perry-the-platypus-f1cs

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Gods gambit PT4

Chapter 4: kings and cookies.

Summary:

Bells thinks back to his first time meeting king Perseus, and Adler pays bell a visit in his cell.

The cold bite of metal chains and cuffs is the only thing that draws Bell away from the slicing pain that tears at his back.

“Again.” The cold, detached voice of the fae king seems to echo in the small valley as the whip cracks down on Bell's back once again, drawing another thin line across his back.

Bell could feel the slow drip of liquid slide down his back, blood; it was blood, his blood. No… that couldn't be; he was the most feared human general and runic mage on the whole continent; he did not bleed. 

“Again.” Adler repeats, this time the whip was brought down more harshly, the sting lasting longer as Bell gritted his teeth together, almost screaming out a curse. The valley stilled once more as Bell waited for the lash of the whip once again.

They had been going at this for several hours, the snap of the whip and sting of pain never relenting in those past several hours.

A layer of sweat had started to cling to Bell after the first hour; after that, he stopped counting, and the lashing continued until Bell could barely see past the darkness that crept in from the corner of his eyes.

Was this how he would die?

Kneeling in chains in front of hundreds of fae soldiers bleeding from a thousand cuts all scattered across his back. 

Bell felt a tear fall from his face, dropping from his eyes, gliding down his cheek before connecting with the lush grass next to his knees, and darkness took him.

-

“You called for me, your grace?” Bell's voice was quiet, nervous as he bowed deeply; the Kingsguard had taken him out of the middle of his class, saying that the king wished to speak with him. 

His heart was leaping in his chest as he navigated the winding hallways approaching the king's chambers. His eyes were stuck to the floor, not daring to look at the king; the king hadn’t called for anyone in 5 years, not after the last failed fae negotiation. 

“Raise your head, my child.” The king's voice was…soft, but it held a sharp edge that made Bell immediately straighten up and slowly raise his head.

Bell’s eyes widened as he stared at the king; he wasn't anything like Bell had imagined. The king had always been revealed as a god-like being, a wisp walking among humans, but this was different. 

The king's body was obstructed by a fabric draped over his whole body, seemingly melting his limbs together in a silver drape, blending the king's features together in a cascade of reflective silver.

 The king was sitting down in front of a small dark oak table; a small ivory and stone chess set was laid out on top of the small dark oak table's surface. The king extended a silver-covered hand, picking up one of the pieces, a pawn, and placing it back down on the board two squares in front of its previous position. 

“Sit, it's your turn,” the king says simply, gesturing to the seat adjacent to his own. Flabbergasted, Bell takes a slow step forward before sitting down, his hand sweating nervously as he looks down at the chessboard.

Hesitantly, he picks up a knight on the opposite side of the board and displaces it down in front of one of his pawns. 

Nervousness gripped him; why did the king call him here? To play chess? Surely there was another reason? Bell shook himself from his hazy stupor as he heard the king hum slightly, analyzing the move that Bell had just made.

“You are smart for your age,” the king says, his tone amused, his hand reaching out and mirroring Bell's previous move. 

Bell blinks before his face flushes with heat. “Thank you, your grace. I'm flattered.” He says shakily, lowering his gaze once more, hands fidgeting in his lap before he reaches out once more to grasp a chess piece, but he stops when the king begins speaking. 

“Your teachers have said that you are the most promising runic mage in the whole academy, and yet you are quite humble for someone of your station.” The king says his voice is almost whimsical; the words were not a question but a statement, a fact. 

Bell gulped, sweating nervously as he hastily grabbed a pawn on the right side of the chessboard and placed it two steps forward, hastily reaching his hand back to fold comfortably in his lap.

“My king, I—” Bell tries to speak, to form words that would please the man in front of him, but the king cuts him off simply by raising a hand that blends into the rest of the silvery glow of the king's draped robes.

“My boy, you are special; ever since your birth, people have spoken about your fate; you have a heavy burden on your shoulders.” The king paused, his head tilting down to gaze at the chessboard again before picking up the queen and rolling the chess piece around in his finger before speaking again.

” But in saying that… I wish to offer you something. Something concerning the prophecy of Anderim.” 

Bell sat there stunned; the king wanted to offer him something!? The thought is unthinkable; Bell was Bell… raised on a farm right on the border of the northernmost part of Pildem and the easternmost part of Kestra.

He grew up running in the forests that stretched out past the watchtowers. He was nobody, at least he thought he was….

The prophecy, a closely kept secret among the nobles and high lords of the districts, is said to have been given by the creator and eternal lord Anderim, who was exiled from the kingdom of the gods; he gave one last gift to his beloved creations, a prophecy that would one day come to pass.

Of course the lowborn servants and citizens know of its existence, but…no one knows what the prophecy is… The specifics and words had long faded with time, and details were now held tightly to the chests of the human kingdom's nobles. . 

“My king…” Bell says, pausing as he stares at the king, the silver veil that obstructed The king's features seemed to tilt slightly as if waiting for Bell to speak; after a few uncomfortable seconds, the king merely hums.

“Please call me Perseus, my boy,” the king says, extending a silver-covered hand and tenderly resting it on top of Bell's sweaty hand, collapsing nervously in his lap. 

