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artemisa97 · 4 years

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Okaaaay, for the tropes mashup. Detective/Criminal x the big damn kiss. Petopher, please

Well, I was supposed to post another one first, but this idea really inspired me and I just had to write it. I’m actually going to post this one in ao3, so if you have an account I can gift it to you. Hope you like it!

Thanks to @rhysiana for being my beta, this fic would have been way worst without her, xD

WARNING: There is several references to an abusive relationship, but it doesn’t go in deep and it’s not Petopher.

Detective/Criminal + The Big Damn Kiss

Peter Hale is a criminal, and Chris hates him. He’s been hunting the man his whole career, and had been close to taking him down a number of times, only for everything to go to Hell at the last minute. Hale is too cunning, too resourceful, too well-connected. Trapping him is like grabbing a handful of sand: possible, but, at the end of the day, futile.

Today, he has finally taken him down.

And now, talking to his superior, he can feel the sand slipping between his fingers, trickling down his closed fist.

“With all due respect,” he says. “I’ve been hunting Peter Hale for two decades, I know him. He’s a con artist and a thief, he commits several crimes a day, and there is no chance of him ever reforming. We can’t allow him to go free.”

“Maybe,” says Stilinski, tired. “But he has information on the Benefactor, information he won’t share unless we give him a full pardon.”

Chris wants to scream. He doesn’t. The Benefactor, who may not even be one person, runs a powerful network, mercenaries and hitmen ready to murder anyone on their way. It is, of course, a far more important target than a man that steals diamonds and pretty paintings, no matter how infuriating that particular man is. It’s the right thing to do, an amazing deal to make, but Chris is still frustrated. He’ll have to see Peter’s smug face while taking off his handcuffs, silently pointing out that, even in defeat, he has still won.

―

Peter Hale is a criminal, and Chris is in love with him. He would love to say that he doesn’t know when or why he fell, but it would be a lie. It happened at a party where Chris was undercover, working on another case. Peter had been there by virtue of his criminal connections and general charm, and most eyes in the room were focused on him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt under the suit jacket and his chest glistened with sweat and alcohol.

Peter had come around and started to talk to him, hands on his arm, eyes shining with mischief, flirtations blatant. He was smart, charming, fascinating, and could make Chris laugh against his will. They only spoke for half an hour or so, but when Chris was about to go do his actual job, Peter had taken a pen out of his pocket and written his number down on Chris’s arm. From his elbow to his wrist, following the vein.

“I won’t leave for hours, come find me when you’re done,” he had said, beautiful smile on his full lips, before kissing his cheek.

Chris’ team had arrested their target an hour later, ruining the party. When he got out of the building, ready to go home, Peter was there, waiting against the wall.

“You have to know I’m a cop now,” he had said, because he had felt Peter’s eyes on him during the arrest, seeing through his cover.

“Now?” Peter had asked, arching an eyebrow. “This is why you’ll never catch me, Christopher, you keep underestimating me.”

Peter knew who he was. He knew Chris was the one chasing him.

“Were you taunting me, then? Laughing at me?”

“No, but I couldn’t miss the chance of actually talking to you,” he had said, smiling and getting closer to him. “It’s not every day you get to flirt with the possibility of your own downfall.”

“It’s not just a possibility. I’ll catch you soon.”

“Perhaps.” And his eyes were shiny and amused, an invigorating challenge. “In the meantime, you have my number. Don’t hesitate to use it.”

Peter Hale was a criminal, and yet he had kissed Chris’s cheek again, close to the corner of his lips, before turning around and disappearing in the streets of New York. He had stolen his heart in the process, but well. He was just that good of a thief.

―

Peter Hale is a criminal, but there are worse monsters out there. That’s why Chris has to pretend to be his partner in crime while meeting with his contact with the Benefactor, as protection. They need him alive for trial and Chris knows he will take a bullet for the thief, as much as it pains him.

“Who’s your friend?” asks the woman. The Desert Wolf, one of the most wanted people in the country, maybe even the world. Peter calls her Corinne.

“My partner in this heist. He’s the one that knows how to break through the security of the museum. You’ll need him to get in and kill the security guard.”

The woman looks at Chris and she’s clearly derisive, huffing and making a gesture he would translate as “really?” She hates him, for some reason. Chris hates her too, for several.

“I thought you would be smart enough not to bring your boy toy to this meeting, darling.”

“I see no boys here,” Peter says, arching an eyebrow. “And don’t jump to conclusions, we’re here on business.”

“Please, I know your type,” she snaps, showing her teeth like a feral animal. Then she turns to Chris, venom dripping from her mouth and eyes, toxic as Chernobyl. “He does love people who can hurt him, so don’t be afraid to make him scream. It’s always so sweet when he does.”

Chris is about to shoot that woman in the face when Peter’s hand closes around his wrist, soft but present.

“Well, what’s the fun in being with people who can’t take you down? I like to be on equal footing, not that you would understand that.”

“We’ve never been on equal footing,” she laughs.

“Your legs made up for your stupidity,” snaps Peter. “Now stop playing around.”

“Come on, Peter,” she says, smile sweet and even more terrifying. “You knew from the beginning I won’t work with you, not after you ran away with my half of the loot.”

“I like to think of that as repayment.”

“I like to think of that as your death sentence,” she says, and shoots Peter in the chest.

Chris isn’t fast enough to do anything about it and his heart is breaking into pieces while he lifts his gun and shoots her. She’s good, fast enough to take cover under the desk, but he hits her in the shoulder and reinforcements are kicking the door down.

Leaving her to them, he drags Peter’s body behind a column and opens his jacket to check the wound.

“You should buy me dinner first,” says Peter, groaning.

Chris doesn’t answer, he’s too relieved at seeing the bulletproof vest.

“Smart,” he says.

“Always,” smiles Peter, letting his head hit the ground. “It still hurts like a bitch, in case you want to kiss it better.”

Chris wants to kiss Peter more than he wants to breathe, but he doesn’t.

“I’m on the clock,” he says, and goes to help the team take down Corinne.

He gets to shoot her in the hip next right before one of his colleagues tackles her to the ground and handcuffs her. It’s very satisfying.

―

Peter Hale is a free man, but Chris knows he’s still a criminal at heart. When he opens the door of his apartment and sees him standing there with a bottle of wine, he shouldn’t be happy.

“You are not on the clock anymore,” says Peter, and his smile is the most beautiful thing Chris has ever seen. He lets him in.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, the trial is finally over,” he says, shamelessly going through Chris’s kitchen cabinets until he finds appropriate wine glasses. “I thought we should toast Corinne’s new short-term address.”

It’s been almost a year since they arrested her, but justice moves slow. Chris hasn’t seen Peter outside of court since that day, and he has missed him like a limb.

“Do you think she’s going to escape?”

“They’ll kill her in prison,” he says, handing him a glass. “She has too many enemies to survive in there.”

“You seem happy about it.”

“Well, she did shoot me twice.”

“Twice?” he asks, and has to stop himself from going after her and shooting her again. In the head.

“If you’re really, really good, I’ll let you see the scar,” says Peter, eyes shining with mischief.

Chris has no answer for that; he has no answer for anything at all, since his throat has dried like an old bone. He sips the wine. It’s excellent. Peter wouldn’t buy anything but the best.

“So what’s in your future now? Going back to a life of crime?”

Peter laughs at that, shaking his head fondly.

