#I’m having such a swell time with the evil shadow skull! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ahgaseda · 4 years

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pray | one

you are more than my existence, please listen to my prayer, hold me, tell me about myself, call my name so I can know who I am...

summary : everyone knows of the unspeakable evil that lives on the mountain, but you willingly sacrifice yourself to the demon named Jaebeom, as long as he takes you far away from the monster waiting for you at home.

warnings : strong profanity, explicit dialogue, instances of blood and violence, graphic sexual content, black magic themes, potentially triggering elements that involve mentions of past child abuse, mental health, etc.

miniseries chapters : one / two / three / four / five / six / seven

A demon lived in the shadow of the mountain. That was the legend you were always told. Each time as a restless child you wandered toward the woods, your mother - aware that scolding held little effect on you - would try to instill some sense of terror instead.

“The demon will catch you and drag you away,” she would say, voice a high shrill.

I wish he would, you often told yourself.

There were days you sat for hours on end, gazing into the darkness of the forest. You imagined wraiths and monsters and any other deadly creature that could devour you without consequence.

You wanted to be devoured. It was the closest to salvation from your father you would ever find.

It went without saying you had no friends. You were the strange little girl that would rather chase butterflies and climb trees, always lingering dangerously close to the forest’s border.

“She wants to dance with the demon,” other children would tease in a jeering song.

You paid them no mind. The woods enraptured you, beckoned you within her boughs. You would cup a hand to your mouth and send out a call, wordless notes that your soft voice would carry into the shadows. The woods would sigh, caressing you with wisps of wind that let you know your calls were heard.

Stamping your little bare feet, you would gather courage to enter. It was forbidden to enter the accursed forest, where black magic was known to breed. Though you considered yourself brave, you feared the punishments that would follow if you were caught. And for that reason alone, you returned home every time.

Not until you woke on a rainy day to find your mother gone were you finally driven to enter. Without her, there was no one to protect you. She had left you alone and defenseless with a man that drank away his sorrows. In your young mind, you didn’t blame her for saving herself, but you would resent her for it for the rest of your life.

Bare feet plodded across the fields. The kids threw rocks cruelly at you when you passed by, but you were much too fast. You heard their words, full of hatred and scorn, and kept running.

You reached the border, a small child staring into the gaping maw of the black forest. Survival pulsed through your veins. In that moment, you decided whatever lived inside the forest was far less dangerous than the man outside it.

“Please,” you whispered, hands clasped before you in prayer. “Grant me safe passage.”

Then, you stepped inside.

The first thing you noticed was the softness of the ground beneath your feet. The fields had been rough and coarse against your soles, but even now, something cooled your broken skin. You looked around in curious awe, the smallest rays of light piercing through the canopy overhead. When the mist hit the rays of light just right, little rainbows appeared in their wake.

You reached out, touching one of the trees. Dainty pink flowers grew from its bark, winding between your fingers. You giggled, marveling the buds and their tiny leaves. Birds alighted on every branch to chirp curiously at your presence.

Further in, you continued, turning in a circle as you walked, just to make sure you didn’t miss a single sight. It was like nothing you had ever seen or even dreamt of in your wild imagination.

Suddenly, the air cooled. The wind rushed. You rubbed your arms as your breath appeared like smoke. The birds disappeared into the heights of the trees.

You came to a stop, listening to the loud beating of wings. It sounded like a bird, a thousand fold.

The boy alighted before you, wings rustling at his shoulders.

You could hardly believe your eyes, mouth opening in shock. Surely before you stood a boy, no much older than yourself, but the similarities were few. Enormous black wings arched above his shoulders, still shifting as the boy levelled his gaze at you harshly.

“Why are you here?” he asked with impatience.

Your attention had landed on the dark curved horns sprouting from the top of his skull, then drifted to his skin. He wore no shirt, only trousers. You could imagine what a hassle pulling a shirt on over wings would be, but you moved your interest to the black ink in his flesh. He was covered in script from neck to fingers and everything in between, etched with a language you would never hope to understand.

“What are you?” you asked with a child’s naivety.

The boy tilted his head. “What do I look like?” he replied, almost menacingly.

The little fear you had promptly evaporated. Your lips parted in a wide grin and you giggled, exclaiming, “You’re a fairy!”

The boy’s brows stitched and the most incredulous frown took over his face. “A… fairy?” he exclaimed in disgust.

You raced forward, colliding into him and wrapping your arms around his bare waist. “I prayed to the woods for safe passage and she sent you to protect me!”

The boy grasped your arms and attempted to pry you off, adamant. “I’m not protecting you.”

“Of course, you are,” you said with glee, pulling your head back from his chest to peer up at his face. “The woods said so.”

Surly, he wrinkled his nose and barked, “I don’t listen to trees.”

You let your hands fall from his body, taking a step back. “Everyone knows there’s magic in this forest.”

Of all the creatures you expected to find, he was the last possibility. A child much like you, despite wings and horns and a host of tattoos in his skin. You marveled the script on his chest, but you knew it would be quite rude to ask for a translation at the moment.

“Dark magic,” he corrected sternly, striding forward and waving his hand. “Come with me.”

You watched him walk past you and didn’t hesitate to do as told. You followed the short-tempered boy back to the border, eyes on his long wings as you trodded behind him.

He pointed at the forest’s edge and cocked his head, clearly motioning for you to take your leave. “Now, go,” he snapped.

You turned sulky. “Can’t I stay a little longer?”

“No,” the boy replied without missing a beat.

You puffed up your cheeks and began to pout.

The winged boy furrowed his brow and asked, “What are you doing?”

You stomped your feet and grasped his wrist between your hands, tugging on his arm. “Let me stay!”

“You humans are strange,” he murmured under his breath.

You released his hand and broke into a sprint, breezing past him and toward the deep shadows of the forest. The boy rolled his eyes at your attempt of escaping him.

You didn’t get far and you gasped aloud when the boy appeared from overhead and landed squarely in front of you. It was hard to stop considering how fast you were going and you smacked against his hard chest, falling backwards onto the ground with a thud.

“Clumsy things,” he sighed, pretending to brush dirt from his shoulder.

You got to your feet, dusting off your legs, and looked up at him with amusement. “What is your name?”

“Jaebeom,” he replied, surprised at himself for being so forthcoming.

You gave him your name, though he did not ask for it.

“Mm,” was all Jaebeom said. Then, he turned and proceeded to walk away.

You trailed behind him and surveyed his wings again, finding them astounding in every aspect of the word. “How far can you fly?”

“Far.”

“How high?” you pressed.

“High.”

You scowled at him, finally getting irritated at his curt replies, and asked, “You don’t have many friends, do you?”

Jaebeom blinked, turning to you confusedly. As if your question had completely thrown him off balance.

“You seem like you don’t know how to have a conversation,” you explained, softening at his expression.

“There’s never been a need,” he replied sadly.

Your heart ached at that. It was a feeling you knew all too well. “I can be your friend, if you like,” you offered sweetly. “Your first friend!” At that, you extended your arm.

Jaebeom glanced down at your outstretched hand, clearly unimpressed.

You smiled with delight when he finally shook your hand. Even among his kind, the gesture was recognized.

Jaebeom shrugged, hiding his interest. “What do friends do?”

“Well,” you began, moving to his side as he continued to walk between the trees. “We talk and play and tell each other stories. We ask about each other’s day and…”

By the time night fell, you managed to draw the faintest of smiles from Jaebeom. And there was no way in hell you weren’t going to bring loud attention to it.

Pointing at his face, you exclaimed, “You smiled!”

He gawked and quickly deadpanned, “I did not.”

“I made you smile!”

Jaebeom rolled his eyes and deflected, “I’m only smiling because it’s nighttime now and that means it’s finally time for you to leave.”

You chuckled at his dryness, knowing by the aforementioned smile he had grown to enjoy your company. “Next time I’ll make you laugh,” you told him with a mischievous grin. “Just you wait and see.”

Jaebeom, who had been looking down at his feet pensively, reared his head up in surprise. “Next time?”

“Bye, Jaebeom-ie,” you called with a wave, stepping through the opening in the forest’s edge. “Thank you for making me forget how sad I was.”

Jaebeom’s face softened and his eyes burned with the threat of tears. “You were sad?”

But you had already run far enough not to hear him. Your heart was swelling, feeling joy for the first time in such a long time. This day, a day you swore would be the worst in your life, had become the best because of a winged boy named Jaebeom.

Jaebeom felt an ache in his chest. For the hours you spent with him inside the woods, you had been sad and yet you spent all of your energy simply trying to get a smile out of him. Jaebeom wanted to find whatever - or whoever - had made you sad and remove them from the face of the earth forever.

“Until next time, cheonsa,” he spoke softly before turning back to the dark loneliness of the forest and vanishing inside.

You could barely sleep. You thought endlessly of your new friend - your only friend. You told no one about him. Not that you had anyone you would want to tell.

Slipping into the woods became your happiness. You spent any possible hour hidden away among the trees. Jaebeom always sensed your return, as if the forest eagerly told him, and would join you within seconds of your entering. After a few months, you began to assume he waited near the border for you.

Together, you and Jaebeom grew from clumsy children to blossoming teenagers. Jaebeom was the first to notice the change. Suddenly, he was nervous to rough and tumble with you as he usually did. You were quite disappointed at not wrestling in the mud with him anymore, but to him, it seemed overnight you began smelling too good.

Though Jaebeom always playfully teased you, soon he was too awkward to do so. And you noticed how you began to win most of the rounds of verbal sparring. As you grew, your body changed shape. Feminine curves reminded Jaebeom you were becoming a woman and he was becoming a man.

Teasing turned to flirtation, which was dangerous. Jaebeom could tell you were receptive to his little touches and his occasional hungry remarks. He rebuked himself for not being more careful, for letting friendship drift too close to romance. Sadly, Jaebeom knew he could no longer prolong the inevitable.

On the morn of your seventeenth birthday, you escaped into the forest like any other day.

As you stepped inside her borders, you rubbed at tears with a rough hand. It had been torture at home. You were facing a fate worse than death in your eyes. Careful to never let Jaebeom see you cry, you dabbed at your wet cheeks with the sleeves of your dress.

Little did you know, Jaebeom perched in the tree above. His blood boiled. Someone had hurt you and on your birthday no less. He was angry, but stifled the rage for your sake.

Jaebeom descended before you as he always did. After years in his company, you never gasped in surprise when he landed just shy of you.

Flashing a smile, you greeted, “Good morning.”

“Is it?” he questioned, never giving an inch.

You shifted nervously and watched him move closer. “I’m a woman now,” you finally spoke, fighting back tears. “They have discussed selling me to a princeling or a lord. Some nonsense about me being beautiful.”

“Total nonsense,” Jaebeom retorted, trying to make you smile. Though the news made all the blood drain from his face.

“It’s strange,” you mulled softly. “Being sold like a broodmare. I’ve never felt more like an animal than I do today.”

Jaebeom grit his teeth. Fire licked across his skin.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, your voice trembled, “My aunt told me today that the first few times will be unpleasant. More than likely, the man who buys my hand in marriage will not care about my comfort.”

Jaebeom wanted to snap any man in half that hurt you and he snarled, “Why are we talking about this?”

“Oh,” you said, flushing with embarrassment. “I-I’m sorry. I was… thinking out loud, I suppose.”

Jaebeom regretted the harshness of his words. Clearly you were scared and he could do nothing to comfort you.

You spent the day with your only friend in somber, peaceful quiet. Jaebeom took you to all of your favorite places. The river to feed the koi, with their glistening scales of every shade of every color amongst the lily pads. The winding trees to see the newly hatched crop of vibrant parrots followed.

Even the rare red stag came to greet you, allowing your hand to touch his snout. You were hard pressed to find a creature as beautiful. You always gaped at him in awe.

Jaebeom’s eyes were on you, never wavering. He knew you would assume the visits to your favorite reaches of the forest would be in celebration of your birthday. Not in a final farewell.

He was letting you say goodbye.

When the sun began to set, Jaebeom led you to the border. You almost made him drag you.

“I… have a present for you,” Jaebeom finally said, rifling in his back pocket.

“Jaebeom,” you sighed. “I told you that wasn’t necessary.”

“Well, you told me that after I started making it so…,” he countered in feigned scolding. “I didn’t want it to go to waste. That’s all.”

You snickered. He was always deflecting and you expected nothing less.

Jaebeom wasn’t the only one who had noticed the changes in your bodies. You were well aware of the broad expanse of his chest, the bulging muscles of his arms, and the chiseled lines of his stomach. There were many times you had to resist the urge to slip into his arms. You wanted to feel the heat of his body against yours. It was maddening; the warmth that emanated from him.

Jaebeom finally handed you the tiny box, snapping you from your reverie.

Your heart fluttered. Tears pricked at your eyes before you had even opened it. Lowering your head bashfully, you whispered, “I can’t remember the last time someone gave me a gift.”

That wounded him deeply, though his expression stayed neutral. “Happy birthday, cheonsa,” was all Jaebeom said.

You could hardly believe your eyes as they blurred with tears. Inside the box was a ring. The dark stone was held by gleaming silver, small strands twisting like the roots of trees to hold the gem securely in its center.

“Jae…,” you breathed, lost for words. “It’s…”

“It’s a black diamond,” he explained anxiously. “They are supposedly very rare. Like you.”

You pulled the ring from the box, slipping it on your finger slowly. Were you even worthy to wear something of such value?

“You don’t like it,” Jaebeom groaned at your silence. “I should have known it was too dark. I can try to find something else.”

“Stop,” you replied, peering up at him as the tears escaped and rolled down your cheeks. “It’s beautiful.”

He was thrown by your emotion. “You’re sure?”

You wiggled your fingers, staring at the gift with affection, and whispered, “Never in my life have I seen something so beautiful.”

“I have,” Jaebeom blurted, immediately biting his tongue.

The admission was lost on you. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“I will cherish it forever.”

Jaebeom held up a finger. “One last present.”

“Jaebeom,” you started.

Before you could argue, Jaebeom swooped you in his arms and beat his great wings. You cried out in surprise, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you were carried higher and higher into the air.

The trees hummed, branches moving from his path as Jaebeom ascended even further. He had never flown with you before. Jaebeom knew he would have to be full grown before he could carry another person with his wings. Now, he was at the cusp of adulthood and to him, this would be his only chance to let you feel flight.

The two of you appeared in the canopy. You clinged to Jaebeom desperately, panting hard on his neck.

“Open your eyes, silly girl,” he teased, coming to sit at the summit of a tree and holding you securely in his lap.

You listened to the familiar sound of his wings relaxing, folding to his back dutifully. The air wisped past your ears and tasted crisp on your tongue. You had never been this high in your life, no matter how many trees you climbed in your youth.

Opening your eyes, fresh tears streamed down your cheeks.

The forest continued for miles and miles, stretching past what your vision could see. The horizon was endless. But at the center of your gaze was the ever-looming mountain. Its heights were hidden in the clouds.

“I never knew,” you stammered. “It’s such a big world.”

Jaebeom chuckled, his eyes on your face filled with such wonder. The sun’s rays reflected in your glistening eyes. Jaebeom knew in that moment he was hopelessly enamored.

You would never know the pain he endured for your sake. He could not survive in the sun. Even as he held you while the sunset splashed the sky with her colors, the sun punished him. The ink scrawled across his skin burned.

But he swore it was worth it to see the sky painted in your eyes.

You heard your name on his tongue and turned to meet his gaze, surprised above everything else when his lips touched yours.

Jaebeom had kissed you before, but nothing like this. Yes, his lips had graced your cheek or the corner of your mouth, and many times you pressed your lips to his brow or nose in playful flirting.

Nothing like this.

The surprise faded and you let your eyes flutter closed. Less afraid, you released your vice grip on his shoulders and slid your fingers into his dark hair, deepening the kiss.

Jaebeom lit a fire inside your soul, coaxing it to the surface with his heated kisses. You moaned softly at the push and pull of his hands kneading your back. The sound brought Jaebeom back to reality and without warning, he fell backwards, tumbling back through the canopy with you in his arms.

You yelled at first, terrified at the sensation of free-falling, but quieting when you remembered the man who held you could fly. His wings unraveled and punished the air with powerful beats, allowing Jaebeom to alight on a branch.

Jaebeom kept his hands on your waist, letting you regain your balance, and grunted when you melded your lips back on his. You tugged on his hair, hungry for the fire he made race through your veins. Jaebeom smirked darkly against your mouth, flicking his tongue between your lips.

Then, he remembered what he had to do.

When Jaebeom broke away, you swayed where you stood, steadied only by his rough hands around your waist, coaxing up and down your lower back. Had you known kissing was such a rush, you would have kissed him a long time ago.

Your eyes met and you giggled, bashful. Jaebeom lowered his head, hiding a smug grin, hair falling in his face.

“Please,” you sighed breathlessly. “Keep kissing me.”

Without another word, Jaebeom stepped from the branch with you in his clutches, using a single beat from his wings to land gracefully on the ground. His eyes burned into yours and the forest suddenly felt undeniably warmer.

Jaebeom lay you on a soft bed of grass, propping himself over you and kissing you tenderly. You were aware of his body on yours, how he had made himself comfortable between your thighs.

And you were content to kiss him for an eternity.

The playful teasing was long gone. The air was thicker. This was a mood you had never felt. This was intimacy, raw and unbridled. You were in the arms of the boy you loved and the only person you trusted.

With your fingers tangled in his long hair, you kept him trapped to you, humming softly at his lips melding with yours. You slipped your hands down his chest, tracing your nails over the endless ink scribbled expertly in his skin, and moved to grip his shoulders. Your touch wandered closer to his wings, feeling where the joints connected to his back.

The moment you touched their bases, the wings came alive at your touch, fanning and stretching overhead and rustling with excitement. You suddenly felt that no one had ever touched Jaebeom’s wings and the act itself was considered an intimate one. Jaebeom kissed you even harder, darting out his tongue to rub along your lip.

Jaebeom palmed your breast and your breath hitched. He broke the kiss to look into your eyes, assuring himself you were alright with his touch. You didn’t hesitate to grab his hand, steering it lower to the hem of your blouse and guiding him underneath to your bare skin.

You moaned softly when his hand settled on your naked breast. Jaebeom kneaded and caressed, rubbing his thumb over your nipple. His lips broke from yours and brushed over your jaw. When you felt his mouth on your neck, you arched into his touch and locked your ankles behind his back.

Something was happening between your legs - a tugging ache you had never felt before.

“Jaebeom,” you sighed, squirming beneath him. His kisses on your neck were making you crazy, filled with a need completely new to you.

You succumbed to the way he made your pulse race, undulating beneath him and roaming your hands restlessly across his body. His skin felt hot, scalding against your fingertips, like he was burning alive and you were to blame.

“I, um,” you hesitated, clearing your throat. “What if we…”

Jaebeom sucked beneath your ear and hummed, “Hm?”

You blinked, heart thundering against your ribs. “Can I give myself to you?”

Jaebeom’s eyes flickered at the thought, but his voice was firm against your neck. “No.”

Your heart sank, surprise sharply fading into disappointment. “But if I do, then they can’t sell it.”

Jaebeom met your gaze, nuzzling your nose with his own, and spoke sadly, “I can’t.”

You peered up at him through the haze, through the warmth the two of you had begun to make together. Questions and pleas raced through your mind, but all you could bring yourself to ask was, “Why?”

“It’s different for my kind,” Jaebeom explained, pupils dilated wide. “It means more to us.”

That stung and you did nothing to hide it. Lips trembling, you cried, “And it means nothing to me?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jaebeom said hurriedly, shaking his head and causing more hair to stray into his face.

You looked away, resisting the overwhelming urge to cry. You weren’t worthy of him. He didn’t say it, but that was how you felt.

Jaebeom felt you unhook your ankles and let your legs slip from his hips, and he knew he had made a mistake. He never was good at wording things properly.

He gazed down at you with longing, realizing the position he was in; you on your back beneath him, him laying between your thighs. Heaven knew he wanted you more than anything. He had never desired another person before in his life. Only you, for as long as he could remember.

But he couldn’t make love to you. If he did, he would belong to you forever.

Jaebeom sat up, lifting you with him. You pulled away from him once on steady footing and Jaebeom rubbed his thumb across your bottom lip. You lowered your head, nervous.

“I’m sorry, cheonsa,” he whispered. Jaebeom wanted to fall to his knees and beg your forgiveness. Here he was, desiring nothing more than to destroy any man who hurt you and yet he had cut you deep.

“Don’t be sorry,” you quickly told him, putting on a brave face. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Jaebeom knew that was a lie, but he didn’t challenge you. He cocked his head toward the border and you gave him a nod, dragging your feet as you followed.

Heading toward the forest edge, you turned back to him and asked, “See you tomorrow?”

Jaebeom grit his teeth, pushing down the surge of emotions threatening to crush him. “No.”

You blinked in surprise.

“Don’t come back here again unless you plan to stay.”

You couldn’t believe your ears. Your heart vanished somewhere in your stomach. “What? Why?” you exclaimed. This had to have been nothing more than a cruel joke.

“When I reach full maturity, I have to take a bride,” said Jaebeom, avoiding your eyes.

“Jaebeom, you will never reach maturity,” you teased, trying to alleviate the sudden tension with humor.

Jaebeom tightened his hands into fists and forced the words out, “I’m serious. And if you’re the one that comes, then I will have no choice but to take you.”

You stepped away from the path, rounding on him squarely. Only a moment ago, you had willingly offered yourself to him. You had never felt so bemused and out of place. “Why is that a bad thing?”

“Because you deserve more,” he murmured, pained. “You deserve a life in the light. Not trapped in my darkness or my curse.”

Your face tensed with oncoming tears when you realized what all of this meant. You were being cast out from the woods and Jaebeom had not taken you, because he was saving himself for someone else. “I would rather be trapped in your curse than mine,” you countered, resistant.

Jaebeom shook his head and huffed, “He’s not a curse. You can escape him. Make a life for yourself. The simple life you’ve always wanted.”

Your lips trembled and you felt yourself breaking when you said, “With a man that hurts me?”

Your voice almost made him come undone. Jaebeom had sworn never to disappoint you. For years he wondered if you would be the one he chose to take when the time came, but after seeing you beneath the sun, he knew he couldn’t condemn you to an eternity in the shadows.

“Don’t try to change my mind,” he snapped.

You bristled with anger and shot back, “Why not? You want me to make a life for myself. Well, the life I want is with you.”

Jaebeom threw up his hands and angled away, resolve crumbling. “You don’t even understand what that means,” he shouted bitterly.

You had never confessed your feelings to him. Jaebeom was a vault, but you could feel him slipping away from you forever. “I understand that I love…,” you began shakily.

Jaebeom was on you then, covering your mouth with his hand. His eyes were scalding, filled with tears. “Don’t say it. You have no idea what I am and what I will become. You have always seen me as something good and kind, but I’m not. I’m far from it.”

You pulled his hand away, showing him no fear with how he had backed you against a tree, and said, “You’re a demon.”

Jaebeom blinked.

“I’ve known all along,” you told him. “My people tell tales of your kind. Demons live in the shadow of this mountain. It is why the forest is forbidden. Dark magic breeds here. The elders sing songs of the winged men that steal away the most beautiful of mortal women.”

Jaebeom backed away, surprised. “You knew?”

“Yes.”

Jaebeom’s face tensed with confusion. “And still you kept coming back here?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered, carding your fingers into his black hair. “I’m afraid of them.”

Jaebeom gathered you back in his arms and leaned his head against yours, eyes filled with tears. He was in physical agony. He couldn’t imagine being parted from your warmth for even a moment. All this time you knew what he was and yet you never feared him, never rebuked him for the monster that he was and would always be.

Then, he said, “Go.”

When his arms slipped from your body, you clutched him to you tighter and whimpered, “Jaebeom, you’re the only happiness in my life.”

“I mean it,” he hissed, spitting your name like venom. “Get out.”

You could do nothing when he pried you from him, pushing you backwards just enough to put distance between the two of you. The air turned cold. Winter had come in the fraction of a second. The forest seemed to shroud, cloaking itself in darkness.

“No, Jaebeom,” you shouted, planting your feet. “I know you love me.”

Jaebeom lowered his head, hiding his face and displaying his horns in aggression. Wings outstretched above him and the woods howled a piercing cry that made your blood run cold. He slightly lifted his hands, bold with ebony symbols and script, and thorns began to grow.

Rebellion filled you, but you were powerless. You wanted to defy him, but you staggered back, the darkness and thorns threatening to devour you. With one last look at the demon you loved, you turned and ran.

