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the-children · 3 years

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The Westmoore Tragedies | Chapter 2

[ TW: Gore below the ‘Keep Reading’ line. ]

“Our children aren’t safe!”

“Have they found who killed those poor people?”

“It’s gonna happen again!”

“We want answers!”

More voices soon joined in, eventually creating a dull roar of overlapping panic from a slowly growing crowd of villagers that had gathered before the town hall—it was a bi-weekly occurrence by now since the massacre was discovered. Rodarin shifted his posture against the stone wall of the storefront he leaned upon, watching and listening as they shouted their concerns and pointed fingers. He couldn’t blame them—hells, he sympathized with them. They were scared because no one had answers, and they were angry there was nothing they could do. A gentle sting of pain pulsed through his lower lip as he bit at it in frustration, quickly turning from the crowd as he made his way to the schoolhouse. He needed to pick up his son and daughter early so they could begin packing their clothes and toys. Sarina planned to leave with the twins, take them to stay with her sister in La Noscea while Rodarin stayed a few more nights to find out what he could.

Firm steps echoed along the tiled floors of the hallway, his stare held upon the dull reflections within the tile while he lost himself to his thoughts. Westmoore had always prided itself on its higher educational standards—it was the reason he and Sarina moved here once they learned she was pregnant. It wasn’t a massive, sprawling city like Limsa Lominsa—but it wasn’t some small, run-down village either. There were multiple classrooms, one for each grade. Luckily, his children were only a year apart—their classrooms were directly across from one another at the end of the hall to his left. As he rounded the corner however, a sudden chill licked at his spine, causing him to stop in his tracks.

He had been so absorbed in his thoughts about the circumstances surrounding the disappearances, that he hadn’t been paying attention to his own. This wasn’t right.. something was very wrong about this. The hallways were unnaturally dark given the time of day—and even more alarming were the sudden lack of windows. His breaths became slightly unsteady as a sense of claustrophobia gripped at his lungs. It was far, far too quiet. There were no murmurs of lectures, nor childlike chatter and laughter. With this level of silence, he didn’t doubt he could even hear the soft scribbling of pencils from the classrooms on the second floor—but there was nothing. He took a few quick steps, which seemed to echo endlessly in this dreadful silence, to peer down the main hallway. The front doors were closed. They were open when he entered—they were always open to help keep the hallways cool during the hotter days. And that was another thing—the cold. The chilled air that sank deep into his flesh that was beginning to make his teeth chatter. This wasn’t right.

His heart began to drum within his chest, heated breath billowing from parted lips as he walked briskly towards the end of the left hallway—he needed to see his children. The doors to the classrooms nearly burst open behind the urgency of his entries, but both would be empty. His heart hammered loudly in his ears, hands lifting to run through and pull at his hair as his mind raced with horrible possibilities. Who took his children? What were they doing to them? And were they even still alive? Soft whimpers and murmured pleads began to dribble from his lips as tears gathered—but fighting through the sickening fear that knotted in his stomach, he sprinted for the other classrooms. With shoulder positioned forward, he burst through door after door—each more violent than the last as wood splintered and hinges cracked. He had eventually searched the entire first floor—even the main office and cafeteria. As he approached the staircase that led to the second floor, the shadows seemed to grow darker. His frenzied pace faltered, shaking fingers resting upon the rail as he peered up into the dark.

He proceeded with caution, climbing the staircase with slow, careful steps as he took this time to try his damnedest at calming himself. Rounding the bend that brought the staircase the rest of the way up, a deep crimson hue began to bleed and taint the shadows, corrupting it into a sickly crimson that tainted his vision—his careful stride pausing a moment to adjust his eyes. His heart skipped a beat as he heard the faint rustling of paper and muffled laughter of children, his pace quickening once more at the mere prospect of finding his son and daughter. Though once he reached the top of the steps, his excitement was quickly crushed by the smeared blood that streaked along the hallway. The first classroom’s door on the right was wide open, blood pooling into the hallway from within. He could make out the smeared drag marks that lead from this open classroom to the one at the end of the hall, with its door closed. Various small shoe prints were left behind in the blood’s trail, all following towards the same closed room. He inched his way down the hall, shaky breaths filling the air between the pauses of muffled laughter and movement that came from the closed classroom. On his way, he carefully inched closer to the open door where the blood trail originated.

His pulse hammered away in his ears as he mustered the nerve to peek into the doorway. The chairs and desks were scattered in disarray while mutilated bodies of adults—teachers and staff—littered the room like trash in pools of blood. Their flesh had been ripped and shredded to literal ribbons, and their faces seemed to have been hollowed out—no eyes, no teeth. “Valrin?.. Mia?..” Rodarin hissed in a pleading whisper, his ears straining as he silently prayed for an answer—only for it to go unheard. Jaw clenched tightly, he stepped back into the hallway and continued to follow the trail towards the closed door at the end of the hall.

His hand hovered over the doorknob as he listened to the commotion within. Occasional laughter, gentle snips of scissors, rustling of paper—if not for the insane circumstances, one would simply assume it was time for crafts. Slowly, steadily, the door opened as Rodarin watched in horror. Various children were scattered among the room, sitting beside the fresh corpses of their teachers—some were still twitching, kept alive to suffer longer. Soft grunts of effort escaped one child as he clipped away at the flesh of a dead woman’s arm. Others were cutting various shapes and patterns into limbs and torsos. Ribbons of skin were used as bindings and plasters for other small crafts. Eyes were scooped from their sockets with tiny fingers as the onlookers cried “Ewwwwww~!” in playful disgust, tossed from one to the other in a sick game of catch. They were playing.. Their faces were lit up in delight, not a care in the world as they played in the blood and gore of their victims. In the obscene horror of it all, Rodarin almost didn’t notice the dark, shadow-covered children standing off to the side, watching the others play with wide eyes and plastered smiles of pure white.

“Mr. Calrise.” He jumped at the formal call of his name, turning quickly to glance down the hall—which was empty. When he looked back, the shadowed children were before him, clawing at his legs as they tried to climb up. He could feel their tiny fingernails digging into his flesh. “Mr. Calrise?” He heard the call again, but was overcome by the weight of the climbing shadows—falling to the ground as his head cracked upon the tile during its whip back. “Rodarin!” A smack stung at his cheek, his eyes bolting open while he gasped and wheezed in panic. Melrin’s hands pressed to his chest, keeping him steady as he studied Rodarin with a worried, concerned expression. Young teens peered past Melrin from the classroom doorway, staring in curiosity and slight fear. “Rodarin, you alright?” Melrin mumbled as he helped him to his feet. “I.. uh..” He was at a loss for words, completely stunned as he looked around. Everything was normal, aside from having woken up on the ground. Melrin gave him a light pat on the back. “You just came to my classroom, stared for a while, then fell over. You feelin’ okay?.. You’re bleedin’” Melrin commented as he gestured towards the bloodstained leggings of Rodarin’s pants.

With tentative fingers he peeled back the cloth, revealing the various tiny scratches that had sunk deep into his flesh. A nauseating panic still gripped at his heart, but for whatever reason, he was back. And he needed to see his children. He needed to leave. “I’m fine. Got scratched up by a damn jackal earlier, must’ve had some disease—feeling all out of place.” He said, fabricating his story quickly as he gave a quick apology and walked briskly towards the staircase with a slight limp. He was on the second floor, and the injuries were still there. It was real, it had to have been. So then why was everything fine now? Back on the first floor, normality had been restored—no busted doors, and only more questions plaguing his mind. He made for the end of the side hall again, finding his children alive and well—and giving them each a long embrace, embarrassing them in front of their classmates. If only they knew why..

He spent the rest of his day with his children, pushing what had happened to the corners of his mind. His children were safe, and he was thankful. That night, he helped them pack their bags, making sure they had enough room for all their favorite toys to keep them entertained while they were away. A restless night awaited him, peeking in to check on them while they slept every ten or twenty minutes as he tried to figure out what the hells had happened. Sleep wouldn’t come until the next morning, Sarina and the kids giving their farewell hugs and kisses as they made off for La Noscea. Rodarin collapsed on the couch, his eyes no longer able to stay open. It was short lived, possibly only three or four hours passing before frantic knocking came to his front door. It took him a moment to heave himself up from the soft embrace of the cushions, the front door creaking open to reveal a captain of the Fleet. “Rodarin, come by the schoolhouse. We found the staff dead.. It’s happened again..”

to ̗̱b̙̤̟e͍͙̦̬̘͞ ̧̠c̣̪̖̙̣̭̮͟o̳̝͝n̥t̪̳i͙̕n̩͡u͓̝e̜̤̘̙̫̩͕d͔̬̩̠̟͙̭͘ .

#The Children #Rodarin Calrise #Westmoore #It's time again #Origins #FFXIV RP #Crystal LFRP #Mateus RP #Balmung RP

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much-obliged-timothy · 3 years

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Whumptober #31

Borderlands - #31 - Left for Dead

I decided to end Whumptober by posting two prompts for the last day. This one is dedicated to the Borderlands discord (which you can join here!). Thanks for supporting my torture of our favorites!

Timothy and Athena stared in horror as Jack took in the information of the artifact.

He was laughing, a cold sound that seemed to echo around the ominous space. Athena took a step forward, and Timothy grabbed her wrist, giving a small shake of his head.

“It could happen to you too,” he said, voice hoarse.

“We have to stop this,” Athena said, but didn’t pull away from Tim. The truth was, she didn’t want to get any closer to Jack, as badly as she wanted to stop whatever the hell was happening.

She looked at the others. Nisha, Wilhelm, and Aurelia all looked more curious than alarmed. Claptrap had backed away in fear.

“What’s happening?” Tim asked, tightening his hold on her wrist.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Nothing good.”

She’d thought it was over when they defeated that creature inside the vault. She’d foolishly thought they could leave, tend to their wounds, get their pay, and go on their way.

She had never imagined this horror.

“Athena,” Tim whispered, eyes fixed on something behind her.

She turned just in time to see Lilith approaching Jack. Athena pulled her wrist free of Tim’s grasp and put her hand to his chest, pushing him back and following him, keeping herself between him and Lilith.

Lilith’s attention was focused on Jack as she moved forward, though. Athena had an idea of what she planned to do.

“Heya, handsome,” Lilith said, and then sprang into action.

Tim grabbed Athena as Lilith punched the artifact, the impact sending it into Jack’s face. His scream rang louder than his laugh, but none of the vault hunters moved to help him.

He rolled onto the ground, writhing in agony as he pressed his hands to his face. Athena pushed Tim back farther as Lilith approached them next, ready to fight if she had to.

But Lilith paid them no mind, and exited the vault as if nothing had happened.

“Son of a…” Jack cried, slamming a fist against the ground.

“Athena,” Tim said, voice small and scared.

“Shhh,” she warned, not wanting him to bring Jack’s attention to himself.

He had Jack’s face, after all. And if the artifact had deformed Jack…

“I’m gonna KILL her! I’m gonna kill them ALL!” Jack snarled as he started to rise.

“Oh, god, I regret this stupid job so much right now,” Tim said in horror.

Athena elbowed him in the stomach, careful of the wound she knew he’d received during their battle. She knew he was just talking because he was anxious and scared, but she didn’t want Jack’s attention on him right now. The others were staying wisely silent, even Claptrap.

“Oh, god,” Tim choked out as Jack lifted his head. “Shit. Fuck.”

Jack’s face burned from where he’d been branded by the artifact, his left eye burned away. His blue one was bright in the light from the vault, as crazed as his voice. He was grinning, a menacing amusement at the thought of slaughter.

Athena crossed her arms as she watched him, stepping further in front of Timothy. She knew without hearing any more that this had gone too far. Whatever precarious mental sanity Jack had held before, it was gone now, burned away like his flesh.

“First, you’re gonna find me a doctor,” Jack ordered, trying to pull himself upright. “Then, we’re gonna wipe those bandit bastards off the face of Pandora. And then...Then we’re gonna wake The Warrior.”

His words sent a chill through her, but she refused to let her sudden fear show.

“The what?” she said.

“It’s gonna be so good. We’re gonna scorch the freakin’ planet in fire,” Jack said, sitting now. “There’s gonna be screaming...bandits are gonna die left and right...I can’t wait!” He was giddy with the thought of violence, the laugh that left him horrifying Athena.

Just what had this man become?

Nisha, Wilhelm, and Aurelia watched him with cruel interest. Nisha and Wilhelm would stay with Jack, Athena knew that.

And Timothy had no choice. Jack would kill him if he tried to leave. But if he stayed...his face...the brand…

Tim let out a soft noise of distress. He’d come to the same conclusion, lifting his hand to his face.

Athena wanted to leave. She wanted to get the hell away from Jack, and drink until she forgot the sound of his vicious laughter.

But if she left now, he’d slaughter the people of Pandora.

“Athena, we can’t...he’s going to…” Tim clenched his fists, trembling. “He’s a murderer. We didn’t know before, but we know now. We know.”

If they walked away now, what happened next was on them.

“Let me,” she said, because the kid wasn’t a killer, not really, and she’d do what she could to keep it that way.

She slipped her gun into her hand. Tim let his fingers hover over his watch in case anyone noticed and tried to stop her.

But she didn’t give them time to notice. Instead, she raised her gun and fired without hesitation.

Jack cried out in pain, dropping from his seat. Nisha and Wilhelm both raised their guns on Athena, though Aurelia just crossed her arms and watched.

Tim stepped up beside Athena, his gun raised and his digi-Jacks at his back. He was still trembling, but his face was set with determination, and she felt a small spark of gratefulness to him.

“Athena,” Jack growled, and coughed up blood onto the ground. “No, no!” He pressed his hands to the wound in his gut, the blood coming too fast. “This isn’t how it’s...no! Goddammit! No!”

“You’ll still get your money,” Athena said, eyes shooting to Wilhelm. At least she could talk him down. “Timothy can pose as Jack. No one ever needs to know he died here. Timothy can access all Jack’s accounts and pay you.”

Wilhelm considered, then lowered his gun. “If I don’t get paid by the end of the week, I’ll make sure the kid’s face matches.”

“This job keeps getting worse,” Tim said miserably.

“We leave him here to die, and no one ever needs to know,” Athena said.

It was for the best. Timothy’s death had already been faked and his appearance permanently altered; he couldn’t go back to his old life. But as Jack? He could play the part he needed to. He’d have a job, and he could gradually leave Hyperion and go on to do whatever he pleased, with no one but the people here any wiser to the truth.

And as far as they knew, Jack had no family or friends who would question it. No one would ever realize the real Jack had died.

“Nisha!” Jack said, trying to drag himself towards her. “K-Kill...them.” He coughed up more blood.

Athena holstered her gun. She knew how this would end. They’d already used up all their health kits during the battle earlier. There was no saving Jack. They’d never get him medical attention in time.

“A shame. You were cute,” Nisha said, and lowered her gun.

“I tire of this,” Aurelia said, heading for the exit.

“Better get me paid, kid,” Wilhelm said, slapping Tim on the shoulder as he passed.

“I can get you into Jack’s accounts,” Athena assured Tim. “You just need to stay at Hyperion long enough to alleviate suspicion. Then I’ll help you get wherever you want, if you choose to leave.”

“No!” Jack said, and there was a mix of fury and panic in his voice. “No, you little shit! You can’t!” He tried to get up, but cried out in pain and fell back down, slipping in his own blood. It was pooling around him alarmingly. “No, no. Angel. She needs me. You can’t...I’ll kill all of you! I swear it!”

“Let’s go, Timothy,” Athena said, putting her hand on his arm and gently pushing his gun down. “It’s over.”

“It’s over,” he echoed, staring at Jack. “Yea, it’s over. Oh, hell. It won’t be okay, will it?”

“I don’t know,” Athena said. “But there’s nothing left for us here. Let’s go. He brought this on himself.”

“You can’t leave me here!” Jack yelled angrily, trying to drag himself after them.

Athena pulled Timothy away, heading for the exit. The others were already up ahead of them, leaving Jack behind.

“It’s for the best,” Tim said, gripping his gun tightly. “He would’ve kept killing people. Like Gladstone.”

“H-Hey!” Jack cried as they approached the exit, too far ahead for him to catch up to.

No, no. He’d seen it. He’d seen the future. The Warrior. The deaths. All of it.

It hadn’t been this.

It hadn’t been his own team leaving him behind, betraying him. It hadn’t been his body double taking over as him.

Angel. What if Timothy found out about Angel? What if, in addition to Jack’s life, he took Jack’s daughter?

“Come back!” Jack snapped, though they were already gone.

He was alone. His vision was starting to go dark. He was so cold. His shirt clung to him, sticky with blood. The scent of it filled his nostrils, along with his burnt flesh.

“Angel!” Jack yelled. “Dammit! Angel!”

He wasn’t supposed to die here. Not like this.

But he was alone. That traitorous bitch Athena was taking his cowardly doppelganger to Helios to steal Jack’s life. And just what the hell would they do to his Angel?

“No,” Jack ground out.

But his body was too weak to keep struggling. He collapsed against the ground, everything in pain. He was drenched in his own blood, and he could only see out of his right eye.

He was afraid.

He was angry.

He was dying.

“Not like this,” he said.

He tried to cling to life, to the destiny that had just been revealed to him. But in the end, he laid there, his body growing colder as he succumbed to his wound, abandoned and mutilated, a victim to his own ambition.

#borderlands #Athena The Gladiator #timothy lawrence #Handsome Jack #whumptober2020 #no.31 #left for dead #fic #jtdoeswhumptober #My writing #my post #borderlands fic

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southdownsraphael · 5 years

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Nightmares and Revelations

Hey! This is my first posted fic attempt with Good Omens (Raphael hc) and it's mostly angst with some graphic injury. At the moment all I really have is a taster, I'm on vacation in America so my time is pretty limited until next week as well as only having my phone to work on.

However, I am still working hard on this and I'm going to post more soon...

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Crowley was dreaming.

This wasn't a particularly odd occurrence, Aziraphale would be the first to admit, but something didn't feel right.

Aziraphale was sitting beside his demon in bed, a book open on the bedside table and one of Crowley's hands resting on Aziraphale's thigh, his face inches from the angel's hip. He had been trying to hug Aziraphale's leg before he'd finally given in to exhaustion, his body having been denied the regular sleep it was used to for almost a week.

Crowley's wings were out, one spread across the angel's lap where Aziraphale had been grooming it carefully, reverentially fixing each feather while Crowley slept.

Now though, the tender peace of the small room had been disturbed, and Aziraphale paused, his fingertips still buried in the beautiful softness of Crowley's glossy black feathers as he listened.

"No...I didn't.." Crowley muttered again, his voice small and shaky, his fingers twitching against Aziraphale's leg. "Please.."

Aziraphale's heart felt like it had dropped into his stomach at the broken tone of Crowley's voice, the soft, sincere begging driven by intense fear. He hadn't heard anything like it from his demon, not even at the end of the world, not from Anthony J. 'forever the optimist' Crowley.

"It's alright, darling," Aziraphale murmured, slipping one hand off the delicate wing and into Crowley's messy red curls, his thumb stroking over the demon's cheek. "I'm here, my dear."

Crowley shifted again, his brow furrowing as this dream resisted the comforting gesture, usually enough to soothe the demon down from any nightmare. "No.."

Aziraphale sighed and ran his hand over Crowley's bare spine, feeling his cool skin and silently debating what to do next. Crowley had gone through a period after they'd pulled off the switch during which he'd had horrible nightmares every night, and once Aziraphale had gotten used to recognising them early, he'd always been able to calm the demon without waking him. This seemed to be different, and much worse somehow.

Considering the gruesome and horrifying content of Crowley's previous nightmares, Aziraphale wasn't sure he wanted to know what much worse would look like.

But Aziraphale had always been curious, possibly to a fault, and he knew he had another option, an option that could possibly make Crowley quite angry, but at least he wouldn't have to rely on the demon's rather variable ability to talk to him about his dreams.

Aziraphale stroked Crowley's wing once more, then brushed his knuckles down the demon's cheekbone before pressing two fingers against his temple lightly.

The room was small, dark, and made completely out of concrete. A light flickered somewhere near the high ceiling, a grubby yellow light that cast odd shadows in the box-like room.

Aziraphale had found himself in the corner of this room, an unheard and unseen watcher squinting at a slumped figure in the middle of the floor, an indistinct shape in the dim light.

The shape shifted slightly, the light catching glistening, bloodied skin, and the stark white of exposed bone. What had once been wings were now mostly gone, a few feathers clinging to charred bones and mutilated skin, the white feathers stained red.