Bell just stared; he didn't know what to say. He never expected anything other than learning everything there is to know at the academy and then joining in the ongoing fight raging at their borders that had been brewing for years. He never expected any of this.

“What I say to you cannot leave this room. Do you understand, my boy?’ Perseus asks his grip on Bell's hand, tightening slightly, making Bell raise his head back up to stare at Perseus’s obscured face.

The young boy only nods softly, making the veil shift slightly, and Bell could only guess that the king was smiling. 

“Good, now how about I tell you a story about our great creator and the prophecy he left behind for us?” 

-

Bell woke up in pain, not just the dull thudding pain from the many bruises scattered across his body, but the slicing deep pain that tore at his back as he continued to bleed slowly from the wounds that had been inflicted on him only a few hours ago.

Well, Bell assumed it was only a few hours ago, but there was no telling; the damp and musty expanse of the cell he now found himself in didn't really leave any room for speculation.

The chains that kept his arms raised above his head bit into his skin, a cold, unforgiving force that twisted Bell to its whims, keeping the general in a kneeling position with heavy iron clamps secured around his ankles connected to the cell floor by a large chain. 

Bell groans, shifting on his knees, trying to dissipate some of the ache that was swiftly turning into pain. He huffs when it doesn't work, letting his body sag forward, his elbows bending as much as the chains would allow.

The loud creaking of the cell door opening snaps Bell's attention back up, his heart starting to beat rapidly in his chest. How did he not hear them approaching? Was this one of King Perseus' men coming to release him?

Bell slowly lifted his head to peek at who had entered the cell, only to be immensely disappointed when he saw that the person—or, more correctly, the fae that had entered his cell—was no savior.

Bell scowled up at Adler, who merely continued smiling, arms crossed against his chest; the intricate gold embroidery that caressed every pair of clothing he wore glowed softly in the dim light of the cell. 

“I assume you are enjoying your accommodations.” Adler spoke formally, but Bell could see the mocking tone from a mile away. Bell didn't say anything, just sneered and spat at Adler, his spittle landing just short of connecting with Adler's leather shoes.

“Ah, of course. You humans are never ones for gratitude, or even manners.” He hissed, the placid smile falling from his face as he stepped closer to Bell, squatting down to meet Bell's deadly glare. 

But before either man could utter the next tension-filled word, Adler pulled out a small fabric napkin from his blue cloak and unwrapped it, placing it in front of Bell.

The rich smell of freshly baked cookies wafts up into Bell's nose, and he could hear his stomach grumble in want.

“You're an asshole, you know that—” Bell's words are cut off as Adler picked up one of the golden grown cookies and held it up to Bell's mouth; the cookie was far away enough that Bell would have to strain against the chains to reach it. 

“You need to eat.” Adler says simply pausing after a moment as he expected Bell to weep and eagerly take a bite of the offered cookie.

Bell wasn't that desperate or stupid even as Adler held the cookie closer to Bell's mouth so that the general wouldn't have to strain to get it.

Bell didn't waver, his glare piercing into Adler as he kept his mouth stubbornly shut. Bell knew better, and Adler probably knew that, so what was the point? The cookie was obviously bewitched. 

“Yeah, how about fuck that, and fuck you.” Bell sneers, letting the words sink in before he leans back as far as the chains will let him.

Adler doesn't budge, only staring at Bell unamused before signing, reacting to the offered cookie and taking a bite. 

The sounds of the crunch fill the cell as Adler stands up and finishes the cookie in another bite, picking up the fabric napkin, taking the other cookies with him, dusting his hands off, and exiting the cell.

The cell door scrapes shut with a loud slam. Leaving Bell to stare at Adler's leaving form. His stomach grumbles, and it makes him scowl.

“That fucking bastard.” He hisses as his stomach grumbles once more as if telling him he should have taken the fucking cookie. 

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed this update! thank you all for your support, and I hope you all have a good day/night!

@ladysouthpaw1213 @pyxis-stellae

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Your daily dose of angst sir.

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

how the COD fandom be feeling like sometimes

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Raised from the sith hells Masterlist.

Raised from the sith hells (old Republic and clone wars crossover.)

Pt1 may we find war PT2 From Carbonite I am freed. PT3 Burning presence PT4 Imprisoned once again TBC

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Raised from the sith hells PT4

Chapter 4: Imprisoned once again.

Summary:

Destrus hears a mysterious voice whilst he sleeps. and when he wakes up he gets a taste of modern cuisine.

R’hitala Dashen was floating. He blinked, his vision blurring the world around him. The tender buzzing of the force grating at the crevasses of his mind. 

He blinked again, the dark void of his surroundings remaining encased around him. He could feel the way the Force thrummed through this void.

“Where am I?” He asked the void; not waiting for an answer, he started to walk through the void, the ground beneath him rippling with each step.

Hello, child.

A calculating voice echoes through the void. R’hitala ibsticavky clamped his hand over his ears as the voice seemed to make the void shudder and quake with each word. 

A sinking feeling flooded his gut, but he pushed it down swiftly; he was a Sith. Sith did not cower.

“Who are you?” He demanded fixing himself to a fighting stance all too familiar to the alliance commander.