The shadow never stopped. It spilled over everything like ink. The thorns billowed and spread. You ran until you gasped for air, until your muscles ached. By the time you reached the edge of the forest, you landed on the grass with a thud, panting desperately for breath. The thorns swarmed between the trees, twisting and tangling with vines. You watched in horror as they finally stilled.

Rising to your feet, you approached the woods, placing your hand on the prickly stalks. There was no place for you to fit through. It was sealed away. Up and down you scurried along the border, looking for a weak spot. Even just a tiny place you could crawl inside.

There was none.

Tears fell down your face. You raked your hands through your hair, pulling the disheveled mess from your eyes, and screamed at the top of your lungs, “I hate you!”

The forest groaned.

You charged forward and pushed at branches, tore at the leaves. You clawed at whatever you could reach, trying to forge a path inside, and all the while you chanted bitterly, “I hate you! I hate you!”

Somewhere in the forest’s midst, Jaebeom crouched on the rough expanse of a branch, seated limply with his head hung low in shame. His wings lay at his side, lifeless and unmoving. The woods had never felt so cold then, so devoid of magic.

Your voice echoed. Those three words were a constant song in his ears, vowing to haunt him till the end of his days.

Not until the moon came to its full height overhead did you accept defeat. Dragging your feet home, you gazed at your bloodied, tattered hands. Wishing to avoid questions, you hurried to the nearest stream to wash yourself.

As you submerged your aching hands into the gentle waters, you heard the faintest of whispers in your ear. Unnerved, you stood sharply, looking around for who had spoken. Then, you cast your eyes down and gasped. Your hands had healed. Only small, faded scars were left in your flesh.

Smiling ever so softly, you turned to the looming forest in the distance. No matter what Jaebeom had said or done, the woods still loved you.

But still you cried yourself to sleep. You cried till you could shed no more tears. Slipping the ring from your finger, the only gift you had ever been given, you clutched it tightly in your fist and cradled your hands to your chest protectively.

For a moment, you had tasted magic and known what it was like to be safe and loved.

And as quickly as it came, it was taken away.

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#got7 fanfiction #im jaebum #got7 smut #jaebum smut #got7 #got7 fanfic #got7 fic #got7 au #im jaebum fanfiction #jaebum fanfiction #jaebum fanfic #jaebum fic #jaebum au #got7 scenario #got7 reaction #got7 imagine

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slasherholic · 4 years

Note

MADDIE... DEATHSLINGER GUNPLAY...

OKAY

synopsis: you deepthroat an evil cowboy so he doesn’t blow your brains to smithereens

warnings: dubcon/implied noncon, threats of violence

The Deathslinger x Reader | Gunplay + Blowjob

Just a few more inches. Just a few more inches. Just a few.

You reach out in front of you again, fingers splayed as they meet splintered wood, huffing as you drag yourself another inch across the floor of the Saloon. Your eyes flutter closed as puffs of unsettled dust swirl around your face. A tickle builds in your throat and you can’t stop it—pain screams through your shoulders and swells in your chest as your body seizes with a cough. The warm red seeping from your abdomen glistens like rubies on the floorboards and in the dirt. The smell of your own blood is nauseating.

Reason tells you that in fleeing from him, you are only prolonging your own torture; but your body, stubbornly, refuses to roll over and die. And so you crawl.

You tell yourself things as you crawl. Hopeful things. Maybe if you can just make it around the corner of the bar, or wedge yourself beneath the table, your death will be swift. The Entity will take you in a sharp, sudden pain—impersonal, merciful—and that will be it. You won’t be left with one more nightmare to bear at the campfire.

Your face pulls into a grimace as your fingers meet wood again. All your muscles flex as you prepare to pull yourself along across the filthy floor, just a few more inches...

...you can’t.

You can’t because your shirt has snagged on a nail jutting out from between old splintered floorboards. Fate has damned you to this spot.

Letting your head thump against the wood, you stare with glassy eyes up at the piano plucking along without a player. Its ghoulish, heavy notes flood the saloon, unnatural in a way that churns your stomach.

You are already beginning to fade when you hear his boots clacking up the stairs outside the Saloon. Somewhere behind you, rusted double-doors squeal open.

The clacking stops and his shadow engulfs your body. He clicks his tongue dryly. You wince and choke back a sob when his bootheel comes down between your shoulders, digging in deep.

“Reckon it wouldn’t ‘ave been so hard to stay put right where I left you,” Caleb jests, beginning to reload his gun, slow and deliberate. “‘stead of snakin’ around the whole place.”

His voice is gravelly, cruel as a knife. You’ve heard him speak once or twice before but his words are always overshadowed by his other sounds; the explosion of a musket, the whizzing of a deadly bolt tearing through the air—and that dry, mirthless laughter.

You’ve come to accept a harsh truth in the Entity’s realm; some killers carry out their task mechanically, impersonally, as though running on a program. Other killers enjoy watching you bleed and die.

It became apparent very quickly which breed of murderer Caleb was. You carry his vicious laughter in your mind even when you sleep.

When Caleb speaks again, something in his voice tells you he’s talking at you, rather than to you, like a hunter studying a lifeless buck.

“Impressive y’even managed to get as far as ya did, considerin’ how much yer leakin’.”

He prods you suddenly with the bayonet tip of his gun, just beneath your ribs—right where he shot you. You cough hideously, writhing beneath his boot. He presses down harder until you lie still.

“Was proud of that shot.”

Go to hell, you want to spit at him. You might if you were braver. This is not a man whose mercy you want to test. Instead, you pray that when his gloating is finished, he fires that bolt straight through your head.

“But, seein’ as you got some fight still left in you,” The pressure in your back ebbs as Caleb lowers the gun. “How ‘bout an offer.”

You are far too weak to be surprised by his words, far too tired. It is obvious from just his tone that the “offer” is not really an offer. Whatever he has in mind, you are going to participate.

“Now, a man has certain needs, and not all of ‘em he can provide on his lonesome, try as he might.”

A short, dry chuckle builds in Caleb’s throat. Your world dips in and out of focus, the playerless piano now a hazy blur of black and white. You consider his meaning; certain needs. Alright, you understand. You know what he wants. And you are certainly not above whoring yourself out to a murderer for the promise of an easy death.

“Get up on your knees.” Comes the demand, gruff and sudden, any hint of that false laughter sucked dry in an instant.

“And turn around so I can look atcha.”

You suck a deep breath into your lungs before you comply. You grunt hard as you push yourself up on your knees, shuffling slowly around in a circle until you face him. Tears spring to your eyes. You don’t want to look up at him; you do anyway.

Caleb wears the grin of a fox. His face bears cunning, vulpine features. The brim of his hat dips low over his brow and nearly shades his eyes from view in the dirty light of the saloon—but you can just see them, can just make out their sinister white glow. The effect is utterly inhuman.

And yet, clearly, this man is not without human urges.

You can’t help it when your eyes stray to his groin. His arousal strains his trousers. You want to be sick, but can’t quite muster the strength for it.

“Course, you already know what you’re gonna do, dontcha?” Caleb mutters, seeming to notice where your attention has drifted. Your eyes fall to the floor.

“There’s a clock on the wall over there.” He gestures his gun to the far wall of the saloon.

“Don’t know if it works quite like where I come from—lots o’ things don’t seem to work right in this place, but ain’t none o’ my concern. You got ‘till that little hand strikes three to get me satisfied.”

He settles the spear of his gun against your forehead. The tip digs sharply into your skin, wetting you with fresh blood.

“Else I pull this trigger.”

You see it happening in your mind, so vividly—your skull splitting like an eggshell, your brains spraying out the back, staining the bar behind you with chunks of pink and red. Your vision swims.

It doesn’t feel like you should be speaking to Caleb. It feels wrong on the most primitive level. You lick your dried lips and force the words out anyway.

“What do I get?” You rasp. “If I do?”

Caleb stares at you from beneath the brim of his hat, almost caught off guard. Then, something sinister curls across his face.

“What do you get?” He laughs again. It’s not as dry this time—there’s a hint of genuine amusement. “Well, that hatch o’course. I’ll take you straight to it.” Your mouth twists with disbelief.

Caleb’s hand flies from the barrel of his spear gun, gripping your chin harshly. He tweaks your jaw until you look him in the eye.

“What—think I’m lyin’?”

Your silence speaks a thousand words. The tears tickle as they slip down your cheeks. Of course you don’t believe him; you aren’t stupid.

Caleb shakes his head, rapping your jaw with his index finger.

“I’m a man of my word. But I s’pose you’ll just have to trust me, seein’ as that clock is already tickin’.”

When those words leave his lips, the decision is easy, and you hate yourself for it. You’re going to suck this vile man off like you god damn mean it.

Your fingers tremble violently as you reach forward to scrabble around the leather of his belt. Undoing his pants, you pull the last button so hard that it rips from its fabric, rolling away across the floorboards.

Caleb’s dick is long, the base of it completely unshaven. The flushed head already beads with pearlescent precum—he’s enjoying this.

You turn off your thoughts as you grip his hips. Dipping forward, trying to ignore the barrel of the gun pressed damningly against your forehead, you wrap your lips tight around the tip.

Caleb grunts. He throbs against your tongue, filling you more than you were prepared for. You choke back a tearful gag and begin to suck obediently, bobbing your head back and forth. The man above you lets loose a hard breath. Widening his stands, he slants his hips impatiently forward, pushing more of himself into your mouth. Your eyes begin to water fiercely; the point of the gun against your skull is a dull numb ache now, secondary to the pain of breathlessness. Caleb seizes a fistful of your hair, forcing you to be full of him. Spit begins to drip down your chin. He holds you in place while you choke on his dick.

With a throaty growl, his hold eases. You cough violently as you pull away from his groin. Glistening saliva strings between his shaft and your lips. Taking him in your mouth again, you swallow down his cock until it bulges in your throat. He fists your hair in one hand, muttering curses.

“Deeper.” He snarls, fingering the trigger of his rifle. You obey. Your chin meets his balls, wet and warm with drool. You bob on him breathlessly. In and out. In and out. If the playerless piano still hammers away, you can’t hear it beyond your own ugly gagging.

Caleb growls suddenly, deep and low in his chest. The fist in your hair snaps painfully shut. Before you realize what is happening, he has taken his release into his own hands, ramming you along his shaft. Your head jerks violently as he fucks your face. Your throat is full of him again and again.

Caleb spits out a sudden hoarse “fuck.” Hotness floods your mouth. He pulls out to gush along your tongue. You gag at his bitter taste.

The man above you pants heavily, head tilted back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling.

“Swallow it.” He hisses, clenching his teeth. “Get it all down.”

Tonguing the head of his penis, you swallow. It nearly comes back up. Caleb looks down at you and the scowl on his face deepens. You realize you’ve missed some—you can still feel a bit of wetness dribbling down the corner of your lip.

“I said all of it.”

Your tongue flits out obediently, drawing the rest of him into your mouth. The fist in your hair relaxes, and Caleb begins to stroke your head, petting you like some obedient animal. It almost feels good, you think, too tired to take it back.

“Well then,” Caleb begins, sneering. You feel your blood run cold. “Let’s see about that hatch.”

The ropes bite into the flesh of your ankles and wrists and rub your skin raw with every feeble tug. You understand now why they call your current predicament “hogtying”—because with your squirming, your squealing, the way you roll helplessly around on your belly in the dirt, envisioning yourself as a hog is easy. Beneath you, the ground gives another violent quake. It won’t be long now before the Entity claims this place.

In the end, Caleb had only been partially lying—he did carry you to the hatch.

He also tied your limbs, dropped you down like a sack of bricks mere feet away from your last chance at escape, and stomped it abruptly shut.

With tear-soaked eyes, you watched him saunter away to sink down on the steps of the Saloon, procure a rag from his pocket, and begin to wipe his rifle. He whistles now as he works, looking up at you occasionally from beneath his hat. His vicious grin flashes for just a second whenever your gaze meets.

You can tell what Caleb is thinking about every time he looks up at your tied, squirming body—that he could take you right now, right in the dirt. Maybe get a quick one in before the Entity claims you. Or maybe hunt you down later and take his time with it.

Letting your heavy eyelids flutter shut, you hope you hurry up and die already, if only to get the lingering taste of his cum out of your mouth.

#caleb quinn #the deathslinger #dead by daylight #slashers #writing #horror #fanfiction #caleb quinn x reader #reader insert #tw: dubcon

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years

Text

One Foot In (7/7)

The facts were these.

Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.

Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.

And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.

—–

Rating: Teen, but eventually they’re going to kiss Word Count: 10.2K, because, listen, it takes some adjectives to get to happily ever after AN: Hey, this is a finished fic! If you have been hanging around for the last few weeks and clicking on things and reading things and saying nice things, I think you’re swell. I also think you’re swell if you haven’t done any of those things. This was a much longer fic than I remembered, and it’s real nice that you guys waited for me to post it. I will probably continue to hoard fics. (But, seriously, if you’re ever like “I’d like to read that!” Send me a message and I’ll totally send you the Google doc.)

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam, or you can start from the start ||

@shireness-says @optomisticgirl @nikkiemms, @teamhook, @dayo488, @greymeetsblue, @jennjenn615, @heavenlyjoycastle, @klynn-stormz, @superchocovian, @onepunintendid, @jonesfandomfanatic, @lfh1226-linda @thejollyroger-writer

—–

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-four days and, approximately...it absolutely does not matter. It feels as if her heart has shattered, a line running directly through everything, shaking and flipping it and her own breathing is ragged in her ears.

She can’t move. She can’t stop moving.

Her fingers trace over Killian, everything impossibly still and several other words Emma refuses to give credence to. The stubble on his jaw scrapes at the pads of fingers, the skin above it smoother than she expected it to be.

The tiny crinkles around his eyes are still there, like he was halfway to smiling before being the world’s biggest goddamn idiot and Emma is a little disappointed in herself that she’s kind of mad. She’s kind of furious.

“No,” Emma whispers. The word wobbles its way out of her, desperate and weak and neither one of those are particularly good words to be considering with the visual and powerful embodiment of, possibly, all the evil in the world standing a few feet away from her.

Her fingers are still moving.

And it’s honestly not fair that this is the moment – the chance to see and feel and commit every single touch to memory. There’s no reaction, and part of Emma’s brain, the part that’s a giant dick apparently, is quick to point out it’s because Killian is dead and died trying to save her and—

“No, no, no, no, no.”

That time the word comes out more determined, as if she’ll be able to change what she can see and feel in front of her simply by willing it so. She’s got magic. She should be able to fix this.

She can’t understand a world where Killian Jones is dead.

And yet.

The world does not seem to give a single fuck about what Emma Swan wants. Ever.

She hadn’t been holding her breath, was desperate for a few extra molecules of oxygen, but the air rushes out of her in a huff, a noise she’s never made and would never like to hear again flying out of the very center of her.

Ruby jerks her head up at the sound, eyes wide and tears obvious on her cheeks. She shakes her head slightly, an unspoken command or promise that Emma can’t possibly be expected to understand in the moment.

And it only takes a second, but Emma suddenly realizes she isn’t actually crying. Her cheeks are painfully dry. Everything feels that way, in fact, as if she’s been standing in the middle of the desert for weeks on end and her whole being has been drained. There’s nothing, no push or pull, just an endless sense of desperation and...nothing.

As if nothing were a feeling.

It might be.

“No,” Emma whispers, and she briefly wonders if she’ll ever say anything else. She wonders if she’ll ever find something worth believing in again or if everything will be one endless contradiction – dead and alive, powerful and weak, nothing and everything, all at once.

It’s the single most depressing thing she’s ever thought.

She swallows, licking suddenly dry lips and she knows there has to be more. The Darkness has been silent the entire time. That can’t possibly be right.

There has to be something else. Emma has to do something else. She assumes. She can’t imagine the world will let her go this easily – let her fall off the edge and into the nothing she can see stretching out in front of her, a quiet and acquiesce that would make Killian’s eyes narrow and his lips twist and—

“Killian,” Emma breathes, head falling forward until the tips of her hair drag across his chest.

He doesn't move. He’s dead.

He’s dead.

And Emma’s knees ache, pressed into the floor because of course they’d moved off the carpet and that seems kind of unfair, but that’s the trend they’re going with and the creak of the Darkness moving towards her may be the loudest thing she’s ever heard.

She ignores it. It’s ridiculous – or at least it must be if Ruby’s exclamation is anything to go by and someone else is crying, or, possibly, two someones and if they ever get out this Emma is going to bake Nemo and Shakespeare sixteen pies every single day for the rest of her goddamn life. That only seems reasonable.

“It’s time to stand back up, Savior,” the Darkness says.

Emma doesn’t move. Her knees are never going to forgive her. She cups Killian’s cheek instead, thumb brushing over as much skin as she can reach and the heart she’s certain will never beat again sputters in her chest.

Like it’s trying to prove a point.

He’s honestly ridiculously good looking – all long eyelashes and lips that probably would have felt incredible pressed against Emma’s and the strand of hair that drapes across his forehead is going to brand itself on her memory, she’s sure. She keeps ignoring the Darkness, ignores the fluttering at the back of her skull and the hint of something that may actually be her destiny because that also seems a little absurd, bending her head instead and letting her lips ghost over Killian’s.

It’s not enough, but nothing could ever be enough. Not really. Not when she’d waited and hoped and believed with every single inch of her for so long. So Emma lets herself have the almost, the barely there and could have been and—

“I love you,” she whispers, closing her eyes like that will make the words truer or bring him back. They don’t. She only sort of expected them to.

The Darkness taps his foot behind her. It grates on her nerves. Emma’s nerves will never recover from the last twenty-four hours,

She supposes she deserves that too.

“I’m waiting, Savior,” the Darkness drawls, an impatience that lingers in the air and tastes bitter in the back of Emma’s throat.

Standing up slowly, she refuses to acknowledge the crack of her knees and the snap of her spine. Heroes can’t possibly have joints as weak as hers. Emma licks her lips again – can’t seem to stop, and it’s a nervous, anxious habit that does not bode well for whatever she’s about to do, but she’s also got no idea what she’s about to do so maybe it doesn’t really matter.

She turns, palms flat against the side of her jeans, to find the Darkness gazing at her with passing interest. He tilts his head slightly, hair suddenly looking greasier than it had, as if the magic had settled in every strand and Emma can’t help but recoil at the sight. He looks close to his own edge – drifting dangerously close to manic and the yellow in his eyes has gotten sharper.

Emma digs her nails into her palms and tries to remember.

“Something good,” she mumbles, half to herself and half to the three people behind her. “There’s got to be something good.”

“There is, Emma,” Nemo promises, and she needs to stop turning away from the Darkness. Eventually that will catch up with her. Probably. God, she hopes not.

Nemo’s smile is tremulous at best. It doesn’t match with his watery gaze at all or the shake of his shoulders that he can’t seem to stop, fingers reaching for both Shakespeare and Ruby. But he doesn’t blink and the smile gets a hint stronger the longer he stares at Emma.

She licks her lips again.

And the first tear that falls on her cheek is warm, another brand and feeling and Emma is pleasantly surprised that her legs don’t buckle under her. She makes that noise again, although this one may be slightly different and no less than ten-thousand times worse. Because she knows it was good and can, maybe, be good again, but not quite the same and the barely there of it all feels as if it rips her in half.

It tears at the edges of her, shadows creeping up the walls and lingering around the curve of her right sneaker. It ripples through her, settles in between every one of her ribs and wraps its way around her heart, a slight pressure that isn’t altogether unpleasant, but isn’t entirely enjoyable either. It’s not grief. It’s something deeper, something far more fundamental and, God help her, maybe a little magical.

“It was good, Emma,” Ruby says. Her voice shakes, but her own smile is confident. Nemo tugs her hand up to brush a kiss over knuckles, a familiarity that should be impossible.

Although, all things considered, Emma is, at least, seventy-six percent positive she’s vibrating with the power of her own magic, so, really she can’t bring herself to find anything impossible at this point.

And she can feel the Darkness growing more and more impatient with her.

She turns back around.

“What was that?” Emma demands, nodding towards the barely there puddle on the ground. “What were you trying to do?” The Darkness narrows his eyes. “Have you not figured that out yet? I thought I’d made my plans rather clear.” “Humor me.” There is absolutely no humor in his answering laugh, a twist of his wrist and flick of his fingers and Emma gasps when another goddamn dead body appears at her feet. She wishes that would stop happening.

She wishes death would leave her alone.

“You’re going to bring my boy back,” the Darkness says evenly. “And then I’m going to take control of what should have been mine from the very beginning.” “You said you didn’t have that kind of magic, though.” “And yet I’ve got you, don’t I?” Emma shakes her head. “No, you don’t.” “I’ve won, Savior! The dead man is dead. You’re alone. Again. As you were always meant to be and I’m in complete control of everything. What do you have left to fight for?” He takes a step towards her, and Emma does her best to stand up to her full height. It’d probably be more impressive if she were wearing Ruby’s heels. “There’s no point, Emma Swan. Not anymore. Not for you. So, give me what I want and, maybe, maybe, you’ll be able to find some kind of purpose. There’ll be a reason the Universe gifted you this.”

He’s so close Emma is certain she can feel him – the touch of him on her skin cold enough that goosebumps explode across her arms.

She doesn’t shiver, though, a victory that Emma is going to horde and covet and the other dead body at her feet looks far more dead than she’s entirely used to.

“How long?” she asks, and the Darkness hums in something that may actually be confusion. Her smile makes the muscles in her cheeks ache. “How long have you been trying to bring your son back? Is that—did he die before or after you twisted your own magic?” Ruby curses.

The Darkness doesn’t react immediately. At least not verbally. But Emma can see the tension twist between his shoulders as easily as if she put it there herself, the knuckles of his fingers turning white as he clenches his fists at his side. His eyes get even thinner, barely more than slits on his face and that only serves to make him look even more reptilian.

Like a crocodile. With particularly powerful jaws. And even more powerful magic.

“It should have been mine,” he says, barely loud enough to hear over the ringing in Emma’s ears. “From the very beginning. The world should have—” “—What? Given you power? It did. You’ve got magic.” “Not enough!” Emma doesn’t back up – and, really, she’s got to keep better track of these small victories because she’s barely treading water in a whole sea of emotions and the body in front of her twitches slightly.

“Oh shit,” Ruby hisses.

Emma moves towards her on instinct, taking the hand that isn’t twisted up in Nemo’s. Her fingers aren’t warm, per se, but they’re also not dead. She’ll take it.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Shakespeare demands, inching his chair closer to Nemo’s until the wood scrapes loudly

Baelfire stops moving. His skin looks almost transparent now, a grey pallor to it that makes him seem less human. The clothes he’s wearing aren’t quite as ragged as the Darkness, as if they’ve been cared for – for a very long time.

She has no idea why the realization makes her stomach clench.

“Why did you change your magic?” Emma presses, and she’s not sure who’s squeezing whose hand tighter, her or Ruby. “If you wanted to bring your son back—” “I didn’t change my magic to bring my son back,” the Darkness screams. The words sail across the room, sharp and angry and Emma hopes there aren’t spells involved. If there are spells involved, she’s certain they’ve all just been cursed.

It feels absurd to check that they haven’t been turned into frogs, but her eyes glance down anyway. Still human.

Still fighting the embodiment of all evil.

Still not entirely coping with Killian being dead.

“Oh,” Emma says, understanding slamming into her hard enough that she has to bite back a groan. “It was before then wasn’t it? You wanted...did you want power?”

The Darkness doesn’t respond.

“I’m going to take that as a yes, then. Alright, alright. So you were what? Born with magic? But light magic, right?”

Still no answer.

“Seems like another yes,” Ruby mumbles, thumb tapping absentmindedly against Emma’s wrist.

Shakespeare hums in agreement. “Keep going, sweetheart. Look at him.” Emma’s head snaps around, and she’s got to stop gasping. It can’t be good for the overall dryness level of her lips. She doesn’t think there’s any ChapStick in her car. But Shakespeare is right – the Darkness isn’t moving, stuck in the same spot by the few pinpricks of light around him. They’re not quite bright, flickering slightly as if they’re only barely holding on to whatever is fueling them – it’s magic, it’s obvious – but they’re still there and fighting and Ruby is definitely the one who squeezes Emma’s hand that time.

“Ok, ok,” Emma chants. “So, um...you were born with magic, but it wasn’t much, right? Or at least wasn’t enough for you. And then you...you grow up?” “Happens to the best of us,” Nemo cuts in. He winks at Emma when she glances in his direction.

“So you grow up,” she continues, only staying in one spot because of the grip Ruby’s got on her fingers. “And you met someone and had the kid and something’s got to change. Shit, what could have changed?” Emma glances around - as if the answer will present itself suddenly and, well, it kind of does. In the form of Ruby’s fingers.

