#with blue veins and is a stone cold fox
Text
You see my biggest criticism of the Kim Possible movie is that this man is supposed to be Dr. James Possible, like ???
#tv: kim possible#not being mean but come on#you get it#i get it he's supposed to be young and hip#meanwhile his old school friend is 6'2"#with blue veins and is a stone cold fox
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
Their love is etched in stone, thinks Zhongli, even if Childe won't live forever.
Reworked this a bit! Check this fic out here on A03 for better quality, and follow me here on Twitter if you'd like.
One day, deep into their lives, reality slaps Zhongli in the face quite suddenly.
It’s a mundane moment full of mundane things. Childe laughs warmly, that well-known, rapscallion smile spread wide across his face. He nudges Zhongli’s shoulder with his, warmth seeping in through the thin cotton of their shirts.
It was once a small kernel of affection that roiled through his veins—but then it grew, yanked long and thin like the hand-pulled noodles they still eat at Wanmin Restaurant. Zhongli’s heart bursts at the seams with it, overtaken with the presence of Childe.
But then, Childe turns to face him and Zhongli sees the lines around his eyes, and the creases around his mouth. Silver sprinkles throughout his hair, capturing the Liyue sunlight. Childe isn’t old by much standard, he’s just older, still mostly in his prime and beyond capable, but—
He is weathered, well-seasoned, more of a silver fox nowadays than a vibrant red one, and though handsome and distinguished, Zhongli can’t help the slight downward twitch of his mouth. A minute thing. Something that most wouldn’t ever notice—maybe Childe if he’d been paying proper attention.
This is where love turns acrid, Zhongli’s heart tugging sideways as an inevitable weight finally falls upon him, anchored like the stone that he carved his beloved home from: Childe is mortal and he does not have forever.
It takes Childe a moment to notice. He nudges Zhongli once more and says, “Hey, what is it?” His eyes glint brightly now, so unlike the dull ocean blue of his younger years. There’s a tinge of worry there. Childe doesn’t ask again, but his tongue peeks from his lips, wet and pink, licking them as a distraction.
Zhongli sighs. “I was only thinking.”
Childe waits, patiently. In his youth, he wasn’t nearly so composed but the years have mellowed and tempered him. When Zhongli doesn’t continue, he smooths his thumb over the bone of Zhongli’s wrist. “All right then. Whenever you’re ready.”
Zhongli is not an easy man to read but Childe is fluent in their love language. He is a fool to think that he can hide much from his husband. And so, Zhongli replies with, “Later.”
When later comes, though, Zhongli is distracted.
Their room is dark and the air cold, the biting winter slipping in through the loose window. Childe is below him, his front pressed to the bed, face suffocated by the sheets. His fingers curl into the soft silk, yanking at it.
He cries out, a wanton sound that Zhongli tucks deep into his gut so he’ll never forget. He grips Childe by the hips and fucks him hard, with maddening drives that strike the perfect spot. Childe keens, rutting back against him, raising his hips to meet every thrust.
Zhongli watches as his cock sinks right in; how Childe’s ass pulls tight around the thick length, his rim puffy and slick.
“Perfect,” murmurs Zhongli, wiping at the sweat that beads on his brow. “So, so perfect for me.” Even now, with Childe’s aching joints and the way that he can’t always straddle him. With the scars that mar his imperfect skin, and tiny little stretch marks that show the softness he’s gained with age.
Zhongli palms at Childe’s ass, spreading the cheeks wide. He grunts lowly as he fucks in hard and fast with renewed fervor.
“Gods—oh, oh, gods,” cries Childe, his voice cracked and pitched high. He whines underneath Zhongli, trembling, wriggling his hips, seeking out any friction he can find against his hard and leaking cock that bobs beneath him.
“Darling,” murmurs Zhongli, thinking of his husband, thinking of their love. Thinking of how tight his ass is around him and how well Childe takes his cock. “Baobei, Laogong—” And any other title he’s bestowed upon Childe over the decades is fair game. They all drip from Zhongli’s mouth as he leans close to mutter them into Childe’s ear.
Anxiety spikes, his cock flagging slightly. Creases, wrinkles, and silvering hair. Childe stretching out his sore joints and complaining about how his back hurts— Childe’s mortality haunts him. Zhongli will not have this forever. There will be a day where his hands will have nothing to grip tightly and no tight heat to fuck into.
No one to worship with the warmth and depths of his heart; no one to wholly, and utterly complete him.
Zhongli isn’t typically the type to dwell on things, so the slight stutter of his thrusting is odd. He feels like a stranger in his body, his brain consumed by these unwanted thoughts. Childe doesn’t notice, too lost in his pleasure, too drunk on the drag of Zhongli’s cock as it presses against his prostate.
“Fuck,” hisses Childe, when Zhongli plasters himself against his back, wrapping an arm around his waist to grab at his length. Hard in his hand, leaking so perfectly—Childe comes nearly the moment Zhongli squeezes it tight, his ass tightening so much that it punches the breath from Zhongli’s throat.
Childe’s ass flutters around his cock, milking him dry. He moans below Zhongli, debauched and breathy, and squirms with overstimulation.
Zhongli presses his nose into the nape of Childe’s neck, his eyes slipping closed as he just breathes him in, overcome by the smell of the ocean and salty sea air, and the sandalwood soap that he steals from him.
“Please,” cries Childe. “Archons, Zhongli—Please—”
Zhongli fucks in deep, grinding against him, Childe’s ass flush against his hips, dick nestled in as far as it can go. And he just holds there, gripping Childe tight, the baby hairs at the top of his spine tickling Zhongli’s nose as he tries to ground himself and all these wayward feelings.
“I love you,” he says, his lips and tongue tracing the salty skin there. “Gods, I love you, Ajax.” Zhongli nips at hiis skin and Childe keens. Then, he fucks back against him, overstimulation be damned.
Zhongli smooths a hand down Childe’s side, touching every inch of his skin that he can manage. He tries to commit it all to memory—the sight, the taste, the smell, and the feel of him. How Childe wriggles, arching his hips. The way his back bends, and the sounds that leak from his mouth. How his cock stirs again at the barest touch.
Zhongli is an unwavering stone, his memories perfect in their recollection. And while the mere memory of his husband might not be enough, in the end, he’ll still have it. It’ll accompany him into the pits of whatever erosion eventually weathers him away.
He never cries but he feels the tears that leak at the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t sob but he hides an embarrassed sound against the back of Childe’s neck. In the beginning, Zhongli wondered what it was that made mortals tick; it’s why he retired to walk in their shoes.
And now he knows, that dreaded reality of humanity tugging at his core. He loves so deeply that it’ll turn into loss next. Zhongli feels death as it looms over him, watching from the end where he’ll return to a miserable loneliness.
This is what drives them, he realizes, that bare knowledge of finite existence. Mortals understand their limited existence, so they do what they can to make the most of it.
“Zhongli,” says Childe tiredly, even though his cock twitches.
“Ajax.” Zhongli shifts, changing angle as he leans Childe’s shoulder and presses his mouth near Childe’s ear. “Love,” he whispers, “one more—”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Give me one more. Come on my cock. I want to remember this just as it is.”
It won’t take much. Zhongli can tell as he fucks into him again. Childe goes taut underneath him, fingers white-knuckled in the sheets, his thighs tense and shaking. His ass sucks him in, wringing Zhongli dry.
And he feels it too, the way that his own orgasm churns in his gut. The pleasure that mounts higher and higher, rising through his being and coiling tight in his belly.
“So good for me,” he says into Childe’s ear, uttering filthy, filthy, debauched words as he does his best to carve Childe open and stake his claim forever. “So tight—” Zhongli squeezes at his hip— “So warm.”
“I’m—I’m—”
Zhongli fucks into his prostate over and over, cruel in the way that he pounds against it. Though loving, it’s a carnal thing. His cock slips in deep on every downstroke, Childe’s rim parting easily to let him right in.
“Laogong.” A pause and a deep inhale. “Mate.” Zhongli’s breath hitches against his neck. He feels the dragon lurking deep in his mind, urging him to claim—
Zhongli bites Childe, teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder, right where it meets his neck. Childe yelps. The tight heat around Zhongli’s dick squeezes tight as Childe fucks back against him with wild abandon. Then, he comes again, this time untouched and only on Zhongli’s cock, spilling all over the sheets with thin and dribbling spend.
“I love you,” murmurs Zhongli, a reverent whisper into the night. And he keeps murmuring it with every thrust of his cock until, he too, tips right over the edge. He fills Childe up with a hoarse moan, his come wet and hot as he spends himself into those searing depths.
Zhongli breathes hard as he collapses against Childe’s back. He hides the tears, pressing his face into Childe’s sweaty hair, even as his shoulders wrack with quiet sobs.
But Childe knows, he knows, because he’s already moving, wincing slightly as Zhongli’s cock slips out. He turns underneath him until his back is to the sheets and reaches up, pulling Zhongli to his chest.
Zhongli collapses against him, uncaring of his weight, or the mess, or how tired and sweaty they are. He sinks into Childe’s touch as he strokes his fingers through his hair.
“Shh,” soothes Childe, kissing Zhongli’s temple. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
But he will. Eventually. And then Zhongli will be so hopelessly alone.
It will not be the first time. But it will be the last.
Later, when the punch-drunk and floating feeling of his high fades, Childe finally broaches the topic. “I’ll find a way,” he says simply, oozing that confidence of his youth, as if this is just another Ruin Guard on his patrol.
“Ajax.” Zhongli sighs, softly, too exhausted to be having this conversation.
“A promise. No—a contract. You love those.”
Zhongli hasn’t made a contract since he married Childe—officially—swearing soft words of love in the depths of their Serenitea Pot. And even then, he’d broken his own promise of a contract to end all contracts.
“A solemn oath, etched in stone,” says Childe against him, his mouth warm against the skin of Zhongli’s brow. “I’ll find a way where I won’t have to leave you.”
It’s romantic, he thinks, how Childe wants to fight for their love. How he’s just as willing to chase right after it because he refuses to leave Zhongli empty and frail. Two sides of the same Mora, truly.
“Please.” It’s a quiet beg—and begging isn’t something that Childe does unless he’s on his knees, begging to be fucked. “Let me have this one thing, one last noble quest.”
Zhongli falls quiet as he thinks. He says nothing because he knows that Childe’s mind is set. He will try to talk him out of it later.
Instead, he shifts slightly, pulling Childe’s hand to his mouth. He kisses the ring on his finger, the solid band of geo, and a glint of a Noctilous Jade stone, crafted by his very own fingers. My love for you, etched in stone, inscribed inside, nestled right against the vein that goes straight to Childe’s heart.
“Etched in stone,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling low against Childe’s chest.
“Always,” says Childe.
#genshin impact#genshin#genshin smut#genshin impact fanfic#genshin impact fanfiction#zhongchi#zhongli/childe#zhongli x childe
24 notes
·
View notes
Text
Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 52
Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼
Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi
This translation is the product of my limited knowledge of Chinese characters as I attempt to learn the language. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.
Chapter Index
Buy me a Ko-fi ☕
Chapter 52
He slept until dawn the next day. It was a night of chaotic dreams featuring a foggy stone courtyard. The sky was grey and decadent, with snow about to come. He was wrapped in a silver fox fur coat and had a pot of wine hot. In the cold night, he can hear snowflakes falling. There were rustling sounds in the atrium. It was the Chinese New Year.
A row of red lanterns hung under the eaves. The water in a copper pot was gurgling and boiling. A blue vase was filled with two taels of green bamboo leaves. The smell of incense floated out of the golden beast furnace. The fox fur was warm and fragrant. Someone sat cross-legged on the opposite side. The fingers of the wine pourer were slender, and he couldn't see his face clearly.
Lin Yan turned over in his dream, groped for a while and grabbed a cold hand. He clasped his fingers and slept peacefully.
In the morning, he was woken up by paws. When he opened his eyes, he saw an arrogant fox sitting on his chest, scratching his nose with the tip of his tail. No wonder he felt an itch in his dream and wanted to sneeze. Xiao Yu picked it up, its four paws stretching out, revealing the belly, revealing proof that it was male.
"It's hungry again." Xiao Yu smiled wryly, "It said that if you don't buy it food, it'll go steal the chickens raised in the backyard."
Lin Yan was wearing a pair of big shorts and brushed his teeth with his upper body bare, swallowing a big mouthful of toothpaste foam in a daze.
He asked the waiter to buy another live rabbit and threw it to the fox. After having breakfast with Yin Zhou and A-Yan, the three of them, a ghost and a fox, gathered in Lin Yan's bedroom to discuss a plan of action. While talking, Yin Zhou suddenly choked on laughter, coughing for a long time, and gestured: "Do you think we look like a group of people having dinner in "My Fair Princess" and discussing big plans in the guesthouse?"
With a strange smile, the person at his side said, "Hanxiang, hurry up and show yourself. Mengdan's memory is too weak*!"
*(T/N: A reference to characters from the show "My Fair Princess.")
Regarding "Lin Yan's" previous life, Xiao Yu still couldn't think of anything. Everyone took turns questioning him, but they made no progress.
"This is very formidable." Yin Zhou sighed artificially, "We have to do it ourselves again. First, we should turn to the history books? Are there any simplified characters? Leave the simplified characters for me to read. I don't know the traditional characters."
"I have an idea." Lin Yan took a T-shirt from the box, put it on, and said in a muffled voice, "The coffin."
"What?"
He tugged at the hem of the T-shirt and waved his hands at a few people: "Hey, I'm changing my pants, and I don't think anyone should look."
He was referring to Xiao Yu, who accidentally injured A-Yan. The little Daoist was embarrassed to look up. Lin Yan was also embarrassed. It took him three times to step into his jeans before he sat on the side of the bed with flip-flops.
"I'm talking about the coffin. I looked at it when I entered the tomb. The coffin was a vivid yellow, with landscape patterns and a slight fragrance. It's genuine golden Chinese redwood. Do you know how expensive that thing is? The price of fragrant rosewood couldn't compare to it."
Yin Zhou scratched his hair: "Is fragrant rosewood expensive? My old man has a lot of it. He always holds a string of Buddhist beads in his hand."
Lin Yan rolled his eyes: "All these trust fund kids really don't know the sufferings of average people. Your father's string of rosewood is full of pear oil in its vein lines. If you drain it out, you could fill up a car."
"Golden Chinese redwood is more valuable. A piece of Chinese redwood is said to be ten thousand taels of silver. In order to save on transportation costs, Ming people would often bring carpenters to travel thousands of miles into the mountains with them. When they cut down a good tree, they made coffins on the spot. Southerners paid tribute to the whole redwood. It was inconvenient to transport, and they had to wait for the annual mountain torrents to wash the wood down. Usually, one hundred carpenters went into the mountain, and only fifty returned. The things made of this wood were impossible for ordinary people to even look at, let alone use.”
"So being able to afford such a precious thing means that the Xiao family had high status?" Yin Zhou asked, confused.
Lin Yan and the little Daoist looked at each other and said helplessly: "Code monkeys are so uneducated. Golden redwood was used by emperors in Ming and Qing Dynasties. Qianlong, an old man, had to secretly demolish the Ming Tombs if he wanted to get some wood*. If the Xiao family had the guts to be so bold, they would have already been exiled to the Northwest to enlist in the army."
*(T/N: 乾隆, emperor of the Qing dynasty, reigned sixty years (1735-1796))
"So what's the conclusion?"
"Use your brain and think about it. There's a lot of clues available." Lin Yan slowly poured water for everyone. "Who is the person who could afford to use golden redwood and dared to rely on the fact that they had high status and the emperor was far enough away to not notice? Have you forgotten where we are now?"
A-Yan's eyes lit up: "Back then, Shen Wansan was as rich as an enemy country, and he boasted that he would reward the Three Kingdoms for Zhu Yuanzhang, which caused him to be exiled.*"
*(T/N: Shen Wansan was a merchant at the start of the Ming Dynasty who accumulated great wealth. Zhu Yuanzhang, the founding emperor of the Ming Dynasty, was jealous of his wealth and exiled him for it)
Yin Zhou took a sip of water: "You mean the merchant?"
"This should be a breakthrough." Lin Yan said: "It's strange that there was no surname 'Xiao' among the famous Shanxi merchants in the middle of the Ming Dynasty*. It may be that 'I' really took the risk to get the wood in that life. My family may have some capital. It makes sense that the coffin is full of tokens of love."
*(T/N: Shanxi merchants were among the earliest Chinese businessmen, and their history could be traced back to the Spring and Autumn Period and the Warring States period. In the Ming and Qing Dynasties, Shanxi merchants really stood out among other Chinese merchant groups, building a strong and long-lasting commercial network and accumulating enormous wealth.)
"There are many wealthy Jin merchants, and you can't be called rich unless hundreds of thousands of them exist. There are also many Confucian merchants, and every family has scholars. . ."
Before Lin Yan finished speaking, Yin Zhou suddenly stared at him with wide eyes as if he had seen a ghost.
Lin Yan felt a hand on his shoulders, and he subconsciously thought it was Xiao Yu and continued without thinking. Yin Zhou shook his head vigorously and pointed behind him: "You, you, you. . . Behind you. . . "
Lin Yan turned his head suspiciously and bumped into a boy's face. He was fair-skinned, only eight or nine years old, with a sharp chin and shining golden-brown eyes. He was on the short side, with soft hair covering his shoulders, extremely shiny.
"Who's this kid? When did he get in?!" Lin Yan was so frightened that he rushed away, staring at the boy in shock.
"Every day, I have rabbit. I'm tired of eating it. I want to eat chicken." The young man took a handful of copper coins from his jacket, threw them at Lin Yan, and said with a haughty attitude, "Hurry up and buy some chickens!"
"This is the fox." Xiao Yu said innocently, "Don't you know why I asked you to buy chickens? It's been urging me all day, it's very annoying."
Lin Yan stared suspiciously at the handful of copper coins in his hand and fiddled with them. There were Jiaqing, Daoguang, and Xianfeng coins, and a fifty yuan coin was mixed in*. The boy seemed to think that there wasn't enough money, so he took out another coin from the lapel of his shirt for Lin Yan. This time was better, a flat silver yuan coin.
*(T/N: Ancient Chinese currency changed depending on who the emperor was. Jiaqing coins were coins from the Jiaqing emperor (1796-1820), Daoguang coins were from the Daoguang emperor (1782-1850), and Xianfeng coins were from the Xianfeng emperor (1831-1861))
The boy pointed at Lin Yan, shook his head and said, "I know you. Last time when the peach blossoms were in bloom, you went into the mountain once. When you went in, you were alone. When you came out, you took him with you. Grandfather said he used to live in a deserted tomb in the mountain. Grandfather also said he was fierce, but I think he's pretty."
As he spoke, he rolled his eyes and gave Xiao Yu a wink. Because of his young age, he looked nondescript.
A-Yan burst out laughing. He took out a piece of talisman paper from his waist, but before he could paste it, the boy snatched it away, threw it on the ground and stepped on it several times.
"Don't try to plot against me. He's the oldest in this room, and then me. You are all a bunch of little kids." The boy propped himself up on the edge of the bed with his hands. He sat down with his legs dangling. His baggy homemade pants were bound by a pair of fine deerskin boots tied on his feet. He bit his fingers triumphantly and gave Lin Yan a side-eye. "I am two hundred years old. You guys should call me grandfather. Kneel down and kowtow!"
Before he could finish speaking, Lin Yan had already reacted to the horror. He took the boy's arms and dragged him to the bathroom while scolding: "Stop jumping around here. Did you brush your teeth after eating meat? The rabbit fur is so dirty. "
Through the door, the sound of the shower and the boy's unwilling wailing came from the bathroom. Yin Zhou pointed to the door with an unbelievable expression on his face: "When did this guy become a demon tamer?"
But after a while, everyone was surprised when Lin Yan and the fox demon reappeared. They didn't know what method he used, but the young man had swallowed his arrogance just now and reluctantly took Lin Yan's hand. His tail was sweeping behind him, his wet hair draped over her shoulders, biting his fingers.
"What should it be called?" Lin Yan raised his eyebrows.
"Older brother." The fox glanced shyly at Yin Zhou and A-Yan, turned around and called Lin Yan again. He jumped to Xiao Yu's side, and the boy rubbed patches of water on his white clothes.
Yin Zhou was confused by the boy's obedient appearance: "Holy shit, how did you do that?"
"To deal with the child, I lied to him that if he was obedient, he'll get to eat chicken, and if he's disobedient, he'll only get worms." Lin Yan spread his hands.
At 1:30 in the afternoon, five people checked out of the room under the waiter's reluctant gaze and rushed to the only bus station in the town. This time, it was five real people. The boy hid his tail and ears, bouncing around like a primary school student. Lin Yan forcibly took off his hunter clothes from an indescribable dynasty and bought some knockoff Adidas in the morning market. The bossy boy was reluctant, and Yin Zhou blamed Lin Yan for being stingy. Lin Yan shrugged: "I'd love to buy authentic ones, but I can't.”
Xiao Yu wore Lin Yan's clothes; jeans, a T-shirt, and hiking shoes. He was actually a bit taller than Lin Yan, but the clothes were on the longer side, so he could barely make do with them. His long hair was tied into a ponytail, like a painter's. It was the first time this ancient man dressed up like this, and he felt uncomfortable. Lin Yan also felt awkward seeing him and secretly laughed as he walked.
It seemed like it had been so long since they had all been so relaxed. Blue sky and white clouds passing, green mountains and water, creaking flatbed trucks passing by, drivers waving mulberry branches to repel mosquitoes. Xiao Yu led the fox demon down a straight dirt path. Lin Yan, Yin Zhou and A-Yan followed side by side. The boy that had just come out of the mountains looked back excitedly from time to time. Lin Yan was a little depressed. The person next to Xiao Yu should have been him, but unfortunately, the ghost refused to get too close to him, no matter what.
When lovers break up, it always feels like the other party still belongs to them, but they are separated by an invisible wall. Occasionally their gaze would cross, and he would turn his head hurriedly, his heart pounding.
When Lin Yan asked the little fox demon if there was any way for others to see Xiao Yu, he didn't actually have much hope. Unexpectedly, the boy readily agreed. He put a leaf on Xiao Yu's forehead and fiddled with it for a while. Everyone was suddenly surprised to see an extra person in their group.
"There's our fox family's magic." The boy rolled his eyes, "But it won't work when there's thunder."
Lin Yan asked, "Why?"
"I'm afraid of thunder." The boy said shyly.
"You have a name?"
The young man squinted his fox eyes, and it took him a long time to reply shyly, "My name is Che because I was born by the lake when the azaleas were in bloom and the lake was cool and clean."
Passing through the field of wild sorghum, in front of him was a flat slope of wild grass with small white flowers swaying on the ground. Lin Yan felt a sense of familiarity. He thought for a while and was suddenly surprised to find that this place was similar to the environment in his nightmare on the first night. The grass was lush, and the sun was harsh and dazzling. Walking up the road, there was only a wild grave in the place where the thatched cottage had been in the dream. It had been there for several years. The grave was almost flat, and there was a wreath of wildflowers. The flowers had been sun-dried and vaguely blackened.
"Is there any incense?" Lin Yan asked the little Daoist priest. A-Yan took out a small bundle of unopened ones from his bag, Lin Yan lit three sticks, respectfully sticking them on the grave.
"What are you doing?" Yin Zhou was puzzled. Lin Yan shook his head and sighed: "What your time comes, it will come regardless. Let's go."
At three o'clock in the afternoon, the bus to the city came. Several people crowded in to head to the city to sell hens and buy seeds and left Liumu Town. They bought train tickets in the nearest town where the train was accessible and rushed overnight to the former Shanxi Merchants' gathering place, five hundred years later, Taiyuan prefecture.
#dig a grave to dig out a ghost translation#dig a grave to dig out a ghost#bl novel#chinese novel#english translation#chinese bl#danmei#danmei novel#yaoi#yaoi novel
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
Headcanons: Various Wands of My Witches
So I’ve touched on the general concept of wands before in headcanons, this is to talk a bit more about the specific wands used by each of my witches.
Beck’s wand is probably the least fancy out of the group. It’s about eighteen inches of long, twisted iron. Its handle is stamped with 15 little animal heads, one to represent each of the fifteen witch clans. At the very base and the very end of the handle, there are two foxes biting each other’s tails as they circle around. The only other notable factor is the last few inches of the wand stop curving and on one side have a very, very sharp edge. It also comes to a sharp point.
Beck’s is one of the oldest wands among the witches, and it was crafted for the Mother of Foxes when the first fifteen Grandmothers of the Forest burned at the end of the Cold Sowing. It was, like all the original fifteen wands, forged by magical means. It is simpler in comparison to modern wands, but the complexity is beyond what should have been possible at the time.
Fenris also has one of the original fifteen wands. His was made for the mother of Wolves. It too is primarily made of iron, as all my witches’ wands are, only the last six inches show the black metal. From the handle up to where the iron shows, the wand is encased in a thin layer of strange, milky-white stone. The end of its handle is shaped like a seated, howling wolf, and the top of the handle, still somehow all part of the same singular piece of stone, the phases of the moon encircle it, slightly raised from the rest of the wand. It too is stamped with the fifteen faces of the Shifting Clans. It also has a sharp, potentially deadly end.
Midori perhaps has the most fanciful wand. It was hand crafted for her by the Order of the Forest’s Heart, the order of the priesthood that is responsible for crafting all wands in the modern era. The curves in the metal are reminiscent of ocean waves, and veins of blue crystal curl are inlaid inside of it. Near its tip it breaks into several curved bars that form a small cage, and inside the cage is a small orb that appears to be made of glass, filled with seawater and floating unharmed no matter how abruptly or vigorously one shakes it.
Jari’s wand is a combination of iron and wood from the rib of a forest troll. It is also fairly modern and was made for him by the Order of the Forest’s Heart rather than passed down seeing as his parents abandoned him on the temple steps when he was only minutes old. The wood covers the handle in its entirety, and then little vines of it curl up and around the metal toward the tip. At the end of its handle is a large bulb of polished amber.
Harper did inherit a wand from her family. Since her mother only had one child, and her father was a deadbeat that abandoned them long before Harper was born, she was fit to inherit her mother’s wand. On the day she finished the trials to earn her wand, she rejected it. Having a long, caustic relationship with her mother, Harper said she would rather swallow the wand than ever use it.
For several years, Harper operated without one. Wands aren’t a necessity for my witches, their significance has just as much cultural and social weight as magical. It wasn’t until after she bonded with her familiar Gráðr that she approached the Order to commission a wand forged specifically for her.
Harper’s wand is a straight rod of iron, with inlaid silver curling around it. Much like Beck and Fen’s it comes to an almost blade-like end but instead of iron, the sharp tip is made of a clear crystal with veins of dark purple stained within it and a blackened edge. To be cut with the end of her wand would be a death sentence for just about anyone other than her, as the purple coloring comes from suspended venom from her sea serpent familiar. Handle of the wand ends in a silver head of a serpent, open mouthed, and inside that mouth is an iron fox head, its own mouth open, showing its teeth in an expression of rage and terror as it is swallowed by the serpent.
