#and he also likes to steel them from Layla | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nexility-sims · 2 years

Note

What stories (on simblr or otherwise) have inspired yours?

ooh ! me, seeing this ask and immediately forgetting every book i’ve ever read or movie i’ve ever seen—! i’m so sorry, but i’m a wordy bitch who foams at the mouth anytime anyone asks me anything about my story. i got carried away, but ... y’all can keep scrolling adshkfldsff

okay, i’ve said before that the direct inspiration to make a simblr story came from @historicalsimslife and @thegrimalldis. i can’t remember how i found either of them, but they each showed me respectively that 1) simblr storytelling was a thing, and 2) royal stories can be way more compelling than irl royals would lead you to believe, lmao. so, i decided to give storytelling a go, and eventually i also wanted to try the royal setting, based on reading alyssa’s work. i do believe that that @warwickroyals motivated me to embrace being critical of monarchy as a concept and to also embrace ... how to say this ... i guess those grittier, dysfunctional plot lines that take more care to do well. ayanna makes it seem effortless tho ??? hmph. oh, and my original inspiration for the bancrofts whose legacy feeds into this story is ... the vanderbilts. :^)

in terms of my story itself, beyond the premise ... i draw inspiration from life stories ! rowena is heavily inspired by alice roosevelt and barbara hutton. marginally, also wallis simpson. alfonso is kind of an archetype i write often, but i can’t put my finger on where the inspiration for that type originally came from. why is macbeth coming to mind. rip. macbeth is a general influence for me, as a person, who thinks of stories. he also gives off Hot Man™ vibes, maybe on account of the sword-swinging and anguish. anyway......

beatriz is inspired partially by everything i wanted from daenerys targaryen and didn’t get ! i feel like songs have actually formed her in large part, too: a chunk of halsey’s album, if i can’t have love, i want power; lorde’s “yellow flicker beat,” valerie broussard’s “a little wicked,” and more recently, florence + the machine’s “king.” there’s a little bit of wednesday addams mixed in, too, probably. with both her and zuriñe, i am fully indulging my love for women who are Bad™ and don’t apologize for it. i’ve always been captivated by ostensible villains with whom you’re made to sympathize, both as a storytelling challenge and as a type of character. matriarch made of steel. heart of coal. selfishness that dresses up as selflessness. let her have power. she earned it.

anyway, my ever-present inspiration for “romance that interests me personally,” generally, comes from layla and majnun on one hand—i will cry a thousand tears just reading quotes from it, smh—and catherynne valente’s deathless on the other. i guess that translates to “we are fucked, in every sense” and “we’re all suffering, beautifully and endlessly.”

i’ve had a dramatic, dysfunctional life myself, so .... honestly, i think i gravitate toward stories that let me explore that and give me control over it. i suspect it’s why i used to prefer films that didn’t have happy endings (somehow, the pandemic changed my media consumption habits, so now i binge watch shows i’ve seen a dozen times instead of seeking out whatever depressing drama netflix recommends). it’s probably why i like villains who aren’t one-dimensional evil but who hurt people they love for reasons they can’t fully explain. i disagree with the idea that “evil” is boring just because it’s more mundane than we like to think, but i do believe writing goodness—especially the mundane kind—is also incredibly difficult because it’s just as complex as badness. i’m off topic. rip 2x.

i love world-building, and i don’t see enough stories—especially in this corner of simblr—that are ... not so “western,” so reflective of the colonial world, i guess? i live here in my real life, i study it for a living, let me go elsewhere !!!!! i don’t expect that of anyone, to be clear, but ... as an ~indigenous person~, i just wanted to explore a place where the worldviews and beliefs are anti- or decolonial, or maybe simply were never colonized at all. it’s hard to do that, but it excites me as much as the character development i discussed above. i can’t say i’m doing it well or whatever, but i try to think of this aspiration as the guiding light or motivation for my choices.

to the nuts and bolts, when i decided to write this story, i was learning about the history of modern mexico—specifically, the porfiriato and the revolution—so that influenced the setting. i have some mixed feelings about the latin american inspiration since i’m not latina myself, but ... i guess i hope it’s both fictional enough to not seem exploitative and appropriately respectful when i borrow things directly, like names. it’s why i try to keep the naming conventions for people and places internally consistent, for example. if i use indigenous words, there’s from a particular set of places. in essence, the choice comes from a place of admiration and solidarity, which i say w/ deep sincerity. there’s also my interest in medieval iberia with its portuguese and spanish cultures as well as the islamic influences of the period. that’s totally more for aesthetics and naming, tho, but i do take inspiration for the political drama from “modernization” struggles in mexican history.

so, uh, in summary, let’s say i was inspired by what black panther was trying to do with wakanda but in the western hemisphere LMAO

#;long post #IM SORRY THIS IS SO LONG #i ramble. i have so many thoughts & feelings #i get very off topic and crawl back on track #i know this is why i ain't get asks from y'all hjsdkfafaf #thank you tho for sending this <3 #reyes.worldbuilding #reyes.hc

15 notes · View notes

cathygeha · 9 months

Text

REVIEW

Crash Course by Adrienne Giordano

Steele Ridge: The Blackwells#4

Chemistry, attraction, timing, a tantalizing mystery to solve, and honest open communication all work together to bring Cilla and Cruz together in this book. There is one more brother to find his match…can’t wait!

What I liked: * Priscilla “Cilla” Randolph: criminal lawyer, daughter of rather difficult billionaire father, professional, believes in winning but also in justice, won’t break the law, will do what it takes to make things right, rather taken with Cruz

* Cruz Blackwell: one of five brothers, part of the BARS family recovery team, brilliant, short trigger, championship wrestler, interested in restoring a vintage car, pilot, needs space, not usually patient but willing to wait for Cilla

* Layla: Cilla’s assistant, protective, wise, efficient

* Getting to see the Blackwell brothers, their women, and mother again

* The plot, pacing, writing, and setting

* That the comradery, love, and support of the brothers for one another

* The way the relationship developed between Cruz and Cilla – loved the bac of the truck star gazing section

* That the person(s) behind the EPA violations, threats, and more was uncovered and hoping that justice will occur

* Knowing that there is another book to look forward to

What I didn’t like: * Who and what I was meant not to like

* Thinking about people who are willing to do anything to anyone for money

Did I enjoy this book? Yes

Would I read more in this series? Definitely

Thank you to the author for the ARC – this is my honest review.

5 Stars

BLURB

In the thrilling fourth installment of the Steele The Blackwells romantic suspense series, an ambitious attorney and a cunning recovery agent join forces to expose a dangerous web of corruption and deceit, risking everything for justice and love. Hotshot defense attorney Priscilla Randolph has a reputation for winning the toughest of cases. When she stumbles upon a disturbing toxicology report for land her father's company intends to buy, she realizes her latest challenge might be her most personal. Confused by her father’s indifference to the report, Cilla is determined to uncover the truth. And she knows just the man to help her. Enter Cruz Blackwell, a hunky recovery agent adept at finding the unfindable. Ever since his chance meeting with the sexy-as-hell lawyer, he’s wanted to know her better. A whole lot better. When she enlists his help for a simple research assignment, he accepts—gladly—not realizing the storm he’s about to fly into. Sparks ignite between Cilla and Cruz as they dig deeper, discovering a dangerous web of corruption and deceit. Someone will stop at nothing to prevent them from exposing the truth. Their fight for justice—and love—might cost them everything. Including their lives.

#Adrienne Giordano #Steele Ridge: The Blackwells 4 #Romance #Fiction #EPA #crime

0 notes

data-is-my-favorite-android · 2 years

Text

Here and there I’ve seen criticism of Layla in regards to her strained relationship with Marc, and I just... have a few thoughts on that. I understand and embrace that Marc is a complicated man with a fiercely protective streak and a lot of reasons why he is so emotionally reserved. This is not a Marc hate post. I really like Marc and I want him to grow and be happy and on good terms with Layla! But here’s the thing:

Layla might be only human (she has no superpowers yet), but that does not give Marc the right to make unilateral decisions concerning her life and their relationship without even giving her the chance to weigh in. That’s not okay. That’s a toxic, paternalistic attitude that sees men as the rational decision-makers in the relationship and treats women and their desires/choices on par with that of children (nice to take into account, but by no means mandatory to listen to and easily overridden).

Am I saying that Marc is a bad person? NO. Toxic masculinity like that is taught from a young age and is pervasive in our culture. It takes a lot to deprogram that shit and Marc has had MUCH bigger problems. And he of course loves Layla and wants to protect her. But Layla is perfectly within her rights to be upset with that attitude. She’s right; just deciding that leaving was the best way to protect her was not his call to make. He should have talked it through with her. Maybe they could have arrived at a better solution together! And even if they hadn’t, it wouldn’t have been a mystery then why he just up and disappeared. Having the man you love just vanish without a word is not only confusing and terrifying, it fucking hurts. It really didn’t have to hurt that badly.

Not to mention that Layla, despite being a mere human, has handled herself incredibly well. And from the sound of it, she and Marc have had plenty of adventures in the past, met plenty of dangers and overcome them together! Layla is smart and capable, and yes, even then there’s always the possibility that she could make a wrong move and get hurt or die. But that gamble, that choice, is hers to make. Taking that choice to live her life how she wants to (with Marc by her side) away from her is… not okay. And however well-intentioned Marc is being, taking that choice away from her and even refusing to give her the chance to talk it over with him has consequences. It doesn’t matter that he’s a superhero and she’s a normal person. In the context of their relationship, making a unilateral decision for her does not treat her as an equal in the relationship or as an adult with full agency over her life and choices.

I also understand why Marc couldn’t didn’t tell her about her father’s death and his role in it (as the man who failed to save him). Like, YIKES. Not an easy convo to have. Layla being livid and crushed all at the same time is absolutely understandable--especially since it’s the worst secret upon secrets upon secrets he’s been keeping from her. But he should have told her sooner, and while it never would have been easy, it didn’t have to go down like it did. She really did deserve to know sooner and to figure out what to do with the information. (And honestly, if Marc had REALLY wanted to drive her away, he could have easily used this fact to do it. But he didn’t because he doesn’t.)

The thing is, Layla is resilient. She has nerves of steel. She’s already proven she can handle all kinds of difficult and unusual situations. Apart from some initial confusion, she took Steven’s existence in stride. She has stuck by them--helping and successfully protecting Steven at turns--despite the nesting doll of secrets that keep being revealed to her, like, almost hourly at this point. Layla can handle a lot! And I’m sure that didn’t start the moment she met Steven. She’s been handling A LOT since she met Marc, and possibly in her life before that, too. Her dad was an archaeologist who worked in dangerous conditions, and we know that he brought Layla along with him to dig sites. She was practically raised to be an adventurer. Without knowing the specifics of her and Marc’s acquaintance up until this point, let’s just take the previous year into account: her husband up and leaves her with nary a word of explanation, sends her divorce papers some time later, refuses to return her calls or tell her where he is, and she still calls him every day for months and worries about him, despite knowing that he has superpowers. The devotion, the love, the implicit faith in him that those actions speak to is staggering. She’s as flexible and empathetic as she is tough and resourceful, and she’s proven that time and time again. That, after all they’ve been through, Marc didn’t trust her enough to even give her the chance to handle all this information about Khonshu, about Steven, about the scarab, and yes, even about her father’s death? That’s such a slap in the face.

Look, their relationship is complicated. There’s no lack of love on either side. But to say that Layla doesn’t have a good enough reason to be angry with Marc or leave him is not fair to her and, frankly, a really skewed, one-sided way of looking at things. Being left in the dark “for your own protection” not only sucks but also robs you of defining for yourself what risks you want to take with your life and what limitations you have--essentially, it eliminates the possibility of self-determination, shuts down dialogue, and in general undercuts cooperation within a partnership.

Why should Marc get to make that decision for her? What right did he have to do that without her even having a say? “Might” does not make right here. It isn’t that Layla doesn’t need protection, because sometimes she does. But guess what? So does Marc. So does Steven. Maybe not the same way she might need protection, but she’s still come through in the clutch for them when they were struggling or vulnerable or generally in a bad situation. Everybody needs help sometimes, even superheroes.

Romantic relationships between two adults should not be hierarchal. The stronger should not get to make decision for the weaker (and that’s not even getting into the weeds of who, exactly, is stronger, because they’re both strong in different ways) simply because they are stronger. Contrary to how people sometimes think of marriage, marriage to someone does not equal ownership. Marc does not own Layla. She is not required to just fall into step with him because she is his wife. While marriages work best when devotion and trust are present, she does not owe him blind faith, and she certainly is not required to abdicate control over choices that concern both of them to solely him. Despite all this, she has remained committed to him and freely given him her love and trust, however bruised, even when he has tried to push her away. Layla’s been pretty ride-or-die up until this point. But she has a few REALLY good reasons and plenty of smaller ones to dissolve their relationship at this point if she wanted to. And for the life of me I cannot understand why anyone would think she is the one being unfair, that she is the one in the most wrong here (or that the writing of the show hasn’t done a good enough job establishing why, despite clearly caring for him, she might want to finally call it quits with Marc).

If anything is owed to each other in a relationship, it’s respect and honesty. What I’m really hoping to see is this: through Steven’s interactions with Layla, Marc will begin to see that he can be honest with Layla without fearing she’ll instantly scorn or hate him (which is what I think Marc has been afraid of all this time), and that he can trust Layla to be an understanding, receptive person if given half a chance. I’m hoping that he’ll see that cooperation and sharing the load is so much better than taking all that responsibility, all those choices, onto his back and carrying the weight of the world alone (on top of the crushing weight of his own trauma and regrets). Seeing Steven share himself so freely with Layla, and seeing Layla and Steven mutually trust and work together to great success, could convince Marc to open up more. Then the healing can really begin for him, and he can repair things with Layla and they (possibly including the other headmates in the MK system) can have the kind of close, stable relationship they’ve all wanted so badly.

#layla el faouly #marc spector #moon knight #moon knight spoilers #steven grant #and about her budding relationship with steven #I'm not interested in debating whether or not that's infidelity #there are so many different ways to look at that #even if you think kissing steven is cheating #that doesn't instantly nullify any grievances layla has with marc #anyway i really do hope that we get to see layla and marc smooch in the end #personally i'm a huge fan of the moon knight system x layla endgame

51 notes · View notes

thousand-winters · 2 years

Text

Kiss the bruises til’ they’re gone

This was NOT the first thing I was intending to write for this fandom, but oh, well... sorry?

Read on AO3!

Relationships: Charles Fairchild/Alastair Carstairs. Thomastair, but not really, just a bit of longing.

CW: Unhealthy relationships, emotional manipulation, Charles Fairchild. Implied dubious consent (one line near the end)

Title’s from The cut that always bleeds by Conan Gray.

Walking away from Thomas had felt like the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, although logically he knew it was hardly so. Alastair hadn’t even been able to look him in the eyes, afraid that if he did, Thomas would see easily through his cold demeanor, see his uncertainty and his longing, the heartbreak of having to abandon the best thing that had happened to him in so long. But Thomas didn’t love him, what had happened between them in the Sanctuary had been born out of desperation, perhaps even out of some weird need to repay him for protecting him. Not that he thought that Thomas had kissed him out of pity, no, he knew his… little infatuation with him was genuine, at least, but it had been like Paris all over again; with no one else around, it was easy to indulge, surrounded by the fantasy of being the only two people in the world, to touch and to laugh freely, to make promises and even believe them. If he allowed this to continue, it wouldn’t be like that, he knew.

Paris.

He hadn’t lied; spending time with Thomas had truly been his favorite memory of the city. And now his sister had ran off there with Matthew Fairchild of all people. He had heard the story, of course, some nonsensical excuse about a honeymoon that James had been unable to attend because Lucie Herondale was currently missing, but he wasn’t stupid, no matter how close, one just doesn’t take his parabatai to his honeymoon. It was clear something else had happened, and the part of his mind that still had energy to spare was worried about his sister, she had seemed content enough on her marriage the last time he had seen her and he didn’t understand what could have happened for her to go on an impromptu vacation with Fairchild. He would have liked to at least go to Curzon Street and demand explanations from James, but not only the man was busy with the search for his sister, Alastair himself had other responsibilities in London and… and deep down he was also glad Layla wasn’t here at the moment.

He wouldn’t have been able to keep the truth from her for long. Ever since she had discovered the truth about their father, he felt unbalanced, as if the sudden weight lifted from his shoulders had left him scrambling and desperately trying not to fall. Ironically, the feeling was similar to, what he imagined, would be being tried by the Mortal Sword, as if every secret he ever had was ready to spill from his mouth if someone made the right questions.

But he couldn’t… he wouldn’t think any more of what had happened with Th… with Lightwood. He was too scared of what would happen if he looked back.

And now he stood before the door of the Fairchild’s residence, feeling a weird mix of numb and gloomy, as if something heavy had settled itself in his gut. He’d rather not be here, if he was being honest, but he’d promised… and one talk wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

He ringed the doorbell before he could change his mind, steeling himself for the first real conversation he had with Charles Fairchild in a while.

What he saw instead, when the door opened, was the curious face of Christopher Lightwood. The breath Alastair had been unconsciously holding until now came out sounding like a huff, while he blinked repeatedly, slightly taken aback.

It shouldn’t have been that surprising. It was fairly common knowledge that the youngest of the Lightwoods frequented the Fairchild residence to use their laboratory, but the possibility of him being there now hadn’t occurred to him, distracted as he was.

Christopher, to his credit, didn’t even look fazed by what surely must have seemed like a condescending gesture. “Oh, hullo, Alastair, you must be here to see Charles. I think he’s upstairs in his study.”

Right. They hadn’t really agreed on the moment in which their meeting would take place; perhaps he should count himself lucky that the other man was even home, even if he wasn’t feeling particularly fortunate.

“Truly, it would be a wonder for you to get lost, the house is not that big, but I can guide you if you want” Christopher offered, and Alastair realized he had been quiet for too long.

“That…” is alright, I can find my own way he was supposed to say, ”would be very kind of you” was what he said instead.

Christopher perked up slightly, as if he was pleased with Alastair’s answer, instead of having just offered out of politeness. Then again, he wouldn’t claim to understand how the younger’s mind worked.

“Great! It’s not hard, you just have to walk upstairs and the second door you’ll find at the right it’s his study. You’ll see.”

“You spend a lot of time here” Alastair felt the need to point out.

“Oh, yes. Henry doesn’t mind if I use the laboratory when he’s not here. But you knew that, right? You have come by before… although I suppose you haven’t these past months” Christopher shrugged, not noticing his companion’s frown.

“What do you mean?”

“Hm? I just don’t think I’ve seen you around lately, but I’m not here all the time either. It just seemed that way to me since you forgot where things were.”

