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basilf1res · 1 year

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DP x DC “Why do these look like jello?”

Just a little idea I had, the prompt I created for this post was:

Jason Todd experiences a bit of ghost hunger. Once these ghosts start showing up, so do the blobs. They come in different shapes and colors, the most common blob being the electric green ones.

So why are these little green blob ghosts starting to become more and more appetizing to Jason?

(Personally I hc blob ghosts are like a quick way to consume ectoplasm, they’re also another way ghosts are formed, if a blob is around when someone dies then the person imprints and develops from the blob. Blob ghosts are meant to help form and feed ghosts, they don’t really have much of a personality, only the desire to help a ghost out.)

——————————

It had been three days since Tim had been able to capture and contain one of the green bloby ghost thingys, and Jason was set to watch it for a few hours. The birds and bats observed that it had the most reaction around him, the next being Damian and Cass.

He didn’t know how to feel about these things. They first showed up after tin can - who had more than enough guns in his suit to make Jason jealous - completely wreaked an apartment complex in Crime Alley.

Ignoring how the Terminator-wannabe screeched about hanging his pelt on the wall.

Currently, Jason was sitting in a chair, looking at a tinted green glass box that contained the best smelling thing in the whole wide world. It was green, glowing, and had the appearance of jello.

He forcefully kept his helmet on, trying to block out that - delightful, delicious, ambrosial - thick and sour smell. Jason pushed his chair back, noticing he was creeping forward, almost looming over the box.

The blob thing had two black dots for eyes, a glowing green bloby body, and was pressed up against the glass wall closest to him.

He sighed, only a few more minutes and his ghost watching shift would be over. The rest of the family would be coming down to see the test results and conclusions Tim came to.

Stretching, he took off his helmet.

He needed to breathe.

Jason took in a big breath air, an aroma of something good filling his nose, making him feel all gooey inside as he did so. Staring at the blob, his mouth started to salivate the longer he held eye contact with it.

His stomach was empty.

The pit was silent, almost with what felt like anticipation. He wondered if the blob ghost would have a texture more like a chocolate-filled doughnut or the time he emptied a jello cup and shoved the whole sugary treat in his mouth.

He hummed, the thing wasn’t much bigger than his palm, fitting snugly in the center of his hand.

When had he opened the glass box?

Jason lifted the blob ghost up to his eye level, the ambrosial scent wafting through the air. He thought he heard the elevator doors open, but it didn’t matter at the moment.

All reasonable thoughts vanished and he popped the green orb of delight into his mouth and swallowed it whole. Jason absentmindedly thought it was like sorbet but made his insides feel warm and tingly as he began to hear the rapid footsteps to his right.

He purred in pleasure, leaning back in the chair. Jason glanced at the group that was now surrounding him, someone had gripped his shoulders and was talking fast paced. There was a light panicked tone before whoever- Dick, it was Dick - trailed off, wide eyes meeting his dazed ones.

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When Bruce, Cass, Damian, Dick, Steph, Duke, and Tim stepped out of the elevator, they didn’t expect the scene they were greeted with:

Jason had the blob ghost in his hand, his head was slightly turned to the left - enough that they couldn’t see his eyes.

All conversation stopped, Damian couldn’t even bite out a witty remark before their brother tipped his head back and tossed the ball of ectoplasm into his mouth.

That’s when the shouting started, Dick took off and skidded in front of Jason and put his hands on his shoulders. The rest not far behind.

“Jay? Jason!?” The eldest shook him a bit. “Can you hear me? Are you ohh…kay..?”

Dick trailed off, baby blue eyes meeting toxic green ones. A soft inhuman rumbling of satisfaction started coming from his brother’s chest.

“…what…” was the only thing Tim managed to say before Jason blinked a few times, the purring cut off and crystal blue eyes that they knew returned.

——————————

Jason was looking at Dick’s concerned gaze, he blinked.

“Uhm…”

Memories rushed back, like someone had opened a floodgate. He jerked and fell off the chair, Bruce catching him as he started to gag and cough.

