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scribbling-dragon · 3 years

Text

Growing Pains

Chapter 12

Summary:

The saviour in a cod head.

(AO3 Link)

(Masterpost)

(7,624 words)

It’s cold in the cell. And it’s dark. He hasn't had the focus to make it glow again, finding his thoughts hazy, easily slipping through his fingers as he tries to grasp onto any semblance of clarity. He shivers again, wrapping his arms tighter around his knees, drawing them closer, even as the burns protest, joints cracking with the movement. He hasn't moved in a while.

It hurts too much to move, and he’s content to sit in his corner, back pressed against the wall until his next visit. He can feel blood on his arms and face, some of it dried and slowly flaking off, falling away from his skin. Some of it is still wet, steadily dripping down his forehead, trickling into his eyes as he sits there.

He keeps his eyes open, making sure he doesn't fall asleep again. He’s not sure he could.

He raises a hand, trying to wipe some of the blood from his face, but likely only succeeding in smearing it further across his skin. His hand comes away darker than before, but he can’t be sure that it’s not just his eyes playing tricks on him.

He closes his eyes for a second to relieve the burning sensation, tipping his head back. He grimaces a little as his antlers scrape against the brick, the more tender bits sending a small spark of pain through him. He’s discovered, through intensive testing, that iron doesn't have the same effect on his antlers as it does on him. It’s less severe, but still painful.

His eyes snap back open, listening as someone comes down the ladder, boots clunking against the wooden rungs. He holds his breath, listening as the person beyond the wall begins humming a small tune.

He hears a lever click, and the wall begins to rumble, slowly sliding up with a sound of grinding stone. He watches the light slowly filter through the gap, the small bar slowly growing thicker as the wall lifts higher. He squints a little, finding Sausage outlined in the light.

He’s smiling, though his eyes are dark with anger. He forces himself not to shrink back against the wall, pushing himself to his feet slowly and raising his head higher. He meets Sausage’s eyes with a glare, staring him down, even as he continues to grin, twirling the evil iron dagger between his fingers, blade flashing under the swinging lanterns’ golden glow.

“Nice to see you again, Smajor.” Sausage leans on the iron bars, hanging his arms through the small gap in them as he tilts his head slightly to the side, grin growing wider again.

“I can't say the sentiment is returned.” He crosses his arms, pushing off the wall, ignoring how shaky he feels. Sausage’s grin falls for a moment, and he leans over to the side, flicking the lever that opens the cell door.

He stands in his corner, watching him impassively, arms crossed across his chest. He clenches his hands into fists to stop them from shaking, raising his chin as Sausage approaches him. There’s something dangerous about the way he walks, footsteps slow and quiet, carefully calculated, as though he’s a predator going after prey.

He twirls the dagger again, stopping in front of him. He raises it to his neck, grazing the blade along the skin there. He can feel the skin growing hotter, a small trail of pain following where he moves the blade.

He doesn't flinch, even as his nerves seem to catch on fire as he presses the blade flat against his skin. He doesn't intend to cut, only to burn as much as he possibly can. He maintains his gaze, watching him coolly, even as he wants to flinch away, maybe curl up and see how long he lasts like that.

His attention wavers as he hears the clinking of glass, eyes darting past Sausage, out into the room beyond his cell. There’s nothing there, but that doesn't stop him from looking around, searching for something that probably wasn't even there in the first place.

“fWhip’s gone, you know.” Sausage states it calmly, though it successfully drags his attention back to him. He winces as he presses the blade into his skin, continuing to press until blood starts to trickle, beads of it travelling down the blade. He bites back a cry of pain, refusing to give Sausage the satisfaction, gritting his teeth and staring at the other, even through the tears in his eyes.

“I gave him an option,” Sausage drags the blade a little further over his shoulder, “And he chose you. I told him it would be you or him, and he chose the coward’s option, running away without a second thought. And I thought you were allies.”

“I broke that off,” he speaks through gritted teeth as Sausage continues to trail the knife over his skin, seemingly taking delight in the welts it raises in its path, “Or is your memory fading now, too?”

“My memory is perfectly fine.” Sausage growls, jabbing the knife close to him, nicking a bit of skin on his neck. He flinches away from it, surprised by the sudden movement, before straightening back up again. It seems he touched a nerve there. He grins.

“Sorry, it would appear I touched a nerve there.” He grins even wider as one of Sausage’s eyes twitch, eyes gleaming red as he drops the knife, lunging for him. It’s a short distance, and Sausage really shouldn't have missed, but he manages to step quickly out of the way, feathers dragging over the ground as he walks.

He twists to face Sausage again, only for the man to already be on him, hands scrabbling at his shoulders before gripping on tightly and shoving him to the floor. He feels the broken bone in his wing grind together, and he screams.

It’s muffled quickly by Sausage clapping a hand over his mouth, leaning most of his weight on his chest, keeping him pinned. He writhes, trying to free himself from the man’s grip, but it only serves to hurt his wing further, and he gives up after a few attempts, chest heaving. He can taste blood in his mouth, the odd coppery taste making his tongue feel thick, sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Sausage grapples with him for a moment, holding his shoulder in a bone-crushing grip as he searches for something on the floor. He doesn't tear his eyes away from Scott’s, staring into his eyes as his own gleam red, filled with an angry flame that only seems to grow the longer he stares into the black depths.

He finds what he’s looking for, and with a metallic scraping noise, he’s dragging the knife towards them. He considers it for a moment, shifting the hand on his shoulder to cover his mouth, replacing the hand he had removed earlier.

Sausage leans close to his ear, and his breath washes over his face, warm, too warm on his freezing skin. He shivers at the feeling of it, trying to pull away from it, letting out a small sound as Sausage yanks his head back, something in his neck clicking with the force of the motion.

“Champion’s,” his breath is short and ragged, and his chest heaves as he holds him down, “Should know their place. Maybe I’ll cut an antler off, see if Aeor still wants you disfigured.” His voice has taken on the odd rumbling tone again, bouncing off the walls, giving him a headache. He wishes he could cover his ears with his hands and curl away from the sound.

He can’t, simply remaining staring up at Sausage, watching him. His own chest heaves, just slightly out of rhythm with Sausage’s, though he can’t seem to get enough oxygen into his lungs, throat closing up as he stares at the other with unbridled fear.

Sausage could kill him right now, and there’s no guarantee that he would wake up again in his own bed. He could be trapped here, and the other empires still wouldn't know where to find him, none the wiser to where he is.

“Maybe I should do something more permanent. Make sure it scars. Don't you think?” Sausage looks at him, a wide grin curling over his face. The light gleams, reflecting off of his now black sclera. If he wasn't scared of the man before, he would be now.

His hand easily wraps around the whole of his arm, gripping onto it tightly as he pulls it up and over his chest, forcing down at such an awkward angle he’s afraid it will break. He’s exposing the underneath of his forearm, knife twirling through his fingers as he looks at the otherwise untouched skin.

The burnt skin on the top of his arm is closer to his face now, and he can almost smell the infection from the wounds there. He’s barely been here three days, and it’s already disgusting, dirt creeping at every corner, each of the cracks between the bricks stuffed with corruption that has slowly been pushing through the mortar since he’s been here, curling towards him, as though attempting to entangle him in their vines.

He cries out as Sausage cuts into his arm, slicing deep. He can feel the blood dripping down his arm as he struggles, even as Sausage’s hand clamps tighter over his mouth, threatening to cut his air supply off completely, even as he kicks at him, trying desperately to get free.

Sausage lets out a small grunt as he knees him in the gut, pausing for a moment to look at him, before continuing to carve away at his arm. He feels like a hunk of meat, one that’s been sent to the butcher, and feels faintly sick at the thought. He doesn't think he’ll be eating meat ever again after this. The smell of his own burning flesh is enough to put him off of it permanently.

“This knife is honestly so handy.” Sausage grins as he works, ignoring his muffled sounds of pain as he struggles against him. He doesn't think Sausage can even feel him kicking, he seems unbothered, and his struggles are growing weaker as he continues. He hadn't eaten the day of the meeting, so it’s been...a while since he’s had anything. Longer since he’s slept properly.

He stops struggling a few minutes later, energy completely drained from him as he lays there limply, listening with a sick sense of horror as Sausage mutters things to himself, still carving something into his arm. They're swirling patterns, ones that go around and around.

“This cauterizes everything for me! I don't even have to do anything, isn't that great?” He looks at him, as though expecting agreement. He glares at him, though even that feels weak as his eyes threaten to close and Sausage laughs at him. His laughs sound half-mad, and he used to find them slightly endearing; now he can only look at him in fear.

He drops his arm, allowing it to flop onto his stomach, wound sticking to the cloth of his shirt. It can barely be called that anymore, ripped apart and so thoroughly stained with blood that you would think the original colour was a deep rust-red.

Despite the wound being ‘cauterized’ by the iron, it still leaks blood, sluggishly staining his shirt even further, adding another layer to it. Sausage stands from him, leaving him crumpled on the ground, curled awkwardly, though he can’t find the energy to move; even as his wing continues to spark pain, he can’t be bothered to move.

His head lolls to the side as he watches Sausage leave, ducking through the iron. His arm brushes against it, almost as though he’s taunting him for his weakness to the metal.

“Night, night.” Sausage waves at him cheerily, before flicking the lever to close the gate, then the wall. He watches dimly as the darkness falls over him, wishing for a moment that he could sleep. He doesn't dare to, not after Joey had come down during his nap and woken him in the most ‘fun’ way he could imagine. He had stepped on his wing, only stepping off when tears beaded in his eyes, beginning to run down his cheeks.

He sighs, closing his eyes, wishing slowly for the darkness to just consume him.

He must have fallen asleep, as the next time he blinks his eyes open, it’s to the sound of the wall sliding back up, footsteps pacing beyond it, back and forth, almost anxious. He rolls his eyes. Trust him to become the human punching bag for two overdramatic individuals.

He watches as it slowly creeps up, trying to push himself up, even as his arms protest, shaking beneath his weight. He ignores it, raising his chin, preparing himself to meet the eyes of Sausage or Joey again, readying a glare for them.

He blinks, a little surprised when the wall doesn't reveal anyone, simply empty space in the area beyond. Someone would have to be there to use the lever. He sits up a little straighter, anxiety beginning to coil in his gut, sending spikes of ice down his back.

He watches as the lever for the iron bars flicks, seemingly on its own. He swallows, eyes widening a little. He had wondered when they were going to start using potions, though he had expected them to be used on him.

Invisibility potions are probably their safest bet though - no way for him to fight back if he can’t see his enemy. He struggles to his feet, staggering as he stands, almost falling to the side. He presses his hand flat against the wall beside him, ignoring the burning in his arm at the movement, holding himself steady with that.

There’s nothing pushing him to the ground yet, so he slowly, gingerly, presses his back against the wall, careful to not aggravate any of his injuries any further, but making sure he can’t be snuck up on from behind.

“Calm down,” a new voice echoes through the room, one that’s painfully familiar, “I'm not here to hurt you.”

“Jimmy?” He can hear the disbelief in his own voice, even as a form begins to flicker into view. He’s see-through at first, standing awkwardly in the doorway of his cell, hands at his sides. The cod head is firmly upon his head, but he can still feel his stare through the scales.

“Yep.” Jimmy laughs a little, head turning to the side. “That would be me.”

He hisses out a long breath, looking to the ceiling and sending off a short, silent prayer to Aeor. “What on earth are you doing here. They'll put you in a cell too, you know, they're awfully less fond of you than they are of me.”

“I'm here to get you.” Jimmy shrugs, looking much more solid than he had a moment ago, less translucent. “I heard Sausage talking with fWhip, threatening you and him.”

“Why are you here specifically. Sausage will not hesitate to kill you if he finds you here. Hell! He probably won’t even kill you, just keep you here like he’s done with me.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy takes a step towards him, “That’s why I'm here. To get you out.” He extends a hand. He looks at it with feigned distaste, still not fully trusting of him.

“I can walk by myself.” He keeps his words short and clipped, even as exhaustion threatens to pull him back to the floor, gravity almost feeling heavier as he stands there.

“Can you?” He’s sure Jimmy would be raising an eyebrow right now if he could see him. “It looks to me like the wall is your current crutch, and I don't think we’ll be able to sneak that out with us.”

“You're hilarious, really.” He takes a step away from the wall, giving Jimmy an ‘I told you so’ look as he manages another few. Jimmy follows behind him carefully as he walks, hands hovering awkwardly, as though he doesn't know what to do with them.

He’s tempted to snap at him, but he finds he doesn't have the energy’ especially as he almost falls against the iron bars on his way out, and Jimmy has to pull him back. He holds him carefully, as though he’s afraid he’ll break, slowly guiding him through the small space.

He tears himself out of his grip on the other side, though the effect is ruined by the stumbling step he takes, as he almost lands on his ass. He tries to use his wings to save him, only to be rudely reminded of the chains on his wings, keeping them well and truly bound.

Jimmy grabs onto him, hands pressing into several burns, and he pulls away with a hiss. Jimmy’s own hands come away with a thin coating of blood.

“Right. Okay. Should probably work on getting those off of you.” He indicates the chains on his wrists and wings.

“No.” He hisses, looking to the floor above them. “There’s not much time. One of them will be down in a bit. They don't like to leave me alone for too long.” Jimmy looks him over as he says that, and it makes him feel a bit flustered with the way he’s being stared at.

“I can tell.” Jimmy’s voice is almost painfully dry.

“Thanks.” He bites back. “Any plans for how to get out of here.” He may have snapped a little, but, in his defense, he’s just had to put up with several hours of torture. He thinks he’s allowed to be a little snappish with the Codfather.

“Not really. Didn't think you would be as bad off as you currently are.” There’s a small pause, before Jimmy obviously realises what he’s just said, rushing to correct himself. “Not that that’s any fault of your own, you couldn't-”

“Do you ever shut up.” He hisses, watching as Jimmy visibly straightens, voice cutting off immediately. He feels a little guilty, but Jimmy nods, turning back to the ladder.

“I could try carrying you up?” He looks back to Scott, a question phrased in the way he tilts his head to the side a little.

He scoffs at that. “Carry me up? You don't look like you could carry a twig.”

“Bet on that.” Jimmy steps closer to him, arms quickly circling around his waist before he can protest, lifting him up. He lets out a small, rather undignified, squeak as he’s lifted, grabbing onto the nearest thing, which happens to be Jimmy.

“Do you actually have hollow bones?” Jimmy bounces him up and down a little, and he tightens his grip on the other’s shirt, feeling rather unbalanced. “I didn't think you'd be this light, especially not with the height you have on you.”

He continues to chatter as they make their way up the ladder, though it quiets down into whispers, then nothing as they move closer to the trapdoor. Scott pokes his head out first, finding himself at a higher vantage point than Jimmy, based on the way he’s being held.

There’s no one there, and he tells Jimmy as much, holding the trapdoor open as best as he can, even as his arms shake and threaten to give out on him. Jimmy places him on the floor oddly gently, pulling himself out next, before pushing himself up.

He’s halfway through standing up when Jimmy scoops him up again. It’s slightly awkward, mainly because of the foot of height difference between the two of them. He squawks a little at treatment, wriggling a little.

Jimmy tightens his grip on him, but only enough to keep him secure, not enough to stop him from moving completely. “This’ll be quicker, just relax, we’re taking a short flight back to my empire, and then we can start working on getting these off.” He taps against one of the wrist braces.

“Don't drop me.” He warns, even as he wraps his arms around Jimmy’s neck. He’s warm, warm enough that he’s surprised Jimmy doesn't flinch at how cold he is.

“Wouldn't dream of it.” He shoves the door open with his shoulder, and they're out in the open air, the sun just setting ahead of them, almost blinding Scott at the sudden brightness after hours of being in darkness, or the dim lighting of lanterns.

He turns his face away, pressing it into Jimmy’s shirt. He only takes a moment to be embarrassed, face going slightly red, before they're taking off. His grip around Jimmy’s neck tightens as they sway a little.

The added weight is an obvious strain on both Jimmy and the elytra, and they move much slower than they normally would, floating carefully over the Mythland wall, gliding over the Cod Empire one, and touching down on the swamps beyond.

The capital is oddly close to the wall, but he’s not one to judge. He’s actually rather glad of it, as it means it’s a shorter distance for Jimmy to carry him, and then he can be set down again, and escape any further embarrassment.

“We’re here.” Jimmy sounds rather cheery, and he hears him kick a door open, the movement juddering him a little as he pulls his face away from his chest, taking another few moments to be embarrassed about that.

The house he’s being brought into looks...plain. It looks cozy, nothing compared to the arching, elegant ceilings of the Rivendell architecture, but it looks lived in; a blanket strewn over the back of the sofa, tossed carelessly and not perfectly folded, a few mugs on the table, the dregs of tea in the bottom of them, mostly dried out.

Jimmy drops him, a little roughly, onto a bed at the back of the room, before bustling into a small nook on the other side of the room and beginning to rummage through his chest.

“Is this just one room?” He looks around, allowing his question to hang in the air as he takes in the kitchen and the living room, as well as the chest room Jimmy currently occupies.

“Yup!” Jimmy grabs whatever he needed, beginning to make his way back over to him, pickaxe in hand. “It’s the style we like here, and it makes it easier to heat in the winter.” He settles on the edge of his bed, staring at Scott for a few moments.

He lifts his hand, the one not occupied by his pickaxe, and pulls his cod head off, revealing his face beneath. He grins at him. “Sorry about that, felt like it was getting a little awkward with you not being able to see my face and all.”

“No, it wasn't that awkward.” He watches as the fins behind his ears flick a little, moving up and down, the thin membrane between the bones allowing some light to filter through. They're the same bronze colour as the scales dotting his cheeks.

“Mhm.” He looks down to Scott’s wrists, laying his hand flat on his leg, palm up. “Can I?”

He stares at him for a few seconds, before carefully placing his hand in Jimmy’s grip. He watches as Jimmy moves it around a little, turning his hand over a few moments later, looking for something on the metal.

He honestly can’t feel where the metal presses into his skin anymore there. He’s rather certain the nerves got burnt away a few hours into the prolonged contact. He doesn't say as much, allowing Jimmy to move the metal band around as he watches.

“This was not designed to come off.” Jimmy looks up, meeting his eyes before looking back down at it, running his hands over the metal, “There’s no lock, no breaks in the metal at all. It’s as though it was cast onto your wrist while molten.” He looks up suddenly as he says that, eyes wide. “They didn't do that, right?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, “Nothing like that. Sausage’s a sorcerer of some kind though, so I wouldn't be surprised if it has something to do with that.”

“Man,” Jimmy gives it a small, experimental tap, and they both watch as a hairline fracture spreads across it. “That’s cruel.”

“He’s literally possessed right now, so I don't think it’s really him.” Jimmy taps it again, and the crack spreads wider. He’s a little surprised at how careful Jimmy’s being, acting like he’ll shatter if one more bad thing happens to him. It’s rather sweet, honestly, even if Jimmy doesn't remember them being married.

Oh Aeor, Jimmy didn't know they were married. He bites back a small groan, nodding along to whatever Jimmy’s saying absentmindedly. He jumps a little at a small sound, and looks down, watching as the iron around his wrist breaks away, splitting into two pieces.

The underneath is stained with blood, and he looks away with a barely restrained gag, staring instead at the mess of skin that is his wrist. He rolls it around once, testing how much he can move it.

He almost immediately regrets it, biting back a small hiss of pain.

“I have some stuff for that if you want it.” He looks up to Jimmy, trying to smile thankfully, but he’s pretty sure it comes out as more of a grimace.

“If you mean health potions, I wouldn't bother.” HIs voice comes out a little more brusque than he intended, and he winces a little. “It wouldn't work, I mean, the burns are a form of magical injury, meaning there would be no effect.”

“Oh.” Jimmy pauses for a few moments longer. “I have some burn cream and bandages, if that’s any good?” He offers, nodding towards his storage room. He nods, a little hesitant in accepting the help. Jimmy has no good reason to be doing this, he doesn't remember anything from their previous time together, which he should really get around to telling him about. “I’ll grab that after I've done the other ones.”

He offers his hand out again, and he lays his own hand in his palm, watching closer as he begins to chip away at the iron band. The fractures seem to spread slowly, as thin as a spiderweb, and he watches as Jimmy continues to tap at it carefully, a look of utmost patience on his face, even as the cracks don't seem to get any wider or any further.

It snaps away, splits turning from hairline cracks into thick chasms, falling away around his wrists. Jimmy places the pieces of iron on the table beside the bed, far enough away from him that he can’t see them unless he’s looking for them.

“How do you wanna do those ones?” Jimmy gestures towards his wings, and he shifts a little bit, moving forward.

“Just...sit behind me? It would be the easiest way to access them.” He shuffles forward a little further, crossing his legs and leaving a space large enough for Jimmy behind him. Jimmy watches him for a moment longer, before slowly standing from the edge of the bed, walking to settle behind him.