“It’s been a while” Alastair agreed, relaxing once it was clear the other hadn’t mean anything more than the words themselves conveyed.

“In that case, you haven’t been to the laboratory either! I’ve been working on a faster way of communication for Shadowhunters” The younger man sounded proud, which was probably justified given that his brilliance had saved a lot of lives the past summer. No one could deny he had talent. “Would you like to hear about it?

“Sure” He said, feeling slightly perplexed, but certain of having said the right thing when Christopher smiled and immediately launched himself into an explanation about ‘fire messages’ and how they were supposed to work.

He hadn’t thought much of it before, but Christopher never seemed to hold the same resentment for him as his friends did. He didn’t try to dissuade them from insulting him, of course, but he never joined either. Moreover, he was the kind of person who didn’t hide behind a façade; whatever Christopher Lightwood meant was what he said.

It was oddly reassuring.

“It’s still not perfect, but the answer mustn’t be far. Perhaps later you would like to help us with it?” Christopher offered, and he sounded so casual about it that Alastair almost missed a step. “You were a great help with the mandikhor antidote, or so I heard anyway, but it seemed like…”

He didn’t intend to tune out the words after that, really, but he needed time to process Christopher’s unexpected friendliness. He could still hear him talking and knew he would feel guilty later if the other noticed, but he couldn’t concentrate on the words. He knew expecting the Merry Thieves to forgive him was a hopeless cause, but until now, every time he thought about the issue was with Matthew’s scowl and James’s reproaches on mind. Someone else’s angry expression for a while. He had the sudden realization that perhaps the youngest between them was someone he could befriend.

This was unexpected. He couldn’t afford to hope, but what if… what if…

A figure appeared on the door to the basement and Alastair abruptly stopped walking, feeling like he couldn’t breathe.

He thought he could hear a voice calling his name, but it wasn’t coming from the newcomer, whose lips – lips he had kissed, his mind reminded him helpfully– were closed on a tight line, longing and sorrow visible all over his face. Angel, everything was there on his eyes, for everyone to see, how had this man managed to keep his feelings a secret for so long? He wanted to go there and tell him to stop looking at him like that, like he was seeing something precious and lost, like he would like nothing more than to close the distance between them and touch him again, like he had just a week before.

Alastair felt his hands twitching with the phantom memory of warm skin and strong muscles before he realized he had been staring, mostly because Lightwood –but not the right Lightwood– had touched his arm gently, now looking at him with the eyes of someone who is trying to work out a puzzle but still hasn’t been able to align enough pieces for it to make sense. “Is something the matter? What is…? Oh, Thomas! I was just asking Alastair if later he would like to-“

“Alastair.”

He flinched and instinctively took a step away from the cousins. Nothing of what was happening granted that reaction from him, he knew, he wasn’t doing anything wrong, and whoever he talked to was his business alone. But it had felt like the adequate response and besides, he felt slightly guilty for forgetting even for a moment what he had come for. Or rather, whom he had come for.

Charles Fairchild was standing at the top of the stairs, looking at the scene with calculating eyes. Whatever it was that he saw made him frown.

“Alastair,” he repeated. “I’m glad to see you arrived safely. Come, we have so much to discuss. We’d like to have no interruptions, if you two don’t mind” he added, with a tone that indicated it wasn’t really a suggestion, and Alastair thought he saw his gaze lingering a second too long on the Lightwood standing on the basement door just before he turned around and started walking.

He took just enough time to nod in the cousins’ general direction before following Charles, not daring to look back and see the look on their faces.

He was surprised to discover Charles had led him to his room rather than his study. The feeling of heaviness returned to his gut as he told himself it didn’t matter; they would have the same amount of privacy either way, and perhaps the other simply wanted to be more comfortable. While he no longer needed bedrest, it was possible his recent injuries were still bothering him.

“You shouldn’t bother with whatever childish nonsense they’re playing at this time” said Charles with a scoff, taking a seat on the bed and making a gesture towards the free space beside him. Alastair didn’t point out how their ‘nonsense’ had saved people’s lives before. “You would think that by now they would be taking their duties more seriously, especially since-“

“What do you want, Charles?” He had meant for the question to come out harsher than it did, but he was already feeling weary. He didn’t need to hear all the reasons why he shouldn’t want to be down there, in the basement, instead of here.

The older man looked momentarily displeased at the interruption, but it faded into hurt so fast that he thought it might have been his own imagination.

“I… I just wanted to see you, Alastair, is that truly so wrong?” Charles’s eyes were pleading, in the same way they had been in the infirmary of the Institute. He had grabbed his hand back then, asking him to stay and sounding so desperate and miserable that Alastair had been stunned into silent compliance, unable to find the strength to yank his hand from the other’s hold. I thought I was dying, he had said, and all I wanted was to see you one more time.

Alastair did his best to avoid his eyes this time, looking pointedly at the floor.

“Well, here I am. You’re seeing me.”

“Don’t be like that” A little annoyance had creeped into his tone. “Why are you still trying to make things harder than they have to be?”

“I’m not making anything harder. You still haven’t told me what you want from me.”

“Isn’t it obvious? I miss you. You keep running from me and I can’t handle it” Charles got up from the bed and extended a hand to touch his cheek, but Alastair took a step back.

“Have you forgotten already that you have a fiancée? I don’t believe Miss Blackthorn would be pleased to know what her betrothed is doing behind her back” Alastair was proud of how steady his voice sounded, even if he had to talk through clenched teeth to accomplish that.

An unexpected expression of contempt appeared on the other’s face.

“Of course, you wouldn’t have heard, not yet.”

“Heard of what? Speak clearly, Charles.”

“Grace Blackthorn is currently on the custody of the Silent Brothers.”

He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t that.

“What?”

“She confessed herself to having the power to bewitch any man she wants; she’ll remain on the Silent City until we know what to do with her” Charles scoffed. “Naturally, on light of this, our engagement is no more.”

He felt a little lightheaded. Charles was a lot of things, but he wasn’t foolish enough to make up something that big and ridiculous, something that could be disproved so easily if it were a lie. But if this was true, it meant that Charles… it meant… and Cordelia! She had spoken about her worries over James still having feelings for Grace Blackthorn, her eyes betraying more anxiety than he thought was warranted considering how attentive James had been with his sister since they had announced their engagement. What did this mean for them? Did this have anything to do with why his sister had fled from London without so much as a warning?

Layla, what aren’t you telling me?

“Don’t you understand, Alastair? I never meant to leave you.” The other man continued, and he didn’t have enough presence of mind at the moment to remind him of who had left whom “Or Ariadne, for that matter. It was all the Blackthorn girl and her powers.”

“But you…” But you still did everything else of your own volition, he wanted to say, she didn’t force you to lie to me or to treat me like a shameful secret, this doesn’t change anything. The words felt stuck on his throat, perhaps due to his lack of conviction.

“Yes, exactly!” Charles smiled, as if his hesitance had been just what he was hoping to hear. “You know I would have never done anything to risk this, to risk us otherwise.”

“That... doesn’t make any sense,” a vindictive part of him relished on how quickly Charles’s smile faded from his face. “Even if what you say is true, that doesn’t mean we are still… together. Our arrangement is over; it has been for a while, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” The irritated tone of the question suggested he was explaining something that should have been obvious.

“I heard you perfectly well, but I’m not willing to be your little secret any longer while you parade around with your new fiancée.”

“Well, I’m not engaged to anyone right now, am I?”

“But you will be!” Alastair tightened his hands into fists to avoid messing up his hair out of frustration. He had to look composed even if he didn’t feel it. “As soon as you find someone willing to play in your charade. Or even if you don’t, you would lie to them, like you lied to me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Alastair, I was never dishonest. You know I was doing it for you, for us, so we could be together.”

“How is getting married to someone you don’t love supposed to help?” He asked through his teeth. But he didn’t wait for an answer, they’d had this conversation enough times in the past that he knew it would be a losing battle. “I told you, you can do whatever you wish to, but I don’t want to hide anymore.”

“Well, what you want doesn’t matter!” Charles snapped at him and the harshness of his tone made him freeze. “You have to stop being so naïve, Alastair. No man will be willing to be seen with you in public like that; you have to understand the position you are in. No one can give you what you want. No one will want to.”

Alastair wanted to retort; Anna Lightwood certainly didn’t give a damn about being seen with other women, neither did Charles’s own brother seemed to care if there were rumors about him being involved with men. It wasn’t impossible, he knew that. He could prove Charles wrong, but the only thing his body seemed able to do at the moment was shiver.

The green eyes focused on him softened.

“Are you cold?” The other asked, anger apparently gone from his voice, already crossing the remaining space between them to envelop him with his arms, without stopping to think that maybe his touch wasn’t wanted. Then again, he had been clear on what he thought about what Alastair wanted.

There was a dazed nod, not because it was necessarily the truth, but because Alastair’s throat felt too constricted to speak, and he was unsure of how to express his conflicting emotions without saying a word. Not that the redhead would listen if he tried, but he supposed this wasn’t so bad… right? Perhaps this was alright. The Lightwoods were downstairs and Charles hadn’t hesitated to embrace him after all; was it his recent encounter with death what had made him temporally bolder? Or was he telling the truth? Charles had always been so full of promises and he kept so few of them, but… but he was holding him now. That had to count for something, right?

“You know the only chance there is for us is this. You might not understand yet, you don’t know the Clave like I do. But you just have to trust me.”

The hug was warm, and Alastair closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy the brief feeling of comfort, even if the grasp was starting to be on the wrong side of tight, but surely that was just regret over their disagreement. The way Charles just held on tighter when he squirmed a little was surely because he was trying to keep him warm, he wasn’t trying to make the embrace feel like a cage.

His own explanations weren’t as reassuring as he hoped, and Alastair’s heart was beating faster now. A growing part of him wanted to break away and put as much distance as possible between them, but Charles chose that moment to mercifully let him go, only keeping his hold on the younger man’s arms.

“I’m so glad you are here” He said, and his face got inches away before Alastair actually pushed him away.

“What are you doing?” His voice trembled, and he felt stupid for feeling afraid. He wasn’t a child.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Charles asked, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t say I was okay with you kissing me.”

“You never refused before.”

“Yes, before“ He emphasized rather weakly, trying his hardest to not falter under Charles’s piercing gaze. He couldn’t do this. “I think we’re done here. I’m not repeating myself; you already know how I feel.”

He turned around, fully intending to go downstairs, to go back home, or to the basement with the Lightwoods. He needed to get out of here, but a hand caught his arm and yanked him back.

“Don’t turn your back on me again, Alastair” He was now looking directly at frowning green eyes, too close for comfort. “It’s obvious you’ve missed me too.”

“I haven’t missed you at all” It was the truth. But then why did it sound like a lie even to his own ears?

Charles obviously shared the same opinion, because he snorted.

“Don’t expect me to believe that.”

And there was suddenly a hand caressing his cheek. It didn’t actually feel comforting. But it was warm enough.

“It’s alright, Alastair.”

“I-I don’t understand” He admitted shakily, and in the fear he could still hear in his own voice he thought he could see the naïve child that Charles seemed to see every time he looked at him.

“You don’t have to understand. I’m here.”

There were arms around him again. A warm breath on his ear that made him shiver again. A whisper.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

His armor was crumbling. It had already been cracked, but there was nothing he could do now to mend the pieces.

“What are you asking of me, Charles?” He asked softly, defeated.

He could almost feel the smirk on his neck.

“I’m just asking for you” And the answer sounded so painfully simple. He didn’t have anything to offer but himself, after all. “Will you stay with me?”

Alastair closed his eyes.

There were so many reasons to refuse.

He couldn’t remember a single one.

“I will”.

This time, when Charles went to kiss him, he did nothing to stop it. He didn’t protest when he was guided to the bed. Whatever shadow of warmth there was there to take, he took. He was tired of fighting. Yet… there was a part of his mind that was still muttering a name, a naïve plea for safety. Softly, like a caress. Thomas. He drowned it too, along with the guilt and the fear.

And he gave in.

#posting this and running away because I refuse to face my crimes against humanity. and alastair specifically #alastair carstairs #charles fairchild #anti charles fairchild #do they have a paired name?#charlastair #maybe?#christopher lightwood #thomas lightwood #the last hours #tlh #my writing #chain of iron #teeechnically #listen I still don't know how to properly tag

19 notes · View notes

alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 3 years

Text

all gone, all gone, all gone

part 1: yeah, there’s a lot left over

CW: suicide attempt (warnings for later chapters: emotional manipulation, PTSD, kidnapping)

i’m super serious about this y’all, dead dove: do not eat

there are parts of this that are very, very unpleasant. please don’t read if it will be triggering for you!

Read it on AO3

“It… It was you,” Cordelia said in horror, staring at her brother. “You betrayed us.”

“Is it wrong to say I told you so?” Matthew asked, and Thomas glared at him.

“I don’t understand how you could do something like this,” she told Alastair. She wanted a response from him, a flinch of pain, a sensible explanation. He had none for her. He could make one up, surely. He’d spent enough of the past week playing the good guy to be confident in that. Belial did not need him here any longer, though, so there was no purpose.

It had started just over a week ago, two days after Alastair’s deal with Belial. He wanted him to learn of the plans they had, Cordelia and James and the rest of them, and report back to him. It was straightforward enough, leaning into his father’s death as a reason to change. He never said the change was for the better. He thought it quite ironic considering the Alastair of a few weeks ago was a much, much better person than the one standing before them now.

He’d done it all. He’d comforted Cordelia, bonded with James, flirted with Thomas. He could see it in Matthew’s eyes, he had begun to be forgiven. Too late, he supposed cynically.

"He'll kill you," Cordelia pleaded. "You have to know that. You're merely a pawn. He'll dispose of you once he's done. You'll die!"

He snaked his grin in a way he was certain he could not have done before. Before he had allowed Belial to plant his darkness in him. He tilted his head with a pitying glance. "Layla, I'm already dead. I jumped off Tower Bridge a week and a half ago."

He watched her gaze fall, now horrified. The others' faces were steeled, but he could see the slight flinch in Thomas' eyes. Alastair would never flinch again. "I... I don't understand," Cordelia said slowly.

Alastair could remember it, he could remember his despair, though he could no longer feel it. He was intoxicated, just a little, just enough. He was so tired, he was so sad, he was so tired of feeling sad. His father was gone. There was no one he needed to protect his family from any longer. It was his fault. He could recall the feeling of falling, of flying, before he was caught by a cold inky hand of the scraps of the night. He could remember his panic as he floated upwards back to the ledge of the bridge, the rising sun blinding him. He recalled the figure that he could now identify as Jesse Blackthorn, possessed by Belial, his eyes black and hands twisted in inhuman magic, waiting to meet him. He held him over the depths of the Thames as he asked him to join him.

He said that he could make it so he never felt pain again. He would never feel powerless. He could have everything he ever dreamed of. A bit of assistance now and the world would be his once it was over. A true second chance.

He knew that he was lying. He was a Prince of Hell. He'd been lied to enough times, he'd lied enough times to know what it looked like. He was scared, terrified, and all he wanted was for it all to stop. He wanted to no longer feel exhausted. He wanted to no longer feel.

He said yes.

"I'm a ghost, Layla. A wraith. The brother you knew is merely a memory. Belial saved me. Your silly sentimentalities cannot touch me now."

He watched her break. He'd devoted his life to shielding her from pain. To taking it himself so that she would never need to. But he was no longer living, and in death he could protect her no longer.

He sighed, seeing her tears fall. "Silly little sister..." he mused. "How foolish I was to sacrifice so much for someone so weak. Now, I must be going. You do understand Belial's demands, don't you?" His tone was patronizing.

Her eyes flared with anger. "You are not my brother! I will get him back!"

As Alastair left, he chuckled. In life, such an act was impossible. It had been years since he'd last laughed. In death, he was free.

* * *

Looking at her father’s dead body, Cordelia had not thought her life could get any worse. She’d been naive, thinking his death would be a true low. She hadn’t known what low felt like. She felt lost in space, floating. If James hadn’t guided her, she never would have made it home.

The other boys lingered around. She understood why. Words needed to be said, but she had none.

Thomas was the first one to speak. His voice sounded more like an echo and Cordelia wondered if he even knew he was speaking at all. “It was all a lie.”

“I suppose we should have guessed that something was off,” Matthew said gently. “Given how kindly he was acting.”

James glared at him. “Matthew, now’s not-”

“Stop,” Cordelia interrupted. She took a breath and tried to compose her thoughts. “Stop talking. You don’t- You never actually knew him. I thought- The thing is, the past few days… I don’t think I’ve ever seen him act more himself. The person who he truly is underneath everything else. The person he was before- before all of the bad things started happening. Alastair before he’d experienced true pain, true cruelty. I’d thought… I thought that with our father’s death, he had finally started to heal. I thought… How could I have gotten it so wrong?”

“An Alastair without pain,” Christopher mused.

She blinked. “I… suppose? What are you saying?”

“It’s clear that Belial is controlling him somehow, or holds some type of influence over him. If nothing else, we all know that even at his worst, he would never hurt Cordelia. Perhaps he took away his pain.”

“Why would that cause him to act this way?”

“Pain isn’t… it’s many things, isn’t it? It’s sadness and anger and fear. You can��t truly feel happiness without pain, either, can you?”

“So… he took his emotions?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Do you think… Do you think this means we can get him back? We can free him?”

The boys cast worried glances at each other. “Cordelia,” James started. “You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”

“Alastair’s not hopeless, James. He’s not a lost cause. He can heal, I know he can. He just needs a little help. If there is any part of him that wants to, I will find it. I’ve turned my back on him over and over and over again. I will not make the same mistake now. I won’t ask you to help me, but please don’t try to stop me.”

They looked at each other slowly, then nodded.

Cordelia didn’t know how, but she would do it. She would find a way to free Alastair from Belial’s control, and whatever came after, they would figure out together. They would find a way. After every terrible thing that had happened, Alastair deserved a chance to truly live. She knew this deeply in her soul, and she knew she would do just about anything to help him find it. In this moment, though, all she needed to do was get him back.

I’m not going to use my regular tag list for this one because it’s so dark, but lmk if you want to be tagged for the next part of this series! I do have most of it written out already, but it’s also finals. Thank you to @littlx-songbxrd for all of your help and support lol <3 i’d say i’m sorry but i’m not

Part 2

#cw suicide #alastair carstairs #cordelia carstairs #the last hours #tlh #fanfiction #fanfic #coi spoilers #coi #chain of iron #chain of iron spoilers #stairstairs appreciation month 2021 #carstairs siblings week 2021

60 notes · View notes

theheartsmistakes · 3 years

Text

Any Other Name

.Chapter 1.

