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sserpente · 3 years

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A/N: Requests from @watermelon1568, @lokisgirl5, @cocoamoonmalfoy and anon. This is so fluffy and maybe a little silly, but in a good way! Enjoy everyone and have a good Christmas Eve! ♥

Words: 2635 Warnings: so much fluff, mentions of blood, implied smut

Additional NSFW warning: This Imagine contains implied period sex, just in case this is something you are uncomfortable with.

Loki might be a tiny tad OOC in this one because the requests were just so fluffy but I did my best! Enjoy!

Loki sighed. There you were again, running around with a list in hand looking much like the one Santa Clause had been carrying in that Christmas film Thor had forced him to watch. For the past few days, weeks almost, actually, you had been collecting everyone’s Christmas wishes like a squirrel collecting nuts for the winter. Even he knew everyone’s Christmas wishes by now. You had truly asked everybody, even the cleaning women who came to tidy up the entire Avengers facility once a week.

Loki could not quite put his finger on what it was that fascinated him so much about you—all he did know was that he too wanted to get you a Christmas present, if only just to see the surprised look on your face. He almost snorted. It was disappointment he felt, disappointment and envy because he longed to be the one to put a smile on your face on Christmas Day—and he didn’t even celebrate Christmas, not really.

Furthermore, he had not failed to notice how you avoided his presence like you were playing cat and mouse. You had, much to his surprise, asked him for his Christmas wish too the other day, all timid and unable to look him in the eye and Loki had been so taken aback he had not known an answer. The God of Mischief was many things but he was not blind and not stupid—he was perceptive. Villain or not, you were into him—and he was going to get your confession.

Smirking to himself, and determined to put an end to playing tag, he followed you into the empty hallway on your way back to your room, pushed past you and then unceremoniously blocked your way.

“O-Oh… hey, Loki.” You chirped.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“I, uh, actually, um… n-no?”

“Well, you did ask me what I wanted for Christmas, did you not?”

“Oh!” Your face lit up. “Oh, yes! Yes, what would you like?”

Loki thought about it for a moment. He needed an answer fast to not look like a moron now.

His lips parted. “I do miss writing with a quill and ink. Could you acquire a set for me? Surely, they are still being used on Midgard.”

Geez! How had you not thought about that? Loki truly was a scholar with all those books in his room, and that was a marvellous idea. “Y-yes, of course!” You responded, nodding eagerly in the process. But when you moved forward, Loki, instead of letting you pass now, put his hand against the wall so you were trapped.

“Hmm… Is there a particular reason you always get so nervous in my presence?” He asked. Your eyes widened. Fuck.

“Y-you… you tried to… you almost took over t-the p-planet, you k-know.” You lied quickly.

“Ah, yes. Of course… that must be it.” He responded with a knowing smirk. Oh, fuck. Did he have to be so god damn gorgeous?

“You never said what it was you want for Christmas, my dear.” He said then, blue eyes locking with yours. Your heart skipped a beat—no, actually, you were wondering whether it was still beating at all. You did have a Christmas wish, of course and you wanted to do backflips all across the hallway that Loki of all people took an interest in what you’d like—or maybe he just wanted to make conversation. Keep calm.

“Oh… it’s silly. Not really possible.” You replied sheepishly, gasping when he hooked a finger under your chin to gently force you to look up at him. He was definitely going to be the death of you.

“Tell me.” He urged you on.

“The only thing I… I’ve always wanted to have a dog. A loyal non-human companion, someone to cuddle with when it’s cold and who will never judge me but love me just the way I am… and they are just so cute! But that’s not possible,” You repeated quickly. “Imagine an innocent little puppy when everything’s on fire and another alien race attacks the planet!”

Loki hummed. Dogs were not common on Asgard. He himself had had a pet snake growing but released it into the wild after Thor and his friends had repeatedly stolen it to play silly and dangerous games. He could see why you kept that wish to yourself. Living among the Avengers, a dog might get in the way during missions—he did not doubt it would be helpful and capable of tearing off their enemies’ faces but your worry for it would distract you from a fight.

Still… perhaps there was a way. A smirk grew on his lips and your flustered reaction to it pleased him, making it grow wider.

It was early Christmas morning when Loki returned. It had taken him all of his wit and cunningness to leave the Avengers facilities unattended and without anyone asking suspicious questions but he had succeeded. The wooden box he was carrying—with many holes in them so the little creature could breathe—Loki sneaked across the hallway and past your room to hide his present for you in his own, already imagining your priceless reaction… was he hoping for a hug? Oh, he was. When was the last time anyone had hugged him? Perhaps you would, upon receiving the fluffy little creature in the box.

The dog winced. “Shh! Quiet, you silly little creature, you are going to wake up your mother!”

It was then he heard an ear-piercing scream coming from your room. He nearly dropped the box, turning on his heel to storm into your room like a tornado annihilating everything in its path. Your bed was empty, the sheets ruffled. There was a small beam of light coming from your bathroom—the closer he came, the more he could make out the rustling of fabric.

“I bloody hate being a woman…” You murmured to yourself, making the God of Mischief frown. Alarmed, he stepped closer and entered the bathroom without knocking—he barely remembered to set the box aside to draw his daggers if need be.

You were sat on the toilet, your white Christmas pyjamas with candy canes and gingerbread men on them soiled with blood. Loki’s eyes widened. There was blood on the floor too… and on your fingers.

His fingers were itching to materialise his weapons, yet he could see no enemy who could have attacked you. You gasped when he barged into the room, concealing your nakedness from the waist down with some toilet paper.

“What in the nine happened to you?” The amount of blood was almost concerning for a mortal. Had someone surprised you in your sleep? Who had managed to break into the Avengers facilities in the first place?

“How did you get in here? No wait, you’re awake already? Umm… Merry Christmas?” You swallowed. Talk about embarrassing yourself in front of the God of Mischief.

“We need to get you to a healer… a doctor, that is what you call them here?” You stared at him for a moment.

The last thing he expected was for you to burst out laughing. The whole situation was so hilarious you even forgot to be nervous around him for once.

“Oh, Loki… I’m okay, I’m not dying, I promise. I got surprised by my period, is all.”

“Your… period? Your period… as in your menstruation cycle?”

“Yes. Do women on Asgard not have that?”

“They do but… not like this.” Heavens, he felt stupid. He had thought you were dying, openly shown his concern… and you had laughed.

“Loki…” It was like you had heard his thoughts. “Thank you for checking on me. I was just being frustrated but I promise I’m okay.” You had probably disturbed his sleep but the fact that Loki cared enough to come to your help, admitting that just perhaps… he actually liked you. “W-would you mind?” Loki raised his brows, his lips parting.

“Yes, of course.”

He turned around for you to get dressed again (never before had you been more grateful for the pile of more or less dirty laundry on the floor next to your toilet) and nodded, only realising now that he had indeed just proved that one way or another, he had taken a liking into you. It was then the dog winced again just outside the bathroom door.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. In fact, I shall leave you… how did you get out of that box?” Eager and curious, the puppy must have somehow knocked its wooden box over. When Loki looked behind him, he found the lid on the floor, the young dog hurtling towards you.

“Oh my god! Hey there, little guy! Where did you come from?” You giggled when the dog attempted to jump up on you. You picked it up, grinning when it licked your face. “Aren’t you adorable?”

Loki pursed his lips. Oh, great. Now he was getting the hug. He furrowed his brows. Heavens, this was an innocent little puppy. Against all reason, he already loved the little guy with all his heart himself, how could he possibly feel jealous?

“You were not supposed to see it yet. I was going to put the box under the Christmas tree.”

“R-really? You mean… he’s for me? Oh, Loki… but h-how? I mean… I love him. But how can I keep him safe here? Is that really a good idea?”

“Well… he is, in fact, not a normal dog.” Loki remarked.

Your eyes widened. “What does that mean?”

“Dogs are rare on Asgard but there are indeed a few traders who raise them. This unprepossessing creature has a life expectancy five times as high as Midgardian dogs—not to mention it is stronger, more intelligent and much like Thor and me, more resistant to pain and injury.”

“You’re a superdog then, aren’t you? Yes, you are, such a good boy. I need a name for him.” You announced. Loki raised his arms. That would be your decision. His pet snake had never had a name. “I’ll think of something.” Smiling, you stepped forward and kissed Loki on the cheek whose lips parted in surprise.

“Thank you so much. I didn’t think you would… why did you?” He said nothing in response. He couldn’t possibly tell you that he wanted a hug and that the only person he wanted it from was you. Your lips on his face had already felt like liquid fire, warming him from the inside out. Heavens, what was wrong with him? You were a mortal. He couldn’t possibly like you this much.

“You should go back to bed.” He said after a while, clearing his throat. “It is still early.” You nodded. He was right. Besides, you and your little puppy needed to get to know each other.

Needless to say, however, you couldn’t fall asleep again after you had gotten changed into new pyjamas and then cuddled with your new pet. Loki had gotten you a dog. Why? He owed you nothing, and quite on the contrary, you highly doubted Loki would even bother to get the rest of the Avengers a Christmas gift.

In the meantime, Loki himself returned to his room, shaking his head in the process. He was being ridiculous. The other day in the hallway, he had still managed to remain composed but the more time he spent around you, the softer he became for you.

He had been worried for you upon seeing all that blood and it had scared him. Love and affection weren’t exactly emotions he got to experience a lot and then for a human of all species…

He realised with a start just what it was that was happening to him. He was courting you, wasn’t he? He had not done anything alike in years, the last time for a beautiful Asgardian woman who had turned out to take more interest in Thor than him.

Loki was no expert on dating. He had never had the need for it… not until you. A growl escaped his lips. How dangerous for his already shattered heart would it be to give in to his desire and make you smile again? To feel your lips against his skin once more?

Another growl. He was addicted to you already. Jumping up from the bed, he left the facilities again, this time to head a few miles west. Frigga had always said that love goes through the stomach. He might as well try that strategy out.

About two hours later, there was a soft knock on your door. You stirred, eyes fluttering open. Your puppy—you had still not thought of a name for it—had curled up in your arms, still sleeping soundly.

“Yes?”

The door opened to reveal Loki. With a smirk, he produced something from behind his back—a box with the logo of your favourite pancake shop on it. Your jaw dropped.

“Merry Christmas.” He announced.

“Oh my goodness… Loki, you are so sweet.”

The God of Mischief raised an eyebrow. “Sweet is not exactly what I was hoping for.” He replied, albeit smiling. You sat up carefully to not wake the puppy, accepting the pancakes all the while licking your lips hungrily. Now that was one way to start Christmas Day.

“How about considerate?” You tried again, smiling up at him sweetly. Loki smirked, hands clasped behind his back. He almost appeared a little… awkward.

You longed to ask him why he was doing all this but then again… you could think of only one answer. It couldn’t possibly be, no?

“Care to share? They are really good.”

“It appears so. The entire restaurant smelled like a sugar realm.”

“Is that a thing?”

“No.”

“Oh… pity.” He chuckled.

Twenty minutes in which you silently ate with relish went by, the puppy still sleeping peacefully in your bed, with you unable to stop petting it all the time. Once you had finished the very last bite, you simply dropped the empty takeaway-packaging on the floor.

“Thank you so much, Loki. I couldn’t have imagined better Christmas presents.”

He nodded, watching your every move as you moved in to give him another kiss on the cheek.

This time though, in just this moment, Loki turned his head to face you again, your lips landing on his instead. You gasped, even more so when he deepened the kiss, moving his mouth gently against yours, tongue slipping between your lips to taste you. Oh my god. Loki was kissing you. Loki was kissing you!

It felt like a demon from Muspelheim had set his body on fire, from the inside out. Loki was ablaze. Unable to stop himself, his arms came up to pull you closer into his body until you were straddling him, your fingers digging into his clothes. You both knew where this was going.

There was no doubt you were going to wake up the little dog when you pushed him back on the mattress, overcome with a sudden confidence and hunger that made you feel invincible. Loki did not object. The only reason you hesitated was the fact you remembered just then that you were on your period. Reluctantly, you pulled away.

“Loki… maybe we should do this… another time. My… period, remember?”

“A little bit of blood will not stop me from ravishing you, my dear.” Your heart skipped a beat.

“A-are you sure?”

Loki nodded slowly and intimately, his blue gaze never leaving yours.

Next thing you knew, the both of you lost all of your layers of clothing one by one. Scratch making a list for Christmas presents for your friends to make them happy… you couldn’t quite believe that Loki actually reciprocated your affection for him. This certainly was the most amazing Christmas yet.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate it so much if you considered supporting me on Kofi! It’s either for caffeine or red wine, I’ll take both. ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

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sugardaddytonystark · 3 years

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Release Life’s Rapture (part 3)

You stay at your godfather’s ludus for the summer, where you meet Jacobus, his champion gladiator.

author: sugardaddytonystark pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader word count: 2038

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x picture by @264jana x

That night, you dream of making love to Sol, god of the sun. His hair is as brown as the earth, eyes deep and blue as the dawning sky. His skin is bronzed from the sun to which he so lovingly attends, and in return for his diligence, his entire body is encircled in a halo of everlasting golden light.

You and your god are lain upon a large tanned hide, abed a field of green grass, deepened to a dim blue-green in the dark night. Sol looms above you, a single point of light against an otherwise black sky. He is bare as you, and where the god touches you, your flesh burns, his hands too hot for a mere mortal to withstand, his mouth too scalding. But there’s always a price for pleasure, and a night with a being as divine as he is worth the pain in exchange.

