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fluffyfranny · 3 years

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So hey! Might as well start posting!

Starting off with an oldie in my past writing archives when I was at my peak in the Markiplier fandom. Still love his content dearly, but I don’t think I’ll write for his egos anytime soon.

Posting this with a lil motivation from @yaysof11037 who has become such a great mutual earlier on this week! (If ya haven’t checked out their works you totally should btw). In return for the lovely angst they provided for me, angst is what you shall receive in turn >:3

Hope y’all enjoy this piece I conjured WAY back in April :0

TW for descriptive gore, past and present character death and overall angst in general under the cut >:3

~Gone Too Soon~

Paranoia.

That was one of the primary emotions Eric felt all the time. The poor boy had been through a lot. He had lost a majority of his family, including his mother and the rest of his brothers, in a tragic accident, and he considered himself an “omen” of bad luck, of sorts, since things seemed to die around him.

Unfortunately, that was about to come true, once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all started one brisk night, when Eric was having trouble sleeping for what seemed like the fifth time this week. He tossed and turned underneath the sheets, clutching his worn-down, yellow handkerchief with an iron grip in one of his fists. This lasted for about an hour.

The primary cause for this state of unrest, however, was not only his ever present state of anxiousness, but the fact that a nightmare unlike any he had ever dreamt was roiling through his mind.

He had dreamt that the rest of the Ipliers currently living in the manor, including his father, had mysteriously disappeared. Eric had been wandering the halls, calling out for them, his cries becoming squeaky as tears threatened to spill over...

Before he found his family and the states that they were in...

But then, he shot bolt upright in his bed. His breaths were rapid and his forehead was layered with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. He pinched his hand to make sure that it was all a dream, and fortunately, it was.

Eric tried to stabilize his breathing then and there, attempting to calm down. “It w-was all j-just a bad d-dream,” he kept repeating to himself. “None of t-that was r-real.”

With a sharp exhale of air, he dragged himself out of bed and left his room. He figured a walk around the vast, ever-expanding halls of the manor would calm his nerves, along with a glass of water.

The weight of his prosthetics made the stairs creak, but the other Ipliers knew better than to interrogate whoever was making such a ruckus. When they heard the familiar metallic clunk against the steps, they knew it was Eric, and they either left him be or awoke to provide him assistance, if needed.

As he made his way down the stairs and into one of the bigger hallways, he sensed that something was off. The air felt thicker, as if some invisible force was adding weight to the environment without anything actually being there.

In addition, he thought he caught a whiff of something along the lines of smoke. He shivered slightly at all of this, but shook his head in denial, brushing these factors off as remaining slivers of his nightmare that still plagued his mind.

Eric was just about to step foot into the living room when one of his prosthetic legs slipped in something wet, nearly sending him careening to the tile floor. Fortunately, he grabbed onto the railing on the side of the wall with a less than elusive yelp to stabilize himself.

He caught his breath and, with fear laced in his vision, glanced down slowly towards the ground. He nearly started having another panic attack when he saw a smear of red coat the tile and flow around the bend. The red coloration was so deep, it nearly appeared black as ink.

With even shakier steps, Eric clambered around the corner to locate the source of the stain…

Only to be met with the pale, lifeless stare of his father, lying in a pool of his own blood.

This time, Eric’s screech could be heard across the entirety of the mansion, had it been any louder. He immediately knelt down and began inspecting Derek’s clothes with quivering hands. His red, white and blue polo shirt was now dyed with an even darker crimson due to the blood seeping out of a massive hole in his chest.

“D-dad?” Eric whimpered, his handkerchief slightly speckled with Derek’s blood after placing it next to him. “W-what h-happened? Pl-please get up!”

He began shaking his parent’s shoulders rather forcefully, causing his head to loll to the side rather limply, then softly thumping back down onto the floor once Eric had ceased his actions.

Before he could let loose a scream of his own, several more heart-stopping yells proceeded to echo throughout the living room and the halls surrounding it, followed by the crashing of bodies. Eric’s head snapped up and glanced in all directions to locate who was screaming. However, despite the noises sounding like they were coming from right around him, there was nobody else with him. Aside from his father.

Then, that’s when he heard them.

“Why, hello there, Eric.”

His head whipped to his left to meet the gaze of a man talked about throughout the household, but none too kindly. Said man stood before him in a red tailcoat and black dress pants, both of which had gashes torn in them, and from these gashes seeped both red and black. Various other cuts also covered his bare hands and face. The red was definitely blood, Eric assumed, but why was this man bleeding black as well?

Either way, it didn’t matter as the man strode in Eric’s direction and placed the blunt end of the cane he clutched on the area where his heart would be before giving the area a gentle tap and stepping back again, smiling wickedly all the while.

“Wh-what have y-you done with m-my friends?” Eric stammered, trying to lace some confidence into his voice. “M-Mark?”

“Oh, poor, sweet Eric,” Mark tutted, shaking his head and scattering loose flecks of blood and pitch-black ichor. “I’ve been waiting a while now to exact my revenge against your...family here.”

“R-r-revenge?” Eric questioned with wide eyes and a more noticeable quiver in his voice. “B-but the others a-are so sweet t-to me. They’d n-never do-”

“Oh, but my friend,” Mark interrupted with a wave of his hand. “You’ve just missed out on all the horrendous things they have done to others. Even to me.”

“T-that’s a l-lie!” Eric tried to shout. “They’d never d-do anything b-bad to others! You’re just t-trying to c-convince me o-otherwise!”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Mark began to raise his voice, inky-black ichor seeping out of the corners of his mouth. “You’re just too naive to see it! The others are evil…”

“No, t-that’s y-you!” Eric finally found the courage to retort back semi-confidently. “Y-you’re the e-evil one!”

At this, Mark’s eyes widened, and he turned his head slowly towards him, a pissed look in his eyes and on his face. He snarled, his lips quirking up to bare his teeth back at the boy.

“You insufferable brat!” Mark said, ever angrier. “Just for all that you’ve said and done, I’ll show you what has been made of your “family” and be on my way.”

Before Mark disappeared in an explosion of smoky black mist, he gave Eric one final glare and remark:

“Don’t be surprised if you end up being next.”

And with that, he was gone.

However, once he vanished, the air around the room began to shimmer before the environment revealed a truly horrendous sight from behind Mark’s illusion.

Blood and gore everywhere.

Eric felt like he was going to be sick at the sight of his friends plastered around the house, laying in their own life essence. He hesitantly gazed around and, one by one, took note of what happened to each of them.

First, he spotted Wilford in the kitchen, draped over the countertop with the broken end of a wine bottle stuck in his head, the jagged ring of glass biting into his scalp and sticking there, all the while drawing blood that flowed off of Wil’s head like tiny rivers.

Then, he saw Bim hanging from a taxidermy deer skull in the living room, the antlers emerging from above his eye sockets to make it look like he had sprouted the appendages.

As Eric shook his head in both fear and denial, he practically bolted out of the conjoining rooms and down the hall he came from. There, he saw both Google and Bing’s dismembered parts scattered across the floor, with a few limbs laying on the stairwell and a head posted atop it. Whoever’s head it was was barely recognizable, for the artificial skin was peeled away to reveal the mechanical insides.

Eric, surprisingly, only started to cry harder now, tears rapidly streaming down his cheeks as he realized that this was not just a dream.

It was a nightmare come true.

He then came across Dr Iplier, whose corpse was laying halfway inside a closet and covered with crudely stitched gashes that still leaked blood, which, to Eric’s horror, was a mixture of the red and black that Mark was coated in.

As he rounded the corner, avoiding going upstairs again, he nearly tripped over Host, whose blindfold was ripped clean off to expose his empty, bloody eye sockets. In addition, he was also missing the skin on one side of his jaw, exposing the teeth and bone beneath to give him a zombified look.

This drew a gag from Eric at the sight of Host’s mangled face, and he quickly fled deeper down the hall.

At this point, he had exhausted himself, so he simply let his back hit the wall and slide down to the floor, where he held his head between his knees. He then began to let loose gut-wrenching sobs that would make anyone else cry, as well.

He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and began to fidget with it, nearly tearing it in half with the force he was using on it.

Just as he was about to fling the cloth away, he felt the air around him drop in temperature, which caused him to look up. There stood Dark, his hair disheveled as if he were running his fingers through it all day. His jacket and shirt were both wrinkled, and his tie was missing.

At the sight of Eric curled up in a sobbing mess, Dark got on both knees in front of him and patted one of his own. He looked up to see the pale man smiling at him sadly.

“I’m terribly sorry, Eric,” Dark spoke at a low volume. “We couldn’t save them.”

Eric choked out another sob as he gazed up at Dark with watery eyes. “Th-they’re all dead! Even m-my d-dad is g-gone. My whole f-family is g-gone!”

He put his head between his legs again so Dark wouldn’t see him cry anymore. He felt a heavy hand rest atop his head and ruffle his hair, a seemingly kind gesture amidst these depressing times.

“Look here, Eric,” Dark said as he gently pressed a fingertip underneath Eric’s chin and raising his head to look back at him. “You still have me. We can be our own little family.”

“B-but what if M-Mark comes back f-for you?” Eric whined. “Th-then I’ll b-be all a-alone!”

“Trust me as you have in the past,” Dark drawled out, moving the hand away from his chin and dropping it back to his side. “He won’t be back.”

“P-promise?” Eric questioned, voice shaking harder than it ever had.

Dark merely responded with a nod and one word:

“Promise.”

Before he could get up and take Eric away with him, he let out a grunt and got back on his knees. Eric could only stare in horror as a spot on Dark’s dress shirt became soaked in black. The spot only grew bigger, as if he were hit with a bullet, and the blood was spreading further out.

Dark gently prodded at the fresh hoel in his gut before looking back up at Eric and uttering two words that would be the last he’d ever hear.

“I’m sorry.”

After uttering those final words, Dark collapsed right into Eric’s lap, his head landing in his cupped hands. He let out a shocked gasp and lifted Dark’s head up to look into his eyes and wave his hand in front of them.

“Oh...oh n-no, D-Dark, please d-don’t!” He began to babble uncontrollably, tears falling faster than ever, with a few landing onto Dark’s cheeks to make it seem as if he were crying. They ran down his face, which seemed to be getting paler by the second, even though it seemed impossible for him to pale any further.

“P-please don’t l-leave me,” Eric sobbed, cradling Dark’s head as he felt his blood soak into his own polo shirt, staining it black. “N-not alone in th-this place.”

Dark could only let out a faint wheeze that sounded like a chuckle before he took one final deep breath and let it out. His obsidian eyes seemed to dim as this last breath fled from between his lips.

Eric gasped as he heard this and, not wanting to lose the last friend he had left, clutched onto Dark’s body and held him close, his head lolling over and landing limply onto Eric’s shoulder.

He sat there, clinging to Dark’s body amidst the massacre of his family that had taken place just mere moments ago, and cried for hours on end.

This was truly a nightmare that Eric would never wake up from.

#markiplier fandom #markiplier egos #eric ericson #darkiplier #actor mark #wilford warfstache #bim trimmer #googleplier #bingiplier #dr iplier #markiplier the host

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elladescent449-artspace · 3 years

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It started with the Milk: Chapter 5 - Not a dance anymore.

Note: Uggggh this is my first time writing a fight and I don’t know if this is any good, but anyway yeah. I’m surprised how fast I got this next chapter done. You guys can find this fic under the username C4mag1 on ao3, i’ll put a link at the end. Let me know what you think of it!

Not a dance anymore.

Leo rolled to the side to dodge ‘Its’ grapple. When he stood he was greeted with the mace end of Donnie’s bo brushing the skin between his eyes as it swung through. Leo jumped back to dodge the next strike, and again with the next one. He stumbled when a crack in the floor and he took a sucker kick to the stomach that folded him like a chair around the guts. Leo slid back with a cough and the taste of bile rising to his throat, cradling his stomach but was thrown to the floor with a sickening crack as he took a shot to the face from Donnie’s stick. He hears the blade of his sword hit the floor with a metallic twang but he doesn’t have time to look when a flash of purple takes his attention. His hands meet the broad side of Donnie’s bo and he’s pushed further into the concrete as he fights it from crushing his throat.

‘Its’ eyes are wide with excitement as it chuckles gruffly. “What’s wrong Leo, can’t hit your brother?”

Donnie was not stronger than Leo. He couldn’t put a dent in the side of a melon, so why was Leo struggling so hard to keep this thing from pressing against his windpipe? Leo growled as he felt the strain in his arms. “You’re not my brother!”

“You sure about that?” It whispered as it changed position, “Leo, are you sure?” It pushes harder as it straddles Leo, hovering over him and blocking out the little light there was.

Leo hears his wrists pop with the pressure. “Stop,” there’s a small chain of cracking as Donnie- or - It’s knuckles pop, forcing more and more weight into the metal stick.

“I think you’re just crazy!” ‘It’ mocks Leo with a laugh.

The staff is inching closer as Leo’s arms are starting to give way. Leonardo is scrambling beneath ‘It’, trying to kick or throw ‘It’ off or something. With a cry Leo instinctively leans his head back as the bo sarts to close in on his neck. Leo twists his body, flexes his guts, tries shifting his grip, anything to make this stop- and then there’s a digital ‘blip’.

Leo smiled with a grunt. “Maybe I am crazy,” he huffed and groaned as he found the strength to edge the stick away, even just a little. Donnie’s tech-bo beeped and a shower of metal plating shifted under both of their hands, “but you’re about to be over the moon.”

The dual-rocket setting was finalized and a flare of purple flames ignited. Blue could feel the heat from under his hoodie and winced as it started to burn. The start of a word starts to form in ‘It’s’ mouth and Leo can see a flash of inky black behind Donnie’s teeth, he doesn’t stop to stare though, finally slipping one leg out and sending a forceful kick into ‘Its’ chest.

It grunts as it’s pushed back but maintains its grip on the bo as it begins to spin uncontrollably. Leo scans quickly to find his sword and staggers to his feet just as ‘It’ is sent crashing through the vert ramp. Leo picks up his sword and pulls out his phone as he starts running for the exit, speed dialing Raphael and clicking the green button. Leo goes for the exit by the kitchen, stopping at the threshold to the main sewer. The phone is ringing and Leo swings his sword in a familiar circle. The magic flickers and Leo’s shakes worsen, “c’mon, magic portal!” He tries again, swinging a larger, more exact circle as he catches his breath. The phone is ringing its familiar tune but there’s no answer yet, “please, please, please.” The portal flickers for a moment before forming completely with an electric zap. He takes step forwards with a laugh of happiness, but it's cut short when his head is ripped back by the tails of his mask.

His wrist is squeezed painfully as'It'presses a thumb into a nerve, making Leo's hand cramp until his hands stop working and his phone falls to the floor.

“Who are you calling, Leo?” There is so much furry in'It's' shaky whisper. An arm swings around Leo's neck and he's pulled into a choke as he's dragged backwards. “Raph?” It chuckles darkly, “you think he 'll believe you? ”

Leo's screen turned colors and a timer appeared.

“Hello?” Raph's tiny voice emitted from the speaker, Leo screamed Raph's name but his voice was cut short when the grip around his throat tightened enough for Blue to see spots. “What was that? Leo?” was enough to make Leo cry. Leo tried to say something, anything, Please Raph please come home, please help me.'It' paused, looking down on the phone for a moment before stomping down on it with enough force to shatter the phone in half.

Leo held tightly onto his sword, he wasn't going to let it fall this time. He ripped his hand out of Its grip and tried prying off the tightening appendage. He got a breath of air and coughed as a single tear soaked his mask . “Let go!”

“He won't believe you,” It started, pulling Leo back from the portal. “Do you think any of them will believe you? You haven't slept in days and it's made you look crazy.” The portal began to slowly shrink as'It' increased the distance between them and the swirling blue.

“Stop it,” Leo kicked and struggled hard, twisting in place as he groaned and cried out trying to escape Its grip.

It laughed into Leo's ear, brushing up on the side of Leo's head with its cheek, almost affectionately, as it continued. “I'm Donnie,” it sang.

“No you're not,” he gasped. Leo started to feel the pressure increase again and his vision started to blur. In the mesh of his panicked mind, he thought,'where is this strength coming from?'

“I, Donatello, the more humble twin is smart,” The portal was getting smaller and smaller as the time achingly passed. Leo dug his heels into the gritty concrete, stopping them for a moment. It hummed, “dependent, funny .. "Leo's hope was shrinking with the portal and'It'knew it, so'It' let them both be stationary as they watched the portal shrink together." "I'm one of the actual favorites in the family."

Leo knocked his head back at the same time that he elbowed Donnie in the Solar plexus. It groaned as it staggered backwards and Leo swung his sword down,'just get him in the battle shell and you'll have enough time to-'It Donnie's gloves were enough to keep from cutting, so it squeezed it's fingers as it straightened up to stand to its full height. Leo could see the scrapes and bruises forming on Its skin from where it had crashed into the wooden ramp. Pieces of splintered wood speckled Donnies mask and Leo could see a few large chips stuck between Donnie's battle shell. ”

Leo tugged at his sword. “Let go!” Leo looked back over his shoulder, the portal was so small now, he only had seconds before it was too small for him to fit and he knew that he wouldn't be able to make a second one fast enough.

It chuckled darkly as Leo struggled, shifting'Its' grip to hold the blade even tighter. “Raph hasn't noticed a thing,” It cocked it's head to the side and narrowed it's eyes, “and Splinter wouldn't believe you even if he did like you. ”

There's a wet shift and the sound of fabric cutting as the sword slipped out of its hand. Oh no. Leo's breath hitches when bubbles of red grow until they pool and spill onto the floor, he could see past the thin layer of skin and fat There was a pause as'It'stared at the gaping slice in Donnie's hand. It didn't think that Leo could do it. He had cut from one end of Donnie's hand., And then the fleshy pink of muscle and then something white. to the other. He had cut down to bone.

Leo tries to say something, but all he comes up with is a shaky swallow and a gasp before he turns.

'It' snaps out of the trance. “No!”'It' races towards the portal, reaching to try and grapple Leo just as he jumps.

Leo is washed in electric blue before the portal fizzes out, leaving'It' gasping for air with a bloody hand and nothing to show for it.

'It' stands there for a moment, in the silence. Its groans rise into a roar before slamming Donnie's bleeding fist into the wall.'It' leans into the rounded wall to press its forehead against it, and breathes heavily into the concrete with closed eyes, thinking deeply as it searches its mind for what to do next.'It'sighed, taking a few deep breaths before pulling out Donnie's phone, which was luckily unbroken considering that it had been thrown along with the body into the vert ramp . It only rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Hey, Donnie, what's up?” There was a cheer in Raphael's voice, he could be heard crunching on something as he spoke.