The better question is, who are you?

The voice again shuddered the dark realm as the words hit their target.

Who was he? He was R’hitala Dashen. The former emperor’s wrath, the outlander, the alliance commander. He is war incarnate. He is Darth Destrus. 

Destrus opens his mouth to respond, but the voice cuts him off. 

You are Sith. 

The voice’s definitive words took Destrus by surprise: “Yes, yes, I am Sith.” Destrus says warily.

Who was this? Is this another immortal being like Valkorion? Another long-dead ghost sent to haunt him for power? Was this Darth Nox’s doing?

A chuckle vibrates through the void as the mysterious voice speaks again.

Oh no, I am not one of your former colleagues; I am a much older confidant. 

Destrus blinks, raising his head towards the black ceiling of the void. He did not know what he was searching for, but what he was doing felt right; it felt predetermined. 

Whoever this was, they knew him. And they knew him well. 

“I will ask again, who are you?” Destrus calls out, his own voice echoing in the void slightly. 

He remembers the flush of power and pain that coursed through him once the cuffs were removed, but he had no clue where he was, and this voice was certainly not helping with Destrus's confusion. 

A bright, almost bubbly laugh makes Destrus's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

I have no name. But you know me. Even so, my identity means nothing. My will shall be done. And you will be my means to achieve it. 

The voice took on an almost dark, twisted tone but quickly reversed back to a light and bubbly, scarily childlike tone.

I have taken up far too much of your precious time, Sith, but know this. The galaxy you find yourself in needs protecting; the Sith’ari has risen and needs guidance. There is no longer balance. 

Destru’s eyes widened. The Sith’ari? Destrus had heard mentions of the prophecy from ancient texts at the academy. He had previously spoken to Darth Nox about such a prophecy before the war with the external empire. Valkorian had proclaimed himself the Sith’ari in the past, but how could it be that the Sith’ari had risen now?

“Wait! What do you mean?”

Destrus's words are cut short by the voice once more. 

Wake up, R’hitala dasheen, wrath of the Sith. The last of the pure blood. 

-

Destrus's eyes opened, and he was met with the dimmed red lighting of a cell. He blinked, rising slowly, his heart hammering in his chest.

This reminded him too much of his first encounter with the Eternal Empire, the grey cell that he had lain in and waited for Arcann to escort him to the Emperor. The memory was like a cold chill washing down his spine as he recalled it. 

He shuddered, bringing his red hand up to wipe at the crust that had formed in the corners of his blazing yellow eyes. He let his hand trail down his face, scratching at the incessant itch between his facial tendrils. 

The soft sound of someone clearing their throat snapped Destrus’s attention towards the glowing red ray-shield that separated him and the person who sat on the opposite side, a small grey tray filled with brilliant contents. 

“Master Jedi." Destrus acknowledged his voice cracking slightly from misuse. The Jedi—Obi-Wan Destrus—recalled. Continued to sit on the chair facing inwards towards the cell where Destrus was contained. 

“Darth, may I call you Destrus?” Obi-Wan says after a short pause, standing up and walking closer to the cell, slipping the tray through a small gap in the ray shield, and placing the tray on a small shelf that jutted out of the reinforced durasteel walls. 

“You may call me whatever you wish, jedi.” destrus said simply, obi wan was being uncharacteristically…kind for a jedi, destrus half expected his head to be cleaved from his shoulders the second he realised that it wasn't his allies that realised him from carbonite freeze, and then again after he was taken alive he expected to be imprisoned and tortured for information. 

When neither of those things happened, destrus didn't know what to make of the jedi that stood in front of him now. 

“Destrus it is then.” Obi Wan said simply, sitting back down onto the chair, hands crossed elegantly on his lap, his eyes following destrus’s every move.

Destrus could still feel the inviting pulse of the force thrum through him, it was somewhat comforting to know that the jedi did not reattach the force suppressant cuffs back onto him. 

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “Eat, please; you must be exhausted, especially after your…outburst.” Obi-Wan’s words were strategically chosen and even more strategically spoken. Despite the Jedi’s calm exterior, Destrus could see the underlying emotions of uncertainty and fear. 

Destrus hums slightly, eyeing the food that rested on the small ledge.

Sighing, he stood up and walked over to the ledge, staring at the collection of food. It was all unknown to him. He glanced at Obi-Wan before grabbing the edge of the tray and walking back to the cot, not taking his eyes off Obi-Wan.

He could force choke the man, watch the last flickers of life die in those eyes as a sign of satisfaction when his body drops to the floor, but that wouldn't be any help due to Destrus’s current situation. Killing the Jedi might be beneficial at the moment, but in the long run it would only hinder escape possibilities.

Destrus could only sense so many other presences on the massive ship; he had no way of telling if he would be easily overrun if he somehow managed to escape from the cell. 

He looked down at the collection of food gathered on his plate, his hand reaching and grasping what he assumed to be a fork and knife placed on the side of the tray; the collection of food was surprisingly colorless. The food was all shades of grey and some dull greenish tinge. All of various textures. 

Did the Jedi really want him to believe that this was food? Destrus internally questioned, glancing at Obi-Wan, who was watching him with lightly veiled interest and curiosity.