He doesn't do anything for a few moments, and he twists to look at him over his shoulder, watching as Jimmy weighs the pickaxe in his hand, almost bouncing it up and down, but slower. He meets Scott’s eyes as he turns, blinking, before smiling at him, pickaxe stilling its restless motion.

“You sure you want me behind you like this?”

“I want those bands off these wings, just, uh, just be careful of the left one.” He shifts it a little, grimacing at the way the bones seem to click against each other, moving incorrectly where they're out of place. It’s a hot, burning kind of agony, but he brushes it off anyway, continuing to watch Jimmy for any reaction.

“Why?” Jimmy leans in, peering closer at it, close enough that his breath ruffles the feathers there, and they raise defensively.

“It’s broken.” He looks back around to the front, watching Jimmy’s door, as though someone is going to come bursting through it at any moment. They don't, and he listens to Jimmy’s small intake of air.

“They broke your wing?”

“Yeah. First day, just kinda.” He makes a snapping motion with his hands, feeling more than seeing as Jimmy begins to chip away at the binding on his right wing. These take longer to fall away, and he’s not sure if Jimmy’s just being extra careful, or if they've been reinforced.

He lets out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding in as the first one breaks away. He stretches it out a little tentatively, gasping as the muscle spasms and the wing jerks back into the closed position, sending him forward a little with the force.

Instantly there’s warm hands on him, once closing gently around his shoulder and pulling him back up, the other stroking over the feathers on his wing. He doesn't say anything as Jimmy strokes his hands across his wing.

The hand pulls away after a minute, and he’s already missing the warmth from him, feeling even colder for the lack of it than he did before.

“When did you last clean your wings?” The question is innocent enough, but he flushes anyway, biting back the instantaneous scathing remark his brain conjures.

“Didn't really have the opportunity to when I was locked up in the cell,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I assumed Sausage wouldn't want to help me with them. Didn't really pin him for it, you know.”

“There’s no need to be rude about it.” Jimmy sounds a little offended, and he can almost hear the eyeroll in his voice. “And they didn't look great before, they actually looked like shit during our ‘supplementary meeting’.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Jimmy replies cheerfully, giving the second band a final tap before it’s breaking away, shattering into a few pieces in his hands. Jimmy dumps it on the slowly amassing pile on the table, both of them listening as it lands with a clatter.

Jimmy’s standing in the next second, striding back over to his chest area. He rummages through one chest, before closing its lid, moving onto the next one, rummaging through that one instead.

“Do you even have a storage system?” He asks, leaning forward a little, resting his chin on his hands.

“No.” Jimmy sighs, turning back around with several rolls of bandages tucked under his arm, a few tubs of burn cream, and one potion of regeneration. The pink liquid inside the bottle swirls around, catching the light and turning it to a shimmering mass of silvery-pink. “I've been meaning to get around to doing it, but I don't have the time, ever.”

He sits back on the edge of the bed, uncorking the potion of regeneration and handing it to him. “I could've done that myself.”

“I did it for you, anyway,” Jimmy waves him off, “I'm going to pop your bone back into position, and then you're going to chug that like your life depends on it. It won't be an instant heal, but instantly healing a broken bone is painful, trust me.”

“And you know how to reset a bone, I presume?” He watches Jimmy out of the corner of his eye, almost feeling his hands hovering over the feathers, poised around the site of the break.

“Yeah. Lizzie’s more vicious than she looks, we've had plenty of accidents as children.”

“Lizzie? Vicious? I almost can’t believe you.” He looks away as Jimmy’s hands grab around the site of the break, grasping onto the bottle tighter and taking a deep breath.

“She’s proper vicious when she wants to be, trust me. She bites.”

“I assume that’s from personal experience.” He doesn't manage to take a breath after he speaks, as Jimmy chooses then to snap the bone back into place, and he gasps, doubling over, hand tight around the neck of the potion bottle.

He remembers what he’s holding, and tips it back, allowing the taste of fruit to rush over him as he swallows it down, grimacing at the taste afterwards. A hand pats on his shoulder, just above where his wings join his back.

“Sorry about that, but you’re mostly fixed now,” he looks up, finding Jimmy grinning at him, “I just need to clean those out, use the cream and bandage them. Easy.”

“What will you be cleaning them with?” He asks it cautiously, all too used to the stinging of disinfectant that the elven medics use relentlessly, some even going as far as to pour almost a whole bottle on him, once.

“Just water.” Jimmy holds a bowl with a cloth in it up. “It’s all we really use here.” Jimmy shuffles back around to be in front of him, and he holds his left arm out first, almost flinching back at the first feeling of the cloth on his arm, slowly wiping the encrusted blood away from the burns.

His touch is feather-light on the actual burns, wiping away all of the dirt, but being careful to not disturb the already present scabbing. He dips the cloth back in the water, leaving it to soak, a small cloud of red slowly spreading out into the rest of the bowl as Jimmy begins to carefully dab some of the burn cream onto his wrists.

It’s cool, and almost soothing, and Jimmy’s hands are gentle on the tender skin, grip on his hand firm, but not constricting. He pulls his hand away, retrieving one of the rolls of bandages, slowly unravelling a small section and beginning to wrap it around the burn, firmly pulling the dry fabric over the wound.

The process continues easily for his next wrist, and he finds himself less tense as Jimmy does it this time, more trusting of the slow movements. The sun continues to set behind them, long shadows being cast across the house.

He pauses as he pushes back the sleeve of Scott’s shirt, exposing the pattern Sausage had carved into his arm earlier. He hadn't really had the chance to look at it properly since it had been done, everything had happened too fast, and he was only just settling down now.

It curls around, some sections of it twisting over others, the skin bubbling around the edges. The skin there is pink and shiny, looking as though it’s too stretched out. He’s not sure what the pattern is supposed to mean, but he can’t help but feel he’s seen it somewhere before, eyes searching for letters between the swirls.

Jimmy wraps that one quickly, covering it up and allowing his sleeve to fall back over it. Neither of them say anything while he works.

Jimmy pauses as he comes to the wings, parting the few feathers that cover the burns, brushing away the charred remains of a few.

“Would it be better to leave these unwrapped? I wouldn't want to trap any growing feathers.”

He hums a little, considering it for a moment. “Probably best. Don't waste the cream on it either, it’ll be healed by tomorrow anyway.”

Jimmy looks at him, obviously disbelieving, but pulls his hands away anyway. “If you say so.” He gives Scott a once-over as he stands, and he feels a little embarrassed in his tattered clothes, even if the Codfather’s only wearing a shirt and loose trousers.

“I don't think I have any clothes that would fit you.” Jimmy muses, turning away, looking at his chests. “Lizzie’s probably closest to you in height, even if she’s only a bit taller than me.” He looks back to Scott, “Would you be offended if I gave you Lizzie’s clothes?”

He blinks at Jimmy blankly, before slowly shaking his head. “No. I wouldn't be.”

Jimmy lets out a small sigh at that, “That’s fine, you can have some of the trousers she left here last time. They’ll probably still be too short on you, but it’s better than wearing mine.” He apparently knows where he left Lizzie’s clothes, as he grabs them out of a nearby chest, chucking them towards him, before going to rifle through another one.

There’s a pair of dark blue trousers, and he exchanges his own for them quickly, while Jimmy’s back is still turned. He takes a moment to mourn the expensive fabric, before folding it up neatly, knowing full well he’s never going to wear it again.

“I couldn't find any of her shirts, so you can have one of mine,” Jimmy tosses him a shirt that looks far too big for him, but he’s not going to ask questions, simply slipping it on. It hangs low on his neck, and he brings his hand up, fingers grazing over the raised scar tissue on his neck.

He scratches lightly at the skin there, feeling slightly awkward with it on show. You can also see the scar from Ren’s blade, just the very end of it as it curls over his collarbone, but it’s obvious what it is.

He looks up, and Jimmy’s eyes dart away, as though he was pretending to not be staring. He realises then, there are certain downsides to borrowing other people’s shirts. There’s no holes in the back for his wings to go through, and they remain trapped under the fabric, a few feathers twitching from the contact.

Jimmy seems to realise what he does at the same time. “Oh, do you need, like, holes in shirts for your wings or something?” His eyes dart away from the arrow puncture on his neck, to his eyes, then remaining fixed on the ground.

“It’s what I have normally.” He startles a little as Jimmy starts towards him with a knife held tightly in his hands.

“It’s steel,” he lifts the blade, allowing Scott to look at it, “Just for the shirt.”

He cautiously agrees, ready to jump off the bed the second Jimmy tries to do anything. It wouldn't make any sense for him to do something now though, he’s had plenty of opportunities already, and he’s wasted every single one of them.

Jimmy pulls away once the holes have been cut in the back of the shirt, gathering the iron from the small table into his arms, standing, and dumping it in one of his chests. No wonder he struggles so much with finding things if he just dumps them in like that.

He shakes his wings out a little after they're through the holes, wincing a little at the twang in his left wing from the motion. It’s better than it would have been, he supposes, it’s not broken anymore. Not properly at least.

A few of his feathers are sticking up at awkward angles though, and he can feel the dirt nestled among the feathers, stuck in places they shouldn't be. He pulls his wing around, ignoring Jimmy’s gaze on him as a kettle whistles in the background, digging his fingers into the feathers and beginning to pull the dirt out; a few twigs and leaves emerge too, being dumped into a small pile on the end of the bed. He hopes Jimmy doesn't mind.

“What are you doing?” He looks up to Jimmy, hands stilling a little, feeling slightly guilty. The other just stares down at him in confusion, a mug of tea in each hand. He wordlessly extends one towards Scott, and he takes it, shaking a few feathers from his hand before doing it.

“Cleaning my wings.” A few feathers prickle as he speaks, and the feathers ruffle a little as he grows more irritated with them. “Sometimes I think these are more trouble than they're worth.”

“I would’ve thought that you’d get someone to help you with that. I'm pretty sure Joey does.”

“I do it myself.” He shudders a little at the thought of someone else touching his wings. His brain reminds him that he didn't mind Jimmy doing it earlier. He sticks his metaphorical middle finger up at it. “I've done it myself longer than you've been alive.”

“That’s just freaky. You're old. Like, really old.”

“Not really.” He rolls his shoulders a little, taking a small sip of his tea. It’s...something, a rather bitter taste, with a hint of salt. It’s not bad, but he probably wouldn't drink it on a daily basis. He takes another sip. It’s an interesting taste.

“I could help.” His hands still, and he looks to Jimmy, pausing midway through a sip of his tea. He lowers the mug again, eyeing Jimmy critically.

“Are you sure? It can be kinda gross, and there’s definitely blood in there right now.”

“I'm sure I've seen worse. I swim around in a swamp, I'm used to touching slimy and disgusting things.”

“If you want to, I guess.” He awkwardly spreads his wings out behind him, ignoring the small twinge in his left one, leaving them half-splayed over the covers.

“So, what,” Jimmy sets his tea down, “Do I just pick all the dirt out?”

“Essentially, yeah. You pick all the dirt out and realign any feathers that are out of place.” He turns to look at Jimmy. “You don't pull them out.”

“Got it. Drink your tea,” Jimmy nods towards it, “It’ll get cold.” He obliges, taking another sip. Jimmy doesn't need much instruction, slipping into a habit from another life easily. They sit in silence for long enough that he manages to finish his tea, cradling the empty mug in his hands.

He hears a small mrrp sound, and a cat jumps onto the bed beside him, sniffing at his leg.

“Hey Normie.” Jimmy coos at the cat, reaching a hand out to stroke along its head. “This is Norman.” He introduces.

“Hello.” He keeps his voice quiet, slightly cautious as he reaches his hand out to Norman, watching as he sniffs at it, before rubbing his head along it with a rumbling purr. Norman decides that he’s apparently very nice, and very trustworthy, and settles down in his lap, his purring starting up steadily.

He’s a comforting weight in his lap, and he finds himself absently stroking the cat as Jimmy cleans his wings out. It’s odd, feeling someone else’s hands in his wings after so long, but it’s so incredibly familiar, even if the moments were lifetimes apart.

“This feels familiar.” Jimmy muses, hands not stilling in his feathers. “Did I do this before, when we knew each other then.”

“Yeah.” He laughs a little. “You always said you never liked doing it, but wouldn't let me be the one to do it either.”

Jimmy doesn't reply for a while. But the silence isn't awkward.

“I don't know how to feel about you Smajor. You know my name, which is weird enough as it is, but you also know about me from another life when I don't.”

“I could be lying to you.” He’s not.

“No, I confirmed your story with Pixl. He told me the same deaths you did.”

Silence settles again.

“Smajor,” Jimmy begins.

“Scott.” He blurts out, before cringing a little, wanting to curl up into a little ball and die, right then and there.

“What?” He sounds confused, hands pausing in his feathers as silence falls over them.

“Scott. My, uh, my name. It only felt fair, I know yours, and I know more about you than I should.”

“Oh, uh, thank you.” Jimmy strokes his hands over his feathers again. “Scott. Not really what I expected, honestly.”

“It wouldn't be,” he laughs a little, “It’s not my birth name, I chose it to blend in better with humans.”

“If it’s not your birth name, how can it be your true name?”

“We pick them ourselves, if we don't believe that’s our name, then it isn't. Those who had that lose all power over you.” He feels tired, eyes drooping closed as Jimmy’s soothing, repetitive motions threaten to lull him to sleep. He snaps his eyes open again, blinking them quickly to push the burn in his eyes away.

“That’s actually kinda cool.” He can hear the smile in Jimmy’s voice as he sits there. Silence surrounds them again, and Jimmy’s more stroking his wings right now than doing anything else, but he doesn't want to pull away from the touch.

“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if I remembered too?” Jimmy breaks the silence again. He feels guilty almost instantly, considering all the things he had left omitted from his information. Or, more importantly, the one big thing he had left out.

He doesn't respond for a few moments, considering his options carefully. He takes a slow deep breath, shuffling his wings a little in Jimmy’s grasp, not enough to pull them from his hands, but enough for him to pause the slow stroking of his feathers. Scott continues to stroke Norman, finding comfort in the way he purrs.

“Jimmy,” he doesn't look at him, he’s not sure he would be able to, “I have to tell you someth-”

The door bursts open, and Pixl comes barreling through, eyes wide and chest heaving. “I- I didn't find Smajor. But I think we have a bigger problem.'' He looks at Jimmy out of the corners of his eyes, and Jimmy does the same, both of them sitting in silence as they wait for Pixl to recover. “There’s a demon here, he...he’s spreading corruption around the place. Sausage seems to be in cahoots with him, meaning he’s probably the one that has-”

He looks up suddenly, and his eyes meet Scott’s. He feels a little awkward, sat in bed, wings half-splayed behind him, Jimmy’s hands still nestled among the feathers.

“Uh,” Jimmy looks to him, “Surprise?”

#my writing #growing pains fic #empiressmp #empires smp fic #scott smajor #solidaritygaming #jimmy solidarity #flower husbands #with a cameo from pixl #juno.writes

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shittybundaskenyer · 3 years

Text

✹ ▬ 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐑𝐄𝐃

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈. — 𝓖𝓻𝓲𝔃𝔃𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓔𝓪𝓼𝓽 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏 — The Goddess of War, Morrigan Marlowe I.

pairing: Arthur Morgan x Morrigan Marlowe (OC)

summary: She saved him and with that he saved her in return. It was a strange symbiosis, like wildflowers in a fruitless garden, alluring curious bees. He made her garden bloom. — Arthur Morgan thought he was done with living, but in a gentle golden sunrise, on that cursed mountain, he's rescued by a mysterious woman.

warnings: descriptions of injuries and sickness, blood, Arthur has TB, some self-hatred and unkind thoughts

𝑁𝐸𝑋𝑇 𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 | 𝐴𝑅𝐶𝐻𝐼𝑉𝐸 𝑂𝐹 𝑂𝑈𝑅 𝑂𝑊𝑁

There’s a wolf.

Between gently swaying raspberry vines and dried grass its eyes glint. Golden, with a hint of forest green. He can see it clearly, even though his vision is getting cloudy with stinging tears that are forcing their way through until they can escape from the corners of his eyes. He was never a man who cried easily but the happenings of those last few hours are starting to clear in his mind, and loneliness is slowly sinking its sharp claws into his barely beating heart.

The wolf scents the air, maybe it smells his fear now, or the lingering gunsmoke the wind stirs towards its way. Will it rip his throat out? That would be at least quicker than slowly choking on his own blood.

But the wolf doesn’t move like it would attack. It just watches him, cautiously stepping closer until he can feel its fur brushing the torn up knuckles on his right hand. It brushes its muzzle over the ripped fabric of his shirt where a bullet grazed his shoulder and where Micha's punches start to bruise a dark reddish purple.

He feels blood mingling with the tears on his cheeks, a salty copper taste lingering in his mouth as he gasps for air. The wolf snarls, but not threatening, drawing closer to his face.

Their eyes meet and the sun slowly creeps over the horizon, painting the landscape purple and golden in the early morning mist. Arthur's chest hurts, so much that he can barely catch his next breath. The wolf sniffs his face and for a second they inhale the same air. Its ears flatten, golden eyes meeting his.

There's something in its gaze, a warmth almost, like when he would look at sunlight filtering through the canopy of a forest on a hot summer day and let it gently caress his face.

Arthur struggles for another breath, even more desperate now. He starts shaking, wrecked by sobs and pain and the need to fill his lungs with the air that is barely pushing past his throat. The wolf nudges him then, places its head between his collarbone and neck, bares its teeth and he thinks now, it will tore his flesh open.

He tries to reach for the light fur that grows on the wolf's head but he doesn't have that power in him anymore. His hand lies limp over his stomach, absentmindedly pressing down on a wound to slow the bleeding. Not that it would mean too much.

His vision starts to go black around the edges but it's not from the wolf's attack. It just… rests there, like it would listen to his breathing, the slowing beats of his heart, until it rises and stomps its large paw on his chest, flaring up the pain from broken ribs again. He wheezes and the wolf growls, almost annoyed. It circles him and pushes its head under his arm and shoulder and turns him to his side. It's even worse now, the pain and the lack of air, and he moves as the wolf pleases, too weak, so goddamn weak.

The wolf rams its head into his back, making him cough until a thick patch of reddened spit and phlegm leaves his mouth. He can feel blood trickle down from his nose and he retches, helpless, and spits again.

There now, he can gulp down a breath.

It doesn’t let him rest. Hits him with its paw and nose, bares its teeth when their eyes meet after the reddened saliva dribbles down his chin. He’s too tired to do this, too weak to keep on breathing, but the most animalistic instincts of him and the wolf doesn’t allow him his final rest, not yet. So he wheezes and coughs and chokes until he calms down, until the wolf looks at him once more, with the rising sun glinting in its eyes, and rests its head on his aching chest, huffing a warm breath over his jaw.

Sunrise paints the landscape golden and under, the misty forests a warm reddish-purple. The world is quiet, only his tired breaths are mingling with the quietly whistling wind that twists and turns around the Grizzlies and the old, crooked pine trees. A whitetail buck grazes not too far, the sunshine glinting on his antlers. He raises his head and Arthur and the wolf stare back at him until he turns and jumps, disappearing between frost-kissed blackberry bushes.

The wolf and the sun warms him, caressing his face and pained body, gently lulling him until the sky turns into pink, purple, and then a brilliant blue.

He can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

When he wakes the wolf is gone but there's a woman.

He's in a room, laying in a bed that is covered with something soft, maybe a pelt. His senses are still muddled, but they slowly creep back to him. The ache in his body is still present, breathing is still a struggle. The light coming from a hearth and a kerosene lamp is making him blink back tears, but with his hazy vision he notices the woman quietly busying herself with brewing something, and the air is heavy with the sweet smell of burning herbs.

And then he coughs.

The coughing fit wrecks his body, makes him gasp for air between spitting up blood and choking on it. It stains the fur he's laying on, and drips down the corner of his mouth, disappearing in his beard.

The woman drops the kettle she was holding and rushes to him, carefully pulling him by his uninjured arm to lay on his side. He spits again, the blood finally clearing from his mouth while she holds him in place with one hand and hits his back with the other until he coughs up the mucus that's choking him.

Arthur goes limp when it's over, wheezing in painful breaths while she regards his face and the stained pelt under his head. She reaches for his overgrown hair and brushes it out of his face, her gaze meeting his. She has doe eyes that glint golden in the light of the dimmed kerosene lamp placed on his bedside. He doesn't recognize her but somehow he feels he knows her at the same time. Maybe from another life.

"Better now?" she asks quietly while she places his hand on the bed and gently lays him back.

Arthur tries to speak but only a tired groan leaves his lips while a string of bloodstained saliva dribbles down his chin. He tries again.

"Not much," his voice is so quiet that only a whisper of a gentle breeze could blow the words away. But she listens and lays her palm flat on his forehead. His skin is clammy there, probably the result of a fever, and she clicks her tongue disappointedly, confirming his assumption. "If—If I may ask," he rasps out, trying to be polite, even if speaking feels like being stabbed in the throat every second, "where am I, Miss?"

She pulls back her hand and glances towards the window on the far wall for a minute, where blinking stars and an inky black sky is visible through the glass, and then back to his eyes.