#i need to think on frankie's a bit#and i'd like to add linnea's and maybe elea's eventually? even if they aren't muses#i just feel like the wands represent the witches so strongly#hcs;; harper#hcs;; Beck#hcs;; witches#hcs;; midori#hcs;; jari
0 notes
Text
it’s currently time to make my comfort characters suffer along with me so!! here’s this monstrosity!! (loosely based on a fic i wrote awhile ago— can be found on ao3 titled Of Monsters and Pain— so tw: mentions/implied andrew’s past but like. very mild)
Andrew locked that word away long ago. a hastily designed cage to muffle the resounding trauma. he tightened the bolts until all that was left was ringing silence
the meds made the silence louder
after the meds, the silence was barely noticeable
Neil made the silence dwindle. the added blanket of Neil’s own secret-woven silence made Andrew’s turn into something almost vivid
grays and blacks turned to faded blues and purples. oranges that burned brighter than the other colors
Neil and Bee and even the Foxes. he knew they all helped. in their own ways
no longer the Monster. they didn’t learn to apologize, too battered from life to mean the words sincerely. but Andrew took their invitations to movie nights and Bee’s offers of children’s stickers all the same
some days he looked at the rungs on his arms and could see the progress he’d made, no longer standing at the bottom, jumping and missing the first foothold every time
other days
he felt like being split in two
he was cold and distant. a terror that slipped knives out of the bands covering his scars. a monster in all his right. his heart had been solidified into nothing more than decoration to haunt those stupid enough to try and get a look
he was just a kid. a kid who had never been allowed to want, to have, to keep without getting hurt. the blood pumping through his veins ran just as hot under his skin as it did through his heart
two halves
he didn’t know which to trust
he couldn’t find the dividing line between reality and fictionalized ideals
blurred and distorted through waves of stinging tears, fact and fiction were one in the same. he didn’t think he could still cry
his skin was frozen, chilled to a stone
his heart pounded violently, shrinking in on itself in his chest in desperate attempts to hide from the inevitable slashing pain
red marks pocked his chest, ragged fingernails digging into the flesh. it hurt. but it was better than the other hurt. at least he had control over the pain he gave himself
Neil was there
Andrew didn’t know when Neil showed up
maybe he’d always been there
Andrew looked at Neil. tears streaking his cheeks, shining dully in the dimmed light. unspilled tears left a ring around his eyes. it didn’t matter. his heart hurt. he couldn’t help it
giving Neil anything was a bad idea. less control. Neil had the upper hand
except
Neil was there. he’d seen enough to ruin Andrew if he wanted to. and Andrew was so tired, so worn out from the shaking and crying. Neil was supposed to be safe
it didn’t matter if he wasn’t, anyway. it wouldn’t be the first time Andrew trusted the wrong person
he held out his open hands to Neil, furiously trembling, and stared into Neil’s eyes
“please. just be gentle with my heart. please”
Andrew didn’t want the words. everything he had was gone, ripped from him and laid out for display. there was no point in trying to pick it all back up and pretend
but then Neil’s hands were so close to his he could feel the warmth
he leaned against it
slowly, gently, he felt his fingers be curled in, balling his hands into loose fists. his arms folded until his fists landed just over the pulsing pain in his chest. Neil’s leg brushed against his own and Andrew couldn’t find it in him to feel anything but safe
“keep it,” whispered from just inches away
Andrew let his eyes fall shut
“I don’t need your heart to treat you kindly. I won’t be like them, Love”
#please be kind!! this is my idea of coping#andriel#andrew minyard#neil josten#aaron minyard#allison reynolds#dan wilds#david wymack#kevin day#matt boyd#seth gordon#renee walker#aftg meme#aftg series#all for the game#aftg
42 notes
·
View notes
Text
aesthetic.
what are your muse’s aesthetics? bold any which apply to your muse!
remember to REPOST! feel free to add to the list!
[ COLORS ] ~ burgundy. red. crimson. scarlet. maroon. mahogany. copper. amber. chocolate. brown. tawny. tan. bronze. brass. orange. gold. saffron. yellow. chartreuse. spring green. lime. mint. green. olive. forest. turquoise. teal. cerulean. blue. navy. cobalt. periwinkle. indigo. pewter. plum. purple. magenta. fuchsia. lilac. lavender. pink. coral. peach. ivory. cream. white. silver. grey. smoke. charcoal. ebony. black. pastels. vibrant. matte. metallic. muted. dark. light.
[ BODY ] ~ mutations. claws. fangs. wings. tails. feathers. webs. spikes. scales. fur. stripes. spots. freckles. acne. bruises. scars. scratches. gashes. lashes. wounds. amputations. burns. brands. teeth. gums. tongues. lips. beards. mustaches. cheeks. noses. ears. eyes. eyelashes. eyebrows. hair. heads. neck. shoulders. collar bones. arms. elbows. wrists. hands. fingers. breast. back. ribs. abs. belly. hips. curves. butts. legs. thighs. knees. shins. ankles. feet. toes. nails. sweat. spit. tears. blood. heart. stomach. lungs. liver. veins. guts. bones. spine. muscle. skin. feline. canine. masculine. feminine.
[ WEAPONS ] ~ bites. fists. kicks. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. bow. crossbow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. bombs. missiles. boomerangs. lethal pets. lasers. canons.
[ MATERIALS ] ~ metal. gold. silver. platinum. pewter. titanium. iron. steel. copper. bronze. brass. tin. bismuth. diamonds. pearls. rubies. garnets. sapphires. emeralds. jade. peridots. alexandrite. opal. topaz. jasper. quartz. rose quartz. smoky quartz. amethyst. citrine. fluorite. amber. malachite. turquoise. lapis lazuli. sodalite. pyrite. labradorite. moonstone. petrified wood. wood. paper. parchment. hemp. canvas. burlap. oils skin. muslin. rayon. faux. wool. fur. lace. leather. skins. suede. corduroy. silk. satin. chiffon. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. rocks. flint. asphalt. brick. granite. marble. dust. rust. glitter. sand. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. nylon. polyester. plastic. glass. porcelain. bone. shells. coral.
[ NATURE ] ~ grass. leaves. trees. bark. flowers. roses. daisies. forget me nots. tulips. lavender. sunflowers. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. roots. ocean. pond. river. stream. waterfall. creek. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. tropical. jungle. marsh. moors. swamp. plains. hills. highlands. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. fire. lava. ice. frost. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. shadow. tornado. hurricane. water spout. thunder. hail. twisters. humidity. dryness.
[ ANIMALS ] ~ birds. penguins. eagles. owls. falcons. vultures. hawks. swans. parrots. parakeets. doves. pigeons. ducks. robins. cardinals. blue jays. bluebirds. blackbirds. crows. ravens. magpies. mockingbirds. flamingos. ostriches. seagulls. albatross. peacocks. condors. finches. pelicans. chickens. geese. quail. bats. sheep. cows. buffalo. deer. hedgehogs. elephants. horses. giraffes. cats. lions. tigers. pumas. cheetahs. jaguars. foxes. dogs. wolves. coyotes. bunnies. mice. rats. monkeys. apes. bears. pandas. polar bears. snakes. iguanas. chameleons. alligators. crocodiles. turtles. lizards. frogs. toads. whales.dolphins. fish. sharks. stingrays. octopus. lobsters. crabs. bugs. spiders. moths. butterflies. flies. maggots. roaches. ladybugs. beetles. cicadas. dragonflies. fleas. termites. leeches. worms. snails. mosquitoes. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. dinosaurs.
[ FOODS/DRINKS ] ~ pepper. salt. sugar. honey. syrup. caramel. candy. bubblegum. mints. candy canes. gumdrops. lollipops. chocolate. vanilla. cinnamon. ice cream. cake. cookies. brownies. biscuits. pie. tarts. lemonade. soda. champagne. wine. brandy. rum. whiskey. vodka. tequila. sake. beer. soju. gin. crema de cacao. cocoa. latte. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. fruit. apples. oranges. lemons. cherries. strawberries. blueberries. raspberries. cranberries. watermelons. cantaloupes. bananas. coconuts. grapes. kiwi. pomegranates. tomatoes. vegetables. potatoes. cucumbers. carrots. turnips. onions. leeks. celery. broccoli. cabbages. lettuces. roots. nuts. white meat. red meat. raw meat. veal. pork. chicken. beef. venison. fish. lobster. oysters. pizza. ambrosia. pasta. sandwiches. soup.
[ HOBBIES ] ~ music. piano. flute. woodwinds. whistles. drums. guitar. cello. synthesizer. violin. lute. harp. fiddle. harmonica. trumpet. brass. singing. composing. folk. classical. bluegrass. blues. jazz. big band. pop. country. rock. punk. metal. electronica. hip hop. reggae. ska. rap. vinyl records. cassettes. cds. soundcloud. itunes. spotify. art. sculpting. pottery. painting. watercolour. drawing. pastels. charcoal. sketching. graffiti. printing. inking. collecting. fighting. martial arts. self-defense. boxing. fencing. sumo. wrestling. jousting. paintball. lazer tag. duelling. hunting. fishing. climbing. weight lifting. training. sports. football. football (usa). rugby. baseball. cricket. lacrosse. volleyball. basketball. tennis. badminton. skating. cycling. sailing. swimming. rowing. hiking. running. gymnastics. dancing. ice skating. hockey. reading. writing. cooking. sewing. acting. photography. video games. horseback riding. gardening. smithing. shopping. traveling. movies. theatre, libraries. books. magazines. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. science.
[ STYLE ] ~ nudism. perfume. cologne. piercings. tattoos. henna. body paint. war paint. make up. lipstick. mascara. eyeliner. eye shadow. powder. beauty marks. blush. nail polish. lingerie. fishnet. pantie-hoes. socks. stockings. leggings. long johns. under armor. corsets. sports bras. bustles. camisoles. blouses. button ups. tunics. vests. waistcoats. leather jackets. ponchos. sweaters/jumpers. hoodies. skirts. jeans. kilts. breeches. scarfs. cravats. ascots. belts. sashes. gloves. heels. sandals. platforms. tennis shoes. penny loafers. jordans. slippers. boots. cowboy boots. rain boots. army boots. armor. justaucorps. trench coats. capes. cloaks. burqa. suits. tuxedos. kimonos. saris. sun dresses. gowns. jewelry. earrings. nose rings. lip rings. tongue piercings. belly rings. gauges. eyebrow rings. necklaces. pearl strings. leis. bracelets. bangles. cuffs. watches. friendship bracelets. rings. pendants. lockets. broaches. boutonnieres. pocket watches. cuff links. hats. crowns. circlets. flower crowns. helmets. hijabs. turbans. baseball caps. cowboy hats. brocade. doublet. gorget. bracers. masks. cowls. braces. glasses. sun glasses. eye contacts. pajamas.
[ MISC ] ~ balloons. bubbles. candles. battle. war. diplomacy. peace. money. power. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. sex. hugs. duality. sin. lust. greed. wrath. envy. sloth. gluttony. pride. virtue. chivalry. honor. piety. charity. diligence. chastity. gentleness. aggression. romance. hatred. grief. pity. success. bitterness. sorrow. joy. fear. anger. good. evil. relativity. vampirism. sapphism. life. birth. time. death. illusion. silence.
Tagged stole from: @ababwa
Tagging: @direbcrn @sunsreign & anyone else who wants to do iiit
35 notes
·
View notes
Text
tea without honey
commissioned by @honeyjarr!
fandom: ikemen sengoku
characters: kennyo
word count: 4221
***
The forest of Kisara is where things get eaten. Ever since Misao, daughter of the village sower, went missing, the locals sent both young and older men into the forest—only for them to return different. The accounts vary from person to person. Some say that a husband couldn't sleep, foaming at the mouth and constantly choked on his own spit. Another says that their son had a newfound obsession with iron and steel, so much so that he had almost severed an artery hugging a knife in his sleep.
They returned from the search when dusk broke, and the look of hunger that was on their faces—wild and desperate, as though they had seen something in the forest that had made them ravaged was unspoken for. As if giving it a breath of acknowledgement was all it needed for teeth to grow sharper, for nails to become claws and hair to become fur. The village women spoke quietly to each other and talked of how their husband or son had downed five skinfuls of water and did not have their thirst quenched, or even a potful of rice did not tame the animal hunger in their eyes.
Every now and then, some girls would walk by the boundary of forest and tread footsteps, and there would be the smell of roasted pheasants, or burnt hazelnuts, or the mouthwatering scent of her late mother's fried rice. Village patrols would often carry a lantern in the evening and clipped their noses with wooden clothespins, if only to delay another wandering soul into the forest that would not give them back.
Kennyo decided that he would die there. He walked away from the beaten path of stone and green grass, far beyond the housed ladybugs and anthills. If he were to die, he would like to be fertiliser for a nice, pale patch of grass that did not receive enough sunlight. As he walked further into the forest, he ignored the thickets and burs and his itching ankles. He did not don his purple robes today—he would die humbly and quietly, like a peasant by the roadside.
Kennyo walked and walked until he didn't feel the sun on his head, and he sat down under a tall tree and sighed. There was no light there. He'd always suspected that hell was a dark place, but who knew it could be so cold?
He rubbed his arms and shrank into himself like a snail. It seemed like even going into death, he felt apologetic for the space he inhibited. Kennyo closed his eyes and waited for his death to come. He did not bring any water with him, and since he was an adult man, he would feel hungrier sooner than most. His training as a soldier didn't help, he was sure.
Kennyo closed his eyes once more and went to sleep, hoping that he would dream of Ranmaru and Shingen. Even if I cannot see them, he thought as drowsiness knotted his body like a noose, please allow me to be with them when I die. He did not know by who he hoped his prayers would be heard. He had long since forgotten who he owed his virtuosity to.
When he awoke, he felt light. There was another person nearby. Their footsteps were not quiet, so it was unlikely that they were trying to kill him. At least, do it successfully. He slowly felt for a sharp branch at his side and readied himself to use it as a weapon. Even going into death, he was an animal.
He opened his eyes, and there was a woman there. She was crouched near him, but not within arm's length that he could grab her. She was staring at him, a sort of morbid curiosity, like how children would gather around to look at a sparrow's corpse. There was no pity there. Only fascination, and a measured calmness. As if she was judging how long it would take for his body to rot.
Kennyo opened his mouth for his usual words of warning and threats to come flying, but the woman held a finger in front of his lips, another one pressed to her own. “Shh.”
He wanted to retaliate, but he heard the familiar footsteps of soldiers thumping through the forest, and he held his breath. Then, he heard a voice call out: “Did you find anyone?” It was a lukewarm voice. Tokugawa Ieyasu is here. Try as Kennyo might, his mind cried his human voice once more. Why is he here? Are they planning a siege against the village?
The woman regarded him for a second, and then turned her head to answer the voice beyond the trees. “Just a cat,” she said.
The Mikawa traitor was quiet. “...Alright. Will you find your way home?”
“Yes.”
Kennyo felt his brows scrunch in dogged anger. How foolish was the man allied with Nobunaga? Forget soft-hearted, he was straight up callous in his neglect. To leave a woman behind—in the middle of war, no less!—and to not even doubt her word or safety in a forest? Every time he learned more of the Oda forces, it was like salting the ocean. He waited until he couldn't hear the footsteps of the foot soldiers and their clunky armour and weaponry.
It happened in a swift moment. Kennyo recalled bringing his hand and pointing the sharp end of the branch to her neck—and then the next thing he knew, he was on the forest floor, and the weight of her leg was pressing on his elbow as she twisted his wrist until there was a cracking sound. Kennyo ignored the pain, his eyes finding hers as he spoke. “If you want to kill me, do it now.”
The woman's eyes were empty of threat and bore no anger or wariness. Blue, like the colour of the summer sky. Blue, like the veins that ran under his skin. Blue like a drowned corpse. “Why would I?”
The traitor of Mikawa truly fell for such a naive girl. Perhaps that had turned him foolish as well. There was a true question in her voice. “Because I will kill you if you do not.”
She tilted her head, and he realised that her hair was white, the colour of a paper doll for rainy days. The colour of a nine-tailed fox. “Then I will kill you when you try to do so.” She released her grip on him and shifted her weight from his arm. He brought his arm back to himself, the action like a whip. Kennyo felt for his wrist and winced.
The woman stood up, then bent at the waist as her hands reached to her ankles. Kennyo felt himself stiffen. He has dealt with assassins before, but not someone who so openly declared their intent. To his surprise, she did not reach for a hidden knife, or a needle, or even a small rock. She tore the edge of her kimono and fingered a gap in the seams until it was just a small piece of fabric in her hands. She turned to him.
He has never met this kind of assassin before. He backed into the roots of the tree until his back felt the grain of the wood. He couldn't stop staring at her. She looked straight at him, and then she yanked his leg closer—suddenly, he was a five year old child that refused to be bathed.
He didn't know he was still capable of feeling embarrassment. “What… are you… doing?” He tried to claw at her sleeve and attempted to push away her hands, to no avail.
She simply tugged his one leg closer, and soon he could not feel the wood anymore, and she was close enough for him to kick. Regretfully, he raised his free leg and swung at her.
The woman did not release his leg, nor did she flinch. She simply leaned back as if she had predicted him. Her lips were loose in a flat line and her eyes were ignorant to the concept of danger. It reminded him of Nobunaga's arrogant mug and he tried to cease the unrelenting thought that he should punch her. He was far past ethics or any shred of decency, but still.
“Stop moving,” she said.
“Stop touching me,” he growled.
“If I stop touching you you'll just run away again.”
“I—” he paused and inhaled a much-needed breath. Like dealing with a child. “I won't run away.”
She was quiet, contemplating. “Promise.”
“What?” He asked incredulously. When she did not repeat herself, he sighed. “I promise.”
“Promise not to run away.”
“I promise not to run away.”
She nodded, then let go of his leg abruptly. The action was so sudden that it hurt when his one leg hit the ground. He cursed under his breath. Wretched woman—…
Kennyo closed his eyes and took deep breaths to calm himself. I am Kennyo. I do not hurt someone weaker than me. I am Kennyo, and I will not hurt someone weaker than me. When he felt he was more himself again, he opened his eyes and leveled a glare at the white-haired woman with blue eyes. “Before you touch my leg again,” he said, “What will you do to it?”
The woman showed him the cloth she ripped from her kimono. “Your ankle is bleeding.”
He narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Then you should've just told me.”
She approached him again, slowly and carefully, like one might approach a feral kitten. “Not needed. The goal was to help you, and I will do that whether you know of it or not.”
Kennyo sighed. She reminded him a little of Date Masamune, in the short time he's known him. “Go ahead, I suppose.”
The woman nodded. Her hands were cold when they touched his ankle, and when she pressed a little into the wounds, he could bite back the hiss from his mouth. She was looking at him the entire time, not shying away from his gaze. When she finished bandaging her ankle, she stood up. “I'm going now. Don't touch your wound unless it's to clean it. And try not to let it get wet when you shower.”
“Who are you?” Her hair was white like snow. Her hands were cold. Perhaps he should call her snow woman. “Why did you help me?”
“Call me a hazy dream if you so wish,” she said. “I helped you because it hurts.”
It hurts. Not because he was hurting. Kennyo blinked. The fool of Mikawa fell for a fool as well. “I didn't ask for your help,” he spat out bitterly. He breathed in and out. I am Kennyo, and I am courteous. I am Kennyo, and I am not hurting. “But, well—I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
Somehow, her eyes looked disgusted when he uttered his thanks. Did he say something wrong? “Save your thanks for a nicer person.” The snow woman turned heel and walked out of the woods to the gravel path, where the sunlight hit her. He couldn't see her clearly between the foliage of trees and leaves, but he heard her voice. “See you then, Mike.”
Mike? Ah, his clothes. He supposed there was some semblance of a calico cat in his appearance. If he squinted. Kennyo shook his head. What a strange snow woman. Perhaps she's a youkai of these woods. It seemed fitting that Nobunaga would foster demons in his lair. He was once one of those demons after all.
His plans for death disrupted, Kennyo decided to return home for the day and try again tomorrow. When he came out of the woods, the villagers crowded around him, asking him if he was okay, asking him if he saw anything strange in the forest. He did not answer, nor did he ask when no one offered him a bowl of porridge or gruel.
Then he walked into the forest again the next day, and the snow woman was there again.
Kennyo schooled his expression dispassionately. “Why are you here?”
The snow woman looked at him. “Looking for a cat.”
He sighed. “There are no cats here.”
“Sure there is,” she said, and pointed at him. “There's one right there.”
Silence.
The sound of crickets chirping.
“Was that…?” Kennyo trailed off, afraid of the answer.
To his horror, the snow woman nodded. “A joke.” Her eyes casted to the forest floor, as if disappointed. “I'm not good at it yet.”
Kennyo sighed. There was a saying that every sigh escaping your lips was also your happiness slipping out. He didn't know he had much of those left, but around her, he sighed as if he was the village fool, obtuse and laugh-filled. Happy, but still. He sat on the ground, resting his back on the bark of a tree. “Why do you keep coming here, snow woman?”
“I told you I was looking for a cat,” she said, and sat down next to him uninvited. “So I don't intend to leave until I find him.”
I am Kennyo, and I will die soon. “It can't be helped. I will help you find him.”
“Not needed.”
“Are you not travelling with Tokugawa Ieyasu to the eastern border? Why are you here?”
“Because I can find my way back just as easily.”
It's been a while since I've met someone so indirect yet straightforward at the same time. He should be grilling her with questions right now. He should be asking her of her importance to the Oda, and to threaten her life. He was too tired. He didn't want to think anymore. “Why did you call me Mike?”
She turned to meet his gaze, and her eyes were like a wall of glass—solid, but see through. “Why do you speak his name like that?”
Kennyo blinked. “What?”
“Tokugawa Ieyasu. Like… you pity him.”
He raised a brow. “How come you're certain I'm not pitying him because he has to deal with you?”
“Because I'm helpful and reliable.” Unlike before, there was a non-question there. As if she knew it herself, she spoke without reservations or modesty. It was a refreshing thing, at least. The women in the village often discredited themselves in favor of humility. “Why do you pity him?”
“Because he—!” When he realised he had raised his voice, he took a breath. I am Kennyo, and I do not hurt others. I am Kennyo, and I will not hurt others. “Because he and I are of the same kind.”
The snow woman's eyes bid him to continue. “Tokugawa Ieyasu is… a man driven by ire,” he said slowly, the words trickling slowly like a mountain stream. “He has an immeasurable hatred for the Imagawa, yet he bided his time and striked when the iron was hot. He… sharpened every roundness in his body to become a thorn. He even allied with Oda Nobunaga, of all people. He is a desperate man.”
The snow woman was quiet. “Your information is lacking and incomplete. Most of what you said is conjecture and not evidence supported by context.”
He had no idea what half those words meant. “What?”
She muttered something about thesis papers under her breath, and then she spoke. “The first half of your opinion was correct. He does hate the Imagawa, and it is true that he has sharpened even the tip of his tongue. But your implication that he chose to ally with Nobunaga out of desperation and not choice is half-baked. It was a choice made in desperation, not desperation itself.”
His brows scrunched. “There's no difference.”
“Sure there is.” The snow woman reached out for a branch and then smoothed out a patch of dirt, drawing a circle that overlapped in the middle. “This part is desperation,” she pointed to the circle on the left, “and this part is choice.”
“What's this?”
“A Venn Diagram.”
“A… what?”
“It's a useful tool for finding similarities and distinctions between two objects.” With the end of the wooden stick, she tapped the middle part of the overlapped circle. “This is where Ieyasu lives.”
He couldn't understand. “He is 'desperate' and 'choice'?”
“He is both desperate and making a choice. One might call that instinct. Put into circumstances that pushed him into desperation, he made a choice that he would do whatever it takes to live. And that led him to ally with Nobunaga.”
Kennyo was quiet. “...You speak as if he is an animal.”
“It is not as bad of an image you perceive,” she said. “What is wrong with letting the animal of your body do what it must do to live on?”
His mind cried human once more. He wanted to be leader of the Ikko-Ikki, to be the responsible man of the village that everyone could look to. But he was tired. “What separates humans and animals are intellect. The ability to congregate and to socialise.” Even ants were soldiers. “Society would collapse should we build our wisdom atop a pile of corpses like territorial beasts.” Buddhism was about finding peace and serenity in oneself, so that one might be unshakeable in the face of change. Humans are greedy and malicious.
“What separates humans and animals are their awareness of the future. We plan and we innovate, if only to better the lives of the people that come after us. Is it not the same for you?” She tilted her head in a non-question, just as she had before. “Did you not seek death alone so as to not worry your friends and the people that care for you?”
Kennyo's mind was blank. He was tired. “How did you—”
“I'm rather good at finding cats that curl up and die alone.” She stood up then, and the slightest gap in the trees lent her light, looking as though the snow of her hair and the ice of her body would soon melt into nothing. “You believe in the concept of a higher power, do you not?”
His mind was still reeling from her words. “Yes.”
“Then why did you think you were ever alone? Is your god so pitiful that you thought They couldn't find you in a forest?”
Kennyo stood up, flushed and angry and embarrassed. “Do not dare insult my beliefs.”
She casted him that disgusted look once more, like he had thanked her for the wrong reasons. This woman is inscrutable. “You are the one that is insulting your own beliefs by going into some ditch to die. If you truly believe in higher power, then why do you not believe in hope?”
“I—” he stuttered. He hasn't stuttered in ages. Like a child. “It is different for me.”
The snow woman reminded him of Tokugawa Ieyasu at times. Her flat, unrelenting gaze and the way she would press at his wounds to see how much pain he could handle. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being tested for something.
“I am leaving,” she said, and her words brooked no arguments. Kennyo felt a little irritated of the way she carried herself so easily and without question. “Do find a quieter place to die next time.”
He returned home in the veil of night, and early morning he headed into the woods again, where he found her carving something with a knife. When she saw him, she smiled. It was the first smile she'd ever shown him. “Come to die again, Mike?”
“I've come to kill you,” he said.
She doesn't sigh around him. As though there was no part of her that had grown tired and weary like his body had. He felt it when he breathed. He felt it when he ate. The weight of his aging skin and the chest that he claims is heartless. It still ached. He is tired. He is tired, and all he wants is to give into the place that existed behind the darkness of his eyelids, where neither suffering or joy existed. “Come to the wrong conclusion, I see.”
Kennyo unsheathed his hunting dagger. It was small and light. This kind of death was quick and impatient. “I will kill you, and then—”
“It's pointless to kill me then proceed to kill yourself. All we will be are two corpses in a forest.” Her sharp ice eyes softened and melted into water. “Why are you so convinced that things cannot be better?”
“Because they won't! It is not as if—I haven't tried,” Before he knew it, he was yelling. I am Kennyo. I am Kennyo, and I do not hurt others. “It is not as if—as if I gave up the first time. I tried to make it better.” He became a part of Nobunaga's army, loath as he was to admit it. He trained. He learned military strategy from Mitsunari and tried to save as many lives as he could when the war started. But he couldn't take being so close to death and not being able to do anything but hope. He has let go of too many hands that slipped out of his grasp, lifeless. “But nothing gets better, and I am tired.” He was sure he was crying by now. Like a child.