So you wrap your thighs tight around the god’s hips as he thrusts into you, unrelentless, his cock thick and heavy inside of your aching cunt. He’s filling you up, stretching you full, making you feel a burning so different from the fevered warmth of his skin against your own. Your back arches as you seek out more contact, your heated, human flesh so fragile against the sun god’s searing skin.

Your lover has your wrists above your head, one of his wide, rough palms holding them in place. The other is gripping your jaw, turning your face away from his so that he may nose at your throat and cheek and ear. His hot breath sends shivers down your spine and when Sol speaks, words like whispers so deep and low, you can’t make out their meaning, but delight in the sounds all the same.

Your cries reach out into the deep, empty, endless night. The noise echo back into your ears and you feel blissfully alone - detached from the world and your existence, everything narrowed down to you and your god and this familiar but indescribable thing coiling in your stomach.

Your breath catches as you feel Sol’s pace quicken, his hands tightening around your wrists and jaw. He bites down against the curve of your neck and hot tears spill down your cheeks as you feel him find his release inside of you.

You sob and shake, you ache and burn. Sol whispers your name back into your mouth, guiding you closer and closer and closer with his hands and his cock and his words. You feel him around you, inside you, urging you on, but when you finally reach your peak, it’s not the god’s name that you call out in prayer.

Blessed night has settled into another day, your god forced to return to the sky once more to fulfill his duty, leaving you with mere memories of his blazing touch. But, as a remembrance, he sends sunlight streaming through your open window, stroking your body and keeping you warm and satiated until the time may come for the god to descend upon you once again.

You long to stay abed, to wait for that moment when night falls so that you may once again greet your lover with open arms and open legs. You want to once again lose yourself to dreams - a much more appealing prospect than this waking nightmare. Even half asleep, you feel the sudden sting of freshly remembered heartbreak.

You’re grateful for your god - the divine Sol who saw you hurting and granted you solace from your pain. Hair like the earth, you remember, like the soil from whence life springs. Rich brown and lush and soft beneath your fingers. His body built like it was made for toil, strong and deliberately fashioned. And his eyes – blue like the sky. Like the sea.

Unfortunately, your companion, Octavia, does not allow you to dwell in fantasy. She’s no longer beside you in bed, always early to rise and greet the day before the sun has had a chance to ascend.

“You’re awake,” she says, more a command than a question.

“Yes. And I had the most wonderful dream,” you tell her, giving up all thoughts of returning to slumber as you stretch out along the bed, arms up and back arched. “I fucked a god. He set my body aflame and then I turned to ash in his hands.”

“And this was a good dream?” Octavia asks, incredulous.

You sigh. “It was magnificent.”

You sit up in bed as you recall your dream, rubbing your wrists, sore from where your lover pinned you down in his blistering grasp. Octavia reaches out and grabs your wrists in her own hand, looking it over, and when you look down at it as well, you see bruises instead of burns. The marks of someone other than your god upon you.

“Better to suffer a lover forged from dreams,” Octavia says, releasing your wrist, “than one based in cruel reality.”

“One and the same,” you reply softly. Because you’re no fool. You know the being who visits your dream is both god and man, one image of the other. “Why do you think Jacobus so cruel?” you continue, louder this time. “Do you think he’s always been that way?”

“I think that you should remove him from your thoughts,” Octavia tells you as she returns, holding a cream length of fine fabric for your stola. “Would it please you to wear this today?”

“He is well removed,” you tell her in reply, and Octavia scoffs.

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, considering. The color is too bland to convey how you feel this morning. You need something deeper, and more rich. “I have something blue, do I not? Like… like the sky right at the height of the sun’s ascent. Something like that?”

Octavia raises an eyebrow at you, unimpressed. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

After you groom and dress, you find yourself on the villa balcony, where Alexander and Ophelia are eating their morning meal. On the table before them is a modest spread of cheese and bread and fruit. In their hands are ever-present cups of wine. Behind the pair, a slave cools them off with a large fan made of feathers as they lounge upon their cushioned chaises.

The heat is almost overwhelming, even in the mid-morning when the sun has yet to reach its peak. Already, a thin sheen of sweat has gathered on your skin. Already, you can feel the fevered weight of existence heavy on your shoulders.

The heat and the drought has been a source of discontentment for all in Capua, the shortage of water drying out even the most well-attended bath and turning once-fertile soil into dust. Below the balcony, the gladiators are kicking up the dust and the sand with every movement, the sun baking the grains into a hard-packed floor for the men to move around upon. It crumbles underfoot and sends clouds of earth into the air, covering the men and all things else lowly enough to get in its way.

But this is all commonplace to you now. The crash of wooden sword against wooden shield, of dull-tipped spear and trident, of pain and triumph, have all come to be familiar sounds to you and this morning fares no differently. The men have no doubt been at it for hours already, waking early to begin their training, breaking for their morning meal, then back at it once more before you were even out of bed.

You chance a look down at the men, and your eyes are immediately drawn toward Jacobus, brandishing two swords against another gladiator with sword and shield. His usual demeanor is darkened, his ferocity obvious by tenfold today, and you can’t help but believe that you are the cause.

You wonder if the gladiator sought companionship last night after you were so viciously turned away. You never sent anyone in your stead, as he requested, not able to bear the thought of another giving him the pleasure that you so desperately wish you could give. Did Jacobus blame you for soiling the night of such a celebrated victory? Will he ever forgive you your desire and your deceit?

The champion looks up toward the balcony, blue eyes ablaze, and you avert your gaze by busying yourself with choosing just the right bunch of grapes from a serving tray held up to you by one of Alexander’s slaves.

“The men are of a poor form today,” you muse, attempting to steady your heart as you pluck a grape off of its stem. You place the fruit in your mouth and find the courage to look back down onto the training ground. With both relief and disappointment, you find that Jacobus has once again resumed his training.

“Wine and whores do have a way of dulling the senses,” Alexander replies. “Which reminds me, how did the champion enjoy his gift?”

You give your godfather a false smile, already weary of the reminder of the night passed. “She was well received,” you answer, not missing the way Octavia looks at you out of the corner of your eye. “Who would not enjoy such a remarkable tribute?”

Before Alexander can respond, the snap of a whip resonates through the training ground and up onto the balcony, drawing the attention of those upon it. You take a step closer and both Alexander and Ophelia stand to get a better look at what is transpiring down below.

“Attend!” Doctore bellows, voice carrying through the air. The men halt their training and turn their attention to Fury, the Doctore – trainer – of Alexander’s ludus. “Forget everything you learned outside these walls. For that is the world of men. We are more! We are gladiators!”

The men cheer, a great roar rising up to where you stand that nearly forces you back in its enthusiasm. Your hands grip the banister to keep you steady, listening intently as if Doctore was speaking to you and not the gladiators in his charge.

“Study. Train. Bleed!” Doctore continues. “And one day your name will be legend, spoken in hushed whispers of fear and awe. As the city speaks of Jacobus, the Champion of Capua!”

More cheers as the gladiator stands distinguished among his brothers. In your chest, you feel a swell of pride. But also, irritation. You’ll have no solace from your pain here and you will not waste your day grieving over what should have been. You feign disinterest while taking a bite of cheese.

“But his legend was not birthed in the arena,” Doctore says. “It was given life here, in this ludus. Under the sting of my whip! Attack!”

The men go at it again with a renewed vigor, grunting and howling, wooden swords clashing with dull but resonating thuds. How easily these men are worked into a fervor! And how easily your passion swells likewise. This business of gladiators is a sordid thing, but you would be false to say that there is no art in it. Surely, anyone who watches someone such as Jacobus move could see the skill and cleverness in every gesture.

“Doctore, attend,” Alexander calls to Doctore, then turns to kiss Ophelia’s temple. “We are off to market.”

His words pique your interest. You feel as though you will go mad if you stay stuck in the villa all day with nothing to entertain you save the sounds of the gladiators training. Besides, you think you should buy something new for the reception for the Vulcanalia. This will be the first time in ages that you will be able to socialize with people other than your godfather and his wife, and you plan to make the most of it.

"Godfather, allow me to accompany you,” you say. “Weeks in Capua and I have yet to go to market!"

Alexander considers you for a moment and then nods his head, giving you the approval that you need. Your smile must be infectious because the otherwise somber man’s lips upturn slightly as he notes your excitement.

“Let us away, then,” Alexander says to you, then turns and heads inside the villa, you following close behind.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #dahlia writes stuff #fic release life's rapture

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laughingpinecone · 4 years

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10008w, General Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Oralech/Volfred/Tariq, Oralech & Tariq Characters: Tariq, Oralech, Volfred Additional Tags: V turning into a triad, Understanding, snitches get stitches unless they're cute and fluffy Summary:

A persistent echo lingers in their wake.

Chocobox treat for jasp!

There is a dead end on the parapets up on the outer walls. It is a proud, wide arch, ending on a pillar that sits upon the outskirts of the capital, as if the city itself was having second thoughts about corralling itself away from the lands it governs. The late afternoon sun casts a maze of shadows over the pavement of the walk. The way to the end is clear, but out of respect, Tariq will not cross the sharp shapes of cranes, planks, slabs, distant turrets and half-finished pinnacles. Oralech stands at the end, like a statue watching over the Union whole (claws gripping the scaffolding that keeps him from a steep fall. Enough of those).

Resting under a nearby pinnacle, Tariq follows, admired, the dialogue between Oralech’s presence, the city’s presence clamoring down below, the way Oralech’s shadow melts into those of the city and drags behind him like a mantle. It is a complex web of roles and belonging. Of heartache, maybe. Tariq follows it on the strings of his lute, plucking somber notes for Oralech, about Oralech, posing open questions he has no answers for at the end of the bar.

“Coward,” says Oralech. He does not turn around; his voice is clear. “To talk behind people’s back is the act of a coward.”

Tariq lowers his lute. “Beg your pardon?”

“Do not feign ignorance. You speak meanings with your music, but it is not a language I can understand.”

“Shall I fall silent?”

“No. Play it again, slower.”

There is a gap between them. There has been a gap between them since the days of their travels in the Blackwagon, before the fall and before the Plan took root within Tariq. Now it spans the distance between stars. Oralech’s interest feels, for a moment, like a rope cast through the skies.

So Tariq plays it again, this doleful tune that is the sound of Oralech in his life. He plays the simple melody first, then goes back to the beginning to explore its variations, repetition built upon repetition until a meaning manifests itself: the Scribes, their Will, this new Plan as a manifestation of that old Will, the new society free from the ills of the old, again and again. An individual tries to find a path through this bright and glorious frame, but their pain is gilded, their toiling wrapped in fates. Individuality falls into the cracks of great designs. The song fades. The moon is too far away.

Oralech speaks: “And you do not rage against this injustice?” The demon’s grip makes the scaffolding give out an anguished creaking. “You do not scream until the sky falls down?”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, you. Does it feel like coming back from the stars was not enough? Your act of universal defiance too demure?” He strides back, trampling the shadows. His gaze burns. Tariq takes in that warmth. Brings a hand to his mouth. Not even Celeste dared to speak to him so.

“Surely you understand, sir, that this conversation is not about me.”

“How improper that would be. Oh, Ti’zo told me of this habit of yours. I had forgotten, or never noticed at all. You’d talk about a blade of grass before talking about yourself, but then only insofar as it is often trampled on and can be made to sing.” For a moment he hesitates, and Tariq ponders the tolls of straightforwardness. Embracing one’s open wounds. Then Oralech speaks again, with strained understanding: “I am a doctor of my own people, of saps by now, sometimes of curs. I do not know what ails you. But I can listen. If it involves being discarded off a mountain... or not being certain of where freedom begins... or both at once... rest assured that I know how to listen.”

May the stars shine ever brightly on you, Tariq would say, and he would mean every word of it, but there are no new stars in the night sky and the topic is fraught anyway.

They rest in silence until Volfred surprises them on the parapets – could be that Tariq’s unvoiced blessing has been heeded and the first star of this new world has come to pay them a visit, radiant already, gleaming above his city in the early evening. This one, he is sure, Oralech will not mind. Volfred strolls toward them, Ti’zo in tow as is often the case, perching now on the Prime Minister’s shoulder, now in the hollow of his head.

“My loves, dearest companions,” he addresses them, and they both know at once that what his mood really means is that the negotiations that have kept him busy for the better part of the week are taking a turn for the better. Oralech laughs, enough for both of them, and goes to greet him and tell him about his day. Tariq picks up his lute again, replaying this moment of understanding in his own language, in F minor, wondering if such a fleeting thing could survive in Volfred’s presence. Not yet, he concludes. One day, but not yet. He shall leave the mortals to their brief time together and think about today.

As he passes them by on his way back to the bustling city, he takes the time to caress Volfred’s shoulder (thankful, longing, abstract – Volfred would understand all he means by that) and nudge Ti’zo to join him. The imp obliges, hopping onto his extended arm. Tariq warbles something at him; by the time Ti’zo’s reply is over, the evening wind has swept their chirps away and their silhouettes are lost in the twilight haze.

“Imp-speech comes not easy to me,” says Oralech, holding Volfred close as the wind rises. Soon they, too, shall head back. “And in truth Tariq’s accent sounds like no drive-imp I’ve heard. But I bet you a button that his warbling spelled out to talk behind people’s back is the act of a coward...”