"Found ya half-dead while I was huntin'. You're in my home now, up in the Grizzlies."

Arthur just nods and closes his eyes, not having the energy to keep them open anymore. The woman pulls back for a little and when she returns he feels a cool, wet rag on his forehead, and soon after, her hands again, sneaking under his head to keep him upright while a tin cup is lifted to his lips. He forces himself to look up at her when he feels the fresh water hitting his tongue.

She’s a bit surprised when he grabs the cup she’s still holding, his palm wrapping around hers so he can drink all of the water. When he’s done she doesn’t pull away immediately, but regards his face, the scars and blackened bruises still lingering there. The blood on his chin over an old, jagged scar.

“Why did ya bring me here?” he rasps, every word a stinging pain to form. She looks down for a moment, at his bruised hand that carefully releases hers. The tin cup is empty.

“Guess life ain't done with you yet.”

That's all she says and he sighs, regretting it the next moment as his lungs try to expand, so tired, so weak. He stifles another cough into the fur he stained with blood earlier.

“You’re wrong, Miss. I’m as good as dead.”

Her face turns a bit worried, but she tells him she saw him fighting on that mountain. That after all he did she couldn't let him die while those other men in black swarmed the place like rats to search through the dead.

His face falls at that, a frown drawing his brows together while she watches him. He tells her that she got herself into something that could kill her. She answers with a sad, bitter smile and that she knows exactly how cruel men could be. He doesn't ask her how or why, he only nods and turns his head to the side where he can see the stars glinting silently outside the window. He knows women who met cruel fates.

If the Pinkertons didn't find his body, they'd track him down. Milton assured him that he would be hunted to the ends of the earth until the end of time. Agent Milton was dead now, shot down by Abigail when Arthur's strength failed in fighting him off. Still, his voice whispers in his mind regardless.

Arthur is sure that they'll hunt him down and shoot him like a dog, or make it last like they did with Mac Callander. The sick bastards .

And this woman, they will kill her too. There's no mercy after what happened, no offer for amnesty. Just a gun and a finger on the trigger.

"If they turn up… They'll kill us, Miss."

"They can try," is her only answer.

She lifts the rag from his forehead, puts it in a bowl of water he can't see from where he's laying, but he can hear it splashing as she wrings out the cloth. The cool touch of the fabric is back in a few seconds while she rises from the chair next to him and her pinky finger accidentally brushes his scarred knuckles as she lifts up the tin cup from his weak grasp.

Arthur doesn't feel like talking anymore.

He spends a week sweating out his fever. The woman brews him herbal teas that taste awful and knock him out cold within five minutes. She feeds him broth when he's too weak to even lift a spoon and she tends to his wounds and bruises.

Arthur tried to refuse her help, the food she made for him, the care she gave so willingly. He never could defeat that kindness in her, however stubbornly he tried. She just gave and cared and made sure he was living day after day, not letting him succumb into that self-destructing hole he dug for himself. Arthur marveled at how such a pure soul can still exist in such a cruel world. She told him it's easier when she's alone in the mountains, and that people are kinder here than stuck up city folk. That, he agreed on.

And now, after each passing day he feels vulnerable. He never had to rely on someone else when he was wounded or sick—he always managed on his own, even stitched his own wounds sometimes. They always left a jagged, ugly scar, but he never had to bother someone else with them. Now, he's furious. But his anger is directed only at himself, his weakness, his foolish self that got himself sick, that worked himself to the ground, that didn't die on that mountain.

He asks her to stop once, when she's taking out spoonfuls of broth into a bowl. She doesn't understand. Arthur looks at her when she comes closer with the bowl in hand, sitting down next to him on an old wooden chair. He tries to sit up but his broken ribs protest and he sinks back into the bed with an annoyed huff.

"Why're ya still doin' this?" he asks while she lifts the bowl to his lips. He drinks it, his body fighting, not as stubborn as his stupid mind—it fights to live, because it always fought for that.

"'Cause you're not gettin' better."

"You know what I mean."

"We're more similar than ya think. I was in your place once. A stranger helped me, and now look at me. I live. And you'll live too," she manages to be so openly honest with him without revealing any real detail about her past. Arthur's beyond curious, but he just takes the bowl from her now, gulps down a mouthful because he feels, for the first time in a month, truly hungry.

She watches him while he finishes the food, smiles at him when he pulls away the bowl and his upper lip and beard is smeared with the broth. She has a kind smile, a lady's smile that was not born to live in the wilderness like this.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his palm, the ache in his shoulder flaring up like gasoline poured onto embers.

Arthur realized a few days back that she was the only person who lived here. One night, when he couldn't sleep from the nightmares and his aching chest he listened how she walked around the house, checking the doors and lighting the lantern outside, on the front porch.

But no one was coming home in the late hours of the night.

He asks her then, that she lives alone or her family is just away. She looks down, a hint of sadness softening her features before she can hide it behind a fake, barely there smile. They're not coming back.

"I'm sorry."

It's not pity, not when he's lost so much too. It's more like a deep understanding, a knowledge of hidden wounds that never can heal fully. She looks at him again until their eyes meet and he's confronted with an honesty that usually only mirrors can muster.

"It was a long time ago now," she tells him while she takes the bowl into her hands, leans back on the creaking chair. Arthur follows her movements with tired, bloodshot eyes. She looks outside, through the small window where the curtains are only half-open, the early morning sky burning behind them in a deep red and purple.

She rises then, takes the bowl to the washbasin in the other corner of the room. She brews coffee, its familiar scent awakening a comforting warmth in his still aching chest. She offers him a cup, leaves it on his bedside to cool a little while she takes her own and steps out to the front porch, into the sunrise in red.

She asks his name the next week, when he still doesn't start to heal. Arthur answers her with a bitter smile and his name, so strange now on his tongue that still tastes of coppery blood after coughing.

"You wanted something to write on my gravestone, ain't ya?"

"Don't be silly Arthur," she scolds him, walks closer from the stove where she's brewing some new kind of tea. He likes how his name sounds when it rolls down her tongue. It's soft. Strange. After so many other people had said it with hate and anger, it's nice to hear it like he could be a normal person. Not a no-good ugly bastard like him. It's also nice hearing his first name, the one that is stained with a bit less blood than Morgan , the one that shines inky black on every wanted poster from Blackwater to Annesburg.

She sits beside him, on the bed this time, and she checks the cool rag that's draped over his forehead. Her hands smell like various kinds of herbs, of the outside, of the wilderness. Arthur inhales it deeply, fights down a cough while he ignores his aching chest. He misses the outdoors. It's nicer dying in a forest than a bed. It's more fitting for him, too. No outlaw deserves the warmth of a home in his last days.

"It's still burnin'," she sighs and pulls back her hand.

"I'm not gonna get better, Miss." Arthur turns towards the window again, where he can see the pine trees basking in the early afternoon sunlight. Frost glimmered on their branches earlier and painted the cobwebs in the corner of the windowframe a shining silver. "I have consumption."

Admitting it to her feels like a mistake, just like being in her house, eating her food, accepting her care. He doesn't deserve all this, not when he has taken so much from kind people like her before. He tried to do good in the end, he tried , but—

"I know," she nods, a hint of sadness sparkling in her eyes. "My Pa had the same symptoms. He had it as well."

He starts to understand now, the things she said about her family. He wants to ask but he bites into his lip instead and nods. She watches him for a moment, her eyes following the tired lines of his face.

She tells him her name then. Morrigan. Arthur remembers the Irish tales and legends Hosea used to read for him when he was still young and somewhat careless and happy . A Celtic goddess, war and fate and doom and death. How fitting for him. But not for her, not when she's so gentle. She reminds him of Boadicea, another kind soul named after women of war.

"I've seen enough death, Arthur," she whispers and she stands up from the side of his bed, walks towards the whistling kettle on the stove, but she turns back for a second to look into his eyes and say "I don't wanna see yours too."

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x oc #rdr2 fanfic #arthur x morrigan #morrigan marlowe #my writing #sunrises in red #im finally done sitting on this chapter #i wrote this like a week ago #so here ya qo i can't look at it longer #also i'm pretty rusty still so i'm sorry if this is shitty #anyways i want arthur to heal #so this will be the center element of this fic #with some love and care sprinkled on it

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red-doll-face · 3 years

Note

Part two for Jason and the reader who moved into the cabin ‘for you’. Love it 😍

Thanks ! It’s been forever since I wrote that Jason thing, here’s part two and the link to part one I’m glad u liked it! I haven’t written for Jason in a while so forgive me if this sucks

Warnings: nothing, just Jason being a fucking angel man 😔🥺💖😳

WC: 1000

Jason Voorhees x Reader

Dedicated To You.

A gloved hand lays a tiny carved wooden buck in your outstretched hand. As he gently lays it in your sweating palm, you smile, barely remembering to thank him. It's so small, looks a lot like the deer one he left for you on your bannister. The antlers are like toothpicks. You nod, holding it like a frog or some other small creature in both of your hands. He tilts his head a little and Jason, you remind yourself, stares at you a while longer.

“I- I was on a hike,” you blurt into the silence, no response from the man before you. He was a man. Right? “And I live really close, I didn't mean to come… over here.” Again, he silent and you nod as if he said something in return.

“Well, I’ll um see you?” This sentence evokes something from him, a stiff nod. Soundlessly, he turns and moves back into the brush, gone before you can even think to call back out to him. He’s an odd one. Doesn’t talk, just stands and stares. You turn as well, back on the original trail you started on. You take the little deer, hide it safe in a loose pocket that won't smash it to smithereens. You finish the hike, taking in the scenery of the landmark. Poking around the little ecosystem you find some little odd things to observe. Turning around reveals the man you ran into earlier. He startles you a little and he moves back a little. Jason looks at you wordlessly again.

“I suppose I saw you much earlier than I thought I would.” He shuffles awhile and points at you. Then the direction where your grandparents cabin is. Jason makes a motion like a little stick figure walking with two fingers, points at himself. He wants to walk to your cabin. He points at you. So he wants to walk back with you? You nod and he perks up a little. His excitement, though not obvious is sincere. Smiling a little, you step back onto the path, Jason trailing along. His legs are much longer than yours and he moves like a predator. Long strides that surpass your own. He remembered there on the forest path, the way his mother would hold his hand so that he wouldn't lag too far behind. So she wouldn't lose him. Jason’s hand latches to yours and your face heats up. His hand envelops yours completely and you feel safe around someone who’s known to make people disappear. You can’t be afraid of someone who took such care in the gifts he’s made you. Is that unwise?

Everyday for the past week, Jason stands, watching over your cabin. He approaches you sometimes. He gives you little rocks. They glitter in the sunlight, they clack around your palms. Jason observes the way you marvel at them. He brings more that he finds along the paths and in the streams. These gifts evolve into a small pile of wild strawberries and then blueberries. They smell fresh and sweet; he nods to you. Eat them. You crush them between your dull teeth, the fruit pops and bleeds in your mouth. He’s visibly happy that you enjoy them. Gifts that you enjoy are always his favorite to give. It helps that you seem to enjoy them all.

Trying to talk to Jason is quite the feat. He listens. Nods for yes, shakes his head for no. Points out things. He’s bashful and gentle for being so big, reading it in the way he acts over his words. The big man clad in his sage green jackets sits, making your dining room furniture look comically small. He’s never removed the hockey mask; you don't intend on asking. He’ll take it off when he’s ready but you wonder if he can resist the draw of cookies. Today, you were preparing cookies that can be iced decoratively, so they come out plain and the real fun is drawing on them in sugary icing. You lay out some supplies on the table in front of Jason, him curiously motioning at the little piping bags and the sprinkles.

“I’m making cookies today. My grandma always enjoyed making these and I loved decorating them. It was always so much fun,” You toddle back to the kitchen, mitts in hand ready to pull them out. The metal between your fingers is so hot it leeches through the oven mitts you have over your sensitive skin. Not enough to burn you but you still shake your wrist a little. Jason looks on in concern.

“I’m fine, it's not that hot.” He nods a little reluctantly. Excitedly, you ramble on about the possibilities. You sit down and put a surface for decorating, another for placing the finished ones. Icing is mixed with dye as the cookies cool, afterwards placed carefully in little piping bags. You start working on your own cookie, drawing a floral motif on it. Steady lines drop over the golden brown surface of the crispy treat outlining the design, then you fill them with the color. You set your own on the tray where all of the warm ones are put to dry. You finish your first one, moving on to another one. However, you need red to complete the design. You ask Jason to pass it and he does. His cookie is covered by his arm, so muscular he’s sure you can't peek over. Trying to peek makes him even more defensive. Shrugging, you take the red as he finishes up with it. When the cookies are dried, You spot Jason’s and you cover your face, flattered. He holds out a circular cookie with a rich red heart and your initial in white next to a plus sign and the letter J. It’s so sweet, literally. You thank Jason and ask him to come a little nearer to your height. When he complies, you lay a kiss on the scratched plastic of his hockey mask. He’s so bashful.

Look at him, Jason is a boy who I love sm he’s just a sweetheart 💖💖💖💖

#slasher x reader #jason voorhees x reader #jason voorhees #friday the 13th #slashers #slasher x you #red writes

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swampythesweetsketch · 3 years

Text

Fun idea I had this morning but I want to share with you guys for fun.

NSR GUARDIAN ANIMAL AU

Gist of AU is that someone/something is born with a tiny, magical animal that accompanies them.

Think Golden Compass but everything gets a animal, and the animals also act as magical instruments.

Imma call these creatures "Notels".

Qwasa energy is the lifeblood of these creatures, of which means the world is rampant with energy. Drawback is that the city's blackouts are caused by a lack of artists openly preforming for the energy to freely flow.(Unknown to NSR)

NSR are the major power to Vinyl City due to their rare instance of multiple/being bigger than average Notels.

Buildings have Notels that act as protector to their home (confined to that one space). They stay until the home is demolished, they will continue to exist to supply their home(s) with energy until they are exhausted of all musical resources.

Security bots have their own Notels, but the animals are smaller, chibi versions that focus their energy on keeping their mechanical holders charged at all times. They can hop onto other bots if their initial bot is destroyed in combat and will scurry off to new energy sources if there is no other bots around.

Human(oid) figures have more normal sized Notels that turn into various instruments that match up to their talents. They can also turn into other objects, but Notels are more music focused.

Non-music Notels are often referred as Nolls.

TIME TO HOP TO THE CAST AND PLOT

Bunk Bed Junction!

The two are still a band, but their sewers becomes a underground cavern that has old scriptures that depicts the more open, free flowing energy of Notels. They wish to join NSR in hopes of opening up the freedom of performance to other artists.

Pretty much like the OG B2J, but their focus is changed a bit to help Notels become stronger beings to help Vinyl City climb out of the black outs.

As Vinyl City keeps getting the blackouts and music tastes have all become selective, many Notels have started disappearing due to their respective genres starting to die out in the EDM dominate city.

Mayday's Notel is a rat! A smart creature that came to her in early age, it turns into her guitar. It stays perched in her hair and loves the food from Aunty, as to why B2J are regulars.

Aunty's Noll is a octopus, that turns its tentacles into various cooking utensils. I thought you might like to know.

Zuke's Notel ia Ellie! The little alligator uses their back scales as Zuke's drums and fangs as drumsticks! Ellie is still an integral support character as she and Zukes share the only braincell in the group.

Kill, who pops in after DJSS, has a armadillo Noll that turns into his phone.

First Artist, DJ Subatomic Supernova.

The first NSR artist they face off against is DJ Subatomic Supernova. His Notel is a dog, a nod to Laika, the first animal to ever orbit the Earth.

The Notel is made of pure Qwasa, with rings around its tail that turn into the scratch discs DJSS uses with a custom turntable. These rings will always burn up and become compact Qwasa stars that fizzle out over time. These stars are the main energy source for Club Planetarium.

The dog is massive, about the same size as DJSS. It's breed is best described as a greyhound.

Second Artist, Sayu.

She herself is a Notel!!! Kura Kura Stream Hun was once a interactive hologram theater that fell under, and Sayu was once a little fish Notel that swam around the building. When the place went under, she was alone for years.

It wasn't until the new NSR kids found Sayu and evolved their idea of reviving their old favorite building into a giant aquarium for Sayu to preform. And in debut of her inclusion to the NSR artists, Sayu evolved into the mermaid you see today!

The kiddos do have their own Notels that work as the aquatic buddies to Sayu!

Tila writes Sayu's lyrics and the beta singer of all the mermaid's song. She's the only one in the four creators that has a Notel. That is a vibrant green-red beta fish that turns into a small microphone for Tila to sing into.

Remi is the artist of the group, his Noll is a sunfish that uses its body as a drawing surface. When drawn on with a new design, it will swim around Sayu and act as a "magical transformation" of sorts.

Dodo is the choreographer for Sayu, teaching her the moves for her shows. His Nolls are mossballs. Tiny little things that act as the tail in Dodo's routines to help Sayu understand the whole of her dancing!

Sofa, the editor, has eel nolls that work in the background with him to navigate the theater and control lighting and setting for Sayu's preformance. He's the one with the strongest Nolls as their energy helps fluctuate the surroundings.

Third Artist, Yinu!

Her district is unique as she is a classical prodigy that seems to be the only other genre kept actively alive in Vinyl City.

Her Notel is a gosling, who uses their feathers as piano keys. The keys break apart over time as Yinu and her Notel are not fully grown, so she does most of her preformances with a physical piano until then.

Her mother's Noll is a spider, who uses their webs to create iron bars to trap B2J.

During Yinu's last stand in battle, her piano is broken already, so she and her Notel work together. But her Notel is near exhausted of feathers and has to stop when B2J reach her. They stay to help Yinu calm down and wait for her mother to shrink back down. They leave when the mother and daughter play the broken piano, helping Yinu's Notel regain energy.

Fourth Artist, 1010!

Neon J has a Moose Noll. I’m not sorry. It shrunk a bit since he became a cyborg to help charge his body. Back then it had to rely on tricking Neon J to sleep with soft lullabies to tune out the war going on, but now it can choose to stop feeding him its energy to force him to sleep.

White/Rin has a tiny wolf Notel that turns into a long microphone stand, he uses it for solos. Other than that, its a little wolf puppy that chases Rin around to keep him charged.

Red/Zimelu has a cockatiel Notel that turns into a microphone/drumstick combo. A single long, thin stick that Zim can sing into to generate a flat disc that sharpens into a circular saw, the handle acting as... the handle.

The cockatiel loves perching on his arm and nibble his ascot.

Yellow/Haym has a rabbit Noll! It has a reaaaalllyy fluffy tail that pop off into pompoms! Haym loves using them to boost the moral of his team! When not in use, it lays in the faux ascot of Haym’s- he really had a hoodie hood for his rabbit to stay in!

Blue/Purl-Hew has a Snake Noll that extends it’s tail into a thread-thin whip. He uses it to grab his teammates out of danger. The snake loops around his neck and has constant yawns since Purl-Hew doesn’t exert a lot of energy outside of work.

Green/Eloni has a Cat Notel! It turns itself into cat ears headphones with a little microphones. When not doing anything else, it lops in the circle on Eloni’s head and cat naps there. He has trouble keeping his head straight sometimes, but he can never remove his precious chunk. 💚

When B2J crash their party, Mayday is terrified of Eloni’s cat and Purl-Hew’s snake cause she thinks they might eat her rat (Who she has gone to call Chebbar. Like Cheddar, but with a B).

When 1010 are nearly destroyed, all the Notels/Nells freak out in hopes of repairing their respective boys, but this only makes things work as they are what cause 1010 to ultimately explode.

When Neon J comes to the scene- atop 1010 limousine. No matter where I fight whether near or far- I bleed in the name of NSR-

When Neon J comes to the scene, he and his MEGA MOOSE NOLL (who turns into a rapier with many disfigured blades that hut out like antlers.

The Mother Machine that keeps spawning 1010′s new bodies has its own Noll that is respectively a doe. All of 1010′s Notels/Nolls rush to their protection. Moose dad and Deer mom are PISSED.

All the Notels and Nolls cling to their beaten owners after the fight, the doe keeps close to Neon J when the Mother Machine is destroyed.

Fourth Artist, Eve.

Eve has two Nolls, peacocks that are pink and white respectively. They turn into her masks or Humor and Tragedy.

When one is used, the other uses its feathers to construct large arms and hands that chase B2J around. When they swap, all hands and arms melt into puddles that can still cause damage if stepped in. They evaporate after a little bit.

The peacocks steal Eve and try to run into the white void when she’s defeated, pecking Zuke when he catches up to them and talks to Eve. They eventually deescalates the tension and pet them while they talk.

They follow B2J outside the studio in order to combine their feathers into a key that unlocks the gate to NSR tower.

Final Artist, Tatiana.

Tatiana has a Noll, a steel gray hummingbird. It looks dead a majority of the time. It may look rejuvenated one second, but the next it will look drained of all life. Tatiana refuses to acknowledge her Noll’s problem.

When B2J encounters Tatiana, they battle with their music which seems to revive the Noll. That catches Mayday’s attention.