“Raph, you guys need to get home right now.”'It'played up the shake that was already in Donnie's breath from the fight, presenting desperate concern with a touch of pain as it spoke through the receiver, “I think Leo's is sick, or maybe just crazy, but ... ”It began walking towards the bathroom but stopped, better let it bleed for a bit longer,“ he just attacked me. ”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420926/chapters/69643452

#writing #rottmnt #tmnt #fanfiction #rise of the tmnt fanfic #rottmnt fanfic #rottmnt fanfiction #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #leo #donnie #leonardo #donatello #It started with the milk #It started with the milk chapter 5 #chapter 5

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littleladymab · 4 years

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the tiny, infinitesimal probability of hope

Day 3 of @rqgfemslashweek: Missed Opportunities. Featuring Azu, in mourning. (Spoilers for Rome Arc.)

I can't fill the broken pieces of me with something new -- because what if you come back? What if I just need to wait a little bit longer?

AO3 mirror

Azu studies her palm, the way the thin layer of water dances, the way the light catches on the ripples and turns her skin almost impossibly golden. She turns her hand over, watches the way the scars are obscured, the way her nails look softer and the edges of her blur.

She sits like this until the pads of her fingers wrinkle and the cold becomes unbearable. Which is an incredibly long time, but eventually she does. Hamid left a while ago -- she could hear his faint footsteps on the other side of the partition.

Neither of them spoke, and she's okay with that.

On numb feet, Azu shuffles back into the room and begins the slow, methodical process of getting dressed. It's easier to digest in bits and pieces. On habit, she recites a prayer to Aphrodite as she does this, and for the first time in a week -- hell, longer -- there's an answering warmth that almost is enough to break her.

They were gone a year and a half. It's starting to actually feel that way, the weight of it crashing down onto her bones now that she has a moment where she's not on edge -- where she's not wearing any armor.

The warmth grows and blossoms and tears prickle behind her eyes as she scrambles through her meager belongings for her necklace. The metal heart feels like relief against her palm, a rush of calm and a comforting hand against her head as Aphrodite's presence floods her.

A week in a metal cage, cut off from her goddess. Time twisted and corrupted in the place between worlds. The cold absence of absolutely anything familiar in Rome.

And it all comes crashing back in waves of emotion -- of joy at reunion, of sorrow at parting, of relief and concern and fear and painandworthlessnessandforgivenessandloveandsorrowandsorrowandsorrow--

Azu doubles over, muffling the sob against the back of her hand. "Gracious lady Aphrodite," she tries, voice trembling and tears on her cheeks. "Please. Please, is she okay--"

Is Sasha okay?

There is the feeling of a hand on her cheek, of a kiss on her brow, and Azu knows the taste of the pain before she hears the response. Oh my golden lamb, my dearest, Aphrodite says. I cannot find her. She is where I cannot go.

She knew. A part of her knew, the moment they landed back in Rome. When she saw her empty hand and the space between her and Vesseek, of that look on Bi Ming's face. But then they had to keep moving. They couldn't stop. They pushed and pushed for hours until they were in Japan and locked in a cell and Azu felt that part connection to her goddess break, and the numbness set in.

There will be time to mourn later, she thought. In private, with her goddess to comfort her.

A week of trying to ignore it, of Hamid's murmured platitudes and comforts, they'll be alright, because they have to be. Sasha and Grizzop have to be okay or all of this was pointless, wasn't it?

Azu's hands are clenched so tightly into fists that the heart charm bites into her palm, and that's easier to handle than the vacant space in her chest. All she had to do was hold on. If she had been better -- stronger, more capable, closer -- then maybe this would have been different.

That Sasha would still be here, sulking in the corner of the room. That next door, Grizzop and Hamid would be arguing over something so mundane in the grand scheme of things. But it wouldn't be so quiet. That Sasha would still be here. That she would feel like she didn't like Sasha down.

And Sasha would be sticking knives into things she shouldn't, that she would look at all the food with that same wide-eyed sense of wonder she did at any meal, that she would be right there, just out of sight, but Azu would know. Would be able to feel that presence and know that every angle was covered.

The comforting presence of a dear friend, who had fought alongside her, who had come back to consciousness beneath her healing hands, who had spoken with a practicality that belied her desperation.

The room is too quiet, too empty, and she doesn't know how long she'll be able to keep a hold on everything until she snaps.

"Hamid?" she calls, voice breaking on the syllables of the name, and the door to his room opens immediately -- as if he was right there, waiting, wondering if he shouldn't also call out to her.

His face is pinched, but true to form his hair is immaculate. The provided yukata has even been transformed into his preferred colors, and there is such a degree of familiarity in it that Azu isn't too sure if she laughs or sobs at it. But then he's across the room and his arms are around her shoulders as far as they can go.

"I'm sorry, Azu," he says into her shoulder. "We have to keep going."

"I know," she answers, her hand on his back, reassuring herself of his presence.

"When this is all over, if… if we still haven't found them…"

Azu aches with the truth, knowing that the possibility is that Sasha and Grizzop won't be found, but is comforted by Hamid's determination to cling to the tiny, infinitesimal probability of hope. "We will honor them as best we can."

He nods, drawing back and wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. The traces of tears disappear, and when he smiles, it's wan but honest. "Do you want to eat? Zolf brought some food by a bit ago."

She is starving, but there's still one more thing to do before she is ready, before the last broken pieces of her are put away into a box for safe keeping. "Can you help me with my hair?"

His eyes jump up to the top of her head, where the dark curly bristles are becoming more visible. "I'm no good with hair," he admits. "I do mine by magic."

"Then just hold the mirror. I just… I don't…" She doesn't know how to say it, but Hamid understands all the same.

#rusty quill gaming #rqgfemslash20 #rqg femslash week #a lil miss fic

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a-serial-killer-and-an-eggplant · 4 years

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Chapter 3: What happened that night?

There was a soft jingle of a bell as he shut and locked the restaurant door, checking it twice over. He flipped the cheerful open sign over and shut the yellow and purple star spangled curtains which draped rather comfortably in his hand.

As the soft screaming began once more in the back of his head he tried to simply shake the sensation. Holding his head with a feeling of despair and disgust.

"Not again. I'm not gonna do it again, just have to keep it jnder control..."

"Not doing what again?" That familiar voice asked, almost purring in his ear. As he kept returning William began to doubt his medication was doing anything of use.

"I don't want to hurt them...they have families, friends, futures..." he mumbled.

"Nice alliteration genius but we're not stopping now."

"N-no. I can't- I won't keep doing this! J-just go away!" His words came much louder than he intended, causing the otherwise empty building to echo with his words. It was times like these he was glad he took over the nightshift.

"You can't?"

The figure laughed which was unnerving enough at first, until laughter turned to anger. His teeth gritted firmly as he grabbed both of his shoulders, nails beginning to dig into his skin, easily ripping through the fabric of his uniform. Those amber eyes seemed to catch moonlight through the curtains, making them glow a more blood red color.

"You can't?! Listen William," he began, voice becoming more gargled and less human as he spoke. "You're going to keep letting me use your pathetic body because at this point it's all you're fucking good for! Do you understand me?!" He stared wide eyed but shook his head quickly.

"Or what? You're no actual harm, just a stupid bloody thought!" He barked back, almost unnerved by the volume of his voice as it echoed. Vincent chuckled then shook his head.

"Oh William, this'll be such a shame, I almost had fun," he moved a hand to William's neck, but stopped when the lights began to flicker violently.

Almost instantly he sunk into his skin again. William blinked confused for a moment before holding his head as a dizzying feeling overtook him. He nearly collapsed before a strange noise caught his attention. It sounded like footprints, yet the steps were hollow and cold.

As a faintly glowing sneaker poked around the corner, his entire body went stiff. Shredded fingers hugged the wall, eyes oozing a strange white liquid. The face was of a young child, yet it seemed almost frozen in place, mouth slightly open, as if gasping for air. Messy brown hair afrazzle and clothes stained in blood. It layed eyes on him and the expression shifted. Mouth opening far too wide for it's head and lifting a pointed finger at him. A bloodcurdling scream escaping with no stop.

He managed to regain control of his muscles and started to unlock the door before the screaming began above him. The same child, now floating just barely above. He stumbled back and the kid landed, before beginning to step closer, hand still outstetched accusingly. He backed further away until another joined in. A second child, this time a little blond girl, half of her hair toed neatly up in a pigtail, the other barely holding onto her scalp. One big blue eye hung out, knocking against her cheek as she began to follow him aswell.

He turned away from them and began to run down the nearest hall. He didn't recognize the faces, nor understood it all but there was one thing he did know, the second exit was his best bet. He just about reached it when two more kids blocked the path, twins, a boy and girl with straight black hair and slit throats. Despite the screaming they seemed almost happy with the despair that filled him. He backed further from the group into the old backroom, immediately after a red headed boy followed, trapping him in the room.

His heart was racing and his chest burned. The kids just stepped closer, the white ooze splashing in little puddles on the floor before vanishing. He glanced desperately around the room, it seemed like nothing but boxes and old arcade machines, minus the old Spring Bonnie suit. The idea was stupid in all of his mind, yet he couldn't stop himself with following true with it.

He grabbed the inner crank along the top edge of the chest, turning it quickly, and nearly screaming every time his sweaty palms lost grip of the metal. He would glance back at the children but oddly enough they'd stopped coming closer, instead just stood there pointing almost mockingly. He finally pulled enough away to slip into the suit, before fixing the oversized rabbit head over his own.

Slowly the screaming faded, replaced by empty stares. They began to float, as if trying to reach his eye level again. The stillness only made him panic more. The edges of the suit clung tightly to his skin, just enough room to keep from pinching at his skin. He tried to take another step back but immediately his the brick wall behind him.

"Your future..." the girl whispered ever so softly. The other children nodded and began to repeat the words, chanting emotionlessly.

"Your future... your future..." it went on until the words were deafening and he was almost sure he saw the door morph into just another layer of brick. But just as quickly as it began they once again went silent as a sixth child appeared behind them all. From a distance he could hardly recognize any facial features, but as it moved closer his eyes widened in sheer horror.

The face had been torn, as if dragged across the concrete until almost all of the skin was gone. Hazey green eyes had chunks of rocks and glass inside then and the thick brown hair looked as if someone had actively been attempting to rip up the scalp. The body was just as badly maimed, limbs bent in ways that were far from possible and neck dotted with bloody fingerprints. The pink spotted dress she wore had been reduced to almost nothing more than crusted threads. A disgusting fate for a four year old.

Charlotte. He knew it was her without a doubt, from the little freckles on her tiny hand, to the fact that it was the same dress she'd worn when she went missing.

As he watched her closely a faint ticking began just beneath his breath.

Tik tik tik

She stared coldly, though it didn't seemed to be aimed at him, rather just beyond. Her eyes began too ooze as well, along with faint natural tears that seemed non existent in comparison. His mouth went dry and his voice almost completely escaped him, as if they'd ripped away his vocal chords right through the suit. He started a shaky foot forward, and held a hand out to her.

Tik.tik.tik.tik.

"Charlie, I'm-" his words were cut as his foot touched the floor. The ticking became obnoxiously fast and he knew immediately he was doomed.

Tiktiktiktiktiktiktiktik

She grabbed the hand of the suit and seemed to smile faintly, but it only seemed like further mocking. As she tried to squeeze it's hand it all backfired. Every piece working it's way quickly into place. William screamed, hands immediately grabbing the metal eyeballs, just barely managing to rip them out before they could be shoved into his skull. A bone chilling scream immediately escaped him, echoed by another voice, far different from his own.

Every nerve began to burn as blades of metal were slid into place, sliding almost too perfectly into him, so much so that the skin folded over the wounds as if closing an old pocket. A sharp pain hit the back underside of his head. A cylinder like object forcing it's way through, just centimeters from his skull and spine. He gagged realizing it must've been the extra oil tank, something he could have, and should have removed before entering. But it felt stupid to curse himself over safety procautions now.

As his body began to seize and he fell to the floor in a bloody screaming mess the kids all simply watched. Finally a few grabbed a limb, both arms, both legs and the head. Charlie just continued to stare. The layed him down on the floor, holding his limbs down in place until he stopped screaming and the world began to fade to black. Finally they propped him up against the wall, like there'd been no movement of the suit at all and the blond girl hung an out of commission sign on his ear. They all seemed to giggle proudly, but he couldn't hear them for long as his conscious completely faded, and a final breath left him.

#fnaf #fnaf au #fnaf fanart #five nights at freddy s #william afton #fnaf story #williamafton #purple guy #afton Insanity au #insanity au

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trouvelle · 5 years

Text

Emogust 19.08 — Gambling

A/N: For the first prompt of the third week of DCMK Emogust 2019. I have zero experience with actual gambling, just saying D: I hope this aint too far off on the tangent! @mintchocolateleaves @sup-poki

He can’t take his eyes off of her.

Her lips are red, the bright color of blood on newly fallen bed of snow. Her skin is sallow, made of a tawny beige only found in the sand in some far away island. Brown, unruly waves settle against her cheek, laying past her neck and dangling freely against her shoulders. If she was awake from her comatose dream, she would possess two beautiful, gemstone eyes, the shade of lapis lazuli trapped in a pool of black water. But right now she is dreaming her dream, this precious one, a death dream on a white bed—like a sacrifice to the demons underneath.

Kaito stares down at her, his hands settle against the cool steel of the table where her body lay. He grazes the tip of his finger against the skin around her shoulders—it feels so terribly cold, yet so soft against his touch. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he knows—much too well—just how real she is at this moment.

She appears lifeless, like a beautiful doll, so lovely and cold.

He feels his stomach twist inside out; he grips onto the metallic table tightly as he attempts to hold back the torrent of emotion—he feels like throwing up. His insides churn and turn; his heart is visited by some icy poison, caught within his throat. Kaito wants to scream—but the sound is buried deep beneath layers and layers of memories. He’s trained himself to not let his poker face crumble.

His mind is blank—it is empty, but his body, of its own volition, begins to tremble.

Aoko, the woman who yesterday smiled brighter than any jewels he had ever seen.

Aoko, the woman who yesterday cried as they watched a romance movie of her choice, with a bowl of popcorn on her lap.

Aoko, the woman who yesterday laughed her adorable laughter for him and his ears only, as she drew doodles on his face as his punishment for losing a game of cards (he had let her win, little to her knowledge, only to see that smile of hers).

The woman who just yesterday made love to him in their bed, her body writhing beneath his.

The woman, who just yesterday, he was finally able to kiss with all the love in the world.

The woman who, just yesterday, was alive.

Today, she is not.

Kaito has no one to blame but himself. All along, he had kept his perfect act as Kid. He did it so well because he knew how good he was. He always planned meticulously and come heist time, he never had any doubt that everything will run smoothly. If he were to go down, he had nothing to lose anyway.

He did feel lost when the time came for him to retire. But along with it, he thought he had gained something of more importance in his life. He thought he had all the time in the world to make up for years of yearning to be together with Aoko—they both did.

The next moment, life decided to pull its last cruel joke on him. Kaito is reminded of something he has dismissed for so long: He has been gambling with his life, gambling with Fate. It’s time for everything to catch up to him.

He thought he could have it all. Reality keeps him in check that he has lost at his own game.

It’s a tradition to wear black at funerals, for it is a color of respect to honor the dead. Black is such a hideous color. It’s dull and somber, it sucks in all the brightness around it as if it were void of life, like the eyes of a hungry beast. Around him, crowd gathers, forming a mass of ebony, like a swarm of bats flying from the very pit of a deep, dark cave. It reminds Shinichi of the shade of vultures feasting on the leftover carcass of some animal—such a terrible color.

Ran never really liked that color; she found it much too depressing.

“Everyone has a color of their own,” She said to him, “Yours is blue—the stretch of the sky as it spreads all above us and falls towards the horizon. Like the depths of the ocean, the shade of intellect and consciousness. It’s a color that suits you best.”

Except that she is not here to make any objections.

He can hear the sniffling of the women, the wailing of the children, and the hushed tones of the men. None of them even knows who is in this white coffin—for all they know, it could be empty, full of air and lies like the rest of the world. He knows Heiji will voice the same question too, when he gets here.

Shinichi doesn’t understand what exactly the point of all this is. Ran was an Angel in as many ways possible, she was the kind of person who will not fade into the depth of memory. And she was too young, much too early.

All these people in the crowd will cry and cry, and then leave to go home to their houses. Life will go on for them, inevitably. And so will it be for him. In truth, he thinks she had the loneliest and shortest life of all.

They spent most of their lives with each other. He used to fear for her—feared that she would discover how horribly wretched and pathetic he was, but she loved him. He was constantly entranced by her, and fell into her as if she were an endless ocean and he wanted nothing more than to drown into the softness that was her.

He is begging for poison and ambrosia nectar of the Gods and Goddesses, whatever and whoever could save him.

Ran was his soul, his heart, his sin. She was made of polished glass and moonbeams, sprinkled with tons of love. She was of the purest heart and was just divine. She simply desired his presence and his touch. She simply wanted him to be open to her, so she could help him carry his burden and secrets.

And then she was finally his—completely and wholly his. Near the end, he found out that along with the kiss they share, his heart would be stolen all over again, leaving him weak by his feet. They were like the perfect pair of swans, swimming together in a golden lake where the surface is glimmering ethereally.

Contrary to him, she was a woman who possessed a beauty so rare and so haunting that it was not meant to be in this irreverent world.

He has known since the beginning that only bad things will come to her if he sticks around. But that moment he was cured, the one thing that he hoped for was to go to her, no matter the odds. He gambled with the risks, and he thought he had made the right choice when their happiness outweighed everything else by a trillion.

He thought he could finally have it all. He never thought it was going to last for only a fleeting second.

In the end,

Kaito loses yet another piece of his identity.

Shinichi is submerged; he is drowning, fast.

And Heiji, he just never showed up.

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elsaclack · 5 years

Note

imma just state for the record that while i really want you to get on writing the next chapter of the royalty AU, i also REALLY REALLY WANT YOU TO WRITE ANOTHER SEGMENT FROM YOUR OLD “JAKE CAN SENSE AMY’S FEELINGS” SOULMATE AU LAKSJDFLAKSDJF 😍😭💕 (idk if the old drabbles still exist online at this point but wow i think about that AU maybe once every 16 minutes, i’m a mess)

HELLOOOOOOO ERICA i’m not even sure if you remember sending this to me, it’s been sitting in my ask box for THAT LONG!!! but it’s been too long since i’ve been able to write anything i’m really REALLY proud of so i decided that tonight is the night!! and when i went to my ask box to knock out a prompt, this one literally started writing itself!!!!

lmao!!!!

SO YEAH u said another segment from the soulmates can feel each other’s emotions au and i thought what better segment to write than the one you liked the most out of the old ones that i STUPIDLY forgot to save/crosspost before i deleted!!! aka i rewrote it LMAO

it’s. Different than it was before but that’s because i had no idea what i was doing before and now i kind of have half of an idea about what i’m doing lmao it references one of the other one-shots and i’m about 95% sure i still have that one as a google doc so after i copy and paste this bad boy into a google doc, i’ll double check that i still have that other one too :-))))))))))))))

ANYWAYS THANK YOU FOR THIS AND THANK YOU FOR THE ROYALTY AU I PROMISE I WILL FINISH IT PLEASE ACCEPT THIS AS AN APOLOGY FOR BEING SO FREAKING LATE ON UPDATING LMAO

Amy’s front door is incredibly old.