Grasping the fork in one hand and gripping the edge of the tray in the other, Destrus prodded at a specific square of food. The substance jiggled slightly, and the color wasn't any more inviting than the translucent yellowish gel shining in the dim light. 

Reluctantly, Destrus scooped up a small morsel of the yet-to-be-named food and shoved it into his mouth. 

Surprisingly, it didn't taste bad; the texture was smooth, and the taste wasn't bad. A slightly citrus and tangy aftertaste clung to Destrus’s tongue as he finished the small pile of food before moving onto another part of the meal. 

“It's quite unsettling to just watch someone eat, you know.” Destrus muttered before bringing the fork up to his mouth once again, this time tasting the slightly meaty mince that was compiled in the corner of the tray. 

“Pardon?” Obi Wan asks quickly, his eyebrows drawn together in shock and confusion, as if he didn't expect Destrus to say anything. The Sith only hummed, “You’re watching me eat without eating anything yourself. I do hope this is not your attempt at intimidation or surveillance.” Destrus speaks absentmindedly, his eyes still locked onto the food on his tray as he continues to eat the morsels. 

Obi-Wan stuttered, “No, I— I’m merely waiting for you to finish so that we may talk about what will happen next.” Obi-Wan responded diplomatically; he didn't expect the Sith to say anything to him apart from a threat or a carefully crafted array of curses.

This was a Sith Lord of the Sith Empire. From what Obi-Wan had read about the Sith from that era, they were ruthless and manipulative. Was that just a ploy to get Obi-Wan to lower his guard?

The clattering of plasteel makes Obi snap his focus back towards the Sith Lord, who was licking his lips and placing the empty tray back onto the ledge and walking back to sit down on the cot on the furthest wall of the cell. The small area looked inadequate for a person of the Sith's stature.

The Sith looked like he could flee the cell whenever he wished despite Obi-Wan's presence, but he chose not to. 

This Sith was peculiar; his red skin, the tendrils that flowed from his chin and the side of his face, and the golden jewelry and piercings that elevated the redness of his skin were not the only things that made this Sith peculiar.

The way he held himself and conducted himself was most strange.

If Ventress, Grievous, or Count Dooku were in this situation, they would have insulted Obi-Wan already or at least have threatened him. This Sith, however, had only insulted the Jedi Order as a whole, and from what Obi-Wan had seen, he hadn't threatened anyone yet. 

The Sith leaned further forward, his red hands interlinking with one another. “Well, the Jedi. Let us speak of what will come next.” He says, his sickly eyes boring into Obi-Wan's very Force essence as he spoke, a grin pulling at the sides of his mouth. 

Obi-Wan nodded, meaning ABC, in his own seat. If it weren't for this ray shield, Obi-Wan is certain that the Sith would have escaped minutes before. Obi-Wan thanked the Force for small mercies. 

“Yes. Let us speak, Destrus.”

The words barely got past Obi-Wan's lips before a clone trooper burst through the door coming from the holding cell command room.

“Sir! enemy troops coming out of hyperspace!”

The trooper quickly yelled, and Obi-Wan immediately rose from his seat, glancing once towards Destrus before his hand quickly found the hilt of his lightsaber as he raced after the clone towards the command bridge of the Resolute. 

Destrus leaned back into his cot, his hand slipping behind his thick, dark cloak.

The insignia of the alliance is printed boldly on the back. A soft click echoes through the cell as the destrus disconnects his cloak from the back of his shoulder armor. 

He places the cloak down onto his lap. And in a small pocket dead in the center of the inner part of his cloak was his lightsaber. 

He grasps the hilt, rolling his every loyal weapon in his hand before his finger finds the button. The ever-familiar weight of his weapon once again clasped in his hand makes a sense of déjà vu wash over Destrus. 

His finger presses down on the invitation button, and the room is bathed in the bright, illuminating, burning red light, and the familiar screams of his kyber crystal welcome him once more. 

“Let the battle begin.” 

Notes:

Destrus: *looks at modern food* What the tf is this??? Obi-Wan: Food? Destrus:*who has only eaten mostly meat and fruits on missions* TF YOU MEAN THIS IS FOOD??? Obi-Wan: *Is it visibly confused* its food? Destrus: WHY IS THERE NO COLOR????

masterlist

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

The masked puppets and their bastard handlers

I really wanna ramble about the poetics of Rorke first manipulating Logan's hand into killing his father before outright manipulating him into turning against his team. I really wish I could ramble about it but THEY NEVER MADE A COD: GHOSTS 2 SO WE NEVER GOT TO SEE BRAINWASHED LOGAN I'M SAAAAAD!!

I would've loved to play Hesh and/or some newbie hunting down Rorke AND Logan. The ANGST. The DRAMA. Imma write it myself if I must!!

And don't get me started on AdBell, these two are their own can of worms.

Plus clean ver:

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

What if after solovetsky bell is to tired for revenge?

what if they yearn to wrap their hands around Russell Adler's throat and choke the life out of him, but they can't?

what if they waste all their energy planning and plotting Adler's death instead of taking care of themself?

what if bell slowly rots away piece by piece as the simmer and yearn for revenge that they can never achieve?

