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wheredafandomat · 3 years

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Power Trip 🔋 P1 🔋 Introductions

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Growing up you always knew you were different. You always felt a sense of detachment that clung to you like a thick cover. You felt things others didn’t. You appreciated nature, you felt it, the atoms, the elements, the power. You could never explain it. The loneliness. You constantly felt like there was something out there that you needed to make you feel whole. You spent your life searching for it. Turning to alcohol, sex, addiction, but nothing ever filled you. Empty. Hollow. Unsatisfied. Those were the words that lingered persistently in the deepest darkest corners of the crazy maze that was your mind. You almost gave up. Gave in. Let the negative thoughts win. Nothing worked. Nothing ever made you whole. No amount of narcotics, one night stands, or spirits filled the void not until that encounter on the havoc filled streets of New York.

It had been a long night. Drunk karaoke followed by accompanying one of the men from the club home. He seemed nice, that was enough. Waking up, you lifted the arm of the man that was around you and began searching for your clothes that were scattered around the room. Careless as always you thought stepping into your dress and carrying one of your heels. Walking stealthily out of the apartment, you were greeted by the havoc that was New York 2012. Looking into the sky, you saw some sort of aliens flying around causing chaos. The air was filled with the screams and pleads of the New Yorkers who were unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire. Frozen, you tried your hardest to breathe. Your eyes widened when you saw some sort of bullet heading straight towards you. This was it. The end. You closed your eyes anticipating the contact but it never came. Opening your eyes, you saw a tall man standing in front of you deflecting the bullet with-

“Is that a hammer!?” You exclaimed

“My lady seek safety” said the man pushing you lightly back behind him with his hammer

“Wai—” you were cut of by the feeling of electricity coursing through your veins as your hand touched the head of the hammer in an attempt to stop him pushing you back

“My lady are you alright?” The man questioned frantically watching your eyes change colour and electricity begin to fall from your fingers as you let out a quiet gasp.

Ignoring him, you felt yourself raise your hand to stop a bullet hitting the man who had his back to it and was now facing you searching your face for an answer. You didn’t know what was happening to you, all you knew was that you finally felt complete. Aliens started honing in on you and the man grabbed your hand and pointed his hammer to the air. As soon as his hand made contact with yours, you felt it again. Full. That feeling of being complete. Before you could properly process what was going on, you felt yourself soaring through the sky. Letting out a scream, you were quickly silenced by the feeling of something solid beneath your feet. Opening your eyes, you saw that you were on some sort of rooftop.

“Stay here my lady, you’ll be safe” the man said looking down into your eyes before falling off the roof .

“NOOOO!” You screamed looking over the railing before seeing him flying perfectly in control. Looking down, you saw some letters on the building. There seemed to be spaces between them like letters were missing. Trying to piece the remaining letters together, you let out a gasp.

“STARK, well I’ll be dammed” you said putting a hand over your mouth. Somehow the strange blonde man had grabbed you and flew you to the roof of Stark tower with his magical hammer. Laughing, you pinched your arm waiting to wake up. This had to have been a dream I mean you blasted an alien bullet using your hand you thought still pinching your arm. Adding more pressure, you heard a snigger from behind you. Jumping, you quickly turned around and saw no one. Right, no more drinking for me you thought confused by this whole situation. Another snigger brought you out of your thoughts as you desperately searched around you still standing in the same position the man had left you. Suddenly, you saw a flash of green in front of you.

“Fuck no get me out of here come on y/n wake up wakeeee upppp” you said slapping yourself on your cheeks.

“Are you slapping yourself?” Said a deep voice from behind you.

“FUCK NO! WAKE UP!” you shouted startled by the voice.

“Wake up? You are not dreaming midgardian” the voice said again more menacing.

Suddenly you felt an arm around your waist and a dagger to your throat. Focusing, you closed your eyes and raised your arm like you did earlier. Nothing happened. You felt the persons grip relax slightly as they watched you desperately flicking your wrist.

“What are you doing?” He asked confused

“I- I’m- earlier I- why isn’t this working?” you replied mostly talking to yourself. You had managed to stop an alien bullet killing the stranger earlier so why couldn’t you do anything to stop this crazy person from killing you, you thought still trying to do something until you felt it again. The void. The feeling of finally being sated was gone. Dropping your arm in defeat you fell back against the persons chest.

“Just make it quick” you said closing your eyes

Opening your eyes, you saw that the man had dropped his dagger and was just looking down at you unamused.

“What?” You asked turning your neck to him

“You’re making this too easy” he stated

“Well I apologise” you huffed pulling his arm from you. Your breath hitched when your hand met his. The feeling. Complete. You felt complete again. Swiftly you turned around to the man finally feeling like you could defend yourself to see him falling to his knees.

“What have you done?” He asked weakly grabbing his chest

“I- I noth—”

You were cut off by the man from earlier pushing you backwards as he looked down at the man who had seconds ago tried to kill you.

“LOKI! GIVE ME THE TESSERACT!” The man boomed

“Loki?” The man questioned slight worry in his voice at Loki’s weakened stance and lack of reply

“That dull creature has poisoned me” Loki said feebly pointing at you

“M-me I-”

“WITCH!” He shouted still pointing at you

The other man turned his gaze from Loki to you and back to Loki

“I’m not a witch” you said to the mans back as he carried on looking down at Loki

“That’s exactly what a witch would say. Brother please, you have to help me” Loki pleaded

Brother you thought surprised

“Loki give me the tesseract” the man said ignoring Loki’s pleading.

“I’ve been poisoned by a witch and all you care about is the tesseract, brother help me” he continued begging before standing to his feet and lunging at the man.

As he fought, you felt yourself becoming weaker. Watching this fight turn more violent, you started running inside the building. Ignoring the grunts and groans of the two men fighting outside behind you, you looked around the room Impressed.

“Check me out, I’m standing in Tony freaking Starks tower” you said cheerfully before hearing the glass of the window smash and Loki falling to the ground. Looking to Thor, you saw him lifting his hammer once more. Looking down at Loki, you saw a strange object next to him. The tesseract you thought starting to run towards it.

“Got it” you shouted to the man with the hammer holding the object in your hand

Both men looked looked at you completely puzzled

“That is not the tesseract” Loki said trying to stifle a laugh

“That- thats- not- give it here please” the other man said holding his hand out blushing clearly he was embarrassed. Handing him the object, you started feeling like you were being pulled to something. Following it as the brothers carried on their brawl, you were lead to a blue glowing cube. This must be it you thought picking it up. Gasping, you fell to your knees. That feeling of being complete was overwhelming as you felt whatever was in the tesseract diffusing into you. Seeing you kneeling on the floor holding the tesseract, the blonde man quickly ran to you putting a hand on your shoulder and kneeling next to you.

“NOO! BRAINLESS WITCH” you heard Loki shout before falling unconscious.

A/N: I’m quite excited for this one 😊 hope you liked xx

#tom hiddelston loki #loki x reader #loki x f!reader #loki x female reader #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #thor x reader #loki lafeyson #loki #loki layfeyson imagine #mcu loki

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starkeristheendgame · 3 years

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Hunter!Tony x Demon!Peter AU

Hunter!Tony binds Demon!Peter to himself in order to find the monster that murdered his late fiancée. Lead down roads he’d never imagined himself taking, Tony discovers that maybe revenge isn’t the only thing he’s hungry for.

“Is being a pervert part of the hiring process or are you just getting your money’s worth?”

Tony couldn’t see it, but he knew regardless that those plush lips would be pushed into a pout and those arched brows would be furrowed into a petulant scowl.

“If you’ve got me running around like your little errand boy, the least you could do is be nice to me,” a high, sweet voice simpered back. The face that belonged to it was just as youthful when it appeared in the mirror over his shoulder, watching him button his shirt with vested interest.

Tony didn’t deign to dignify it with a reply, staring down the pretty little monster until it let out a sigh.

“Fine. I have your lead. Arkansas, a seedy little dive known as the Dog Den.”

Something hot and rabid twisted in his gut and he had to pause his motions, hands trembling almost imperceptibly. It felt a lot like rage and a little bit like hope.

“Are you sure?”

Eyes the colour of fresh honey rolled so hard he could almost hear the muscles stretching. “No. I asked a magic eight-ball.”

He twisted with a snarl, reaching out. The ring on his finger pulsed with a molten orange glow and between slender wrists a chain that shimmered transparently flared to life, forming a delicate set of shackles no wider than if he’d wound a necklace there.

He curled a finger in the glowing links, dragging the Demon close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in those dark eyes.

“I’m sure,” it repeated, softer, quieter, holding his gaze with wariness, but not fear.

He let the chain drop after a moment, grunting as he turned around and finished buttoning up his shirt. When he twisted to reach for the jacket the lithe figure was sprawled out on his bed, artfully arranged as the Demon flipped through a magazine Tony knew hadn’t been in his own bags.

“You know,” the Demon piped up again as he tucked in his shirt, “maybe if you smiled a little more, the ugly things in the dark wouldn’t try to kill you as much.”

“Shut up.”

“Not possible.”

“I’ll make it possible.”

“Oh, you always promise me a good time and never deliver.”

Despite himself, Tony found he had to wrestle fiercely with a smile. “Peter.”

That heady, dangerous gaze pinned itself to him again. He met it evenly, ignoring the thrum of his pulse. The Demon really couldn’t have picked a prettier vessel to take over, a smudge of parasitic darkness inside the prettiest packaging.

That pink little mouth opened like it was considering another witty retort, then closed. Instead the Demon - Peter, merely hummed and went back to flicking through his magazine, disinterestedly glossing over half-naked women and gossip scandals.

It was almost disconcerting. To look at the pretty little slip of a thing sprawled out on his bed like some rented whore and to know that behind that pretty face was a being of Hell’s creation. Something twisted and dark, a corrupted soul festering behind a distracting smokescreen.

Peter Parker was the sort of face Tony would’ve fallen for like a rock, if he hadn’t been the one to summon the Demon to the surface.

Perhaps that’s why the Demon had chosen such a nice outfit. A desperate bid not to get ganked the moment he crawled out of Hell.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Peter sighed, turning a page idly. He’d rolled over onto his stomach now, jaw propped in his palm.

“You can’t read minds. Don’t get comfortable, we’re leaving soon,” he grunted in reply, shrugging on a jacket.

“Can’t I just meet you there?” the Demon whined, looking up with (literally) sinful puppy eyes.

“No.”

He left it at that, flat and unforgiving, as he had to be. In another life he’d have fallen for that soft whine and that pleading look. Might’ve taken his shirt right off and crawled onto the bed, put that open mouth to good use.

But this was not that life, and that pretty face was stolen.

He checked all his things then reached out, plucking the gossip rag from Peter’s hands and throwing it in the trash. “Meet me at the car.”

“I was reading that,” Peter huffed indignantly, glowering up at him before he disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a dip in the bedspread and the scent of copper.

He was sprawled in the backseat when Tony made his out to the 1970 Challenger he called his own, a set of stylish shades covering his eyes, fluffy hair unkempt and arms folded behind his head.

“Feet off the upholstery,” he huffed as he turned the key, swinging the car out of the parking lot and onto the road with a loud rumble of the engine.

“I know for a fact you sleep in this car and my shoes are clean,” Peter answered primly, angling his head towards the open window and the warmth of the morning sun.

Arkansas was a three day drive. They spent the first in almost complete silence, although the Demon did sulk when they stopped for gas and Tony declined to buy him anything. Rather than waste money on another motel he pulled onto a quiet patch of land behind a thicket of trees, settling across the bench seat with a sigh.

“Fuck off and come back in the morning.”

“Eloquent as ever,” Peter griped, leaning over the seat, arms folded and chin atop them. He looked laughably angelic in the darkness, all soft edges, voice quiet enough that a mouse wouldn’t flee it.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispered, and when Tony cracked open an eye to repeat his command, he was gone.

Gone, until he thumped his fist on the window at the ass-crack of dawn, looking chipper and cheerful, Starbucks cup in hand. “Up and at ‘em, sunshine! The monsters aren’t gonna hunt themselves!”

Tony considered stabbing him there and then, but Peter was unfortunately an asset he couldn’t afford to lose. Invaluable, as much as it stroked the Demon’s ego. He settled for glaring, baring past the Demon as he stomped off to relieve himself.

The next two nights went much the same, although Peter got chattier the more bored he became. Fiddled with the radio, disappeared for moments only to return holding an ‘interesting’ leaf or rock, scooped up from the side of the road Tony had just driven past.

Arkansas was crisp and bright and dewy in the mid-weeks of spring. It was so different from the New York of his youth, with it’s towering glass jungle and concrete pillars. It was a visceral reaction to think of the scent of flowers and clean air in Sicily, of pink lipstick smudged on his jaw, a laugh fading slowly, overtaken by the rumble of the engine.

Countryside became a smattering of industrialisation, bars and houses, garages and stores. He wanted to keep on going, chase that tail until he caught it and tore it off, but he knew better than to rush in half-blind.

He had to eat something proper. Had to rest. Had to learn everything he could from the paltry little stack of papers that Peter had given him, printed out at a library miles and miles back in the time it had taken Tony to piss and buy a bottle of water at a gas station.

Food, first.

The diner was like every other. Gaudy and cheap with food that was more grease than nutrition. Peter’s nose scrunched the moment they entered and he looked nonplussed when they were guided to a booth.

The Demon made a big show of pulling out a pack of wipes from the pocket of his fitted jacket, scrubbing the table as the waitress listed off the day’s specials. Tony rolled his eyes before ordering coffee and a slap-up breakfast, about to dismiss the waitress when Peter cut in with a saccharine smile.

“Bacon too, please. Crispy. And a milkshake. Thanks a bunch, darling.”

She arched her brows but made no comment, glancing at Tony before leaving. Then it was Tony’s turn to stare and quirk his brow, watching the Demon shrug lightly.

“What? I get cravings.”

Peter fiddled with a napkin as they waited, as Tony read through the sheets of paper. Folding it over and over into a little crane that he perched atop the salt shaker.

“Where did you even learn origami?” Tony grunted, watching it sway before it stabilised. Peter’s gaze flicked up to him and there was something unexpected there. A hollowness, heavily guarded but flickering in the gold of his irises even so.

“Even the worst of the worst need hobbies, hunter,” he uttered softly, and then their food arrived and they were lost to the silence that overcame those sating their hunger. Peter ate with an almost childlike manner, easily distracted, toying with his straw before each sip. He even swung his legs a little and drummed his fingertips on the table top.

The perfect performance.

He looked away.

Peter was unusually quiet after that, subdued as they made their way to a motel relatively close to the Dog Den. He didn’t even pester the receptionist or try to embarrass Tony by pretending to be some sort of rent boy as he purchased a key, eyeing the Demon consideringly.

When Tony slipped beneath the sheets Peter disappeared without argument, offering only a mock salute before he flickered and was gone, leaving nothing but a wisp of dark smoke.

He wondered where the Demon went. Back to Hell? Some run-down library to read through the night? An empty motel room to pilfer their cable connection?

The disconcertion over Peter’s silence left him the next day, when he commanded Peter to steer clear as he got dressed to hit their lead.

“You can’t go alone,” Peter announced, frowning.

“I can and I am. You’ll just attract attention,” Tony pointed out, shrugging on another flannel and tucking the flask of holy water against his belt.

“And if you die?” Peter shot back. It surprised his brows into lifting as he met the Demon’s gaze, tipping his head.

“Then you’ll be free of your bindings and there’ll be one less hunter ganking your friends. What’s the problem?”

Peter’s mouth opened, then closed, as if he was only suddenly remembering that he wasn’t in this little dynamic duo willingly.

“I get the Challenger if you die,” the Demon said instead, turning away from.

And maybe Tony should’ve thought more about that demand, because the only thing he could think of as he lay bleeding in the middle of the woods several long hours later was that Peter would most definitely get the car all scratched up and dirty.

Demons had no respect for vehicle maintenance.

He coughed wetly and grunted, pressing a hand to his bleeding chest. They wouldn’t, he supposed. Demons could just fly everywhere.

Peter had adamantly argued it was not teleportation.

He breathed out a sigh and shifted fumbling for his wallet. His fingers smeared blood against the white edges of the crumpled photograph in there and he stared at his wife’s smile, frozen in time and taken just days before a Demon on a murder kick had burnt her soul up from within her, along with their unborn daughter.

“I’d say see you soon, but. W’both know m’goin’ to Hell, not where you are,” he told her image softly, giving it a weary, slow smile.

“Hell would ask for a refund,” came a familiar voice, and moments later there were warm hands on his jaw, tilting his head up. “You stupid bastard. I told you not to go alone. I could feel there was someone stronger in this town!”

Peter’s eyes were wide and round, plump lower lip between his teeth as he dropped his gaze, eyeing where Tony was slowly leaking his insides all over his outsides. “Shit,” the Demon breathed softly.

Tony made an agreeable sound. Shit was about right. He’d run head first into the messy, gruesome end that almost every hunter found themselves at. The end of the road; the final curtain; bleeding out somewhere at the hands of something twisted and ugly and evil.

“Guess you get th’car,” he rasped, aiming for humorous. It fell short when he blanched and more hot fluid slid down his throat and his chest, pooling at his navel.

“Shut up,” Peter growled at him, letting go of his head to pull up his shirt. His fingertips were light, but it still felt like fire. Hot and licking over everything he touched. “God, you’re so fucking stupid. I told you to take me. I told you I should go.”

“C’n you save th’gloatin’ ‘till I’m dead?” he asked, frowning. Most hunters probably didn’t get this much conversation on their deathbeds.

Peter shot him a positively scathing look, pressing down hard on the wound. It made agony flare up his torso, smothering his pathetic yell of pain into a weak, thready rasp.

“This is gonna hurt us both,” the Demon muttered, looking inexplicably angry as he settled his palms flat atop the worst of the wound. A muted sound was all Tony could manage, watching the Demon with hazy confusion.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Or at least, Tony didn’t notice it happening.

But then a strange, new type of pain began to lance through him, battling against the numbing burn of his torn organs. It crept through his veins and branched out, a tingling, almost electric sensation that had him tensing as best as his broken body would let him.

He opened his mouth and if he’d had the energy left for it he’d have reeled in surprise when Peter leaned forwards, slotting their mouths together firmly.

The Demon’s lips were soft and plush, with the faintest trace of soda. His lips were warm, too, just a breath above what would be normal for a person.

Tony almost didn’t know what he should be recoiling at the most; kissing a Demon, or kissing what was for all intents and purposes a sixteen year old.

Peter didn’t try to do anything else and Tony realised in the timeframe that he’d been internally broiling over the situation, breathing had become easier.

The fire was dulling to a simmer; a slow ember that still ached but no longer made him feel like he had one foot in the gates of Hell. His breath hitched and Peter pulled back slowly, keeling to one side slightly and almost falling over as he drew away.

His eyes were pools of inkblack, shiny and void as the Demon sucked in his own rattled breath, pulling shaking hands away from Tony’s torso.

He let his gaze fall slowly to his chest. He was still covered in blood, but the flesh there looked smooth and unmarred. Where he was once carved open like a pot hole there was once again closed off muscle and flesh.

He looked up in surprise. Peter was on his knees, hands braced on his thighs as he rode out the strain of wrangling his leashed powers. His eyes were slowly returning to the human hue, red-rimmed as if he’d been crying, plump lips downturned.

Tony licked his own, jerked straight back into the sensation of Peter’s mouth on his.

“Why?” he demanded roughly, bringing a hand to subconsciously touch his chest.

Peter shot him a sidelong look, the effect slightly dampened by the way he looked vaguely sick.

“A thank you might be nice,” the Demon sneered at him, huffing a twisted curl from his eyes as Tony pushed himself to his feet, ungainly and uncoordinated. Bracing himself on a tree, Tony stared down at the Demon.

At Peter, who’d saved his life. Against all he stood to benefit from Tony’s death, against all that he’d done his best to kill him when he first discovered he’d been shackled to Tony.

Coughing, Tony did his best to pull his shredded shirt closed before he made a rough gesture. “Get up. You’ll have to take us back to the motel. My car’s still at the bar.” Smashed up or stolen, he realised with a pang of sadness and anger.

“Oh no, lover-boy. You’ve been keeping me at half-mast all year. One night of fun has done me in for the night. I’m limp - get your own ride into town.”

Tony glowered, but all his frowning and snapping proved fruitless. Peter’s powers had been bound tight for almost a year and he really was burnt out, looking every inch as young as his vessel as he wobbled to his feet. The most he managed them was a few meters down the road when he tried.

It took them until sunrise to come close enough to the town that Tony could hotwire a car from the side of the road, ditching it a reasonable way from the motel and wiping it down with a clean patch of his shirt to get rid of his fingerprints.

He wasn’t bothered about Peter’s. Peter had mentioned having this particular vessel for over fifty years - his prints would be written off as a glitch on the system.

He went straight for the shower, scrubbing his skin pink as he tried to sleuth off the memory of being cut open, of dying alone in the dark and the cold, certain that this was his one-way ticket downstairs.

Brushed his teeth; trying to rid himself of the guilt that came with realising that the kiss had been pleasant, to a degree. Soft, pink skin, the sweetness of a soda consumed while Tony had been-

He shut off the water.

When he stepped out, Peter was actually curled up in the bed, looking almost infantile with the covers pulled up to his jaw. He seemed only half-awake, barely stirring when Tony entered the room. He was pulling on a new shirt when Peter spoke, voice sleepy and quiet.

“My Uncle taught me.”

Tony paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“Origami,” Peter clarified softly. “You asked me. At the diner. Where I’d learned origami. My Uncle taught me when I was thirteen.”

Pulling on a pair of sweatpants, Tony took a light seat on the edge of the bed, each of them facing a separate wall. He was quiet for a little while, digesting the information.

“Thank you for saving me,” he grunted after a moment, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the words. It wasn’t anything he’d ever thought he’d say to a Demon. Peter had gotten him out of scrapes and healed up wounds before, but always under command and never anything so serious.

Desperate to rein back some control, he slid under the sheets and stared up at the ceiling. “If you ever kiss me again, I’ll use thread soaked in holy water and sew your mouth shut.”

Irritatingly, Peter snorted. “That was hardly a kiss.”

“You’re in a snot-nosed brat’s body, what would you know about kissing?” Tony shot back, brows pinching into a frown.

“This,” Peter huffed at him, rolling over and on top of him.

Tony blamed the fact that he didn’t pull away on simply being too tired to.

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beauregardlionett · 3 years

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all or nothing (it’s a game no one can win)

AO3 Link

Realization was a cold, viscous curl in her gut.

Her thoughts were racing, but they passed through her grasp like wisps of smoke—like illusions. None of them stuck where terror turned her mind into a slippery slope.

Eyes locked on Caleb’s, Beau imagined that his expression of horrified comprehension was mirrored on her own face. Her chest felt tight, ears ringing to where she could barely hear Fjord’s worried questions. His confusion meant little to Beau at the moment.

She and Caleb stood scarcely a foot apart from each other, bare feet planted to the floor and vulnerable in every sense of the word. Dressed in their sleep clothes, chests heaving from the dream—the nightmare. Caleb had torn his shirt off over his head and stood facing her with a naked chest. They had been asleep and still they were marked with those horrid eyes. Beau hypothesized they marked one for death—Lucien had died once already, Molly died, Vess died.

A curse.

Her thoughts were racing, but one clear, overwhelming emotion stuck at the back of her throat. It burned like the brink of nausea—that hint of relief. A sick part of Beau overwhelmingly grateful she wasn’t alone in this. That she had Caleb beside her like always. But she saw the heavy panic settling into the lines of his expression that tore through Beau with guilt.

The rest of the party stirred around them, and the tension snapped in Beau’s chest with all the force of a broken rib.

On instinct, Beau’s eyes flicked to Yasha where she leaned up against the door. She couldn’t face Yasha with this—not yet. Beau still didn’t want to face this, and she was the one with the unwarranted tattoo on her hand.

Seconds after Yasha’s eyes opened, she seemed to understand something was wrong. Jester’s sleepy question only enhanced that sense. Her muffled, “what happened?” against the pillow she pressed into spurred Yasha to shove to her feet, alert already, always a light sleeper.

She wasn’t ready. Beau moved faster than all of them.

Grabbing Caleb’s wrist and his discarded shirt, Beau yanked him from the room. Sleeping in Yasha’s bed had filled her with warmth, a sense of security. Now her fingers felt like they had been left out in the snowbanks of Eiselcross overnight, and her heart along with them. Her skin seemed too tight, too little to contain the frightful chaos underneath. Her breaths came with rapid fervor as she fled like an animal cornered to the worried calls of their friends.

Still clinging to Caleb’s wrist, Beau leapt off the platform into the middle of the tower and they began to ascend.

“Beauregard,” Caleb said tremulously at her shoulder.

“Take us to the eighth floor,” Beau said, her tone sharper than intended. At least it masked the tremor that wracked her chest.

Caleb unlocked the iris that lead to the upper floors with muttered Zemnian that Beau understood but couldn’t process. The contraption slid shut behind them with a soft shink that echoed against Beau’s nerves. Releasing Caleb’s wrist, she slid her hand into his and frantically intertwined their fingers.

“The first door,” Beau whispered. “Where was it?”

Caleb went rigid beside her, but Beau struggled to force her gaze to focus on anything at the moment, to even try looking his way.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in labored silence before Caleb finally took that infinite first step. He led her to a door and pushed it open with heavy intent. Somewhere among the tangle of threads, Beau understood. She just couldn’t seem to parse them apart long enough to comprehend anything beyond the exact second she was living in.

Standing just inside the door, hand in hand, shaken to their core, Beau and Caleb lingered.

Beau closed her eyes and took a deep, unsteady breath. Dairon had told her in one of their training sessions that when she needed to find her center, find a foothold to begin, to start with a breath. Inhale, and look forward.

She breathed in again, deeper and steadier, swore she tasted the salty air of Nicodranas on her tongue. With a tremulous exhale, Beau opened her eyes and latched onto the teacup sitting on the tiny, worn kitchen table. She could scarcely make out a hairline fracture against the lip of the cup in the dim light. There were flowers and vines painted against the fired ceramic, faded with use and more so in spots that welcomed fingerprints.

Caduceus.

The kitchen was stocked with necessities as far as Beau saw, so she inhaled once more and laid out a brief roadmap in her head.

She found purchase.