“Come on, Christopher. I publicly went up against the Benefactor and collaborated with the police, no one in the criminal world will want anything to do with me. No, I’m going straight. As much as I could ever be straight, naturally,” he smirks, touching Chris’s shoulder with intent. “I already have offers from several insurance companies that know how good I am at what I do. And a book deal, of course.”

“A book deal?” askes Chris, and he doesn’t know why on Earth he’s surprised. God, Peter is just… so fucking Peter.

“Don’t worry, I’ll change your name. I was thinking of Alistair Cross.”

“Don’t dare you.”

“I mean, you could always convince me otherwise,” he says, lips brushing the shell of Chris’s ear.

“Could I?

“If you want to… and I’m pretty sure you do.”

“You’re a criminal,” he says, but without fighting Peter’s soft touch.

“And you’re a cop. It’s a bit kinky, but then again, so am I.”

“You are?” he asks, drinking more wine. His ears are blushing, he can feel them radiating heat.

“Of course. And you, Christopher, play my competence kink like a fiddle.”

He coughs. The apartment is too hot, all of the sudden.

“It took me decades to catch you.”

“I know,” moans Peter, lips brushing against the heated skin, voice a whisper. “And every second of it was thrilling.”

“Was it, now?” he asks, from very far away. Chris doesn’t know how it is possible, because he’s pretty sure his brain just shut down indefinitely.

“I told you, I like to be on equal footing. And you, Christopher, kept me on my toes at every turn. You don’t know how hot it is, knowing that you’re good enough to bring me down.”

“That is kinky.”

Peter laughs. Chris melts against him, because he’s only human.

“I like to look at it this way: you can bring me down and I can bring you down; but if we don’t, if we have the power to do so and choose not to just because being together is more fun…” He trails off, biting Chris’ earlobe. “Well, you can’t tell me that it isn’t hot as fuck.”

Chris kisses him. Grabs him by the neck and kisses him like it’s a battle, like he’s starving. Chris has spent years dreaming about how good it would be and yet his imagination pales in comparison with real deal, with the ambrosia that is Peter’s smart mouth.

They’re breathless when they separate, and Peter has a look between shocked and blissed out that immediately becomes Chris favorite thing in the world. He wants to dedicate every second of the rest of his life to making that expression appear.

“Stealing kisses, Christopher?” Peter asks, laughing against his throat, nibbling at his jaw.

“You must be rubbing off on me,” jokes Chris, his hand pulling Peter’s hair to get their mouths close again.

“Sounds like a plan,” Peter smirks, and kisses him.

Peter Hale will always be criminal, in a way, as he is a lot of things. But to Chris, Peter is more than that: he’s everything.

#Fic #Petopher #Peter Hale #Chris Argent #Tag Game

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pens-swords-stuff · 5 years

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How many WIPs are you working on? I’m an official fan rn. XD

Awwww thank you so much ❤️❤️❤️❤️

I think it’s important to note that all of my projects are collaborative, and I’m only responsible for half of all characters, plots and ideas! I can go into more information about who writes for which character later if you’re interested, but my partners are all credited in the title for now since it’s getting a bit long.

As of right now, I mainly write for five main projects: 3 fanfictions, and 2 original works.

WANDERLUST: An original WIP written with @decantae and @autofoebia

“Witches are real. Magic is real. And there is nowhere left for them to hide.”

The year is 2020, and in the good old-fashioned American way, the government has outlawed something that makes other people different, unique and extraordinary. Magic has always existed, but recently drastic measures have been taken by those in higher power in the name of safety for the rest of America: ban all forms of witchcraft and arrest all witches. Five friends have to make a choice: Be captured and burned at the stake for witchcraft, or become fugitives and evade authority for as long as possible. With the help of their trusty magical van, the young witches decide to leave everything they have behind for a flimsy shot at freedom. It’s the road trip they always dreamed of taking; albeit with much higher stakes than they could have ever imagined.

At the end of the day, the solution to this imminent danger is clear — if they can’t hide, they’ll just have to run.

Wanderlust is an urban fantasy story featuring five teenagers: King, Astrid, Mal, Jess and Aiden. They’re essentially traveling throughout the US, meeting a lot of new people and discovering more about the magical world along the way.

It’s told in an episodic format, with several self-contained arcs, and there is a massive overarching plot. Not only do they have to deal with non-magical folk’s distrust and the government chasing them, the magical world isn’t necessarily the kindest place either.

It’s a coming-of-age story with a lot of found family themes! Obviously the five of them are stuck together for better or for worse in their van, but they also make a lot of fantastic friends (and enemies) along the way!

Features LGBTQIA+ relationships, a polyamorous trio, teenage angst, heartwarming friendships, road trip AU tropes, with mystery underlying every step of the way.

Oh and magic. Lots of magic.

Wanderlust tag here!

FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY: An original WIP written with @decantae and @inconsistentlyontime

I don’t have a synopsis written for this yet! I’m hoping to put together a proper WIP page and introduction for this soon…

This is an original urban fantasy story that takes place in London, 2020. The existence of supernatural creatures (vampires, werewolves, fae, witches, etc) known as The Other, were recently revealed to the public, due to a werewolf attack that was publicized. FQAC is a story about The Other and the humans, and how they handle this reveal and the subsequent turmoil, politics and controversy.

FQAC is more of a setting than it is a singular story, and it has several loosely connected and interweaving plots following various characters.

Here’s a summary of some of the main plots we’ve been writing for at the moment! There’s honestly a lot more, but the main ones I’ve talked about so far…

Callimir: Callisto is an Unseelie fae, an immortal unearthly being sent to the human world in an attempt to fix their damaged reputation. Casimir is a dhampire — a half-human, half-vampire being that is fated to die in the next few years. Dhampires are lucky if they live to see age 35 before they degenerate rapidly into their death, and are wracked with crippling pain throughout their too-short lives. It’s an angsty, tragic love story between an immortal and someone who is close to death, and this romance will become the forefront of a major conflict, one that will threaten to destroy both the dhampires and the fae.

The Media: Specifically, this particular bit followed Blake, a human journalist and an activist, fighting to give the Other a voice and equal rights and Alistair, a mysterious vampire benefactor who decides to give her a hand with her projects. Now that @inconsistentlyontime is free and around to write again, we can now add Colin to the mix. Colin and Blake make up a duo that is very Old Cop and Young Cop™ respectively, and they’re humans that are fighting to give a pro-Other perspective to an extremely anti-Other media narrative.

Hook, Line and Sinker: This is the nickname for a trio of teenage friends consisting of Emma, Simone, and Laurel respectively. Emma was recently turned into a werewolf, Simone is a practicing witch, and Laurel has discovered that he’s a dhampire — but they haven’t told each other. They were extremely close friends, but they’ve started to awkwardly drift apart as they all started to deal with their own demons and troubles. They all care and love each other very much, but it’s unclear whether their friendship will survive their new identities and Other-status.

And honesty these three plots and characters are just barely scratching the surface. There’s a lot more plots specific to each type of creature, etc. This post is getting a bit long, so I’ll stop for now. I think I’ll need to make a FQAC specific group of posts at some point…

FQAC tag here.

MORSMORDRE: A Harry Potter fanfiction written with @decantae

Although the Wizarding War has been raging on for years, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has proven to be one of the last safe havens for muggleborns and half-bloods, a place where they could exist without fear of persecution. It seemed untouchable, and within its walls it was almost possible to forget that war existed outside.

