nearly invisible.

The desert was blooming. Trees and shrubs and vines shot into the sky, every species in the Rosaceae family they had ever tried to feed Biollante: roses and rowans and hawthorns, apples and almonds and peaches, more and more and more.

Somewhere in the Sahara, such an immediate reversal to desertification might have been a miracle.

If not for the fact that Biollante's spawn consisted of uncontrolled invasive species.

And at any rate—Jonah had not decided to hide his facility in that part of the Sahara.

Over five thousand years ago, the Sahara had been green. In fifteen thousand years, as the Earth's axis tilted, it would become green again. But even a green Sahara was mostly savannah, covered in shrubs and grasses, able to support clusters of trees only near deep water. The Sahara had never been jungles, never been rainforests. And some portions of the desert, even at the Sahara's wettest, remained desert still—such as the sea of sand dunes shared by Egypt and Libya.

Here, deep in the Sahara's heart, its truth, its natural, its healthy, its correct was desert. This was the part of the Sahara where there always had been, always would be, and always should be desert. A forest—a dry jungle of woody shrubby plants—would choke out the native species, destroy the local ecology, disrupt the weather patterns, displace the nomadic people that called the desert home. Everything about this part of the Sahara, from the temperature to the complete lack of precipitation to the nutrients in the loose sand, was unable to support a single one of the trees now growing there, much less so many.

Nevertheless, the forest spitefully flourished.

Like a fungus in a sack of flour, like a tumor in a heart.

And Biollante grew as well.

The scientists, even under Jonah's blackmail, were reluctant to harm her; so it was Jonah's soldiers who had learned via experimentation what could force her to fight. Fire—first only when it was thrust directly into her vines, but soon they trained her to lash out at the mere sight of it. Weedkiller, but only certain kinds—they'd tried so many different ones, seeing how she took each poison. Flashing blue lights. Recordings of the cries of MUTOs. Being presented with the dead head of Ghidorah, the monster that had devoured the things she was made from.

Dr. Shiragami was sure that Biollante must remember her past lives. Remember being Godzilla. Remember being human. Perhaps even remember being a rose—what did they know of the memories of flowers? Shiragami suspected plants remembered far more than humans gave them credit for.

The sight of Ghidorah made her struggle the hardest and roar the loudest. Once she'd been forced into the room with the dead head, she never cooperated with her keepers again. Now, the mere sight of humans was enough to enrage her.

She fought with spores, with choking vines, with cutting thornlike teeth. She fought with screams that they thought might have been an instinctive attempt to use Godzilla's atomic breath. These roars were horrible things, like Godzilla bellowing in rage and a woman wailing in pain and a tree splintering and falling all at once; they suspected she was twisting and snapping branches inside of her own body to make the sounds. She would no longer let anyone close enough to her to check.

Shiragami was only one remaining out of the original scientists that had been working with Biollante. All of the others either had been killed or else left—some in fear for their lives, but most in protest against what they were doing to a creature they knew deserved better. Shiragami now had new coworkers who cared much less. He would have left too—if not for his daughter, and if not for the fact that he thought someone should be working with Biollante who cared about what happened to her.

Even if he knew he wasn't doing anything to help.

They expanded her containment room when they could, but there was only so much they could do so fast when a facility that had been designed to camouflage into sand dunes was still trying to remain hidden now that it was in the center of a desiccated forest that it seemed the whole world was watching. She was too large to relocate without anyone noticing. Jonah ordered her nutrients be cut off—water only—in an attempt to slow her growth; in return, she began killing and devouring any humans that entered her enclosure. When they stopped entering, she burrowed her roots straight through the concrete foundation of the facility and deep down, they suspected perhaps even into the bedrock below.

As she grew so tall her head brushed the fifty foot skylights over her prison, she stopped using her humanoid form; as she kept growing still, she stopped using her bipedal form. Her prison cell was nothing but a mass of tangled vines, filling the room, brushing the walls. Vines—and sometimes teeth, gnashing between leaves and within blooms as she crashed branches through doors and felt her way down the halls.

Inside Jonah's facility, Biollante threatened to push them all out. Outside the unnatural forest, Monarch exploration crews backed by Egyptian and Libyan forces ventured into freakishly tall trees, as did curious or annoyed locals who wanted to know what strange forest had just appeared in the middle of their desert; it wouldn't be long until someone found the hidden facility.

Between Biollante and the investigating humans, Shiragami hoped Jonah was going to be pinched in the middle.

Jonah had what he wanted now that Biollante had been changed from a docile child into a wild animal. Shiragami wondered if Jonah had any idea how to tame her again. Surely he didn't.

For his daughter's sake, Shiragami would stay until the end, whether that end came from Biollante or Monarch; but for his other daughter's sake, he hoped she crushed Jonah beneath her roots when she escaped.

In the past couple of days, the bud of a rose ten feet long had emerged where her head had once been, up near the skylights.

Shiragami was sure it wouldn't be long now until she broke free. As soon as the rose bloomed.

###

(Click here for my masterlist of fics set in this KOTM verse, as well as my AO3 and Ko-fi links. If you enjoyed the fic, I’d appreciate a reblog or comment!)