“Oh my God,” Emma growls. “Were you some kind of wrestler in another life? What the hell was—” “Where’s the mother?” Ruby asks.

Emma is going to have to buy stock in ChapStick to deal with her lips.

The Darkness blinks, shoulders shifting with the force of his deep breath and the body on the ground twitches again. Emma can feel the rush of magic, but it’s not right. There’s too much and not enough, another strange line to walk, but she knows it won’t work.

The magic is wrong.

It’s not going to do anything.

“Magic always comes with a price,” the Darkness says softly. “Always. No matter what we try and do to prevent it.” “What the hell does that mean?” “It means that there wasn’t enough. I couldn’t control what I wanted to control and I couldn’t control her.” “Do you hear yourself? That seems like a dick move.” “Oh my God, Ruby,” Emma mumbles, but she can’t actually disagree and she’s got a horrible idea of where this is going. “So, let me take a guess. You’ve got magic. It’s not much because, like you said, the world had started to try and balance itself out. So you’ve only got a tiny amount, not nearly enough to inspire much confidence or lord your power over other people and what--did she leave? Is that what happened.” Silence.

Emma smiles.

She hates that.

“That’s what happened, isn’t it?” she asks. “You tried to control things, tried to control your wife, so it blew up in your face and you were alone. Except you weren’t because there was—” Emma nods in the direction of the body, the other body, and maybe they should just burn this entire goddamn house. That thought makes her stomach twist uncomfortably too. “You weren’t alone, but you didn’t care did you?” The Darkness shakes his head. It’s not a disagreement. It’s anger and fury and a wave of something that slams against Emma’s legs, knees buckling against the force of it.

“Shut up,” he growls. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” “What did you give up? If all magic has a price, what was the price you were willing to pay to twist your magic? Must have been something horrible.” The whole word shakes.

That’s the only reasonable explanation. Emma isn’t sure reason exists anymore.

There aren’t any frames left to fall, but the glass on the ground shifts and the couch the Darkness had been perched on tips, a small crash that’s barely noticeable over the echo of something that sounds like everything and feels like a very large void.

Emma assumes this is what a black hole sounds like – yanking and tugging, trying to swallow up everything in its path and hold onto it until they’re all twisted and flattened. It’s the worst, really. She should have paid more attention in science.

“Enough,” the Darkness says. He doesn’t shout that time. The words are almost calm, except for the acid practically dripping off them. “Enough.” Emma shakes her head. “No, no, that’s—oh my God.” The shaking stops suddenly, quick enough that it’s almost jarring and the whiplash of everything is absolutely exhausting. Emma’s smile feels more unnatural than ever.

“What are we missing?” Ruby asks. “I feel like we’re missing something big. And bad. Like decidedly bad.” “The worst, if I’m right.” “Well go ahead and share with the class, that’s PI’ing one-oh-one.”

Emma’s laugh feels more unnatural than her laugh. She waves her hand, a flush of power that doesn’t quite tickle but feels warm and confident and the lights that are hanging around the Darkness flare to life. There are several curses from several different people mumbled behind her, maybe even a few of the goons.

She’d kind of forgotten about the goons.

Emma has to wiggle her fingers – the ones not still tied up with Ruby’s – trying to focus the power she can feel simmering in the pit of her stomach She bobs on the balls of her feet, hoping the sound crackling at the ends of her hair isn’t actually electricity.

That would be almost too normal, though. It’s not electricity, it’s magic and strength and light, a positivity that may be misplaced, but is also necessary and Emma’s neck aches when she twists around and the scene behind her hasn’t changed. There’s still a dead body she wishes weren’t dead behind her, but that same body promised more than she’d ever expected to hear and she meant every single she’d told him in the last few days.

And then some.

Because he’d come back too.

She knows exactly what the Darkness did to his magic.

“How did you kill him?” Emma asks, letting her fingers press into the back of Ruby’s palm. “That’s what you did, isn’t it? Killed your son thinking it would help your magic grow?”

Ruby sounds as if she’s choking. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about the absolute worst thing, were you?” Emma shrugs. And the Darkness looks like he’s turned into a statue. He doesn’t move any of his limbs, still as marble and rough as something more abrasive than marble and Emma really needs to remember something about rudimentary science.

He makes plenty of noise though – a low grumble in the back of his throat that is probably meant to be menacing, but Emma’s run the gamut of feelings and she’s tired of being scared. She’s positive she’s right.

“How did you imagine that would work?” Emma presses. “Did you just—I mean, did you just kill him? Like, I don’t know, what happens in mythical times? Was there a sword involved?” Ruby scoffs. “Maybe a lance? That’s properly ancient, right? Oh shit, Dark One, were you a knight at some point?” “No, no,” Shakespeare argues. “That can’t possibly be right. Knights are always pure of heart.” “Or so the stories would have us believe,” Nemo adds, and the whole thing is equal parts absurd and nice and Emma’s fingers are still almost vibrating with the force of her magic.

The Darkness doesn’t move.

“How did you kill him?” Emma asks. “It must have been something bad if it helped you twist your magic like that.”

She does her best to stay patient, waiting for a response or an explanation that won’t make her skin crawl. That feels a bit like wishful thinking though and the Darkness’ laugh starts out quiet.

That doesn’t last long.

It grows louder – manic and grating as he steps back into Emma’s space. She blinks, trying to block out the shadows at the edge of her vision and Ruby mumbles something that tries to be encouraging. Or a few more pirate-themed curses.

“You said true love liked to linger in certain places didn’t you?” Emma presses. “That it takes root and grows and—oh my God, his heart. Your son's heart!” No answer. Again.

Emma’s pulse thunders in her veins, certainty she doesn’t want and confidence she desperately needs. “I don’t--I don't think I understand how that works. Ok, so…” She glances back at Ruby, a distinct lack of color in her partner’s face. “Do you think he ate it? Like..a vampire? Blood power or—” “—Blood magic is a thing,” Shakespeare says, like it’s fact and Emma’s teetering on the edge of insanity again.

Ruby shakes her head. “No, no, it’s got to be something other than. And you’ve got to keep thinking positive thoughts, Em. I think your magic’s keeping him contained for now.” Emma hums in confusion and her neck is not going to be able to stand up to much more of this. She snaps back around – the Darkness twisted slightly, arm lifted like he was getting ready to do something particularly nefarious, but the pinpricks of light around him have multiplied and they’re brighter or stronger and Emma squeezes her hand again.

For reassurance. Or magic. Or whatever.

“Ok, ok, so let’s rule out blood magic,” Emma continues. “Did you think you had True Love? Is that what it was? You were looking for True Love, trying to grow your magic, get stronger and—oh, so you thought you could take his heart! Your son’s heart? How does that—shit, how does that even work?” “You could do it too, Savior,” the Darkness says. His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper or a whimper. His eyes, however, are strong as ever, dark and menacing despite the light lingering just over the edge of his shoulder. “It’s basic magic. I explained to Bae. Told him I’d be able to right it once I was strong enough, but I needed that emotion. I needed his belief. That I could do something. That I could be more.”

Emma does her best to process that, but she’s a normal human and this still makes less than any sense. Until. “Oh shit,” she chokes out. “You tried to pull his love for you...out of him? Oh my God, oh my God. That’s...that’s barbaric.” “It was a price, Savior. And one I was willing to pay.” “But it didn’t work!” “Yet. It didn’t work yet. That’s where you come in.” “It’s because it wasn’t True Love,” Nemo says suddenly. Emma will have to employ a personal chiropractor by the end of all this. “Was it? You thought, well, you explained it. You’d been looking for True Love for a very long time. Because you gave up your son to be stronger. You thought you’d be able to cheat the system. That’s not how it works. The world fought back against you.”

The scream the Darkness lets out is not human. And, really, that makes sense because Emma is beginning to think the Darkness isn’t very human anymore.

He’s the lack of all of that – empathy and understanding and love. Above everything else, he’s distinctly lacking in love. And the thought makes Emma shake slightly, the pity she feels rippling through every inch of her decidedly misplaced, all things considered.

She can’t help it. She pities the thing in front of her, can’t understand the thought process that led him to this moment. And she knows what she’s got to do.

He can’t be there anymore.

Because he won’t stop. He’ll wait and he’ll find someone else and—

“You overestimated your own power didn’t you?” Emma asks conversationally, flashing a smile Ruby’s direction when she tugs her hand back to her side. “You take your son’s heart. You grow your magic and twist and it and become something...else, something you’re certain will make you more powerful. But it didn’t, did it? It just made you,” she shrugs, impossibly casual with far too many dead bodies nearby, “lonely. That’s what you are. You’re lonely and you’re desperate. And I’m not anymore.” Someone whoops.

It’s definitely Ruby. Emma grins.

“Did you think you’d be able to use your own True Love to bring him back?” Emma mutters, and she’s pacing now, drifting back towards Killian like there are those same magnets involved. God, she hopes so.

She doesn’t want that to disappear.

The magic in her veins practically sings, roaring to life and making Emma’s hair shift slightly on her shoulders – life in every inch of her. The irony of it all is almost palpable.

“It should have,” the Darkness whispers. “I paid the price. I gave up my son for my power and he—he understood.” “You’ll need to practice that again if you want to make it sound believable.” “He did!” “Was he scared?” Emma asks, the tears on her cheeks not for her or what she’s lost. They’re for what everyone else has lost, the reach of the Darkness and the tendency of evil to, well, be evil. They’re regret and mistakes and every single secret any of them have ever kept. “When you tried to tell him it’d be worth it. That his sacrifice would mean something and he’d come back? Do you think he believed you?” The Darkness exhales, head falling forward. “He knew. He knew what it would take.” “Did you?” Her question hangs there – the crux of it all and the turning point and Emma wipes her tears away with the back of her hand. The magic there is warm against her cheek.

“You couldn’t have, could you? To know what the price really would be. To understand what you’d be giving into. I do, though, and I’m not giving into it. I’m not—I won’t go with you and I won’t help you. This is...you’ve twisted and turned things and ruined lives, but nothing has been as bad as what you’ve done to yourself.”

She takes a deep breath, shaking her arms at her side. The magic has its own pulse now, twisting in between her fingers and lingering at the back of her heels. It’s almost excited, ready to do what it was meant to from the very beginning and Emma doesn’t turn when she hears the grunts behind her.

She doesn’t take her eyes away from the Darkness.

Emma steps forward, the man in front of her shaking under the weight of her gaze and the light around him. She smiles.

“You have to realize that,” she says. “You’ve stumbled into your own hole. Dug your own grave. All of that. Every cliché either one of us could possibly come up with. How long has it been since you’ve believed in something? It must be a lifetime. Sounds depressing.” “You would know, Savior. All those could have beens. You’ve pushed people away with both hands, so certain you’re wrong. That you don’t deserve it.” "That’s true. I...I did. I ran and ran and was positive I shouldn’t have been the way that I am. But that doesn’t change anything. Because I never really forgot and I’ve never—listen, it’s one of those clichés isn’t it? I don’t want the world, but I’ll be damned if you get it.”

The Darkness sneers, teeth bare and the growl in the back of his throat is probably supposed to sound menacing. That kind of misses the mark when it only makes Emma laugh.

She shakes her head, another step forward and the light sitting in the palm of her hand when she snaps her wrist is a pleasant surprise.

“Huh,” she says, glancing back at Ruby. “That’s a surprise.” “It’s impressive,” Ruby nods. “What are you going to do with it? Oh, oh, can we throw it at the bad guy’s face?” “Seems to make us kind of like the bad guy, doesn’t it?” “Eh, he did threaten to control you and your magic and try to take over the entire universe so he could get his dead kid back, so you know—” “—And he killed our kid,” Shakespeare adds. “More than once. Seems like plenty of reason to destroy him.” Emma shakes her head again – although something very particular happens to a variety of her internal organs at our kid. The light in her hand grows brighter, a groan from the Darkness that is, quite obviously, because of it.

“That’s kind of interesting, isn’t it?" Emma muses. "You don’t…” She brandishes her hand, the Darkness stumbling backwards to try and avoid it. “Well, that answers that question. I’d rather not destroy you. I don’t—I’ve had this power my whole life. The life and the death and the magic, but I’ve never wanted it. And I’ve never wanted to alter the universe, but it’s got to be more than that, isn’t it? Because you do.

“You want to change things and ignore the balance of it all and the Universe kind of hates that. I can feel it. How much it rejects you and detests you. And you know it. That’s why it’s twisted you around like this. And that’s why I’m here. To stop you. I can. I can keep it all balanced.”

Emma flips her wrists again, working on instinct and whatever magic operates on. The light around her surges – as if several electric fields have exploded and the noise is almost overwhelming.

It takes everything in her to stay upright, gulping in breaths of air. Everything feels warm and bright and, at first, Emma can’t figure out what that sound is. She wishes she didn’t as soon as she realizes what it is.

The Darkness has fallen to his knees, prostrated on the floor with his hands wrapped over his head. He’s shaking like several metaphorical leaves, nails digging into the hair that suddenly looks like it’s producing its own grease.

Or letting go of its magic.

That makes a little bit more sense.

In a moment that makes absolutely no sense.

“What the—” Emma starts, wavering between moving towards him and sprinting away. The chair behind her scrapes when Ruby moves it, pushing off several goons to tug Emma back to her side. “That’s gross. Did I—” “I don’t think so, Em,” Ruby mutters. She can’t quite mask the fear in her voice though. “You’ve got to keep going. It’s...the light and the, oh shit—” “—Oh God, I’ve got to touch him, don’t I?” “You’re a really good PI now.” Emma lets out a watery laugh and she doesn’t know if the tears on her cheek are new or have, simply, just lingered there. “I can’t believe you’re making jokes.” “Hey, if you got away with flirting at crime scenes, then I can certainly make some jokes. Give and take or whatever.” “Yeah, whatever,” Emma mumbles. The Darkness is still groaning, wincing every time a ray of light graces over him.

“It was stupid how obviously in love with you he was.” Emma’s eyes fly into her hairline. “Is that emotion, I hear?” “And, probably, what you need to save the world. He knew what he was doing, Em. And he did it anyway. So did you. Honestly. I was super pissed about it—” “—Are we seriously doing this now?” “I mean we wouldn’t be if you stopped interrupting me,” Ruby reasons. “I think we’ve got time. Your light or inherent goodness or whatever is taking care of things for a second. What I’m getting at is you both knew what you were doing when you made your choices. Not like our resident villain here.” Emma doesn’t want to argue. She isn’t sure if she’s even got time to argue, but—”That’s not entirely true,” she says. “I...the whole thing was so unbelievably selfish. I knew what would happen if I kept Killian alive and I couldn’t—” She has to swallow, blinking back tears and greed in equal measure. “It didn’t make sense for him to be dead.” “Has it occurred to you that he wasn’t supposed to be at that point?” “What?”

Ruby clicks her tongue, kicking back when a goon tries to lunge towards them. “We had to figure out what was going on with him. Who hired him and why they’d killed him and what they were trying to do. You keeping Jones alive led you right here. To this moment. Defeating ultimate evil and saving the world.” Emma’s jaw drops. It’s kind of lame, honestly. And Ruby’s grin has a distinctly wolfish tinge to it.

“I’m very good at what I do,” she shrugs. “You weren’t trying to take over the world, Em. You could have. This entire time. You could have played God and—shit, what did the Dark One say?” “Changed the fates of the world,” Nemo supplies, standing as well and shoving a goon back into the corner of the room. “You never did, Emma. You only ever loved. He knew you loved him. Even when he didn’t want to remember it.” “And he never really wanted to forget it,” Shakespeare smiles. “I’d imagine that’s how True Love is supposed to work.”

Emma hums – not sure what’s happening to, possibly, her entire soul, but it kind of feels like flying or what she’d always imagined flying would be. Or, more specifically, it feels like racing down the hill, wind in her hair and a smile on her face and she doesn’t lick her lips before turning back towards the Darkness.

He looks lesser, somehow, like he’s falling into himself or that black hole she’d been considering before. There’s still a slight tremor to him, sobs shaking their way out of him and one of his hands has started fisting the carpet underneath him.

The sweat at his temple isn’t that. Emma knows it. It’s power, falling off him in waves and several other water-based metaphors.

Crouching down, Emma’s hand lingers in the air in front of her. There’s still a light hanging around her, as if she really is phosphorescent, but the magic in her feels as if it’s settled slightly, accepted its job and its purpose and the Darkness audibly winces when she shifts on her heels.

“You can’t do this anymore,” Emma says, a note of sadness in her voice. “You can’t be this anymore. It’s not...it’s not right. And it never was. It was never going to work.” He groans when he tries to lift his head, like the weight of it is suddenly more than he can bear. Emma can barely make out his eyes, but there’s a hint of something in his gaze that is clinging on – a tinge of yellow and a dash of hatred and she’s not entirely surprised when he snaps his jaws at her.

Like the goddamn crocodile.

“No,” Emma says. “It’s not going to work. I was never going to go with you. No matter what you’d done or who you took. Because they’ve never really been gone. They never forgot. And neither had I. Even when I wanted to. Even when I thought I had to. So you can’t stay here. The world won’t accept it.”

She exhales slowly, fighting the urge to close her eyes as she reaches her hand forward. The Darkness’ skin is clammy under her touch, magic pooling under his clothes and at the curve of his chin. Emma holds her breath, doing her best to push her own magic out the tips of her fingers and the light that surges out of her is almost blinding.

It takes forever and happens far too quickly, another contradiction that makes perfect sense. And the Darkness doesn’t scream. He doesn’t make any noise. But his gaze meets Emma, the yellow fading and the emotion disappearing and he seems to deflate in front of her – as if he’s a balloon that’s been popped or a line of milk bottles that have been knocked over.

His eyes close.

Emma counts to ten in her head, only a little worried that something is going to sneak up on her or inform her that she’s got to do something else. She counts to twenty. And thirty-five. There’s nothing. There’s only light and, now, three dead bodies and the magic thrumming in her veins.

The floor creaks when Ruby moves, the hand that lands on Emma’s shoulder nearly on the wrong side of too tight.

“So, uh,” she starts. “What happens now?” “I have absolutely no idea,” Emma answers honestly, and the laugh she’s met with sounds decidedly out of place.

Particularly when the house starts to shake again.

“Oh for fucks sake,” Shakespeare groans, Emma scrambling back to her feet and thrusting her hands out in front of her.

There’s no darkness though, no trace of shadows, just more light and something that smells like triple berry pie. Something that smells like home. And love.

And the faces that appear in front of Emma’s eye line are familiar and not, corporal and not and, eventually, she’d love if something were just simple. She assumes dealing with ghosts can’t ever be simple. She hopes ghosts isn’t an offensive term.

“Whoa,” Ruby mutters.

Emma rolls her shoulder, trying to get Ruby’s hand off and it absolutely does not work. If anything she holds on tighter. Maybe ghosts is the right term. “Are you seeing this?” Emma asks brusquely. “I’m not actually going crazy?” “If you’re asking me if I’m seeing the three people who just teleported into this living room, then, uh...yeah, we may both be crazy.”

“Oh ok, good good. It’d be weird if we saved the world and then I was the only one who immediately went crazy.” “Seems like it’d be a jerk move by the world.” The woman with the pixie cut and a cardigan that looks incredibly soft shakes her head. The man is smiling. And the other women – Emma can’t quite bring herself to look at the other woman, not sure what she’ll do if she does. Probably collapse on the floor. And sob.

For days. On end.

And she isn’t entirely surprised when the other woman speaks first.

“You’re not crazy, Emma,” Ingrid says. “The opposite, in fact.” “What’s the opposite of crazy?” “This isn’t all in your head, sweetheart. It’s not a dream. It’s very much real life and you very much just saved the world.” “Although some of it was a dream,” the man adds softly, moving closer to her and the air doesn’t turn cold the way Emma expects it to. If anything, it warms slightly, like she’s been wrapped in a blanket and tucked into bed after eating her weight in pie and a variety of other baked goods. “It was the only way we could figure out to help. Not always easy to cross the planes like that, but you helped.” Emma blinks. “What?” “Helped,” the dark-haired woman says. “Always. That’s—that’s what your magic is, Emma. It existed across the planes of reality, could criss-cross and move with ease. It drew us to you when you needed us.”

“And who...who exactly are you?” “I think you’ve figured that already.” “Yeah, that’s kind of why I think I’m crazy.” Ingrid laughs, the smile on her face making her eyes crinkle slightly and she doesn’t look any different than she did the last time Emma saw her. “I wouldn’t, would I?” she asks, a response to a question Emma hasn’t voiced. Or can’t. Probably the second one. “We’ve been waiting, Emma. Hoping and believing and trying so hard to be there when you needed it. The restaurant is gorgeous, by the way. Although you could probably use some more help on the waitstaff.” “I’ve been a little busy.” “That wasn’t a suggestion to take out a classified ad.” “Are you speaking in code?” Emma quips, entirely out of place sarcasm that Ingrid seems entirely prepared for.

The dark-haired woman shakes her head again. “You could do it, Emma. Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It got all twisted and turned and you’ve unknotted most of it. This is the last part of the puzzle.” Emma considers that for a moment – eyes flashing back to the man behind her and the pang she feels in her chest doesn’t feel entirely magical. It feels like want and need and a slew of other words she’d done her best to avoid most of her adult life.

It feels like...everything.

“It’s not greedy, sweetheart,” the man says, ducking into her eye line and ghosting his fingers over her cheek. That’s the wrong word. She can almost feel it. She wants to feel it. “You’re allowed to love. Encouraged even.” “And you always loved that boy,” Ingrid adds. Her eyes flit towards a clearly stunned Shakespeare and Nemo. “Took forever to get her come home every night.” “You get to be happy, Emma,” the dark-haired woman continues, and for half a second Emma lets herself think that other word and quasi titles and then it’s all her brain can latch onto.

Mom and Dad and Ingrid and a family she’d never forgotten about. Even when she wanted to.

Her mother smiles at her.

It may be the nicest thing that’s ever happened to her. Until. Her mother takes another step forward, something shimmering at the edge of her and Emma gasps when she feels the hand that lands on her cheek.

It’s warm.

“We’ve always loved you,” she whispered. “That’s not going to change. But you’re not alone anymore either, Emma. You don’t have to be.”

Emma’s exhale shakes its way out of her, head falling forward onto something incredibly and impossibly solid. She has no idea how she stands there, but there’s more movement and a hand on the back of her head, Ingrid’s fingers rubbing and down Emma’s spine the same way they had when she was seven and broke her wrist falling off the monkey bars at school.

“You can do it, Emma,” her father promises.

“Ghost-dad is definitely right,” Ruby adds, drawing several stunned expressions from people who are both alive and not. She rolls her eyes. “Oh, what? He says it and it’s supportive and I say it and suddenly it’s not cool? That’s lame.” Emma makes a ridiculous noise – scratchy in her throat, but the emotion lingering in the back corners of her brain is definitely hope and her parents are still smiling at her.

Her parents are still smiling at her.

“Emma,” Shakespeare whispers, eyes red with tears and some more that haven’t fallen yet. “Please. If you—please try.” She shakes her head slowly, tugging her lip behind her teeth. “I don’t...how can I do that? The rules were always second touch death. Forever. I mean—” Emma turns to Ingrid. “I wasn’t ever trying to—” “I know,” she interrupts. “I’ve always known that Emma. So answer me one question, do you?” “Do I what?” Ruby sticks her whole tongue out when she gags. “Are you kidding me? This is basic, fundamental love stuff!” “Lording facts over people when you’re trying to control the situation,” Emma mumbles. “That’s still incredibly unhelpful.” “Oh my God, kiss the dead guy!’

“Wow, that’s not exactly subtle, was it?” Emma’s father asks, drawing a laugh out of her mother and this is ridiculous. The Darkness and his son are still on the floor.

Ruby clicks her tongue. “In case you haven’t noticed, subtlety is not exactly my strong suit. Emma, we are wasting time here. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You’ve got to True Loves kiss him!” Emma is sure there is a reason that won’t work. She’s positive.

Because this is the real world and she owns a pie restaurant that she will, eventually, have to open and they are normal people with normal wants and normal desires and—

“Oh damn, that makes total sense,” Emma says, not quite grumbling her agreement because she’s not sure she wants anything more than to kiss Killian Jones. She takes another absurdly large breath, nodding once, twice, and again until her hair threatens to find its way into her own mouth. “Yeah, ok.” “You can do it, Emma,” Ingrid says. “That’s what your magic is. Light and hope. And everything good in the world.” “Sounds kind of like a Hallmark card.” “Or happily ever after.” “Is that how it’s going to work?” “Only one way to find out.”