When the Hogwarts Express is attacked, this illusion of safety is shattered. Reeling with shock and fear, four students from four houses are forced together by circumstance into an unlikely, uneasy friendship. Our heroes must learn how to work together and overcome the deep divisions in their society if there is to be any hope of protecting their home from the machinations of the Dark Lord. With his increasing influence on the Ministry of Magic, he finally has the resources to strike against his greatest enemy.

The war has come to Hogwarts, and this is only the beginning.

This is an HP AU fanfiction where Harry was killed as a baby, and thus the first Wizarding War never ended. It follows the lives of four students, people who are fated to eventually end the war once and for all: Caerwyn the Gryffindor, Casimir the Hufflepuff, Clara the Ravenclaw, and Callisto the Slytherin.

(Do their names look familiar? Yeah, that’s cuz they’re all in FQAC as well.This is where they all originated).

It’s very HP-esque in the sense that it follows their years at school starting from fourth year, with a main plot for each year. It’ll also extend beyond their school years, when they start to really fight in the war to secure their future.

Clarwyn have the most extra, and the longest slow burn romance in this and I live.

Morsmordre tag here.

POST-SCRIPT: A Harry Potter fanfiction written with @decantae

I have a WIP intro post for this, so I’m just going to link it here!

FINAL SECRET WIP: A Dragon Age fanfiction written with @decantae

We’re not ready to share this with the world yet, but it’s coming! We’re currently writing the beginning of it, and I can’t wait until I get to share it with all of you. It’s really good, and I’m extremely excited about it!

#codewritelove #asks #undine answers stuff #my writing #fqac #morsmordre #postscript #wanderlust #my wips #for queen and country

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dovebuffy92 · 3 years

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https://www.fanbolt.com/113821/line-of-duty-season-6-episode-2-recap-forced-to-be-bent/

In Line of Duty Season Six, Episode Two, directed by Daniel Nettheim, Kate is caught between her new boss Jo and her trusted friend Steve.

Episode two begins with Superintendent Ted Hastings briefing all of AC-12 on the probe of Operation Lighthouse. Meanwhile, Farida watches Chris inform Jo and Kate that the deceased CHIS’ is twenty-two-year-old Alistair Oldroyd. Homophobic “Ross Turner” threatened Alistair’s life. Ross boasted that he murdered Gail Vella. Jo tells Chris that he needs to find a witness who saw “Ross” threaten Alistair, who can identify him as Carl or Terry.

Kate and Jo talk about the possibility that Alistair was murdered. Kate thinks a member of their task force leaked information. Jo tells Kate that they should keep all their knowledge about the murder case close to the vest.

Jo notices that Farida is speaking to Ian alone. After Farida leaves, Ian motions for Jo to come into his office. The police constable just asked for a transfer. Ian is upset because Farida is an experienced constable. Jo lies, telling him that Farida is not competent. She will write Farida a glowing recommendation, and then she will be “some other station’s problem.”

Gail’s news reports on AC-12’s investigations are harrowing but don’t show anything controversial or new. Ted is confused about why anybody would want to hire a contract killer like Carl to murder Gail for these reports. Steve is suspicious when Ted secretly meets up with Steph Corbett. Steph is the widow of corrupt undercover cop John Corbett who helped clear Ted’s name.

Later, Chloe and Steve interview Haran Nadaraja, Gail’s producer at MN News. Haran explains that Gail was working on a serial podcast about police corruption. Gail already interviewed a few high-ranking police officials. Haran tells Steve and Chloe that he had told original murder detectives that he suspected that the killer stole all of her podcast data. The detectives ignored him.

Ted feels like Steve is on to something since the original team never looked into Gail’s journalism as a motive for murder. He orders Steve to confiscate all the evidence from Gail’s murder case. Also, Ted promotes Steve to the rank of Detective Inspector.

Steve tells Kate that they are moving forward with their investigation of Jo’s misconduct. He wants Kate to feed him information about Jo, but she refuses. Operation Lighthouse finds a deceased Carl. Alistair’s fingerprints are all over the knife next to his body. Kate thinks the fact they found the blade so quickly is suspicious. Jo shrugs it off.

Though the strangest thing is Farida’s replacement is PC Ryan Pilkington. Ryan was first on Line of Duty Season One as a young boy recruited into the Organized Crime Group. Kate recognizes Ryan but can’t place him.

Carl’s death leads Ted to order Steve to seize all evidence from Hillside Lane Station’s Operation Lighthouse. Jo thwarts Steve from lawfully taking all the documents for his investigation by calling for the Detective Chief Constable to restrict access to their records to stop leaks. Steve angrily leaves the offices. Kate told Jo about the inquiry before Steve could come in.

Ted is called in for a meeting with PCC Rohan Sindwhani and DCC Andrea Wise, who instructs him to pretend the AC-12 investigation is a formal review of the case. Ted is frustrated that he has play politics.

Angered by the temporary blockage of his case, Ted orders the team to serve Jo with regulation 15 papers.

Chloe and Steve go straight back to Hillside Lane Station to successfully confiscate all of Operation Lighthouse’s case files. Chloe serves Jo with a regulation 15 notice. The shaken Jo has to report to AC-12 for questioning within ten days.

Steve visits Steph to figure out if there is anything fishy happening. He notes that Steph and her daughters could afford their expensive house after the breadwinner John died.

Jo and Kate drink at a pub together after work to vent about AC-12. There is sexual tension between the two women who plan to hang out during the weekend.

The next day Amanda Yao, cybercrime officer, reports to Steve that both Gail’s desktop computer and laptop are nearly void of data. Steve thinks the devices are plants to hide the robbery.

Ted, Chloe, and Steve all interrogate Jo in front of her police federation representative. They question Jo about the armed robbery that led to the two-hour delay of the arrest and the wrong order leading to three hours with no surveillance of the Beechwood House flat. Ted and Steve believe Carl is a contract killer hired by organized crime to assassinate Gail.

When Jo questions the motive for a contract killing, Chloe shares their new evidence, proving Gail’s devices were planted by the robbers to throw them all off.

Ted puts together all AC-12’s proof of corruption to point out all the issues that lead to the deaths of key witnesses and suspects who could help solve Gail’s murder. There must be a leak from Operation Lighthouse for organized crime to pull all this off.

AC-12 plans to search Jo’s house and office for burner phones to prove she leaked the information about Ross’s arrest for organized crime. Jo tells Ted that he should search the home and desk of everybody who could have leaked the information. When they do, Chloe finds multiple burner phones in Farida’s flat. The moment the team officially interviews Farida, she accuses Jo of planting the phones. She admits to dating Jo and the fact, her superior office just broke up with her. The couple even lived together.

Farida is arrested, leaving everybody confused about whose telling the truth. Farida or Jo? Jo has to be released from jail.

Jo may have been forced into being a corrupt cop. She bursts into tears after picking up a burner phone from a gangster-looking fellow. Watch Line of Duty Season 6 on BritBox!

#line of duty #line of duty season 6 #tv review #tv reviewer #britbox #fanbolt #itv

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alleiradayne · 7 years

Text

Bang Your Head (Cullen x F!Trevelyan Modern AU) Part 81

Catch up on the previous part - part 80 | ao3 Start from the beginning - part 1 | ao3

Cullen and Anaphorah meet with the Redcliffe detectives responsible for investigating the shooting.