He- did he really eat that thing?

The pit was silent.

Jason wheezed, dry heaving for a few seconds. Nothing came back up.

What the fuck??

Dick scooped him up, his arms wrapping around him, Jason buried his face into his brother’s neck. He remembered how amazing the blob smelt like, how light it was, how his mind turned to a gooey mess, the feeling of it sliding down his throat, how the rage receded and the pit fled his mind, how the toxic waters were vanquished and his thoughts no longer muddled.

To say he was disgusted by his own actions was an understatement. He wanted to find a nice dark and lonely hole to roll into and never crawl out of.

Jason hated the silence.

He felt more bodies press up against him, the safety of their arms, how he wanted nothing but to return the favor by keeping them safe.

Words of comfort were constantly murmured in his ears.

It would be okay.

They’ll figure this out.

We’ll always be here.

The pit was gone.

A core was formed.

His stomach was full.

———————————————

If anyone wants to expand on this (or any of my prompts really), please tag me! I live for prompts being used and creatively twisted into something light and fluffy or cold and angsty.

This took a little bit to write, it’s also a filler as I kickstart “Project GH05T” since so many of you liked it- like really, it fills me with so much joy to know that y’all enjoy my posts and want to see some more.

I won’t be doing much more for this one specifically, but think of it more like a prologue to a fic, where Jason grows a core and basically goes through half of season one of DP before Danny himself shows up like: wtf?? Who are you???

And Jason proceeds to adopt a ghost kid on the run.

Anyways, I’m a mess because of school and I have to cook dinner tonight (it’s my turn :D).

See y’all with an official addition to “Project GH05T”

#dp x dc #danny phantom #jason todd #red hood #ghost hunger #batfam #blob ghosts #blob ghosts are meant to help feed ghosts #but only sometimes

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another-fantasy-world · 4 years

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Strings Pt.1

Pairing: Rosalie Hale x Fem!OC

Summary: in which the true queen of vampires found love when she least expected.

Warnings: ...Light Angst? Slowburn and mentions of death,trauma and depression

Timeline: Breaking Dawn - Post-Twilight

Word count: 1,683

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The Patriarch of the Olympic Coven certainly didn’t expect a visit from an old friend, much less a forgotten queen on the time of their distress trying to save their coven from the selfish hands of Aro Volturi.

“Greetings Carlisle. It has been a while, hasn’t it?” The violet-eyed vampire smiled.

“M-My Queen! I-” Carlisle stutters, still stunned by shock and confusion.

“No need for such formalities. We’re friends, are we not?” The dark-haired queen smirked.

“Of course. May I ask, How are you here?”

“ Ah, Dear Carlisle. The years seem to blur doesn’t it? Forgot about me already?”

“It’s...been awhile.” The queen hummed at Carlisle’s response.

“You’re dreaming, Carlisle. Still aware of the fact that I can manipulate your body to sleep? Let’s cut to the chase, Your family is getting worried with the sight of you passed out on the couch. I’ll be sending my representatives over to you as addition to your witnesses. I am aware of your...agreement with the shifters. And I demand that they return to me in one piece. Understood?”

“Yes Ma’am.” Carlisle grinned

“Very well. They will explain once they get there. I wish you the best of luck. Carlisle Cullen.”

And with that, Carlisle’s eyes fluttered open, refocusing on his wife’s worried eyes, he smiled gently.

“I’m fine, my love. It appears that we have more visitors coming.” He grinned

“Witnesses? But how? More importantly, Who?” Edward questions

“Are we just going to ignore the fact that Carlisle just took a nap?” Emmett wailed while tossing his mate, Maggie, over his shoulders.

Carlisle sighed at his son’s antics before speeding out of the room, only to come back with an antique looking box. He gestured for them to sit down.

“I think it’s time that I tell you a story...” Carlisle breathed in an unneeded breath, allowing himself to recollect his memories from centuries ago.