Mayday goes in to shame Tatiana for neglecting her Noll’s need for Rock, revealing B2J’s motive for auditioning in the first place.

To save the Notals, dying form the lack of their genre being played and oppressing artists that don’t fall in line of EDM.

Tatiana is caught off guard by the revelation, but listening to Mayday’s complaint, she turns her Noll into the clock hand blades she battles with. Using the rock music played by B2J to fuel her Noll’s power.

Mayday and Zuke are forced to drop their Rock solo and battle with EDM mixed with their tunes. The combination boosting their power enough to overcome Tatiana ‘s attack.

As the battle concludes, the clock tower releases Tatiana’s guitar, who reveals to a phoenix Notel that has been supplying the tower with the majority of its power since Tatiana abandoned her old persona, Kul Fyra.

Kliff comes into the scene, and using Tatiana’s weakened Notel and Noll against her, takes control of them to grab the last bit of power from NSR.

All the defeated artists call in to see Tatiana, beaten. It is there that everyone is then told how the lack of genres have been killing off the Notels and causing the blackouts. But Tatiana refuses the idea... then her Noll collapses.

Mayday and Zuke rush to the Noll’s aid and play their music for the poor thing. Kliff chews Tatiana out for not seeing the obvious. He misses the hypocrisy in his speech, as he only idolizes Rock as the definitive music genre of Vinyl City.

During their fight, Kliff uses his Noll to control the tower’s system and the satellite starts to fall.

The finale continues as normal, the districts are returned to their respective Artists, and Tatiana puts the call out for artists of all genres to come to the Grand Qwasa to preform like never before.

Kliff, seeing a error in his ways a little too late, gives back Tatiana’s Notels and leaves his own Noll behind with her.

Lyrics screamed, horns blasted, drums punctured, string snapped.

The blow of musical energy surges the Grand Qwasa as the whole city glows in a light long missed as every single artist plays their heart out.

But it works, the tower transforms with the help of its Noll (a metronome) and flings the satellite back into orbit.

Mayday is given Tatiana’s offer to join NSR and refuses, and instead is gifted her Notel.

Tatiana’s Noll is fully revived and reveals to be another phoenix, still steel gray but it’s body burning brighter than ever before.

The announcement is made to restructure NSR, and in so, Vinyl City is opened alive once more to revived and brand new Notels.

ANNNNNNNNDDDD that’s the end! Thanks for reading my rambling of a AU that doesn’t change a lot but was fun to make!

Byyyeeeeeee!!!!!!!

#nsr #No Straight Roads #AU #Notels and Nolls

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author-morgan · 4 years

Note

“You’re hair is really soft after you wash it.” and “Ssh. Stop fussing. I’m just braiding your hair.” with Eivor. Bring on the fluffy viking braiding session!

ahhh, those are such cute prompts. i hope you enjoy this drabble!

m!Eivor x fem!Reader

EIVOR WOLFSMAL RETURNS at the edge of dark covered in filth. He left before dawn with a group of hunters in pursuit of a beast rumored to be lurking near the settlement. It would be best to put the beast down before it started causing trouble with the livestock and people. When he steps into the firelight, it is a mixture of blood and mud marring his leathers and staining his golden hair and beard. You point him to a chair near the table after telling him to strip —away from your loom and drying clothes. His clothes will have to wait to be washed for now.

It is by luck alone you had been preparing a bath for yourself, but Eivor now needs one far more than you. Dumping the last kettle of steaming water into the wooden tub, you motion for him to get in. He wanted to be greeted with a kiss, but given his current state and foul smell, he cannot blame you. Eivor splashes water onto his face and scrubs away the muck. You stoke the fire in the hearth before moving next to the bath with a cake of soap and a boar bristle brush.

He takes the soap from you and rubs it between his hands until it lathers. While he scrubs his beard, arms, and legs with the bristle brush, you bring one of the table chairs and sit behind him. Taking a seat, you reach for his hair and start to undo his braids —setting aside the beads, rings, and leather thongs he had adorning his golden locks. Unbound, his hair falls past his shoulders. With your fingers, you work through the largest knot, humming the soft tune of a lullaby.

Dipping a stone pitcher into the tub, you pour water over his head. He grumbles and you laugh at his churlish protest. It takes three pitchers to soak his hair, but then you lean forward, taking the cake of soap from him and begin working it into a lather through his hair. Eivor leans against the wooden bath, head tilted back as you massage his scalp. “Your fingers are magic, kjære min,” he breathes. You smile and place a short kiss on his forehead. These little moments do nothing but make you love him more —the gods had been kind to let you marry a man like Eivor Wolfsmal.

Dumping several pitchers over his head washes the suds and grime away and into the dirty bathwater. Pleased with the cleanliness of his hair, you wash his shoulders and back. Stopping to trace over the few scars, fingers brushing over the rough patch of skin on his back —a reminder of his moniker from when he was a boy. You can hear his sharp intake of air when your fingers are replaced by the soft warmth of your lips.

He shifts, turning back to look at you from over his shoulder. “Will you kiss me now that I’m clean?” Eivor asks with a low, rough laugh. Smiling, you lean toward him and he closes the remaining gap —pressing his lips against yours. His damp hand slides back into your hair, pulling you closer. Parting, you lift your hand to his cheek, tracing over the scar running down his cheek —hand dropping down to comb through his wet beard.

“You should have seen the beast,” Eivor remarks, lifting his arms above his head of mimic the size of the slain bear. You listen to the tale. It will be told again by others during the next gathering on the settlement. The antler comb catches on another knot to be worked out. He pretends to shove a spear forward —skewering the beast. He had struck the first major blow and the bear was easily felled by the hunting party. You run your fingers through his hair, pleased to find there is nary a knot left. Setting the comb aside, you wrap your arms around his middle from behind and lean over Eivor’s shoulder, kissing his cheek.

Before the warm hearth, you share a small meal —crusty brown bread and smashed blackberries from brambles in the forest. By the time you both discard the dirtied bathwater and clean up after the meal, the hour is late. Eivor yawns, he has been awake since before the break of dawn. The silence within the small home is broken by the low, gurgling croak of Sýnin, finding his perch above the hearth and preening his damp feathers.

Eivor draws you toward the bed, working the ties of your woolen dress free. Crawling over him, you settle into the mattress, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. “Your hair is always soft after it’s washed,” you tell him, smiling as you brush aside the golden strands falling in front of his face. His hair is often bound in braids and it is easy to forget how well the golden strands frame his face —making him seem less a fierce warrior and more of an overgrown whelp. He catches your wrist, placing a soft kiss to the center of your palm. Gathering a clump of the golden hair, you split it into three parts —weaving the strands into a simple braid to keep the hair from his face. He mumbles something, half-asleep already. “Stop fussing,” you laugh, “I’m just braiding your hair.”

Eivor swats your hands away, quickly engulfing you with his arms —warm and strong. “You can do that in the morning,” he tells you, nuzzling his nose into your neck. There will be plenty of time for you to fix his hair in the morn. You relax in his embrace, laying your head against his chest. The steady and strong beat of his heart is a comfort. For now, Eivor Wolfsmal just wants to rest after a long day and hold the woman he loves in his arms.

@withered-poppies @ananriel @britishhotassassin @fjor-ok-skadi @nemo-my-name-forevermore if you want to be tagged in Eivor stuff, just let me know!

#Eivor #Eivor Wolfsmal #Eivor x Reader #m!Eivor #m!Eivor x Reader #male Eivor #male Eivor x Reader #Eivor Imagine #Eivor Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Valhalla #Assassin's Creed #my writing #requested #Anonymous

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fc5holidayexchange · 4 years

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FAR CRY 5 HOLIDAY EXCHANGE 2019 [FIC]

‘Blissful Dreams and Other Things’

Faith Seed/Angela Wells

@theblissburns

“My gift for the FC5 Holiday Exchange! Hope you like it! ♥”

‘Deputy x Faith Seed, Fluff’

She remembered falling.

Hit by the impact of the bliss bullet, her gaze a fog, world slowly slipping away from her. Spinning, twisting, turning. It wasn’t the first time she experienced her consciousness slipping away from her in such a way, glittering particles of light dancing in front of her eyes, yet she found it hard to get used to it.

Indeed, she couldn’t imagine anyone would be able to get used to it.

It all started at the outpost. Angela wasn’t the type of person that would let others walk over her. Especially not the cultists. She was focused, fingers on the trigger, eyes sharpened on the horizon. Her moves were calculated as she slowly made her way across the building, each step closer to taking out the entire outpost.

Until it all went horribly wrong.

She wasn’t the one to panic easily and yet…

The angels were what they called them. A name so celestial and pure, it made it much more sickening to actually encounter them in the field. They were strong, incredibly strong, and Angela remembered several times how some of them stood up after being shot, as if death meant nothing to them. Yet their minds were empty, making them mere husks running forward in a frenzy they couldn’t understand. They were weapons, not people. Didn’t make them any less terrifying.

They must have cornered her somehow. Maybe they knew she’d come, maybe someone tipped them off. It didn’t matter.

Hit in the back, as was suited to the hands of cowards, she stumbled forward, their screams fading from her mind as her vision danced in front of her, taking her away to the blissful ignorance of a drug-induced dream. Or reality? Was it really true? She wasn’t sure of the differences anymore. Or so she thought.

It wasn’t the first time she found herself in the hazy, grassy plains, yet she was always puzzled by her surroundings. If it was all just a trick of her drugged mind, if it was all just some sick game of her slipping consciousness, it felt so damn real.

The light breeze played with her golden hair, fresh and cool against her skin. She walked through the grass, hearing a distant chirping of birds in the wind. Tall trees formed an alleyway for her, guiding her down through a narrow path, leaves shivering as she passed. She could have sworn she heard gentle whispers in the trees, as if they beckoned her to continue walking. A pair of rabbits crossed her path, yet her breath stopped for a second when she laid her eyes upon them - delicate, twisting antlers protruding from their heads. The animals gave her a questioning look, as if she was the unusual thing around. And maybe they were right, for everything she has seen so far felt like taken straight out of a fairy tale. She wasn’t sure yet if that was reassuring or not.

She came to the end of the alley, entering a vast meadow, the warmth of the sun rays laying gentle kisses on her skin. The fresh green grass was littered by patches of white flowers slowly swaying in the breeze. A single tree was towering in the center, wide branches throwing shadows on the ground beneath.

Underneath it, a woman sat in the grass.

Angie’s heart skipped a beat when she saw her, resting in the cool shade of the tree, bare feet lazily stretched in front of her, the hem of her dress delicately covering her knees.

Faith Seed raised her head to meet her gaze. “Will this never end?” She asked, her voice even more soft than usual. There was no malice in her words, yet her eyes carried a subtle sadness in them.

“What do you mean?” Angela countered her question, but she already knew the answer.

They both did.

Faith sighed, the leaves of the tree whispering in unison as she did. “Angie…”

The way she said her name sent shivers down her spine. Faith beckoned her to sit down next to her and she followed, as if entranced. Or fascinated. She found it hard to deny the young woman anything. Or maybe she wasn’t even trying to.

She rested her back against the tree, laying her feet in the soft grass, Faith’s shoulder gently pressed against hers. Her presence was reassuring and Angie wasn’t sure if that was just one of the effects of the Bliss, but she knew she wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

“This violence, this anger,” Faith talked, gesturing gently with her hands. “How long will it go on? Do you not see where this is all going?”

Angie looked down at her feet, avoiding her gaze. “I do not take pride in it.”

“I know.” Her touch was warm when Faith laid her palm on her knee. “And I want to help you. We all do, should you choose to accept it.”

Did she really mean it or was she just spinning her yarn again, entrancing her, luring her in? Was it all just a game or was she sincere? In her gentle touches, soft words, looks filled with loneliness and… affection. Was it all just a part of the plan? And more importantly, Angie thought, biting at her lip, do I want it to be true?

Faith seemed to sense her worry, gently taking her hand in hers, rubbing her thumb against her skin. “I’m not playing any games with you, Angie. I know what they told you about me.” Then, softly, but with certainty in her voice: “Let me show you who I really am.”

She caressed her arm gently, slowly rolling the sleeve of her shirt up as she did so. She stopped, voice all so quiet out of a sudden. “You are wounded.”

Angie barely paid mind to the scratches and cuts on her upper arm - most of them were a day or two old, some were very fresh, merely minutes ago. She tried to ignore them most of the time, but as Faith pointed them out, the lingering sting of the pain started to creep underneath her skin once more.

Faith began to run her fingers across her arm and Angie shivered under her touch, just for a second, before meeting her eyes.

“Don’t be afraid.” Faith said. “Let me help.”

She obeyed, letting her draw gentle patterns along the scratches and newly-forming scars. Her touch was warm and reassuring. Healing.

To her own shock, she felt the pain go away as suddenly as it came, leaving her with nothing but a sun-kissed skin and a puzzled mind.

She raised her head, gently resting it against Faith’s shoulder. “How did you do that?”

The young woman chuckled softly. It was a delightful sound. “Let me have some of my secrets, will you?”

Angie didn’t answer that. Instead, she smiled, closing her eyes as Faith started running fingers through her hair. She hummed softly with pleasure. It was a long time since someone touched her in such an affectionate way and it certainly felt out of place, given the circumstances she found herself in.

“You are so tense.” Faith said after a while with a hint of pity in her voice. “It must be all weighing on you so much.”

“Oh.” She sighed, her eyes still closed, the sunlight warm against her skin. “You have no idea.”

“Hmm.” Faith’s touch was so pleasant, fingers in her hair and a soft voice in her ear. “Let me help you relax a little.”

She certainly couldn’t say ‘no’ to that, not that she would even intend to. Leaning into Faith’s embrace, she made herself comfortable, listening to her soft humming as she caressed her hair.

They stayed silent for a while until Angie decided to speak again. “This… this is nice.” The words felt so natural coming out of her mouth as if she uttered them absentmindedly. It was too late to cover them up now, but she didn’t intend to.

“It is.” Faith agreed. She didn’t see her face, but she could say she was smiling. “I’m glad you are here.”

For what it was worth Angie was glad too, in a way. Yet the memories of the outside world kept creeping on her, making the soft and pleasant feelings from Faith’s company pale in comparison of the screaming wrath of the reality.

Faith seemed to sense that, maybe because of how Angie’s body tensed or because how quiet she stayed for a while. “Don’t think about anything else now,” she whispered gently. “This moment is all that matters.”

“Uhm…” She said absentmindedly, finding it hard to think straight with Faith’s touch caressing her so gently.

“I can’t help you relax if you don’t cooperate with me.” She said jokingly, letting out a short laugh.

Angie sighed but smiled. “Alright, alright. You have my unwavering attention.” She opened her eyes to meet her gaze.

Faith’s face beamed with affection. “Good girl.” She grinned, laying her free hand on the top of Angie’s hand. “You deserve some rest.”

“Oh, how right you are,” Angie said with a short giggle on her lips and closed her eyes again, letting her mind flow away under Faith’s gentle touches, listening to her beating heart as she rested her head against her chest.

She let the warmth of the moment overcome her and sleep started to creep on her with the gentle promise of oblivion in its step. She almost let it take her, yet not entirely. And in the last moment before succumbing to sleep, her mind returned to the same question she asked a while ago.

Was this real? Did she want it to be? And yet, under the soft touch of the woman beside her, she finally knew the answer.

#faith seed/deputy #faith seed #deputy oc #fluff #gift: fic #fc5holidayexchange #theblissburns #submission

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kathyprior4200 · 4 years

Text

HAZBINUVA BOSS

A meeting was in progress at the Hazbin Hotel. Five demons were seated around a large wooden rectangular table near where the bar was. The window and door that Sir Pentious’ machine had blown up were now repaired thanks to Alastor. (The door now had an elaborate skull with antlers hanging above the door frame.) The group sat in high-backed leather chairs with spikes on the rims. A pentagram was in the center of the table, drawn in white. Charlie, the blonde haired princess was standing up and writing words down on a whiteboard. Vaggie sat in a chair close by, glaring at everyone else with her gray hands clasped together on the table. Angel had his long legs propped up on the table off to the right. Alastor sat in-between Husk and Niffty. Husk moved further away from them and then stopped when Angel inched closer with his chair. In front of everyone were bowls of fresh Jambalaya, almost finished.

“Thank you so much for making your meal for us,” Charlie said with a smile, turning from the board.

“Anytime, dear!” Alastor replied. “I had used up a lot of my magic and I figured all of us would be hungry. Figured it’d be a great way to celebrate the start of your Haz…Happy Hotel!”

“Wow Al!” Angel exclaimed. “That was some delicious grub!”

Everyone nodded and hummed in agreement. Even Vaggie had to admit it was delicious.

“Thank you,” Alastor said with a smile. “It’s my mother’s special recipe…I even put in gunpowder for an explosive effect!” He laughed. “That was what almost killed her. She had too much Southern Comfort and decided to pour gunpowder while the jambalaya was in the pan…it blew up in her face! I tried it and the kick was straight outta Hell!”

“Oh my,” Niffty said with a brief gasp. “You really should be more careful next time. It could leave a big mess.”

“I try my hardest, dear,” he said to Niffty, which caused the small cyclops demon to blush.

Alastor continued. “Did you know that hunters in Louisiana would often add game meat to their dishes? Deer, duck, and other animals they hunted. I did it all the time. Venison was my favorite…but human flesh gave it that extra flavor that was simply divine!”

Vaggie, Angel, and Charlie made disgusted faces. “Can we please not bring that up?” Charlie asked, coming to sit down.

“But I just did,” he replied nonchalantly.

Vaggie stared hard at her bowl, eye twitching, fearful of finding any part that may have looked vaguely human. Niffty had licked her bowl clean…literally. Husk was busy drinking another bottle of booze.

“What the flying, fuck, Alastor?!” Angel stated. “I love your looks and all, but try and tone down on the cannibalism.”

Alastor leaned in slightly closer to Angel. “I read somewhere that some people on Earth consume insects in their diet. Including spiders.”

Angel’s eyes widened in fear, but soon, his pink pupils dilated. “You would…try and eat me?” he asked with a grin, pink gloved hand moving just a hair toward his dick.

Alastor deciphered what he was implying and replied with a haughty “No. Not in that way.”

“Your loss,” Angel called as the Radio Demon moved away from the white feminine dressed spider.

Vaggie narrowed her eyes a Husk. “Can we at least not drink during a meeting?”

“Hasn’t started yet,” Husk replied, not even looking at her.

Vaggie mentioned to the bar with her spear. “That bar shouldn’t even be here!”

“I think it’s a necessary thing to have,” Angel replied. “Gotta have some liquor to enjoy between the pole dancing performances and stripping and…”

“The hotel is not a strip club, Angel!” Vaggie pressed on.

Alastor conjured a glass of Cornac in his hand with dark red magic and began to drink.

Angel grinned widely, one of his top sharp teeth golden. “See? The strawberry pimp agrees, too!”

A growl rumbled in Alastor’s throat as he glanced in Angel’s direction.

“What the…” Husk gasped. “No fair!” He clenched his claws. “I’ve had it with your fucking games and showing off.” He looked like a cat ready to pounce.

“What’d you plan to do, Husker? Fight me and lose your job?”

The Radio Demon’s tone was laced with warning. A grumbling Husk got the message and sank back in his chair.

“That’s what I thought.”

Charlie banged her fist on the table, getting everyone’s attention. “Alright then! If you all are done with your meals…”

Alastor snapped his fingers and the bowls vanished. Husk glanced at where his bowl was before. “I wasn’t done yet!”

“…let’s get down to business with our first group meeting.”

Charlie in her white tuxedo with a black bow tie, stood up and walked over to the white board. She held a wooden pointer in her hands.

On the board, the words “Happy Hotel” were written in rainbow letters. Random drawings of unicorns, puppies, flowers, and smiling stick figures of demons decorated the board off to the side.

“First and foremost, welcome to the Happy Hotel! I’m Charlie and I’m the founder of this place. How about we introduce ourselves?”

“Babe, we ain’t kids ya know,” Angel remarked. “Besides, I already know the names of you guys.”

“And frankly, I could care less,” Husk added.

“I am Alastor, the Radio Demon! Pleasure to meet all of you!”

“That radio voice of yours is getting on my nerves,” Vaggie muttered under her breath. “That wasn’t even necessary.”

“What was that?” Alastor asked with a tilt of his head. “Speak up. Say it a bit louder for the people in the back.”

Charlie looked at Vaggie who pointed to something on the board. The look in her eyes was telling Charlie to move on.

“O-okay then,” Charlie said. “With the introductions over…ground rules!”

Vaggie nodded and gave her a thumbs up.

“Rule number one: Treat each other the way you want to be treated. Be kind to each other or at least tolerant.”

Angel smirked. “Easier said than done.”

Alastor rolled his eyes and laughed.

Charlie put her hands on her hips. “You guys think this is all a joke, but I don’t. If you want to stay here, then you have to put in some effort. Even if it’s little steps every day.”

“Like I said before, you can’t baby us into good behavior,” Angel said. “Are we like your students or something?”