The snow woman was quiet, and he did not want to look into her eyes, so solid and cold like touching metal. He was sure there was no warmth there. “Of course it will be hopeless,” she said. “Of course I will try to kill you if you try to do the same to me. Of course the storm will come and you will not be able to do anything other than wait. But—” she paused, “what is wrong with hurting and healing and continuing onto the next day? You do not need to forgive anyone else except yourself for being alive.”
She approached him slowly, like one might approach a feral kitten. The truth of the metaphor wasn't lost on him. Her hand reached out and touched his shoulder. It was surprisingly warm, like the sunshine had melted away the layer of frost on her skin. “Go home, little calico. You will never find a place lonely enough to die in as long as the sun continues to rise and set.”
Dazedly, somehow Kennyo found himself at the boundary of forest and field, and when a little boy saw him, he yelled for the other villagers. They gathered around him, the lady that always made enough soup for him—Kumeko chided him for making them worry. Kennyo couldn't focus on their voices very well. All he remembered was that the clouds were white like her hair and her eyes were blue like the afternoon sky.
“I told you not to go into the forest again! Didn't you hear about the soldiers roaming around? They might've killed you if they found you!”
“I—” Kennyo started, but didn't know what he was about to say. “I'm—!”
I am Kennyo, and I am—
“Hungry,” he said stupidly.
She blinked in confusion, and for a moment there was silence as the villagers looked at each other, trying to find some sort of confirmation there. “It can't be helped then,” one woman said, straightening the flimsy cloth tied around her waist that passed as an apron. She grinned. “Guess we'll have to cook up a feast for you, hm?”
The other women nodded in agreement, and they smiled at each other, like knowing a secret only they knew. “It just so happens that Takemura caught some birds on his way back from the capital!”
Then another chimed in, “While we're at it, let's bust open some bottles of sake!”
Kennyo couldn't help the question that slipped past his lips. “...Why are you helping me?” Aren't they scared of the forest's curse? About the animal hunger? Am I not a monster?
“Helping? Well, I wouldn't say that. But if you're hungry, it's natural to eat, obviously. Plus, a good meal is important to having a good day!”
What is wrong with letting the animal of your body do what it must do to live on?
It was all a blur after that. Kennyo tried to help with the cooking, or the butchering, but they all shooed him away until night came and he was dragged to the communion table. Some of the men were singing folk songs about the moon, and their tone-deafness were not unwelcome.
“Eat up,” Chiyo said warmly, pushing the bowl of udon in front of him.
Kennyo tentatively spooned the broth into his mouth, and it was delicious. Maybe, he thought, Maybe this is what the forest curse would've been like. The forest of Kisara preyed on the weak-minded, luring them with the scent of good, hearty food and a longing that roped them into the heart of the woods.
He ate quietly under the watch of the village women, and when he finished, they asked him if he wanted seconds. They're wasting food on me. They didn't even question the reason he went into the forest. They simply took care of him when he returned, accepting him and his curse of hunger.
His curse of being alive.
Who was he? A monk. An older brother to the children. A little calico to the snow woman.
I am Kennyo, he thought, I am human.
21 notes
·
View notes
Text
Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 18: Dragon Rising (part 2)
Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 18: Dragon Rising (part 2) by C_R_Scott
Chapters: 18/?
Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Red Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Characters: Tim Drake, Lucien Flavius
Additional Tags: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Skyrim/DCU crossover, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Not Beta Read, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Modded Skyrim, Skyrim Spoilers, Tim Drake is Dragonborn | Dovahkiin, Batfamily-centric (DCU), Tim Drake-centric
Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter
Summary:
Battle at the Watchtower
-------------------------
It didn't take long for Tim to catch up with Irileth and her handful of city guards near the stables just outside of Whiterun's walls. The dark elf had given Tim a odd look when he arrived, but said nothing except to stay close and to keep his eyes open for any signs of dragon in the night sky.
As Tim walked along the road towards the watchtower that had been attacked, all traces of weariness had bled away to be replaced by growing sense of dread and anxiety. The hour was late, and Tim honestly wasn't sure he'd be able to spot the black dragon from Helgen against the dark night sky. Adding to his unease was the smell of smoke wafting towards them even before they saw the light from the fires burning in and around the destroyed watchtower. He immediately recognized the smell of burning wood and charred flesh, and he felt his stomach churn.
Still, he kept pushing forward along with Irileth and her guards without a word about his discomfort.
They stopped by a pile of large stones a short way from the watchtower. The soldiers and Irileth were stunned by the amount of damage. The stone structure had a jagged scar cutting through the top half of the structure, the wound illuminated by fires burning within it. Rubble from the tower and bodies of soldiers both burning and simply dead lay scattered around the grounds of the tower. However, despite all the visible carnage, there was no sight of the dragon anywhere, and no sounds except for the crackling flames and cold wind blowing through the grass.
The silence was unsettling. Tim had been around long enough to know that out in this land, even at night there ought to have other noises. Wolves... Owls... Foxes... Deer... Insects... The sounds of Skyrim's nocturnal creatures were just not there.
"No signs of any dragon right now, but it sure looks like he's been here," Irileth said as she scanned the watchtower and the skies. Then she looked to her men and Tim. "I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened, and if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere." She made a motion that her men immediately recognized as a "move out" command. "Spread out and look for survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with."
When Irileth's eyes fell on Tim, he nodded as a good soldier would. Before she turned to follow her men, the dark elf's red eyes drifted to a point over Tim's shoulder and behind him, and she inclined her head in a "look over there" gesture. Curious, Tim glanced behind him and his own blue eyes widened in surprise.
"Lucien? What are you doing here?" he asked the scholar in surprise as the other man jogged up and finally stopped to catch his breath.
"What does it look like?" Lucien gasped out between breaths.
"You didn't have to come."
"Yes I did." Lucien looked at Tim square in the eyes with a determined expression. "We Flaviuses have a reputation to always keep our promises, and I will be damned if some idiot Jarl, a bloodthirsty dragon, and your obvious lack of self-preservation sense makes a liar out of me before I can get you home!"
Tim felt a small part of the anxious knot in his chest unwind, just a little, as he smiled at Lucien gratefully. "Thank you," he said softly. Then he turned to the watchtower while arming himself with his bow and a nocked arrow. "The dragon doesn't seem to be around at the moment. Irileth wants us to look for survivors."
Lucien nodded and appeared to ready a frost spell in his hands, a cold mist swirling around his fingers. "Lead the way, then."
***
The pair of them moved towards the bridge leading into the body of the damaged watchtower. Tim could see Irileth's soldiers checking on the survivors and fallen on the outer grounds, so he directed Lucien to join him at the tower itself. As they got closer, he could hear one of the watchtower guards trying desperately to warn Irileth away.
"No! Get back! It's still here somewhere!"
Tim froze.
"Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!"
Tim felt his heartbeat thudding in his ears. As Lucien went to the guardsman to check on his injuries, Tim immediately began scanning the skies. Suddenly, the guard gasped and his words sent a chill down Tim's spine.
"Kynareth save us, here he comes again!"
The statement was punctuated by a familiar terrifying roar and the sound of wind rushing past wings. Tim's eyes zeroed in on a dark shadow sailing past the blood red moon and into a bank of gray clouds in the sky. Despite himself, Tim's hands trembled on his bow.
Irileth's commanding voice cut through the night. "Here he comes! Find cover and make every arrow count!"
Suddenly a dark shadow and an unnatural rush of wind nearly knocked Tim and the others off the watchtower bridge. Tim immediately moved to shove Lucien into nearby cover with a group of other guards, who were firing arrows into the sky. Tim was about to find his own cover and join them when something massive landed heavily on the ground, causing an earthquake like tremor that knocked Tim off the bridge and to the ground below.
Pain shot through his body at the impact of the fall, and his head spun. Despite this, Tim managed to keep a grip on his bow and he forced himself to get to his feet as quickly as he could. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and screamed at him to move.
Then he froze as he turned to see face of the enormous menacing dragon staring straight at him just a yard from where he stood.
The massive beast's eyes narrowed as he stared at Tim. Though he was terrified, Tim immediately brought up his bow and fired at the dragon point blank. The dragon jerked his head up to avoid the projectile even as other arrows began to rain down on him from the other guards. Then, to the young man's shock, the dragon opened his mouth and words spilled out.
"I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide!"
Tim's eyes widened. "You can talk?!"
Instead of an answer, the dragon pulled back his head with an obvious inhale. "YOL... " Tim immediately recognized the word from Helgen.
"Get back!" he yelled at the guards and Lucien in alarm as he himself ran for cover. "Fire! Fire!"
"TOOR SHUL!!"
Tim just barely dove for cover behind a pile of stone rubble as a blast of intense fire scorched the earth and air around him. He couldn't restrain the scream of terror as he huddled behind the rocks as much as he could to avoid the flames. Suddenly the flames stopped and there was a rush of air against the ground, putting out some of the grass fires around him, as the dragon took off into the sky again.
"Timothy!" A blast of cold mist washed over the area around Tim as the young man gasped for air. Suddenly Lucien was in front of him, his frosted over hands cradling Tim's face. The shock of cold against his skin startled Tim out of the fear-induced daze he'd fallen into.
"Lucien?!" Tim gasped as he became aware of his surrounding.
"We need to move! Back to the bridge!" Lucien tried to help him to his feet.
Still gripping his bow, Tim moved as quickly as he could to cover with Lucien underneath the bridge. He forced himself to nock arrow after arrow at the dragon as he flew circles around them, sending fire blasts at various targets. It was only because of Lucien that he was able to keep moving from cover to cover. Whenever the dragon roared or a blast of fire hit too close, Tim would flinch hard or even freeze in place. Rather than using his magic to attack the dragon itself, Lucien chose instead to use his ice spells to put out the various fires on the ground, which allowed Tim and the other soldiers move more safely without getting burned. The cold of the icy mist Lucien used seemed to break through Tim's fear and kept him moving.
"Look!" Lucien cried out and pointed as they felt the ground rumble from the dragon's landing again. "I think... he's almost dead!"
Tim's gaze followed Lucien's hand and stared grounded dragon. Dozens of arrows were embedded in its thick hide and blood poured from the wounds on its body and head. The membrane of one of his wings was in tattered and made it so that the beast could no longer take to the air. That didn't stop it from trying to snap at nearby soldiers daring to take up swords against it, or sending blasts of fire when it could do so with those same three words as before.
Swallowing hard, Tim lifted his bow and continued firing arrows at the dragon along with the other soldiers. Each arrow felt heavier than the last though, as despite his fear of the beast he couldn't get out of his head that this monster had spoken to him. Despite the fact that this dragon was trying to kill all of then, it was a sentient, intelligent creature, and Tim's hand was one of many working to end its life!
As Tim nocked one more arrow to his bow and drew it back, he felt his hands tremble. Time seemed to slow around him and the dragon. The beast had just finished firing a blast of fire at a soldier on the ground and had turned to glare at Tim just as his fingers released their grip on the arrow. As the arrow flew, something shifted in the dragon's expression, as if realizing something important in that one moment about the young mortal man standing before him.
Tim's arrow struck true, piercing the dragon in the throat, and seemed to be the final blow needed to fell the beast. The dragon reared its head back. "Dovahkiin? No!!" it roared in agony before collapsing to the ground.
Tim felt his eyes whell up with tears and they spilled out down his cheeks as the soldiers around him cheered wildly in victory.
"I'm sorry..." Tim whispered as his bow fell from numb fingers. From somewhere far away, he could hear Lucien calling out to him with concern, but all Tim could do was stare as the life faded from the dragon's eyes. He walked forward slowly towards the dragon's body, guilt wracking his conscience.
"Wait! Look at that!" a guard exclaimed with alarm.
Tim and everyone who had been moving towards the dragon froze as the body of the beast began to ignite and dissolve right before their eyes.
"What's happening?!" Lucien cried out.
"Everyone get back!" Irileth shouted, and nearly everyone scrambled to pull away from the dragon.
Everyone but Tim.
Tim was frozen in place. He barely even registered the chaos around him as he stared at the dragon as its very scales and flesh ignited in a cascading spontaneous combustion, leaving behind nothing but clean white bone. Then, the bones themselves began to glow with a bright blinding light as a sudden gust of swirling wind carried that light straight for him.
Reflexively, Tim pulled up his arms to shield his face and closed his eyes, but after a moment he realized that the wind was not inflicting any more pain on his body. Slowly he opened his eyes and watched with confused awe as the tendrils of light on the wind swirled around and into his body. As the winds died down and the light faded, Tim raised a hand and pressed it to his chest. Something was... different... But he couldn't quite articulate what that was. What was it that dragon had said as it died? What was that word?
"Dovahkiin?" he whispered to himself.
The sound of armored soldiers rushing to his position immediately set him on edge. For a brief moment, he thought that perhaps they were rushing to attack him, that whatever had just happened had made him a new threat in their eyes. Tim turned to them, hands upraised to show he was unarmed.
But there were no swords or bows drawn against him.
Instead, all the soldiers there were staring at him in awe and... reverence?
"I can't believe it!" one of the guards closest to him said. "You're... Dragonborn..."
"Dragon... born?" Tim echoed with clear confusion. "What do you mean?"
The Nord soldier explained. "In the very oldest tales, back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed the dragon's power?"
Tim felt a coil of fear and dread tighten in his chest. He could feel himself shake his head in reflexive denial. "I... I don't know," he stammered uneasily as he turned to stare at the dragon bones again. "I don't know what happened to me."
As the guards began to murmur amongst themselves about the stories they heard as children of the Dragonborn, Tim felt like his brain was short circuiting. He wanted to deny everything that was being said around him, but he just couldn't seem to find his voice.
"That's right! My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn..."
"...born with the Dragon Blood in 'em..."
"...Like old Tiber Septim himself..."
"...You must be one!"
One of the guards finally addressed Irileth. "What do you say, Irileth? You're being awfully quiet."
Tim turned his gaze to the dark elf and was startled to find that her red eyes had been focused on him this entire time. She averted her gaze when he caught her and turned to her guards.
"Hmph. Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about."
Somehow, hearing that made Tim feel marginally better. A little more grounded anyway. He watched as Irileth went over to the dragon's bones and nudged them with her sword.
"Here's a dead dragon, and that's something I can definitely understand."
Tim felt a touch on his arm again, and he turned to look at Lucien, who appeared to be as dazed as he felt. Still the scholar tried to put on reassuring smile. "Now Whiterun should be safe, yes? The dragon that burned you and Helgen is dead now. That's a relief, isn't it?"
Tim froze. "No... That's not right..." he murmured.
Irileth caught their conversation and turned to Tim and Lucien. "What do you mean by that? The dragon is dead at our feet."
Shaking his head, Tim searched the ground for a moment before finding what he was looking for. He knelt down and picked up a scale that had not combusted with the rest. "The dragon that attacked Helgen was black," he said solemnly as he brushed away the soot that had been on the scale. From where he knelt, he offered the scale to Irileth. "This one was grey." Even as the words left his lips, Tim felt that coil of fear and dread tighten even more. "This was a different dragon."
The elf's face became grim as she took the scale and examined it closely. "That was the hairiest fight I've ever been in, and I've been in more than a few. If dragons are coming back... If the black one from Helgen was only the first for many... Then we need to prepare. At least now we know they can be killed."
Tim bowed his head and slowly rose to his feet. The thought of another dragon dying at his hands made him feel sick to his stomach. However, the moment he stood up fully, his sense of balance pitched, and he nearly fell back down again. The only reason he stayed even partially upright was because Lucien caught him. Even then, though, Lucien was not strong enough to keep him on his feet for long. He was forced to ease Tim down to the ground gently as he could manage without hurting him further.
"L-Lucien," Tim gasped as his vision began to blur and darken around the edges.
"Damn it!" Lucien cursed as he pressed his hand to Tim's forehead. "You're burning up! You've pushed yourself too far!"
"Sorry," Tim whispered as he closed his eyes, suddenly feeling so dizzy and tired. "Should've listened to you."
Irileth knelt down as well. Her eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with him?"
"He's sick!" Lucien snapped angrily. "He was burned at Helgen and the wounds were never healed properly. They're infected!"
As Tim's consciousness faded into blackness, he could hear the alarm in Irileth's voice as she immedately started barking orders for her men to fetch a horse and cart as fast as they could. "We need to get him to the Temple NOW!"
-------------------------
Warning: This is being pantsed more than plotted, and this is not beta read. We'll see where this journey takes us. Mostly I'm just doing this for my own amusement.
Note1: If you have any questions about the playthrough and Tim's feelings/experiences that aren't described in the chapters, please ask me in the comments. I'll do my best to answer your questions as best I can.
Note2:
In my head, the Batman's "No Killing" rule applies not just to human beings, metahumans, or aliens that are humanoid in appearance, but to all living creatures that are intelligent and sentient. Capacity for speech is a big identifier of this type of sentience.
When Tim first encountered the black dragon in Helgen, he may have heard the dragon "Shouting" his spells, but didn't really register them as words at the time. Here, Tim heard the grey dragon (Mirmulnir) actually speaking, so it flipped a switch in Tim's perception that dragons are not mere beasts.
So this, technically, is Tim's first instance of breaking his adopted father's "No Killing" rule in Skyrim, and it's hit him very hard... as if his interaction with the first black dragon wasn't traumatic enough...
#elder scrolls dc#fanfiction#tim drake#skyrim fanfiction#batfam fanfic#red robin#batfam#crossover#lucien flavius#wip#afewnovelideas
#elder scrolls Dc#fanfiction#tim drake#skyrim fanfiction#batfam fancic#red robin#batfam#crossover#lucien flavius#wip#afewnovelideas
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Psych 101 | Whumptober2020
Defiance | Struggling | Crying
TW: Character Death
Summary: The Chancellor learns of Commander Fox and Riyo’s relationship and orders his property to be destroyed.
AO3 Link | Whumptober Index
Afternoon sunlight streamed down onto Fox’s armor, laying on the ground beside one of the entertaining couches in Riyo’s office. Fox himself lay across the couch, clothed in only his blacks from the waist up. His head and shoulders were propped up on a pillow and Riyo was leaning over him, propping herself up by the elbows on the same pillow so that she could lean down to kiss him.
There was a knock on the door and Riyo pulled back from the kiss to glance towards it.
“You’re not expecting anyone right?” Fox asked.
“No. Besides, it’s locked.” She paused to think. “If they come by tomorrow or call, I’ll just tell them I went home early.” She leaned back down to kiss him again and he wrapped his arms around her waist and the back of her head, pulling her closer to him to make up for the absence.
There was the sound of the door opening, and Riyo jerked back up as the Senate Guard entered, led by their captain.
“Commander Fox, you are under arrest for infidelity to the Republic and failing to uphold your oath of office. ” The captain stood back as his man advanced, taking hold of the two beings.
Riyo cried out as she was grabbed by the bicep and pulled away from Fox. “You have no authority to break in here and arrest this man! Who authorized this?”
The captain stared blanky at her as his men pulled Fox from the couch, forcing him to his knees with stun batons so that they could cuff him. “CC-1010, you are hereby to be stripped of your title and position and to be decommissioned by the order of the Chancellor.”
Riyo screamed every insult she could think of at the man as she kicked at the guards holding her, stilling at the sound of Fox’s voice. “Ri, Riyo, it’s okay.” She turned to meet his steady gaze. “It was worth it. I love you.” At that, the guards holding him down yanked him to his feet and began to drag him towards the door. “I love you!” He shouted back to her before receiving a strike across the face from the blue guard.
When he was gone, the hold on her arms loosened and she fell to the floor with a sob.
---
Fox stared blankly ahead at the city lights that surrounded him. On any other occasion, he would’ve relished the feeling of the night breeze in his hair, but tonight, the knowledge of where the speeder was heading took that enjoyment away from him. His predicament hadn’t seemed real until now. The debriefing was as formal as any, if more honest, and even when he was laying on the bench in his cell he hadn’t been able to process the events of the past few hours. It was only when Stone entered the cell with cuffs in his hands and a look of defeat on his face that Fox had comes to terms with his own mortality. The events following that had been a blur. Stone’s embrace, the promise he’d made, the line of men who had awaited Fox, lining up from his cell to the prison entrance in a salute, the waiting speeder.
Fox could see the Republic Health Center now, its distinct architecture looming behind the mass of skyscrapers that surrounded it. How many times had his life been saved here? Maybe it was fitting that it would end here. Rys and Jek squeezed his hands when the speeder turned to approach the spire.
Rys spoke first. “We’ll look out for her, Fox.”
“Anything she needs, we’ll be there.” Jek promised.
“Thank you.” Fox murmured, squeezing their hands in return. He didn’t know what else to say, what else he could say, and they remained silent as the speeder landed. Only he stepped out, an armed medical droid would escort him around the facility. When he turned back to say a final goodbye to Jek and Rys the speeder was already gone. Perhaps it was better that way. He followed the medical droid into the facility and through a maze of identical doors in a pristine hallway. It reminded him of Kamino, and not in a good way. When the medical droid turned and entered one of the doorways, Fox followed.
Thire was upon him the moment he stepped into the room and Fox melted into his arms as he had Stone’s. “I’ll take care of her, Fox. No being will harm her as long as I’m alive, I swear.” Thire whispered.
“Thank you, Thire .” Fox muttered.
“It’s been an honor to serve with you, Fox.” At that, Thire stepped back, revealing a sparse room with a single bed and Riyo, who was standing in the corner and looked like she was trying to not collapse. Fox took another step into the room, looking between Riyo and the waiting medical droid.
Riyo came to a decision before he did. She ran across the room and flung herself into his arms, suppressing a sob into his chest. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He murmured as he held her. “It was worth it. Everything was worth it, I love you, Riyo.”
Riyo pulled back from his chest, keeping her arms wrapped around him as she looked up into his gaze. “And I love you, Fox.”
Fox brought his hands to her face, stroking his thumbs across the pastel green arcs on her cheeks, wiping away her tears.
“CC-1010, it is time for me to administer the serum. Please, take a seat on the provided table.” The droid interrupted. Fox couldn’t find the will to be mad at it. He pressed a last kiss to Riyo’s lips and walked over to the table.
“You don’t need to restrain me.” Fox growled once he had sat down as the medical droid reached down for the restraints. The medical droid paused, then with a nod from Thire left them alone.
Riyo approached the bed and stood beside him, taking his hand in hers. Fox squeezed it as his head was pushed to the side, exposing his neck to the medical droid. He felt the prick of the needle as it dug into his skin and the prick of Riyo’s fingernails digging into his hand. The serum was cold. He could feel it entering his veins and the initial spread through his bloodstream before the temperatures equalized. Then the needle was gone, and the medical droid was stepping out of the door.
A deep exhaustion was setting into his body. His eyes began to close against his will as his muscles relaxed. He tried to fight it, taking in a deep shuddering breath, but the concern that rose in Riyo’s golden eyes stopped him from taking another like it. For her, he could die without a fight.
She leaned over him, taking his face in the hand not holding his and stroking her fingers across his cheekbones. He managed a weak smile, forcing the muscles in his face to move against the exhaustion setting in. “I’m okay.” He murmured. “It doesn’t hurt. Ri, I-.” His lips moved to form the rest of the sentence; his shallow breaths unable to force sound past his lips.
“I love you too, Fox.” She smiled sadly. Her face was becoming blurry as his vision began to fade. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of her hands, her scent, her voice. Anything he could hold on to. “I’ll stay with you until the end. I love...” She continued to talk to him, but he found couldn’t distinguish one word from the next.
The world was fading, closing in on him until it encompassed just her and the light rise and fall of his chest. Then that stopped, and it was just her. Her touch was fading too, but he could still hear the murmuring of her voice. Only then, at the very end, did he allow his hand to fall.
#foxiyo#commander fox#riyo chuchi#whumptober2020#no.11#defiance#struggling#crying#death tw#star wars#the clone wars#fic#my fics
12 notes
·
View notes
Link
7,713 words
Mature
Men make houses. Women build homes.
–Proverb.
Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight.
–Sherry, The Four Seasons
***
Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.
Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.
There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.
The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.
Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.
On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.
On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.
“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”
“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.
Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.
“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”
“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.
He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”
They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.
“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.
He does.
They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely–
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.
Precisely.
***
It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.
Didn’t expect that, did you?
He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.
He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.
He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.
They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”
The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.
As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.
It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.
“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.
“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”
“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.
“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.
“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness. “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”
“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.
“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”
He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.
He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”
“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”
“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”
“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”
“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”
“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.
“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.
On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.
“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”
He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.
“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”
Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.
***
In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…
Sherry, Sherry baby!
Sherry, Sherry baby!
***
“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”
“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.
“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”
“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”
“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”
Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”
“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”
“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”
“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”
“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”
“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”
“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”
“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.
He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.
But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.
Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”
He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.
“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”
She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”
“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”
She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”
“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”
“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.
“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”
“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”
“I did. All the time.”
She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”
“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”
“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”
He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”
Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.
He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.
If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.
He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.
Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.
The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.
Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.
The air is warmer, somehow.
Like a full body flush.
***
He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.
“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.
“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”
“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”
He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”
“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”
“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”
“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”
He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”
Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.
“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”
She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.
There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.
In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.
“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.
***
“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”
He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”
“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”
“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”
“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”
“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”
“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”
He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.
“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.
“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.
“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.
The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.
“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”
“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.
“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”
“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.
“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”
“Think what, Mulder?”
“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”
She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”
“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.
“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”
“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.
“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.
“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.
Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?
Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?
“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.
“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.
“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”
“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”
“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor, picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”
She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.
***
The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.
There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino. The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.
It begins to play.
He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.
Sherry! Sherry baby!
Sherry! Sherry baby!
Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.
He’s knocked back on his ass.
“What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.
Sherry! Sherry baby!
Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by!
Sherry, can you come out tonight?
“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from – everywhere, what –
Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out!
To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!
The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –
Like a human.
Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.
He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch.
“Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”
“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.
Three gunshots go off.
His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.
That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.
When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.
“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –”
“Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”
“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”
“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.
“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”
She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”
He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”
Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”
“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”
“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”
He freezes. Shit.
“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.
***
They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.
“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.
“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”
They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.
“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”
“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.
They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.
From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.
Come come. Come out tonight.
Come come. Come out tonight.
Come come. Come out tonight.
“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.
“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”
A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.
He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.
“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”
The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.
Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.
But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.
He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.
“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”
He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”
He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.
He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.
“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”
“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”
“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”
“What?”
“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.
***
She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.
“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.”
“We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”
“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”
They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.
“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”
He beams at her.
***
All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.
***
Girl, you make me lose my mind!
#fanfic#xfiles fanfic#the x files#txf#wtfmulder#mulder#scully#mulder and scully#mulderxscully#halloween#haunted house#spooky#msr
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Bite Me
Halloween may be over now, but if you’re still in the mood for a bit of darkness then I’ve got this not so little CS vampire AU you might be interested in.