“...Anastasia Thorne. Also known as Anastasiarine Maximilliene Rolinde-Thorne.” He starts, voice wavering as he smiles

“She’s also known as The Ghost Queen, Of Volturi and of every other vampires that there are. There were rumours that she was the first ever vampire to walk in these lands and that we came from her. She never really did confirm that fact, whenever I ask her of it, she only laughs and dismissed it with a joke.” Carlisle’s eyes seem to stare into the distance, reminiscing the olden days. He pulls out a couple of pictures, all containing the same woman.

‘Gorgeous’ was the first word that popped on Rosalie’s mind. And soon she wonders what would happen if she ever meets the said Queen. But she immediately dismisses the thought.

The Cullens, besides Carlisle of course, merely looks at each other in silence, urging Carlisle to continue.

“She was many things when she was still young. A Princess, A Queen, A Knight, A Doctor, A Philosopher, A Genius, She was even a pirate once. Above all, She was a paradox. Unpredictable and Bipolar. Always lived in isolation, I do not know how she manages that but she did. Only comes out of her own tower when needed. She was the one who thought me how to feed on animals, did I ever tell you that?” he asked. They all shook their head no.

“Huh, It must have slipped my mind”

“My, Carlisle. You must be getting old.” An unknown voice suddenly pops out of nowhere.

They all swerved their head to where the unknown voice came from and there stood two figures. Two women to be exact.

“Don’t tease him. 3 decades is a long time.” The other slaps the other.

“I’m sorry for being rude, barging into your home like this. Anastasia was quite insistent on us helping you,” The figure in a green cloak grins

“My name’s Veronica. And this is Amore. We are here to help you.” Veronica smiles gently.

“How...” Emmett gapes

“How did we not hear you? How do I not hear you?” Edward asked, baffled

“Teleportation is the strangest thing isn’t it? It also risks losing a couple limbs.” Amore deadpans

“You... have a pulse.” Bella suddenly blurts out

Amore and Veronica looks at each other before chuckling.

“Ah, we can never escape a newborn’s ears. Yes we have a pulse. Yes we are hybrids as well, just not the same as your daughter.” Vero smiles gently

“Uh-huh. We were witches. Salem witches to be exact. We escaped death when some random vampire bit us the day we were supposed to be burned. Somehow our genes as witches halted the venom from fully consuming our body, so when we awoke, we quickly learned we have every strength yet none of the weaknesses of a vampire.” Amore explains.

“What do you mean?” Esme asks

“Well, for one, we don’t sparkle.” Veronica giggles

“Two, we still bleed. but our blood isn’t appetizing. I’ve been told my blood smells like trash...” Amore grimaces “...I don’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.”

“And three. We still have our witchy abilities.” Veronica finalizes, holding Amore’s hand

Amore then furrows her brows as if threatened and offended.

“Mind reader. Whatever your name is, our goal isn’t to hurt your daughter. If it was, My head would already be a decor on our Queen’s Palace. So don’t poke around.” Amore pointedly looks at Edward who tenses in shock

“Amore. Behave. Now where is the hybrid?” Veronica curiously asks

A shy Renesmee pokes her head out of Bella’s legs, Veronica immediately coos.

“Awwee~ Rey, Look! She’s so cute~” The redhead fusses over a now blushing Renesmee

“You’re overwhelming her.” Amore pulls Veronica from her collar away from the hybrid child. “...Behave.” Amore smirks

Amore crouches down to Renesmee’s height and smiles. Staring at each other as if silently communicating then, Renesmee lifts her hand up to touch Amore’s cheek. She looks forward, in a daze then grins wildly, snapping back to reality.

“You have an amazing gift, Little Cullen. Very pretty too. Would you want me to show you mine?” Amore asks, to which Renesmee nods rapidly, already warming up to the visitors, much to Jacob’s distaste.

“Great, More Leeches.” Jacob glares when he steps into the living room, where he found his imprint near a vampire.

“Too Close” He thinks, shifting into a defensive position while trying not to shift into his wolf.