The London Institute hadn’t changed in the five years since Cordelia had last seen it. Its pointed rooftops disappeared into the alloy colored clouds that perpetually covered the sky of London making Cordelia sometimes wonder if underneath the constant precipitation the sky was purple or grey rather than blue. The arched glossy windows reflected the view of the city with the billowing smoke from the factories, the lines from the bridges, and the diamond-like flecks that glittered off of the Thames.

It rivaled the Institute in Tehran in size alone, but otherwise, the cold, steel gray of the stones had nothing on the warmth and light of the sand-colored building that she had been living in for the past five years. Already she missed the way the sun warmed the inside of the building and filled the rooms with its light that sent fractals of color off of the beads that adorned the bright colored drapes in her bedroom. She missed the smells of spices, burning applewood, and whatever flower bloomed wildly in that season as she walked the crowded merchant-lined streets.

She’d only been in London all of ten minutes and already she wanted to climb back through the portal and take her grandmother up on her offer to let her live there with her in her small one-bedroom flat.

“We are a family,” said her father proudly when he informed them at the dinner table only a week before that they (he) were offered the position to be head of the London Institute after the removal of William and Tessa Herondale. “This is a family decision. No one is staying behind. We are moving as a family.”

It didn’t feel like a family decision when he removed her bedroom door after she’d locked herself in for twenty-four hours in protest.

One year, she told herself. One measly little year in the dreary, desolate wasteland that was London, and then she would be eighteen and free to make her own decisions including where she wanted to live.

Her older brother Alastair, the bastard, had turned eighteen only a month ago and had opted to remain in Tehran to help oversee the Institute until the Clave found a family to take over. Cordelia bristled at the idea of someone else living in her room which she’d just managed to decorate according to her taste. What if they turned it into a boring old office or Angel forbid a crafts room.

Never, in her seventeen years, did she hate her parents. Not for any reason for they were quite good parents. They let her go out with her friends any night of the week she wanted, they supported her in whatever protest or interest she happened to be on even if it pertained to mundane issues, and she rather liked spending time with them when she wasn’t training or out in the city with her small, but loyal group of friends.

Her friends.

They’d only said goodbye a few hours ago, but she’d at least hoped for one fire message of encouragement to help her through these trying times.

She’d scold them for it later.

When she’d come to London as a child during her parent's annual Clave meetings, the only enjoyable part of being here visiting with the ever eccentric Lucie Herondale. They’d become fast friends when they first met at ten years old and remained in touch either through fire messages, the occasional visits, or annual Clave meetings. Until about six months, when all correspondence stopped. Cordelia sent her dozens of messages, but none of them were answered. When she attempted to call from a city payphone on the landline she knew Lucie kept, the automated message said the phone number had been disconnected.

Cordelia wondered if it was something that she had done or said that upset Lucie. That was until a week ago when her parents sat down with her and her brother and told them of the Clave’s decision to exile the Herondale’s for their demon blood.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!” Cordelia yelled when her parents informed both her and Alastair. “They’re exiled? What does that even mean?”

“It means they’re no longer considered Shadowhunters,” said Alastair from where he sat across from her at the dining room table. He was rather unperturbed by the situation which didn’t surprise Cordelia in the least. He never liked the Herondale’s; least of all James Herondale, Lucie’s older brother.

“I know what it means, Alastair, I’m being dramatic,” snapped Cordelia. “What did they do to deserve this? Will has always been an esteemed member of the Clave and Tessa as well. They can’t do this to them!”

Elias, Cordelia’s traitorous father looked to her mother Sona for assistance but her mother looked just as angry as Cordelia felt.

“It’s all to do with their blood,” said Elias carefully.

“Their blood?” Cordelia said as if he’d just announced he was infected with some virulent disease.

“Bigotry, darling,” said Sona and glanced at him over the edge of the purple scarf that concealed her hair. “I think the word you are looking for is ‘bigotry’.”

“No,” said Elias. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Why not,” said Sona, flippantly. “It’s not as if the Clave is here to hear you. We’ve always been honest with the children, it won’t do to stop now.”

“Sona, please.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was an argument that they have had before and did not side with one another. “We agreed to be a unified front.”

“I agreed to no such thing,” said Sona and turned her gaze to Cordelia. “The Clave upon hearing that Tessa’s father is the greater demon Belial, has decided that despite her angelic heritage, her blood is tainted and we cannot allow tainted blood into the community in fear that her demon-side will eventually take over and she— or her children— will be responsible for something horrendous which is the nature of their kind.”

Cordelia gapped like a landlocked fish. “That’s the most idiotic thing I have ever heard!”

Sona nodded.

“Tessa is one of the kindest, sweetest, most good-natured people that I have ever met!” Her voice inched up an octave that had Alastair grimacing. She didn’t care. This was criminal. This went against everything she’d ever believed. Tessa was someone as close to an aunt as Cordelia would ever have. “Doesn’t the angelic blood dominate the demon side anyway!”

Sona nodded. “The Clave claims they do not have enough evidence of this and therefore cannot risk it.”

“You keep saying the Clave,” said Cordelia vehemently. “Who exactly are you referring to?”

“It’s all of them, darling,” said Elias.

Sona rolled her eyes. “Inquisitor Bridgetstock, the toad, is who I am referring to and the hoard of Clave members that he has fear-mongered into following after him. This is what we deserve for establishing a democracy.”

“You’d prefer totalitarianism?” said Elias.

Sona just shrugged again. “If it meant avoiding this lunacy, then yes, I suppose I do.”

Cordelia felt like screaming to release some of the frustration building in her chest. “What about Will?”

“His mother was a mundane,” said Elias.

“Oh.” Cordelia felt her cheeks fill with heat. “So the Clave has something against Mundanes, as well. So was Sophie Lightwood, are they going to exile her too?”

“The Clave is trying to keep the Shadowhunter bloodline pure,” said Elias, carefully, but there was a note of distaste in the last word. “Sophie ascended so therefore she is for all intents and purposes a Shadowhunter. Also, Will wouldn’t abandon Tessa or his children even if it meant keeping his marks. He was very adamant about that part.”

Cordelia slumped back against her chair and crossed her arms in a way she hadn’t done since she was a child. “So what, we’re just meant to pretend like they never existed? Is that what you’re saying?”

Both of her parents averted their eyes. Sona looked down at her hands resting in her lap and Elias stared at the plate of food he hadn’t touched in front of him. “Yes,” he finally said. “The punishment for fraternizing with ‘the exiled’ or any Downworlder unless it is for official Clave business is deemed punishable.”

Cordelia scoffed, but it was Alastair who asked, “Punishable, how?”

“It depends on the severity,” said Elias and meant to leave it at that.

“Meaning,” inquired Cordelia.

“Meaning,” said Elias in a tone that implied he was finished with this conversation. “They are not our friends, colleagues, or otherwise. They are our enemies and we are to treat them as such. They are working on making this into a new law and if broken, it could mean the stripping of your marks.”

Even Alastair’s eyebrows rose at that. “It seems the Inquisitor is finally getting what he wanted after all, a cease and desist on any camaraderie with Downworlders. He always did see them as a vile group.”

Elias nodded but reached over to put his hand on Cordelia’s arm. “I know Lucie was a dear friend.”

Cordelia’s eyes swam with tears at the mention of Lucie’s name. She couldn’t imagine what Lucie was going through now. Was she afraid, angry, lonely, feeling everything all at once? At least she had her family, but was it enough? Would it be enough for Cordelia?

“I cannot stress how important it is that you obey these laws until we can come up with a way to have them disbanded,” said Elias. “I know your heart, Layla, I see its fire at any signs of adversity and I don’t want to be the one to temper it, but I need you to be careful and believe me when I saw, I will do everything within my capabilities to fix this.” He looked at each person sitting at the table with him. “I may not agree with the Clave’s decision, but for our own protection, we must comply. Do you understand?”

“You want us to be silent,” said Cordelia.

Elias’s hand slipped from his daughter’s arm.

“Sometimes words are not enough,” said Sona on the other end of the table. “Sometimes we can speak louder with our action. We have raised you to be free-thinkers, to defend the innocent, and protect the ones that need protecting. We trust that you will use your best judgement on how to do just that.”

Cordelia uncross her arms and dropped her hands into her lap. She wanted more than anything to go to her room and try to send another fire message to Lucie; to rage about how ridiculous this all was, and let her friend know that she wasn’t alone. That not for one moment would she, Cordelia Carstairs, who once painted herself red and marched through the streets of Tehran as a message to their mundane government that she did not agree with the patriarchal rules placed on women, would go along with these laws.

She thought of the Blackthorn family motto: Lex malla, lex nulla.

A bad law is no law and how she wished she could claim it is her own.

But she couldn’t message Lucie. She didn’t even have a way to reach her and maybe Lucie didn’t want to speak to her anyway if she hadn’t even attempted to contact her in some other way.

“I hate this,” she said quietly.

“I know, Layla,” said her mother. “I know.”

“What of the Fairchilds?” asked Alastair, stirring his mashed potatoes around with his fork. “How did the Clave get Charlotte to agree to this? They’re practically family. Isn’t the blond one parabatai with the eldest of the Herondales?”

Elias sighed and nodded. “He is— was. He is being stripped of his mark this week.”

Cordelia gasped and felt as if she might vomit. “Matthew would never!”

“He didn’t have a choice,” said Elias. “It was either have his parabatai mark removed or be exiled.”

“He’d choose to be exiled.” Cordelia didn’t know Matthew Fairchild all that well, but she knew he wouldn’t abandon his dearest and oldest friend. The friend he chose to tie his own life.

“He’s not yet eighteen,” said Elias. “He cannot make that choice.”

“Charlotte is allowing this?”

“Charlotte has been removed from her place as Consul for not agreeing to any of this and is being replaced by Marcus Pounceby.”

“Marcus Pounceby!” said Alastair and Cordelia together.

Their father just nodded though his expression had grown increasingly tired. “Yes, it appears that if one just bends every which way for the Clave one can achieve a lot.”

Cordelia had to physically restrain herself from flipping the table. “This is bullshit!”

“Cordelia!” Her mother hissed. “I know you’re upset, but I won’t hear that sort of language at the table.”

“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t, and saying ‘this is crap’ just didn’t justify how she felt. “I can’t believe this is happening. I thought we were supposed to be better than mundanes. This feels like its been torn directly out of one of their history books. Next they’ll have use hunting Downworlders and demons.” She couldn’t sit there any longer. She couldn’t handle any more information that made her want to portal directly to Alicante and demand they strip her of her marks. What was stopping them from exiling her family next? What if they stopped liking her hair color or decided she wasn’t fit to be a Shadowhunter because she was a woman? “May I be excused?”

“You haven’t eaten anything,” said her mother.

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Your mother worked—“ Elias started but Sona shook her head and said, “Yes, just clear your plate and you can go.”

——————

In the week that followed that conversation things progressively got worse. It helped that she was in Tehran with her friends, battling demons that terrorized the night and training during the day, until that fateful night when her father declared that they were moving to the London Institute.

The inside seemed as dark and cold as the outside. She didn’t remember it being this way when she visited as a girl. It used to be so full of light, but perhaps it was the people that occupied it that made it that way. Now, it seemed as lonely and depressed by their absence as Cordelia felt.

She dragged her suitcase up the flight of stairs to the second story and shuffled down the hall at a glacial pace as if every step was a concession to agreeing to live here. The hallway had holes in it where pictures were once hung by Tessa of her family and their lives there. Cordelia could remember a few: one of Tessa and Will on their wedding day, another of Tessa heavily pregnant while hanging a Christmas ornament on the tree, one of Will holding a baby, and one of all four of them together underneath the Eiffel Tower. Lucie was only six in the picture and resting her tired head on her father’s shoulder. James stood in front of his mum with a half-smile on his face and a baguette in each of his hands.

The barren walls seemed to groan and sigh as she walked past.

The door she knew to be hers was already opened, a dull strip of light came out into the hallway. Cordelia stood in front of the dark red wood of the door and nudged it open with the toe of her boot. It squeaked on its hinges as it slowly revealed the bedroom inside.

Memories of laughter crashed into her like a blast of icy, winter wind. Two little girls sitting on the massive bed, the covers were thrown over their heads with a witch light glowing between them, as they brought their collection of dolls to life in elaborate stories.

It still smelled like her— like Lucie. A mixture of Damascus roses, ink, and freshly printed papers.

Cordelia sighed and dropped her bag at her feet.

The bed was the only thing that remained of what used to be Lucie’s old bedroom. Stripped of the colorful coverlet and sheets that Lucie had chosen, it was just an old mattress with a plush, lavender velvet headboard. The only sign of there ever having been any more furniture were the marks in the wooden floorboard where Lucie’s writing desk sat and piles of dust in the corners.

“It’s not much now,” said her mother whom she hadn’t heard come up behind her. “But you can make it your own.”

Cordelia scoffed. “I don’t want to make it my own.” It was Lucie’s. It would always be Lucie’s.

She felt her mother’s hand on her waist. “I know this is difficult for you, Layla, but we must make the best of it. It’s what Lucie would have wanted.”

Cordelia turned. “Please don’t talk about her as if she’s dead. I did what you asked, I moved here, please don’t expect me to be happy about it. It’s not enough that I have to stay in this house, but I have to live in her room and make it my own. I won’t. My stuff may be stored in here, but it’s not mine. My room is in Tehran.” She turned back around and glared at the large space before her as if it’d done her some great wrong.

Sona patted her daughter on the waist before releasing her. “I didn’t come up here to upset you more, but I feel I should warn you. The Inquisitor and the Consul are coming by in an hour to meet us. They want to discuss a few things with your father over dinner. I was told to tell you to please be on your absolute best behavior.”

“So you’re asking me to sit there and look pretty?”

Sona’s eyebrows quirked. “We need to support your father. He is the only one in the Clave that has any semblance of reason. They trust him, we need to help strengthen that trust if he is to help make sense of some of this nonsense. Do you understand?”

Cordelia hugged herself. “I hate them.”

“Hate them all you like,” said Sona. “You don’t even have to speak to them if you don’t want to, but you do need to be present. The Consul’s son will be there.”

“Augustus?” said Cordelia with distaste. “Can’t you tell them I’m ill or tired from our travels. Jet lag is still a thing even if you portal.”

Sona tapped her wrist where a watch should be. “Dinner is at seven. Dress respectably.”

Cordelia looked down at the black bike shorts she had under the oversized gray sweatshirt she’d thrown on that morning while she finished all her last-minute packing. By respectable, she knew her mother meant nice, pretty, clean. Look how they want you to look so we can attempt to impress Inquisitor Bridgestock and Consul Pounceby because even though we don’t agree with their decisions, we still have to abide by their laws.

It made her want to punch a hole in the wall or throw something out the window.

She pulled the strap for the scabbard holding Cortana, her beloved sword, over her neck and rested her blade against the wall beside the closet door, and walked across the room to sit on the edge of the mattress.

Never once in her life was she ever not proud to be a Shadowhunter. It was as much a part of her as the color of skin, her name, or the distinct tone of her voice. The angelic blood sang in her veins and powered her limbs to protect those who could not protect themselves against the darkness and evil that threatened it. Never once did she consider that darkness and evil could ever touch or harm her community; that it would never be found there. Now, she came to realize, it was not so far away.

How could she fight her government? She couldn’t, not without consequences, but how could she stay silent either about what she knew to be wrong and unjust.

Her whole existence felt like the inside of a snow globe after it was turned upside down and shaken. Now, she just had to wait for the dust to settle, and perhaps things would not look so different then.

———————

The Consul was the first to arrive.

Cordelia stood in the bathroom mirror smoothing out the dress she’d thrown in the bag she packed while they waited for the rest of their things to arrive from Tehran. The white of the soft fabric warmed her skin and brought out the flecks of copper in her red hair that she left down and curled at the ends. Her mother would scoff at the length of the hem, falling to the middle of her thighs. It wasn’t exactly what Cordelia would have chosen to wear to this dinner either, but she’d left her Fuck the Patriarchy t-shirt and ripped jeans in the box with all of her clothes in Tehran. It may be written in Persian, but the look on her parents’ face would have been worth it, and who knows, perhaps it could have been a conversation starter.

She was pulling on a pair of dark leather sandals when she heard the sound of voices fill the foray. Her mother’s warm, but fake laughter sent a pinch across Cordelia’s spine. She knew it wasn’t sincere, but she still would rather hear the sound of her mother kicking them out of her house rather than welcoming them in.

I am not being complicit, she told herself as she turned towards the bedroom door. I am infiltrating the enemy. I will find their weakness. I will attempt to understand them so I can use the knowledge later to destroy them… And I will spit in their water glasses and lick their bread rolls.

With a practiced smile, she marched towards the door when she felt the give and heard the groan from a floorboard beneath her foot. She looked down and carefully lifted her right foot and watched as the board rose back up.

Interesting. None of the other boards did that.

Carefully, she got down onto her knees and dug her nails into the crack around the board. The perimeters showed markings of being dug out before. She pried it up enough to get her fingers underneath and it popped up with ease. She slid it away and beneath was a white sheet of paper with a garden stone sitting on top of it and Cordelia’s name written on the front.

Cordelia looked up to make sure no one was coming. The voices could still be heard from the foray and dinner didn’t technically start for five more minutes.

She reached down into the hole and slid the paper out from underneath the rock.

Sitting back on her hip, she unfolded it and read:

50 Ernest St, Bethnal Green, London

The Old Clock Tower

February 3, at 10 P.M.

Cielu Rhonelade

Cielu Rhonelade. Cordelia smiled as she mentally rearranged the letters to read Lucie Herondale. It was her nom de plume for a time when they were kids and Lucie wanted to be like the author George Eliot and claim her work under a different name.

But it was Lucie, of that Cordelia was sure, and she wanted to meet with Cordelia tonight.

A/N:

This story can also be found on AO3 if you would prefer to read it there.

Likes, comments, and reblog are always appreciated!

Next update: Friday, 5/14

#the shadowhunter chronicles #chain of gold #chain of iron #chain of thorns #the last hours #james herondale #cordelia carstairs #james x cordelia #jordelia fanfiction #cassandra clare #modern au #alternative au #thomas lightwood #lucie herondale #christopher lightwood #alastair carstairs #will x tessa #jesse blackthorn #grace blackthorn

29 notes · View notes

rosyfingereddawnn · 3 years

Text

only the black rose (chapter 2)

pairing: jimmy page x layla porter (oc)

warnings: mature language (a given), fluff, and a (possibly) pretentious description of the rain song

words: 4k

summary: in the blink of an eye, it’s 1975 and layla’s suddenly joining led zeppelin for their north american tour. throughout the chaos, the band take a liking to her, she builds friendships with the boys, and love blossoms. but all good things must come to an end.

author’s note: not beta’d. this story does follow a playlist of mine, because i put too much thought into things. i hope you enjoy :)

masterlist

playlist

chapter one

----------

Tearing down the hallway, cheeks still flaming red from the encounter with Jimmy just minutes ago, Layla nearly runs into Peter, with one John Paul Jones trailing behind him. She rushes past quickly, head down, darting into the washroom that Robert, thankfully, had the mind to point out during the tour of the facility, ignoring their worried glances and aborted questions all the while. The young woman bolts the door shut and rushes to the sink, splashing her face with the frigid water flowing from the tap.