Once upon a time Emma Swan was a princess. But that was before she died and was reborn as a vampire, forever thirsting for human blood. Now she works nights as a bounty hunter, chasing down bail jumpers with her enhanced senses and she's out on the hunt after a mysterious dark-haired man whose blood calls to her like none before. Can she resist taking a bite?
Now a few little notes about this, it has an open ending but I’m considering it a complete one shot, I just needed to get the creative process flowing again and this was the idea that came to me. I’m using “Rogers” as Killian’s alias, which I know is touchy for people who didn’t like S7, this is still a Captain Swan story though and no S7 characters appear. It’s a vampire AU, so there’s biting and blood drinking but I don’t think it’s super graphic or heavy on the gore factor.
Words: 8300, Rating: M
AO3 Link
FF. net Link
bite me
Once upon a time, Emma Swan was a princess.
Not one that was famous, or noteworthy, or of any great importance. Her royal house had been a minor one and was long forgotten, from when what was now Germany had been ruled by a collection of provincial dynasties and grand duchies, but she'd been born a real, actual princess, in a castle nestled deep in a forest of ancient myths and folklore that warned pretty young maidens not to wander alone in the woods after dark.
She'd died as a princess too, in the arms of the man who'd hid his sharp teeth behind a lazy smile and lured her away from the safety of the tall stone walls to take both her virginity and something far more precious from her on one moonless night, centuries ago.
Her life was supposed to have been a fairy tale, of balls and banquets and happily ever after with a handsome prince.
Now if was a horror story, of blood and death and a thirst that could never truly be quenched.
Emma Swan was a vampire, and she was on the hunt.
For a bail jumper, not for blood (although she'd take a little of that too, a girl had to eat, after all) just another scumbag who hadn't shown up for court and disappeared into the night. Bounty hunting was the perfect job for a vampire, she was a predator at heart, and she could set her own hours and work exclusively after sunset without raising any suspicion. And if a skip was a little paler once she'd brought them in and collected her reward? Well, no one ever noticed the tiny little bite marks on their necks.
She hadn't drunk for days, too preoccupied with her latest case to hunt for mere food. Not that it was ever that hard to find sustenance, Emma wasn't a princess anymore but she'd been bestowed many other titles by men over the years, a doll, a looker, a fox, a babe. It wasn't difficult to entice one into the woods, or an alley, or back to her apartment for "coffee,", letting them think they had been the one to seduce her and then turning the tables on them once they were alone and there was no one to hear them scream when the sexy, flirty blonde turned into a stone-cold bloodsucker. Sometimes she just drank, piercing a vein with teeth that went pointed and sharp as fangs at the scent of the blood moving just beneath the surface of the skin, rich, red elixir that was thick on her tongue and gave eternal life to the dead and damned. They stopped screaming then, Emma could make it feel good, so good that they surrendered willingly into her embrace and would let her drain them completely dry if she wanted to, although she hadn't done that in years. Too messy, to have to find a way to dispose of the body afterwards, and too complicated these days to have meals suddenly go "missing."
If she wanted to play with her food then she'd take them to bed first, on the nights when the need between her legs equalled her hunger and it was even more satisfying to fuck and feast, sometimes doing both at the same time.
That's what *he* had done, coaxing her thighs open with his pretty lies and false promises on that night so long ago, stealing her innocence before sliding his fangs into her slender neck, only he hadn't stopped when her heart did.
Either way, Emma made sure they forgot exactly what had been done to them and they woke up in the morning with nothing more than a headache from the blood loss and what they thought was a dream of a beautiful woman with lips stained crimson and skin as pale as moonlight.
She didn't dream, not since her last one turned into a nightmare from which she'd never woken up.
The bar where they were supposed to meet sounded like a dive (The Dark Hollow? Seriously, what kind of name was that?) but it was surprisingly upscale, sleek and modern, the kind of place where all the liquor was top shelf and the staff could double as models. Still, Emma turned her share of heads when she walked in and she could hear heartbeats around the room speed up as the men (and a few of the women) took her in. Tight dress, towering heels, tousled curls, she was dressed to kill and more than capable of actually doing it. The urge never fully went away, but tonight she'd have to settle for the satisfaction of only capturing her prey instead. She quickly scanned the dim interior and zeroed in on a man sitting smack dab in the middle of the room, seated alone at a table for two. As if he sensed her arrival he looked up from his phone, meeting her gaze and giving a smile that was the most dangerous thing in the room after her.
John Rogers. It was almost certainly an alias, probably a bit of identity theft on top of the charges of stealing from his employer, Gold Enterprises. He had dark hair, just the right amount of stubble on a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes as blue as the midday sky.
Not that Emma had actually seen the midday sky in person since the day she'd died, a perfect, clear day where the sun was warm and the gentlest of breezes had stirred her long skirts about her ankles as she walked into the forest without knowing that she'd just lost blue sky forever under the thick canopy of the trees and the shadow that lurked on the path ahead.
The memory made her falter for a moment before she pushed it away and strode right up to his table, putting a swing in her hips that made his heartbeat stutter and skip a beat. Emma was a vampire, but she was still a woman and it was gratifying to have such an effect on him, even though she was only here for the bounty and the unofficial bonus that had been offered by the owner of Gold Enterprises to bring him in and face justice.
"Anna?" he asked, getting to his feet at her approach. Emma smiled and nodded, she'd used an alias as well on the hookup app where she'd finally found a profile picture that matched his mug shot. His smile grew even wider. "I'm John. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
He had an accent, something that hadn't been listed in the police report and the sound of it sent a tingle right down her spine. One of his hands was unnaturally stiff, covered by a black glove that matched his black jeans and black vest. The missing hand had been in the report, with a notation that he wore a prosthetic but there'd been no info about how he'd lost the limb and no one at Gold Enterprises knew the story either. He pulled her chair back and waited until she was settled before sitting back down in his own seat, he might be a thief, but he clearly had some manners. There was a glass in front of him already, half-filled with a dark amber liquor that carried the rich aromas of burnt sugar and heavy spice.
Rum.
Emma ordered wine, she could eat and drink like an ordinary human, but her body took no nourishment from food and nothing could truly slake her thirst except human blood. Everyone tasted slightly different, some people were sweeter, like smooth chocolate or ripe berries, and some were more savoury, like a sharp cheddar or perfectly rare steak.
John Rogers looked like he'd taste like the rum, sweet and spicy at the same time.
And damn, if she didn't want a drink of him.
"More wine?" John asked, after she'd finished her second glass and they'd shared a plate of artful little hor d'oeuvres that did nothing except whet her appetite for something else instead.
"No, I'm good," Emma replied, pushing the empty glass away and eyeing the vein that ran along the inside of his wrist when he reached for the last canape.
"What's the matter love, a bit worried you'll find me too irresistible after another libation?"
From another man it would have come across as smarmy, but somehow he pulled it off. She ran a foot teasingly up his calf under the table, watching his throat bob with a heavy swallow. The honey trap was the easiest way to corral a skip, since Emma found most men couldn't resist a pretty face and the thought of getting lucky even when they should be lying low. John Rogers might be more attractive and have a larger vocabulary than the average deadbeat, but he wasn't any different than the rest of them and when she leaned forward and rested a hand high on his thigh she could hear his blood pumping even faster through his enticing veins, pooling a few inches away from her pointed nails.
"Who says I want to resist you?" she murmured in his ear. The muscle under her hand twitched and he quickly tossed back the last of his rum.
"Well then, I suppose I just have one more question. Your place or mine?"
Normally she'd invite whoever she was tracking back to her place and then take them to the nearest precinct instead, minus a pint or two of their blood. The Rogers case was different though, since whatever it was he'd stolen from Gold Enterprises (the police report was strangely vague and just called it "something of value") hadn't been found after the initial arrest and stringing him along for a little while longer might be the only chance to recover it. There was just one hurdle, a not insignificant one, to her plans.
But the reward would be worth it in the end.
She slid her hand the tiniest bit higher. "Why don't you show me yours?"
There was a flush on his whiskered cheeks as more blood rose to the surface and if Emma still had a pulse, it would be racing with anticipation.
"If the lady insists," he said, voice a low rasp that curled enticingly between her legs while he pulled out his wallet and carelessly tossed a few bills on the table without even looking. They rose in unison, ignoring the knowing looks from the neighbouring table and making their way to the door with his hand settling on the small of her back to guide her. Outside the night air was cool, the sky a deep indigo and plush as velvet while the pavement was slick and the sidewalks damp. It must have rained while they were flirting over overpriced drinks and puff pastry, Emma should have heard it with her vampiric senses but she'd been too focused on John Rogers and the ancient dance of predator and prey. He clearly thought he was the hunter, seducing her into going home with him with his dark good looks and silver tongue, getting what he wanted and then swiping onto the next girl on the app without a second thought. His hand moved, brushing her hip and she tensed, wondering if he was going to cop a feel and grope her ass right outside the bar. Or try to, anyway, since she could break all his fingers before he could blink. But then it was pulled away as he went to shrug off his jacket, draping the soft leather over her shoulders instead.
"While I must say that you cut quite the figure in that dress, it's a bit of a walk to my flat and there's no Swyft drivers around right now."
She realized with a jolt that he'd given her his jacket because it was cold. Emma was dead, she didn't get cold, or hot, not anymore, and she wasn't used to anyone being concerned if she did. She'd been cold when she died, wracked with chills as her life slowly dripped into her murderer's mouth and he hadn't bothered to cover her, dress still hiked to her waist and pale legs splayed open as he drank at his leisure. The twin scars that were left on her neck were a reminder, to never trust anyone again.
John didn't care, not really. He just wanted to get laid.
That's what made her cold, not the nip in the air, cold and hard under her crimson dress and fuck-me heels even as she gave a kittenish smile and thanked him with a delicate hand brushing his chest. She was the real hunter tonight, for his bounty *and* his blood, and she was going to get both.
They walked together like lovers without a care in the world and eyes only for each other, each carrying their own secrets behind the flirty looks and sly innuendo. Emma could see perfectly for blocks and scent everything in the air, the exhaust from cars that had driven by hours earlier, the smell of chicken noodle soup being heated up in one of the apartments above them, every note in the perfume a hooker on the corner was wearing (lilacs, white tea and middlemist flowers) as well as other, more hidden odors, like the drugs in the hooker's blood from when she'd shot up not too long ago, the refuse running through the sewers deep underneath the asphalt and that there was something dead in a nearby dumpster. Too large to be a rat or a raccoon, it was rotting away unseen underneath old coffee grounds and moldy bread.
Most of all she smelled her prey, the metal of his jewelry, rings on his fingers and a necklace just visible at the open collar of his shirt, the fainter scent of whatever shampoo he used still clinging to his dark hair, and the more recent smell of the food they'd just eaten at the bar mixed with rum on his breath.
And his blood.
Always the blood.
He smelled good enough to eat.
John's flat was a small apartment in an older, nondescript building not far from the harbour. He put his key in the lock and opened the door with an offhand, "Come on in," that solved a major problem for Emma. Thanks to his careless invite she was able to cross the invisible barrier and step over the threshold, her stiletto heels making no noise on the floor. Inside it was shadowed and dim, but she could see everything perfectly and took a quick glance around. Couch, coffee table, TV, nothing out of the ordinary but there was also nothing personal about any of it. There was no mail left sitting out, no photos on display, no knicknacks or any kind of hint about the life of the man who lived here and while his scent was present, it was shallow and recent and hadn't had time to fully permeate the space. The apartment was probably a temporary residence, a safe house where he could hide from both the cops and Gold Enterprise's extensive private security, hopefully with whatever he'd stolen from them.
A lamp switched on with a faint click and bathed the room in a soft yellow glow. "You know, I was just about to delete that app when your message popped up."
"Were you?" Emma asked, turning to face him and taking a step back as she did, deeper into the apartment and encouraging him to follow. And follow he did, reaching to pluck the jacket from her shoulders and dropping it over the arm of the couch. His voice was pitched low, intimate, still thinking that he had the upper hand.
"Aye. Never quite found what I was looking for on it, until I met you."
Emma would have said it was just another line, a bit of flattery to help get her out of her dress and into his bed, if it wasn't for her extra little superpower. Vampires had more than just a thirst for blood and eternal youth, they also had special gifts that had given rise to the host of legends and superstitions about the children of the night. Some could jump so high and for so long that it looked like they were flying clear across the sky, some could control and command animals, like a female vampire Emma had met once in the 1920s who kept a pack of spotted dogs to do her bidding, and Emma herself had discovered not long after being turned that she could tell when humans were lying.
John Rogers was being sincere.
Maybe that was why she gave into the impulse, not to bite him, but to kiss him, closing the brief gap between their bodies to press her lips to his. He reacted instantly, mouth opening to match the movement of hers, hand pulling her to him so that they were pressed together from shoulder to knee and a deep groan rumbled in his broad chest at the contact that she felt echo through her right down to her toes. Their noses bumped and their tongues met, she sucked a little too hard on his bottom lip but the rock of his hips to press the hard outline of his erection to her stomach when she did it again told her that he liked it a little rough.
"Fuck," he gasped when they broke apart, pupils dialated with lust and cheeks flushed nearly scarlet under his stubble.
"I think that was implied," Emma laughed. She never slept with skips, but there were hours left before dawn and her thirst was quickly being matched by the growing ache between her legs, one almost as insistent as the urge to feed.
"A gentleman never presumes such a thing," John said with a wink and a grin, another line
that should sound cheesy as all hell and Emma had heard a lot of cheesy pickup lines over the centuries, but somehow he was just enough of a charming bastard to make it work. She almost didn't want to turn him to the cops in at the end of the night.
Almost.
By the time they stumbled into the bedroom Emma still had her heels on but her dress was on the floor somewhere out in the hall, left in a tangled pile with his discarded vest and belt. His shirt was barely clinging to his shoulders, open down the front to reveal a muscular chest covered with a thick dusting of hair that ran down his stomach and disappeared into his boxer briefs. The jeans were undone too, she'd been a bit careless with her strength and hoped he didn't notice that she'd accidentally twisted the button right off before tugging down the zipper. Since his eyes had rolled back in his head and he'd let out a strangled gasp of pleasure when she slid her palm over the bulge of his erection and gave it a good squeeze, she was pretty sure he hadn't seen the little bit of metal rolling across the floor and disappearing under the bed.
She gave another squeeze, just to be sure, and certainly not to hear that delicious noise bubble out of his throat again.
The room itself was like the rest of the apartment, as impersonal as a hotel. Bed, check. Emma could smell that the sheets were fresh and clean, which was a point in his favour. Bedside table with a lamp on top, check. Generic Ikea dresser, check.
A ship in a bottle.
Her eyes narrowed over John's shoulder. It was sitting on the dresser next to some loose change, an actual ship in a bottle. The ship itself was finely detailed, the hull painted with yellow and blue stripes in perfect lines, miniature sails raised on tiny rigging that must have taken hours to set into place. It almost looked real.
For a moment she wondered if that's what he'd stolen from Gold Enterprises, but she dismissed the thought just as quickly. A major corporation wouldn't go to such lengths to recover a kitschy bit of bric-a-brac, it had to be something like a confidential client list or important files. She turned her attention back to the man in front of her, still far too dressed for her liking. Emma went to finish peeling the shirt off his shoulders, only to be stymied when it wouldn't slip off one wrist.
Right, or left, in this case, his missing left hand.
"Ah," he said, when he saw her looking down at the gloved prosthetic. "Long story, which I'd rather not get into now, but if it's a dealbreaker for you, I understand."
He said it easily enough but he was tense, she could see it in the ripple under his skin as muscles tightened and cords flexed while he braced himself for her answer and she wondered if that had happened before, women walking away after discovering he was different.
As someone who was also different, albeit in a way that wasn't so readily apparent on first glance as a missing limb, Emma felt a pang of sympathy for him. She knew was it was like to lose a part of yourself and never get it back.
"It's not," she assured him, reaching out and grasping the prosthetic as gently as she could. They stayed like that, his chest rising and falling for a few quiet breaths and his long lashes resting against his cheeks until he opened his eyes and instead of a cocky smirk or another come-on, he gave her an unguarded, boyish smile that reminded her of the suitors who used to come pay court to her in her father's castle, when her life was still full of laughter and light.
"Just who are you, Anna?" he whispered, and if her heart wasn't silent and still it would lurch at both the longing in his voice and the sharp reminder that she wasn't that starry-eyed princess anymore who nothing of the evils that could lurk behind a man's pretty words. Who was she? She was death incarnate, the wolf in sheep's clothing with blood on her lips.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" she countered, flip and flirty, knowing that he didn't, not really. Not if he knew.
"Perhaps I would."
The sentiment was nice, but Emma wasn't the sentimental type so she simply reached behind her back and flicked open her bra, letting the cobwebby lace fall to the floor before thumbing her underwear down her hips and sitting on the edge of the bed to slide the silky bit of nothing off one leg and then the other. The lack of a hand didn't slow him down one whit, he had his shirt completely off and his pants down with speed and dexterity that was impressive even to a vampire. He'd invited her in but she was the one beckoning to him now, sliding back on the duvet and crooking a finger with her tongue just poking from between her teeth. He crawled forward after her on his knees, dark hair falling over his forehead in a careless sweep as his head dipped down and hot breath touched her cool skin.
Lips closed over her nipple, already hard and pebbled with anticipation. She felt it tighten even more when he swirled his tongue around it and flicked the tip before sucking hard. He did the same to her other breast, callused fingers tracing delicate patterns on the inside of her hip and she widened her legs, expecting him to settle between them and get on with it like most men did after a bit of foreplay. But he clearly had something else in mind first, moving lower and lower down her body until that warm breath was hovering right over where she ached the most. The blue eyes looked up, reminding Emma of the sky she never saw anymore and had almost forgotten as he waited for her to give him a sign of assent.
A hand on the back of his head was enough and she quickly found herself clutching a fistful of inky hair as his mouth descended and he began to feast. Damn, Emma thought to herself, he was good at this, really fucking good, circling with his tongue and increasing the pressure on each pass until she was a writhing mess, hips rocking against his face and desperate for more. Just as she was about to fall over the edge he backed off, using only the softest of licks and the faintest of flicks and if he didn't finish the job then she literally was going to kill him.
"Patience," he whispered at her needy whine, turning his head to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "We've all night, love."
All night, but nothing more. That was all she could ever have now with a man.
His beard scraped against the delicate skin, a shocking contrast to the gentleness of his mouth as he went back to his task, working her up again with lips and tongue and fingers. Pleasure sparked along every nerve, building to the peak at a torturous pace until finally, finally, he sucked hard on her clit and shoved two fingers deep inside her at the same time. Emma's back arched and her jaw dropped from a silent scream, it looked like agony but it was pure ecstasy, her thighs flexing and tightening around his head until the climax finally faded and she went limp against the mattress, boneless and spent. John went up on his knees, looming above her and she didn't even care about how smug the bastard looked, he'd more than earned it. His lone hand wrapped around his erection and he gave it a few slow pumps, raising an eyebrow and asking another question without words.
Emma answered by letting a bit of her vampire strength loose again, flipping him onto his back and pining his wrists to the bed while she swung her leg over him and straddled his lean hips. He blinked up at her in surprise, face still deliciously damp, his pulse fluttering against her thumbs as rapid as a hummingbird's wings. The hard ridge of his erection was now trapped between them, twitching hot against her stomach while she leaned down and let her breasts brush his chest, scraping her teeth on his neck and making the skin redden before tasting herself when she pressed her lips hungrily to his. The urge to taste him was almost overwhelming as her fingers tightened on his wrists, holding him down, her teeth begged to sharpen behind her kiss, but as he said, they had all night. Or almost, since she couldn't linger too long in his bed and risk the sunrise.
There was also the not so insignificant matter of dropping her alias and turning him over to police custody to deal with, but she'd worry about that later.
Emma was more interested now in the way his stomach muscles clenched when she shifted her hips, the drag of his lips between his teeth and the sharp inhale when she almost, but not quite, took him inside. It was her turn to smirk, teasing and torturing him until she was sure he was about to beg for relief.
"Did you find what you were looking for, Anna?"
She faltered, caught off guard by the unexpected question. "What?"
"Your Happy Ending. The app?" he clarified at her confused look.
Right, the dating app. It had launched with this whole cheesy fairytale theme and commercials about meeting your charming prince and living happily ever after and all that bullshit, but it had quickly morphed into just another hookup app instead, where people got off and got out.
A happy ending.
Life (and death) has taught her that there was no such thing.
"I found you," she said. It was supposed to be flip and flirty, but for some reason it came out far too serious for a one night stand who was looking up at her like she was everything he ever wanted.
The air in the room thickened with tension that only increased as she sank down on him, slowly, inch by inch. Her hands spread flat on his chest to brace herself and she relished the stretch and burn until he was finally buried to the hilt. Emma was dead, had been for centuries, but she felt alive again with a living pulse throbbing inside of her, a heartbeat thudding against her palm and the spreading warmth from the friction as she started to ride him. His knees bent behind her, large feet planting on the bed and finding the leverage to start meeting her moments with his own upward thrusts while she threw her head back and closed her eyes. Their tempo increased of its own volition, a heavy and hot slide of rigid flesh against yielding softness that hovered deliciously on the knife's edge between pleasure and pain. Emma could hear his blood pounding through his veins and the call to her most primal need was almost too much. She fell forward, latching onto his neck with enough force to leave a bruise and only just managing to stop herself from breaking the skin to get to what lay underneath.
"Do it!"
His voice was thick as honey and dripped with promise while his arm wrapped around her back and he turned his head to the side, baring even more of his long throat.
"Bite me!"
It was an invitation Emma couldn't resist and her fangs came out, piercing straight into the plump vein throbbing against her lips. An obscene moan spilled out from above her while her mouth flooded with his blood, warm and rich, like cocoa made fresh on the stove. It was full of life and went straight to her head like alcohol used to but better than any drink or drug could possibly be. And not only did it taste amazing, it briefly tethered them together even more than where they were joined so intimately, letting her feel everything he was currently feeling.
Lust.
Longing.
The sensation was overwhelming, he was still inside her, still rocking up with heavy thrusts even as she took deep pulls from his neck that had to be draining his strength. It would be easy, so easy, to take a little too much, drink a little too long...and then there was a surge that was almost her undoing as he came undone, the blood flowing even harder as he came and the echo of it triggered her own climax, both of them trembling with his body still locked in hers and his vein still open in her mouth until his loud gasp for air and his sluggish heartbeat broke through the haze of blood and sex like a dash of icy water. Emma forced herself to let go, sealing the wound on his neck before it could scar or before she could give in to the worst of her urges whispering seductively in her ear, the dark desire to turn him into something no one should ever have to become.
To make him like her.
"You knew I was a vampire."
It came out harsh and biting, an accusation, not a question. Once the post-coital and post-feeding bliss had faded and she'd realized what had just happened, Emma had stood up and silently gotten dressed before turning to face John Rogers again, still lounging in the rumpled bed with an amused look as if he didn't have a care in the world and wasn't missing a few pints of his blood.
"I had my suspicions, aye. Confirmed once I saw in person that you don't breathe anywhere near as often as you should and you have no heartbeat or pulse."
She folded her arms across her chest, somehow feeling completely exposed even though he was the one who was still naked, arm propped behind his head and sheet draped low across his hips.
"Most people don't notice that. And even if they did, they don't know vampires are actually real."
A dark brow lifted and he gave her an arch look. "When you lived as long as I have, you learn a thing or two."
Emma snorted at that. Lived as long as he had? "John Rogers" was definitely a false identity, but whoever he really was, he didn't look older than thirty-five. Her skepticism only seemed to amuse him further and he gestured showily along himself, the sheet dipping down even lower with the movement. Fresh with his blood she flushed and looked away, which was stupid considering they'd literally just had sex, but she needed to distance herself from that so she could do what had to be done.
His voice lost that honeyed mirth and went more serious and flat. "Don't let the youthful countenance fool you, darling, like you I am far older than I appear. A few centuries older, in fact."
"How?" she spit out. "You're not-"
"-A vampire like you?" he finished. "No, I'm not. In fact, I'm the opposite. I've been magically cursed with eternal life."
That was not what she was expecting, not that Emma even knew what the hell she thought he was going to say, and she stared blankly at him for a few seconds.
"Magically cursed," she repeated at last. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Says the undead vampire who just drank a considerable portion of my blood," he pointed out, and she flushed again with said blood.
"Fine," she said, conceding the point. "You were magically cursed. How?"
His smile curled into something different and for a moment Emma thought she heard the crash of waves upon a shore, the scent of salt in the air and the kiss of the wind on her skin.
"Now that is a rather long and unhappy tale, but let's just say that I once took something of considerable value from a man I considered too cowardly to fight back, and he was, then. Only people sometimes change, don't they, and not always for the better. He came back years later and he was no longer the snivelling coward I'd humiliated in my own arrogance, he was something different, something no longer fully…human. He took this-" John held up his stump of a wrist, "-as punishment, and cursed me with eternal life so that I would always have to live with what I'd done. I can't die, and believe me, love, I've tried."
That got Emma's back up at once, a familiar feeling settling between suddenly tense shoulders. "So is that what the whole 'bite me" thing was about? You've got a death wish and you thought a vampire was your answer?
She was moving before he could say anything, tossing clothes onto the bed in a blur and avoiding his piercing blue gaze. "Get dressed. You skipped out on your bail and there's a warrant for your arrest. I'm taking you in."
"Anna-" he tried to protest.
"Emma," she corrected. It would be on the paperwork down at the station, he was going to find out anyway. "Emma Swan, bailbondsperson. You've got five minutes."
She stormed out of his bedroom and shut the door behind her, needing to put some space between them. Not that it helped much, he might be out of sight but his blood was racing through her veins and she could still feel the echo of his body inside hers. This was why she didn't get too close to skips, they all had some ridiculous sob story and claimed someone else screwed them over.
Her fingers crept up to the scar on her neck and groped blindly for the small patch of maimed skin. Don't trust anyone.
Emma shut out everything else except that. The long years of practice made it quick, if not easy.
She hated that it wasn't easy.
It was both too quiet and too noisy in the small apartment. She could hear the hum from the refrigerator, the rumble of pipes in the walls, the footfalls from someone walking around above and the whistle of a breeze coming through an open window in the...
"Shit!"
Emma wrenched the door right off the hinges when she flung it open and rushed back into the bedroom, hearing everything except his heartbeat. Sure enough, a window stood open and the gauzy curtain was fluttering like a sail. She leaned over the sill and saw an iron fire escape attached to the side of the building that led down to the street, when a pair of headlights suddenly sprung to life from a parked car that fishtailed as it pulled away from the curb and took off in a squeal of rubber that made her wince. As keen as her eyesight was, the angle was all wrong for her to catch the license plate and all she got was a glimpse of the driver, clearly him, looking up at the window with an expression that wasn't angry at her deception, wasn't smug at having tricked her, it was just resigned.
And then he was gone.