Turning to Caleb, Beau almost flinched at the expression of hollow dread etched into the exhausted lines of his face. Beau pressed his shirt into his hands and gave Caleb a nudge toward one seat at the table. He sat without protest, but Beau’s palm felt cold and empty without the weight of his presence there.

With a shake of her head, Beau mentally checked off the first step and turned to the kitchen.

A quick heft of the kettle on the counter found it full, so Beau set it over the fire crackling quietly in the hearth and returned to the counters. There was one other mug, faded brown clay that was chipped in so many places Beau was surprised it still held water. A tiny tin box held a scant amount of mint leaves, but it was enough for two mugs of tea.

She worked through the motions of brewing—the way Caduceus had shown her. It was a grounding sort of practice, almost like meditation. Each step required just enough attention to banish all other thoughts from creeping in.

Minutes later, Beau sat across from Caleb and hooked their ankles together beneath the table. Somewhere in Beau’s process, Caleb had attempted to put his shirt back on. He had gotten as far as pulling his arms into the sleeves before giving up, since it sat in his lap, his hands poking through the ends of the sleeves. Two steaming, steeping mugs of tea sat between them, steam curling lazily from the surface.

“This isn’t good,” Beau pressed out, her voice thick in her throat. That hint of nausea still lingered at the back of her tongue, accompanying the sensation of vertigo still spinning in her head from the dream.

“Nein,” Caleb said, voice hoarse.

“What do we do?”

Caleb was silent for a long, suspended moment before, “I don’t know.”

Beau had seen the way his fingers brushed and lingered over the eye on his shoulder, then the scars on his arm back in Yasha’s room. The marks on his arms were paler skin than his usual complexion, raised and puckered slightly—tangible things of torture endured and surmounted. They were evidence of something removed.

The eye against his shoulder was flat, etched and inked into skin with a permanence that neither of them had ever had the privilege or sanctuary of knowing. Beau imagined the mark against the back of her hand felt much the same, but she couldn’t even find the courage to look at her hand again.

With frustrated resignation to their fate, Beau curled the fingers of her left hand around the steaming mug before her and held fast. The weight of the eye on her skin stung like a caustic burn.

Caleb’s eyes flicked to her hand at the movement, his expression doing something complicated before he made a wounded noise. The sound came from the back of his throat, like a creature accepting its fate. He pressed his face into his hands, shirt dangling between his elbows.

“Scars and eyes,” Caleb muttered from behind his fingers before Beau could find her voice. “I’m becoming more and more like our purple friend every day.”

“Shut up,” Beau choked out near immediately, eyes narrowing. Her anger wasn’t for Caleb, but she was angry. At Trent, at Lucien, at everyone that had ever made him and her friends feel inferior, defective, and worthless. “Don’t you dare.”

“Beauregard,” Caleb dropped his hands to his lap again, eyes tired and dark. She hated this expression. “I know you care for me, but be realistic. My appetite for knowledge bears frightening comparison to Lucien’s…” His fingers drifted toward his shoulder, face turning bitter.

“It’s only a matter of time, it seems.”

The anger banished Beau’s haze of panic entirely.

“What about me, then?” Beau bit out at him. He flashed her a look of confusion and Beau released her mug to wave her left hand in his face.

“I’ve got scars and eyes and a need to know everything I have no business in. Am I going to turn into Lucien, too?”

“No,” Caleb said, sounding strangled at the very notion. “No, Beauregard, you’re different.”

“How?” Beau fired back, the furrow of her brow daring Caleb to put himself down in front of her. “Am I different because I’m younger, I’ve got more time to make it right? Is it because I wasn’t manipulated as a child the way you were? Or maybe I’m different because you assume I’m not afraid. Well, newsflash, asshole—I’m fucking terrified.”

Caleb blinked at her, lips parted slightly as he stared.

“We both know I’m blunt and I don’t have a filter,” Beau said by way of preamble. “But if you truly think you’re more like Lucien than you are like me, then your intelligence is fucking wasted. Lucien clings to that book because he wants the power he thinks will come of it. We,” Beau gestured empathetically between them, making the steam from their tea waft in erratic spirals. “Went into that book looking for information, for a foothold to understand. We’re sitting here like this because we don’t want this.”

Beau sucked in a tremulous inhale, her eyes stinging as she glared at Caleb. “So fuck you for implying otherwise.”

Caleb seemed at a loss for words, his jaw snapping shut, a muscle twinging beneath his cheek with the force of it. He looked down at his hands in his lap, tangled in his shirt, and said nothing. Dashing at her traitorous eyes, Beau didn’t even try to be subtle about the tears she furiously wiped away. The silence pulled, and they let it, the crackling logs being devoured by flame an undercurrent of white noise.

“Why are we up here, Beauregard?” Caleb’s haggard voice pushed through the silence between them.

Beau stayed quiet for a beat before answering. She weighed her options, wanting to tell Caleb everything that had been in her head since they were up here earlier. She just wasn’t sure if this was the right time.

The eye on her skin burned, and Beau remembered Fjord’s words from a couple nights before.

Who knows how long we have.

“Because I don’t think Lucien can get up here,” Beau replied to the surface of her tea. She paused and made her choice. “And I needed to tell you I understand now.”

The snap of Caleb’s eyes finding her was palpable, but infinitely more comforting than the stare of that stupid eye from their dream.

“Caduceus said you were going about this the wrong way. Jester said it was a punishment rather than a memory—but this isn’t here as a punishment, is it? You put this here as a reminder, so you don’t forget where you came from. So you don’t forget them. This is here because you’re scared you might forget them the way you forgot those years after you were tricked. You have this here so that it exists because it’s the closest thing you can get to without actually going back. You keep thinking about this past, about what it would cost to go back and fix things.”

She looked up finally, and the jarring lock of Beau’s gaze into Caleb’s previously fixated stare almost threw her. There was desperation to his eyes, a longing sort of hope that Beau might manage to put his way into words.

“I’d give up quite a bit for the chance to fix a few things in the past now, too,” Beau murmured. “So yeah, I understand why you keep this place around, why it’s hard to let go.” She looked around at the simple kitchen, at the cheerful hearth. “Jester’s right, it is a nice house. None of us were trying to judge you or shame you for it, Caleb. But you understand why we were worried before, right? Everything comes at a cost—even the right thing.”

They sat silently for a long moment, staring at each other in the dim. The press of Caleb’s ankles against Beau’s a warm, comforting weight.

“Caduceus asked you if you thought Lucien had a room like this,” Beau whispered. She could all but sense the amount of effort it took for Caleb to not flinch at her words.

“Even if he does, Caleb,” Beau spoke in a measured, firm tone. Her grip around her teacup tightened as she leaned in marginally to keep his gaze on her. “You aren’t like him. And I won’t let you be, either.”

Caleb held her gaze for a lengthy, tenuous moment before he seemed to come to some kind of conclusion. The furrow between his brow eased, and he raised his arms to tug the shirt fully over his head. He scooped up the clay mug before him with a trembling hand. The eye on his shoulder hidden away for now, but Beau’s still glared out at them with red intent.

“So how do we fix this?” Caleb asked, accented and gruff. His ankles pressed with more resolve against Beau’s where they were locked together. “Going forward.”

Hope was not a swell in her chest. Instead, it was the heated comfort of a mug of tea against her palm and Caleb’s warm hand covering her knuckles. His fingers obscured the eye etched into her skin, and Beau could almost pretend for a moment that it wasn’t there at all.

Inhale, and look forward.

#cr #critical role #beauregard lionett #caleb widogast #empire kids #empire siblings #writing #my writing #m9 #c2e122 #i'm just emotional about them okay

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lemonpeter · 3 years

Text

STARKER, by Peter B. Parker

Chapter 9: Hurt/Comfort

A/N: we started joking that we should call this chapter ‘hurt/ no comfort’, bc it turns out that neither of us actually know how to write comfort :) the things that happen in this chapter will make more sense soon, we promise. but for now, we’d love to hear what you guys are thinking!

thanks so much for reading! (and thanks for being understanding about this chapter being late; we’ve both been really busy, and sometimes brains just don’t cooperate <3) - Bloo and Bri 💕

Warnings: subdrop, traits of borderline personality disorder (ie splitting), g*nshot wound, discussions of wounds and wound care, angst

Masterlist ao3

————

A choked off whine slipped from Peter’s lips as his eyes flew open. He screwed up his face, expression twisting into something pained. His chest somehow felt tight and hollow all at once, making him conscious of every single breath he took.

Sitting there, tucked up in the gym mats, he tried to clear his head, rid it of the unsettling fog, but found that he couldn’t. And his body...it felt like it wasn’t his. He felt trapped in his skin, like it was closing in on him.

The sudden low that he was experiencing was strong enough that it had pulled him out of the illusion entirely, his body trembling.

He tried to focus on what was around him, but it was hard when he felt so disconnected. He could feel cold globs of cum drying against his skin and causing his boxers to stick to him uncomfortably, his cock spent and sensitive as a few tears trickled down his cheeks. Wiping one away, he stared blankly at the wetness on the back of his hand.

What the fuck was going on? He hadn’t even realized that he was crying.

Everything felt wrong. His brain still felt floaty from his headspace, but it wasn’t in a good way anymore. He felt disconnected, floating without a tether to ground himself with. Gone was the happy and content feeling from before. This kind of floating... It was terrifying, and all he wanted was to feel real again.

But he couldn’t seem to quite get there.

His breaths became shorter as he started panicking, frantically trying to grab at the floor beneath him. But there wasn’t a surface to hold onto, just smooth, cold rubber. It didn’t help rid him of his distress in any way.

He knew that what he needed was Tony. But Tony wasn’t there.

Peter had heard of sub-drop, but he’d never felt it firsthand before. Obviously.

And even going into the scene, he hadn’t thought it was something he needed to worry about. It surely hadn’t crossed his mind while everything was taking place. Tony was gentle, perfect and sweet to him, even as he pushed his limits. Drops only happened to people with uncaring doms, right? And...it wasn’t like any of that had actually happened, so surely there was no reason for him to experience any after effects?

Wrong.

Peter was left alone to fall, just waiting until he finally felt connected to his own body again. Being grounded again took what felt like forever. But at least it happened eventually.

He felt sick. His skin was crawling and it all felt wrong. Like he had been taken apart and then put back together again, but the pieces had been jammed together, put back incorrectly. Puzzle pieces forced to fit.

All he wanted was to be held, to feel safe and protected. But there was no one there to hold him.

He was alone. He was always alone.

When he realized that, he truly started to cry in earnest. His eyes stung as more tears built up and spilled, falling in quick succession when he squeezed his eyes shut. A sob shook his frame and he pulled his knees up to his chest before wrapping his arms around them in an attempt to make himself as small as possible.

He was convinced that he’d never felt as empty as he did in that moment. Any pain from before was forgotten, incomparable to the sadness that was suddenly overwhelming him.

Tony left him alone.

Again.

Peter knew that it was too good to be true. He knew that he would never really have Tony, that Tony couldn’t protect him. Not in the way that he needed to be protected. He was stupid to think that he would be allowed to have something good, even in his own mind.

He never got to keep the good things.

But despite how much he was hurting, and the fact that he could feel the whole thing falling apart right beneath his fingers, he knew that his life with Tony was the only thing keeping him together. It was the only good thing he had left, the only chance he had at feeling even the most fleeting moments of happiness.

He had nothing without Tony, he knew that.

So, wiping the tears from his face, Peter sniffled, reaching for the glasses. He bit his bottom lip to stop it trembling and took a shaky breath.

He needed comfort from Tony, and if he had to get it himself, then that’s what he would do.

Because he was in control.

***

Pausing in the doorway of their bedroom, Peter took a moment to simply look at his husband.

Tony was stretched out on the bed, leaning back on what was an absolutely absurd amount of pillows and fiddling with some sort of schematic hologram that was being projected from the tablet in his lap. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, and there was a wrinkle between his eyebrows. His eyes were narrowed slightly, one of his hands was cupping his chin.

Peter recognized it as his concentrating face. He’d always found the expression ridiculously endearing, and now was no exception. He could feel some of the resentment he’d been harboring begin to melt away.

The engineer didn’t seem to notice the younger man’s presence, continuing to manipulate the projection, fingers splaying out in various gestures as he tried to work out the problem.

Peter cleared his throat softly and shot a gentle smile in Tony’s direction when he finally looked up. “Um. Hi, Tony.” The fingers on his right hand fidgeted with his wedding band.

“Hey baby,” Tony sighed, giving Peter his own tired grin. His eyes flickered down to the younger’s hands, then back up to his face. “What’s up?” He began to close out of whatever he was working on, eyes shifting between the holograms he was moving and Peter’s face as he waited for him to respond.

Cocking his head to the side, the brunette slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I, uh, was thinking maybe we could go for a walk?” It came out like a question, even though he had intended for it to be more of a statement. “Wanna get out of the house for a bit, get some fresh air. Wha’d’you think?”

“I think that sounds great, Pete. I could use a break from this anyway,” Tony said, finishing up. He took a minute to roll his shoulders, groaning as he did. “God, I’m getting old,” he muttered under his breath as he pushed himself up off the mattress so that he could walk over to his partner. When he reached Peter, he leaned against him for a moment, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Let me grab some sunglasses and shoes and I’ll meet you by the elevator, okay?”

Once they were down on the street in front of the tower, Tony had suggested that they walk a few blocks to the park, maybe grab something to eat on the way back home. When Peter had agreed, they set off down the sidewalk, making small talk and just enjoying each other’s company.

It seemed that everyone had the same idea as them, families and joggers and couples populating the large open area when they arrived.

Tony reached over to grab Peter’s hand, lacing their fingers together as they continued walking through the crowded park.

Peter glanced down. He thought about pulling away from the touch, not really sure if he wanted Tony holding his hand. He was still pretty upset from the drop. He was feeling much better, hence them taking a walk together in the first place, but he hadn’t forgotten how he’d had to figure things out all on his own. Far from it.

Sure, it wasn’t exactly Tony’s fault that the sudden endorphin drop had caused the illusion to glitch, but he was still upset. He had been left alone and miserable.

He didn’t pull his hand away, though. But he kept thinking about it.

Tony did nothing to suggest that he noticed anything was wrong. He was unaware of Peter’s thoughts, of course, but he didn’t seem to notice the teen’s hesitation regarding the contact either. Which was probably a good thing, honestly. Peter didn’t like confrontation and he wouldn’t know what to do if the older man brought attention to his behavior.

But it also kind of bothered him that Tony wasn’t paying attention. Which was stupid and probably untrue, but his brain wouldn’t let go of it.

In a moment of fleeting irritation, Peter did pull his hand away sharply and tucked it into his pocket. Maybe now his husband would finally realize that he did something wrong.

Because he had. Right?

The older man looked at him, blinking slowly in his confusion. “Peter?”

“Yes?” His tone was a little snappy, which he hadn’t necessarily intended. He needed to try and relax again. But it felt like he was wound too tightly, a rubber band whose elasticity was about to be pushed past its limit.

He didn’t know what would happen when the tension finally snapped.

He could see Tony watching him out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look at him again. He kept his eyes forward as they walked.

“Talk to me,” Tony encouraged, trying to reach for his hand again. When Peter didn’t pull away or react negatively, he laced his fingers with the teen’s. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. He knew that he couldn’t explain it. There wasn’t a way to tell Tony about the drop without explaining the illusion. And obviously that wasn’t going to happen.

But what else could he say?

“I just feel kind of off. I don’t really know how to explain it.” Not technically incorrect. But he knew that it wasn't really the answer that his husband was looking for.

Tony’s eyes were burning holes into the side of his face. “I’m sorry for that, honey. And that’s completely okay, everybody has off days, but I just… But did I do something? Because it kinda seems like I did….”

Peter finally glanced over at him, expression softening at the look on Tony’s face. He’d taken off his sunglasses and seemed sincerely apologetic, despite not having a clue what he had done. And he looked worried, too. Worried about him. “I...it’s okay, Tony. It’s- You didn’t do anything.” Lie. “I’ll be fine. Just feeling weird today, like I said.”

“Okay….” Tony sighed softly, nodding. His fingers squeezed Peter’s hand lightly. He let his eyes rove over his husband’s face for a moment, looking like he had something else to say, the words poised on the tip of his tongue. But all he did was quirk the side of his mouth up in the slightest hint of a smile, though Peter could tell it wasn’t quite a real one, staying silent as they kept walking.

Peter was quiet too, keeping his eyes trained on the sidewalk as they made their way through the park. He knew that it wasn’t Tony’s fault that he hadn’t been there to take care of him. That was just the reality of their situation; they couldn’t be together all the time. But the teen couldn’t get past the fact that he just hadn’t been there to help at all, no matter whose fault it was. It stirred something deep down inside of Peter, something hurt and upset and desperate. Something he hadn’t really known was there before.

It was a feeling that he wished he could just force down, back to wherever it came from. Ignore it until it dissipated.

But he kept coming back to the complete hopelessness that he’d felt as he sat on the floor of the compound.

Exhausted, dirty, and disconnected. With no one there to help him get better. Abandoned. It felt like he would never feel happiness again. Desolate.

And on purpose or not, it was all Tony’s fault.

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on?”

Peter felt irritation flash hot through his veins. “What are you talking about, Tony? I just told you that it’s nothing, just a bad day. Just drop it.”

“I- That’s not what I mean, Peter, I’m sorry. It’s just that…” Tony squeezed his hand gently, taking a deep breath as he tried to search for the right words. “Well...I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been feeling weird too, kind of off? I realized that I don’t...remember much.” And the last thing that he could remember from before he and Peter got together wasn’t exactly something he wanted to dwell on.

The older man paused for a moment before speaking again. “I tried to ignore it because everything else felt...good. Perfect, even.” He gave his husband a small smile. His eyes betrayed him though, revealing his confusion and anxiety. “But then the thing that happened with your aunt…,” he trailed off. “Something’s happening and I can’t just pretend it’s all okay. Not anymore. Peter, what’s going on?”

Peter just looked at him, heart pounding. There was no way this was happening. Tony shouldn’t have remembered anything about what happened with May. He’d made sure of it... Hadn’t he? “What? Nothing is going on, Tony. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He just needed to try and manipulate the situation slightly, to ensure that this time Tony forgot all about the disaster with May.

Tony frowned at the panicked look that was overtaking Peter’s face, wanting answers but worried about causing his husband any distress, knowing that he was already feeling vulnerable. “Peter, I need you to tell me. Who...what am I, baby?”

Peter heard the words, but they didn’t register immediately. He just watched Tony, the way his mouth moved and how his expression went slightly...sad? Yes, he definitely looked sad.

But then his brain processed what the other man had said and it hit him.

Tony knew. He really knew.

How did he know?

“What?” Peter froze, pulling his hand away again as he slowly took a few steps back from Tony. Was that his voice? It sounded far-away, like he was disconnected from his body again. No, no, he wasn’t going to let that happen. He never wanted to feel like that ever again. He just had to focus and fix the situation. That’s all it was, just a small fix.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus long enough to make the small adjustment to the illusion. But he kept getting distracted by the distant feeling, and the reminder of his anger from before. It wasn’t working. He huffed out of frustration, dread prickling under his skin. Why wasn’t it working? “Tony, I don’t-“

“Please, Peter,” Tony said gently. His eyes flickered down to Peter’s hand that was now hanging limply by his side. He softly shook his head, looking back up at the teen. “I just want to know the truth, whatever it is. It’ll be-”

The rubber band snapped.

“Don’t you dare tell me it will be okay or fine or whatever the hell it is you're about to say!” Peter was all but yelling, unable to keep the bitterness and pain out of his voice. He stopped walking completely, turning to face the older man. His eyes were wild as he glared up at Tony before looking away as he continued to speak. “You have no fucking right to say that Tony, you have no idea how I feel! You don’t know what it’s like to try so hard and always end up so fucking alo-”

There was a loud sound, almost a pop, that caused his eyes to open again from surprise, having closed them as he blinked back tears of frustration. His head whipped around to see if the older man knew what was happening, concern overpowering his anger, when the words died in his throat.

Red. All Peter could see was deep, dark red, spreading across the fabric of Tony’s white t- shirt. And the shocked look on his husband's face, his eyes wide with disbelief as he moved a hand to feel the spot, just underneath his heart. Right under where the arc reactor used to be.

Tony had gotten shot.

But what? No. No, no, that wasn’t right. Tony couldn’t get hurt. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt. Peter was only trying to correct the things he had somehow overlooked, get rid of the memories the older man wasn’t supposed to have, not-

“Peter?” Tony’s voice was a mumble as he touched his fingers to his chest, pulling away with red stained tips.

“Tony,” the teen choked out, tears stinging in his eyes again. How the fuck had that happened? He didn’t- He hadn’t meant to do anything like that, Tony wasn’t supposed to get hurt. He couldn’t-

He couldn’t leave Peter again.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, the first tears falling. Peter pressed his hands to the wound on his husband’s chest in a weak attempt to rectify the situation. He shifted his body, easily supporting most of Tony’s weight as the man’s legs started to give out. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do this. You’ve gotta believe me, Tony, I- I didn’t- I swear I didn’t mean to-”

Tony’s face was pale as he leaned his head on Peter’s shoulder, taking a shuddering breath. The sound terrified the younger man. “You didn’t...Peter, you didn’t do this.”

Peter shook his head quickly, choking back a pained cry. He didn’t want to believe that had done it. But there was no other explanation, how else would it happen? He was the only one with control in the illusion, despite the way he ‘let’ Tony be in charge during their scene the other day.

(Although that fact was seeming more and more questionable as time went on.)

He pushed Tony’s shirt up with a trembling hand after wiping his own eyes, looking blearily at the wound. It went clear through, back to front.

“Fuck, Tony,” he breathed, ignoring the blood that was dripping over his fingers. The sensation barely registered. He just needed Tony to be okay.

Maybe if he focused he could actually fix it. It had to work, there was no other option. He just... needed to focus without getting upset again. Because clearly that had only made things worse.

So much worse.

He tried to narrow his attention again, one hand pressed lightly over the injury and the other helping to support Tony as he closed his eyes. He was in control. He could make Tony better again.

Peter felt Tony’s hands cover his own and he opened his eyes, lashes still wet with tears that fought to spill over.

“I’ll be okay, baby,” the older man said quietly. He blinked slowly at Peter, trying to convey with his eyes that his trust in his husband was as strong as ever. “I know you’ll make sure I’m okay. You won’t let anything happen to me.” Maybe he didn’t know what exactly was going on, but Peter was obviously playing some sort of role in the things that were happening. He just wasn’t sure what. And trying to find out clearly hadn’t done him any good. “Let’s go home.” His voice trembled despite how he tried to sound calm.

Peter looked at him, breathing hard as he looked around. The park and the people around them carried on as if the past few minutes never happened, oblivious to the situation and his distress. Which he guessed was a good thing. Maybe. The contrast was jarring, regardless. “Home...yeah, let’s...go. We should go home.” He could keep trying to manipulate things on the way so that Tony would be okay and...maybe he’d actually get him to him to forget about everything that had happened on their walk.

He clung close to Tony, and he knew that he wouldn’t have been willing to let go of him even if he hadn’t needed to help him walk. He couldn’t. He had to make sure that his husband would be okay, and touching him allowed him some assurance that he was for the time being.

The teen regretted how angry and upset he’d been before. What happened hadn’t really been Tony’s fault and he knew that. It was all his. He’d known that the whole fucking time. It was just so easy to be hurt when he was alone and vulnerable like that.

But he wasn’t alone. At least not in Tony’s eyes.

Or… Or maybe he was since Tony was figuri-

No. He couldn’t think about that, thinking about that was only going to make things worse. He had to focus on Tony.

Despite his best efforts, spending the entire walk home watching Tony worriedly, Peter was unable to make any kind of progress in closing the wound in the older man’s chest. Tony’s body got heavier the closer they came to the tower, and by the time they reached the elevator, he was breathing shallowly as Peter supported all of his weight.

Grunting in pain as they stepped out into the foyer of the penthouse, Tony grit his teeth. “We gotta do something about this hole, Pete.” Sweat was rolling in beads down his forehead and back, soaking his already saturated shirt. “Don’t-,” he swallowed roughly, knuckles white as he clenched his fist. “Don’t wanna pass out.”

Peter nodded slowly, his reaction time slowed with his stress over the situation. Tony’s words made his heart go into overdrive again, because fuck. That was a fucking possibility, wasn’t it? Tony could lose consciousness- He could actually bleed out, even, despite the wound not being immediately fatal. Peter felt sick. “You need to stay awake,” he agreed quietly, voice shaking, unable to say the other words out loud.

If he remembered one thing from his own mishaps, it was that staying awake was vital with an injury. Especially such a serious one. Life-threatening. But he really didn’t want to think about it that way.

(Didn’t want to think about the way he’d felt cold as his eyes slipped shut on the dark train, body screaming with every breath, every pump of his heart, sure that he was dying. Sure that he’d get to be with Tony again-)

What was he supposed to do? Hell, what could he do? He clearly couldn’t get the wound closed by trying to mentally control the situation. (But why? Why was nothing working? The illusion was still up and running, so he obviously was still directing it.) So he needed to take another approach.

He wasn’t the best at doing stitches, only using them when he absolutely had to, on the wounds that he knew would take too long to heal, the ones that would catch May’s attention, but maybe that would have to do. He morbidly thought that at least he wouldn’t be the one feeling the pain this time. It probably wasn’t even the ideal response to the situation. Actual medical professionals would likely have other, more effective methods of intervention. Tony had a hole straight through his body. Peter didn’t care. It would have to do. He’d try just about anything to make Tony stop bleeding, at this point.

He silently guided Tony to their room, still supporting most of his weight as they walked. He was tempted to just hold the man in his arms, as it would certainly allow them to reach their destination faster, but he didn’t want to cause Tony any further discomfort by jostling him any more than what was necessary.

Once they were in the bedroom, he helped Tony sit down on the bed. Then once the older man seemed (relatively) comfortable, Peter reluctantly pulled away. Only to find a suture kit, but he still felt guilty.

The whole fucked up situation started because he felt alone, now he was leaving Tony alone when he needed Peter the most. Even if it was only for a couple of minutes.

Peter didn’t have to search for a kit long. Once he was able to focus, he made sure there would be one in the next drawer that he opened. Because of course there was, of course it worked. All he had to do was think of it, conjure it into existence.

Sure, he could make the equipment he needed appear on a mere whim, but he couldn’t save Tony from his own fuck up that he’d caused in the same way.

That was just fucking perfect.

He tried not to break the faucet as he turned the water on, frustration bleeding into anger.