Author’s Note: Alright, this is where shit gets funky. I am not a cop, a detective, a lawyer, or even a student of criminal justice. I’ve done all the research I can. I wanted to talk to a lawyer or a police officer, but anyone I reached out to flaked on responding. So, this investigation is about to get really weird (read: not at all accurate).

Pale winter sunlight slanted across the interview room of the Redcliffe police station, dust motes drifting along their lazy paths. Across from him sat two men, one sullen and avoiding eye contact, the other dark and glaring daggers sharp enough to cut steel. Beside them sat an older man, beady eyes and hooked nose the perfect imitation of a vulture. And Cullen stood behind the two chairs opposite them, one empty, the other containing the last person he thought he’d ever see from Kirkwall again.

“Detectives,” Anaphorah Hawke chimed with a toothy grin. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to speak with us.”

Cullen resisted the urge to laugh, Anaphorah’s statement so far from the truth. The dark-haired man scoffed with a flippant roll of his eyes, arms crossing his chest. The other, fair with red hair, opened his mouth to speak but the first detective jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. The fair man jumped with a soft squawk of indignation, then fell silent with a chuff.

“Something you’d like to say?” Hawke asked, a pouting frown accompanying her simpering tone. “Anything?”

The detectives remained silent, glaring from Anaphorah to himself, then back to the woman seated at the table. She held her tongue, allowing the silence to linger, the men squirm in their seats under here severe green stare. When they said no more, Cullen leaned across the table.

“You are?” He held out his hand for the darker man to shake, but the detective sat still as stone.

“Daveth Vreeland.”

“Jory Rook,” the fairer man offered without hesitation, his cold, clammy hand clasping Cullen’s. His grip shook, a subtle quiver in his fingers as he released him. He turned to the older man, his dark eyes focused not on him, but the folder in his lap.

When he said nothing, Anaphorah cleared her throat with an expectant command. The older man considered her as if seeing her for the first time, then Cullen, and then his clients.

“Rendon Howe, lawyer.”

Another piece of this insane puzzle fell into place. Nathaniel’s considerable concerns for the wellbeing of his father confused him no longer. That lack of clarity burst like a bubble, replaced by a brewing worry in his stomach; if they connected Rendon to any part of the plot to kill the Governor or his wife, he stood no chance of avoiding prison. No wonder Nathaniel had kept his father’s involvement to himself.

The silence stretched as Cullen’s thoughts stumbled over one another, his entire line of questioning forgotten. One remained at the forefront of his mind, burning a hole through his concentration.

“To clarify why we’re here,” Anaphorah began with her charming smile, “we only have some questions to ask. You’re not under investigation. You’re not under arrest. You may leave at any time. Understood?”

Both detectives deferred to their lawyer, whose attention had returned to the papers in his lap. He waved them on with a flippant flick of his hand and a bewildered shake of his head.

“Rutherford, I know you have a few burning questions to start.”

Cullen swallowed hard, a painful lump in his throat clouding his thoughts. With a cough, he took a seat and spoke.

“Who assigned you to investigate the shooting last spring?”

The two detectives considered one another as they eased in their seats, tension draining from their shoulders and easy smiles crooking their mouths. “We were assigned by our senior investigator,” Jory started, “but the order came down from the Chief.”

The wood of the table creaked beneath his arms as Cullen leaned atop it. “And is that typically how investigators are assigned in your precinct? Your chief assigns all of them?”

“No,” Daveth stated. “We usually pick up cases as they come in. But the Chief wanted us on this one,” he added with a firm nod. “Howe was going to take it, but Duncan stepped in.”

How far dare he push them? They weren’t under arrest, and his private investigator’s license limited his tactics. “Why did he do that?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Rendon sighed, attention never leaving his papers. “Mr. Rutherford, Serah Hawke, if you’re not going to arrest my clients, I do not understand the point of this.”

“Oh?” Hawke began as she slammed a large, three-ring binder on the table between them. With a nimble flick if her wrist, the cover opened, cracking like a whip. “We could arrest them,” she stated as she brandished a set of papers at him. “But we’re not.”

Rendon took it, and from his forehead, small reading glasses fell to the tip of his long nose. He sniffed, a derisive sound of dismissal.

The dossier on Alleira Dayne floated across the table when Rendon tossed it aside. “I don’t know her.”

Anaphorah brandished another dossier, a second eye witness testimony of that fateful day in Redcliffe square as she spoke. “You should. Your detectives interviewed her. And this woman,” she stated as her fingernail clicked on the table, pointing to the paper. “Arya. And Johan. And Athena. And Alusha. William. Charles.” She spat each of their names as she flung their files at him. “You should know all of them!”

The binder flew across the table as Anaphorah shoved it into Rendon’s lap, her chair kicking over to the floor in a rattling clatter. The lawyer and his clients recoiled, shocked by the district attorney’s outburst. “You would know about the two-hundred fifty-seven people they supposedly interviewed if you had bothered to ask!”

For the first time since Cullen had entered the interview room, Rendon met Anaphorah’s glare with a scowl of his own. “Are you accusing my clients of something or not?”

“Riddle me this, Rendon,” she started, “how do two detectives interview over two-hundred fifty-seven people in a matter of weeks, but forget to interview the intended target, the victim, and the people that saved her?” She shuffled through the papers littering the table until she found a picture of Alistair and Amodisia behind a podium and Amallia and himself near the right frame. The image slapped to the table with the flat of Anaphorah’s palm an inch in front if Rendon.

Her glare turned on the detectives. “Why didn’t you question them?”

Jory cowered, quivering in his seat. Instead of meeting her stare, he looked to Cullen.

“Don’t look at me for help,” Cullen started. “I want an answer, too. If you thought this was going to be good cop/bad cop, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He leaned back in his seat, arms folding across his chest.

Small, dark eyes searched his own, pupils blown wide, lip twitching and brow knitting at the bridge of his nose. Something begged to escape his mind, bottled there for months; wringing hands and a sweaty hairline indicated nothing else.

“We didn’t need to question them,” Daveth snipped. “After all, we’d questioned so many people and got the same story, why bother with more?”

Too late, Jory failed to mask his subtle frown, a twitch at the corners of his lips. How much of what Daveth had said so far resembled the truth? Not that Cullen anticipated the man telling the truth to begin with, but the best lies hid obfuscated by partial truths.

“Jory,” he started. “Who was the target of the shooting?” When the man looked to his lawyer, Cullen slapped the table and Jory yelped, head whipping back to face him. “Who, Jory?!”

“Th-the Governor… Al-Alistair Theirin!” he stammered. “That’s what we… what our investigation determined.”

Anaphorah leaned over the table with a snarl. “Prove. It.”

Cullen glared down at Jory, cowering further into his seat. Daveth maintained his smug smile and reclined in his chair, and then Rendon spoke as he tossed the binder to the table with a thump.

“Read the report, Serah Hawke. It’s all there,” he drawled through his nose. “In fact,” he began again, digging in his brief case and withdrawing a thick folder. “I have a copy.”

“I’ve read it already,” she snapped. “Rutherford, explain to this dullard why the report is incorrect. I might strangle him if I do.”

If Rendon How did not file a complaint to the district judge for that remark, Cullen had overestimated him. Not that Anaphorah risked anything by it, but her stack of complaints as a ruthless district attorney stood six inches thick. She worked with the tenacity of a wolverine, and he backed her up without faltering.