There are places between the grains of wood in which the paint has seeped and morphed together before it dried, Jake notes.

He’s been staring at said grains for the better part of five minutes now - or, at least, that’s how long he’s been aware of the fact that he’s been staring at said grains. It’s really stupid, all things considered. Stupid that he’s paralyzed on her doorstep when he’s trudged across it more times than he can count. Stupid that he’s been standing her motionless for so long, he’s certain he looks like a weird stalker to any of her neighbors who might be looking through their peepholes out into the hall. Stupid that with every second that passes, the ice cream in this plastic bag melts a little more.

Stupid that every time he inhales, he feels her split and aching heart, feels her loneliness, feels her bitterness, all as real and intimate as if they are his own.

Something happened half an hour ago. He’s not entirely sure what - hasn’t tried sussing it out beyond the initial bombardment - all he really knows is that he was home, on his couch, content with his Jurassic Park with limited commercial interruptions, and then it felt like the whole earth was falling to pieces and he knew.

So maybe he is sure about what happened - she’d mentioned as she left the precinct earlier that she had dinner plans with Teddy tonight. And it’s odd, how beyond his immediate concern for her, he feels his own undeniable sense of hope rising. His soulmate - who doesn’t know she’s his soulmate - is single once again.

Finally.

Maybe, he’d told himself as he mindlessly snatched his keys off the counter and jogged out of his apartment. Maybe.

“Amy?” He calls as he raps his knuckles against the door. Her emotions flicker in a familiar rhythm against his breast - a split-second of surprise, a mix of confusion and apprehension, a lick of irritation. “Ames, it’s me. You home?”

(Of course he knows she’s home, but this is all for her benefit, he’s not going to come gallivanting in ten minutes into her single-hood toting ice cream and a declaration of his undying love and an oh, yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you I’m your soulmate -)

Her apprehension and irritation are gone now, giving way to a much larger portion of pure confusion. “Jake?” he hears her voice moving, muffled, but close beyond the closed door. The light seeping out through the peephole flickers as her head moves by. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says as nonchalantly as he can. “Your drug store had a better deal on ice cream - two-for-one.” He hoists the bag up a little higher, as if the opaque brown plastic will back his claim. “I figured since I was already in the neighborhood, I’d come by with dessert.”

Her confusion grows more intense - the light has not returned to the peephole. “I told you I had a date tonight,” she says slowly.

He’s lucky she can’t feel his emotions - otherwise, she’d register the spike of panic jutting up in his chest. “Oh, that was tonight?” His voice cracks beneath the pressure of his scrambling ruse; the skin of his forehead is in danger of ripping for how grotesquely his brows have contorted into what he can only hope is an expression of shock. “I thought you said that was tomorrow!”

“No, tonight.”

“Maybe it really is time to invest in one of those planny-thingies.”

“Why, so you can keep track of my date schedule? And don’t pretend like you don’t know they’re called planners, you got me one for Secret Santa last year.” There’s a savagery to her tone echoed by a twist of pain in her chest; he opens his mouth, but her immediate pulse of regret gives him pause. “I’m sorry,” she says, now much quieter, and he can’t pretend to hide his concern any longer.

(It’s not like he’d have to work that hard to come up with an excuse - she’s practically an open book, especially to him, even with a closed door between them, and it certainly doesn’t help that he’s an amazing detective-slash-genius.)

“Are you okay?”

The pain in her chest seems to wrench a little wider, pierce a little deeper. “I don’t know,” she says, and the light in the peephole reappears a split-second before something solid thunks against the door from the other side.

(Her forehead, he’d be willing to bet.)

“Do you want me to leave?”

The part of her that seems to jump at that suggestion is a bit of a blow to his ego, but it’s nothing compared to what the skittish panic that flares to life the moment the question leaves his lips does. He hears her sigh again - hears the metallic sounds of a hand landing on the doorknob - hears silence. And then -

“No.”

- so small and quiet, he almost misses it.

“Do you want me to come inside?”

“I don’t know.”

And she really doesn’t, he notes.

“I promise I won’t judge,” he offers. “You don’t even have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to. If - if something, y’know, uh, happened. You don’t have to talk at all, we can just - we can sit and watch TV and eat ice cream and I can run my mouth until it’s just like white noise.”

She’s quiet as she deliberates. “What kind of ice cream?”

“Cherry Garcia, obviously.”

A pulse of gratitude and affection and something else he doesn’t exactly have a name for warms his chest as the lock on her front door slides out of place. “I just - I need to warn you,” she says before she opens the door. “Don’t say a word.”

She opens the door before he has a chance to clarify, and the moment she does he understands - it’s clear that she’s been crying. And he well and truly hates himself for the first thought that pops into his stupid reptilian brain:

She is the most beautiful person that has ever existed.

Her cheeks are red - rubbed raw from her swiping fingers and probably tissues to blot away any running mascara that streaked down toward her jawline. There are no tears glistening in her eyes or clinging like dew drops to her eyelashes, but the whites of her eyes are still a little bloodshot, and the browns of her pupils are intense pools of chocolate that seem to pierce his very soul in the brief split-second she allows herself to meet his gaze. Even her lips look darker than usual - probably stains leftover from whatever lipstick she’d so carefully drawn on just to haphazardly wipe away.

It honestly takes him a minute to even register the fact that her hair is thrown up in a knotted, wild bun, and that her frame is essentially hidden beneath the baggy layers of a massively over-sized Cheap Trick concert t-shirt and the rattiest grey sweatpants he’s ever laid eyes on. All in all, he’s very obviously walked into the immediate aftermath of an Amy Santiago break-up.

And she is the most beautiful person that has ever existed.

“I said don’t say a word.” she repeats, this time through grit teeth. He panics for a split second, ready to dump the ice cream on the floor and fling himself out the window if he’d subconsciously spoken that totally stalker-esque monologue out loud, before his awareness catches up to him and he realizes he’s been staring. Motionless and staring, actually. Or, well, more like motionless and gaping and staring. A quick assessment of her emotions confirms, she’s not feeling shock - she’s embarrassed and self-conscious. She thinks he’s judging her.

Well that simply won’t do.

“I’m just waiting for you to go turn the TV on so I can get spoons,” he says as he gestures toward the kitchen, hoping his bravado sounds more natural than it feels.

Suspicion has joined the maelstrom of emotions storming through her chest, but it only seems to manifest in her slightly narrowed eyes; she backs away a pace, and then two, before finally turning away and trotting out into her living room. He releases the breath still caught in his chest in one quick huff, and shakes his head as if to clear the cotton suddenly stuffed there as he makes his way toward her silverware drawer.

“It’s the third drawer to the right of the dishwasher,” he hears her call as he pulls the drawer open.

“I know,” he says, letting an ounce of indigence color his voice. “You think I don’t know where your silverware is?”

“I don’t know!” she says, and not for the first time he’s so grateful that she’s his soulmate - otherwise he’d be left wondering if she was kidding beneath the miles-thick layer of outrage ringing with her words, instead of feeling that little bud of amusement in the center of everything else. “Teddy never figured out where it was and we dated for nearly a year, you’ve only been over here, like, ten times!”

He’s also thankful for the wall standing between them at this moment - the wall that covers his involuntary wince, accented by stabbing the spoons through both pliant ice cream surfaces at the same time. “Well,” he says as he gracefully lifts both ice cream cartons and eases the drawer closed with his hip at the same time, “that’s the difference between me and Ted-odore - I’m a detective. I remember details.”

Her expression is equal parts disgruntled, thankful, and annoyed when he makes his way into her living room. “Teddy’s also a detective,” she reminds him as she plucks her carton of ice cream from his hand.

“Ah, but only I am an amazing detective-slash-genius,” he reminds her. They sit at the same time - her carefully, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch over one shoulder and folding a leg under her in one movement, him flopping back, the force of his body connecting with the cushions just short of hard enough to jostle the narrow table behind the couch.

It’s the end of the conversation for quite a while - long enough that they get through an entire episode of The Office without interruption, long enough that half of his ice cream is gone and his fingers are well and truly numb. It’s just long enough that he knows she’s absorbed in what she’s watching - her eyes never deviate from the screen, and the inner turmoil seems to quiet down to some distant back-burner in her mind. Just long enough, he thinks, for him to do a little surreptitious investigating from right here on her couch, without her ever noticing.

He turns to his right, away from her, pretending to cast around on the table behind the couch for a coaster upon which to set his ice cream. He already knows there’s a stack of three on the coffee table eight inches from his knees - the fourth is on the other side of the coffee table, beneath Amy’s quarter-finished ice cream - but he also happens to know that she has a nice set of geode-looking coasters stacked neatly on this table, equal parts artistic and utilitarian, and (if he’s not mistaken) identical to the ones he’d spotted at Captain Holt’s house some eighteen months earlier.

He pretends to grapple for them - they’re two inches to the right of where his hand is currently grasping - all while studying the scene laid out on the dining room table just visible from this angle. There are still dishes there - dirty dishes, if he’s not mistaken - which is, of course, highly uncharacteristic for the woman to whom they belong. It’s clear the meal was in progress when...something happened. Something abrupt and unexpected, something shocking - something that clearly rocked her to her very core, drudging up feelings of isolation and loneliness and a few others he recognizes from the dark weeks that followed his father leaving all those years ago.

He’s practically bursting at the seams with desperation to know why.

The light piano theme song plays over the end credits just as Amy loudly and pointedly clears her throat, and he winces as his fingers close over the coaster he was seeking. “You’re not as sly as you think you are, Mr. Genius,” she mutters as he rights himself on the couch again.

He sighs as he leans forward to set his coaster and carton on her coffee table. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he reiterates, and he knows from her quiet calm resonating near his heart that she truly understands that he means it. “I just - y’know, I wanna, um. Make sure that you’re okay, and stuff.”

She doesn’t look at him. The next episode is already queuing, seconds away from starting automatically, but her eyes are now glazed as she chews the inside of her cheek. Movement by her hip catches his eye - her fingers drum restlessly along the side of the remote, the only outward sign of her visceral inner turmoil, now back to center stage.

“I wanna talk about it,” she says haltingly, thumb mashing down on the pause button. “I do, I - I need to talk about it. I just -”

- don’t want to, he finishes in his mind after she falls silent again. Even if he didn’t have a front-row seat to the weighing of emotions happening in her gut, he could easily follow through her facial expressions - even the nano-expressions, the ones that really don’t even fully register before they’re gone, replaced by the next.

“It - it sucks, okay?” she finally says. “This whole situation just sucks.”

He remains silent.

“We were, like ten minutes into dinner and everything was going fine. I was telling him about that perp Charles and I took out behind the bakery earlier, and how Charles refused to leave the scene until he’d sampled literally everything the bakery sold, and when I looked up I realized he’d spilled wine all over himself while I was talking but he hadn’t even noticed it because - because -”

She draws in a ragged inhale; he can feel it dragging like knives across his heart.

“I’ve never heard of a connection manifesting that late in someone’s life,” she says after a moment of composition. “I mean - I know it’s possible, obviously, I’ve read articles about it and everything, but I’ve never known anyone who’s had that happen to them. It’s always young kids to teenagers, that’s when it’s most common for the connection to start - Teddy’s thirty-seven years old. He didn’t think he was the receptive one in his partnership. He didn’t think he had a partner. But he does, and he felt them for the first time half-way through my story about Charles shotgunning a croissant. And it wasn’t me.”

The silence is thick and swelling in his head, and the temptation to scream the truth is almost overwhelming for all of two seconds. He’s not certain he would have been able to keep his composure, if not for her stark feelings of inadequacy roiling with her heartache radiating through his chest.

“That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you,” he starts, far more tentatively than he would like. She rolls her eyes. “Hey, I mean it. There’s nothing wrong with you, Amy.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she mutters, “you’ve felt your soulmate since you were seven years old. All I’ve had for my entire life is radio silence. Every single one of my brothers is the receptive one in their partnerships. I’m the only one of all my siblings. My parents had already met and were dating as teenagers when their connection started. I am literally the only person in my immediate family who doesn’t feel a connection. It’s not that outlandish to assume I’m the defect, here.”

“Maybe you’re just not the receptive one,” he counters, determination growing with every ounce of inwardly-focused disdain he feels pouring through her very veins. “Maybe there’s someone out there right now who can feel everything you’re feeling, who’s hurting just as bad as you are because you’re hurting so bad right now. Maybe there’s someone who’s been looking for you for his entire life, who’s looking that much harder so he can prove to you that you’re not defective, you’re not a mistake, you’re not worthless.” She’s staring at him full-on now, brows furrowed, intently focused on his every word. “You’re one of the kindest, most thoughtful and amazing people I know, Ames. Your soulmate is out there and as soon as you find each other, I promise, this will all be worth the wait. Don’t be so mean to yourself because some chump missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime so he can go out hunting for a soulmate while covered in red wine stains. Okay?”

She seems to hesitate, before the corners of her mouth twitch against a smile. “Okay,” she says softly.

He’s not sure how and he’s not sure why, but he does know one thing: something in the air has shifted.

He isn’t able to put a name to it until three weeks later, when he finds himself back in that very same apartment on that very same couch, the very same ice cream in his hands, the very same episode queued up and ready to start on the television somewhere off to his right. He’s paying it very little attention, in all honesty - he’s far too enthralled by the gorgeous woman in the red dress on the other end of the couch, toeing off her heels beneath her coffee table and settling in in much the same position as before.

(Save for the silky black curls swept over one shoulder so as not to drip ice cream in them, of course.)

He’s watching her shift, watching the kinetic energy burn through her rolling ankles and curling toes and twitching nose and drumming fingers. She seems intently focused on her ice cream - the very same carton from which she’d eaten the last time he was here - but he knows there’s a level of awareness of his gaze on her.

Just as she knows that he knows.

It hits him here, in this moment: she knew.

“You knew,” he says. Her eyes flick up to his face and all at once, his suspicions are confirmed. “You knew!”

“Knew what?”

“The last time I was here, before I left, I felt something change. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but now I know - you knew I was your soulmate before I left that night, didn’t you?”

It’s the first time they’ve really talked about it since their confrontation in the evidence lock-up - since the electrifying kiss that followed it - and as her smile blossoms, her amusement peaks. “I had a feeling,” she corrects.

“What gave it away?”

“What, you mean how did I know? The kiss was a pretty good hint -”

“Yeah, but you weren’t really shocked after that. I mean, you were, but - not about it being me. What gave me away?”

“I knew three days ago when we were raiding the warehouse and I got ambushed by that guy and you came flying in before he could even pin me to the wall. But I had a feeling after you gave your little speech about how I’m basically the greatest human being on the planet and you mentioned my soulmate feeling emotions that I know I didn’t put into words.”

“Damn it,” he mutters, letting his shoulders fall back against the cushions behind him. She laughs, delighted, and the sound is like pure sunlight bubbling between his ribs. “After all these years, I can’t believe I just straight slipped up. Right to your face, too! I’d always assumed it would be Charles who screwed up.”

A wave of surprise washes over her, but she suppresses it a moment later. “We’ll talk more later,” she says with a smile.��“Right now, I wanna try something else.”

She leans forward to set her carton on her coaster and a second later she pounces, pinning him back against the cushions, hovering over him. Her grin has gone Cheshire and her fingers are closing over his before pulling his own carton out of his hand; he releases a breathless laugh as she leans away, just far enough to reach the coffee table, before resuming her position over him. “This is new,” he says.

“It is,” she confirms. “Also new? You feeling unsure of something.”

“Hey,” he snaps, “I’m always unsure of things. You’ve never known because I’m good at hiding it.”

“Not anymore.”

She leans down before he can respond, until her lips are a breath away from his. He can feel his heart tripping in his chest and he knows she can feel it, too - breathless anticipation radiates and sparks like a livewire between them, igniting every last nerve ending, like a fuse lit seconds away from exploding. “Whoa,” he chokes, hands fumbling before landing on her hips.

“Intense,” she breathes back, apparently to enthralled by the build-up to dare take the plunge. “Did it always feel like this?”

“Never actually done this before,” he mutters.

She pulls back an inch - just far enough for him to see her roll her eyes in accompaniment with her wave of exasperation crashing through his chest. “I just mean - this, us, our - our connection. Was it always this intense?”

“No,” he shakes his head, acutely aware of the fact that his hands are still on her hips and he can feel the heat of her skin through the red material. “N-no, never. I mean - when you were feeling something intense, it was kind of strong? But now that it’s a two-way street, so to speak, it’s - everything is way more intense. Especially this.”

She hums thoughtfully, gaze fixated on a spot on the cushion just over his left shoulder, before she suddenly seems to remember herself and where she is. He grins up at her when she blinks herself back into focus - and the twist of affection in her chest is almost cruel for how blinding and savage it is.

“Wow,” she breathes, lifting up a little higher to press her fingertips to her sternum.

“Sorry,” he mumbles a bit sheepishly. “I just - I’m really into you.”

“I can feel that,” she says with a laugh. Her hand falls from her chest much closer to his face than before; he briefly closes his eyes at the feeling of her fingers carding through his hair, part curious, part reverent. “I’m really into you, too.”

He grins again before lightly pinching her hip, laughing when she thumps both heels of her hands against his chest in retaliation. “I can feel that,” he echoes before bending his knees, bringing her teetering forward, back to her original position of a breath away from his lips. This time he cranes his head up to catch her before she can draw back; like both times before, the meld of her lips against his brings everything else to a screeching halt. Her hands splay out gently on either side of his face as his slide up the dips of her waist to skim up her back, thumbs sweeping out over the defined ridge of her lowest ribs.

She pulls away after an eternity, after a split second, lips dark and shiny as she gasps for air; she closes her eyes when he reaches up to move her hair back over her shoulder, so that nothing impedes his view of her face. “You were right,” she mumbles breathlessly.

“Huh?”

“You were right,” she repeats, with a little more conviction than before. “This was worth the wait. You were worth the wait.”

It’s the last coherent thing either one of them says until morning.

#my b99 fics #brooklyn nine nine #jake x amy #peraltiago #jake peralta #amy santiago #soulmate au!!!#erica gives the basic gist of the set up in her ask lmao #ANYWAYS PLS ENJOY #startofamoment

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brushlesprouts · 5 years

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Sir Rathus Kaine Returns

Inspired by reading Seven Blades in Black by Sam Sykes, I made this while trying to emulate the style. I highly recommend the book. Please enjoy my brain nugget.

++++

“Great General Baltha!” Said the messenger, running frantically into the office. Bethany Burlesque Baltha spared an irate glance at the frantic messenger.

“Yes?” She said, voice creaking from the remnants of a cold she was battling. The stress of running the Palace of Great Deeds had been ruining her sleep schedule which had made her condition rather worrisome. But she couldn’t let down the Glorious One, or more importantly, Abigail. She pushed the thought away from her mind. She realized she hadn’t been paying attention to the messenger.

“Uh, what was that?” She said, “Catch your breath and start over.”

The messenger seemed thankful and took a few deep breaths before speaking again. “Like I said, the Crypt of Kings was found open this morning.”

“Grave robbers?” She said and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I wouldn’t think a General would have to instruct her forces to hunt down bandits.” She paused as a cold chill passed down her spine, “Unless there is more to this story?”