Emma chuckles – a bit of cynicism hanging on, but she moves anyway, dropping to her knees next to Killian. The whole thing is absurdly fairy tale, even with unforgiving wood under her knees. She brushes the hair away from his forehead, a measured movement that belies how hard her heart is hammering against her rib cage.

Everything seems to still for a moment, the only sound Emma’s breathing.

She licks her lips. And not for any other reason except some possibly misplaced vanity. It seems wrong to kiss her True Love with chapped lips.

Emma leans forward slowly, careful not to rest too much of her weight on Killian, but she can’t help the hand that rests on his chest. She wants to feel all of him. She wants all of him. Full stop.

“I love you,” she whispers, pressing her lips lightly to his.

She doesn’t push at first, just lets herself linger in his space and around him, lets everything wrap around her and work into her and the magic that’s just worked so hard to save the entire universe roars to life in between Emma’s ears.

And that’s all it takes.

It’s like hearing a light switch on. Or walking back into a familiar space. It’s like coming home.

There’s a flash and a pull in the very center of her and Emma knows. She feels it.

Emma grunts when Killian shifts, trying to sit up or stand up and none of it works because she's still got her hand digging into him. So he gets creative. And eventually she’ll have to tell him how much she appreciates that.

His left arm wraps around her middle, twisting her and tugging her flush against his chest. His other hand flies into her hair, fingers carding through strands and wrapping around her neck, making sure Emma can’t pull away from his mouth.

As if she would.

Killian’s tongue brushes over her lower lip, Emma’s mouth opening against him. He makes a noise at that, a sound she’s already filed away for moments when it feels as if everything else is impossible and dark and not getting her hands on him suddenly seems like the most ridiculous thing she could ever be doing.

Emma shifts, slinging her leg over Killian until she’s more or less straddling him and the propriety of True Love's kiss is a lesson she’s never bothered learning. She pushes her fingers into his hair, nails scraping lightly against the back of his head and rocking against him as if there’s an actual tide involved. There’s far too much skin and Emma briefly wishes she had more limbs to touch all of it, but then her only thought is about whatever Killian does against the side of her neck, mouth dropping down to press kisses there as well.

She may honestly shiver.

They don’t stop for what feels like several lifetimes – and Emma isn’t sure she’ll ever argue that because it’s everything she thought it would be and even more. He’s so goddamn warm under her, alive and meeting her kiss for kiss, move for move and—

“Is this real?” Killian asks gruffly.

Emma leans back, the hand against her skin making her wonder just how hard it is to actually teleport two human beings who are absolutely wearing too much clothing. She nods. “Yeah. Really real.” He kisses her again. And it’s not the same as it was before. It’s harder and heady and some other word that’s a synonym of those words and Emma groans against him, more movement and another rock and if they don’t leave soon—

“I heard you,” Killian says, mumbling the words against her mouth. “I was...where was I?” Emma glances around – as if the quasi ghosts behind her will explain something else, but there’s nothing there and no other bodies. Her jaw drops. “Gone as soon as you guys started—” Ruby explains, waving both her hands awkwardly in front of her. “Super psyched you’re not dead forever, Jones.” “Yeah, me too. Swan,” he continues, nosing at her cheek and she hopes he never stops touching her. “I heard you, love. I was—everything was dark, but I wasn’t...it wasn’t bad. It was..” She can see the muscles in his throat shift when he swallows, teeth digging into his lip and Emma doesn’t think much before brushing her thumb over it. “Liam was there.” She’s very glad she’s sitting down.

Killian smiles, quick enough that Emma wonders if she imagines it, but he kisses the edge of her chin and maybe that’s better. “He wouldn’t let me leave. Kept trying to talk to me and get me to remember things. Stuff we’d done when we were kids and—” He cuts himself off, presumably when Emma’s jaw cracks. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “Oh—I get it. I...it was all of them. Because, oh my God.” “Share with the class,” Ruby mumbles. She’s dropped onto the floor as well, sitting cross-legged with her back pressed against Nemo’s bent legs.

“True Love is a two-way street. And that’s what, that’s what my parents—” “—Wait, what?” Killian interrupts sharply, Ruby waving a frustrated hand towards him.

“You can get caught up later. This, oh shit, Em, this makes sense.”

Emma hums, eyebrows lifted because, well, it does. “They said my magic could cross planes, draw them to me when I needed them. So it did for Killian too. It kept him from—I don’t know, moving on and helped me remember what was good and important and real and, oh do you think my magic knew it could bring him back?” “At this point, I am not surprised by anything, honestly.” “Yeah, me either,” Emma agrees. She’s balanced on Killian’s thighs now, the fingers in his hair moving without realizing as he ducks his head to press a kiss to her shoulder. “I um,” she mumbles. “I am—did Liam, say anything…” Killian shakes his head. “Not in the way that you’d think. He told me he was proud of me. That he knew what I could do and that I had to stop waiting for him to come back.” “I’m so sorry.” “I know you are, love. And so did Liam. It was never your fault.” “But—” “—No, Emma. It’s...I am here because of you, twice over. And, well, if that worked both ways then that’s enough. I heard you.” “I don’t understand what that means.” “I wanted to go. I kept telling Liam I was tired and it was over and he wouldn’t let me. Stubborn git.” Emma’s laugh gets muffled when she buries her face against Killian’s neck, but there are more kisses pressed to the top of her hair and fingers drifting under the edge of her shirt and she smiles against his skin. “Anyway,” Killian continues. “He wouldn’t let me leave. Told me there was more to it and just to stay patient and that’s when I heard you. You told me you loved me and I could—I could feel it, Emma. You’re a much better kisser now than when you were nine.”

She laughs again. And cries. And slings her arms around Killian, all but slamming her lips against his. He doesn’t argue.

She hadn’t really expected him to.

“I love you too,” Killian says, more words pressed against her cheek and the bridge of her nose and if they never get off the floor, Emma won’t argue. He kisses her like he’s following a map, doing his best to cover as much of her face as possible while his fingers dance over the curve of her waist.

“Do you want to go eat some pie or something?” Emma asks. “Maybe, you know...live happily ever after?” Killian beams. “I’d like nothing better.”

They do, eventually, get off the floor, but Emma can’t seem to bring herself to move more than a few inches away from Killian. He keeps squeezing her hand, an arm around her shoulders and kisses pressed wherever he can reach.

It makes Ruby gag, but Nemo and Shakespeare look torn somewhere between understandably overwhelmed and surprisingly approving and Killian apologizes to them, no less, than forty-six times. They hug him for, at least, forty-six seconds straight.

Ruby offers to get them a hotel.

“We’ll use some of Cora’s reward money,” she shrugs, a flash of a smile and more hugs and a copious amount of pie. “And, uh, I don’t want yours, either.”

They hug her in response.

And do leave eventually – laden down with pies because Emma’s rid the world of inherent darkness, but she also feels kind of guilty about turning their house into some kind of murder hot bed – leaving Emma and Killian sitting in the middle of her restaurant with the chance at everything hanging in between them.

“I feel like my eyes are kind of rolling back into my head,” Emma says, always a picture of charm. “So, uh—” “—Let’s go to sleep, Swan.” She nods, not trusting herself to say anything else. They move slowly, lingering on steps with kisses that last lifetimes and it’s still not enough, but Emma is more than a little greedy, tugging on shirts and brushing over stubble and Killian’s tongue should win awards.

Emma doesn’t say that out loud. That would probably ruin the moment.

And she wants the moment – wants to linger in it and put down roots and several thousand vaguely romantic clichés. So she doesn’t say anything, just kicks her door closed behind her and tries not to actually gasp too loudly when Killian tugs his shirt off.

“You’re staring, love,” Killian mutters, a note of nerves that make no sense. And Emma saw ghosts a few hours before.

“What’s the matter?” “Nothing.” “Nuh uh, try again.” “I was dead earlier today, you know.” “Yeah, I was there,” Emma mutters, doing her best to keep her voice even. It doesn’t work, obvious as soon as Killian’s thumb tucks under her chin. “I’ve missed you so much. This whole time...I wondered and I—” “—I know, Swan.” “Then what…” And she’s a little annoyed she didn’t realize before, disappointed in herself and her own wants. “Oh, Killian,” she mumbles, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. “I don’t...come here.” He doesn’t, in fact, come here. If anything, he tenses – eyes wide and a little guarded, but still ridiculously blue and Emma is certain she could willingly lose herself in them. She’s apparently a sentimental sap now.

Her fingers don’t shake when they wrap around the end of his left arm, although he may just a bit, his quiet contradiction barely audible. That lasts as long as it takes for her to lift him to her mouth, pressing soft kisses to the blunted edge and the distinct lack of scars.

There’s an apology in every movement and a promise in every shift, guarantees that it’s fine and what she wants and who she wants. Indefinitely. Since the very start.

“Your skin is so soft,” Killian whispers.

“Were you thinking about the texture of my skin?” “Well...no, ah, maybe. Mostly in the way that I wondered what it would feel like to touch you. Or hold onto you. In another way that sounds less possessive than that.”

Emma scoffs, biting back a smile. “I don’t think that sounds possessive.” “Good since I was definitely aiming for more romantic. It would probably be a pretty bad set up to asking you out if you thought it wasn’t.”

“I am ridiculously in love with you,” she says, drawing a laugh out of Killian. The tears on his cheeks are out of place in a day like this, but Emma’s on some kind of roll and she relishes the salt on her tongue when she kisses them away.

“Ridiculously, huh?” “At least. And I could be very interested in dating you. Or just...staying in bed forever.”

“At least a few days.” “Something about science experiments with my skin.”

He laughs – loud and easy and it presses against Emma like it’s marking her from the inside out. There are more kisses, ones that stretch out forever and others that are nothing more than quick presses of lips to any bit of skin available and she does her best not to melt in her own foyer when Killian’s teeth graze behind her ear. “I’d do it again,” he says, a quiet admission that makes Emma’s breath catch. “Let’s not, huh?” “We might be kind of busy for that anyway.” “That so?” “Do you not think we are?”

They’re moving, drifting back towards the bedroom at the end of the hall and Emma is dimly aware of the button on her jeans popping. “I’d be willing to be almost confident about it.” “Ah, sounds like a challenge.” “Yeah, well that’s because you’re a competitive weirdo.” Killian hums, more walking and stumbling and kissing. The last one is the most important. “One who loves you a ridiculous amount too,” he says. “And has very lofty goals of kissing every single inch of you.” “I’d like to see you try.” He grins – hers, exactly the way she’d always pictured it. “I can guarantee it.”

They bake pies every day. And fill napkin containers. And balance books.

It’s domestic and wonderful and Emma kisses Killian in several different kitchens with a regularity that never fails to make her pulse sputter just a bit. It goes that way for weeks that turn to months that turn to years and Emma Swan is thirty-one years, two months, fifty-seven days and, approximately, nine and a half hours old when he kisses her back – while the front door to their restaurant swings open.

“I’ve got news,” Ruby shouts, heels echoing on the tiled floor under her. “So if you guys are done being adorable, it might be time to make some money.” Killian shifts, tugging Emma against his chest. “What do you think, love? Do we want to make some money?” “Ah, I don’t know,” Emma says, if only to get that very particular groan out of Ruby. “Depends on the facts, I guess.”

Ruby does, in fact, make that very particular groan, grabbing a slice of pie without asking for it. “The usual. Dead body, suspicious circumstances, in need of your particular skills with the chance to let justice be served. Also we got to do this quick because I’ve got a date.” “What?” “This is not a big deal. Do not make this a big deal.” “You brought it up, Lucas,” Killian points out.

“Her name is Dorothy. She’s a dog trainer. It is not a big deal. I just, you know…” “You wanted to tell us.” “Shut up, Jones.” “Oh, that’s nice,” Emma says, handing Ruby the fork she can’t quite reach with the counter in the way. “Alright, we’re in. Let’s go serve some justice.” Ruby rolls her eyes. “You’re hysterical.” “You say that like you don’t think I am.”

“Yuh huh, yuh huh. Time keeps on slipping or whatever.” Emma laughs, grabbing a handful of berries from the nearest bowl and they don’t use rotten fruit anymore. It’s some kind of step in the right direction thing. They definitely helped set Graham up with that one customer a few months before.

And no one argues when they get into Emma’s car – Ruby in the backseat and already on her phone with Victor, Killian’s eyes flitting Emma’s direction as soon as she turns the key in the ignition. “You ready, love?” he asks, lacing his fingers through hers.

Emma nods. “Always.”

#cs ff #captain swan #cs fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #one foot in #it's been a d a y #in an underlined sort of way #like professionally speaking #so i totally forgot it was wednesday until just now #if you've read this it means the world #thanks for being legit internet

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bird-in-a-cage · 4 years

Note

Found the ones with the horniest vibes for me! 39, 62, 103, 114, 127, 149. You know e x a c t l y what I want bby 😌😏 -CockAsInTheBird

Hi bby!

As one of my biggest supporters, and with how many prompts you gave me, you’re getting two fills. For the first one, well, you’ll see. Hope you enjoy!

Also a quick thank you to everyone who has sent in a little request so far. It means the world to me. I’m slowly making my way through them all and will get to each one in time. Having a full time job really does take up vaulable writing hours let me tell you. There’s still plenty of prompts available from the list here, or if you wanna just spin me your own ideas that’s totally okay too. My ask box is always open.

#62 - It’s okay, they’re he’s gone now. #149 I just want to look at you

2k | dead dove do not eat | murder ahoy.

Part I is here

Serial Killer AU Part II

“If you could kill anyone, who would it be?” Steve asked casually, passing back the shared cigarette, smoke filling the air between them like barely there fog. Billy was laying down, plaid sheets bunched around his middle, looking up at a popcorn ceiling, shaggy brunette hair and dangerously calm amber eyes. Billy took what was left of the cigarette and inhaled slowly, but he didn’t have to think of an answer. He knew. Had known for years, if given the chance, who he would kill without a second thought. Had spent nights thinking about it over and over again.

“My dad.”

Those dangerous eyes twinkled in the dark, the only light coming from a lamp sitting on the nightstand, casting the room in a too bright orange glow. A smirk started to grow on Steve’s face, half hidden by shadows, the wheels starting to turn. He shifted, sank more under the sheets from his sitting position up against the headboard until he was on his side, propped up by an elbow, reached across the small space and thumbed Billy’s jaw tenderly like a lover would. It was little touches that pulled Billy more under his spell, little soft words here and there. Affirmations he was doing something good for the first time in his life.

He was good. After all this time.

“I think that sounds like a fun date night, don’t you?” Steve’s hand crept up to hold Billy’s cheek, cupping it softly, brushing his fingers over the bone underneath, tracing his skull like that’s all Steve could see. Was all he was interested in. “And you were so helpful with my little Hagan problem, I think you deserve it.”

Tommy had been three days ago. Billy drove. That’s what he did now. Drove Steve around wherever he wanted to go. Helped whenever he needed it. Mostly loading and unloading. Holding people down. Being the muscle. Keeping people quiet. Making sure their eyes were open. Steve liked that. Liked people watching him work. Liked to see the will to fight turn limp and tearful upon realisation.

Tommy never locked his door. Never had apparently. Steve had been in his house many times. Knew exactly where to find him, knew his mom was working out of town for a week after a little reconnaissance. Steve was still the town’s darling after all. Tommy put up more of a fight than most. Almost got away if Billy didn’t stop him at the door. Because he did that now too. Kept watch. Kept watch for cops and onlookers. Nosey neighbours. Made sure no one got away. No possible loose ends that would need to be tied up.

He'd looked up at Billy so betrayed.

Steve stabbed Tommy fourteen times in the kitchen of the Hagan house. One for every year they had been friends. The last one was in the heart, so powerful Billy heard a rib crack from the other side of the room.

Disobeying the King had broken Steve’s heart. So he had to break Tommy's in return.

Blood was everywhere. Steve was covered in it as he panted over Tommy’s body, choking and gurgling on the last few moments of life. Looking up at them both helplessly, like maybe this was just a nightmare and he'd wake up soon. Steve waited until all was silent, got to his feet and set the knife on the kitchen table, regained his composure and swept his hair back with a bloody hand and a deep sigh. During the act he looked manic. Possessed by pure evil. Eyes wild and crazy. Unblinking. Not missing a single moment of his own handiwork.

“I don’t want Mrs Hagan to find this, she was always nice to me," he said calmly, eyes never leaving Tommy’s body. It was an order without the words.

Clean this up.

So Billy did, without question. Grabbed rubber marigolds and bleach from under the sink and scrubbed and scrubbed until the kitchen was sparkling again. Tommy was rolled up into a bedsheet and dumped like old luggage in the trunk of the BMW. Billy drove them out to the outskirts of town when it was nearly dawn, a little side road Steve had picked out especially. He liked to display. What he was doing was art at the most carnal level.

"We used to come here when he was wanting to experiment," he explained calmly, like he wasn't propping up the body of his former friend against a rock for a hiker to stumble across on their morning trail. "Wasn't gay if it was out of town. It's not gay if you don't take it Stevie."

Billy had just smoked. Kept the engine running for the headlights and watched. He could have ended everything right there. Crushed the maniac under the wheels and ran. Someone would surely believe his story. He was innocent. But he didn't. He just stood and smoked. Waited.

Internally, he'd been trying to convince himself this was all for self preservation. Billy knew he was on Steve's imaginary list. He had to have been. Everyone else had been picked off and there wasn't a single hope he wasn't next. But Steve never said a word about it. Never gave off a look or an attitude that he was even contemplating it. He gave Billy smiles and compliments, reassurances that everything was okay, Billy was good at this, that he needed Billy's help, couldn’t do it without him. And something deep deep down clung to those kind, blood soaked words.

Billy had never been told he was good before. Always a bad kid, a troublemaker, only fit for a chain gang. Even in elementary school. Good grades but a poor attitude. Constantly in the way of everyone's good time, fit for nothing. So many times he'd heard his father's rage towards him, both in front of and behind his back. Cruel words snarled like Billy was nothing but an old dog that just wouldn't die. Didn’t fit in with the new family. A ghost from the past.

Steve told him he was good. Almost constantly. And he’d never really liked Tommy that much anyway.

With how those dark eyes glittered in the dark of Steve's room, looking directly into Billy's very soul, calling to him like a siren in the middle of a storm, a date night sounded like a great idea.

***

Max and Susan were away for the weekend. Billy remembered it being on the family calendar pinned to the wall by the door the last time he was home. The day of Nancy. Written in bold black ink and circled three times. They were visiting some aunt or cousin or whatever. Billy hadn't really been paying attention to the conversation other than when the phrase 'boy's weekend' innocently left Susan's lips and Billy's very core turned the ice at the thought of there being absolutely no barrier between him and his father’s rage for three whole days.

A lot had changed since then.

For as much as Billy detested his father, he knew his routine. An ex military man. Always kept impeccable timing. It had gotten Billy in trouble more than once. Being a minute late for curfew and having to spend the night freezing in his car, shivering under a leather jacket and not much else.

He could feel Steve practically vibrating with excitement in the passenger seat as Billy cut the engine pulling up to Cherry Lane. He squeezed Billy's thigh firm but tender. Reassuring but serious.

Don’t back out now.

"You ready for this stud?"

Billy could only nod looking up at the house and what he knew what inside. It was late and a Saturday night. Neil would be passed out on the couch in front of whatever movie was on tv, half drunk on warm beer if Billy wasn’t there to be the punching bag.

He wasn't scared. Wasn't really thinking about the consequences of all of this. This was revenge now. Payback. For years of abuse both mental and physical. For being beaten down and made to feel lower than dirt. For every foul word and sharp backhand. For every dinnerless evening and night alone willing himself not to sob into a pillow because boys don't cry William. For being made and twisted into a creature that was now beyond human, beyond all control, but Steve understood.

They shared the same soul, the same creature. It rattled around them deep inside. Jerked and pulled and warped and swelled and became unstoppable. Billy just needed someone to unlock the cage. Steve had the key that fit perfectly.

Billy squeezed Steve's hand before they left the car. Billy still had keys even though he hadn't been home in close to a month. No one came looking for him. He didn't expect them to. He very well could have been dead in a ditch the way the body count was growing and the cops were being incompetent. But it all just added fuel to the fire.

The entire time Steve's grin was delicious. That same manic look back in his eyes that was always there when they did this. Like a shark when there was blood in the water. It made Billy’s heart flutter. For this one they swapped places. Managed to get the surprise swoop and have Neil pinned with a hand over his mouth before he could properly register what was happening. Before he could spit one last drop of venom in Billy's direction.

Steve had given him back his switchblade. A present for being so loyal and helpful. A sign of trust that it would never be used on himself. Billy twisted it into his father's neck with no remorse. Buried the blade so deep it hit bone. The gush and waterfall of blood was warm on them both. Billy stepped back from it to watch realisation and anger and then abject hopelessness wash through steely eyes that had been nothing but cruel his whole life. Steve laughed. Cackled towards the ceiling, biting his lip like a schoolgirl. Made sure to get blood on his hands like he was washing them under a wild spring. Billy felt some drip off his cheek, stain his shirt as he just panted, heart hammering in his chest and thrumming through his bones as Neil was let go to twitch and die on the carpet. Finally gone.

Steve took Billy's head in his hands gently, cupping his jaw and thumbing up to his cheeks. Everything was slick and warm. Spreading blood everywhere that had been clean. Marking his teritory.

"Oh baby, I just wanna look at you, I'm so proud of you!" Steve spoke comfortingly. Like a mother would after their kid won a third grade spelling bee. His eyes sparkled like diamonds. He was genuinely proud of what Billy had done. And that made Billy warm inside. Emotions mixed and twisted as it sunk in what Billy had done. He was crying a few solitary tears before he knew it, but they were gently brushed away by caressing thumbs.

"Hey, hey its okay, he’s gone now" Steve cooed. "The first is always the hardest. Especially if it's family."

That had been Steve's first. His own father. He'd confessed one night in bed, both of them sweaty and hard. Like talking about this kind of thing was a turn on. It certainly was for Steve. Made him hard as a rock. He muttered his sins into the back of Billy's neck as he fucked into his protege so vigorously the headboard slammed off the wall and threatened to snap. Scraping his teeth over tanned skin as he let memories fly. About how he'd poisoned his father and just watched him convulce on the hallway floor. Just watched as the man begged for help but received nothing but the cold eyes of his own sixteen year old son.

He always came hard to that story, knuckles white, fingers digging into Billy’s hips and leaving bruises for days.

Billy tucked his head into Steve's neck, wrapped his arms around the thinner waist and let himself be held in return. Let himself be kissed. Let himself taste copper pennies and iron and smoke and spearmint gum from an hour before. And excitement. Let himself be pushed up against the wall of the hallway he'd walked through countless times and feel his partner hard against his hip. Let thighs slot together and bodies start rutting. Both running on adrenaline and excitement as a slain monster lay defeated on the floor. No longer part of the story. Groans being eaten. Hair being pulled. Bodies running tighter and tighter until the inevitable conclusion and cum soaked denim aftermath.

Steve panted warm against Billy’s temple, lips stained and swollen. Before this would have never been allowed. Never ever. Now Billy was free. Unchained. Knew deep in his heart and his head he would follow Steve to the ends of the earth as thanks for this wonderful gift. Words would never be able to describe how grateful he was.

It was the best day of his life.

#harringrove #my writing #serial killer au #billy x steve #dead dove do not eat #tw: murder #tw: blood #tw: horror #tw: gore

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thecarnivorouskitten · 3 years

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A Totally Out-of-Style Work that Probably Shouldn’t be my First Post

It was a rainy day, a cold and blustery morning in late November. London Birminghem was burrowing through a dresser drawer for her wool socks.

It was a frustrating situation, as she had been searching for nearly ten minutes. She was running late by her self-appointed schedule. It was 10:08 a.m.; her schedule said she was supposed to be at the Thomas J. Matthews Library in seven minutes, and it took her fifteen minutes by bus to get there.

Over half the contents of London’s sock drawer had been thrown about her room in her search, and she was beginning to wonder if warm feet were truly worth straying from her flawless schedule. She had spent a long time ordering her calendar, and hated to see her hard work wasted. She muttered a curse under her breath, snatching a pair of plain socks and stumbling to her bed to yank them onto her feet.

She almost didn’t bother to lock the door behind her as she swept outside, hunching her shoulders inside her black coat to ward off the chill of the frigid rain. The 10:15 bus would be arriving at the bus stop any minute. London leaned into a jog, dark hair whipping around her face. She could not miss the bus.

She did not. Whatever higher power there was in the world seemed to have some pity for her. She wiped her hair out of her hazel eyes and grabbed onto a handle on the ceiling.