She spent the next few days cursing herself for her own carelessness in letting him slip away every time she woke when the sun set, she should have kept her guard up and stayed while he got dressed, or at least left the door open, she was a vampire, for fuck's sake, not the naive princess who had died all those years ago. She could handle being in the same room with a naked man for five minutes.
His profile was still up on Happy Ending but the picture had been changed from the mirror selfie he'd used before to one of a swan, something Emma knew had to be a deliberate jab that she'd definitely felt when she first saw it. Her stakeouts at his apartment had been fruitless and his scent was quickly fading, it was clear he wasn't coming back. Not that there was much to come back to, she'd searched the place thoroughly and there was only a few clothes, some barely touched toiletries that were so new the Target receipt was still crumpled up in the trash, and the ship in the bottle.
The ship was now sitting on her coffee table, since it was the only thing that seemed like it might have some sentimental value to whoever John Rogers really was. Or maybe Emma was just kidding herself and he was nothing more than a thief and a liar.
Gold Enterprises had doubled the reward for his capture and every bounty hunter in three states was now out looking for him. It was only a matter of time before someone tracked him down, and while Emma had a lot of advantages over her human competition, she had one big disadvantage in that she couldn't go outside in the daylight. All of her speed and strength were completely useless from dawn until dusk and it grated at her, always a reminder that she was different from everyone else.
She was currently cooped up alone in her own apartment, waiting for the sun to finish dipping below the horizon before she ventured out in search of new leads. She'd woken up a bit early from the deathlike sleep that was her own eternal curse, which happened from time to time. It was because of the dream she'd been having, of a woman she didn't recognize, dark haired, beautiful, dressed in the clothing of another time and holding a large knife with a jagged blade in one hand and a bright red object in the other.
"Take me away," the woman whispered. "Forever."
When she lifted the knife and pierced it straight through the red thing Emma realized it was a human heart, blood flowing between the woman's fingers and the scent of it hit Emma even in the dream, making her fangs sharpen and jolting her awake.
She was musing on it when her phone buzzed, lighting up with a notification and she snatched it off the table in a blur with sudden wild hope flaring where her heart didn't beat that maybe it was him, messaging her through the chat function on Happy Ending. It quickly turned into a frown of disappointment when she saw it was actually just an email, framed against a photo of the castle where she'd grown up that she'd found online a set as her wallpaper. She thumbed the email open, the frown freezing on her face when she saw what it was.
"Gotcha!" she said out loud to the empty room, shooting the ship in a bottle a triumphant look before jumping to her feet and going straight to her laptop. When she'd first taken on the Rogers case she'd entered his mug shot into a facial recognition program that would auto search the Internet for potential matches. On TV or in a movie it would have spit out a near instant result, but real life didn't work that way and it had been running quietly in the background ever since, going down rabbit hole after rabbit hole of umpteen social media pages, news archives and alumni pages looking for a match. It was a heck of a lot more expensive than a simple Google image search, but the bounty would more than cover the cost and once Rogers had snuck out on her, Emma had to admit that it was personal now, so she'd paid extra for the highest level of data.
And it had returned not one, but *two* potential hits. Emma clicked the first link and watched eagerly as the page loaded, scrolling down until she reached the picture.
And stopped dead. Literally.
It wasn't actually a picture, it was a drawing. Of a man who looked exactly like John Rogers, sketched out in what was probably charcoal on a yellowed piece of paper. They had the same dark hair, the same sharp jaw, same smile that promised danger and excitement both in one fell swoop. But the resemblance wasn't the reason why Emma could feel his blood rushing hot in her ears, it was the other sketch displayed next to his, of a woman with a shawl draped loosely around her shoulders and a large pendant around her neck, staring wistfully out at the viewer from the page.
It was the woman from Emma's dream.
"Milah."
The name fell unbidden from her lips as she quickly scanned the site the images were posted on. It was for an antique and consignment shop in Bermuda, and the pair of drawings were up for sale either individually or as a set. The listing stated that they were believed to have been done by the same artist, and were approximately three centuries old.
"Don't let the youthful countenance fool you, darling, like you I am far older than I appear. A few centuries older, in fact."
His voice whispered in her ear while she clicked on the other link with a numb finger, not sure what to expect. It opened in a separate tab as a wall of mostly text and the picture itself was little more than a thumbnail. Emma enlarged it to get a better look, even though her vampire sight was more than enough to confirm that it was a perfect match.
This one was a photo, and like the one she'd fed into the program it was another mugshot. She wasn't really surprised that he'd been arrested before, what was surprising was that it was clearly much older than the crisp, digital image that had been taken of John Rogers after he'd been hauled out of Gold Enterprises's downtown headquarters. It was in black and white, faded with age and a corner had been torn away. But it was still him, although he was clean shaven and his hair was cut much shorter, in almost a military look. The placard he was holding read:
STORYBROOKE SHERIFF'S DEPT
52-07-20
B&E, VANDAL, THEFT
JONES, KILLIAN
Jones, Killian.
Rogers, John.
Quickly, Emma clicked back on the charcoal sketch. Sure enough, there, just where the drawing ended at the man's waist, smudgy and indistinct, were the remains of a name. The "K" was still legible, as were the "a" and the"n."
Killian Jones.
Pieces were rapidly clicking into place as more of the puzzle started to come together. It hadn't been Emma's dream at all, it was his, a memory carried in the blood and passed along when she'd drunk from him for so long and so deep, a memory of a dark haired woman named Milah. The knife and the heart didn't make much sense, but dreams were funny that way. John, no, Killian, had said he was cursed with eternal life, and the sketch and the old mug shot certainly seemed to confirm that he actually was telling the truth about that.
Emma went back to the mug shot. B&E, that was shorthand for breaking and entering, vandal, probably a charge of vandalism, and theft. The 52-07-20 took her a moment longer, until she realized it was the date. He'd been arrested on July 20th...1952. In some place called Storybrooke, wherever that was.
Maine. After a few more clicks she learned that a grad student named Henry Mills was doing an in-depth research project on the history of a small fishing village named Storybrooke, in Maine, and posting parts of it on his blog as he went. The entry with the mugshot had gone up the day before, explaining why the facial recognition program had only just found it. In July 1952 there had been a break in at a local pawn shop that was the talk of the town, if this Henry Mills was to be believed, where windows had been smashed and "an object of value had been stolen," to quote the pawn shop's owner.
His blood was still warm in her veins, but it suddenly ran cold as Emma read the name of the pawn shop where the theft had taken place.
Gold & Son Pawnbrokers
Gold Enterprises.
That couldn't possibly be a coincidence.
An object of value had been stolen.
Killian had told her that he'd taken something of considerable value from a man who'd later taken his hand and cursed him with eternal life. He'd been arrested four months ago for stealing something of value from Gold Enterprises, and apparently had also stolen something of value almost seventy years ago from Gold & Son Pawnbrokers. It had to be connected, but why, and to what end?
The Rogers case had started out as just another skip, but now it was a mystery that had gotten under Emma's skin as an itch that had to be scratched. Or maybe it was because Killian Jones's blood had turned out to be as potent as a drug and she was desperate for another taste of it, of him, and while she wasn't a princess anymore and hadn't been since the night she'd followed Baelfire into the woods and never went home again, she felt more alive than she had in years as she packed a bag and prepared to set off.
She locked up her apartment and headed down to her old yellow Bug, already anticipating salt air and sea breezes at her destination, it would be a welcome relief to her vampire sense of smell from the city stench. Her tight, honeytrap dresses were left behind in favour of more practical jeans and boots, and she'd also changed her profile photo on Happy Ending to send a pointed message back to the man whose taste still filled her throat and made her mouth water.
Crimson text on a black background.
I don't bite...unless you ask me nicely.
A red leather jacket the same shade as fresh blood was slipped over her shoulders and she tossed her bag into the backseat of her car before typing in an address into the Google Maps app and checking the estimated time of arrival. It would be a long drive, but since she didn't need to stop for food or bathroom breaks, just for gas, Emma would reach the little town of Storybrooke Maine just before the sun rose over the ocean.
Her prey had slipped from her grasp once, but the hunt was far from over.
It was just beginning.
100 notes
·
View notes
Text
Breathe Again -Chapter seven
Like I’m not made of stone
prologue//one//two//three//four//five//six
Chapter summary: In which there are ups and downs, food continues to be an issue and Alfie loses his patience once or twice.
Pairing: Alfie/Tommy
Warnings: suicidal ideation, disordered eating, insomnia, hallucinations, mentions of force feeding.
Wordcount: 4400
”Sir, perhaps you could move him to the bedroom tonight?”
The voice wakes him up. But it’s an odd way of waking up, one he’s not used to anymore. Rather than being violently startled awake or just floating from one nightmare to another, he’s left in more of a soft, warm darkness, limbs heavy and only barely hearing the voices. Familiar voices, but not the bad ones, the ones everyone keeps telling him aren’t real.
”I’m not fucking carrying him around,” Alfie grumbles. He does that a lot. Makes his voice come out as that low, rumbling noise. Tommy likes that. “If he wants to sleep in the armchair he can fucking sleep in the armchair. Seems to have worked out fine the last… three days. It‘s better than not sleeping at all, innit?”
”Yes, but he always wakes up sooner or later, and I really think he might manage the whole night if-” there are footsteps, and the voices fade. He sinks a bit deeper into the cushions. It’s okay, he won’t have to go back to that room. He’ll get to stay here, where it’s warm and safe and there’s no door that can be closed.
The darkness pulls him under again.
…
It’s quiet when he wakes up the next time. Quiet and much colder than before and his legs ache from being pulled against his chest for so long. He stretches them out, reluctantly facing the darkness as he opens his eyes and looks around, spotting the usual things in the room that always remind him of where he is. The shelves full of books and odd trinkets, the painting of a grassy landscape, the armchair where Alfie sits when he reads in the afternoon. The book is there too, on the table with a piece of paper sticking out to signify where he left off.
The silence of a house where everyone else is asleep is different from any other. And the room that has begun feeling almost safe at any other hour of the day suddenly feels all wrong. It’s too quiet and too dark and too cold.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees a glimpse of white fabric. He grabs onto the blanket and digs a hand into the pocket of the too large trousers, fingers clasping around the chestnut. Closing his eyes he tries to sort among the shards in his head, put enough of them together to find something real to focus on, remember what’s happened.
They went for a walk, and then Alfie read a book, and then he fell asleep. They’ve done that- how many times, just once?
There’s a sound somewhere in the room. Fabric swishing. He breathes, tries to push away all the other thoughts and just focus on the round smooth surface of the chestnut in his hand. Tries to recall what’s happened in the book, but it’s difficult because he fades in and out of it. Sometimes everything else is too loud and all he really hears is the sound of Alfie’s voice itself, without being able to decipher the meaning of the words… But he did read, of that he’s sure. And they went for a walk. A bit further than the chestnut tree this time, to gathering of thorny rose bushes without leaves. And the day before that Alfie showed him a large oak with a hole in it. Tommy thought that perhaps the crow lived there until he remembered that crows build nests.
The room is empty when he opens his eyes, but it still feels like someone is there just right outside his field of vision.
Esther told him he could wake her up…
“My room is through the kitchen and then to the left. I’ll leave the door open and if you need anything, anything at all, if you get scared or hungry or just need a bit of company, you can wake me up. Alright?”
He nodded when she told him, but he won’t wake her up, doesn’t want to be more trouble than he already is. But he can’t stay in here, that’s all he knows, so he gets out of the armchair, bringing the blanket along with him. It’s always so cold everywhere at night. As long as Alfie and Esther are awake there’s always a fire burning somewhere.
He’s a little dizzy, so he has to hold onto the wall for a moment before venturing out into the hallway and slowly making his way to nowhere in particular. Maybe he could go to the kitchen, just to see if it’s warmer there?
And somehow it’d feel safer, because Esther wouldn’t be as far away.
Alfie’s house is big and full of things. Bookcases and shelves full of odd trinkets. There are animals there as well. He doesn’t like those. They stare at him with their glassy eyes, reminding him of the crow that still hasn’t returned.
But it seems odd that Alfie would have a crow. That doesn’t make any sense. He tries to fit the pieces together. Something blurry resurfaces, Alfie holding that bird and-
“It’s fucking stuffed, alright?.”
But he saw it move and fly and then it came to his window. Tap tap against the glass.
That doesn’t make any sense either, birds don’t do things like that, and no one would have a crow as a pet, not even Alfie. Tomorrow he should ask Alfie about it, or maybe Esther. Esther wouldn’t get angry.
He reaches out and touches the smooth feathers of a raven on top of a cabinet. It stays still on its perch, glassy stare and cold to the touch. It’s real but it’s not alive, just like the others, that makes sense. There’s a fox next to it and he hesitates for a moment before letting his fingers brush through the soft fur.
He continues carefully running his fingers along the objects on the shelf as he walks. Soon he passes the guestroom but he doesn’t go inside, because he doesn’t like it, it’s quiet in a bad way and the corners are so dark…
Then there’s the door to what must be Alfie’s bedroom. He stands there outside of it, listening. Some light snoring comes from behind the door. Feels strange to think of Alfie asleep in a bed. An image of him sprawled out on his back, taking up the entire mattress with his large frame appears in his mind and he- he wants to knock on the door, wake Alfie up and ask if he will read to him, or just be there, real and solid and filling the silence with his voice.
He quickly moves away from the door, continuing down the hallway. The floor rocks ever so slightly underneath him.
“You shouldn’t wander around, Tommy.”
Lizzie carefully puts a hand on his shoulder, so light that he can barely feel it. “Let’s get you back to bed. The doctor says you need to rest.”
He hugs the blanket tightly to his chest and just breathes. This is real, not the other things. He tries to pick those pieces out, sort them away, just focus on the ones he knows are real; Alfie, the walks and the trees, Esther coming in with tea, Alfie’s voice being a gentle, distant rumbling and the fabric of his shirtsleeve soft and warm under his fingers…
When the voices fade, he begins moving again. Down the corridor to what might be the kitchen, he’s never been in this part of the house before.
Suddenly he’s hit by another wave of dizziness and grapples for something to hold onto, stumbling and just barely catching himself against a shelf. It shakes, and there’s a loud crash. It sends his heart racing and makes his breath catch in his throat.
He looks down to find the floor full of broken shards, sharp and glimmering in the faint moonlight spilling in through the window. Like a sea of crystals or-
“Sapphires maybe?”
The shards are blue, but it must be the moonlight, it’s just glass, nothing else-
He picks one up, has to touch it, just to make sure. The sharp edges gleam.
“You could make a necklace for yourself, Tommy, like the one you gave me. It’d be pretty. Match your eyes.”
He doesn’t want to look at the glass anymore, but he doesn’t dare turning away either, afraid of what he’ll see. His pulse thuds dully under the thin skin on his neck, right under his jaw, pumping blood through the veins so close to the surface-
“It’s so easy. And quiet too.”
No, no it’s not real. He doesn’t have to listen.
But the glass is real, it’s just glass but it’s real and if it’s real, he has to pick it up, or someone will be angry. He starts gathering up the shards in his hands, carefully putting the small ones in a larger piece so he won’t cut himself.
“Tommy?”
The shards clatter to the floor as he flinches. He scrambles to pick up the pieces again and footsteps approach. Lizzie comes toward him, a worried wrinkle between her eyebrows.
“What are you doing out here?” she asks, and he can never answer, because what is he supposed to say?
That no one ever comes anymore. And the room is so quiet and the bed is cold and he just didn’t want to be alone. But it’s a selfish and stupid thing to think. “Aren’t you enough of a burden on this family already? Do you need to be waited on at all hours too?”
He shakes his head, focuses again on gathering all the glass up. Lizzie will be angry, like she was after the mirror-
“Oh, put those down, love, I’ll take care of it.”
It’s not Lizzie standing there before him, it’s Esther, calm and steady as ever with just a small extra wrinkle between her eyebrows. She crouches down next to him and soon the blanket is draped over his shoulders.
“Go on, so you don’t cut yourself.”
“I didn’t mean to-“ he whispers as he puts the glass back down, surprised to hear his own voice.
“No, no of course not, accidents happen. Now come here, we don’t want you stepping on it.”
He lets himself be moved backwards a few steps, eyes fixed on the glass.
It has lost its bluish tint and Esther appears by his side again with a broom. He reaches for it.
“I can-“
“Nonsense, I’m a professional after all,” she says and the dimples are back in her cheeks as she starts sweeping the glass into a pile. “Honestly this was for the best. An absolutely awful vase, that-
“Is it too much to ask for one fucking night of undisturbed sleep? What’s going on out here?”
Tommy flinches even though the gruff voce is familiar.
Alfie’s hair is sticking out at odd directions and he’s clad nothing but his shorts as he comes down the hallway, limping ever so slightly. He somehow looks even bigger without his clothes, large muscles and expanses of warm skin... For some reason Tommy finds himself staring at his broad chest, eyes transfixed on all the new things.
“Oh, nothing Sir,” Esther says. “Just a little accident.”
Alfie looks at the glass as Esther sweeps it all up in a pile, then at Tommy, eyes narrowing.
“An accident, eh?” he comes closer and towers over him. The heat seems to radiate from his skin and he wishes he could lean into it. “You sure about that?”
He grabs his wrist -maybe to give him another chestnut?- but no, he just bends his fingers up to inspect his palm.
“Mister Solomons what-“
“You got any of it hidden away, hm? Figured this would be an easier way out than the bloody sea?” Alfie looks into his other hand and palms his thigh in search of a pocket. It’s all too much suddenly and a pathetic whine escapes him. Alfie pins him with a hard gaze. “I fucking swear, Tommy, if you broke that fucking thing on purpose, I’m going to make it easy for you and wring your bloody neck right this second.”
“Mister Solomons, that’s quite enough!” Esther says sharply and takes two determined steps towards them, grabbing onto Alfie’s arm. Alfie is still staring at him with those wide eyes but he takes a step back. Tommy averts his gaze to the floor, to the blanket that’s ended up there again. He wants to pick it up, but he’s afraid another dizzy spell will come over him.
Alfie is already angry, he doesn’t want to make it worse.
Esther huffs, “You could at least have made yourself decent before storming out here to yell at our guest.”
Alfie makes a noise of offence but she just puts her hands on her hips puffs her chest out. They stare each other down. Then, Alfie throws his hands up in defeat.
“Fine, why don’t you fucking handle it? I’m going back to bed.”
Tommy finds himself staring at his broad, retreating back. The muscles around his shoulders ripple as his arms move.
“But I swear if he ends up bleeding out on the carpet somewhere I’m not fucking dealing with it,” he barks. “And stay away from the one in the living room, I like that thing.”
The door to Alfie’s bedroom slams shut.
Esther snorts and picks up the blanket, draping it over Tommy’s shoulders again.
“The manners of that man, honestly,” she mutters and glances at the clock standing on one of the shelves. “Know what, it’s almost morning anyway, so there really is no point in going back to bed now. How about you come with me to the kitchen for a bit?”
Tommy finds himself being led through the dark corridor before he can figure out an answer.
He’s never been in the kitchen. It’s nice. Reminds him of the kitchen at Watery Lane, but larger, cleaner. Maybe it’s just the feeling of… home it exudes. Seems like an eternity since that was home.
“There we go,” Esther says and puts a cup of tea down in front of him on the table. “Now, I’ve had a dough proving overnight, so it should be right about done.” She sets a large bowl down onto the table and rolls her sleeves up.
Soon, the room is warm from the heat of the oven, and Esther is standing up to her elbows in dough.
“So, love, is there any food you like?” she asks, wiping across her forehead with her wrist and leaving a white trail of flour there. “See, I’m nothing if not stubborn. And it’s good that you can manage the soup, but we really should try getting some solid food into you.”
Tommy rubs his stomach. Thinks of the dirt filling every cavity.
“Maybe something your mum used to cook when you were little?”
One time, dad came home with strawberries. And had it been up to him, the rest of his siblings would’ve made a away with most of them. But mum took them and distributed them equally- She gave him an extra piece of bread too, with butter, which was a rare treat. “You go ahead and eat this too, sweetheart. You’re smaller than John.”
He shakes his head.
Esther hums and starts forming the dough into loaves. “Well, we’ll figure it out eventually.”
The door opens and Alfie enters, clad in trousers with the suspenders dangling by his sides and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“Thought you were going back to sleep, Sir,” Esther says cheerily and begins arranging the loaves on a sheet tray.
“Impossible to fucking fall asleep at this hour,” Alfie mutters and lifts the lid on the teapot to look inside, muttering something incoherent as he goes to fetch a cup. “If certain people could just fucking stay put instead of wandering around the house like some restless bloody spirit it’d make all of this much easier. I could use some undisturbed sleep.”
“Well, Sir, you have all day to sleep if you’d like to,” Esther says and covers one of the loaves with a towel, setting it aside. “Or would that get in the way of any important obligations?”
Tommy freezes. But Alfie just glares and pours tea into his cup.
“Remind me again why I hired you.”
“Because no one else would put up with you, Sir,” Esther quips and covers the second tray.
Alfie grunts something unintelligible, but sits down by the table. Tommy thinks he can see the corner of his mouth twitch, and he feels something stir in his chest. Something besides the dull ache that usually resides there.
The kitchen is quiet for a while, but right then, none of the voices come back.
Esther refills the teacups, and Alfie flips through a paper, occasionally humming and muttering things to himself.
Soon, the room is filled with the scent of warm bread.
“Now, if this doesn’t help that appalling appetite of yours I don’t know what fucking will,” Alfie says and nods towards the bread when Esther takes it out of the oven. “Think you might be a lost cause then.”
Tommy wraps an arm around his stomach as he watches Esther cut the bread into slices. She sets a piece down before him. He’s not sure how to explain the mud, that he can’t eat because of it. They’ll think he’s crazy, tell him it’s all in his head. And it is. Must be, because it’s not- people can’t be full of mud like that, can they? But what does it help telling himself that when he can feel it filling up his insides like a cold, heavy lump?
He rubs his stomach. It feels like the mud goes all the way up the back of his throat, making it impossible to swallow.
It’s not really there. It’s just like everything else, not really there. And he has to eat.
Lizzie tries to explain it to him the first time the men show up.
“I’m sorry, Tommy, but this is the only way-“
But then she leaves the room, and it’s just the doctor and those men in the white shirts left.
He shoves weakly against all the hands as they force the tube down his throat. It hurts and he can’t breathe, it won’t fit, and all the mud is in the way. Lizzie comes to stand in the doorway and he tries to reach for her, she won’t let them do this, she’ll tell them to stop- But she just looks at him with sad eyes.
He picks up the bread and takes a small bite. It seems to grow in his mouth but he chews and swallows. His throat closes up around it.
“There we go, that wasn’t so bad now, was it,” Alfie chuckles. “Don’t have to look like you swallowed a fucking insect.”
He takes another bite and tries to chew it more this time.
The faces around him are all set in nothing but cold determination and it makes no difference how hard he fights them. Tears trickle down his cheeks and he gags around the intrusion in his throat.
“Please, Tommy, they’re only trying to help.”
He tries to swallow, but the bile rises in his throat. Gagging, he slams a hand over his mouth and somehow makes it to the nearby sink before he’s vomiting. Bile and blood and mud from the field…
He just wants the tube gone, but they won’t listen, just keep forcing it down his throat no matter how many times he gags and chokes around it.
Again and again he retches, even when nothing except bile comes up.
“Oh, of course that’s what we’re fucking doing now. Fucking hell, it’s too bloody early for this bullshit. I’ll just leave you to it.”
Dishes clatter, a chair scrapes, and then Alfie’s muttered curses fade along with his footsteps. A door slams.
Tommy is vaguely aware of the humiliation burning in the pit of his stomach and a sob escapes him before he can stop it.
“Well, Mr. Shelby, if you start eating on your own we won’t have to do this,” The doctor says when they finally remove it and he coughs and weeps and-
His legs give in.
-and when the hands finally let him go he curls up into a ball under the covers, arms over his head and hearing his own sobs as some distant echo in his ears.
The hands come back, but they’re softer this time. Fewer.
“It’s alright. We’ll take it slower. You don’t have to force yourself into anything,” Esther says and rubs his shoulder. She hangs the blanket over him too. But he can’t face her. Can’t face anyone he’s-
“Pathetic, useless-“
Maybe if he digs the bullet out-
“No, no none of that,” Esther takes his wrist firmly in her hand, pulling it away from his head. “Nothing will get better with you hurting yourself.”
It’s not there. His head is just damaged anyway. Can’t be fixed.
“Alright?”
He nods and Esther releases him. There’s a bit of movement.
“Here’s some water. I’m putting it next to you, so you can drink it when you’re ready.”
Esther gets to her feet but doesn’t leave the kitchen. She potters around, humming to herself and whistling occasionally. He focuses on all of those sounds and none of the others.
The shame has turned into a dull ache in the pit of his stomach and right then, it feels impossible to ever look up again, he just wants to stay like this. But finally the darkness under his arms become too much so he peers up just a little to see what Esther is doing. She’s washing dishes, and as if she senses his gaze she glances over at him and smiles.
“It’s okay. We’ll stick to the soup for a bit longer. No point in eating if it’s making you feel like this.”
He nods and can breathe a little easier, taking the glass and washing away the taste of bile in his mouth. Esther nods too and goes back to the dishes.
“I know he might not seem like it, but he’s worried, that’s all,” she says suddenly. “Mister Solomons. Sure he might hide it under a lot of… gruffness and cursing, but he cares. Just doesn’t always know how to show it.”
Tommy hears the words but they don’t make sense. Alfie has no reason to care.
He stays there on the floor until Esther finally comes and leads him over to a chair. And then he sits there instead, quietly watching her. Until the kitchen door suddenly opens.
Alfie is standing there, clad in a coat and with a hat perched on his head. He clears his throat and scratches his beard. Then he tosses something at Tommy. A second coat.
“Figured we should stick to the walks,” he says. “You know, keep the routine and… what not. Mind you if you decide to start fucking vomiting over that coat-“
Esther clears her throat loudly and Alfie glares, before gesturing at Tommy.
“Well, go on, put it on.”
Tommy finds himself obeying.
It’s cloudy outside, and the field is swept up in fog as if some of the clouds have fallen out of the sky. Alfie talks as usual and he sticks close to him, gravitates towards him without understanding why. Maybe because Alfie is solid and real and there and if he’s close enough maybe that will be enough to ground him, keep the voices at bay…
No one wants him this close, it’s annoying and clingy. But Alfie doesn’t seem to mind. He minds plenty of things, but not this.
He’s brought the chestnut along and he holds that in his hand, squeezing it tightly.
“I got you something,” Alfie says suddenly and digs a hand into the giant pocket of his coat. “Or, well, Esther did, really.”
Tommy stops in his tracks and stares down at the packet of cigarettes.
“Got them while she was into town, yesterday. Really shouldn’t be fucking indulging this habit of yours. Smoking is for people who fucking eat. But things can’t exactly get any worse so I figured this wouldn’t make a difference. Go on.”