As soon as he had the kit in his now clean hands, he rushed back to Tony’s side.

“How are you feeling now, baby?” Peter asked weakly, all of the fight that had built up in him in the bathroom disappearing at the sight of the older man. He didn’t know what he was hoping for. Maybe the wound had miraculously healed. A delayed reaction from what he’d tried earlier, or even just responding to his desperation. Anything.

Tony just gave him a pained expression, face somehow paler than it had been before. Not exactly promising. His eyes were glassy as he blinked up at Peter, mouth twitching when he grit his teeth.

“Okay...well, I found the first aid kit. So I can try to...try to fix this, okay?” Peter’s voice shook slightly despite his attempt to steady it. Even though he knew he was mostly talking to himself, he didn’t want Tony to know how afraid he was.

As if the panicked set of his eyes and the frantic way his once again blood-stained hands were jerking around trying to find something to do weren’t giving him away. He ripped Tony’s t-shirt in half, exposing his chest as he tried his best to wipe away the excess blood with some cloths he’d brought from the bathroom.

There was no real response from Tony, just a vague imitation of a nod and a grunt from the pain he was in.

Maybe… Maybe he could at least try and take away some of the pain first.

“Tony,” Peter said softly, lips trembling as he leaned down to press a kiss to his sweaty temple. “It’s gonna be okay.” He took a shaky breath, letting his eyes slip shut as he stayed in that position, curled around Tony’s body. He thought about the way he’d felt after those extra strength painkillers he’d received after his fight with Liz’s dad. The warm, thick, fuzzy feeling.

After a moment he opened his eyes again and sat up, gingerly pressing his fingers to the skin just to the side of the wound. “Can you,” he swallowed. “Can you f-feel that Tony?”

The older man groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes,” he bit out. “Of course I can feel that.” He took a labored breath. “Fuck, Pete, it hurts.” His voice was a whimper, or at least the closest thing to one the younger man had ever heard come from him.

Peter’s heart lurched in his chest and he immediately pulled his fingers away. Fuck, fuck, so he was going to have to do this without any kind of relief for Tony. “O-okay, okay,” he said unsteadily, mostly in an attempt to calm himself. He could do this.

He opened the kit that was beside them on the bed and pulled out a bottle of sterile water (there was alcohol too, but Peter knew that it would do more harm than good on such a deep wound) and a smaller kit with everything needed for suturing: suture thread, a needle driver, a couple different curved needles, and some scissors. There were forceps too, but he’d never had the patience for using them.

“This is, uh, this is probably gonna sting a bit, T, I’m sorry,” Peter whispered, looking up at Tony’s face as he uncapped the plastic bottle. “I’ll try to be quick, I p-promise.” All he got in response was another nod that was simultaneously jerky and sluggish. God, he was so out of it, and this was going to hurt so bad, Peter knew it. “Here, wait,” the teen rushed out after a moment, yanking his shirt off. “Open your mouth.”

Tony complied, making soft noises of discomfort as Peter placed some of the fabric in his mouth.

“Bite down on that, okay?” Taking a breath, Peter began to pour the clear liquid into the wound. He let out a pained cry of his own as Tony immediately began whimpering, the veins in his neck and head bulging as he pushed back against the pillows, teeth clenched around the bunched up t-shirt. “It’s okay,” Peter sobbed out, putting down the bottle and narrowly resisting the urge to run his hand through Tony’s sweat-soaked hair. He had to keep his hands as clean as possible. “It’s okay, Tony, I’m gonna fix it. I- I love you, I’m so sorry.”

Once he was satisfied that he wasn’t going to trap any bacteria inside Tony’s body, and Tony’s wails had quieted down to soft whines, Peter opened up the package of needles. He grabbed one that looked to be about the right size and threaded it with the suture line before securing it in the grip of the needle-driver. “Ok-kay Tony, here we go.”

His left hand manipulated the torn skin into the correct position while his right pushed the tip of the curved needle through. Peter gagged at the resistance he could feel, pausing and squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to breathe through the nausea. He had to do this, for Tony.

Peter placed a few interrupted sutures in the front of Tony’s chest, letting out a shaky sigh when the last was secured and the surface of the small wound was closed. He knew that the only reason Tony hadn’t yelled his throat raw was because his brain wasn’t processing the pain anymore. “You did so good, Tony,” he breathed as he blinked over at the man who was shuddering with his own labored breaths before looking down at his bloodied hands.

Sitting the tools down on the sterile pad he’d laid out, the young man’s hands moved to clutch at his husband. “Baby,” he said gently, voice calm now that he had fallen into the rhythm of his actions, satisfied now that he knew that he had a way to take care of Tony. A way to help him. He could take care of Tony the way he’d wanted Tony to take care of him. “I’m gonna roll you over now, okay? I need to stitch up the e-exit wound now, on your back. You’re doing so good, it’s all gonna be alright, T.”

After placing two stitches in the skin of Tony’s back, Peter took the kit back to the bathroom. He came back with a few warm, wet washcloths that he used to wipe the blood from his husband’s body.

Tony let out a soft whimper at the touch, his features crumpling in discomfort. “Pete,” he breathed, blinking wetly.

“I know,” Peter murmured softly. “But it’s all done now, you’re gonna be okay.” He went about settling the older man properly in the bed, stripping him of his jeans and pulling the sheet up over his legs and abdomen.

The blood-soaked comforter turned operating table had been pushed to the floor along with Tony’s shredded shirt, another blanket having been dragged out of the linen closet to be draped on top of the wounded man.

Peter sat down on the bed gently, right at Tony’s side. He wasn’t going anywhere else, this was where he needed to be. He had to take care of Tony. He wasn’t going to leave him alone.

One hand held onto his husband’s, the other finally moving to gently stroke through the older man’s hair. He knew that always tended to relax Tony when he was stressed.

Tony’s eyes slowly opened up to look at him, a slight smile tugging at his lips. Well, as much of one as he could manage. “Hey, baby...” He closed his eyes again. “Should’a been a doctor, Pete,” he sighed.

Peter tried to give him a smile back, but it was just as weak as the older man’s. The adrenaline that had allowed him to focus and successfully tend to Tony’s wounds was seeping out of him, leaving him feeling drained and overwhelmed once more. “Hey, Tony. How are you feeling?” There was a pit in his stomach as he waited for an answer. He was worried that Tony would hate him once his head was finally clear from the pain. He couldn’t lose Tony here too, he couldn’t-

Tony being alive but wanting nothing to do with him would be even worse than the man dying again.

As he started panicking, Peter completely missed Tony’s answer. He was lost in his own thoughts as he spiraled further and further into the chaos in his mind.

Tony’s hand lightly squeezing his brought him back to the present, grounding him. The older man always knew just what he needed. “Peter? You okay, honey?”

“What? I’m- yeah, I’m fine.” A huge lie. But he didn’t need Tony to worry about him. All his husband needed to worry about was healing and getting better. “How are you feeling?” He repeated his question.

“I already answered that.” Tony laughed weakly, making a face when his chest throbbed at the action. “You keep spacing out on me, baby. I’m feeling alright, not too bad. It takes a lot to get me down.”

That was definitely true on some level, at least. It seemed like Tony would keep fighting no matter what. The reactor, the palladium poisoning Rhodey had told him about, the...the stones. It was both endearing to Peter, the way the man persevered despite the damage done to his body, and completely terrifying. Although he’d thought he wouldn’t have to worry about the terrifying part here in the illusion.

But Tony got hurt anyway.

The older man shook Peter out of his thoughts once again when he started speaking. He was frowning softly, and Peter could tell that it was half playful and half genuine concern. “Why are you just sitting there? Come here. If you’re banishing me to be in bed, you can at least lay here with me.”

Peter slowly nodded, moving to lay down next to the other man. He remained on top of the covers to be sure he stayed clear of Tony’s injury, not wanting to hurt him, but still cuddling up to him as best he could. He couldn’t stay away. The mere thought of being away from Tony made the panic in his chest rear its head again.

And the regret. The guilt.

He’d fucked up. He knew he did. Everything that had happened was all his fault.

But he could fix it. And it would actually work this time. He was in control of his actions, he could handle some of the issues directly. He’d care for Tony while he healed, try to figure out what the disconnect was with his influence on the illusion, and make him forget all about this horrible situation. And he’d be sure to take away memories of the confrontation from May that set the entire thing into motion

Peter knew that he could fix everything. It had to be possible. He still had control over the situation, and Tony was going to be absolutely fine after some TLC.

He just needed to do some more patching on EDITH’s neural pathways within the STARKER program.

That would surely take care of things.

#starker #peter parker #tony stark #tony x peter #tony stark x peter parker #B&B write #SbPBP #Peter’s EDITH!verse #starker angst #angst #gun tw #hurt/comfort #or no comfort #but still lol #tw medical #tw stitches

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beyondtheciouds · 3 years

Text

30. Part 2 of 3

"I'm not going anywhere."

Once upon a time there was disengaged and distressed damsel who was supposed to lean out of a tower, praying for a perfect escape. The mission; written on paper was simpler to read between the twisted lines of prose. A famous plot for such a tale of fairies. Instead of damseling distress, our amoured princess found herself outside a cryptic tower.

The roles reversed revealed she was searching six degrees of separated spiritual awareness for her soulmate. The girl, a strange one, indeed was traditionally quite beautiful and kind. Her fairytale qualities had made her a lit match for the handsome prince on many a destitute and dark day.

Her face; oval and cherub cheeked was sweet with everlasting sandstorm curls. Those curls bounced as the heavy axe swung around and around; slicing the prickles of thorns one by one. The last cherry kissed breaths of innocence tortured her heart as blues focused relentlessly on cutting down the evergreen thorns. She was stoical in her approach.

An emotionless blackbird; sure as her name, a stain on the glassy reflection of the burning brilliance of the sky. Light was less than an hour away and she hacked and hacked at the briars until she was untangled. Her hands stung and her muscles burned, and still she pressed onwards.

A church clock chimed five in the distance and the ghost of her remained locked in the moment, steadily tearing and threading thorns. Swollen rose petals were chanting the ancient Latin refrain quietly into the air.

Redi a fluctuationem iusto.

The sky; omnious with luminous shades of yellow and gold; red and orange burned back the black, dark desires as the tower became a pillar in her vision. As if an answer, the clouds opened, spilling tears of regret. Soaked with tears of the angel, our princess's present priorities became irrelevant. The spirits sang their misery to her; cried out the crimson spilling from her palms like a psalm.

The Blackthorns buried secrets twisted her heart; enemy snakes secondary to their belated blasphemy.

Gold simply found a new hollow; a place to call home on the pale throat of the girl's prisoned prince.

The locket was calling for her to come home.

Jesse was calling for her.

Entombed; the ghost boy was an uncurible romantic that had the bad luck of having been written on a path of disillusionment and degradation. His love for the princess had lasted longer than the stars knew. Longer than the moon felt. The heavens aligned with the planets in perfection and harmony the day he first met her in the forest.

Resurrection was his destiny.

Death had been his fate.

But, clinging to the here and now had cost the prince dearly. He knew there were decisions and deceit that clung to his soul, dragging behind him an eternal chain of thorns.

Jesse could hear her heart thumping like the beat of a drum through the crumbling ways of the castle tower. The sweet sound beckoned him like children and church bells.

Our prince, unbeknownst to either had a sinister purpose for staying in the inbetween; he had been a human sacrifice to his mother's insanity. The damning death of his father and the decaying dynasty that his mother had traded her solitary sanity to the devil for became his purpose the day he burned with fever.

Jesse Blackthorn had been meant for the destruction of herons; those desirablely efficient and elegant family of fledgling that had cost his mother everything.

Reader; a private reminder in reference to Romeo andJuliet; lovers starcrossed; mismatched by name. The stage had been set for the unsuspecting crossings of this far fetched fairytale.

My only love sprung from my only hate!

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Prodigious birth of love it is to me,

That I must love a loathed enemy.

Fast forward.

The forest was quiet; cold and unkind. Lucie stood in silence; listening to the dirt bend. If she listened hard enough, she could calmly calibrate the change in the atmosphere. Animals were no longer woodland friends; insects had become nusom foes with yellow eyes. The wind had stilled as if anticipation ran through the bones of the trees to the roots of the Earth. Glass jars of fireflies lit up the circle in a vibrant, blinking outline.

Bright eyes were watching beneath the brush; curious and meddlesome. The energy was in the simplest of shadows, perched as birds on the crooked branches.

Bare.

That was how Lucie felt as the shadows hung over. Jesse wasn't sure if this would work, she had known he had reservations from the start. The plan had been borderline absurd. It had taken alot to convince him out of the castle and into the clearing.

Watching. Waiting. Wanting. The spirits were impatient and impacted the atmosphere.

Judging her heart. Everyone was judging her heart.

Lucie became her worst fate; an open book for the world to read. A sigh of sorts escaped and to think the small silver lining was a lifetime away. She felt the chill of death clutch her fingers; a distracting touch more dangerous and damaged that neither ghost nor girl could imagine. Manifesting, a visible hand held onto flesh and bone, bonding.

It is alright, Lucie. Everything will be alright.

Chills deepened the thrills; our heroine's heavy heart kissing and telling even as her lips were unable to contain the forbidden phrase. She continued to repeat the latin over and over in rebellious hope.

Although she was temporarily trapped, she could undoubtedly feel the weight of contempt on her brother's face as his eyes roamed her face. Gold flared at her like a moody afternoon sun and she felt a cold calm growing inside. There was nothing more to say to convince him of the convenience of the spell.

Choosing; she could illuminate the ghosts if she wanted to provide her brother with a better understanding. Their voices grew curious and unsatisfied like a impatient hunger. They wanted to see.

She knew James's soul as sure as the hairs on her arms stood in a field of goosebumps. He would see. He would see.

Lucie nodded to Jesse, absolute and eager as a sliver of the moon drifted in slow motion to the soil. "Are you ready?"

His chest pulled in like he was practicing taking a deep breath. "Yes."

The seven sins stood behind the lit circle; invisible and evolving shapes like ships in the night. Demons summoned by the blue and gold eyes of the Herondales were restricted and restless. They were Belial's witnesses in waiting. Proof that the magic was real.

The friends nervously stood in the circle, kicking the dirt. They were very much unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.

Lucie watched as Grace painstakingly drew the last pentagram in the dirt a few feet away with a burnt stick from the Fairchild's fireplace.

A nudge; a bump of her hip and her best friend was standing beside her.

Cordelia's presence gave Lucie so much hope. James had awoken her out of a deep sleep and convinced her to come. Lucie didn't know what James had told her, but Cordelia looked ready for a fight. She was dressed in gear as the others were; Christopher, Alastair, and James. Cortana glistened in the fireflies light on Cordelia's hip; the blade the length of her leg. Her blood-red braid swung around as she shifted the sword onto her back. She stood rigidly to the right of James, hands splayed. Clearly she was uncomfortable as her dark eyes settled on Grace.

Lucie was still greatful. She smiled sweetly in the dark, her eyes dazed.

Thomas shivered, watching Alastair with wide, bloodshot eyes. His lingering smile held to ill effects of alcohol and Lucie hoped he wasn't turning into Matthew.

The worried look on Alastair's face said he hoped the same.

"Luce, are we starting?" James asked impatiently, dissolving the silence like sugar.

The sky became eerily dark; not a bird fluttered in trees. The sun was hidden behind the hills and Lucie couldn't shake the awful feeling that unequally washed over her. "Yes."

Silence; silence hung suspicious in the air between Jesse and Lucie. She was holding back her tears as his pine green eyes turned to her. A blanket covered scream wrapped around Lucie, pulling tighter than a corset. It was now or never...

There was too much say and not enough time to speak. Lucie froze.

Grace opened the book and shuffled through a few pages. Her gray eyes scanned the aged passages; a finger sliding down and along as she mumbled at certain paragraphs. "Ah, here we are. Et mortui sunt vivi: Resurrectio."

Blue eyes blinked sinsterly in the depth of shadows among the yellow eyed foes. A hideous grin formed; broken, crooked teeth glowing gold in the pit of darkness. Some of the sins gathered together; around the skeletal smile. In their black hooded robes they were indistinguishable from the shadows.

Pink bloosomed like a rose on Lucie's face as she heard the snake calling her name. Jesse quietly let of her hand and tipped his chin up to the sky. He made his way to the center of the ceremony; transparent and translucent as the moon completely disappeared behind the trees.

Jesse was ready to be alive.

Grace was unusually skittish as she clutched the book, shoving it closed back under her arm. She kept looking at Christopher as she rejoined the circle. It was as though he held the key to something far greater than this resurrection.

Grace's butterfly lashes fluttered, but those solid stone eyes were empty; devoid of the previous day's flirtation. "Did you bring Compound X?"

Christopher nodded and proceeded to pull a covered tube out of his boot. It was the same flashy, purple liquid from before. "Yes."

Thomas eyed the tube skeptically. "Are we sure about this?"

"No--" Cordelia started but was cut off by Grace's cold voice.

"But we're doing it anyway." Grace said, opening the book again. "Let's begin."

***

Will Herondale was getting far too old to be challenging princes of Hell. He stepped forward, out from behind the glass wall with his hands grapling for a weapon among the metals. "Let Tessa go, Belial."

Belial grinned broadly at Will, the subsequent approval apparent in his silver eyes. "Or what, Herondale?"

"I will....I will..."

Tessa struggled in Tatiana's grip; her arms pinned behind her back. Her long, brown hair was loose and whipping as she moved. "HE'LL KILL YOU."

Belial smiled wickedly, "Oh, it is so lovely you haven't lost your fire dearest."

Will Herondale was in the worst shape of his life. He wasn't about to attempt an attack on the Prince of Hell, but if it just happened that was another story.

#cassandra clare #the last hours #lucie herondale #the shadowhunter chronicles

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wolf-zer0 · 3 years

Text

whisper and thorn

cross-posted to ao3: whisper and thorn

He doesn’t have a name. At least, not one he could remember. He tried, sometimes, to shift through memories. Tried to grasp something, anything, that wasn’t static. That wasn’t painful. Nothing sticks. Nothing stays.

Nothing but the forest.

He doesn’t have a name, but he does have the forest. It is always moving, always changing, always living. He feels the forest under his skin, thrumming through his veins. He feels every fallen tree, every shift in the earth, every thing that enters and exists.

He doesn’t have a home, not like he sees others have. Instead of four walls of stone and wood, he has towering mountains and trees. Instead of a roof, he has the vast canopy of green leaves. He likes green. The torn and tattered remains of fabric stretched across thin shoulders are green. Green is home.

He doesn’t have a family. He may have. Once. But not anymore. The first thing he can remember is the shell of a house, empty and smoldering. There wasn’t anyone else there. He was alone. He is alone. But he’s not. He has the forest.

The forest sings to him. He hears crescendo of berries and fruits as they ripen to sweet perfection. He hears the bubbling rush of fresh water tumbling from high atop the mountain. He hears the dim percussion, the heart of the earth itself beneath his bare feet, matching the rhythm of the beat in his chest.

He hears the dissonant pounding of footsteps. Crouched on a log, fingertips fiddling with the decaying bark, his head tilts in the direction he hears it from.

There’s a child running through the trees, laughter ringing through the clear summer air.

He’s seen children before. He thinks he is a child. But don’t children have families? Homes? He doesn’t, so he’s not sure. He stares at the newcomer, confused. Where did he come from?

The newcomer stops, back towards him. He turns.

And looks right at him.

For a moment, the forest is silent. There’s no music, no movement, nothing. Just a single note, high and unwavering, like the dark brown eyes of this new boy.

There’s something scratching at the back of his head, trying to tell him something, but he doesn’t listen.

The note breaks. He runs. He thinks the boy shouts at him, but he doesn’t care to listen. He doesn’t want to listen. He just wants the forest.

He doesn’t mean to see the boy again. In fact, he makes it his goal not to see him again. His ears are strained at all times, listening for any change, any shift in the life of the forest. A sudden call of birds. The rustling of grass. Anything. It works. Until it doesn’t.

He should have remembered the traps. The angry metallic hum pierces the chaotic calm of the forest. But he’s so focused on listening for the boy, he misses the sound of the wire and metal as it tightens around his foot.

He falls with a yelp, chin pressing into the earth painfully as his leg is wrenched upward unnaturally. He scrambles to free himself, fingers digging at his ankle, to no avail.

The forest falls away as he is dragged upward. His skin feels too big, empty space left in his bones where movement once was. He can’t feel it. He can’t feel it. Hecan’tfeelithecan’tfeelithecan’tfeelit-

He doesn’t hear the boy this time, though the boy still makes no effort to mask his movements. Panic clouds his vision, clogs his hearing. He catches a faint buzzing just beyond his awareness as a featherlight touch brushes the wire. He jerks once. His breath catches and tears build as the metal tightens. The buzzing remains, oddly comforting in its consistency.

The hold on his ankle releases, and he tumbles to the dirt in a heap. His chest is heaving, barely able to breathe, and tears cover his face. His eyes blur and all he can see is color. Green, green, green, green —

Brown. He only sees brown. Brown that morphs into dark hair, leaves and twigs caught in the mess. Brown that shifts into dark eyes, warm with concern and care. Brown that solidifies into the boy. The boy who he was afraid of— was saved by.

The boy’s mouth moves, noises spilling from his mouth like the waterfall’s he used to sleep near. It makes no sense to him, and yet it does. He knows it the same way he knows the forest. The humming beneath his skin grows where the boy is touching him, where the boy is wrapping a clean white cloth around his bloody ankle. The boy pulls him up quickly, ducking under his shoulder to support him when he nearly collapses. He lets the boy. He doesn’t know why.

The boy leads him to a house, a cozy looking stack of stones and woods that only feels empty and lifeless to him. The stone is dead. The wood is dead. The lack of life scares him. He refuses to enter, refuses to be cut off from the forest, not again. The boy says something again, tries to pull him closer. He resists. He can’t lose it, he can’t. Something shifts in the boy’s eyes and he huffs, chest vibrating against his side, and pulls him higher up on his shoulder.

The boy leads him to a cluster of trees, grown together in a way that makes a small, dry hollow. He curls up after the boy lowers him down gently. His ankle throbs painfully and he tries to fight back the flinch. He fails. The boy says something quickly before dashing away.

He feels cold. He feels empty. But the forest is still there. The thrumming is still there. Why is he empty?

Why?

The boy comes back, a strange looking bundle stuffed in his arms. The cold ebbs. The emptiness fades. His head feels light. It feels right. Safe.

Whole.

He floats in the space between sleeping and waking, hyperaware yet distant from the boy. There’s chatter that drifts in front of his face that he doesn’t quite understand and doesn’t try to grasp at. His ankle stings, then doesn’t. The boy speaks, then doesn’t.

He’s awake, then isn’t.

The boy doesn’t leave him alone. He’s always somewhere behind him, talking and laughing and not making any sense. He doesn’t acknowledge his presence, even as he stomps through the underbrush and crushes the flowers below his heels. He thinks he glares, once, after the boy snaps a branch of a nearby tree and he feels the pain deep and sharp in his chest. The boy walks more carefully after that.

They boy keeps visiting and visiting and visiting. He’s always moving, always talking, always living. After a while, he wants to understand. He forces the boy to stop and teach him. The boy does.

He doesn’t know why, but he starts to trust the boy - Sapnap, the boy squawks one day when he finally starts to learn his language. There’s something in him that won’t let him walk away. He doesn’t know if he even wants to in the first place.

Sapnap doesn’t care about his lack of shoes. (For often than not, he’s barefoot next to him, splashing away in a mud puddle). Sapnap doesn’t mind the way he pulls his ratty hood up, the way he tugs his collar to hide his face. He knows he’s not… normal looking. He remembers way people sneer if he forgets to hide. He knows Sapnap should be the same. But he never is. (He doesn’t even comment). He feels comfortable around him, safe, in almost every way.

Except one.

Sapnap is Sapnap. He is…

He doesn’t know who he is. He’s never had to care before. The forest doesn’t care about names, about self. It lives and grows and dies as a unit. He didn’t care before, when the forest was all he had. But now…

Now he wants to be something. Something more than a child in green, living in green. He wants to be someone.

He doesn’t tell Sapnap. He doesn’t know how to tell him. They continue to meet. (Never near Sapnap’s house, not after his mother screamed and nearly skewered him when he tried to follow Sapnap inside). They meet by the river, by the lightning-split oak, by the rock shaped like a wolf. They meet and he listens and he wants to tell him so badly but he can’t. So he doesn’t.

Until Sapnap asks him. It should be so easy. Three words. I am … something. But he’s not. He has nothing. He tells him as much, throat raw. The thrumming under his skin becomes painful.

Sapnap’s hand on his arm isn’t. It’s warm.

He offers him options, laying them out on the soft, dew-covered grass. He sorts through them, testing them on his tongue, looking to his … friend for guidance.

He picks one, and it feels right as it tumbles from his mouth. Sapnap smiles brightly when he says it to him.

My name is Dream. I’m Dream.

Dream grows, and so does Sapnap. He learns, and so does Sapnap. They learn of the world beyond the forest border. They learn of the great oceans, the vast deserts, the sprawling cities, the sheer number of people. They learn of magic, great and small. No matter what they do, they do it together.

When Sapnap sheepishly hands him a white mask with a crudely drawn smile, he feels the forest around them sing in tune with his heart. He offers a thin strip of white cloth in return, so similar to the one used so long ago, yet so much more valuable than anything he can say with words. And he swears he feels the forest’s voice change, a new, deeper note of gratitude adding to the chorus, when his friend accepts. He thinks something has slotted into place, and he doesn’t want to let it go.

He doesn’t know exactly how everything happened, only that it did.

He’s waiting for Sapnap to show, dozing in a clearing with his back to the earth and face to the sky. He hasn’t seen his friend in days, but he’s fine with waiting. Everything is quiet. Calm. Peaceful. The forest is humming around him.

Then it shrieks.

He bolts upright, calm melting away and replaced by panic and pain.

So much pain.

It tugs at his very core, screaming pain pain danger hurt fire hurry HURRY PAIN.

He doesn’t think. He runs.

The forest opens up in response to his panic. The earth shifts beneath his feet. Roots curl back to avoid catching his ankles. Trees move to open new paths. Birds call in the distance as he nears the spot. He knows this spot. He knows that house.

The house is on fire.