What of bell gives up on the hope of revenge and their flame finally dies out when they realize they died years ago.

what if bell finally realizes that they died at solovetsky.

what if bell realizes they will never know peace, because whatever death befalls russell Adler it will never be enough to quell the pain and anguish that they feel.

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

*inhale*

this song.

this song is the singular inspiration for so, so many angst fics and 3am crying sessions.

the guttural singing, the pure emotion and expression put into this song, is just so tragically beautiful.

everytime I listen to this song I think about how bell must have felt when Adler had shot him.

Every time I listen to this song I think about the tragic relationship between Phillip and his father(adler because I'm insane and won't give up).

Every time I listen to this song I think about how TF141 must have felt after soaps funeral.

Every time I listen to this song I think about how no one wins,

Every time I listen to this song I cry.

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Bleed for the family PT4

Summary:

Phillip has a midnight snack. A hunter notices.

The rain poured down onto the cold concrete sidewalk as the rain pounded down onto the pavement as Phillip slinked his way through the dreary alleyway, licking at his calloused lips. 

The crimson liquid staining the front of his T-shirt was evidence of his last meal.

A poor, wayward soul who had lost everything, Phillip had listened to the mortal's sob story and offered to ‘help.’ The mortal agreed immediately, but before the mortal could express any gratitude, Phillip had dug his fangs into the mortal. 

Phillip wipes at his mouth, smearing the blood across his face as the rain droplets flicker down his cold porcelain skin. It had been a few decades since his sire had turned him, and Phillip had grown a lot in those past years. 

He had learned a lot in the past few centuries; his fangs had grown in, and his hunger had started to stir more frequently, much to his sire's distress.

Phillips's boots clicked against the concrete street as he glided through the shadows.

Phillip found himself smiling softly; his sire had given him the nickname ‘Little Shadow’ a handful of decades ago, and it had stuck to him like a second skin.

It didn't help that Adler called him that openly as well. Phillip had found himself being teased quite often by his coworkers about his “father's” nickname for him. 

Phillip let his tongue flick out to lap at his bloodied lips, savoring his food. He had returned to the military with his sire's disappointment well known to Phillip, and it didn't take long to find out why.

Phillip started to notice things he hadn't before: the way that soldiers slacked off, the needless waste of lives, and, most importantly, the idiocy of humans.

That was when Phillip finally understood why Adler prefers to stay in hiding rather than try to stop himself from ripping his skull off his shoulders.

It irked Phillip how easily humans in military leadership abused their power and let corruption and violence fester knowingly.

So Phillip decided he would branch out; he knew the dangers of the world from his time as a marine, even if he didn't see as much as he had when he returned after his supposed death.

He created his own “military” with a few honeyed words there and a few favors here, and before anyone could blink, Phillip had established his own PMC, “Shadow Company,” he called it. Adler had chuckled when he first heard the name.

It was a group of the most elite soldiers handpicked by Phillip himself. Phillip had initially hoped to keep his undead state a secret from his fellow soldiers, but not all secrets can remain secrets for long.

As Phillip briskly walked through the abandoned streets, the shuffling of feet and heavy breathing brought Phillip back to the present, his heightened senses slamming down onto him. He wasn't alone.

And this was either some human thug hoping for an easy target to rob, or this was a hunter.

Adler had warned Phillip about hunters; his sire had many encounters with the annoying mortals that hunted his kind several thousand years ago.

There had been no reports from the thralls of any present-day hunters, but Phillip had a feeling that whoever was tailing him didn't have any good intentions.

Phillip felt his fangs ache once again, a smirk lighting his face up; he wouldn't disregard a free meal. After all, he hated to waste food that delivered itself.

Phillip let himself glide down the streets, feeling the human follow behind him one step after another. 

‘idiot.’ Phillip mused mentally to himself as he slipped into a nearby alleyway, leaning his back against the cold, damp wall, the shadows cast from the streetlights hiding Phillip in their dark embrace.

His stalker followed, walking into the alleyway without another thought. Their face was covered in a dark hood, a medical mask clasped around their mouth and nose.

Phillips's eyes narrowed as he watched the stalker frantically look around the alley, their eyes passing over him unknowingly. He could hear their heart hammering in their chest, pumping blood through their body. 

Phillips' mouth watered at the sound of his fangs aching once again; he wanted nothing but to sink his fangs into the human's neck and feast. 

A low vibration in his leather jacket pocket made Phillip freeze as the phone buzzed insistently. A low curse slipped from his lips as he fumbled for the phone, his fingers sliding against the screen as he quickly ended the buzzing. 

Phillips' senses screamed at him as he snapped his head towards his stalker; their eyes met.

“Fuck.” Phillip cursed before the hunter launched themself towards Phillip, their hand delving into the pocket of their hoodie.

The cold hiss of silver silks against Phillips throat as he pressed against the wall. 

A laugh bubbles up from Philip's throat as the sting of silver makes his eyes go wide.

“You're a feisty one, aren't you?” He hisses before throwing his head forwards, headbutting the hunter, who stumbles back, a gloved hand reaching up to caress their now bruised forehead.