“The report says the forensics prove Alistair Theirin was the target,” he stated. “Except, out of all the evidence I was provided, there was no forensics report.” The pot simmered now, Jory and Daveth’s eyes shifting between one another and Daveth’s smile fading. Rendon, however, remained unperturbed. Time to bury the dagger.

“None of that actually matters,” he sighed as he gestured to Anaphorah, holding a thin folder in her hands. “That lack of evidence only made Serah Hawke’s job easier,” he continued as she opened the folder and laid it on the table for the detectives. Cullen sat beside her, studying them, watching their every move with a well-trained eye.

“Your retirements are a long way off, is it not, gentlemen?” Anaphorah asked, honeyed tongue so sweet even Cullen grimaced. “They’re impressive packages,” she elaborated with a sultry smirk. “Very diverse investments. And growing quite well over the last ten years. In fact, you’ve both doubled your finances in the last year alone. You must introduce me to your advisors, I’m impressed.”

Rendon moved not an inch, his blank stare landing between Anaphorah and Cullen. His pulse maintained, his breathing remained steady, his jaw slackened, and his impeccable posture persisted. Nothing. Not a single tell gave him away.

Maybe the man’s confidence blinded him, his ego beyond inflated. Or he truly believed the detectives had successfully thwarted the investigation, for he required three whole seconds to grasp Anaphorah’s narrative. Cullen marked the exact second understanding sunk into the pit of Rendon Howe’s stomach.

The pupils of his beady little eyes dilated, his lids widening a fraction of an inch, and the vigor of triumph coursed through his veins. He stood, chair scraping along the tile floor so loud, the three men startled.

“Serah Hawke, would you be so kind and finish this? I don’t believe you need my help any further,” he stated.

Anaphorah’s brilliant smile danced across her face, ruby red lips pulled wide as she replied. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Rutherford. And it has been more than such to work with you again.”

Isabella must be out of town, he thought as he shook her hand, then strode for the door of the interview room, his own grin breaking free.

#cullenrutherford #dai fanfic #dragon age #fanfic #romance fanfic #cullenrutherford fanfic

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ellawritesficssometimes · 7 years

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Ouija Board Mishaps (Day 6 Week of Hetalia, One-shot

A/N: I wrote this when I was sick and took too much NyQuil xD

Stay tuned for tomorrow. I’ll have a more romantic fic planned.

@weekofhetalia

Arthur’s POV:

It was a late Friday night, and against my will, my friends had invited themselves over, as per usual. Correction, I invited my younger neighbors Matthew and Alfred over, otherwise known as the twins, while the frog (Francis) came on his own free will, but certainly not mine. Francis was a senior in high school like myself, whereas the twins were both juniors.

Since October was the peak of anything paranormal, I decided to put an end to the mystery surrounding the hauntings occurring in my home. My family has a history of having the Sight, which means we’re able to communicate with spirits. However, the spirit haunting my family refused to show itself, – or should I say herself? – so we were forced to put up with its shenanigans. I grew up with these hauntings, whether it being misplaced socks, random knocks on the walls, or footsteps in rooms where no one alive was in.

But not anymore. I wouldn’t put up with it for any longer.

Impulsive, young, and stubborn as I’ve always been, I bought a Ouija board from Toys’ R US the other day, thinking I would finally be able to make contact with this spirit and get rid of it. Alistair, my older brother and guardian, was gone for the weekend, so this would have been the perfect opportunity for me to prove my worth as a spiritual communicator.

My god, words cannot explain how badly I fucked up.

Regardless, I didn’t know that at the time. My pride often got in the way of me thinking rationally.

Anyway, the four of us were sitting in the basement’s lounge, decked in comfortable sweatshirts and sweatpants.

Even Francis was wearing a white hoodie that obnoxiously read “I love Paris” on the front of it. He was wearing silk pajama pants though, so I suppose his fashion sense still carried with him wherever he went. Unfortunately, fashion sense didn’t necessarily equate to class.

Francis, seemingly out of nowhere, had procured an entire bottle of wine, taking swigs of it as he draped his hairy arms over the loveseat like he owned it. Alfred and Matthew were sharing the two-person couch, each fiddling with a 3DS in their hands.

Meanwhile, I was sitting cross-legged on the ground, setting up the Ouija board and lighting several candles.

“You still plan to go through with this?” Francis asked me, slurring slightly.

I reached out to confiscate the bottle of wine from him. “All right, you’ve had enough of that,” I grunted, ignoring Francis’s protests. “It’s my house, you cold-blooded tart. I can’t have the cops coming over to arrest you.”

“Ah, oui,” Francis mumbled and then proceeded to lower his voice to snidely insult me in French.

I padded over to the mini-kitchen in my basement, placing the half-empty wine bottle in the fridge.

Alfred looked up from his 3DS, his face paling despite the determined expression he held. “M-man, I thought you were just kidding about using that thing!” he exclaimed.

“No, you ninny,” I rolled my eyes. “Have I ever joked about something like this? I’m tired of this spirit messing with me. It’s not exactly a friendly one either,” I trailed off ominously.

Matthew closed his 3DS, only to yelp when Alfred clutched his right arm for dear life. The latter had always been unreasonably terrified of the supernatural. “What do you mean by, ‘not friendly’”? he asked softly, violet eyes blinking not in fear but rather, curiosity.

I patted the ground, inviting my friends +1 to sit in a circle in front of the Ouija board resting on the carpet. I needed them close so that I could explain everything properly.

Once the lights were dimmed slightly and I had my mobile’s flash pressed under my chin, I began my performance. I spoke slowly, knowing that Alfred was slow to pick up on things, but also in the spookiest voice I could muster. Francis and Matthew were both unfazed, taking more amusement in how much Alfred was trembling.

I chuckled lowly, allowing a satisfied smirk to creep onto my face. “Rumour has it that 70 years ago, three siblings moved into this house after migrating here from Russia. There was a brother and two sisters. The youngest sister was mentally ill, but refused to get help. Her siblings agreed with this, probably because they knew she would be institutionalized for the rest of her life if she was turned in to the authorities. The mentally ill sibling’s name was Natalia. Weirdly enough, the records only show her name if you google the murders.”

“MURDERS?!” Alfred spluttered.

“Muahahaha! Yes, murders! Your ignorant two-celled brain heard me right!” I snickered. Perhaps I was getting a bit too immersed in the story. I had always been quite the shit-disturber.

“Natalia was obsessed with her older brother; you could even say it was a fixation. When she heard that her brother had found a spouse, she completely lost her marbles. Things took a turn for the worse when the brother admitted to Natalia that he was engaged, and that she wasn’t invited to the wedding…”

Matthew elbowed Francis. “This sounds like a soap opera you would watch,” he commented.

Francis absently nodded his head, waiting for me to continue with wide sapphire eyes.

Alfred was full-out whimpering at this point.

“Now, you see, for you guys to understand why things happened the way they did, you need to know that Natalia suffered from religious delusions. She saw her brother as some sort of God, an icon if you will. And for him to be marrying someone unworthy was utterly preposterous to her. Enraged, Natalia began to break things in a fit of uncontrollable anger – there’s a dent over there by that wall where she supposedly threw a knife!”

I paused, pointing towards the dent I had actually made myself when I was younger. I had thrown an overcooked scone at my brother’s head, angry at him for insulting my culinary skills – not that he was any better mind you.