The messenger, steadied himself on a chair in front of her desk. She motioned for him to take a seat. He obliged and took another breath.

“We thought it was stranger for bandits to get this far into the Palace of Great Deeds without anyone noticing. So we went into the crypt and found there was only one tomb disturbed. One that we have all been instructed to stay far away from.” He paused as the realization sunk into her. She rose from her desk, her eyes deadly serious and focused on him.

“Show me.”

The Glorious Empire of Divinia held a great deal of the western continent with its heart beating in the capital city of Falk at the top of Mount Spire. Surrounding allies all held an important part of the Glorious Empire. And in Velkinrath, they had the Palace of Great Deeds. A glorified cemetery for the great martyrs and pillars of the nation. Though, that was just on the surface. Deep beneath the polished marble floors, a series of chambers held dire secrets. And among them was the body of the true pillar of the Glorious Empire.

Sir Rathus Kaine. First of the Glorious Empire. The Hero who sacrificed everything for the benefit of The Glorious One. He was buried in a very prestigious place, behind several layers of protective barrier. The scraps of which lay in shattered flecks around the feet of Baltha. She gazed, a pale expression of unrest sitting uncomfortably on her face, into the gaping maw of the opened crypt. The messenger stayed at the door behind her as instructed, but for a fleeting moment she really wanted to have another body there as a shield. Or better yet, she really wanted to turn tail and run back up to her desk and dive underneath and snatch that bottle of aged whiskey for a long and comforting pull. But this would demand a report. And she would need to add a very important detail. One that Abigail would be looking very keenly for. And one that, should she leave out, would reflect poorly on her maintaining the loving relationship her neck had with her head.

She steeled her resolve and pressed onward. The echoing sound of her boots in the stone corridor emphasized the feeling that she was alone in the tomb. And hopefully, that was true.

She reached the remnants of the chamber door leading into the tomb. There were large gashes on the metal door that had severed the layers of locking mechanisms. She felt a cold wind on the back of her neck, she fought her urge to cry out, and simply turned around slowly. All she saw was the messenger standing at the entrance, dutiful and at attention. Poor soul must have been anxious as hell. Seeing his superior meekly stumbling in the dark towards a room he never had any knowledge of. She cleared her throat and called out to him.

“Seems like the grave robbers were using some impressive tools.” She said, and to her credit, she almost believed it. But the gouges in the door were clearly rend from the inside of the room. The messenger nodded from his vantage point far away from her.

She turned back to the door and the room beyond. A cold sweat had begun to bead on her forehead. One last thing to check. Just a quick peek will do the trick. Then she could leave and file a report that there was just some burglars that need apprehending and she could go back to trying to drown troubling memories and nightmares.

She slipped her hand between the cracks in the door and felt for the special switch that deactivated the traps within the room. You could conceive that these traps were built to discourage the incredibly dedicated thief, but she knew there was another being that it was actually designed for. Several layers of powerful and painful magic pointed at the sarcophagus at the center of the tomb. To be fair, it was a rather splendid piece of work, that regal coffin. Draped in the wonderful colors of the Glorious Empire and sealed with hundreds of pounds of inert stone, sculpted to look like the late Rathus Kaine. Or at least, it would, were it not for the gaping scar that tore through the length of the elegant confinement. And by all accounts, that kind of rupture did not appear to come from the outside.

“Oh no,” Baltha said to herself. She began to contemplate her options. She could bring this intel to Abigail, now would be fine. But she knew the question would come.

“And the body?” She would ask. In a voice like honey. So sweet. So viciously sweet. You wouldn’t notice the poison until you were already a blue and bloated corpse.

So, with her fear of the known overpowering her fear of the unknown, Baltha tipped her head forward and looking into the regal coffin’s wound.

Within the sarcophagus, wrapped in the regalia he wore in life, lay the late Sir Rathus Kaine. Eyes closed gently as if in peaceful rest. Hands holding onto the sword given to him on the day his life was taken by an enraged elemental and he passed away for the benefit of the Glorious Empire.

She closed her eyes let out a heaving sigh of relief. The body was still there. Still dead. Whatever had happened here was very strange, but at least she could end her report and Abigail would not come after her.

“Did you miss me?” A voice said.

Her eyes snapped open, Kaine was looking up at her. His eyes open wide. Bright and filled with a light that was not human, or divine, something else. She felt the would fall out beneath her, dropping to her knees and scrambling back to the entrance to the tomb. There came a blast of wind as Kaine stepped beside her. The edge of his sword found its way under her chin.

“After all these years, you never visited.” He said, his voice was distant but she could feel it pounding in her head. “I guess I can’t blame you, what with these magical traps. Did you make these, Baltha? Traps always were your specialty.”

She swallowed hard, the edge of the blade biting gently into the skin of her throat. Her body trembled as she tried to lift herself away from the blade. She was so close to the door, to the trap switch, she could still make it out alive. She just needed to buy time.

“Please don’t kill me.” She said, choking back a sob. “I don’t want to die.”

The pressure against her throat lessened. “Oh dear, Baltha. I am not going to slit your throat.” He said and slipped the blade into the sheath at his side. “You’re just following orders.” His eyes danced with fire as he looked down at her. “Another dog of Abigail.”

“Yes,” She said, stumbling to her feet and falling against the door frame, “I was just a pawn. A tool.”

He tipped his head to the side, “Baltha, what are you doing?”

She jammed her hand into the door crack, “I’m putting you back in your box, Kaine!” She shouted and flicked the switch. The magic in the traps began to hum back to life.

“Aha, I see.” He said and smiled. “So that’s where it is.” The hum of the magic traps began to change tone to a rhythmic pulsing in and out. It sounded like a grumbling, gravelly echo. Like someone…snoring?

“You know Baltha,” He said, his form shivering and fading away to show her still standing over the sarcophagus, asleep on her feet. “You really should get more sleep. You’ll get nightmares.” He said and clapped his hands.

Baltha woke up with a start, standing in front of the sarcophagus, looking down into the gaping wound. The empty box presented the lovely interior of the royal coffin. She turned back to the door, to find Kaine standing there. His hand was slipped into the crack in the door.

“Goodbye Baltha.” The clock of the switch rang in her ears before being drowned out by the roar of the magical traps.

At the end of the corridor, the messenger barely had time to dive away from the blast of powerful magic that ripped out of the tomb. He scrambled to his feet and looked down the glassed corridor.

“General Baltha?” He called out.

There came no answer, but there was a whisper that came from behind him.

“You’re a messenger, right?”

The young messenger spun around to see an emaciated and ashen body wreathed in the scraps of tattered regal clothing, a dangerous blade hung at his hip. He placed a hand on the weapon and cleared his throat to insist a response.

“Y-yes, sir.” He said, fumbling to pull a notepad and everink quill out of his pockets.

“Good,” The shambling corpse said, his smile causing cracks to form at the edges of his face, “Tell Abigail I’m coming for a visit.”

The messenger scribbled on the pad. At the bottom of his notes, a flourished blank patch begged a name. He looked up to the imposing threat before him.

“Uh, who–“

“Me?” Said the crackling creature. It’s eyes flashed with a sickly light and his grin peeled back to reveal sharpened teeth. “I’m the Boogeyman.”

#writing #worldbuilding #sevenbladesinblack #fantasy #tryingsomethingdifferent

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lepussolum · 5 years

Photo

X. This is a compilation of mini headcanons pertaining to the DATABASE verse, the second modern AU. They all specifically apply to that verse and were basically too numerous and small to be deserving of individual posts. For convenience, I bolded the basic idea behind each headcanon.

Isa is not purely Japanese. His father is only half Japanese, being originally a first generation on his father’s side, born and raised in America before moving back to Japan in his thirties. So while Isa is the majority Japanese, the European mix on his father’s side contributed to his fair eyes and hair.

Isa is fluent in both Japanese and English, as well as various computer code languages such as Programming, Command, and Machine.

His parents were murdered when he was nineteen, during his sophomore year at the Tokyo Institute of Technology.

After graduating from small gangs, Isa joined one of the largest yakuza families in Tokyo, which held global connections that could benefit his growth as an information broker.

While in the yakuza, Isa acquired quite the display of tattoos all done in Irezumi (入れ墨), the traditional style of Japan. He has one full sleeve on his right arm which depicts Gyokuto (玉兎), a rabbit yokai which is said to inhabit the moon where it pounds mochi. The ink expands the full length of his arm (stopping just a few inches shy of his wrist) and curls out to his right pectoral with clouds and a crescent moon. On his back is his largest piece. A ferocious blue Oni (鬼), a Japanese ogre demon, surrounded in clouds and golden stars which spread to the sleeve on his left arm. Around the demon are also Senbiki ōkami ( 千疋狼 ), a pack of vicious wolf yokai. The piece takes the full width of his back, stretching down to his ass and ending just at the back of his thighs. Usually all of his tattoos are concealed, favoring long sleeves with the exception of his Demoniac attire. Beneath the jacket he wears a black compression tank top, revealing his sleeve and the top of his back piece.

Also while a part of the Japanese mafia, Isa worked in both the drug and sex trade. He managed information, not tending to be hands on with the actual industries. However, socializing and downtime within his family was often spent in the Red Light District. This is likely the only verse Isa is not completely sexually inexperienced. He is still on the asexual spectrum and is not particularly interested in sex. However, as displays of stereotypical “manliness” are prominent among the yakuza, he did participate in some promiscuous activity with women for the sake of image. That said, same sex relationships are completely foreign territory.

In addition, Isa learned Jujutsu (柔術), a form of Japanese martial arts, while with the yakuza. Though not a master, he is skilled enough to hold his own in a physical brawl.

Since his yakuza days and carrying into his work as the Demoniac, Isa wields two weapons. A retractable baton is nearly always on his person for self defense or non-lethal confrontations. If planning to bleed information from a target, literally, Isa favors a steel bat with barbed wire welded around the length. This particular choice calls back to the image of the Oni, who often brandish clubs.

The Demoniac has maimed and killed for the sake of intel. By his victims he will graffiti his hacker logo: A simple design of a crescent moon on its side like a smile with a jagged line of teeth, glaring eyes, and devil horns. This is done with blue spray paint and was a habit he picked up since his early days in small-time gangs.

In comparison to his main verse, Isa is somewhat more comfortable with physical contact in this verse. As he was nineteen when he was attacked by an assassin, scarring his face and nearly dying, he was more mentally mature to cope with the reality. This is not to say adults cannot be affected by such trauma, but Isa in particular was able to look at the situation more objectively. Having his heart also makes him more capable of coping with the experience over the following seven years. Though he still prefers his personal space, Isa is not physically ill by the mere thought of physical contact.

Isa has a moderate alcohol tolerance in contrast to his main verse. Due to his time in the yakuza he built up a decent tolerance. However, he can still get drunk relatively easily and will be his usual sleepy/giggly self when that happens. Aside from alcohol and caffeine, he does not use any other recreational drugs or stimulants.

Saix joined Organization XIII at age twenty-six, rather than in his early teens like his main verse.

Saix has a tendency to give nicknames in his native tongue if he has taken an interest in you, be it positive or negative. More affectionate nicknames tend to end in -chan. To those he is less fond of he favors different types of Yokai, without honorifics.

Though still reserved with his emotions, Saix’s personality tends to favor more to what we see in Kingdom Hearts III. He remains an enigma and quite cold, though with a slightly playful side since he has a heart in this verse.

His eyes are still the seafoam color of Isa, even as Saix, since (as of right now) “norting” does not exist in this verse.

While out as the Demoniac on missions, Isa wears a blue Oni mask in a style similar to that of Japanese Noh theatre. The skin of the demon is blue while the horns are painted gold and the eyes are yellow frosted lenses. Behind the fangs of the mask is a voice scrambler to conceal his identity. The entire mask is made from metal, rather than traditional carved cypress.

His attire tends to vary, depending on the task at hand and you can find reference HERE for both casual, business, and Demoniac work. As the Demoniac he wears entirely black, always with a deep hood shrouding his head. His hair will be tucked back in a low bun to keep out of his face, as well as not give hints to his identity. A backpack or messenger bag will usually be on his person to carry any necessary gear. In contrast, his daily wardrobe is much more refined. For business and meetings with clients he will always wear a three piece suit, occasionally without a tie, and a pair of black leather gloves and dress shoes. On casual days he tends to favor layers, scarves and long coats as he is often cold. Never will you see Isa in short sleeves or with sleeves rolled up, aside from the compression tank beneath his Demoniac coat. This is to conceal his tattoos as they tend to unfortunately give some a less than professional impression.

Saix wears both glasses and contact lenses. As glasses would be tricky beneath his mask, he prefers contacts while out as the Demoniac. Otherwise he is typically wearing a pair of half-rimmed black glasses. Without any assistance, he is borderline legally blind due to damage inflicted by the wound upon his face. Basically this is what he sees:

#*･ ‧͙ ☾ ᵉˣ ᵘᵐᵇʳᵃ ᶦⁿ ˢᵒˡᵉᵐ. — ʰᵉᵃᵈᶜᵃⁿᵒⁿ ☽ ‧͙ ･*#*･ ‧͙ ☾ ᶦᵖˢᵃ ˢᶜᶦᵉⁿᵗᶦᵃ ᵖᵒᵗᵉˢᵗᵃˢ ᵉˢᵗ. — ᵈᵃᵗᵃᵇᵃˢᵉ ☽ ‧͙ ･*#//for now this is it but if i think of anymore i will make another post #//lowkey not naming a specific yakuza family despite having one in mind #//just not to tempt fate and have the mafia at my door or something #//istg i wasn't even thinking about oni when i gave isa that bat for a weapon #//i only just realized the relation while writing this wow

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royal-writer · 6 years

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Memories 10

The B in Bretella stands for Bitch.

Kidding aside, I forgot how much I loved Bretella. She’s so... different then my norm and she’s great fun to write. A lot of stuff going on with this one.

Firm fingers squeezed into the soft skin of her arm. Yanking as she struggled; a furious spew of hisses and swears tumbling forth from her lips. A helpless glance around at the few faces in the area; with half keeping their business to themselves, a few trying to hide their glances, and some openly watching the chaos unfold on the street. All different types of faces; different social classes, different kinds of people.

Not one set of eyes said they would help her. Not one pair said they cared.

“Let go of me!” Essätha demanded; her fangs displayed in an open-mouthed grimace.

Producing a pair of irons from his belt, the lawman restraining her gave a short tisk.

“No can do miss; ya breakin’ the law trespassin’ into the city with’ut papers.”

Snarling, her eyes snapped over the man to evaluate his weaknesses. Steel-covered his boots, a thin plate of light-weight armor over his chest, gauntlets covering his arms, and plates over his shins. There were no significant places to strike that would cause enough pain for him to let her go. Even his head was covered with a partial face-mask; following down the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t know I needed papers like a pedigree to get into the city!” she argued. “I came in through the port, like everyone else!”

“Aye ya did, but everyone else had their papers at the ready,” the man explained. “No one could account for ya; therefore, ya a stowaway and criminal offense to the crown. I’m ordered to place ya under arrest by rule, miss. Now come quietly, ya not wantin’ to be askin’ for trouble.”

“Ya behave right good, we’ll put in a good word for ya,” agreed the peacekeeper’s partner, offering a smile of intrigue as their eyes briefly met.

A good word? What the hell did a good word do around here? What happened if she had a bad word; or no word at all? Was this hellhole so backwards and strict that you really got thrown into jail for entering the city without paperwork? What sort of legal registrations did a person need just to exist? Just to move about the metro of some bland town in the hot-as-hellfire region of the continent?

“Can’t you fine gentlemen just take me to where I need to get legal documents?” Essie pouted, batting her eyelashes to the younger looking apprentice looking upon her.

The squire’s face turned beet red beneath his helm upon eye-contact. Shifting awkwardly in place, he tore his gaze away from hers to stare far-off into the city.

“Sorry miss, ain’t our business to do such things. That’ll be in the manner of the court and law,” the mentor holding her arms from behind her back stated matter-of-factly. As he did so, the cold slap of iron from his cuffs clapped against her wrists.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! This is a joke!”

They ignored her irate badgering. Sharp, metallic rustling rattling in her ears as the shackles were bolted to her wrists; tightened behind her back so that her elbows were pulled in tight. The stares of some curious onlookers began to settle upon her like stone weights at the gallows. Their whispering and watching grating the Yuan-ti’s nerves. Murmuring between each other quietly but openly about her. Questioning where she was from; commenting on her ‘suspicious’ appearance, arguing over the appearance of her hideous scales. Not so majestic as a dragonborn’s; a dull, uninteresting pigment.

Digging heels into the stone pavement, Essie hissed as they tried encouraging her forward. The cloudless midday sky and scorching sun draining the men of their energy in their layers of apparel of armor. Both guards had equal trouble getting her dead-weight tactics to function to their whim. Towing upon her arms and bindings with their their armor-plated scrawny arms yielding little effect in her cooperation and willingness to yield.

“Quite a feisty one,” the elder restraining her grunted, tugging. “Ya got spirit miss, but I really don’t wanna be forced to throw ya over my shoulder. Wouldn’t be very proper.”

“You do that, and I’ll bite.”

The man jerked his head over to glare at her with a pointed look. This time, her threat and bickering had finally been taken seriously. A deep frown settled against his expression as he went narrow-eyed just peering upon her.

“What in Heaven’s name is going on over here!” a delicate voice cut in; commanding despite an almost girlish softness.

Alarmed by the frosty tone, the first guard pulling her along swung around to face the speaker. His actions tripped up Essie in doing so; yanking her part of the way with him in order to see the individual who had caused the sudden change in direction. And, surprisingly, a change in appearance upon the officers. One now sheepishly smiling as he bowed, and the other one; with a glimpse to his face hovering not far from hers, seeming embarrassed to have been caught forcing a woman around. His flapper opened and closed a few times as he inclined his head slightly with respect.

Of all things to cease for in a dazed reverence, of course it would be a woman. The most unusual looking woman Essätha has ever seen, at that. She looked humanoid in stature and body, but her flesh was the color of pale jade from head to toe. Hardly a match for the fiery russet colors of her hair and the pupil-less gold of her eyes; more glimmering than the coin pieces in her pocket.

“Lady Bretella, how charming to see you-”

The dame; who appeared more a gemstone than a woman at all, glowered at them and raised a manicured hand. Gemstone not just in appearance, either. The most refined cuts of glittering stones covered her all over. From the gold and pearl circlet she wore to the pearl-lined choker and a necklace with a winged emerald and more emeralds raising up her throat. Bracelets and bangles of various metals; some with jewels and some without. Even her heels (who on Earth wore heels of that height on uneven cobblestone?) had precious stones that matched in favored colors of gold, whites, greens, and rose-gold. Different hues; different techniques of craftsmanship, but all adding to the color and texture of her eyes and skin.

Her flowing, plain white dress was only tight where it counted. Around her bust, and shaping to her waist with a belt adorned with further sparkling gemstones. Upon every finger, a ridiculous sum of money placed into further jewelry pieces. The only flaw in her appearance was not even a flaw at all. A mole; the perfectly placed beauty mark, just above her lip which was made to scowl in judgment at the duo.