As the figure moved, tried to push itself up on its hands, Aziraphale saw a flash of red curls dread settled deep in the pit of his stomach as he slowly moved closer, close enough to see the blistered, burned skin, the countless cuts and lacerations, the pool of blood sticky beneath the angel's torso. There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't smeared with red or dirt or both.

The angel fell back with a soft sound of pain and the iron door in the far wall slammed open, revealing Gabriel standing in the doorway. He strode in and over to the angel, who tried to push himself up again, to face up to the archangel in front of him.

Aziraphale slowly circled around in fascinated horror, dreading what he was going to see, but painfully aware he simply had to know.

"Archangel Raphael. Pathetic," Gabriel began, his voice booming in the small room as the door slammed shut behind him. "You've disappointed all of us."

Aziraphale relaxed slightly at the sound of the unfamiliar name, making his way around to the corner next to Gabriel, so he could see the slumped angel, whose head was down, one cheek against the concrete floor.

From this angle, Aziraphale could hear the rasping, rattling breaths Raphael was taking, his body very clearly only just clinging to the edge of life.

Gabriel took a step forward and crouched down, heaving a deep sigh. "You were a favourite, Raphael. The Almighty was quite impressed with you, in fact. And yet, here we are."

Raphael lifted his head slowly, every tiny movement betraying pure agony, and as the broken angel finally locked eyes with Gabriel, Aziraphale's heart stopped.

He knew that face, he knew it like the back of his hand, it was a face he'd been studying for six thousand years. The eyes were wrong, a soft, beautiful blue, the kind of pale blue that made the watcher feel that if the owner began to cry, all the color would just wash away with the tears.

Crowley was crying, in fact, the tears streaming down his cheeks, leaving little clean tracks in the dirt and blood and grime on his face, and Aziraphale remembered to breathe again.

"Please, Gabriel," Crowley begged, blood spilling from his lower lip as he talked, his voice hoarse and broken, despairing. "I've seen the Great Plan, and it has to stop! The Almighty can't just play games with living, breathing creatures, it's cruel!"

Gabriel just shrugged, tilting his head to the side. "You're not supposed to ask questions, Raphael, you can't go around asking the Almighty why she chose her path, and then criticising her on it. It's not what we do, we do what we're told."

Crowley's head dropped back to the stone, his eyes displaying nothing but agony and a terrible, heart-wrenching resignation. "She's going to kill sentient beings," he insisted quietly as Gabriel stood up, straightening his jacket stiffly. "Children, animals, everything."

"We don't question the Great Plan," Gabriel answered simply and firmly, giving the fallen angel a sad look. "They'll find a place for you here in Hell, Raphael. It's where you belong, you don't fit in with us anymore."

The door shut behind Gabriel with a loud clang and the angel on the floor let out a slow sigh, going completely limp and just staring at nothing. Aziraphale didn't think, his brain just shoved him forward as soon as Gabriel had gone, driving him to the body on the floor.

Raphael looked up dreamily when a pair of shoes stopped in front of his eyes, then dropped his head back again just as Aziraphale fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he reached out slowly.

As soon as his fingertips brushed the angel's skin, he was gathering Crowley up in his arms, gasping and trembling and stifling little sobs as he pulled the demon into his lap.

Crowley cried out in pain, his whole being radiating hurt, but Aziraphale needed to hold his demon, he needed to hold Crowley and cradle him and tend to him. He slid one hand onto the back of Crowley's head, fingers spread, and held him with the other arm tucked around, under his waist. Crowley let out a long breath and drooped over his lap, his eyes slowly opening to stare up at Aziraphale's face.

Before, they had been such a soft, perfect blue, but now they were slowly changing, morphing into the much more familiar gold that Aziraphale had only ever known.

"Aziraphale.." Crowley gasped, his hands gently scrabbling on the angel's now blood-smeared coat. "Please. Wake me up.."

(To be continued....)

#good omens #goodomens #crowley x aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale and crowley #my writing #fanfiction #my post #angst #raphael #headcanon #angel #demon #gabriel #archangel

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the-house-of-the-nine · 4 years

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In Mind of Misery: Manipulation, Part 9

[ And so the journey begins. Three Separate stories to tell here all happening Simultaneously. Attacking from three fronts, is this the beginning of the end for The Nine? Please Like, Share, and Follow us! We are hoping to get new people coming our way, and could use the love! Thank you everyone!!!!! ]

Cast:

[ L.K ] - Lazarius Kashebahl, Marseille, Raelyndia Duskhollow

[ P.K ] - Kretus Dark

[ V.D ] - Verzatea Duskflame, Pame Myl’Brin

[ J ] - Jursol, Jimba, Mawa

[ T ] - Talisin aka The Boy

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[ L. K ] The group of females were now sealed in a room that was much darker than the last; there was even less natural light due to the fact that they were deeper into the crypt now.

The floor was still thick with a pool of blood that remained constant no matter where they would be going; and despite the sense of calmness that may have come over them due to the drumming beat of the hearts and the locust swarms coming to an end; they were far from safe.

Suddenly toward the back of the room they were standing in; a pair of torches would ignite in a red blaze of energy about halfway up from bottom of the wall. The torch sconces were on either side of a hall that led them deeper into the darkness.

But as they stepped closer toward the opening, another brilliant set of torches just several feet from the last would ignite similarly to the last. This would progress further and further as the lead person began walking down the chamber.

From the depths of the long red lighted corridor that again was only about 10 feet in height and 12 in length, there was a muffled sound that came across as sounding human. It echoed from the walls and seemed to surround them as they continued into the lighted hall.

The further they got, the more clear it became. It was the sound of chanting, a deepened baritone which was being spoken in a language that none of them could understand.

The closest thing they could make out is that it was a repeatable chant. The first and third line were matching and the second and fourth were different.

"sanguis autem infirma...."

Their chant would beckon them all closer, deeper into the nightmare that was being presented to them. The select few that were still alive had no choice but to press on. With Lazarius and Marseille both gone, it was clear to the group that they would have to end this; or die trying. There was no going back.

"omne cælum os eius..."

When they reached the end of the very long hall, the final torches would ignite on the exit which led out into an absolutely massive chamber. The burst of light would then begin to ignite the torches all the way around the perimeter of the room, a rhythmic beat to their glow as they encompassed the entire room with their eerie red glow.

"sanguis autem infirma...."

The room was filled with figures; all of which were hooded, cloaked and standing in a gathered group scattered in no real rhyme or reason. There had to be nearly fifty strong of these chanting cultists that all seemed to be facing the opposite wall that the group had come from, with their backs to them.

"et congregans omnes vos..."

[ V . D ] Pame had begun carefully removing the cold hard steel of her swords from her hips in preparation, her eyes glaring into the darkness without as much as a flinch-- Though to be fair the grip om her swords could have been enough to strangle a full grown human man.

It wasn't a matter of if she was nervous or not, but how long her mask of calm would last. So far it was strong and impervious, even as the suspiciously timed igniting of torches occurred.

Though it had made Pame hesitate from walking deeper, her eyes moving to inspect those remaining before facing forward once more.

"Not suspicious at all,"

Pame murmurs, then reaches to pluck a torch off the wall.

"Stay close. Wade carefully."

With these remarks lingering in the air has the kaldorei pressed forward, calmly and gracefully gliding her legs through the blood, gliding forward with minimal splash or loud waves from the tremor vibrations of her walking.

"What do you think that thing was? A grotesque mutation of Raelyndias experiments?"

Verzatea wondered aloud toward both women, her grip constantly readjusting to better hold the boy in her arms, her eyes often switching between lowering to inspect if he was well and looking back toward the path that lays ahead,

"I hope it wasnt an actual man... Ive seen that before. A test subject whos soul was twisted, broken and deformed then placed into the body of a lab created beast. T'was an awful sight.. He didn't suffer long, thankfully. Soul was too battered."

Until the chanting began... In which Verzatea's original state of shock and horror disappeared, replaced with some rising bubble of passion within. She was plain pissed. Irritated. Wounded. She'd not allow herself to be so weak as to fail those who remained, like she failed Marseille.

Right now she focused solely on the well being of all three individuals surrounding her, and as the highest ranking officer alive among them, it wouldn't look well if she started sobbing like a lost child looking for someone else to fix the problem.

Besides... Tea had beef with Raelyndia, for all evidence of her corruptible touch and what history has shown Tea of the infamous Mistress of the Nine. Tea wouldn't fall victim, and she damned sure would prevent more of her own falling victim.

And if that meant more fighting, surely she could find a good place to rest the boy before unveiling her swords and wreaking her own havoc, relieving all that pent up energy and excitement. But for now she trudged along quietly and observed, her alertness high whilst watching as the scene changed.

Even as the chanters came into vision, Tea and Pame held steadfast, watching them all closely whilst backing in to their group to ensure the four of them were close-- Safety in numbers, sure... But when the safe numbers were out numbered, alas Tea was confident in their abilities... Few in number, but not few in strength.

[ L. K ] Though it would soon become clear that they were not only expected, but welcomed. The chanters continued to repeat what they were saying over and over again, it was their mantra that caused the hearts of the intruders to feel unwelcome and unwanted.

As they got closer into the open room, the cultists soon began to turn. Their horrors bestowed upon the three women. First and foremost each one of them was lacking a head. The blood soaked stump of the jagged cut was clear that they were decapitated in the most painful of ways; multiple hacks.

The blood that seemed to be filling this place was in no short supply from these headless monsters. As they turned to welcome the intruders not only was the fact that their drawn hoods stayed aloft without heads but their bodies were exposed on the front. The robes were open completely. Each man, and woman was horribly mutilated.

Some of the men lacked genitalia, only a blood soaked stain was left. Some of the women too had been carved; their breasts taken. Many had missing chest cavities and organs that had been removed, all of them were bloodied and horrific to look at. Their flesh open and rotting; fetid to the stale air around them yet their chanting never left the hall.

“Verzatea Duskflame, Pame Myl’Brin, Jursol of the Zandalari....”

The feminine voice would return and shadow them like they were all expected.

“You have come, kneel and take your place within the Order of Nine. Join those who have come before you. Only then will you be free...only then will this end.”

At the furthest end of the room there was a large altar, and behind the altar was a massive glass tank structure holding a coagulated blood substance. The glass was several inches thick; no breaking it. It seemed to be resonating the sounds they were hearing.

“Do not resist, only through your assimilation will you be forgiven...”

[ V . D ] "Forgiven?"

Verzatea laughs dryly,

"From the look of things it isn't us who've done wrong,"

With this the Confessor begins to slacken her hold on the boy to lower him to the floor at her feet. A sudden wash of uncertainty befell her, a sort of sensation which had her instincts in overdrive and extra sensitive to the situation.

Perhaps it was nerves, given the high tension and Raelyndia's home advantage. But the three genuine members of the Nine were high alert, they stood a fighting chance. As Tea looked about the room her voice projected forth a query with every ounce of confidence she could muster,

"Forgiven for what?"

Though she played dumb, Tea had an idea what their sins were. Rejecting the Old Gods and abandoning the Black Empire surely didn't bode well for Nzoth and his followers, she could only imagine what they had waiting for the group if they were to reject repentance.

Thus her hands move toward her wrist, hesitating here in preparation to whip free her sword-bracelet-- But first she'd linger and listen. Pame was equally focused, her eyes moving back toward Jursol and her raptors, then to Tea and the boy whom had been sat on the floor in the blood and slumped over his own lap, his spine managing to keep him upright without aid. Pame quickly steps back, taking position to join Tea in circling the child, protecting the weakest in their circle.

[ J ] Jursol had remained on high alert, focused, silent. She followed the others from behind as they moved further down into this mess. The torches seemed odd to be lit. Something was clearly wrong here. Her eyes scanned their surroundings as they moved further in.

The sound of chanting cause her and the raptors to glance at each other. Something about it caused them alarm. Brushing it they continued onward with the others. This had to end. As they entered into a new room, her eyes cast daggers at the cultist. Grabbing her weapon as she waved a hand to the raptors.

Each one moved into a new position as they circled the group. As they got a better look at the mangled ripped bodies of the cultists, Jursol was in disbelief.

“By da Loa......not even death be sparring dem.”

Her head turned to face the body of a female. The voice seemingly coming from no where out her on edge. It was worse since they seemed to be expected.

“Who da.....”

Jursol stooped short as she listened to the female, a snort coming from her at the idea of forgiveness. She gave a sharp whistle as one of the raptors moved to surround the boy. The other two remained by her side. Jursol snarled like an animal as she glared at the female.

“We be doing no such thing. Dis be where it ends!”

Looking to the others as she readied herself.

“Dey be dead already, der must be a way ta finish dem off.”

Her gaze was on Tea, as she perhaps was the best one to know how to finished off something that is already dead.

[ L. K ] After they spoke, a chilling pause resonated before the voice responded.

“You do not understand your sins....but I shall make you see...you will bend; or shatter beneath all that I have built.”

The voice taunted them; the vial at the head of the chamber began to bubble and hiss. As the voice spoke so too did the vial. It was clear that whatever was in the massive jar was speaking to them now.

“There is nothing more you can do. You have all forsaken the Nine. A curse upon your hearts for I shall be reborn. And I shall restore that which has been blasphemously ruined in your ignorance.”

A flash of light then burst toward them as a red cosmic hand slowly tore from the ceiling; it’s dripping bloodied fingers curled around a subject. It was lowered onto the elevated platform and placed standing up. As the cosmic energy reformed and took its place as a chain noose around the neck of the figure, it became clear to them.

“Behold....”

The man was covered in blood, near death and being secured by a red energy chain that fed back to the large tank of blood substance. It was Marseille. His right arm was completely torn off, and his body had multiple teeth wounds across his legs, chest and neck. He was alive.

“At this moment I have already systematically begun reclaiming all that is mine.”.

The voice said as the chain was jerked back and Marseille stirred to life.

“You will all suffer. Scattered to the wind by my doing...torn from the place you claim and infest with your hideous stench. But... as you have left it defenseless, I am curious how many more will be decimated before I reach my goal....I sense one of you has left something very....very important in my home....”

The voice said in a sinister tone.

“Pity....”.

In case it was not obvious that was a dig at Verza, she did leave something very important at home. Something that was not easily replaced. And then the sound of laughter filled the air with her tone echoing over the chanting of the corpses around them.

[ T ] As the laughter echoed around the chamber, a new scream was heard. This one was coming from the boy, who has just been finally jerked awake from nightmare after nightmare from merely entering the damned place.

Lazarius’ absence might have also played a part in allowing him to wake. As he woke shrieking, he curled up, only to go silent in his terror as he found himself sitting ankle-deep in blood.

[ J ] Jursol looked around the room as she tried to think of something. Anything they could do at this time was better then nothing. However a plan was needed before acting. A raptor remained near the boy as he woke up. It purred as it tried to nudge him.

[ V . D ] After all was said... For a moment... There was silence. To Tea, the shock of witnessing Marseille fall into display for the women and child was but a hazy flash of blurred images.

The cry Pame let forth was a distant noise to the sindorei, even as the kaldorei was standing just a little in front of Verza. The hollering of the boy, the noise from the raptors, the chanting. The threat. The laughter. It all came full circle and caught Verza's attention, the warnings resonating in the back of her mind, its many euphemisms unraveling into dozens of possibilities.

There were many things important that Tea has left behind in places that Raelyndia could have deemed home. But only one really stood out, something so undeniably invaluable... A powerful little girl of the void, a gift from the Gods themselves.

Verza's assumption led to a stiffened posture, her face flushing with blind rage whilst stepping forward as if she would charge the tank, a growl of hatred in her throat as she snarled out with the ferocity of a scorned mother.

"If one death was not enough to put you in your place, a second time will!"

Tea growls, her claw designed nails digging into the armor of Pames extended arm, her passionate spiel continuing as she spits out,

"If I must cross the realms and enter death to deal with you myself, then I swear upon the Duskflame name your reign of terror will cease as swiftly as it began!"

Vehemently she tore and dug her words at the disembodied figure, her excitement and fear pairing boiling to a point of being full of chaotic rage.

"You will once more be forgotten, made insignificant, I will personally wipe every shred of evidence of your existence from this world!"

Before Verzatea could risk herself, and the others by abandoning the group, Pame reaches an arm out to catch the ferocious little elf. Pulling her backwards the kaldorei whispers to calm the woman.

Tea had her arms pinned to her chest by Pames single arm, the sindoreis frazzled appearance indication of just how quickly the idea of her daughter in danger could rile her.

All the while Tea squeezed her eyes shut and took deep breaths, looking as though she were fighting to regain her composure-- Though really she was projecting her thoughts as loudly as she could in hopes Lazarius may hear.

Brinys was possibly in danger. The Bastille was possibly in danger. Their friends, their family, and their students... Everyone was at risk now. The kaldorei then focused in on Marsielle before hissing, testing out the waters to determine if this was another trap that would set them in a hostile situation.

"Marseille?"

She was guided by pure hope that it was real. That he was still alive and capable of retrieval as she then begins to inspect the chain around his neck.

@frompage112

@siidaraykashebahl

@zandalaridruidofgonk

@pyravari-kashebahl

@whatadarkbitch

@thebladeitself

@miss-irascible

To be continued in “In Mind of Misery, Manipulation, Part 10″

#the house of the nine #thehouseofthenine #our group #original characters #original stories #warcraft stories #wra roleplay

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edaen · 5 years

Text

Gone Fishin’ (revised)

Pairing: Dominick “Sonny” Carisi Jr./Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical Violence, Referenced Rape/Non-con

Words: 6548

Summary: When a string of violent nightclub rapes soon leads to a murder, the squad decides it’s time to catch the criminal in the act. This started out like any other undercover mission but ended as something new. Something different. (Canon-typical warnings do apply.)

[Click to read on AO3]

The dynamic dubstep music of the nightclub roared and pulsed through your bones. Each bass drop pounded at the temples of your skull just as it shook the ground beneath you. Strobes of a vibrant neon lights flashed near-harmoniously, distorting your vision as the huddled masses of sweaty strangers danced so closely together that you couldn't help but feel as if you were being swallowed whole by the rhythm of the night. It was the type of chaos you liked; one you could get lost in. It was unwavering, unrelenting, and altogether thrilling. Had you not been in the middle of a job, you would have easily let yourself be swept away in the commotion.

Bodies bumped into you as you stood in the middle of the dance floor surveying your surroundings. The movements allowed yourself to be somewhat easily hidden amongst the crowd as you searched for your target. Someone elbowed your side, but you hardly registered it. Your eyes swept across the room, hyper-focused, darting from one face to another.

“Do you have eyes on him?” A familiar female voice spoke to you through your concealed earpiece in your right ear. Rollins, who sat anxiously in the unmarked van outside with your lieutenant and a few other armed officers, let out a tense breath when you failed to be the one to answer. You were never much of a talker and, despite having access to the club's security footage, they were still struggling to spot their target in the crowd.

You kept searching, not wanting to draw attention to yourself by appearing to talk to no one. You weren't totally unnoticeable. “Negative on my end,” you heard a second male voice say, “and for the record, I still object to this whole thing.” Carisi sat on a high stool at one of the bars to your left. You gave him a smug grin between the moving bodies. A nondescript virgin drink sat in front of him as he held his cell phone to his ear, pretending to talk to someone of importance. As if they could even hear him over the sound of the music.

Carisi had been against the plan since you proposed it back at the office that morning. His fussing fell on deaf ears, however. Lieutenant Benson opted to agree in your favor. For weeks, Viktor Martin, the son of a wealthy judge, had prowled and hunted around the club scenes of lower Manhattan. Four women were found abandoned in piles of trash in alley ways– half naked, brutally raped, beaten, and mutilated– clinging to what little life he left them with before someone happened upon them and called 911. His last victim, however, was not as fortunate. Winter had arrived only days before her assault, and the unforgiving cold and rapid blood loss resulted in a DoA. Dead on Arrival.

You were the first detective to make it to the scene that time, running several red lights on your motorcycle as you sped to the location downtown. Much like the others, her face was severely gashed and almost unrecognizable; her mangled, delicate limbs were spread haphazardly in the putrid piles of black plastic, beautiful golden blonde hair stained red with dry pools of blood, and her expensive dress torn to pieces. The light snow that layered atop her overnight melted away as the CSU team got to work, leaving her looking almost damp. Rage boiled in your blood. You stood motionless, fists clenched so tightly in the pockets of your leather jacket that your nails might have broken some skin. You could think of nothing else but stomping on the neck of the monster who did this. One of the first responding officers handed you an evidence bag containing her wallet and ID. Her name was Abigail Florés, and you would not forget it.