Tall, red and orange flames lick at the leaves above it, and the trees shudder. Patches of once green grass are burned black and brittle. An outline of something he doesn’t want to recognize but does lays in the scorched grass. There’s a crowd of people he doesn’t know, dressed in black and gray, gathered around the burning building. There are weapons in their hands. A small figure stands at the center of the mass, covered in soot and hands lit aflame.

Sapnap’s eyes are smoldering embers, glowing in the afternoon light. He wears a snarl, the beginnings of fangs glinting as he growls lowly. Dream doesn’t breech the tree line, frozen in fear and rage. There’s a dissonant note ringing in the air, familiar and not. A figure swings a blade down, slicing through the dirty band tied around Sapnap’s forehead.

The note continues.

Dream shatters.

He doesn’t remember the earth twisting to cover Sapnap. He doesn’t remember the ring of stone that rises, forming a barricade. He doesn’t remember the thorns that twist between, razor sharp thorns multiplying.

He does remember the feeling of blood puddling turning the dirt beneath his feet to mud. He does remember skulls crushed beneath his fingers. He does remember the snap of bone, the scream of pain, the rush of heat. The thrill of the hunt. Of the kill.

He stands alone, surrounded by what remains of the crowd. The earth releases Sapnap, carefully depositing him next to Dream. They don’t look at each other. Sapnap reaches and clutches at Dream’s hand. Dream doesn’t let go. It starts to rain, droplets hissing on the fire.

They stand, blood-soaked and soot-stained, in the rain. They hold each other tightly. They don’t let go.

Brothers walk into the forest. They never look back.

He doesn’t know how long they spent alone in the forest, but the years pass anyway. Both change, growing into lanky limbs and boundless magic. Dream learns to tighten his reach, to pull the scope of his awareness down to a pinpoint, to lessen the input of noise. The forest still sings, but he is the conductor. Sapnap learns how his flames wax and wane through the seasons, to conserve his heat through the winter and to restrain the inferno in the summer. They spar and clash, chasing one another through the forest with the same childlike glee but sharpened with age and reckless with confidence.

The whispers start late in the autumn. The Year of Challenge had arrived. They heard of the festival held every century to test the might and the will of the king. Whoever emerged victorious could claim crown and throne for themselves.

Dream feels the forest’s song change, once careful and chaotic, to a frenzied and wild drumbeat of war. The thrumming nearly tears skin from bone. It urges him to claim what was rightfully his.

He knows Sapnap feels it too, already familiar with the way their power has entangled and formed an unbreaking web.

They make a promise, curled up in the darkness of the canopy, that no matter which of them succeeds, they would never leave. They were a pair. Inseparable.

The city is alive much like the forest that surrounds it, but in a very, very different way. Dream feels the way the thrumming becomes almost non-existent. He tries not to let the cloud of panic overtake him, not when they’re so close to what they want. What they need.

He doesn’t remember much of the tournament. It rushes around him in a haze of action. He wields his blade like an extension of his arm. He feels each movement of his enemy before it happens. He cuts them down without remorse. He feels entirely at ease. Natural.

And a scream changes everything.

There’s no freezing of time. No moment of recognition. No note hangs in the air. He knows the scream as soon as it sounds.

He charges.

The challenger stands over the broken form of his brother, curved sword dripping with blood. He does not hesitate to cut their head from their shoulders, reveling in the slick slide-thud as it hits the ground. No one else is standing.

The crowd cheers for their new king. He does not care for them. He cares only for one person.

He doesn’t care for tradition, for the pride of the Fair Folk, for the strength of their image. He doesn’t care about the Lords and Ladies of the Courts, the politics of the outside world, the gold and jewels and luxuries that are his by right.

He waits by his brother’s bed, by the only person who he chose and who chose him in return, and does not leave.

Courtiers and chancellors and counselors all try to pry him away. He is king, he is meant to rule. He refuses. He will not rule without him at his side.

It takes weeks of hoping for miracles and praying to gods he’s not sure exist until Sapnap opens his eyes. Dream buries his face into his shoulder and cries. They do not separate for what feels like years.

Life changes, and yet it doesn’t. Dream embraces his role as King, and he doesn’t. Sapnap becomes Lord of the Summer Court, and he doesn’t. They grow, and they stay the same.

Dream continues to search for the thrill of the hunt, of the chase. When he no longer finds it with Sapnap alone, he searches for something new. Something more.

He finds it hidden in the Royal Library. A Night Court Fae, brought to be the Royal Historian, grins at him without reservation, without the fear and awe most gave without a second thought, and offers his name. He likes Karl, before he can even learn what he can do.

(Karl asks him if he wants this, wants to feel powerless. He does. The forest goes quiet, quieter than he’s ever heard it before, and something in him breaks. His head is clear. He feels like his skin isn’t filled to bursting. He folds Karl into his circle without thought.)

He finds it tucked away in a secret clearing near the Eastern border of the forest. A tiny cabin, surrounded by trees and flowers. A Changeling with glittering, diamond-hard scales and his demon companion are startled by his appearance, but not frightened. The demon merely scolds him for not calling ahead as the changeling laughs.

(Skeppy doesn’t want anything to do with the Kingdom. They abandoned him to the outside, and Dream understands. He visits when the Courts grow too stuffy, too closed off, to much and joins on his friend on adventures. He is not loyal to Dream because he is King. He is loyal because he is Dream.)

(Bad is kind and sharp and knows more than he lets anyone know. He is tight-lipped about his past before Skeppy and Dream does not blame him. They whisper late at night about magic and madness and the truth about power. Bad does not see Dream as the Master of the Forest, for there is no way to master a force as dangerous as his nature. He helps him hold tight to the edges of himself when it threatens to tear him apart.)

He runs from them, laughter weaving through the trees. He feels the way Sapnap pounds his feet on the dirt, hears the way Skeppy jumps from tree to tree, knows the way Bad switches his rhythm to try to hide his location. Karl is nearby, pressing down on his power to keep things interesting. His blood sings for the hunt.

He pushes through brush, leaps over rivers, running in circles just to hear the cries of outrage and disbelief. He taunts them because he can, because this is his domain and he knows everything that happens.

He doesn’t know who this man is.

He stands panting, barefoot, mask covered in mud and hands riddled with scrapes, at the man kneeling in the grass. The man is humming to himself as he looks at the flowers, not even acknowledging Dream’s presence.

He doesn’t understand. He feels every movement, every shift, every change in the ebb and flow of magic in the entire forest. And yet, he senses nothing from this man. He feels nothing but an empty space.

It’s fascinating.

He doesn’t hesitate in introduce himself to the man, to George. George doesn’t seem alarmed in the slightest at Dream’s appearance or his invitation to join him for a walk. They talk, and as they talk Dream feels the thrumming rise despite Karl’s intervention. When they meet back with the group, all frustrated and annoyed at being ignored, he offers George a place to stay. He feels Sapnap’s interest, Karl’s confusion, Skeppy’s curiosity, and Bad’s amusement. He ignores the way the thrumming intensifies when George accepts.

George blends in seamlessly and flourishes in his new home. Dream sees his wonder at the variety of fauna and preens. (Sapnap digs an elbow into his side and snickers).

But as time passes, Dream notices changes. The way George finds a single gray hair. The way he gathers a few smile lines around his eyes. The way he wears his humanity so blatantly, and yet Dream missed every sign. And now he’s running out of time.

He runs to Sapnap. They cannot lose a piece of themselves. Not now, not when they finally know what it’s like to feel complete.

They dig through old manuscripts, pages stained and torn with time and age. They consult every Court, every living Historian, every herbalist they can get their hands on. They beg Bad to help. After hours of begging, bribery, and tears, he gives in. They don’t tell him why they’re so desperate. They don’t have the time.

(Bad doesn’t tell them he knows. He doesn’t tell them he’s been through this before. He doesn’t tell them the average life expectancy for Higher Demons, or the average life expectancy for Changelings, or the reason he came across such forbidden knowledge. Some things are better left unsaid.)

They find the right components, the right time frame, the right moment. They complete the ritual in silence, staring at the vials in hand. The liquid is silvery in the moonlight. It worked. They breathe. It worked.

Dream invites George to the castle for lunch, slipping the liquid into his drink before he arrives. The conversation flows, jokes and stories bouncing off one another easily. He watches carefully as George drains his drink, commenting on the sweet flavor. Both sip their own and feel the tension drain from their bodies when know it works, power settling deep in their cores.

One will not go without the others. All three will survive. He will make sure of it.

He didn’t have a name before.

He didn’t have a home before.

He didn’t have a family before.

He has all three now.

And he doesn’t plan on ever letting go.

(George doesn’t tell them he knows. They aren’t the most subtle. He doesn’t approve of how they went behind his back, of how they did not think to give him a choice. He doesn’t approve, but he understands. He knows fear when he sees it. And while he doesn’t approve, he does appreciate having a family that cares. In their own unusual way.)

#dt fanfic #dream team #dreamwastaken #georgenotfound #sapnap #badboyhalo #karl jacobs #skeppy #mostly dream and sap-centric #but the others are v important too #NOT DREAMNOTFOUND DO NOT EXPECT RELATIONSHIP THINGS #ITS 100% PLATONIC #fsis au #find steel in silver au #zero's writing

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iriswc1995 · 3 years

Text

Ash In Ordina

Chapter Two: ‘Church’

The camera scanned the invitation, and the glass doors whisked open. Ash tucked it back in her cloak and stepped inside the Worship Office. Its vast main hall was nearly empty, supported by several marble pillars adorned with artificial torches, contrasting the square, clinical lighting fixtures illuminating the ceiling. Her footsteps echoed through the hollow expanse. She watched the shadows dance beneath the various grotesque furnishings, embellished with colorful trappings and expensive decorations. She wrinkled her nose. The Redeemed were never doing badly for themselves.

At a desk at the end of the hall were two men wearing typical Rapturist attire who seemed to be waiting for her. The smaller figure immediately smiled and stood up, moving around to the front of the desk with a posture of welcome. He had a messy haircut dyed bright pink to match his large eyes. The second man, a few feet behind him, had a darker complexion and grim countenance, towering over both of them, a large cleaver strapped to his back. Ash met his cold gaze for a moment before the smaller one greeted her.

“Ah, you must be Ash! Your appearance is very distinct, in a good way, miss!”

“Thanks.”

“And um, just to double-check, no last name?”

“No. I’m curious why the Redeemed need to hire a freelancer.”

“Hehe, well…” The man scratched the back of his head before clasping his hands together. “I doubt it’s going to be the usual sort of work you do… rather, we need you to find someone. One of our high-ranking members has seemingly gone missing, you see.”

Ash tilted her head, but stayed silent, waiting for more details. But then the man laughed to himself and spread his arms.

“Sorry sorry, where are my manners! My name is Alistar Fey, Redeemed, director third-echelon, fifth mind. And my partner here is…”

The tall man sighed, cracking his neck as he turned his head. “Andre,” he answered coldly.

Alistar smiled and turned back to Ash. “Politeness is what keeps the world spinning, I think. Which is also why this is a strictly above-board, on-record job.”

“Right. So who’s missing, and why do you need me to find them?”

Silently, Alistar took a small binder from the desk and handed it to her. Ash’s breath caught momentarily as she opened it. Real paper? They’re rich enough for paper after everything they did? Swallowing her annoyance, she skimmed through the details. His name was Zachary Kells. A life-long worshipper, decently wealthy thanks to his job at Skyvault as a researcher and engineer. But it seemed he’d recently left his job to fully devote himself to the Church.

“We’ve tried contacting him, of course,” Alistar said, scratching the back of his head. “But no one has seen or heard from him in nearly a week. He wasn’t involved in anything shady, to my knowledge, and was largely a homebody. His residence is on this floor, and we sent someone to check there, but no answer again. And since he lives in one of the Castles, well…”

Ash closed the binder. “You need someone who’s good at getting inside places they aren’t supposed to. And you don’t want the authorities involved, for reasons which I’m sure you won’t tell me.”

Alistar hesitated. Ash nodded and continued.

“It’s fine. I’ll find him... for the amount we agreed on.”

“Wonderful! Then, that should be all for our business here. Part of me hopes you’ll simply find him at home, but I rather doubt it, unfortunately…”

“Freelancer.” Andre said, taking a step forward for the first time. Ash flicked her eyes towards him and stood up straight, hands open at her sides. He raised an eyebrow and simply folded his arms.

“Watch yourself. Unsavory types buzz around these neighborhoods like hungry flies. Zachary is an important man. I trust you’ll do your best to keep him safe.”

Ash hesitated for a long moment, thoughts swimming beneath the man’s cold gaze. Does he know something about me…? Finally, Ash simply nodded and turned to exit the office hall.

-----

Dark streets caked in rolling fog, dimly illuminated by fading streetlamps. One could almost mistake this for outside, if not for the globes of faint light on the ceiling, nearly two-hundred feet above, staring like gray stars. The housing here, the Castles, were essentially buildings unto themselves, like houses stacked on one another. Security systems and relatively safe neighborhoods, on top of this, were what created the floors home to the wealthier-than-most but not nearly of the mega-rich status.

Ash walked to a street corner two blocks away from the Worship Office, where she found Cygnus waiting for her, playing a game on his phone. He brushed his hair out of his eyes as she approached.

“So, is it about what we figured?”

She shrugged. “No assassinations or whatever. They're just missing one of their top guys. I need your help getting into his place.”

Cygnus nodded, and started following behind her. His face wore the same dark look that Ash figured she had made when she entered the Church. Neither of them liked doing work like this, and Cygnus had even more reason than most to despise the Worship Unity and everything they did. Their footsteps echoed along the cracked street. No one else was milling around this late in the evening. But then, someone made themselves known.

Harsh voices clamored from a nearby alleyway. Scattered around the trash-filled crevice like chattering rats were several individuals of varying appearance, though the black, red-trimmed jackets wrapped around each of their waists indicated they were a group. There were six in total, some tall, some muscular, some squatting on dumpsters, others leaning against the wall. Almost all of them had some kind of augmentation or another - metal arms, thousand-eyes implants, studded or scaled flesh. Their weapons were crude, but looked sharp - probably scavenged from the Bone Forest. They turned to look at the pair as they began to pass, and Ash stopped suddenly as their gazes met. She recognized their appearance, their vibe, and this scent. These were Harvesters without a doubt. Before there could be any pretense of just passing through, the group quickly filed out of the alleyway to block their path, their faces grim yet thrilled. Ash sighed and turned to Cygnus.

“Go on ahead. I'll handle this.”

“… you sure?”

She nodded. Cygnus scanned the group with an analytical look before hesitantly stepping forward, whispering to Ash as he passed.

“Don't get in trouble.”

“I'll do my best.”

He walked past the Harvesters, not meeting any of their sharp looks, and while a couple of them spit in his direction, none of them made a move to attack. The tallest one, most certainly the leader judging by her demeanor, stepped forward. Her arms were muscular and heavily scarred, the sleeves of her jacket were ringed with iron spikes, and she wore a mask that covered the top half of her face, adorned with chaotic black and red designs. Her wild, black-haired ponytail nearly reached her waist. She leaned into Ash's face and laughed.

“How's it going, killer? Where ya heading to? Gonna chop off some more heads with that shitty sword of yours?”

Ash stared back, coldly. Her stomach was tied in a knot, but she didn't let herself panic. She knew this type.

“I don't see how that's your business, bitch.”

The group laughed again, and the woman smiled. Ash knew better than to use honorifics like ‘miss’ around Harvesters. The leader leaned back, walking around Ash as she replied.

“But it IS my business, motherfucker! Our group here, we protect these streets from killers like you!”

She stood in front of her again, folding her arms.

“God damn, are you edgy-lookin’ or what? I would have thought you were some gutless nobody if not for this scent… the scent of blood, so unmistakable… it clings to you like a haze~ and if I had to guess, you can smell it just like us, can’t you…?”

Ash rolled her eyes.

“Maybe.”

“Hahahaha~! So if I had to guess, you’re trying to turn over a new leaf or something? Blood doesn’t dry that easy, kid. A muzzled wolf is still a wolf.”

“You’re right,” Ash said, and flicked an inch of her sword from its sheathe. Its red glow captivated the group for a moment, and several of them brandished their own weapons. “So get out of my way or see the wolf for yourself. I’m not better than any of you. Except in terms of skill.”

Silence filled the street. Strapped across the lead woman’s back was a massive saw-cleaver that made Ash’s katana look like a knife. She sniffed a few times, then smirked. Behind her lips, her teeth had been replaced with sharper ones modeled after a shark’s. She stepped forward, and offered a hand.

“Name’s Tesla. Any chance you’d wanna join us…? We make serious dough off the rich idiots on this floor~”

Ash didn’t take her hand.

“Those days are behind me. I hunt different prey now.”

She made sure to phrase her words correctly, sweat forming on her clenched palms. To most gangs, you're either a threat, or nothing to worry about. To Harvesters, you're either a threat, or a walking pay-out. And either option makes them liable to kill you. But mercifully, Tesla shrugged and finally backed out of her personal space.

“Fair enough, I guess… but don't go thinking you're done being a Harvester. Everyone who's alive has to take from others to keep living. At least the lives we take are put to good use when we sell off their lungs and heart!

“Save the preaching for the church.”

The other Harvesters laughed and playfully punched Tesla, yelling ‘she got you good!’ as Ash continued down the street, her cloak wandering in the breeze.

#horror cyberpunk writing writersontumblr

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grimmseye · 4 years

Text

A Bird in the Hand: Chapter Nine

Read on Ao3 here!

Rating: M

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (eventual),

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Essek Thelyss, Jester Lavorre

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Molly Rez, Amnesiac Mollymauk, Oh My God They Were Roommates, Acrophobia, Violence, Tarot, Bed-sharing

— — —

Essek goes silent in the days leading up to the peace talks. It's an affair Mollymauk only faintly understands, static-filled memories informing him of something, some tension in the air of impending violence and fear. There's a memory of his own voice urging them to get out, there's a reason he doesn't want a Name, attention is fine but being known is not.

This is going to determine the immediate fate of two countries. The lives of their soldiers, thrown to the slaughter for a cause Mollymauk could not comprehend, could be saved. And that was good, yes, in a distant and grand sort of way. It was too big for him to fit it into a scope he could understand.

Essek, he was sure, knew that scope, and yet Mollymauk doubted that was the source of his stress. There was something else under the surface, that connected to the way his ears started to droop when the conversation swung to the Mighty Nein. More concerning, though,was the fact that Essek had started to disappear. Where Mollymauk had previously heard a muffled voice from the tower's door, there was now silence, the kind that emerged from an absence of a person to be quiet. By the time Mollymauk took notice of it, the absences were regular enough to be timed.

Let the world feel a shudder wrack its spine when Mollymauk Tealeaf produced the beginnings of a plan.

It would never go beyond those beginnings — he wasn't the planning sort. Essek disappeared, which meant that his room was empty and unguarded, which meant that if Mollymauk was going to break into his space, it would have to be now.

He didn't even wait to be sure. A minute spent double checking was a minute sooner Essek would return, so the moment that silence made itself known, Mollymauk was already crossing the tower's bridge. He checked the lock for anything that would explode if he tried to pick it, found nothing, and grinned to himself as he slipped a homemade set of thieves tools into the slot.

Molly's triumph was short-lived. The hook found nothing, no tumblers to leverage into place. It was like the inside was perfectly smooth, but when he tried the knob, it refused to turn.

A grimace stole his face. "Wizards," he growled. A vague sense of someone disappearing in the middle of a fight, off to who the fuck knows where — but that hadn't been a wizard, had it, no, that was the odd drawling voice that asked after Molly's swords and he didn't feel a lick of guilt spinning a lie on the spot because it made relief light in Fjord's eyes and wasn't that a good thing, better to comfort someone with a lie than torment them with a meaningless truth.

Fjord. Taller than Molly with a frame that suggested a strength he really didn't have. Sneaking up behind him and dunking his head under the water and laughing as the man began to sputter, that'll show him. Warmth in the chest as — that was the wizard, yes, the one who froze amid fire and didn't even know how to skim off the top — as someone offered a gorgeous sword to him that let him flit out of one space and into another. "Mister Mollymauk."

"Mister Caleb."

The words fell from his lips, thick as honey. His hand slipped from the doorknob, and he felt a soreness in his palm. How long had he been gripping it?

Mollymauk shook his head to clear it, grinding his thumb against his temple. Door was locked, so —

Windows. He could always get in through a window.

The brick of the towers were uneven enough to climb, though falling from that height without a net to catch him would not end well. Right about now he would kill for a sword that let him teleport. Or Nott's feather spell to catch his fall. Yasha, who he knew would throw herself off a ledge to catch him, and be just fine when she hit the ground.

His chest felt tight, the aching loneliness clawing to the surface. Suddenly he regretted not telling them, these people who were blurred in his mind but make the space beneath his ribs feel hollow.

He drew a sharp breath. The Nein meant something to him. Essek, no matter how much Molly liked the man, was doing something to harm them.

The first brick was cold under his hand. He wasn't the strongest individual, but he knew how to climb. Molly kept himself level with the bridge so if he did lose his grip, he wouldn't fall all the way to the ground below. His muscles ached far sooner than he would prefer. He might have to start doing strength training on top of his stretches. But his hooves took to the narrow brick, his tail working as a counterbalance, and it was only in the moments where he had to ease away from the safety net of the bridge that his pulse really began to race.

The window was positioned where a drop would send him directly to the ground. Much as Molly wanted to stop and catch his breath, freezing now wasn't an option. He dragged in slow breaths to try to calm his palpitating heart. Hand then foot then hand then foot. Sweat on his fingers made his grip slide, panic washing cold over his back as he seized the brick and panted against it. The pitching sensation continued, his body screaming at him for this foolishness. He'd dug himself out of the dirt twice only to break himself from a fall. It likely wouldn't even kill him, just crush his bones, sternum crunched into his lungs for him to bleed out his mouth until he either expired or Essek returned to find him.

He nearly sobbed when he felt the cold of the window against his fingertips. Molly braced his hand against it, palm sliding over the glass with a squeak. Nausea rose in his throat. Did the window even open? Was it locked, or just stuck from disuse?

Grinding his teeth, Mollymauk braced as much weight as he dared against that hand, trying to muster the leverage to force the window up — gods he'd break it it necessary —

A loud crack split the air. Molly's hand slipped.

He watched the tower fall away and blur, too quick to feel anything but shock as he hit empty air. And then something else hit him, knocking the wind out of him as he tumbled, stars spinning to earth before coming to a halt clutched in Essek's arms.

Molly wheezed and clung to him, the position awkward — Essek's shoulder dug just between his ribs, but he was more than happy to sling legs around his waist and claw at his mantel for a handful of material. In the haze of his manic vision, he saw branches of light — spectral wings that extended from Essek's shoulder blades, flapping periodically to keep them aloft.

The descent made Molly squeak and cling tighter. Sweat was dripping from his temples, shaking violently as Essek stooped down to force his hooves onto solid earth with a grunt of exertion. Even then, Mollymauk didn't let go of him, just clinging to his arms instead.

Essek yanked himself away. Molly let him go, wrapping his arms around himself. He forced a grin, saying, "Good — g-good save, Mister Thelyss."

Molly had never seen anger on Essek's face before. It was a quiet thing, simmering beneath a frigid surface. The pin of his ears, the tremor in his hands, the clench of his jaw, those were the things that tipped Molly off to just how badly he'd fucked up here.

"What were you doing?" Essek asked, voice dangerously steady.

Mollymauk even considered telling the truth. Then he remembered how Essek had physically crushed a person's body into an unrecognizable mash, and said, "Well — let me tell you — that was not worth it." It let his brain race ahead as he lifted a finger and played up his breathless state. Not snooping, not spying, just — "I even forgot to actually bring the paints with me."

"The —" Essek's anger faltered. "Paints?"

Molly gave him a grin, rubbing the back of his neck. His legs were trembling too violently to remain upright, and he let himself collapse into the grass instead. Play up the pity angle. He's just a frightened, helpless tiefling, nothing to see here. "I was gonna paint a dick on your window."

Blue, blue, blue. Blue skin, blue hair, but she danced with every other color. A streak of mischief that Mollymauk adored, and he'd snarl in infernal just to delight in her laughter, the best audience he could ask for.

Essek's eyes took on the same hopeless adoration that Mollymauk felt. His shoulders slumped, and he ran his fingers through his hair. Then again. On the third time, his fingers caught, and he tugged at the white strands, for Molly to push himself upright with a "Whoa, hey —" and then to pitch forward as black spots flitted in his vision.

He landed against Essek again, and wheezed a laugh. "I need to sit down. Like, now. Come on."

Molly grabbed Esseks arm and fell back onto the grass, yanking the drow with him to bully him into lying down. It was tempting to just burrow against his side, bask in pressure and warmth. Instead he just let their arms brush where they splayed in the grass.

"These are expensive clothes," Essek said.

"And you can magic the dirt off them, can't you?" Mollymauk looked to the stars. He wasn't sure if they were different here than in the Empire. He thought he remembered somebody pointing shapes out to him, an art not unlike the cards he dealt. You could be born under certain stars, but Molly didn't know them. No matter how many times the lines were traced, he only saw a field of pinprick lights.

"That was stupid, you know," Essek murmured. "Climbing the tower. At least Jester can catch herself if she falls."

Mollymauk scoffed. "Who needs magic? Well, their own magic, anyway. Apparently I've got a wizard at my beck and call."

"Oh, gods," Essek rasped, and Molly cackled. "I should have let you hit the ground."

"It was your fault I lost my grip, anyway," Molly snorted. "Is teleporting always that loud?"

"Yes. Something to do with the displacement of air." Essek raised a hand, curling his fingers through the air. "If you had not been scaling my tower, you would not have fallen."

"Now let's not go pointing fingers." Molly smirked as he grabbed Essek's hand to force it back down to the grass.

The moon smiled down at them, lopsided and thin. A cloud skimmed past it, stealing away the light that bathed them. Mollymauk wasn't particularly devout, but he had to wonder if it wasn't Her blessing.

The Peace Talks arrived almost without Mollymauk's awareness. They were only heralded but the shift in Essek's attitude, from a quiet that was uncharacteristic even for him to snappish remarks, banishing Mollymauk from any space the two of them just happened to end up in together. That was only when he made himself visible at all, still shutting himself away in his towers, shielded from prying eyes.

Mollymauk still wished he'd managed to get in, but whatever was coming, he would have no say in it. And really, that was just fine. Molly really wasn't one to interfere, only to react.