When they had said lady, the constables weren’t kidding. No one in their right mind and monetary stature wore so much fortune and assets upon their being. It was hardly sensible. She was practically a walking target to the nearest thief low on their luck and capital. Clearly someone of established wealth; from her countless pieces of treasures to the poised look of authority she held.

“What do you jesters think you’re doing?” the bizarre woman scolded in a piercing voice. “You’re arresting my guests now? Remove those cuffs at once!”

Essätha’s jaw dropped with befuddlement. Guest? She didn’t even know this woman. Was she blind?

“I-erm- could you uh, confirm her identity with us, my lady?” the one holding her cuffed arms inquired. “She doesn’t have the proper paperwork…”

“Well she must have lost it, or maybe it had not gotten properly transferred by some imbeciles! The least you could have done is taken her to the bureau first then to get her registered; or confirm her appointment into the city.”

“We’re so sorry Lady Bree,” the second guard gushed, reaching over to undone the bolt clasping her wrists. “If we’d only realized-”

“Aye, wait a minute,” his other cut in gently. “Why didn’t ya tell us ya were here to see the fair Lady then, hmm miss?”

While Essätha tried finding words in her voice-less throat, the eccentric lady’s cheeks puffed outward. Her skin darkened; turning a more deep teal as she she raised her shoulders to reveal some few and far between white feathers growing against her shoulders. The peculiar sight only made the Yuan-ti more speechless and dumbfounded. Had she hit her head on the ground between the tussle?

“How dare you ask about lady’s business!” the gentlewoman seethed. “Unhand her this instant, before I tell my father and the council how you mistreated my guest!”

Ignoring his shocked superior officer, the younger constable pulled free the locking bolts from the irons to release Essätha. Free of the burdened weight, she stepped away from the pair to rub at her aching wrists. Her body turned at the waist; staring back at the mortified face of one and displeased face of the other while side-stepping further away.

“We’re sorry for the misunderstand’in m’lady Bree. Just make sure ya friend there gets the legal certifications so this don’t happen again.”

The young miss nodded; her dramatic fiery long hair bobbing. Essätha just about cringed as she gestured to her with her perfectly trim nails; motioning with a hand for her to come closer. Knowing with a glance from the noblewoman to the lawmakers and back again that this was the easiest out from their clutches, she shuffled over to the jade-colored woman.

Bretella; as they’d called her, hesitated from taking her scaly hand as she extended it. Instead; making it look as natural as possible, she grabbed for her wrist. Her hands were dainty and thin; almost bony to the Yuan-ti. A slight tug of encouragement to her arm; an encouragement to follow in a hurry.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you dear!” Bretella laughed loudly and exuberantly. “It’s been ages since I last saw you!”

“Uh… Uh-huh,” Essie muttered, allowing the young woman to drag her along. Was this stranger serious? At this point she could only hope this wasn’t some kind of misunderstanding, and she wasn’t actually being recognized her for someone she wasn’t. Weaseling out from the law had been easy, trying to weasel out from a series of lies pretending to be someone she wasn’t would be less-so.

Just then, Bretella glance over her shoulder. She smiled in Essie’s direction; but her gaze didn’t meet as the unusual woman glimpsed around to the pair of gentleman drifting away behind them. Their feet shuffled away into the streets with dejected appearances that had the unknown lady slowing their pace. A smug look of satisfaction glowed upon her features as she watched them move down the street.

A bit less obvious and not as loud, the baroness spoke directly to her now: “Lady Bretella Aranthana, miss…?”

Mouth open, Essätha fumbled over her words in such a rush, she forgot to use a full alias: “Essätha M-Mongadew.”

There was a level of nausea in the misses expression the moment her semi-false name rolled off the tongue. She eyed her; all of her, in a quick sweeping gesture from head to toe before letting go of her wrist.

“You had better come with me, Essätha, so that we may get you some official logs from my father’s office to move about the city,” Bretella quipped. “Otherwise those fools will be hounding you all day and night. Then, we’ll see to those rags you’re wearing. You can’t expect to walk around Mulhorand looking like that.”

Essätha couldn’t decide as they trekked down the streets if she should be more offended by the insult to her clothing style, or delighted by the concept of new garments. Whatever the case, she was grateful for the save, and followed behind the wondrous figure in a curious stupor.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The rapid-tapping of Bretella’s flats came down upon the stone patio. It captured Essätha’s attention; making her look up from the book in her lap (a supposedly factual retelling of a half-elf named Arilyn Moonblade; quite riveting really), to meet the eerie gilded light from the woman’s eyes. They burned like dual suns into her with displeasure for reasons unknown. Upon her, then to the book, then back up again to her face.

With focus lost, the Yuan-ti offered a questioning but polite smile in return. She’d been minding her business and wasn’t inside the house meddling with things. She wasn’t making a mess. What did the Lady want?

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bree shouted with vexation. “Put that novel away; you need to be getting ready for brunch with the ladies and myself!”

Sullen, Essie looked down at her outfit. A dark navy pair of slacks and a simple low-cut top of white and gold (these people really had a thing about white and gold) trim. It reveled her shoulders and the scales upon them, with a set of semi-transparent sleeves that clung to her wrist tightly but otherwise hung loose and puffy. From her neck, her usual emerald shard necklace and black hair braided to hang over her shoulder.

“I am ready for brunch?” she questioned uncertainly.

“Oh honey, no,” the young lady sighed in a gentle way. “You look like a plebeian, Essie; and that simply won’t do. Come with me; let me dress you. And by the light of my grandfather Parmadon’s name, are you wearing any cosmetics at all?”

Bretella was such a baffling creature. Essätha couldn’t see what her obsession was with makeup at all, considering she hardly wore any herself. Not that she needed to; not much matched her unique skintone and she was was a natural ethereal beauty. A bit plump and nearly a foot shorter than herself without the heels, but still quite good looking. Softened features, a full bosom, a drawn in waist she liked to show off by wearing corsets and tight belts.

She was lovely indeed, but not her type. Too pretty for Essie’s tastes. Aside from that, the last thing she wanted to do was get herself involved with the one giving her board and screw her over. Literally and figuratively. It probably wouldn’t bode well in the end to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“No?” she finally answered after an uncomfortably drawn pause.

Tisking in a way that sounded much like a parent scolding a child, the young gentlewoman reached down to take hold of Essie’s hands. It caused her book to drop from her lap and on the floor; crinkling pages and losing her spot in the folds of the chronicle. She gave a small whiny noise of displeasure as Bree pulled, dragging her up to her feet.

“Don’t worry, I’ll have you fixed up in no time,” the baroness beamed. “I can work with this. But first, you need to go have a bath while I pick out your clothes. Then I’ll teach you some makeup tips. Fix some of those blemishes and discolorations you have. We’re going to need to put some concealer on those scales, and maybe some glitter…”

“But… I already know how to apply cosmetics,” Essätha mumbled.

Her words went virtually unheard. With a jerk to her wrist, Bretella encouraged her along to follow after from the lovely outdoor arrangements back into the house. Really, Essie could have sworn she looked fine today, but this was the Lady’s house and her rules. All she could do was submit. What else was there to do, when you were given a free place to stay and warm food?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There were dozens upon dozens of faces lining the walls she looked upon. Most of them the same expression; stoic, hard-nosed. Filled with pride and unrealistic beauty. Essätha couldn’t even decide if they were exaggerations or not, having seen some of the Aranthana firsthand by now.

Although most looked quite normal, some were not so. Some had the same extraordinary color of flesh lBretella did. Teals, aquamarine, turquoise, peacock; various hues of the blue-green spectrum with nearly identical colored eyes. A few pairs were more yellow or more gold, and some nearly blinding white, but otherwise much the same. Flawless features like porcelain dolls. Not a scar to be found; no acne, no flaws, no imperfections. Very few of the more recent portraits of these dark seafoam colored individuals had feathered growths, unlike Bree.

Among the modeled figures were images and paintings of entire family units. Most of them had been done with similar captured appearances to the profiled paintings as well. Many of them held the same nodes to that of the manor; royal colors, distinguished faces.

They lived in one of the most prime estates in Mulhorand. Much of the city was beneath them. That was not said in the manner of monetary value either; though that too was true, but their rather large villa had been built upon one of the tallest peeks in the area. You could look down upon the town and see everything from up above a place of privilege. Only a few other mansions were upon hilltops such as this; swallowing up an entirety of space that could have held multiple housing units on it.

From interior to exterior, the home was decked out in honor of their chosen patron. Instead of worshiping gods, the family paid homage to a servant of a god. An angelic being with skin that appeared like rippling steel and feathered wings whiter than snow were carved into the very structure of the house everywhere you looked. It was stunning to say the least; especially with the open floor plan and many, many windows and whites and creams to let the flooding light of the hot sun break in. It gave energy to an otherwise quiet, somewhat eerie place.

“Do you like them?”

Startled by the question on such a merry, feminine voice, Essätha jumped slightly and turned around.

“They’re all… wonderful,” she murmured. “Painted with clearly skilled hands.”

Bretella gave a soft laugh at that. Giggling into her hand, she stepped closer to join her in admiring the craftsmanship.

“But of course they are, silly Essätha. Our family pays for only the best. One can never be too cheap when displaying their family lineage. It’s a great honor to grace these walls. Being related to each and every one of these figures fills me with so much pride; seeing their faces every day. I couldn’t be more proud to be an Aasimar and daughter of Parmadon.”

“An Aasimar?” she repeated with wonder.

Bretella cast her a sideways look of surprise.

“Yes, an Aasimar. I dare say I shouldn’t be surprised you’re uneducated though; if you’ve never met one, your readings will probably be limited. They used to be mistaken for demigods or gods themselves back centuries ago, so what you might have learned might not necessarily be true.”

“You see all those faces with eyes that match the sun and skin that jewels envy?” Bree continued on with a practiced way of her hand. “They are Aasimar’s, like myself. My family line goes back hundreds of generations, with some children being born with the gift of the divine. My many-times-over great grandfather Parmadon was an angel whom fell in love with my great grandmother. They bore children; beautiful, enchanting children that looked much like the statues you see around the castle. Sadly our bloodline has been diluted over the years; or perhaps cursed, for the later generations have not had so many Aasimar like myself.”

As the countess paused for a breath of admiration and longing to her relatives, Essätha made note to this bit of knowledge. She assumed in that moment that the heavenly offspring Aasimar must all be the same blue-green skinned range of golden-eyed dreamers like Bretella. Born from protectors; born from those who had once been with cherubs and even through eras, their appearances still lingered in their later kin.

“The manor you’re in now has been passed through my family longer than the name of this town’s existence,” she explained. “It’s been upgraded and changed a bit over the years, but it holds history. My mother’s bloodline, my bloodline. Being the only child to my parents, I will naturally inherit it myself one day with no opposition. Not that I would have any if I had siblings. If any of my ancestors ever had multiple children, the house always went to any Aasimar that they ever had; no matter what place in their birthright they were born.”

It must be nice, Essätha mused while listening, knowing nearly every detail of your family. There were records of her race and predecessors throughout not just the manor made to honor their heritage, but through the city. Fountains commissioned who knew how many years ago with Parmadon’s physic. Buildings with similar architecture to the house. Even the names of shops, the settings of plays, all these things had names and symbols and puns to relate back to the angelic past this city held deep in her roots. In the bones of which she was created, from the beacon of this household and others like it.

Where the rich roamed, the poor and common followed.

Mulling over her thoughts, Essie gave a slight look over to the half-celestial woman. A question formulating in her mind that she could no longer contain.

“Haven’t you ever wondered if there’s… I don’t know… more for you, out there?” she cautiously inquired.

“More than this?” Bree practically shrieked; her face showing how appalled she was by the question. Her arms gestured around her, spinning in a slow circle.

“What a ridiculous question. Essätha, look around you. I live in the pinnacle of luxury. All of this will one day be mine. I have people to see to my desire with just a clap of my hands or snap of my fingers. I have my family all around me. My money can buy anything I want, near or far. I have volumes upon volumes of literature to read dating back centuries should I choose to see the world. Maps, artifacts, figurines, tokens, momentum's, paintings; it’s all right here. I could hire merchants and travelers to bring me things from faraway lands and pay them handsomely for doing so. Where else would I rather be?”

A pang close to jealousy scorched through Essie. She wished she was so confident in herself and her place in the world. She couldn’t even be mad or upset with Bree. Anyone would choose such a life if they could; easy, rich, filled with comfort. However she was simply born into it, and embraced all that she was and that came with her title, her home, her family with glee and zealous.

All she had was sweet memories and unfilled questions. No places to recall that said home to her or any other family that she didn’t even know existed. No names, no faces. Just an endless void of nothing.

But she did have her freedom. If nothing else, the world belonged not at all to her and yet to her alone as she wanted it to be seen and viewed. Going where she pleased; latched to nothing.

“Ugh, all this talk of the past has reminded me of something,” Bree cut in, her voice bitter. “My wardrobe is getting to be out of season. Come now Essätha, let us go shopping for some new fashions and attire. I can’t stand to look another moment upon my closet and see the same garb.”

She turned, marching away on her heels with a sharp clap through the wide room. Leaving Essätha alone, staring up at the hauntingly gorgeous pieces of art. Her eyes lingering upon the closest portrait of an Aasimar. Utterly stunning; his face regal and handsome. His face had been painted perfectly to look upon those staring up at him. Bitter, judging; cutting down all who viewed him. Knowing he was better in every way.

Inwardly, the Yuan-ti withered beneath the cold stare like a dying weed. Her eyes half-lidded as a sigh escaped her; only just catching the sound of a disgusted sniff off to the right in retort.

Her head snapped in the direction of the sound. She barely registered the housemaiden as they passed a corner. A slight glimpse of their upturned face before they were gone. Judging her. Loathing her even as they played servant. Somehow marking her as lesser despite the fact they played the useless joker in a set of cards. Unused, tossed aside, considered with little importance to these people of wealth surrounding them.

“Essätha!” Bree called out sharply from another room, “Hurry along! What’s taking you so long?”

Snapped out of her thoughts by the sound of her name, the Yuan-ti jumped in place once more.

“C-Coming,” she called out, rushing to follow after Lady Bree.

As she bounded away with clomping, heavy footfalls, a door across the room that had been partly, indistinguishably open clicked shut.

Lord Aranthana growled with annoyance. Running his hair through his golden locks, the man shuffled further into the sitting room. The dark brown of his eyes glided over to the Lady of the house, sitting upon an impressive sofa. Her slightly wrinkled hands moved in a steady rhythm as she worked on hand-knitting a blanket with a blank expression.

“It’s only just Bretella’s pet,” he snarled.

“Have no worries, dear,” Lady Aranthana chimed in softly; her voice holding little interest. “You know how Bree is with her toys. She’ll tire of her soon enough.”

The man grunted with unhappiness. Shuffling over to the couch, he sank down slowly on the other end and pulled up a ledger from the table. Flicking it open, he began to skim over the daily news for the town.

How he wished his daughter didn’t drop herself down to the diseased barbarians and lead them straight through their doors. He could only hope she dropped this nonsense and stop disgracing their name by letting such vermin in, sooner rather than later.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I’m so sorry! You’ll have to forgive her, she’s not used to our culture and traditions.”

As Bretella spoke, she backed up directly into Essie. Sending her a step back with a graceful bow of her head, and a hand against her.

The jewelry sneered distastefully looking upon her. When her eyes moved down to the young aristocrat, however, the anger subsided a small fraction.

“Keep dat creature under control,” the woman seethed furiously. “Ain’t no trustin’ a sneak like dat.”

Creature? Essätha’s lip curled up in a sign of fury. She’d show that menace of a woman a creature, if she wanted to see one. A lengthy, quiet hiss began to rise in her throat as she curled her trembling fists to her side. Her muscles grew taut as she began to inhale, feeling the rise of the serpent inside of her-

Bree’s elbow found her ribcage as she straightened, temporarily taming her rage. Causing a scene here, in the middle of the town, would only cause trouble. Trouble she might not be able to escape from, even with Bretella’s help with the security and nightmarish laws this place had.

“Be kind to her,” the Aasimar woman begged. “It’s only a misunderstanding, miss. I’ll be sure she understands what is and isn’t permissible however, you have my word.”

Snorting, the shopkeeper jerked her head up in a motion for them to leave. Her eyes were narrowed in a manner of distrust as she eyed them.

Essätha grumbled as she was gently pushed. Scuffing her new boots against the ground, she shuffled with her head held down. Ignoring the whispers; the eyes trailing after her and burning to her skin. She didn’t need a babysitter, dammit. All she’d been wanting to do was get a better look at the fucking brooch. It had a really clean, sparkling peridot that caught her eye, that was all. She’d had no intentions on stealing the damn thing.

Pulling the hood down on her somewhat ragged old cape, Essie pushed away the voices all around her.

But behind her, Bretella reveled in it. Her graceful, perfectly placed footsteps on the cobblestone and head held high. She dined on their whispers; fueling her fire.

“She’s such a good young lass, helpin’ a stranger to our lands like that.”

“Ya bet the lord’s and lady’s right proud havin’ a dau’ter like ‘er.”

“Never seen a finer woman.”

“Very considerate”

“Lovely lady.”

With a small, mostly private smile to herself, Bree briskly moved to catch up with Essie, and grab her arm to settle her. Just enough so she wasn’t moving so fast too far. Otherwise, she’d be out of range from their compliments too soon, and then what would be the reason for all of her hard work otherwise?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Bree, I’m my own person. I told you, I’m not wearing that damn dress.”

Puffing out her cheeks like she always did when she didn’t get her way, Bretella tossed the elegant down delicately down on the bed.

“Fine. I’m just trying to help you. I’m only looking out for your well-being. You don’t have to wear it. In fact, if you think everything I choose is so bad, don’t bother listening to my suggestions at all. Be ungrateful, if it suites you.”

Face reddening with anger, Essie hissed aloud: “That’s not fair Lady Bretella, I have opinions too-”

“No, we’re done here,” the stunning Aasimar stated, checking on her fingernails. She turned, flipping her hair in the process as she began to saunter away.

She froze. Then the guilt settled in, somewhere between her anger and her loneliness. Jamming the gears of her thoughts; wearing on her conscious.

“Wait!”

Nearly to the door, Bretella paused in place.

“… I’ll put on the damn dress,” she muttered, only just loud enough for her voice to carry over to her ally… acquaintance, maybe?

“Oh I knew you’d see it my way!” Bree sang, whipping around to face her as she clapped her hands together. “That color is going to look good with your eyes! Now all you need is some shoes. I think I have some strappy heels that should match- wait here!”

Offering a tight-lipped, terrified smile, Essie watched as the woman bolted out the door; slamming it shut behind her as she fled.

How could she refuse?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

With a mirthful titter, the noblewoman stood up from her cushioned lawn seat. Arching her back in a stretch, she released a slight sigh while looking around. The gesture having her ponytail swish back and forth as she fixed the wrapping holding it up.

“You have such funny little stories, dear Essätha.”