“Hmm, and here I thought Renesmee couldn’t be more special.” Veronica giggles.

“Calm yourself down, shifter. I don’t want to hurt your imprint.” Amore rolls her eyes, then smiles at Renesmee.

The opens her palms and there lies a mixture of purples, blues, pinks, blacks and whites. The universe is displayed in Amore’s hands, Swirling around as if creating a new planet.

“Illusion is tricky, therefore, only those who believe shall see it.” Amore closes her palms and ruffles the child’s hair.

“Coooooool.” Emmett gapes in amazement.

“Very well, shows over. Wolfie, be a dear and take your imprint on a date, will you?” Amore looks at Jacob with a serious glint in her eyes

Rosalie had to quiet her snort when Amore called Jacob, wolfie. She dislikes shifters with a passion, they stink and is very dangerous. Edward merely smirks at his sister before gulps due to Esme’s glare.

“Stay out of my head!.” Rosalie screamed in her head, making him wince.

As soon as the both of them ensured the child and it’s imprint is out of earshot, Their auras changed into a much more serious and sinister one. Frowns prominent on their faces.

“As we’ve said before, our abilities as witches remained even in this immortal form, but along that, we also attained gifts. Amore being the gift of illusion and Mine being knowledge. I know everything. I’m basically a much more reliable and attractive internet. Although I couldn’t see the future as your dear Alice, Once she gets her vision, it adds to my knowledge bank. Therefore, I have knowledge on the outcome of this battle. And it’s not good.” Veronica glares at the floor, silently seething. The once cheerful and happy woman, turned into an angry blob of mess.

“Aro is as insufferable as ever, He wishes to destroy your coven. He merely needs his evidence and he has been waiting a long time for this. He wouldn’t back down easily. As much as we want to help you, we can’t be seen in your thoughts. Or that will ruin the balance of the worlds. We trust in Alice’s plan, You should too.” Amore seriously states, rubbing her mate’s back

“We need your consent. You all have to trust us. I know it’s not easy, us popping into your lives and all. We must mask your thoughts, One where your memories and thoughts of us are hidden from Aro.” Veronica smiles gently, slowly calming down.

“They’re telling the truth” Maggie, The resident lie detector confirms.

“You may discuss it among yourselves.” Veronica drags Amore away.

Rosalie frowns, Trust doesn’t come easy. Do these strangers seriously ask for her trust without them earning it? That was absurd in her book, the last time she trusted someone on a whim, it caused her demise. Her frown deepens when an unknown feeling bubbles up deep in her. She’s confused, she was confused on as to why she felt jealous, envious. Was it their beauty? No, it wasn’t that. Rosalie knew, even though she was only ever been with men, she knew that she found women attractive, although never really caring about it since they had to come and go. she was offended when people misinterpreted her longing looks as glares of envy, she was only admiring after all. Was it that they found each other then? No, it was something deeper. She was jealous of them for something. Something she doesn’t know. And she hated that. She snarled at them then speeds away to the comfort of her room, without listening to her coven, missing the knowing smirks of both Veronica and Amore. They looked at each other then nodded with grins on their faces.

Yep. They were definitely meant for each other.

#rosalie hale #rosalie hale x oc #jasper hale x alice cullen #edward cullen x bella swan #carlisle x esme #olympic coven #cullen clan #the cullens #cullen family #the volturi #rosalie cullen #rosalie hale x fem oc #platonic carlisle x oc #The Cullens x OC #The Volturi x OC #rosalie twilight #rosalie

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lurkerwithcomputer · 3 years

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WIP Thursday

Nah, that doesn't roll of the tongue the same, does it? A day late I may be, but here's a WIP that's slowly progressing. Some teenage Kouta/Eri, with LoV !Eri.

The rain pours down, turning the dark night blurry as water runs down the window. He can kinda appreciate how the city looks, beyond his window, like one of those moody urban paintings Aunt Shino is probably tired of him putting up in his room. She's one to talk, with the traditional-style paintings of mountains and forests on every surface.