Just waiting had his nerves twisting up, and he found himself slipping things into a bag throughout the day. Swords in their scabbards, the sturdier outfits Essek bought him, gold pieces stolen unabashedly from a cloak left hanging up to be washed later. He hardly realized he was doing it until there was no more room, and he was having to stretch the chord to fit it around the button.

A sigh pushed from his chest. Mollymauk set the bag aside and reached for his supplies. He had a card to make.

The Eclipse was joined with Fractures. Upright, it meant convergence, the joining of multiple parts. Reversed, it was separation, a breaking point. One of the more straightforward symbols, and one that felt right as he began to sketch the pieces.

The sun, and the two moons, overlapping in a line of three. At the edges where they met, they shattered.

Molly, Molly, what does that one mean, is that you?

He was smiling before he looked up. Jester was practically sprawled over his back, her hands falling on his shoulders as she peered at the cards he'd laid out.

"Naw," he grinned. "It's us."

He was being facetious, but there was a sliver of truth tucked into it. Jester gasped, "Us? Us like you and me or like all of us?" A grin spread across her face as she pressed her cheek to his. "Molly," she giggled, saying his name like Mawl-ee with that curling accent of hers, "do you have a crush on me?"

Her giggling said it was a joke but he purred, "You know I do, dear." And again, he sort of meant it. Not really, not like how she obviously pined over Mister Fjord, but Mollymauk gave his heart easily, and if almost anyone of this ragtag group wanted to hold his hand or take him to bed, he'd be happy to follow along.

"Okay okay okay, but you only have one," Jester points out. "What are the rest?"

"You want a full reading?"

He was already reaching for his cards as Jester swept a chair to his side and threw herself into it, tail curling with excitement. "Of course," she scoffed, and then perked up. "But first, what's that one?"

"The Eclipse," Mollymauk told her. "So if you take this as the past for the Mighty Nein, this is very literally just our meeting. It's the convergence of multiple parts into a singular whole, see? Now, for present..."

He spread the remainder of his deck on the table. Molly reached for her, saying, "Here, take my hand. Since this is for all of us, the more guiding our hands, the better." And if maybe he nudged them to his own pick, all that mattered was that Jester didn't realize.

He guided her hand to the middle of the arc, then drew and flipped a card. This one was an image of two coins, one gold and one silver, balanced on opposite ends of a scale. "The Coin," he announced. "Reversed. Also known as Risk. Things are uncertain right now. We may be headed for misfortune — but it's not defined just yet."

"What kind of misfortune?" Jester asked.

"Well, they're not exact," Molly chuckled. "But maybe the Future will tell us?"

"Oh!" Jester perked up. "Can I pick it?"

Molly laughed and leaned back, offering her the table. With Eclipse out of the way — and more importantly, Fractures — there wasn't much that could give her a terrible reading —

Jester pulled a card towards the end of the deck, flipping it with a "Hah!" and all but slamming the card on the table.

Even though he was the one to make it, Mollymauk felt his gut twist at the sight.

"The Broken," he announced. The image looked like a web, twisted, jagged spokes of a wheel that ran into one another. "Upright, this card calls for..." Tragedy, specifically. Not always, but often. "Harrowing times. Loss. It looks like we've got our work cut out for us, Jes."

Molly looked at her, feeling his heart skip at the crestfallen expression on her face. He reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze. "So it's good we're together, yeah?" He cajoled, bumping his shoulder into hers until she started giggling.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Thanks, Molly." She stood up and, sensing the cue, Molly went with her. It was entirely unsurprising when she wrapped her arms around him. Their tails twined together, mutual purrs rumbling in their chests as they swayed back and forth. Then she stepped back, going, "Okay okay okay. Do me, now!"

"I already gave you a reading."

"Yeah but that was age-s ago!"

"Alright, alright, but it'll cost you."

The cracking sound of a teleportation spell snapped Molly out of his reverie. He gasped, sitting bolt upright and gouging into his work. His face was wet. The card was ruined.

Cussing, Molly wiped at his eyes. He tossed the card aside, not the least bit satisfied by its tap against the wall as he headed for the door.

Night had long since fallen, keeping the halls dark as he nudged the door open. From below, a sound made his heart skip: a heavy thud, and rasping breath.

Molly froze for just a second, then grabbed one sword before rushing downstairs. The moment he hit them, he could make out Essek's collapsed form, small and shaking. Snippets of his voice were muffled by the curl of his own body, unintelligible muttering between panting breaths.

"Essek," Molly started, "what the hell —"

"Leave me alone, Mollymauk." His voice was a whisper. Essek draw a sharp breath and started to force himself to his feet, the legs quaking so violently they threatened to give out.

"You're a wreck," he shot back, reaching for Essek's arm. "You —"

Essek snarled. Gravity impacted Molly's chest, spots flying in his eyes as he was clawed away from Essek. He collided with a table, the panel of glass screaming against its metal stand, the sound of a crunch as pressure fractured it down the middle. A hot, throbbing pain settled in his back where he'd impacted.

Molly stared at Essek, where the drow stood, a hand still outstretched. His eyes were wide, pupils blown and ears pinned back. A croaking down dragged from his throat.

Molly groaned and staggered to his hooves. His hand dipped to the handle of his scimitar, lips peeling back as he glared at Essek through narrowed eyes.

"Mollymauk," Essek panted, a tinge of shock in his voice. His hand wavered and then fell, he took an aborted step forward.

Molly prowled towards him. Essek gave no fight as Molly drew his sword and walked him back against the door. Essek's feet were flat on the tile, putting him low enough for Molly to crane his head up into his face.

"Are you done," he asked, voice dripping with derision. "Or do you have to break something else to feel better?"

It was satisfying to watch the shame drip into Essek's face, a horrified light behind his eyes. He didn't speak, only stared, chest heaving.

It was a testament to how rattled Essek had to be that he didn't put up a fight. Molly didn't think he could take him one on one. The man could skip through the air, twist his mind like puddy, turn his body into a puppet on strings if he needed to. But he only shrank against the wall, lips trembling, looking an inch away from crying.

Molly could push him that extra inch.

"Answer the question."

"I'm — sorry —"

Molly cut off his gulping with a, "I didn't ask if you were sorry. I asked if you were done with your tantrum." He pressed a hand to Essek's sternum, intentionally trapping him against the wall. "Well?"

Embarrassment flooded Essek's cheeks, staining his ears as he looked away. "Yes," he rasped. "I... I am done. And I am sorry."

"Care to explain what the fuck that was about?"

Essek took another breath, sharp and shallow. A second. A third. Molly could feel his heart pounding under his palm.

"I..." His voice faltered, and he licked his lips. "I. Today. The Nein discovered my betrayal. That... that I stole one of the Beacons of the Dynasty, and handed it over to the Empire to be studied."

Mollymauk studied his face, Essek's pale moon pupils. There was a sheen to them, not yet crying, but close. He could hear each breath, pulling in and hissing out, feel the heaving us his pulse. He eased up on the pressure, letting Essek stagger away from the wall.

"Alright," Molly said, "that certainly sounds like a lot."

Essek glowered. "You don't even know what that means," he sneered.

Mollymauk bared his teeth in return. "Enlighten me, then."

It didn't take much. He remembered what the Dynasty had done to retrieve their Beacon, the collapse and the panic, the call to war. Essek just drew the line between the dots Molly already had.

As they spoke, more and more of that brief spark of life drained out of Essek. He sagged against the wall, cheek turned away from Mollymauk to speak to the air beside him.

It was bad. It was really, really bad. Worse than anything Mollymauk had forgiven before. Still, he listened, as Essek's voice shook through each word, until they broke into a sharp sound and lapsed into silence. And then it was just Essek, eyes squeezed shut, hands clutching at the wall as he gasped for breath.

Mollymauk drank the image in, and let out a sigh. "Okay," he murmured. "C'mere." He cupped Essek's jaw, drawing him down to press his lips to his forehead. A gasped wrenched from Essek's throat, and Molly hushed him. "Shhhh," he soothed. "Shhhh-shhhh-shhhh. Come on."

Mollymauk took him by the arm, guiding him up the steps. It was slow going with how Essek trembled, and when they reached his bedroom door, Molly had to remind him to open it. Whatever enchantment kept Molly from breaking in parted the way for Essek.

His room was exquisite. Four-poster bed, large enough to comfortably fit two, maybe three. Satin pillows, dramatic curtains framing the window, a shelf of organized components, the rest heavy with books. A bathroom was attached, and gods did Molly want to spy on what was in there.

That was a good idea, actually.

"Have you eaten anything?" Molly asked, unsurprised when Essek shook his head. He didn't say anything else for the next few minutes. Instead, it was spent figuring out how to undo his mantel. First the material, falling away heavier than expected. The metal that guarded his neck came apart in two pieces. Then earrings, Essek's ears twitching away from his touch. Essek stood still, letting him do as he pleased.

"Can you get the rest?" Molly asked, tugging his shirt for emphasis.

Essek took a solid moment to process it, and gave a single nod. He reached slowly for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

"Great," Molly smiled. He cupped Essek's face, making sure their gazes met. "You take a shower. Just rinse off, you don't have to do anything else. I'll be back up with dinner for you. Alright?"

"... Alright."

"Wonderful." Molly gave his cheek a solid pat and pushed him towards the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He didn't wait to head down the stairs, but listened for the spray of water as he scrapped a meal together.

He made two trips, one for a pitcher of water and glasses, the other for two bowls of soup. By that point, Essek had emerged from the shower, dressed in a long robe and seated on the bed, staring at the floor. He was mostly dry, but his hair was messier, so Mollymauk had to assume he'd magicked the water off. That was a good sign.

Molly set one bowl down on a dresser to click his fingers. "Hey," he said, voice sharp in a way that wasn't meant to snap, just to catch his attention. Essek glanced up, and Molly handed the bowl over. "That's yours. Eat as much as you can."

It was good soup. Simple, but good. That was most of what Molly knew how to make.

The first few bites were a visible effort, but they seemed to awaken Essek's hunger, as he hurried through the bowl, only breaking to take sips of water. When their bowls were empty, Molly set them aside and banished Essek to the sink to brush his teeth, vanishing to do his own.

He ended up having to pull Essek away from the mirror with a huff of, "Come on, no getting existential before bed."

When he pulled the covers back, Essek only stared at him. A raised eyebrow got an explanation: "I do not need to sleep."

Mollymauk squinted at him. "Right." He drew the word out. "You meditate. Well. Can you meditate laying down? Like, you have a bed. If you're not using it, then you will give it to me. Capiche?"

Essek stared through him for another few moments before absently nodding, and climbing into the bed, letting Molly pull the covers up around him.

"There we go," Molly smiled. "Snug as a bug in a rug."

"A bug in a rug would likely be hopelessly lost," Essek murmured. His eyelids were already drooping.

"Oh hush," Molly snorted. He hesitated for only a moment before saying, "Now, I'm gonna ask you a question here. No judgement, alright?"

Essek heaved a sigh. "That is always a good start."

"I said hush, no more sass." Molly flapped a hand. "Do you want me to stay here tonight?"

That got his attention. He looked more alert than he'd been since leaving this morning, just gazing at Mollymauk without saying a word.

Molly gave a faint smile. "Let's make this easier. Do you want me to leave?"

A moment's pause, and then Essek shook his head.

"Great. Will you flip out if I get in the bed next to you?"

Another shake, this one with an eye-roll to boot.

"Excellent," Molly purred, and wasted no time in sliding into the bed. He immediately seized a pillow to bunch under his head, stretching out with pleased sound. "Oh, fuck, this is wasted on you. Wasted." What was the nicest bed Molly had ever slept on? It didn't matter, this won.

Essek gave a quiet, breathy sort of laugh. "Your turn to hush," he murmured. "I... am exhausted." And it showed.

Molly made a show of theatrical offense, before settling back down and tucking just one lock of loose white hair back into place. "Alright, then. Goodnight, Mister Thelyss."

The sounds of their breaths became the ambience of the room, amid the cool breeze outside, nighttime dwellers singing their songs. Amid it all, Molly very nearly missed Essek's whisper, muffled and half-slurred as it was: "Goodnight, Mister Tealeaf."

#mollymauk tealeaf #essek thelyss #shadowmauk #cr #cr fic #my writing

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missnmikaelson-main · 5 years

Text

Who Are you Part 4

I do not own TVD or TO.

Manosque was severely underpopulated in comparison to Manhattan. Twenty-two thousand people could barely hold a candle to one and a half million. The city was nearly the same size, but so very different. There were no towering skyscrapers, no crazy rush of people hurrying to and from work in an impenetrable wave; men and women still hurried to and fro but maneuvering around them was no problem at all.

It was refreshing.

It was a city with the feel of a small town. It was beautiful, full of old world charm. The picturesque streets of the old city, restored by local government, were lined with lovely houses.

Every stone whispered a story lost to time. There were imprints from each year left behind.

Without heavy matters pressing down her shoulders, forcing her closer and closer to the ground, she would have been happy to just stroll through the city and absorb its beauty while drinking in the rich history.

However, she did not currently have the time to enjoy the scenery or attempt to make conversation in order to practice her rudimentary French. They were there for a reason.

++++

The pub was all but empty in the early hours of the afternoon. The majority of people in the city did not appear to be day drinkers. It was a lot like Mystic Falls in that regard.

Finding Damon or Alaric at the Grille on their third, or sometimes even forth, drink by two o’clock was not an uncommon occurrence. Manosque held a small majority of day drinkers, at least the ones that didn’t care about drinking in public.

Aside from the two of them there were only to other people in the pub. A burly bartender wiped down glasses and stacked shelves. In the far corner, shielded by shadows, sat a woman with her head bowed over.

Every other table was empty.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” He folded his jacket over his arm.

“It’s the right address,” Elena ran her fingers over the black and white keys of a piano. Her eyes found a clock on the far wall. “We are a little early though. I got so used to New York that I thought we’d have to fight traffic.”

“Walking?” His lips lifted in a smirk.

“Yup,” she chirped. “Manhattan is wall to wall people.”

She glanced over her shoulder towards the bartender when his gruff voice broke the still air.

“Qu’auras-tu?”

Her brows puckered in confusion. They rose when his smooth voice returned in flawless French.

“Nous rencontrons quelqu’un.”

The bartender went back to work.

“You speak French?” Elena turned back to Elijah.

“Apparently,” he frowned. Clearing his throat he nodded to the keys beneath her fingers. “Do you play?”

Elena glanced down and smiled softly.

“I used to. I had lessons as a kid and I played with my mom.” Her expression clouded for a moment. “I haven’t touched one since my parents died.”

“Do you play?” She felt like kicking herself the second the words slipped through her lips.

“I don’t know,” he chuckled, “you’d have to tell me that.”

She tilted her head and looked at him as her embarrassment faded. In the length of their acquaintance she had never seen him display any musical talent, but it seemed like something he would have tried at some point in his life. A thousand years was a long time, and she knew at one point he and his siblings had posed as nobility; weren’t nobles supposed to be proficient in foreign languages and accomplished on several musical instruments.

“One way to find out,” she cocked an eyebrow and nodded to the piano. Glancing over her shoulder she asked in broken French if it was alright.

“That was terrible,” his eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Forgive me for not being fluent,” she rolled her eyes. Sliding onto the bench she ran her fingertips over the ivory keys. Thirteen years had passed since the accident, but the pain she had once felt before a piano had lightened.

He draped his jacket over a nearby chair when she began to play. Sitting on her left side he spotted a slight shimmer in her eyes that she blinked away.

“Here,” she smiled softly, “put your fingers over mine.”

The gentle melody stilled as he moved his hands in place before picking up when he shifted with her. A sweet tune filled the hollow room when Elena began to play again with the pleasant weight of his hands over hers.

She watched from the corner of her eye.

His features shifted into a confused frown: the look of a man who knew what he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words on the tip of his tongue. The furrow in his brow deepened as he tilted his head.

“I know this feeling,” he murmured. The music washed over him lifting his mood in the way her smile did.

Elena bit her bottom lip and smiled while moving her hands back.

The music didn’t stop.

He kept playing.

Soft laughter bubbled up from Elena’s mouth. She couldn’t stop it when she watched the pure joy playing across his features. She was glad she had chosen a happy tune.

She wasn’t going to do it but she lifted her hand back to the keys and joined him. They played together for a moment until he froze and took her wrist in his hand effectively stilling her movements.

It took her a second to pick up what his enhanced senses already had.

A third person had stepped inside the pub and was watching them intently. Together they turned and found the woman in the door.

“That was beautiful.” She nodded to the instrument at which they were still seated.

Elijah’s eyes flickered over the slim young woman. She appeared to be somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five with blonde curls secured in a low ponytail and glittering emerald eyes.

“Who are you?” He frowned.

“I’m your three o’clock,” she shrugged with a small smile. “I mean, I’m assuming you’re the ones I’m meeting since it is now three o’clock and the two of you are the only vampires in the pub.”

Elena’s eyes grew round and darted to the bartender and the woman scribbling away in a spiral notebook.

“Don’t worry about them,” the newcomer waved dismissively. “They don’t speak English.”

++++

She slipped through the narrow streets silently. Her eyes darted to her phone every few seconds to ensure she was still following the dotted red line that google had laid out for her.

She rolled her eyes when she spotted the house in front of her. Her final destination was a sixteenth century home that she felt confident dubbing as a palace.

She didn’t hesitate before pulling open the gate and stepping into the maintained courtyard and approached the fountain. A glance over her shoulder revealed the cold marble eyes of some deity overlooking the garden.

The gravel crunched underfoot as she approached the house, but when she heard the screams coming from inside she ran.

She couldn’t remember a time when she had ever feared him, so there was no hesitation when she pinned him to the wall with a hand around his throat.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Her eyes flickered over his features.

“Hello, luv,” Klaus smiled. His eyes darted to the half dozen bodies littering the palazzo floor.

Caroline followed his gaze and counted, adding the six deceased to the mental list she had begun when she landed in Italy. Rumors, hearsay and her own eyes put the numbers close to triple digits, and those were just the ones she had heard about.

Ignoring the cloying smell of fresh blood she turned back to him.

“Are you trying to break your record?”

“Currently, I’m trying not to flatter myself that you’re here on a sudden whim to see me.” He tilted his head when she took a step back and watched her draped the bodies with an antique rug. “Why are you here Caroline? Surely the Boarding school can’t do without its headmistress so soon after its opening; you must be needed across the pond.”

“Call it a work trip: parent-teacher conference,” Caroline crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed in a glare. “You no longer answer your phone so I had to resort to hunting you down.” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “You do realize I have a very busy life right? I’m responsible for an entire school full of kids, including yours.”

She caught the way his eyes flickered.

“You remember, obviously,” she cocked an eyebrow. “The little girl you have yet to ask me about. You’re avoiding her, and I want to know why.”

“I’m not…”

“You are,” she stepped back into his personal space. “I found her in my office a few weeks ago upset because her father wasn’t answering her calls.”

“She’s heard the rumors, you know.” Caroline hummed. “She’s clever and small, so eavesdropping isn’t that difficult.”

“What rumors would those be, love?” His jaw ticked.

“Oh you know,” she waved one hand towards his handiwork, “that you’ve gone completely bonkers.”

“As you can clearly see,” he chuckled darkly.

“You seem normal crazy too me,” she scoffed.

“High praise.”

Caroline shifted back on her heels and met his eyes.

“Two men from the family that own this building were killed at a nightclub last night by an alleged maniac, and here lie more bodies.” She clicked her tongue. “Care to explain why you’re methodically picking off all the members of one family?”

“Because I’m compulsive,” he shrugged. “Or maybe I’m just wiling away the time; I do have an eternity of it. Or,” he held up a finger and smirked, “maybe, just maybe, Klaus Mikaelson has finally gone mad.”

“Or,” she smirked, “you want people to think you have because this little spree you’re on isn’t random. You’ve got a list, don’t you?”

She saw the confirmation in his surprised eyes.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “it shocked me too. I was honestly expecting to find you on some sort of bender after I talked to Hope.”

++++

“You can’t be serious,” she scoffed; it had to be the most ridiculous plan she had ever heard, and she knew Damon.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he glanced down at the basket she thrust into his hands. Turning on his heel he followed her back towards the corpses. “In my experience those that have been wronged seek revenge, and since many of them,” he gestured to the dead with the basket causing bottles to rattle, “have long memories, I am determined to systematically annihilate each and every one of our enemies, and the heirs of our enemies.”

“That’s insane,” she twisted off the cap on the bottle of bleach. “That list has got to be endless by now.”

“It has to be done,” he shrugged. “It’s the only way I can ensure my brother is protected.”

“You’re doing this for Elijah?” Caroline’s brows shot up.

“Of course,” he nodded, “in his present state he wouldn’t know an enemy it they sat down beside him. How did you know it was Elijah to whom I was referring?”

“Heard about his ‘memory loss’ through the grapevine,” she shrugged. She poured the bleach into a bucket and knelt on the floor after grabbing a rag from the basket in his hand.

“Why exactly are you bothering with this?” He gestured to the stain she was now scrubbing at furiously.

“Because the building is historic,” she sighed. She pulled out another rag and held it in front of him. “Take it and start over there.” She poured more bleach in another bucket for him.

They had been cleaning in silence for several minutes when Caroline lifted her head. Her eyes darted to the dead now wrapped in plastic to protect the floor. What were the odds that any of them had ever even heard of Klaus, or knew about the wrongs he had done some obscure member of their family countless years ago?

“This isn’t right,” she shook her head; “even for you this is going too far. What happened to you?”

He balled the rag in his fist and wondered if the break would have come on eventually regardless of Hope’s sudden appearance in France a few months before. Rebekah had once called him a lost soul who couldn’t be predicted without Elijah to stand in his way, but he thought his actions were easily discerned.

“I’m no good without Elijah.”

“You must have been parted before,” she tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Not like this,” he shook his head, “I’ve lost my brother, and I’ll never see him again.”

“You’ve still got a daughter,” she wrong out the last of the blood into the bucket.

“She’s better off without me,” he averted his eyes. Shame prickled his scalp. “I know what it’s like to be raised by a monster.”

Her annoyance flared with the phrase. She choked on her anger to keep from shouting but she could still hear the suppressed rage in her own voice.

“Seriously?” Her eyes flashed. “It was a thousand years ago. Newsflash,” she tossed her hands in the air, “the guy is dead, so get over it. Stop using Mikael as an excuse to be a bad father!”

There were few times in his life when he had ever been startled by another being, and upon quick reflection he realized that most of the moments, most of the times he had been shocked into silence, were caused by her.

His muttered insistence that she was better off was met with a glare that would have melted ice.

“I happen to know what it’s like to be a kid missing her father too,” her voice softened when she thought of the sad little girl at school.

“I can’t be around her Caroline.”

“I figured,” she rolled her eyes. “Hayley mentioned that none of you could be near her, didn’t go into details, but I got the sense it was some sort of issue centering around magic and keeping her safe, am I close?” She waited for his nod. “I thought so. You may not be able to be in the same room as her, but there is this…” she reached into her back pocket, “… ancient gadget called a telephone.”

“Use it before the two of you lose each other.” She got to her feet to dispose of the chemicals.

“You came halfway around the world to yell at me and tell me to call my daughter?” His brows shot up when she tossed him her phone. “Why?”

“Because…” she hesitated, and tightened her hold on the bucket, “… I… I happen to think you’re someone worth knowing.”

++++

“Do you think you can help?” Elena ran her finger around the rim of her glass.

“Potentially,” Lexa crossed her legs under the table and leaned back in her chair. “I just want to make sure I’ve got this straight.”

“Sure,” Elijah nodded.

“Okay,” Lexa hummed. “This Hollow possessed your niece and was going to kill her so she could take over the child. A witch in New Orleans came up with a solution that moved the Hollow from the girl to you and your siblings, who you no longer remember. And now you can’t be anywhere near them because if you are the Hollow will reform and go after your niece again.”

“That about sums it up,” Elena crossed her arms over the table.

“There’s just one small problem with all of this,” Lexa bit her bottom lip, “one thing that doesn’t add up.”

“What’s that?”

“The choice of vessels,” Lexa tilted her head and regarded Elijah. “Assuming the witch had enough power to lift the Hollow from the child and split it in four pieces they could have contained it differently. Placing it in people is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard of, siblings is even worse.”

“What do you mean?” Elijah’s eyes narrowed.

“I mean people move about,” she leaned forward and whispered. “Their locations fluctuate and there’s no way to regulate that movement, or to account for the bond between family. Eventually you’ll all make your way back to each other if just for a glimpse.” Her fingers drummed the table lightly. “There are ways to contain these sorts of things.”

“Could this be contained somewhere else?” Elena rolled her wrist, sloshing the liquid in her glass. She’d had that thought a few times since meeting Rebekah in New York, but without an adequate understanding of magic she thought her thoughts were a pipe dream at most.

“It’s going to be more difficult now,” Lexa chewed her bottom lip. Her eyes rolled to the left in thought. “The Hollow’s now in pieces which means it will have to be drawn out carefully and sealed in a mystical container.”

“Shouldn’t it be easier now that it’s broken down and weak?” Elijah frowned.

“Wouldn’t that be more dangerous? Couldn’t people locate the containers?”

“Not if they’re on different plains of existence,” Lexa cocked an eyebrow. “Niamh sent you to me for a reason, and in her mind it’s because I’ve made a career of the history of magic in its many forms. Do you know what my studies have taught me, Elena?”

“I’d think many things,” she tilted her head.

“You’re right,” Lexa nodded. “I know about the origin of the different supernatural races: vampires, werewolves, travellers, hunters, immortals, and doppelgangers. I know the different forms of magic: nature, spirit, traveller, ancestral and expression. And I know about the various states of limbo that are separate from each other.”

Elijah whetted his bottom lip quickly as he tilted his head to watch her through narrow eyes. The set of her jaw told him the young witch had an idea, and he suspected he knew what it was.

“You want to extract the Hollow and store it somewhere else in some sort of box?”

“A locked box,” she held up a finger to clarify. “Obviously you can’t seal something permanently because there has to be a way to open it, but I can try and make the key… hard to find. Something nearly impossible to locate would be best.”

“Like Klaus’ curse,” Elena murmured. She felt two pairs of eyes on her a second later. “He couldn’t break it without the blood of a doppelganger: my blood.”

“You’re the doppelganger?” Lexa looked at the brunette in a new light. “That would do it. Doppelganger blood is said to be a powerful binding agent and also incredibly rare.”

Elena shook her head slowly.

“I’m a vampire…”

“But your blood retains its magical properties,” Lexa cut her off. “Did you have kids before you turned, Elena?”