Straining a smile, the Yuan-ti only stared after the woman. Nothing about her tale had been the least bit amusing. Peril, death, bold escapes; it was a harrowing adventure to undertake and Bree was… laughing.

Maybe she thought it had been a fictitious tale? Even still, if it had been, there was nothing about it that had sounded the least bit funny.

It made her wonder if she’d been listening to her at all.

“I’m going to go fetch my hat; these dreadful maids are never in sight when you need them,” Bree huffed incredulously. “Stay here. I’ll be back shortly, and you can continue telling me about the uh, bird-woman.”

“Phoenix.”

“Right, right.”

Nibbling on her lip, Essie turned over slightly in her seat. Bree’s, on the other hand, sat within the shadows of an overhang safely from the blazing sun. An eclipse of differences seeming to wedge between them.

She sighed to herself and glanced down at her latest outfit. It had taken arguing and convincing from Bretella, but she’d finally put on the long plain ruffled skirt and simple tied halter. They were different shades of unmatching green, and the halter had a thin underlay of chiffon fabric to add a touch of modesty about it. Delicate, womanly clothing for a more refined or at the very least, more classy ladylike individual.

The side door opened and she looked up, expecting Bree.

Lord Aranthana looked upon her with a clenched jaw as their eyes met.

Offering a timid smile, Essätha quickly turned herself away and shielded her eyes as much as she could. There was always a rift between that distant man and the outside world. A wall that kept everyone at bay; from his child to his wife to his servants and more. Hardly ever interacting. Always a bitter, soul expression or a frown on place. Highly unpleasant to look upon or be around.

His boots were carefully measured upon the ground. To her great surprise, a shadow blocked out her warming sun to reveal the man standing over her. Glaring, judgmental eyes boring into her as she looked up, cringing fearfully.

“You don’t belong here,” he stated flatly, arms behind his back.

Like an unintelligent fool, Essie stared at him with wide-eyed fear.

The Lord looked over to the door for a moment, before adding on in a rumbling, unpleasant voice: “Save us all the trouble, and leave. We don’t need your kind around here. My daughter doesn’t need you here. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll disappear before you make things any worse.”

Like a well-timed clock, the man suddenly began to walk around her seating. His eyes adverted as Essätha flipped over to watch him; her mouth moving like a fish. Only faint, grunted noises from the back of her throat emerged with shock and horror.

What had she done to him? What had she done so bad to deserve that?

The door opened again, and this time as she glanced back half-expecting a mirror copy of the man or some royal guards or something, it was Bretella. A large, oversized hat hung from her head as she grinned, effectively giving dappled shadows and lighting over her features.

“That’s much better!” she sang, twirling around so her dress furled out as she made her way over to her char. Without a glance to Essie, commenting briefly, “So, what were you saying?”

A hard knot sat in the Yuan-ti’s stomach. The man was right, about one thing. She didn’t belong here at all. Not one, little, bit.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Come now, Essätha! Come say hello!”

With a forced smile in the god-awful frilly gown, the Yuan-ti offered a pleasant part-smile and attempted a half-assed curtsy. Her legs fumbling; bending in a way they weren’t used to wearing the short heels that made her wobble unsteadily.

Some of the young women giggled. There were dozens of them; all powerful and born to families of nobility and wealth. All of them looked the part, too. Dresses upon dresses, glamour and colors of vibrancy that costed more than what commoners were willing to pay. Not a plain look in sight.

And the jewelry, goodness. How some of these women weren’t falling over from the weight of it all she hadn’t a clue. Necklaces that seemed like gnarled thickets, earrings large and small going up the entire arch of their ear, tiaras, circlets, piercings, rings, bracelets, armlets and more. It was enough to make a dragon drool with lust.

“Greetings,” Essie murmured with a crack in her nervous voice. “It’s lovely to meet you all.”

“Oh Bree she’s just so charming.”

“What delightful manners.”

“Ohh stop,” Bretella giggled, offering a wave to Essie. “Why don’t you go mingle a bit, Essätha? I’ll be just over here if you need anything.”

There was no positive or negative. Being by Bree meant being by the top richest people of Mulhorand. Being away from Bree meant being surrounded by the not-quite-as-rich invited quests that she didn’t know. Either way, it was miserable and confusion. There was no winning in this situation.

Offering a final curtsy, Essätha walked as though on stilts away from the small crowd of women.

A smaller group made a sound of disgust she didn’t hear, as one murmured to another, “There’s Bree’s latest rescue, I see. What’s the bet on how long she keeps this one?”

Glancing towards the sound of laughter skeptically, Essie caught sight of one of the girls staring directly at her as she snickered. She offered a smile; forced and flat, before looking away.

She felt sick.

This wasn’t for her. Her chest ached just being here, surrounded by all these alluring women. The heavy smells of perfume, the overlays of makeup that made no one look real as they were, the stuck-up, snobby expressions some of them passed. Everyone looked too perfect to be real. The delicate tableware (why were there so many pieces), the lace cloths, the small snacks on skewered tiny sticks, the drinks in crystal glasses. It was… It was…

Overwhelming.

“Hi.”

Nearly leaping right out of her skin, Essätha turned towards the voice with a hand to her chest. She’d been so distracted by her anxiety, she’d walked herself nearly into a corner wringing her hands.

Her eyes moved down to the shy tone. Then further down, spotting the halfling glancing up at her beneath her lashes. She, too, was wearing a dress; one befitting a child in stature and hair falling over her delicate features.

“Sorry for bothering you,” the halfling mumbled as she was noticed. “I- I never saw you here before. I saw you c-come in with Lady Bretella. I’m part of Lady Madeline’s escort. My name’s Verna.”

Offering a half-smile, Essie extended out her hand.

“Essätha.”

The handful of ladies peeking at them giggled to themselves.

“Looks like the strays found each other,” one of them remarked in a whisper, causing the rest of the girls to giggle and hold their chests.

The duo, meanwhile, laughing quietly amongst each other. At the moment, blissfully unaware of the strange world around them they knew better than to believe they belonged in.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Leaving all the purchased belongings but two of the cheapest outfits Bretella had gotten her, Essätha adjusted her bag’s sling on her shoulder and slipped out the side door in the dark of midnight that very same night.

She didn’t belong here, after all. It had been nice while it lasted, experiencing an easy life, but it was all temporary. She knew this, coming in. Bree would understand. She, too, knew this was all temporary.

And so, she was out again on her misfit adventurers. A great mystery on where she’d be resting her head from now on, seeing what the world had to offer.

And Bree the next day would get up, realizing her pawn of good will was gone, and shrug it off with a pouty face and displeased huff. After all, it would take a great deal reselling all those articles of clothing when they’d be worn by something not-quite-human.

In the end, much of them had been donated to better gain her standing with the city, and the rest, burned under her father’s order as he watched, stone-faced.

#eci artz #Essie rw

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peantbutter-honeycombs · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1

Title: Eccedentesiast

Word count: 3, 312

Characters: John Watson and Matilda May

Warnings: bad dreams, panic attack?

Notes: Okay here's the first official chapter. I'll warn you I have a lot of "filler"/character chapters in mind before getting to the actual series episodes. Matilda needs to develop a sound relationship with John before thing get hectic. It's been two weeks since John took Matilda in as his foster child. She's still distrustful. Unsure whether it’s actually worth it to build a relationship with her foster father.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from BBC Sherlock (2010) only Matilda and other oc's.

Rated M - for Treachery.

———————

Eyes a hickory as rich as the earth's soil blew open constricting in the illuminated void.

Matilda stood on a pristine reflective surface, icy chills one after the other creeped up her spine. Her body stood rigid and up right as straight as a stone pillar. The space around her was pitch black save for a single indeterminate white light source that illuminated the area. It seemed she was stuck in a void, an endless expanse of nothingness for miles and miles.

Compelled by some unknown force Matilda began to move forward. Under the weight of her soles the surface rippled. Was it water? It appeared to be liquid glass. A thin cool layer that furrowed and waved with each step. She moved forward at a slow pace, one foot after the other. The silence of the inky void made her blood as cold as the murky waters of Antarctica.

In the black she could sense a seed growing in the pit of her stomach, in her core she knew the feeling. It felt as much a part of her, as the heart drumming in her chest. Under Matilda's lightly freckled exterior, beneath the anxiety, she was... It didn't matter. It doesn't matter. She chose to ignore the feeling. there was nothing that could be done about it. Not now.

Matilda didn't need to look, she kept moving forward. She knew left, right, forward, and back there was nothing. She stood alone in the black nothingness.

The darkness swirled around her petite form pricking her pale skin. A chilling draught of air bit at her nape. It blew in from the west or... perhaps the East. She couldn't be sure. Matilda cautiously turned her head to look over her shoulder. She sensed— she could feel... Matilda brought a single hand to the back of her neck.

Yep.

The hairs stood on end. She stopped dead in her tracks, making a complete 180, the water rippled beneath her.

Bam, bam, bam.

Adrenaline shot through her system. It pumps and beats like it's trying to break through her chest. Matilda's eyes grew wide with fear. Every instinct she had screamed either run fast or curl up in a defensive ball and take whatever came. Matilda usually favored, was the latter. But something told her this time it was better to run— smarter to run.

Bam, bam, bam.

She ran bare feet slapping the reflective ground. The cold air cut her throat as she inhaled deeper and faster. Matilda never was much of a runner. Her short legs betrayed her. She punched away into the darkness, haring forward. She could hear the loud pounding gaining, closing the distance between her and it.

Bam, bam, bam.

Aimlessly she sprinted forward. She recognized the sound. It poured gasoline onto the spark of fear stabbing between her ribs. Fear torched her guts, churning her stomach in tense cramps. Her lungs began to burn making Matilda's breathing shaky and labored. Her legs felt like churning cement.

Bam, bam, bam.

Matilda's feet slipped out from under her. The world rushed by in a blur and she knew the pain was coming. The world went by fast, yet slow, almost suspended. Then impact. Every muscle in her body knotted up, weighed down by the icy hands of the darkness and exhaustion.

The sound was closing in, so loud now it made her ears bleed. The wind viciously blew in from behind, howl more like a wicked cackle.

Matilda pushed herself up on all fours. She couldn't bare to stand all the way but she had to move. She couldn't allow the pursuer to catch her. She couldn't. Desperately she crawled forward.

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam... crack.

Looking down from her place in the void, Matilda tried to steady herself trying to comprehend what was going on around her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she eyed her reflection beneath her. Hesitantly she presses a trembling hand against the cold liquid glass. The pounding ebbed into nothingness until, until silence was as absolute as space.

Matilda stared entranced by her reflection. A paralyzing hurt spread through her body like sharp, liquid metal. The face staring up at her was foreign, new. She couldn't hear her rapid breathing, ignored the fogging up of the surface from her warm breath.

A child stared up at her. Her eyes are a bold cunning brown, the color of dark chocolate, and her neat, earth after rain brown hair pushed back by a red headband. Her pale skin was a canvas for her numerous freckles, as if some one had strewn brown chips of marble about frivolously. She wore a dress that stopped above her knees — blood red.

The reflection wasn't hers.

Matilda's eyes, a weak shade of brown, were dim, the color of dying candle, and her curled dirty blonde hair slowly browning from the roots hung in matted knots. Her skin while pale was marked purple and blue in spots, her freckles were rather small and barely visible unless she purposely dotted them with markers. She too wore a dress, however it was one of a different style and the color — envy green.

Fear curled up inside her and clung to her ribs, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She began to inch back away from the inaccurate reflection.

Crack. A long thin crack followed her and her reflection, growing with each move backward. She immediately ceased her movement. It was too late the crack continued to creep across the surface, sounding like the crushing of bones. It worked and slithers branching off in different directions until it created a circle trapping Matilda in the center. Three large splits fractured the face of her reflection.

Certain the breakage was through, Matilda cautiously stood. Her legs were like jello but she managed. Looking around she saw no way out. No matter where she stepped the ground would break out from beneath her.

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

She stood hand covering her ears, in the middle of the void that had become her world, a world decorated by it's own broken cracks. Her brown eyes flickered out, becoming full, glossy. Then all at once she collapsed, tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

She could call for help. What would be the point? Why ask for help when there's no one for miles, to hear you.

In her distress she didn't notice the lone pale inky hand reaching from the depths of her liquid reflection. Icy fingers gripped her ankle in the darkness. Eyes fearfully widened, a gasp escaped her lips. In a moment of pure instinct she reached out, fingers extended.

All at once the glass shattered below her. She opened her mouth to let out a desperate scream but all that came out was air. The realization flooded in, there was nothing to be done.

She went silently. The last piece of her to drown, a hand, desperately reaching out.

JWJWJW

Waking up can be a kind gift, especially when nightmares fueled by her childish insecurities plagued her somnolent mind.

Matilda woke faster than a cat dropped ice-water, eyes flung so wide each iris was a perfect orb of rich hazelnut chocolate. She felt a sharp pain, like a knife, in her chest. It weighed on her, as if she were Giles Corey facing punishment. Cold sweat coated her skin giving it a texture. With a long exhale she felt her limbs flex in shock. Everything was blurry, her head spun. Images of her horrible dream echoed in the back of her head.

She stole a glance at the clock on her end table, rhythmically ticking away the seconds. 1:37am. She blinked, closed her eyes, and blinked again. She wanted to scream, but that's not what she needed.

She sat up, dragging her feet off the bed. Wrapping her upper body in her blanket, she got off bed, dragging the too large single sized blanket behind her. She yawned, ambling down the quiet corridor.

She was only slightly surprised to find John, sitting alone in the dark family room, the dim light of his laptop softly illuminating his face. She had a feeling he'd be up. He always was, going over patient files preparing for his next work day. However he was usually in his room.

She quietly shuffled into the kitchen, careful not to disturb John. She'd be quick, no reason to bother him. She'd get what she needed and return to her room.

Better to be self-reliant.

She stood in the center of the flat's small kitchen, where a kitchen island would be if there was room. Around her shoulders her blanket, worn like a cape, trailed behind her like a wedding train. She sucked on her middle and index fingers, eyes glued on a particular cabinet.

I did this earlier, she recalled. Her eyes bounced around the room, looking for things that could help her situation. She couldn't replicate her trick from breakfast, everything had been moved over the course of the day. The step stool was missing. She needed to think of something. Matilda could hardly reach the counter top on her own. Peanut.

Focusing, Matilda drew in her lower lip. Her eyes lit up, idea after idea flooded her brain, streaming. Her eyes narrowed in deep concentration, as she flipped through her concepts as if they were pages in a toy catalogue.

No, no, no, wait... she paused. A particular idea was formulating in the back of her head. Doable, a bit chancy.

Matilda was wrong. (In more ways than one.) John wasn't up going over patient files, well not every night. In the dark room, sitting on the sofa, his typing had a relaxing sound. He'd drowned out the furious noise of the rain thunder against the window panes ages ago. The darkness in a way had become his sanctuary, a place to recharge and forget. Forget about things, people time had abandoned.

His eyes scanned his screen, and read through the typed out text.

"He hasn't got a clue! He's flummoxed! He's bamboozled!

He's stuck...”

03, August. The words awakened old memories he couldn't bring himself to forget. All memories come with a price. Good or bad. You can't go back and fix them. You can't go back and relieve them. As much as you wish you could.

"According to the flight details, he was checked on board. They found the stub of his boarding pass and napkins etc on his body. His passport has been stamped in Berlin Airport. He should have died in the plane crash. But he didn't.

He was in a car boot. In Surrey.

Obviously, I haven't got a clue but neither does..."

He clapped down the laptop. That's enough for now.

Out of complete silence arose a loud clatter, the sound metal colliding against wood. "What the hell?" John quietly muttered, silently cursing as he got up to investigate.

Following the sound he found himself in the kitchen.

Matilda was on her knees back to him rummaging through the lower shelf of one of the cabinets. A mess of pots and pans was chaotically sprawled out across the kitchen tile, the largest pile up blew the counter where Matilda was kneeling. It didn't take a high functioning sociopath to deduce what had happened.

"Matilda what are you doing?!" The little girl froze, all of her muscles went tight. "You can't be climbing on the counter, it's not safe." John took her under the armpits and set her on the ground. She did not like that. As soon as John let her go, she corrected herself. She stood straight, arms at her side ready to take whatever John doled out.

Her brain was a beehive, a buzz with thoughts. She didn't mean to make him upset. She just needed to calm her head after the bad dream. Her heart felt tight. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow. Her hands like claws ran through her hair pushing back her hair.

"You could have seriously hurt yourself," John went on.

Thoughts accelerated in her head. Too many, too fast. She squatted, sitting criss-cross on the floor, trying to make everything slow to a pace her young brain and body could handle.

John's scolding wasn't loud; he had neighbors and thin walls. For Matilda however his voice was so harsh it rivaled gunfire. "What were you thinking?!"

He knew he'd overstepped when he looked down to see the small girl curled up in her blanket like an armadillo. She was curled up in the fetal position eyes trained forward, completely glazed over.

"Matilda? Matilda?" John softened his tone, carefully kneeling beside her. "Sweetie I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice." Matilda remained unresponsive. He'd have assumed she was dead if not for the repetitive rise and fall of her stomach from beneath the blanket.

He waited. The rain floated down the window pane in gentle waves, the pitter patter is a soft form of music. Pellets of water plink across the asphalt scattering puddles all round the city. The gusting wind blew with great force rocking the trees carrying the droplets in diagonal sheets. He sat in the darkness tenderly stroking back Matilda's browning dirty blonde hair.

John half-asleep woke to the sound of gentle lilt. From Matilda came a humming sound. Her eyes mindlessly darted around the room, never settling on a particular spot. She was chewing on some of her hair, a habit that appeared to be calming her down.

After a while Matilda went quiet, pupils fixing on the man beside sitting on the floor beside her. She pushed the hair out of her mouth. Her voice was quiet when she spoke.

"Can I have hot cocoa... Please?”

JWJWJW

Was it the best parenting decision, agreeing to let a young child have a rich mug of hot chocolate before returning to bed? Perhaps not. Did it settle the child's shot nerves, melting them like fondue. The little girl swore by the creamy beverage, claiming it was often the simplest things that brought her comfort. Hot chocolate, her comfort beverage.

Matilda sat at the overhang counter, feet dangling over the edge of her seat. She had proved not to be one of those children. You know, the ones who ask every minute "is it done yet?" She wasn't one of those kids. She held herself poised, trying to forget the previous moments events.

Matilda had thoughtlessly been twiddling her thumbs, chewing the inside of her cheek. "Why are you so a miss? You in all your faults. You're a loon, a weirdo, a mistake." There it went, her studio inner dialogue, it was never her friend. She didn't have friends. "Can't even handle a measly nightmare. Such a frea—"

"Matilda," John's voice saved her from her own thoughts. "Here you go, lovely." Matilda flashes him a smile, not a scared one but too tired to be considered a genuine smile.

He placed a mug in front of her. It was the first time he'd been able to make her hot chocolate since he'd taken her in. Despite John repeatedly telling her that his microwave was better than stovetop — and that she wasn't allowed to use the stove — she was inflexible.