There's a knock on his window and the creak of the outside air duct. He looks over to see a very familiar face looking back. White hair glistens from the inside of her dripping hood. Her jacket might be water-resistant, but it's not a raincoat. It's not meant for what's coming down, but at least it isn't cold outside.

He hops to his feet and yanks the window open.

Fuck, I'm glad Aunt Shino's not home tonight.

"Eri? Holy shit, come in, you're soaked! Just hold on..."

He reaches out with his Quirk, to grasp the water that's dripping off her before it can get all over his floor. Controlling water is trickier than just spraying water with his Quirk, especially when he has to pull it out of fabric, but it doesn't take him that long to have a blob of water suspended between his hands. It floats in the air, jiggling like a dirty gray amoeba of rainwater and gunk. He shoves it out the window, in the same motion as he slams it shut. Free of his control, the water blob drops out of sight.

"Motherfucker!"

Eri looks up, smirking, from wiping her feet with a rag - he keeps them in his room and says it's for wiping junk food off his fingers, which isn't a lie. Technically.

The muffled, snarling yell from below, in the alley under his window, is vaguely familiar. Kouta's heard that voice somewhere before, but his recognition runs dry tonight. Eri's slightly cracked giggling tilts him over, from trying to place the voice to laughing until he can't breathe. Although, he does feel a little bad for whoever just got soaked.

"Oh shit, Dabi's gonna bitch about that for days!" she wheezes.

His laughter stops cold, along with his blood in his veins. Eri seems unconcerned by this piece of information, still giggling.

"Dabi? That Dabi? Did I just fuck up real bad?"

"Relax, Kouta, he's not gonna do anything except be saltier than usual."

He's not entirely reassured, but he'll take Eri's word for it. She shrugs out of her Quirk-dried jacket and Kouta feels a whole new wave of concern wash over him. Her forearms are viciously scabby, scratched to hell like she's shoved her arms into a blender made of fingernails. Her own fingernails, to be precise. Her permanent eyebags have gone deep enough to hide a body or two in them. He knows what she looks like when she's stressed out.

Yeah, she needs this. Those meat-grinder arms don't lie.

"What do you wanna do?"

"Watch something mindless, eat junk food... and sit really close to you. It's that kinda night and that kinda week."

After getting hot pockets, a big bowl of chips, some peach soda, and plugging his laptop into his big screen, this is honestly shaping up to be pretty relaxing. They sit on his bed with a heap of pillows behind them. The crumbs they're gonna get on his blankets are Future Kouta's problem. He leans back against her, because even though he's filled out and grown some muscle, she's grown taller instead. She wraps her arms around his ribs and rests her chin on his shoulder. He swears that a darkly metallic tang rises off her ragged forearms.

His brain chooses that moment to change his attention from the re-runs of an old knife-making show to being very aware of Eri. The way he can feel her body heat through her worn-thin T-shirt. The way she's soft against his back, despite how lean she looks. He's a teenager and he likes her. Yes, that kind of likes her. Sue him.

She brings one hand up to play with his hair.

And her hands are nice. Even if most people's definition of "nice hands" doesn't include scars and callouses, mine does.

Her hand in his hair brings her forearm right up next to his face. Where he can see her scars in too-close detail, old ghost-pale needle marks and methodical, even cut lines. Where he can feel the roughness of her raw, fresh scabbing, and the metallic scent of her self-injuries seeps into his nose. This close he can see something else, beneath more layers of old scars than someone their age should have. Etched on her skin like a fingerprint are pearly, geometric swirls, like Damascus steel, like a pattern-weld.

He shakes off the rather disturbing concept of pattern-welded skin as her other hand joins the first in his hair.