Carisi gently laid a gloved hand on your left shoulder, but you didn't jump. You couldn't focus on anything else. He had arrived a little after you but decided to give you some space before approaching. Even though he had only seen the profile of your face, he knew that look. “Hey,” there was a softness in his voice that seemed to lull you back to your senses, “you alright?”

You finally blinked, eyes dry from looking for too long, but still you didn't look at him. “Should I be? Viktor did this, Sonny. We could have saved her.” You bit at the bottom of your lip, handed the evidence bag to a passing CSU member, then placed your then free hand on top of his. You hadn't even noticed when he began to rub your cold, bare fingers tenderly with his thumb as you both continued to stare hopelessly at the horror that laid before you. Your shoulders softened unknowingly.

It was the work of a beast so engulfed in his hate and bitterness towards women that the energy of it lingered in the air long after he had gone. The squad had been onto Martin for a while now, but the evidence, according to Stone, was circumstantial at best. While they had plenty of DNA, it matched no one in the system and no judge would grant a warrant for a swab based on victim testimony alone; not when the recipient was related to a fellow member of the bench. There were no eyewitnesses as he made sure to lure the victims to a place where no one would see them. Each had traces of rohypnol in their system as well, so they would have struggled to fight him off or call for help. Any security footage was also virtually useless as Viktor had managed to avoid them by sitting in camera blind spots. All this in addition to the fact that the victims were too scared, hurt, and humiliated to testify left little room for the ADA to maneuver. Stone needed more. Something solid, he said. He wasn't about to arrest the son of an esteemed sitting judge on anything less. An idea occurred to you: there was nothing more solid than catching him in the act. Almost a week after the Florés murder, you would present your plan to the squad.

“Using you as bait,” Carisi contested almost immediately as he crossed his arms and leaned against his desk, “I don't like it. Viktor Martin is a dangerous person.” Deadpan as ever, sipping from the bitter coffee Carisi forced upon you, you offered him only one retort:

“As am I.”

Of that, Carisi had no doubt. He knew little of your time in the service since you weren't exactly keen on sharing the more darker details of your life before SVU with anyone that wasn't Olivia, but you clearly were one hell of a soldier. A weapon to be reckoned with. It was evident in the way that you carried yourself– focused, intense, and a demeanor so calm as to be inscrutable. Indomitable. Truthfully, It scared him sometimes. It scared all of them, actually. He often thought back to the time you immobilized four armed gang members that surrounded you with only a tin lid from a nearby trash can during a neighborhood sweep. You didn't even reach for your gun. You always kept a casual coldness about you, hardened to the world. If fact, it was only in the past couple of years since his arrival— Benson noted one day— that you had you allowed yourself to soften, showing your more vulnerable side through dry, dark humor and the occasional witty remark. Unbeknownst to you, of course. He liked that part of you and did his best to pry it out from your shell whenever he could.

Yet, despite your seemingly immense levels of willpower and stamina, he knew that even you had your limits. No matter how high you had built your walls, he saw the cracks. Better than the others did. You were partners, afterall.

He cared about you.

After the murder of Abigail Florés, you had elected to tail Viktor Martin tirelessly for the past few days to learn his movements, only returning to the SVU barracks for some brief R&R when you were positive he wasn't currently a danger to the public. He asked, nearly begged, Lieu to pull you off the stake-outs, but Benson also knew you a great deal. She knew you were going to keep an eye on him regardless of what she said, so she would rather you did so with her supervisor and approval rather than risk insubordination. You were determined, but you had begun to look unraveled and ragged, eyes bruised from lack of sleep and hair disheveled and slightly knotted. Sonny and Amanda exchanged concerned glances as you paced back and forth in front of the white board on which you had scribbled your battle plan.

"When was the last time you were home? Or got more than 3 hours of sleep?" He had asked.

You waved him off. He was being a mother hen again. You didn't need sleep, you needed this bastard locked away. "Look," you spoke directly to the lieutenant that time, "we know that Viktor scouts out a club at least a week before he attacks in order to learn about their levels of security and the location of their cameras. The past couple of nights that I've tailed him, he's only visited one club: The Blitz. And if he follows his pattern as closely as we think he does, his next victim could be tonight. Yours and Rollins were the only faces he saw during his initial interrogation… but he hasn't seen mine. I know how he thinks. If I can attract his attention and catch him in the act… Lieutenant, I can do this."

Benson didn't need to hear more. "I'll call Stone."

The wolf would pose as a lamb. At midnight, you would find yourself in the middle of the herd.

---

Your time in the CIA required you to be a Swiss Army Knife of many talents; sharp, adaptive, and multifaceted. You discovered quickly that undercover work was one of your fortes. While you were no means a natural born thespian and preferred to carry out the majority of your operations from the shadows, you learned through experience (and a lot of trial and error) how to play the part if need be. You were a scalpel, finessing your way through any situation to achieve your goal with near perfect precision, as you were trained to do. When you abandoned that life, you found these tools could serve a purpose even outside the military. You found purpose at the NYPD's Special Victims Unit.

Fin, who stood vigilant at the balcony on the second floor overlooking the hunting grounds, interrupted your thoughts. "I've got him. He's coming in through the east entrance."

Drowning out the chaos of the club scene, you breathed in and sharpened yourself.

Viktor Martin, the pompous ass, was a man of no remarkable features and average looks but was fiercely charismatic. He demonstrated as much during his first interrogation with Benson and Rollins. He didn't even ask for a lawyer. He simply talked his way out. A man like him could have easily found a nice woman, settled down, beget 2.5 children, and lived the white picket fence life that so many could only dream of. Instead, he chose to inflict pain and spread misery. He got off on it, and he got off on getting away with it. Martin's silver tongue might have impressed the women he preyed on, but you had seen plenty of monsters. You knew how to spot them.

Takes one to know one, I guess. You thought to yourself, thinking back on the past.

There was a heinous glimmer in his eye as he sauntered to a bar adjacent of the one Carisi sat at. It was the same glimmer you had seen during interrogation; flickering red and shifting with the club lights. He sat in a spot he knew the camera couldn't see him, ordered a drink, and searched the room for prey just as you and your coworkers had searched for him. Unfortunately for Viktor, he was spotted first. It was time to get to work.

"I'm going radio silent," you said into the wire hidden in your dress, looking up once at Fin and then to Carisi, "Wish me luck." You couldn't risk Martin seeing the police-issued earpiece, no matter how well concealed it appeared.

You heard a faint "Hey! Wait! No– " as you took the earpiece out and placed it in your clutch. Carisi felt his heart drop into the ground.

They could hear you, but you couldn't hear them.

Action.

You positioned yourself closer to Viktor in the crowd just enough so he could see you. The black mini dress you wore held tight to your curves and the plunging neckline revealed more skin than you would have liked. It wasn't exactly tactical either, but it was near identical to the type of dresses Abigail and the other girls had worn during his previous attacks. You hoped that the similarity was enough to attract his ire as you feigned confusion, seeming lost and frankly overwhelmed in the swirling club commotion.

It worked. Viktor noticed you almost immediately. You avoided direct eye contact as you made your way slowly to the spot next to him at the bar. Viktor sized you up, and Carisi resisted the urge to throw his phone directly at his head.

"Um… can I get a vodka soda please?" You asked the bartender sheepishly as you ducked your head to look at the phone that you had pulled from your clutch earlier.

Viktor waited until your drink arrived before finally leaning in and making his move. "Not to be rude or anything," he leered and bent his neck to see your face, "but you, uh, seem a little out of place."

Good. You forced a lighthearted laugh. "Ha, is it that obvious?" Still playing with your phone as if to be messaging someone, you turned to face the man you tracked for weeks. You loathed this man, but you had to keep it together. For his victims. For Abigail. A weak smile forced its way across your cheeks.

Pull him in, lead him on, turn him down, make him angry, then let him do the rest. Let him dig his own grave.

Viktor straightened himself, placing both elbows against the bar and turning his body away and towards the dance floor. His eyes, however, remained on you. Carisi turned and looked at the bar ahead of him to avoid drawing any attention to himself. "Any man who'd allow a diamond like you get lost amongst this pile of garbage should be arrested and sent to jail! For life!"

You couldn't hear it, but Benson and Rollins both scoffed. Carisi's eyes rolled so hard, he thought they might fall out of their sockets. The irony was not lost on you, however. You let your smile grow wider as you played along.

"Yeah, well, he might not be my boyfriend much longer after tonight!" You huffed and put your phone away. He needed to know that he had your full attention. Your drink remained untouched. He then introduced himself to you. Not as Viktor, but as Henry. After getting questioned one too many times, he had to cover his tracks better. You shook his hand, also giving a fake name: Ursula.

"Ursula, huh? That's quite a name!"

"My parents wanted me to be unique."

"That you are. Well you don't look like any evil sea witch to me. Though I wouldn't be surprised if you had a little magic of some sort in you..."

He was full of cheesy lines, but his delivery was spot on. Disgusted with yourself, you pushed his shoulder playfully. Flirtatiously. A single touch was enough to open the door.

"Tell you what, Ursula, let's play a game." He put his hand on your shoulder to turn you towards the crowd. They were like fire against your skin and every cell in your body began to scream in unison. Crime scene photos of past victims flashed in your head. You wanted nothing more than to rip his arms from their sockets for what they had done.

After turning you completely, Viktor placed his hand behind your back and used the opportunity to drop a pill into your drink. It was quick and effortless. He clearly had some practice. You might have missed it, but Fin, positioned on the balcony above you, didn't. He alerted the team. Carisi held his breath and prayed you wouldn't accidentally take a sip.

Viktor continued, silver spilling from his lips. "Growing up, I loved Where's Waldo? I never missed him on a single page! Ya know, finding people, It's like my own weird super power. Let's see if we can find your misplaced lover in the club tonight. And if not…"

"And if not?" You echoed him, raising an eyebrow with curious intent. He inadvertently admitted he was a predator.

You felt his hand against your back. It blistered like a hot branding iron on your soul. "If even our magic combined can't find this wretch, I'll see to it personally that you– "

His thumbs caressed your back. Unable to stomach another second of this, you cut him off, regretting it immediately and cursing yourself internally. You needed more time but it was too late. The words were already jumping out of your mouth as your eyes darted to where Carisi sat. "OH! There he is!" You grabbed your drink and ran off without offering Viktor a much as a single goodbye.

According to the victims, the last thing they could remember before their attacks were rejecting his advances. While walking away from him mid-sentence might piss him off, it wasn't quite enough. You cursed at yourself internally for your failure. He wasn't on the hook yet, so you would need to think fast and act quickly. You could still feel his eyes on you. You still had a chance.

Carisi spun to you as you approached and put his phone in his coat pocket. You weren't entirely used to seeing him in casual civies. The light bomber jacket was a nice touch.

"What happened?!" He said at an almost whisper. Viktor couldn't hear you guys, but he could see. He tried to look as pleasantly boyfriend-like as he could. Carisi wasn't part of the plan. "He slipped a roofie in there, by the way."

You said nothing as you put yourself so close to Sonny that you were almost between his knees. Heat rushed to his cheeks. The height of the stool he sat on made it so that you were only slightly taller than him. You placed your drugged drink next to his, stealthily took his virgin drink that looked exactly the same, and chugged it in one go. Viktor had to see you take the drink, so you pivoted a bit as your poured the last bit down your throat. If you couldn't piss him off, he might take your bait for convenience sake alone if he knew you were already drugged. Carisi relaxed a bit knowing you were in no danger for the moment.

You put the drink back while an undercover cop disguised as a bartender took both glasses. "I messed up. It's time for Plan B." You responded frankly.

"You? Messing up? Martin must really get under your skin."

"That's an understatement."

"So," he tapped the bar lightly with his fingers, "what's Plan B?"

A new fire lit up in your belly as a new idea came to mind. You looked softly at Carisi.

I hope you're good at improv.

"Viktor Martin sees himself as an Alpha Male. Your presence threatens that. So, as my newly knighted boyfriend, you have to out-alpha him."

He laughed. "Oh yea, and how am I supposed to do that?"

Viktor's gaze still on your back felt like daggers. Carisi wasn't getting it. You had to move things along.

You took the tapping hand Carisi had settled on the bar and interlocked it with yours. You flipped your hair a bit and slowly moved closer to him. Fully between his legs now, you tried to look as seductive to Viktor as possible.

"Make him jealous, detective."

There was a certain tenderness in your voice that Carisi was not, by any means, accustomed to. And with the way your eyes were looking at him was new as well. There was a rush of confusion as your proximity to him closed in before he finally understood what you were hinting at. Or, at least… what he thought you were hinting at. If he was wrong, you could yell at him later. You cocked your head to the side and bit your lip. You grew impatient. He adjusted his eyes to reflect yours, attempting to meet you on equal ground. The pair of you were supposed to be lovers, after all.

Carisi placed his free hand on the back of your neck and pulled you in, kissing you sweetly but with some force. His lips were softer than you thought. Was he wearing chapstick?

"Oh damn!" Fin laughed in Carisi's earpiece.

In the van, Olivia's eyes shot open. "Well, that wasn't what she proposed back in the den."

"It sure wasn't…" Amanda said, picking her jaw off the floor.

The kiss didn't last very long. As is broke, his hand moved from your neck to the small of your waist. The two of you just sort of stared at one another. His face was still so close to yours. While you both played it off as a loving couple would for your onlooker, a new feeling washed over you. What was it? You were astonished, confused, and delighted. You couldn't stop looking at his lips. For a moment, you had entirely forgotten about Viktor.

"Well?" You forced yourself to speak.

Carisi was apparently lost as well. "Well what?" He couldn't stop smiling.

"What is Viktor Martin doing?"

Carisi landed back on earth. He looked directly at Viktor, who hadn't taken his eyes from you for even a second. His teeth clenched together as he sneered in revulsion. He was snagged on the bait. Viktor took one last swig of his drink, slammed it down on the bar, and walked to the back hallway he had entered from to lie and wait. Carisi mentally praised himself for a job well done then found himself spellbound to your presence yet again.

"He moved to the hallway directly behind you, didn't look too happy though," Carisi was beaming, "I think your plan worked, Doll."

Doll?

"Excellent." You rejoiced.

You acted on instinct a did something you would probably regret later.

You kissed him again.

This time it was slower and softer. Your lips only barely seemed to touch. There was no reason for doing so aside from wanting to understand what feeling came over you the first time. It was purely experimental, you told yourself. The perplexity ate at you. Why were you so transfixed? Especially at a moment like this? Why was his thumb caressing yours suddenly? Why didn't he stop you or push you away? What were you really feeling? Why did you have so many questions?

You wouldn't get answers, not now. Truthfully, they mattered little in the grand scheme of things. It was just a kiss and you did not have the luxury of time to ponder it. You put the feeling in the back of your mind, content to leave it there forever, unnamed. You had a fish on the hook and it was time to reel him in.

His other hand gripped tighter at your waist as you parted. If someone was speaking to him in his ear piece, Carisi did not notice. His eyes searched yours and his face was hard to read. He seemed equal parts flabbergasted and almost angry with the way his eyebrows knitted together. Perhaps he was just contemplating too hard.

You extended him an honest smile, not wanting to go head on with Viktor Martin with your partner disoriented. He gave you one in return. The heightened emotions on both ends seemed to dissipate as you came to a mutual understanding that the moment had passed. Focus returned. Electing to stay silent, you nodded to Carisi and turned on your heel towards the hallway.

Carisi spoke into his mic, "She's entering the hallway with Martin."

"Good work," he could hear Olivia say. "Don't lose sight of them, we don't have eyes on that section. All units stand by near the east exit. Wait for my signal."

Fin left his perch on the balcony. "I'll join Carisi."

There was a lump in Carisi's throat as you walked further and further away.

---

The hallway was poorly lit, but not entirely dark. It was short and narrow with all sorts of posters and ads stuck to the walls. The red neon exit sign created an ominous red glow, but Viktor was nowhere to be seen. It was then that you noticed the door to the unisex bathroom was slightly ajar. Definitely a trap, but you were ready.

You entered the bathroom casually. Your olfactory senses became suddenly aware of how little it bathroom was serviced. The wallpaper was torn, the checked tile was suffered and dirty, and one of the sinks dipped continuously. There were three stalls total and only one was occupied. You spotted a pair of shoes but it was impossible to tell if they were his. If Viktor wasn't in here with you, then you had missed your chance entirely.

Your heels clacked against the cheap linoleum as you made your way to the dripping sink in the middle to turn the faucet all the way off. Now the only noise that filled the room was the quiet thumping of the club music in the background. You waited a moment, then looked up into the dirty mirror.

In the reflection, the door to the one closed stall creaked open slowly. Viktor Martin's silhouette sauntered menacingly out of the shadows. If he was trying to scare you, he was going to have to do better than that. But you had to keep up the facade. You faked being startled. "Oh, Henry! You scared m– "

Before you could turn around fully, he pounced on you. Viktor grabbed a fist full of your hair and slammed your face against the glass mirror. Your head began to ache as you felt the surface of the glass bend but not break. Years of combat training pounded in your muscles. You wanted to throw him off you, but not yet. His body pressed against you as you made him believe that your were struggling as much as you could muster. He was strong, but you were stronger. You had to be.

"Henry– stop! What are you–"

You face was slammed against the glass again. You put your arms out against the wall to brace for the impact, but it helped very little. The glass shattered and cut into your temple. A headache immediately followed.

"Shut up, bitch!" Viktor foamed at the mouth and grunted. You felt something sharp against your waist in the same spot Carisi had held you so lovingly earlier. "You're just like the rest of them! Beautiful women in short skirts who lead on poor men. Men like me. We're just ants to you while you play God with a magnifying glass!"

Another slam against the glass. You let out a small gasp, but nothing else. Something wet trickled down your face.

"You think you're so much better than the rest of us?! Well, I'll show you," He laughed as he spat, "I'll show you just like I showed the other women."

A confession.

The knife pressed harder into your side as he jerked your head back, forcing you to straighten out. You stared at him in fragmented, shattered pieces of the mirror in front of you. The ghoulish look he gave you was his true face, not the "Henry" character he played. While the sight of your blood didn't make you squirm like it would for most people, (it wasn't your first time seeing it), the way he breathed hard on your neck was enough to make your hairs stand on edge.

"You're making a mistake," you muttered. You held up your hands to show surrender.

"Quiet, Ursula. We're going on a little walk. Scream, and I'll gut you in front of your pretty boyfriend."

You said nothing, but complied with a frigid stare. He remained behind you, knife now pointed to your lower back, and shoved you out the bathroom door with one hand gripping your arm. You held your clutch tight to your person, feeling the outline of the police-issued glock against the thin fabric it was made from. You weren't big on guns, in fact you hated them, but you couldn't deny it brought you comfort in times like these.

Plus you were an excellent shot.

As you exited the bathroom, you couldn't help but look towards where Carisi had been sitting. He was nowhere to be seen. Before you could scan for him, Viktor tightened his grip and dragged you to the exit. Not a single person in the club had seen the two of you leave.

The brisk air of the New York winter night was cold against your skin. You were suddenly more aware of how little the dress you wore covered. The blood on your cheek began to freeze, but least the bleeding had stopped.

Viktor marched you forward a few feet. The exit door slammed behind the two of you. That's when you heard the shuffling in the snow.

"Put down the knife, Martin." Your lieutenant barked.

Viktor spun you around. Before you stood Benson, Rollins, and two other officers. Their guns were angled and ready to fire, though they lowered them slightly when you blocked their line of fire. You kept your face relaxed as not to scare your colleagues, but Rollins still flinched when she saw the blood.

"It's over, Viktor!" She yelled, slightly panicked. She appeared more frightened than you. You appreciated the concern.

He jerked your arm. "I wish I could say that it's nice to see you again, detectives. Are you in on this, Ursula?! Did you lead me on just to trick me?!" The knife was cutting through your dress now. You felt the cold steel against your skin.

Carisi and Fin snuck up behind him.

"You're surrounded, Viktor. There's nowhere to run! Drop the knife and let her go." Olivia pressed forward.