“Don't your bosses tell you hunters to not attack a vamp directly?” Phillip asked mockingly, tilting his head to the side.

He could almost taste the anger rolling off the human in waves; it was intoxicating.

The hunter lets out a fierce yell before launching themself at Phillip again, dagger drawn and raised high.

A cold, hard hand wraps around their throat, propelling them towards the hard wall of the alleyway. 

They hit the wall with a loud thud followed by a pained groan as Phillip now stands above them like a reaper there to collect. 

Grinning down at the now defeated hunter, Phillip leaned down and ripped the person's hood back, making them gasp. 

“What the fuck!?” Phillip jolts, jumping back slightly, staring down at the hunter.

“Hey…commander.” The hunter—no, the corporal said. Voice fearful and trembling. Phillip stares down at the corporal, his eyes flickering across their face.

The corporal, Mike Phillip was pretty sure his name was. He has just recently joined Shadow Company via an invitation from Philip himself. 

“What the hell are you doing here, Corporal?” Phillip demands grabbing Mike by the scruff of his shirt and dragging the man upwards.

“Respectfully, sir, I could ask you the same thing.” Mike said, raising his hands up complacently and pointing to Phillips' bloodstained top and the fast-fading mark on his neck where the silver blade was just pressed up against.

Phillip just stares at the other man, the dogs turning in his head. “So you're a goddamn hunter, huh, kid?” He mused, a joyless grin growing on his face.

Mike just offered a small nod, “Yes, sir, and you're a vampire.” He spits the word vampire like a curse, and it almost makes Phillip laugh, almost.

Phillip lets out a sigh. “Well…tell you what, kid. You abandon whatever suicide mission whatever hunter gave you, and I'll consider letting you live." Phillip says, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

The corporal was useful; he still had skill, and telling by the way that he handled himself in his fight against Phillip, that told Phillip that he could handle himself in a fight, and he could handle himself well against the living and undead. 

Phillip could see the cogs turning in the corporal's mind as they considered his words. Phillip scoffs, turning away from the corporal. He didn't have time for this. He needed to change his clothes. As much as he enjoys the thrill of the hunt and the taste of his prey, he hated the mess.

A dull thud followed by a sharp pain stings through his shoulder.

The distinct sting of silver burns through his shoulder as Phillip spins wildly to see the corporal standing in a fighting stance, another silver dagger clenched tightly in his fist. 

The bastard had more daggers, of course he does. Phillip growls, charging forwards, swatting away the corporal's attacks, and slamming the human into the wall again, hand wraps around Mike’s throat as the man claws feverishly at Phillip's hand, but to no avail. 

The corporal whizzed out a laugh followed by a harsh cough as Phillips's grip on his throat tightened.

“I’ve won,” the corporal gleefully admits, a shit-eating grin spreading on his face. “Even if you kill me, you’ll be dead in a few minutes.” Mike smiled, victory and hope growing in his chest. 

But Phillip remained unmoving, his face drawn in an almost disappointed glare. The vampire wasn't groaning or clasping for the wound as the silver burned through his skin. Something was wrong, Mike realized. Why isn't it working?

“Silver only works on thralls, idiot.” Phillips hisses.

A sharp crack echoes through the alley, followed by the thudding of a now-dead Mike. Phillip emerged from the darkness of the alley, gracefully slipping through the streets, his teeth clenched together. 

“You’re going to try harder than that to kill me, general.” Phillip hisses into the empty night as his feet thud against the cold concrete.

His father was waiting at the mansion, and Phillip wouldn't miss game night. 

Notes:

Heya! hope you all are doing well sorry for not updating in a while. hope you enjoyed this fic and I hope you all have a good day/night!

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Moods boards inspired by my fics!

Dadler and Graveson Vampire AU Bleed for the Family.

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God's gambit (Bell x adler fantasy AU)

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BLOOD FOR THE PRICE OF MONEY (Crime scene Cleaner crossover with Call of duty)

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Raised from the sith hells (old Republic and clone wars crossover.)

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

hello <3 I hope you've been doing well!

i've just got an itty bitty question, in your dadler and graveson au does bell and phillip ever meet when Phillip is in charge of shadow company?

cause I'm just imagining a shadow company mission going sideways and bell showing up out of nowhere and saving them, and obviously Phillip is like "thanks for that, what can I do to repay you?'

and bell is just like "a sit-down dinner with your dad."

OOH

*slams desk*

FASCINATING

I have yet to have them meet

Yet

Imagine tho

Graves and a small contingent of men are surrounded, taking shots from multiple directions, backup won’t areive for another 5 minutes, but they don’t have 5 minutes.

Suddenly a masked man mysteriously shows up, and with a few well placed surprise explosives in key surrounding structures, the man creates an opening for Graves and his Shadows to push through.

They get to safety, Graves is squinting at this masked savior in suspicion. His men are ready, fingers poised over the trigger guards of their weapons, smoothly taking positions around their Commander.

The masked man takes the scrutiny in stride.

“Not that I’m not grateful for the assist, friend, but nobody just sticks their neck out for us like that.”

Graves appreciates the help, glad that his men made it out, but this man had his mind ringing, conjuring images of tall dark figures from his childhood. No doubt he was skilled, dangerous, piercing eyes never leaving Graves despite the armed Shadows.