“When her sister tried to stop her, Natalia stabbed her to death. Soon, Natalia had lost all sense of reality. Her brother couldn’t hold her back, as she didn’t realize what she was doing – she was just that furious. She ended up killing her brother too before slitting her own throat, horrified when she realized what she had done.

“And that my friends, is the haunting tale of Natalia A. To this day, she still resides in this house. If you listen closely at night, you can even hear the sounds of her scraping a knife against the walls, taunting those brave enough to confront her.”

“Really?” Matthew whispered to me.

“Of course not,” I mouthed back, smirking. I was enjoying Alfred’s reaction far too much to back out now.

Francis cooed at Alfred, rubbing circles into his back before looking up to glare at me. “Nice going, you imbecile. You scared le poor diabetic fils. If his blood pressure spikes, his death will be on your hands!”

“He’ll be fine,” I shrugged, indifferent.

Alfred had already cupped both hands over his ears. “Nope, nope to the infinity. I’m not doing this right now. I betcha anything it was Communism that killed them, stupid Ruskies. This is just a made-up folktale,” he rambled to himself.

“It’s real, Alfred,” I countered, reaching for my phone. “I’ll pull up the records if I have to.”

“Screw this, I’m hungry. Not today, Satan. Not today.” Shrugging off Francis, Alfred stood up and walked into the mini-kitchen. He began pawing his way through the freezer, pulling out leftover cheesecake.

The remaining three of us sighed, going back to the story.

“So…” Francis drawled, looking uneasy for once. “You want to make contact with this Natalia…why?”

“Yeah,” Matthew chimed in, which was unusual for him. He only spoke when it was absolutely necessary; often enough it was to stop us from doing something reckless and stupid. Wait…

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, you said so yourself, she murdered people… her siblings no less…” Matthew mumbled.

“Relax,” I reassured them. “I’m a spiritual communicator. I’ve got complete control over this situation. All we’ll be doing is speaking to her. If things get weird, I can always just end the conversation.”

Francis and Matthew didn’t look very assured, but they didn’t offer any further protest either. They were more intrigued than anything else.

Before I could get to explaining the rules of the board, the microwave beeped.

“What the hell?!” I spluttered, turning. “Alfred, did you just microwave a cheesecake?”

“Y-yeah! It makes it soft! I’m nervous, okay? I need something in my stomach if we’re going through with this!”

“It’s cream cheese! It’s already soft, are you daft?! That’s it, I’m cutting you off from drinking any more Mountain Dew. That sugar is eroding at any remaining common sense you have!” I stormed into the kitchen.

Alfred wailed as I poured an entire two litres of Mountain Dew down the sink. It fizzled as I did so; what in the bloody hell did they put in these soft drinks? Poison? Carcinogens? Radioactive material?

“Angleterre, you have no right to criticize him on what food he eats,” Francis chided, unwelcomed to interrupt. “Just yesterday you made scones that were hard enough to be used as a murder weapon.”

“I still have those you know,” I huffed, dragging Alfred back into the lounge like a mother hen. The American sobbed, placing a lumpy spoonful of cheesecake into his mouth. “Don’t make me use them,” I warned.

Francis raised his hands in surrender, knowing full-well that my threat bore some reality to it.

“All right,” I sighed, grabbing a remote from a nearby coffee table. I dimmed the lights further so that the ring of candles around us were the only light sources in the room. “Let’s go over the instructions, shall we?”

Alfred grabbed the remote, flicking on the lights again. “Dude, no. First, I can’t see my cheesecake, and secondly, no again! You’re giving the ghost chick an advantage if we can’t see her sneak up on us.”

“Fine,” I sighed. I compromised by turning off half the lights. “Happy?”

“No, but this cheesecake is hella satisfying.”

“Can I have a bite?” Francis asked.

“Dude, no. Get your own.”

“HELLO! If you morons are done with your squabbling, I’d like to get on with this.”

Silence.

I cleared my throat. “All right, how this works is simple. We all place our fingers on the planchette and let the spirit guide our hands to spell out letters or to answer yes or no questions on the board. If any of you fools even dare to move your hands as a prank, so help me god. The most important rule to stand by is to NEVER take your hand off the planchette unless or until we break off communication. If you do that, you are susceptible to getting possessed. I’ll repeat myself again: keep your hand on the planchette at all times if you do decide to participate. Don’t ever pull away your hand unless communication is officially broken off with the spirit.”

Silence, again. For once, my friends weren’t arguing.

“If at any time things get unsafe, we must move the planchette to the end of the board where it spells out goodbye; that will break off communication and prevent us from being possessed if the spirit is malicious. Are we all clear?”

Everyone nodded their heads.

“Right, then let’s get started.”

“Wait,” Alfred reached out to pull down my hood. “Stop trying to look like a thug.”

“I’m not trying to look like a thug! I come from a line of druids, damn you! I’m just trying to honour my heritage!” I blurted out.

“You look like a pasty snowflake at best…”

“SCREW YOU AND YOUR HIGH CHOLESTEROL!”

Francis laughed, snapchatting this entire fiasco.

Alfred furrowed his brows. “What does that even mean?”

“GUYS! FOCUS!” Matthew raised his voice, a very odd occurrence. “Just apologize, and get over with it. If we’re going to be doing this, we need to be on each other’s side in the event that something goes wrong.”

Matthew was right.

Alfred sighed, speaking through puckered lips. “I’m sorry you’re so sensitive, Artie. It must be because I’m two inches taller than you and you’re trying to overcompensate for somethin’…”

“What kind of bloody apology is that?!”

WHACK!

Francis whacked the back of my head while Matthew whacked Alfred’s. I hadn’t even done anything wrong!

After ushering out real apologies, we all moved our hands onto the planchette. Unfortunately, my hand was stuck between the frog’s and Alfred’s.

Alfred grabbed my free hand with his. “No homo,” he muttered to me. “I just want to protect ya.”

Bullshit. The yank was scared.

“We’re both bi-sexual,” I hissed with a whisper. “And what did I say about using derogatory sayings like that!? Tsk, idiot.”

Cue another pointless argument.

Eventually, we all settled down and began with the ritual.

I instructed everyone to move the planchette in a few circles around the board before asking the first question.

“Is anyone there?” I inquired. “I assure you we mean no harm.”

The planchette began to move towards the top right of the board, where Yes was spelled out in bold black letters.

“I swear if one of you twats are faking this!” I growled in warning.

“Dude, I’m not doing anything!” Alfred panicked.

“Mon dieu, did it just get colder in here?”

Matthew’s shoulders slumped. “Well, it was a nice life while it lasted. A bit more boring than I would have liked it to be, but I can’t complain.”

The planchette stopped, hovering over the Yes section of the board.

I cleared my throat. “Hello, nice to meet you. Can you spell out your name?”

The planchette began to move.

I stopped the spirit right there. “Natalia, is this Natalia A.?”

The planchette moved to Yes again.

“Oh man! Oh man! Oh man!” Alfred rambled. “We’re all going to die! I’m never going to be able to lose my virginity! I’m going to die a loser, like, like Artie!”

“It’s still not too late,” Francis purred.

“SHUT UP!” I exploded. “Do not break the ritual.”

“Natalia, is it? Tell me. Why do you steal my socks… or trip people when they’re least expecting it? Is that fun for you?”