“Clients, yes,” she replied.

“You’re just a teen, darling,” Alastor added. “You don’t have any experience with being formerly human or know about how Hell really works. I’m surprised you made it this far after your entertaining fiasco on the picture show.”

That hit her hard. Alastor grinned in amusement at the stunned look on her face. His laugher rang in her ears (if she even had any).

Charlie had dealt with snide comments like that for many years. Helsa and Katie Killjoy were the worst, never hesitating to bring her down with comments on her clothing, her silly ideas, or her clown-like appearance.

“She’s a living joke!” Helsa would say, earning a snicker from her brother Seviathan. “Look at her blushing cheeks and tuxedo. Hey, you gonna juggle demon heads for us, princess?”

A younger Helsa was standing with a bunch of mean girls by a row of lockers (resembling Zootopia school girls with animal-like features.)

“Hey, look! It’s the gay princess of rainbows!” Helsa called. “I wanna see you smooch those loser girls over there. A love fest for freaks!”

A girl with a white ponytail and glasses whispered to another girl who stretched out her leg and made Charlie trip…papers flying everywhere as their laughter screeched around her.

“Well, looks like your project is dead on arrival,” Katie Killjoy had said, getting into her face. “How does it feel to be such a failure?”

“Listen well, Charlotte, because I won’t say this again,” Lucifer had warned her back at home. “If you know what’s good for you, you will give up on your foolish idea and start behaving like an adult.”

“But I am an adult!” Charlie protested, no longer struggling. “And I’ve decided as princess to continue on with opening the hotel. It will be what’s best for us.”

Flames sparked in Lucifer’s eyes. “If you think causing a war is what’s best for us, then you are gravely mistaken. I had high hopes for you all these years. But now…you’re nothing but a failure.”

“Charlie?”

A familiar voice cut in. Charlie looked to see concern in Vaggie’s yellow eye.

Vaggie enveloped her gray hand into Charlie’s pale one and gave it a comforting squeeze. The feeling seemed to bring her back from her plaguing thoughts.

She took a breath.

“Well, that may be true,” she began, regaining her composure, “But my parents taught me a lot about Hell as well as their histories. I know I’m new at this project and I’ve never interacted much with a lot of people. But I’m learning new things every day from sinners like you all. I do my best every day because I know that there is good in every one of you. And I’m not going to give up on my goal. I’m offering you all a second chance; you could start doing the same for me.”

Alastor was a bit taken aback, if not impressed with how well she recovered.

“Inside of every demon is a failure,” Alastor sang softly.

“You don’t know the song, do you?” Charlie spoke up, briefly startling him. She smirked. “And besides, I’m older than all of you. I’m over 150 years old.”

Everyone stared in stunned silence. Angel’s mouth was open and he breathed “say what?” Booze sputtered from Husk’s mouth and the winged cat demon coughed. Niffty scurried over and wiped up the spilled drops off the table. Alastor’s mouth was almost hitting the floor. But shortly after that, he cleared his throat and added, “You’re beautiful all the same.”

He winked and Charlie let out a giggle. Vaggie gave a deadpan stare at Alastor, gripping her harpoon tighter in her hands.

“Rules!” Charlie proclaimed, getting back to the topic. “First rule is the Golden Rule. Be kind and respectful to everyone.”

Rule number two: No drinking during the day or past curfew. Angel. Husk.”

She stared at them. “You better be listening.”

“I’m listening,” Husk said. “I just don’t care.”

“I can take that booze away from you,” Vaggie said.

“Try it bitch.”

“Enough, enough! Rule number three: no drugs of any kind. Angel.”

“Rule number four; no distributing porn. Again, Angel, take note of this.”

“For fuck’s sake, sugar!” Angel replied. “You trying to make my life miserable here?”

“Do you want to stay rent free or not, bastard?” Vaggie added.

“Touché,” Angel said, calming down.

“Rule number five: No murdering or harming any guests or staff members. Applies to everyone. Especially Alastor.”

“What?” he said with a chuckle. “If I wanted to hurt anyone here…”

“You would’ve done so already. We get it,” Vaggie yelled, walking over to him, spear at the ready. “Bullshit. If you won’t take that rule seriously…I can make sure that you do.”

“Rule number six, no swearing.”

Husk let out a series of cuss words in response.

“Vaggie, Husk, and Angel Dust, this rule is for you.”

None of them looked happy about it.

Alastor looked smug in his seat. “That’s one rule I don’t have to worry about.”

He appeared next to Charlie after materializing from shadow. He placed her hand son her shoulders. “But what’s say you? You’ve let out some swear words as well. I heard you on the picture show.”

Charlie looked flustered. “Y-yes, I know. I’m working on that too.”

Alastor cupped her cheeks and tilted the corners of her mouth upwards. “No frowns allowed, dear. That’s another rule.”

“Get away from her, you psycho!” Vaggie called, holding her spear and walking beside Charlie.

“It’s okay Vaggie,” Charlie assured.

Alastor poked the girls’ noses and materialized back in his seat.

“Rule number seven: respect personal space at all times. Applies to everyone. Especially now that there’s a pandemic going around.”

Alastor nodded. “A very important rule to have. The six foot rule! Angel Dust over there will have to follow it if he wants his fingers to stay intact.”

Angel backed up in his seat.

“But you will too, Al,” Charlie mentioned. “Just because you don’t like to be touched, doesn’t mean you can just touch others whenever you want.”

Charlie felt cold hands wrap around her waist. She glanced down and they were long and black. The air behind her felt cold and hummed with dark power. She looked back and stared into a shadowy face with blank teal eyes and a creepy teal grin.

“Argh!” Charlie jumped back in fright. Alastor’s shadow vanished.

“Don’t do that, Alastor!”

Alastor chuckled. “I didn’t touch you or anything. Surely, the no touching rule doesn’t apply all the time. How else would we dance and have fun?”

Charlie sighed, “Good point there.”

“Splendid!”

“Alright, now onto a list of possible solutions and goals to work toward. Vaggie helped me with this list.”

Charlie walked around the room and passed out identification papers unique to each individual that listed the subject’s dates of death, their sins and rehabilitation strategies. Extra copies were kept in a folder in Charlie’s desk.

“No sharing any personal info,” said Charlie. “Anyone who wants to talk about personal issues can do so in their own time.”

Everyone looked at her with appreciation in their eyes.

“To briefly list them out with Vaggie’s help:

“Angel Dust: drug therapy and gradual lessening of the cocaine and angel dust. Only drinking in the evenings or every other day. Frequent injections of medicine for sobering effect. Refrain from doing turf wars. No use of guns and weapons permitted in the hotel unless for self-defense. Rewards for cooperation include: staying rent free, making new friends, payment as progress goes on.”

“Alastor: No invading other people’s space. Any murder, harm or demonic possession will result in dismissal and use of harpoon weapon. Use of dark magic on anyone is prohibited. No making deals with anyone. Rewards for cooperation include: jambalaya, jazz dances, singing, and the willingness to hear dad jokes.”

“Husk: No stealing or hoarding liquor or any alcoholic beverages. We know that you do. Try and spend more time for alternative activities such as magic shows and similar gambling games that involve either less money or fake money. Rewards for cooperation include: catnip, weekend booze, money, and extra alone time.”

Charlie had written the next part for Vaggie:

“Vaggie: Take deep breaths and focus on me whenever temper arises. Refrain from swearing and killing if possible. Have faith that this project will work and keep supporting me. It’s much appreciated. Reward: new friends and spending time with me.”

“Niffty: don’t lift others up or cause any chaos. We know you’re capable of murder as well, so same rules: no murder, apply. Stalking men will result in a warning. Keep up the cooking and cleaning but don’t get too carried away. (rumor has it that you and Husk dispose bodies for Alastor, so watch your backs.) Rewards for cooperation include: spare time for reading, writing, and sharing fanfiction.”

Charlie glanced down and saw a section of advice for her written by Vaggie:

“Charlie: Refrain from swearing and getting too involved with the lives of other clients. It will take a while for demons to get redeemed, let alone go to Heaven, so be patient. Don’t be afraid to be stern and strict when necessary. You see the good in everyone, so bring out all their good traits while acknowledging the bad. Never give up on your goal, no matter what others may say. And most importantly:

BE CAUTIOUS OF ALASTOR.”

Charlie smiled at Vaggie who smiled back genuinely. She mouthed “I love you,” and Charlie did the same.

“Well, that pretty much covers it,” she said brightly. “We plan on having weekly meetings whenever we can. If any of you wish to talk about your personal issues, you can speak to me in private for a session.”

Vaggie nodded.

“Now…onto the fun part! The games I planned out!”

She held up drawings.

Vaggie groaned and facepalmed.

“Karaoke nights! Bingo! Strawberry cake desserts and cupcakes to share! Demon Dance Revolutions on stage! Bring your pets to work day! Arts and crafts and meet and greets! Sociological issues in Hell with Vaggie. And every Sunday, tales of Heaven and happiness!”

Now everyone had given up on taking her seriously. Some even began fidgeting or standing up to leave.

“I’ll stick with pole dancing,” said Angel.

“And gambling,” said Husk.

“Don’t forget dad jokes!” Alastor added.

“18+ fanfictions to share,” said Niffty. “My favorite: When Vox, Sir Pentious, and Alastor Cared for Me in Bed!”

Everyone gasped in surprise and disgust. The group parted ways, agreeing to meet back in the lobby.

Alastor briefly walked out of the room and up onto the balcony. His staff lit up.

“Hello there, you fabulous sinful folk! It is I, Alastor the Radio Demon coming to you live from…”

He briefly looked behind him to see that Charlie wasn’t watching,

“…the Hazbin Hotel! What is it, you ask? It is a unique little joint run by Princess Charlotte that aims to rehabilitate sinners. Yes, what a crazy idea indeed, but apparently, she already has a few clients waiting to stay there. It’s been getting boring around here and I think the princess and her friends could use some extra company. If you’re looking for a place to stay, or to hang out, or if you simply want to try and be a better person only to fail miserably at it…come on over! And it’s free as well!”

He laughed and basked in his glory. Keeping his promise to Blitzo, he added,

“…If you ever want demons or even humans to die after doing you wrong, contact the Immediate Murder Professionals. A lovely trio of imps in Imp City, they’ll kill your intended targets anyway you wish, both in Hell and on Earth! Decapitation, disembowelment, suffocation… you name it, they’ll do it. Goodbye humans, hello justice! Bonus: kids die for free!”

He snapped his fingers and a jazzy version of the I.M.P. Jingle played on air.

“I’ll see you around next time, here on 66.6FM. And as always, smile and stay tuned!”

The staff blinked off.

“Alastor?” Charlie called from inside. “What were you doing? I heard some music out from the balcony.”

Alastor turned around. “Hello, my dear! I just came out for some fresh air.”

“Where you just on the radio?” she asked.

“Yes. Nothing much, just advertising your hotel to the public.”

Now it was Charlie’s turn for her jaw to hit the floor. A mixture of elation, surprise, and nervousness spurred through her core.

“Y-You what?”

Alastor laughed. “I did say I wanted to help, didn’t I? So I figured, why not spread the word to a wider audience?”

Charlie smiled but was also shaking. If it was true, then now everyone would know about the hotel. Including Helsa, Katie, her parents…

On the one hand, it was the start of a dream come true. More people would folk to the front doors in the hopes of possibly redeeming themselves in the future.

On the other hand, she’d now be a potential laughing stock for everyone in Hell. Her embarrassment at the news station was awful enough. Now there could be more demons out there who would dismiss her idea just like that.

In the back of her head, she wondered about the other overlords. Would they be willing to come to the hotel as well? Could they track her location and harm her when she was by herself?

And what would her parents think of this? The last thing she wanted was another lecture from her father of how her plan seemed unreasonable, ridiculous and a waste of time.

But then again…she had her friends with her. She had Alastor to protect her. If she wanted to prove herself, she would have to get started somehow.

“Thank you, Al. I don’t know what to say,” she finally said.

“Think nothing of it, my dear. More people means more entertainment, doesn’t it?”

Charlie walked back inside, soon surrounded by the others. She stared into each of their eyes and saw something she’d never thought she’d see: sparks of hope and support. Genuine smiles on their faces, even for Husk. Each individual leading different lives but all connected together in a strange bond. A band of misfits, brought together by herself and fate. The downtrodden brought to a place of comfort, where they could be themselves while working toward getting into paradise.

It was the start of something special. Of potentially making a difference and changing her world.

“Charlie?” Vaggie asked.

“Yes,” she said.

Vaggie mentioned to the door. A series of knockings could be heard. Charlie walked toward the door, hesitantly reaching for the handle before swinging it open.

A pair of three imps and a hellhound stood in the doorway. The one in front had a white and red face with yellow eyes, long curved horns and a black mark on his forehead. The shorter imp to his right had white hair, a red face, yellow eyes and shorter horns. Both of them wore navy blue business suits, their long pointed red tails behind them. The other imp was dressed in a black tank top with torn pants. She had lone eyelashes and eye rows, plus a red face and wild black hair. Finally, the white furry hellhound was dressed in street clothing: torn short pants, a spiked collar around her neck and a tank top held in place with string shaped like a downward pointing pentagram.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Is this the Hazbin Hotel?” asked the imp in front. “The Radio Demon kindly advertised our company and so we decided to see what this Hazbin business is about.”

“No, this is the Happy Hotel,” she said, confusion etched onto her face.

“The sign up there read Hazbin,” said the shorter male imp.

The first imp spoke. “So you’re the princess that the Radio Demon talked about. Redeeming sinners, right?”

Charlie scratched the back of her neck. “Yes.”

Blitzo laughed. “My, that’s a first when it comes to hilarious ideas. And I thought Stolas was crazy in the head.”

Charlie flushed, eyes downward.

“But hey, don’t worry, we’re just here for a visit. At Alastor’s request.”

Those words sent an unforeseen chill down her spine. He wondered what he meant by that.

Making an effort to be polite, she held out her hand. “I’m Charlie.”

“Blitzo!” said the imp in front, shaking her hand. “The o is silent. Head of I.M.P. This is Moxxie, Millie, and my dear Loony. May we come in?”

“Sure.”

Blitzo proudly walked in, followed by a grumpy Moxxie, an excited Millie and an indifferent Loona.

Vaggie gasped in shock as the group came in. Angel, Husk and Niffty soon took notice.

“Hello there good friends!” Alastor greeted. He had clearly been expecting them. He turned to Niffty. “Niffty, it’s your turn to make some jambalaya for our new guests!”

“I’m on it!” she beamed before dashing of toward the kitchen.

“Jamba-what now?” Moxxie asked.

“Jambalaya, a Creole specialty dish from New Orleans. Rice, shrimp, vegetable, meat, and fresh flesh mixed in if you prefer.”

“Sounds ravishing to me!” Millie said. She looked around at the hotel. “Wow, this place is quite something! It may not be the fanciest one but it’s better than the slums and halfway houses in Imp City.”

She turned to Blitzo, “Blitzo can we please stay a night or two?”

“No Millie, this is a place for sinners, not for us hellborn. Besides, we’ll have to go back to headquarters once our visit is over.”

Millie pouted a bit.

Moxxie folded his arms. “Getting sent here for a ”meet and greet.” Pathetic. We’re treated like dirt day in and day out by Hell society. Why visit a random hotel down the pit?”

“Because,” Blitzo said, eyes shining. “Alastor promised me a taste of musical theater and entertainment. The two of us on stage!”

“That’s right!” he chimed in. “I heard about I.M.P. on the picture show. It was the least I could do to show my support. And here I am supporting Charlie with her hotel. It does feel good to help out others.”

Charlie cupped her face and beamed in delight. Millie and Niffty stood and giggled as they watched Alastor from a distance. Vaggie and everyone else looked suspicious. Vaggie seriously doubted that Alastor actually meant what he said. He was only concerned about entertaining himself and using others for his benefit.

Blitzo and Moxxie exchanged worried looks. The hidden mark of Kalfu and Alastor hummed inside their heads. The three imps were, in fact, summoned to the hotel just after Alastor’s announcement. Loona quickly tracked them down, almost pulled in after then as well. She, too, felt a pinch of dark energy inside her.

Moxxie opened his mouth speak, but no sound came out. He tried to use his hands for sign language, but a dark shadow seemed to hold his fingers in place. A look of fear was etched onto his face. He stared at Charlie, desperate to tell her, but he could only blink and move his eyes. Charlie was oblivious, of course. Vaggie and Angel were merely concerned. Niffty and Husk felt the same energy pulsing from inside their heads like a dark heartbeat. They knew that just like the newcomers, they couldn’t do anything but wait and watch. By the time the others figured out they had made deals with Alastor, he’d probably brush them aside, having no use for them. There was no way to tell, so they stopped thinking about it.

“Is something the matter, good sir?” Alastor asked, grin stretching slightly.

A flash of a recent memory at headquarters…

A very slow “Shave and a Haircut” knock filled up the silence. It came from behind the door that led to the hallway.

Loona and Husk froze, maws open in mid-brawl. Moxxie raised his eyebrows and suddenly started to shiver. Millie and Blitzo suddenly felt an oncoming sense of dread. Husk crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. Niffty, however, clapped her hands in excitement. She took some steps forward, but froze at Moxxie’s glare.

“Do not answer the door,” Moxxie whispered in a harsh tone.

Niffty stared in confusion. “Why not? He’s my friend.”

Moxxie narrowed his eyes.

“From the other side!” Niffty emphasized.

“Just don’t go any further.”

Niffty grinned and tiptoed closer to the door.

“No, no, no,” Moxxie breathed, moving his hands across in a signal. “Stop right there.”

Niffty stopped and slowly reached her thin black hand toward the round handle.

“Oh for Lucifer’s sake!” Blitzo announced, walking toward the door. “It’s Niffty’s coworker. How bad can he be?”

He opened the door and grinned. “Hi I’m Blitz…”

His eyes widened and his face fell.

“…o.”

Blitzo stared at a towering tall demon wearing a tattered red dress coat with vertical thin stripes. Burgundy colored pants covered his legs and ended in red patches along the ends. He wore black dress shoes with red deer print marks on the soles. His undershirt was red and had an upside down black cross as part of the design. A black bow tie was displayed below his slender neck. One of his four clawed hands held a red vintage microphone staff.

Blitzo stuttered, at a loss for words. Fear was constricting his throat. He stuttered as he looked up at the man’s face, “Welcome…”

Blitzo stared at the man’s red and black hair, with large deer ears and antlers. His large red eyes blinked to life from a pale face. A monocle gleamed under his right eye.

“…to…”

The man displayed a grin of sharp yellow teeth, his smile too wide to be considered natural.

“…I.M.P…”

The demon opened his mouth, “Hell…”

Blitzo slammed the door, catching his breath. He opened it a crack…

“…o!”

Closed it again. “Guys…” he began.

“What?” Moxxie asked in frustration.

“I think we need to move away. Niffty, could you please send your friend away? He’s giving me the creeps.”

Niffty shook her head.

“Don’t let him in, sir!” Moxxie said. Husk nodded in agreement.

Millie gasped, “That’s a rude way to treat a guest!”

“Okay then, do you want to open the door?”

Millie gulped.

Blitzo sighed and opened it again.

“May I speak now?” the man asked.

“Sure, whatever,” Blitzo muttered.

The overlord swooped into the room. “Greetings fellow sinners! I’m Alastor but people call me the Radio Demon. I heard from my little darling Niffty that you imps are part of an assassination organization, yes?”

Blitzo took a deep breath and cleared his throat. A smile appeared on his face, now that he was feeling confident. “That’s correct, good sir! I’m Blitzo and I’m the founder of the Immediate Murder Professionals, I.M.P. for short.”

Alastor laughed. “What a clever name! I.M.P. run by imps! And who are your associates?”

Blitzo mentioned to the other imps, “This is Moxxie and Millie.” Millie waved and blushed while Moxxie glowered.

Loona looked up from her phone.

“…and this is my sweet daughter, Loona,” Blitzo finished.

Loona growled and snapped her teeth at Alastor, causing him to take a step back. Retaining his composure, he continued. “That little maid is Niffty, and that cat over there is Husk. I saw your commercial on the picture show and was intrigued. Murdering people in gruesome ways…a classic form of entertainment! It even makes my methods look standard. All thanks to Niffty for finding your location.”

Niffty smiled and waved.

“Next time, don’t mention Imp City in the ad,” Moxxie spat at Blitzo in a low voice.

Alastor walked slightly closer to Blitzo, leaning in. “Is it true that you have access to the living world?”

“Uh…yes?” Blitzo answered. He felt Alastor’s fingers make their way along his curved horns. Despite himself denying it, Blitzo felt his cheeks go pink.

“And you can create portals? Splendid, indeed. There’s no other being in Hell who can do that.”

“Smooth liar,” Husk muttered from a distance.

“That’s right!” Blitzo replied. “Our company has special access to the living world due to our abilities. I may have also stolen a Satanic ritual book from a bird dick overlord several days ago. Top secret.”