She was mildly taken aback by the shift in conversation, but shook her head regardless.

“Do you have any family left alive that could carry on your bloodline?”

“My brother, but technically he’s my cousin on my dad’s side,” she tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Would I be correct in assuming your doppelganger nature comes from your mom’s side?” When Elena nodded she smirked. “Excellent; I could use your blood to seal the containers.”

“Would that work?” Elijah’s eyes darted to Elena.

“It should,” Lexa nodded. In her head she was already going through a list of possible containers and spells to draw out the leech attached to his soul. “For good measure I’d put the pieces on separate plains; one on the Ancestral Plain, one in Hell, one in reality and one in the Dark Realm.”

“The dark realm?” Elena blinked slowly.

“It was supernatural purgatory before the creation of Hell and The Other Side,” Lexa explained. “In order to reunite the Hollow one would have to collect the pieces from each plain and obtain your blood…”

“I sense a ‘but’,” Elena met Elijah’s eyes for a moment. “Would it be hard to place the Hollow there?”

“There are gates into each of the realm,” Lexa shook her head, “for those who know where to look, and spells to temporarily open them. The problem isn’t moving them to limbo or finding a container to hold them. The problem is extracting it from its current host.”

“You’d have to find them all,” Elijah reached for Elena’s hand under the table.

“And you better believe pulling out something that wants to stay put is going to be difficult,” Lexa shook her head.

“What can we do to help?” Elena ran her thumb over his knuckles.

“You can retrieve the wood or stone I’ll need to create the containers, and give me your blood when I need it,” Lexa’s eyes shifted to Elijah. “You can be my willing guinea pig; it’s probably going to take a few tries to get it out of you.”

++++

He stared down at the phone in his hand. The contact information for the school had already been pulled up. All he needed to do was press call, but he hesitated.

How could he ever hope to explain what she had seen?

He sighed when he felt her eyes on him.

“Must you hover?”

“Just making sure you actually call,” Caroline leaned against a pillar.

“She astral projected Caroline,” he murmured, “and saw something.” He could still see the look in her eyes, and feel the horror in her expression. Hayley, his mother, his father, and even his siblings, in moments of anger, had said he would ruin his daughter if given half the chance.

“I know,” she straightened up and circled around to stand in front of him. She could still see him covered in blood; she could hear the shell shocked tone as he choked out his daughter’s name. “She misses you.”

“I can’t…”

“Don’t you dare give me that,” her eyes narrowed in a glare. She plucked her phone from his hand and pressed the call button. Holding the phone to her ear she told Bonnie to get Hope.

“Pull her out of class?”

“Yes,” Caroline nodded. She passed back the phone when she heard small feet entering her office.

“Hello?”

His throat clenched at the sound of her voice. The innocent curiosity was in stark contrast with the terror that had burst from her lips. It reminded him of the day he had taught her how to mix paint.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sweetheart,” his fingers curled tightly around the phone.

“Dad?”

Caroline could practically see the puckering of Hope’s lips and the vulnerability in her eyes. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that father and daughter shared the same facial expression. Stepping away from him she moved outside and perched on the edge of the fountain to wait.

++++

“You left me,” she held the phone in both hands. She had wanted the words to sound angry, accusatory, but she seemed to be stuck on sadness; it weighed heavily on her chest and behind her eyes. She didn’t notice when Bonnie left the room.

“I had to, Hope.”

“That’s what Caroline said,” she sniffled.

“It’s the truth. Had there been another option I would have taken it, but we had to get the Hollow out of you.”

“That’s what mom said,” she stared at her plaid skirt. Catching her toe on the desk she spun the chair back and forth in a half circle. “You stopped calling.”

The anger that had fallen under the blanket of sadness reared its head causing a candle to light on the desk and the flame to raise six inches into the air.

“I didn’t think you would want to hear from me after what happened. I’m sorry, sweetheart I should have called you much sooner.”

She agreed before falling quiet. Her eyes locked on the candle flame now at a respectable height. She wanted to tell him she missed him.

“Are you coming back?”

“I can’t do that Hope.”

“Then I can come to you,” she sat up.

“Hope, you can’t come to me, sweetheart. We can’t be anywhere near each other.”

“But…”

“I can’t see you ever again, Hope. If I do the Hollow could take hold of you again.”

“I don’t care about the stupid Hollow,” she cried. The flame sputtered higher and higher when he repeated his previous statement.

++++

“I can’t be near you, Hope.” His heart wrenched painfully when her sobs echoed over the line, and for a moment he was back in the courtyard stealing one last look at the child he would never again see.

“I love you,” he disconnected the call before her tears could draw him to Mystic Falls. He stared at the hunk of glass and plastic for a long moment before curling his hand into a fist.

Blood dripped from the cuts on his hand and from his knuckles when he punched the pillar hard enough to create a series of cracks. His fist collided with the stone again and again until a slim hand wrapped around his forearm.

Caroline pulled him into her arms. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she tucked his head into the crook of her neck. She made no comment on the choked sounds rising in his throat or the tremors shaking his body.

Her eyes fell to his bloodied hand when she let him go.

“Did you crush my phone?” She bent and picked up a bloody piece of plastic, rolling her eyes when he rubbed the back of his neck. “Good thing I got the extended warranty.”

tag list: @rissyrapp20 @elejah-wonderland @elejahforever @eternityunicorn

#who are you fic #elena gilbert #elijah mikaelson #elejah #caroline forbes #klaus mikaelson #klaroline #hope mikealson #fanfic #tvd #to

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dreadhaus-literature · 5 years

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{Valentine’s Collection} #3

“I always thought marriage was a dead end, but…with you, I think it’s worth a shot.”

Tony Stark’s words might have gotten lost to the wind if it weren’t for Monica always listening for him. Around them, the park’s lights twinkled and winked against the dark night sky, and Monica would have been surprised at the lack of people if she hadn’t the suspicion that her incredibly rich boyfriend hadn’t rented the entire city park for their date tonight. Beneath the wooden bridge, inky black water babbled as brooks tend to do, lending an almost musical backdrop to the melancholy of Tony’s admission, and it was telling he wasn’t looking at Monica as he’d said it. He was staring out over the stream, his expressive brows furrowed, his eyes seeing not the water, but a past memory that still stung as if it were fresh and bleeding, still. Without hesitation, Monica placed her small hand over Tony’s on the bridge’s banister, and after a moment his fingers closed over hers, trapping her fingers against his palm.

“It isn’t even about the playboy thing,” Tony continued as if he hadn’t paused, shaking his head. “You know me better than that, you know I was filling a void--or trying to, rather unsuccessfully, which is why there’s more names in my past than the guest list to one of my parties.”

Monica laughed softly. Tony’s past might bother others but it didn’t bother her, not when he’d never given her a reason to not trust him, or to doubt him. The moment they’d met that life seemed to fall away for him, so that she got the full brunt of Tony’s attention--and the man, despite having so much on his plate, had a lot of attention to give. Monica had always had all of it.

“It was because I thought my mom, she was trapped with my dad.” Tony’s abrupt end to his sentences were sometimes jarring, but Monica understood it was his mind processing at the speed of light, compartmentalizing his emotions so that he was always one step ahead of even himself--that was how he stayed on top. “That wedding ring on her finger might as well have been a handcuff with a chain on it, keeping her inside our house when she deserved better. And I always told myself, I was never going to do that to someone.”

Tony’s past was not a secret to Monica--not many knew his father was abusive, and it wasn’t because Tony was some secretive person. The entire world knew he was Iron Man, after all. Tony just didn’t use it as a crutch, he never used it as an excuse even when it could have been one, like when he was struggling with his alcoholism. Monica could remember his lowest points, when she found him on his bathroom floor, crying openly because he’d failed again, the broken bottle of scotch mixing blood and alcohol because Tony had been force-fed alcohol since he was a child and that was the only coping mechanism he knew. She’d sat on that floor with his head in her lap, his arms so tight around her waist she could hardly breathe and she’d listened to him drunkenly make not excuses, but promises that he’d be the better man, next time--and they weren’t empty. Tony’s climb from the bottom of the mountain was slippery, not even the Tony Stark was perfect and of course he slipped but who didn’t? Monica didn’t blame him, she couldn’t, because he always tried. He did what he promised and he only did it because of her.

“You haven’t trapped me in a relationship, Tony.” Monica moved beneath the hollow of his broad shoulder, felt him shift so that he was standing behind her, his hands on either side of her on the wooden banister.

“Yes I have, but it’s different. This is because I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else, and I can’t stand the thought of waking up without you tomorrow.” Tony lowered his dark head, pressing a kiss to her cheek, before resting his against hers. “I wanted to propose to you the day I met you. If I had been the man I am now, I would have, but I knew you deserved better.”

Monica laughed, again, shaking her head slightly as she leaned back against his strong chest. She could faintly feel the heat of his arc reactor against her bare shoulder, her designer dress showing off tantalizing views of her because Tony adored showing her off.

“I’m...not at all surprised by that, but I guess I am surprised you managed to avoid your impulses long enough to wait.”

Tony chuckled. “It wasn’t easy. I still bought a ring that day.”

Monica shook her head again, her tummy flipping at that revelation.

“Did you know that was five yeas ago today?”

Monica tipped her head up, meeting his gaze. “R-Really? Five years ago, today?”

“You asked what the occasion was when I asked you out on this date, and I sort of lied.” Tony took his hands off the banister, moving them over Monica’s hips to turn her to face him--but he didn’t release his hold. “Sweetheart, have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

Monica blushed prettily under the street lamps lining the bridge and the adjacent sidewalks, lowering her gaze. “At least twenty times tonight.”

“Only twenty? That’s unacceptable.” Tony lowered his head, unable to stop himself kissing those painted lips, savoring the fullness with a deep noise of contentment. “You always taste like candy.”

“T-Tony, focus,” Monica’s shaky fingers came up to his lapel, raising her gaze to his. “You said you lied, about tonight?”

“I told you it was just because i wanted to show you off, like always, that I didn’t need a special occasion to spoil my favorite girl in the world but tonight, I did.” Tony didn’t allow her to look away, chasing her gaze with his when she couldn’t stand the intensity. “You’ve been by me through so much, Monica. Through things you didn’t have to. And I realized the reason I wasn’t a good enough man to marry you the day I met you is because I needed you to help me become that man.”

Monica wanted to argue she thought Tony was an incredible man, had been from the moment they met and he would continue to be incredible without her--but she knew better. Tony would derail the entire conversation to argue with her because he didn’t allow her to put herself down or diminish what she did for him. Tony was not shy about anything and he was not shy about ensuring she, and anyone else who would listen, knew that the reason he got through his battle with alcoholism, his struggles with PTSD, the reason he was a stable man who could be an Avenger and still run a billion-dollar corporation was because of her. She made sure he ate, she made sure he slept, she ensured his work spaces were clean and they shared a therapist--because for all the help Monica gave to Tony, he did the same for her. Tony moved heaven and earth and spent what money he needed to spend to ensure she had the help she needed for her depression. Their living floor in Stark Tower was fitted with special UV amplifying windows that flooded the penthouse with vitamin D from the sun itself, providing Monica with a little extra boost of literal sunshine for her low days. The therapist they both saw was exclusive to them, on call 24/7 for when Monica needed her, and JARVIS monitored Monica every minute of every day so that Tony could always, always know how she was and when she needed him. Tony would, and had, left business meetings and Avengers duties alike when Monica needed him, showing her time and time again that he put her above everything else in the world--because as far as Tony was concerned, there wasn’t anything else in the world more important than she was.

“You couldn’t possibly know this, but I told myself I’d give you some time to decide I’m too much of a mess and try to leave. If you did, I wouldn’t propose--I wouldn’t let you leave, so don’t go getting any ideas,” Tony raised his dark brows, and despite the gravity of his words it made Monica giggle. “But if you thought you couldn’t live with me exclusively I wouldn’t ask you to marry me.”

Monica fiddled with Tony’s tie, the designer cut of his suit enough to nearly distract her completely. Tony always complimented her, most times overly so, but he was definitely no slouch and Monica found him so attractive sometimes he was hard to look at. As if sensing her thoughts, Tony dipped his head to give her another chaste but loving kiss.

“Still, you stayed. The anniversary of the day we first met is today, and you’re still here with me, five years later. If that’s not a sign, well--actually, you know what, forget I said that.” Tony shook his head. “If Strange finds out I’m believing in signs I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Monica giggled. “I might have to tell him.”

“Don’t you dare.” Tony gave her a playful look of warning. “If I have to start listening to him, I’m going to make you do the same.”

“I...like listening to Stephen.”

“Stephen? You call him Stephen? You call him Doctor--actually no you don’t address him at all.” Tony shook his head again as if to slam that door closed.

Tony’s jealousy fits could rival a five year old’s and Monica would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t like making him a teeny bit jealous, just so he’d be extra needy and she could kiss it all better.

“Then what do I do when he calls me?”

“He calls you?” Tony’s incredulous tone was laced with bitter jealousy and a tint of agitation. “I’m going to hurl him and his magic labcoat into a volcano in the Savage Land.”

“It’s a cloak, not a labcoat, and Tony don’t be ridiculous,” Monica cupped his cheeks, turning him back to face her because he absolutely was about to go kick down Stephen’s front door. She was definitely not going to tell him that...Stephen did call her. That hadn’t been a joke. “What were you saying about signs?”

Tony was calmed, placated immediately at the soft touch of Monica’s fingers on his face and he gave her that heart-stopping smile, his fingers gripping a little tighter along her waist, obviously possessive even though there wasn’t a soul around to see--he didn’t care. He did it for himself.

“I’m saying I love you, Monica. I loved you the first moment I saw you. I knew then it was going to be you forever, whether or not you ever agreed to spend the rest of your life with me...” Tony slowly lowered himself to one knee, Monica’s hands slipping from his cheeks to cover her cheeks as he moved one hand from her waist to the pocket of his suit. He slipped a small velvet box from the pocket, opening it to reveal an engagement ring that had to cost more than what most people paid for their entire homes. The diamond in the center was cut and shaped like Tony’s triangular arc reactor, and Monica would find this anniversary date was engraved on the inside of the ring band--proof that Tony had bought it the day he’d met her. “...But I still hope you’ll agree. I still hope even if you can’t, that you’ll wear the ring anyway.”

Monica couldn’t speak around the emotion trapped in her throat, tears already threatening to spill down her cheeks.

“Monica, will you marry me?” Tony held up the ring box, his hand moving from her hip to reach for her left hand. Without a word she nodded, tears spilling over dark lashes like stars across the night sky; she put her shaking hand in his and he immediately pressed a kiss to her fingers, right over her ring finger. Deftly, he slipped the ring from it’s box and onto her finger and with the weight there, Monica felt her physical tie to Tony--the first of many, as he stood to claim her mouth.

The kiss was full of love and passion, of promises of forever because Tony meant what he’d said. Even if Monica couldn’t have agreed to be his bride she would always be the love of his life, the one he was hopelessly, helplessly devoted to because he owed her everything--his fame, fortune, his recovery, and yes, his life. His strong arms slipped around her waist, near crushing her to him as she kissed him back, and he could feel the cold band of her ring against his cheek as she cupped his face and returned the love he was pouring into her. This day would always be the most significant to Tony; it was the day he met Monica, the woman who gave his life meaning and brought him back from the brink of all things dark and unhealthy. It was now also the day she’d agreed to be beside him always, the most meaningful gift to a man most would argue already had the world.

Now, Tony would agree. Now, he had the world.

#{theme} : for monica #{collection} : 14 days of valentine's #{character} : tony stark #{ used my love by sia for inspo }#{ one of my favorite love songs }#{ really think it shines through for this piece }#{ was extremely nice to write }

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meganspoetry · 6 years

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The Tree

This was my entry to the HG Wells Young Writers’ Competition but probably because I wrote it all the day I needed to submit it, it wasn’t shortlisted. I know this is a poetry blog but I guessed some people might be interested in writing as a whole and want to read my prose as well!

The overall theme is 'peace'. It contains a beach, feminist ideals, a cafe inspired by a Tumblr post, 'tis lowkey the story of a lesbian relationship (they were meant to be friends, I swear), a really cool tree and some overcomplicated metaphors. Hope you like it.

TW; death, anxiety/ panic attacks

The tree stood atop the hill like an empress, but bent with the wind like one of her slaves. It was adorned with garments – jewellery, scarves and jackets were wrapped around its branches like bandages, willing offerings from those who owned it. Those two lay beneath it, staring up at the sky; shrouded with wisps of cloud, it had been purged of any blue, and was white; one pale, unseeing eye-socket staring blindly – and most importantly, without judgement – above them. Both had their eyes closed, their lashes casting spidery shadows across their cheekbones in the greying sunlight. Curled in circles, like foetuses, the mistresses of the tree fell asleep in the warmth and shade of their privacy.

Dylan remembered when she had first found the tree. It had been an accident – but then, many great things had been discovered by accident. Like penicillin.

It was the day that her grandfather had died. Dylan had hated her grandfather, and had not expected to mourn him. She remembered, vaguely, him moving about when she was little, but since she had been eleven he had been in his chair. Somehow he had gradually shrunken into it, as part of the mahogany as it had been of him, until she only really viewed the man as an extension of his seat. From his corner he had creaked and groaned and grumbled about whatever had irritated his sensitive fancies, and somehow – perhaps because he had gotten to the stage where he was partly ornament – she resented his presence in the house as an encroachment. Or, perhaps, the opposite – she felt that she was intruding in her own house, and he was as part of it as the furniture. Neither her parents nor her grandfather had space for anger or stress – or humanity, really – in a daughter; in their home they wanted to unleash their own emotion, not deal with hers. So upset was met with anger and stress with punishment, until Dylan knew her home not as a safe space but really as a second school.

Home and school. Home and school. Dylan was only fifteen. She knew there was life beyond those two things, and should she squint she could see a long, winding, gold-paved path ahead, one that led to light and laughter and greater things. But at fifteen, life was a relentless monochromatic monotony of home and school.

“At least he’s at peace,” her mother had said. Dylan had held her tongue. Death did not seem like peace, at least to her; her grandfather was no angel. She could not see him amongst meringue clouds, strumming a heavenly harp, but she was not quite sure if the old man really deserved Hell. She could see him there, though, thrashing and flailing as scorching tongues held him like chains, their burning tendrils snaked around his ankles, screaming and howling and cursing to the end. Although, the less spiritual side of Dylan imagined perhaps a more rational eventuality; lying in a wooden box, motionless, decomposing. Even then she could not imagine her grandfather’s death as any kind of sleep, but a fitful, reluctant rest, his eyes awake and staring behind his closed lids. He was not a peaceful person and dying would not change that.

You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, something, perhaps a conscience, said to her.

Perhaps it was the rigidity and the routine of it all that Dylan missed, because really she could think of nothing pleasant the miserable old man in the chair had brought, but she felt the loss when she looked at the empty chair all the same. Somehow her morning rung hollow without his harsh rasp of a voice there. It was with this dreary inconvenient sense of having something taken from her which accompanied her to school – no sadness, no grief, just an irritation that life had stolen something from her – and it came out in her eyes, in her words, in her tone. And her teachers – who were all aware of “the circumstances”, no doubt – abandoned yet another expected part of life: getting in trouble. All they had to offer were voices and words which were the verbal equivalent of a tablespoon of Golden Syrup being jammed down her throat, and Dylan hated it. The sun had lurked in the darkness, but had pounced like some great cat at lunchtime, roaring with an unexpected burst of blinding light and sudden stifling heat … Dylan had found voices and music and clinking cutlery annoying her, and she was sweating, and she was hot, and she was uncomfortable … her eyes slid and shuddered out of focus, she closed them and opened them again – it was dark … it was light … she could feel blood pumping behind her eyes – and suddenly her mind felt like it was concaving, collapsing, caged in on itself and ready to break; she could imagine it, her skull folding in on itself like paper, brain and blood, the cells a sad grey lump beside blood and shards of skull. Red wine and fine china.

It was too much. She had left school, and walked. Across the coast, through some woods. It hadn’t been a long walk, maybe thirty minutes, before she came to the clearing. It was a wide green square of grass; not grass like on lawns, preened and pruned into little lime soldiers standing straight and moist, but yellow tangles of plant that scratched at her legs. The hill was not much more than a bump, so she climbed it to look for the shade that the branches of the tree would offer, and it was then that she noticed the necklace.

It was a gold heart. Plain, simplistic, typical, but expensive; the sort of gift you’d get for a loved one you didn’t actually know that well. Dylan had stared at the chain, and then she had found herself pulling off her scarf and wrapping it around the branch too. It was an expensive scarf, silk, that her grandfather had given her.

“It was your grandmother’s,” he had said, “and now it is for you. Do you like it?”

Dylan had said she liked it, and thanked him.

“I didn’t think you would. You aren’t a woman of much taste,” was all he had said. And then he had turned away.

Her grandfather had not been a fan of denim, or plaid, or the colour mustard, or Doc Marten boots, or high-waisted jeans, or stripes, or suits on women, and when Dylan had cut her hair above her jaw his ancient pumping heart had been aghast. Dylan had somewhat liked the scarf, enjoying the wet luxury of the silk and the crimson hue, but his remark had made liking it feel like a burden. Allowing the tree to take the boulder wrapped around her neck made her feel better.

Dylan had stayed underneath the tree, within its protection, until the evening, once its shadow had crawled into the shade eclipsing the whole field. Within the grass there were blotches of colour – daisies and poppies – and though her vision was speckled with sunlight for part of the day, she found she rather enjoyed the heat when she wasn’t trapped inside a box of a room. The buzz of the crickets and the susurrus of the leaves made for far less irritating background noise than populated areas, and she found the hours spiralling away, some endless curled golden ribbon in an eternal swirl that looped back and around and endlessly. Hour after hour was ate by the grass and the sky and the crickets, her phone leaping to catch up every time she had the inclination to check it; from four to six, from six to eight.

It wasn’t until eight that she realised now was the time to search for her home. She found it, eventually, and an extremely infuriated mother, who burst into tears when Dylan told her she didn’t have her grandfather’s scarf anymore.

Dylan could not bring herself to regret it or retrieve it. Leaving the scarf behind had made something settle. She felt at peace.

Two days later Dylan returned to her tree to find that the gift of her scarf had been reciprocated. It was a somewhat matronly white dress, with ballooning sleeves and a skirt of ludicrous length, the cream already marred and dirtied by however long it had been in the field. With it was a piece of paper, thoroughly challenged by the elements, but when Dylan picked it up she could make out the words.

Have you ever had to wear something you didn’t want to?

The handwriting was large, smooth and curved and extravagant, with hearts instead of dots over the I’s. Dylan had not brought a pen but she returned the next day with the dress her mother had made her wear to a cousin’s wedding rather than her preferred suit. It was a cold purple and so tight it made her gulp for breath and waddle like a duck, and so uncomfortably low-cut that she had spent the evening nervously adjusting it. With it were the cruelly painful shoes she had worn, the lack of platform and stiletto heels meaning she had come away limping with bruised and cracked soles.

The response was a demure pair of ivory shoes, propped by their kitten heels over the branches.

Over the next few months the tree became a tossing cupboard for all that disturbed them. The person who had hung the necklace hung two more – a black choker that looked like a belt, and a thick gold cross, as well as several scarves and a thick woollen jumper. One day Dylan came to see Malory Towers by Enid Blyton beneath the tree, and once GCSE exams were over Dylan – as she victoriously hung her school blazer – noticed a stack of exercise books and textbooks strewn and ripped over the branches.

So they had to be the same age as her, then. Sixteen – or perhaps fifteen still.

It was nature, she supposed, for curiosity to fester, smoulder, for her to want to know who left crosses and scarves and books, to want to know the story behind the choker belt, to want to know who wrote the notes. The questions were always little, yet large, obscure things. Do you have a book you want to dump? Don’t you want to get rid of your textbooks? Are you religious? Are you really religious, or is it expected of you? Some of the questions had gone unanswered, the paper wet and limp by the time she reached them, rain snatching the ink away.

It was nature as well, she supposed, that they’d eventually meet. The girl lounging beneath the tree lay like a cat, and when she saw Dylan approaching her eyebrows rose above her sunglasses. But she didn’t say anything.

Dylan tossed several books on the Study of Law beneath the tree, and sat down. Somehow she felt as if she knew the girl, by knowing the things that disturbed her peace.

She was blonde, and very unlike Dylan. In the winter Dylan guessed her skin would be pale, but as it was it was tanned and smattered with freckles. She was very pretty, so pretty Dylan felt a tinge of jealousy and a wave of attraction, with full lips and big eyes with eyelashes that would be long even if they hadn’t been combed through with mascara. She was wearing makeup, and a lot of it, though it was well done, and her eyes were green; her shirt was red and cropped and her shorts denim and fraying above her thighs, and her shoes were wedges; but what Dylan was immediately drawn to were criss-crossed knots of scarred skin along her forearms and inner thighs, and that her eyeliner was smudged with wetness around her eyes.

The girl smiled softly, shyly, and Dylan got the sudden impression that this was not how the girl smiled at most people. She understood that. When she smiled, she had to pretend that nothing hung on the tree existed or bothered her, but the smile she had just received was a smile of acknowledgement that Dylan knew the soft spots already.

She introduced herself as Cassandra, Cassie for short.

Two of the necklaces, Dylan learnt, had been gifts from Cassie’s ex-boyfriend. She had always hated the choker. The buckle made her feel like she was on a leash, a dog, and perhaps it stung because it was true. He had given her the heart as a make-up gift after a fight, but in the end Cassie had hung it up on the tree and broke up with him over text message. He had been angry and her family were on his side, but Cassie had thought it was about time she was on hers.

The third one – the cross – was a gift from her mother.

“I’m Catholic,” Cassie had said, when Dylan asked. “Like, really Catholic – as in, I would be if my mum didn’t make me. But it’s like I have to constantly prove to them how dedicated and devoted I am. The crucifix doesn’t say Jesus to me, it says expectations.” Her eyes slid to it, consciously or subconsciously, and rested there. “So I hung it up on the tree. What about your scarf?”

“My grandfather gave it to me. He didn’t think I’d like it. It’s like – I’m expected to go against everything they say and like and do, because I’m different. They don’t see anything in between miniature models of them and hating everything they stand for.” Dylan grabbed the scarf off the branch and pulled, pulled tight, hoping the threads would come unravelled and the thing would tear. “I was expected to be the perfect girl. And now I’m not, I’m expected to be the opposite of it.”