“How so?”

He hums. “A hunch.”

Volfred raises an eyebrow and neither confirms nor denies the translation.

#pyre #volfred sandalwood #oralech #tariq the lone minstrel #fanfiction

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mischiefapprentice · 4 years

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1: Don’t Mess With Life and Death (Mischief’s Bride)

August 2003

Loki

"Please! Someone help me!"

That is all I can hear as I stroll along Hyde Park. The cold breeze of winter calms me down as it hits my pale skin, and I am more than thankful that it does not conjure my Jotünn form, as it can destroy a place whenever my rage comes. Even though my time in the original timeline is over, my strengths and powers never left me. They will be always a part of me until my last breath.

It has been more than 900 years since I have been 'ressurected' from death. The thought of seeing my companions die pained me as centuries passed, and I am tired living for eternity. If it weren't for that force that pulled my soul back to my dead body, I am with my mother Frigga already. I am sure that she may be dead by now. How I missed her so much.

"Please, anyone help me!"

Her loud wails can be heard from half a mile away from the park. I cannot help but go to her and see what happened to her. Is she the bride I am looking for? I hope so. She must be the one.

When I arrived to where the woman was, I see crimson blood staining the pure whiteness of snow. Did a murder scene happen? I must be too late already. I decide to follow the bloodstream to locate her, and found a beautiful woman surrounded with blood. She was terribly injured. It's like someone hit her violently that she bleed lots of blood. Who on earth could do this to this mortal?

"P-please help me... I'm carrying an unborn baby with me, and I cannot bear the thought of losing her." The woman mutters.

I sigh. She's carrying a child, and someone had the guts to physically abuse her. I sense her time of death getting closer and closer. It crawls like how a robber walks towards the house it chose to plunder. One's death may not be predicted by man, but us goblins could sense it.

It's against nature to meddle with life and death of a mortal. It is a change of cycle that you cannot just alter, for it requires a great price to pay. You cannot change what may happen to you, for it can also affect others. One is a part of a butterfly change; action affects action; one slight change affects your whole life.

"S-sir, p-please help m-me... I'm dying." She tells me. I could feel her baby's heartbeat, as if it tells me that I must save them both. I also could feel that her baby is my bride to be. I should help them both after all, shouldn't I?

I'm in this dilemma of choosing whether to heal her or let death kill them both. I cannot mess up with life and death. However, rules are also meant to be broken, right? I can defy whatever rule it is, if it means for them to live. I will go against nature.

"Miss, I may not be the divinity you seek, but I offer you extended time to live and see your daughter grow." I weakly smile at the woman. Shimmers of blue and green light appear on my hand as I performed a spell that will elongate both of their lives. As it comes to an end, I could really sense that she bears my bride. I could tell that she is as beautiful, kind and wise as this woman. How I wish I can make time go fast that I can meet her already.

I see her smile weakly as I cast the spell on her. I could hear her ask how I knew it is a girl. I really could feel that it is a she, not a he. At a blink of an eye, I disappeared to another place.

I know she'll live a long life, and she'll bring joy to my bride's world. In her care, I am confident that she will grow into a fine-looking and well-mannered lady, just like how I wished women are. Someday, I'll find her again.

Stephen

Christine Wayland Time of death: 20:34 Cause: Car Accident Abigail Wayland Time of Death: 20:34 Cause: Miscarriage

When I arrived, I cannot find the soul of this woman. All I see is blood from the scene, and her footsteps. Someone messed with life and death. No one can meddle with the life cycle. I sighed, noting that I have a missing soul to find. Who could have the courage to alter nature's way? The baby should also be dead by now. I don't ill-wish the mother, but it has to be that way.

I leave the area, fearing that someone might see me and accuse me of murder. Oh, I remember: I cannot be seen by men. I am just a mere spirit, fetching souls and leading them either to afterlife or to despair. This is the work of a grim reaper; it can be tiring, knowing that many souls are around. Some just wander off the streets of London and try to seek others' attention.

"So, did you get your last soul for tonight?" Ishmael asks me as we log out for tonight. He has reached over half of his quota. I have exceeded twice of his, though. He is new to this job.

"No, and the last one is quite strange. I have her name on my list buti didn't see her soul nor her body." I tell him. He scrunches his brows in confusion. I hear him think who could've done it. "Have you heard of the Goblin?" He asks me. "I think he is the one responsible for that."

I ponder on that speculation he gave me. He is one of the missing soul our boss wants us to take care of. The goblin has been missing for almost 900 years and no one has managed to capture him and bring him to the afterlife. His name sounds familiar to me, but I don't know where have I heard of it. Our superiors have told us about it and reminded us to keep watch and report to them regarding the said missing soul.

As I came home, I now prepared to move out of the house I am renting for five years. I found a better place to stay in. I have a few things to pack, since I ain't fond of having unnecessary things to have, so that it won't be difficult for me to move out. My colleagues would complain of how heavy their things are whenever they move out of their spaces .

When I peek out of my window, I recognized the man who they call the Goblin... But wait. Is that...

Loki?

Didn't he die from Thanos's hands? How come he is... Darn. This is another alternate reality, and he of course would be alive. And he turned into a goblin? What happened?

I was about to call him, but I see fear in his eyes when he saw me. He didn't manage to wave at me nor smile. I didn't mean harm to him. Wait. I am a grim reaper, and we are on the watch for him. He sensed me!

Sighing, I tried to reach out to Thor, but still failed. I cannot conjure a portal to where he is. How I wanted to tell him that his brother is alive on another timeline. How I really wish.

Loki

I feel like I did a grave mistake with meddling with the life and death of that woman. She must be dead by now. I saved her, and my future bride. I don't want to wait for another 900 years to meet my bride.

Living eternally has its own ups and downs. Yes, you get to live for a very long time, but you have to suffer the pain of losing your loved ones. Seeing them pass on to the afterlife relieves me, but I wish that I am with them there, living peacefully and without suffering.

Seeing Stephen made me relieved and uneasy at the same time. He is known as Doctor Strange in the timeline I came from, but he is known as a grim reaper in this one. I wished to say hello to them, but I cannot. I know that they have heard of me as one of the missing souls and I am on their watch.

I now ask myself: what if I just remained on that timeline? Would all of this happen? Would I stumble on a curse that makes me suffer from emotional pain that I wished myself death? Would I watch every single person I love die and wither with time?

When I arrive home, my loyal friend Lord William Hathford and his grandson Arnie James welcome me into their home. Their home will be my home from now on, until I decide to move to some other place where I can meet my bride. "It's good to see you again, sir." Lord William greets me. "You too, Mister." I greet them. "Still fine-looking as of the old days, aren't we?" He chuckled. "Oh, here is my grandson, Arnie Jason."

I smile at the boy. He reminds me of Peter Parker. I haven't met him yet, but I know that he exists in the timeline I have been in. "Hi, Jason. Nice to meet you!"

The boy hides a little bit behind Lord William. His brown hair makes me want to ruffle and mess it.

"James, don't be shy. He will be with us from now on." The old man says.

"No, it's fine. Maybe another time will do." I weakly smile at them. I really can't get my mind off that woman I saved from her death. William notices my bereft. "Sir, I know when you are deep in thought. Did something happen on your way home?" I sigh. "There's this woman I healed on my way home. She's in the verge of dying, and she is pregnant with a daughter."

William seats beside me as I narrated the whole event. His brows furrowed as I told him that I felt that she bears my bride. He told me of a prophesy where it tells that a Goblin, which I am, will save a woman who is about to die. The woman bears the Goblin's bride, the girl who shall draw the sword out of him. "How sure are you that it's the bride's mother?" He asks me. I shrug my shoulders. "I don't base on whether she bears my bride or not. What matters most is that I saved her from sudden death. That man shall pay for his insolence towards her."

William smiles, knowing that I have indeed changed for the better. He was with me when I was so down and no one believes me. He also knew of my true identity as an Asgardian who just got in another timeline. He is my most loyal friend. How do I repay him for his loyalty and support?

#avengers #BenedictCumberbatch #tomhiddleston #loki (marvel)#souls #goblin kdrama #jeffgoldblum #godofmischief #grim reaper

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kian-bera · 5 years

Text

July 12th

You May be asking what’s so important about today’s date that I made a whole thing about it. Well today is the death day of one Alexander Hamilton

215 years and a day ago Alexander met Aaron Burr in Weehawken, New Jersey. It was the result of long bitter tensions between the two men, starting with Aaron Burr won a senate seat over Philip Schuyler, Alexander’s father in law. Hamilton wrote many bitter letters about the senator often to his friend and former army companion James Mchenry. Part of a letter reads as follows,

”Nothing has given me so much chagrin as the Intelligence that the Federal party were thinking seriously of supporting Mr. Burr for president. I should consider the execution of the plan as devoting the country and signing their own death warrant. Mr. Burr will probably make stipulations, but he will laugh in his sleeve while he makes them and will break them the first moment it may serve his purpose.”

Aaron ran for Governor of the state of New York when he realized that he had no chance against Jefferson in the 1804 election. Hamilton worked with the opposing party campaigning against Burr, causing him to loose to Morgan Lewis.

Both men had been involved in duels in the past. Hamilton having been in 10 previous duels and aiding as a second in two.

The dueling grounds had been used for 10 previous known duels between the years of 1700-1845.

Burr, William Peter Van Ness ,his second, Matthew L. Davis, and another man, who some speculate to be a man by the name John Swarthout, and the rowers arrived across the Hudson at 6:30 am. Hamilton, Nathaniel Pendleton , his second, and Davis Hosack arrived a few minutes before seven. Lots were cast for first choice on gun and who’s second would initiate the duel. Both were won by Hamilton’s second.

First hand accounts of the duel agree that there were two shots fired. One hitting a branch above Burr’s Head, the other striking Hamilton right above his right hip. The bullet ricocheted off a false rib fracturing it and causing damage to his internal organs.

Pendleton’s account stayed that Hamilton fell to the ground immediately. Burr stepped forward in a speechless manner as if he were in shock before being hustled away by Van Ness.

No one knows who shot first as the seconds were turned away from the sight. Both did so, so they later they could testify ‘they saw no fire’.

After much research, historian Jospeh Ellis gave his best guess as to what happened.

“Hamilton did fire his weapon intentionally, and he fired first. But he aimed to miss Burr, sending his ball into the tree above and behind Burr's location. In so doing, he did not withhold his shot, but he did waste it, thereby honoring his pre-duel pledge. Meanwhile, Burr, who did not know about the pledge, did know that a projectile from Hamilton's gun had whizzed past him and crashed into the tree to his rear. According to the principles of the code duello, Burr was perfectly justified in taking deadly aim at Hamilton and firing to kill.”

Hosack wrote an account of what he saw that day at the duel about a month later on August 17th. He had testified that he had only seen Hamilton and the two seconds disappear into the woods. He heard two shots and ran out to find a wounded Hamilton. He testified that he had not seen Burr who was hidden behind an umbrella carried by Van Ness. He gave a clear picture of the events actions in a letter to William Coleman.

“When called to him upon his receiving the fatal wound, I found him half sitting on the ground, supported in the arms of Mr. Pendleton. His countenance of death I shall never forget. He had at that instant just strength to say, "This is a mortal wound, doctor;" when he sunk away, and became to all appearance lifeless. I immediately stripped up his clothes, and soon, alas I ascertained that the direction of the ball must have been through some vital part. His pulses were not to be felt, his respiration was entirely suspended, and, upon laying my hand on his heart and perceiving no motion there, I considered him as irrecoverably gone. I, however, observed to Mr. Pendleton, that the only chance for his reviving was immediately to get him upon the water. We therefore lifted him up, and carried him out of the wood to the margin of the bank, where the bargemen aided us in conveying him into the boat, which immediately put off. During all this time I could not discover the least symptom of returning life. I now rubbed his face, lips, and temples with spirits of hartshorn, applied it to his neck and breast, and to the wrists and palms of his hands, and endeavoured to pour some into his mouth. Soon after recovering his sight, he happened to cast his eye upon the case of pistols, and observing the one that he had had in his hand lying on the outside, he said, "Take care of that pistol; it is undischarged, and still cocked; it may go off and do harm. Pendleton knows" (attempting to turn his head towards him) "that I did not intend to fire at him." "Yes," said Mr. Pendleton, understanding his wish, "I have already made Dr. Hosack acquainted with your determination as to that." He then closed his eyes and remained calm, without any disposition to speak; nor did he say much afterward, except in reply to my questions. He asked me once or twice how I found his pulse; and he informed me that his lower extremities had lost all feeling, manifesting to me that he entertained no hopes that he should long survive.”

Pendleton and Van Ness issues a press statement about the events of the duel and the rules of which were agreed upon. Later in an amended version of Pendleton’s statement, he and a friend went back to the dueling site a day after to find where Hamilton’s bullet had gone. The statement reads as,

“They ascertained that the ball passed through the limb of a cedar tree, at an elevation of about twelve feet and a half, perpendicularly from the ground, between thirteen and fourteen feet from the mark on which General Hamilton stood, and about four feet wide of the direct line between him and Col. Burr, on the right side; he having fallen on the left.”

The pistols used in the duel belong to Hamilton’s brother in law John Church Baker, who was a business partner of both men. Later legend claimed that Hey were the same pistols used in 1799 in a duel against Burr and Baker. Burr however wrote in a memoir that he had supplied the pistols for that duel.