Moxxie’s face turned purple, he made the hand signal for “zip it!” to Blitzo, but of course, he wasn’t paying attention.

Alastor smiled and put a finger to his lips. “Rest assured, whatever happens here, stays here.”

He waved his hand and two bottles of booze appeared in front of Husk.

“You might think you can keep getting away with bribing me like that…” Husk said, narrowing his eyes, “…but we both know you can!” He picked up a bottle and started drinking. Loona snatched the other one.

“What exactly are you doing here, anyway?” Moxxie demanded to Alastor.

“Why I’m here to help out your company, of course! I’m already involved in helping Charlie with her hotel, so I figured I could expand my horizons.”

The Radio Demon walked over to Millie. “Hello, dear, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He gently kissed her red hand, making her giggle.

Moxxie slapped his hand away. “No one touches my wife, you got that?”

Alastor just shrugged and walked toward the table.

“Don’t you walk away from me, Mister!” Mooxie stood from his chair and walked over to him. He pointed at his chest, making the demon’s smile more strained. “You look like a shady showman to me, so listen here. You have no business whatsoever in interfering with our company. Or messing around with my coworkers and my boss. So, don’t go around harming anyone here, or we’ll kick you out of our office…or just slice you to bits, Dapper Deer!”

Alastor just laughed softly. Millie and Blitzo walked over to calm Moxxie down.

“If I wanted to hurt anyone here…” Alastor said…

He then spoke in a creepy tone: “I would’ve done so already.”

His eyes turned into red moving radio dials and the air filled with radio static and floating red voodoo symbols.

He shook his head and the sensations ceased. His eyes returned to normal. “So, now let’s talk about how I can help you out.”

“What?” Millie asked.

“How can I be of assistance? You want donations? Promotion? An upgraded outfit?”

Blitzo scoffed, “My outfit is great enough as it is. But… you said something about promotions?”

Alastor nodded. “You ever feel like your work goes unrecognized?”

“Yeah,” Blitzo replied. “People do come to us a lot to murder people, but…”

Alastor tilted his head…

Blitzo continued, “…but the imps and residents here look down on us. Not to mention even the sinners brush us aside like we’re trash. That’s why we’ve kept to ourselves a lot. We imps have to stick together…and hellhounds, too.”

Loona rolled her eyes.

“But your company is so unique, and with such special access, I don’t know why others would look down on you,” Alastor mentioned. “Whoever those horrible people are…who are they?”

“My asshole father,” Blitzo said. “He’s kept me from achieving my musical theater dreams.”

Alastor placed a hand on Blitzo’s shoulder. He spoke in his sympathetic tone, reserved for making others feel at ease.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve been there. I’ve loved singing and music ever since I can remember. And my dad…well it’s a long story, too tragic to go into. Have you ever thought of…killing the person in your way? It’s surprisingly simple, and you of all people should know.”

“I…um…”

Moxxie nodded. “I had a dream that my parents were being murdered, and I wanted to get back to that.”

“What if I told you…there was a way for your dreams to come true?”

“That’s impossible,” Moxxie scoffed.

Alastor appeared behind him, from his shadow form, making him jump. “I don’t think so! I can do so many things for your cause.” He stood in front of the three imps. A flaming bag of money appeared in Alastor’s outstretched hand, in front of Blitzo’s eyes. It changed to fiery silhouettes of Blitzo, Moxxie, and Millie dancing to the clapping of a crowd coming through his microphone. “This may seem like a bit much, but so far, you’re a well-established company.” The I.M.P. logo appeared in his hand before he closed it. “I could improve you ads, extend your business to Pentagram City, all under my protection. Imps won’t have to be the lowest of the low ever again.”

Blitzo and his associates looked at each other, lost in thought. Alastor’s grin grew wider.

“Do you really want to give up this golden opportunity?”

Moxxie paused. Blitzo found himself shaking his head. Millie smiled at Niffty and Husk nearby.

Alastor turned to leave. “Well, it was worth a try. I could give you some time to think about it…it was only a suggestion.”

He slowly walked toward the door. “3…2…1…”

Blitzo’s eyes went wide. “No, no, wait! Don’t leave.”

Alastor turned his head, smile wide. He turned back to them and held out his right hand. “So, do we have a deal?”

“No deals!” Moxxie yelled, pulling Blitzo away. “There’s something shifty about this guy. The stuff he says is too good to be true.”

“You sure about that?” he asked. “Perhaps I need to persuade you a little more…”

He snapped his fingers and the table and pictures vanished. The room turned a dark purple and the floor became wooden like dance floor. Deer antlers and voodoo symbols lined the walls in neon colors. The posters now showed deer with black bloody circles in place of eyes. Alastor’s outfit changed into a red suit, with a red top hat with pins sticking out. Soon, everyone was wearing attire from the early 1900s: dapper dresses and round hats of purple, green and yellow for Millie, Niffty, and Loona, and suits of light blue, white and black for Blitzo, Husk and Moxxie.

“Take it boys!” Alastor called, snapping his fingers. Shadow spirits emerged from a newly created portal in the ground. One played a saxophone, one a trumpet, and the other played the drums.

A jazzy remix of the I.M.P. jingle played. Moxxie and Millie danced and spun around in the spotlight as the music played. Husk and Moxxie glared at each other in a corner. Niffty smiled and danced along, while Loona stared at her phone again.

Alastor mentioned for Blitzo to come on stage and sing with him. Blitzo blushed and slowly made his way next to him.

Alastor sang through his vintage microphone, which lit up.

“When you want somebody dead,

And you wanna poke fun at their head

Call the Immediate Murder Professionals

Whether homicide or genocide

We’ll make it look like suicide

Immediate Murder Professionals

We do our job so well

‘Cause we come straight up from Hell

We’ll kill your husband or your wife

We’ll even let you keep the knife

The Immediate…Murder…Professionals

The song was followed by an electro swing solo and a repeat of the verses.

Blitzo was lost in a blissful trance as he and Alastor spun around in a dance.

They both stopped to catch their breath as the music slowed to a relaxing jazz melody.

Alastor held out his right hand. “What’d you say? Won’t you shake a poor sinner’s hand?” The area around him glowed an eerie green and a strange wind gusted.

Millie ran over and eagerly shook his hand. “I accept! Thank you for your help!” In the shadows, Moxxie was pulled toward Alastor by black tentacles wrapping around his waist.

Blitzo stared at Alastor’s hand in front of him. Common sense told him to stay far away from this demon.

But Millie had shaken his hand already…and he did offer to help them…

Blitzo’s musical dream was just beginning, and so was his company. Why back out now?

He slowly moved his hand closer, hovering over Alastor’s fingerless glove- covered hand.

Loona’s eyes grew wide. Her fur stuck on end and her instincts kicked in. She could smell deceit and evil coming from the demon. She hadn’t thought it would go this far. For the first time, she placed her phone down on the ground. “Blitz!” she called.

Blitzo briefly looked behind Alastor…and saw his adopted daughter…with fear in her eyes for the first time. He was sure he was dreaming. There was no way magic like this could exist, and surely his daughter wouldn’t show this much concern for him.

But then again…Blitzo could create portals to Earth, so anything was possible.

“Anything is possible,” said Alastor, as if reading his thoughts.

“Don’t do it!” Loona barked. She raced over to Blitzo…only for Husk and Niffty to block her. Husk’s eyes and Niffty’s eye glowed red. “Ahh, the fuck?!” Loona exclaimed, in shock.

Blitzo’s shaking hand inched closer…

Moxxie’s hand was forcibly guided to the demon’s other hand by the tentacles…

Loona growled and swatted Husk and Niffty aside with her paws.

Blitzo’s hand touched Alastor’s at the same time Moxxie’s did.

“Noooo!”

The Radio Demon cackled in triumph as Blitzo and Moxxie shook his hands. All three imps briefly opened their eyes wide, all glowing red. Small streams of evil black energy from their souls traveled from each of their mouths and into Alastor’s staff. Husk and Niffty stood up and stared at each other…for this had happened to them as well. All five of them stood still like soldiers, each with too-wide grins on their faces as static and symbols filled the air.

“No, sir, nothing.” Moxxie replied.

The pulsing stopped and a shadow was lifted.

“Very well then. Off we go to the bar.”

Angel and Blitzo walked side by side, having a heated conversation.

“I’d kill to work for a company like yours, pun not intended,” Angel said. “Being paid to kill people? With all the turf wars I’m in, I’ve killed or hurt dozens of demons. With humans, it’s no problem.”

“What do you do,” Blitzo asked. “I must admit, your dress is rather…strange.”

“It’s a suit, thank you very much.”

“I still like it.”

“Really? Well, I’m not too surprised. I’m Hell’s number one porn star after all.”

“What’s that like?”

“I work for my boss Valentino. He’s the owner of a porn studio not too far from here. I just tell my haters, “It’s my day to be gay.” And to those who wanna fuck with me, they gotta pay me. My services don’t come cheap.”

“Heh,” Blitzo said with curiosity. “You with Valentino?”

“Yeah, he’s rough in the bedroom. Doesn’t really care much about me other than me paying him and keeping myself in line.”

“Sounds similar to Stolas. He sheds his feathers when he’s aroused. We fucked in his palace and I stole a Satanic ritual book to access the living world.”

Angel grinned. “Oooh! Kinky!”

“Then I fell down into chocolate cake and tell his queen, “Sorry I fucked your husband!”

“Damn! And you’re still alive?”

“I was lucky to hightail it outta there before she could peck out my insides.”

“Oh, tell me more.”

Blitzo laughed. “He called me over the phone and told me he wasn’t lonely now that so many people die from the covid 19 virus. Then he was then like, “When I’m lonely, I become hungry, and when I’m hungry… I want to…”

Blitzo continued on with a string of curse words and graphic descriptions.

“...and I’ll leave you screaming….like a fucking baby!”

Angel stared stunned at what he had told him. “Holy shit. And I thought I was into BDSM. This owl guy could probably intimidate Valentino. Heheheheh. I did the same thing to Alastor as a prank call and he just hung up on me.”

“Hahaha! I can see why.”

Charlie and Vaggie walked side by side together, placing their distance from the guys.

“Stolas…” Charlie said to Vaggie after hearing the name. “It sounds familiar. Oh I remember. He’s Melodia’s husband and father of Octavia.”

“Who’s that?”

“Octavia is a princess like me, except she’s a black and white owl. We…we used to be best friends when we were younger. We did typical princess tuff, tea parties, dress up, and the occasional murder. We even went to Hell-World in Gore-rida.”

Vaggie’s eyes brightened. “I remember when we went there together.”

“Yes. We posed together in front of the castle and we rode all the rides, too. Oh and the Disney musicals were the best part!”

The two girls reminisced over the fun times.

Charlie’s face fell. “But then, as time went on, we grew distant. I started to focus on the Happy Hotel and several other projects that could help out sinners. I encouraged Octavia to join me, but she refused. She thought my ideas were stupid and a waste of time. After a few years, she started to believe that I didn’t want to be her friend anymore. I told her that wasn’t true but she didn’t believe me. She said that if I were her friend, I would’ve kept in contact with her, dressed more properly and mostly forget about my rehabilitation goals.”

“That sounds harsh,” Vaggie said. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” She placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“My dad was hoping that our families could be on good terms through a partnership. Not by marriage but by business and friendship. Now we hardly see each other.”

Everyone made their way into the larger area, where they were free to talk or roam around.

Later on, Alastor and a very happy Blitzo were singing together in the spotlight up on stage. Blitzo now had a fancy dark blue suit with an orange, red tie and two dark top hats over his horns with stitched up smiley faces on it. With a confident grin, Alastor pulled Charlie onto the stage to sing along with them, much to Vaggie’s shock and anger.

Loona and Husk were fighting furiously over a bottle of booze.

“That’s my bottle, you bitch,” Husk hissed. “Go buy your own.”

It’s mine, pussycat.”

“Homeless furry beast. Go back to the fucking slum where you and the hellhounds belong!”

“I’ll chase you and rip you apart, you gambling shittalking clown!”

The two of them bared teeth and claws, swiping at each other and pulling each other’s ears.

Without ceasing his tap dancing nor letting his smile falter, Alastor snapped his fingers. Loona and Husk were sent to opposite corners of the room, each with a bottle of booze next to them. They both looked stunned before gulping down their bottles with deadly glares.

Charlie stepped up to the microphone and began to sing:

“Sing it out

You’ve got to see what tomorrow brings

Sing it out

You’ve got to be what tomorrow needs

For every time that they want to count you out

Use your voice every single time you open up your mouth

Sing it for the beaus

Sing it for the belles

Every time you lose it, sing it for Hell

Sing it from the heart

Sing it till you’re nuts

Sing it out for the ones you hate your guts

Sing it for the winners

Sing it for the sinners

Sing about everyone as you make fresh dinners”

Alastor’s heart fluttered as he immersed himself in the moment. Focusing only on the sound of her angelic enchanting voice.

“Oh Charlie, you’re full of surprises, charming demon belle.”

Meanwhile, Millie and Niffty were sharing stories about guys at their table.

Millie pointed to Moxxie, who was sitting across a table from Vaggie, both of them staring in envy at the trio on stage.

“That’s my husband, Moxxie. He can be a grump sometimes, but he’s very kind once you get to know him. He made me a song called “Oh Millie.” We sang it together one night when we were out shooting demons on the streets nearby.”

Niffty beamed. “How romantic! You two spending some great time together. Disposing bodies and dancing in the bloody rain…it’s worthy for a fairytale.”

“I know!” said Millie. “Blitzo films us outside of work, which drives Mox nuts. Sometimes he can have panic attacks, but I always know how to calm him down. I do love my job at I.M.P. Seems like I’m the only employee who does. Sure, we get into a lot of fights and we live in a crummy area of Hell. But we are a company family, so we stick together no matter what.”

“Well, I’m very happy for you.” She sighed. “It’s so sexy when a man shows his great power. I mean, look at my boss. He’s conquered a dozen areas in Hell and he has supernatural powers. Husk and I were summoned to this place to assist him. Husk is the bartender and I’m the cook and housekeeper. Man it felt good to be free of the burning lake, you know? Plus…I have a side-job too.”

“What is it?” She leaned in.

“Husk and I sometimes dispose of demon bodies after Alastor kills other demons…and we get paid at the end of every week.”

Millie laughed. “I’m all too familiar with that process. Except we dispose of humans. And on Earth…it’s more risky if you get caught. Down here, nobody cares.”

“Oh I just love men, so much! Alastor, Vox, Valentino…Lucifer too. If I had my way…”

Her voice grew lower and harmless fire spread over her body,

“I’d clean this hellhole of all the messy chaotic demons, clean up the organs and bathe in the blood. The skins of demons and women would be sewn together to make fashionable outfits for a grand ball. All the men in hell would devote themselves to me and the rest would die in cleansing flame.”

The flames stopped and Niffty shrunk back to normal size. Millie just stared at her for a while.

“Oh and I also want my new fanfiction to be noticed and published. I just fixed it, too. On Wattpad.”

She held up sheets of paper she summoned from fire: “How Vox, Valentino, Lucifer and Alastor Cared for Me in Bed.”

“I wonder what Blitzo and Moxxie are like…”

Millie glared. “Keep my husband out of this, and I’ll support your work.”

“Really? Thank you so much!”

Niffty jumped for joy and ran off to deliver more bowls of Jambalaya. Millie scanned through the papers with a smile. And then a grimace.

“Piece of shit.”

She casually tossed the papers to Loona, who tore them apart with her mouth and claws.

Moxxie and Vaggie said nothing for a while. They just watched as Charlie took a bow after singing “You’re Never Fully Dressed.”

“I swear, Blitzo, you keep going off the deep end every day. Why do I have to keep putting up with you and the dumb company?”

Vaggie watched as Alastor kissed Charlie’s hand, both of them smiling.

“Charlie, why don’t you stop and listen to me? You’d really risk our friendship…and dare I say it, your life, for an evil dealmaker who shows up at your door?”

As if they were reading each other’s thoughts, Moxxie and Vaggie glanced at each other.

“What a bunch of egocentric idiots,” he muttered.

“No need to remind me,” Vaggie said. “I wish I could slap that stupid smile off that man’s face.”

“Alastor?”

“Yes.”

“You’re stupid if you plan on trying.”

“Imp, I’ll only go that far if he puts my friend in danger.”

“I’m Moxxie, lady. I could care less about who you are.”

“Vaggie,” she growled. She gripped her spear with one hand.

Moxxie scoffed. “You gonna use that harpoon on me? You best use it wisely. After a single strike, I’d fall dead and everyone would want to get their hands on it.”

“And get kicked out of this place. No. How do you so much about my spear?”

Moxxie let out a small grin. “I’m a weapon’s specialist at I.M.P. I’ve been fixing and using guns, rifles, knives, and pretty much anything. I know an angelic weapon when I see it.”

This time, Vaggie got intrigued. “I’ve kept this with me ever since I fell down into Hell. I didn’t merely appear like the other sinners.”

She dug into her pocket and showed him one of her daggers. Moxxie studied it with interest. “Appears to be hand-made. Steel blade, slightly worn. You made this?”

Vaggie nodded. “I also am good at martial arts. Though I haven’t practiced since…well, my previous life ended and I fell from the Heavens. This weapon is my only reminder of that.”

Moxxie handed the dagger back to her. “Are you a … fallen angel?”

“Fallen Exterminator,” she corrected. “I’m stuck here forever just like everyone else. And perhaps I’m destined to die on one of the Exterminations.”

Moxxie shook his head. “With your intellect and courage…and temper, I doubt that.”

Vaggie didn’t know what to say, other than, “I figured as much.”

Moxxie then asked, “Have you ever felt like you’re…somehow second best? Like you’re just the sidekick to your boss or friend, stuck in a big company with no one but annoyances around you?”

Vaggie nodded. “All the time. It always seems to be about Charlie and Alastor. When they’re together, they act like I’m not even there. And don’t get me started on Angel Dust, Husk and Niffty. Angel, fucking son of a bitch drug addict. He jumps into turf wars and made the hotel look bad to the public. He only wants a free place to crash. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about anyone around him, it seems. And Husk, the drinker and gambler…swears as much as me. Called me bitch when I told him to stop hoarding liquor for the umpteenth time. Niffty, that fast little bugger, always hot for men and getting into everyone’s business. And Alastor…urgh! He shoves me aside, slaps my ass, steals my girlfriend away! He’d be dead if he weren’t so powerful. If this goes on too long…”

Vaggie turned away, angrily wiping a stray tear from her eye. “Just…men are untrustworthy. At least to me. They stole my virginity, stole my life, and now my afterlife best friend.”

Moxxie didn’t know what to say, he just seethed softly, debating on whether to talk to her or leave her alone.

“That’s harsh. I’m sorry. I thought I had it hard, with Blitzo stalking me every day, and him using my salary to pay for an advertisement. I live in poverty and listen to musicals…but life’s not bad not that my asshole parents aren’t around.”

Moxxie cleared his throat. “Well, I can say this, having been in Hell for a while. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Stick with people you trust, and when you can’t trust them…sometimes you have to roll with the punches and get through the day.”

He brandished a small black gun and clicked it for show. “Trust your instincts. And when it’s time to fight, don’t hold back.”

“I won’t, believe me.”

Her demon form emerged, her white hair fanning out, with eyes forming on it like moth wings. Her pink bow turned into pink horns and her pink x glowed. Purple moth wings made of flame sprouted from her back and an extra pair of insect like limbs allowed her to carry more weapons. Small antennae formed from the front part of her head of hair.

“I would give my life to save Charlie.”

“As I would for Millie.”

Vaggie reverted back to her regular form, the wings and features vanishing.

“Thank you, Moxxie, I really needed that.”

“Not a problem.”

They shook hands before parting ways.

Charlie ran over and enveloped Vaggie in a hug. “Oh that was such a great performance. It was so much fun being up there!”

Vaggie had to smile. “You did well up there. Your voice is beautiful.”

“Aww Vaggie,” she laughed. She planted a kiss on her friend’s forehead, a blush coming to her gray cheeks. Charlie sat next to Vaggie as they listened to Alastor’s dad jokes.

“Two radio antennas got married. The wedding was good but the reception was awesome!”

“Boo!” shouted Angel. Everyone else sat in boredom, save for Charlie, Millie, and Niffty who silently giggled. Lonna lifted a middle finger as she stared at her phone.

Alastor cleared his throat.

“Knock knock. Who’s there? Radio. Radio who?”

He then answered his joke in a demonic voice without moving his mouth.

“Radio not here I come! Hahaha!”

“Jeez, even when he’s telling jokes, he gives me the creeps,” Moxxie mentioned to Millie. Millie nodded, half dazed. “Snap out of it,” he shook her as she turned to him.

“Calm down, Mox. Don’t worry so much.”

Niffty had gotten a nosebleed and fainted in delight.

Alastor glanced down. “Somebody please help the little darling?”

Millie raced over and moved Niffty over to a couch.

“Radio not, here I come,” Vaggie scoffed. “That’s not even a dad joke, it was a knock knock joke! So terrible.”