As her touch on his scalp grows firmer he melts into her, and she in turn melts into the pile of pillows, until both of them are far enough back to be staring at the ceiling instead of the screen. He's too deep in the sensations of being close to her to register the sound of the show as anything more than background noise. Her breathing, soft and steady, and slowing as she relaxes too. Her warmth, soaking into him through worn-out fabric. The rub and scratch of her fingers on his scalp, soothing him, melting him further. Her scent, vanilla and lime shampoo, and the dried blood from her arms.

He wonders, distantly, if not being bothered by that particular scent says something about him.

There's an impulse that's been building up while her arm has been right next to his face, next to his lips. It's grown like drops feed into trickles, give rise to rivers, come spilling forth as waterfalls.

He presses a kiss to her pale, scarred and scabby skin, on the underside of her arm. It gives him warm tingles, even as it stains his lips with the taste of stale, sour salt and iron. Above and over his shoulder, there's an inquisitive hum, and her quiet, low, raspy voice. An odd voice for a teenage girl, but it's easy on his ears, like the sound of surf on sand.

"Hmmm. Hey, do that again," she says, soft but eager in a way that's hard to place.

He does, again and again, and the slow-drip buildup of salted rust in his mouth is surprisingly heady, when mixed with the slow scratch of her fingers on his scalp. It's only when he loses track of how many kisses he's left, that he realizes he's tracing the lines of her scars and scabs, rubbery and rough on his lips. Eri's breath ghosts over his neck as she hums again, deeper, from her chest.

Dry, chapped skin presses against the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. He can feel her lips curl up into a smile.

There's a sudden warm pinch.

He flinches and shivers, but not in a bad way - his face heats up and his pulse quickens.

"Um. Did you just bite me?"

"Was it bad?"

"It wasn't bad. Just... a surprise. But I think I like it," Kouta replies, and if his face didn't feel too warm before, it does now.

Eri gives that raspy giggle he's grown to like so much, the one that flows over his ears like the swish of waves. Her lips brush the back of his shoulder again, and one hand leaves his hair to pull the neck of his t-shirt aside. He can't help but lean into the sensations - the texture of her scarred, calloused fingers, the scrape of her teeth, her chapped lips, the warmth of her mouth on him.

He works his way up her arm, trailing kisses, until he has to shift position. It pulls Eri's mouth away from the back of his neck, where he's sure there will be plenty of incriminating hickeys, and a few bite marks, later.

He rolls over to face her, eye to eye. She wordlessly leans back into the side of his neck, chapped lips meeting skin, fingers tangling in his hair again. He follows suit, and her neck goes from cool and damp with residual rainwater, to warm and damp with a hint of her sweat, and probably his saliva, given the hickeys he's leaving.

"Mmmmm... this is much better than stewing," she mumbles from just below his ear.

That takes him out of things just a little, but... but it's probably good that she seems ready to spill whatever's stressing her out.

He sucks one last mark, in the middle of her throat, right above her collarbones, and then rolls off her. He looks her in the eye, briefly, and something flows between them, even if neither knows what.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"I... well. Yeah. It's really Not Okay. I'm Not Okay over it."

Eri sucks in a breath.

"Kouta, they," she swallows audibly and her eyes turn wet, "The HPSC is trying to pressure the government to turn off power and water in neighborhoods that refuse their authority."

His blood flows like ice water in his veins, even as aimless fury boils in his chest. No, not aimless - but where is he gonna point it when society itself is what he's angry at?

Too big of a target. Like I'm trying to defeat an elephant with a sharpened popsicle stick.

He knew something was up - Aunt Shino has been making some dark expressions when she thinks she's alone, and when she got drunk last week she ranted a lot about the HPSC being "disgraceful bastards" without actually saying much about what's going on.

Now that he knows what the problem is, Kouta's pretty sure his choice of words is closer to "Extremely Fucked Up".

His more immediate problem is that he's got no idea what the fuck to say to Eri right now. Comfort has never been his strong suit, for all his experience with being scared and hurt, angry and alone. What he does understand is feeling the need to immediately do something about it.

Eri answers this question for him.

"That's not the really fucked up part," she says, and even though her voice is quiet he can hear her seethe, "it's that they've already started doing it."