The planchette moved into the space between Yes and No. I took that as a maybe.

“Do you not like my family living here? Is that it?”

Yes.

“What do you want from us?”

The planchette began to spell out something.

“DUDE IT BETTER NOT BE SPELLING WHAT I THINK IT IS!”

Well fuck.

“Hey, chick-ghost-dudette?” Alfred piped in. “Putting aside you murdering us for a quick second, can you tell me what Artie hides under his bed? It’s really weird how embarrassed he gets when I poke around there.”

“It’s lying!” I cried out, blushing profusely.

I didn’t even bother to acknowledge Francis’s smug all-knowing expression.

“Do ya really want to murder us, though? Like, I get it. You’ve been dead for a while, probs haven’t seen any action,” Alfred continued.

“Are you insane?!” I snapped. “You’re only provoking it, don’t you realize-!”

BANG!

The ceiling above us thudded, prompting everyone to scream and jump a little.

Everyone but Alfred knew not to take their hands off the planchette.

I realized this when it was already too late. “Alfred, don’t!”

Alfred yelped, only to fall onto his back, twitching.

“What do we do?!” Francis screeched.

“Don’t let go, we still have to say goodbye!” I instructed.

Matthew grabbed the remote with his free hand, turning the lights back on. I really wish he hadn’t. Alfred was frothing at the mouth, a single tear of blood streaking down his right cheek as he continued to convulse uncontrollably.

“Big…brother…” Alfred gasped in a voice several higher octaves than his own.

“Where…are…youuuuuuuu…?”

How could things go this wrong, this fast?

“It was a pleasure, Natalia. But I really ought to let you go now,” I pressed, struggling along with Francis and Matthew to move the planchette towards the bottom of the board, where the word Goodbye was spelt out.

But, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t move the planchette. It was like something was pushing against us – much stronger in strength no less.

“It’s not working!” I screamed.

Francis and Matthew joined my screaming when the Ouija board was thrust into the air. We all let go, paralyzed in fear as we watched it slam into the wall opposite of us.

Matthew was the first to crouch by Alfred. “Alfred, Alfred! Wake up! Fight back, damn it!” he sobbed, slapping at Alfred’s cheeks.

“This is your fault!” Francis accused, jabbing an index finger at me. “You should have tutored him better in English. Maybe then he’d actually know how to follow instructions!”

“As if arguing is going to help with anything! Crap! I think I have a Bible upstairs! We’ll have to perform an exorcism!” I shouted.

Matthew leapt back when Alfred began to laugh hysterically, sitting up abruptly. A cryptic smirk was on his face as he licked his lips, tasting his own blood.

I reluctantly present to you, Natfred.

“A-Alfred,” I asked. “You in there, lad?”

“Alfred is gone,” Natfred laughed in a cold, feminine voice. The lights flickered.

“And soon you will all be too. I must find a suitable body for my brother. Then we can live happily ever after! But first, I’m going to need to spill a lot of blood. My, my, you’re all so young. It’ll make killing you a lot harder. Especially that one,” (she? He? It?) pointed to Francis. “I don’t usually like killing one of my own.”

“What do you mean by that?” Francis quivered as we all began to back away from Natfred, intending to run up the staircase at a moment’s opportunity.

“Are you not a woman?” Natfred asked.

“Oui, oui I am!” Francis pleaded. “Si vous plait, have mercy!”

“He’s lying,” Matthew and I both retorted.

“Some friends you are!”

“You had no problem throwing us under the bus!”

“What is this then, a gathering of homosexuals?” Natfred remarked. “It would make a lot of sense. This one– Natfred pointed at me - really likes shipping his fictional characters. It’s insufferable. For years, I’ve had to watch him lament about this ‘doctor’. And here I thought I was crazy.”

“DOCTOR WHO IS GREAT, YOU DEMONIC SHE-HEATHEN!” I raged.

“Arthur, not the best time,” Matthew snapped, being the closest one to the staircase.

Francis, however, gave us both a look, communicating the universal sign for ‘I’ll act as a distraction and then we run for our fucking lives’.

Matthew and I nodded our heads in assent.

“Tell me, ah, Natalia, who is it do you think is the gayest of us all?” Francis asked.

Natfred narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“Since you’ve passed, it’s been medically proven that gays are amongs the strongest of humans. You want a strong body for your brother, oui?” Francis lied through his teeth. I was beginning to question just how drunk he was. What was he on about now?

“Oh, how interesting. If that’s the case, it’s definitely him,” Natfred pointed at me, again.

“WHAT, WHY ME?” I whined.

Natfred glared, as if what she had just concluded was obvious. “I just do.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Enough, this is such a bore,” Natfred drawled. “You’ll all be far more interesting once I hang the losing bodies as trophies. I’ve been wanting to re-decorate this place.”

Natfred then held out its (I decided on the pronoun, don’t get cheeky with me) right hand, snapping its fingers. A ghostly butcher knife, one that had seen better days and still had blood on it, popped into view.

“Who wants to die first?” Natfred waggled the butcher knife.

“RETREAT!” Francis bellowed, prompting all three of us to turn on our heels and run up the basement’s staircase – the literal devil was on our heels.

Natfred hissed, sprinting forward only to have the basement’s door slammed in its face. Francis and I held the door shut while Matthew grabbed several chairs for us to block the entrance with. Unfortunately, Natfred possessed Alfred’s near inhuman strength as well.

“Why run if you’re just going to die anyway? Face death like a man, you scoundrels!” It hissed, throwing an immense amount of weight against the other side of the door.

“NOW!” Matthew barked as Francis and I leapt out of the way and began piling chairs and tables against the basement door.

Not a second later, Natfred headbutted the door, splinters and dust flying everywhere as it poked its head into view. Its eyes were no longer cerulean under the spectacles it wore, but rather a strange gray-blue. We were losing Alfred more and more by the minute.

“Hide!” I shrieked.

“We can’t just leave him there!” Matthew begged. “How do we get this demon out of him? You said you have a Bible, where the heck is it?!”

“Can’t we just sacrifice Arthur? Let’s do a group vote, non?”

“Ugh! We don’t have time for this!”

I grabbed Matthew by the arm and began tugging him along with Francis towards our storage room. Meanwhile, Natfred was continuing to break through the door. We needed to find a good hiding spot where I could think and come up with a proper plan of attack.

“Over here!” I whispered, opening the door of the cupboard that lay underneath the staircase leading to the third floor. Yes, it was a real life Harry Potter room, moving on.

I closed the door and slid down on the floor. Matthew was the only one not out of breath to pull out his phone, illuminating the small space.

“Well, Monsieur spiritual communicator,” Francis spoke using air quotes, nervously pacing back and forth. His sanity was clearly not all there. “What now? How are we going to escape this alive after this massive fuck-up of yours? Mon dieu, never mind. I’ve already given up. Maybe if I surrender, she’ll let me drink some wine first.”

“NO!” Matthew and I cried out, grabbing both of Francis’s wrists before he could leave the room and give our location away.

“Get your priorities straight, will you?” I snapped. “And stop thinking so negatively. I’ll get us out of this.”

“How?!”

“I don’t know, just give me a minute to think!”

“We may not have a minute!” Matthew warned, wincing at the sound of a chair being thrown against a wall.

Natfred was free.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Natfred taunted.