“Shit! This can’t be happening!” She whispers, concern etched on her face at the thought of all that has happened that day. Her jumbled thoughts are soon interrupted by a knock at the door. From behind it, a familiar voice sounds.

“Layla, it’s Peter! Jonesy is here too. Can we come in?”

Silently, Layla unlocks the door, and returns to her vigil at the sink. The two men enter, giving her worried looks that go unseen. Unexpectedly, it’s Jonesy that breaks the silence that has cultivated between the trio.

“Layla, are you alright?”

“Uh, yeah! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“...”

“Well, I think what Jonesy means is that... You’ve had a stressful day, dear, and you looked anxious when you ran in here. Also, Robert walked by just a few minutes ago, smiling ear-to-ear. Do you want me to talk to him?”

“Peter, he didn’t do anything wrong…” Layla sighs, debating whether she should tell them the whole truth. Remembering the key she had discovered earlier, she pulls it out, and reads the address carved onto the bronze surface. “I’m fine, it’s just… Everything that happened today, it just sunk in? I don’t want to bother you all more than I have already, but I don’t exactly have a car, and I should really be getting home.”

“Of course. I’m sorry we kept you this long, Layla. Though, before you go,” Peter says, fishing a notepad and a ballpoint pen out of his pocket, scribbling a number down onto the paper and ripping it out of the small book. “Here. This is my personal number. I’d like it if you called every so often. As much as they would hate to admit it, these boys have taken a bit of a shining to you.”

“Actually, Peter, could I drive Layla?” Jonesy cut in, smiling lightly at the woman. “There’s something I’d like to talk to her about. Only if you’re okay with that, Layla.”

“Of course, Jonesy. I’d like that.” Layla smiles at Jonesy, and the three of them exit the washroom, Jonesy leading Layla to his car parked out back. Once inside, Jonesy starts up the radio, an Elvis song crackling through on low volume. The man pulls the car out onto the street, and starts the drive over to Layla’s house. Lost in her thoughts regarding what she might find once she gets to her destination, Layla almost doesn't register Jonesy’s deep voice calling her name.

“Sorry, Jonesy, what were you going to say?”

“I know you’re not from here.”

“God, again with the accent? Fine! I’m Canadian, and after high school I moved to—”

“No,” Jonesy sighs, steeling himself for the conversation. “I mean… I know you’re not from this time. You aren’t supposed to be here. In 1975.”

“John… How…”

The man in question, sensing that this wasn’t a conversation to be had while driving, pulls over, and turns to the dazed woman beside him. Her mouth is hanging wide open, lips moving as though she was trying to form words, though nothing comes out.

“Look…”

“What the fuck?”

“I know you’re shocked, Layla. I was too, the first time I witnessed it,” Jonesy puts a gentle hand on Layla’s arm, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. “I know you’re not from now, for lack of a better term, because I have seen this kind of thing before.”

“Jonesy, I don’t…”

“When I was a session man, working with plenty of different bands, I saw a lot of weird things. The weirdest, however, was when, right in the middle of a session, the band’s guitarist disappeared.”

“Do you know what happened?”

Never halting his comforting ministrations, Jonesy continues, sympathy dripping from his voice. “He was in the producer’s booth, listening to a playback while we were fooling around with our instruments. We heard a huge crash, and saw sparks, so we all rushed over to check on him.”

“Then what happened?”

“We couldn’t find him,” Jonesy sighed, eyebrows furrowing. “He was gone for about a day or two, but we were all incredibly worried, so when we heard that he was found, we rushed over to see him. The only thing he said about what had happened to him, was that he ‘figured it out’.”

“That’s all he said?”

“He did say later that he wanted to write a song about time travel,” Jonesy laughs softly, Layla joining in. “Not sure if it ever came to fruition though.”

Layla sobers up now, glancing at her companion helplessly. What if she can’t go home, to her own time? What if she can’t ‘figure it out’? Almost as though he could see the cogs turning in Layla’s brain, Jonesy moves his hand from her arm to rest on her knee, a grounding weight for the anxious woman.

“Layla, I’ll help you figure it out. We’ll get you back home. We can figure it out, just like he did. It will be okay.”

The woman in question can only nod wordlessly, struck by the devotion of her new friend. Jonesy, deeming her to be okay, starts up the car again. A couple minutes pass as Elvis is traded in for Buddy Holly, until Jonesy finally breaks the relative silence.

“So… You and Jimmy?”

“Nothing’s going on with Jimmy.”

“Right,” Jonesy laughs, shaking his head, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Because you didn’t look at him like he hung the stars the first time you saw him, and he certainly didn’t rush past me in the hallway earlier, face the colour of a tomato, Robert’s laugh echoing off the walls behind him.”

“How did you…What?”

“Layla, I’m very observant. Just… Be careful with him, okay? You have to go back sometime, and I know him. He’ll take it hard, and… Things happen, I know they do, but please… Just try and be careful.”

“... John Paul Jones… Are you giving me the shovel talk?”

Laughter fills the small car as they drive through streets that become increasingly familiar. The pair finally pull up to their destination, and Layla is shocked to find that she’s staring back at what looks to be her flat, from her own time. With a hug and sincere words of gratitude, Layla climbs the stairs to the front door, and pushes the key into the lock. Holding her breath, she pushes the door open. Everything is exactly the way it was the day before. The empty coffee mug by the sink remained, and the mail on the dining table hadn’t moved an inch. She rushes upstairs, to find that the turntable was still there, open, though there was no record inside. There were scorch marks on the carpet. Layla throws out a hand, pressing it to the turntable, expecting sparks once more.

Nothing happens.

----------

“Hello?”

“Is… Is this Peter Grant?”

“Layla! I was beginning to think you’d never call,” A chuckle sounds from the other end of the line, tinny through the aged receiver. “How have you been, dear? The boys have been asking about you.”

“Oh? What are they saying?”

“My Goodness, it never stops. I’m surprised they’re not right up against me listening in. It’s always ‘Peter, when is Layla coming back? Peter, Layla could get a job here, as a roadie! Peter, we need our little dove, she’s our good luck charm!’”

“Well… I can guess who the last one came from. Peter, would it be okay if I came down again today? I really did have a good time, despite the circumstances.”

“Of course, of course! You’re welcome anytime, my dear. Here, I’ll send one of the boys out to fetch you. Lord knows they need it, they’re bouncing off the walls with energy.”

Another bout of laughter crackles across the line, and Layla pictures the kind, comforting smile almost permanently etched onto Peter’s face. “Wonderful! Thanks again, Peter. I’ll see you soon!”

“Goodbye, Layla. See you soon.”

“Oh! Peter, before you hang up! I gave the clothes you lent me a wash, and I’ll return them right away!”

Silence, only for a second, seeps into the conversation, until a scoff from the older man cuts it like a knife. “My dear, keep them. Jimmy won’t miss them. In fact, I remember hearing him say to Bonzo earlier, that they ‘look better on Layla anyways.’ Well, I should let you go. We’ll see you soon.”

The line goes dead, and it is not hard to imagine the grin on the man’s face before he hung up. Regardless of if he was telling the truth about what Jimmy had said, the young woman couldn’t help but swoon a little, shades of red dancing across her cheeks. She looks at the neatly folded pile of clothes beside her, and, pressing her nose to the fresh fabric of the sweater, she puts it on. Even with the magic of the washing machine, it still held a foreign scent; one of cigarette smoke, pine and citrus, which harmonized with the subtle smell of the detergent she had used. It was a scent that, on paper, sounded like an odd combination, yet Layla could hardly get enough of it. She had smelled it just the other day, in the studio, when Jimmy was above her, jade eyes boring into hers, curls a midnight halo framing his porcelain face.

The honking of a car horn shatters her concentration, and as she looks out to the street for the source of the disturbance, she sees the grinning face of John Bonham, who is hanging halfway out of the open window, waving frantically.

“Layla! Get in, you slowpoke!”

“God, Bonzo, you’re gonna wake up the whole country if you keep that up!”

“As if that wasn’t the goal, birdie.”

“Birdie? Seriously? My God, you guys are just asking to get hit.”

“By you? Birdie, you couldn’t even reach my face if I was sitting down.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d go for the face first,” A smile of feigned innocence, blooms on Layla’s face. “Question, Bonzo. How much do you value your kneecaps?”

“Ah!” Bonzo exclaims, laughing loud, carefree. “Smart girl, smart girl. Maybe we’ll call you whenever we have arguments.”

“Jonesy’s short enough, just call him. I reckon he could do some damage from down there.”

Peals of laughter ring through the car, just audible under the din of the music that Bonzo insisted on blaring as the newfound friends cruise to the studio. Finally arriving at their destination, the drummer sends a glance over to his companion, taking into account the sweater she is wearing. He lets out a sudden snort, and hides his laughter in his hand. Layla, noticing this odd display shoots him a concerned look.

“You okay, Bonham?”

“You know, birdie, there are other ways to become Ms. Page...”

“...Get out.”

“Layla, you realize this is my car, right?” Layla gives him a heated glare, and as though he could physically see the daggers she was aiming at him, Bonzo exits the car in a huff, mumbling about how “it was just a joke…”

Allowing herself a private smirk, Layla exits the car, hurrying to catch up with her friend, short legs working a mile a minute. Reaching the man, she slings a companionable arm around his waist, and immediately feels an arm wrap around her shoulders in response. The two friends enter the building, giggling anew.

“Layla!” A chorus of voices echoed off the marble floors of the lobby, accompanied by a stampede of approaching footsteps, and the woman in question was swiftly bombarded with a chorus of arms around her, squeezing tightly.

“Really feeling the love here, guys, but I can’t breathe…” The arms relinquish their hold immediately, and Layla is met with the ecstatic faces of her new friends.

“Nice sweater, love.” Jimmy pipes up, sharing a subtle smile with the woman.

“Jim, don’t be surprised if you never get that sweater back. She’s attached now!”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. I think she looks stunning in it.” Gone is the bumbling, shy man from before, replaced by confidence and charm. Layla smiles, enjoying this new side of the raven-haired guitarist.

“...Anyways… Little dove, we were just about to rehearse, would you like to sit in?” Robert hooks his arm through hers, an innocent wink tossed haphazardly over his shoulder at the guitarist, who only smirks and shakes his head.

“I would love to, blondie, but enlighten me real fast,” Layla says, giggling at the golden-haired man. “What exactly are you rehearsing for?”

“I’m glad you asked, Layla,” Jimmy says, swiftly taking her other arm, uncharacteristically playful. “We have a very important tour of North America coming up, and it would be a shame if we came in unprepared, wouldn't it?”

“That’s really cool!” Layla exclaims, exhilaration clear on her face.

“We’ve got some practice shows in Belgium and the Netherlands, and then we’ll be off to the Promised Land.”

“‘The Promised Land’? You guys really need to get out more.”

This is met by raucous laughter by the band, much to the confusion of the woman.

“Oh, sweet, sweet, naive Layla…”

“Remember what I said in the car, Bonzo? About the hitting?” This is accompanied by a friendly smirk, typical of the woman.

“You have so much to learn…” Jimmy continues mischievously, green eyes glinting, earning a strong glare.

“Little dove has such attitude, she’s basically one of us,” Robert sighs dreamily, no doubt playing it up for Layla, earning a chuckle from her in response.

“Okay, now that that’s all over and done with,” Jonesy’s steely blue-gray eyes survey the group, stern as they lock onto the eyes of the band. “Let’s actually play for her. Once in a lifetime opportunity here, Layla.”

“Glad stardom hasn't gone to your head, guys. Truly the most humble group I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.” Laughter accompanies the group as they make their way to the studio, intent on blowing Layla’s mind.

----------

“How about a little Rain Song, boys?” Jimmy says, tuning up the acoustic guitar in his hands, as though it was delicate and precious.

“You just wanna impress Layla, don’t you, Pagey?” Jonesy smirks, teasing the guitarist. Jimmy flushes, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, the shy man from before making his brief return.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Jonesy,” Jimmy shoots back, trying for nonchalance, the slight waver in his dulcet voice giving him away. “Does ‘Rain Song’ work for everyone, or are we picking something different?”

A smattering of “works for me,” sounds throughout the studio, and the boys launch right in. Soft sounds of falling rain pour out of the guitar, and Robert’s golden voice floats out like streams of sunlight. Jonesy’s piano trickles through, a mist amongst the downfall, Bonzo’s soft drum beats claps of thunder. The music picks up, becomes harder, like wind in the face of a torrential storm, and then all is still, Robert crooning all the while. Layla is mesmerized, unable to look away at the boys, seemingly glowing with the influence of the music they play. A fragile silence follows the last tinkling of raindrops, one that the occupants of the room are afraid to break.

“... So? How was it?” Bonzo is the first to speak, an apprehensive grin gracing his face.

“It was… You just…”

“Never thought we’d make you speechless, little dove.”

“Ignoring that. It was truly incredible, guys.” Layla’s face lights up in an excited smile, chestnut eyes sparkling as though reflected in a clear pool. The young woman locks eyes with Jimmy then, who sends her a shy smile her way, arresting her where she stands. Layla looks away quickly, cheeks warm.

“Jonesy, your keyboard playing was incredible! It sounded like tiny raindrops! Bonzo, your drumming was just… It was so good! It sounded like thunder, and broke through the rest of the instruments perfectly. Robert, as much as I truly hate to say this…”

“Hey!”

“You were beyond words. You owned those lyrics, and made them almost come alive. I truly felt them. Jimmy… Your guitar. It drove the whole storm, and paired with Jonesy’s little droplets... It was great. I can’t say enough about this whole performance.”

“I knew we kept her around for a reason.” Bonzo snorts, closing the distance first to hug the young woman, Jonesy following with a smile painted on his aristocratic features.

“Little dove, has anyone ever told you that you should be a music critic?”

“A few times. Now get over here, blondie. You too, Page.”

The embrace is interrupted by the click of the studio door being opened, revealing the hulking figure of the usually soft-natured Peter Grant. Taking in the scene before him, he chuckles heartily, his smile never slipping. Walking over to the group, he claps his hands together in delight.

“I’m glad you’re all getting on. Boys, that was another wonderful performance. If you perform like that on Saturday? God, we’ll rule the world!”

“We’ll need our good luck charm, though.” Jimmy gestures towards Layla, winking at her conspiratorially.

“Peter, is there any way we can bring Layla over?”

“I’m sure we can work something out, Percy. Layla, would you like to join us?”

“Well… I’m sorry, but I’m not sure if I could manage, with the finances of it all. I don’t exactly have a job at the moment...” Layla says sheepishly, eyes cast downwards in embarrassment. Peter scoffs and shakes his head in response, placing his large hand on the young woman’s shoulder.

“My dear, you wouldn’t have to pay even one pence,” Pete explains, kind eyes reassuring as they gaze at the woman in front of him. “Though, if you are worried about something like that, we do always need help in the wings, if you’re interested?”

“Peter, are you sure? I couldn’t just—”

“Layla, for the love of God, just say yes?” Jonesy mutters, huffing out a laugh at the display of stubbornness in front of him.

“I mean, if you’re sure… I’d love to.”

“Wonderful! Now, we leave on Friday. We’ll pick you up at your flat, just make sure you’re packed, dear. We’re happy to have you on board.”

----------

As the calendar pinned to the wall is steadily painted in royal blue ink, Layla’s excitement grows. One more day, and she’ll be on the road, living it up. January 10th couldn't come any faster, it seemed to Layla.

The shrill ringing of the phone interrupts her musings, and as Layla hurries to answer, a smile grows on her face at the thought of the days ahead. As much as she tries to deny it, Layla felt quite fond of the boys already.

“Hey, little dove, I’m leaving right away to pick you up. I’ll explain what’s going on in the car. You don’t need to bring anything. See you in 15.”

“Robert? What—”

“Oh, and Layla?” Smugness dripping from his voice, Layla can already see the cheshire grin the man is sporting, “Wear something nice.”

“Robert—”

Click.

Shock freezing her in place, Layla shakes her head, a featherlight smile gracing her lips. Flying up the stairs to her bedroom, Layla picks out a pair of merlot bell bottoms, paired with a cropped bell-sleeved shirt, a snowy white in colour. Rings scattered across her hands, Layla looks in the mirror, applying some light makeup. Seeing a car pull up to her house, a sleek, rich red against the stormy gray of the curb, she rushed downstairs, waving at the driver. Stepping into the vehicle, she turns to her friend, who smirks, looking her up and down.

“I said to dress nice… This is gonna kill the man.” Robert scoffs, mutters under his breath, tugging playfully on a perfect brown ringlet of Layla’s hair.

“Robert, what’s going on? Why couldn't you explain over the phone?”

“Well, I couldn’t let a certain someone overhear my master plan, could I?” This is met with a blank look from the passenger of the vehicle, and, glancing over quickly, Robert cackles.

“Listen up, little dove,” Robert says, whispering mischievously, starting up the car and pulling away from the flat, “It’s Jimmy’s birthday, and the lot of us were planning something. It would be a shame if we didn’t get his favourite girl in on the secret too!”

“Favourite girl?”

“Oh come on, Layla. Don’t tell me you’re that oblivious!” Robert scoffs, lazily throwing his head to the side to look at his companion, golden locks flying every which way, “The man can’t take his eyes off of you. It’s a whole subject of conversation when you’re not around. I can tell by the colour of your cheeks that you might feel the same…”

“If I say yes, will you drop it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Should have known… Anyways, what’s the plan here?” Robert winks at her in response, ocean eyes glinting in the warm afternoon sun.

“So, you know quite a bit about guitars, hey?”

“A fair amount? I used to play. What does that have to do with Jimmy’s birthday, though?”

“Well,” Robert starts, grin growing at the confusion of his friend, “We’re gonna throw a little get-together at the studio, but I was thinking, his favourite acoustic keeps breaking, and he hasn’t had much time to fix it yet. This is where you come in, little dove.”

“Don’t leave me in suspense here, blondie.”

“You’re gonna pick out a new acoustic for him.”

“Robert, I don’t know…”

“Don’t worry about the costs,” Robert exclaims, shaking his head vehemently, “I got it all covered. Perks of being in a famous band, I guess. Jim’s not the best at words, you’ve experienced this firsthand. He speaks with his music, and by doing this, you’re speaking his language.”