"I don't know what to say to that," he says, because he might as well be honest, "That it's horrible, they shouldn't be doing this, I hope it makes human rights people step up their game, that it makes me despise society even more..."

A thought that's been bubbling up slowly, the more he's gotten to know her, washes over him now.

"I guess I get where villains are coming from. The ones who look at society and want to burn it all down, I mean," he says.

Eri stares at him, her eyebags made more prominent by how her blood-red eyes widen.

#lurker writes #WIP #LoV Eri #eri #izumi kouta

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rhetoricalrogue · 4 years

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31 Days of Wayhaven, Day 25

Prompt: Filthy Rating: PG for Hammer Films levels of gore Words: 1,633 Characters: Unit Charlie, circa 2019 Summary: Unit Charlie is dispatched to take care of an unknown monster making its home in service tunnels under the city.

For the @31daysofwayhaven event.

“And why are we attacking this thing with outdated weaponry again?” Winona asked, holding up her rapier and checking the edges.

“Because,” Penny replied, easily holding a longsword in both hands in a ready position as they made their way down a large service tunnel. The fact that she obviously knew how to handle the blade made Winona’s eyebrows raise up to her hairline. “Projectiles don’t seem to hurt it and we were ordered to dispatch and clear the area.”

They hadn’t been given a name as to what sort of monster they were facing, or at least, they hadn’t been given a name that Winona was familiar with. Even nearly four years in this new world, she still didn’t have the same familiarity with the beasts her unit were often asked to protect certain people from, but she really didn’t care. She left the particulars to Cam to research and followed orders he and Penny gave on ways to quickly kill the creatures they were asked to kill.

She hadn’t used a sword in some time, even when she was on the other side of the veil between worlds, so she just hoped that muscle memory would kick in before whatever they were hunting wound up eating them, just as they had eaten several humans unfortunate enough to cross its path.

She briefly closed her eyes and shuddered, feeling the ghost of an impression at her back. Nelros, laughing as he guided her arms into a proper fighting stance, his own arms wrapping around her middle and making her laugh as he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, her laugh turning into a shriek as he blew a raspberry against her skin. Rina...

Winona blinked and the moment was gone, tucked safely away in the recesses of her memory where it was safe. Focus, she admonished herself, holding her weapon at the ready. She and Penny had tracked the monster down a winding set of tunnels and even though she was wearing waterproof boots, Winona imagined she felt the damp sink into her shoes and turn her toes pruney. There wasn’t a distinct reek of waste, seeing as this wasn’t a sewer system, but there was a pungent odor in the air, something stale and lingering, like mold that had been allowed to flourish in a damp environment. The sooner they got rid of this creature, the better, in her opinion.

“Any movement on your end?” Cam’s voice came through on their radios and was an instant soothing presence.

“Creepy monsters or sewer gators,” Nicky added, causing Winona to snort.

“Nothing to report,” Penny replied for them. “Anything where you’re at?”

“Absolutely nothing. Kinda getting bored.”

Winona rolled her eyes. “So sorry hunting down a weird monster known for eating civilians is boring. Next time we’ll make sure to get a more exciting assignment for you.” She would have said something else, but Penny stopped cold in her tracks and held a hand out.

“We’ve got more evidence of…” she curled her lip up. “Feeding patterns.”

Winona covered her nose with her sleeve as she used the point of her rapier to poke at the dark maroon pile of sludge. She didn’t have to prod much to uncover what looked like the skeletal remains of an arm. “Did we ever decide if this is monster shit or something like an owl pellet?” she asked, backing away from the pile.

“Whatever end this came out of,” Penny said, holding her sword at the ready, “I really don’t want to find myself inside one of these.”

“Agreed.” She looked to her right, where she saw another pile of a similar size. “Looks like the trail goes that way.”