Her eyes suspiciously narrowed, this was not her hot chocolate. "Thank you," she murmured, kindly accepting the mug. John chuckled softly, the child was too polite. From the slight crinkle up of her nose he could tell she was perplexed. He could see the little cogs in her brain spinning.

What's this? She cutely tilted her head inspecting, the white whip dollop stacked on top of cocoa decorated with red rectangle flecks. She hesitantly sticks out her tongue, just barely touching it against the white whip. Chills.

For a moment Matilda wraps her small hands around the ceramic mug, letting the heat warm her clammy palms. "Thank you," she repeated more sincerely this time. Leaving the mug, with some struggle she managed to get off the tall tool seat without help. She had every intention of retaking her mug — she'd finish the cocoa in the safety and security of her own room — however John picked up the mug before she had the chance.

Matilda bit her lip, nervously twisting the fabric of her pajama top. "Question for the cocoa," John bargained. Matilda's lips pressed together, turned down at the edges, and she nodded. "Why are you up?" He asked delicately.

Matilda's right eye twitched.

Understandably, Matilda was the most reserved and withdrawn child he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. She was nothing like the children who so boldly so curiously sought the council of Sherlock long ago. She kept to herself. Only speaking when it seemed polite or required.

"Truth please," John requested squatting so he was eye level with the 33.4" girl.

Her self-confidence was basically dead in the water at this point. It'd been brutally grabbed from behind and held under the drink against its will. Not that herself self-confidence had much of a will.

With a shaky sigh, she submitted. "I had a bad dream.

There was always an adorable yet heartbreaking timidness to her actions and mannerisms.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John offered, kindly handing the still warm mug off to Matilda. She flinched at first, body readying itself for a scolding blow. But she relaxed as soon as she realized John was only returning the cocoa to her.

She fearing he would change his mind on a dime she swiftly took the mug, cupping it in her hands. "No. No, thank you." she politely declined taking exactly two steps back from John. Weird, he didn't seem mad about her shortcoming.

As she inched toward the corridor, eyes never leaving John, she brought the rim of the, 'Our Clinic Has An Awesome Doctor. True Story.' mug to her lips. Dark, rich and pepperminty the warm hot chocolate coated her tongue thickly before flowing down her throat.

"I'm always here for you, if you need me," John whispered, knowing he couldn't hear him already around the corner.

Matilda May. John couldn't help but care for the little girl. Not only because she was utterly adorable, but also because there was something so endearing about her in general. A bit rigid around the edges, she was sure a sweet little darling. She was broken and scared, she didn't quite trust him.

He was hopeful she'd come around, eventually. He just had to—

Matilda poked her head back from round the corner connecting the kitchen and the corridor. "Goodnight John."

John's mouth twitched, the corners of his mouth lifted up into a soft smile.

—give it time.

#bbc sherlock #sherlock fandom #sherlock fanfic #john watson #original character #oc headcanons #john watson x oc!child #platonic fanfic #platonic #mild angst #panic attack #matilda may series #MM Series #sherlock #beginner writer #personal writing #self indulgent?#oc insert

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avalindin · 7 years

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To Hell and back

Loki fic

Chapter 1: Limbo

From his seat, he could see the etched landscape in front of him. This was a hard decision. One path urged him to say at his table. The other, needed him to take a stand for propriety to his realm and not be the laughing stock of the Underworld. His younger brother of many a millennia had done his duty with the success of Ragnarok with him swooping in and taking back the throne while his brother reveled in his fire.

With so much death, he almost didn’t see the shadow that snuck back in his realm but he would let her pass with some suspicion. He remembered how his veins pierced as the All-Father soul passed his sacred gates. The mighty King’s death was only the start of a great deal of events. He sat, ready as Surtur fell from his exhaustion after the destruction of Asgard.

Now his aged eyes looked to the glowing bits of light barely luminating. The brightest of them made him stand to his feet.

“Well, now,” he whispered as if keeping a secret to himself, “Will you be the one, my child.”

He pressed his ear to the edge of the table where she was. His smile widened with no glee or joy but eagerness to see if she was worthy to survive.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

Her heart was as strong as he remembered. It was time.

He straightened himself up and looked down his grand table to the turrain and the obstacles that stood ahead. He closed his eyes and looked to the void of land that was no longer his. He knew once he started, the shadow would come out to play but he would be able to find it.

With the heartbeat ringing in his ear, he snapped his fingers and wished in favor that she would survive.

There was a harsh ringing in her ears.

She took a breath in only for it to sting beautifully. Her hands were brouht up to her chest as it slowly began to heave.

Go.

Breath after breath, she could feel walls around her. She steadied herself and tried to turn with no success. There was so much darkness around her that she thought for a moment that her plan didn’t work. It was the only thing she remembered. She closed her eyes.

Remember. Remember...

Her arms pushed around her, needing to fresh air to fill her growing lungs. Her hands slammed and punched at the walls until wind seeped through a crack. With each blow, she felt no fatigue. Her fingers made the crack larger until it split into two directions and made the wall slide. Now was her chance. She folded herself so that her leg could be brought up and kicked up to the wall as light blinded her enough to hurt. She forced her eyes open. Colors she never dreamed of disappeared as the scenery tried to stop her. For a moment, she was stunned in place until she forced herself up.

Over her shoulder was a burning ship, crumbling as pieces of metal broke off and crashed to the ground near her. The heat scared her as she turned away from the flames. She remembered what she could. Her hands flew in front of her, unsure why she was feeling her way out of the ground. She looked back to the crystalized pod covered in moss behind her. She ignored the front of the mass as it tumbled away from her.

There were more. Her legs were unsteady as she turned for the rest, the five. She caught sight of her arm and understood, almost. The pod to her right had to be first. She didn’t know why as her hardened fists rained down, fracturing it until she was able to pry the larger bits of hard moss away. Her voice cracked as she reached into the pod for the young lean male beneath her.

“August!”

His pale skin scared her. She shook him, unable to wake him up. Her arm reached back and swung forward to strike him across the face. He jolted to life as he gasped for breath and flailed from the confusion. He opened his mouth and roared with all of his might. He stopped, tearing up as he found her eyes staring back at him, actually staring. He didn’t look to the beautiful dark hair that rain over the bare shoulder her loose leather armor didn’t cover. That or the rusted golden collar that he was sure matched his.

“Immie. How ca...”

He stopped and clutched at his throat above the collar, tearing up more with happiness. She gave a single chuckle of relief.

“I know! There’s no time. We need to open the others.”

“Why?”

Imogen shot out her arm and made him look to the etched writing on her arm.

“Get them all out and run.”

He looked to the long sleeve of her leather armor as she pushed it down. In the distance behind them, they turned to the loud screech that sank in a familiar chill down their backs. Her hand wrapped around his.

“We need to go. Help me.”

They broke the next three pods with ease as different and scared beings were pulled out with them. The first was a young woman drenched in white, skin, hair and all except for her dazzling teal eyes. Next, was an older man of grey with withered skin and blackened eyes. He pushed his own way out, not wanting to be touched as he clenched at his old robes. The third was a male who could have very well been human like her and August. He took his time and immediately smiled as he stared at Imogen’s rear. Her own eyes were glued to the three wide scars down the side. She felt a bit unsure about him.

Each of them was different from the rest. All in the group had the same collar but she didn’t know why the jewel on the front of her brother’s collar didn’t shine like the rest and in the shock and confusion, no one asked about the burning ship behind them.

The last pod was harder than the rest, more than moss or hard mass, there was an added layer of ice taking its time to melt. There was a darkened haze that clouded the red light that they didn’t bother to notice until the man in grey got to his feet.

“We must leave or we will die. Something... is coming.”

She didn’t look at the inking on his arm. Imogen focused on the pod in front of her.

“We need to open the last one, now help me!”

As the darkness blackened above them each of the group backed away until she was the only one left with the flames to be the only source of light. The man like her ran back and tried to ease her away.

“Look. We need to go. If we stay here we are going to die. Please.”

He lifted his blackened sleeve. Letters glowed on his pale skin and over his darkened tattoos.

Cross the barrier and live.

“I can’t. Mine says I have to get them all out.”

He looked to her arm and sighed in frustration.

“Fine. Move.”

She dove away and watched his hand glow red. Wisps on the edge of his fingers slashed at the ice until a large crack split the ice in half. She helped shift the ice off the edge of the ground until she looked down to the pale, ice face of a rather tall man that could barely fit in his pod. She reached in and touched the side of his face. His body was so still, she feared that he was already dead.

His eyes opened slow, looking only to her. His breath was short as he caught sight of the woman above him. He could feel himself smile in the way her dangled hair from her collar and touched his chest. She was a pleasing sight from the fast moving surroundings. He didn’t want to move.

He did react as a large gray hand reached in for him and lifted him to his feet. He reached his hand back and struck the pale man, forcing his scenes to come back to him. He pushed himself away and stood on his own two feet. His ears rang, unable to hear the question, he was sure, that came from his mouth.

He was only met with terrified stares over his head. The woman’s hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled him forward to run for their lives. His eyes flashed to the blackened rocks passed quickly under his feet and the feet of his companions. There was almost no light to see what was in front of them as all the group stumbled.

“Run faster,” cried August, “We need to find cover!”

The group flinched in place as the screeching turned to a piercing note that made them hurl over. Imogen opened her mouth and screamed for them. Her eyes looked around to the other five souls keeling in pain. Soon, there would be something hideous and monstrous to go with the piercing noise. The ground rumbled. They were coming. The ground under her brother festered from his breath and tears.

Fight!

She looked to her life, her brother as a drop of blood fell from his ear. A pulse of hooves made them all teeter on their sides, not wanting to think of what was coming for them. Her heart slowed, helping her turn to what was closing in.

August’s mouth dropped open, his breath drawn in at the last second to help. She knew. He screamed, lifting his voice to evaporate the spanned clawed wings and sharp teeth inches from his face. The creatures had no chance to cry help to their mistress. She would feel the dead extensions of herself, wherever her throne sat.

The group looked up one by one to the young man and the waves of blackened ash that fell like beautiful snowflakes. The black dust flew off in the warm winds as they were the only sound besides their labored breaths.

“Immie?”

Imogen got to her feet a fraction to dive on his knees and catch her brother as he weakened from exhaustion. Each of their eyes looked around once the ash was cleared away.

“That was awesome!”

“You talk too much, Gussy. We... need to move. You’ve stressed yourself from whatever the hell just happened.”

“No! What happened to your eyes? How am I talking? This can’t be a eureka moment! I thought we were going to go back to normal. I’m missing a lot. I can’t remember anything and the ink is shifting under my skin. How is that possible?”

“Gus! Shut the fuck up! We need to get the hell out of here.”

“Okay but something is wrong.”

“I know. My arm says get you all out of here and I will, okay? I promise.”

“Your skin is hueing yellowing, almost orange o-or brown. Your liver may be showing signs of shutting down but you can’t be dying, not yet. You could be suffering from dehydration, we should find clean water...”

“What is this writing?”

“Where in ions are we?”

“What the fuck just happened? I am not drunk enough for this shit. My meds must be definitely generic this time...”

Most of the group turned to her or away in confusion. Imogen did what the ink told her and started walking. There was silence among them. Their eyes locked to one other until they followed her over the dead grass.

“Look,” she called out when they were close enough, “We all have a lot of questions and have no idea what is going on but we’ll work out one problem at a time and that will keep up busy enough.”

She fixed her posture so she would be taken seriously.

“I’m Imogen. I don’t remember much but I think there’s some memories coming back to me.”

“And why should we follow you? You seem of a lesser form of the universe.”

She rolled her eyes to the withered man’s voice.

“Because she’s leading us out.”

August pointed to a small but noticeable arch of misting light in the distance. Imogen was surprised that she knew the way out of wherever they were. They made the light, all looking in caution on whether or not to step through. The man dressed in goth reached out and tested the edge as its soft rifts slipped through his ringed fingers.

“Reminds me of the first time I dropped acid.”

“Is that all you remember, child?”

He turned to the white woman with a smile.

“Why, Powder? What do you got?”

“My lover and I... were fighting and I ran from him...”

“Hey,” Imogen clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention, “Let’s start with names only.”

“August... I don’t remember a last name. I’m her brother.”

“Roysce,” smiled the goth man.

Imogen was unfazzled by the wink of his eye. He ran his fingerless gloved hand through his hair unknowingly streaking the pitch black strands red. August almost opened his mouth until she stopped him. A problem that could be solved later.

“What about you, hun?”

“Not, hun. I am Emmilette. It is all I know.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be okay with basics. You?”

“I... I do not know.”

“Fine. Just stay close to us.”

“I will do as I wish. Who knows if you are leading us to our deaths.”

“If you want to die here, then be my fucking guest but that means I’m gonna have to drag your raisin skinned ass across the finish line.”

“And how would you know this? You are not one to order me.”

“Fine. Everyone with a name can go through.”

“Immie, we need to stay in a group. Remember the horror movies.”

“Hey! What is your deal?”

Imogen watched the grey man’s hand ball into fists as he turned for the light.

She touched his arm, angering him. His own arm swung back to bring his fist towards her. There was a bit of swiftness that scared her as the forgotten sixth member of the group she’d forgotten thrown the man to his back. She looked up to the pale man as he straightened his plain dark tunic.

“You should not lay your hands on a maiden like that. You wish to not listen to what she says, then listen to me. I will not be afraid to kill you and make sure your corpse escapes this place as her arm states.”

The withered man got to his feet and failed to put up a fight to him. He turned his head and disappeared through the light.

“Thanks, you got a name?”

“Loki, I think.”

She locked eyes with him like she looking at him for the first time. Again. Her mind was screaming to her that she had seen him before but with no memory she didn’t dare put her mind where it didn’t need to be. She turned for the group, all lingering at the light.

“Look, I’m sorry if I put myself in charge but something is wrong here. We are no one. We don’t belong here. I know we are all scared but I’m looking at this thing and I know this is a way out.”

“I agree,” said Emmilette, “This is salvation. We must go, I fear something shall secure our demise if we stay.”

“Imogen. I think we’re in Hell.”

“August, shut up. Let’s just go through thing together, ’kay? Let’s go, guys.”

The group turned one by one, slowly disappearing until she and Loki were left. She stopped and found herself petrified. Loki held out his hand to hers.

“Shall we?”

There was a flash, more of a dull haze as she saw a gloved hand in front of her, the same size, same arc of strength waiting for her.

“Shall we?”

She fought herself and took his hand.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Her grip was a little unsteady but Loki made sure that he didn’t let go of Imogen’s hand as they walked through the light together.

Out of the safety of the darkness, pain pulsed her body as her shrieks of grief filled her caverns. She didn’t have the strength to stay on her feet. Hela sobbed, not caring if the bits of her souls crumbled from her skin. From the pain of her flesh, she snarled to the warrior mortal. She would not stay alive for long. From all the failure of Asgard’s defeat to her lower current status, it would only be a matter of time until she was ready.

“That is not possible!”

Her blackened tears streamed her face in rivers until she stopped them.

Her cries turned to growl as she was finally able to lift herself from the steaming floor. She turned her head in the direction of the reminence of the Soul Stone. She took the dagger from her side and looked to the whole where the orange stone, her precious stone was no longer. Hela flipped the dagger in her fingers and looked to the dusk. Through the storming winds of her realm, someone had gotten to the edges with the aid of magic. She already knew who, but she had to tredge carefully.

A bit of wind prickled her ear, leaving a bit of a smile and a fair amount of frustration. She shook her head in compliance.

“Have your fun but soon I will claim the bodies as mine. If you want, you’ll have to stop me yourself.”

Another bit of wind to push her stingy death colored hair over her shoulder.

“So says you but there were a few that made it from your fires before. One even left a way out. You may not be picky with the souls but those bit are mine to bargain with, brother.”

“I am not your brother.”

A sharp sudden cut to her cheek infuriated her with silence. She growled, knowing she couldn’t kill the being stronger, more cunning than her. Her emotions were controlled beautifully but she could not say the same for the blood trickling down her cheek.

“I will get my souls and my stones, cut from the gasping breaths of their slit throats. I will slay that Titan down to size just for the trouble and when I return, I will turn you mortal so that you will know what pain truly is. I may even strike down Surtur and string him up as the puppet he already is.”

She snapped her fingers and sent herself into darkness. In the shadows, in her realm, she was safe but the other realms would show challenge. She stayed to her thoughts and healed her cut, planning a way through Hell to retrieve what was hers. Her finger scaled over the six haloed rings taken from Sakaar. She did not want to break them, yet. If he was going to have some fun with them, then she would too. She smirked to the dullest of the rings with a single crack.

The metal slid form her finger, disinteresting her as she closed her eyes and preserved her power.

The light was blinding. It was the first morning sun that was shining over the grand balcony to the south. The warm sunlight shone over his face to the start of his brow. The decades’ worth of work to his majestic helmet would meet light and make a strong prism shine down to the floor of the throne room.

He inhaled and could smell the aged bitterness of his worn armor. A king would not have worn it in such a manner but it felt just. He reclined back, smelling the grains as their scent carried high in the winds of Asgard.

His eyes opened, showing him the colors of his centuries of existence. The court around him was filled with his subjects. The guards stood tall and triumphant. His fingers wrapped around Gungnir. All before him awaited his ready command.

He rubbed the nightmare away from his eyes and composed himself as he could hear the shuffle of prisoners’ feet. He waved off his servants and smiled to a raven haired maiden that had sat of the within an arm’s reach of her king. He smiled to the corset of her dress that hugged at her skin and fabric. Something like that pleased him. Through the splendor around him, there was something troubling him. For a moment, his mind slipped the beautiful young woman from his dreams. Not the white one, though she was beautiful in her own ways but the other one. The woman that was there when he opened his eyes, the woman that pulled him away from danger. He looked down to his own armor, wondering why she was dressed in his armor.

His heart felt raced as he swore the dream felt real. Her dark hair that sat at her shoulders. The brown eyes that never stopped moving. The dirt nearly etched in her skin. The shriek of her painful cries as simple monsters around them turned to floating dust.

The open of the doors to the throne room brought his focus back as he saw her again but it was nearly impossible as she and another were dragged along straight to the base of his throne. She was exactly the same. He was confused as she met his eye. She slipped from the guards and raced up the steps.

“Loki, you need to wake up!”

She swung her bound hands back to strike at him but was stopped and dragged back down the steps. A small flash of light stung his eyes. He did not know why he didn’t defend himself or react to her.

There was a memory of the woman, unable to breathe as he gasped for breath and tumbled beside her. Something pulled him back to Asgard, needing him to carry out his order as king. Loki couldn’t find it in himself to sentence her or the shouting gray skinned man to the dungeons by their chains. The only explanation was the rusted collars to their necks, pinning them as escaped slaves but not a thing such as slavery existed on Asgard. The prisoners screamed his name, almost tempting him to claim his duty rightfully as King.

There was a touch, something close to a sting as the hand of the black haired maiden touched him.

“My King, they belong rotting in the dungeons. They are no one.”

We are no one.

The memory grew over the sight of the Throne room before him.

We do not belong here.

His shaking hand reached for her face before the white mist made them stop breathing.