Cassie’s mouth sloped into a grin. “The perfect girl,” she repeated. “Girls who don’t have to have dresses picked for them by their mothers.” Her eyes had reached the white gown now. “Perfect girls don’t wear low-cut dresses and high heels.”

Dylan’s eyes had gone in the opposite direction to the purple one. “Or perhaps they do.”

What perfect girls do is obey. Conform. Acquiesce.

It was left unsaid.

“You come to the tree often,” Cassie remarked. She was wearing a white sundress, today, the neckline cut in a triangle to reveal slices of tanned breast.

“It’s where I get my peace.”

“Nowhere else?” Cassie’s eyebrows slid into a slight frown. She was open, exposed, in her face; everything she thought a twitch of the nose or brows or lips would reveal. Cassie, somehow, had never learnt to pull her lips shut or her eyes blank like Dylan believed was necessary.

“Why, do you have another place?”

Cassie looked up, startled. “Of course. Peace is everywhere. You just have to know what to look at.”

Dylan felt her lower lip curve into a smile, the edge of a sardonic blade. “Is that so?”

“Of course some places seem more peaceful than others. Like here. But we don’t know. Someone’s probably been murdered here.” Cassie tore up some grass with pointed red fingernails. “Lots of people, actually. It’s a desolate heath.” She turned to look at Dylan, properly this time, seriously. “There’s no such thing as a truly peaceful place. You just have to ignore the bad things. Real peace-“ and she tapped her head – “is in the mind.”

“Okay, Doctor,” said Dylan, sarcastically.

Cassie smiled a smile as uneven and knotted as her scars. “Of course, I’m not really qualified to give advice. My mind is never at peace – but then, I wonder if there’s any such thing as a truly peaceful mind, either.” She crossed her legs. “If you want, I’ll take you to my peaceful places.”

Cassie’s first peaceful place was a café. It was a tiny little shop, long and narrow, the outside painted lilac. The walls and shelves were lined with rows of clocks. They all ticked together, as one, and it was oddly comforting, like one whole consistent regular heartbeat.

As they passed the clocks Dylan noticed the times were all different. She wondered if any were correct and, if they were, in what part of the world. The timelessness had her suddenly reminded of her first evening under the tree, where the peace had seemed to swallow time.

Peace isn’t sentient, said a voice that sounded like Cassie’s. Peace is in your mind.

Lunch there was quiet but not awkward, and they ate and laughed and didn’t bother about what time it was. Dylan’s mother was upset, again, when she came home late, and demanded to know which friend Dylan had been with, despite not knowing Cassie anyway. Dylan felt her anger leap to the surface, a lion or a lynx, a smouldering fire gasping and pleading to be ignited, but somehow green eyes and freckles faded her vision and she found herself dousing her mind in cold water.

She didn’t snap at her mother like she was inclined to. Not at first. But she had followed, demanding answers, demanding names, and when Dylan could not even produce a phone number she had insisted the whole story was lies. Dylan hated the sense of injustice she felt when wrongly accused, hated how it made her furious and devastated at the same time, hated that her mother had so little faith, trust, belief in her. And so her lynx reared its furred head and unleashed its gaping jaw and anger tumbled out, crimson and burning, an incessant relentless fury strumming through her-

And Dylan shouted back.

Dylan could feel her anger like a pile of stones. Some pebbles, little rocks, and then boulders. She knew it wouldn’t be long before the next rockslide.

She longed for some peace, some quiet, some respite, but she had essentially been a prisoner since she had shouted at her mother. It had been two weeks but still no peace, no tree, no Cassie, and she missed all three. She wondered how Cassie was doing without her. Never had she met someone so vulnerable and so strong.

Fires devoured and destroyed with a terrible fury, she reminded herself, but they could be doused with water.

Cassie was curled up beneath the tree, her head bowed between her legs. She could feel her panic rising, like a river or a lake, constant rain like wet ropes uncoiling from the sky, until the level rose and rose and rose until there was nowhere to go but overflow-

Acidic heat scorched behind her eyes. She could feel unwanted tears welling, uncontrollable breaths heaving, unexpected upset spiking; her hands were shaking, her pupils were dilating, and she could feel little whimpers, tiny outbreaks of breath, pushing past her lips.

Why did Dylan not come?

Cassie knew there were machines designed to never stop running, but minds were not meant to run like machines. She could feel her cogs and gears turning, and it brought fatigue and bitterness but mostly panic. Dylan no longer liked her… Dylan was a figment of her imagination … Dylan had been hit by a bus …

Cassie scrabbled at the tree bark when her breathing sped up further. It was now desperate gulps of breath, drowning not in water but in the scenarios her own mind had created … she wanted quiet, she wanted silence, she wanted peace …

She lay there, sobbing, shaking, her stomach cramping and contracting in the aftermath of her tears, until late – so late she remembered she had to be home. When she came there the next morning there was a quick note in Dylan’s careless, spiky handwriting. She had seized her chance late at night; there was a quick summary of the situation, but, most valuably, a phone number.

Their relationship had been either lowered to reality or transcended the tree. Regardless, there was an undeniable connection, now – something real, something physical, something as tangible and everyday but nevertheless imperative as a phone number. They were not two estranged girls linked by loneliness and a tree. They were friends, perhaps more, but Cassie did not think they were less.

They had texted since, but minimally. Dylan decided that texting seemed too typical, too detached; not right, not right for a relationship that had begun at such a high and such a low. It was too conventional, and somehow too intimate and yet not enough. They had agreed to meet up again, this time at another peaceful place and, at Cassie’s encouragement, the permission of Dylan’s mother.

The second peaceful place was on the beach, a cove seemingly cleansed of all other human existence. Dylan wore her bikini top but a pair of “boys” swimming shorts because she always felt uncomfortable in the bikini ones, and Cassie wore a sleeveless strip of white on her top and a similar set-up on the bottom, and neither of them judged the other. They ended up in the sea until Dylan saw Cassie’s left arm recoil like a muscled snake from the salt water, and brought her back to the tide to collect shells. She didn’t mention why, but she knew that Cassie knew that she had noticed, and was grateful for it.

Dylan saw themselves blurred in the water – beautiful Cassie and then herself, with her short dark hair and sloping nose and dark eyes, and then looked back at their bodies wrapped in their swimming costumes. They seemed achingly and jarringly and physically real, wet and caked in sand, and then there was suddenly lips on her own. She was not sure how they had got there, if it had been her that had come to Cassie or the other way round, but now it was an entirely equal situation; a tug-of-war, but Dylan didn’t know whether she was enticing Cassie forward or hopelessly drawn to her. There were hard planes of bone and muscle but soft stomachs and thighs and breasts, and there were legs and arms and hair, and there was sand and sea and it wasn’t really peace, not quite, it was something like champagne or laughter, a whirlwind of excitement with it, but her mind went blank and unworried like it did when she was just beneath her tree.

Maybe peace didn’t have to be passive. Just nice.

Afterwards she was peaceful too, lazy and satisfied, so when her eyes finally found Cassie’s and saw her panicking, it struck her like sea spray. Cassie’s eyes were darting nervously, the green blurred grey with brimming tears, and she was rubbing her left arm and right thigh forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, into the harsh ridges of the stone and sand.

“Are you upset?” she asked.

Cassie looked up at her with eyes of sea-coloured terror. “It’s not you-“

“I know.” A beat. “What is it?”

Cassie looked up to the sky, as if to her God, and laughed a laugh that sounded nothing like joy. It was if she had spat bitterness and panic up to the air. When she lay back down, her chest was heaving.

“Don’t you worry? About what people will say? About what people will do?” She was drawing frantic circles into the sand. “I try not to. But I worry all the time. Anxiety steers my brain. I worry about what I’ve said, about what other people have said, I imagine them saying things behind my backs. I worry about things I could have done and get embarrassed or upset about what might have been. And this – this! It happened, it really did happen, and people will say things. They will.”

Dylan rolled over to look into the sky through Cassie’s pupils. “We could pretend,” she said. “Lots of people do that. We could meet up like we’re just friends.”

Even as she said it, she knew Cassie wouldn’t. She was bold, authentic, frank and freckled and Cassie. Cassie hated to change clothes she liked because she couldn’t stand the notion of ‘appropriate.’ Dylan was surely more than clothes.

“I won’t do that. You know that.” Cassie’s voice was angry, but angrier with the world than with Dylan. “Don’t you ever get scared?”

“Peace is in the mind,” Dylan teased. She fell back on her elbows. “You can’t be at peace if you’re constantly in fear,” she said, and her tone had a sudden soft slant to it that she was surprised to hear. She had never been particularly kind.

Cassie rolled over so all Dylan could see was blonde hair and tanned back and sandy legs. She couldn’t see Cassie smile, but she knew she was.

Dylan thought about the way Cassie had taught herself to regulate breaths and limit cuts when her mind went unconscious. She thought about how she tried to keep her anger under control and thoughts to herself. She thought about how clinking cutlery could break her, how Cassie could be in tears because she thought that someone’s tone was wrong. She thought that peace was in the mind. Maybe the mind had to be taught it.

Beneath the tree peace was learnt. Dylan brought a meditation CD of her mothers and an ancient player out to the tree, and they learnt to close their eyes and keep their breathing steady when anger roared or fear screamed. Cassie moved from throwing out her razor to scratching her nails against her thighs to snapping a hairband against her wrists to colouring in her thighs with markers to days and months and years clean. Dylan learnt to swallow shouts and retorts, quiet the voice in her head that howled to be offended, angered, and got a punching bag and took up boxing instead. Her grandfather would have been scandalised.

Of course the mind, however formidable, could not survive on its own. There were GP appointments, and counselling sessions, and medication. But the courage to grasp those things took its own kind of mental strength.

Even when Cassie and Dylan moved onto light and laughter and greater things, the tree stood, some grand pariah on top of its hill, nothing more than a shadow against the sky in the right light. Its branches were spread like limbs, like some martyr ready to shoulder their burdens, nothing more than branches and rags and pages whipped about by the wind until they were eventually snatched away.

But that evening, they were only girls, babies, curled up in circles like foetuses, and the tree stood above them like a mother rocking her children in their shadow. It was warm but cool and they were tired but happy, and the sun shone and their lashes turned into shadows on their cheekbones once they had closed their eyes.

Word Count: 4,465

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thelostcatpodcast · 5 years

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THE LOST CAT PODCAST TRANSCRIPTS: SEASON 4: THE HOLLOW CITY: EPISODE 09

SEASON 4: THE HOLLOW CITY: EPISODE 09

Episode released 7th December 2018

http://thelostcat.libsyn.com/season-4-the-hollow-city-episode-9

Allow me to jump forwards in time: 24 hours, in fact, to the next night. We find Lisica stood in the same spot on the edge of the Bottomless Lake, in the Weeping Park.

Beneath the lake the Hollow Leaders’ palace, above the lake the grey tower of the Fillers. Practically on top of each other, and both working with each other to crush the Hollow People.

And her eyes are set like stones. Her make up an angry smear of black across her face. She is not laughing anymore.

She has a gathering bag over one shoulder, dripping. Over the other a heavy rucksack, full to the brim with all sorts of things, and with wires peeking out from the zip. She holds in her hand a small electronic control device.

She has been busy these last 24 hours.

But what has Lisica been doing? Well:

THE LOST CAT PODCAST SEASON 4, BY A P CLARKE: THE HOLLOW CITY: EPISODE 9

This is what she had done in the24 hours since her conversation with the head of the Filler organisation.

She went down in to the Hollow City. She had to gather her allies. She had to warn everyone. But as she approached the first guards she met, they refused to let her past.

“I am just returning with business in the city, friends.”

“No further, Ma’am.”

“I am under direct orders of Dr Uremides.”

“He said you’d say that. Ma’am.”

She made sure they rested comfortably after she was done with them, and then carried on.

She had to sneak the rest of the way to the hospital. She had no problem with sticking to shadows, and, as it happens, that area suffered strange blackouts of its lighting system all that day.

She found the room where Bowen was recovering quickly. He was bruised beyond belief, but he moved. A woman sat by the bed, facing away, gently holding one of his battered, scarred, hands.

Bowen noticed Lisica, and tried to sit up.

The woman turned around. She wore a dark red scarf around her head, covering bandages from a recent surgery, and wore large, dark glasses.

She said, “Lisica!”

Lisica moved past her to talk to Bowen.

“I have so much to warn you about. Nothing you have been told is true. Now where is the Ghost. I have to warn her too.”

“Lisica,” said the woman. “Lisica,” and she took off her glasses. “I am the ghost.”

And Lisica stared in to the woman’s eyes and stopped short as she saw the truth. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. Now imagine what they are for Hollows. And her eyes, dark and wild, were the Ghost’s eyes. And the eyes fit in to this face. Not too large, not too small: they were hers. The line of red around the edges of her eyes, all raw and new, told the story of the recent surgery to place them back in her head, as a single tear of blood leaked and fell down her cheek.

And her movement was more smooth in this body. More natural. It was hers.

And it was a kind face. It showed care. And her eyes - the Ghost’s eyes - stared out of it.

Bowen sat up and when he spoke his voice sounded different. “Lisica? You should not be here. We were told you could have been compromised by the enemy.”

Lisica looked closely and could see that the whole lower part of his face was different now, and there was an ugly scar that ran straight across his chin and bit in to his lower lip

And Lisica recognised that scar, and in that moment Lisica knew.

For it was not his mouth. It was the mouth of the poor soldier Bernard who was killed two nights ago, out there on the Maze Roads, that she and the Ghost carried in to the hospital. Bowen’s face had been torn off as he escaped the headquarters, and so they just grafted on a new one.This was the story of Bowen. Every part taken from another, sewn in by Uremides when necessary.

A patchwork man, held together only by the needs of his leaders, not allowed to die.

“What have you done?”

“Please Lisica,” said the lady, looking imploringly. “Please”.

“What did you do to her? What did you do to the girl?”

“This is a war, LIsica. We are more than ourselves”

“No.”

“Who else would a child trust, but another child.”

Lisica ran from the room, leaving Bowen holding the woman’s hand.

The Ghost called after her. “I had to save the children.”

But Lisica was gone. To the one secret door that no-one could enter without the key around Dr Uremides’ neck.

It did not stand in her way for long.

Inside was dim and dense with incense. In the middle of that great cacophany of things, she stood very still, held her breath, and listened.

And, from somewhere below, she heard sobbing.

She went to the central table, checked the markings and scratches on the floor, and then pulled the table away. Beneath it was a trapdoor.

It opened smoothly, silently, and all was dark within. A stink of rotting came up from the hole. She dropped down in to it.

“Hello? Hello? This is me: Lisica. I am here to help.”

“Help me,” came a small voice from the darkness

“Where are you?”

“I do not know where I am. Help me?”

Lisica held up her flare.

“Come towards the light. I will find you.”

But the voice did not move. It only repeated: “Help me? Please, help me.”

Lisica walked in to the darkness towards the sound of the girl’s voice. She walked through the pitch black of the basement that seemed to stretch out in all directions. The light from the flare did not reach the walls. She passed indiscernible shapes as she moved deeper in, and the stench only became worse.

“Do not worry, I am coming. Keep talking to me.”

“I do not know what is going on. Help me.”

She came across a sticking pile of pale gathering bags, emptied but for blood. Bone Sister bags, gathering organs for Dr Uremides. She moved on.

“You are alright now. I am nearly there.”

And there she passed a pile of Hollow corpses, flattened like sacks, all of them missing some parts of themselves. She moved the flare over to it and saw the ruined face of the soldier Bernard, with the whole of the bottom half of his face gone. She moved on.

And still the sobbing came from deeper in.

And, in the darkness of the far end of the room, she could make out a small figure, all in white, looking down to the floor, not moving.

“There you are, my little Ghost.”

And she ran towards the figure, and placed her hand gently on her frail shoulder.

The girl looked up, and where her eyes once were, were nothing but two holes, with angry red lines all around the wounds, and tears of blood dripping down her cheeks.

“Oh my Ghost.”

“Who am I?”

“I am so sorry.”

“I don’t know who I am.” said the Ghost. She said, “help me.”

And Lisica fell to her knees, and hugged the little ghost girl.

Later that day, out in the Hollow City, everyone was excitedly hurrying towards the central concourse, for the signal of the leaders had been called, and they all gathered beneath the balcony above the palace gates and spotlights lit up the banners and the shimmering water such that when the two leaders appeared, they were bathed in a sparkling light. And there was Barnabus, stout and hearty, full of energy and joy, with huge arm movements and smiles towards the crowd.

And there was Xavier, tall, poised, regal, with an almost supernatural air of dignity and authority around him, waving calmly and graciously to the people.

And the people loved them. The sense of belonging that was in the concourse. The sense of shared purpose. The loyalty. The Hollow People would follow these leaders anywhere.

Lisica moved through the crowd carefully. She saw the band of Feral Children off to one side and beckoned them to the space behind the sties where they would often gather to share their gains.

“Children,” Lisica said.

“You aint supposed to be here.”

“Says who?”

“Says the guards,” said one. They flicked their knives open. “Says us, maybe.”

Lisica levelled her sword on them so quickly they flinched. Then she laid it on the floor.

She said, “listen to me. You are all of you prisoners. The Hollow City is a cage. The best kind of cage. The kind you stay in voluntarily. You are all of you slaves.”

She told them that their great leaders, Barnabus and Xavier, were working with The Fillers.

She told them about Bowen, and what happens to soldiers.

She told them about the Ghost Girl, and sacrifices you think are justified by the cause.

She told them they had to get out. That they had to get everyone out. That this was the only way.

She said: “will you help me?”

And all of them replied: “Yes.”

She gave them directions to Uremides lab, and where the ghost girl lay.

“When you find her,” said Lisica. “Give her this.” And she held up Benjamin’s necklace. “Maybe it will help.”

“We will,” said the children.

“When you find her,” Lisica said. “Hold her close.”

And as the great leaders took their exits from the balcony to cheers, the Feral Children quietly made their way to the lab, and Lisica moved towards her exit

But just before she reached the exit, there, in the shadows of one corner, Bowen stood, propped up on The Ghost’s arm. The bruise coloration was leaving his skin with remarkable speed.

“How’d you find me, friend?”

“I am, at least, smart enough to do that.”

“Aye, you are.”

“I can not let you leave. My orders are to protect this city, from all threats.”

“You are in no condition to stop me, friend.”

“Nevertheless, this is my duty.”

What else could Bowen do? This is just how he was built, out of nothing but the soldiers who had fallen for the cause, trained for obedience, built for duty: the good soldier. She knew there was no turning him from his path, so could only prepare him.

So she stood up straight, and said this: “soldier, what is your duty?”

“My duty is to protect the city.”

“The Fillers will attack the Hollow City soon. They will strike with everything they have. Soldier,” she said, and Bowen stood to attention before her. “You have to defend The Hollow People. You have to give them as much time as you can.”

“I would die for them.”

And she said, “you already have.”

She turned to the ghost woman. “You can still get out.”

“I stay by his side.”

“Who even is he?”

The ghost woman leant in close and said, “I love him. My love is the only thing keeping him real. If I leave, the stitch that is my memory of him will unravel, and he will fall to pieces, and be gone forever. I am staying.”

And she said this, perhaps even sensing that her love was the only thing tying her to what ever real thing she once thought she was. In this way, she had as little choice as Bowen.

“Protect the people,” said Lisica, leaving the two soldiers in the darkened corridor. They let her go without another word.

In this way, she left the Hollow City.

And all through that day, all through the city overhead, there were reports of burglaries where no one could quite identify the thieves, other than that they seemed very young and had no distinguishing features they could remember.

A wholesale butchers was attacked, with a large amount of pigs’ organs stolen.

At a gardening centre, a truly impressive amount of fertiliser went missing.

At electronics stores, all across the city, all sorts of equipment was lifted.

At pharmacies, a fascinating cocktail of medicines were gone.

And so on. And so on.

And now, after night had fallen, we are back where we started, with Lisica standing on the far side of the Bottomless Lake, staring up at the tower of the Fillers’ organisation, taking in the subtle aroma of rust and cut grass, with a hint of tamarind.

She held up the small electronic control device.

She said “the path of the fire,” and pressed the button.

Dozens of barrels of home-made explosives exploded, all along the park side of the grey tower. The ground rumbled as many more exploded under the surface.

The lights flickered off in the tower, then alarms sounded out in the darkness. The gates opened and van upon van, filled with Fillers, swarmed out of the compound. The entire fleet.

Then deeper, slower rumbles rippled the surface of the Bottomless Lake, as foundations gave way and the grey tower began to topple forwards.

Lisica took a step back.

Floors after floor of the tower disappeared in to the lake, swallowed by the water, waves swept out in to the park. The water level rose and rose. More and more of the tower crashed and collapsed in to the bloating lake, shaking the entire park.

Until finally, a rumble lower than all the others rippled through the earth, as the weight and trauma of the collapse cracked the very rock beneath the lake and the water level suddenly dropped a foot, then six feet.

Then a tiny whirlpool formed at the centre of the lake, that picked up momentum and size, deepening all the time, swirling great hunks of masonry with it.

Then there was a great sucking pop, and a huge exhalation of air that sounded like the earth roaring.

A spume of water launched a hundred feet in to the air, and then the lake, bed, tower and all, collapsed down in to the empty space beneath.

Lisica risked a peak over, as the water of the lake tributaries started forming waterfalls over the lip, and chunks of land and tower continued to fall. Right at the bottom she could see the rippling surface of a newly forming lake, lapping up against the towers and minarets of the palace of Barnabus and Xavier, the Hollow Leaders.

She saw the water level of the new lake begin to rise, as the palace began to fill.

Lisica stepped up right to the edge, she put her mask to her face, snicked open her blade, then ran a bloodied finger down her face.

“I mark myself revolution, and nothing will be the same.”

And then she dove in.

THANK YOU FOR LISTENING.

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#cat #lost cat #lost cat podcast #the lost cat podcast #audio drama #audiodrama #podcast #transcript #horror #adventure #goth

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marauders70s · 7 years

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Thoughts of Ending It

If you read none of this drabble... you ALL need to read the note at the end.

Sirius couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t lingering somewhere in the back of his mind. When he was little he wanted to disappear so his parents couldn’t find him. When his dad lifted his wand he wanted it to be over quickly; when his mother drank her potions he secretly wanted her to stay asleep for good. When he got the inevitable Howler after being sorted into Gryffindor he wondered how high the tower really was. When his father kicked him out of the house, he was sure he’d be able to drink himself to death. When he showed up at the Potters he was sure he’d die of shame. When Mr. Potter died - so suddenly in their sixth year - Sirius thought of leaving. He had brought this on the family. James was tainted now like him. When Moony came back from his “missions” increasingly more battered Sirius considered going with him - just once - maybe to be bit or maybe to be shredded. When he heard the whispers of Godric’s Hollow going down, he half-hoped his motorcycle would plummet to the ground. When he dragged James from the rubble, he put his own wand to his temple until he saw the flash of red hair further down. When he unearthed Harry, the world stopped. The thoughts flew away, and for a painfully clear moment...he had something. Something stronger and purer than The End. “Give him here, Hagrid,” he croaked desperately as the half-giant gently wrested him from his arms. “I’m his godfather.” And then...the most realistic moment of his life: the perfect clarity that later the same godson would use to walk into the forest. “Take my bike then,” he said softly. “I won’t need it anymore.” The end was simple. He would be with James soon. Peter wouldn’t be. But he failed. The thoughts of all the times he almost ended it never quite stopped running through his mind in his cell. He heard the sharpening of stones in other cells; the gurgling of last breaths; the bashing of heads; the slow starvation. And it would be so, so easy. But Harry - the bright pure light in his mind - needed him. He couldn’t be with James until he had done his duty as godfather. And when the end came laughingly, sweetly, softly in the curtain; Sirius found he didn’t want it at all.

Remus thought the first time he would die. The pain was excruciating. He wet his pajamas; he vomited every morning. His mother wiped his face with a cool cloth; his tongue was swollen from the venom; the world span; his teeth ached; he was bleeding everywhere. That first transformation he had hoped it would kill him. He had hoped never to wake again, and that feeling never quite went away. The day his friends Found Out, he went up to the Owlery and looked down. Each new potion the matron made him drink as a test made him hesitate. Would this be the one that would kill him? Now that he had friends, a life outside of his illness; outside of his sick bed; outside of his mother not working and watching him grow thinner - now he didn’t want to die. Yet each time he drank a new potion before the transformation he changed his mind almost immediately. Let there be glass cutting up his insides for real. Let the end come quickly. Let the unconsciousness of the moon take him beyond the reach of his sanity. The day Severus found out, Remus went to his trunk quietly, firmly, and looked over his potions ingredients until Peter came and just as firmly closed the lid. Sirius and James were off doing something somewhere...probably trying to help in their own way. Upon graduation - the endless rejection letters from employers. The Werewolf Registry, like a criminal, like a pedophile. A few more cuts on his arms, and Sirius wouldn’t notice. But he always did. When he would come back to their flat after being with the Wild Ones - the werewolves who lived homeless, who sneered at his pitiful amount of a life even so - he wanted to sink into the tub and never resurface. Life was impossible. Insane. He wasn’t going to make it through the war, he was sure of that. And when he surfaced November 3rd 1981...hell had broken loose. It was wrong. He was angry. He screamed at Dumbledore. He went home to a sleeping draught carefully prepared and threw some more ingredients into it. He was just about to drink it when...where was Harry? Why wouldn’t Sirius have taken him? A note from Dumbledore came the next sleepless morning: I need your continued services. Remus had sighed. Well of course...he owed the headmaster so much already.