He remained silent, stance relaxed.

“Well…? You got a name I can call you? Are you working for anyone? Do you want a reward in return for your gallant rescue?” Graves asked, arms spread wide, grin inviting.

The man blinked slowly, head tilted lazily, seemingly weighing something on his mind, before he nodded.

“My name doesn’t matter,” he finally spoke, voice low and lightly accented. “I only work for myself…and yes. I do want something in return.”

Graves nodded. That’s fair.

“If it’s money you want, we can—“

“No. I don’t need your money,” the man cut in, eyes visibly crinkled at the corners from smiling.

The Shadow Commander’s brow furrowed, earning a chuckle from the masked man.

“I want a sit-down dinner…with your dad.”

Graves blinked, gobsmacked, his Shadows shifted anxiously.

“I….Fucking beg your pardon?”

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

New dadler and graveson fic au idea!

Shadow company Bell AU!

After Solovetsky bell becomes a mercenary after they recover, and after a few years they’re given a job to interfere with a weapon shipment (AKA that one mission in MW2 where konni kill SC) BUT bell decides y’know what that fucked, and betrays their employer/konni and helps the injured shadows and helps them recover (because no one every helped him when he was healing) 

Eventually helping them get back to the SC base and then meets Phillip who offers Bell a work contract Bell accepts and then starts working for Shadow company! 

Bell had no idea that Philip is Adler's son; shenanigans ensue during Bell’s first SC thanksgiving event. 

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Blood for the price of money PT9

Chapter 9: Rot in hell or rise to heaven.

Summary:

Kovalsky's first introduction to prison life and a time jump after a few months.

Pain smacks into Kovalsky as he’s slammed against the concrete wall of the cell; his cheek throbs as he's continually pushed into the cold concrete wall.

Kovalsky’s head was racing, his heart thudding in his chest, beating on his ears, his eyes wide with fear. 

Kovalsky tried to sputter out some kind of response, but Liam cut him off.

“Are you a chomo?” Liam's voice was a deep, menacing growl that made Kovalsky's heart leap up to his throat as he struggled to speak.

“What the fuck is a chomo!?” Kovalsky barely was able to yelp out the reply as the pain in his head mounted to a deep, throbbing pain that closed the world around him slightly.

He really needed to stop getting head injuries; it probably isn't healthy. 

Liam rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

“Chomo, child molester, are you a fucking child molester?” Liam drawled, almost bored, but his eyes glared at Kovalsky with a deadly intensity.

Kovalsky blinked, revulsion rising in his throat, his mind suddenly sharpening. 

“I’m not a fucking child molester!” Kovalaksy yells, disgust evident in his voice as his struggles slow down, his heaving chest slowing.

He stares at him, his gaze flickering to Dave as the other man descends the bunk bed, once more landing on the cold concrete floor with a loud thud, walking up behind Liam, and placing his hand on the other man's shoulder, a silent message for him to ease up.

Liam slowly released Kovalsky, still not giving him space to breathe.

Kovalsky raises his hand, slowly rubbing at his probably bruised neck. Dave continued to approach Kovalsky, leaning down towards the shorter man.

"So what are you in here for exactly?” Dave's question was a measured amount of intimidation and curiosity, but before Kovalsky could answer, a loud series of bangs sounded from the metal door, and Kovalsky stumbled as the other two men immediately backed up, giving Kovalsky space to move away from the door as it hinged and screeched as it was opened. 

“Inmate Kovalsky, someone's here to see you,” a masked guard says as the door opens wider, allowing Kovalsky to step through the threshold, but Kovalsky could barely take a few steps out of the door before tight metal cuffs were snapped onto his wrists once more.

Before the guards could shut the metal door once more, Liam called out to the guards,

“Oi! Mikey! What the hell is this guy in for?” His question echoes through the prison, and Kovalsky can see several other inmates snap their heads to look through the small windows of their cell doors.

Kovalsky felt himself shudder slightly; he silently hoped and prayed that the guard wouldn't answer. 

Of course the universe wasn't on his side, and Kovalsky started to question if the world just hated him.

“I'd be careful around him if I were you, Liam. He was the cleanup crew for Big Jim.”

The guard’s words were blunt, almost bored, as if he wasn't possibly dooming Kovalsky to a very, very long stay in their hellhole.

The door slams shut, and two guards grab either side of his forearms, leading him through the prison once more before leading him into a room connecting his cuffs to a small booth.

Kovalsky’s forehead scrunches in confusion, but before long another door on the opposite side of the booth creaks open, and in walks… Elara.

Kovalsky's heart leaped with a sense of hope; his little princess was alive, she was alright.

The sight of his sweet daughter was like. Breath of fresh air. He had only been in this place for a few hours, and he could already feel the walls closing in around him. 

“Daddy!” Elara exclaimed joyfully, her eyes locking with his through the glass exterior of the cubicle, a sharp bark echoing from the other side of the exit door. And in steps Dexter.

Kovalsky couldn't help the smile that fractured his features as Dexter practically sped into the room, his tail swinging wildly behind him.

A muzzle was secured around Dexter's maw, but Kovalsky didn't care. His two favorite family members were here, and that's all that matters.