"BACK UP!" His voice cracked as he screamed. Sweat dripped from his brow. "I'll KILL her! I'll swear do i–"

You had heard enough. It was growing late and your headache was growing worse and worse with each word he spat. He was pathetic. You cut him off again as you did earlier, this time with your heel. Using all the might in you could muster, your foot came crashing down and bore its way into his cheap penny loafers. You could feel the bones in his foot fracture, bend, and let out a faint crunching noise. Viktor yelped, completely stunned. You only had a fraction of a second to act. You grabbed his wrist that held the knife to your side and squeeze so tight that you thought it might break. It wasn't until you broke free of his grasp, elbowed him in the ribs, and flipped him over your shoulder that he finally get go of his weapon. All the air left his lungs as his back smashed against the concrete with a satisfying wham ! You pressed the flat part of your high heels tight against his throat and ripped you gun from your clutch, discarding it to the ground. By the time Viktor regained his sense and opened his eyes, you had already turned off the safety and aimed the barrel at his head.

Your peers could do nothing but watch. They all seemed to let out a sigh in unison as they lowered their guns, confident that you had the situation handled.

"Viktor Martin," you said in a low, assertive tone, "you're under arrest for the rape of four women, assaulting a police officer, and the murder of Abigail Florés. You have the right to remain silent…"

---

The flashing police lights did little to help your headache, but at least the EMTs had given you a blanket while tending to the wound on your forehead. The cuts were not deep enough to warrant stitches, but that didn't stop Carisi from hovering. You tugged the blanket closer to your person.

"Here, lemme get you another blanket." He fussed, looking for one of the EMTs. They were busy looking over Viktor.

You grabbed his coat before he could walk off. "I'm fine, Sonny. Really."

He liked the way you said his name. Though you had said it a thousand times before, tonight it sounded different. He wasn't sure why. He grabbed your hand without thinking. "Will you at least take tomorrow off?"

"You heard the EMT, I'm fine. No concussion, just some cuts and bruises." You didn't object to the hand holding.

"Your mental health is important too."

"I'm the spitting image of perfect mental health."

He laughed. "You were just held at knife point! He smashed your head against a mirror!"

"Eh," you shrugged, "I let him." You gave him a weak smile. He wasn't falling for it, not that you were lying. You truly were fine. Mostly you were tired. And cold. You hadn't noticed the shivering until now.

A quiet moment fell between you two. You watched as his thumbs grazed over your fingers again. Did he always do that?

"You know," Sonny laughed, finally breaking the silence, "it was really smart of you to tell me to kiss you. That really pushed Martin over the edge."

You have him a pointed stare. "I didn't tell you to kiss me."

"Uh, yes you did."

"When?"

"You said to make him jealous!"

"But I never said to kiss me! That was entirely of your own volition." You tucked your arm back into the blanket for warmth, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed as he gaped at you.

"Well… it would make me jealous," He grinned, "I acted on instinct, ya know. For the job." He rubbed the back of his neck.

For some reason, you didn't entirely believe him.

"Wait a second!" he got a sudden burst of energy and put his hands on his hips like he did during an interrogation. "That second kiss, that was entirely you! Viktor had already walked into the hallway at that point." He started wagging his finger at you now. He was always so expressive. "You. Kissed. Me."

He looked as if he had just solved a case. You loved that look. Not missing a beat, you stood up from where you sat on the bumper of the ambulance, only inches from him. You conceded. There was no disputing the facts.

"I guess I did."

Carisi felt frozen solid. He hadn't expected you to just confess so directly. He moved his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He just stared at your lips.

You finally understood what you were feeling earlier. It was all new to you, this feeling of adoration. It was immense and clouded your judgement. Love scared the living hell out of you, as it wasn't something you ever considered achievable for someone such as yourself. It wasn't something you deserved. Besides, you haven't had a "serious" relationship in years. You were trained in a lot of things, but you weren't trained for this . Maybe it was just a stupid crush; maybe you should say something?

"Listen, Sonny, I– "

"Hey lovebirds," Fin interrupted. Sonny jumped back about a foot. You smiled towards Fin. "The Lieutenant is waiting to talk to you when you're done with… whatever this is."

"I-it's nothing. There's nothing!" Carisi stammered, looking back at you and then to Fin as if he just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Nothing is happening." He walked off.

Fin looked at you, but you just shrugged. "You heard the man"

"Uh-huh."

You caught up to Sonny to join him next to Rollins. Fin decided he had enough and went home. Olivia slammed the door of the police car where Viktor Martin sat. She pounded the hood and they drove off with another vehicle behind them as an escort.

"Well," Benson started, resting her hands in her jacket pockets, "he has multiple fractures in his foot, a sprained wrist, a dislocated shoulder, and a bruised ego, but he's fine."

"Then he got off easy," Rollins scoffed. "She could have easily killed him in self defense."

You rolled your eyes. "I have some self control, thank you very much."

"At least we're one step closer to getting justice for his victims." Carisi crossed his arms.

"Yea, well, it's not going to be easy. Now we have to deal with an angry judge. Judge Martin isn't going to be happy when he hears about his son's injuries." Benson looked at you with maternal eyes and spoke your name in a way that was almost berating. "What on earth were you thinking?"

You were too tired to argue, all the sleepless nights suddenly caught up to you at once. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I guess I went overboard."

"I meant kissing Carisi." She chuckled to herself. She was proud of you, regardless.

You returned a smile. "I promise it won't happen again."

Carisi put his hand on his heart and staggered, pretending to he wounded. "Hey, I take offense to that! You could do a lot worse than me, alright?"

You me smile didn't fade, but you said nothing.

"Carisi, take her home please." Benson and Rollins started walking past you to their car.

That made you frown. "Wait, I don't get to help process him? I read him his rights, technically this is my collar."

The lieutenant turned, "And technically you're one of his victims." She pointed towards her forehead, reminding you of your injuries. "I think you've done enough for tonight, don't you think? You want to deal with Judge Martin and Stone as well?"

"Can I at least get my things from the office and watch him get sent to booking?" You were defeated.

Benson looked at Carisi. "Make sure she gets her things and goes straight home." There was no more room to negotiate. Both her and Rollins waved as they continued walking away.

You huffed.

"So, 'it won't happen again', huh?"

You gave Sonny another pointed stare. "Maybe if you buy me waffles from the diner on the way to my apartment." You started walking with him towards his car.

He snorted "You want breakfast? Now? It's almost 2 AM."

You wrapped one of your arms around him for warmth. He pulled you in and did the same. Maybe you didn't have to confront your feelings tonight; maybe you could just bask in the moment.

"Shut up and buy me some damn waffles."

#sonny carisi #dominick carisi #dominick sonny carisi jr #law and order #law and order svu #law and order: special victims unit #sonny carisi x reader #carisi x reader #law and order imagine #sonny carisi imagine #undercover couples #myfics

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jflashandclash · 4 years

Text

Tales From Mount Othrys

Surprised Parenthood (Is this How Gods Feel?)

Timeline: During the events of PJO 2: Sea of Monsters.

When Flynn saw the sheepish, goofy grin on Jack’s face, the one he got when he held doors open for her or carried around her battle equipment, she knew whatever came out of his mouth was going to be annoying.

Monsters and demigods alike where rejoicing over the double win. They roamed the Princess Andromeda’s halls, chatting, pushing each other around, and generally having real camaraderie for the first time. After several discouraging defeats on the Greek side—Flynn refused to use Luke’s phrase of “calculated setbacks”—her troop’s victory in their surprise attack against the Romans came as a morale booster.

The set up had been too easy: a dozen Romans on their day off inside a laser tag facility that the Romans didn’t know Flynn had taken over. Luke wanted her to convert the praetor. He figured having someone so high ranking would be useful.

Luke underestimated one thing: Romans were much more loyal to their legion than the Greeks were to Camp Half-Blood.

Had one Roman not turned traitor, Flynn was sure the scene would have been a massacre instead of a capture. Most of the Romans got away, but they had gained two valuable pieces: a Roman that the Romans didn’t know had turned spy and a praetor.

And then Jack’s spectacle of turning Julian’s death into a tournament sent the monsters and demigods into a party mood.

She had wanted to congratulate Jack as soon as the event was over. He’d been so sweet and corny about getting her flowers, a card, and making her a poem to celebrate her victory. Even if she thought it was dumb, Flynn wanted to get better about supporting his endeavors too.

Jack had also been quieter the last few times she’d seen him. He got spacey sometimes when his medicine first kicked in, but this seemed different. With anyone else, she’d force them to tell her through charm speak. That was something she swore never to use on him.

All they needed was some alone time. There had been a lot going on with that child of Poseidon and child of Athena sneaking onto the boat with a Cyclops.

First, she needed to find Luke to debrief him on the mission, to see if Lucille really did want to leave the fighting unit after proving herself so capable, to destroy Dr. Thorn for almost impaling Jack during Praetor Julian and Axel the Lion’s fight, and to find the new Roman recruit, Mercedes?, to interrogate her.

Hours later, she found out that Jack had taken a centaur to go offshore. Flynn dug her nails into her palm. Jack wasn’t allowed off shore on his own. If he got the wrong Disney song stuck in his head, he might accidentally play musical chairs with cancer or kill a whole restaurant.

When she asked one of the children of Hephaestus if he’d seen Jack, the blond Viking giggled, “Told you we should have put a tracking chip in his bracelet.”

After thirty minutes of panicked searching with Luke, a centaur ride, and some broken faces later, she and Luke found Jack with that dumb grin.

His red hair acted as a messy flag amidst a line of Cyclopes, snake women, nymphs, and other nature spirits inside the bright interior of Monster Donut.

A giant began to protest when she approached Jack, seething about demigods cutting the line. One look at her companion—Luke—and the complaint silenced.

“Jack,” Flynn and Luke snapped at the same time.

That’s when she realized Jack wasn’t alone. There was a child holding his hand and another demigod by his side.

Jack turned, saw them, and gave them an excited wave with the hand holding the child’s. The small thing had to go on its tiptoes to accommodate Jack’s height.

“Oh! Oh! And that’s Flynn! That’s your new mother!” Jack said so quickly the average person might not have caught his words.

Flynn stopped in her approach.

She must have misheard him.

“No,” Luke muttered.

“Isn’t she beautiful! Here! You’ll have to meet her—she’s the coolest, and I mean the coolest and most beautiful person in the world! Flynn!”

Jack went to pick the child up from under the arms. Jack seemed not to realize how heavy the kid was and almost tumbled over. By balancing against a bolted in table, he managed to lift the child, Lion King-style. “Oh, aren’t you a tiny ball of muscle,” Jack choked out.

With Jack’s gracelessness, Flynn thanked the fates again that Luke agreed Jack shouldn’t go onto the battlefield anytime soon.

The child went limp, glancing between Flynn and Luke with wide eyes. Flynn didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. It had one, bright hazel eye and one dark. Its black hair twisted and curled out wildly, a little too short to be a proper female bob, and a little too long to be a messy boy cut. Its skin was pale, with a warm tint that made her think of Central America. It wore a dirty button-down shirt that might have once been red, but looked more like a muddied brown. Based off its height and the soft roundness of its features, Flynn guessed it couldn’t be more than nine or ten years old, too young to have developed any demigod powers.

She had to give the kid credit: when she leaned down to examine it, the child didn’t flinch away from her face. Most adults couldn’t handle looking at Flynn’s mutilated face. She liked it that way.

Instead, this tiny one broke into a massive, dimpled grin. “You have beautiful eyes,” it said.

Jack made a gasping noise. He peeked from around the child’s head to see her reaction.

Flynn flinched backwards, wondering if Jack had set the child up to that. Only Jack was supposed to talk like that to her.

“Jack, what is that?” she asked, gesturing towards the child.

“Our new son,” Jack said, his arms starting to shake. He looked so proud.

The boy beside them stared skeptically, like he was waiting for Jack’s arms to break off.

“Dude, we talked about this. You need to tell someone before you leave the ship,” Luke said, brushing off the comment that left Flynn temporarily speechless.

Jack’s arms finally gave out, and he set the child down. “I told Clops.”

“The Cyclops?” Luke said, “You know that doesn’t count. And where did you get—wait—are you the one who won the fight against the praetor?”

The boy to the side of Jack pulled his shoulders back. His black hair was coarser than the other’s and dangled past his shoulders. There were braids twisted into random locations and a segment behind one ear was shaved. His skin was a rich caramel and his dark eyes darted up to Luke’s with such defiance, she thought he might have been looking for another fight.

He wore a shirt too big for him, one that must have been an extra band shirt of Jack’s. The praetor’s medals sparkled against the blue material. One of his hands rubbed the lower right medal like it might disappear if he didn’t touch it. Flynn considered warning him that the oils in his fingers were going to rust them.

Flynn wasn’t sure what country he was from, though guessed somewhere in South America. Other than a pair of ears he hadn’t quite gown into, he might look conventionally attractive if he cleaned up.

“Yea,” he said, “What’s it to you?”

Jack paled. “Oh, uh, Axel, this is Luke. He’s the leader of the army. We’re nice to Luke.”

Axel tilted his head skeptically. “So, you’re like the cult priest or something?”

Luke’s charming smile twitched. He glanced to the beaming redhead. “Jack… what did you tell our new recruits about us?”

Jack tilted his head to the side, holding out a hand to list things on his fingers. “That there is absolutely no running by the pools, Tuesdays are Terrific Taco Nights, which I figured they might like since I think they’re both Hispanic—are you Hispanic? I guess I should have asked—”

Flynn held out a hand for Jack to stop. He trailed off, noticing her frown. The delight in his eyes dimmed to anxiety.

“What did you call them earlier?” she asked, her tone careful.

Jack swallowed. “Our sons.”

The look she gave him must have been intense. The smaller child took half a step behind the bigger one.

“Oh man…” Luke sighed.

“Flynn? Jack? Luke?”

Flynn glanced further down the line. The space between them and the order counter had cleared of customers.

A frail blonde girl was beckoning them to the counter. Her icy blue eyes shot nervously to Luke and then back to Flynn. “To what do I owe the honor on my first shift?” She gave a curtsey that looked far too delicate in her yellow and pink apron.

“Lucille!” Jack said. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and shuffled the two boys forward. “We wanted to come see how you were liking the new job!”

Although Flynn could tell he was trying to hide it, his voice shook. She reached forward to touch his shoulder and found that her hands were shaking too. What was wrong with her?

She lowered her hand without touching Jack’s shoulder. When she felt Luke’s eyes on her, she scowled at him.

Luke put his hands up in a defensive gesture and mouthed, “Don’t look at me.”

He was right: there was no way Luke could have known about this “son” business. He’d been with Flynn the whole time.

Lucille’s cheeks went rosy with her smile. “We just opened, but we’ve already helped so many monsters. I—” She froze, her eyes trailing back to Flynn. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “It’s a nice change of pace.”

Axel perked up, looking the girl over. “What is this place?” he asked.

The frail girl clapped her hands. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new? I’m Lucille.”

“Axel,” he said and stood up a little taller.

Flynn wondered if Axel was about to become one of the many boys, Luke included, that were baffled with Lucille’s sweet, biting disinterest. The two looked about the same age.

“We help monsters here—hold on—Vicky, can you take over?”

Lucille stepped to the side, letting another associate take over the main line before any monsters began to grumble.

She fluffed out her apron. “Like their half-mortal children, gods often abandon their monster children. Mortal children usually have at least one parent that can help take care of them. Monsters often don’t. They’re abandoned to starve in the wild.” Lucille frowned, rubbing her wrist.

Luke snorted. “Yea, leave it to the gods to be the role models for ‘worst parents ever.’”

Axel and the other child exchanged a glance.

“That’s awful,” the tiny one said.

She nodded. “Yes. That’s why we run the Monster Donut shops. They’re charity-based with no strings attached. Monsters don’t need to join Kronos’ army. We just want them to have a safe spot to get a free bite to eat and socialize with each other and friendly demigods.”

Jack nodded. Although his voice kept light, he kept trembling and wouldn’t make eye contact with Flynn. “We wanted an environment where they could see that not all demigods would try to kill them on sight. It’s kinda hard to undo centuries of the ‘who can kill whom first’ thing.”

Axel touched his mouth with his fingertips. “That’s a really cool idea,” he begrudgingly admitted. “Who funds it?”

Luke grinned. “That’s the beauty of these babes. The establishments pop up any time a super powerful monster—in this case a hydra—lends some of its life force to support its brethren. Flynn helped start this one.”

All eyes turned to her, except Jack’s. Everyone else made it sound so complicated. It hadn’t been. She was irritated to realize they were waiting for her to fill in an explanation. “Children of Aphrodite have an easier time talking to monsters that can’t speak as well,” Flynn said, “We just had to make sure the hydra was alright with losing a head to release the energy and start this facility.”

Lucille nodded. “All the materials show up on their own. We just need to bake the donuts and man the register. Now, sweetie, what would you like?”

She winked at the tiny child.

Its face lit up as it hopped up and down. “Strawberry-frosted donut with a jelly donut with a—

“You only get two,” Axel snapped and bopped the little one on the back of the head.

“Ayeeeee!” it whined and grabbed the black locks.

Jack crossed his arms. “Hey! Don’t hit your brother!”

The smaller one stuck out his tongue at the larger one. Axel scowled. They must have actually been brothers based off that interaction, even if they didn’t look related.

“But, you really can only have two. They can’t run out for the hungry monsters, else they might eat you,” as Jack said the last part, he bopped the tiny one’s button nose. He turned to Axel. “And you?”

Axel jammed his hands into his pockets, trying to look disinterested. “Chocolate glazed.”

Jack ruffled his hair.

Axel swatted his hand away. His face went bright red.

Lucille giggled. “How about you, Jak-Jak?”

“A chocolate glazed and… Ajax, what was the other one you wanted?” Jack asked.

The tiny one hopped again. “Bavarian cream.”

Luke and Flynn gave their orders as well. Then, Lucille filled a yellow and pink Monster Donut box for them. Before Flynn could grab Jack’s shoulder and see what he was up to, Lucille called Flynn back to the counter.

Lucille told the other associate she was taking a quick break, hung her apron, and led Flynn to the girl’s restroom. Flynn wondered if this was some kind of trap. The only person she trusted here was Jack, and he could easily be manipulated into doing the wrong thing. Could Lucille use her charm speak on Flynn? The half-sisters had an unspoken agreement not to try it on each other. If Lucille was about to pull something, Flynn would need to come up with a way to disable her, other than charm speak.

When they got into the stalls, they checked each, one huge, one medium, and one small for the various sizes of monster and demigod customers, to see if they were alone.

“You sure about your decision to work here?” Flynn asked, deciding Lucille wasn’t up to anything malicious. “You didn’t even celebrate the victory over the Romans.”

Lucille had been vital in capturing Julian. On her own, Flynn sometimes struggled to get strong-willed people to harm themselves. Although Lucille’s charm speak wasn’t as powerful, without it, Julian might have been able to fight back.

The frail girl bit her lip, nodding. “Yes—I—change of pace.”

Flynn scowled.

Lucille touched her wrist. “I was nervous that you and Luke were here to say I had to come back.”

Flynn wanted to. Until they got Krios out of Tartarus or Atlas out from under the world, Flynn was stuck leading the Assault and Battery unit. While she liked the unrestrained violence, she hated having others look up to her for encouragement or direction.

Lucille had come here to help people. Flynn had come here to kill people. It made the monsters respect Flynn more and the demigods trust Lucille. Between Lucille and Luke, Flynn would never need to take a leadership role. Now…

If Luke wasn’t such a coward about battle, maybe he could lead the damn group on his own.

“We were just looking for Jack,” Flynn said.

Lucille gave her a fragile smile. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you remember when we were playing MASH while getting ready for the mission?”

Flynn considered making Lucille slap herself. Eileithyia, the Goddess of Childbirth, didn’t understand why the girls had wanted to play a game that would predict the future of where someone would live, who they would marry, what their occupation would be, and how many children they would have. Why not just ask an oracle?

No matter how many times Lou Ellen, a daughter of Hecate, told Eileithyia that not knowing was part of the point, the goddess got confused.

Lucille put her hands up in a surrender motion. “I swear it’s relevant. I wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise. I respect the oath we took to never speak of it again unless it was important.”

Both of them glanced around, like Orkus, the God of Oaths, might be lurking in a stall. MASH with demigods was serious business.

“Jack heard our conversation. He and Matthias had come by to drop off some extra supplies and he brought a gift for you,” Lucille said, like it was a big deal.

Flynn wished she could charm speak Lucille to the point. “And? I didn’t say anything that he doesn’t already know.”