Peter was always being kicked around. In muggle primary, kids called him the “Oddball” because he was both fat and odd. He was rubbish at everything he knew, mostly because his father reminded him of it every day. Their apartment was small, only two bedrooms and thin walls and television noise to escape one another. Empty beer bottles and rugby to interest his father, a ticking clock and squeezed shut eyes beneath the covers to interest Peter. He always hoped his father might pass out and drink too much, and he also knew that made him a terrible person - even worse than his father told him. Every day he wanted to run away. But where would he go? He was friendless and useless and stupid. He was the thoroughly average idiot who better stay where he was because he supposed things could be a lot worse. But they could be a lot better too. When he went to Hogwarts, at first it was a miracle, but the inadequacy snuck in. He really was rubbish at everything, just as his father said, even if all the subjects were changed from maths and grammar to transfiguration and charms. His friends were not only brilliant, but geniuses. They sank into the homework and impressing teachers and showing off like ducks to water, and Peter was always a step behind them, eagerly trailing after them, hoping for a few rays of their leftover glory. When his career counseling appointment with McGonagall happened, and he was told he had hardly anything to offer, the confirmation made him glance seriously at some of the Daydream Drafts. Maybe he would drink one in the Boathouse and lay down, face first in the water. It would be pleasant; it wouldn’t hurt. When his N.E.W.T grades came in, he even purchased one. It would be nice; he would be the hero in it, for once. Instead he went to a pub, miserable and alone. Remus and Sirius shared a flat, and Lily and James were married. Of course Peter was the Oddball. He was always on the outside his whole life long. So when the pretty stranger began to chat him up, he was deeply, deeply flattered. Even if he knew it was a trick somewhere in the back of his mind, her promises made him feel important. Useful. Things he had never been before. Facing Sirius in the muggle street was exhilarating. It was like he had never been properly noticed before. Dying crossed his mind only occasionally as a rat, more out of boredom and not having a proper life of his own. But whispers reached him, from the skinny man talking anxiously to his dumpy wife. Things were moving at the Ministry, and so he decided to wait. He really did think SIrius was going to kill him in the Shack, but when Remus began rolling up his sleeves, Peter nearly wet himself. He and Remus had always gotten on well. Remus was so gentle. He wouldn’t...he couldn’t... Peter fled to find his Master, and it was then that Darkness entered for real. Every day was torture. Every moment a waste. He pretended to be faithful, but would feel the cold touch of his Master’s mind on his, and he knew his charade was pitiful. He hated everything he had to do. He would rather die, and considered it. He could never escape Voldemort - oh no - but perhaps taking him somewhere remote, tossing him into a lake, perhaps taking poison himself before his Master could properly get angry...those sweet daydreams only amused Voldemort. They became party stories in the Malfoy Manor, and when the silver hand clamped on his throat, Peter only thought of course, with a sort of weary resignation as he listened to himself sputter. Even his death would be ugly and ordinary, just like he always had been.

James never quite grasped the darkness in Sirius the way Remus had instinctively. It wasn’t his forte. His parents were loving and supportive, and when his father died when he was sixteen, he was devastated, but he wasn’t broken. He never thought of following him, especially not when his mother needed him so badly. She came to his graduation, beaming and proud, and took pictures with him and Sirius, her two boys. When he proposed to Lily, his mother threw her the bridal shower, agog with joy and new beginnings at her son’s family. His mother died like she lived: quietly, happily, and well. A neighbor sent for him to come quickly; they had found her sipping tea in her favorite armchair, the way she did every night before bed. She had a quick aneurysm, nothing harmful. So quick, in fact, she was still holding the newspaper crossword. Lily was everything as they prepared her funeral. They were always together in the months that followed, going on the missions Dumbledore set for the Order, and finding small joys in the rowdy drinks with Sirius and Remus afterwards, everyone suffering and haggard and forcing the jokes. Somehow that misery still stuck in his mind as the deepest of friendships, because they all understood. And they all chose to be happy for one another anyways, because there was certainly no happiness left unless they made it for themselves. At nights when James would cry into the crooks of his arms, hanging over his side of the bed so as not to shake Lily awake, she always snuck a hand to the small of his back to rub in circles. It was like this when the knock came on the door. They both pulled on their robes and ran to answer it. To Lily’s complete shock, it was her estranged sister Petunia. Petunia - who hadn’t even come to their wedding, much less invited the both of them to hers. “You don’t have a phone,” she rushed to say. Her blue eyes were wild, wet, confused. “Mum and Dad...they were in a car accident.” The very excuse she would lie to her nephew. “Are they?” Lily asked, covering her mouth. James’ hand found the small of her back to rub confused, helpless circles as she crumpled to the floor. So many were dying; so few had to do with the war. Death never took a holiday, and senseless things still happened even in wartime. When they moved into James’ parents’ house and Dumbledore hid it in secrecy, Lily found she was pregnant. Their joy bordered on hysteria in the coming months as they paced the floors, impatient and bored and pretending to be madly in love when people asked how they were. Lily wrote to Sirius. He and Remus began to come almost daily, except when Remus was gone for long periods of time. “You don’t think...” James asked once, and Sirius was so furious he had left without dignifying James’ suspicions with an answer. That Night: “Take Harry and go. I’ll try to hold him off.” The last words he ever said. He didn’t want it to be the end, but he didn’t doubt it was. And through his anger and dueling and watching the green jet of light strike him straight between the eyes as it soon would his son...James Potter felt peace. I’m coming Mum, he wanted to say. Before he could go far, he felt someone touch the small of his back. Their fingers intertwined. I’m glad you’re here, here at the end, he told her. Does that make me selfish? Lily smiled, and they walked onto a waiting train. No, love. It makes you human.

Despite writing these drabbles, I wanted to be very clear. Each of these beloved, imperfect characters have had thoughts of suicide, of escaping their lives, of leaving it behind - whether through death or escape. If any of you (probably all of you) have had or are having those thoughts...that is completely normal. It is part of the human condition. But the follow through is not. This is a shout into the void that I care. That a stranger across the world genuinely cares about whether you want to leave this life. Because I don’t want you to. This world is better with you in it, even if you don’t believe it. Thousands of people love these characters, but they aren’t nearly as worthwhile as YOU are. I love these characters, and I love Harry Potter, but I would give it all up in a second - I would never read, write, think about any of it again - if it meant I could save one of your lives. So this is my shout. Please stay. You’re needed.

#marauders #marauders era #suicide prevention #people are here #people care #and i love you guys #i have been there #im serious #inbox me #drabbles

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[HR] STRAIGHT RED LINES

WARNING!!! THIS STORY IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART!

Trigger warnings: Extreme self-harm/self-mutilation, generous amounts of blood and blood loss, driving under the influence, and death. This story is in no way attempting to glorify, romanticize, or in any way encourage self-harm and is a complete work of fiction. Proceed with caution.

Straight Red Lines

Written by Cyndi4U

My feet pound against the whirring floor beneath me, my heavy breathing even louder than the music in my ears.

I want to rest, but I know I can't.

Not yet.

I feel my chest tighten as if I need to cough, but I know there's no way I can without breaking out into a coughing fit, so I fight it.

My hair is becoming untucked from behind my ears, and the gentle tickle of a few loose strands of hair makes me want to itch my face.

Finally, I hear the loud BEEEEEP of the treadmill, and the track beneath me slows to a halt.

I take a moment to breathe; my sides ache worse than I've ever felt before.'Good. You deserve that.'I collapse onto a bench, my music slowing to a stop. I take my earbuds out and set them atop my drawstring bag beside me on the bench. I feel like crying, but I'd rather not cry at the gym. Someone sits down beside me, though I don't look over. I instead focus on my breathing, making sure I don't cry.

"Whoa, Lexi, you alright?"I turn to face Jayden, the dude who sat down next to me. We're both regulars here and have chatted more than a few times while working out. I take a deep breath before responding."I dunno, man." I sound exhausted, not just physically but emotionally."You were runnin' for over an hour; you shouldn't push yourself like that y'know! You'll hurt yourself!"I open my mouth to respond, but just close it, not enough motivation to reply.'I should hurt.'Jayden laughs awkwardly for a second, then quiets down after a second. I still don't look away from the floor, my breathing beginning to slow. Jaiden looks at me for a second, before speaking up again."Hey, if you're feelin' down, there's this sweet new punching bag! I don't know if you've seen it yet, it's great to just go to town on the thing when you're feelin' out of it!" He says chipperly."Thanks, man, maybe I'll go check it out." I sigh.

Jayden looks around in the uncomfortable silence between us, unsure of why I'm not continuing the conversation."Soooooo, how's Jenny doin' these days? She finally gettin' enough sleep?" I wish he'd take the hint that I don't want to talk at the moment, especially now that he's brought up Jenny. At the sound of her name, my chest tightens, and I feel the sort of pressure in my face and stomach that comes right before you start to cry hard. I push back that feeling with everything I've got.

Suddenly a voice from across the gym calls out."Yo, Jay, you coming or what?!""Gimme a minute, bro!" Jayden yells back.

"Hey, Lexi?" I finally turn to face him and am met with an unexpected look of worry on Jayden's face. "I gotta go, the guys and I are headin' out, you should really try that punching bag tip if you're up for it, though!""Mk, see ya around, man. Thanks." I say, mustering up all the smile I can to try and make him not worry. He's really sweet, for a bro dude.

I look back to the floor, and hear him as he jumps up and catches up with his friends, their chatter nothing but unintelligible noise in the background of my thoughts.

'You deserve this hurt.'

I sit, stewing on that phrase inside my head for a minute, two minutes, a half-hour, I don't know. Despite how long it was, it felt like ages. I force myself to my feet, the throbbing pain in my thighs and chest screaming that I stop. I sigh heavily, and grab my bag, and begin making my way to the changing rooms.

I push open the door, and after confirming nobody's inside, I toss my bag onto the bench inside the booth. I step in, locking the door behind me.

I do my best not to look in the mirror; I don't think I can stand to look at myself. I pick up my bag and begin to rustle through it for my change of clothes. I finally pull out what I was looking for, a change of clean clothes, and Jenny's hoodie with the main character of her favorite RPG on it. Seeing it, smelling the faint smell of peach tea from all the times she spilled her favorite drink on herself while playing or working, the dams burst. I feel hot tears quickly building up in my eyes, my vision getting distorted.'She was always such a clutz.' I chuckle, the tears searing down my cheeks. I sniffle, doing my best not to start bawling.

"You never deserved her," An unfamiliar voice chimes.

My heart stops, and a yelp of shock escapes my mouth. I jump away from the bench and come face-to-face with a pale woman I've never seen before. Her fair skin and dark eyes gnaw at me, with lilac hair and a short violet dress. She uncrosses her legs and stands, her slim figure towering above me. She laughs, the bittersweet sound rings out but somehow doesn't cause an echo despite the fact we're inside a locker room changing booth.

"You're crying?? I never pegged you for a wimp," her words slice through me."How–...? Who are you?..." I choke out my words just barely, and she laughs again. She steps closer, and I step back.

"Just listen to yourself, you're a stuttering mess!~" Her sickly-sweet tone paired with her sly grin make me nervous, and her eyes are wide and empty behind her dark purple irides and constricted pupils.

She reaches out towards my face, and I try to back away, but I'm stopped by the cold glass mirror on the wall. Black sleeves cover her arms from her wrists to mid-biceps. Her icy fingers brush my face, and her hand cups my cheek."What... What do you want?..." I forcefully mutter, trying to remain composure. Normally, I'd throw this lady out of here, no problem, but... I'm vulnerable right now.

She moves closer to me, looking me right in the eyes, her cold gaze putting a lump in my throat."What do I want?~" She giggles. My heavy breathing echoes throughout the empty locker room, but her giggles remain loud and unaltered as if the sound is within my skull."That doesn't matter, what matters is..." she slowly pulls her hand from my face to my shoulder, her other hand landing on the opposite side. She pulls me away from the wall, her grin growing wider.

"I know what you did, and I can help you." She says quietly, looking down into my eyes, my soul. Her eyes widen with delight at my fear and confusion. Her pupils are twitching with a certain unnaturalness.

I feel my chest tighten again, and tears start to stream down my face to my chin. I begin to hyperventilate, my mind panicking to make sense of what she said.'She can't know, she can't know!!'

She cackles, her hollow voice ringing in my ears."She can know," she says slowly, savoring my reaction with each word.

"How did you–?!" I start to say. Suddenly, she clamps down hard on my shoulders, her fingertips digging into my collar. She quickly leans not inches from my face, her eyes twitching with a dangerous delight in my fearful expression. My senses flood with static, with only her face and voice breaking the white noise around me.

"I KNOW YOU KILLED HER!! IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!"

She lets free a blood-curdling laugh, slowly moving closer to me. I scream, but no sound comes out. Her laugh pierces my eardrums, and I can't move no matter how hard I try. I cry out again; my voice drowned out entirely by the white noise. I begin to sob, and suddenly her laugh cuts off, the static around me back to inside the changing room. She gasps, and I continue to cry, my voice faint but present.

"Awww, are you scared?? I told you I could help you; if anything, I should be scared of you! You killed your girlfriend!" She chuckles again, and I gasp for air, trying to stop my crying. Her grip on my shoulders loosen, and she turns me to face the mirror behind me.

I'm met with a pathetic, sniveling mess, shaking with fear and shame. My tears stain my gray workout tank top, and the woman stands tall behind me, creeping up on my smaller form. She smirks as we meet eyes in the mirror.

"Look at yourself! If Jenny saw you now, she'd be disgusted!~" She says with a chilling amusement.'She's right...'"I am right!!" she laughs.

"But I digress, I've gotten off track. I'm here to help you, Lexi," she says flatly. Her sudden change in tone jars me, but with the thought of 'help,' I finally stop sobbing.

She lets go of my shoulders and lightly steps to my side, her smile beginning to widen again."I'll put your strength to the test, Lexi. You thought pushing yourself on that treadmill for an hour gave you the pain you deserve, but it didn't."

I gulp the lump in my throat away and sniffle."What... What do you mean?..."

She giggles."You hate that damn treadmill, don't you? But I know how you can hurt yourself and enjoy it! You want to feel pain, right? You think you deserve it! But if you keep up what you've been doing, you'll hate yourself!"

I sniffle again and wipe my tears.

"Well?! Aren't you interested?!"She laughs, her pupils constricting, her twisted smile growing. She knows I am.

"Tell me what I need to do," I say flatly, seeing a look of determination come across my face in the mirror.

The woman grins fully and giggles."Well then... " she turns me around to face her and then steps back. She reaches up and grabs the top of her sleeve on her left arm, and begins to pull it towards her wrist to take it off. "What you need is..." she pulls the sleeve off of her arm, revealing hundreds of deep, fresh cuts, haphazardly placed between her elbow and wrist. She pulls off the other sleeve showing the same thing on her right.

"STRAIGHT RED LINES!!!"

She's suddenly overcome with a look of lust and pleasure in seeing the wounds parting her soft, pale skin. My heart skips a beat; terror and curiosity assault my thoughts. I feel like I can't breathe, like someone is sitting on my chest. She begins to breathe faster and faster as blood drips down her forearms and wrists. She raises her arms, watching the deep red blood run down her skin with a gluttonous stare. I can't help but stare too, something about seeing all those tears in her skin, the dark crimson streaks of blood across her wrists... I...

Suddenly, she jolts her head to look me in the eyes. The eerie twitching of her eyes, her body shaking with anticipation and excitement, her chest pulsing with each rapid, shallow, shaky breath, it's like a beautiful, insane, horrifying nightmare.

'What the hell–?!'I snap back to reality and back away from her, fear consuming me."That– that's insane!! You're insane!!" I scream. She steps closer to me, and I move towards the door."I'm insane?? You killed someone!!" she screeches, psychotic giggles interrupting her as she speaks. She giggles again, and I turn to open the door.

I reach for the handle, my heart pounding in my chest. I begin to swing the door open and lunge out.

Suddenly, a pitch-black, oily, inky hand shoots in front of me, slamming the door shut. I jump away into the corner of the changing room, and the arm slithers back to the woman before it solidifies into her sliced arm, blood pouring towards her elbow."Why are you leaving?? I know your thoughts. I know that you're curious!!"

"No! No! That's not true, I... You're crazy! Let me go!" I stutter, backing into the corner. She inches closer, and I realize I'm trapped.'She's wrong, I don't want that! I can't; I'm not a monster!'

"LIAR!!" she yells. "Don't lie to yourself, Lexi!! You know you want to try it!!" She towers over me, and I slide down to sit on the floor.

'She must be right, I was so entranced by the blood when she first took off the sleeves... But I can't cut myself, that's insane!... "

"It's not crazy, Lexi, when you try it you'll love it!~" her voice becomes sweet again, and the cognitive dissonance in my mind makes my head spin. She grabs my arm, and I jerk away, but her grip doesn't loosen."Stop resisting; I'm trying to help you! You'll see the light; you just have to try it!!" She spits.

She jerks me to my feet, then sits me down on the bench. I sniffle, tears starting to build up again. The blood from the woman's arms splatter the floor, and she reaches her fist towards me. She giggles sporadically, and I start to feel lightheaded.

She unclenches her fist, opening it to reveal a clean silver pocket knife."Take it, take it!!" she commands, seemingly unable to wait any longer. I reach my hand up to take it, my body shivering with anticipation and terror. As my hand gets closer, her shaky breaths get faster, and everything but the woman and the knife become static again. My fingers brush the cold metal of the pocket knife, and I carefully grip the closed blade. I lift it off of her hand, and the woman lets loose a chilling laugh, throwing her arms outwards as if preparing to embrace me.

I clumsily open the knife, revealing the curved edge. I grip the handle of the blade, my hands shaking more than ever before. I raise the blade to my bare arm, inching the knife closer to my soft skin. The chilled metal contacts my arm, the cool touch of the knife's edge calming me a little.'Just push the blade in, then slide it down. Just push the blade in, then slide it down.' I chant inside my head, trying to psyche myself up."Yes!... YES!..." the woman murmurs. Tears start to flow down my cheeks again.'I... I can't!... This is too extreme, this is wrong!!' I start to pull the knife away from my arm, and the static and white noise disappears.

Suddenly, the woman's hand slams down on my wrist, gripping it tightly. I yelp, her fingers digging into my arm."I can tell you're feeling scared, Lexi," she says sweetly, her grasp loosening slightly. "Let me guide your hand," she coos."I don't know, I–" I stutter, her fragile yet powerful hand moving my right hand and knife back towards my left arm.

The blade presses into my arm, and I can't tell if it's punctured my skin yet, but the cold metal still soothes my nerves a bit. However, I'm still shaking and fearful."I... I don't... Wait... Stop..." I cry, desperately trying to defy my powerlessness in this situation."Don't worry. Sure, it'll sting, but that fades fast. Afterward, you'll feel wonderful!!~" she sings, pressing the knife-edge deeper into my forearm. She pulls my hand back slowly, and the knife begins to slice through my skin, parting the flesh and leaving a straight cut as it moves across my arm.'Pain... The pain... I... I deserve this.' As the thought crosses my consciousness, the woman giggles happily.

I feel like I'm going to vomit. The stinging, the blood, the pain, all of it I can handle. It was the wonder, the pleasure, the love I feel of the cold metal ripping through my skin, of the sting of my inner flesh being exposed to the air, the warm blood building up inside the newly formed valley within my skin that made me sick.

I exhale loudly, the tension inside me releasing like a punctured water tank. My muscles relax, causing me to slouch down the bench.'It hurts... But it feels...'

"Amazing..." The words escape my lips, and I hear the woman squee with joy at my words. She lets go of my wrist, and my hand falls limp on the bench beside me, the knife still in my grasp. Blood begins to overflow from the wound, and my left arm slides down onto the bench as well. My breathing gets faster, and I start to feel better with every passing second."I see it in your eyes, you've fallen in love!! You feel incredible, don't you?!" She cries excitedly.

"It hurts, but..." I murmur, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face is more blushed than when Jenny first kissed me, but I have an unabashed expression of bliss rather than the embarrassment and love I felt back then."Yes, yes...!!" The woman says breathlessly, waiting excitedly for me to finish."It's fantastic!..." I finish, my heart pounding uncontrollably with surprise and craving.

I raise my right hand, the bloodied blade glistening hungrily.

The woman cackles, "The pain, the ecstasy, the euphoria, truly ephemeral, isn't it?!" Within the edge of my vision, I see her form begin to dissolve into inky blackness, a void-like goop that drips skyward rather than towards the floor, the droplets evaporating before they can fall too far."M-m... More!..." I whisper greedily. "More!!" I raise my left arm in front of my chest, the bloody streaks from the first cut staining my skin. I feel like I can't control myself like I'm moving without thinking to. My right hand jolts towards my left arm, the knife poised just millimeters above an untouched patch of skin on my underarm below my wrist. I feel my heart get faster with just the sight of the silver blade close to my skin.

I hastily push the knife edge into my skin, my warm blood on the knife from the first cut dripping onto the new site on my arm. I eagerly slide the blade down my underarm, the feeling of my skin separating causing a sensation of twisted ecstasy. I shakily exhale, the thrill almost too much for me to handle.

"Exhilarating, isn't it?" I look up from the new part in my skin to the inky, gooey shadow that used to be the woman. Its eyes are a blinding white with nothing but small, crimson pupils to indicate where it's looking; its mouth, nothing but equally white light. Its abyssal body hovers slightly above the ground, and it moves with an unnatural swiftness and fluidity. Suddenly, it lunges toward me, it's pulsating form filling my vision. Its face bears the same structure as the woman but is entirely jet black."Doesn't it make your heart race?! Don't you feel alive?!" she laughs. I nod eagerly.

"Well, what are you waiting for?! Do it again!!!"

I leap to my feet, my thoughts nothing but a frenzy for straight red lines. I run the knife across my arm again, and again, and again, across my forearm, my wrist, my underarm, I switch hands after my left arm becomes so bloody I can't tell what's a cut and what's skin, then slice my right arm once, twice, ten times, twenty times, thirty, forty, I can't even count how many times any more, my insatiable appetite for straight red lines only growing bigger and bigger with every cut, and when my arms are mutilated into bloody messes I still want MORE, I NEED MORE, I rip though my pant legs to reveal pure, unharmed skin covering my thighs, and the shadow cackles maniacally or maybe that's me, oh what the hell, why not, I let out a psychotic laugh unlike anything before because oh my god it hurts so much, oh my god it feels so good, and laughing lets out the pleasure and euphoria that's building up inside my body, my body feels like it's on fire, like I'm being consumed from the inside out, like a state of living that's been forbidden, hidden and locked away from me until now, a state of living that feels better than anything I've ever felt, and I can't stop cutting into my arms, my wrists, my thighs, letting the blood out, LET IT OUT, and I deserve this overwhelming pain that's battling the bliss for control over my brain, and my clothes and hands and face are covered in blood, the floor is covered in blood, the floor and walls fall away to reveal TV static, and the mirror reflects my obsessive and panicked slicing through my skin, and the shadow has it's hands on my shoulders and is watching with just as much lust as I feel for these straight red lines, these goddamned STRAIGHT RED LINES, the stench of iron and infection is so strong that I feel sick, and upon meeting my reflection's gaze I slow to a stop for a moment, extending my arms outwards to reveal the straight red lines covering every inch of my arms, my wrists, my thighs, and the shadow whispers in my ear, "Nobody else can know, if anybody finds out you'll be shut out, abandoned, and alone!~" I don't respond, I can't respond, the joy and pleasure too overwhelming to talk, instead, I just breathe, breathe so very fast, breathing like I just ran a marathon, my cheeks so blushed it's a wonder I have enough blood to blush and bleed simultaneously, my eyes shivering and twitching with that same unnatural energy that the woman looked at me with before, my shaky, shallow breaths pushing my chest up and down, and I just stare at myself in the mirror, stare at the STRAIGHT RED LINES.

The shadow laughs slyly."I'm glad to see you took my help to heart." The shadow moves its hands from my shoulders to my face, cupping my cheeks with it's weird, fluctuating, liquid fingers. My head feels light, my vision is blurring, and despite the unbearable pain my face still sports a pleasured expression. Tears of pain have been streaming down my face, but I didn't even noticed until now. The floor around me is completely flooded in my blood. The shadow begins to giggle, floating higher behind me, fading from my sight. As it floats higher and higher, it becomes more transparent, before disappearing completely, the sensation of it's writhing abyssal liquid hands fading away too. It's all fading. My vision is fading, my consciousness is fading, my pain is fading, my ecstasy is fading, my world is fading. I feel myself stumble and fall, but I never hit the floor.

I sit up in my seat, pulling my aching body off of the dashboard. My eyes sting from the smoke, and I'm bleeding but I don't know where from.'Jenny!!'

I spin to face the passenger's seat and see my girlfriend, Jenny, unconscious in the passenger seat, a large gash in her forehead and the car crumpled in around her lower torso and legs."Jenny!!" I yell, my throat and voice are hoarse and scratchy from breathing in the fumes. I shake her body, her shirt singed from the flames surrounding us."Jenny!! Please, wake up!!" Tears from the smoke turn to tears of worry and guilt. "Jenny, please!!" I shake her again, the look of pain petrified into her face, her lifeless eyes, it breaks my heart. I begin sobbing."Please... Jenny, you have to be okay... Please wake up..." I sob into her shoulder, hugging her and wishing this to be a bad dream.

'Please wake up...'

My sobbing is joined with a chorus of police sirens approaching the car wreck we're within. I continue to bawl."Jenny, please!!!" I scream, my aching body heaving to try and breathe inside this fire.

I hear voices outside the car, barely loud enough to hear over the flames and my cries of agony. Suddenly, a hand grabs me by the collar of my shirt, and I'm pulled away from Jenny."NO! JENNY!!" I scream again, but my rescuer doesn't care what I say. Jenny slips from my grasp, falling limp in her seat, and I scream.'Jenny, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry...'

I'm carefully lied down on the grass on the side of the road, and medical professionals crowd around me. I can't stop crying, and my body aches too much to move anymore. The voices of the police and nurses echo through my head."Whoa, what the hell happened here?!" One of the policemen cry. A breathalyzer is forced into my mouth, and after a couple of seconds, I'm pulled to my feet and cuffed."It looks like she went crazy and cut herself a fuckton!" One of the nurses yells.'Wait, what?...'

I'm tossed into the back of a police cruiser and get a glimpse of firemen carrying Jenny out of the car, her lower half completely crushed and mangled, her lifeless corpse charred and disfigured.

"JENNYYYYYY!!!"

I scream, but no sound comes out. I hear a policeman yell, "Quick, somebody grab some bandages! She's still breathing, but she's losing blood fast!!" Another yells back, "Medical help is on the way, hon, just hang in there!" My head feels light. I hear a policeman vomit, and another go "Jesus Christ, that's a lot of blood!!"

My consciousness begins to fade, and my vision flickers between screaming and crying in the back of a police car to lying on the floor; policemen and nurses surrounding me inside a bloody locker room. A strangely familiar voice begins to chant, the voice getting louder and louder as my flickering vision begins to fade.

"Straight red lines, straight red lines, across your arms, your wrists, your thighs, straight red lines, straight red lines, you fall in love with every slice, straight red lines, straight red lines, hide them with excuses and lies, straight red lines, straight red lines, you'll learn to lust for straight red lines."

The End

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