The Thomas J. Matthews Library was not an impressive building, contrary to its name. It was a plain, one-story building, brown brick with a minimum number of windows. London checked the time. 10:33. She frowned, licked rainwater off of her lips, and hurried into the library.

Warm air smelling of books and cleaner met her, and as London’s shoes squeaked on the floor, the librarian at the front desk fluttered his fingers in a wave.

Mordecai Solace seemed to be the only librarian who worked there. He was in his fifties or sixties, London couldn’t be sure and didn’t ask, and had white hairs patching his short black beard. His eyes were the color of strong espresso, a shade darker than his skin, and he had crow’s feet wrinkling the corners.

“I was wondering if you would make it today,” He greeted her cheerfully. “Was it the rain that got you running late?”

London nodded offhandedly, not about to admit she had spent ten minutes searching for a pair of lost socks, and decided to change the subject. “How’ve you been, Mr. Solace? Any gruesome book returns?”

“No, no.” Mordecai shook his head, smile fading. “You’ve been the only visitor for two weeks. I did, however, get a donation of several books that I have been told are in good condition that you might be interested in.”

London grinned. “Let’s take a look, why don’t we?”

Bracing his hand on the front desk’s surface, Mordecai got to his feet, beckoning London over. She flung her coat onto the rack and paced behind the counter, dropping her bag.

Mr. Solace drew out a cardboard box from the shelf beneath the counter, setting it down with a heavy thump. His eyes sparkled, and he patted the folded flaps on top. “I haven’t looked through these yet,” He muttered, “But they came from a rather eccentric donator, so I don’t know what we’ll find.”

“C’mon then.” London reached out and tugged the box open.

There were only a few, maybe six, but they all looked old. Most were bound in fabric, although London could see two bound in leather. Gingerly, she took a leather-bound book and pulled it out from under another. Rubbing a coat of dust from the surface, she ran her fingertips over the title. Tales of thee Unseene, Unhearde, and Unspeakable.

“This looks intriguing,” London murmured, moving a finger to crack the cover when Mordecai snatched it from her grasp. She stared at the man, bewildered to find his hands trembling.

His eyes, full of dread, roved along the cover, fingers brushing against the stiff leather, jaw quivering. London tentatively stretched out a hand, resting it on his shoulder. Mordecai jumped, seemed to remember she was there, and set the book down hard on the desk. “This book isn’t suited to our library. I’ll do away with it when you leave.”

London shook her head in confusion. “I could just take it. I’d hate for a book to go to wa-”

“No,” Mordecai hissed, and London’s eyes widened in shock at the hoarseness of his voice. “No one may read this book. Do not read this book, do you understand?”

No, London did not understand. But she had grown close to older man in her years going to the Thomas J. Matthews Library, and would respect his wishes. She nodded quickly. “I won’t, Mr. Solace. I promise you.”

Mordecai nodded, slowly, seemingly lost in his thoughts again, fingers fluttering against nothing. From the other end of library, the grandfather clock he had salvaged from the side of the road chimed the turn of the hour, echoing lowly through the rows of books like shadows. London checked the time on her phone in surprise. Surely, she couldn’t have been there for half an hour already? Yet she had, and therefore she needed to go.

“I’ve got to go, Mr. Solace. I’m almost late for lunch.” London picked up her bag from the floor and threw it over her shoulder, looking back at Mordecai for his reaction, but still he stared into nothing, expressionless. She frowned, but the thought of her schedule drew her toward the door and the weather outside.

It was a long day, out and about in the city, and at 9:30, London was exhausted and glad to get home. She dropped her bag off in her room and took a hot shower, microwaving a can of chicken soup for her dinner before going straight to her room.

She was so tired she tripped over her discarded bag. She hopped in pain for a minute, hissing, when she realized she had not known what there was in the bag that was hard enough to stub her toe on. She bent, reached into the bag, and pulled on the hard object.

It was the book. The book. How had it ended up in her bag? Hadn’t Mr. Solace set it on the desk? But she hadn’t put it there, which meant he would have had to. Which meant… He did want her to read it after all?

It was strange, she thought as she settled into her blankets and opened the book, how the older man had acted that day. But what did it matter now? She would meet him again next week, same time, and everything would be fine…

Before she had even gotten to the right page, London fell asleep. Her breathing grew slow and deep, her body relaxing into the mattress.

Her bedside light was still on when it began to happen.

A tiny sprout, dark green and twining, curled up out of the binding of the book. Then another, and another, and the sprouts that were already there began to lengthen and swell with leaves, creeping along the page and then over the edge of the book. They were hungry, whispering things, snaking up London’s arm to bloom along her face in a dark mask of leaves until not a patch of her skin could be seen. Her hands jolted once, then lay still.

But the vines were not finished. From the center of the open book came the tearing of paper, and a cold, dank must filled the room as a dark hole bloomed from the leaf-choked book.

For a moment that seemed to stretch for eternity, the hole yawned, still and dark.

And then two long antennae appeared, followed by impossibly many twitching legs, and the first insect crawled out in a rippling of spidery limbs and wispy trembling of threadlike antennae. Whispering from behind it came a horde of the centipedes, glistening in the lamplight and dripping from the bed like water, crawling along the walls and searching for a way out into the world. From the ever-expanding hole of the book came a guttural call, low and wet.

A skeletal, broken hand gripped the edge of the hole, and out peered the skull of a wolf, gleaming with an unidentifiable slime. The jawbone clacked, the empty sockets hollow as it dragged itself free from its prison of pages before reaching back inside, helping forth another grisly creature from the dark, and more came until the room was crowded with the clicking of bones and murmurs of insect legs. One found the window, and the shattering of glass splintered the night. Skulls grinned at the opening, and centipedes found the opening, swarming out with the creatures.

When a howl pierced the air of Mordecai’s home, he shuddered, closing his eyes. He should have never have written the book. He would never write again; he would end his curse, not bring more evil to the world.

The ghouls would be arriving soon, to come to their master. What would he tell them? If he said anything that would not please them, they would turn.

There was a scrape at the door. A wolfish skull leered in his window, and a pale, bony hand tapped the glass.

Mordecai stared into the sockets where its eyes should have been, regretting everything.

He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late.

#fiction #short story #dark #writers

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yukayjei · 4 years

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Linked Universe FanFic: No Courage Without Fear, Part 3

Please enjoy this next part of this @linkeduniverse story!

Our Heroes confront their wicked foe at last! As with all master magicians, this dark Wizzrobe has a few tricks up its sleeve, some nastier than others...

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

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

The hooded sorcerer controlled fire and darkness. It controlled the very forest the Heroes stood in. So many unpredictable elements had been thrown their way in one night, they were not sure how to react or what to expect next.

But they had dealt with the unexpected. Today, yesterday, and in their adventures from long ago.

To the Hero of Hyrule, the Wizzrobe itself was the most unexpected element. In the past, they had always proved challenging, but the one standing just a few yards before him was on a whole different level. The common evil that infected the Bokoblins, the Moblins, the Lizalfos, and countless other monsters also afflicted this Wizzrobe.

And instinct told Hyrule he had only gotten a taste of this malefic creature’s powers.

He also knew he was ready to give it the fight of a lifetime. He reached for his sword; beside him, Sky copied.

They rushed forward at the same time. Magic and Master Swords sliced through the air so fast their movement blurred. The blows would have killed, but the Wizzrobe vanished before they connected.

“Not again,” Hyrule groaned as the shrill, maniacal laughter echoed through the trees. “This is getting old.”

“You can say that again,” Sky agreed, eyes and ears straining for any sign of their foe. Both hands tightened their grip around the Master Sword.

Without warning, it reappeared behind them. Before the Heroes could turn, a huge, dark wave slammed them to the ground. The Wizzrobe disappeared once again.

Though winded, the Heroes rose to their feet. The Wizzrobe appeared again, this time beside them, but at a greater distance. It fired the same black wave, but Hyrule’s shield reflected it. Clearly anticipating this, the Wizzrobe simply warped out of harm’s way.

So, it’s learned from before, Hyrule thought.

The foe’s movements sped up. It teleported every second, firing a magic attack each time. Hyrule was having a hard time keeping up, even with Sky parrying just as many waves with his sword.

But then, the Wizzrobe grew eerily silent. Now, it simply watched the Heroes. It might have exhausted itself, were it not for those deep crimson eyes betraying a more sinister motive. Deep in the hood’s shadows, the centers of its eyes now glowed a brilliant yellow. The wind picked up speed, and dark clouds moved to cover the moon— all-too-familiar signs of an oncoming storm.

The Heroes watched the Wizzrobe ascend, the power of its magic lifting it out of their swords’ reach.

“Maybe I can pull out my bow and shoot it down!” Sky gripped his pouch.

“Too late!” Hyrule yelled. “It summoned a thunderstorm!” As if on cue, an enormous lightning bolt struck the ground in front of them with a deafening crash.

The clearing was now a minefield. Scores of jagged white spears streaked from cloud to ground, leaving little room for movement.

The Heroes sprang back as one missed them by a hair’s breadth. Above them, the Wizzrobe’s entire form began to shine with electric light. In response, the storm intensified, if that was even possible. The wind felt like a hurricane. The boys’ ears rang from the constant, earsplitting thunder.

Hyrule brandished the Magic Sword. “I’m going for it!”

“What?” Even in his own ears, Sky’s voice was barely audible.

The Hero of Hyrule charged like he had absolutely nothing to lose. The last reserves of the Jump Spell coursed through his legs like a flood. He sprang up, his height equaling the Wizzrobe’s, and stabbed upward. The wicked sorcerer screeched as the blade tore cloth and skin. It reeled back, falling towards the earth.

As gravity reclaimed Hyrule, the Wizzrobe’s arm lashed out like a striking cobra and seized his left wrist. The young hero struggled, but the skinny, withered hand had a ridiculous vice grip.

From his position on the ground, Sky realized, with a surge of frustration, he could not attack the foe without risking injury to Hyrule. As he paced frantically, searching for an opening, lightning danced around him, dividing his attention and keeping him at bay.

The Wizzrobe, dangling Hyrule like a fish on a hook, pulled the boy closer until their faces were inches apart. Despite this, Hyrule still couldn’t see into the black void of its hood. It was deeply unsettling, to say the least.

He stiffened as the Wizzrobe leaned in even further. From the maw of nothingness, pointed yellow teeth unveiled themselves in a malicious grin. Earth-brown eyes met blood-colored pools as the demon hissed, “Remember me?”

His blood froze like a river in winter. That voice…it’s unfamiliar, and yet—! his mind raced, but it was like pulling a wagon with the rear wheels missing. Thoughts kept starting and stopping. Then why…? No! How? Could it—?

He didn’t get to finish. The Wizzrobe threw him to the ground with a force many times greater than should have been possible. Hyrule did not react, did not even try to break his fall. He may as well have been turned to stone.

In what felt like slow motion, the Chosen Hero watched in horror as his friend hit the ground with a sickening crunch and did not get up.

“No!” he shouted. Facing the Wizzrobe, blood boiling, he finally spotted his opening. Quick as a blink, he thrust the Master Sword skyward. The sharp steel conducted lightning like a magnet. Instead of electrocuting its holder, the sword instead absorbed the charge. Sparks arced up and down the blade.

Without hesitation, he swung down. The stored energy released in a spiraling blue disc.

It hit dead on the mark. The Wizzrobe wasn’t laughing now; it shrieked and writhed in agony before crumpling to the ground like a sack of bricks.

Casting his focus off the monster for the moment, Sky rushed to his friend’s side. The Hero of Hyrule lay still— too still. Sky feared the worst. Then, he groaned weakly and opened his eyes.

“Thank Hylia!” Sky exclaimed. “Can you stand?”

“I’m f-fine,” Hyrule gulped in air and it felt like swallowing thorns. He struggled to his feet, feeling lightheaded and ignoring the invisible sledgehammer pounding his skull. He gingerly touched his side and winced. Unlike Sky, he was definitely going to have a huge, nasty bruise after this. He was lucky nothing was broken.

The Wizzrobe’s breathing came in ragged gasps. Despite its heavy injuries, it still managed to wheeze out a few giggles like the whole situation, even from its perspective, was somehow funny.

Slowly, it rose. Head bowed, its snorts transformed into snarls. Darkness gathered around it, dimming the atmosphere even further. “You…”

Sky reached back and unslung his Goddess Shield. Hyrule tensed, trying to ignore his trembling limbs.

“YOU!!” the creature screeched. Its head snapped up, bloodred eyes swirling like twin maelstroms. “You will die!”

And darkness enveloped the demon like a tornado, twisting and surging until its form was unrecognizable in the vortex. For a heartbeat, a humanoid figure could be made out. Then it swelled up, gaining mass and muscle. Extra limbs grew out of its body, as did horns, hair, and a weapon.

The vortex dispersed. The Heroes, shell-shocked, could only gape.

Before them towered a giant; a black Lynel easily four times their size, carrying a gleaming Great Flameblade nearly six feet in length. Its right hand held a cruel bladed shield. Its mane and stripes were the color of smoke, and its eyes were the same hellish crimson that had been haunting the Heroes since the stroke of midnight. It bared its long, sharp teeth in a menacing snarl.

Hyrule’s voice was failing him. “By the Triforce,” he whispered hoarsely, “it can’t be.”

“Hyrule?” Sky shot him a concerned glance. “You all right?”

But Hyrule said no more. He was rooted to the spot, eyes wide and face whiter than a ghost. The Magic Sword dangled loosely in his left hand.

Sky had seen this before, in the Hero of the Wild. Hyrule was having a flashback. A bad one, from the looks of it; it had him utterly petrified.

Sky glanced furtively at his friend, not wanting to take his eyes off the Lynel, which crouched low to the ground and growled. It stared at Hyrule in an almost hungry sort of way.

It senses his fear! Sky realized with a jolt. And some instinct told him the Lynel also sensed why.

Determination surged through the Chosen Hero’s blood. He stepped forward and planted himself right between Hyrule and the Lynel. Pointing his sword directly at its chest, he said, “I won’t let you hurt my friend. But if you insist, you’ll have to go through me first.”

“Fool,” the beast snarled. Its voice had grown scarily deep. “You have no idea whom you’re dealing with. Stand aside. I will face the one who knows to fear me.”

Without flinching, Sky met its ominous gaze. “No. You won’t.”

All too eager to accept the challenge, the Lynel sprang high off the ground. It aimed the Flameblade’s tip straight down, at his skull.

The familiarity of the move surprised the Hero. Hyrule often executed it against tough enemies, a more recent example being the infected Moblin.

Being a straightforward attack, it could be easily avoided. But Sky realized he had no choice but to take it. The Lynel had him pinned. He couldn’t dodge without exposing Hyrule.

So the Chosen Hero gritted his teeth and, just before the Flameblade skewered him, parried with his Goddess Shield with all his might.

The impact created a clean ringing sound. Sky and the Lynel broke apart, but only for a moment. Sky rushed in close. Sacred steel clashed with metal forged in hellfire.

The Lynel lashed out not only with its Flameblade, but also with its shield and fists. But Sky was ready. He ducked and dodged every mighty swing, every blow that could crush his bones to dust. Every swipe that could cut him to ribbons. All the while, the Master Sword flashed like lightning as Sky slashed and cut. A hit landed every time; the Lynel would have more scars than stripes by the time this duel ended.

He’d cornered the Lynel right up against the trees’ edge. Its breathing was labored. Saliva and blood dripped from its fangs. Still, the sheer hatred in its scarlet eyes glowed ever stronger, as if that was all it needed to sustain itself.

It charged like a bull. Several hundred pounds of pure muscle barreled towards him. Sky jumped to the side only just in time. He thrust the Master Sword forward, but the Lynel evaded with supernatural speed. It slammed its shield into Sky, sending him hurtling into a tree. The Master Sword spun out of his hand like a boomerang and skidded out of reach. Trapped between a demon and a hard place, he had no room to move. Letting loose a triumphant roar, the beast raised its blade and plunged it into its foe.

Across the clearing, the Hero of Hyrule woke from his daze to see Sky pinned to the ground, struggling desperately against a ruthless barrage of attacks with his Goddess Shield as his sole defense. The shield was cracked, and it widened with every blow; it wouldn’t last much longer. Sky cried out as a mighty blow nearly shattered his left arm.

Hyrule yelled as loud as he could and charged.

Maybe he should have stopped and thought a moment. Maybe he could have drawn his bow and shot the creature instead of rushing in like an idiot, which is the absolute worst thing someone could do while fighting a monster as fearsome as a Lynel.

But Hyrule didn’t think. All he knew is that Sky needed just a few seconds to grab the Master Sword and get back into the fight, and by the Triforce, Hyrule was going to give him those seconds.

So he did something the Hero of the Wild would be proud of— he rushed up behind the Lynel, jumped on its back, and hacked and slashed like a man possessed.

In his rush to crawl away and reclaim the Master Sword, Sky paid no attention to the commotion. Relief swelled in when he at last held it again, but it changed to shock as he turned and saw Hyrule, clinging to the Lynel as it shook him like a squirrel.

“What in Hylia’s name are you doing?” he shouted.

“S-s-saving y-your life!” Hyrule gasped out, way too close to biting his tongue off. He couldn’t hold on anymore. Utilizing the Lynel’s frantic energy, he launched himself clear away from it and landed on his feet beside Sky.

Having shaken itself free of one pesky Hero, the Lynel sprang backwards, as far across the clearing as it could. Black blood poured out from many large and small wounds. Although it was weakened, a deafening roar, the loudest one yet, tore from its throat. Its eyes flashed like red lightning. The wind howled like a hurricane, shaking the cursed forest to its roots.

Taking a deep breath, Hyrule readied his sword and shield. “This is it,” he said. “If we attack it from both sides, this should be manageable.” He glanced at Sky. “Ready?”

Sky nodded, a steely glint in his eye.

But before either party could make a move, an arrow zipped between the trees and pierced the Lynel’s right foreleg. It staggered dangerously before losing its balance. Leaning awkwardly on its knees, it was down for the moment.

The Hero of Legend strode out with bow in hand, jaw clenched, and a face dark as thunder. “Trap me in a nightmare, will you?” he spat at the Lynel. “Consider that arrow your first and last warning.”

As he spoke, the rest of the Heroes emerged from all sides, eyes sharp and swords unsheathed. Each wore the same determined expression.

Surrounded by nine men and boys, each one skilled in swordplay, archery, magic, and a whole host of other strange powers and devices, the Lynel’s victory seemed uncertain. As it finally rose up, was that a glimmer of fear Sky detected behind its eyes?

The Hero of Warriors flashed a dazzling smile at Sky and Hyrule, who stood agape. “You two have been through quite the ordeal tonight! Still up for more?” He offered a hand to Sky, who still knelt on the ground.

The two exchanged glances. The sudden appearance of their friends had given them a tiny moment’s respite, allowing their exhaustion to pounce like a lion. If he were being honest, Sky wasn’t sure if he had any energy left. But one look at Hyrule’s resolute face, and he knew he had to finish this.

“You know it,” he said. He clasped Warriors’ hand and was pulled to his feet. “From dealing with this guy all night, I know it’ll take every single one of us to win.”

“Yeah,” Hyrule agreed. “Besides, we can’t let you have all the glory.”

Warriors’ grin widened. “Glad to hear it.”

Sounding a battle cry, the Heroes charged the Lynel.

#linkeduniverse #loz #legend of zelda #the legend of zelda #tloz #link

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sweetlangdon · 5 years

Text

From Eden: Chapter 7

Notes: Michael Langdon x Reader/OC. Evil Power Couple fic. It’s difficult to write a summary for this one, because I don’t want to give away the twists. (It’ll also include canon rewrite/divergence for the later half of the season.) It has plenty of angst and fluff, and a bit of character study.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, murder, graphic violence.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Also Available on AO3

The Hotel Cortez had called to him. His father had reached out from the void to guide his path, and so he ended up on the doorstep of a hell mouth. It looked rather innocuous from the outside—a seedy, rundown Art Deco relic left to decompose in a back alley. An echo of its former grandeur. Michael supposed it had all of the right elements to act as a conduit for his father’s influence. That familiar rush of darkness ghosted along his skin before he even set foot in the lobby, coiling tightly around him as if it was oxygen to his starved lungs.

Michael breathed it in, greedy for it, confidence swelling in his veins, his hands flexing at his sides. Power hummed across his fingertips, burning as if he’d held them into an open flame. The only other time he had felt his father’s presence so close, so all-consuming was the night of the Black Mass, where he’d affirmed his title as Satan’s heir. A hint of brimstone caught his senses, just a trace of it when the air shifted as he walked through the vacant lobby.

He smirked, chin tilted up, and folded his hands behind his back. The tacky, stained carpet muted his footsteps. Around every turn the Cortez seemed endless and identical; doors stretching in every direction, the hallways casting more shadow than light. It was dim and outdated, gaudy in a way that made Michael’s skin itch.

Agony seeped from the walls. Souls cried out for mercy, for salvation they would never find. The screaming and wailing would never stop. They would never escape, never know peace.

Michael kept walking.

A melody broke through the deafening quiet, the distant weeping and torment. Michael paused in the middle of a hallway, head cocked to one side, brow knit together. Someone was whistling; the sound of a children’s lullaby floated into the hall from one of the rooms up ahead. A fragile, golden orange light spilled onto the carpet from an open door and flickered against the wall opposite like someone had lit a fire.

Michael hurried toward it, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. He stopped just short of the doorway, arms falling to his sides. His lips parted as his jaw dropped a little and he tried to register the sight in front of him.

This room was different from the others.

It was all dark walls and dark, rich wood and elegance—a study full of bookcases and glossy, modern furniture with a large fire burning at one end. Michael stepped over the threshold, pulled forward by some force or feeling inside of him. His ice blue gaze swept over the room, taking in little details like the arrangement of animal skulls on the mantle and the table against the far wall that displayed what he assumed was an expensive liquor collection.

He noticed the man last. Or maybe he hadn’t been there a moment ago. Michael didn’t know for certain.

The man rose from behind an ornate desk as if he’d been expecting Michael’s arrival. As if, somehow, they’d had an appointment.

He cut an imposing figure in a tailored, slate gray three-piece suit. There was a dusting of light gray at his temples, his hair the color of ink and slightly tousled. A handsome amount of stubble shadowed his jawline; Michael guessed that he was maybe in his late forties by some terrible estimation. There was something familiar about this man’s moss green eyes, the sharp slope of his nose, the knowing grin that pulled at a corner of his lips, but Michael couldn’t immediately place it. The silver chain of a pocket watch glinted in the firelight as the man stepped toward the far table.

“Hello, Michael.” His voice was smooth, accented. “Would you care for a drink?”

“Sure.” Michael remembered himself—the manners instilled in him by Constance Langdon were impossible to forget, even now—as he neared the man, his steps wary. “Thank you.”

Amber liquid flowed into two crystal glasses from an old bottle. Michael thought he saw a date on the label that suggested somewhere within the 1700s, but he couldn’t be sure, faded as the label was. The man handed one glass over to Michael before he picked up the other, letting it dangle between his fingertips for a moment. He then held it aloft between them, tipping it slightly. The firelight illuminated the amber in his glass and a small, silver ring that adorned the man’s thumb.

“To you, Michael Langdon,” he declared, “Long may you reign.”

He clinked his own glass against Michael’s, that meaningful—and perhaps proud—grin spreading across his lips.

The drink shot like fire down his throat and burned straight through his chest. He stifled a cough and took another sip. Michael had no idea what it was, but it sent an instantaneous, pleasant buzz to his fingertips and toes.

“You certainly are your father’s son,” the man told him. He spoke as if he’d known Michael for his entire life, known things about him that he’d yet to learn. The thought was a little unsettling. “What an honor it is to finally be in your presence at last.”

Michael cradled the glass between his palms. “I’m sorry,” he started, peering up at the man with a slight shake of his head, gaze narrowing in confusion. “Do I know you?”

“No, you wouldn’t. Our paths may have run parallel, you and I, but there was no reason for them to cross. Well, not until now, at least. You’re far too young, Michael, and I am something much more ancient.”

The man’s eyes suddenly turned from dark green to pure black, the whites of his eyes like twin smudges of charcoal. Michael had never seen anything like it before, but he understood. In his soul—the part of him bred for nothing but sin and chaos and destruction—he knew all too well what it meant. Michael’s chin rose, assessing, his small, weighty exhale audible between them.

“But,” the man continued, his eyes returning to their normal color as he looked at Michael over the rim of his glass. “You know someone who’s very dear to me. And it’s time that we met.”