“I get that, but what… What if he doesn’t like the guitar I pick out?”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Robert laughs out, stealing a glance at his fidgeting companion. “Little dove, you could give him a trash bag and he’d still cherish it. He’ll love whatever you pick out for him.”

Robert parks the car, and turns towards his friend, taking a small hand in his, a comforting smile on his tan face. Giving the hand a squeeze, Layla steps out of the car, and, arm in arm with Robert, they walk into the store.

Strolling through the aisles, Layla was struck at the sheer beauty of the instruments in front of her. Shades of sepia and seafoam green blend into starry blues as she walks on. A body of rich mahogany catches Layla’s eye then, and she knows immediately. This is the one. The pickguard is a deep maroon with swirls of midnight black, thin rings of pristine white surrounding the sound hole. It’s perfect. Layla can’t help but stare, until she feels a tap on her shoulder, accompanied by a light peal of laughter.

“I take it, that's the one, Layla?”

Turning around, caught, Layla’s cheeks warm, and, smiling ever-so-slightly, she nods. Turning to the guitar once more, she trails her fingers across the smooth polished wood of the guitar.

“It’s perfect…”

“He’s gonna love it, just you wait.”

Layla plucks it from it’s resting spot on the wall, and, cradling it with the care of a new mother, she walks with Robert to the front of the store to pay. After a couple of autographs, and a few weird looks, the pair return to the car, finally setting their sights on the studio. Guitar case resting safely in her lap, Layla allows herself a private smile, picturing the face of the guitarist, emerald eyes filled with elation, upon seeing the gift.

“Why are your cheeks so red, little dove? Are you feeling okay?”

----------

taglist: @jimmys-zeppelin @salixfragilis (let me know if you want to be added!)

#led zeppelin #led zeppelin fanfic #jimmy page #jimmy page fanfiction #jimmy page fanfic #classic rock fanfic #only the black rose

30 notes · View notes

radramblog · 3 years

Text

Have a plan to kill everyone you meet- Fallout New Vegas Genocide run notes

For some reason, and I can’t say why, I’ve had a hankering to play through Fallout: New Vegas again. There’s always a few quests I haven’t beaten, I guess, 100%% achievement completion or not.

However, video essays on moral choices in video games have been part of my feed recently, and like many, apparently, I’m someone who usually tries to pick the goody two-shoes options. But NO MORE! In this hypothetical future playthrough I wanna try and fuck over every single person, and for once end up with Bad Karma at the end.

I’ve seen a few things online about people doing murder only runs of this game, but I don’t think anyone’s tried this particular undertaking. Specifically, I’m not just gunning to gun down everyone I see, I’m going out of my way to kill as many named characters as possible. Using the Fallout Wiki as a hitlist, everyone it is possible to kill will be killed.

The following are my notes about routing such a playthrough. I hope they’re entertaining enough! :p

New Vegas Genocide Mode

The following characters cannot be killed for any reason:

The Forecaster, Melody, Max, Stacey, Lindsay, Pete, and Hector are all children and as such are undamagable- I’m sure a mod exists but I’m not gonna go download that, I don’t wanna end up on a list.

Festus is a robot whom projectiles pass through and who takes no damage from physical attacks. Besides, his artificial intelligence is limited enough that are you really actually killing anything there?

Vendortron is in an impenetrable booth, and while I’m pretty sure you can glitch into its box, I’m also pretty sure he respawns anyway.

Yes Man can be killed as many times as I like, and I will, but he always respawns so even if you piss off/kill off other factions you still have a path to endgame.

The following characters are mutually exclusive- i.e. you can get one, but not the other.

Ranger Stevens and Cato Hostilius- The missions You’ll Know It When It Happens and Arizona Killer are about being on the opposite sides of an assassination attempt on the President of the NCR. Ranger Stevens only shows up if you’re trying to stop it, and Cato Hostilius is your contact for trying to cause it.

Gabban, Alerio, and Martina Groesbeck- This all comes back to Vulpes Inculta. Vulpes shows up in two events- in Nipton when you first arrive there, and in the Strip when you leave the Tops after confronting Benny. Gabban replaces Vulpes in Nipton if you kill him in the Strip, and Alerio replaces him if you kill him at Nipton. If you don’t kill him at either, he returns to the Fort where you can receive a quest from him involving Martina. To my knowledge, she doesn’t spawn without that quest. I do need to investigate if in theory you can get the quest from Vulpes before killing him and without visiting Nipton, letting you kill both him and Gabban.

The Big Problem: Reputation

There are four characters whom only show up in their faction’s respective safehouses, requiring a significant dedication to not murdering people to unlock. In addition, access to certain quests with named characters (e.g. I Fought the Law) requires not being hated by the relevant faction. As such, we can’t start wantonly killing people until a certain point.

This gets complicated when it comes to the main 2 factions, being the Legion and the NCR. Fortunately, however, after the first act of the main story, reputation with both gets wiped (by Vulpes/Alerio and Crocker), which we can manipulate pretty well. It makes sense to do the NCR first, as reputation with them is more relevant overall and often costs Legion reputation.

This is the route I’ve figured out for how to work around this issue, including every quest that spawns uniquely named characters for us to murder. DLCs and Companions are currently not included, but shouldn’t be too hard to figure out. Except maybe Joshua Graham.

Start the game as a male character (Legion won’t let you in the pit fights if you’re a woman bc they’re sexist) and take Wild Wasteland (necessary for one event).

AVOID THE FOLLOWING LOCATIONS/QUESTS: NIPTON, anywhere with major Powder Ganger concentrations, Ghost Town Gunfight/Run Goodsprings Run, Boulder City Showdown. We’re trying to maintain relationships with the NCR, Powder Gangers, and Great Khans as long as possible.

(At some point get enough Sunset Sarsaparilla Star caps to get Malcom to show up)

Head to Primm, picking up Ed-E and beginning his quest. This quest needs to be continued at minimum until April Martimer spawns in Freeside.

Solve Primm’s deputy problem somehow so Layla spawns later.

Make way to Freeside/New Vegas, however necessary.

Donate medical aid to Julie Farkas, raising Followers of the Apocalypse fame, until access to the Followers Safehouse is granted.

Go to the Atomic Wrangler and get Debt Collector (spawns Caleb McCaffery)

After acquiring the Cannibal perk, proceed down Beyond the Beef by working with Mortimer until Carlyle spawns.

Get and complete Bye Bye Love, spawning Big and Little Beard, making sure to kill everyone involved after Joanna gives the quest How Little We Know (spawns Cachino)

Go to Camp McCarran, and acquire quests Dealing with Contreras (spawns Keller), There Stands the Grass (spawns Keely), and Silus Treatment (lets you into Silus). Suck up to the NCR until access Colonel Hsu lets you into the Ranger Safehouse.

Go to Jacobstown and proceed along Guess who I Saw Today until Norton shows up.

Go to North Vegas Square and get Someone to Watch Over Me, proceeding until Greasy Johnny spawns.

Go to the Great Khan Encampment to get Don’t Make a Beggar of me, spawning Tyrone.

Go to the NCRCF and proceed down I Fought the Law, then betray the Powder Gangers to get Sergeant Lee to spawn.

Go to Hidden Valley and start Still in the Dark, spawning Ranger Dobson and killing him. Complete the quest to gain access to the Brotherhood of Steel Safehouse.

Go confront Benny at the Tops, resetting negative reputation with the Legion and NCR.

Proceed to the Fort and start the Legion questline, making sure to complete Laurifer Gladiator and start The Finger of Suspicion.

Keep going down the Legion Questline, eventually reaching Arizona Killer- make sure to kill Cato after assassinating Kimball and Watson.

If Lucius hasn’t given access to the Legion Safehouse yet, do bullshit for the Legion until he does (e.g. give Aurelius NCR Dogtags)

Once access is granted, it is now safe to start killing everyone! Have fun.

After the blood of your enemies, friends, and strangers covers everything, proceed down the Wild Card route to the endgame, making sure to kill Yes Man after every conversation, so you can get to the Second Battle of Hoover Dam and murder Legate Lanius. Don’t let Yes Man kill Lee Oliver, do it yourself!

As the credits roll, use glitches/godmode to regain control so you can go behind the slideshow and kill Ron the Narrator.

Still during the credits, end it all the only way we know how- blow yourself up, killing the last named character available to kill.

Maybe consider using console commands to spawn in the 2 characters that were mutually exclusive just to kill them. Might as well.

#ramble #...ish?#video games #fallout new vegas #genocide run #man i dont want to kill veronica though

52 notes · View notes

sigritandtheelves · 4 years

Text

(III) Three Iterations of a Birth (and Death)

Part Three: Fantasy

PG-13 | 2.2k wds | s8 AU (diverges after “Alone”)

Summary: This time he gets it right.

A/N: It’s finally done! Part One, Tragedy, is here but you don’t need to read it if you hate pain (character death warning) and Part Two is here, which is angsty but ends well. This one is happy, but I hope not tooth-achingly sweet. Just a better version of things, and fulfilling this (very old) prompt:

I hope you like it, anon!

_+_

“Mulder, you should know something.”

She sat on his couch with hands on her round belly, wore a tank dress and complained of the heat. Her feet, white-sneakered, rested on his coffee table. He handed her a glass of water and sat beside her.

“What’s that?” He turned to her, elbow propped on the back of the couch and watched her sip. She’d been smiling for much of today, tucked beside him and flirting gently at Layla Harrison’s bedside, demanding they stop for Mexican food on their ride back from the hospital. He sensed, though, a seriousness in her tone now. A small fold appeared between her brows.

“Not long before we found you, I had a procedure done by doctors that I thought I couldn’t trust.” She glanced at him briefly. “An amniocentesis.” Her fingers twitched against the side of her sweating glass, and she leaned forward to set it on the table. When she struggled to reach, Mulder took it from her and placed it on a coaster. “Thank you,” she said.

He nodded, but his heart was pounding, his face stilled and pinched in that look of panic. “An amniocentesis?”

“Yeah,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I wanted to run a PCR on the baby.”

So it was time, then. He’d waited for this conversation, felt it hovering like a thundercloud around them for weeks while they tiptoed around every mention of her pregnancy. Mulder swallowed hard. “And did you?”

She hesitated, eyes fixed on her knees. “I didn’t run it myself.” He watched her fingers fidget at the apex of her belly.

“But someone did.”

“Yeah.”

Mulder felt like yelling, like plugging his ears or running into another room. He didn’t think he wanted to know this, but he was also desperate for the information. “And?”

Scully took a deep breath. “Entirely human,” she said, then lower so he almost couldn’t hear, “and yours.”

Mulder chewed at his bottom lip and stared at her hands, still grazing the taut fabric over her belly. His child. He thought of her holding that baby in Oregon, of tiny Matthew’s fuzz-covered head in San Diego. His mind touched on the thought of an infant in his own arms, then shied away. He’d already watched one child of hers sicken and die; neither of them could bear that again.

But she’d also said entirely human.

“The results were clear?”

“99.9%,” she said. “But like I said, I didn’t run it myself, and I was so scared.” Her eyes lifted to meet his now, and they were round, wet. “I wanted to believe it, but how could I be sure? How could I trust anyone, Mulder?”

He saw her small and afraid, facing months of uncertainty. He saw these same wide and tearful eyes wanting to believe the results of a PCR test. He saw how much she needed him to believe with her: that this was only a normal child and theirs alone. He reached out a hand to take hers and she squeezed it hard.

“Why would they lie about that?” He whispered. He ran a thumb over her tense knuckles while a tear slipped away from the corner of her eye to trail down the side of her face.

She shook her head. “What if they want me complacent? What if they’re in the hospital when it’s time… when he’s born?”

He again. Their son.

Scully was staring at the ceiling now, willing her tears back into her eyes, trying to steel herself against these possibilities, as she must have done for months. Mulder sensed there was more she wasn’t telling him, so he lifted her fingers to kiss them. “What changed? You said you thought you couldn’t trust it, but you believe the test now?”

She held her breath for a moment’s hesitation before she whispered, “Yes.”

“Why?”

She looked at him. “I did another one. I mean I… I worked with my doctor and I ran the tests myself.”

“Scully.” Not quite chastising, but there was worry in his voice: a risky procedure, now run twice in an already complicated pregnancy. When had she done this?

“The results were the same.” There was something desperate in her eyes now. “He’s yours, Mulder.” Quickly she amended, “If you want him to be.”

—

It wasn’t because of what she’d told him, he thought, but because they’d finally talked about it at all. He kissed her on his couch and she clung to him, fierce and needy, arms tight around his back and face buried in his chest.

He pressed a palm to her belly between them and said, “Stay.”

She nodded, hot breath on his collarbone.

The earth and flower smell of her scalp under his nose made him think of their last night in Bellefleur: regret and sadness, but also the depth of love he’d felt while wrapped around her then. This, right now, was the so much more. Her body on his mattress, her cheek on his shoulder, marked the first time he thought to himself that maybe he was healing, that they both were.

Before she fell asleep she ran a finger down the center scar of his chest and whispered, “You said stay,” then kissed the thickened skin of it. “But Mulder you need to stay.” Her eyes were two small pricks of light in the darkened room that spoke to him of a deep uncertainty, of real fear.

He gathered her whole self to him in both arms, knee hooked over her hip, and said, “I know.” He held his lips to the crown of her head and whispered, “Scully I’m not going anywhere.”

—

“You’re really sure?” She asked him, face in that half-crumpled furrow of disbelief. She wore maternity jeans and what must have been one of his own pilfered button-downs.

“Yes!” He said. “Now watch out!”

She stepped aside as he carried a cardboard box—seven books and roughly fifteen t-shirts (he wasn’t good at packing)—through her doorway.

It made sense. She had that second bedroom already.

—

A different night and very late, after two, he sensed her tension: a strained quickness to her breathing beside him. She was facing away, trying to hide it. Mulder curled his palm over her hip and asked low, “What is it?”

She stiffened. “I’m okay,” she said, but he knew her. He tapped two knuckles on her hip bone.

“Scully.”

A long sigh: a concession, an opening up because they were doing this right, now. “I’m worried.”

He nodded, careful. “About me?”

She shook her head and was quiet for a moment. Then, “I spent my whole life thinking medicine was good, that its whole purpose was to make lives better, safer, longer…” She shifted so her back pressed against his chest and he slipped his left arm fully around her. “But after everything we’ve seen, everything that’s happened to me… I just don’t know that I can trust doctors anymore.”

Mulder tucked his nose in that place between her neck and shoulder. They had taken her faith even in this, shucked her convictions in the good of medicine. The meddling hands of whatever forces they were up against reached down and out into every institution she’d once trusted. “Even your new doctor?”

She shrugged.

He let his hand slip down, covering as much of her round abdomen as he could. He loved touching her this way now, feeling the little knees and feet press outward, the subtle hiccups that came in the evenings. “What can we do?”

She covered his hand with her own and guided it to a place where some small limb pushed toward the outside world. He drew a small circle around it with his index finger and kissed her ear.

“What if we went away? Maybe…” She swallowed. “Maybe some little town in West Virginia or Ohio with a birth center? We could use different names and maybe my mom could come with us and we could just… disappear for a little bit? Until he’s born.”

“You’ve been thinking about this.”

“Since the first amnio. Since I realized Parenti was bad.” Her voice wavered—there were tears in it now. “I thought I’d have to do it alone.”

Mulder shook his head, heart breaking for her—that this was her secret, her worst fear. “You won’t be alone, Scully, I promise. We can do that. We can go. Let’s do that.”

—

In the mountains of West Virginia, a place called Willowdale that sounded beautiful and safe, they were Kate and Richard Mulvey for two and a half weeks. They made quiet preparations in a rented vacation cottage, paid for in cash to a widow named Ruth. Maggie took no pseudonym, put her name on nothing, and stayed with them in the second small bedroom. She was a steadying maternal presence bearing folded blankets and cloth diapers, years of accumulated knowledge, and endless gratitude for being asked to come.

Scully had been having little contractions off and on for days until, on a Sunday afternoon in late May, they gripped her hard, forcing her to bend over the kitchen table and bite her lips together. “Mulder,” she whimpered, voice high, and he was beside her in a second.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re ready. We’re ready,” he told them both, willing it to be true.

The birth center was small and quiet, more like a house, and it kept its medical secrets hidden: beeping machines inside cabinets, monitors and needles and IV bags tucked away in drawers and closets, just in case.

Their baby was born in what looked like a farmhouse bedroom: soft light and calm music, yellow flowers on the curtains. Maggie took photos and offered her daughter sips of water, encouraging smiles. Mulder, who had killed with his own hands, who had chased monsters through dark streets with a gun, felt a different kind of wild adrenaline now, watching his partner rock her hips to some rhythm he couldn’t know. It was the anxiety of powerlessness: her body did this. It was she who had to make it happen. He could only wait and hold her hand.

There was a tub. Of course Scully wanted a tub. She sank into the warm water and groaned a sound older than time. When the intensity passed she said, “It feels good. The water feels good,” and then after that she couldn’t speak.

Blood in the water worried him, but the midwife assured him it was fine. “Your baby’s coming,” she said. In a mirror angled between Scully’s knees, he saw the baby’s head emerge.

Scully held him first, lifted him herself from her own body through the water and into her arms, sobbing with relief while he turned from purple to pink and the midwife helped her cover him in a blanket. When the umbilical cord went soft and white, Mulder, still dazed, still not quite believing, separated mother and child at last.

“That’s good,” the midwife said. “Now you can hold him.”

The infant, wrapped and red, was pressed into his arms so Dana could stand, pass the placenta, dry off. Mulder looked down at the impossible face of his son and realized that something, for once, had gone terribly right. They had done this. In spite of everything, he found himself part of a family.

“Let me see.” He heard Maggie’s voice and she was smiling. She took their picture, he with the baby—a nervous father’s first moments—and came to touch her grandchild. “He’s perfect.”

“Yeah,” Mulder croaked.

Scully appeared beside him in the terrycloth robe she’d brought from home, eyes wild with euphoric relief, smiling like he hadn’t seen in far too long. She put one hand on the baby’s head, the other on his shoulder. “You’re both here,” she sniffled.

Mulder, catching her euphoria, bent and kissed her hard and open-mouthed, right in front of her mother.

—

Back in their apartment (theirs now), the Gunmen brought gifts and marveled at the boy child who was ordinary, yet no less miraculous. Mulder showed him off, chest puffed out in fatherly pride. William, they called him, who weighed nearly ten pounds already and had no hair to speak of.

“You are one lucky sonofabitch,” Frohike told him, wiggling his fingers in front of the child’s eyes.