“Like paper is,” Charlie added, with a smile.

Vaggie playfully elbowed Charlie in the ribs. “Blonde dork.”

Soon it was getting late. It was time for I.M.P. to go back to their business.

“Thank you for coming, everyone!” said Alastor. “What a splendid night it was! You’re welcome back here anytime!”

“Good riddance,” Loona called back, taking a breath of a cigarette and holding a stolen bottle of vodka in her hands. Husk flipped the bird at her as she did it back with both hands. Angel Dust had given her a bag of angel dust, which she hid in her shorts. It didn’t go unnoticed by Charlie but she decided to let the matter slide.

Loona was the first one out, followed by Millie, Moxxie, and finally, Blitzo.

“Bye everyone!” Blitzo called out. “Be sure to call us you want somebody gone!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to redeem yourself?” Charlie asked. “You are an incredible performer and it was so much fun to spend time with you.”

“Hmm, let me think…no thank you!” Blitzo laughed. “Business is business!”

Blitzo did one last wave and wink before Charlie shut the door with a sigh.

“Alright, off to your rooms everyone,” Charlie called. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

Alastor sent his shadow to guard the perimeter outside, while the group straightened up the lobby before heading upstairs.

She walked toward a certain red clad demon.

“Alastor, you changed the sign of my hotel. Why?”

Alastor looked up from the voodoo doll he was sewing and stood up. “Darling, Happy sounded too immature. It sounds like a name for an overnight rehab center where demon’s reputations are forever tarnished in group meetings and little kid activities. This is a hotel in Hell, for misfits like us. A safe place for them to stay for the night. No other name properly reflects that.”

“That still doesn’t give you the right to change anything!”

Alastor shrugged and spread out his arms. “Hey, no need to get so frazzled. I’m just doing my part to help. Though if you don’t want any more help…I can just find entertainment elsewhere…”

“Nonono! Please…stay,” Charlie begged. “Just…stay out of trouble.”

Alastor pulled her in for a brief side hug, then pat her head. “We’ll do. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He vanished into the shadows without another word.

#hazbinhotel #helluvaboss #crossovers

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rainythefox · 5 years

Text

Blessed are the Peacekeepers (RDR2 multi-chapter Fanfic CH.1)

Synopsis: A fateful encounter with a mysterious stranger shifts the tides of fate. Arthur has a second chance to save the ones he loves, to stop the demise of the only family he ever knew. To stop the man he swore his loyalty to from his own self-destruction. But even second chances come at a price. (AU Arthur doesn't get TB, eventual ArthurxSadie)

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Chapter 1: I Know You

His lungs burned. The bleeding within their chambers did nothing to quench the smolder. He crawled for the gun, hacking more red liquid onto his chin, his limbs weakening each passing second. Every fiber within him hurt. The pulsating thrum of his heartbeat in his ears was chaotic, on the verge of failure.

Arthur didn't let it stop him from going for the gun.

"Oh, Black Lung…you ain't gonna reach that gun," the rat said. "You ain't."

Welted flesh throbbed, the bruising swelled. His eyes were beginning to swell shut. But Arthur didn't waver, urged his dying body closer to the revolver ahead of him. His joints scraped across rock, teary eyes seeing the outline of the gun's muzzle within the first glow of dawn.

"You lost, my sick friend." Micah's pained voice, still laced with contempt, hit his back. "You lost."

Arthur groaned, grimacing as he crawled. Each breath a hiss of pain and remorse.

He thought back to John…his brother, the look of sorrow and admiration he gave Arthur in their final moments together.

"You're my brother…"

"I know."

He made it. He made it to Abigail and Jack. They would all make it. Sadie and Charles made it. Tilly too. Some of the others. In the end, Arthur felt he achieved the greatest triumph of all.

"In the end, Micah," Arthur croaked. He was so close to the gun. "Despite my best efforts to the contrary…it turns out I've won."

His body trembled, his shallow breaths rapid and unsteady. He could feel the rat's form skulking behind him. His despicable aura hovered over Arthur like a plague.

A few more heaves and he made it. Arthur reached bloodied fingers out to grip the gun, a new resolve burning within him to finish Micah. His final goal.

"Goddamn you," Arthur wheezed as he grasped the gun. He needed to finish this before he died.

His fingers were crushed beneath the weight of a dark boot and he cried out. He hadn't noticed anyone else's arrival, and his first thought: Pinkertons. They were here to stop them.

"It is over now…Arthur."

That voice. His heart clenched, hurting more than the burn of his lungs or the bruises or the broken bones.

He gasped for breath, trembling, as his eyes rose. Dutch glared down at him, angry, but worse of all, disappointed.

"It is over."

The inner turmoil that welled up within him, the regret, the sadness, the betrayal; It hurt so much more than the pain that racked his dying body. At this point, Dutch would just have to do the finishing blow and shoot Arthur himself to make this tragedy come full circle.

Arthur collapsed on the rocky ground, gasping, tears staining his bloodshot eyes. "Oh, Dutch…he's a rat."

Despite it all, Arthur's devotion still remained. He begged his mentor, his leader, the man he loved like a father, to see. To listen. To trust. To turn things right.

The anger on Dutch's face fell away, replaced by confliction and remorse.

"You know it and I know it."

Dutch stared at Arthur as he rasped, his battered body shuddering. Dutch's boot remained on the gun, his form firm but his face contorted in grief and uncertainty. His eyes softened under the brim of his fedora, his lips bunching within his mustache, taking in Arthur's pitiful state.

"He's sick," Micah said, but Arthur couldn't see him. "He's dyin'…He's talkin' crazy."

In the distance, as his hearing fizzled and rang, Arthur could hear Pinkertons closing in. Arthur knew he was dying, but felt maybe it would be from a broken heart over the disease that had consumed him.

He stared up at Dutch, pleading. "I gave you all I had."

Dutch swallowed, still conflicted, still in denial possibly. More tears wept from Arthur's puffy eyes as he tried to breath, tried to keep enough strength to talk.

"I did."

His once proud leader opened his mouth. "I…"

Dutch stepped off of Arthur's hand, stepped back, quarreling within his head and, for the first time since Arthur had known him, was speechless.

Arthur felt his heart break again. It was too late. It was too late for Dutch.

Arthur rolled onto his back, the fight and will within him suddenly gone.

"I-" Dutch tried again, his voice somber and confused.

"Come on," Micah hissed.

Arthur saw the rat take a few steps closer to them, his eyes on Dutch like a prize.

"Dutch. Let's go, buddy," he said, arms beckoning their broken leader. "We made it!" A small laugh. "We won! Come on!"

Arthur was too tired and in too much agony to be disgusted at Micah's begging. His beating heart spasmed, overloaded, his breaths coming out in small gasps. Dutch looked at Micah, and Arthur thought maybe his father-figure looked as though he curled his lip at the rat. But maybe it was a reverie from dying.

Dutch's eyes fell back on Arthur, and he could feel their gaze.

In a dying stupor, Arthur weakly smiled. "John made it…he's the only one."

Dutch came closer that time, nearly standing over Arthur. There was a flash in his dark eyes when he heard about John, but the confliction still remained.

"Rest of us…no," Arthur continued. "But…I tried…In the end, I did."

His senses were distorting, his insides twisting but he was becoming numb to the pain. Only his heart hurt. He could feel a pull coming over him, and he couldn't decide whether he was shivering from being cold or from dying.

"C'mon, let's go," came Micah's voice, getting softer. "We can make it."

Arthur felt Dutch's presence leave his side. He was going with Micah…

"Come on, Dutch!" Micah yelled, an aggressive plea. "Come on!"

There was a frustrated cry from the rat, and all went quiet.

Arthur slowly blinked, dazed. Dutch abandoned him, and he felt the final stab to his heart, but he was also relieved. Relieved his father-figure had abandoned Micah as well.

Gathering the last bit of strength, Arthur dragged his body to the edge of the mountain, laying on a slope to await his death. His breaths were ragged, his battered body numb and cold. He was about to close his eyes, but felt the warm blaze of morning rays.

He looked over. The sun ascended from behind distant mountains, their golden glow dyeing the sky in hues of pink and orange. He stared at the beautiful sunrise, eyes glazing over.

His heart was broken, haunted by the events that tore his family apart. But as he stared at the rising sun, a sense of peace fell over him, and he thought of John. Of Abigail and Jack. Of those that were able to escape. They had a chance. They didn't just survive, but now they could live. Arthur knew their freedom was the greatest gift he could receive before the end.

The warm rays splashed across his pale face, and he gave one last breath.

Take care of them…brother.

The last thing he saw was not the sunrise, but a whitetail buck grazing in a field. Its head, full of antlers, raised up and looked at him with deep, soulful eyes.

"Arthur."

He twitched, trembled, mumbled something.

"Arthur!"

Someone was shaking him. Arthur gasped for air, raising up on his cot, his body full of cold sweat. He panicked, looking around.

He saw the camp shadowed within the trees, saw the silhouettes of gang members in the early hours. Horseshoe Overlook was chilly in the mornings, especially before dawn, and he wondered if that was why he trembled.

"Arthur? Are you alright?"

It was Hosea. He was the one to shake Arthur awake, to get him out of whatever kind of delirium he had been in. Arthur stared at his father-figure and mentor, only the nearby lantern splashing any sort of light on them.

He looked Hosea up and down as he panted, fear and wonder mixing like he was a ghost in front of him. He stared at his chest, although he wasn't sure what he was looking for, but felt relief on seeing Hosea's chest rise and fall with breaths.

Hosea was concerned, stepping back to give Arthur some air. "Jesus, son. You were having a nightmare."

"W-What?" Arthur mumbled, rubbing a hand over his sweaty face.

"It's not like you. Do you need some medicine?"

"No-No, I'm fine," Arthur said, slowly calming down.

Hosea didn't look convinced, folding his arms. "What's going on?"

Arthur didn't know. He tried to think back. It had to have been a nightmare, but he couldn't remember it. He put a hand to his chest. His heart hurt, but for some reason he felt relieved to be able to breath. The haunting urge to cough lingered, but as he calmed down, it subsided.

"I guess…too much to drink last night."

Hosea furrowed his brows. "Whiskey doesn't give you nightmares. Are you sure you're alright?"

Arthur nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He sighed, looking around. He hoped he didn't alert the whole camp. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. "Probably all the goddamn stress from the mess we're in."

"I understand how you feel," Hosea said, still looking concerned. "If you need anything, just holler, alright? Talk to me if you need to, will ya?"

Arthur put a palm up to acknowledge him as he recovered. "Sure. Thanks, Hosea. I'm gonna get some coffee."

Like a worried father, Hosea tailed him to the stew pot before finally slipping off to the freshly started campfire. Arthur poured him a cup of coffee, eyes looking around the camp while he tried to get his thoughts in order.

He felt fine. His body was healthy, undamaged. He wasn't sure why he thought of that first. Once his breathing and nerves had calmed, he became increasingly confused in what had caused him to awake with such dread in the first place.

He hadn't had a nightmare in years. Not since Isaac…

He pushed the thought away, taking a gulp of burning coffee.

"Hi, Arthur!"

He jumped, turning, almost spilling his coffee.

Tilly withdrew, frowning. "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to scare ya."

Why was he so jumpy? Arthur knew that Tilly was wondering the same thing. He cleared his throat, greeting her with a smile.

"Hey, Tilly. Sorry, was just thinkin'."

"You're a good girl…you live a good life now, ya hear?"

That was his voice he heard in his head, but he couldn't recall when he had said those words.

She returned the smile, stooping to get some coffee.

"Funny, you don't do that too often," she joked.

He laughed. "You're right about that." He dipped his head at her, trying to tip his hat but realized it wasn't on his head. "S'cuse me, my lady."

He retreated away to be by himself. He took his coffee to the cliffs that overlooked the Heartlands, sitting down to enjoy the view as the sun started to peak out of the horizon. The morning rays splashed the sky with pink and gold and a bit of red. It looked eerily but peacefully familiar. But he didn't know why. He had seen tons of sunrises.

Arthur racked his brain, trying to remember the nightmare. He grumbled in annoyance. He wasn't one to dawdle over dreams or memories, especially when there was work to do. But, for whatever reason, it seemed crucial that he recalled it.

Arthur rubbed his eyes. He finished his coffee, deciding he should forget about the dream for now and worry about the day ahead.

As he turned to head back up into camp and return his mug, he saw John walking down his way with his own cup. He looked surprised to see Arthur, greasy dark locks messy and framed around the fresh, sutured lacerations on his face.

Arthur froze. He had the undeniable urge to hug John. He was relieved to see him. He walked over, smiling, but then was lost, faltering. He couldn't understand why.

"What about loyalty?"

"Be loyal to what matters."

John looked at him, suspicious. "Arthur, what's up? You okay?"

Arthur scowled, rubbing his ear. "Yeah, I'm fine, Marston. 'Bout damn time ya got up!"

He walked passed him and stalked for camp.

"Good mornin' to you too," John grumbled.

Arthur couldn't understand what overcame him. Being nice to Marston wasn't something that came easy to him anymore. Not since John abandoned the gang for selfish reasons for a year, leaving his wife and child behind. Choosing to neglect his role as a father and raising Jack. John had a choice, had the fortune to be there. Arthur didn't get that chance. God, or whatever forces that ruled this world, took that away from him.

He and John had been really close before Jack was born. And it was only because John was their leader's favorite son that he was even welcomed back into the gang with opened arms to begin with.

So where the hell did that love and loyalty and sudden relief he felt when he saw John come from? There was no denying it now. Arthur was sick. Mentally sick. He ate something. He shouldn't have eaten that mushroom Sean presented to him while he was drunk last night.

The sun lit the camp with warm, morning rays, and the camp grew more active as members awoke and started to work. Arthur dumped his mug into the wash bin and stamped towards his tent, eager to get his supplies and hat and leave for a bit. He really needed to clear his head.

"Arthur!"

He froze. The dread. It struck his heart like a bite of electricity. He slowly turned, saw Dutch coming straight for him. Tears welled in his eyes and he wanted to turn away, to get out of there, but his undying commitment to his leader kept him in place.

"I gave you all I had…"

"Hey, son," Dutch greeted, a cigar curled between two fingers. "You alright? Hosea said you weren't yourself. Said you looked as though you saw a ghost when you saw him."

"I-" Arthur trailed off.

His heart…It hurt. The feeling that overcame him, it left him confused. Like Dutch had said something awful to hurt him, but he did no such thing.

Dutch narrowed his eyes, concern lingering on his face as he looked Arthur over.

"Why?" Arthur asked him.

Dutch raised an eyebrow. "Why what?"

Arthur was lost, lowering his eyes. "I…don't know."

"That ruckus with Cornwall in Valentine was a close call. Did it unnerve you? Do you need to rest? I can send someone to town for medicine, I-"

"I'm fine, Dutch," Arthur said. "I just had a dumb nightmare, is all. I'll be fine once I get out there and start workin'."

Dutch didn't look convinced, just the same as Hosea, squinting an eye at Arthur.

He didn't fight him on it though, and Arthur was thankful for that. "If you say so, my son. Look, do something for me, alright? Go get Strauss's debt from that Mr. Downes gentleman. He's been whining in my ear since yesterday. And then come straight back and get some rest."

"But-"

Dutch put up a hand, cutting him off. "No ifs, ands, or buts, Arthur. It's an easy job. I don't want you overdoing it. Clear your head. I would feel better if you came back and rested. Especially since we'll need to move camp soon. Can you do that for me?"

Arthur sighed, slowly nodding. "Sure."

Dutch smiled, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. His touch made Arthur's chest hurt. "Thank you, son. I'm just concerned, is all. Get back soon or I'll send Charles to hunt you down. Don't think I won't."

"Oh, I'm sure you will."

"We'll make it, Arthur. Don't worry."

"John made it…he's the only one…"

Arthur shook the distant words from his head, focusing. He nodded at Dutch. "I know."

He left Dutch's side, an unsettling feeling coming over him, like a knife would sink into his back any second.

As he gathered up his weapons and supplies for the trip, he recalled the events since Blackwater. It had been a bizarre few weeks since coming down from the snowy mountains. Getting Sean back, begrudgingly releasing Micah from the Strawberry jail and the hell that followed, the shootout in Valentine with Cornwall's men, even going fishing with Jack – which started off pleasant enough – turned sour with the arrival of the two Pinkerton agents. He almost got ate by a giant, disfigured grizzly bear and saw Mary again. Among the other things, Arthur was ready to move on. After the nightmare he awoke from that still prickled underneath his nerves, he was assumed they had outstayed their welcome at Horseshoe Overlook.

Arthur strapped his saddlebags and guns onto his horse and mounted up. The bay and white paint Tennessee Walker had proven to be a good horse. The stallion had been Mrs. Adler's husband's horse. He recalled her saying that his name was Hal or something, but Arthur had taken to calling him Ace. Sadie said the horse had only ever liked Jake, and only tolerated her, and still couldn't believe the horse bonded to Arthur like it did.

"You must have a good heart like my Jake did," she had told him.

Arthur snorted at that.

Whatever the case, the steed was strong and reliable with personality to boot. It was a good replacement to Arthur's old girl, Boadicea. The mare had been lost in the mess at Blackwater. Damn, did he miss that horse.

"C'mon boy," Arthur said, patting the horse on the neck, and rode out of camp.

Arthur kept his horse at a slow trot as he kept on the path to his destination.

He had come down the plateau into the valley and now followed the trail alongside the Dakota River.

A quick glance over his map reminded him where he needed to go, according to what Strauss told him days ago. It would be a couple hour ride at his pace, but Arthur needed the fresh air and the time to himself.

He barely tipped his hat to a traveling passerby on the road, he was so caught up in his thoughts. There was a weight that pooled in his chest, as though some inner phantom pulled at him.

He avoided thinking about the nightmare, the odd feelings that crept over him while talking with certain people afterward. He inhaled deeply, taking in the fresh air, the smell of pine and moist dirt and prairie flowers. He appreciated the wildlife on his ride, their beauty and grace, and the way it made his soul feel more at peace.

But the closer he got to the Downes's Ranch, the more he felt sick to his stomach. A burning sensation filled his lungs, like he had smoked way too many cigarettes. At least, that was the only thing he could compare it to right off the back. But the burn was unpleasant, and also familiar.

Maybe Dutch was right. Maybe he really did need to get some rest.

He sighed. Arthur would get to the Downes's Ranch, collect the debt from Thomas Downes, and return to camp. It would be simple enough. The man was not a threat. Weak and timid. Arthur could beat it out of him if he had to.

"My husband's not cold in the ground and you've come back here."

"He didn't have a choice. He was good and he did good. There wasn't no choice in that."

"And you've as good as killed him yourself, and don't kid yourself…you had a choice."

His ears rang. Loud. The woman's voice…he didn't know that voice, but he heard those words before. They were faded in his head, whispers within the dark corners of his mind. Arthur winced, grabbing his head, suddenly burning hot.

"Whoa," he mumbled, pulling on the reins to halt his horse.

He got off Ace. The sun had rose high, warming the valley and lifting the morning fog. The tall rock formations of Caliban's Seat cast shadows across the road but didn't quite reach the river.

Arthur made his way down to the water, the nausea churning his belly. He reached down and splashed water on his face, a small groan escaping his lips. The Dakota River's current was a peaceful tune, easing his ringing ears. The ringing soon waned, but a headache had taken its place.

Arthur concentrated on his breathing, and slowly started to feel better, his eyes watching the river, the sparkle that glinted off the morning rays.

"You okay there, friend?"

Startled, Arthur whipped around. He hadn't heard anyone approach. The river pebbles and sand weren't a type of terrain that allowed for silent steps.

A man stood not too far away, tall like Arthur and wearing a black three-piece suit with a top hat. Arthur had to take a double look, as he looked very similar to Trelawny. His thick mustache framed a concerned frown.

Arthur wiped his wet hands on his pants, slowly nodding. "Sure, mister. I reckon I ate somethin' that didn't agree with me."

Arthur looked the man over again, suddenly on guard. He was reminded of Trelawny at first, though the man had a different voice. But now Arthur was sure. He was sure he knew this man from somewhere.

"Do I…know you?"

The man in the black suit smiled as though Arthur had made his day recognizing him. "Many people do…but yes. Yes, Arthur, you know me. I know you. Quite well."

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. "How do you know my name? Who are you?"

"Well, if I know you, wouldn't it make sense to know your name, Mr. Morgan? You know me from all over. You've forgotten me at times, or outright cast me away. But our last meeting wasn't that long ago."

Arthur didn't recall having seen this man recently, if ever. He was a complete stranger, but his presence screamed familiar to Arthur.

"Whatchu talkin' bout, pardner?" Arthur growled. "Explain."

The Strange Man chuckled, his eyes glancing out across the river for a moment. "You're as easy to agitate as John was."

"John?" Arthur echoed, looking back towards Horseshoe Overlook. "You one of his buddies? You sure as hell don't look it."

"Nah, you were long dead when I talked to John. He's a lot different later than he is now. You would be proud. Although, in the end, even he couldn't escape his past. Same as you."