***

Her room smelled of sandalwood and jasmine, like it always did. Although his visits to her home were far fewer than the time she spent at his, the scent always clung to her hair, lingered in his room and on his clothes. He’d grown used to it. It had become a constant in a life so full of sudden, irrevocable change. Michael had noticed it on the bedding in his room at Hawthorne and in the wake of her departure the other night. It stayed on his uniform the next day as they recited incantations, his thoughts pulled to her whenever a remnant of sandalwood and jasmine drifted into his senses.

Michael found himself disappointed, even lonely, when the scent finally faded.

He’d missed her, too.

In the beginning, it had been curiosity that had drawn Michael to her. He’d felt her power, that same intoxicating darkness that resided in his veins, before he’d even seen her. Now, it was something else entirely. Something he couldn’t even measure, let alone name. She never expected anything from him, and that’s what made her different from everyone else who circled around him.

They all trailed behind him, casting him as their leader—whether he had a say in the matter or not—and she always matched her steps with his, always gravitated to his side. His only friend. His equal. His partner, for whatever destiny demanded of them.

And now he understood why.

Michael stood like a silent shadow, the room dark around him except for the soft glow of the candles that scented the air. It was tidy, only because she’d spent so many hours locked away in here avoiding the chaos of her parents.

She cleaned when she was anxious, to quell the panic in her chest by keeping her hands busy, her mind preoccupied. Michael remembered the first time she’d seen the appalling state of his bedroom a week after they’d met outside her aunt’s house.

It had taken her seven days to show up at Ms. Mead’s door again, seven days to process the truth that she somehow knew had been there all along. Michael had watched her pace the room, afraid to look him in the eye, afraid to get too close, her hands frantic and her voice shaking as she asked him about everything except that book she’d let him borrow. Michael’s room was spotless by the time she accepted his answers and the burden that came with being in his orbit.

Michael had been charmed by it. By her.

That seemed like a lifetime ago.

Michael’s cloak rippled around his ankles, his steps quiet. His fingers skirted across the organized row of books on one of her shelves and paused at a silver frame sitting at the edge. He picked it up, thumb passing over the photograph inside: the two of them on Ms. Mead’s porch. They were sprawled over the front steps, his arm across her shoulders, both of her arms wrapped around his middle. She had her eyes closed—Michael grinned at the memory of tugging her into the frame, catching her by surprise—but her smile was bright, her face pressed into his side.

He hadn’t even looked at the camera. His attention was on her, that boyish face he could now barely recognize lit by a beaming smile. It all seemed so normal. So simple, then. Michael couldn’t help the involuntary pang of sadness that hit him in the gut out of nowhere; the nagging whisper that crept into his thoughts when he gave in to doubt. What if they had strayed off the path? Would fate still catch up to them?

He set the frame down and rounded the corner of her bed, sinking into the edge by her hip. The power he carried into the room with him hadn’t roused her. She was still asleep, curled up on her side, her lips parted slightly, her hair fanned out across the pillows. The book she’d been reading before she drifted off had slid out of her hands and onto the tangled up sheets next to her.

Michael had cared for—loved—so few people in his short life who’d genuinely loved him in return. He almost wasn’t sure what it felt like. If it was real and honest. If he had the capacity for it, being who and what he was.

But her… She made him believe in the possibility.

Inhaling the scent of sandalwood and jasmine, Michael reached out and stroked her hair gently. A few moments passed before she stirred with a soft groan, blinking up at him.

“Hi,” she rasped, her voice still thick with sleep.

Michael laughed. “Hey.”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know.” He withdrew his hand, watching her gain her bearings as she sat up. “Late.”

Her eyes widened. “Look at you,” she gasped. Her fingers seized the fabric of his cloak. She ran her thumbs over the intricate silver clasps, admiring the detail before she became distracted by the new clothes he’d acquired. “Are capes regulation at Hawthorne now?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, so it’s just you,” she answered. Her smile was all sarcasm, betraying the look in her eyes. Michael couldn’t quite read it, but there was something in her gaze that seemed to soften his roughest edges, now more than ever. Something that kept him human. “Figures.”

She yawned and stretched like a cat, then gathered up the book that had tumbled into the bed sheets. Michael caught the gilded cover in the candlelight before she left it on the bedside table.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Paradise Lost?”

“I was studying.”

Michael stared at her, a smirk forming on his mouth. “For class?”

She yawned again and tucked one leg under the other. He moved a little closer, and her fingers found their way back to his cloak. “Not exactly.”

Her eyes hadn’t left him since she woke up, her expression soft, her hair mussed from sleep. Michael always felt safe with her, comforted by having her beside him. Despite all his outbursts and dark impulses, he never wanted her to feel like how her parents made her feel when she was with him.

She reached out and kneaded her fingers into his hair. Michael leaned into her touch, his eyelids falling shut. He couldn’t stop the tiny sigh that escaped his lips as she massaged his scalp and played with strands of gold. “Your hair looks longer.”

“Does it?”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed. “You know, I should be used to all of this by now, but some of it is still so…surreal.”

Her thumb traced the mark behind his ear, a delicate, feather-light touch. Warmth blossomed up the back of his neck and the tips of his ears as if he’d just taken another sip of whatever drink he’d had at the Cortez.

“If I had hair as beautiful as yours, I’d let it grow out, too,” she mused. “Please don’t get any bright ideas if you’re ever bored at that school. Teenage boys can be insufferable and stupid—I can’t imagine how magic would factor into that equation in large groups.”

Michael opened his eyes. “Are you calling me insufferable?” He tilted his head, offering her an equally crooked grin.

She matched it. “Only sometimes.” She untangled her fingers from his hair and he found himself missing the warmth, the gentleness of her hands. “So, does this mean you’re taking the test? Because, I mean—no offense, I’m glad you’re making progress and everything—but this arrangement is shitty.”

He folded his hands over the one she’d buried in his cloak and she inched ever closer, her knee bumping into his thigh. He remembered a time when the barest of touches would make him flinch, but that fear had long since passed. “It won’t be for much longer,” Michael promised. “I had to persuade Cordelia—get her attention. I’ll take the test in two weeks’ time.”

“I can only imagine what you had to do to convince her.”

“A grand gesture.” Michael kept his palm pressed to hers, brushing his fingertips across the small bones of her knuckles with his other hand. He dropped his eyes to their hands while he spoke. “Do you know anything about the Hotel Cortez?”

When he looked up again, she was shaking her head. “No. Why?”

“My father led me there,” Michael told her, finally lacing their fingers together, “and I met your father.”

The storm of emotion on her face tore at him; bewilderment and shock and hurt clamored for space all at once. Her eyes were like glass, her fingers tightening around his as she took an uneven breath.

“No,” she answered. “My father—Michael, whoever you met, it can’t be—”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Michael said. “Those questions you’ve always had about who you are…he can give you the answers. He’s your true father, just as Satan is mine. He can help you understand your place in all of this.”

She sniffled, and a few tears glistened down her cheeks in the soft glow of the candles. “I’m someone else’s daughter,” she whispered. She recoiled and wrenched her hands away from his, tucking them into the long sleeves of her shirt as if the realization had scorched her flesh. “No wonder my mom’s so fucking afraid of me all the time. She knew, didn’t she? They probably both knew and that’s why—”

“Listen to me,” Michael told her, calm as he could manage, taking her tear-streaked face in his hands, “you don’t need them—fuck them. They were never going to care about you—we were born to families who could never accept us. From here on out, it’s just you and me and Ms. Mead. You’re not going to be alone. All right?”

She nodded, and he leaned forward, his lips brushing the top of her head. A habit leftover from his grandma that he couldn’t quite break, though that connection had long since been lost. “Will you go with me?” She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “To meet him?”

Michael promised her that he would.

***

It had been five days since Michael had upended everything she thought she knew about herself. She realized quickly that she’d never really known anything at all. There had been a part of her, however small, that feared the truth as much as she’d been desperate for it. She was made of something sinister, the darkness guiding her power, whispering into her soul, her thoughts, her impulses. She’d been made to destroy, to desire chaos and fire and blood.

She had wanted to confront her mother about the truth, but instead she reined in the anger that simmered for days, fearful of exactly how it would manifest. They crossed paths so rarely now that it wouldn’t have mattered. She and her parents were nothing more than strangers to each other. Her mother, who hadn’t wanted to be a mother at all, and her father, who had stared into the eyes of someone else’s child for years and years, accepting her lie.

Michael had returned to Hawthorne and she ended up in Miriam’s kitchen, her haven in moments of personal crisis. She’d still been trembling from the news, her stare vacant, lightyears away, maybe in a different realm entirely. Miriam had praised Satan, breathless at the idea of having yet another connection to his inner circle within the walls of her home.

It was the first time since they’d met that she questioned Miriam’s care for her, and for Michael.

It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought.

Michael loved the woman fiercely, led by his need to be accepted, guided. It blinded him, and until then it had blinded her, too, as Miriam had tended to the wounds left by the people who were supposed to be her blood. Even the suggestion that Ms. Mead’s love was inspired by the power they held and Michael’s title, his power, and not just him—the lost, motherless boy—made her stomach turn.

She couldn’t bear the thought. He’d shatter, and she didn’t want to be the one responsible for it.

She kept her mouth shut.

***

I’ll be right behind you, Michael promised, his voice resonating in her wake as she materialized in a dimly lit hallway. He wants to see you first.

There was something about the Hotel Cortez that made her skin crawl.

She supposed it was a visceral, human reaction to the sounds that traveled through the walls, the shadows that darted around corners. She padded down a long hallway, the heels of her boots shuffling on the patterned carpet, the hem of her black dress trailing behind her. Miriam had taken her shopping for the occasion, insisting that jeans wouldn’t be proper for such an important meeting. She’d had to agree, and since Michael was now dressing the part, she figured it was only right that she would do the same. It was a simple dress, but sophisticated; slightly shorter in the front than in the back and sleeveless. She’d slipped a black leather jacket over it, which paired well with her vintage-style Victorian boots.

The screaming in the walls became unbearable. Her stomach twisted in knots as the voices pressed in from all sides. Underneath all of that, she felt something else, ethereal and strong, winding around her. It was dizzying, overwhelming, swelling like a wave. She let it in, led forward by it, the darkness reaching out to whisper in her ear. It was louder in here than it ever had been in her life.

She’d never felt confidence like this before. Strength. Power. Raw and unmatched and hers to claim.

A haunting children’s lullaby pierced the silence. There were no words, but she knew the melody being whistled as if she’d dreamed of it before. As if it had unlocked a memory somewhere that she’d forgotten.

There was a door open at the end of the hall, golden light beckoning her to step inside. She followed it like a moth to a flame, the answers she’d always sought just within reach. The whistling stopped when she crossed the threshold into a study, books with their shining titles winking at her from several tall bookcases, black paneled walls somehow warm and inviting. Gold flittered across sleek pieces of furniture and made the room several degrees hotter than the hallway had been.

A man leaned against a wide, polished desk, dark green eyes sparkling in the firelight. The same dark green of her own eyes, she realized, in the moment that suspended between her and this man. Her and her father.

He didn’t look anywhere near as ominous as she’d envisioned—her nightmares had come with claws and talons and all sorts of demonic imagery—but maybe he kept that part hidden. He wore deep gray, this man who looked so much like her; a starched button down shirt paired with a waistcoat and tie. His coat had been draped across the desk behind him, his hands planted on either side, fingers curled around the edge of the desk. She noticed he’d gone gray at the temples, his hair a few shades darker than her own. But they had the same nose, the same curve in their lips.

Her legs trembled, so she took her steps slow. She wondered if he could hear the panicked beat of her pulse. A gentle smile tugged at his mouth, far softer than anything she could’ve imagined. He pushed off the edge of the desk and moved toward her. She watched, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, as he folded his arms around her.

“My beautiful baby girl,” he said, and she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to react to that. She wasn’t sure how he expected her to react. Her father, so inhuman yet wearing such a kind face. A stranger in her life, too. But one she was anxious to know. “Welcome home.”

She let him embrace her, thankful that it only lasted a few moments because she didn’t return it. He held her at arm’s length, apparently unperturbed by her coldness, dark gaze sweeping over her. She tried to make sense of how her life had become this. It had always been this, really; she was just waking up to it.

Coming home.

“I apologize for my absence in your life, and for leaving you with those wretched people.” He had an accent that she couldn’t immediately place, but it was polished and melodic. “My distance was warranted, I assure you, though it may not seem fair to you. Your mother was not always so indifferent toward you, either, but sadly that’s in the past.”

“Did she know about you?”

“No.” He let go of her arms and she shifted on her feet, putting space between them. “Not immediately, at least. When we met here at the Cortez all those years ago, she assumed I was just like her. A stranger passing through; maybe a little lonely and desperate. Our connection was fleeting—nothing more than simple lust after one too many drinks.”

“And then she found out she was pregnant,” she finished.

He hummed by way of confirmation. “She only began to suspect something was amiss when I came to see you in the hospital the night you were born,” he explained. “She’d never told me she was with child, but of course I knew. It was my job to know.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The implication that some demon had knocked up her mother, that her existence had been planned without her mother being aware, hit a raw nerve. She may have resented the woman who’d given birth to her, but no one deserved that. It wasn’t quite as horrific as Michael’s conception, but it still left a bad taste in her mouth.

“My dear girl, you were brought into this world with a purpose,” he told her. “There are countless legions who serve Michael’s father, yet I am fortunate enough to be among the chosen few that he holds in highest regard, to govern them. As you can well imagine, this requires a certain level of trust…and responsibility.”

He took up his spot in front of the desk, leaning against it. She was grateful to have room to breathe, to process. “It’s your birthright—you’re meant to lead armies raised from Hell itself and see this world become nothing but fire and ruin. To stand at Michael’s side and rebuild a new world in his father’s image. You have power within you that you’ve only just begun to understand. You’re a leader, my darling girl. A warrior forged in hellfire.”

“We were always meant to find each other.” She knew that already. She’d felt it so deeply in her soul. “Still, that’s a lot of legacy to push onto someone. Not just me, but Michael, too.”

“You were born for it. The both of you,” he said, as if it was an acceptable explanation.

Where she had wanted to find some sense of identity in his words, something that would make her whole, the truth just left her hollow. Did he love her, this man? Were demons capable of love?

“I wanted the connection between the two of you to form on its own, with as little outside influence as possible. But I admit, I never anticipated just how strong it would be. He cares a great deal for you—Michael. Considers you his equal, his partner in all things. It’s a great honor. You’ve made me proud.”

“We’re human,” she challenged, not taking the bait of his praise. “Maybe you forgot that part: our human mothers.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and elected to ignore the venom lacing her words. “You mean the mother who wanted to murder him in his sleep?” he countered. “And as for your mother…well, I don’t believe I have to remind you of her own failings.” He sighed as if he’d grown exhausted by her stubbornness. “Your humanity will always be a weakness, but it’s something that can be overcome.”

“I don’t see it as a weakness.” She dared a step closer for the first time, her eyebrows pulled together as she frowned.

He waved a hand. “Agree to disagree, then, I suppose. It does complicate things a fair bit, all of those messy human emotions.”

“It’s shit sometimes,” she conceded, “but those messy human emotions are why Michael and I are so close, you know.”

“I’m afraid you’re trying to explain a concept with which I’ve never understood,” he relented. “I am not duty-bound to govern whatever emotions you may or may not have,” he told her, annoyance clear in his tone. “I’m concerned with the power that lies in your veins, my dear girl. You’ve been summoned here not just because I wished for us to meet, but because it’s time for you to realize your full potential.”

His eyes lifted to the doorway behind her, and she turned halfway to see Michael there, dressed just as he’d been the other night when he had visited her. He took long, graceful strides to get to her side, his cloak billowing around his legs. Relief flooded her chest, the anxiety and remnants of whatever frustration she’d directed at her father ebbing away once she felt Michael’s arm brush against hers. It must’ve not left her expression entirely, though, because the grin on Michael’s lips faded.

“Are you all right?” Michael wanted to know. Her father paid no mind, circling around the desk to rummage in the drawers.

She sighed and let her knuckles ghost along his. “I don’t know.”

“How fortuitous that you’ve joined us, Michael.” Her father straightened up, and she caught the glint of cold metal in his palm. She immediately tensed at the sight of the knife as her father approached. “I was about to summon you myself.”

Michael’s pale gaze fell to the knife, too, eyes wide with a note of panic. She leaned into Michael’s shoulder and his fingertips laced with hers for just a second, a touch of reassurance. “What’s this about?”

“The night you were born, I put a leash on your power,” her father said. “Once we undo it—and we’ll need Michael’s help for this—they will grow stronger over time. And Michael, this ritual is meant to bind the two of you together. Her power will never eclipse yours—”

“That wouldn’t matter to me,” Michael said.

“In any case, the binding will forever link her power to yours,” her father finished. His gaze turned to her. “You’ve felt it before, haven’t you, then? How your power fortifies in his presence?” She nodded. “This ritual will make that work for both of you, like a well from which you will be able to draw from.”

“And what if we don’t want that? Or…any of this?” she asked, her throat dry, voice suddenly rough.

“You say that as if you think you still have a choice.” Her father laughed, a low and somewhat derisive sound.

She glanced up at Michael and recognized the flash of doubt in his expression, the conflict beneath whatever confidence he’d gained over the last few weeks. It was still there, even if he didn’t say a word. His gaze flickered down to her own and he seemed to understand what she already knew. We’re trapped.

Their lives had been planned before either of them had been conceived, and now it felt like there was no escape, no way to turn back. She shuddered to think of the consequences if they even made the attempt. The idea of Michael’s birthright had always seemed so abstract that she never really grasped the consequences of it being brought into fruition. And now that her own legacy was entwined with his, it all seemed too real, moving far too quickly for her to catch up.

Turning the world into fire and ash had felt like the only option when all she had was anger in her blood, when the world had been nothing but cold and unkind to the two of them. But now that they had each other, did she really want this? Did Michael?

But neither of them had a say in what they wanted. They never did.

“Oh, come now,” her father chided. They watched him gather several candles from a table between two couches. He set them up in a wide circle in the middle of the room, their off-white color stark against the glossy black hardwood floor. “It’s not all bad, I assure you. Power beyond your wildest comprehension, anything you could ever wish for. The world laid out at your feet, yours to rule and reconstruct however you see fit. I could think of worse destinies, darling.”

Once the candles had been laid out, he passed a hand over them, igniting the wicks all at once with a quiet gust of power. “Dreadfully human,” he grumbled. “The both of you.” Michael’s eyes found hers again as he inhaled a deep breath. She felt his fingers slip between hers and held on tightly, her stomach coiling into a knot again. “Time to cast aside whatever reservations you may have—whether you want to or not. You’re both here because Satan commands it. And you would do well to remember that he’s not one to cross.”

He rolled up one of his sleeves to the elbow, then pressed the tip of the blade into his flesh, dragging a line up the inside of his arm. Crimson ran in steady beads downward, droplets raining onto the floor. He lowered into a crouch, working quietly and efficiently with a precision that she assumed had been acquired through practice. As she and Michael stepped closer, they saw the inverted pentagram mapped out on the floor inside the circle of candles.

Her father pulled himself back up to his full height. “Remove your jackets and shoes,” he instructed. “Then I’ll need you both to stand inside the circle.”

There was rustling of fabric as they tugged off layers, not a word spoken between them. Michael draped his cloak and jacket over the back of a chair, and she tossed her own leather jacket on top. She had to sit down to get off her boots—too many laces to untie—and by the time she’d done so, Michael had already dropped his shoes and socks onto the floor. He reached for her hand again, like it was a lifeline, an anchor, and she twined their fingers together, grateful for it. Her hands were already slippery with sweat, but Michael didn’t seem to mind, his grip around her fingers so fierce that she thought their hands might go numb. He was afraid, underneath that stoic, calm façade. He wouldn’t say it, but she could feel it.

Barefoot, they stepped into the circle and stood across from one another with only a few inches between them. The blood had already dried on the floor, but the sensation was still odd beneath her toes.

Her father stood outside the circle, brandishing the knife. “Roll up your sleeves, Michael,” he said.

Michael did so, exposing the pale flesh of his forearms. Her father passed the knife to her, and her breath caught at the weight of it in her hands. Not that it was heavy, but having control of it made a cold sweat break out across her skin. It was a strange knife, the hilt black and inlaid with gold markings that must’ve held some significance.

“You saw what I did to make the pentagram, yes? Cut identical lines into Michael’s arms, and he’ll do the same to you.”

Michael held out his arms, his hands clenched into fists. She rested the edge of the blade on skin just below his elbow, but hesitated. Her eyes flickered up to his, so translucent in the low light of the candles.

“It’s okay,” Michael said softly. “I trust you.”

Blood bubbled up from the edge of the knife, a dark red line from elbow to wrist. He sucked in a breath, nostrils flaring at the pain. She repeated the motion on his other arm before she could think too much about it, then passed the knife over to him. Michael’s fingers had already run with scarlet, his grasp slick around the hilt of the knife. His blood was warm on her skin, the back of her wrist cradled gently in his palm while he traced up her arm. She wasn’t as quiet as he had been, letting out a whispered groan at the burning sting that now traveled up both arms.

“Now,” her father took the knife from Michael, “take each other’s hands.”

They wove their fingers together, so coated in red, dripping onto their toes, that she couldn’t tell what blood belonged to her or Michael. The air was tinged with it, the heat in the room making the scent of iron potent. Ribbons of scarlet run down their arms like rain on a window, and she found herself both mesmerized and a little light headed.

Her father paced around them outside the circle, chanting in a low voice. The flames of the candles danced in his wake, the temperature in the room climbing. She couldn’t have imagined it—she saw the sweat beading on Michael’s temple and felt her dress sticking to the small of her back. Her father continued to speak in a language she couldn’t decipher. It wasn’t Latin; she would’ve recognized Latin, since Ms. Mead had been adamant about the two of them being fluent in it. It sounded like something ancient. An archaic tongue that accompanied images of hellfire and the odor of brimstone.

She gripped Michael’s hands tighter, the coating of blood making her skin grimy and taut. Her knees wobbled a little, the heat in the room squeezing the air out of her lungs. It felt like she was traveling away from her body; if it wasn’t for Michael’s fingers wrapped around her own, she thought she might’ve sunk into the floor.

The influx of power made the candles flicker dangerously. She could feel it, the darkness. Swirling around them in long, endless tendrils, that familiar whisper in her ear. It dragged her under and took root in her soul—and something finally shattered inside her. Something long buried, with claws and sharp teeth and an appetite for destruction. The explosion of power made her drop to her knees, gasping, crying out, overcome with the burden. It was dark, ancient, indescribable…and it scared her, as much as the thrill of it ignited her veins.

Michael had collapsed to his knees in front of her, still holding securely to her hands—her fingers had gone numb and she was sure that his had, too. Blood continued to pool on the on the polished wood and splattered on their clothes. Michael’s cheeks were wet with tears, his head drooping toward the floor so all she saw was a mop of golden curls. The well had been opened, power flowing between both of them unrestrained, stirring up a phantom wind that threatened to extinguish the candles. She thought that maybe the two of them would lose consciousness from the sheer force of it.

When Michael found her again, his eyes were black—that bright blue edged out completely by the darkness. She wondered if her eyes looked the same. She could almost feel it.

Her father grinned, standing over them. “Ave Satanas.”

The candles went out.

@lastregasolitaria @mylippo @zeciex @lvngdvns @langdonsdemon @yourkingcodyfern @sojournmichael @gabnelson98 @rainbowrosesjas @antichristlangdxn @keavysmithxoxo @artistlunadrayne @codysfallenangels @batgirlbride @mileeyyowens @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998 @gentianea @cryptid-coalition @langdonsrapture @kinlovecody @yuriohoe04 @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean @langdonscurls @jcshadowkiss-blog @frozenhuntress67 @sebastianshoe @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435 @holylangdon @weareallevilmotherfuckers @langdonfern @angsty-otters-blog @denaexr @mr-langdonn @micheallangdons @lostin-fern @crazedcatcuddler @satansapostle @monsucre @softlangdvn @ritualmichael

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon x fem!reader #michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon imagine #ahs fic #ahs imagine #ahs apocalypse #ahs apocalypse imagine #ahs apocalypse fanfiction #fic: from eden

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catsvrsdogscatswin · 5 years

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Higurashi Month 2019, Day 26: Hero

A churchbell tolled softly in the distance, the orange and red glow of flames lighting the clumsy glass windows of the village houses.

A woman strolled through the village, towering, imposing, clad in a black cloak dark as night, her unbound mint-green hair falling in a silky curtain over her back. A satchel was held in her hand, a silver wedding band on her finger.

She moved to the verge of the village, and then outside it, drifting near-silently through the forest along a small dirt road lined with a wooden, snow-dusted fence

The woman stopped dead. There were browning speckles of something red on the ground, something that she inhaled sharply through her pointed nose, and knew, and feared.