Thank you guys so much for reading this and I hoped that maybe you learned something from it. Bye

#hamilton #turn amc #alexander hamilton #hamilton the musical #duels #aaron burr #weehawken #history facts #history #turn washington's spies

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rotten-games · 6 years

Note

Do you think you can make a list of all the ROs and short, non-spoilery descriptions (physical and/or personality) of them for a reference?

Sure! I’ll be posting names, race, age, genders,sexual/romantic orientations and a general description of them. I have to notethat if this seems like a lot of ROs then that’s because this is a very longgame and not all characters are able to be pursued if you ally with certain factions (Some factions are actively violent towards one another.). Tomake up for this, I needed to add more love interests in early development.

Are you going to meet them before the first half of the game? Yes. So there will be time to form a rapport with them if you so choose.

Spotter: Human, 20, agender, pansexual. They are a very shortyoung person with a spark in their bright green eyes. With a latent, andstrong, ability in magic, they love to study and practice and don’t seem tohave the ability to give up. That being said, they become attached easily tothose who show them kindness, even if it only occurred one time. Their gingerhair is always shaggy, their ever-dirty clothing always shabby, and even then,that doesn’t seem to get them down. Some might call them naive. They’d probablybe right.

Severa: Half-elf, 27, female, bisexual, female preference.Severa is a short woman who mostly passes for human. She is dark-skinnedlittered with scars and has a strong harsh accent that only seems to make hermore intimidating. She scorns those who abuse their power, but knows a gooddeal when she gets it, and yet despite her hardened exterior and bawdy attitudeshe seems to hold a great rapport with soldiers of all kinds. She drinksregularly and without restraint and is always getting into scuffles.

Herron: Human, 25, male, bisexual. Herron is your reclusivedoctor who has an odd obsession with raising the dead. He is relatively averagein height for a human, perhaps a bit taller, but his gaunt and dead-lookingskin that might have previously been a vibrant sepia only makes him looksmaller than he actually is. For the most part, Herron is calm, collected, butviciously passionate, sometimes even going so far as to stay awake days at atime just to test a new theory or hypothesis. Above all, however, he is acaring individual who perhaps is a little grumpy sometimes but ultimately wantswhat is best for those he cares about.

Qora: Half-elf, 29, female, Demisexual, Homoromantic. Qora isstandoffish and suspicious, more at home in the forest with all the wildlifethan in a bustling city. She is relatively average for a half-elf, with bronzeskin and equally as bronze hair cut short into a messy mop. She has an eyepatchover the left side of her face and strong arms that have no problem punching orshooting a bow. Above all, she appears to favour her animal companion, whichboth serves as a second pair of eyes in a fight, and a lifelong friend.

Ardwen: High Elf, 58, male, pansexual. Ardwen is a poet bytrade, constantly plucking at his strings or singing a ditty about one of hismany exploits. A flirtatious man by nature, he seems to think that a prettyface is a good substitute for any kind of personality. Regardless, he seems tohave a prejudice against nobles and human clergymen, which he refuses toexplain. He is tall and wiry with overlong ears and a gap in his front teeththat he never quite grew into. Neither of these supposed blemishes seem to stophim from gaining partners of all races.

Keller: Human, 31, female, asexual, panromantic. Hailing fromthe nomadic Atmari people residing deep in the dragon-infested Waylands, Kellergrew up into a vastly different culture than the ones most are accustomed to.She is strong and proud, but ultimately caring for her people and only wantswhat she perceives to be best for them. She has ebony skin and even darkerhair, with unnaturally green eyes that stand out even in the dark. She is devoutlyreligious, but prefers to worship alone, as it has always been her people’s wayto worship in the dead of night with no one around.

Arke: Human, 23, male, homosexual. Arke was a farmer’s sonbefore he was anything else, cultivating a strong body and simple mind. Thatis, before an event that forced him to migrate. His skin is tanned, almostbronze from years in the sun and he has a burn scar running from his neck andover the left side of his chest and arm. Probably his most extraordinaryfeatures are his golden eyes, which is unnatural at the best of times. A heroand good man at heart, Arke is kind and courteous, but is known to have boutsof anger or severe melancholy that sometimes last for days or weeks at a time.

Ettia: Elf, unknown, transgender female, demisexual,panromantic. Ettia is a quiet young priestess who prefers to let her actionsspeak louder than words. Seemingly in constant meditation, she has a veryspiritual connection to the gods that doesn’t seem entirely one-sided. Reallythough, she must be talking to herself. Perhaps a little bit intense, she isconstantly playing with her kinked silver-blond hair and attempting to tease itup into styles that never seem to fit right.

Gwyn: Elf, unknown, male, bisexual. Gwyn is the twin brotherof Ettia, with the same silver-blond hair cut short against his head and ashenskin that makes him look dead. He is, perhaps, a bit more adventurous than hissister, constantly going off for weeks and months at a time and coming backwith tales of beast slaying and lurid affairs. Despite this, he is also ratherinnocent, not thinking about the consequences of his actions or the largerscheme of things. While not an overt hatred towards the gods, Gwyn thinks talkof the gods is boring and old news, preferring instead to talk of worldlyevents or ancient mortal figures, which he finds hilarious.

Lokeira: Infernal, 20?, transgender male, pansexual. Lokei isan awkward young man more accustomed to stalking the shadows than beingnoticed. He can be standoffish and rather blunt, never mincing words thoughwhether that is purposeful or not is up for debate. He doesn’t understand themeaning of ‘stand still’ and can always be found stretching in odd places andsitting in weird positions that he claims are comfortable. He has troublemoving after extended amounts of exercise but he hates being seen to by doctorsor healers and so, for the most part, he tends to himself. He is rather shortwith long black hair, like all Infernals his ears are long and emotional, hiseyes nothing but small slits of purple. Curled horns sit atop his head,graduating into his deep indigo skin tone littered with scales and scars.

Korrin: half-elf, 31, gender-fluid, pansexual. Quite famousfor their accurate future telling, they are aptly named ‘The Oracle’ by theirfollowers and blasphemous by their enemies. They are tall and spindly, withbags under their unseeing eyes hidden by long brown hair that falls over theirshoulders in ratty tendrils. They can be equal parts terse and kind butultimately, they are understanding and patient. Surprisingly learned in manycrafts, Korrin is not someone who has let their blindness defeat them and isscathing of anyone who would intimate otherwise.

Emil: Human, 20, male, bisexual. Emil is average of heightand pretty much everything else. He has a heavy smattering of freckles all overhis body and dull red hair cut short into a style that tries its best to befashionable. He has an odd obsession with jewels and other such adornments, butrarely wears them himself. Like a dragon, he seems to hoard and covet anythingshiny that isn’t nailed down He has a scar running from his chin to the cornerof his eye, creating a cleft on his top lip that never quite healed properly.Despite his love of items of worth, he isn’t very wealthy and keeps a modesttent with him as he travels. His greatest want in life is to see the world.

Calyssa: Human, 30, female, bisexual. Calyssa is a strongwarrior who is skilled with the lance and a great shot with the bow. Especiallywhen riding on her pegasus. Being naturally antagonistic towards authority,Calyssa can come across as violent and brash, but at the same time sympatheticto those she deems deserving of it. She dislikes nobles for their disrespect ofthe working man, and is naturally untrusting of those dressed finer than asoldier. Aside from that, however, she is companionable to her brethren andsupportive in combat. She is very tall and muscular, with cropped curly brownhair that is a perpetual mess.

Necrolym: Human, 27, male, bisexual, female preference. Necrolymis a cocky young man who comes across as irritable and overly prideful. Likeall young men, he once suffered from thinking he was the god’s gift to all, butseems to have since abandoned such thought. That, and he no longer believes thegods exist at all. His is a muscled man just under the height of average, withshaggy blond hair and tawny skin littered with blemishes and small scars thatare otherwise unnoticeable. He can be quite distant when sober, but get himdrunk and Necrolym is quite the life of the party.

Noxus: Dwarf, 35, female, pansexual. Noxus or Nox is a dwarfwoman with a violent and sadistic nature. She has no qualms killing and can beunpredictable at the best of times, having quite the reputation for being ‘Adeliah’sright hand.’ She can be manipulative and charming in equal measure, but bothseem to be a front for her more vicious tendencies. Like all dwarves, Nox is shortwith wild ashen hair and a thin layer of stubble that she can never be botheredto shave if at all she wants to.

Bexen: half-orc, 37, male, bisexual. Bexen or Bex is a verytall half-orc man who seems to have a look of perpetual disinterest. Nox is hisadopted sister and the two, oddly enough, get along well. For the most part hehas zero impulse control, his curiosity often getting the best of him insituations where it would be unwise to do something brash. That being said, hecan sometimes come across as shy or otherwise timid. As all half-orcs, Bex isgreen-skinned with long teeth jutting up from his bottom row of teeth. He haslong dreadlocks tied up into a tail down his back and a nick on his righteyebrow.

Druvel: infernal, 349, male, pansexual, demiromantic. Druvelis young for Infernal standards, at least, that’s what he’d tell you. He can beflirtatious but sadistic, or otherwise just mean, revelling in watching otherssquirm for his enjoyment and keeping them at arms-length. He has no qualms aboutwhat is ‘proper,’ generally saying whatever comes to mind and teasing thosethat get flustered easily. As an Infernal, Druvel has a long prehensile tailand sharp claws on his hands. His eyes are slitted and a bright yellow, hisskin a dark pink with scales down his back. His hair is black and put in aloose braid, easily wrapped around his shoulders.

#anon ask #rott characters #characters #love interests #potential spoilers #spoilers #rott game #rott development

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shachaai · 7 years

Text

[Fic] Whistle Past the Graveyard 2/?

EngPort modern day werewolf/vampire AU.

Part 1

Chapter summary: Everyone suffers the fallout from a magical exploding corpse.

Warnings for this chapter: SFW, but mentions of blood, and set in a hospital environment with appropriate machines and medicines. Injuries, though they’re all bandaged up, and one instance of deliberate aggravation of another’s injury. Contemplations of mortality and semi-immortality.

Gabriel is Portugal, and Rodrigo is Macau.

Terminology and Fact File: Witch: a human with any kind of magical power. Unless aided or otherwise affected by magic, a witch will live an average human life in respects to their health and longevity, with the same potential for abilities, disease and disability as a human without magical powers. Witches who use malevolent magic tend to suffer from issues relating to their health and lifespan, as do witches who consistently overuse their powers, as, when the magic runs dry, many witches are able to draw at their own vitality instead. There are a few cases of witches dying from magical overuse because of this. Magical powers tend to run in human bloodlines, and powers can survive death, inhabiting the vestiges of a witch’s corpse and, occasionally, their spirit: for this reason, many witches prefer to be cremated after death, to avoid their corpses becoming susceptible to necromancy and being brought back as a zombie, ghoul, or ghost. No witch’s powers have, as yet, survived transformation into another living being - i.e, becoming a vampire or werewolf. Pack witch: technically speaking, this refers to any witch attached to a werewolf pack. The term is, however, predominantly used by werewolves to refer to the principle witch of a pack: the ‘head’ witch that is consulted by the alpha/alpha pair of the pack for advice and assistance. In - the not uncommon - cases where there is more than one witch attached to a pack, it is not always the most powerful witch that is considered the pack witch.

Arthur wakes feeling a little cold and vaguely annoyed. The cold is fairly self-explanatory, since when he slowly blinks his eyes open he can see - and feel - that his arms and upper body are bare, the hairs prickling in a long shiver across his skin, but his thoughts are sleepy, muddled, and it takes some time for him to slowly parse through them to realise why he feels so disgruntled.

Something nearby is beeping at him.

Arthur squints blearily, trying to work out what could be beeping so rhythmically at him when he has half his face buried in a pillow and can’t see much more than a grey plastic chair, bedside cabinet and wall in front of him. It doesn’t sound like his alarm clock - he hasn’t used an alarm clock since he left his brother’s house anyway -, but its strident repetitive tones are definitely something mechanical, cutting through his skull and nagging a sore point in his belly with a clock’s persistent precision. Gabriel can’t have gotten an alarm clock either (if he has, Arthur is going to throw it at his thick head); Gabriel hates waking up more than Arthur does.

But then - Arthur isn’t in his bedroom. Not the one he shares with Gabriel, and not even his old childhood bedroom in the Kirkland home. Even if he had somehow managed to sleep through someone sneaking into his room and replacing all the furniture whilst he was out, the room is too bright for either, white, sharpness that swims in fragments between the protective shutter of Arthur’s eyelashes, and the room smells…

Well. The room smells familiar enough Arthur’s hackles don’t rise by instinct, but it’s not familiar enough to be comfortable. The floor smells of lemon-scented bleach. Everything else - including the mattress under Arthur’s body and the pillow under Arthur’s cheek - smells clinical.

He’s in a hospital then. Or, much more likely, in one of the little private medical rooms kept in the basement of Gabriel’s home, because the faint scent Arthur is getting in the air, over all the bleach and sterilisation, is that of vampires, and vampires he knows quite well at that. (Even vampires occasionally require medical attention. Even if it’s just to grab some pain relief until their wounds fade and a missing limb grows back.) Since the medical stores and private wards are just along from the house’s morgue, it would explain why Arthur feels so damn cold as well.

“Good morning,” says a voice. The vampire smell is stronger.