Flynn thought the game was stupid and opted out of playing. Then, Lou Ellen, someone who didn’t fear Flynn nearly enough, decided she’d fill Flynn’s MASH out for her. There were no options under marriage. The girls cooed that Flynn had to be with Jack, despite several of them knowing Flynn had whomever she wanted whenever she wanted them.

Jack was just her boyfriend. Though, they all seemed to sense the thing that separated him from the other guys: he was the only one that mattered to Flynn.

She’d gotten “apartment” on housing, “20” on children, and “chainsaw murderer” under occupation. Then Eileithyia had killed the joy for all the other giggling idiots when—

“It’s not what you said,” Lucille explained gently.

--Eileithyia said Flynn couldn’t have twenty children because she was infertile. She was too damaged.

And Lou Ellen pointed out this is exactly why they didn’t play these kinds of games around gods.

At the time, all Flynn cared about was that everyone had stopped the stupid game and gotten ready for the mission.

Now, Flynn closed her eyes and exhaled, trying to conjure the audio of one of Nǎinai‘s favorite Huangmei operas to calm herself down. Of course Jack had heard that. Of course he was the one eighteen-year-old that would be thinking about children when we’re at war.

“Don’t get mad at Jack,” Lucille begged. “He just gets—”

“Confused,” Flynn ended, hating that word. Even though she’d gone back to visit her grandmother with Jack that weekend, she couldn’t conjure the music. “Damn it, Jack,” she hissed, her fingers curling into a fist. Now, she had to figure out what to do and possibly how to get rid of her two new “sons.”

***

Surprise Adoption: consider this for your loved ones this holiday season.

XD Thank you for reading;I hope you guys enjoyed! I’ve had a lot of fun figuring out Flynn’s pov. Stay tuned next week to see how she takes to her new babies!

#Tales from Mount Othrys #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus #PJO #HOO #fanfiction #TFMO #luke castellan #Jack #Flynn #Ajax #Axel #Lucille

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sandersidess · 5 years

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Partners in Crime

Guess who did this in like twenty minutes?! Hi hi!!!! So I did go a bit tiny overboard, but I am proud of this and if you guys want to add on, then go ahead! I would love to see your own input and any like future decisions. So this is Royality! Oh and I wrote this on mobile.

A/N: This was supposed to be up about three hours ago, but tumblr fucked me up as always

TW: Murder (multiple), A lot of blood, mention of gun and knife, bombs, mutilated bodies, Dark Roman and Patton, ASK TO TAG

tag: @smarterthaneveryoneelse @scarletsaphire @sanderssides-corner @peri-shns-brght @fandoms-are-a-gift-of-chuck @howtobetrash-org @internetwhy @cjcipher234

Roman looks at Patton and holds his hand, kissing his wedding ring. Patton looks over and smiles softly, humming and squeezed his hand gently. They both stare at each other, kissing each other and Roman made sure it was a passionate kiss.

“I love you,” Patton whispers once they break the kiss, holding the dagger in one hand.

“I love you too,” Roman smiles softly, holding his custom pistol, and leans his forehead against him, “Don’t die on me. Got it?”

“Shut up, Prince,” Patton giggles and puts on his mask after giving a final kiss.

“The couple being called the modern Natural Born Killers have hit the town of Mesa, Arizona! They have killed the owner of a jewelry shop and then killed a well renowned family. The suspects who have only been identified by the last name Prince and Love are at large and police urge citizens to stay safe! Lock your doors, install alarms and do not engage if you see them! Here are what we suspect how they look like, so I repeat, do not engage this duo! They are highly dangerous and will kill! Back to you Steve-“

Patton hums happily and stares up into Roman’s eyes as they dance to the piano music playing in the house. Roman gives him his ever charming smile, keeping a hand on his lower back. He kisses the bloody hand he’s holding, both ignoring the ringing of the victims phone.

“Where else should we go for our honeymoon?” Roman asks him with a soft tone.

“How bout New York? The city that never sleeps,” Patton responds and giggles as Roman twirls him and pulls him close.

“They’ll see our work of art,” Roman nods and chuckles, “We’ll make it into the museum, baby!”

“That’s always been your dream, ever since we were little kids,” Patton nods eagerly, “Roman! We’re going to be famous!”

“Let’s get a move on!” Roman says happily, Patton leading the way out, stepping on the bodies, as they both still holding hands.

“The duo we are calling the Royal Killers have struck five homes and five stores in Topeka, Kansas-“ “They robbed a shop in Philadelphia-“ “Rhode Island couple have lost their life to the Royal Killers-“ “The FBI are working tirelessly to find this couple-“ “We warn you, be cautious, and we will release more information once made public! Once again, be cautious.”

Patton blows out the smoke and hands the blunt to Roman, who kisses Patton quick and takes a hit. They stare up at the starry night, holding hands as they lay in the hammock. Patton looks at Roman and sighs happily.

“You’re the best, Roman. I can’t ever imagine losing you.”

“Neither can I. We will die of old age,” Roman looks at him and strokes his cheek, “We will die together, holding hands and staring at the horizon from our house in Venice Beach.”

“Come here,” Patron grabs him and pulls him into a kiss and Roman chuckles and pulls him on top of him. He drops the blunt on the person beneath them, which fell in a pool of their blood.

“The FBI day they are closer and have released the identities of the Royal Killers! The names are Roman Prince and Patton Love, but they may go behind the alias of Creativity and Morality, Alexander and Samuel, or Ricky and Patrick. Here are their mugshots from years back when they were captured as young adults after robbing an elderly. They both have their own distinctive features. Roman has a scar near his left eye, along with a distinctive mark under his right eye. Patton has a birthmark on his neck, resembling the shape of a heart. They both have tattoos on their shoulder of an armor and heart. If you see them, call the number on screen, the police or FBI. They are considered highly dangerous, their signature weapon being a nine millimeter pistol that is red and gold, along with an eight inch dagger, the end being jagged. Once again, do not engage. They are highly dangerous murderers.”

Roman watches as his husband laughs happily as he ran into the beach, sighing happily and took a video of him. Patton turns around, the sun hitting him just right and made him look angelic in his black tank top and blue shorts. Patton squeals happily as a small wave hit him, falling down on the wet sand. He turns to Roman and waves at him, Roman going towards him and set the phone down to record them. He runs to him and picks him up, spinning him around. Patton laughs and wraps his arms and legs around him. Roman took him more into the water, where it reached up to Roman’s abs.

“I wish I could marry you once more,” Roman says, stroking back Patton’s wet hair, his curls falling over his eyes.

“You looked so good in that red suit,” Patton hums and leans his forehead against him, “You looked like a movie star.”

“You looked so dashing in that dress. White with red fits you so well,” Roman whispers and sets him down, “Absolutely angelic.”

“PUT YOUR HANDS UP NOW!”

Roman and Patton then around, seeing they were surrounded by cops and a SWAT team. Patton held onto Roman’s hand tightly, Roman bringing him close. They were shouting demands, and it was terrifying Patton. Roman hid his face in his chest, both still ignoring demands.

“PUT YOUR HANDS UP AND SURRENDER PEACEFULLY!”

“Don’t worry dear, they won’t hurt you,” Roman whispers to Patton and kisses his head.

“They’re scaring me. I don’t want to be away from you,” Patton whimpers, tears welling up, shaking his head, “They can’t separate us!”

“GET READY TO FIRE! AIM-“

“And they won’t. After all, the world has to see our work of art, sunshine,” Roman grins and pulled a small remote out of his pocket and pressed a button.

At that moment, Roman pulls Patton down underwater as homemade explosives started going off. There were shouts and screams, the officers trying to scramble away but the area was littered with bombs. Only Roman knew where he put them from two days ago.

After what seemed like forever, but only two minutes, they rose up enough to where their noses were above water. They scanned the area and stood up slowly, panting hard. It was the one time they were glad they could hold their breaths for a long time.

“Are they gone?” Patton asks, his voice scared and still clinging onto Roman.

“They should be. All I see are bodies,” Roman says, “Get on my back. I’ll take us to the car and we’re leaving this country. They’re waiting for us.”

Patton nods and does as he says, Roman not being bothered that he stepped over mangled body parts and bodies. He avoided the bombs he planted, and reached the car. He had Patton get in and Roman starts the car, both still holding hands.

“They’ll never separate us, sunshine. Remember that,” Roman reassures Patton, who nods and shoots at the officer who stood up weakly.

With that, Roman sped off the beach and set off the last of the bombs as they both drove off to the cruise ship waiting for them.

“The FBI and all of the departments have no idea where this serial killer duo have disappeared! They are working with other countries to find them, but it is a tragic event! They have killed over forty officers and over thirty of the best from the SWAT team. All that was found was the cellphone of Roman Prince, which seemed to record their final moments on the beach before officers came into scene. It is a sad day, but the country is hoping they are brought to justice so-“

“You two sure cause trouble.”

Roman turns to his friend, having tucked in his husband. He stared at the trio, Logan stepping up.

“It’s called having fun, eyepatch. You should try it,” Roman smirks and snaps his fingers, “Want to come with us?”

“No, because you two are retiring,” Logan says and Virgil hands over the passports, “You two are lucky you’ve grown and changed from that mugshot. No one will recognize you.”

“Ah! That is a name I do love!” Roman laughs and shakes his head, “Romeo. Not too much different from mine.”

“Patton is now Pedro. It works that you two know some Spanish,” Dolos shrugs and hands over their documents, “Don’t kill anymore. It was hard to get these documents.”

“I worked hard to make those passports,” Virgil scoffs, the scar on his cheek catching Roman’s attention.

“We won’t disappoint you guys! Besides, I did promise Patton a beach honeymoon,” Roman chuckles and looks at the captain from the cruise, pointing the gun at him as he picked up a phone, the trio pointing their own at the other cruise workers, “and I’m not letting anyone ruin his vacation.”

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iwritesometimes · 5 years

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northstarfan

replied to your post

“okay so!! who's got some Netflixvania prompts for me??? you know you...”

The trio vs Elizabeth Bartley! https://castlevania.fandom.com/wiki/Elizabeth_Bartley

ty so much for the prompt and link!<3 i spent the morning in a Castlevania research black hole because of it (i am not remotely complaining about this). i’ve still jiggered the timeline so Elizabeth can be alive during the Netflixvania time period, i hope that’s okay! :)

castlevania gen, 3800 words, cw for reasonably graphic violence on and off screen

still taking castlevania and vampire hunter d prompts here!

***

It’s only good fortune the likes of which Adrian is both unused to and suspicious of that the attack comes when Sypha and Trevor are paying him a visit. Then again, it’s hard to call anything “fortunate” that leads to the mutilated body of a local goatherd and his wife, as well as their whole flock, impaled on stakes around the perimeter of the Belmont estate in the cold light of a December morning. Adrian stands looking up at the grisly remains with a grim look on his face, Sypha beside him and Trevor already beginning the unhappy work of cutting down the pikes, horror and anger in every swing of the axe.

“We should tell the villagers,” Sypha says quietly. “They...might listen to me, and stay in their homes.”

Adrian says nothing for a moment; a stake falls with a sickening thud, frost and goat bones crunching. Then, quietly, he murmurs, “I’m afraid that won’t do any good.”

He’s right. He wishes he wasn’t. The last glowing embers of the pyre they built to burn the bodies are still smoking at dawn the next day when the three of them return to the castle after a night spent fruitlessly scouring the forest, only to find three more mutilated human bodies on the castle’s doorstep. Sypha swallows a cry; they are...they are only children, three young women no older than sixteen. Alucard learned enough about medicine from his mother and enough about human death from his father to know that the girls died horribly and slow, but he tells neither Belmont nor Sypha this. He suspects they already know.

There is a letter, clutched in the frozen, bloodied hand of one of the victims. Adrian takes it, not thinking of what he is doing, unable to allow his brain to approach it if he wants to remain in control of his fury, but it’s too much for Trevor, who turns on a heel to stride toward the treeline and heaves up the meager contents of his stomach before he can reach it. Adrian’s hand shakes as he breaks the wax seal, pressed with a mark he recognizes.

Their fear tasted so sweet, Alucard.

The crossroads at midnight. Bring the Dark Lord’s remains.

***

“I don’t like this,” Belmont says for the fourth time; it had been unnecessary even the first, and now it just makes Adrian’s teeth itch. Sypha beats him to the dirty, quelling look, and Trevor grunts defensively, hand tightening around the Morning Star. “Well, I don’t. We have no idea how many of them there are or what they’re capable of.”

“Oh, we can safely assume they’re capable of anything,” Adrian says, low and deliberate. “Erzsébet never quite learned the meaning of self-control.”

“Is everyone you’re related to so charming, Alucard?” Trevor rumbles, acid in his tone. Adrian bares his teeth at him and gets the satisfaction of seeing Belmont flinch. Before he can offer anything further, however, his ears prick to the faintest rustle in the undergrowth, and he peers with eyes hazing crimson into the inky blackness of the nearby stand of alders. Sypha and Trevor see his head swivel, each of them stiffening in readiness and alarm.

At once, a dozen wraithlike women all in black emerge from the trees, just eerily floating white faces and hands, and in their midst, a flame of red and gold and pink silk, is a taller, painfully elegant woman so beautiful she hurts to look at. Adrian hears both Sypha and Trevor sigh softly at the sight of her, snaps, “Be on your guard,” not loud, but commanding. A laugh like chimes fills the air of the empty crossroads as the retinue of ghostly killers moves across the open field toward them, too weirdly quick and smooth to be walking.

“Why, my dearest Alucard, are you not going to introduce us?” Erzsébet says, her soft, melodious voice seeming to be in their minds rather than actually spoken. “I won’t be seen to be rude in front of your traveling companions.”

“Cousin,” Alucard greets her flatly. “Unfortunately, etiquette is the least of my concerns at the moment. You must know I won’t give you what you seek.”

“What I know is that eventually Wallachia will run out of sweet fresh virgins for me to leave at your door, and I shall have to go further abroad for fresh meat.” She and her coterie have drifted close enough now to see the silvery glint of moonlight on her fangs when she speaks. Her heavy, dark eyes gleam back at them out of a face from a masterful painting, long, black hair falling over her shoulders like water, disappearing into the darkness around her. “My own lands are running a little dry, these days. These are the best they had to offer.” She gestures regally to the women in black around her, all of whom stare back motionlessly at the three hunters huddled close in the pool of light under the lamppost. All of them vampires, and no doubt deadly, if Erzsébet thought them worth sparing the usual ravages of her appetites.

“You’re not leaving Wallachia alive,” Trevor tells her, barely controlled rage trembling in his voice; for all that he is not quite the average Belmont, when it came down to it, Trevor still relished the hunt and the kill of Adrian’s kind. Adrian had found it distasteful in the past, but at present…

“And who will stop me? You?” Erzsébet says, her gaze swinging to Trevor, with all the heat and weight of centuries and thousands of dead innocents. She leans in toward him a little, the loose neck of her dress slipping down a fraction by design. Adrian knows without looking where Trevor’s eyes are straying; he feels the man shudder, and suddenly his sword is in his hand, a warning gleam in the lamplight as he raises it.

“And me,” he says, voice like the steel of his blade, at the same moment Sypha says, “And me,” as flame blossoms in her palms. Adrian can’t help the faint smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth; trust Sypha to recover her wits first. Trevor isn’t all that far behind, however, Morning Star jingling as he passes the weighted end into his ready hand and lowers his stance to attack.

Erzsébet’s beautiful, serene expression suddenly twists, and it’s hard to believe in that instant that she had ever looked anything but terrifying. Pulling back, she raises her hand high in the air, and immediately the white faces of her guards melt away into the night as four glowing points of light like stars burst into existence around Erzsébet. “Pitiful mortals,” she intones, rising into the air as her stars orbit slowly around her. Her fangs grow long and drip. “Traitor!” she hisses at Alucard. “I will see the Dark Lord’s unholy work completed if I have to snap every bone in your body to do it!”

A black flash from the corner of his right eye is all the warning he has, before a wraith tears through the midst of them; the lightning-quick sparkle of a blade, and he barely gets his sword up in time to deflect it, sucking a startled gasp through his teeth. Fuck, they’re fast. Another flash, this time from the left, and he swings his sword, but too late; pain blooms in his side from the bite of a dagger, slashed too quickly to see, and then there is another figure, and another, cutting blood-red gashes in Trevor’s side, in Sypha’s hood - nearly taking off her ear.

“Oh, fuck this,” Belmont mutters, the chain of his whip uncurling with furious grace in his hand, whirling into a defensive screen around him; there is the bright, startling ring of metal on metal, and a white face stares through the glinting coils, fury in the black eyes and bared fangs, sword upraised and vibrating.

“Indeed,” Adrian agrees wholeheartedly, and swings his sword out in front of himself to give them all a little more room, even as he shifts into his wolf form, with its lower profile and better sense of smell and - importantly - significantly improved bite strength. With a snarl he leaps out of the circle of light, following the faintest whisper of air as it breezes by and sinking his teeth deep into...something. Something that cracks very satisfyingly between his jaws, as a high-pitched shriek tears the night. He jerks his head hard, flinging the vampire like a ragdoll against the ground, whereupon he pounces before she can recover, teeth flashing into her throat. Then he leaps again, claws raking, but he mostly seems to be getting clothing and hair.

“Sypha, stay close,” Belmont says, eyes darting between the white-and-black figures circling them just at the edge of the light, and the radiant floating menace above their heads. Erzsébet seems to be gathering energy for something, the air around her growing thick and hot. Sypha was already edging closer, their hips bumping lightly within the relatively safe clear spot created by his whirling whip, but the respite can’t last for long. She quickly swipes the blood away from the side of her face, quick flicker of her eyelids the only indication of pain, then brings her index fingers to her lips and breathes intensity into her flames. She traces a wide circle with her arms and around them rises a wall of fire; chattering screams of frustration and pain rise from outside it as the assassins shrink away from the deadly flames, and Sypha smiles a self-satisfied smile.

More snarling and ripping sounds from beyond the firelight preface Alucard bursting back through the wall, quickly falling out of his wolf shape and tumbling over and over a few times in his human form, faintly smoking. Quickly he pats out the singed edges of his cloak and stands, golden eyes still a little feral. “She’s transforming,” he warns, but by the time he’s said it, it’s happening: Erzsébet’s form seems to stretch and grow, her shape shimmering in and out of existence.

“Ssso you can play with fire, too, little Sssspeakerrrr?” That voice that was so musical and bell-like before is now more the sound of fingernails scraping glass, and then it is not a voice at all, but a high-pitched, evil hissing, reverberating from the massive green-scaled coils of a gigantic snake spilling out from under the flowing red gown. Her fangs lengthen obscenely, face distorting into something not quite animal, but certainly not human, and she looms over them, flamelike dress transmuting to actual fire wreathing her body. Those rotating stars swing inward, spiraling into the heart of the flame and heat, and then burst out from her, four blazing streaks of light. Trevor shouts in surprise and flings an arm around Sypha, both of them crumpling immediately into the dirt as fire shoots overhead; Adrian leaps into the air, flipping backward over one simmering contrail only to be blasted earthward by a second. Lights pop in his vision and he feels his skin blistering, struggling to heal; from a few feet away, Sypha cries out in pain, black shadows descending upon the humans before they can get back to their feet, and for a moment panic rises in Adrian’s throat. But then he hears the wet, rattling gasp of a vampire solidly speared through the heart, and he blinks to focus his eyes in time to see a forest of icy spines thrusting up from the ground all around them as Sypha lies facedown, palms flat to the ground, willing the water in the soil and air to take deadly form. Two of the black-clad ghosts are dissipating into smoke and ash before they realize they are dead, and another has been pinned cleanly through the midsection and now writhes there like a beetle on a pin.

The towering gorgon screams overhead, flames reigniting between her hands as she readies another attack, but Adrian leaps to his feet, fear for Trevor and Sypha making him double-quick, and hops with animal grace right to the top of the lamppost, flips higher, calling his sword to his hand already singing downward, arcing cleanly through both wrists. The sound she makes then threatens to split Adrian’s head wide open. He staggers as he’s falling, only barely getting the sword stuck into her serpent’s body and using the drag through her flesh to slow his momentum, raking a long, ugly gash in her side. He’s still batted aside by the clublike end of her tail, but manages to land on his feet, winded, but alright.