She left the road and cut through the forest, crows flapping up and sounding their croaking calls as her feet rustled briskly through the grass. She stopped in a clearing, and her bag slipped off her shoulder and onto the ground.

The remains of a house lay in the grassy cleared space, the shell of a stone cottage, with burned timber scattered all about, possessional shattered and smoldering. Smoke still floated from the ruins of what had once been a home –smoke, and nothing else. Everything was gone.

Footsteps sounded up the path to the road, an old, stooped woman, wrapped in a rose-colored shawl and holding a bouquet of white lilies. She stopped a meter or so behind the frozen, younger woman.

"Are you Ms. Sonozaki?" she asked in a reedy, surprised voice. "He talked about you."

The green-haired woman turned, her own voice tight, cold, controlled, with an undercurrent of smoldering, deadly anger. "What happened? Where is my husband?"

The older woman looked down, blinking quickly as though to clear away tears. "Oh…the bishop took him. Witchcraft, he said." Her wrinkled, gnarled fingers tightened on the lilies –the funeral lilies– as her thin voice nearly broke. "They're burning him at the stake."

Steps shaky, the crone moved forward, passing the immobile young woman and tottering into the remnants of the house. "He was good to me, your husband. A good doctor." She sniffled as she laid the flowers down on what may once have been a hearthstone. "Its not right, what happened."

The younger woman narrowed her emerald eyes above the upraised collar of her cloak, not having turned around to watch the crone place the flowers. "Where are they holding him?" Her eyes moved back. "The cathedral?"

"Oh…" The old woman's voice broke, well and truly, and she looked away, eyes glistening. "Oh, no, ma'am. H-he'll be dead by now."

The mint-haired woman's jaw went slack, a spasm crossing her face as though she had been run through with a sword. Her incisors were sharp –too sharp. "What?" she whispered.

The crone shook her head defiantly. "I couldn't be there. I don't care what they say, I won't take joy in that man being killed by the church." she croaked, voice quavering at the end. She looked down at the bouquet she had laid down. "I'm here remembering him, instead."

Behind the crone, a single thin trail of shining crimson ran down the younger woman's cheek, and she bowed her head, the wind kicking up as her hair floated before her face, hiding her grief. "He said to me, 'If you would love me as a mortal, then live as a mortal.'" She lifted her shaky hands before her chest, nails long and pointed. "'Travel as a mortal.'"

The old woman looked at her. "He said you were traveling."

"I was." Her voice lowered ominously. "The way mortals do." Her nails curled tightly into her palms as she clenched her slender fists, drawing thick drips of blood. "Slowly. No more."

The crone gasped as the young woman turned around: as her mint-green hair blew aside, it revealed two eyes shining like pinpoints of flame, whites a bloody red, pupils a shining point of yellow light. Two twin lines of blood trailed down the young woman's perfect, porcelain cheeks, dripping where tears would be as she slowly stalked towards the terrified old woman.

"I do this last kindness in his name, he who loved you humans and cared for your ills. Take your family and leave Wallachia tonight." the young woman growled, the crone stumbling away, whimpering in fear, as the glow of embers at their feet strengthened, revealing the pitiless, inhuman face in all its horror. "Pack, and go, and do not look back." the young woman hissed, the flames climbing her body and sprouting like wings from her devilish eyes as the crone cried out. "For no more do I travel as a mortal."

The crone screamed as the flames writhed and stretched and settled inside the Sonozaki wife's body, the young woman becoming a single, slender column of fire with blinding white eyes, a column that shot up into the sky and streaked through the night.

Towards the distant city.

The corpse tied to the flaming post inside the chapel was barely recognizable as human, now: a charred and charcoaled grinning defected, hardly more than a burnt-out shell of a skeleton. Still the fire roared, and with a gradual clatter, like fired clay, the structure of the skeleton collapsed, crumpling at the base of the pyre in a sad, ashen heap. The clergy who stood before it nodded approval –the gathered villages shouted, clapped, and laughed to see a witch so stricken from the earth.

"Ah, there. Quite a show." the bulging mayor said pompously, stepping forward to the side of the stone-faced bishop watching the proceedings. He turned to him. "Drinks?"

The bishop yawned quietly. "I…should minister to the archbishop. I fear he's not long for this world, to be honest."

The mayor chuckled. "Off to Heaven with him, eh? I suppose that's the ultimate goal for you priests…serving God in His true house and all that."

"It holds little appeal for me, to be honest." The bishop murmured as he began walking down the stone steps, with the mayor a beat behind.

"Really?"

The bishop frowned, tilting his head down. "There's so much left to be done on earth." He raised a hand in exasperation, clenching it. "Wallachia could be God's own country had I but time to burn out all the evil that hides here." he groaned.

The fire behind them suddenly flared sharply, a shockwave of heated air slamming throughout the chapel as both men stumbled and turned, the mayor gasping. The flames rippled, coiled, writhed and billowed outwards like a field of wheat under the summer breeze, condensing into a spindle of fire that swiftly melted and blew out the stone tiles beneath it, the hollow orange spaces in the flames shifting and writhing to form a skeleton mouth that roared, spreading another gust of hot air through the chapel, like a dragon. This form swiftly shuddered into the shape of a skeletal face with round, glowing yellow-white eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth.

"What have you done?"

"Satan!" the mayor gasped. As though responding to his cry, the skeletal face abruptly smoothed over, the flames flattening and stretching to form the elfin, sculpted face of an aristocratic-looking woman, her eyes still molted pools of white as the dark orange flames of her hair waved and danced, face glowing radiantly.

"What have you done to my husband?!" she demanded, louder, as the flames flared sharply, her voice the booming dissonance of church bells slightly out of tune, the dry roar of a fiery tornado.

"In nomine Patris et Filii…" the bishop began shakily, withdrawing a golden cross from his robes and holding it out defensively towards the figure.

"I am Shion Sonozaki no Oni, and you will tell me why this thing has happened to my husband." the inferno-clad face hissed ferally, flames swelling and looming closer.

"Oh no. Oh, God!" the mayor exclaimed, flinching away. "Shion Sonozaki! She was supposed to be myth –a story made up by heretics!"

"He…he's a witch!" the bishop began shakily, and the golden bars of Shion's eyebrows slammed together as her voice took on a deadly calm.

"Satoshi Hojo was a man of the sciences, and the one thing that justified humanity's stench upon this planet."

"You are not real." the bishop hissed back, recovering his courage. "You, are a fiction that justified the practice of black magic!"

The flames flared and spread outwards as the human-façade was stripped away, the pointed-toothed skull looming through. "A fiction?!" Shion roared. "You take my husband and deny I even exist?!"

There was an ominous pause as she slowly regained her human form.

"I give you one year, Wallachians." Shion snarled as her voice calmed again, addressing the terrified citizens. "You have one year to make your peace and remove any marks you have made upon the land. One year, and then I'll wipe all human life from the land of Wallachia. You took that which I love, so I will take from you everything you have and everything you have ever been. One year." The façade of humanity once again fell away, and the fire roared upwards into a roaring spindle as an unearthly howl split the air, shattering every window in the church.

There was silence inside the great building, as a hail of burning comets thundered

With a thought, Shion's mirror shattered, erasing the stony, tear-stricken visage staring back at her. The shards sang softly as they whirled through the air in an arabesque of sinuous shapes, her booted footsteps echoing off the walls as she strode towards a nearby desk.

With a furious cry, Shion swept the papers and instruments off, hearing them rustle and shatter as they hit the ground. She snarled and hit the table, palm down, splintering it in half, and stood panting slowly, as she glared down at the wreckage.

"One year!" the castle's master hissed, whipping out her arm as an electrical charge spiked through the hollow chamber where the mirror shards danced, whirling them faster. "It will take me one year to summon an army from the guts of hell itself!"

The study door opened as she spoke.

"No." a voice spoke from the shadows, firm and quiet. Shion did not move for a moment, then turned her head slightly, vision obscured by her curtain of long green hair.

"What do you mean, no?" she whispered ominously, slowly turning around as her emerald eyes gleamed red. "That man was the only reason on earth for me to tolerate, human, life!"

"Then find the one who did the deed." her mysterious counterpart responded flatly. "If you loose an army of the night on Wallachia, you cannot undo it, and many thousands of people just as innocent as her will suffer and die."

Shion gritted her teeth. "There are no innocents!" she thundered, voice ringing through the study as she took a single furious step forward, her glowing red eyes casting daggers at the one in the shadows. "Not anymore! Any one of them could have stood up and said 'No, we won't behave like animals anymore.'" the furious vampire snarled, clenching her slender fist as blood ran down her skin, long sharp nails piercing her palm once again.

"I won't let you do it." The mysterious woman's eyes narrowed. "I grieve with you, but I won't let you commit genocide."

Shion snarled and threw herself forward, claws raised and outstretched, as the other woman reached for a sword at her hip.

She was too late, and a spray of blood fountained up into the darkness.

One Year Later

The choir sang in practiced harmony before the repaired steps of the Targovishte cathedral, the citizens gathering eagerly to see the face of the archbishop as he was brought forth on a gilded litter, carried by his priests. They cheered as the cathedral doors opened, the wrinkled archbishop peering benevolently out at his people as his acolytes carried him down the steps, towards the landing where the choir sang. They placed the gilded chair, decorated with crosses and holy symbols at every corner, on the stand waiting there and withdrew respectfully as he raised his hand, both crowd and choir falling silent. The archbishop sighed, then drew breath to address them.

"For twenty years have I served you, and God, as the archbishop to Targovishte Cathedral." he began in a creaking, yet authoritative voice. "Yet never before, have I felt the love of God shine so upon this great city. A little more than one year ago, many of us suffered a vision, during the God-willed punishment of a witch in our midst. The devil himself came to us! and threatened us with doom in one year. And yet, here we are."

The halcyon sky began to darken, amber clouds rolling over the sun.

"The devil lied. Why should we be surprised?" He stretched out his hand as the cloud cover darkened, tinting the world crimson. "Do we not know the devil for a liar? Do we not know his works to be illusion?" He paused, and leaned forward, extending his arms in benediction. "Of course we do! Illusions and falsehoods hold no fear for us, for we are the righteous of Targovishte, living as if cradled in the love of God."

Plap.

The archbishop paused and looked down at his outstretched palms. There was a trickle of blood there, from a cut he did not have.

Plap. Plap plap plap.

More droplets of red rained down onto his hands, a soft rushing sound filling the crowded square as dark clouds shrouded the sky, the crowd murmuring, then beginning to cry out and raise their voices in dismay and disgust as the rain thickened, and its origin became more obvious as the rich red liquid soaked into cowls and hair and clothes.

It was raining blood.

Soft, squishy, visceral sounds suddenly echoed from the tiles and rooftops, and the mayor blinked as something solid hit his shoulder, then bounced off. He stared as the fleshy object lay twitching at his feet. It was…an inhuman, reptilian creature, a tiny curled embryo of darkness soiled in blood, shrilling feebly.

The pavement began to crack, as rivers and streams and waterfalls of blood poured over the cathedral roof and the people screamed. The repaired windows suddenly blew outwards, shards of glass failing like hail as they struck down the priests, one shard impaling the archbishop through his back and knocking him out of the chair to the ground. He struggled to rise, managing to get up on his knees and turn as fire roared up from the cathedral. The rain of blood ceased as the column of fire spiraled up into the sky, dislodging the masonry of the church, as a familiar face loomed through the blackening clouds.

"One year." Shion Sonozaki seethed quietly. "I gave you one year to make your peace with your God. And what do you do? Celebrate the day you killed my husband."

There was an ominous pause as all faces turned up to the sky, despairing when moments before they had been in joy.

"One year, I gave you, while I assembled my armies. And now, I bring…your…death. You had your chance…" Her voice faded away as the fiery visage faded into smoke, which returned to the boiling red clouds.

Not even a moment of shocked silence passed before an explosion ripped through the town, an impossible conglomerate of spires and towers and a castle keep rising from the inferno of what had once been the church. Doors and shutters in the impossible structure banged open, a hellish flock of winged, leathery creatures swarming out and laying waste to the town. They spat fire from their batlike jaws, clawed and flayed open townsfolk with their long talons: nothing could stem their tide.

An enormous flock of bats swirled around the topmost spires of the sudden castle, and the creatures looked up to see their master as the black cloud of bats swirled and fluttered into a billowing face, ever-shifting, ever-eddying as the bats flew.

"Kill everything you see. Kill them all. And once Targovishte has been made into a graveyard for my love, go forth into the country. Go now. Go to all the cities of Wallachia –Arges, Severin, Gresit, Chilia, Enisara! Go now, and kill! Kill for my love."

Shion's voice became a thin whisper on the wind, heard only by those creatures that did her bidding, an echo of untold lament rolling unheard across the landscape as massacre followed close behind. "Kill…for the only true love I ever knew. Kill for the endless lifetime of hate before me."

The force holding the bats together wavered, and the ghostly face above Targovishte dissipated as horror was loosened upon Wallachia.

Several Weeks Later

In a squalid, small village not far outside Gresit, the lights of an inn glowed warmly, welcoming all to come and sample its…comforts.

Not overly good ones, to be sure. It was a toss-up or whether or not it would be better to dare the snow-crusted outdoors than the reeking, uncouth atmosphere of the bar. Several villagers were gathered near the bar itself, while another man, an outsider, sat at one of the tables and drank. He wore a huge, tattered fur cloak and had weary periwinkle eyes, seemingly more intent on getting sloshed than the…fascinating conversation…at the counter.

"So I says to him, 'Its my goat. I been tending goats since I was four years old.'"

"Right, right."

"'And I'd know if my goat was in love with you.'"

"For God's sake."

"He says to me, 'I know your goat's in love with me.'"

"So you said 'How?' Bosha." the lankier partner asked.

"So I says how!" his overweight companion agreed, jabbing up a finger. "And he says, 'Well, she fucks me, don't she?'"

"And that's when you hit him." the other man said, turning to the bar with the other as the stout man picked up his tankard.

"Right across the eyes with a shovel!" his companion agreed, staring into his partner's face…though with the height difference, his blurry eyes were focused on the other man's leather apron. "And now, the headman, he says I have to pay the bastard money because he went blind."

"Not fair." the other agreed amicably, sipping at his tankard.

This…enlightening conversation…continued for several moments, with the stout man demanding more ale for he and his cousin Kob, which started an argument about whether or not they were brothers by virtue of having the same father, or cousins because Kob had evidently been born from Bosha's aunt, ending with a threat to end the argument via shovel.

"Anyone else while I'm pouring?" the bartender asked.

The cloaked man in the corner waved a groggy arm. "One over here."

Before the bartender could oblige, however, another villager burst in, demanding ale to quench his desperate thirst. He was hollow-cheeked and looked frightened: terrified, even, for he had seen the Sonozaki's horde, traveling west towards Gresit.

The mood the bar took an abrupt turn for the worst, with all conversation turning towards whether or not the horde would miss their own little town, and who was to blame for it.

"No, it all comes down to the families and the houses, don't it?" Bosha demanded. "The great houses of Gresit…" He hawked and spat. "Shion Sonozaki? An old family. The capital? All run by the great houses. And they're not even the worst. The Maebaras?"

The man in the corner opened his eyes, which seemed sharper than before.

"We should have killed all the Maebaras."

"Shit." the cloaked brunet muttered emphatically to himself, subtly averting his face.

"Its all about these old families, like the Maebaras, who control all the power and go to war with each other. And who's caught in the middle?"

"We are." Kob said.

"We are!" his brother/cousin agreed vehemently. "Because we, don't, matter. Do you know why? Where'd you come from?"

"Well, out of your aunt, according to you." Kob said with a shrug.

"You came from shit." Bosha said with great conviction. "I came from shit! We all, came from shit! We just work for a living every day of our lives, we just keep those bastards in food and wool…slaves! That's what we are –slaves to the great old families and their games!"

The cloaked brunet suddenly heaved himself to his feet, staggering over to the bar. "Sorry, can I get my ale?" he slurred, leaning over the counter as he placed one elbow atop it. "It's, just…that I think I'm sobering up."

"Alright, alright, but I wanna see some coin from you now." the bartender said. The brunet began to rummage drunkenly in his clothing, and Bosha stiffened as the cloak slipped aside to reveal a surprisingly clean white shirt –and a crest emblazoned in gold on the left breast.

"Oi! What's that on your chest?"

"Uh…" the brunet blinked groggily. "My shirt." He turned to the bartender and held up a slender pouch of coins that he had discovered in his rummaging. "Just one more tankard, eh? Sooomething to keep me warm, while I go find a tree to sleep under."

"That's a family crest. I know it." the stout peasant persisted, stepping forward.

"I don't." the cloaked man responded flatly. He turned to the bartender with an attempt at another winning smile. "Just one more drink and then I'll leave, alright?"

"That's a Maebara crest!" Bosha snapped, stepping forward and crowding the other man as he leaned back off the bar.

"Really?" the other man hummed almost teasingly, and glanced back at the stony bartender again, tossing the pouch down. "Look, here's the money."

"You're a Maebara, aren't you?" Bosha demanded as the other two closed ranks behind him. "House of Maebara! Family Maebara!"

"Never met them." the brunet, his slur becoming slightly more pronounced, before he wearily rubbed his forehead. "Listen, jus', forget it. I'll just go."

He made as if to leave the room, but the stout peasant shoved him back to where he stood.

"No! You're a Maebara! This is all your fault."

"I don't know what you're talking about." the cloaked man sighed.

"Yes you do." Kob said ominously, stepping up beside his cousin and clenching his fist.

"Everyone knows…the Maebaras dealt in black magic." Bosha sneered. "The Maebaras dealt with monsters!"

"The Maebaras fought monsters, son." the brunet snapped back, steel suddenly entering his voice and periwinkle eyes as his stance firmed. Then he blinked and looked aside sheepishly. "Er, so I'm told. This," He gestured to his chest. "-is just an old shirt."

"The Maebaras were excommunicated by the church: banished, disowned, their lands taken, because they were evil."

"Evil." Kob echoed.

"And now Sonozaki's hordes are abroad in the land." Bosha continued, fist clenching. "And whose fault is that?"

The other man gestured irritably. "Well, it ain't mine."

"The Maebaras traded in black magic, and now black magic is all over Wallachia." The stout peasant stated with irrefutable conviction. "I think you know exactly whose fault that is."

The brunet sighed and raised both hands, palm out. "I'm leaving, okay? I'm, leaving, now."

He turned aside, but Bosha grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him back around. "So you can lead your monster friends back here?!"

"So I can find somewhere to piss and somewhere else to sleep." the other man snapped.

"No, you can sleep right here." Bosha growled. The brunet grinned and slowly leaned forward until they were almost nose to nose.

"You haven't got your shovel."

Unsurprisingly, a bar fight ensued, in which it came out that the periwinkle-eyed brunet was Keiichi Maebara, House of Maebara, last son of the Maebara family.

It also came out that he wasn't that bad a fighter, even when stinking drunk.

A day later, in the city of Gresit, that same Keiichi Maebara was muttering sullenly to himself as he shuffled down the stone steps of the city catacombs, on the hunt for a lost Speaker.

As he got deeper and deeper in, however, his resentful mumbling trailed off, and he began frowning skeptically at the walls and the devices fixed to them. There were metal pipes that carried some unknown hot liquid, like the veins of some labyrinthine monster, and strange, glass-covered lanterns that glowed a sharp blue without fire or flickering.

At length, he found a place deep underground with those lanterns, scattered with, oddly enough, statues. Finely-wrought statues, each wrinkle and fold of fabric so real one could squint and imagine a person lay there –for some were laying, some were kneeling and crouching with crumbling knees and expressions of woe, and there was one that had a disturbingly realistic decapitated neck-stump, slumped against a pillar.

Near the center of the room was a life-sized figure in Speaker robes, hands upraised and cloak billowing back as though to ward off a blow. Keiichi stepped nearer and inspected it, tapping his unsheathed sword against the raised stone hood.

"Either someone left a statue of a Speaker down here, or…" he mused aloud, only to be cut off an inhuman groan and the rumble of heavy footsteps.

Keiichi turned quickly, seeing a colossal, misshapen, one-eyed figure lumbering towards him. Its lone eye was blue, but quickly began to distort and turn red.

"Cyclops." the brunet breathed in shock, and yelped and ducked aside as a beam of red light suddenly cut through the room, originating from the monster's shining eye. He dodged and weaved frantically as that beam cut across the room, grinding stone in its wake, finally ducking behind a thick pillar as sparks shattered around him. "Stone-Eye Cyclops!" he gasped, pressing his back against the comfortingly solid rock of the pillar. "Right out of the family bestiary." His periwinkle eyes turned to the looming monster somewhere unknown behind him. "God shits in my dinner once again."

Keiichi ducked and ran frantically out of the way as it rounded the pillar, beam of light raking across the ground. His eyes raked the chamber as he ran and it lumbered after him, potentially spotting a strategy, but then grunted as it grabbed him by the head in one enormous hand and bodily flung the young hunter against a pillar. Keiichi weaved between several more of the blessed, wonderful stone columns as the cyclops fired its beam again, flipping his sword and then flinging it in a perfect shot at the monster, as the blade sank nearly a foot deep in its heart.

The cyclops paused, and looked down. It did not seem to be overly inconvenienced.

"Come on." Keiichi muttered to himself. "Come on! You're dead!" He swallowed and began backing away as the cyclops looked up again. "Stop and notice you're dead…!"

He yelped and ducked away as it fired its beam at him again. As Keiichi dodged behind a pillar, he pulled out his whip and flung it at the beast, the tough leather cord wrapping tightly around the hilt as he jerked, withdrawing the sword. With an expert snap and twist of his wrist, and an underhand spin of his body, he knocked the sword upside the cyclops's chin, blood spurting out briefly as the sword spun free. Coiling his whip as he ran, he jumped onto the stone Speaker, using it as a launch point to rebound off the high point of a pillar, boot flashing out as he kicked the hilt of his sword and it spun forwards, ending in a perfect shot to the cyclops's face, the blade going hilt-deep in its enormous eye.

Keiichi landed as the monster began to collapse. The rumble of its impact shook the upright Speaker statue, which wobbled, falling over as he hastily moved to catch it, and it gleamed red, turning to cloth and flesh. The hood fell back as they collapsed into his arms, revealing a young woman with saw-straight auburn hair cut at an incline to her chin. She blinked open dazed blue eyes, and began to say something, before her eyes widened sharply and she rolled over, vomiting with great feeling onto the cold stone floor as her newly-corporeal stomach rebelled.

"I wished Speakers wouldn't do that." Keiichi commented as he retrieved his sword.

"What?" she asked groggily, weakly bringing her head up as the retching ceased.

"Dress the girls like boys." the brunet responded, not unkindly, wiping the blood clean before sheathing his sword again.

"Its…safer when we…travel." the young woman said blankly, standing up as puzzlement won over nausea in her expression. "What happened?"

Keiichi jabbed a thumb at the corpse.

"You walked into a cyclops. Turns you to stone with its eyeball and feeds on your terror while you're trapped in your own body."

"Did…" She blinked as her voice grew indignant. "Did you climb on me?"

Keiichi shrugged. "Eh, a bit." he admitted without shame.

She scowled and folded her arms. "That was rude."

"Excuse me?"

"Who are you anyway?"

"Keiichi Maebara. You?"

"Rena Ryugu."

Deeper into the catacombs they went, Rena bending Keiichi's ear nonstop about the importance of finding some Sleeping Solider and how it would help them to defeat Shion Sonozaki, and almost completely ignoring all the traps and strange devices he had to fish her out from the whole way there.

Her command of magic was impressive, though. Keiichi's opinion of Speaker-Magicians improved as she carelessly cast her fire and manipulated her ice to destroy traps, all without pausing for breath.

At length they came to an impressive, vaulted room, with a coffin on a dais near the back, more of those strange glass lanterns ringing the room, with an odd glass device filled with some red liquid standing behind the coffin. As the duo walked down the red carpet, there was a soft click, and the lid of the coffin began to rise, steam hissing as gears began to grind.

An ethereally pale young woman rose from the coffin, arms folded over her breast and long mint-green hair floating behind her. Her eyes were closed, and she wore only a pair of black trousers and a white chest-wrap binding her bosom. A long red weal of a scar stretched diagonally across her abdomen, and she floated without any assistance from the machines at all, until she was left hovering vertically a few feet above the floor, facing the slack-jawed duo.

Her head fell limply forward, long unbound hair covering her delicate, elfin face, and at last she spoke, her voice calm and commanding.