Arthur knows that voice. Frustratingly, he can’t immediately put a name or face to it, though he knows he knows both; the thoughts keep slipping away from his grasp, too quick for his still-sluggish thinking.

“Something is beeping,” he growls thickly as a response, squinting again in search of his companion, and is somewhat horrified because his voice is more gravelly cracks than actual words.

“Your heart monitor,” says the voice, calm as you’d please, and obliges Arthur by walking into his line of vision, a skinny creature made up of nothing but grey jeans and a black turtleneck until he sits down on the even greyer plastic chair. “Please don’t try to move; you will aggravate your injuries.”

Arthur hadn’t even realised he was trying to lift his face and upper body from the bed. His back stings, a needling heat that doesn’t warm him sliding down his spine between his shoulderblades. “...Rodrigo?”

Rodrigo, still calm, motions for Arthur to lie still again. Can’t stop the heart monitor from beeping, no; it’d mean Arthur’s dead.

Arthur lies stills, allowing his body to settle back into the unfamiliar plasticy-sounding mattress underneath it again. His face, however, is not so buried in the pillow. He can see the vampire sitting beside his bed much better now - although, admittedly, he is both reassured and rather unhappy about Rodrigo even being there, because Rodrigo’s presence means that Arthur’s injuries are likely serious.

Despite being one of the oldest vampires in Gabriel’s House, Turned as a child by Gabriel sometime in the late sixteenth century, Rodrigo barely looks like he’s twenty. Arthur has heard the vampire’s brothers and sisters try and tease him for it before, but the words roll off of Rodrigo like water off a duck’s back. The Chinese part of Rodrigo’s mixed heritage has left him smooth black hair, a slender frame and a now eternally youthful face, his smile a secret thing behind the long sleeves he prefers to wear and his slanted eyes a rich, tawny shade of brown behind the tinted lenses of his glasses.

A few of the House call him Rui. Even more, teasingly, call him doctor, because Rodrigo is one of the only vampires in the House with any serious medical knowledge: he had wanted, Gabriel had explained once, when Arthur had asked why Rodrigo knew how to patch Feliciano up after an incident involving a knife in the kitchen, to go to school. And then to university. And then on to further medical studies. Had argued for it more passionately than Gabriel had seen his Rui argue for almost anything in five centuries, and what real reason had Gabriel had to try and stop him? It was - and very much still is - useful to have someone with medical training around, and Rodrigo had stopped having serious problems with walking around in the daylight by his second century, quite able to attend his classes.

Arthur’s back stings very badly, and something is throbbing dully in his stomach. His head hurts - and yet all of it still feels very distant to him, his brain registering all the pain but not quite allowing it to sink into his body, something thick and pillowy between hurt and consequence.

...His sister, Caitlyn, had described a similar feeling once. When she’d been in hospital, after being hit by a car in her wolf form. Running in the woods. There’d been bodily trauma even when she’d shifted back to her human skin (saying nothing of the state of the state of the car), blood on the road and rusting in her auburn hair, so in the hospital they’d given her their heavy-duty drugs. For the pain.

“...You’ve given me opiates,” Arthur surmises, his voice still aching. It’s why his thoughts are so hard to put in order, to keep hold of. Why the pain is there but not quite there, a splintered glass wall between the two places, and why he’s being so distracted by the little things like brightness and chairs and Rodrigo. There’s something -

“Yes, among other things. If you had lost any more blood than you did we might have had to consider a transfusion, but I think, with your werewolf healing abilities, we should be fine with just fluids and medication.” Rodrigo offers Arthur a glass from the bedside cabinet, half-full with clear liquid and a purple straw. Lowers it, so the straw butts up against Arthur’s mouth. “I had to call your brother for access to your medical records.”

“‘Brother,’” says Arthur, garbled around the straw. He closes his eyes again, trying to focus on anything but beeping . The liquid - water - in the glass is lukewarm, but a wet relief to his rasping throat. “Iain?”

Rodrigo’s brow creases in something vaguely like sympathy. “The alpha.”

“Should’ve spoken to my sister-in-law if you wanted to get yelled at by an alpha,” Arthur slurs, and pushes the straw back out of his mouth with his tongue. That’s enough water for now; there’s something he’s supposed to be thinking about. “Says more with pursed lips than Iain does lecturing for an hour.”

Rodrigo laughs - almost -, a little sound in the back of his throat. Arthur smiles drowsily, pleased to get a reaction out of him. “I’m afraid to say that I handed the phone to Antonio as soon as I could, so I may have missed the full experience for either. Patients take priority.”

Patients…

Arthur’s eyes snap open and his back stiffens, sharp and sudden enough a jolt of pain lances straight to his head. “Gabriel -”

The rotting body on the lawn. Gabriel crouched beside him, idiotic and unknowing. The old magic, the raw magic, that smell, and then the explosion -

Rodrigo has his hand on Arthur’s arm, back, trying to push him down as Arthur tries to struggle up from the bed. It hurts, it hurts a lot - Arthur pushes back instinctively, feels hurt shriek through his chest and abdomen and sing sharply in his bones to the tune of wild, frantic beeping, something tugging at the hand he’d been turned away from, his legs tangled in starched sheets. His back and arm and shoulders and hips are on fire, but Gabriel -

Gabriel isn’t there; the spell had been meant for Gabriel and Arthur hadn’t -

“The lord is fine!” Rodrigo has his voice raised, struggling to try and cover Arthur with his body to push down because Arthur is taking every spare bit of air he can see as an opportunity to try and escape the bed, the tugging on his hands and tangle around his legs, to escape Rodrigo because he can beat the vampire in a fight, possibly, if necessary, and it’s very necessary to Arthur to find Gabriel right now and check the idiotic vampire lord isn’t slowly bleeding out alone somewhere because a malicious spell probably sent by the ghosts of vengeful fashion police tried to blast his fat fanged head off. “Arthur, I swear to you that he’s fine!”

“Alive?” Arthur demands.

“Alive!” Rodrigo answers. “You took most of the injuries for him -”

“Uninjured?”

Rodrigo’s mouth closes.

Arthur begins struggling again. His hand - he has a thing on his thumb attached to the annoying beeping machine and a cannula in the back of his hand, connected by a tube to a half-full drip-bag and infusion pump. It’s why moving his hand is so awkward, the infusion pump joining the heart monitor in beeping angrily at him for disturbing the flow of liquids entering his bloodstream by daring to bend his wrist.

“The injuries aren��t serious,” says Rodrigo, and sounds perhaps the most desperate Arthur has ever heard him. “Yours are much worse - please lay down calmly? If you injure yourself further trying to get up it’s me he’ll get angry with.”

Arthur looks at the vampire dubiously, compromising by stilling somewhere on his hands and knees and pretending that his arms aren’t shaking trying to hold his strangely heavy upper body weight. (Drugs.) “I have never seen him angry with you.”

The statement is a distraction. Something very small and lost and childishly petulant is crying close to a whine in Arthur’s throat: if Gabriel is relatively uninjured, why is he not there?

“With all due respect, you did not see my childhood.” With Arthur a little calmer, woeful around the edges, Rodrigo takes a chance to take his hand from Arthur’s shoulder and push up his glasses where they are sliding helplessly down his nose. “You really need to move as little as possible, or you may end up doing permanent damage to your back. I’m not too sure how injuries match up when you change between humanoid and wolf form, but if the tissue on your back doesn’t heal correctly, you may have problems running as a wolf. And definite stiffness as a human.”

On all fours, Arthur can feel exactly what Rodrigo means. The skin between his shoulderblades is pulling tight and angry against the movement of his arms, a deep, hot throbbing that burns and spreads through his ribcage, joining the sharp ache already emanating from his belly. “Get Gabriel and I’ll lie down.”

“Lay down and promise to stay down while I am gone,” Rodrigo counters, “and I will go get him.”

“Now?” Arthur asks. There are tears prickling at the corner of his eyes and he isn’t sure why.

“Now,” Rodrigo promises him.

Arthur lays down, trying not to sigh too obviously when his head touches the pillow again and some of the tension eases from his body. Even more of it leaves him when he sees Rodrigo leave the room on his errand, comforted at the thought of being able to check Gabriel’s injuries for himself. For a werewolf, seeing - and smelling - is really believing.

Even with the pain and beeping, Arthur dozes. He isn’t sure for how long, or even the precise point he drifts off, but he goes from hazy, nervy formless dreams to suddenly blinking awake again, the seat beside his bed once more occupied.

Gabriel smiles at him, small and soft and clearly tired, but still sincere enough that it crinkles the skin around the corner of his eyes. “Good afternoon.”

Stupidly, silently, Arthur stares back at him. At Gabriel’s hand atop his hand on the bed, his gaze slowly following the line of the vampire lord’s arm up to the strange white choker wrapped around Gabriel’s neck. It’s a lot thicker and uglier than Arthur’s collar, and Arthur dislikes it immediately.

Even more so when it eventually clicks that he’s looking at bandages around his lover’s neck, not a choker, and there are even more bandages around Gabriel’s other arm - something Gabriel is probably trying to hide from him, since he shifts his wrapped arm away from Arthur’s sight when he leans in closer to the bed, moving his touch from Arthur’s hand to tenderly cup his cheek instead.

“Rodrigo said you were upset.”

Arthur will give Gabriel upset. When he breathes in, lips pulling back from his teeth in an irritated warning, he can smell Gabriel, Gabriel and, he realises rather dully, another familiar vampire, Antonio, who must be hovering elsewhere in the little room, and Gabriel smells of his own blood and medicines that burn the air rather than his usual more mellow musk. Both vampires smell of bitter anger and sour fear-sweat, and Antonio in particular still carries the stink of malevolent magic on his clothes, as well as the rotten flesh of the corpse that has caused them so much trouble.

“Why are you still injured?” Arthur’s voice is still rough, but he forces it out anyway. Doesn’t bother to look for Antonio, though he can hear the vampire shifting his weight from foot to foot on the squeaky floor. “Your healing rate is much faster than mine.”

Caught, Gabriel winces, and the pads of his fingers rasp over Arthur’s cheek, catching on rough skin and dried wetness from the corners of Arthur’s eyes. Francis’ sodding lilies might inconvenience Arthur’s werewolf nose, but not opiates. “Ah, it seems the projectiles stuffed inside the body were chosen for maximum effect against vampires. Hawthorn and wild rose spikes, and they and the metal were coated in bad blood. With such a little dose though, it just makes for slow healing, annoyingly.”

Annoyingly. Arthur’s lips pull back further, a soundless snarl. “It could’ve killed you!”

Antonio makes a low, bitter sound at that - Arthur chooses to take it as angry agreement -, but Gabriel speaks over them both, his gaze still focused fierce and close on Arthur despite the teeth. “It did not, because of you. I-”

Something closes hard in Gabriel’s throat. Arthur watches it stonily, hurt and angry, a weighty swallow that moves Gabriel’s Adam’s apple in a bob and still sits thickly on Gabriel’s tongue when he can prise out words once more:

“Arthur, don’t ever do that again - it could have killed you. What if there had been silver in the blast? Wolfsbane?” Gabriel has to feel the almost-vibration of Arthur’s snarl at him, the rising indignation at the vampire lord’s hypocrisy. “You’re so badly hurt and it was clearly not even meant to hurt you - if there had been something in there specifically aimed at werewolves you’d be dead. You’re mortal, and I-”

The sour fear-sweat smell is stronger now, Gabriel’s, and the bubbling pit of confusion that is Arthur’s emotions at that moment cannot take the addition on top of everything else, cannot take these feelings from Gabriel on top of everything else -

“You’re mortal,” Gabriel says again, and it’s like he’s already standing over Arthur’s grave.

Arthur cracks and shoves Gabriel’s hand off of him, pushing himself up off of the mattress again in a less-than-sinuous twist of limbs and tubing. “You think you’re so much more invincible than I am?!”

“That is not - ”

“If you think for one bloody minute -”

“Please, lie down -”

“Then listen to me!” Arthur snaps, and, pain or not, pushes at the hands Gabriel is trying to settle on his shoulders to get him to lie flat on the bed again. The sight of the white bandages wrapped around the vampire’s hand and forearm just makes Arthur more annoyed. “I might just be some lowly mortal werewolf -”

“Arthur, that is not -”

Arthur grabs at Gabriel’s wrist - the injured one, his thumb pressing hard against bone and the beat of Gabriel’s pulse beneath the bandages. It must hurt, for Gabriel rears back instinctively and almost drags Arthur straight off the bed and onto his own lap, his words dying in a pained hiss and flash of his own fangs. “I’m still talking.”

Silence falls then, save the beeping: silence enough for Arthur to try and untangle his own limbs and not faceplant straight into Gabriel’s chest, for Gabriel’s mouth to snap closed as his lips thin - and for Arthur to remember Antonio is still in the room, his steps slightly too-casual as he approaches from the other side of the room to finally walk into Arthur’s view, taking up a solid unimpressed position behind his brother. He still reeks, overpowering the lemon bleach smell of the room.

Carefully, but currently without regret, Arthur releases his grip on Gabriel’s wrist. Sitting like this makes his chest hurt in such a way it’s hard to draw a full breath into his lungs. “Even I,” he says a lot more quietly, subdued by the atmosphere as well as the pain streaking down his back, “know that vampiric immortality comes with rules attached. Vampires die when they are killed, when they are too seriously injured all at once to repair themselves, and they stay dead.”