Trevor and Sypha are up again, the Morning Star flashing once more with purpose to fend off the remaining wraiths while Sypha plants both feet wide and gathers herself for a monumental burst of energy. A black shape suddenly streaks into the light toward her, and Adrian springs, throws himself between Sypha and danger, just in time to catch the business end of a fucking spear, partly with his sword, mostly with his shoulder. He grits his teeth in pain and, arching, throws the woman back, blood pouring freely from his shoulder and a soft, agonized sound rattling in his throat. The assassin delicately twirls her spear, makes a show of licking a rivulet of his blood from her forearm all the way up the shaft of her weapon to the trident blade; he hisses at her, enraged, and lunges forward, right arm hanging dead for the moment while his shoulder knits. He’s almost as deadly with his left, but his opponent cleverly redirects the jabbing point of his sword once, twice, a third time with the forked end of the spear, and then she’s sliding it up the length of his sword, blades screeching together, her eyes glinting murderously. It comes to Adrian in a flash, the embarrassing memory jolting him to action, and just as she closes with him, he rams his forehead into the bridge of her nose and prays Belmont doesn’t see it. No one could have been more shocked at the son of Dracula braining an assailant with his skull than his assailant herself, who staggers back, eyes already swelling shut, just off-balance enough for Adrian to lop off her head.

A violent displacement of air at his back recalls Adrian’s attention to the hunter and the Speaker behind him, and he looks to see Sypha dwarfed by the gout of flame she’s conjured, right into the gorgon’s hideous face. Trevor visibly falters, eyes flying wide at the size and intensity of the fireball; the wind blows hot in his and Adrian’s faces, bringing the smell of charred flesh and Erzsébet’s ragged screaming, and then she’s...melting, or so it seems, diminishing in a mirage-like wave until she is, once again, a woman in red silks, hunched and panting, eyes blazing red and hair a shining black halo suspended around her. Her remaining guards gather behind her again - only four left, all of them looking tattered and a little wild-eyed. One of them even reaches out hesitantly for her mistress as if to pull her back, only for Erzsébet to snatch her arm in one bloody hand tipped with razor-sharp nails and twist it until it breaks. The black-clad woman whimpers in pain and draws away behind her fellows, all of them coalescing into a single dark shape behind the Blood Countess.

“If you strike me down here, you murderous whoreson,” Erzsébet growls in three octaves, gaze burning on Adrian as if she could incinerate him where he stands, “you cannot imagine the destruction I will rain down on you and yours in times to come.”

Something in her voice rings so certain that Adrian feels hot dread pool in his stomach, but he clenches his teeth and carefully stretches out his right arm, feeling the bones grind and pop back into place. He settles his sword again in his right hand, straightens, left arm folded neatly behind his back as he meets her eye. “So be it, Lady Báthory. Then I will strike you down again, and again, as many times as it takes.”

She says nothing and gives no warning; in the next moment, there are simply four of her, phasing rapidly in and out of existence, arrayed in a straight line before them. The spectral images flash disorientingly, and then one solidifies, in front of Trevor, who can only partially dodge the fireball that erupts from her hand and catches his forearms raised defensively. He staggers back with a pained oath and claws off his smoldering bracers. Sypha flings a smaller fireball of her own, exhausted from magical exertion but interposing herself between Trevor and Erzsébet anyway. But the woman is already gone again, and Sypha’s spell fires off into nothingness. Adrian tries to follow the flickering shapes of her illusory form, but the wraiths are back to harry him, all four of them now, darting in and away, each time leaving a new and painful little slice across his chest and belly and face. And then there is Erzsébet again with a handful of fire that Adrian only just ducks, ramming his sword forward in the same instant.

He thinks at first he’s hit her, because his sword seems to meet resistance, but then it’s wrenched out of his hand and discorporates as Erzsébet herself splinters into multiples again. Adrian calls his sword back from the ether, only for a ghostly hand to pass straight through it and knock it out of existence again. He growls in frustration and leaps backward, trying to create space enough to rush her again, but he feels the bite of cold steel in his back and gasps in pain as the wraith darts away, her dagger bloodied and gleaming in the moonlight. The countess reappears in front of the hunters, who fling themselves apart as fire blazes between them; Trevor hurls the club end of his whip toward her and it passes through thin air, her figure blurring so dizzyingly fast none of them can figure out where she’ll be in time to hurt her at all. And meanwhile, the assassins grow bolder, circling like sharks scenting blood, and Sypha is knocked to her knees, blood streaming from a dozen or more gashes in her cloak and one wound in her calf bleeding especially heavily. Trevor whips Morning Star around them again in a bid for a moment to breathe, and Adrian catches his dark, fearful look from across the road and knows they can’t do this much longer.

He steadies himself, ignoring the pain shooting up his spine, and recalls his sword again - or tries to, but it flickers in his hand without actually materializing, then disappears, then reappears. In Erzsébet’s hand. He ducks a wild, inexpert swing and makes a grab for the weapon, but she is already gone. “Ah, enough!” he shouts, diving toward the gleaming shape of the assassin’s discarded spear on the ground and raising it, then, gathering his strength for a final push, phasing out of sight himself. In this in-between state, he sees differently, registering time as slower than normal; he can see the afterimage of Erzsébet’s movements like this, bright outlines of where she’s disturbed the fabric of reality, where her body is displacing air and heat. He keeps moving, the two of them almost in a dance with each other, each looking for an opening while trying not to leave one of their own.

Then, like a premonition...there! Adrian thrusts the spear forward with all his strength, and he feels it connect - really connect, this time, metal in meat, and Erzsébet shudders. He feels it in the haft of the spear. She fades into existence with the spear lodged right under her ribs, breathing shallow and expression startled. Adrian doesn’t give her an opportunity to regroup, only shouts in anger and exertion and pushes. She staggers backward, her weight now mostly hanging on the spear, and then Morning Star whips in, glittering death, and crashes into the side of her head, splitting her skull with a resounding crack.

A final piercing scream rends the air and Báthory Erzsébet disintegrates in a flash of light and a spatter of blood, her voluminous crimson dress fluttering empty to the ground. Adrian can only stare at it for a long, flabbergasted moment of complete, ringing silence, his brain offering helpfully, What the fuck?

With a faint whoosh, suddenly the last of the shadowy assassins disappears, fleeing into the night. None of the hunters bothers to give chase - actually, it’s pretty uncertain any of them even could. But Adrian isn’t worried; without their mistress, the vampires won’t dare harass the nearby countryside, knowing the three of them are here to protect it. And, after all...they were themselves only Erzsébet’s most privileged victims. He doesn’t think any of them would willingly carry on her task without her there to terrorize them into it.

Trevor is kneeling next to Sypha, binding her injured leg with strips of her ruined cowl and slapping her hands away where she’s attempting to pour water from her canteen over his blistered fingers. Adrian walks mincingly over to them and leans heavily against the lamppost, still breathing shallowly against the pain as whatever internal damage that assassin’s dagger had done slowly begins to mend. “Well done, you two,” he says, voice rough. Sypha smiles wearily up at him. Belmont snorts.

“Any other bloodthirsty cousins we should know about, Alucard? Hm? Perhap a ghoul of an uncle chained up in your wine cellar?”

“No, only my thirteen feral and illegitimate children,” Adrian rasps, straightening and moving closer to help lift Sypha up off the ground. She shoots him a look of alarm, and he raises his eyebrows. “I’m kidding.”

“No, I know,” she says, and bites her lip to stifle a whimper as Adrian and Trevor lever her up and get one of her arms around each of their shoulders. “It’s just such a crazy thing for you to say I’m wondering if perhaps you concussed yourself while using your head as battering ram.”

Adrian almost winces, catches himself just in time to keep his face absolutely expressionless. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever happened to having a little class, your lordship?” Trevor says, cracking a grin quite literally through the streaks of dried blood down his face. Adrian curls his lip and for a moment thinks he won’t dignify that with a response.

But, in the end, who needs dignity? “I figure if it works for a Belmont in a bar fight, any idiot can use it to his advantage,” he drawls, as the three of them pick their way back up the road toward the shape of their cart and, more distantly, home.

#northstarfan #castlevania #i write sometimes

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hellishdrcams · 5 years

Text

( self para )

triggers: self harm, self mutilation, mentions of PTSD, depression

after everything that had happened, hanbin had woken up in the hospital about twelve hours after jin had found him. he found himself to be alone, it was nearing 3AM when he’s gotten himself up out of bed, only to find that he ached. his whole body hurt, parts that shouldn’t hurt, did and he could cry. but he knew he needed to move around. it wasn’t until he’d tried leaving the room that jin had bolted up from his chair from outside the room and taken him back to bed, and he’d sat with him until he’d fallen back asleep after arguing for ten minutes straight that he wanted to see jaekook.

after learning he had three broken ribs, he’d even chipped a tooth, his wound from the crash had been bruised internally, he had bruises littering every inch of his body. he found that his lower half hurt more than anything else. and he refused to talk about it, even when jin had carefully asked him. jin had taken him home the next day, sun had almost tackled him. but had been scolded by his twin, but he’d hugged the kid tight anyway, even if it hurt him. he’d been worried about them for the four days that he’d been away. he wanted to just hold onto them all and never let go because he never would. he’d protect them all, jaekook and kookie included until the day he took his last breath.

but it’s when he hears the the thud on the wall that it startles him and he freezes. he’s frozen to the spot, standing in the kitchen and his hands begin to shake when he hears it again. thud. thud. thud. he stares at the wall with a blank expression on his face but tears are building in his eyes and he can’t take it. he doesn’t want too. he puts the glass of water down and he practically tumbles into his own room and he closes the door. the first thing he does is get into bed. his phone in hand as he calls jaekook. when there’s no answer he frowned and he lay on the bed without really moving. and before long he’s fallen asleep. but it’s anything but peaceful.

a few days go by, and all hanbin’s done is sleep. he refuses to leave his room, not even to eat. he can’t stomach anything because he feels disgusting and any time he does he pukes it back up. his dreams are starting to torment him and it’s worse sometimes when he’s awake, he even needs to excuse himself from just sitting with everyone. because he can’t do it, it’s too much. when he woke up he doesn’t know where the boys are, school maybe. jin’s at work, and hanbin looks at the clock to see that yet again he’d slept for almost a whole day. maybe it’s the medication for the pain he’s in. a few more hours go past as hanbin lays in bed, refusing to move. it’s when jin comes in and sees him that he decides he’s making a doctor’s appointment.

jin sits next to him in the doctor’s office a few hours later, he can see how fast he seems to be deteriorating. and he’d always known hanbin to be strong, he’d never acted like this. diagnosed with PTSD and showing signs of depression, even after a few days of barely doing anything and jin’s more worried than he thought he’d be. he wished he could take the pain away, and hanbin looks at him slowly, because jin’s been staring for longer than he’s meant too. “i’m giving you some time off work. a month might do. ” doctor na begins and hanbin’s head flips around so fast, jin’s sure he’ll have whiplash. “what? no. i don’t need time off.” he starts and the elder man puts his hand up. “hanbin-ah, you’ve been through a lot. i think it’s only fair you get some time off. you can’t work while you’re like this. it could cause problems, you need time to heal and rest and bones and emotional stress take time, so please.”

problems. problems. problems. it’s all he can think about even in the car, and even when he gets home. the boys still aren’t back yet and jin needs to go back to work, his hour lunch taken up by hanbin having to go visit the doctors. he sits himself in his room, he’s curled up in the middle of the massive bed and he’s staring at nothing. he still hurts all over and he can’t seem to get a grip on anything, those three days... three long torturous days had broken him, and he could feel it, mentally, emotionally and physically.. he can feel it physically. the small box in his hand is clutched to his chest so tightly his knuckles have gone white.

it seems to be the only thing keeping him grounded, however when he sits up he puts it into the bedside table, where he can keep it until he deserves to ask jaekook to marry him. right now he doesn’t think he does. he knows deep down what happened isn’t his fault, but he still help but feel that it is. when he enters the bathroom he closes the door over, it’s only when he’s in there that he realises he doesn’t know WHY he’s in there and he frowns at the thought and leans against the sink, which hurts to do so. so he tried to lean back a bit, his eyes catch sight of the silver razor that sits near the edge of the sink. and for a moment he just stares at it. because how could he even think about that ? it doesn’t stop him though. at first it’s just barely a scratch. there’s barely anything but a stinging sensation. but he’s so overwhelmed with everything that he does it again. and again. and again. and again.

he’s dealt with people who have done this, told them that there’s always other options. yet right now he feels like it’s his only one. he drags it across his skin, probably a bit deeper than he means too. the blood pools instantly and it’s like a step in the right direction because for this brief tiny moment hanbin has control. there’s nothing that he’s not in control of right now. he does it more times than he means to, his arm’s all red, deep cuts littered across his skin and he bites his lip just watching, as if he’s hypnotised until he finally shakes himself and he moves from the bathroom after cleaning himself up to the best of his ability, hanbin pracitcally crawls out of his bathroom and gets back into bed, holding his arm to his chest as he drifts back into the same nightmare.

#self para #hanbin #sun #jin

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underthewingsofthblackeagle · 6 years

Text

The Murderess from the Grunewald (10): The Bloody Facts, or What happened to Frank Randall?

Just two short notes for my readers: Due to a bereavement in our family I wasn't able to finish this chapter earlier. I hope that I will be able to post the next chapters more frequently. Warning: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of physical mutilation as it would be discussed in a homicide case before a criminal court. If that triggers something in you or makes you feel unwell, please do not read it, just skip this chapter for your own sake. For those who read on their mobile, just scroll down. More Jamie & Claire, Adso & Bismarck fluff awaits you in chapter 11 (hopefully Wednesday).

(”Tür” by dawes28)

Previously

Six months ago, two hours after the First Attorney's Visit to Prison, at Claire’s home.

The pictures were bloody. Disgusting bloody. Gruesome. Disturbing. Repulsive. Horrible. But they didn’t affect him. In the ten years he now worked as a specialist lawyer in criminal law, he had handled about forty murder cases. And he had heeded the advice of his father: "If evil frightens you, it will win and claim countless other victims. Malice does not sleep and it does not know holidays. You have to learn to face the evil with steadfastness. The wounded need an open, compassionate heart. But the wicked, they must be faced with a 'tough face'." Brian Fraser had looked straight into his eyes and had put his hands on his shoulders. Then he had quoted words from the book of the prophet Ezekiel: "But know: I will make your face hard as theirs, and your forehead as hard as theirs: like a diamond, harder than a pebble, I will make your forehead. Do not be afraid of them and do not be intimidated by their looks!" [1]

In the beginning, it had not been easy for him and still, he could very well understand those whose stomach rebelled at the sight of such pictures. But he had worked on himself, as told by his father, and at some point, he had gotten used to it.

The first three pictures of the Lichtbildmappe (photo folder) showed - only partly recognizable - footprints. Apparently, a person had walked over a rainy path and then entered the house without cleaning his or her shoes. A note below the pictures informed him that the prints were of the soles of Frank Randall's shoes. As it could be seen from the pictures, the footprints were coming from the front door and led down the hall to the staircase that led to the upper part of the house. In addition to the footprints, one could see drops of blood in some places along the way. The pictures L04 and L05, which were probably taken very close to the staircase, showed bloody prints of a hand on a pastel green background. "Imprint of the left hand (presumably of the victim Frank Randall) on the wall of room 1," the forensic detective had written underneath.

(”Sandwich” by mp1746)

Jamie reached for one of the sandwiches that he had brought with him and took a bite. Then he put the rest back on the plate and reached for the Pepsi bottle. After taking a sip, he flipped the pages. L06 and L07 showed rivulets of blood that flowed from the first pedestal down the stairs to the first step. More blood was also on the handrail above the three steps that led up to said pedestal (L08 and L09). He turned the pages again. L10 showed a complete picture of Frank Randall's fully clothed corpse. The man lay with his upper body on the landing, his lower body lay on the steps that led from there to the next floor. L11 showed Frank's head lying in a massive pool of blood. His hair, whose color was no longer recognizable, seemed to be one bloody mass. There were also numerous small and some large bloodstains on his face. Jamie immediately noticed the Frank Randall’s facial expression. While his legs and arms were in unnatural positions, the dead's face was calm, almost serene. Jamie grabbed his sandwich again. He bit off and then rinsed down the bite with another sip of Pepsi. L12 and L13 were probably taken from the steps above the pedestal. One could see the body of the dead man and the walls, which surrounded the pedestal. The picture gave Jamie an impression of how much blood Frank Randall had lost. Apart from the pool of blood that had formed around his head and the blood that had flowed down the first few steps in some rivulets, one could see countless smaller and larger blood spots on both walls. Pictures of the left wall followed (L14 and L15). There, too, blood was visible, but not in the form of drops of blood, but rather as blurred stripes. It seemed that Frank Randall had tried to wipe off his bloody hands. The last two pictures of this part of the photo folder (L16 and L17) showed where the traces of blood led to. They ended about halfway up the stairs.

Jamie put a pencil between the pages of the folder. With a second pen, he recorded thoughts and questions into a black DIN A-4 notebook. Then he leaned back, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His brain had been working while looking at each picture. All the time, he had wondered what statements could be made regarding the crime due to the traces of blood. But now he wondered if the traces of blood matched the course of action described in the indictment. He doubted it. But doubt alone was not enough. He had to find facts. Facts with which he could convincingly disprove the prosecution's charges. He picked up the pen again and wrote down some things that seemed questionable to him. Then he took the last bite of the sandwich.

While he was still chewing, he heard the creaking of the kitchen door and shortly afterward Adso appeared. The cat strolled slowly but purposefully onto the sofa Jamie was sitting on. Once there, he stroked purring around Jamie's legs a few times before jumping to the seat to the left of him. Jamie looked skeptical at the cat, and, as he had expected it, Adso's interest was not actually his six-foot, red-haired can opener. His focus was apparently on his second sandwich. Jamie grabbed the cat, set it on the ground, and held it there for a moment.

“You had a whole can of chicken royale, old boy. You don’t get my roast beef sandwich as dessert! Either you are content to stay here with me or I'll take you back to the kitchen. Your decision!"

The cat made some grumbled sounds and Jamie let him go. Adso now jumped on the seat to the right of Jamie, lay down there and began with a copious cat wash.

(”Katze” by 3dman_eu)

"Good. I don’t mind if you want to lie there. But my roast beef sandwich is taboo."

When the cat showed no further reaction, Jamie took the second sandwich and bit into it. After another sip of Pepsi, he opened the file again. His eyes fell on the writing on the cardboard cover in front of him: "Photographs of the Forensic Section of the corps of Randall, Frank Wolverton." The headline was followed by Frank's date of birth and date of death, the names and titles of the forensic scientists, the names of the assistants and the number of the Forensic Section (S 289/2019). Underneath he found the place, date, and duration of the Forensic Section. Jamie knew what awaited him and so he turned the pages without further delay.

The first picture (S01) showed the entire, now undressed corpse of Frank Randall from the front, laying on a steel table. There were several hematomas on his arms and chest. From these hematomas, pictures S02 to S07 showed close-up shots. Underneath the pictures, the exact measurements of every hematoma were written. S08 showed the whole corpse from the back. On Frank's back were two significant hematomas, of which there were also close-ups with exact size information (S09 and S10). Jamie bit off his roast beef sandwich and took another sip of Pepsi. Then he turned the page. The first four pictures on the new page showed close-ups (right, left, front and back) of Frank's head and his blood-soaked hair (S11 - S14), followed by shots of the head from the same perspectives. But this time, however, the head was shorn and cleaned. As Jamie had already mentioned in his conversation with Claire, there were seven lacerations on Frank's shaven skull that had damaged and even severed the scalp. These lacerations had an unusual shape. It seemed as someone had carved the runic letter "algiz" on the right and left sides of the skull. In the middle, there was another single laceration. It was a straight line, which was placed slightly higher than the other lacerations.

Jamie again put a pencil between the pages. Then he closed the file. Where did these wounds come from? Who had done that to Frank Randall and most important of all – with what kind of tool or weapon? The prosecution assumed that the tool had to be a blow poke. Frank's cousin Alex had given him and Claire such a device for their fireplace a few years ago as a Christmas present. It was a tube made of metal and about one meter long, through which one could blow air into a fire. At one end of the tube was a sharp hook, with which one could also move logs inside the fireplace. Alex Randall, Frank's cousin, could not remember exactly in which year he had brought this device. But he still knew exactly where he had purchased it. One evening, while surfing the internet, he discovered a page called ‘Hot Stuff’. As he admitted in his interrogation at the police in England, the search for chimney tools had not led him to this page ... But having overcome his initial disappointment, he took the time to study the dealer's offerings. He remembered that Frank had mentioned that he missed a blow poke for the operation of the house fireplace, but hadn’t found such a device in Germany yet. “Germans,” Frank had said, “know only Schürhaken (poking sticks).” So Alex made his decision immediately when among all the offers of ‘Hot Stuff’ he found a brass-colored blow poke that would match Frank's fireplace tools. Although he found the price of 45,00 Euro for the blow poke and 5,00 Euro for shipping and packing a bit exaggerated, he ordered the device that night. Christmas was only once a year, and after all, Frank and Claire were the only relatives to whom he gave something for Christmas. Alex Randall had told the police on record that he had paid for it by Paypal in advance and that he received his order about five days later by mail. He had also told the English police officers that Frank was ‘very pleased’ when he received the gift.