Arthur glared at him, unsettled. "You speakin' in riddles, friend. I think it's best if we part ways now."

Arthur pushed by him to head for his horse. He wanted far away from this stranger. He felt the familiar dread from his nightmare return to his chest. He gripped his breast, suddenly unable to breathe.

"That nightmare did quite a spell on you, yes?"

His eyes widened and he looked behind him. The man was gone. Cursing, he looked ahead, and yelled in surprise when the mysterious man appeared right before him.

"What the hell?" Arthur hissed. "How…How did you know 'bout that?"

"I know many things, Arthur. I know all that is to transpire once you've collected the debt from Thomas Downes. All the hardships you'll endure, all the deaths and betrayals. But redemption, friend…There is redemption."

"You're crazy. Get away from me."

"Listen to me…when the time comes, you got to run and don't look back…This is over."

Arthur froze. A chill swept across his skin and he recalled the words. Knew he had spoken them. But to whom? And when?

Arthur stared dumbfounded at the Strange Man. "I…said those words…I think."

His acquaintance nodded. "You did. Near the end. To John."

"What do you mean?"

"It's yet to happen, and yet, you've already experienced it."

"I don't understand."

The Strange Man smiled. "It isn't meant to be understood, my friend. In another reality your time has long passed, and another you've yet to be born. I watched John send his family to safety before being gunned down years after you took your final breaths watching the sunrise. I've seen you weep over your mother's grave when you were just a boy, and I've also watched little Jack Marston grow into a man bent on vengeance. I saw John avenge your death at the cost of allowing his past to catch up with him."

Arthur didn't know what he was saying, but as he spoke those words, he saw visions in his head. Fuzzy, silent visions of those lives.

"What do you want from me?" Arthur asked, his voice cracking.

"I want to give you a chance, Arthur. A chance to relive what's to come. To save your friends…to save yourself. You're many things, but you are a good man. You got your redemption in the end, and yet…I think you can still find redemption on a different path."

Arthur shook his head, confused, a knot in his stomach. "I don't…know what you mean."

The Strange Man extended his hand, and Arthur saw a large stack of bills. "Here's what Thomas Downes owes for his debt…and then some. Leave the family be, Arthur. Return to camp and carry on. But be wary…listen to your heart. Heed the familiar and dreadful feelings and voices that come to you, for they will be your only indication on what's to transpire. And you may have a chance to change what's meant to be. I'll be around time to time to talk and check up on you."

Arthur cautiously reached out and took the money, mind racing, trying to understand. He stared at the cash in his hands, knowing he had to have lost his head somewhere. He was going crazy.

"The King will always lose his way if he loses his Compass. Don't let him seek solace with the Viper, for it will unleash the darkness that lurks within his heart."

When Arthur looked up, the Strange Man had vanished. Arthur looked around, jaw slack, but he was nowhere to be found. Arthur was mystified, lost, reeling around what he had said.

"We'll talk again soon, my friend," he heard the stranger say, but there was no physical entity to produce the voice.

Arthur slipped the money into his satchel and went to Ace. He mounted the horse and kicked him into a gallop, pulling him towards Horseshoe Overlook. Arthur was spooked, but he was mostly confused.

The Strange Man was obviously not of this world, but Arthur couldn't pinpoint what he was. He didn't believe in anything personally, but his mind considered God or even the Devil. Hell, could've been Death for all he knew. He was something, that's for sure.

Or maybe Arthur was losing his goddamn mind and he hallucinated the whole thing.

He really needed some rest.

He spurred his horse faster, onward in the direction of camp. He was eager to leave this area, eager to lay down and rest and forget this whole damn thing.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13171236/1/Blessed-are-the-Peacekeepers

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329865/chapters/40770269

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan #john marston #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #sadie adler #micah bell #fanfiction #fanfic #rdr2 spoilers #red dead redemption 2 spoilers

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laurelsofhighever · 5 years

Text

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 28 - To The Sea

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Ninth day of Justinian, 9:32 Dragon

The hunt chased through a golden wood. Laughter and the jingle of the bells on the horses’ harness kept the pace even though the thick growth of summer leaves obscured all but the path ahead, while above, through blinks in the canopy, the sunward wall of Castle Cousland lounged upon its spur of rock, a warm, comforting weight on the horizon, indomitable against the first autumn turning of oak and beech.

Bryce Cousland reined his horse out of a gallop in a glade dotted with wildflowers. “The quarry is close, Pup,” he said to Rosslyn at his side. “There, through the trees – if you look closely. After it now!”

She kicked off after the flashing shadow, the rocking gait of the horse beneath her steady and sure. There was no sign of the hart ahead but she knew it was there, just out of reach, just beyond the fading of the laughter and the bells.

When she emerged into the orchard – not Highever’s walled garden but the half-wild grove of Aeylesbide – she found the hart at last, a great proud beast crowned with broad antlers that seemed to pierce the sky. He was waiting for her. His breath was warm and soft against her face, amber eyes and russet fur she knew would feel like sable running through her fingers.

Do you think it that easy?

She turned at the voice, but too late. Summer dissolved. She fell through winter, through swirling snow and the crack of ice, down into the dark, the rushing current where the cold gripped her bones and stole hr breath, and indifferent shadows moved in the world above.

She lurched awake, caught in the steel trap of the old nightmare and the confusion of finding herself in unfamiliar surroundings. The strange rocking of the floor brought panic rising like bile up her throat until she remembered the mission to the Storm Islands and the schooner setting sail from Redcliffe. Tension shivered in her limbs even when she tried to force it away, rubbing a hand over her face and through her hair to tear the last shadows from her mind. It had been a while since that particular dream had troubled her enough to wake her, but as she pinched the bridge of her nose she decided she should not have been surprised. Being on water always brought the memories back, and that was without the uncertainty of the task that lay ahead.

As she followed the thought, she looked across the room at the dividing curtain that separated her cot from Alistair’s. There had been a moment of awkwardness earlier as they changed for sleep, when conversation faltered and they were left with the silent awareness of each other just out of reach, the hazy silhouettes the candles painted against the hanging sailcloth. Now, she listened for the sound of his breathing, wanting to make sure she hadn’t woken him, but she heard nothing save for the slow lap of the water and the occasional creak of timber. Cuno’s familiar weight was also missing; the echo of warmth where he had been sleeping against her leg was cooling rapidly, and she had to search for the shadow of his bulk in the darkness.

“You need to go out?” she asked in a voice scratchy with sleep.

The dog looked back at her from the door and wagged his tail.

“Alright.” She shrugged the blanket over her shoulders, yawning as she climbed to her feet and stretched the kinks out of cramped muscles. “I bet he’s out there already and you’re just worried you’re missing something.”

The dog chuffed a reply, pawing at the door in his eagerness to be out of the cabin. He didn’t wait for her when she finally got the door open, instead padding up the gangway with the hollow rattle of his claws sounding on every step.

It was almost dawn. Rosslyn found Alistair by the portside rail, talking to Connor with his arms folded behind his back in the manner he used when trying to be less imposing. The conversation looked uncertain, stilted – completely understandable given the stories she had heard in the week of being at Redcliffe, about Alistair’s treatment under the arl’s care and Isolde’s insistence on sending him away for fear of him usurping her own son’s place. She hadn’t missed Alistair’s expression when Eamon proposed taking the boy with them to be fostered with the Storm Giant’s court, and seeing him now, trying to forge a bridge with someone he had every right to resent, made her less than willing to interrupt his privacy.

Cuno, of course, had no such reservations about propriety. After a cursory sniff at the base of the capstan, he approached the pair wearing his signature doggy grin in a polite request for fuss. Connor, who wasn’t yet much taller than the dog, drew back slightly. When he saw Rosslyn, his eyes widened and briefly flicked to the tower on the lake, before he turned and muttered something to Alistair and slipped away down the forward hatch.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said as she joined him at the rail.

He shrugged. “To be honest there wasn’t really much to intrude on. Couldn’t sleep?”

“It’s not that unusual for me.” A loose strand of hair caught in the breeze and she tucked it back behind her ear. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Uh…” Alistair looked down at the thin linen nightshirt and loose breeches he had worn to come up on deck, with his bare toes peeking beneath the hem. “I wasn’t really thinking about that when… I mean, I was warm when I came up.”

Rolling her eyes, Rosslyn swung the blanket off her shoulders. “Here,” she said, stepping closer. In one fluid movement she draped the garment around his back and pulled it closed like a cape. His breath puffed against her cheek as she tweaked it to sit right, drawing her attention upwards to notice how very close to him she was brought by the gesture. His eyes softened with smiling, a faint blush rising in his cheeks.

“What about you?” he asked, close enough she felt the words vibrate through her skin.

“Me?” she stuttered. “I’m, uh… I’m a little… overheated, actually, now you mention it – wait, what are you –?”

With a breathy chuckle, he shrugged one shoulder out of the blanket, readjusted it, and enveloped her in the trailing edge so that they stood still facing each other in the cocoon of warmth, with her hands braced against the broad, solid plane of his chest.

“How’s this?”

Rosslyn cleared her throat, looking around to try and catch her attention on something other than the way his fingers brushed against the back of her hand. “Very cosy.”

He grinned. “Good.”

“Are you alright?”

“You know,” he sighed, letting the smile fall from his face, “I swear there was one point when you couldn’t read me so well. Not that I don’t like the state of things now,” he added hastily, to stop her pulling away, as a frown darkened across his brows. “Do you ever just stop and think how much things have changed since we first met, all the things that have happened to us?”

She looked out at the water. “All the time.”

“Of course,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think –”

“It’s alright,” she interrupted. “My family’s gone, but they taught me well, and I carry that with me. Besides,” she added, poking him lightly in the ribs, “it’s not like you’re going anywhere – or at least I hope you’re not.”

Alistair’s words caught as she glanced up at him. He swallowed, but his mind seemed stuck, unable to process her words and the uncertainty beneath her lopsided smirk. The feel of her so real against his frantically beating heart rooted him in panic, and it took all of his will not to imagine leaning down to kiss her, and to have her kiss him back.

“If you’re worried about the Storm Giant, you don’t need to be.” She looked away. “He isn’t that scary… most of the time, anyway.”

“You say that, but I do still get lost in my own shirts on occasion – more often than I should admit, really.” With his courage dented, all the anxieties of the mission at hand came clawing back. “It was bad enough when I was just meant to be Cailan’s spare – I have no idea why he thought I could be all – all official, like a real prince.”

“It can’t all be sitting on soft cushions and sampling expensive dainties,” Rosslyn teased.

“There’s also kissing babies and attending tourneys – I could do that.”

They fell silent, content to watch daytime colours bleed into the sky as the stark towers of Kinloch Hold drifted past. A flock of gulls took flight from the shore and wheeled towards their morning fishing grounds, their mocking calls carried away by the wind as they shrank into white specks that merged with the light reflecting off the waves of the lake.

“I was meant to be a templar,” Alistair blurted as he watched them disappear. “Eamon was going to send me to the academy in Bournshire, but Teagan stepped in at the last minute and took me to Rainesfere instead. I’m not sure what my life would look like now if he hadn’t.”

Rosslyn frowned. She studied him, the way the rising sun painted a halo over his features, and the faraway look in his eyes as his imagination took him across the water to another world in which he was nothing more than a stoic watcher, a shadow in an alcove with a ready sword. Others like her cousin Irminric felt a calling, but templar training was unforgiving, it had to be to forge individuals who wouldn’t hesitate to carry out sentence on those under their care. It would have warped him into something entirely against his nature.

“We might never have met,” he said, as if the idea puzzled him.

She had to look down, the breath stolen from her lungs. He was so warm and solid next to her, so steady and generous, the thought of being without him – of what would have become of her alone over the past few months – left a chill across the back of her neck. Without quite acknowledging the movement, she turned into him, cheek to shoulder, heart racing as she laced his fingers within both her hands. She thought of secrets, and inclinations, and all the myriad ways they might still be separated.

Her thumb stroked a distracted line along the length of his. “I’m glad we did.”

The rest of the journey passed smoothly, and with the wind still behind them they reached Lakehead by early afternoon. The docks here dwarfed the constructions at Redcliffe and the other ports they had seen on the journey north. Instead of a few, rough-hewn piers and a rickety shed for the harbourmaster, here the stonecraft of ancient Tevinter was in full view. A grand, colonnaded forum led out into six wharves arranged like the spokes of a wheel, each of which could easily fit multiple ships twice the size of the schooner. These in turn were enfolded in two wings of a towering harbour wall, and at the very tip of each, a pair of lighthouses guarded the gap for the benefit of any ship that needed guidance out of winter storms. Once, these lighthouses had been fashioned to resemble some magister or other, but time and the need for masonry elsewhere had whittled the faces away to more Fereldan practicality. As they passed through the eye and into the calmer waters of the harbour, Alistair finally understood why most maps labelled this port town as ‘Lake Calenhad Docks’, as if none other existed. Even the homes of the merchants and sailors who lived here seemed tacked on additions to the ancient architecture, like mice clustering in the straw beneath an ox’s hooves.

It took hours for the cargo to be transferred, first from the schooner’s hold to a series of carts, and from there onto barges that would take the whole party and their goods through the long, winding canals of the Seacatch, which led down to Lakehead’s sister-town on the shore of the Waking Sea, and the ship that would take them on the final leg of their journey. There was little for either Alistair or Rosslyn to do; the inventory was managed on either end by Captains Morrence and Mhairi to ensure none of Cailan’s gifts to the Storm Giant went astray, and the organisation of each trunk and bundle was supervised by Brantis himself, who refused to entrust the task to anyone else.

As the dockmen worked, the sky overhead clouded and the wind picked up, promising rain to come. The harbourmaster, a broad woman with a booming voice and a face weathered like polished chert, came to chivvy proceedings along, but a gust caught one of the cranes and only significant coaxing brought Wade around to the idea that a slight wobble was not going to damage his precious anvil. The need for caution in the worsening weather only slowed proceedings, however, and it was dark before the last sweep of the schooner’s hold was completed. And then the process had to be completed again in reverse when the time came to offload the carts.

Eventually, the last of the baggage was secured, with guards posted along the length of the convoy of barges to ensure protection in case of bandits. Those not on duty clustered into the tiny cabin of the foremost vessel, finding floorspace where they could in a room meant to house no more than half the people it contained.

Morrence was the last to board, her drop onto the deck steadied by Leliana, who had taken it upon herself to distribute blankets.

“All set, Your Highness, and all accounted for,” she said.

“Right then,” Alistair replied, turning to the bargemaster who stood above them on the wharf. “That’s everything, we can cast off.”

The man grunted a reply and loosed the mooring ropes. “The current’ll take ye along nice enough,” he explained. “The canals tame the current from the lake falls, but there’s still enough on it ye’ll make the port by morn, nae botha.” He saluted smartly and gave the signal to open the lock gates, and with that, the stream nudged the convoy into the first channel that formed the twelve switchbacks of the Seacatch.

At first, there was little to see. The canal was dug into a steep gully of rock that rose high on both sides, the original course of the waterfall that had once brought water thundering over the faultline that separated Lake Calenhad from the relatively short distance to the sea. The sheer sides closed them in, blocking what small amount of light was left in the sky. As the ground began to fall away, they reached the first of the cataracts, a tank cut into the bedrock where the water level could be raised and lowered as needed. The vaulting arches carved into the bedrock wall revealed the Tevinter origins of the engineering, though draft animals had replaced slaves to work the lock gates, and solid Fereldan stone had plugged the gaps where the original masonry had crumbled away. The shouts of the lock keeper and the complaints of the mules forced to work at such an unholy hour formed a sharp contrast to the almost eerie silence of the past few miles, but the noise fell away again as the gates opened onto the second watercourse, and they were once again left to the dark.

They passed through six more gates before the switchback rounded a knoll and the vista opened enough to offer a view of their final destination. Only a few lights shone in Invermathy, muted by the late hour and the worsening weather, but the bright eye of Sevuna, winking behind scudding clouds, gave shape to Lakehead’s sister-town, nestled on the edge of the ocean like a crab tucked into a crevice in a tide-pool. Seeing it and the faint glitter of water beyond, Alistair turned excitedly to Rosslyn, only to find her slumped in her seat with her dog curled as small as possible in her lap. Glancing around, he saw that almost everyone else was asleep as well, and smiled to himself as he readjusted her cloak around her shoulders, determined not to wake her.

“You really do care for her, don’t you?”

He choked. “What?”

Wynne was watching him, her arm a protective shield around Connor’s shoulders. For whatever reason, she had taken the boy under her wing, a devotion matched only by the almost desperate fierceness with which the boy clung to her, even in sleep.

“That look in your eyes,” she murmured. “I believe the correct term is… ‘enraptured’.”

“I – uh – I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” he answered, with a nervous ruffle of his hair and a glance sideways to make sure Rosslyn was in fact very much asleep.

“No? You try to hide it, but you two seem almost joined at the hip these days – and you watch her, with great interest, I might add.”

“She’s – I’m still new at this, I look to her for guidance.”

“Guidance?” Wynne crinkled a smile at him. “Yes, I’m sure those swaying hips are the perfect place to look for that.” She sighed at Alistair’s spluttered indignation. “For what it’s worth, I think you make her happy, too. What you’re doing isn’t easy, and I’m glad you found each other.”

He peered at her suspiciously. “That’s it? No more barbs? No more looking like the cat who swallowed the pigeon?”

“It’s usually canary, but no, that’s all, Your Highness.”

“Riiiight.” He glanced at Rosslyn again, her eyes rolling under the lids as she dreamed. “Well, thanks, I guess.” With a sigh, he turned to look out of the window again, and the steadily growing swathe of darkness, dyed with the first wash of blue from the light of a new day. “You know, I’ve never seen the sea before.”

The smell of detritus rose as they passed through the final cataract, clean salt undercut by algae and rotting fish. As the light rose, figures snaked their way through streets of brightly-painted houses, all winding for the harbour and the ships bobbing like hounds eager to chase after the scent of a hare.

“They’ll have to be quick today, if they don’t want the weather to catch them,” Rosslyn murmured as she woke, casting a leery eye over the harbour and the rising swell as the barges finally slipped into the loading dock.

Alistair started. “You’re awake.”

She hid a yawn behind her hand. “Just about. I’d best let Cuno stretch his legs for a while before we have to cram him on a ship for the next week. Come on, you,” she added to the dog, who merely groaned and tried to readjust his head in her lap.

“I think I can hold off the charge until you get back,” Alistair teased, before noticing a figure approaching, opposite the flow of traffic. “Who’s that down there, do you think? He looks like he’s come to meet us.”

The sailor, a lanky Marcher with dark red hair and faded tattoos along his forearms, introduced himself as Casavir, quartermaster on the ship that would take them on the final leg of their journey to the Storm Islands.

“It looks doubtful we’ll make it out today,” Rosslyn said once she returned from her walk with Cuno. She passed an eye over Morrence and Brantis, debating some detail or other as the barges were unloaded, and the rest of the entourage milling about without much direction.

“A weather eye have you?” Casavir asked. “Aye, it looks like it’d be in your blood. You’re right. The wind’s turning against the tide, and only looking to get worse when you’re not even unloaded yet. If you’d been half as fancy, we might’ve pushed off today, but no way is the captain going to risk her ship getting smashed against the breakwater.”

Across from him at Alistair’s side, Mhairi stood at stiff attention, trying not to show her impatience for the sailor’s rough manners.

“Of course, you were lucky the harbourmaster’s raven caught us,” he continued, oblivious. “We were Kirkwall-bound not a week ago, after every other ship with sense, and most of those saw none in accepting the king’s offer – not the best luck for a merchant to get involved in politics.”

“What makes you different?” Alistair asked, curious.

Casavir chortled. “You’re paying us, ain’t you? It’s a bit blunt but coin is what makes the world go round. That and the captain looks further ahead than most – we’re out of Denerim, usually, and this place doesn’t have a patch on it for fine goods. Unless Loghain gets ousted, trade’s going to be crippled, so we’re happy to help especially if it means getting in cosy with the Storm Giant. And between us,” he muttered, leaning closer, “she has a disliking for slavers.”

“It’s good to know your captain draws a line somewhere,” Mhairi noted dryly.

“You got a name, love?”

She glared. “Guard-Captain.”

Casavir laughed again. “Worth a try. How about we trot along and I can show you the old bark, and the mateys can follow on after? It’s either that or the tavern to get out of this rain.”

With little else to do, Rosslyn and Alistair followed their guide down the sloping streets to the harbour. Most of the smaller fishing vessels had already set out, leaving only one or two larger ships further out to show that the town was occupied at all. The water swirled a stormy grey beside the wharf, almost hypnotic in its rhythm despite the force with which each wave broke against the stone. Their ship was moored at the far end, rocking like a living thing in the swell from the harbour mouth, the sails of its twin masts tucked up like a guillemot’s wings. A fierce eye was painted on the prow, scowling towards the open sea. The name above the eye, scrawled in an elegant script, read Siren’s Call.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age au #alistair theirin #alistair x cousland #cousland #rosslyn cousland

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