Arthur curls in on himself a little, instinctively trying to ease the tight pressure across his back, the hot ache throbbing in his middle. To his own vague dismay, the hand he’d laid on Gabriel has now risen to splay itself rather protectively around the base of his own throat, which is currently missing the reassuring weight of his collar. It’s not a submissive gesture among werewolves - or vampires -, nor a penitent one, but too obviously defensive for Arthur’s comfort. If the collar were there… Well, it’d still be bad if the collar were there.

Arthur has no idea where his collar is.

“I smelled it, you know?” he says. “The… spell-bomb. Magic. Hex. For just a moment. It smelled just a little bit like you, and I’ve known witches long enough to know that that meant it was most likely a spell focused on you.” His gaze flicks up rather aggressively at the two vampires in front of him again, not prepared to take another bout of hypocrisy. “I don’t regret what I did.”

Antonio, his face still far more serious than Arthur is used to seeing it, just nods at him. He and Arthur now get along much better than they used to: Antonio has stopped both protesting Arthur’s presence in his brother’s life, House and bed, and complaining about a werewolf’s influence over the ‘young impressionable vampires’ in the House, and Arthur has stopped deliberately shedding wolf fur all over Antonio’s belongings and/or burying them in hard-to-reach places in the garden. Their relationship now is one of fairly friendly, mostly grumbling, exasperated fondness - and unspoken, absolute agreement that they’d throw the other one under the proverbial bus if it meant putting Gabriel’s life first. Arthur has done nothing that he knows Antonio wouldn’t have done, and the both of them know it.

Gabriel has missed that memo. He reaches out for Arthur again, touch-starved by increments, and settles his palm wide and warm over the muscle of Arthur’s thigh. “Please don’t do it again.”

“Don’t make me have to,” Arthur says, but lets the last of the fight drain out of him. He feels tired. Heavy. He should probably lie down again. “...What did you do to piss off a witch?”

Soothingly, Gabriel rubs at his leg. “Nothing, to my knowledge.” Both Arthur and Antonio give him disbelieving looks and Gabriel has the gall to look (emotionally) wounded. “I mean it! Arthur, when you say the spell smelled like me…”

“Just a bit.” Arthur’s shoulders sink a little bit more, and he casts his gaze around to see if Rodrigo has left him any water. He’d never need to explain this to werewolves. “Mostly magic smells like its age and power and intent, and each witch has a particular scent to their magic that is pretty unique to them and them alone. The bit of you in it smelled like blood.”

“Blood,” says Gabriel, with the strangest tone Arthur has ever heard him use on that word.

“Your blood?” Arthur clarifies, a little lost at the need to explain blood to a vampire. “Blood can be used as a spell component, quite often to focus a spell on a particular target. Blood magic is vicious. Mostly used for curses, I think.” An exploding corpse probably counts as a curse, not that Arthur has had much experience with either before this instance.

Lip curled and sharp fangs displayed, Antonio’s displeasure is showing. “No-one should have access to his blood, let alone a witch.”

Distracted by that information, Arthur stops looking for water and focuses on the vampires with him, Gabriel tipping his head back over his seat to look at his brother. “Toniho -”

“No, hermano,” Antonio cuts him short, “things need to be asked.” Antonio frowns at Arthur, for once every inch the authoritative second-in-command of the House that he rarely seems to be. “How would a witch get his blood? How much blood would be needed for that blast?”

Arthur blinks at him. “You’re asking me?”

“It’s werewolves that witches like, not vampires.”

Arthur stares incredulously. “...You’re blaming me?!”

Antonio’s arms unfold, a restless movement and too-quick movements of his fingers. “We have a few witches living in our territory, but there have been no real incidents with any of them in years. Nothing big enough for attempted murder of a vampire lord. But you -”

“What about me?” Arthur had thought he was done with being angry, but. Apparently not. It’s exhausting, and his voice is close to cracking again, rough from too much talking. And yelling. “You don’t think your stupid brother is capable of making people want to kill him without my help?!”

Gabriel pouts. “Oi -”

Arthur ignores him, lifting his hand from his throat so he can slam his palms down aggressively on the bed. “I had nothing to do with this. Fuck you.”

Gabriel tries to take his hand again. This time, Arthur lets him, though he is not at all mollified by the thumb sweeping gently across the backs of his knuckles. “Antonio was not blaming you, lobinho. His choice of words was so poor because he is worried; you know how he is. Usually we know why someone is mad at us.”

Arthur shifts and bares his teeth at him again half-heartedly, more as a show of grumbling than actual aggression. Arthur is owed so much pampering after this, not to mention the dinner that Gabriel had promised him out on the lawn. And he’s going to bury Antonio’s pillows in the compost beside the vegetable patch.

Gabriel just keeps stroking his hand, being unreasonably reasonable. “As a werewolf, you do have better knowledge of witches than us; it’s well-known they often attach themselves to werewolf packs.”

“I know a few,” Arthur concedes, “yes.” He likes witches. For the most part, witches make useful friends, and are wonderful casual company. One of his old girlfriends had been a witch, and her magic had come in useful when Arthur had gone through what his siblings had called ‘his phase’ and dyed his hair several particularly violent shades of the rainbow.

God, defending a few witches had been what had brought Arthur to Gabriel’s attention in the first place - that, handing one of Gabriel’s vampires their arse in a fight, and the good solid kick he’d gotten in to the vampire lord’s balls right before Gabriel had threatened, flirted with and then subsequently flattened him.

“There was a stone,” says Antonio, abruptly enough Arthur wearily bristles at him. “We picked it up from amidst the wreckage on the lawn.” Which might explain why Antonio still smells like bad magic and rotting flesh, lovely. Had he been poking around whatever bits must be left scattered on their lawn? “It looks like something a witch would make. It has markings on it, and it is stained with blood.”

“This idiot’s?” asks Arthur, head tipped ever more sleepily towards Gabriel (who just makes a face back at him). It would be more helpful if Antonio would actually bring out this stone for Arthur to look at, but Antonio does not appear to be forthcoming. Irritably, Antonio shrugs back at him - everything today has, for obvious reasons, put him in a terrible mood. “Probably this idiot’s.”

On any other day, Arthur would be charmed by how quickly Gabriel adapts to being consistently called an idiot. Today, focusing on the vampire lord’s words are a hard enough task.

“We will need to talk to someone discreet. Can you recommend anyone?”

Arthur gives in to the inevitable, and starts shifting again so he can lie down, noisy plastic mattress under the bedsheets or not. Let the tributaries come to Rome, not Rome to the tributaries. Or something. There’s a quote like that, isn’t there? “...You want a fairly powerful witch with good connections for this. And definitely not one associated with any particular community?”

Gabriel helpfully lifts the tubing so it didn’t get tangled around Arthur’s arm, death-glaring the infusion pump when it lets out a single angry beep at being jostled. Arthur loves this idiot. “I think you can appreciate why it might be in our best interests to avoid telling everyone that a vampire lord was attacked in his own home.”

“Technically,” says Antonio, ever helpful, “it was in his own garden.”

Arthur ignores him just as much as Gabriel does, the vampire lord of debate still shuffling around with the tubing as Arthur tries to get comfortable without pulling at the cannula in his hand. “If you don’t want to go to the Kirkland pack witch, I know three witch siblings that could help. They’re very good, but they do charge to match their skills.”

“Money is not an issue.” Gabriel speaks with all the assurance of one who has built up interest on their investments over centuries. Arthur hates him for it, just a little bit. Werewolves are expected to get careers. “Their address?”

Tired, Arthur shakes his head - although the effect is ruined by his face-down position, ending up doing little more than nuzzle into his medicinal-smelling pillow. “That won’t work. They hate vampires, and they live in werewolf territory. I’d have to introduce and vouch for you.”

Gabriel finishes fiddling with the tubing at last, easing some of the pinch in Arthur’s veins. “You are not allowed to leave this bed for at least a week.”

“Then you’ll have to wait. Or consider another witch.”

Two vampires sigh overhead, but Arthur is zoning out too much to care about it. He’s annoyed, yes, truly, but nobody he gives a shit about is currently in immediate danger and he hurts, so he feels fully entitled to drift off.

“...Tell me,” says Gabriel at last, taking up his seat at Arthur’s bedside again. “In your opinion, are these witch siblings worth waiting for for this?”

“...They’re the best I know,” says Arthur, which is the truth. The Kirkland pack has some good connections, and it isn’t considered shameless for any member - or former member, provided they had not been expelled from the pack in disgrace - of the pack to draw on them at will. That is what pack is about. “And they’re old friends,” loosely speaking in the case of one of the siblings, but that’s just splitting hairs, “so I can swear to you that they’ll keep this business a secret.”

Antonio and Gabriel speak so more, quietly, a background murmur like a television set in another room, and it lulls Arthur into enough of a doze he doesn’t notice when Antonio leaves the room, or even how long Antonio has been gone. When his eyes slide muzzily apart again the room only actively smells of lemons, Arthur, and Gabriel, the scents of Antonio and Rodrigo muted beneath the two still present.

Gabriel is reading the terrible trash romance novel that had been cluttering up his bedside cabinet for a week now, his bandaged hand a little awkward around the spine. The book’s lurid cover looks particularly weird in the middle of a cool white hospital room, too bright against the starkness of its surroundings - and too bright against Gabriel’s complexion.

Even discounting the bandages, Gabriel looks tired.

“...Are you really alright?” Arthur’s voice cracks in the middle, his throat dry.

Gabriel startles like it’s the crack of a whip, the book sliding through his hands and landing on the floor with a clack-thump. He brightens when he sees Arthur looking at him, leaving the book on the floor to fetch - God be praised - water, another glass with another straw in it held up to Arthur’s lips. Arthur is developing an appreciation for straws.

“I will be healed much earlier than you,” Gabriel says as Arthur drinks eagerly, Arthur smiling crookedly around the straw in his mouth when his lover attempts to look reproachful. “Meu amor, at least look a little sorry for getting hurt. Do you know what you do to my heart?”

Arthur breathes, licking his lips to wet them and not at all sorry. When he is impulsive, it is wholehearted, and, for all his injuries, he cannot think he would have picked another course than the one he did. “You know what you do to mine?” He’s slurring.

Gabriel sighs at him, and takes away the glass when Arthur shakes his head at it being offered to him again, too busy snuggling back down into his pillow. “Remind you that you have one, I think.” He replaces the glass with himself - smelling more like himself again, to Arthur’s quiet satisfaction, amber and vanilla under the stress of the day -, a kiss laid on Arthur’s forehead that Arthur drowsily wants to drown in, the warmth and familiarity of it as much a comfort as rolling around naked in their bed-linen upstairs. “Thank you. But please never make me stand in the shower and wash off so much of your blood ever again. I don’t know how to lose things.”

Arthur smiles at him, aware that it a loose, somewhat sloppy expression as his eyes slide shut again, a rumble of happiness in his throat at the touch of Gabriel’s warm hand on his nape. Not quite as good as his collar, but good. Very good. Christ, Arthur’s tired. “You underestimate my stubbornness.”

“As you like to remind me,” Gabriel sighs at him - again -, and his thumb runs back and forth, sure and steady, over the pulse in Arthur’s neck until Arthur, once more, falls asleep.

#Shacha fic #engport #it's been a while since the first chapter but a lot's happened to me since then #the annoying nature of disgruntled beeping medical equipment recounted from personal experience whilst on a lot of pain medication #Arthur Kirkland #aph!Macau #aph Portugal #Antonio Fernandez Carriedo #vampires #hetalia #BB: WPtG

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ii-thiscat-ii · 7 years

Text

This is a part one. It is long. It is terrible (in a content-way, not a quality-way (I hope)) and you will get part two when I can finish it.

In the second part of Static Worms, I mention a sheep named Incandescence who doesn’t like taking human form. Here you get a very long-winded explanation as to why.

Part two. Part three.

On Ao3.

Incandescence grazed along the border of the Master’s territory.

Her ears turned back to listen to the distant racket of her flock, the friendly chatter and the shouting of play fights with the dreams. The grass she plucked from the ground tasted sweet on her tongue. She hummed a few stanzas of a melody the Master played for them a few days since, and she smiled without thought.

Oh, how she loved them. How happy was she to be here with them, to have these borders to graze along.

Love, love, love.

She was made of love, she was sure. She was mostly terror, like any other nightmare, but she was also love. It made her different.

She glanced across the border, into the wild void beyond. Out there, love had made her lesser. It made her soft where other nightmares were armoured, blunt where others were sharp. Love made her weak, and dreamlike. It was what made her vulnerable. She knew she had lived for as long as she did only because she was lucky. She was lucky, and good at hiding, and she survived, but now she was home.

Here, love was what made her different. Not quite nightmare, but not a dream either. Love made her bright, made her a mess of colours and smiles. Love made her more. Love made her Incandescence.

She loved and was loved, and she loved so much. It had only been a few weeks since she came here, and already she loved them all. She loved the dreams dearly. She loved the nightmares just as much. She loved the ones like herself, which were not quite either-or. She loved her name, and she loved her Master, who had given it to her.

He loved her back, as well. Maybe not with the same strength of being that she loved him, but he did, and sometimes that was almost too much for her to take.

Sometimes she wondered how he would react if she kissed him.