As understandable as the presumption of the prosecutor was (that the blow poke Alex Randall gave to Frank an Claire was used to kill Frank) so problematic was this assumption, however. To this day, the said blow poke had not surfaced. The chances were 50:50. The prosecutor couldn't prove that the blow poke was the tool by which the crime was committed, nor could Jamie in return prove that it wasn't the murder weapon.

Jamie got up and started pacing the room. Maybe the chances weren’t 50:50. Maybe he could at least turn the absence of the murder weapon into a 70:30? If he could only sow enough doubt about the prosecution's thesis on the blow poke into the minds and hearts of the judges, and especially the two lay judges, maybe he could convince them that Claire was not the culprit. He remembered the sensational case of Marianne Wagner. After the woman (who had been charged with the murder of her two underage sons) was sentenced to life in prison, which meant a minimum of 15 years, a new lawyer convinced the higher regional court, so that a revision procedure was carried out. When the case was heard before another regional court, Wagner’s new lawyer was able to create so many doubts in the minds of the Schöffen (lay judges), that they voted in favor of his client and she was set free immediately. Marianne Wagner was re-sentenced to life in a third proceeding, which had come about due to a revision of the prosecutor. But she'd been out of prison for almost two years between the trials. Maybe he was able to buy Claire (and himself!) some time? A time he could use to find new facts and arguments for an acquittal.

(”Agenda 12 mesi MOLESKINE nera Design in Italy“ * By Pava [CC BY-SA 3.0 it (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/it/deed.en)], from Wikimedia Commons)

Jamie stopped and hurried back to the table. When he sat down again, he took the notebook, opened a new page and wrote down the word: "Piles to hammer in.” Underneath he wrote: "1. Doubts about the ‘murder weapon’; 2. Marianne Wagner Case; 3. Doubts about the bloodstains". He closed the book, reached for the remainder of his second sandwich, and devoured it with one bite. After one last sip of Pepsi, he got up and picked up his things. He wanted nothing more than to drive home, take a hot shower and then go to bed early. He needed his sleep. Already during his studies at the university, he had found that he had the most significant successes with Thomas Edison's method of problem-solving: Relaxing and giving your mind free rein was the best way to get closer to solving a case.

He took the plate and carried it to the kitchen. Then he filled Adso's empty bowls once more with dry food and water. When the cat, who had followed him into the kitchen, stroked around his legs, he stroked him reassuringly. Then he quickly disappeared from the kitchen, took his briefcase and closed the front door behind him, before a greedy Adso, who had turned to the food in his bowl, could even notice.

Thank you for reading. If you have any questions, just send me a message or write it down in the comments. Next time, read: Secret Whitsun holidays on Rügen (4): Sharing joy and sorrow (2)

Notes:

[1] Ezekiel 3: 8-9; (translated from the German translation by Hermann Menge by myself)

#TheMurderessoftheGrunewald #Berlin #Claire Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #Claire Randall #Frank Randall #Jamie Fraser #Outlander #Adso the cat #Crime AU

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thefandomlesbian · 5 years

Note

Not sure if you’re still taking prompts but if you are or if you want to write this down the road: Coven canon divergent pre seven wonders prompt where Misty doesn’t leave the academy and ends up being the one to save Cordelia from the axe man.

Read on AO3 for best experience!

“When I stood with you against the storm

And I tried once again

Well, I said, ‘I'd like to leave you

With something warm.’” -Stevie Nicks, “The Nightmare”

...

“I thought you were looking for your tribe.”

Misty raised an eyebrow at Zoe’s sharp quip. Zoe had a point, alright--she had spent years looking for someone else like her, for someone who understood. She found them, the witches. But, as she swept them with her gaze, she knew they were not hers to keep. How could they be? Misty had fled the only life she had ever known to escape death. Zoe had found her twice, now, both times seeking help for a formerly dead person. She could smell the magic on the woman she had recovered and buried. These witches apparently couldn’t manage to stop getting each other killed. She preferred herself alone and alive to dead with friends.

After all, even Stevie needed to leave her tribe for awhile when it all got to be too much. A strong witch had a solo career. “I was. And I am.” Zoe pursed her lips in confusion. “This ain’t it. I got bad vibes.” Something evil exhaled from the house, something dark and cruel and vindictive and all the things Misty actively sought to avoid. Her intuition had never led her astray before. Her grandmother had told her always to trust herself, and she did. The house had eyes in its walls. “Real bad. There’s something foul in this house.” If I stay here, it’s gonna kill me. It’s gonna take the last breath in my body. I ain’t having it.

Zoe and Queenie exchanged a glance. Neither of them attempted to contradict her. They knew the truth. “We need to stay with Madison,” Queenie said. “You sure you got everything you want? You can take a shower or something.”

Misty had done worse things than hitchhike in her life. “Shower’s tempting,” she agreed. “Then I’ll be outta your hair.” Part of her wondered if she ought to move somewhere that the coven couldn’t find her. Nah. They’ll probably need somebody else brought back to life before long.

Where the other witches went, Misty didn’t know; she kept her bag of things on the floor in the bathroom alongside the change of clothes Zoe had given her. They weren’t her style, but they would get her back to the swamp. She didn’t have the liberty to have a style, now, she supposed, being officially homeless without electricity or running water. The warm water from the shower was a novelty she hadn’t known in over a month, and stepping out from under it into the steam of the room filled her with yearning. Misty loved her life in the forest, but she missed twenty-first century hygiene.

She donned the T-shirt and stained hoodie Zoe had given her and swept her hair out of the hood. The sweatpants fit loosely. She pulled the string taut and slipped back into her boots. Emerging from the bathroom, she glanced left and right in search of the other girls, wherever they had gone with Madison. She didn’t see them. But a shriek pierced the air.

Heart leaping into her throat, Misty grabbed her napsack and headed toward the stairs. “Hell, no.” A shower was not worth dying over, but she knew how to get the hell out of dodge before anybody knew any different. The darkness of the house wrapped around her and consumed her, threatening to swallow her whole. She wanted nothing to do with the darkness here or any of the people it already had in its clutches.

The scream echoed again, a woman’s wailing voice, followed by a man’s distinct, grizzled laugher. Misty’s drumming footsteps on the stairs halted at that sound. She’s with a man. Sucking her lower lip, she hesitated. The other girls dashed down the hallway to Cordelia’s room. The woman screamed again. “Cordelia!” Misty’s heart couldn’t take the sound of a damsel in distress. “It’s locked!”

Misty ran to them, her napsack tossed on her shoulder. “The hell do you mean, it’s locked? You’re witches!” Zoe and Queenie continued to jiggle the door handle uselessly, like the weathered lock would break if they kept trying. They ignored her.

“It’s the axe man.”

“You released him?”

Neither of them acknowledged what Misty had said. “I said I would! I lied!”

The bundle of witches raced away. Cordelia belted out another scream. From within the room, the sound of clattering furniture and shattering glass burst. Misty turned on her instinct to follow the girls. “Now dance,” growled a dark voice from within the room. All of the hair on the back of Misty’s neck stood up--pure evil exhaled from the man. I’ve gotta help her.

Taking a step back, Misty dropped her napsack on the floor and kicked upward with all of her strength. The door handle snapped off, but it was still stuck in the frame, rattling as she slammed against it with her shoulder. The old house was not made to cave under slight pressure. “Alohomora!” she screamed at the door. She hoped it would work. It didn’t. “Oh, fuck this.” Circling back, Misty gave herself room for a running start. Another scream burst from the room. “I’m coming!” She charged at the door. Leaping off of the floor, she plunged with both heels into the side of the door. It buckled. She slid into the room on her side, a baseball player aiming for home. “Get away from her!”

The man swung on her. “About time I get a little bit of attention up in here.” He swung a shiny axe in one hand. Misty leapt to her feet. She grabbed a chair and held it up. “You’re not the one who knows me, are you?” The man’s black aura breathed off of his skin like smoke. “You’re not the one who owes me.” He wielded his axe at her. “So you’re just in the way.”

Misty held up the chair and caught the axe in its legs, knocking it back but not out of his hand. “Don’t you touch her!” Everything her father had ever taught her about physical combat came back to haunt her now. Daddy never said my opponent would have an axe and I would have a wooden chair. She charged him with the legs of the chair pointed at him, a bull with its horns prepared to gore the unsuspecting passenger of its field. It brought her closer to Cordelia. She had heard the name in passing from the other witches, but for the first time, she saw the face of the headmistress. Mutilated pink skin crossed her face. Marbled blue eyes peeked out at Misty where acid had stripped all of the pigment from her irises. She’s blind. “Are you okay?”

Buffering lips and a trembling chin met her question. “Who are you?”

Oh. Right. Misty had entirely forgotten that Zoe had brought her here as a secret. She held up the chair as the axe man swung at her again. She hurled the chair at him to deflect his axe. It whooshed through his solid body. “What the fuck is up with this guy?” The chair landed on the other side of him, broken on the floor. The man smirked at her with his salt and pepper hair, looking all too coy for his own good. Misty backed up in front of the table beneath which Cordelia hid--the man had cornered her and left her nowhere to run, nowhere to escape.

Cordelia whimpered audibly. “He’s a ghost! He’s dead!” she blubbered. I’m gonna die in here. The notion had struck Misty when she first entered the house. These walls had power she knew not, and it was a dark power. Reaching behind her, she grabbed a ceramic vase from the table and wielded it like a glass beer bottle by the neck. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna do it protecting a woman.

He swung the axe. She moved sideways and allowed the blade to plunge into the wall. The moment of it burying into the wood gave him just enough pause for her to smash the vase over his head. At the sound of the exploding vase, Cordelia cried out, shrinking back under the table. He staggered back, cursing. “You can’t hurt me, witch! Your fight is futile!”

“Don’t mean I ain’t gonna give it my best shot.” Misty seized another vase off of the table. The brandished axe caught it and smashed it.

He reached for the last one and smashed it with a dark chuckle, holding contact with her eyes. “You out of ideas now, little girl?” His eyes were deep pools of hatred and filth. Misty held out her hand. A fire poker whistled toward her from across the room. It landed in the palm of her hand. “Oh, that’s new for you!” Yeah, it is. Misty fenced at him like she held a sword in her hand instead of a piece of flimsy metal. “Little spitfire, are you? I can have some fun with this!”

The tip of the fire poker caught on the blade of his axe. Misty glared at his hand as she snatched back against him. His fingers pried open against his will. She flung the axe across the room. It smashed against the wall and landed on the floor. “Ha!”

The axe man’s brawny hand closed around the fire poker. He dragged her close to him and tossed the weapon away. She staggered, unbalanced, and he took the opportunity to grab her by the hood of the sweatshirt Zoe had given her. She whirled. A cold hand closed around her throat. “Uh--” Both of her hands floundered at his, pulling desperately at him as he hoisted her up by her neck. Her feet left the ground. Her throat closed. She couldn’t make a sound except for the deep slurp noises twisting from her body.

The sniveling voice of the woman rose up as she crawled out from under the table. “Don’t hurt her! I’m the one you want!” Misty’s wide eyes darted away from the man’s face to Cordelia’s, her lips slightly parted. I’m fighting for her. Her tunnel vision gradually grew darker. Cordelia, a woman she didn’t know, was willing to sacrifice herself--just as Misty had done by running in here. I’m saving her.

Warmth moved through the axe man’s arm. Blood coursed through his veins once again. Something, some spell, had made him corporeal and mortal once more. Misty’s parted lips opened a little wider. Magic stirred hot and heavy within her abdomen and twisted up through her chest. Her jaw dropped. It touched the top of his fist. Flames bellowed out of Misty’s mouth. At the first flash of heat, he dropped her. Misty dropped to the floor, choking and gagging and gasping. Soft hands sweet as honeycomb patted around her body as she caught her breath.

The stench of smoke filled the room. The axe man, his clothing on fire, staggered across Cordelia’s bed. He howled, an animal in pain. The magic which had made him corporeal had given him mortality. He rolled across the floor. The curtains caught fire, as well; the flames leapt from one to the other. “Are you okay?” Cordelia’s voice was ragged.

Misty staggered to her feet. The smoke clouded around her. She held an arm over her mouth. “C’mon.” Blots of blackness in her vision dizzied her. “Get on my back--Hold onto me.” The heat from the flames and the soot exhaling from the flickering lights of orange stung her eyes. Cordelia grappled with her shoulders. Misty slipped her arms under the legs of the nearly naked woman and ducked her head as she ran through the flames. The fire caught onto the bottoms of her sweatpants. She stomped it out and pretended her skin didn’t itch. On her back, Cordelia buried her face into Misty’s hair. Misty ran toward the staircase. With each step, Cordelia jostled on her back. Overhead, the sound of splintering wood and spreading fire pursued them like a lion on its prey. “Which way is out?”

Bare arms wrapped around Misty’s neck, clinging desperately to her as she felt herself slipping. Misty tightened her hold on her. “Misty,” Cordelia breathed to her ear. I didn’t tell her my name. “It’s--to the right--” Cordelia’s shorts rode up where her legs wrapped around Misty’s middle. Misty grasped her bare thighs. She followed Cordelia’s directions, bowing her head downward to avoid the stinging blackness of the smoke encroaching around her. The flavor of soot on her tongue was a familiar scalding by now, something she revisited in her nightmares.

The front door gaped ajar, pouring smoke into the starry sky. Misty jogged through the door frame. The cold night air swept her up into its arms. The moon itself reached for her, its daughter, and cradled her in its yellow light. She staggered down the steps and stumbled through the grass, almost losing her footing but managing to remain upright. Her arms and back ached with the strain of carrying Cordelia.

The lights in the greenhouse guided her toward the building, outside which the other witches loitered. “You made it!” The cluster of witches approached. Misty leaned back and released Cordelia, letting her place her bare feet on the dewy earth. “How’d you get out? Are you okay?”

Kyle, rocking himself and moaning, danced around Misty with his arms extending and retracting and extended again. “I’m alright, Kyle--I’m alright--” The zombie-like man still insisted on giving her a hug in his strong arms, which Misty reciprocated with a grimace. He smelled like sweat. “Hey, now, no need for tears… Nobody’s hurt.”

“Does anyone have a cigarette?”

Cordelia’s hand closed around Misty’s bicep. “Madison?” she asked in a soft voice. Goosebumps coursed up and down her arms and legs. The cold night air had done no favors for her. She folded her other arm across her chest. “Where have you been? Who is this?” She shivered.

Misty shed the long sweatshirt Zoe had given her and handed it to Cordelia. “Here.” She pulled it over Cordelia’s head for her and guided her arms through the sleeves. “Don’t worry about Kyle. He’s a friend--long as you don’t expose him to none of your valuables. He’s a ouragan, but he means well.” A few hours ago, she never would have guessed she would find herself speaking in Kyle’s defense, but now, much as she was angry with him for destroying her few cherished objects, she couldn’t imagine leaving Kyle to be homeless.

The night wind blew her hair back out of her face as she turned back to look at the academy as it leapt into flames. I think I made all of them homeless. “Fiona will fix it,” Cordelia told her, grasping Misty’s arm still. She pulled the hem of the sweatshirt down over her lower body, trying to cover more of her exposed skin. “Fiona will know what to do.”

“Fiona isn’t answering her phone,” Queenie snapped.

“We’ve got to hide Madison before she shows up,” Zoe said. “She’s safer that way.”

“What about Kyle?” Nan asked. “Fiona won’t let him stay.”

“What about Kyle?” Madison demanded. “You all don’t seriously think Fiona is going to be able to put the house back together? We’re all fucked. Royally fucked. Fiona is going to run away, like she always has, and we’re going to be sleeping on the streets.” She lifted a cigarette to her lips and blew a thin stream of smoke from between them. Coughing brokenly, she appraised Misty through narrowed eyes. “I think you should’ve left me wherever the fuck I was.”

Misty crossed her arms and placed a hand on top of Cordelia’s. She didn’t have anything to say. This wasn’t her fight. “You were dead?” Cordelia extended her other hand to Madison.

Madison hesitated, glancing back at Zoe. “Do it.” All pairs of eyes landed on Madison. “She’ll See what happened to you. So we can keep it from happening again.” See. It was unfamiliar to Misty, the concept, but Cordelia had touched her and learned her name--and her powers. She knew Misty had brought Madison back to life. What else did she know? What else had she Seen?

It was a question she wanted to ask, but as Madison’s palm touched Cordelia’s, the blind woman gave a soft gasp. Her marbled eyes rolled backward, the scarred tissue over them twitching. Her hand tightened its grip on Misty’s arm, as if holding onto her for support, and when Madison withdrew, Cordelia swayed. Misty tried to steady her. “Fiona can’t know that you are here.” Her fingers dug into Misty’s upper arm. “Fiona is willing to kill to keep her powers. To keep the Supremacy. Which means she could see any one of you as a threat or a target. She feels safe as long as she believes Madison is dead.”

Madison arched an eyebrow. “So you just expect me to play possum indefinitely?”

“Fiona killed you once,” Zoe said. “She might try to do it again.”

“Who’s gonna stop her from killing another one of us?” Queenie asked.

They all exchanged glances before they looked at Misty. Misty shuffled her weight awkwardly from foot to foot. “No offense or anything, but… y’all got a problem of killing each other.” A little problem. Misty’s mouth curled downward at the corners. “I don’t want no part of it. They played burn the witch back home. I’m not coming here to get killed by my own kind.”

Zoe’s eyes were earnest. Goddammit. Misty tried to look away from her. “But you’ll help us, won’t you? If one of us gets hurt? Once we identify the next Supreme, we’ll be able to bring Fiona down, and it’ll be safe again. For all of us.” Misty looked at Cordelia. The pretty face of the older woman was all too close to hers. Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed hard as Cordelia squeezed her upper arm. Oh, shucks. These women were the first people of her kind she had ever met. She couldn’t just abandon them. I can’t just abandon Cordelia. She had worked to save Cordelia’s life, risking her own in the process. Who was she if she ran away now? “Please, Misty?”

The sound of sirens pierced the air. Misty flinched. She shrugged out of Cordelia’s grasp. “I gotta go.” She could not be here when the police and firefighters showed up. The large, beautiful house would draw media attention, and she couldn’t risk her face appearing on the television, nor could she risk the odds of someone recognizing her and placing her face. The flashing red and blue lights reflected on the houses down the street, around the corner. Misty ducked her head and dashed away.

“Misty!” The first call of her name didn’t slow her. She threw herself into the thin copse of trees which served as a fence between the burning house and the rest of the neighborhood. “Misty, come back!” Hurling herself down into the ravine, she slid down the slope and landed in the mushy pit in its bottom. “Misty, wait!” Cordelia lost her footing at the ravine--how she had made it this far, Misty wasn’t sure--and tumbled down the slope.

Both of her hands closed around Misty’s wrists. Heart thundering in her chest, Misty resisted the urge to jerk away from her. She wouldn’t do that to Cordelia. “I ain’t going back.” Over the hill, the sound of men’s voices echoed. Footsteps crackled through the leaves in the thin copse of trees. The back of Misty’s teeth rattled with magic. “Hold onto me,” she said to Cordelia for the second time tonight. Cordelia threw her arms around Misty’s neck. The vibrations within her soul dragged them inward, through a vacuum, and with a loud crack, they crashed between the corn stalks of Misty’s garden.

The soft soil clung to her clothing. Misty stood, both of her hands on Cordelia’s waist. “You can transmute.” Cordelia held her at arm’s length. In the silvery moonlight filtering through the canopy of swamp trees, she looked no different than anyone else. The trees blocked the cold breeze, but a mist rose off of the water and chilled the air. “Where are we?”