Luck was part of it, Mulder knew. Things could have been so different, both better and worse. There was a universe of infinite variations in path, in outcome, in seemingly fated misstep. What if there was only one choice? Scully had asked him once, and he’d contemplated all the possible errors that might have held them apart. He wanted to believe it were fate or luck, but he knew there was also choice. He would need to choose this path, not just now, but every day. It seemed so clear, so easy.

Mulder kissed the invisible fuzz on William’s head and nodded. “More than lucky,” he said.

When the boys left, he bounced his son into the kitchen where Scully was pouring iced tea into two tall glasses. She smiled at them, bright as sunshine.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said to her. “You give this guy some lunch, and I’ll make some for you, hmm?”

Her smile widened and she reached her arms out for the baby, who fussed when he sensed an approaching meal. “Sounds good,” she told him, tugging already at the neckline of her shirt. “Get in there and make me a sandwich.”

Mulder laughed. He felt suddenly whole and warm, taken by a need to touch her. Before they were out of reach, he threw one arm around Scully’s shoulders and bent to kiss her neck: a noisy smack just below her ear. “Yes ma’am,” he murmured. He let her go and watched them settle on the couch.

— end —

#a thing i wrote #s8 #canon divergence #three iterations of a birth and death #birth story

105 notes · View notes

whateveriwant · 4 years

Text

Just a Glance

Summary: Your anxiety’s been getting the best of you lately, feeling as if you’re being watched. Is your mind playing tricks on you, or will your fears be realized?

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: ~4.5k

Warnings: stalking, paranoia, implied NON-CON (no descriptions)

A/N: Hello! So, this is the follow-up to “Just a Taste”, but told from the reader’s perspective this time. While it’s not imperative you read that story first (or at all, really), I highly suggest you do so. As always: heed the warnings! And as a general disclaimer: I DO NOT condone the actions depicted below. To any and everyone who reads this, I hope you enjoy! Gif found here.

It’s Saturday morning – time to do your weekly grocery shopping. As always, the first stop is at the local farmer’s market. You like coming here not only for the fresh produce, but also to chat with the vendors you’ve become friendly with. You could spend all day talking with them – almost have once or twice – but you have other places you still need to hit today.

It doesn’t hurt to note that making good with the vendors may have some monetary benefits for you, but that’s just an added bonus – the cherry on top. Talking animatedly as the vendors package your slightly reduced-price items, you accidentally whack a few unsuspecting customers while gesturing wildly. You cringe and apologize profusely for your carelessness. Despite being assaulted, the patrons accept your apologies and wish you a good day – letting you off scot-free.

Next stop on your shopping trip is the supermarket. You buy the bulk of your items here: frozen goods, dairy products, various non-perishables. This store has almost everything you need, apart from a few essentials – some absolute necessities: your favorite madeleines, strawberry sorbet, and chocolate-covered pretzels amongst other things; these you can only get from one particular store. But, thankfully, it’s on the way home – your perishables won’t spoil while you run in and grab your few items.

You drive to the store, humming along to your playlist coming through the car’s speakers. When you arrive at the shop, it’s as bustling as ever. Many people must have similar mindsets to you: thinking this shop offers some of the most delicious treats in town. You walk through the familiar aisles knowing exactly where your favorite snacks are housed. You find the pretzels and madeleines easily enough, but can’t find the sorbet. It’s always on the same shelf in the same freezer, but not today.

You start strolling past the freezers, looking through each one – desperately hoping the sorbet’s just been moved and not sold out. Or worse, discontinued. As you search, you pay no mind to the other shoppers around you – your brain totally focused on your mission. Out of nowhere, you walk face-first into what seems to be a steel wall – almost falling on your ass and dropping your basket.

Upon steadying yourself, you realize you didn’t walk into a wall but, rather, a man. A very handsome man, at that. Damn, how did you miss that? Strong jaw, piercing blue eyes, built like a tank – he could be very intimidating if he wanted to be.

You apologize for bumping into him, explaining that you weren’t paying attention to where you were going. He brushes off your apology – all but warning you to watch yourself next time – before he continues past you. He wasn’t as friendly as the people from the farmer’s market, you remark. But it was your fault anyway, so you can’t really blame him for being terse with you.

You continue down the aisle until – hallelujah – you spot your prize. It seems they’d simply moved the sorbet to a different freezer. You grab it from the top shelf, dispense it in your basket, and finish shopping – easily finding the rest of your goodies. After purchasing and loading the items into your car, you drive home – absentmindedly singing to your music.

~~~~~

The following week passes by as usual. On Sunday morning, you meet with your friends for brunch. While Katherine had originally suggested checking out the new omelet place in town, you sided with Layla on wanting to go to your regular pancake house. Thus, you three catch up over fluffy, syrup-y flapjacks – discussing how your respective weeks went.

Nothing incredibly remarkable happened to any of you. Katherine mentions how her boss is hounding her lately, making an ugly face to mock him. Her expression makes you laugh, choking on a bite of pancake. Layla had a saucy date night with her boyfriend on Friday. Her descriptions cause you to pause mid-chew, imagining the position she's graphically detailing.

Your most exciting contribution to the conversation is the mini heart attack you had at the store yesterday. Your friends understand your reaction; having had a taste of your favorite sorbet before, they know why you went feral when searching for it. After eating, splitting the bill, and promising "same time next week", you all head in your separate directions.

Following Sunday brunch, you go to the bookstore – seeing if they’ve gotten any new titles in since last week. Browsing the shelves, you spot a new mystery novel that piques your interest. You buy the book, planning to read it during your lunch breaks and after work.

The remainder of your week follows in monotony. Work Monday through Friday, Netflix and novels during free time, occasional morning runs to burn off the calories from your insatiable sweet-tooth – your routine is well-ingrained into your system. On only one occasion did you forget to bring your new book to work – instead, bringing the one you finished the previous week. It’s not the first time this has happened. You can be forgetful when deviating from your routine.

Come Saturday, it's time to go grocery shopping again. As usual, the first stop is the farmer’s market, second is the supermarket, and third is your favorite store. Luckily, you haven’t run out of your pint of sorbet from last week. Thus, you don’t bother traipsing the freezer section. You did, however, gobble through the madeleines and pretzels – forcing you to replenish your stock.

Wading through the busy aisles, you zero in on your target: pretzels – top shelf, right-hand side. The aisle is crowded, making you have to squeeze past a few shoppers in order to get to your prize. As you reach up to grab the bag, you feel someone brush up against you – likely trying to squeeze behind just as you had done moments ago.

The scent of cedarwood and mint trails after the person, overpowering your sense of smell. That guy wears too much cologne, you chide. You turn your head to look at him, seeing his jacket-clad broad shoulders and blonde hair peeking from under his baseball cap. He must be in a hurry since he swiftly departs the aisle. But you’ve been in his place before: running into the store for only one or two items. In those instances, you didn’t bother grabbing a basket – just as he hadn’t today.

You purchase your few items, load your car, and drive out of the parking lot. Glancing in your rearview mirror, you notice a couple of cars also leaving the grocery store and heading in the same direction as you. You blast your playlist as you drive, impatiently waiting until you can get home and dig into your snacks.

~~~~~

The next few weeks pass more or less the same. Sunday mornings are spent brunching with your friends. You eventually cave and agree to try out the omelet place Katherine suggested; but, upon finding the meal lackluster, you all decide to stick with your usual restaurants next time.

You finish the novel you've been reading. The book was so intriguing that you decide to check out more of the author's work, buying another title from the bookstore. This one is similarly a mystery novel, but it's supposedly more chilling – has much more suspense that builds the feeling of dread in the audience.

You go on morning runs after you have one too many scoops of sorbet the prior night. Running your usual route, you pass by an unfamiliar car parked outside your neighbor's house. You didn't realize Mr. Nelson's son was in town again, assuming that's who the vehicle belongs to. You've never met the man before, but he must be kind-hearted seeing as he's willing to visit and care for his elderly father. Maybe you’ll get a chance to meet him soon.

The days come and go. Working through the week, shopping on the weekend, reading in your free time – nothing is intrinsically different. And yet, something feels off. You can’t explain it. You just have a feeling – a sixth sense, almost. And the sensation only grows as the weeks progress.

At times, you feel as if someone is watching you – boring holes into you. No matter where you are – home, work, shopping – you feel like there’s a set of eyes on you, observing you closely. Furthermore, sometimes you swear you can see a shadow lingering in the corner of your eye. But when you turn to look directly at it, it’s disappeared – vanished in an instant.

Your friends and coworkers notice you getting lost in your thoughts, having to snap you from your daze. When you explain the sensation you’re experiencing, they brush you off – none of them finding any evidence to support your claims. You also don’t have any tangible proof for your assertions, just that feeling in your gut.

You decide to chalk it all up to the novel you’re reading. Must be the book’s foreboding feeling carrying over into real life, you rationalize. Resolving to ignore the pestering thoughts popping up in the back of your mind, you try to continue about your days as normal.

~~~~~

It’s Monday morning – time to go to work. On the drive there, you stop to get your coffee – turning down your music so you don’t have to scream your order through the drive-through. Once you reach the office, you make busy at your desk: going through your emails, checking your calendar; all the usual routine.

A couple of hours into your work, you have that sensation you’ve been feeling the last few weeks. You’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring it lately, but you occasionally happen a glance just to humor yourself. When you turn to look towards the shadow – expecting to see nothing as usual – you gasp.

A burly man stands outside your office window, inches away from the glass. His face is partially obscured by his aviators and baseball cap. Though you can’t see his eyes, you know his gaze is directed at you. You stare back at him, a look of confusion crossing your face. He curls one corner of his lip up before walking away – out of your line of sight.

Swiveling your chair to face your coworker, you ask her if she saw that man outside the window. She doesn’t know what you’re referring to, being too wrapped up in her work to notice anything else. Despite her lack of confirmation, you know you’re not going crazy; there was most definitely a man out there watching you. An uneasy feeling washes over you. Maybe those pestering thoughts aren’t so unfounded, you worry.

Throughout the rest of your day, you continue looking towards the windows – expecting him to show up again. He doesn’t return that day. However, the following morning, you see him again – standing outside your office wearing his hat and sunglasses like last time. Once he catches your eye, he smirks, before turning to walk away. This routine continues through the rest of your work week, making you more anxious as each day passes.

Come Saturday, you desperately need to go shopping – having stress-eaten all of your snacks throughout the week. Your anxiety not only affected your appetite, but also your sleep. Over the last couple of days, you’ve come home from work to find your front door unlocked – it apparently having slipped your tired brain in the morning. You double-check that you’ve locked the door before going shopping.

At the farmer’s market, you happily chat with the vendors – feeling much less perturbed than you have all week. That is, until something – or rather, someone – catches your eye across the way. It’s that man again. He’s here, at the farmer’s market, watching you.

Your voice catches mid-sentence as your breath is stolen from you. You stand stock-still, unable to remove your wide eyes from him. The vendor notices your change in demeanor and waves a hand in front of your face, trying to regain your attention. The distraction pulls your gaze from the man in order to pay for your produce. When you look back across the way, he’s gone – leaving no trace that he was ever there to begin with.

But you know better – know your eyes weren’t deceiving you. That was the same man that’s been at your office all week. The same man that’s been watching you all week. And now, he’s seemingly followed you here.

Panic starts to rise as you walk to your car, contemplating just cutting your shopping trip short and going home. But you can’t do that; you need to buy groceries and this is the only day you can do so. You decide to continue with your normal shopping routine and just be quick about it – no dawdling.

You play your music at a low volume as you drive to your next destination. Doing a speed-run through the supermarket, you practically rip the items off of the shelves in your haste. Every now and then, you peek around the corners of the aisles – expecting to see him standing at the end. You never do, and that makes you release a sharp exhale each time your fears are rejected.

Your drive to your third shopping location is less tense, humming slightly to your playlist. At the store, you still chance a look down the aisles just in case, but you never find him waiting there. Unfortunately, you also don’t find any of your normal goodies – the madeleines, sorbet, and pretzels all gone.

You wander the aisles for what feels like hours, hoping to find the items stocked elsewhere. Upon realizing they are indeed sold out, you become crestfallen. It’s already too late into the day to hit up another store and your frozen goods are likely starting to defrost in your car. Thus, you decide to find some replacement snacks to tide you over until next week – just until you can return and hopefully repurchase your normal treats.

The drive home is worry-free as you sing loudly to your music. You continue humming the tune as you collect your groceries from your car, making your way to the front door. When you go to open it, you find it’s already unlocked. Strange. You swear you locked up this morning.

You step through the threshold, closing the door behind you. As you walk towards your kitchen, you smell something in the air – almost an earthy-toothpaste kind of scent. Strange. The smell differs greatly from the normal lavender air freshener you use. Perhaps, not only did you leave the door unlocked, but maybe you also left a window open and the scent is wafting in that way.

You unload your groceries, putting everything on their appropriate shelves and cabinets. When you open the freezer to dispense your frozen goods, you halt your movements. Sitting on the shelf is a pint of your favorite strawberry sorbet. Strange. You swear you finished off the carton last night. Regardless, you celebrate the revelation – knowing what you’re going to snack on tonight. You finish putting away the groceries before going to spend the rest of your day reading.

Later that night when you’re getting ready for dessert, you reach into the freezer for the sorbet. As you grab it, you notice the weight of it – seemingly a full pint rather than an almost finished one. You look the container over, seeing for the first time a small note taped to it. You definitely didn’t leave that there; you’d have no reason to leave yourself notes on a pint of sorbet. You read the few words of the unfamiliar, looped handwriting: “I hope you taste just as sweet”.

You gasp, dropping the carton onto the counter. It all makes sense now: the unlocked door, the lingering scent, the note on the carton – someone's been in your home, and you have a sneaking suspicion you know who the intruder is.

You grab your phone, frantically dialing the police and explaining the situation. You stay on the line as they send a couple of officers to your home. They search every inch of the house, finding no signs of forced entry and no other evidence someone has been there. With nothing else to offer you, they suggest investing in new locks before leaving you to stew in your anxiety. You sleep uneasily that night.

The next morning, you’re hesitant to leave your house – not yet having told your friends about your discovery last night. However, you figure telling them in-person over brunch is as good an opportunity as ever. Reluctantly, you make your way out the door – triple-checking that you’ve locked it. You drive to the restaurant with your music playing low, frequently checking your rearview mirror.

Upon greeting your friends, they can immediately tell something is off with you – your usual cheery demeanor completely absent. Attempting to keep your composure so as not to work yourself up more, you carefully explain everything that’s led up to today. Remarkably, you don’t break down in tears as you detail your experiences from the past week.

However, your friends fly off the handle at your confession – concern flooding their every feature. Layla offers to help you book an appointment with a home security company – her boyfriend having previously worked there. Katherine advises you on ways to get your stalker off of your trail: changing up your routine, taking complex routes to your destinations, and always staying vigilant. You thank them for their help and take their words to heart.

Brunch passes in uncomfortable silence – at least, from your end. Your friends try to pick up your mood – try dragging you out of your swirling thoughts – but to no avail. You pick at your food, your appetite not having fully returned since last night. Most of the conversation goes in one ear and out the other, your attention too focused on the bodies passing by the restaurant’s windows. As you take your leave after the meal, your friends each give you a firm hug – telling you to call them if you need anything or if anything else happens.

You decide to forego stopping by the bookstore, just wanting to quickly return home. You take different streets back, heeding Katherine’s advice. The drive is silent as you focus your attention on the road – your eyes frequently flicking to your rearview mirrors. You didn’t see him at the restaurant and you don’t notice any cars obviously following you, but that doesn’t dissipate your fears.

The drive takes longer than usual, but, eventually, you arrive back home. Your hand shakes as you reach for the door, hoping – praying – it’s just as you left it. The door is locked as you try the handle. You let out a sharp breath, relief flooding your veins.

You check through your house anyway, finding nothing out of the ordinary in any of the rooms. You sigh in contentment, reassured that no one else has been here. Walking towards the back of the house, you notice a smell get stronger and stronger as you approach your bedroom. The scent is familiar – calling back memories from yesterday – and your fear renews tenfold.

You push on the door, letting it smack against the wall as it swings open. In the center of your bed lies a small, white box. You walk towards it, feeling your heart beating frantically. On the box rests a note – the same looped script from yesterday defiling the otherwise pristine paper. “I can’t wait to have a taste,” the writing reads.

Lifting the lid, you peer into the box’s contents. A package of your favorite madeleines – the ones that were sold out the other day – await you. Tears spring to your eyes as you dash out of the house, once again phoning the police.

~~~~~

The following week passes by in a frenzy. After the police could again find nothing of value – apart from the two notes now in your possession – you take Layla up on her offer, scheduling a new security system to be installed as soon as possible.

It takes a few days for the workman to show up. In the days that pass, you're greeted with another treat-filled box each night you return home from work – the attached notes bearing more and more cryptic and chilling sentiments.

Once the high-tech system is installed, you're given the walk-through on how to operate it. It's a bit complex – all the buttons, codes, and alarms differing greatly from your former lock-and-key mechanism – but it'll give you some peace of mind. It takes some getting used to over the first couple of days, but it starts becoming second nature to remember to set the alarm. The notes stop appearing after the system is installed.

All the while, you follow Katherine's advice to a T. You change up your routine. With some coaxing, your boss agrees to change your hours – having you in the office much more frequently. You stop going on morning runs, choosing instead to work out in the confines of your house. When you do find time to go shopping, you try new stores. The aisles are unfamiliar and the items aren't as delicious as what you're used to, but you'll settle for just about anything at this point.

You start taking long, complex routes anytime you drive somewhere: work, the store, home. A couple of times, you find yourself driving your old routes – absentmindedly listening to your playlist; you chastise yourself on those occasions, having to double around and take twice as long to reach your destination. To make it easier on yourself, you start opting to drive in complete silence – focusing all of your attention on your surroundings.

You try abiding to Katherine's final piece of advice most strictly: staying vigilant. You haven't seen him since that day at the farmer's market, but you still have that gut feeling that he isn't far away – that he'll catch you if you slip up.

You check through your house every time you come home, making sure no more "gifts" have been delivered in your absence. You watch your rearview mirrors almost as much as you watch the road, making sure your car isn't being tailed. Every thorough search and paranoid glance always comes up empty, but you can’t stop yourself from doing them.