She smiled at the thought as she looked out at the void. Would he be angry? She thought not. Not really. Maybe annoyed? Would he think she was being silly? Would he think it strange that a nightmare fell in love with a demon? Even if it was her, who was a little in love with everyone, and him, who was so, so kind.

Would he be okay with it? Would he brush it off, or would he maybe even kiss back?

She giggled, and bounced once or twice in glee. Ah, maybe she would even work up the courage to try some day.

She tripped a few steps closer to the border and felt almost nostalgic for her life before coming to the pastures. Things had changed so fast, from having to close off her own emotions and hide, and prey on those weaker than her just to survive, to being allowed the freedom to be, without restrictions. It was hard to believe she was the same creature now as she had been, then.

She did not miss it. Not even a little. She went from having nothing to having everything, and turning back was an impossibility. Still, there was beauty in the void, and from this side of the border she could watch without worry.

A point of thought-light floating by drew her attention.

It was a small ball of energy, pulsing with unfamiliar and seemingly partial thoughts, and it moved in an aimless, spiralling pattern, drawing ever closer to the border she stood beside.

Incandescence could not remember ever seeing anything like it, and she walker further along the border to get closer to it, to see if she could find out what it was. Floating, partial thoughts were plentiful in the Mindscape, but they were never this… gathered, and she was curious.

The thoughts it was made of seemed searching, beacon-like, as if it wanted to home in on something specific.

It drew even closer. Incandescence touched her nose to the barrier dividing this place from the not-place of the void, trying to look closer, and the thought-light instantly froze.

Alarmed, she pulled back, but it was too late. The thought-light changed direction and shot across the border, slamming into her with enough force to lift her from the grass. She did not land again.

She fell.

The next thing she remembered was darkness and then choking, and something ripping her apart.

Her perception of time stopped functioning, leaving her confused as to how long the process lasted, and what happened in which order, but she could still feel it, the painful and careless rending of her self.

Her senses were dampened to the point of nothingness; all she got was a faint impression of movement around her and a hint of some sort of emotion, either focus or elation, but certainly not her own. At some point, her form was squeezed into something much smaller than itself, twisting and tearing to fit.

She might have screamed. She could not hear.

There were other sensations. Something heavy and constricting all around her, crushing her. A rhythmic thudding sound. The concept of something wet and moving.

She was choking.

She was a nightmare, or a dream of some kind. She was an independent, living collection of thoughts, she did not need to breathe, but she was choking.

Her sense of time restored itself all at once, as did her hearing. Sound filtered through to her, but it was wrong and twisted. It sounded like a bad recording, lacking certain tones and frequencies, and letting others blend into each other, and it was far too loud. Loud to the point of pain.

She was cold, too. A numb kind of coldness that penetrated deep into parts of herself she did not know she had. Parts of herself she had not had, before, that felt stitched onto her real self, and her real self was still tied down.

She could taste, and she tasted blood, except bad. It was blood, but not like blood was supposed to taste. It was utterly vile, made her want to purge every part of not-her-but-her that could taste it, and she was still choking, still scared still choking choking choking breathe.

Gasp.

She pushed on something burning in the not-her and her tasting parts turned cold as air rushed past them and into the burning part. At the same time, other parts opened and she could see, and the loud and wrong reality became louder and wronger.

She could see, but what she saw made no sense. Like the sound, it was filtered in a way that made it blurry and with too few colours, and the view she got was looking up at the ceiling of a room similar to something a mortal would build, with several mortal faces looking down at her. They smiled, but she could see no reason to smile.

She wanted to move, so she pushed, and something loose and jellylike not-her at her side responded, pushing against something that felt cold, in the same filtered feeling way as her other senses, and she moved slightly away from the smiling faces.

Still, they smiled. One of them opened a mouth.

“Good morning, Eve,” it said. “I hope you’re enjoying your first moments of living.”

The voice was just as loud and wrong as the other incomprehensible sounds. Incandescence pushed at the air-pushing part and drew another breath, if only to keep from choking again. She still tasted disgusting blood. Then she turned her seeing-parts down, to look at the not-her-but-her, and she pulled the loose part at her side closer.

A human hand showed up in front of her, over a human chest attached to human legs. The thudding in the not-her sped up. Like a heartbeat.

She pushed, and the fingers of the hand curled. Sinew slid over bones and skin stretched and folded.

Fingers, but her fingers. Not-her but not. She drew another breath and this one was wet. Not-not-her and her and it was made of skin and blood and flesh and she was stuck in it and she was nothing now. She was made of dirty, mortal things, and not herself.

Incandescence screamed.

---

“We actually did it,” Doctor Garth Enns said with an incredulous smile for possibly the tenth time since Eve’s awakening.

Ida had to say she could not blame him.

“I know,” she said. “It’s incredible.”

“I mean, we created a human being. From scratch.”

“Yes, Enns. I know.” She grinned back over her late lunch and his coffee. They sat on each side of the table in the lounge, with the rest of their team milling around with their own conversations and food-items. “That’s what we’ve been hoping to do since the beginning.”

“She even understands human language!”

She laughed. They were both beside themselves with happiness, exhaustion from a sleepless night the only thing keeping them from still skipping, as they had after Eve opened her eyes.

“To be fair,” Ida said, “mostly she was screaming ‘no’.”

Doctor Enns waved her off. “It’s understandable,” he said. “After all, the shock of suddenly being brought into existence shouldn’t be underestimated. I’m sure she’ll be up for conversation once she’s calmed down a little, gotten used to it.”

Ida nodded, and said, “Of course. And if she’s not, we’ll just have to figure out what we did wrong and try again.”

He nodded in assent and they fell back into companionable silence.

Doctor Enns was a scholar of the metaphysical mind, and the energy associated with it. He studied, as far as mortals were able, the impact of the mortal mind on the Mindscape, and vice versa, the effect of the Mindscape on the physical world. His specialty lay in the connection between these, present in each thinking being, and how it affected psychological development.

Places like this complex of labs, located far underground and with enough wards and shielding to be cut off nearly completely from any outside magical influence, from the Mindscape itself and from the Earth’s magical fields and leylines, was ideal for certain of his experiments, showing how a mind compensated for being cut off from the greater Mindscape.

Ida focused more on the biological side of things. She specialized in cloning, particularly of large animals, and through her working relationship with doctor Enns had been the one to discover that a being that was gestated without access to the Mindscape would be born without a soul, a condition otherwise exceedingly rare.

The reasons behind them wanting to create a living, breathing, thinking person were many and diverse. Mostly it was the money. There were quite a few people around who would be willing to pay big money for mass-produced, untraceable people with questionable legal rights. In fact, there were even people who were willing to sponsor most of their research only for a chance of such an opportunity existing.

Eve was the prototype.

Ida and her team had created the body easily enough, cloned with DNA from a database and grown in the underground facility, under exactly the right conditions to turn out soulless, but alive.

Doctor Enns and a few of his co-workers had taken over from there, prepping the body for the insertion of a mind and soul-substitute. They could not use a human soul, of course. That was traceable these days, not to mention very difficult and extremely illegal. Souls were fickle things. They needed something else. Something simpler.

In the proto-prototypes, the animal tests, it had been reasonably easy to extract a large enough cluster of inert thoughts from the Mindscape and insert it into the right slot. Of course, the dog had eventually swallowed a pair of scissors and bled to death, but it had lived for almost a week. After that success, their benefactors had pushed them to escalate the testing to humans.

Once this turned out a success, they would branch out into other sapient beings, but for now, humans were easier to work with and in much higher demand, because of the relative population numbers.

It had turned out to be much harder than expected to find a thought cluster large enough for a sapient being, but they had, in the end. After almost twelve hours of non-stop searching, they had. Then came the delicate procedure of splitting a metaphysical object into two still-connected parts, as a mind and a soul-substitute, and make sure everything was properly inserted into Eve, but they did it. It took several more hours of hard work, but they did it.

She had woken up. Breathed on her own. Looked around and they had seen recognition on her face at the sight of theirs.

Yes, she had screamed, tried to claw her skin off, and fought them hard enough that they had to sedate her, but she was alive, their Eve, and it was the greatest success of their lives.

---

“Just… gone?”

The Master looked lost, Lolonja thought. Lost and small. Worse than she had seen him in a long, long time. Not quite as bad as he had been when his sister died, but worse than anything since.

He had been distressed several times since then, of course. He despaired many times, more often than was good for him. He was angry, or confused, or lost to himself and his fight against apathy, but not like this, never like this.

He stood with his arms hanging by his sides, wings small and still behind him, looking out at where their Incandescence was supposed to be. His eyes were open and uncomprehending, scanning the empty field again and again as if the bright rainbow ball of light would somehow be easy to miss. As if she would somehow be there if only he looked hard enough.

Suddenly, he turned towards her again, coattails twirling behind him. “How can she be gone? She was right there. You kept an eye on her. I kept an eye on her. She couldn’t have gone anywhere, so how…?”

“I don’t know!” Lolonja snapped back, and she belatedly realized that she was angry. At herself, for not taking better care. At her flock, for not staying closer to their brightest, newest sister. At him, for not being the great, all-powerful Master and easily fixing everything immediately.

She clenched her teeth. Sharp, sharp teeth. Sharper than usual.

“I don’t know,” she said again. “She said she wanted to walk along the border, to look at the view, and things have been so quiet lately we didn’t think to worry, and we barely took our eyes off her for a second, but after we did, she was gone. We can’t even find a trace of her. It’s like she’s just stopped existing and we can’t tell what’s happened to her at all. For all we know she just r- ran away without- she’s so n- new after all.”

He sunk down to his knees and pulled her close, and she shook against him, buried her muzzle in the hollow of his throat and cried. He might have been shaking as well, but it was hard for her to tell.

“I don’t think she ran away,” he said. “She was happy here- is happy here. She fit right in the moment she showed up, and even if she did, I’d be able to find her easily. She wouldn’t have gotten far. Right?”

She nodded, once, and then she pushed up against him, looked him in the eyes. “But you will find her, right?”

“I…” He closed his eyes with a pained expression, and her heart sank. “…I will. I promise, if it is at all possible to find her, I will.”

Lolonja hated that “if”. She hated that it had to be there. She hated that he was afraid to promise outright, but she understood.

“Okay,” she said then. “What do we do now?”

He squeezed her tighter for a second, blew a long breath into her wool, and stood up, letting her go.

“We search,” he said. “If we don’t know where to start, we just search everywhere. Get together as much of the Flock as you can spare and head out. Look wherever you can think to look, ask whomever you can think to ask, and do what you can to gather information. Okay?”

She stood to attention and nodded. “Yes, Master. And you?”

He gestured in the direction of the physical world. “I’ll be going downstairs, see how deep I can look. If there is a single trace of her in those channels, I will find her. Tell me the instant you hear anything, okay?”

She nodded again, and he nodded back and left.

For just a moment, she hesitated, staring out at the lightless chaos of the void and thinking of exactly how large a not-space they were tasked to search, and then she turned and bounded back towards the Flock, calling for their attention. They had a lot of work to do.

---

The second time Incandescence opened the seeing-parts, the eyes of the body that was not-her-but-her, there was darkness. Enough light filtered through that she could make out shapes in the room she was in, but it was still dark, and the darkness was as fuzzy and wrong as everything from the sound of the breathing to the sense of fabric against the skin was.

The darkness was made out of grey static, not the blank, smooth shadows she had seen the few times she had seen true darkness before. The shapes she could see beneath the static was a different room than before, empty aside from a rectangular shape on the wall and the structure she was on.

The shape on the wall had light seeping through the edges, and was probably a door, though she could see no handle. The structure she was on seemed like a bed. They were what humans slept on, she remembered.

She tried to push with the arms to move up, maybe move around and find some more light, but they would not move properly. Looking down with the eyes she could make out that the arms were tied to the bed, leather straps over fabric wrapped around the arms. The fabric was stained, and she smelled blood, and that was probably from the first time she opened the eyes and tried to scratch her way out of this thing, this not-her she was drowning in.

She made a sound with the throat in frustration, and it was wet and vibrated in a disgusting way. The eyes were leaking, leaving cold trails down the edges of the face, and she could not make them stop.

She made another disgusting noise.

She tried to move her legs. Her own legs, made of light and love and terror, not the meat-sticks attached to this not-her, but all she got in response was a sting of burning, ripping pain and a twitch in the not-her.

Another sound came out of the throat, and she shaped it into words this time. “I don’t want this.”

It was less disgusting like that. Still nothing but a sound made of a meat-flap forcibly attached to her, but they were her own words. The only thing left that was still hers, it seemed.

She had been right about the shape on the wall. It was a door, and now it opened to fill the room with light.

Instead of feeling good, like she had thought it would, it was blinding and sharp, causing pain to shoot through the eyes and more liquid to leak from them.

Once the pain faded, and she carefully opened the eyes again, she could see the strange and fuzzy shape of a human walking towards her. It wore a wide smile on its face, and it quickly walked close to her and sat down on the bed besides the not-her.

“Good morning, Eve,” it said. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. How’re you feeling?”

“Hurts,” Incandescence said.

The human’s smile changed shape, into something that looked kinder. Maybe it understood what was going on, and would help her?

“I’m not surprised,” it said. “You hurt yourself pretty badly last time you woke up. You’re probably not quite used to existence either. It will get better. Don’t worry. Your wounds will heal and your body will feel more familiar once you walk it around a bit.” It lifted its own hand and patted the hand that was not-her.