"Why are you here?"

"The story-" Rena gasped, excitement plain on her face. "-the Messiah sleeps under Gresit! The woman who will save us from The Demon."

"And you?" the floating woman asked, turning her head a little as her unseen eyes rested on Keiichi. Skepticism was colored thick in her elegant voice. "Are you in search of a mythical savior?"

"I fell down a hole." Keiichi replied, with his typical blasé sarcasm. Rena glared at him and turned to the woman again.

"Shion Sonozaki is abroad in the land. She has an army of monsters, she's determined to wipe out all human life wherever she finds it."

"Is that what you believe?" the mint-haired woman asked after a slight pause.

"That The Demon's released her horde in Wallachia?" Keiichi asked, raising a brow. "That's fact. There's no "belief" involved…but that's not what you're asking."

"No."

Keiichi narrowed his eyes. "You're asking if I believe you're some…sleeping messiah who'll save us, and no, I don't."

"Maebara!" Rena hissed.

He continued without acknowledging her. "I know what you are."

A subtle smirk curled what little of the woman's face they could see through her long curtain of hair. "And what am I?"

A thin trickle of sweat ran down Keiichi's brow. "You're a vampire."

At last the woman raised her head, at last her hair fell back, revealing deep, blazing emerald-green eyes set within a pale, noble face. Her lips were parted slightly, revealing long, snakelike fangs. Rena gasped and jerked back.

"So, I have to ask myself," Keiichi began, eyes narrowed. "-have we come down here to wake up the woman to kill Shion Sonozaki, or did we come here…to wake Shion Sonozaki?"

"You call me Shion Sonozaki." the woman asked quietly, floating down the steps to hover above the carpet.

"I'll call you anything you like if you're gonna show me your teeth." Keiichi tossed back, hand going to his whip.

"She called you Maebara." the woman began, extending one hand to the side. "House of Maebara?"

"Keiichi, Maebara." the brunet replied tersely. "Last son of the House of Maebara."

"The Maebaras fought creatures of the night, did they not?" the woman asked, raising an elegant brow. "For generations."

Keiichi's breath hissed through his teeth, starting to stalk in a circle around the vampire. "Say what you mean."

"The Maebaras killed vampires."

"Until the good people decided they didn't want us around." Keiichi sneered bitterly, gesturing with one hand.

"And now Shion no Oni is carrying out an execution order on the human race." the woman raised her hand to Keiichi. "Do you care, Maebara?"

Keiichi stopped, standing parallel to the vampire, near the dais. He glanced away. "Honestly, I didn't, no. But now…yes. It's time to stop it."

Rena smiled in grateful approval. The vampire was unmoved.

"Do you think you can?" she asked coldly.

"What I think…is I'm going to have to kill you." Keiichi sighed, putting a hand on his whip again.

"Maebara, no!" Rena protested, throwing out her hands. "She's the one we've been waiting for."

"No, she's not." Keiichi argued, beginning to pace in the opposite direction again. "She's a vampire."

"I don't like your tone, Maebara." The woman's eyes narrowed. "I asked you a question –do you care?"

Keiichi gritted his teeth. "I care about doing my family's work. I care about saving human lives. Am I going to have to kill you?"

"Do you think you can?" the woman asked sharply, the first instance of true emotion coloring her voice, disdain and haughty offense mixed in her tone. "If you're really a Maebara and not some runt running around with the family crest, you might be able to."

Her index finger twitched just barely, and a huge claymore sword flew up out of the coffin, spinning towards her hand as she caught it flawlessly and brandished the ridiculously long blade. "Let's find out."

"Maebara, you can't do this!" Rena cried, stepping forward.

"Tell it to your floating vampire Jesus here." Keiichi sneered, drawing his whip.

"You've got nothing but insults, have you? A tired little-" The woman began, floating forward, and grunted as there was a thundershock of impact, Keiichi's whip striking hard and true against her abdomen as she was sent flying backwards. She landed soundlessly on the polished stone floor, sliding backwards with the true grace of a predator as her long curtain of hair hung down over her face again. She gave a low growl as Keiichi withdrew his whip, coiling it back up, and looked up again, baring her teeth in a vampiric hiss as blood trickled down from the rent in her stomach.

Keiichi was unimpressed. "Stone the fuck up." he grunted, sending his whip flying out again.

"You can't do this. Maebara!" Rena begged him as the two combatants circled each other, whip and sword clashing thick and fast.

"She's not your messiah." Despite the rapid movement of both the vampire and his whip, Keiichi's breathing was barely labored. "The Sonozaki castle can appear anywhere, Rena. And the inside looks just like this."

"And do you know what Shion looks like?" the woman demanded, bouncing off his blows and warding them off with quick, efficient swats of her long sword.

"Nobody knows what Shion really looks like." Keiichi panted, increasing his rhythm. "You've got fangs, green hair, and you sleep in a coffin. That's more than close enough for me."

The woman lashed out with her sword and caught his whip, pulling hard. Keiichi couldn't sustain a contest against her vampiric strength, and willingly let her pull him forward, dropping the whip as he went and drawing his short sword. The two went at it, fiercer than ever, for several moments, sparks flying from the speed of their clashing swords.

The woman suddenly blurred red, and though Keiichi lifted his sword and deflected the blow, striking an equal and opposite line of crimson across the scar on her chest, his sword broke and he was sent flying backwards. He groaned and tried to rise, but she was upon him before he could even sit up, grasping the back of his tousled brown hair and wrenching his head back, fangs poised above his face as she hovered over him and hissed.

"Do you have a god to put a last prayer to, Maebara?" she asked in a calm, deadly voice.

He grunted in pain, then grinned shakily. "Yeah. Dear God, please don't let the vampire's guts ruin my good tunic."

Her balefully shining emerald eyes widened. "What-"

The woman grunted as there was a stabbing sound, glancing down her body to see a small throwing knife embedded in her sternum, angled towards her heart. "I can still rip your throat out." she hissed, her smooth voice briefly laden with strain.

"You can." Keiichi agreed, breathing ragged. "But it won't stop me staking you!"

"But you will still die."

He turned his face up to hers more voluntarily, smirking. "But I don't care." Keiichi breathed back. "Killing you…was the point. Living through it was just a luxury."

The woman blinked, then began to chuckle quietly to herself, her teeth still bared.

The light around the two suddenly brightened, turning orange, and there was a soft rush of flame. Rena stood directly behind the vampire, her right arm outstretched and a tiny ball of fire held between her upraised pinkie and index fingers. "I will incinerate you before your fangs touch that man's throat." she warned, as the vampire's chuckling stopped.

The woman turned her head slightly, her neutrally grave expression unchanged. "I thought I was your legendary savior."

Rena's blue eyes narrowed. "So did I. But he saved my life."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "You're a Speaker-Magician."

Rena lifted her chin proudly. "Yes, and his goal is mine –to stand up for the people."

The vampire's eyes turned to the prone Keiichi beneath her once more, and she smirked. "Good. Very good." Her luminescent emerald eyes closed. "A vampire hunter and a magician. You'll do."

The wounds covering her body slowly began to close as she released Keiichi's hair and rose, making the brunet blink. The mint-haired woman stood tall and proud as her eyes opened and surveyed the two humans, the ball of flame between Rena's fingers still defensively shimmering and present.

"I am Mion Sonozaki. Once known as Shion Sonozaki no Oni…" She bowed her head. "Though that title has been passed to my younger sister for many years now. I've been asleep here in my private keep under Gresit for a year," Her slender hand came up, cupping the angry red scar slicing across her torso. "-to heal the wounds dealt by my twin…when I attempted to stop her unleashing her demon armies."

The ball of fire went out as Rena lowered her hand, eyes wide. "You are the Sleeping Soldier."

Mion turned to her slightly. "I'm aware of the stories. I'm also aware that the Speakers consider the story to be information from the future" She quirked a brow. "Do you know the whole story?"

Rena blinked, and then flushed. "Yes."

"The sleeping soldier will be met by a hunter, and a scholar." the vampire quoted, walking to her coffin and withdrawing a vibrant red robe, covered in a print of dark peonies.

"So what happens now?" Rena asked as they watched her fold the robe around herself and tie it with a wide cloth belt.

"I need a hunter, and a scholar." Mion said, retrieving the sheathe for her sword and sliding it into her belt. "I need help to save Wallachia. Perhaps the world." Her blade sang as it spun up from the floor, sliding seamlessly into the leather sheathe without even a tiny hitch in movement from the vampire as she walked towards the humans at the bottom of the dais. "And defeat my sister."

Keiichi narrowed his eyes and looked at the vampire. "Why?"

Mion bowed her head as she came to a halt at the bottom of the steps, her emerald eyes growing sad and haunted as they stared at the ground. "Because it is what my brother-in-law would have wanted." she whispered.

AN: I was gonna do a whole lot more, cover all my favorite bits and turn Rika and Satoko into the sassmasters Isaac and Hector respectively, but then I realized that eh, I don't have the time, and there's already one obnoxiously long snippet for this month. Probably two, since there's another really long one that I haven't finished yet. Ugh.

#Higurashi no Naku Koro ni #Higurashi When They Cry #Higurashi Month #castlevania netflix #Higurashi Month 2019

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kwa-mii · 7 years

Text

AU / Free Day

The end of a week! The end of an era!

This one was 100% the most fun to write and I miiiight have gotten a bit carried away so it ended up a LOT longer than the rest. For that reason, I’ve decided only to post about half of it here - if you want the full experience, check it out on ao3.

I love AUs more than life itself and since today’s my birthday (wow) it worked out pretty well that I get to post it today! Tho I’ve got exams in two weeks so I probably won’t be writing ever again rip

It was defo a fun experience, and I’m really glad that @miraculous-weeks exists to provide me with my inspiration. I also enjoyed seeing all the other fan works!! a good run!!!

Some select words of this fic are in Serbian so I’ve glossed them at the very end of this part of the fic

Killing Hands - an AU Adrinette angst fic (3529 words, up to the cut)

Warnings: mentions of illness and themes of death, plus a bit of nudity

This natural phenomenon, the strange bulbous mountain, puzzled those who could see it from their villages below. Nature had been experimenting when it made this mountain, the young ones said in wonder. The old ones replied that they could have sworn it had looked normal once; in their youth, the mountain had been straight as the back of a military general. It was some evil, they hissed, some curse that pushed at the rock and made it swell like that: stay away. You will die if you go up there.

The warnings of old ones were not enough to keep the curious from venturing up the cliffs, but the physical toil needed provided that barrier. One could set off at sunrise and only pass the first foothill by midday - to get to the rounded stone near the peak would take another day's labour, and few cared enough to go that far to prove a few old spinsters wrong.

Those that did make it to the summit believed in the stories of the devil that lived in the mountain, and became a part of that story themselves. Most didn't come back, but the one or two that did would talk about the reaper with his dread hands and dark eyes. How he spoke in a voice of thunder and spread darkness underfoot as he moved. His claws. His snarl. The stench of death and hell.

The secret of the mountain was more simple, yet more complicated than that. Those boulders that protruded from the stone face, gems pressed into the base of a coronet, marked grave after grave after grave. The mountain was crowned with death, and its king was the one they called Crna Mačka.

Crna Mačka, killer and servant of the devil (if not the Prince of Darkness himself), would always come out of his cave at sunset to watch the night creep into the burning sky. If you looked hard enough, and if the moon was shining bright enough, you might see his shape; inhuman almost, with an animal's head and long claws. He would linger there for a moment, a singular glint in the gloom, and retreat back into the dark. A trick of the light, sceptics maintained, but the truth was Crna Mačka was no more an illusion than anyone on the ground below.

As the sun staggered from the sky, the figure on the rocks slid down so that he sat on the edge of one of the high cliffs, his feet meeting a cluster of roots. This mountain, barren as it looked within the green forest it presided over, was full of life in unspoken corners, and it pulsed like a secret at its core. Only where he walked was there an absence of life's essence, only where he lingered did the world's heartbeat still. Crna Mačka, though he was a living man himself, carried the burden of death and balled it up into his fists. Human, by biological definition, but the ability to snatch life with a touch of his hand made him the monster that people believed in.

He looked down at his hands, unfamiliar yet repulsively his own. He didn't recognise his own hands, could not view the pale skin beneath and trace his pasts and his futures, for the simple fact that he always had them covered. For disgust and caution, he never took off his gloves. On top, he wore a pair of long, grooved, golden claws with savage points. Monster's claws, and claws that provided the ceremony people expected of their Crna Mačka.

People came up that mountain to die, and he let them have their wish. Ungodly thing that he was, some people needed a villain when failed by humankind, and he was glad that somehow, in his great and incomprehensible evil, he could provide some use. His power was ugly, but there was mercy in it. When he saw an animal in pain, or a desperate invalid, he could at least provide an exit, and a gentle hand to soothe their fevered brow. Maybe in this way he could find redemption for that beast that cried and snarled in his depths.

Sometimes he did wonder if that which he called compassion was only quicksilver cruelty. He had been taught of God, and of Lucifer, and how the devil was a flatterer. Maybe he was this country's new devil, maybe his alternatives only seemed good because that was what the devil did: he made evil seem delicious. Crna Mačka knew life was pure, and there was nothing more so, for he could feel its wonder whenever he snapped its frail chains, and its sanctity was not to be questioned, especially not by one such as he.

Still, he continued dispensing his small kindnesses, never minding the lurch of revulsion in his throat. Heretic. Sinner. Monster. Mortal evil for those below to invoke in their curses.

Crna Mačka still hungered for his humanity, but the distance between them and he was too great - here, in the mountains, far off and up high, it was at its most evident. With a sigh, he turned back into his cave for the night. The end of a day. All he knew was endings.

The darkness he returned to was lit by clusters of flickering candles, balanced on the nooks of stone or grouped at the base of the walls - another form of ambience for his great show. A single skull, a big stone seat, and a rug in the centre. He himself slept in an alcove just beyond his makeshift devil's throne, so small and narrow it was as though he lay in a grave. Apt, perhaps. He had built a firepit as well, on which he had set a great black pot for his meals, which were modest and came twice a day. He chose not to spend much time in the cave if he could help it, and so it was bare and simple and hellishly cold in the winters.

A shadow distubed his darkness, and he whirled around, claws out, "What do you want from Crna Mačka?"

There stood, just in the entrance and blotting out the stars, a robed figure. They were dressed in red, with a girdle around the waist and a hood obscuring their face. Faceless and shrouded in flickering flame, they looked like an apparition from hell, but the voice, when it came, was sweet and feminine, "Isn't that obvious? I've come to die."

The voice, amongst its other tender qualities, was young. Crna Mačka narrowed his eyes. He'd seen young people before, begging for release. Naïvely, he had taken them by their word, feeling it was impious to deign to bear judgment on the breadth and depth of their sorrow. But he had once overseen a teenage suicide, just a boy who'd given up, and it hadn't become clear to him until afterwards that life for this one was not ending, but only beginning. The look on his face, the scars he later found, the lovingly packed bag from a mother who assumed her son was travelling to an aunt... the body weighed on him like a sin. He had sworn never again to deprive these people of life - mere melancholy was not enough to justify the evil - and from that point he had decided never to take a story by its words. He needed to see both soul and flesh in anguish. He needed truly forsaken souls with no other way out.

"Come in," he said, and crouched down by his fire, "There should be enough for two. Sit down."

The stranger sat down on the rug, keeping her distance, "I can't say I expected such warm hospitality here."

In spite of himself, he found himself adopting the same gently joking tone,

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I'd just put too much water on the boil."

He took a ladle and filled a small wooden cup for her. The liquid was pale, and leaves floated on its surface; she sniffed at it as he passed it to her. He watched her bring it to her mouth, as the brim of the cup slipped under the shadow of her hood, "Careful, it's still hot. I stewed some local plants in there, so it should be a bit more filling than tea."

"It still tastes like tea. Aren't you going to have any?"

"I thought I should look after you first. That's what I'm here for."

"You're here to kill me. Or, at least, I'm here to ask you to."

He looked at her coldly, "I'm here to show you mercy. If you need anything else, don't waste time."

She was silenced by this, and sipped tentatively at the broth. He crossed over to the big, stark, stone seat and sat. He crossed his leg imperiously over the other, and rested his clawed hands on the slabs that provided his throne with arms. Sat above her, his cat's mask illuminated by the candles below that leant it a garish, infernal glow, he hoped to cast that brief, treacherous moment of friendliness behind him. If he was going to play the monster, he was going to commit.

"Who are you?"

"Some people call me Bubamara."

He remembered the voices of children: 'bubamara, bubamara!', how they used to chase the ladybugs until they landed, and squeal, 'It's on you! Make a wish!'. This bubamara he had heard of too. One dead man, rotting before his eyes, had confessed he had already been to see Bubamara, but she had had nothing for him, other than a bag of coins heavier than any he had ever seen or dreamed of; "This will provide for your family when you're gone." Since she'd had no miracle cure, the man's only remaining option had been to seek Crna Mačka of the mountains. The old man had died that day.

Crna Mačka thought it fitting that this wandering miracle-maker should adopt the name of a ladybug, that symbol of good fortune. Apparently, she carried with her a bag of lucky charms, into which she would reach for anyone she chanced upon her way, and would bring out that thing they most needed, without knowing their woes. A beautiful gift for their lover, material to plug the leak their roof had sprung, an heirloom once lost. Bubamara had a solution to every problem, even those that were not yet known; one had received paints and gone to make a living from selling their work, having never touched a canvas before.

Hearing her story, some part of him had romanticised this figure, set her against himself as his foil. He was dark and she was light, and together they could shape the destinies of men. Some day, he had wished to meet her, to judge if she was human or divine. Benevolent and unknowable, that same Bubamara now crouched at his feet, no longer weighed down by her bag of tricks but instead by some great mortal burden.

"Did you not have something in your bag for yourself?" "It's time for me to set down my bag, mače."

'Kitty', she'd called him. The gentle intimacy attempted to cover her terror; yes, there was terror in the admission. What had struck such fear into Bubamara's soul? "What's your story?"

She twisted her hands in her lap, retracted them into the sleeves of her robe,

"The whole thing?"

"The parts that led you here."

"I'm sick," she confessed, "And that's why I've been travelling for years. As soon as I knew, I had to leave. I couldn't stand around and let my parents see me die, and I couldn't run the risk of passing my disease on to them. So I left home, and I hoped I might get better, except I only got worse and worse and I never got the chance to go back. But I did get the chance to help others, and if I just kept moving, I couldn't hurt them, I couldn't doom them to the death that awaits me. I could give them the hope I couldn't have for myself. And that was important to me - and still is important to me. But I'm reaching the point where there is no hope left in me; I have nothing to share. Because I'm sick, and I'm dying, and it hurts to walk, and it hurts to breathe," he noticed now the slight rasp in her voice, how each vowel snagged on her tongue. She took in a breath, slowed down, "And I thought... you'd help me. You would let me go."

Though he could hear something was not right in her body, he had to make sure, "Is there no cure?"

"None. It's one of the most contagious and most deadly illnesses, and it's a miracle I've lived so long."

"I've heard of no such disease," he said, "How can I know you're really dying?"

Without any hesitation, she pulled the girdle from her waist, and her robes fell open, revealing the flesh below. She wore nothing beneath, and he did not have to imagine the extent of wastage to her body. Bubamara was pale and drained of colour, translucent around the ribs, which carved prominent ridges across her torso. She had lost most of the fat around her chest, and that triangle between her legs was barren, while inflamed skin hung from her hips. More troubling than this, tracked across her body were hundreds of billious black marks, and these spots trailed up along her neck, presumably onto her face. Everywhere. Each speck a stab from sickness' knife.

It seemed it was her condition and not her fortune that gave Bubamara her name. Indeed, those plague scars, like the spots on the wings of ladybugs, belied her very misfortune. The irony did not slip him by.

"What about you?" she asked.

The question took him aback, and so did the fact that she made no move to cover up - giving her skin to the air as though it was the last time her pores would breathe it. To die, after all, was her intention, and she seemed determined to follow it through. Feeling he was invading her privacy somehow, he now looked away, "What exactly about me?"

"Your story. I know that, though people call me things like an angel or a good witch, I'm just a human at the end of the day, and I'm furthermore a sceptic. I don't believe them when they say that you're a devil. I think you must just be a very unlucky human, Mače. And though you wear that great headress and all that black, I think it's just show. Who are you really? Who is the one they call Crna Mačka?"

His face darkened, "No, anyone with this power must be a monster. I'm evil."

"You don't do any evil."

That same moral quandry richocheted through his head, burning at the backs of his eyes. Killing was killing. The selfsame thing, repackaged. He was undeniably, inarguably, a devil in human's clothes. The headdress, the cloak, this was how he made it clear; trust not the appearance of the man, for there is an insidious nature that lurks under it.

When he didn't reply, she shrugged, "It doesn't matter, and I don't care what you are. What's important is that you can end me. For what it's worth, I don't consider it an evil. In fact," he could hear the wry smirk in her voice, "I believe I would be grateful."

Crna Mačka cleared his throat, leaned callously back into his stone chair, "So you're sick. You're dying. You're useless. Why should I end your life for such trivial things?"

"Trivial?" she splutters, "I can't talk to my family anymore and you call it trivial? My mother and father mean the world to me, and living in this one and posing a threat to their life is not something I want to happen. My illness means I cannot connect with those around me anymore, I must be transient and flit from place to place like a restless bug, and that's no life. Life is not worth it when you're alone and have no one to talk to, and every step hurts like a stone in your side, and you can't eat or sleep. My vision is going, and so is my tongue, and I don't want to reach that stage where I have no abilities other than beating blood around my body. I'm turning into a shadow. I can see it happening, every day, and it scares me and I want to beat it somehow, even if that means just beating it to the end goal."

"Death."

After this, there is silence. Crna Mačka looked at his hands, thinking. Someone that had brought such joy to those in need should not have to die, not so young. He shouldn't have to be faced with the job of doing it. Life was unfair like that. These injustices were where the devil really played.

Bubamara spoke again, softening, "Mače, if you're not human, then neither am I. You, because your strength transcends mortal barriers. Me, because my life no longer seems mortal. We are both worms, but at least you're useful."

His voice, softer than hers, drew a sigh from the very depths of his chest: "Then are you sure?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."

Crna Mačka alighted from his throne, and stepped towards his victim. A candle blew out as he passed it, an omen of what was to come. It was cold, but Bubamara did not tremble, and instead kept her head down, watching his feet tap, tap, tap towards her, light as a cat's prowl. He stopped some two feet before her, green eyes unblinking and blackened by night.

Here came the bit he hated most, the bit that haunted his fears. He always made it extravagant, for his own piece of mind and for the other's - he needed to detach himself from the scene somehow, and they needed their expectations fulfilled, to go down in a blaze of glory. He had his own ritual for snuffing out lives. He would place one hand, clawed, on their shoulder, and remove the other from its glove, press it to their skin. That mere touch was enough to kill, but nevertheless, he would intone the words with ceremonnial observance: kataklizma. And they would die. And all that would remain of them tomorrow would be the boulder rolled over their grave. And that was it.

He didn't want to kill her, he didn't want to, he didn't want -

"Thank you," she said.

The words stumped him for a moment. Why. When hell incarnate stood above you, poised to draw out the final breath from your lungs, and condemn you to sleep for eternity, you did not thank it. You did not welcome it. It was not right that she should see him as a hero when he had been long cast in the role of defiler. There was nothing else he could be, or do. This was all he knew, and he did not want to be thanked for it, for it was a torment to him. Stone him, hate him, but never thank him.

He chose to ignore her, and he began the observance of his shallow spectacle, prepared his final questions, his blasphemous invocation of a baptism or a mass, "Are you at peace?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Are you sure that this is your chosen fate?"

"Yes," she replied. He reached out to her, fingers outstretched, claws cupping the air with their cruel glint, and he asked his final question, "Are you truly prepared to die?"

If they were not looking when they answered, he would tip their chin with his claws and search their eyes, and he knew from the look in them if that poor soul was truly honest, or if there was any hesitance that broiled in their irises. The eyes of the truly doomed were still, unflinching, unfathomably dark. Accepting eyes. Martyred eyes. Dead eyes already, becoming deader. The look in their eyes had to be right.

Bubamara gazed down at that clawed hand for a long, long moment. She did not speak. She did not move. She did not look. Her head stayed bowed, her hands remained still. Then, with that voice softer than silk or sin, she whispered, "Adrien?"

And she looked up at him for the first time, and beneath her hood the eyes were right, but the face they were in was wrong, so very wrong, and Crna Mačka felt his heart splinter, wrong, wrong, wrong, familiar and wrong.

His voice cracked. "Marinette?"