He moved to the edge of his throne, no one able to hear his voice over the prisoners and the court shouting and hazing back to them.

“Imogen...”

____

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#Loki #thor ragnarok #marvel #hela #fanfic

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sumisuchan · 7 years

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Strawberries and Tall Towers Ch.6

Yellow Diamond’s palace plunged into silence. The servants hardly spoke louder than a whisper; the guards wouldn’t talk, and the Diamonds lived in bubbles of solitude. Blue had even made a point of avoiding her wife, enough to make a conspiracy theorist suspect that they were actually the same gem in disguise.

Yellow spent her time in her office on the second floor, tending to her work. She ate dinner there, and when she returned to her chambers to sleep, Blue would disappear like a ghost. The only indications of her were the occasional shuffling in the halls, or the faint sound of bangles chiming.

Yellow watched from her window as the garden remained just as quiet. The wind barely rustled the leaves inside the trees and birds flew by without calling to one another. From one corner of the glass, she caught her wife walking quickly, a bag of supplies strapped against her back.

That phantom woman moved towards the staples, and even Goldine kept from vocalizing. Having fallen asleep on her hoard of precious metals, the dragon breathed out columns of steam from both nostrils. Blue watched her inhale and exhale as various shiny silver spoons, misplaced jewelry, broken pieces of armor, coins with Yellow’s face printed on them, and miscellaneous scrap metal shifted beneath her. She had come with a recently polished butter knife to offer, and set a hand gently upon the dragon’s long neck. “Goldine,” Blue stroked her scales, shining dimly in the shadow of the roof over head. She didn’t wake. “Goldine, I brought something for you.”

Bright eyes popped open and she lifted and shook her head. Looking around for a moment, she found Blue and the glimmering thing in her hand.

“You can have this if you take me to Orange Diamond’s tower. What do you say?”

Goldine examined it from top to bottom, maintaining focus on the knife until slowly opening her sharp teeth and biting the tip. She snatched it out of Blue’s hand and stepped from her hoard, turned her long neck, and set it delicately at the top of the pile. Her snout pushed the handle until it sat at the correct angle and both walked from the staple.

After a few steps, however, Goldine stopped and lifted her head, letting out a low sound and a little steam.

Yellow approached and Blue stared as her wife arrived.

At first, neither said a word. Yellow’s boots dug solidly into the grass while Goldine bowed her head.

“How is she?”

“Terrible,” Blue placed her hand flat upon the dragon’s flank. “You left her with plenty of burns, and the poor girl has been growing vines all day and night to help White find her. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m sorry.”

Blue stopped and stared. “This is ridiculous, Yellow. I had hoped you would have known better, and yet, Pink is slaving away in a tower, miserable, because you had to throw a tantrum. And over what? Who she wished to marry? You’re not a queen,” Blue reached up and grasped Goldine’s saddle. “You’re a child.”

To that, Yellow set her gaze into the grass. “I came here to go check on her.”

“Good!” Blue tossed her bag of supplies to the ground. “I think it’s about time you did, considering I’ve been the only one going every day since you’ve locked her up. Go and tell her you’re calling this nonsense off, because she’s not listening to me.” She passed her wife and moved toward the palace.

Picking up the bag, Yellow called after her, “I’m going to make this right!”

To which Blue replied, “Hurry up, then!” and disappeared behind the front doors, leaving a silence after the slam.

That six-day-old stillness floated back in, and Yellow touched Goldine’s chin before climbing onto her back. She strapped the supplies to her and took off as the dragon’s translucent wings coasted through the air.

The cool wind became the only sound until they arrived in the evening.

They landed as the dipping sun turned the air golden, pink, and purple, and Goldine waited outside while Yellow entered the tower. The wind had ruined her hair, which she adjusted on her way up the winding steps. She drew closer with every quick and precise tap of her boots, until arriving on the top floor out of breath, and ridding the sweat from her brow.

Yellow touched the old handle and turned it slowly, stepping into the orange-baked room and finding a lump inside the dusty bed. A tuft of bright pink hair stuck out from beneath the sheets, like the leaves of a turnip dwelling underground. She found the top of sister’s head, greyed and pallid, and pulling back the sheets, she observed Pink’s eyes, clasped closed with thick sleep and dried tears. Where the apples of her cheeks used to blossom, they remained the same pasty shade as the rest of her skin.

Like the sun attempting to warm the earth, Yellow reached down to touch her, and Pink awoke with a jolt.

The corpse sprang to life and gasped, “Would you just—” and moved her arms in trying to pull the covers back over her, but failed. “Get out!”

Her dark brown eyes had grown veiny around the irises, outlined by the unsightly bags beneath them.

Yellow kneeled and took her hand away, quiet as Pink gasped for breath. The withered plant of a young woman shook and cried, but even then, she didn’t clean the tears. Through that building layer of water, she managed to stare at Yellow a few seconds before rolling away and sobbing.

“I came to apologize.”

Even beneath her thin and sweat-soaked gown, lightning-torched skin was visible.

“And to say that you can marry White. You can marry whoever you please.”

Pink wept, and as Yellow went to touch her shoulder, she spat, “That was never your decision to make, Yellow—!” Her body gasped and shuddered. “I don’t need your permission! I never needed it!” The tears stole her capacity to speak, but she regained it by giving up more color. “What kind of sister are you? I thought you were supposed to care about me!” She didn’t say anymore after that, choking instead.

Seconds passed and another gasp entered the air. It came more quietly than Pink’s, but caused her to turn and see Yellow’s controlled face contort. She censored her mouth behind her gloves and attempted to maintain eye contact, but failed. “I’ve been terrible to you,” Yellow said. “Can you forgive me?”

Pink watched her collapse into herself, coming to hide her entire face behind both her hands. Yellow tried to stop on multiple occasions, and might have even come close, but she would catch one of Pink’s bruises, one of her cuts, one patch of torched skin, and the weeping would start anew.

Finally, Pink stood upon her rickety feet. Through the light showering of her own tears, she managed to kneel down and embrace Yellow, who took no time in holding her back. “I’ll forgive you,” Pink began, “but you need to work on your anger. Your lightning really hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” Yellow grasped her sister a little more tightly.

“Why do you hate White so much anyway?”

“I don’t hate her,” the shaking in her voice evened out, like the wrinkles of a cloth. “I still think it’s disgusting she would pursue someone so much younger than her, but…you seem to love her.” Pink felt her gulp. “She used to be our mother’s good friend, which makes your relationship its own sort of horrendous, but...at least she seems to care about you.”

Pink finally let go and sat on the floor, so they could look at one another. “Does she, though? I thought for sure she would have arrived by now.”

“The reason I chose this tower is because it’s difficult to find.”

“Yeah, but...she’s White Diamond. Incredible feats are kind of her thing.” Pink looked from the window, and gulped down the lump in her throat. “Maybe she was just using me.”

Yellow sighed. “The way she looks at you seems to indicate otherwise. Your relationship is still weird, but I think she does care for you, Pink.”

The younger Diamond’s facial features bent and broke as she turned and hid them inside her hands. “I really love her, you know? Would Mom really have been ashamed of me?” She squeezed out several droplets of water.

Yellow took her hand. “I don’t think she would have been ashamed of you, but she would be livid with White. She held you as a baby, Pink.” Her pots of molten gold spilled to the floor. “She didn’t seek you out while you were still growing, did she?”

“Oh, no!” Pink squeezed her sister’s hand. “No. The first time we were together I was over a century old. And well,it was my idea.”

“Of course it was.” Her humorless glare caused Pink to crack a smile, and seeing her sister’s exhausted face show a little joy, Yellow’s lips turned too. “You remind me of her sometimes. She was always so serious whenever she had to give orders, but she did the most ridiculous things. You know she named her dragon ‘Peaches.’”

“Yeah,” Pink laughed. “What was she like?”

“She was mean as hell. One day she tried to eat me.”

“She tried to eat you?”

“Yes. I ran and hid in the bushes, and when I finally came out, there Mom was with Peaches, nuzzling her. She said, ‘Yellow, I was looking for you!’ completely oblivious to the dragon glaring at me.”

“I don’t know why she would eat you. I think you would be hard to digest.”

Yellow rolled her eyes and Pink giggled. “Anyway, I think she would have loved who you’ve become. Even as a child, I wouldn’t cuddle with her long, but I remember you crying if she had to put you down. She used to carry you around everywhere.” Yellow glanced to the floor. “She set you down once when you were a baby, and you stood up and ran tripping after her. At that point, you had stood before, but you hadn’t really walked, yet there you went, and eventually caught up.” Her lips turned up. “She was so proud of you that she scooped you up crying and kissed you about a hundred times. You were laughing, of course.” One tear rolled along her cheek that she removed with her index finger. “Before she went off to war, she asked me to watch over you, but it looks like I’ve failed.”

“Oh, Yellow,” Pink held her tightly as she wiped away her own tears. “It’s just my life, you know? Sometimes I think you forget that I’m an adult.”

Yellow gave her a squeeze and left a palm upon her shoulder. “It is your life. Are you ready to return home?”

In the window, the sherbet tones of evening shone and exhaustion settled into Pink’s bones. Even her skin weighed her down. “I’m not sure I could make it back right now. I’m so tired, and this is the sixth day?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see if she can make it in time. I’ve already waited this long.”

“Pink, you really don’t have to wait.”

She shut her drooping eyes for several slow seconds. “But...”

“You can stay here if you insist, but you’re welcome to change your mind.”

“I know,” Pink yawned. “Well, I think I’ll go back to sleep now. Will you keep me company?”

“Of course.”

Yellow remained close as Pink hit the old mattress like a sack of potatoes and drank sleep. With every minute that passed, she gained a bit of her pigmentation back, her petals appearing less wilted and the lightning strikes fading slowly into her rose color. They remained together for several hours, until night truly fell around the tour and the typical view of purple clouds and bright stars appeared within the window. A few hours after that, Yellow finally returned to collect her wife and bring her to Pink so they could spend the last day together.

#Yellow Diamond #Blue Diamond #Pink Diamond #White Diamond #Whink Diamond #Bellow Diamond #SU

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crispychrissy · 7 years

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Shrink - Chapter 29

Summary: When patients of a psychiatrist that caters exclusively to hunters start going crazy and dying, Sam and Dean Winchester investigate what might be causing these bizarre episodes. Pairing: None Word Count: 1885 Warnings: Character injury, cliff hanger A/N: My first fanfic! This is going to be a series, probably over 30 chapters total. Any feedback is appreciated, I am a newbie!

"How is that possible? I don't feel like I did when I was human." Cas said, looking at the gash on his hand that was still open and bleeding. "Well, you're not completely human, but your blood was close enough to human that the sigil doesn't work. I'm diverting your celestial power to me, so you're pretty much as close as you're going to get, aside from actually having your grace extracted." Aurriel put her hands on her hips and smiled before turning on one foot to face Dean. "Dean. You stabbed me. That wasn't very nice. I like this vessel." She said, a sly grin twitching across her lips. Ellen groaned and closed her eyes, the pain from the burns becoming overwhelming as her knees gave out. Cas wrapped his arm under Ellen's and caught her before she hit the ground, trying to steady her. He gently pulled her backward close to the wall and slowly lowered her to the floor. "Once we kill Aurriel, I will be able to heal you. Please stay awake, Ellen." Cas whispered before he stood up and walked back to his spot opposite Aurriel. He exchanged nods with Dean as they squared their positions, ready for a fight. "Two against one?" Aurriel turned her head back and forth between Dean and Cas. "How about we even the odds?" Aurriel closed her eyes and mumbled incoherently under her breath. The rune on her wrist began to glow with a deep crimson color before small wisps of white and orange sparked off it. One of the wisps of light shot out directly toward Dean, causing him to drop to a crouch to avoid it. Aurriel opened her eyes and turned to face Dean, a smile on her face. Her eyes shifted to Sam as she snapped her fingers and released the ropes around Sam's ankles. Dean stood back up and turned around, only to be face to face with Sam. His eyes were faintly glowing and still clouded by a dark red hue.

"Sammy?" Dean's eyes widened as he stepped backward and raised his hands, staring into the glowing red eyes of his brother. "Damaged soul." Sam growled as he slowly stepped forward toward Dean. "You don't deserve to be a hunter." Dean continued to walk backward as Sam kept stepping closer to him. Sam slid his pocket knife out from his back pocket and flipped it open. "Son of a bitch." Dean whispered to himself as he quickly looked around near him. He did a double take at the rows of conveyor belts and machines and looked back at Sam, who was steadily closing in on him. "Dean?" Cas stepped closer to Aurriel and tightened his grip on his angel blade as he watched Sam walking toward Dean. "I'm good Cas, just figure out how to kill this bitch." Dean said as he darted to his right in between the rows of conveyor belts. He stumbled slightly as his feet lost traction on the thick layer of dust on the ground, but recovered a few seconds later as he peeked over his shoulder at Sam, who was still hot on his heels and wildly swinging the knife. Ellen's eyes were fluttering open and closed as she tried and failed to stand up. She was able to catch a glimpse of Cas moving toward Aurriel with his angel blade before she swatted her hand and sent him flying into the wall next to the main door to the building. She saw Sam chasing after Dean with a knife through the maze of machinery. She shook her head as she felt tears burning the back of her eyes. Aurriel picked Cas up off the ground after he had collapsed from the shock of the impact and had her hand wrapped around his throat, lifting him off the ground. "Face it, Castiel. All you are is the useless sidekick to a couple of damaged monsters who call themselves human. I can feel it...your grace is so weak, you're almost as damaged as they are." Aurriel hissed before she turned and threw Cas across the room toward the rows of equipment. He slid to a stop at the base of one of the larger pieces of machinery directly in front of where Ellen was sitting. He groaned as he wiped blood away from his lip and shifted so he was on all fours with his head down. "Cas." Ellen whispered. "That's it. The rune focuses her power. If we damage or remove the rune, she's just a regular angel, right?" "I don't know." Cas grunted. "I don't know how the rune works, but it might be our only shot. I don't know how long Dean can avoid Sam." Ellen nodded and winced as she pushed herself off the floor to stand up. She extended her hand and steadied herself on the wall before she turned and glared at Aurriel. "Really, Doc? You smell..." Aurriel sniffed the air and chuckled. "A little crispy." "Crispy or not, I'm still stronger than you." Ellen reached down and pulled the angel blade out from the lining of her jacket. "You manipulated me so you could kill innocent people and you don't care how much it hurt me. The only monster here is you. The only damaged one here...is you." "Spare me the speech, Doc. If you get in the way of my mission, I will kill you. A small sacrifice for the greater good." Aurriel smirked and motioned a 'come here' gesture with her hand. "I love playing with Dad's toys." Cas stood up next to Ellen and they exchanged looks. Ellen winked at Cas and smiled as she took off toward Aurriel in a full sprint. Dean was still playing cat-and-mouse with Sam through the various pieces of equipment in the building, bobbing and weaving around each one as Sam continued reaching for him and swinging his knife. Sam grabbed onto the back of Dean's jacket and yanked, hard, pulling Dean back toward him. Dean wiggled his arms out of his jacket and continued running, rounding the corner and ducking down behind a conveyor belt two rows away from Sam. He peaked up over the top of the conveyor belt to see where his brother was. "Come on Sam, this isn't you." Dean announced, slowly shifting his way down the side of the conveyor belt toward the side wall of the building. "Your soul is weak. You're damaged and dangerous. You need to be eliminated." Sam growled back at Dean as he quickly began walking toward where Dean's voice had come from. "What are you now, a Dalek?" Dean said as he reached the end of the conveyor belt and made a quick dash toward the side door they had entered through. He pulled it open and ran outside as Sam reached the spot next to the conveyor belt Dean had been in. He looked up at the opening and closing door and sprinted toward it, flinging it open mere seconds after Dean had exited. "Sorry, Sammy." Dean said as Sam emerged from the doorway. Dean swung his right fist and landed a direct hit to Sam's jaw, causing him to stumble sideways. Sam steadied himself and immediately stood back upright, slowly turning to face Dean, his eyes narrowing. "Oh...crap." Dean muttered as Sam began to slowly walk toward him with the pocket knife clenched in his hand. Sam swung the knife quickly at Dean, but he ducked and dodged the strike. Dean rotated on the balls of his feet and lurched forward through the metal door, heading back inside. He kicked the brick out from the door frame and slammed the door closed before flipping around and pressing his back against the door. Sam banged on the door and pushed on it as Dean leaned back and pushed it back closed with his body weight, desperately trying to get traction on the floor for leverage. "Guys?! Do we have a plan?" Dean yelled, trying to speak over the loud banging noise of Sam ramming his shoulder into the door over and over again. Ellen had tackled Aurriel to the ground and had her pinned beneath her, straddling over her thighs to restrict her movement as much as she could. She leaned forward and began to punch Aurriel across the face, alternating fists with each blow. Aurriel grunted and raised both her legs, causing Ellen to tumble forward over her head and land flat on her back above her. Aurriel flipped around and got on all fours, smiling as she saw Ellen land on her back. Ellen screamed as she landed, the impact of the fall sending an intense shot of pain through her nerves. She gasped for air, trying to calm herself as her hands started shaking. Cas ran forward and kicked Aurriel in the ribs, causing her to drop back down flat on her stomach. He slammed his knee down on her back and yanked her left arm out, twisting it around her back until he heard the loud pop of her shoulder dislocating. Aurriel yelped at the sharp pain of the dislocation and began to squirm around and kick her feet, making Cas press his knee even harder into her back. "Ellen! Now!" Cas yelled, nodding toward the angel blade she had dropped when Aurriel flipped her. Ellen looked up at Cas and grinded her teeth, squeezed both hands into a fist, and flipped over on her stomach. She grabbed the angel blade in her right hand and crawled closer to where Cas had Aurriel pinned. She nodded as she shifted onto her knees, prompting Cas to pull the skin taut around Aurriel's wrist to fully expose the rune burned into her flesh. Ellen held the blade steady between both hands and lifted it above her head. In one swift motion, she drove the blade straight down through the rune, through her wrist, and into Aurriel's back. Aurriel let out a blood curdling scream as the blade pierced her body. A blinding white light shone from where the blade was sticking out of her torso, and flickering sparks of red and orange sprayed out from the edges of the rune. The sparks intensified in brilliance and created a swirling column of white, red, and orange that danced around the entire length of the angel blade that was sticking out of her back. A loud, almost deafening, twinkling noise started coming from Aurriel's body before the column of swirling colors was sucked back down into the rune. Cas looked up at Ellen right as Aurriel's body exploded in a vibrant burst of white and orange light. All of the windows that were still in tact shattered, and Ellen and Cas were launched backward from the force of the blast. Dean, still pushing back on the door, covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow at the blinding light that illuminated every crevice inside of the building. Ellen was slammed back against the wall next to the main door and Cas was flung on top of a large piece of machinery before bouncing off and landing on the ground with a hard thud. Ellen slid down from the wall and slumped over, unconscious, with blood dripping from her ears and corner of her mouth.

#supernaturalfanfic #spnfanfic #spnfamily #shrink #oc #zawiii #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #firstfanfic #newbie #series #fanfic #spn

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