And he had some explaining to do.

-

Months passed after that first visit, and for Kovalsky, his stay in the prison calmed down almost immediately after that first visit.

Liam and Dave almost immediately treated him with respect after they returned,

asking him polite questions that quickly turned into jokes and other friendly banter that he had never expected out of the other inmates.

When he asked about their strange behavior, the two went unusually quiet before they quickly explained that, of course, they were treating him with respect; he was a cleaner.

“Why does that matter?” Kovalsky asks, shoveling the burning heap of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

The trio were sitting in the mess hall, the whispers and shouts of other inmates echoing around the large hall. 

Liam’s eyebrows raise to the top of his forehead. “Why does that matter?” He echoes, leaning forwards in his seat, holding his head up, and angling his elbows against the table. 

“Kovalsky, you're basically one of the largest mobster's personal house cleaners.” Liam whispers, his voice carrying some kind of awe. Kovalsky raised his eyebrow.

“So? What difference does that make?” Kovalsky questions as he stabs his plastic fork at the mush collected on his tray.

Liam stutters once again, shaking his head as if trying to comprehend what Kovalsky was saying.

“You have connections, mate. Huge connections. And in here... you can get a long way. Even if you just want to make your life more bearable.”

 Kovalsky blinked at Liam's words. There's no way, right? He was just the cleanup crew; he didn't really do anything; he just cleaned. 

Probably seeing his scrunched face, Dave leaned in further.

“Listen, man, you're basically the reason why Jim's gang hasn't been locked up. He's got allies in here that were fortunate to get your…help. So all we're saying is…you can get out of here pretty quickly.”

 Dave's voice was now hushed as he glanced pointedly at some of the inmates grouped in the furthest corner of the room, big, bulking men paired with calculating eyes that could kill if they looked at you too long. 

Dave's gaze then falls onto the guards who watched from high balconies overlooking the mess hall in case anyone decided to start a fight. 

Kovalsky followed Dave's eyes, seeing the men and the guards, before shaking his head and shoving another mouthful of mush into his mouth before swallowing.

 “and become a fugitive? Yeah, I think I'll pass on that.” Kovalsky knew there was no snow getting out of this place alive, and even if he did, he would be a fugitive with nowhere to go….

And it would put Elena in danger. Jim had enemies; if suddenly they find out that the big boss's cleaner has a daughter, who knows what will happen? And even then, the police would probably get to Elena first, putting her in protective care or something else.

After Kovalsky's arrest, Elena had returned to the hospital under the care of her nurse that she's had since she was diagnosed.

Despite Elena being given the all clear, the hospital still needed to do screenings and tests to make sure that her illness would not return. 

The reason why she was able to be released when Kovalsky arrived was because the hospital was willing to bet she would be safe for a few hours with her father.

After all, she hadn't seen him for several months, and a few hours outside would do her some good, both physically and mentally.

Oh, how wrong that could have been.

The balreimg bell of the prison sounded once, twice, three times, signifying the end of lunch.

All inmates were now being filed out of the mess hall and back to their cells, but as Kovalsky's enemy entered his, Liam's, and Save's shared cell, he was stopped by a guard. 

“Inmate Kovalsky. You have a guest.” The guard's monotone, almost bored voice didn't stop Kovalsky's heart from jumping with joy.

Despite being in prison, Elena could still visit and talk to him, and sometimes if Kovalsky was lucky enough to have the right guard overseeing the visit, he might even be able to hug his daughter again. 

Day after day, week after week, Elena would visit Ovalsku. Sometimes the visits would be short, lasting only a few minutes, but some were longer, exceeding several hours. 

How many months had it been this time? Kovalsky stopped counting after the first 5 times seemed to bleed together in prison. Measuring time had proven to be a fruitless effort that took up too much energy for Kovalsky's liking. 

The familiar click of his cuffs being attached to the metal bar of the table stirs Kovalsky from his distant thoughts. 

He blinks, raising his head to look at the door on the other side of the large slab of reinforced glass separating the two spaces. 

Kovalsky's heart raced; soon Elena would come through those doors. It had been a few weeks since her last visit, and Kovalsky's barely hidden excitement was noticed by the guards easily. 

His hand fidgeted nervously as he waited, his eyes locked onto the metal door.

The small click of the lock opening sends a jolt of joy through Kovalsky as the hinges of the metal door creak open to reveal.

Elena's nurse.

She was standing in the doorway like a reaper sent to collect Kovalsky's soul, her face drawn into a soft frown as her sad eyes met his.

Kovalsky's heart plummets as the nurse slowly approaches the table, sitting down opposite him. 

Now that she was closer, Kovalsky could see that her eyes were rimmed with a red hue and her uniform was scrunched and ruffled. 

Kovalsky's mind raced. What was going on? Was something wrong with Elena? Was she alright? As the questions raced in Kovalsky's mind, the nurse spoke up, her voice tinged with pity and heartfelt condolences.

“Mr. Kovalsky…your daughter…has unfortunately passed away.”

:) @anditshallcrumble

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

🐇🥚Happy Easter 🥚🐇!!!

Happy Easter to you too! 🎉🥳