Alfie holds the packet a bit closer, before sighing and picking one out himself. Tommy flinches when he shoves it against his lips and latches onto it out of pure shock. Alfie grins and his eyes crinkle at the corners. His eyes are kind when he smiles like that, even the hazy one- He lights the cigarette without asking and when the scent fills Tommy’s nose, it’s as if his body acts on its own accord, sucking the smoke into his lungs, fingers pulling the cigarette from his lips as he exhales it into a cloud. Reacting on some half forgotten instinct, he rubs the cigarette over his lips before putting it back between them and the gesture makes something spark in his chest because it’s real and normal and the first normal thing he’s felt in so long and-
Alfie is staring at him with an odd expression on his face. Then he makes another one of those grunts that could mean anything, and starts walking again. Tommy follows. Gathers himself and focuses on making his voice work.
“Thank you.”
This time it’s Alfie who stops in his tracks and Tommy steps on his heel, flinching when he turns around. He waits for an outburst of some sort.
Alfie just blinks and clears his throat. “Yeah, well, it‘s just fucking cigarettes, innit?”
Then he continues walking. Tommy tries to keep some distance as he follows this time.
Without a word, Alfie turns, grabs onto his coat sleeve and tugs him closer.
“It’s better if you stay there. Don’t want you wandering off somewhere, right? Could lose you in this fog. Not to mention the tall grass.” He barks out a laugh. “Yeah, you’re a tiny little thing, aren’t you?”
Tommy frowns.
Alfie laughs again, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Oh but would you look at that? Could almost pass as a glare, that. Nothing compared to your usual glower but it’s getting there. Who would’ve thought cigarettes were such a good medicine?”
It’s hard to keep frowning when Alfie’s face looks like that, all bright and happy. So Tommy just takes another drag on the cigarette and walks a little closer to him.
#alfie x tommy#Tommy Shelby#Alfie Solomons#peaky blinder fanfic#peaky blinders season 5#tw: suicidal ideation#TW: disordered eating
59 notes
·
View notes
Text
Form Contract!
Send “Form Contract!” for our muses to form a magical contract bonding them together!
— @algrimthestrong, sent April 12th 2019, 3:16:42 am
Chapter 1
P.S. Alternate verse where Vuhs never met Malekith and he’s speaking a dialect of Alltongue.
Vuhs flinched. He could sense the summoning coming from a distant place, with enough power to bring him there. A frown furrowed his brows. He was in no mood to play such games, he had an organisation to run.
The summons came stronger, striking an impulse for him to heed the call and accept it. Someone, somewhere, was offering deep magic for his services. Why him? There are other foxes… Vuhs froze, recalling his bloodline. A sacred one.
Looking at the blueprints of a new artillery engine on his table, he sighed. Blood was being offered. Tempting things were being offered, he could feel it in his bones. A different kind of hunger had him licking his lip and swallowing.
Fine.
Vuhs disappeared from his office on Earth and reappeared in the sigil, dressed sharply in his full black suit. “What is it, Älgrim Valgoth of Svartalfheim?”
The air was thick with the smell of blood by the time Algrim sat back to survey his work. The symbol had to be drawn precisely as shown in the book, or else the ritual would fail. Pressing a piece of cloth to the wound in his arm to staunch the bleeding, he compared the sigil he’d painted on the stone floor with the original illustration.
Algrim had found the grimoire tucked away in the Library of Sins, its pages stiff and brittle with age. It told of spirits, of demons, of powerful beings bound to do the summoner’s bidding - if one knew how to bind them to his or her will.
Clad in only a pair of loose linen trousers, Algrim gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm. The wound was deep - it had to be, to yield the amount of blood required to draw the magical symbol. He felt lightheaded, weak from the loss of blood, yet determined to see the ritual through to its end, driven by the burning need for justice - for vengeance.
Taking a slow, deep breath to clear his mind and focus on the task at hand, he began to recite the incantation. There was no immediate result, no flickering of candles, no whispers, no drop in temperature, nothing that indicated that his summoning had been successful. For several moments, only the sound of his own laboured breathing filled his ears, until—
The being that appeared in the centre of the sigil looked nothing like Algrim had imagined. A male, human in appearance, dressed in the fashion that was common on Midgard and looking absurdly out of place in a Svartalfheim dungeon.
Trembling with both exertion and excitement, Algrim climbed to his feet. When he spoke, his voice was raw with relief. “You came. You really came.”
He took several cautious steps towards the “man”, but took care not to cross the magical barrier. “I wish to employ your services, lord. I want you to help me kill someone - King Thryme of Jotunheim.” He spat the name like a curse, full of bitter hatred. “In exchange, I offer you wealth—” He nodded at a small wooden chest filled to the brim with rubies, “—the throne of Jotunheim, and—” Carefully, so as not to spill a single drop, Algrim picked up a silver chalice filled with blood - his blood - from the floor and offered it to the fox, “—myself, in any way I may be of use to you.”
The dark elf staring back at him was quite the sight. Sleek and strong, with cheekbones haunted by vengeance and a burning gaze of obsidian. Wafting around him was that alluring scent of offered blood which formed the sigil and dripped still from the elf’s arm. Vuhs licked his lips subtly. There was a difference between normal blood and that which is offered through magic. There was power in belief, one belonging to faith and the realm of ‘gods’. As per his bloodline.
Hunger. This was new to Vuhs, a sensation unlike any other. Of course, it was also his first time being summoned upon. He didn’t think anyone would have, in his time. And from what he heard from his mother… before they separated- it had not been done for generations. Vuhs waited silently with arms folded for the elf to finish exclaiming his appearance and get on with it.
Tilting his head to the left, Vuhs narrowed his eyes at the name. A king- naturally a Jotun from the sound of it- as such, a frost giant from the records he read in HYDRA. They have magic too, he supposed. What he wasn’t sure was if his own strength could compare to said king. Frost giants live much longer than humans- his own age aside, the mortal memories implanted in him were just that. Mortal.
And while he was considering such, the elf was already offering other things, which he merely gave a cursory glance at. Rubies- he could afford himself a chest if he wanted to. Though gems of such size would be hard pressed to find on Earth. He wasn’t very interested. The throne- why would he want to rule somewhere cold and unfamiliar? It wasn’t very alluring either. What did catch his attention though, was the chalice the elf was offering, inciting him to meet that careful gaze. Hm.
Silent moments ticked by as he considered, his silver blue eyes wandering between the chalice and the elf, with nary an expression on his face. Then all the sudden a burst of blue flames roared within the sigil, enveloping the area behind the barrier as Vuhs hair turned white, drifting with nonexistent wind. Ears and tails flared into view, as blue flames lighted up in mercury eyes and an opal claw tapped lightly on the barrier at the chalice.
“For that, and your true name, I can lend you my strength. You will be able to heal any wound in minutes as I guard you. You will have my speed and senses. You will be able to bear the deathly frost of Jotunheim. You can control the elements in your surroundings as I can. You will have my aide in illusion and glamour in your quest. ‘Tis what I will lend you.” He countered.
When neither riches nor the offer of a kingdom to rule over elicited the expected enthusiastic response from his visitor, Algrim was hard-pressed to fight off an encroaching sense of despair. Clearly, his offerings did not suffice. Only the chalice filled with his life blood seemed to be worthy of consideration, though the man’s expression remained unreadable, giving no indication as to whether or not he deemed the offer acceptable.
Holding the other’s appraising gaze, Algrim waited in tense silence for the fox to reach a decision. The answer to his unspoken question came not in words but in actions, and he barely managed to stifle a gasp when the fox dropped his disguise and shifted into his true form.
As plain as his human appearance had been, as splendid was the fox that hid beneath.
While he had expected his potential ally to smite King Thryme on Algrim’s behalf, the fox’s offer to lend his strength to the elf so he may carry out the deed himself was more than Algrim had dared hope for.
He inclined his head to the fox. “Your offer is more than generous…” Algrim’s tone was one of apology. He was desperate, but not so foolhardy as to blindly accept the deal and place himself at an obvious disadvantage. His own life mattered little to him after losing his wife and children, but if he was to meet his doom, it would be on his own terms. Foxes were sly, mischievous creatures, serving only their own ends. There was no telling what he would get himself tangled up in.
Blood, Algrim would gladly give, but to give out his true name would mean to eviscerate his very being, to give the fox power over him and make himself a tool of his whims. It was a bargain he was not prepared to strike. “Not my true name.” His voice was hard with resolve. “I am afraid, my lord, but this is a price I can and will not pay.” He offered the goblet to the fox, urging him to take it and sample its content. “I offer you wealth, power, and blood from my own veins. Is this not yet enough?”
He was desperate, longing for a chance to avenge his family, but even in his grief Algrim was no fool. Making himself a slave to the fox was not the path to salvation, but to eternal damnation. “Surely there is something else I may offer you instead, some other way this humble elf may be of service to you?”
Polite the elf may be, his tone had Vuhs narrowing mercurial eyes at him. Then at the suspected rejection, the fox huffed lightly, lifting his chin in displeasure. Ears which were angled forwards swivelled to the side with much disinterest, expressing every bit of it as he turned away to pace in a circle within the sigil. “You offer wealth I do not want, a throne which is not yours to give, you think a mere chalice of blood is sincere enough an offering?” Vuhs shook his head haughtily.
Testing and sensing the barrier of magic, he could return forcefully to where he was on Midgard if he wanted. After all, it was only meant to summon him here and keep him from leaving the barrier without permission. Its purpose was met. The blood offering may be the only thing he was remaining in the sigil for. Redolent of power, along with the rest of the blood spilled about the room, was tempting him to stay. But it wasn’t enough for what Algrim wanted.
Algrim wanted Thryme dead, and while Vuhs wasn’t certain enough if he could kill the king and hence offered his abilities instead, imbuing the other with his power meant he also had to keep company for the magic to work. The chalice of blood was worth buying his time, but it was far from sufficient for the risk on his own life even if he went alone to assassinate Thryme. Hence, as much as he lusted after the elf’s offered blood, he could only turn his nose away from it. A bound contract was not to be taken lightly.
Mild frustration frizzled his tails a little. Curling them before him, he preened and smoothed out the fur delicately with his fingers. Vuhs glanced back up at the elf who was so desperately trying to bind him. “There isn’t much I desire. A loyal servant I can fully trust thereafter would be an acceptable offering, but you wouldn’t even give me your name.” Highlighting again his displeasure, the fox remained aloof as he stated what he wanted. For that was the only reason why he demanded it. It was obvious he did not trust the elf’s simple pledge of loyalty and service.
Contractors had a history of trying to cheat their way out of the contract once they got what they wanted.
As expected, Algrim’s refusal to yield to the fox’s demands was met with irritation. The fox’s spurning of Algrim’s offerings, in turn, put the elf in a predicament he had not foreseen. He needed the power the fox had offered him to avenge his family, and though he refused to reveal his true name, there had to be something with which he could persuade the other into consenting.
“One can never be wealthy enough, powerful enough, or wise enough,” Algrim argued. “I offer you both wealth and power - and I will gladly lend my knowledge to you as well. You are correct in pointing out that the throne of Jotunheim is not mine to offer,” he admitted, “but once Thryme is dead, the throne will fall to the one who killed him. You could appoint a regent if you do not wish to rule the realm yourself. Jotunheim may seem like a bleak and barren world, but it has plenty to offer. Ore from the mountains, forests teeming with game, and the Casket of Ancient Winters, one of the most powerful relics you may ever encounter.”
Algrim’s offer would have satisfied even the most capricious business partner. Still, he felt it was not quite enough to tip the scales in his favour. His shoulders were tight with tension and his eyes bright with despair as he watched the fox pace within the painted sigil. “You may call me Algrim,” he added, offering a long-due introduction, though not his true name. “What name do you go by, lord?” That the fox had not yet left was a good sign. It meant there was at least a modicum of interest present, despite his apparent reluctance.
“If you do not want to do business with me, then why not trade a favour for a favour?” Algrim suggested, trying a different approach. “A favour, for which I will be indebted to you until I can repay it. You help me bring a monster to justice, and I offer you a safe place in exchange - a place here in Svartalfheim to which you can retreat should you ever find yourself in need of a refuge. I will be bound by my word, as is the law of my people,” he added, seeking to reassure the fox.
“What else could you possibly desire, my lord?” Algrim asked, his voice close to cracking as he felt his only chance at vengeance dwindling. “Would you have me disgrace myself, to fall at your feet like a common serf?”
Running his sharp claws through his fur, Vuhs listened to the elf’s appeal. Jotunheim was being sold like potential land. The Casket did draw a twitch from the pointed white ear, but the fox soon recalled what little he knew of it. A powerful relic, nevertheless. But it served his own purposes little. Vuhs continued grooming his tails. He had nine of them, after all.
The introduction of a ‘name’ lifted the fox’s silver gaze from its hooded focus, expressionless. Another offering was brought onto the table. A refuge. A way out. Vuhs’ gaze fell once more on the bright white of his own tails. “I need not a common serf.” He spoke once more after he sensed the other’s whittling confidence. “I need not, a throne that would be contested.” He continued, pausing in between. “I need not, a power that is not mine, however powerful it is.” Looking up again, his combing hand settled atop a tail, lightly resting on the fluffy cushion.
“I need not wealth I cannot spend. Nor a refuge I cannot allow myself to have.” Holding his gaze right with the elf’s, Vuhs gave him time for his words to sink in. “Because like you, I understand vengeance. However, unlike you, your enemy is one and final. Mine is not.” Silver eyes fell on the ancient sigil that the elf before him had found out of desperation, and in it laid all their skill and knowledge possible. Magic was never easy, a sigil was not simply a symbol drawn. It was also obvious the elf before him was not of a sorcerer’s grounding. Time, discipline, calculation and resourcefulness, Vuhs saw that in his summoning.
“You suggest a trade in favour, and offer your knowledge as well. Then, I aid you in the completion of your vengeance, and you, offer your time, skills and service, according to my wishes, till the completion of mine. My abilities as this favour, and the chalice for my time.” The fox lifted his chin with a certain finality, knowing the elf had offered all they could in their beseeching earlier. Vuhs ignored the request for an address.
There was no need to give a name when the deal was not finalised.
The fox bid his time. Silently, Algrim watched him as he stood grooming his tails, as if the action held so much more interest for him than what Algrim had just offered. Frustration coiled in his stomach, adding to the misery he felt deep in his heart, and the crushing sense of despair at seeing the deal he sought to strike slip through his fingers. The wound on his arm, too, had begun to bleed again, warm trickles of blood sliding over his skin and dripping onto the stone floor, but he barely registered it.
The fox’s taking apart every advantage Algrim had cited, squashing it into insignificance with shocking ease, almost shattered what was left of the elf’s composure. Each word had the bite of a knife to it as it sank in deep, shredding his hope to pieces until—
The fox’s mention of an enemy had Algrim perking up his ears. It was only natural that a powerful creature like him had made a few enemies of his own throughout the years, but the fox’s disclosure was still enough to surprise Algrim, as was his confession that he, too, was driven by a desire for vengeance.
Algrim was silent for long moments as he considered the fox’s counter offer. What did he have to lose? Nothing. Everything he loved had been taken from him. If he pledged allegiance to the fox, he would be granted a chance at revenge at least. There was no telling if he would survive such a dangerous quest, even with his strength and abilities enhanced. If he did, though, Algrim would hold up his end of the bargain. A favour for a favour.
“I accept.” His voice was oddly calm, as chill as winter mist. Stepping forward, Algrim went down on one knee, bowing his head in supplication as he lifted the chalice to offer his blood to the fox, urging him to drink.
Vuhs knew he wouldn’t have to wait long, watching as the elf considered his counter offer. Since they were not willing to give their true name, this was as close to a loyal contract he could get. And though he would not admit it, there were times when he felt too drained and exhausted to carry on his plan. He needed someone, someone who wasn’t a doll, a manufactured marionette, someone with brains that could pick up the pieces he missed, so he wouldn’t have to constantly watch his back. When the elf agreed, he would have smiled if it was his old self.
Instead the relief was minimal and he simply nodded, more than aware the probability of success ahead of them. Releasing his tails and walking back to where their barrier met, his hand reached out and allowed out of the barrier, to grasp the chalice. “Let it be so.” Sealing the deal, blood red runes rolled out from where their hands touched, running along their skin and spiralling like constricting snakes towards their hearts. Such was the effect of this ancient sigil and contract. Bearing the discomfort of a weight settling on his frame and sinking in, Vuhs helped himself to the fragrant blood that touched his lips.
Power surged through his veins.
Spreading from his abdomen to the tips of his limbs, it was a novel sensation that had his silver irises shrink to pinpricks. Different from the raw strength of magical power, what he expected to be warm was cold as biting winter, yet rushing like ice shards through the ravine of his veins. Oddly, what should have been painful felt refreshingly right. Like it was something he should have had, since he was born. A power that was originally his.
The barrier fell away. Vuhs swished his tails before they faded from view, the lowered chalice clean as if it never contained blood. His appearance returned to how he was when he first arrived. With a brush of his hand on the elf’s shoulder, Algrim’s wounds disappeared.
“Now, let’s get started. You may call me Vuhs.”
When at last the fox accepted the proffered chalice, Algrim’s shoulders sagged with relief and he let out a long exhale, but the moment was short-lived. From where their fingers touched, a burning sensation started spreading upward, needle pricks that travelled along his arm, into his shoulder, and towards his heart, causing his chest to constrict with pain. Resisting the urge to pull away, Algrim pressed his lips together tightly to let no sound of complaint escape him as he bore the sting of magical runes. Having read about this part of the summoning in the grimoire, he recognised it as the final stage of the ritual. Their deal was binding now, a contract sealed with magic and blood that could not be broken.
By the time it was over, a fresh sheen of sweat had formed on his skin. Algrim rose to his feet, watching silently as the fox consumed his blood. The effect it had on him was instantaneous. The fox seemed invigorated, revitalised, brimming with energy. Though he had made it a point to state his disinterest in Algrim’s offer, Algrim could tell the other was already benefitting from their deal.
His gaze dipped to where claw-tipped fingers curled around the empty chalice, a shiver crawling down his spine at the notion that a part of himself was now inside the fox. When the other touched his shoulder, Algrim felt his pain and exhaustion abate as new strength washed over him in cool, soothing waves. As it would seem, Vuhs had not been exaggerating when he had touted his abilities to Algrim. The deep, bleeding cut on his arm had disappeared, leaving only smooth, healed skin in its place.
“Lord Vuhs.” Algrim bowed his head in gratitude. “How are we to proceed from here?” Was there another ritual that had to be completed in order for the fox to transfer his powers to Algrim? While he was desperate to leave for Jotunheim, rushing into action was not the way to move forward. A quest such as the one that lay ahead of them required thorough planning. Maps had to be consulted, supplies gathered, and precautions taken to ensure the success of their journey. This was his only chance. Algrim would not fail. He could not fail.
“I would be honoured to host you for the night, so we may devise a plan of action.”
Tapping his foot lightly along one of the sigil’s lines, Vuhs lingered in the room where it still attracted him so. “There’s no need to call me Lord now you know my name.” He said upon hearing the address, pointing it out first before continuing methodically, nodding to accept the offer. “I would assume you have maps of Jotunheim and possibly Thrym’s lair, as well as some idea on travelling there from here. If not, we’d have to at least start from there.” Gesturing for the elf to lead the way, Vuhs calmly followed after.
Looking at his summoner, the fox’s features gradually changed, using glamour to mask his appearance once more. Fair skin took on a blueish sheen, gradually shading towards an almost metallic silver hue, while his short hair returned to its white flair, lengthening down loose to his waist. His ears too, tapered longer. Sliding his gaze from the elf to his own hand, Vuhs adjusted the shade of his skin further to his satisfaction. Within mere minutes, the fox was every bit a dark elf apart from his Midgardian garb.
“Tell me more about this Thrym, such as his personality and combat style. Until we have a few executable plans of action, then we can work on coordinating our combat style and get you used to having my senses and strengths. As for illusions and healing, they are techniques which require too long to learn. Therefore as long as I am around, I will perform as you dictate.”
It can’t be said that Vuhs was not rushing for time either. The summoning was sudden, and he still had a lot of work to do. Though he trusted his operations would not fail in the near future, and would even keep his disappearance a secret, he would not wish to risk all his plans and preparations from not returning soon enough. But he accepted this deal with the elf, and would see to it that Algrim finds the result satisfactory. It was his first contract of such sort after all…
“After that however, you have to rest.” Giving the elf a once over, Vuhs pursed his lips. Though his power - especially the new strength he had just absorbed - healed and replenished the elf’s stamina, evoking such magic and the effort to do so must have likely strained his summoner’s mind. Algrim needed rest, of a different kind. “It’s been this long, your revenge can wait another day.” Or a few, depending on how much they had to plan and train. Mildly concerned that the deal’s success would spur the elf to carry on, persuasion slipped from his lips.
As a former general and recently appointed advisor of the Accursed, Algrim was used to wielding authority. Giving orders and directing subordinates had become second nature to him during his many years of service. In Vuhs’ presence, though, he felt almost docile, ready to yield to the fox’s supervision. Vuhs was every bit his senior, perhaps not in years, but certainly in abilities. With Vuhs’ powers to call upon, Algrim was hopeful that the fiend who had made his life a living nightmare could be brought to belated justice.
“Of course we have maps.” Now that he was presented with a task to focus on, he was back in his element. “Jotunheim is a huge realm, a vast world of countless dangers and very few amenities. That the Jotuns have managed to thrive in such a harsh environment should be proof enough of their… superiority,” Algrim admitted bitterly. “As for Thryme’s lair, it is not so much a lair or a cave, but rather a well-guarded citadel. He is a brutal and cunning leader, with his nephew Laufey set to follow in his footsteps.”
Watching Vuhs out of the corner of his eye, Algrim could not help but marvel at the fox’s disguise. He did make a very convincing dark elf – no, not just convincing. Striking. His Midgardian attire, though, was very different from the clothes worn by the natives of Svartalfheim, drawing many a curious glance as Algrim led him though the castle’s twisting hallways. “They are called frost giants for a reason. Their kind relies mostly on their colossal strength,” he explained when Vuhs requested information about Thryme’s preferred style of combat. “The weapons they use are of the primitive variety. War clubs, spears, rocks, fists,” he spilled forth, eager to provide the fox with the information he needed to begin their training. “Stealth and speed will be our best bet for success. A poisoned blade may do the trick, but getting close enough to pierce that thick skin of theirs will be a challenge of its own.”
When they arrived at Algrim’s quarters, he held the door for the other man, waiting for him to enter first before following him inside. “May I suggest you change into something a little less conspicuous, Lo—Vuhs?” Masking his slip-up behind a practised smile, Algrim left Vuhs waiting by the door while he went to retrieve a set of clothes from his wardrobe. He held out a moss-green tunic, a pair of brown leather trousers, and well-worn boots to the fox. “If you are going to stay here with me until we are ready to depart, it is imperative that you try to blend in.” What they were about to do had to be done in secret. The king would not take kindly to Algrim going behind his back, which was why the advisor intended to have Vuhs stay with him instead of giving him a room of his own. It was safer to have Vuhs pose as a friend or lover than risk raising suspicions as to his identity.
“I will rest after we agree on how to move forward,” Algrim promised. Vuhs’ concerns were justified. At the moment, Vuhs’ energy still lingered in Algrim’s system, but that borrowed strength would wear off soon enough.
He pulled a folded map from a shelf and spread it out on his desk. “I know a witch who might be persuaded to help us travel to Jotunheim.” If Vuhs did not want the rubies Algrim had offered him, they might just as well use them to buy passage to Jotunheim for the two of them. “From there, it will be a journey of perhaps three or four days to Thryme’s fortress.” He indicated the route on the map, tracing it with a finger.
For all the dangers Jotunheim represented, Vuhs had an innate sense of superiority to a realm he had never been to. Ever wary of his inner workings, the fox reminded himself to take more caution and heed the elf’s advice. From Algrim’s words alone, he could visualise a sly ruler safely shielded within layers of ancient walls of medieval brute force. All the more cracks to slip through. “Do they have magic?” He found himself asking, another factor to be concerned about, though the frost giants seemed to prefer physical combat.
Entering the rooms without hesitation— the elf had no reason to harm him after all that effort to summon him here— Vuhs raised his brow slightly at the elf’s suggestion. He did not mind having to change outfits, doing as Romans do was standard practice. Taking the clothes, he opened them infront of the elf to double check if he knew how to appropriately wear them before putting them to a side. “I will change later when you rest.” Time was of the essence, and it would be better to finish their initial discussions while Algrim was still present.
Moving to the elf’s side, he studied the map unfurled before them. A swift glance to the side of it showed the map’s legend and scale. Unfortunately, it was not a script he could read. “Explain this. Also, are there other maps? Of our route to the witch, as well as the citadel? If we don’t have the latter, is there someone or somewhere we can buy such information from?” Used to such arrangements, Vuhs’s mind was listing out what he needed to know before Algrim could rest. He fully intended to continue planning while the elf slept. “If possible, I’d like a sample of Jotun hide as well, or at least something similar.”
Times like this, he missed human technology. Spying devices, temperature and bio scans all minimise mission risks. Though he doubted they could maintain functioning condition in Jotunheim climate. He also wanted to know the jotun guards’ shifts and routes. But that would have to come later. The fox did not expect Algrim to have all the details, considering he was but a one man mission before their alliance. If he did, he doubted the elf would even need him around at all.
As for now, he considered the option of poisoning their target that Algrim proposed. The elf who was so focused on revenge would have considered other options already before settling on such a suggestion. Rather than poisoning a blade, wouldn’t poisoning their food be much easier? “As for the poison you suggested, what is it? Or do you not yet have one in mind?” If anything Vuhs was frustrated about, it was the language gap. If he could read, he would simply ask for relevant materials and send the elf to bed.
1 note
·
View note
Text
A Prelude to Chaos Control - Chapter 9: Loss of Me
Click here to start from the beginning. You can also read this story on FanFiction.Net or Archive of Our Own.
*****
Sonic stared aimlessly at the ceiling fan above. He was unable to sleep, playing back the words he spoke to Knuckles as he tossed and turned in his sleeping bag.
“I don’t know if I could live with myself if somethin’ ever happened to him. Waiting for Tails to wake up in the hospital was bad enough...”
“Yeah Tails is young, but look at all he’s accomplished over the years. And besides, who am I to tell ‘im what he can and can’t do? I’d rather have him fight by my side than go off on his own or feel bad for himself at home.”
“Tails…” Sonic sighed as he pulled his arm closer to his face, staring into his wristwatch communicator.
“Five in the mornin’, huh?” Sonic’s eyes were heavy as he gently cleared his throat, careful not to wake the others in the living room. Turning over, he saw Knuckles fast asleep, snoring gently under his covers.
Stretching his body out on the floor, the blue hedgehog pulled himself out of the sleeping bag and crept over to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of tap water.
“Ahhh…now that hits the spot.”
Sonic set his glass on the counter as he returned to the living room, stopping as he noticed the unoccupied sofa. The young kitsune was nowhere to be found.