It gets a bit tedious at times – going to such extreme lengths over this whole matter. But it's better than having to constantly look over your shoulder, you remind yourself. Though, that's exactly what you're doing. Only, you don't realize it.

~~~~~

The past week has been killer on you. With your new work hours, you’ve been at the office non-stop – sacrificing many hours of sleep. The sleep-deprivation coupled with your ever-present anxiety have taken a toll on you – your body exhausted and brain fried.

On several occasions, you’ve caught yourself slipping back into your old routines: driving the direct rather than extended route to work, forgetting to set the alarm until hours after you’ve already been home, visiting your old stores rather than new ones. You’ve been trying to keep a watchful eye out for yourself, but it’s getting more and more difficult to keep your eyes open at all as the days drag along.

Thus, when you get home tonight, all you want to do is slump into bed and sleep the night away. You unlock your front door – immediately kicking off your shoes and throwing your purse on the entryway table. You kick the door closed before slinking away to your bedroom – barely being able to ready yourself for bed. Once you lie down, sleep promptly overtakes you.

You rest deeply for a few minutes, finally finding some peace. That is, until a sudden noise snaps you awake: the sound of the front door clicking shut. Your eyes fly open, sleep now the farthest thing from your mind. Shit! Someone’s here. Someone’s in your home.

Upon instinct, you know exactly who it is. It’s that man. The man who’s been following you for weeks. The man who’s been terrorizing you for weeks. The man who’s been haunting your dreams for weeks.

You reach over to your nightstand, searching for your phone. It’s not there. You failed to take it out of your purse when you got home. Just like you failed to set the house alarm when you got home. Just like you failed to see the black sedan following you home.

With no other choice, your best option is to hide and hope he goes away – hope he doesn’t find you. You carefully step out of bed – the floorboard making an unholy creak as you gingerly place your foot down. He’ll definitely have heard that, and he’ll be on you any second. In your panic, you fly under the bed – deciding it’s the least obvious hiding spot.

Even in the darkened room, you can see your door swing open and his shoes approach the bed. Your heart beat is thunderous – pumping so much blood through your ears that it drowns out the noise of his footsteps. You put a hand over your mouth as tears begin to fall, trying to choke back the sounds of your whimpers. The tears spill over your cheeks as you watch him move carefully.

He walks to your closet, rifling through it before obviously coming up empty. Next, he moves to your bathroom – spending only a few moments before, again, coming up empty. He walks back towards the bedroom door before stopping at the foot of the bed, directly in front of you. You hold your breath, not willing to make a single sound. The room is still for a moment.

Then, with lightning speed, he crouches down – snatching you out from underneath the bed. His hand quickly replaces yours, covering your mouth and nose. He falls on top of you – his body weighing you down on the bed, trapping you beneath him. You try to scratch at him, but he easily captures your wrists – pinning them between your bodies.

He adjusts his hold on your face, maneuvering his hand to let you breathe through your nose. You intake a sharp breath – the scent of his cologne stings your nostrils, suffocating you. He leans forward to sniff along your neck – causing an icy chill to run up your spine.

He lifts himself slightly, allowing you to see his unobstructed face up close. His irises almost glow in the dim lighting – his eyes peering down at you, penetrating you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before speaking.

“Just a taste,” he purrs against you, calling back to those notes he left you weeks ago. “That's all I want. Just a taste."

Though his words are innocent enough, the hungry glint in his eyes betrays him. That look tells you what he’s really thinking: he’s finally caught you and this is only the beginning.

__________

A/N: Sorry if you wanted to see exactly what happens next, but I’ll just leave that up to your imaginations. Regardless, I’d love to know what you thought! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

Tags: @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @charmed-asylum @mcudarklibrary @delicioustar (strikethrough won’t let me tag)

#dark!steve rogers #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #oneshot

103 notes · View notes

littlemissleapyear · 3 years

Text

@waniyarou asked: “Who is this?” Send “Who is this?” to find out my muse has a child!{Accepting}

🕷 It was a lot to ask. To just go on blind faith for asking him to ‘trust’ her was going to warrant even more questions and suspicion. After all, asking both parties caused a large rift. One wanting nothing to do with having a man close to the island and the other one possibly taking a lose for being out here. Debating all around caused the spider to already be tired.

She had to do this though. Hiding it any longer was going to cause problems and the child was already curious. It was her own fault though, telling her the truth when Lotus asked. Lucky for her she didn’t speak about her father around the other children...that would cause a true catastrophes.

There were fifteen Kuja pirates, their Queen, her sisters and the royal advisor. Layla didn’t think any trouble would come of this. She had more faith in Crocodile then others would however. Their fore-Mothers also had watched and tried to save the spider’s mother so many years ago as well. Over the life of a child, her.

So as she stood beside her captain on the now full deck they treated it like a game of chess, tension grew. Sure the former Warlord and Warlord still residing stood as powerful pieces with mutual respects but for how long in this stand off? The spider moved first as it was her plan and she wanted to hold all the strings in this.

“Thank you. I know this is not easy for you but as one of the figures I should have heavy oversight on the future. Traditions still upheld and thankful for your generosity I wish to not hinder the growth of it that I was not honored till recently.” Layla began, the air only growing heavy before the rebuttals seeped in. Tradition, scandal , fears were all placed.

She could only put a hand out. “ She had a right to know. I will not steal the truth from her like my father before me. I can’t lie to her, please.” More angry muttering before the group of amazons parted a small white figure amongst their all number. Sharp eyes from under a mess of white curls, the only color to her pale form was the traditional garb of Amazon Lily.

Small feet slowly pitter-pattered over the ships deck stopping between the two parties. The small girl looked frightened but was trying to hold it in, she was clearly confused but looked before her with hope. Layla could only assume that the child didn’t want to disappoint. Sure children were foolish but wise even at this age, brutal even when it came to topics.

Reaching down the spider tried to pick the girl up but was denied. She held her mother’s hand squeezing it and just looked at Crocodile before steeling herself. The rest of the way she walked alone, it wasn’t a far distance from one parent to the other but it was clear she wanted to do it.

Though reaching the spot practically at the man’s feet she could only look up at him. A gaze from adult to child. A silent understanding? The spider moved back to them at the question. He had to be messing with her. Or was it...that look. She knew it to well; speak now and carefully.

“Forgive my artifices. It was for a greater good, a hope or light if I could be so daring to say.” She gestured to the small girl,” I’ve taken upon myself to keep her safe in the land of my Mother as she grows for her safety and to not warrant misfortune for any of us.” The child seemed to slowly nod as her mother spoke.

Layla’s voice caught in her throat for a moment before she continued, she held herself with pride for her child,” This is Lotus, she’s your daughter....no, our daughter. I wanted her to at least meet her father once and I thank you for hearing my request.” 🕷

#waniyarou #ask #answer #tw: long post #//one again a long post with little end but i'm sooooo happy to get to write this interaction thank you <3 #lets face it both her parents are fucking TALL they have to look intimidating at times lol #so many questions and feeling in the moment like this >.< little Lotus wants to be brave but she's just a small child lol

2 notes · View notes

projectomerta · 4 years

Text

Kindred Souls - Chapter 12: Francis the Great

This one is my personal favorite :)

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Words: 1551

We’re dying tonight…

Wá:ri wanted to turn tail and run away with every fiber of her being, but she knew she couldn’t.

“Not bad, lad.”

Francis was smiling from ear to ear. “Thanks, old man! I’ve got more where that came from.”

Without a second thought, Francis pounced at Shay, aiming for his unguarded left side. Shay tried to avoid the strike but his opponent’s saber managed to graze his left arm. Wá:ri saw Shay’s blood on the floor and since he dodged she had a clear view of her brother. Move your fucking legs, Wá:ri. GO! She kept beating herself up for being frozen in place due to fear and that was when she finally worked up the courage to join the fray.

With as strong of a swing as she could muster, Wá:ri threw her Tomahawk at her brother’s head. As she threw the axe she looked at Francis’ face and briefly remembered moments from their childhood. Target practicing, sparring, hide and seek, taking care of Kevin and Robbie... There was even one time when Francis had thrown her doll away and Wá:ri had even teamed up with Layla to get back at him - they cut his hair while he slept. She could still hear his screaming from that day: “Aaaaaagh! My hair!”

Now however, Francis was an obstacle, and she refused to think of him in any other way. The Tomahawk made its way to Francis’ face but he could see it clearly. He swung his saber at the Tomahawk but he didn’t account for the force behind it. His right saber snapped in two as the axe flew past him, barely missing his head.

For the first time during that whole fight, Francis had lost his footing and Shay wasn’t going to let an opportunity like that go by. He pulled out his flintlock and pointed it right at his opponent’s head, readying it to shoot. Wá:ri saw Shay cocking his flintlock and she thought they finally had him, but then she took a look at her brother’s face and knew she was wrong. Wá:ri was astonished when she saw Francis reversing the grip of his sword as he quickly put it in front of his head.

The gunshot went off, hitting the blade and knocking it off of Francis’ hand and leaving the Assassin with only half of a blade.

Francis wasn’t having fun now. He had gotten far too close to death for his own taste. Though he wasn’t used to facing death, he knew the feeling coursing through his body like the back of his hand. Everything looked slow to him. From Francis’ point of view the old man he was fighting and his cute little sister were moving so slow it hurt. He could see the templar beginning to thrust his sword at him and he could hear Wá:ri taking her first footsteps towards him. Aah… What to do now? In that fragment of time he considered what to do, he even considered giving up but ‘There’s no fun in that now, is there?!’

Wá:ri started running towards her brother with hidden blades out ready to gut him, and Shay was just as ready to stab him, as his arm was mid thrusting motion in the direction of Francis’ head.

In a flash, Francis let go of his broken saber and jumped at Shay with all of his might. Shay’s cutlass thrust missed his opponent but his body reacted before his head could - before he realized he had jumped back and Francis was now standing in front of him with his arm extended towards him and his hidden blade out, losing his balance and falling on his knees.

Francis showed something neither Shay or Wá:ri had seen since the start of the fight: fear. His expression showcased how he was expecting to have killed Shay with that move but the Templar’s experience spoke louder and had gotten the best of him.

Wá:ri was now looming over Francis. She was ready to kill him so she went through with her intention. Wá:ri went straight for his heart with her hidden blade, cutting through the air as well as the fond memories she still had of him.

Her attack came to a close when she felt the blade cutting through bone, an unpleasant feeling accompanied by an equally unpleasant sound. I did it!

“Lass, move!” Shay yelled, as he lifted his arm up to swing his cutlass.

Wá:ri hesitated, but she trusted Shay so she jumped back, however, she couldn’t. She felt a hand holding on to hers and it was only then that she realized that Francis had blocked the hidden blade with his left hand. Fucking monster… she thought. Francis turned his head slightly to the right to look at Wá:ri. She felt a cold sweat go down the side of her face and a knot forming in her throat. And she also felt cold steel pierce her abdomen.

“Agh!” She yelled.

Just as he stabbed Wá:ri, Francis let go of her hand and tried blocking Shay’s cutlass with his blade, but the Templar’s blade went right through his arm, lopping off his limb and lodging itself in his shoulder.

“Hpmh!” He groaned in pain less than a second after his sister.

Shay ran to Wá:ri, leaving Francis behind rolling on the floor screaming while he held his wound.

Wá:ri fell to the ground as well, as she tried her best not to yell.

“Lass, we have to go see a physician. Come,” he said as he tried holding her up by the shoulder.

Wá:ri grabbed his shoulder and looked him in the eyes, “Shay, just patch me up.”

Maybe Shay should’ve pushed the issue further but he knew that expression. The look in her eyes was all he needed to see to know she wasn’t going to budge.

“Take off your robes,” he said.

Shay took his sash off and used it to bandage Wá:ri.

After Shay was done, Wá:ri scuttled up to Francis, who was now lying on the ground face up with his arms and legs spread out.

“Why did you kill those innocent people for our father?” Her voice trembled slightly.

Francis snorted, and looked at his sister. “I didn’t. I killed them for myself.”

Wá:ri was confused. One one hand, killing for their father’s sake was bad because that would mean killing for the sake of the business, but, on the other hand, killing for his own sake could make him even worse than their father.

Francis forced out a laugh. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Wá:ri hesitated for a few seconds but she ended up admitting that she didn’t understand. “No.”

“Well, it’s quite simple,” he started, “Father might have made us kill innocent people for the sake of the business, but it was more than that to me. Sure, improving the business wasn’t all that bad for me, since I’m the eldest son, but above all else… it made me feel like I was playing god…” Francis stopped before continuing, “I’ve always liked doing things I shouldn’t… The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.”

Wá:ri couldn’t stop a smile from forming on her face, “Idiot.”

Francis slowly let go of his smile before looking straight at Wá:ri’s eyes.

“Miriam… How did Layla die?”

Both Shay and Wá:ri felt like curling up into a ball at that moment.

Wá:ri had promised herself she wouldn’t cry for them anymore, but she broke her vow to herself. Tears started forming in her eyes as she told Francis how Layla had met her end. She told him everything without hiding a detail, ending with the gunshot to the stomach and the short conversation they had shared before she bled to death.

“She deserved better… God she deserved better…” Francis looked at Shay, “I’ll resent you until I die, which shouldn’t take long, but I couldn’t call myself a man if I didn’t thank you for giving her a proper funeral.”

Shay nodded, without knowing what to say.

“Miriam, kill me,” Francis said, in a serious and authoritative way.

Wá:ri was taken aback, but she was resolved to do it from the start. It was going to hurt her like nothing before, but she had to go through with it.

She scuttled around to the other side of her brother’s body and placed her left hand on top of his heart.

“Any last words?”

“Tell everyone you know about the man who was Francis Rhodes!” Francis genuinely laughed, “Tell them how good he was at everything! How he was the oldest son of a nice family and how he could get any woman in the city.” He paused, and his expression grew gloomy, “Tell them how he died with nothing and that he couldn’t tell the woman he liked how he felt…” Francis sat back up so he could be at eye level with his sister, “Above all else… tell everyone that Francis Adam Rhodes was his own man.”

Wá:ri and Francis traded friendly smiles for the last time in their lives and with that, it was over for him.

“Goodbye, Francis.”

#Assassin's Creed #Assassin's Creed Rogue #oc #original character #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Shay #Shay Cormac #Shay Patrick Cormac

2 notes · View notes

son-of-the-omega-blog · 5 years

Text

#SL #PlayTime

#TriggerWarning #Abuse #Violence #Torture

Written by @Son_OfThe_Omega and @ToTheGrahve

Mentions @OffKeyDeviant @Qhuinn_BDBFM @Dehstruction

*~*~*~*~*

Grahve: Every breath hurt. Granted, that probably had something to do with the knife that’d punctured my lung like a fucking balloon. My blood was a flavor I was tired of tasting, but every rattled breath only pushed more of it up my throat. I wanted to hurl, but the gag in place made me fight the reflex. The bag over my head wasn’t much better.

I could still see the look in his eyes. The sheer, unparalleled delight as he’d buried that blade to the hilt, savoring my shock and horror. My fists clenched in the chains holding them above my head, the soft rattle the only sound other than my labored breathing. Fury licked through me, and only half of it was toward the male who’d trapped me. The other half was all for me.

How could I have been so stupid… I wasn’t sure what was worse; the fact I’d become so emotionally compromised and entangled, or the fact it had led me to make one poor decision after another. Until I was here, in what had to be a Lesser hideout, if the smell was anything to go by, bag or no bag. Yet the male who’d lured me, flirted with me, had definitely ‘not’ been one of the Omega’s minions. No matter how emotionally blind I was, there was no masking that rot.

Which meant…

I closed my eyes beneath the bag and tried not to sag in the chains, my mind turning over the only possible conclusion and feeling my dread curdle into nausea.

Lash.

The son of the Omega. The one who hounded the Brotherhood and sought to destroy them. The one who’d helped corrupt Blaylock. The one who’d kidnapped and tortured an angel.

No wonder he’d looked so pleased with himself as I’d choked and struggled. I’d never seen his face before. Never known his scent. A trainee so oblivious to who he was had wandered into his web. And now here I was. Helpless. And furious.

Lash: [Watching the male hang as each breath cost him valuable energy, I gave myself a pat on the back. Ever since my little encounter with Queen Beth, the Brotherhood has been totally ghost on the streets of Caldwell. And it left me quite bored. When I'd walked into the club tonight, I hardly expected to come out with such a prize. Granted the male wasn't a Brother, but still, a trainee was better than offing civilians all night as a draw.

The look of shock on Grahve’s face was worth the effort as the knife incapacitated him, but it didn’t stop the male from trying to get his own pound of flesh. Even unarmed, the male had made a formidable opponent based on pure spirit alone. The few hits he managed to connect with would have been enough to loosen the teeth of any civilian, but I didn't have time to waste playing the games of posturing young.

The struggle in the alley lasted less than a minute before I had tucked the half-conscious male into a stolen car, courtesy of some halfwit human who’d left the vehicle not only unlocked but with the keys tucked into the visor.

The longer than necessary ride looped around the south of Caldwell, dumping us at a dead end road turned narrow deer path that led deep into the woods. Steel chain link fencing surrounded the new compound wasn't just to keep the wildlife from setting off the motion sensors and cameras; any errant nosy human who happened to get too curious for their own health would have found themselves on the business end of a shovel, six down. Not that it would be hard to disappear a body out here, but time was a commodity I didn't want to extend if I didn't have to.

The few Lessers I had around the place served as my watchdogs, the beyond-pale fuckers that had been inducted many decades ago were the last of my Prime squads, well seasoned and hungry for Brotherhood blood. New recruits were being added weekly, courtesy of the Omega, the last of the more experienced Lessers in charge of their training.

Leaving the knife in the male's side during transport was a game; he wouldn't have been able to dematerialize regardless, but it was fun to watch him squirm and pant for breath each time I reached over and gave the blade a twist. I upped the ante and added the element of darkness via a black hood over his head. One more sense of his compromised. Even more so as I strung him up in chains and lifted him until he was barely balanced on the balls of his feet. I was letting gravity do the rest of the heavy work on Grahve's muscles. The pull would only serve to weaken him further, and unlike the angel, sunlight wasn't going to miraculously bring him back to near full health. No, the male would need a female's blood for that.]

Tell me. How's mine cousin, Qhuinn. Still besotted with the fair Chosen Layla? Or has he turned to finding new bed partners?

[Circling the deadweight with a grim smirk, I reached out and jabbed the male's wounded side with a hard fist.]

Grahve: Holy. Fucking. Hell.

The pain that erupted up my side threatened to send me night night, right before it caused a spasm to tear apart my lungs. I coughed, spluttered, the gag and the hood catching a mouthful of blood. My body struggled to cope as I pulled back against the chains keeping me up, away from where the hit had come from. But with the hood, I was helpless to predict Lash’s next hit. Not that I thought I’d be conscious after a second hit to my ruined lung...