It did not seem like this human understood what had happened. Maybe it would help if she explained?

“I’m stuck in this,” she tried to say.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” the human said.

Sorry? Had it done this to her?

“We had to tie you down, because we were worried you’d hurt yourself again when you woke up, but you seem to have calmed down, so I think I can take them off. Will you stay calm if I do?”

The human moved its hand to the straps around the not-her arm.

Oh. It had just misunderstood.

“Not what I meant,” Incandescence said. “Stuck in this.” She curled the fingers one the hand and cringed at the feeling of sinew over bone. “It hurts. I can’t get out. Can you help?”

The human blinked once, and then changed its face into surprise and sadness.

“Oh,” it said. “Oh you shouldn’t worry about that. It’s supposed to be like that. Now, can I untie you without you hurting yourself?”

The human wanted her to be like this? It thought this was how it was supposed to be? It must not understand how disgusting this filthy body was.

“I want out,” she said.

The human nodded and started undoing the straps, another misunderstanding.

“No,” Incandescence said. “I want out. I want to go home.”

The human kept removing the straps, but its eyebrows rose in surprise. “Home?” it asked.

“Home. Home to my Master. To the Flock and the pastures, and my- my brothers and sisters. Home.” Not for very long yet, true, but the only home she had ever known, the only family she could remember. She longed for it so hard it hurt, and the pain mixed with the aches of her mind and not-her.

“Fascinating.” The human finished with the straps and leaned in to stare into the eyes. “Must be residual memories from something. This is far more coherent than we anticipated. Can you tell me what you remember?”

The human did not make any sense. Incandescence understood most of its words, but not what it meant by them. “Everything?” she said. “They took me to the pastures a few weeks ago. The Master accepted me. It is wonderful there. I want to go back. Please send me back.”

The human smiled sadly and ran its fingers through the not-her hair on the head, and it felt wrong.

The Master ran his fingers through her wool sometimes. She thought he liked the way the colours played in it as he did, illuminated from within by the light he named her for. She would lean into his touch and he would smile and scratch her ears.

This twisted mockery of that feeling was not good. It sent a shiver of revulsion through the not-her body, and through herself as well, which hurt.

The human seemed to realize she did not like the touch, and stopped, but still it smiled. “Oh, Eve,” it said. “The pastures aren’t real, I’m afraid.”

What? What had it misunderstood now?

It continued. “Sometimes memories break free from people’s minds and float around in the Mindscape, and sometimes they clump together into big lumps of energy, and that’s what we harvested to give you life. Maybe there is a pasture somewhere, but the memories of that are borrowed, and it’s better if you don’t think about it much. You are Eve, not the person who was there. This is your home.”

Incandescence stared with no words forming in her mind.

The human was speaking nonsense. She was not some discarded memory, she was a nightmare! Or at least something like it. She was a sheep in her Master’s flock. She was Incandescence, not…

“Why do you call me that?” she asked. The movement of the speaking parts was more disgusting again, as they had dried out slightly. She attempted to swallow, and that feeling was… worse.

“What? Eve?” the human asked.

Nodding would have sufficed, but the words were hers, and the neck was not. “Yes,” she said.

“Because it’s your name,” the human said. “It’s what we named you. It’s the name of the first, well, the first woman. Kind of. In Christian mythology. It’s a symbol, see? Because you are the first true artificial human. We were calling you that long before you woke up.”

“That’s not my name,” Incandescence said.

“No?” the human asked. It wore a kind smile. Incandescence hated it. “Then what is it?”

“I-” The throat closed up on her words, and she gagged. More water leaked out of the eyes and down the face, and a convulsion ran through the body. The human’s hand on the side of the head did nothing to help.

She spat out an absolutely vile glob of something and pulled in another bite of air. “It’s-” Incandescence. Was it, though? She looked back down at the not-her lying on the bed. Could she be Incandescence when she was lying in ugly, grey darkness, trapped in a filthy meat sack and missing the glow her Master called beautiful? When she lacked the shine of love that had made her now-siblings stop in their tracks, call the off hunt and decide to make her their sister instead?

She bit down with the not-her teeth and could not speak another word. More water leaked from the eyes.

“Shh,” the human shushed her. It stroked the shoulder closest to it, which was also bad, but not as bad as the hair had been. “It’s alright,” it said. “A little confusion is to be expected. Just know that everything is as it should be, and you will probably feel better and less confused as time goes on. Now,” it patted the shoulder and got up, “I think you should try to get some more sleep, and I will come back soon with something for you to eat. You must be starving.”

It stood there for a few seconds, waiting for her to answer.

She did not even acknowledge its presence. Only barely had she even registered what it said. By now, it was clear that it would not help her, that it had no interest in helping her, and that it was in fact keeping her captive here.

It shrugged and left.

The closing of the door once again filled the room with murky darkness.

Incandescence cried. The body she was stuck in cried. Water soaked into the pillow and cooled the face, and it was just another thing among many horrible things.

She wished she had never walked so close to the border. She wished she had never stepped away from her flock. She wished so hard that she was back with them, lying on the grass between their warm bodies and laughing at something or other.

Had they noticed she was gone yet? What would they do?

The Master promised her he would take care of her, that he would protect her. She trusted that, wholeheartedly.

He would find her, and come for her.

She closed the eyes to shut out the darkness, and tried to ignore the patterns that lit up on the inside of the eyelids when she did. She grabbed that one thought and held onto it as a lifeline.

The Master would find her.

The Master would come for her.

The Master would come.

---

Dipper opened his eyes to a bloodstained ceiling.

It was white and tiled, with the blood seeping out from the cracks between the tiles, dripping lazily down to the floor.

He bared his teeth and growled, a deep, visceral sound that sent every living being within earshot running for their lives.

With a single violent movement of his hand, the ceiling tore away, ripped to pieces and fell. Another growl and another movement took the walls down, quickly and messily destroyed the house he was lying in and crushed the pieces to dust. It was fine. No one had lived there for decades.

It was ages since the last time he had delved deep enough in his omniscience for the walls to bleed. So many years since the last challenge that had required it, yet this one still eluded him.

All the power he possessed, and he could not even find this single, missing sheep that already belonged to him.

Her trail went cold so quickly it could not be called a trail. There was no trace of whatever happened to her, aside from a slowly dissipating imprint of ambiguous, untraceable energy, and searching the world for her signature yielded nothing.

It was as if she had simply vanished into nothingness.

He put his dusty sleeves over his eyes and tried not to cry. Crying was unproductive. He needed to do something, anything, to find her. His beautiful, innocent little sheep, who was his so fully and wholly so quickly even the demon in him was willing to go far to get her back.

The forest around the now-levelled building was mostly quiet, aside from a single set of footsteps. Likely some random hiker, who unlike the animals did not have the sense to move away from loud, inexplicable noises in the woods. A hiker who would most likely make a fuzz about a child crying in the ruins of an old house, after which there might be a lot of screaming.

Dipper did not have time for that. He did not have the time to lay crying on the floor either, so he got up and faded back into the Mindscape. The hiker was unlikely to know where Incandescence was.

Most mortals would be unlikely to know that, but who knew? One or two of them might have noticed something weird. All he needed to do was find those hypothetical people and figure out what they knew.

Deciding on a course of action, he determinedly wiped a few traitorous tears away and got moving.

The blip into the current Mizar’s bedroom was as quiet as he could make it. She was asleep on her bed, muttering vaguely into her pillow, and he had no intention of changing that.

Not only did he not want to bring her into this, he also did not actually need her for the next step. He just needed her computer.

He muted it magically before he turned it on, just to make sure that it would not wake her, and then he settled back and got started. He hoped she would forgive him for what he was about to unleash from her bedroom.

The screen turned black the instant the page he was looking for loaded. A second or so later, the Alcor Virus’s little avatar popped up with an animated yawn, accompanied by a little yellow text box.

[Hi Dad.] it read, then, [What’s wrong?]

“What makes you think something’s wrong?” Dipper said, because he was honestly curious.

Al-V rolled his eyes, which made Dipper twitch a smile despite himself.

[One: You look like someone just kicked your puppy.]

[Two: This is kind of early.]

[It hasn’t been that long since the last time you woke me up.]

[You usually give them more of a rest between each time they have to deal with me, don’t you?]

Dipper closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. “Yeah, I’m not really after a big mess this time. I just need to find something.”

Al-V put his arms behind his back and stood at attention.

Dipper allowed himself another smile before he continued. “One of my sheep’s gone missing. Her name’s Incandescence. She shines like a neon light in every colour you can render. You couldn’t miss her if you tried, but she’s gone missing. I need you to go through anything and everything you can get access to and look for anything that could be a trace of her. Can you do that?”

[Sure.] Al-V nodded. [Can I make a little chaos too?]

“Not enough that they notice you and flush you out before you’re done,” Dipper said, “but beyond that, I won’t hold you back.”

[Thanks!]

The little virus grinned, probably already sorting out which databases he could devastate without drawing too much attention.

[I’m off, then.]

[Good luck!]

The screen went blank, and then the computer shut down. Dipper carefully placed it back where he had found it, spared a glance at Mizar’s sleeping form and blipped away. There still had to be places he could search.

There had to be.

---

Incandescence had not counted days in the beginning. She had no idea how long she had been there, beyond ‘too long’.

The mortals in the place, most of them human, did not tell her the time, and she did not think to ask. They did not care to answer her questions, only to have her do as they wanted.

In the beginning, they smiled, all the time. They brought her out of the room she woke up in, into a larger mortal building with no windows, no colours, no life of any kind. They asked her to walk for them, to show off how well she could control the body they had trapped her in, and they seemed content with the result. When she asked them to put her back, this was wrong, please give her back her true form, they only laughed and said she would get used to it.

She was hungry, and they made her eat.

The feeling of food going down the throat was the most disgusting thing she had felt yet, and it took days of trying before they fed her something that did not come back up. The food dampened a pain among many of the borrowed, mortal form, but it did not still her hunger.

The mortals spoke over her. They marvelled at the body they had put her in. They dismissed her talking about her home as an intricate fantasy, and she eventually stopped talking about it where they could hear.

She hated them.

They smiled and they praised her and they touched her and she hated them.

Hate was a lot like love, she discovered. It filled her until it tainted everything else, making her feel so strongly and passionately there was room for nothing else, but love was warm and bright and beautiful, and hate was dark, cold and painful. It filled her with black tar, and it made her feel cold and ugly.

During her breaks, when they finally left her alone again, she curled up in the murky darkness and hoped.

Hoped that the flesh constricting her would rot away, so she could break free. Hoped that everything would stop being so painfully wrong. Hoped that she would stop hating.

The Master would come for her.

She hoped, and hated, and tried to ignore the water leaking out of the eyes until she eventually fell asleep.

And dreamed.

Nightmares could sleep, normally, in a way. If they felt safe, if they were not hungry or bored, or if they were tired, they could rest. They could settle down and not think so hard, but they did not dream.

This body, this thing she was forced into, it needed sleep, and when it slept, it dreamt.

Her thoughts fell apart with it, turning into twisted visions of the pastures, of the lonely void of the Mindscape, with all its dogged predators. It was a dream that first told her she had been abandoned.

The Master would come for her.

She hated dreaming almost as much as she hated her captors. She felt like she fell apart a little more every time she did. Every time the breaks ended without a single dream happening, she counted it as a victory.

They scolded her for not sleeping enough.

She did not care.

They scolded her for not eating, or for not washing the body when they asked her to.

She did not care.

They stopped smiling as much. They stopped asking her to do as many things. They stopped asking her what she could remember, and trying to find what she knew and how. They started acting more professional with her and less friendly.

She did not care.

One of them implied they were trying again, hoping for better results this time.

Suddenly, she cared.

Her outburst took them by surprise, which was good, because it gave her more time before they restrained her.

The body they had made her use was weakened, and she hurt all the way in to her self, but she ignored it. She screamed at them, raging at them for daring to do this thing even once, let alone more.

They tried to hold her back and she wrenched free, struck them in all their vulnerable places, all the places she knew now were weak points, because they had given her a human body, let her become intimately familiar with how it could be hurt.

She fought, and screamed, with more strength than the body wanted to use, and it hurt, but she relished it.

They caught her arms and she bit down on someone’s shoulder, only regretting that she missed the throat.

The blood tasted vile on the tongue, and the body hated it, but she hated the body, so she forced it to swallow.

It came right back up, of course. She had hoped that this would stay down, where nothing else had. That it would poison the body and leave it to rot away in its own hate, but she had no such luck.

The mortals shouted and hustled, rushed around like headless chickens before they struck her down and tied her up properly in her fuzzy, dark room.

“Why?” one of them asked. “Why would you do that? You’ve never done anything like it before.”

She did not explain. She had tried and tried and given up on explaining anything to them. They never listened. So she laughed. There was no humour in it. There was nothing funny about anything, but she was choking in a bag of flesh that was tied to a bed in a dark, underground room, gagging on the taste of dirty blood, and she had nothing else.

She laughed.

The mortal closed the door and left her alone.

Soon, the dreams would take her.

What would it be this time? Her brothers and sisters falling to pieces before her eyes? Waking up back in the void and realizing nothing good had ever been real?

The Master would come for her.

…Wouldn’t he?

Next part >>>

#transcendence au #My writing #i'm sorry #I love her #I swear #but I always hurt the ones I love #forgive me #it ends well I promise

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