“Hmmm…” Sonic picked up the blanket pushed against the end of the couch. “Whereja go, little buddy?” Setting it down, he scanned the dark living room before starting his search. After finding nobody in the restroom, he crept over to the bedroom, pushing the door slightly open as he peered through the small opening to see the two girls sleeping on their respective sides of the bed. Amy’s arm was hanging down from her side of the mattress, her hand gripping the Piko Piko Hammer leaning against the bedside table.
Chuckling lightly, the blue hedgehog gently shut the door.
“Well, where could he be?” He scratched his head as he listened to the sound of rain pouring over the small cabin.
“He couldn’t possibly be…”
The blue hedgehog tip-toed to the window, looking out at the shrine in the distance to reveal the orange kitsune studying the Master Emerald, an open canopy tent with small flood lights covering the mystical gem and the top level of the shrine.
“Isn’t it a bit early to be doin’ science stuff?” Scratching his forehead and rubbing his eyes, the hedgehog walked through the kitchen, grabbing his blue umbrella as he left the cabin.
I hope he’s doin’ okay…
*****
Making his way up the stone steps of the shrine, the hedgehog heard an angry yell near the top as a small object launched over the stairs, several yards above Sonic’s head. Acting upon instinct, the blue hedgehog leapt into action, jumping upward to catch the device with a gloved hand, his umbrella still gripped by the other.
“Gotcha!” Sonic landed near the base of the stairs, the umbrella panel bending inside out during the descent, rendering the mangled contraption all but useless to the now-wet hedgehog.
Sonic brought the thrown object closer to his face, the circular radar cool to the touch. Gripping the detector, he slowly made his ascent up the slippery stone steps.
All right Sonic…just play it cool. I’ll ask him what’s wrong, but I won’t pester him.
Sighing anxiously, the blue hedgehog took the final few steps up the shrine as he noticed the orange kitsune staring off into the distance facing away from the stairs, his arms leaning on the foldable table under the canopy tent.
“…Heya Tails.” The young fox turned around to find the soaked hedgehog and his decimated umbrella, the detector in the palm of his hands. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Ohh...something like that.” The orange fox scratched the back of his head. Sonic stepped closer to him, setting the device on the table.
“Ya dropped somethin’.” He pushed it closer to Miles, who gave the device a cold stare. “Mind tellin’ me what’s wrong?”
Tails sighed. “It’s just that the readings I’m getting from the Master Emerald are wildly inconsistent with the data from my prior tests, and I’m not sure what’s causing the discrepancy. Without determining the causal connection between the energy fluctuations, I won’t be able to develop adequate programming code.”
Sonic scratched his head. “Mind dumbin’ that down a bit?”
“In other words,” Tails replied, walking over to the Master Emerald, “I’m no closer to completing the detector than I was before.” He placed a palm against the mystical gem, staring at it with blank eyes.
“Hey lil’ bro,” Sonic walked over to the young kitsune, placing a hand on his shoulder, “I’m sure you can get it workin’ eventually.”
Tails turned around as he looked up at the blue hedgehog, moisture forming in his eyes.
“…but…do you?”
“Huh?” Sonic peered into the distressed fox’s eyes, his downcast face eyeing the stone floor. “I don’t understand.”
“…I heard what you said, Sonic…when I was in the shower.” The orange kitsune balled his hands into tight fists as his arms began to shake. The blue hedgehog was frozen solid, unsure how to respond as the two stood in silence.
Tails gulped. “…Why do you keep me around?” A frown covered his face, his eyes unblinking.
“What d’ya mean?” Sonic slowly approached the young kitsune. “We’re best buds, brothers ‘n all but blood. There’s nothin’ keepin’ us apart!”
“Is that what you tell yourself to justify babysitting me all the time?” Tails furrowed his brow as he looked into the blue hedgehog’s confused face.
“Babysittin’? Who said anythin’ abou—”
“You did!” Tails voice grew angry, a small vein appearing near the top of his head. “You just keep me around so I don’t run off and do something stupid!”
“What?” Sonic stepped back, watching his normally docile, kindhearted little brother succumb to rage. “Now wait just a min—”
“Why, so you can tell me things will be alright when they aren’t? Tell me how useful I am when I mess up all the time? Guilt yourself into babysitting me when you should be fighting Eggman without distractions? Lie to give me a sense of purpose and belonging when I…” Tails sniffled as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “…when I just…don’t belong?”
“But…” Sonic was dumbstruck at Tails’ seemingly never-ending rant, bottled up emotions finally boiling over. “But I…don’t think those things…”
“Why? Any rational person would believe this. Or are you just playing dumb? Acting like the dumb, lovable hero as per usual?” The young kitsune walked in circles and waved his arms as he spoke, missing the pain in Sonic’s face.
“It isn’t true, tho—" Sonic began, only to be cut off once more.
“I’m done, Sonic!” Tails approached the table, grabbing the Chaos Emerald detector. “I’m done…”
“Tails…” Sonic stepped closer to the young kitsune, whose eyes shot up to meet his, the fox’s hand gripping the detector so tightly the glass casing began to crack.
“I said…” The fox raised his hand up in the air, his arm stretched back as far as it could go, the device still held between his fingers as he bent his knees. “I’M…DONE!” Tails swung his arm forward, letting go of the device.
The detector came hurling at Sonic’s face, the blue hedgehog too dumbstruck to dodge. Striking him across his cheek, the device fell to the stone surface below, shattering into small pieces.
Tails kept his throwing arm forward as he breathed heavily, anger still in his eyes. Sonic, meanwhile, was as still as a rock, a red bruise forming on the side of his muzzle, the blue hedgehog ignoring the physical pain, lost in his emotional turmoil.
After what felt like an eternity, Sonic took a knee, placing a gloved hand against his bruise, closing his eyes as his head pointed downward.
Reason slowly returned to Tails as he doused the flames in his eyes, his anger now replaced with an overwhelming feeling of sorrow and dread.
Did I…just hurt…?
“…Sonic?” Tails’ arms dropped to either side as he slowly approached the blue hedgehog, fumbling his steps as if a zombie walking through a deserted cityscape. Looking down at his older brother, he could see a small teardrop forming between his closed eyelids, an unmoving frown on his face. Tails looked at his palms, tears of his own welling up in his eyes as he tried to comprehend how his hands could have carried out such a deed.
“W…what have I done?” The orange kitsune turned around, no longer able to bear the sight of his injured brother.
“I don’t deserve…to be your sidekick anymore.”
Wiping his nose with his arm, he approached the stone steps as he began spinning his rotary namesakes, preparing to leave the injured blue hedgehog behind. As his feet left the ground, however, a gloved hand grabbed his arm, holding him in place a foot above the stone surface.
Tails looked back to find Sonic, a frown on his face as he kept his other hand against his cheek.
“No Tails…” Sonic stared intently into the kitsune’s eyes. “Please…don’t go.” His voice cracked as he made this plea, the orange fox slowly planting his feet back on the surface as his namesakes stopped spinning. Opening his eyes, Sonic approached the kitsune for a hug, an embrace which Miles didn’t reciprocate, too stunned to react.
“I’m…so sorry, Tails…” The young fox could feel the blue hedgehog’s tears rolling down his back as he struggled to comprehend.
“But…why, Sonic?” His fists balled up once more as the blue hedgehog broke down against him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who lost it just now.”
“Don’t you see, Tails?” Sonic sniffled through his shaky voice, keeping Tails in his embrace. “I’m putting all this pressure on you. I’m responsible.” The blue hedgehog gently pulled himself away, the young fox witnessing, with his own eyes, the rare sight of the world-renowned hero as an emotional wreck, black rings around his bloodshot eyes. The blue hedgehog turned away as more tears dripped down his muzzle.
“I don’t understand…” Tails looked away as well, holding one arm with the other. “Why…don’t you hate me?” The blue hedgehog stepped over to the Master Emerald, allowing himself to lean against the mystical gem. He pushed himself backward as he slipped to the ground, staring at his muddy shoes once he reached the floor.
“All this time, I’ve been encouragin’ ya to finish the detector. I never stopped to think how much pressure you were puttin’ on yourself.” He looked up at the orange fox once more. “And at Seaside City, I told you to stay out of the fight, not considerin’ your feelings.” He looked away, closing his eyes as a new bout of tears began to form beneath his eyelids. “And then you heard me talkin’ behind your back…sorry ya heard that.”
Tails approached the blue hedgehog, stepping around what remained of the destroyed Chaos Emerald detector, various pieces scattered across the stone ground.
“No…I don’t hate you, Tails. I could never hate you…” Sonic’s eyelids closed as he shivered, pulling his knees up to his chest.
“Sonic...” The young fox watched as the blue hedgehog placed his face into his knees, his arms wrapped around them.
“Maybe I can treat it?” On his knees, Tails crawled over and carefully analyzed the side of his face. “Let me know if this hurts…” The orange kitsune gently poked the bruise with a gloved finger. Sonic winced, closing the eye closest to the welt as Tails turned to face the cabin. “I’ll go get some ice.” As the fox stood up, though, the hedgehog gently grabbed his namesakes.
“No, Tails…please…jus’ stay with me.” The hedgehog softly pulled the unsuspecting fox backward, Tails falling into Sonic’s lap, his fur still wet from the rain. The young kitsune allowed his heartrate to rest, taking a deep breath as his own fur began to moisten at the blue hedgehog’s touch.
“I’ll stay for as long as you need.”
The two sat quietly for a while. Only the sound of their breathing and the steady flow of rainwater falling over the tent could be heard. The duo watched as the clouds dissipated, and the morning sun began to peek over the horizon. Sonic stopped shivering as the close presence of his little brother provided a sense of tranquility.
After several minutes of mindlessly gazing at the view, the blue hedgehog broke the silence, gently speaking into Tails’ ear.
“Sometimes in life…we win…and we lose. It’s okay to lose from time to time.” Sonic chuckled to himself. “Funny how that’s comin’ from me, huh?”
“Yeah, a little.” Tails looked up at the blue hedgehog, his face no longer weary or stressed. In fact, if not for the bruise on his cheek, the slight puffiness of his eyes, and the dampness of his fur, he would have looked perfectly normal.
“If you can’t get the detector workin’, we’ll find another way to beat Eggman…we always do.” Sonic chuckled to himself once more. “And I want you there with me…not to be in the way, but to defeat Eggman together…like always.”
“…Like always?” Tails looked over at Sonic. “But what about when he kidnapped me and forced you to go Super Sonic? I was the reason we lost the Chaos Emeralds in the first place.”
“No, Tails.” Sonic placed his hands behind his head, gazing into the dimly lit horizon. “That was my call to make. I coulda saved ya without the Chaos Emeralds…I just…” The blue hedgehog’s voice cracked as he collected his thoughts. “…I just…didn’t wanna lose you...” Running a hand through his quills before returning it behind his head, he lightly chuckled. “So, really, I’m to blame here.”
“Sonic…” The blue hedgehog could hear his younger brother sniffling below, a fresh set of tears forming in the orange kitsune’s eyes.
“Hey little bro…” Sonic rustled Tails’ hair. “No need to cry…” As he said this, though, his voice cracked once more as a few small tears escaped his own eyes, falling over the young fox’s head. Feeling the tears splash near his sensitive ears, Tails turned to face his older brother once more.
“…Same for you…big brother…” The two gently laughed as the orange fox settled in, wrapping his namesakes around himself, using the blue hedgehog’s chest for both physical and emotional support.
“…Hey Sonic?”
“Yeah?”
Tails closed his eyes.
“I promise to never hit you again. I’d rather die than cause you pain.”
“…I know, little buddy.”
As the sun peeked over the horizon, the two brothers slept peacefully against the Master Emerald, the rays drying their fur and tears as they forgot about their worries.
*****
The rising sun warmed the green hills, silent forest, and azure lake surrounding a secluded, peaceful cottage, the rays slowly evaporating the water from last night’s thunderstorm. This didn’t stop Cream the Rabbit and Cheese the Chao from performing their daily ritual of morning tea at the backyard picnic table, though, even if the young bunny had to dry the table to ensure she didn’t get wet.
Sporting an orange dress and a blue neck bow, Cream poured nothing out of her toy tea kettle, her gloved hand firmly clasping the pot as she meticulously filled the two teacups without spilling.
“Here you go, Cheese!” Cream pushed the tiny teacup to the blue chao sitting on the table next to her.
“Chao, chao!” Inseparable from the young bunny, Cheese had yellow, stubby hands and feet, a small yellow sphere floating over his dumpling-shaped head, small purple wings, and a red bowtie. Playing along, the chao picked up his cup with both hands, lacking the fingers necessary to use the handle as he poured the make-believe substance down his throat. Setting the cup down between his lap, he smiled at the young rabbit.
Taking a sip of her own, Cream looked up at the blue sky, breathing in the fresh, crisp air, a hint of moisture still present from the storm.
“Sure is a lovely day, isn’t it, Cheese?” The blue chao nodded approvingly, taking another sip as they studied the cloudless sky.
The young bunny turned around as she heard the sound of her mother’s footsteps against the wood porch connecting the cottage to the backyard.
“Good morning, Cream,” Vanilla said, gently waiving at her daughter from the topmost stair of the patio. Like Cream, Vanilla sported long, flappy ears and brown eyes, but unlike the younger bunny, she had a tuft of brown hair between her ears. She wore a purple dress below a burgundy vest, a blue neck bow and white gloves completing her outfit. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Okay, momma.” Cream smiled back at her mother as the elder rabbit stepped through the sliding glass door leading to the kitchen.
“We should finish our tea, Cheese.” Cream tipped her cup toward her lips as she drained the last of the invisible substance. Leaving the tea set on the picnic table, the bunny climbed up the patio and entered the cottage, Cheese flying beside her.
The young bunny took her seat at the kitchen table, eyeing the large stack of chocolate chip pancakes waiting for her. The bunny grabbed a bottle of maple syrup and generously poured it over her breakfast, the sugary liquid covering nearly the entire top cake as the substance ran down the sides.
Taking a swig of freshly squeezed orange juice, Cream grabbed her utensils and began eating while maintaining proper breakfast table etiquette, just as her mother taught her. Sitting next to his owner on the table, Cheese nibbled at shreds of coconut in his bowl, smiling happily as the inseparable duo enjoyed their breakfast.
Vanilla sat at the opposite side of the table, taking a sip of coffee. “After we clean up, I need to run some errands. Don’t stray too far from the house, okay?”
“All right, momma.” She gave Vanilla a brief smile before returning to her breakfast, eating a banana before returning to her stack of pancakes.
“And if you encounter any danger, remember what Sonic taught you.” Vanilla was referring to the periodic combat training Cream received from the blue hedgehog, who taught her how to implement a spin attack, where she could roll into a ball and deal damage to opponents or travel downhill at great speed.
Vanilla took another sip of her hot beverage as her daughter nodded in agreement, placing the last forkful of syrupy pancakes into her mouth.
As Cream finished off her juice, she gathered her dishes and placed them in the sink, brimming with hot, soapy water. Looking back at the breakfast table, Cream watched as Cheese attempted to lift his own empty bowl, flapping his wings as he struggled to carry the dish with his stubby arms.
“I can get it for you, Cheese.” Cream picked up the bowl and placed it in the sink.
“Chao, chao!” Cheese smiled approvingly as he flew around the kitchen. Meanwhile, Cream helped her mother wipe down the kitchen surfaces, making the room as spotless as it was before breakfast.
“All right Cream, I’m off to the store. I’ll only be gone a short while.” She bent her knees, allowing her daughter to give her a hug.
“Bye bye, momma.” Pulling herself from the embrace, Cream smiled as she watched her mother leave the cottage, walking down the dirt path leading to the nearby small town where she purchased her daily groceries.
“Wanna go play outside again, Cheese?” Cream looked up at the chao hovering in midair. He gave her a nod of approval as the two headed to the backyard.
“What should we do first, Cheese?” Cream looked up at her energetic chao, who, after a few seconds of twirling around, hovered in front of the small bunny, shrugging his shoulders.
“Hmmm…” Cream placed a gloved hand to her chin. “I know! How about we g—” Her thought was interrupted by the sound of a scurrying squirrel running down the side of the tree near the corner of the yard.
“Wonder what spooked the squirrel?” Cream approached the tree as Cheese followed close behind, a worried look on his face.
“No need to be afraid, Cheese.” Cream raised her arms toward the chao, holding Cheese to her chest as the determined rabbit investigated the cause of the squirrel’s fright. She peered up at the tall tree, green leaves covering its thick branches as small drops of water from last night’s storm occasionally dripped to the ground below.
“I don’t see anything. Maybe the squirrel got scared of nothing?” Shrugging her shoulders, the bunny turned around, preparing to plan her next activity with her chao when she caught a glimmering object in the corner of her eye.
“Hmmm?” She faced the tree once more and looked up, noticing a shining object wedged between the branches near the top of the tree.
“All right Cheese, I’m gonna need to set you down for a second.” The bunny placed the chao on the grass a few feet away from the tree before running her gloved hands along her long ears. She firmly planted her feet to the ground, bending her knees slightly as she prepared to retrieve the shining object. Finally, she leapt upward, floating in the air by flapped her ears. Looking up, Cream flapped with greater intensity, lifting herself higher as she approached the top of the tree.
The rabbit placed her feet on a branch directly below the shiny item, holding onto the upper branches with her hands to keep herself balanced. Tiptoeing along, she slowly approached the central trunk, pressing her body against the bark as she prepared to grab the object directly above. Raising a single hand in the air, Cream snagged the item, pulling it down to eye level.
“Wait…this is…a Chaos Emer—” Before she could finish her thought, she felt the branch directly below her beginning to crack under her weight.
“Uh oh.”
With gem in hand, she maneuvered herself as fast as she could to the tip of the branch, jumping as the large twig fell to the ground below. Using her ears, Cream slowed her own descent as she hovered down to the patch of grass where she left Cheese, the chao sighing in relief as his creased, worried face gave way to a bright smile.
“It’s okay, Cheese.” She smiled at the chao, rubbing her cheeks against Cheese’s face, tickling him before setting the chao back down.
“Look what I found.” She lowered the gray Chaos Emerald to Cheese’s face, the blue chao looking at it with curiosity in his eyes before rubbing the mystical gem with his stubby hands.
“We should tell Sonic!”
“Chao, chao!” Cheese enthusiastically agreed as Cream made her way back to the house, hoping to give the blue hedgehog a call.
As the bunny was about to open the sliding glass door, however, she heard a rumbling sound rapidly approaching. She turned around to witness a dozen Egg Pawns tearing through the brick hedge bordering the backyard. Behind these robots appeared Dr. Eggman, riding in his floating Egg Mobile, a birdcage-like structure dangling from his personal transport. Cheese hid behind Cream’s short legs, peering out from behind to capture a glimpse of the menacing madman.
“Wooahhooohoohooo! If it isn’t Cream the Rabbit! How are you doing on this splendid day?” The sarcasm dripped from his lips as he gave the young bunny a sinister smile.
“What do you want, Eggman? Can’t you just leave us alone?” Cream kept her hands behind her back, shielding the Chaos Emerald from Eggman’s view.
“I’m afraid not, my dear Cream.” Robotnik snickered as his small battalion of robots stepped closer to the wood patio. “My readings indicate you are harboring a Chaos Emerald. Is this true? I’d very much like to add it to my collection, you know.” His smile grew even wider, showing his white teeth as he eyed the frightened rabbit.
“W…what’re you talking about? I…I don’t have a…Chaos Emerald…” Cream looked away from the evil doctor.
“I’m afraid you’re just as bad at lying as you are at hiding things behind your back.” Cream’s face turned to shock as she dropped the Chaos Emerald. Looking forward, she saw the closest Egg Pawn stomping its way up the patio, splintering the wood as the group got closer to the little bunny.
“I’m warning you…to back off…” Cream kicked the mystical gem to the side and picked Cheese up from the ground. Once worried, Cheese now wore a stern look of determination, ready to join the young rabbit in vanquishing the entourage of mechanical slaves.
“Oh yeah? You and what army?” Eggman massaged his mustache as a group of Egg Pawns formed a semicircle around Cream and Cheese, the bunny’s back against the glass door.
“You asked for it.” Cream raised her arm back as Cheese rolled into a ball.
“Let’s get ‘em, Cheese!”
“Chao, chao!”
The determined rabbit threw her arm forward, launching the chao directly at the nearest robot. Cheese’s collision knocked the Egg Pawn back, static forming all around the machine as it fell to the patio floor, a chao-sized dent in its torso. Cheese ricocheted back to his owner, landing in Cream’s hand as she prepared to launch him again.
“Grrr…that silly rabbit. Doesn’t she realize tricks like that aren’t for kids?” Eggman turned his attention to his remaining solders, pointing at the young bunny.
“Egg Pawns: ATTAAAAACK!”
Cream threw her chao projectile once more. Cheese smashed one of the robots at an angle, bouncing off several more pawns like a pinball before returning to his master, leaving a trail of destruction behind.
A new wave of machines kicked the debris of their fallen comrades aside as they ran toward the young bunny. Unable to launch another attack in time, Cream rolled herself into a ball and performed a spindash through the wood railing of the patio, gripping Cheese tightly against her chest as she landed on her feet in the yard below, putting a small distance between themselves and the remaining forces.
The first robot to approach Cream in the yard wielded an Egg Gun, a cartoonish-looking weapon with a similar color scheme as its mechanical user. Cream cradled the blue chao, still catching her breath as sweat rolled down her brow.
The bunny lunged to the side as the mechanical soldier fired a laser blast. The beam hit the large tree in the corner of the yard, bark exploding everywhere upon impact.
As she dove, the young rabbit threw Cheese toward the Egg Pawn. The robot dropped its laser gun as it fell backward, sparks flying in all directions as the chao bounced back to his owner once more.
“I must say,” Eggman began, maneuvering his Egg Mobile closer to the heroic duo, “you two pack quite a punch…for a pair of small fries.” Itching his chin, Eggman gave them another menacing smile. “I’ll give you one last chance to surrender the Chaos Emerald to me. If you comply, I may spare myself the trouble of keeping you as my prisoner.”
“No way!” She balled her hands into fists as she leaned forward, fire in her eyes. She stepped closer to Eggman’s personal transport, Cheese floating alongside his determined master. “We won’t back down to a bully like you, Eggman!”
“Chao, chao!” As the rabbit placed her hands against her hips, so too did the blue chao, both eyeing the doctor with a level of determination and fearlessness well beyond their young years.
“Very well, I guess we have to do this the hard way, then.” Eggman snapped his fingers before two Egg Pawns grabbed the heroes from behind. “Although with you two in my care, it’ll make getting what I want much easier.” As Cream and Cheese unsuccessfully struggled to pull away from the Egg Pawns’ metallic grasps, Robotnik peered down at an unoccupied soldier, standing at the ready.
“You there!” Eggman pointed at the machine, the pawn instantly saluting the evil doctor. “Go fetch the Chaos Emerald so we can be on our way.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Huh?” The evil doctor set his sights on the motherly voice coming from the porch. Vanilla held the grey gem in her hand as she glared at Eggman from the damaged patio.
“How dare you, picking on a young girl and her pet chao!” She briskly walked across the porch, intending to chew him out up close.
“Egg Pawns, retrieve the Chaos Emerald from this rabbit by any means necessary!” Eggman yelled as he pointed toward Vanilla, the remaining five unoccupied, undamaged robots swarming the elder bunny.
“No momma! Don’t do it!” Cream and Cheese were hastily thrown into the birdcage dangling from the Egg Mobile, the two colliding with the metal bars on the opposite side, wincing at the resulting pain as they stood up in their new prison. “Run away! Please don’t get hurt!”
“Cream…” Vanilla watched as her daughter’s eyes filled with tears, the little bunny’s hands clasping the rusty bars of the cage as she begged her mother to flee. Vanilla turned her gaze up to Eggman, staring into his glasses-covered eyes with a menacing glare.
“No…I’m gonna protect Cream…at all costs!”
The Egg Pawns ascended the damaged patio, lunging directly toward the older bunny. Bending her knees, Vanilla dodged the diving pawn’s attack, chopping its back from behind as she spun around to meet her next opponent, her motherly instincts manifesting in a way which rivaled Robotnik’s forces. The mechanical soldier fell over, sparks encompassing the downed robot.
“…M…momma?” Cream was in shock, having never seen her mother so much as lift a fork in anger let alone take down an Eggman robot.
“Who’s next?” Vanilla bent her knees, pulling her arm forward as she extended and retracted her gloved fingers into her palm, beckoning her next challenger to approach the impromptu wooden ring. As if on cue, another Egg Pawn, this one wielding a lance, threw itself at the rabbit with brute force. Vanilla dodged, the robot’s spear shattering the door as the pawn fell on a long shard of glass, permanently putting it out of commission.
Without missing a beat, Vanilla punched another pawn in the face, causing its panel-like teeth to dim as the robotic soldier flew backward, tumbling down the dilapidated stairs.
“Grrr…you insolent rabbit! I’ve had enough of your tricks!” Robotnik flew his Egg Mobile upward, carrying his captors with him. “If you don’t throw me the Chaos Emerald, I’ll drop your precious daughter to the ground below.” Eggman laughed, his bellowing voice echoing into Vanilla’s large ears. “If she’s lucky, Cream may come out of it with merely a broken leg…or two.”
“Cream!” Vanilla jumped over the shattered wooden steps, landing in the grass as she helplessly watched Cream and Cheese from below.
“So what will it be?” Eggman massaged his mustache, grinning in satisfaction as he peered down at the distraught mother. “The Chaos Emerald for the safety of your daughter? Sounds like a reasonable trade if you ask me. Wooahhooohoohooo!”
Vanilla gripped the grey gem in her hand, her arm shaking as tears began to flow down her face. “Okay Eggman…you win…just don’t hurt her.”
“No way! Give me the emerald first!” Robotnik reached an arm down along the side of the Egg Mobile, a smirk growing on his face as he readied himself to catch the gem.
“…Okay…” She cleared her tears with her arm as she prepared to throw the emerald up to the evil doctor.
“No momma! Don’t do it! He’s tricking you!” Tears were falling from Cream’s muzzle as she shook the metal bars, hoping to persuade her mother to keep the gem, but it was too late; Vanilla threw the grey emerald upward, the gem whizzing past the birdcage before landing in Eggman’s gloved hand. Eyeing it intently, he gave a bellowing laugh as he turned the Egg Mobile around.
“Wait! You have the emerald, now give me back my daughter!”
“Oh, was that the agreement now?” Robotnik snickered. “All I said was that your daughter would be safe. I never mentioned anything about returning her!” Eggman’s laughter dissipated as his Egg Mobile zipped away, taking Cream and Cheese along for the ride. The remaining Egg Pawns followed them on foot, leaving Vanilla alone in the backyard battlefield.
The distraught mother collapsed to the ground, the wet grass staining her dress as tears flowed down her face. “Oh Cream…I’m so sorry…” She stared aimlessly at the ground, machine parts strewn about her as she replayed her daughter’s kidnapping over and over in her head, tears dripping from her muzzle and landing on her knees.