Cordelia’s tangled hair hung around her face. Her tense muscles quivered beneath Misty’s touch. Misty reached around her to pull up the hood over her ears. “My home.” The trees creaked around them. The forest moaned with all of its secret life. The cicadas and crickets hummed in synchronization. The night birds performed their own song, special for Cordelia. Cordelia shivered again. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.” It wasn’t much warmer inside the shack, but Misty had blankets, and the walls deflected the wind. Cordelia held onto her arm. “It’s okay. I won’t let you fall.”

The shack was in the same condition they had left it--the broken tapes on the floor, the cold water in the metal basin stagnant where she had bathed Kyle. “Here.” She helped Cordelia sit on the bed and wrapped her up in some blankets. Taking woolly socks, she put them on Cordelia’s dirty feet one by one. In the darkness of the shack, she, too, was almost blind. She blinked up to Cordelia from below, looking at her silhouette. On the nightstand, a couple unlit candles rested. I’ve been going through matches like a little kid through cake. But she had burned the axe man. She knew she had done it--she had set the house aflame. Can I do it again?

“Try it.” She still held Cordelia’s feet in her lap. With the encouragement, Misty licked her lips and blinked back toward the candles. What had she done the first time? She had needed to protect Cordelia. She had needed to protect herself. Her hands trembled a little. A tiny flame flashed onto the wick of the candle. “Good job.” Misty stood to take the candle and light the rest of the room, the bare wicks all around the building which she used in the middle of the night. She had had a lantern, but it had broken, and she didn’t have any extra batteries for her flashlight, which she worked to preserve in case of an emergency. “What else can you do?”

“Hm?” Misty put the candle on the nightstand. “I fix dead things. That’s it.” She sat beside Cordelia on the bed. Cordelia scooted over to make room for her on the small mattress. Misty brushed the back of her hand against Cordelia’s absently.

To her surprise, Cordelia wrapped up their fingers together. “But you can start fires.” Misty shrugged. That was a new thing. “And move things.” That was a new thing, too. “And transmute.” She had done that when she met Zoe, but she hadn’t controlled it deliberately. “You’re an incredibly powerful witch, Misty.”

“Aw, nah, I bet tons of y’all are good at all that stuff.”

Cordelia’s eyebrows quirked, and she shook her head. “We’re not. It’s uncommon for a witch to exhibit more than one power. Maybe two in a time of crisis, but--you’ve performed four of the seven wonders.” Misty didn’t know what she meant. She didn’t ask. She hadn’t been so close to another woman in so long; she was busy drinking in Cordelia’s scent as she lay beside her on the bed. “The seven wonders are the test a witch must pass in order to rise to Supreme.”

Eyes widening, Misty shook her head. “Uh-uh. I don’t like this. I ain’t here to be nobody’s leader.” Cordelia folded their fingers together. Her skin was soft and smooth as flower petals. Misty swallowed hard. “I told you, Miss Cordelia. I don’t want any part of this. This ain’t my fight. And it ain’t got to be yours, either.”

Cordelia wasn’t shivering anymore. “Becoming the Supreme isn’t a choice… You can’t escape it by not wanting it.”

“You ain’t dragging me into this mess.” Cordelia opened her mouth, but Misty cut her off before she could speak, her heart thundering in her own ears. “Listen. I helped Zoe with Kyle. And I helped her with Madison. And I helped you--”

“You got into my room when no one else could. How did you do that?”

“I kicked the door down like a muggle.”

Silence followed, but a smile cracked across Cordelia’s face, and she began to laugh. Misty chuckled along with her, fluffing up the pillows to provide them for her. She knew nothing about her shack was comfortable for a city dweller, but she wanted to treat Cordelia the best that she could. “You saved me,” Cordelia whispered, and she put her cheek on the pillow as Misty put it down. She faced her in the dim light. Outside, the wind assailed the shack, whipping and howling, but Misty’s whole body felt like fire now coursed through her veins. “Thank you. You didn’t need to do that.”

A quiet laugh tittered out of Misty. “Nah, don’t be silly. My grandma always told me there was nothing better for a damsel in distress than a dyke with an attitude.” Cordelia’s marbled blue eyes widened, and Misty realized a moment too late that her thoughts had crawled out onto her tongue. Blushing furiously, she hastened to amend her words. “You would’ve done the same--you did. You told him to let me go.”

A hand landed on her hot face. She flinched; she expected to be slapped. But Cordelia’s touch brought her no pain. “It scared me,” Cordelia admitted, “to think that someone could die for me because I’m not strong enough to protect myself… not anymore.” She mapped out Misty’s face with her hands. “I couldn’t live with myself if someone was hurt because of me.”

Misty smiled into Cordelia’s palm. She liked having her face touched. It was intimate. She hadn’t known something so sweet in longer than she could remember. “I just kept thinking that, if he killed me, at least I went down trying to protect a pretty lady.” In the dim candlelight, pink flushed across Cordelia’s cheeks, and Misty grinned at her success. “My daddy taught me how to rip a guy’s nuts off… but I never figured I’d need to fight an axe-wielding ghost. That was new. Hopefully won’t ever need to do it again.”

Stray fingers tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Cordelia pursed her lips. “Have you been out here ever since…?” She drifted off, and Misty nodded into her hand. “Alone?”

Misty shrugged. “Yeah. Safer that way.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t light the match.” Misty tried to forget what gasoline tasted like. She tried to forget what ash tasted like. The flames at the house were a stark reminder of the night she wanted, more than anything, to forget. To forget the pain, the absolute agony, of thrashing until all of the nerve endings in her body were dead and the heat of the flames had charred her lungs and melted her skin, until she finally gave way to death only to find herself dragged back into the shell of her corpse once again--to forget was all she wanted.

Cordelia shook her head. A quiver passed through her. Misty wondered how much of it she had Seen. Some things are supposed to be mine alone. “My job,” Cordelia said, “is to find witches and bring them to the academy to protect them. So they can learn who they are and how to control their powers.” Misty adjusted the blankets around Cordelia’s shoulders, trying to bring her warmth, but she knew she had done no good when a single tear slid down Cordelia’s cheek. She caught it on the pad of her thumb and wiped it away. “I was looking for you. Desperately. I knew where you were, the general location, but--I was too late.” She closed her eyes. As she did, more tears fell down her cheeks. Misty dabbed them away with her fingertips. “I lost you when it was my duty to protect you. And I am so, so sorry.”

Misty reached to hug Cordelia, wrapping her up tight and squeezing her. “Nah, Miss Cordelia… It ain’t your fault. You can’t hold the whole world on your shoulders, you know, chere.” Cordelia buried her face in her hair. Misty had lost count of how many times it had happened now--maybe just twice, maybe many more--but she adored it every time. She adored how Cordelia’s caramel-colored hair fell just so on her shoulders and how the movement exposed the freckled skin of her neck. She bowed her face down and pressed a kiss to the junction between Cordelia’s neck and shoulder. She’s so beautiful…

In her arms, Cordelia stiffened a little. Misty stiffened in turn, wondering if she had overstepped her bounds, but Cordelia whispered to her ear, “Thank you…” She swept Misty’s hair out of the way and kissed her neck in return. “I’m so glad you found us.”

Cordelia did not carry the same aura as the house or even the rest of the coven. Cordelia was different, warmer, more genuine, kinder. “I’m glad, too.” She combed her hand through Cordelia’s tangled hair. “Especially if nobody else was gonna bust you outta that room with the scary ghost guy.” Cordelia laughed into her neck. Misty closed her eyes and leaned down to kiss Cordelia’s neck again.

Warm hands caught her by the shoulders and pushed her away before her lips connected to her skin. Cordelia held her there, their faces inches apart. “Do it properly.” Cordelia’s lips puckered with uncertainty. Misty bowed forward and planted a tender, chaste kiss onto her mouth. A quiver passed through Cordelia’s body as they connected. Electricity pulled them together and held them fast, wrapping around them, through them.

Their magical signatures intertwined. Cordelia’s mouth opened, and Misty’s tongue wriggled inside. She grabbed Cordelia by the hips, squeezing the fat there. “Mm…” She moaned the soft sound into Cordelia’s mouth. This is crazy. I barely know her. Cordelia’s hands both dug their fingers into Misty’s hair and cradled her face there. Oh, god, I barely know her, and I love her already. Misty knew she had a heart made of cotton--it was soft and got shredded easily--but this caught her by surprise. She felt something for Cordelia she had never felt before. She supposed that she couldn’t risk her life for a woman without coming out the other side in love with her. “Sorry,” she mumbled into Cordelia’s lips. The kiss broke. “I promise I’m not really as weird as the inside of my head sounds.”

Cordelia laughed. “It’s okay.” She leaned forward and kissed Misty again. “I like you. I like you a lot.” Misty rolled onto her back and pulled Cordelia on top of her. Cordelia lay down on top of her. Her laugh was musical. “I shouldn’t feel this good. I just almost died in a house fire.”

Misty brushed Cordelia’s beautiful hair behind her ear. “You didn’t almost die. I wouldn’t have let that happen.” Cordelia kissed her hard. She tasted like smoke, wisping away from her in the blink of an eye, so Misty held on tighter, afraid Cordelia would try to disappear. The flame in the pit of her stomach licked downward. A knee landed between her legs and stayed there. Misty sucked in a tight gasp of air. “Cordelia--” The blind witch straddled her thigh. Misty gulped. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Misty was in no position to deny Cordelia anything. She had lived these last few weeks the loneliest she had ever been. But Cordelia was a normal woman--and, Misty had assumed until about three minutes ago, a straight woman. “I’m not… I’ve never been… I don’t want you to be…”

Quieting her with another soft kiss, Cordelia pulled back when her buffering lips had stilled. “I want this.” She shivered. “You saved my life. I want this to be here, with you.” Misty touched her face. Cordelia’s blind eyes blinked at the stimulus. “It’s the first time, since…” Cordelia swallowed hard.

Misty kissed her. “I understand.” She sat up and took the hem of the sweatshirt, lifting it off of Cordelia’s body and tossing it to the floor. Placing her bare hands on Cordelia’s warm, soft middle, she waited patiently for Cordelia to roam her torso with shaking fingers. “Take your time.” She played with the fabric of Cordelia’s black bra while Cordelia’s hands roamed the top of her T-shirt. Misty wore no bra. Through the thin fabric of the T-shirt, her nipples hardened into Cordelia’s palms.

Careful hands hooked in the bottom hem of her T-shirt and lifted it upward. Misty moved her arms and wriggled out of the shirt. She wiggled to free herself from the sweatpants, too; Zoe hadn’t given her any panties, so without the two garments, she was bare and prepared for Cordelia. Little twitches of uncertainty passed through Cordelia’s wrists, like she expected Misty’s skin to burn her at any moment. Misty waited patiently. Cordelia’s nose and mouth met the underside of her jaw and kissed there, dragging her lips along her pulse point and down her throat to her collarbones. Her hands followed the planes of Misty’s back to her shoulders. Misty lay down on her back to expose herself for Cordelia.

Both hands cupped her small breasts. She kissed the hollow of Misty’s throat. Then, she hesitated. “It’s alright.” Misty brushed Cordelia’s hair out of her face. “You can touch me--I got naked for a reason.”

A furious blush, much like that of a shamed teenager’s, crossed Cordelia’s face. “I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. Her hands on Misty’s breasts were still. “I’ve never done this with a woman before.” Misty shuffled on the mattress. “Will you show me?”

“Of course, chere.” With gentle hands, Misty guided Cordelia to roll over onto her back and pushed her onto the pillows. “Relax.” Shaking hands found her hair and tangled there. “That’s right. You want me to stop, you give my hair a good snatch, okay? I’ll knock it off lickety split, whatever I’m doing.” She pressed her lips right to Cordelia’s pulse point. A shaking sound emerged from her. Misty stroked her hands upward and cupped Cordelia’s chest in her hands, rolling her rough thumbs over the other woman’s tender nipples. A sharp breath hitched in Cordelia’s chest. Misty gave her a tender squeeze before she slithered down her body. She landed on Cordelia’s breasts with lips planting sloppy kisses down her sternum.

Misty didn’t waste any time with teasing Cordelia, who quivered and flinched underneath her without anything extra. Her soft lips wrapped around nipple. She suckled gently upon her breast. A thin choking sound emerged from Cordelia’s throat. “That’s so… soft.” Her breath whistled in and out of her. Misty blew a cold stream of air across her wet nipple. It perked up, little bumps appearing all the way around it with creases, as well. She wriggled. Misty chuckled as she settled down in front of the other breast.

Misty took no liberties with Cordelia’s body. She didn’t want to mark Cordelia as hers; they had made no such promises yet. She didn’t dig in her teeth, and she left no bruises. Using only her lips, she teased the underside of one of Cordelia’s breasts, and then she moved down her abdomen, peppering kisses here and there. She planted a kiss on her navel. Hooking her fingers into Cordelia’s shorts, she peeled them off of her body and tossed them away.

The delicious smell of woman rose up to her. Misty kissed the inside of Cordelia’s thigh. Her skin was fuzzy there, above the knee where she didn’t try to shave. Her vulva had tiny cuts and tufts of stubble from where clumsy, blind hands had tried to shave it. Misty waited for some confirmation. Cordelia spread her legs and tugged her by her hair downward, her hips gesticulating vaguely for some kind of relief.

Burying her face into Cordelia’s moist vulva, Misty opened her mouth and made a thick, “Ahm,” sound in the back of her throat. Cordelia laughed aloud, relieving some of the nervous tension inside of her. She wriggled and moaned under Misty’s mouth. With the flat of her tongue, Misty stroked upward over Cordelia’s swollen clitoris. She trembled. Her thighs framed Misty’s face. “Mm…” Misty drew back just long enough to lick her lips before she dove into it again.

“Oh--Misty--” Cordelia arched her back. Her hips refused to still on the mattress. Her hands in Misty’s hair wanted to tighten up. She released her locks and grappled with her own breasts instead, a much safer location for them. “I--Oh, god…”

The sight of Cordelia’s hands on her breast stirred the fire for Misty. Watching her pleasure herself with her nipples pinched between her fingertips--that was a new drug, an addictive substance. As Cordelia’s clitoris grew firmer, more erect, Misty left it. Her lover cried out in frustration. Misty’s tongue slipped into her vagina, raking out all of the sour lubrication and dragging it up to her clitoris. “I can’t--Oh, god…” Cordelia’s vagina tightened visibly. Misty slipped her middle finger into her. “Oh!” It fit with ease. She curled it to stroke the sensitive, thick patch of nerves inside of her. “More--” As you wish. Misty hesitated before she curled a second finger into Cordelia. She’s only done this with men. She’s used to more. She provided the answer to her demand.

Cordelia’s hips lifted off of the bed into Misty’s mouth. “Yes!” Misty slid her fingers out and pushed them back in, massaging the insides of her vagina. “Yes!” Cordelia’s voice echoed in the small building, and undoubtedly in the trees surrounding, but there was no one to hear but the deer and the birds and the insects. “F-Faster!”

With the tip of her tongue, Misty worked faster at teasing the bulb of her clitoris, following the crus on either side back up to the sensitive nub. Cordelia almost thrashed with the intensity of her feelings. Her vagina contracted around Misty’s fingers. “Mmm!” The first flickering of her walls was like Morse code flitting back to her fingertips. Misty counted the number of squeezes. By the fifth, Cordelia’s thigh and stomach muscles began to relax, and Misty could slip her fingers free. She lingered to lick up all of the acidic fluid Cordelia had produced. Cordelia twitched, sensitive from her forceful orgasm.

Misty slid back up beside her and nuzzled her cheek with the tip of her nose. Cordelia turned her face and kissed Misty on the mouth. Her lower jaw chattered. “That was… That was really good…” She hiccuped. Misty brushed her hands across her pretty face. “Do you--Do you want me to--I might not know--”

Shushing her, Misty took one of her hands. “Just use your hands. Okay?” Cordelia’s arm shivered, but she nodded. Misty placed Cordelia’s hand on top of her bushy pubic mound, the ungroomed hair there growing wild and unruly. She guided Cordelia’s fingers to touch her just as she would touch herself. “Right there…” Misty’s leg muscles tightened as Cordelia’s finger found her clitoris and, with a featherlight touch, trailed up and down it, following the muscle structures and then going back to the bulb. Lying like that, beside Cordelia, face to face, she could taste the other woman’s breath on her tongue.

Cordelia kissed her. Misty wrapped an arm around Cordelia’s neck, holding her close. Cordelia’s mouth opened, leaving room for Misty’s tongue to wriggle inside, and she sucked on the intruding muscle with a thick purr building in the back of her throat. The sound of Cordelia’s sweet sound made all of the hair on the back of Misty’s neck stand up. She was crazy about this woman. She didn’t know how or why, but she wanted nothing more than to protect Cordelia for as long as she lived, with every breath in her body. Had she gone too long without human contact or affection? Or was it something else entirely?

“Sh…” Misty wondered if she was thinking too loudly as Cordelia shushed her. Nose burrowing into Misty’s hair, she inhaled deeply. Misty relished in each gentle touch Cordelia placed on her roughened, weatherworn body. The single finger Cordelia used on Misty’s clitoris moved a little faster. “Do you want more?”

Misty shook her head as she spread her legs. “N-No…” Speaking in complete words was a challenge. She had to work to clear her mind from the overwhelming pleasure crawling up her abdomen and down into her trembling thighs. “Ugh… Cordelia…” Her back wiggled. Her hips turned upward, toward Cordelia’s hand. “This is enough--” The twitching finger moved harder, faster. Misty’s breath hitched. It fanned heavier across Cordelia’s face. Heavy breaths met her in turn. “Ack!”

It had been so long since a woman had touched her like this, she had almost forgotten what it was like to taste another woman’s breath in the back of her throat, an intruder walking into her house and taking a seat on her couch. She never wanted Cordelia to get off of her couch. Spreading her legs further apart, she gazed at Cordelia’s beautiful face in the dim candlelight. Her marbled blue eyes reflected the yellow flames in strange patterns, not like the glossy surface to a regular person’s eyes. God, she’s so beautiful. Misty tangled her hands in her hair, pressing her face against Cordelia’s.

Eyelashes against her skin, Cordelia’s eyes flickered closed. Misty peppered kisses across the mutilated pink skin. Cordelia nuzzled upward into her sweet, gentle touches. Her finger moved faster across Misty’s clitoris. “Mm…” Closing her eyes, Misty tensed. She could feel the peak of her orgasm drawing nearer. Cordelia hooked her legs into Misty’s and held them apart. “Oh, fuck--” Misty’s hips began to move back and forth in a seesaw rhythm, driven by the strain teasing all over her body. “I’m--I’m really close,” she gasped to Cordelia, eyes flickering. “It’s right--right there--”

Her body began to tighten. The muscles in her lower back contracted and held fast. Her clitoris twitched. The full force of her orgasm washed over her, exploding stars behind her eyes as tingling rushed from her vagina down her trembling legs and up her spine. “Ugh… Mm…” She drew out a long, growling moan for Cordelia as the orgasm pushed through her.

The finger slipped downward from Misty’s clitoris toward the vestibule of her vagina. Misty tensed--she didn’t want to be penetrated, especially not now, after she had just fallen from the precipice of an orgasm and been left with all of her hypersensitive nerves. But Cordelia didn’t attempt to penetrate her. She scooped up the lubricant Misty had produced. Then, with a bright red face, she stuck her finger into her mouth. Misty chuckled, and she leaned forward to kiss her. “Thank you, chere.”

“Can we stay here?” Cordelia asked in a bare whisper. Blue eyes darted to her, confused by her question. “I know--I know we need to go back, but…”

Misty cupped her cheek in her hand. How desperately she wanted to say yes, to agree that Cordelia could stay out here with her. But the swamp was no place for a city person. How many days would Cordelia go before she was unhappy without a shower? Without warm food? Without cooked meat? “I’m taking you home tomorrow. Them girls need you. They look up to you, even if they don’t realize it. Somebody’s gotta protect them from Fiona.”

“I’ve never even been able to protect myself from Fiona.” Cordelia leaned into Misty’s hand. “Come with me,” she begged. “We need you. You may be the next Supreme--You may be the only one who can stop Fiona.”

Misty was not a fan of the whole Supreme business. She knew she had walked through that house and suffered from the overwhelming notion that she would die there. But Cordelia wanted her. How could she say no? “I’ll do whatever you want me to do, darling… I just want you to be safe.” Holding Cordelia in her arms, she wondered if she had ever guarded something so precious before in her life. She didn’t think so. She had found her tribe. It was Cordelia.

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