“Okay!!” I clasped my forehead with one hand. “I think I got it…”

I had to pause again as the sound of knives scraping against each other echoed across the house.

Natfred had found Alistair’s knife collection.

“I’ll be the one to distract Natalia this time. While I do that, Matthew, I need you grab the Ouija board and planchette. Francis, you grab the Bible on the table by the front door; if I somehow fail at distracting Natalia, it’s your job to make sure she doesn’t notice what Matthew’s doing.”

“What exactly am I doing?” Matthew asked, lips quivering.

“Move the planchette towards goodbye. You’ll be cutting off our communication with her,” I explained. “We’re still in session, and will be until that happens. Does everyone understand the plan?”

I received two “oui’s” in response.

“All right,” I straightened my posture. “Let’s save that moronic tosser. On my lead, 1…2…3… Go!”

I thrust open the cupboard’s door, sprinting ahead to give Francis and Matthew some space and time to sneak by while I acted as a distraction.

I found Natfred sharpening two knives in the kitchen. When it spotted me walking into view from the hallway, it grinned widely, murderous in its intent. It wasn’t the aloof, goofy grin I was used to seeing on Alfred – this image would likely haunt me for the rest of my life, which could very well only be the next ten minutes if my plan wasn’t successful.

“Succumbed to your fate, have you?” Natfred mused. “Although, I was kinda hoping for the other two. You might not be strong enough for my brother to possess.”

“Oh,” I quirked a brow, my strong tone contradicting how much my knees were trembling. “And what makes you think your brother would want to come back and live with you? You murdered him, remember?”

Natfred faltered. “I-It was an accident! He knows that! I’m sure he’ll forgive me! He always does!”

“Hmmm yeah, I don’t think so,” I responded, stepping to the side to block Natfred’s view of Matthew and Francis sneaking into the living room. “I think he’d be pretty pissed off. I mean, he had his whole life set right out for him. He was going to get married, and you just had to ruin that, didn’t you? Why? Because you were selfish. You wanted your brother for yourself, and when you couldn’t have him, you threw a tantrum like a rotten five-year-old child. If you really cared about your brother, you would let him rest in peace, wherever he ended up.”

I needed to make Natalia furious; to confuse her just as much.

Natfred’s eyes glowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” it shrieked. “My brother deserved better than that… than that bitch! Now I have the chance to give him a better life. I’ll do anything to make that happen! He was a King! He deserved more!”

Natfred’s eyes briefly flickered to its original cerulean hue.

Behind me, Matthew stepped out of the basement, planchette and Ouija board in hand. He ducked, hiding from sight by using the living room couch to his advantage. Francis sat next to him, holding a Bible for likely the first time in his life as he prayed.

Both were successful in their part of the plan; it was time for me to follow through as well. It was my fault we had ended up in a situation like this. It was time to take some damn responsibility.

“You’re overcompensating,” I hummed without missing a beat. Alfred was still in there, I just knew it.

“No, you’re a brat. A petty brat who’s trying to rationalize the impossible. You’re a stone-cold murderer. You don’t deserve even the body you’re occupying now. You know why? Because Alfred is stronger than you’ll ever be. He knows what compassion is, what it is to truly love someone. But you’ll never feel that because you’re a psychopath without any capacity for emotions. You never loved your brother. You tainted his life with your filthy greed!”

“SHUT UP!” Natfred screeched. “I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

I yelped when Natfred threw a knife at me. Luckily, I ducked to the side. The knife had crashed into the living room window, sending glass flying everywhere.

Natfred continued to throw knives at me, but somehow, I was able to dodge them all. It then proceeded to throw a blender and toaster at me.

“Jesus Christ!” I swore in the heat of the moment. “Are you trying to kill me?! Oh…”

Tragically, all good luck must come to an end.

Natfred pinned me against the counter. “It’s time for you to die,” it hissed, grabbing me by the collar of the shirt.

I hovered over the ground by two feet. “Alfred,” I wheezed. “I know you’re in there. It’s me, Arthur. Fight back, damn you! I know you’re stronger than this! Y-you can’t die! You were right. There’s so many things we never got to do together! I miss you, you dumbass. I want to do stupid things and grow old together, arguing and whatnot. You’re my best friend, so you better fucking come back already!”

“Alfred is gone, I told you that!”

“LET HIM GO!”

CRASH!

Natfred let go of me, falling forward as a Bible smacked into its back. “YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS!”

Well, that was one way to repel a demon with a Bible.

“Francis, you tart. What in the bloody hell are you doing!” I gasped, backing away as Natfred whipped around to glare at Francis.

“Protecting you!” Francis answered, wavering slightly. “Only I can bully you and get away with it!”

Francis everyone.

“You were supposed to use the Bible to repel her figuratively, not literally!”

“It wasn’t working!” Francis shrugged as I joined him by his side. “I had no choice. She was about to kill you.”

I shrugged. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

“GUYS! IT’S READY!” Matthew shrieked.

Francis and I both exchanged wide-eyed looks before sprinting into the living room, crouching next to Matthew in front of the Ouija board.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING NOW!?” Natfred bellowed, but it was already too late.

We circled the planchette on the board before finally placing it on Goodbye.

“GOODBYE!” Francis, Matthew and I all shrieked.

Natfred collapsed to the ground, twitching once more.

“Aha!” I cried out in triumph. “I hope you rot in hell, right where you belong. You will no longer haunt this house. I revoke any invitation for you to come back. Let this board seal you for eternity!”

Natfred looked up at the ceiling with blank eyes. “Brother, I am sorry,” it wheezed. “Perhaps another day we will be reunited. I will find you, mark my words…”

Natfred made a cliché ‘bleh’ sound before falling still.

I didn’t have time to let out a breath of relief as I had received smacks to both cheeks.

“YOU’RE AN IDIOT!” Matthew and Francis shrieked before crouching over the remains of Natfred, ahem, Alfred.

“Yes, yes, I know,” I bowed my head. “Let’s see if he’s okay. You can lecture me later.”

Matthew pressed his ear to Alfred’s chest. “He’s breathing.”

“Unnngh, burgers,” Alfred muttered to himself.

“Oui, he’s definitely alive,” Francis sighed.

I looked around the living room, petrified by what I saw. The fridge was hanging on a hinge alone with several cabinets, not to mention the many broken plates, dents in the walls, and ruined kitchen appliances.

“Bollocks, Alistair is going to kill me.”

I received another two smacks to the head. “At least Alfred’s okay, though,” I pouted.

Speaking of the previous devil.

Alfred sat up with a groan, eyes widening at the trashed room before him. “Dudes, did we have a killer party or something? What the heck happened in here?”

Matthew and Francis facepalmed while I burst out into tears, bringing Alfred into a hug. “Yeah! Sure! Whatever! We did that! Oh, how I missed you and your idiocy!”

“Yo, are you drunk? Why are you crying? Man, I’m hungry.”

“Screw it, I’m taking a nap,” Matthew declared, slumping against the couch.

“I’ll join you,” Francis offered.

Next thing I knew, Alfred shoved me off him and stood up. He ignored the unhinged fridge door and reached straight up for the freezer, pulling out an ice-cream sandwich.

“I’m going home to microwave this, peace suckas.”

I deadpanned.

Perhaps we should have left him possessed, after all.

-The end

#hetaliaextraganza2k17 #hetalia #aph #aph England #aph America #aph France #aph Canada #aph Belarus #day 6 #tf blood

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