After what felt like forever, Vanilla stumbled to her feet, the physical and emotional toll from the fight and the loss of her daughter catching up to the weary rabbit as she stepped over the destroyed Egg Pawn blocking the back entrance of her cottage.
Making her way to the kitchen counter, Vanilla leaned forward as she struggled to pull a phone toward her, dialing a set of numbers before placing it to her ear.
“Hey Vanilla! How is it going?”
“Amy…please…help me…he…Eggman…took Cream…”
“…Please help...”
*****
Chapter 10 can be found here.
#Sonic Fan Fiction#Sonic the Hedgehog#Fan Fiction#Tails Fan Fiction#Tails the Fox#Miles Tails Prower#Fan#Fiction#Sonic X#Action#Adventure#Angst#Brotherly#Brotherhood
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
Wicked Little Thing
A/U: CloudxReno
Also on: A03 and Fanfiction.net
Reno wasn’t like the other boys.
He solidified that when he showed up at Cloud’s window in the early morning hours on the first day of his 18th summer. He had something to show him. Of the utmost importance. Cloud, with half opened blue eyes stared at the boy smirking in the window. The heat of the sun already suffocating despite just breaking through the dark clouds of night. Cloud’s skin felt like rubber. Sticky wet. Like something was crawling through the little blonde hairs on his arms.
But still, he dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and snuck out of the sleeping house to join the other boy. Reno didn’t say much, but it’s rare for him to use any words. Follow me. Died in the humid air right as it grazed Cloud’s ears. And Reno already walking towards the forest. Cloud thought about arguing. Or bitchin’, as Reno called it. But arguing with Reno was as useful as fist fighting a brick wall. The brick wall always wins. Cloud laments this fact, silently of course, as he steps through mud and sticks towards an undisclosed location.
The trees like statues as they provide minimal relief from the ball of flame in the sky.
The air smelled stale and wet.
Like the mold that grows in the boys home, where Reno lives.
The stench that sticks to their clothes; a tell-tale sign of the abandoned.
But Cloud noted, the one time Reno allowed him close enough he could take in his smell, the other boy reminded him of flames.
They come upon a clearing. And Cloud gagged when death crept into the air.
Rotting eggs and sulfur. Cloud pulled his shirt over his nose to filter the smell, though even his mother’s soap proved to be a pathetic barrier. Nothing really prepared Cloud for the stench of a floating dead body baking in the hot sun. At the edge of the swamp, half of the blue flesh bobbed in the water. It’s clothes tattered and torn; button down and no pants. Bloated beyond recognition. Veins like a road map twisting along milky skin.
Cloud darts blue eyes towards Reno. The other boy stared at the body; his face like stone never acknowledging the pungent stench.
“Gotta get used to dead bodies if ya gonna be in SOLDIER,” he said in a thick accent that Cloud could never place, but was one more thing that separated him from the other boys. Reno’s lips tugged into a smirk.
Cloud tried breathing through his mouth; but it tasted like spoiled meat. And he knew if he threw up, Reno would never let him live it down. He swallowed the bile that burned in his throat. And didn’t say another word.
The sounds of summer embraced the scene. The animals that lurk in the swamp send ripples of waves crashing to the surface as they feed. Birds squawk overhead. Breaking twigs in the distance. Mosquitoes and flies buzzed too close. The hum pierced Cloud’s ear drum as he tried to swat them away.
The heat had them both sweating through white shirts. Reno pulled his over his head, revealing the lean muscles and faded bruises. Like dying fireworks in a peach skyline. And Cloud couldn’t help but gaze along his body. Taking inventory every line and freckle until tattooed to his brain. Reno cast his two pearls of lake colored eyes upon the other boy, curious like a fox.
“Comeon,” he drawled, “we’re pullin’ it out.”
“Uuh,” Cloud stuttered, dropping his shirt from his mouth, “What?”
Reno walked closer to the body- Cloud impressed that the other boy could handle the smell- and grabbed a swollen ankle. “I wanna burn it.”
“W-what?” Cloud repeated.
“Fuckin’ what,” Reno snaps, “I ain’t speakin’ a different language.”
Reno hated speaking at all. This was the most string of words he’s spoken in a while. Cloud liked the sound of his voice. Rough like coal. Bitter like whiskey he pretended he didn’t drink when the sun went down. Not like the other boys with their clean grammar and smooth inflections uttered through pearly white teeth. Not like Clouds, who flumbles through words like he’s running through boulders. Getting caught up. Tongue too big for his mouth. Swollen.
Cloud huffed. And followed the order. The smell only grew impossible to handle. The smaller of the two boys coughing and hacking as he tried fruitlessly to shield his nose with his shirt again. Reno watched him the whole time with hooded eyes that darkened under the mess of red hair. Cloud tried to focus on the task. And not how Reno scanned his body. Resting on the bit of skin exposed from pulling up his shirt.
Cloud hesitated. The flesh that held together the foot to ankle looked diseased. Black. Putrid. He didn’t want to touch it, not at all. The amount of bacteria eating away at the stinking flesh was enough to make Cloud sick. But he could still feel Reno’s burning gaze. And he doesn’t want to look like a coward in front of him. He wrapped his fingers around the skin- and it feels like wet, slimy, clay. He pulled and the flesh peeled away from worn bone. Slipped from his hands like thick water.
He yelled and jumped back, tripping over a rock.
Reno’s laugh sounded like razor blades. He’s pacing around the clearing, holding his stomach. And if Cloud had an ounce of courage, he might swing at him.
“Fuck you!” He shouted instead.
“Poor lil bird.” Reno regained his composure. His toothy smile revealed two sharp canines.
Cloud scrambled back to his feet. “You’re sick, man.”
The red-head shrugs, wiping his hands on dirty blue jeans. He pulls out his crumbled pack of smokes and places a cigarette between his thin lips.
“Can I bum one?” Cloud asked.
Reno ignited the match, the flame orange and yellow casts haunting shadows across his face. “No.”
“Why?”
He took a drag, “Waste.”
Cloud knew what he meant. “I heard everyone smokes in SOLDIER. I got to learn right?”
“Who told ya that? Zack?” Reno scrunched his face like the name tasted like poison on his tongue. Cloud nodded and Reno just shook his head. “Zack has half a brain and it ain’t in his head.”
Cloud doesn’t respond. Eyes wilted to the dirt ground; a large centipede crawled over his shoe and he kicked it into the lake where it can be a gators snack.
“You can’t burn the body, by the way,” he said. “It’s too wet. It won’t catch.”
Reno grimaced in response. Cloud admired the scowl on the other boy’s face. How it compliments the rest of his rough edges. He watched him take slow drags of his cigarette. How the black smoke slowly escaped his lips, obstructing his features except for those two eyes that glow against smoke. Like the stars in the midnight sky.
Reno was a house fire.
And maybe Cloud felt that way because the first time he saw him Mrs. Fost house was engulfed. Glowing orange embers fell from the sky like rain. Hissed and singed when they landed on the cobble stoned street. Everyone watched. Some helped. The good ol’ boys, like Zack, rallied each other and grabbed water from the well to put out the fire.
Cloud stood hypnotized by the dancing reds that ate at the flimsy wood, which scorched the air. And he thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen up to that point. He wanted to feel as powerful as a fire. Eat away at the things weaker than him. But Cloud wasn’t a house fire. Cloud was the wood structure collapsing like a dying star.
He heard the striking of a match. Turned towards the sound.
Saw a boy, with hair the color of blood, bringing fire to the cigarette between his lips.
He looked like danger. Cut from metal. Sharp like the switchblade in his pocket.
And then, like now under the muted morning light, in a swamp that reeks of death, Cloud can’t stop staring at the boy. Who appeared a year ago like a phantom under the flames of destruction. Cloud gravitated to him like he was the sun. And found only darkness. A red dwarf. Two minutes from midnight and ready for armageddon. And that’s all he knew.
Reno’s past a mystery but everyone tried predicting his future.
Boys like that end up in the gutter.
The mothers whispered.
Filthy monsters. Wicked little things. All end up dead before eighteen.
Zack and the rest of the boys warned him much the same.
You hang out with trash you start to smell.
But Reno smelled like burning wood, nicotine, and pomegranates.
Reno was fire and Cloud wanted to burn.
Thunder cracked. Cloud looked into the darkening sky. “It’s going to rain.”
“So?” Reno grabbed a long stick and stomped back towards the body. “Afraid of gettin’ wet?” He winks, “Little birds can’t fly in rain?”
He plunged the stick into the bloated stomach of cadaver. Black ooze pushed out. Cloud swore he heard a wheeze before another boom of thunder. He flinched as Reno dug the wood deeper until it stood on its own.
“Wh-why did you do that?”
Reno snapped his eyes at Cloud. And shrugged, again. Cloud pursed his lips looking for words. But found vacant expressions. Reno didn’t need to explain himself; he’s red hot anger. And everything he does is a result of that.
“You gotta learn to stab shit if you wanna be a SOLDIER.” Reno said and revealed a switchblade from his back pocket. “Comeon.”
Cloud hesitated. “W..Why?”
“I just said why, fuck.”
The sky opened and cold rain cooled the hot earth. The drops slammed against the bloated body; singing through the dense forest and murky swamp. Tap tap tap. Rapid like bullets.
“I won’t be stabbing something that’s already dead, right?” Cloud shifted.
Reno removed the dead cigarette from his mouth, flicking it into the swamp and approached Cloud. His feet sunk into the mud with every step; but as if blessed, he doesn’t stumble. And the blonde can’t seem to move, even though Reno’s giving him this look; like an alligator lurking below the surface of the swamp, ready to bite his head off. He stopped too close. Cloud could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The bones of his rib cage that peek through the skin. The small cuts. The large black and blues. From one too many fights with those good boys.
To Cloud’s surprise, they’re the same height. Blue green meets slate blue eyes. Reno always gave off the impression of being impossibly larger than life. Cloud crushed under his gaze. But in the pouring rain, in the morning light, with the smell of rotting flesh and still water, they were equals.
Reno grabbed Cloud’s wrist, with a sudden movement that it stole the blonde’s heartbeat, and placed the hilt of the blade in his wet palm.
“Stab me.”
“What!?” Cloud didn’t stutter this time. He blurted the words from his mouth with a frantic tone. He tried to move back but Reno held him firm. Rooted to the ground. “No w-way!”
“Gotta learn.” Reno grinned something vile. He closed Cloud’s fingers around the worn wood, and pressed the sharpened knife against his own side. Guiding the other boy. His skin tickling the blade like a dar. “Right here.”
“Y-y-you’re fucki-in nuts, Re.”
“You think this my first time bein’ stabbed?”
“No, bu-t-” Cloud could only shake his head, “I ain’t stabbing you. No w-way.”
Reno frowned, bringing Cloud and his wrist and the blade to his neck. “How ‘bout here?”
“That’s w-worse!” Cloud panted. “You’ll die.”
“You can’t kill me, lil bird.” And Reno laughed. A devastated laugh that sounded more like the lightning that flashed overhead. Blinding Cloud for a moment. But only a moment. And he saw electricity in the redhead eyes. And felt his skin rise towards the cement sky. And he didn’t know if the shock was from the angry god above or the boy before him, yanking him closer. Stumbling over feet. His collision with Reno- skin to skin- proceeded the thunder.
“Hm,” Reno purrs, and Cloud felt his breath against his lips. “Ya never gonna make SOLDIER.”
Cloud growled, “F-Fuck you, Reno.”
Reno squeezed Cloud’s wrist. Tight. Until he was forced to drop the knife. “Ya finally gettin mad, huh?”
But Cloud stared into Reno’s eyes- too busy to get mad. Trying to focus on anything else besides Reno. Not his lips and how they were slightly opened and just slightly inviting. And that he smells of smoldering flame that eats at an entire forest. And his hand feels rough around his wrist. And Cloud’s aware of the lack of blood traveling to his fingers that they are going numb.
Reno relaxed his grip. Moving his hand up Cloud’s, over the scars that littered his calloused fingers. Burns. “I like it when ya mad,” he whispered, “ya more interestin’.”
And he’s giving Cloud the same look he flashed him at Mrs. Fost’s house fire. When the smoke around his face cleared. And Cloud saw the dramatic curves of his face. His slanted auburn eyebrows that clashed against the red hues of his hair. Mesmerized by the way his eyes glowed- literally glowed- brighter than the fire that consumed the wood house over the old women’s feverish cries. And Cloud was, himself, engulfed by Reno’s gaze that he didn’t acknowledge how the strange boy traveled from Cloud’s face, down his chest, to his bandaged right hand that blistered underneath the cloth.
Not until the red-head curled his lips into a wicked little smirk.
Under the rain, the hot rain that stuck to his body like grime, Reno had the same look, Curiosity mixed with bloodlust.
Or…
Just regular lust.
And Cloud couldn’t stand another minute not knowing if Reno tasted like he smelled-
Pressed his lips against the red-heads, snaking his fingers into his wet hair to pull him closer. Impossibly close.
He expected a fist in his face, rocking him from this earth. Instead, Reno returns the kiss twice as forceful and with more practice. Wrapping his lean arms around Cloud’s small frame. Gliding his nails through the white fabric.
Cloud opened his mouth so their tongues can meet,
And he tasted like tar. And electricity. And sulfur.
They managed to get off the shirt that clung to Cloud’s body like suction cups. And they were back to skin and mess of limbs and lips.
And teeth that bit on Cloud’s lip; and he moaned from his throat a sound that rushed through Reno’s body like a shockwave. Then fall to the floor. Cushioned by the mud.
They tarnished their bodies in dirt and filth. Rough hands digging into flesh. And Cloud couldn’t keep track of how many times Reno’s name left his bruised lips through harsh breathes.
And he didn’t stutter.
He memorized that name. Branded it in his brain.
The only word he knew.
The red-head sat up, straddling Cloud’s hips under him. Pressing his hand firm on his chest to keep him on the ground. And blue-green eyes stare at Reno. Flushed with pleading desire. But he’s preoccupied with the scars on Cloud’s chest.
And if Reno was faded fireworks during the sun set.
Cloud was the scorched woods during sun rise.
Old burns splashed over his pale skin. Some still pink and angry. Other’s that blended into his flesh.
And Reno smiled.
His first real smile.
And Cloud thought he looked like the devil.
He dropped down, their torsos meeting. Lips just barely touching. “I knew it,” he whispers.
And he figured it out the night they first met. That Cloud was a match that needed a spark.
Their lips met again. Clothes torn off.
The rain and mud made their bodies slick. And Cloud dug his nails into Reno’s back while he hissed into the blonde's neck. Nipping and biting skin, adding crimson to muted colors.
It was the tangled limbs- how Cloud didn’t know where he ended and Reno began- that had raw breathless gasps clawing at his throat.
And they were gripped in euphoria that they forgot about the body decaying next to them.
--------------------------
The rain stopped. The heat rose from the soil and the earth felt like an oven. Reno stood over the body; his jeans stained with mud and shirt over his shoulder. Cloud walked next to him, still trying to adjust his shorts, with his own shirt balled in his pocket- his mom will have a word with him when he gets home, for sure. But that would have to wait. Right now, he relished the tingles that touched every part of his body, while he watched the red-head. New scars painted his canvas. Long streaks of red that matched the ones on Cloud’s body. And the blonde felt the throb of the bite on his shoulder; and it burned like the fire that decorated his flesh.
He didn’t even care that Reno had marked him-
Like the house fire, Reno was the most beautiful thing he had even seen in eighteen years on this dying planet. And Cloud wanted every bite, and burn, the red head could offer him.
Reno grabbed his pack. Placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with his last match.
He turned to Cloud, removed the stick and gently placed it between Cloud’s partial opened lips. The other boy blinked several times in confusion, as Reno replaced it with another one, and leaned into Cloud’s ember to light it.
The sound of searing fire touched his ears.
His whole body twitched.
Cloud smiled, couldn’t help it, and took a sharp inhale. Blowing the smoke right at Reno, who smirked.
“Thought you said it would be a waste?” Cloud sing-songed.
“Heh, ya ain’t gettin’ into SOLDIER anymore. Don’t matter.”
“W-why do you say that?” Cloud cocked his head, and in mid-morning light, he looked like an innocent boy filled with naivety.
But Reno knew better. “They don’t care for wicked little things like us.”
They shared a look under the heat of the sun that burned their skin. A look they shared against the warming flames. Where Cloud saw him for the first time and knew he needed to understand as much as he could about the mysterious boy who appeared from thin air. Who was filthy. Abandoned. A discarded trash.
But stunning. Like a god.
He was right.
Reno wasn’t like the other boys.
And neither was Cloud.
#cleno#fanfiction#cloud strife#reno the turk#writing#cloud x reno#also on ao3#also on fanfiction.net
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
As you watch the snow fall, ch 1 (Andreil Jack Frost AU, part 3)
All for the game
Rating: General Audiences
Relationship: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Additional Tags: Jack Frost!Neil, Writer!Andrew, Succession of vignettes, Non-Chronological, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, Grief/Mourning, POV Neil Josten
[Part 3 of the When the frost is in bloom series - Chapter 1/? - 1967 words - Published 2020-01-20]
Summary:
A succession of vignettes from Neil & Andrew's life before, during, and after the two previous installments of this AU.
In the first one, Neil faces unresolved trauma and finds comfort in the strangest of places.
Read on AO3
Chapter 1 : Frozen to the bones
There is something unsettled in the wind always. The wind doesn’t stop, doesn’t breathe, does not break. The wind is a moving force and it stops for no one. Not even Neil.
But sometimes the wind will wait. It doesn’t settle, exactly, but it slows, to a gentle current, just for a little while, more river than ocean. Neil listens for those short sighs of reprieve. He never asks for them. But they always happen when there is something for him to be done.
Most of the times there is a child. Not right here, never right here - but close. And they call to him, always. The distressed and the trapped, little souls like fireflies in the wind.
Neil saw fireflies once, real ones. He had been hiding behind a tree and the slow-falling night had arrived unnoticed. One moment he had his head tucked between his knees, a tiny child cloaked in darkness, and the next a little light was flickering beyond his closed eyelids. He had opened his eyes to see that the stars were falling down. One by one they had filled the space between the trees and they’d floated, like fairy lights, all around him. Neil remembers that the air had felt light and electric, each breath a surge of something filling his lungs. He had felt so… airy, all of a sudden, and had been sure, so sure that if he tried, he, like all the lights, would fly and shine like he used to in his dreams. But this was not a dream, and when Mary had come back Neil hadn’t so much as moved a toe.
It’s different now. Mary is gone and so is he, one of them taken by fire and the other through ice. Neil flies with the wind that stops for fireflies, and though his mother’s voice used to fly alongside him it doesn’t anymore. She has gone a second time. All Neil feels about this is relief.
Relief, like hope, is dangerous.
It hides things.
Covers them with a blanket of light so bright you would never think of trying to look beyond.
Not until you’re forced to.
*
Neil has been flying uninterrupted over Sweden for a day when it happens. The wind slows down, and at first Neil listens for the call. The song of helplessness and pain, blinking in the darkness, beaconing him closer. But there is nothing.
Neil waits for the wind to pick him up again. It does not.
There is something for you here, it whispers.
Neil floats down, freezing the layer of fresh snow he lands on. This is -
There is something calling him here, but it is not a song. Not a light. It’s -
It’s a creek, the Baltic sea dozing off beyond a wall of pines, and there is a bed of pebbles leading to the water beneath the snow. Thorn bushes and wild berries lie dormant by the trees, moss blanketing the ground at their feet. Everything here is green in the spring and alive. The sea laps at the bed of pebbles, rolling them over in its waves, ever peaceful. Neil knows this -
The sea is frozen now. There is no movement by the creek. Imprints of animals speckle the snow, telling stories of life in the stillness. There is no one here but -
Neil walks to the shore. His feet do not break the snow, yet still the cold creeps up. Neil’s blood is already frozen but his heart still stops. His bones rattle and crack like porcelain beneath his skin, which feels like glass. If Neil looked down, he's sure that he'd be able to see the veins and muscles of his right hand clutched around his staff, pulsing blue light into the wood.
Neil stops where the snow-covered ground leaves place to snow-covered ice. There is barely any movement in the water trapped by the cold but it is liquid still. Neil steps upon the sea and plants his staff into the ice.
Everything freezes.
There - rusted, frozen, encased - is metal. The car -
The car is empty. The seats are burned.
The ice around it tastes like blood and burning flesh.
*
Neil finds no trace of ash in the sea. He releases the water.
The wind hauls him to Iceland.
*
Neil floats, carried. The wind cradles him into the sky like a fragile little thing. He is bringing the snow still, but he does not care where. Clouds, white and all-encompassing, are all the matter that he sees. There is nothing else but blue.
Blue, like the flesh under his skin. Blue like the flowers in the spring. Blue, like his father’s eyes.
Blue like the hottest part of the flame that had devoured his mother and left nothing but steel.
Neil doesn’t understand the hollow in his chest. He thinks he might have punched it, or the wind, as he was standing there above the car. He thinks something might have reached through his flesh, through his breakable-as-glass bones, and torn a chunk of pain and blood. He thinks his father got him, in the end, deeper than the ice could reach.
Neil is alone. Has been alone. For a really, really long time.
Is he hollow for his mother, or himself? His father? His childhood, broken and bloody and splintered?
The shape of the hollow is odd. It moves and expands, shifts through his body like a plant. A growing wound.
Its edges are torn, frozen, and cold. And the wind cradles him. But it’s the thoughts that hurt, not the movements, and for the first time in his life, Neil is too shell-shocked to stop thinking.
So he floats. And he hurts. And the wind cradles him.
*
Neil notices when the wind starts to bring him down, but it’s a near thing. He is surprised, distantly, that he still weighs anything at all. The hollow has eaten him alive, cell by cell, leaving nothing alone but his skin. He is a shell of ice, paper-thin and breakable. He hasn’t moved in days.
The wind lowers him to the ground slowly. He lands on a blanket of snow, and tries to sleep. Slumber will not take him, but he can’t move, so here he stays. His eyelids have eroded enough that they’re see-through. He watches the birds fly, the pine trees wave. The sky above is so blue that it burns.
Everything is white and blue.
The world.
Time.
Neil.
*
A snowflake
falls
on the ground
and
Neil
watches
.
*
You need to get up.
There are no flowers here.
You need to get up!
Not anymore.
Listen to me!
There will be flowers later. When Neil will be long gone.
You need to get up! Do you hear me?
He will never see flowers again.
Abram!
Even if he did, there would be no tomb to put them on.
ABRAM!
She is gone.
And there is no trace left of her.
Get up.
Not even ash.
Get up.
Nothing.
Please.
You have got to get up.
*
It isn’t the voice that wakes him up.
It’s the warmth. Slow and deliberate.
He is still there, after all. He was so sure he wouldn’t be.
The warmth moves. It feels wet. It breathes. Whines.
Neil opens his eyes.
The fox has orange eyes like amber stones. It sits with its front paws tucked close and its tail warped around its body. Its fur is white white white like the world, but its muzzle is black and the eyes are amber stones pierced with cave-like pupils. The fox tilts its triangular head, rustles its ears. The sun kisses its fur, which does not melt. Life is already warm.
Everything else is cold, most of all Neil. But the warmth calls to him.
He raises a hand. Slow and careful. Open palm. Just like with King. The fox looks at the hand and tenses. Its ears stiffen, alarmed.
Neil stills.
The fox listens.
Neil lowers his hand back to the ground. His eyes have fluttered nearly shut again when warmth suddenly surges back to him.
The fox has sniffed his hand. Its posture has relaxed. Neil keeps still, and the fox licks his hand, once. Twice. Neil huffs out a small breath.
The fox’s ears perk up again, but this time the fox steps close. It breathes against Neil’s face, and licks Neil’s cheek, once, twice, this time up to the corner of Neil’s eye. Something cold falls off; a crystal. Drops of ice pepper Neil’s exposed skin like the freckles he used to have during summer. The fox chases them off of him with diligence, making Neil huff again.
Every swipe of its tongue, every inch of contact with its soft, soft fur, sends ripples of warmth through Neil’s skin. When the fox starts licking at his hair, Neil sits up and laughs. It startles the fox a little, so Neil coaxes it closer with his hand again. It doesn’t take as long this time, and soon enough Neil has his arms full of fur. The fox props itself up with its front paws against Neil’s chest, and opens its mouth up wide, displaying sharp teeth. Neil almost jumps back, but the fox doesn’t seem interested in biting. It stays in that position for a beat longer instead, eyes closed and tail curled horizontally, with its ears to the sides. It does bite then, but only the air, and then the fox jumps back.
It comes back almost immediately, pouncing and landing next to Neil’s side with its mouth open. It puts its mouth around Neil’s arm without biting then jumps back, ears still pushed to the sides. When it comes back again, Neil tries grabbing at it, and ends up toppling backwards into the snow as the fox twists and scratches lightly, mouth agape. Neil pushes the fox off of him and watches it roll away only to come bouncing back the moment it’s back on its feet. Neil laughs this time as they grapple, and the fox yaps like it’s trying to copy the sound, somehow. They roll apart in the snow then chase each other around the small clearing, flailing and thrashing about with abandon. By the time they’re done Neil’s pretty sure he’s got snow shoved in all of his clothes, yet he feels warm. Really warm. The kind of warmth that lasts.
They’re both panting heavily, though Neil significantly more than the fox, and are lying on the ground, with the fox’s flank pressed to Neil’s side. Eventually the fox lowers its head on its front paws and its tail upon Neil’s leg. The world is a clearing.
They stay like that for a while.
By the time the fox starts to stir, nightfall has come and gone and the sky is no longer burning. Neil sits up slowly. The fox steps forward and sniffs at him, its snout wet against Neil’s skin. Neil brings a hand up to the fox’s fur and strokes, just a few times. And then it’s done.
The fox steps back, turns, and walks out of the clearing.
As soon as it disappears, the wind picks up.
Neil flies off with a smile and a ribcage full of warmth.
*
“I made a friend,” he tells Andrew the night he’s come back.
“Congratulations. I’m not adopting another cat.”
“It was a fox,” Neil says, and grins when Andrew’s façade crumbles slightly with surprise. He’s been chasing those moments with increasing success, lately.
Andrew looks away with a light scoff at his grin. “I bet it was an arctic one, too.”
Neil hums, smiling still. “White as a cloud.”
“Such a cliché.”
“You’re the one who turned me into a book character.”
“Shut up,” Andrew grumbles, and ignores the way Neil laughs into the kiss.
#tfc#aftg#neil josten#andreil#all for the game#the foxhole court#andrew minyard#jack frost au#angst#trauma#grief#I grew attached to that fox way too quickly while writing this#as you watch the snow fall#vignettes#when the frost is in bloom#when the frost is in bloom part 3#arctic fox#frozen to the bones#wulfrann writes#fanfiction
12 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
digitalmarketingfriend
Welcome To Digital Soch Friend
ryo8073
インディアナ(アメリカ)生活記
aesthetic--mood
Aesthetic Mood
johanneblouin
Samedisearch.com
ryo8073
インディアナ(アメリカ)生活記