By the time the agony had faded to a dull roaring throb, his question finally registered. I’d never felt my fangs grate against a gag before, the sensation uncomfortable even as a weak growl rumbled in my chest. Which I also regret. Immediately.

I tasted more blood and forced myself to calm down. But the idea that Lash was still gunning for Qhuinn made my blood boil. Regardless of how I felt, of what had happened between him, me, Crhis… all of it, I’d die before I let this miserable prick hurt them. And hey, whaddaya know, if he kept sticking me like a pin cushion and hitting the flesh around it, that death was all but guaranteed in a very short timeline.

I could feel his amusement, his utter delight at my helplessness, and if anything it fueled my rage, my defiance, until I was straightening and clenching my fists in their manacles. My chest hurt like a mofo, but it was all I could do until the gag came out and I could tell him a hearty ‘fuck you’.

Lash: [So, /that/ little query got a reaction from the trainee. Qhuinn must have been tapping more than one ass if this male was so reactive to mere questions. Did this hanging piece of meat know my oversexed cousin had impregnated a Chosen, I wondered; he had to have known. Layla paraded that swollen belly around like the trophy she was. She must have certainly had the young by now. Or dropped into the Fade on her birthing bed. Pacing around the dangling and gagged bit, I had to give him a small props for ‘hanging’ in there.]

Oh, wait. [Leaning in close to the male's ear, my voice was a harsh just-above-whisper.] Let me see if I'm reading this sitch right. Qhuinn gave the fair Chosen more bed time than you, so you turned to bedding another… [Inhaling deep only confirmed the stronger scent of another, a male.] … male.

[Just a guess, even with the scent of the trainee Qhuinn had been making eyes at all over Grahve, it wasn't too much of a stretch because I knew Qhuinn to be a possessive male that liked to take things too far.]

And mine cousin didn't appreciate the turn of your.. [Grabbing the back of the hood and jerking it off the male's head, the cold anger blowing off him in waves, hurt evident in his eyes as he twisted, bloodied and bruised before me.] .. attention to another. So you decided to drink away your broken heart. [Reaching out and cupping the male's face in a firm grip then patting his cheek hard, I slid fingers back to loosen the gag.]

Grahve: Layla. Hearing a Chosen’s name on Lash’s filthy lips made my skin crawl, but I wasn’t about to correct him on the little scenario he’d invented in his head. Especially if it kept my partner off his radar. Instead I narrowed my eyes at him as the hood was torn away.

It didn’t seem fair that someone so evil had a face like that. I’d never wanted to break something beautiful so badly in all my life. The memory of his lips on mine, of the way he pressed down my body and made me ‘feel’...

I spat out a wad of blood and spit the second the gag was gone, and whatever self preservation instincts I had left kept me from spitting it ‘on’ him. Though the temptation was definitely fucking there.

“Congratu-fucking-lations. You have it all figured out. Go you,” I sneered, wishing I’d had a lot more to drink. Maybe then it would numb the pain that was sure to follow. “I’d pin a gold star on your collar but I’m a little tied up right now. So how bout you fuck right off and do it yourself? There’s a good lad.”

In my head I ran down my list of options. Insulting Lash for as long as possible definitely made the list, and pretty close to the top I might add. Holding out for a rescue, though, was pretty far /down/. The nausea in my gut curdled into a dread realisation as I recalled the Lockdown, the fact that no one was supposed to be out on rotation at the moment to even notice me not showing up, and that after everything with Crhis and Qhuinn? No one was going to be looking for me…

A spark lit up my nerves. The realisation was so bright I struggled to keep it off my face, out of my eyes, so Lash didn’t see the kindling of hope.

Adrian.

The angel would surely notice I was gone… right? I’d made a promise to stay put and broken it. Sure, he might look for me back at the manse, but if I didn’t turn up he’d raise the alarm. The Brothers… they’d at least know the scent of Lash. Realise, maybe, what had happened. And even if they didn’t find me before I died… it soothed something jagged in me to know they’d at least be looking. That someone, somewhere, cared enough to notice I was gone.

“Considering how fancy you like your clothes,” I tried again, looking around, “I thought maybe you’d have a nicer place. Dad not covering your costs?”

Lash: [Pacing behind the male, my hand snapped out to grip the male's throat and tip his head back, his breath staining from the tension as I spoke.]

Oh I got more than a gold star. [My tongue slid up the side of his neck tasting anger, anguish, and a fainter hint of fear. Now that he'd figured out who /I/ was, most of the arrogance had been knocked out of his sails. Hence the hint of fear.]

You were more than willing to give it to me, weren't you… you cannot deny that scent of fucking you were giving off. The male you'd been fucking must have been quite the tasy little treat. [A slow, hard bite to his ear, fangs drawing that much more blood, coupled with a rut of my hips against his ass for emphasis and I stepped back around to face the trainee, brushing my hands off.] And yet you went to the club looking for more ways to drown yourself.

[I hadn't missed his initial outburst made, I barely contained the giddy feeling inside, and grinned fiendishly at the way his body tensed and grew cold at the mention of the Chosen and his sappy broken heart. I knew I'd hit a low sore spot that I could use to against him.

Ignoring his baiting comments about my attire -mental note to swap out to leathers once I'd returned to the compound, no sense in ruining an Armani- I delivered a hard fist to his fine nose, the burst of fresh coppery iron wafting across the breeze as it dripped in rivulets down his chin.]

See? We're going to have lots of fun.

Grahve: The feel of his tongue against my neck earned a disgusted shudder, my stomach revolting even as I swallowed down a fresh wave of bile. I barely felt it as his fangs pierced my ear, blood scenting the air. His hips bucking against mine brought to mind all the ways we might’ve tangled in the sheets, when I’d been willing, and the reality was so much worse. What would the Brothers say? I’d been about to fuck the enemy… Sweet Scribe… and all because I’d let myself fall for and give a shit about the males in that manse.

What had I become?

Trying to shake off the darkness that flooded every molecule of my miserable being, I adopted a sneer, forcing myself to remember the times I’d been completely alone in the world and survived. I could be that guy again.

“Next time I’ll just look for ways to actually drown. Probably a better outcome than ‘this’ one,” I point out coolly.

My last smart ass comment. Right before he broke my nose.

My head snapped back. I tasted blood. As I blinked through the haze and the pain, I sagged forward and spat a fresh mouthful onto the floor. Well, mostly the floor. Pretty sure a nice bit of it landed on his pants. And shoes. N’awwww…

“No wonder you weren’t in the training program long…” I panted and heaved in a breath with a broken, bloody smile, “what with a weak ass punch like that…”

Lash: Think you're funny? [The mangy fuck had the audacity to chuck a mouthful of blood at me. Growling low, I spun the male around and drove my fingers into the knife wound, pushing deep until his body swung off the ground and something popped and the male cried out.

Movement at the doorway barely registered enough to draw my attention away and only served to piss me off even more. The growl that tore from my throat spoke only one word to the brainless fuck that had the balls, -figuratively-, to interrupt me. Death.

Liquid energy rolled down my arm, pooling in my bloodied hand as I turned to decimate the motherfucker that dared interrupt my playtime. The lesser stood his ground but the fear dripped off him like a sliced carotid. In his hands shook a female body, a black canvas hood bunched around her head and shoulders, doing nothing to staunch her whimpers.]

You're fucking lucky, you know that. [The immediate impact of the sudden additional present hit me, a smirk kicking up the corner of my mouth as I glanced at the strung up trainee. Oh yes, this was going to work so much faster this way. She wasn't a Chosen, but female blood was female blood.]

String her up. [Pointing with just a look, the Lesser nodded without a word and did as told. The female's struggled, nearly freeing herself when her body suddenly slumped, loose-limbed, the lesser having knocked her cold with a fist to the temple. A hoarse growl and muffled rattle of chains fueled my smirk.]

Oh wait. [I glanced at the male dangling by his wrists and then at the female and back to the hanging meat.] My bad. Where are my manners. Are you thirsty?

Grahve: I didn’t know pain like this existed without unconsciousness following. As Lash buried his fingers in my flesh my whole body jerked and twisted to escape it. I wasn’t even aware I was doing it, every animal instinct in me screaming to get away when something gave out. Probably a lung.

The room swam as blessed darkness crept into the edge of my vision. But it didn’t linger. As Lash withdrew, my mind returned. It was just in time to catch the whimpers of a woman - a female. My spine stiffened, my fingers curling into fists in their chains.

Of course. The lock down. With no Brothers on the street, Lash had free reign on the species. Nausea coiled in my gut as I watched him tie her up, and when she resisted, the demon struck. She crumpled as a snarl bubbled up my throat, wound be damned.

“You don’t seriously think I’d take blood from some helpless female?” I growled, glaring, furious at my helplessness. How was I supposed to help her when I couldn’t even help myself right now? It didn’t matter if her blood would heal… me…

I closed my eyes and dropped my head.

It doesn’t matter if I don’t want to… He’ll force feed me if it means he gets to keep playing. The idea is revolting.

“…it doesn’t matter if I say no, does it?” I mutter blackly, disgust laced through every word.

Lash: [Ignoring the trainee’s disgust, though I don’t know why, the female wasn’t bad on the eyes except for the fat lip and swollen eye and she smelled fucking delicious, I indicated to the Lesser he needed to make sure she was easily within reach without having to loosen her bonds. There was little chance of her finding escape, but it was better to overly cautious. Past experiences were still biting my ass in the form of the Omega each time we had those sire-son talks.]

Absolutely, I think that you’ll do it willingly even.

[Stalking over to the female and gripping her chin, tugging it up enough to confirm she was still indeed alive, I let the supple slumping of her unconsciousness hang from her place near the trainee and stepped back to admire my haul without giving anything away. This was going to change my plans only slightly, in the manner that I’d be able to keep the trainee longer than I first anticipated. If my Lessers could obtain another female within a few days, unharmed enough to be of use, I’d be able to send the Brotherhood quite the set of messages. Piece by fucking piece.]

And if you want the female to live beyond the next rising sun, I suggest you feed when you’re told to.

Grahve: I wanted to curse, to snarl my disbelief; as if he wasn’t going to kill her - fuck - kill us both, but what other option did I have? If I refused… he killed her now. If I took her vein, maybe I got enough strength to get us out of this. Maybe I buy us both time.

Biting back the slew of responses, all of which would probably go down about as well as a lead balloon, I went with the smart option. Even as my insides shrivelled in repulsion and shame.

“Fine.”

The word tasted nasty as I dropped my gaze to the blood spattered floor. My blood. It dribbled down my side as I heaved in a breath through the agony of a burst lung. And my broken nose.

“But let’s not kid ourselves…” The words slipped out even as a small part of my brain screamed to STFU. I met his gaze again. “How long are you gonna do this before you get tired of me? I’m just a toy for you to play with till I break, right? Then let’s get it over with. Just do it.”

Lash: [Strolling back to face the male, I gave a minute nod to the Lesser that had positioned himself behind the trainee. The pale fucker began cutting away the male’s clothes, starting with his shirt.]

Looks like it hurts.

[Grinning, I eyed the jagged edges of the bright red and purple wound as he was stripped down. And thought of the angel Lassiter. How his scars were MY mark on his body. Scars I created, a signature of sorts. What kind of signature could I put on the trainee? Mentally waving it off, I knew it would come to me when the time was right.

The male’s body was definitely impressive, well muscled and lean, as a fighter’s body should be. Once he’d been stripped of all his clothing, the bloodied pile on the floor.. wait, was that.. Tipping my head a bit, my grin pulled the smirk routine. He was blushing! Face flushed, aside from the fact of how pale he was starting to look from blood loss, there was no mistaking the traineed was embarrassed at being so exposed.]

Oh come now. [Chuckling darkly, I hardly ficked a finger toward the hanging female and the Lesser that had bared the male’s body of annoying restrictions now worked the same effortless theme on the female.]

I’m sure she’s seen a naked male before, though maybe not one of your particularly appealing form. She’ll be honored to offer you her vein. If she wakes in time.

Grahve: Being left bare before the Brotherhood’s greatest enemy brought whatever blood I had left to my face. I tried not to shift in the restraints and give the game away, but as his eyes raked over me like I was a meal, he smirked and knew. Fuck. Like this could get worse…

My lip lifted in a snarl that bared my fangs (probably the last thing of me that had actually been covered) as the Lesser set about stripping the female.

“Leave her alone. Whatever you wanna do to her, do to me! She’s a /civilian/, right? Not a fighter. Not a warrior. It’s beneath you to hurt her,” I bit out, somehow averting my eyes as the female body was bared, every curve and slender muscle. “Or are you so low I should be shocked you don’t slither and crawl?”

Hey, provoking him probably wasn’t my best idea, but if it drew even a lick of attention away from the female, I’d do it again. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go; me helpless and watching some poor female be strung up and humiliated.

Lash: Who do you think I practice on? [I spoke without taking my eyes off the male, the illborne wickedness boiling under the gossamer surface of my form. Even without being consciously aware of what fueled the process, John Mathew had been my first directive. I had paid, and was still paying, for fucking that one up; the Omega never forgave for incompetance no matter the reason.

So I put into practice what I gleaned from each call ‘home’ to my sire. While it was never a fun visit, I did take away new skills to cultivate for my own use. It took too much energy to reanimate my own Lessers in the beginning, so I used whoever they, or I, managed to capture. Like the Chosen Layla. Now /she/ was one that never should have escaped. The Lesser that gave her the opportunity still decorated the wooded copse I’d blasted his carcass across. Or the more frequent random males and females of the species. Human rats were overlooked for the obvious reasons that they would never survive the capture. Let alone a single day/night under my hand.

Realigning my thoughts with the here and now, I waved a dismissal to the pale fuck who was eyeing the naked female with too much drool dripping down his chin at the malicious hunger brewing in his mind. With a sneering smirk, the Lesser skulked back to the corner of the room to await further orders. Just because they were impotent, didn’t mean that the desire to cut and kill died off as well.

The trainee’s compassion for the female negated his own need for survival. But this wouldn’t do. He needed to make the choice to fight to live. Even at the expense of another should the choice come to it, which I’d make sure it would. Many, many times.

Stalking back to the work bench along the far wall I picked up a long flat blade and returned to stand before the female, keeping the male at the edge of my vision. The sharp steel glinting under the lights as I held it up, admiring the razor honed edge before pressing it to the female’s throat deep enough to draw a nice, slow but steady rivulet of blood to run down her neck between her ample breasts.]

Do you think you can stop it before she bleeds out? [I mused to myself, turning to the feral-eyed fury that was the male strung up in chains and licked the blade clean.]

Grahve: As the blade cut into her flesh I felt two things. One, that I hated myself for wanting her blood, and two, that I now knew such hatred that I would gladly lose almost every limb if it meant the last one could plunge a knife into that bastard’s heart.

Her blood perfumed the air the longer it ran, from her throat, all the way down to her naval and down her leg to her toes. My body hungered for it in my injured state, and with sheer force of will alone I made myself focus on Lash. He watched me, watched every emotion that played out on my face, and I found myself wishing I was more like Vishous, or Zsadist, two Brothers who knew how to hide every thought, feeling or desire. Why couldn’t they have taught a fucking class on /that/?

“What, with my tongue?” I glanced at the red river with a flash of panic and wanted to punch something. Pulling at my own restraints - and boy, didn’t that remind me of the whole gauntlet my body had already run - I leant in closer to the female, breathing in her scent. “She won’t die. It’s not enough…”

I somehow managed to regret the words the instant they were out of my mouth. Because even a statement of fact, or a general denial, would undoubtedly seem like a challenge to the demon spawn. The fresh burst of anxiety, the fear that he would suddenly pull that knife back up and whip it across her throat until I was sprayed in blood, opened my mouth.

“Forget it, you’re right. Let me stop the bleeding!” I pulled at my restraints until I could put my lips to the wound, and even as a mouthful, or two, slid down my throat, I lapped my tongue over the wound, trying to seal it.

I closed my eyes, trying to ignore Lash, ignore my body and the need that was burning inside it, even as the blood started to slow. My fangs scraped against her skin and my stomach snarled, a growl bubbling up my throat. Then I was trying to pullback, my tongue running over the wound.

Lash: Come on, you can reach her. Come on. [The encouragement was sincere enough, I /did/ want to see if he could make it on his own; the pulley system which they’d both been rigged to was movable to any place in the building with the right adjustments. The trainee didn’t disappoint. But I had doubts, I really did. For all of five seconds. And I’d been ready to follow through and gut the female from chin to belly if the male hadn’t stepped up when he did.

I shuffled around the two in a macabre dance, watching the male’s throat work the blood down as quickly as he could, his efforts trying to stop the flow in spite of the need, his body’s need, to keep drinking. I could have played this out far longer than was formally necessary, but I did so enjoy a little drama after a long dry spell. This was merely play time, a warm up session for when the Royal family came to visit. I absolutely could /not/ disappoint King Wrath upon his arrival.

As Grahve’s throat slowed, the working of his jaw indicating he was finished, though I knew he would need more than a few little sips to heal properly, I reached over and patted him on the shoulder for effort.]

Such a valiant effort. Bravo my friend. Bra-vo. See? It wasn’t as difficult as you made it seem. [I paced around the pair once, twice, the female slowly beginning to come to with mumbled whimpers and moans.] Are you sure you’ve had enough?

Grahve: Feeling Lash’s hand on my skin in a fashion that wasn’t torturous was, in itself, a kind of torture. My skin crawled as I shifted away from him, not wanting the contact, the camaraderie sensation. Crhis was my partner. The Brothers my allies. I didn’t want Lash’s praise.

I ignored his question to stare at the female, leaning in slightly.

“Hey, are you okay? My name’s Grahve. Can you hear me?”

I shot Lash a filthy look as the female mumbled and groaned, barely coherent as she struggled in her restraints and shifted in the puddle of her blood on the floor. She seemed to notice that - notice that she was naked straight after. A shudder went through her, then a kind of sob. My chest ached for her; that she’d been dragged into this shithole.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay, I’m here with you,” I murmured, wishing her blood wasn’t still on my lips, helping seal the hole in my lung. “Can you tell me your name?”

Lash: Looks like she’s not that into you, Grahve. [Doing a back n’ forth between the two, I wrapped an arm around both waists, ignoring the fact that the female was starting to really wake up now. The weak tugging on the chains was indicative of the minor blood loss and likely the blow to her head and the trainee’s encouraging tone.]

But don’t worry, I’ll send my boys out to find you something a little more fresh and easier on the eyes. [With that promise, silent shock painted the male’s face, his half-strangled cry caught in his throat as the hot red scent of iron dripped down his face, his chest and thighs. The female’s struggles were more erratic now, twitching really.]

Grahve: Red. It had a smell. I was covered in it. The taste of her was all over me. Her body writhed in front of me. Her throat was a gaping hole. Blood spurted, oozed, trickled and spilled.

“Shit…”

It was the only word that came out. She looked at me, the light in her eyes dying. Betrayal flickered there. Why was she dying. Why was I alive. Why was Lash still holding me…

Bile rose in my throat as I tried to wrench away. From him. From her. I’d failed her. As she gasped her last breath I knew I’d remember the sound until I died.

Hopefully it’d be soon…

1 note · View note