The two of them followed the right hand trail, noticing that the ground shifted ever so slightly in a downward slope. The smell of rotting plant material was stronger, and Winona could hear the faintest trickle of water echo in front of them. She was about to comment that she was grateful that the small square safety lighting that illuminated the service tunnels were still working, when she realized that the way before them was dark. She also noticed that the smooth concrete floor had grown rough, her boots sinking into mud instead.

“Penny? You seeing what I’m seeing?”

Penny nodded. “Yeah. End of the line for the tunnel. Looks like it busted through from here.” She pressed at her shirt collar to relay their findings to Cam and Nicky, adding that it was probably for the best if they all explored the next area together as a team instead of trying to pinch this thing in on two sides.

Penny’s eyes grew wide and she took a breath before pressing on her collar again. “Cameron, move your ass.”

Winona dove out of the way as something massive barreled towards them, the stench of rot coming off it in waves so powerful that it made her gag. “What is that thing?” she yelled, using the wall of the tunnel to bounce off of to avoid getting hit by a large limb.

“What we came looking for!” Penny yelled, striking with a powerful two handed grip in a downward arc. The monster howled in pain and lashed out. Winona yelled out a warning, darting behind it to stab with her rapier before zipping out of range again. The fight went on for several minutes, Penny’s brute strength cutting off chunks of what Winona could only describe as a sort of being that looked like the monster out of the 80s version of The Blob, except instead of being a strange purple color, was a dark brown, almost as if some sludgy pile of mud had become sentient and decided to snack on humans. Winona did the best that she could to help, zipping in and out of range and providing weak points for Penny to focus on.

The fight was over when, with a mighty howl that echoed down the tunnel, Penny hefted her sword up and swung it in a dazzling arc, severing the lump of a head right before it lunged at her and tore into her body with its jagged, serrated teeth.

“Do you think we did it?” Winona asked, walking around the seemingly lifeless body warily, blade at the ready.

Penny took a few gulping lungfuls of air and did the same, the dim light from the last safety lantern in the tunnel behind them catching the sheen of sweat on her brow. “I sure hope so.”

She kept her attention on the fallen monster, but Winona’s head whipped back at the sound of feet running in their direction. “Penelope!” Her shoulders slumped forward in relief at the sound of Cameron’s worried voice reaching them long before he did. She was in the middle of shouting out an all-clear when Penny yelled out a warning, her sword sinking into the mass of fallen monster as it twitched.

It was probably a bad idea. The moment Penny’s longsword sank into the monster’s flesh, it erupted in a wave of gore, covering both of them in an explosion of filth. Winona happened to get the worst of it on her back - and she grimaced as she felt it slide down her back in chunks and drip into her boots - but Penny hadn’t been so lucky. She’d been facing the monster when it happened, and Winona slowly turned to see that her friend was covered, head to toe, in deep, viscus reddish brown ichor.

Both of them stood in silent horror, Penny breathing hard as she held her arms out from her body. “Add self-detonation post mortem to the list of unknown entity’s attributes,” she huffed out. “Oh god, I’m going to be sick.”

Winona winced in sympathy as Penny quickly turned away from the main mass and retched, her hands braced on the slippery brick wall of the tunnel as Cam rubbed comforting circles at her relatively clean back, his lips curled up as he tried to find a cleanish spot to grab her hair that had fallen out of her ponytail at to hold it away from her face for her.

“You two are not riding in the van on the way back to the Facility,” Nicky commented, daintily using a cotton swab on a long stick to collect a sample from Winona’s shoulder. “At least not without thoroughly hosing both of you down first.”

“Your concern is touching, Nicky, it really is.” Winona waited until Nicky had used his phone to call the all-clear to the agents waiting aboveground, informing them of their position and letting them know that the cleanup crews were definitely going to be needed. Once he put his phone away, she shook her arm in his direction, sending bits of ichor flying at him.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” he yelled, jumping backwards to avoid the arc of gore. “It could have gotten in my mouth, piccolina!”

Listening to Nicky’s complaints, Winona began the trek back towards the surface, feet squelching in whatever she was covered in with every step. She really hoped that the cleanup crews had hot water on hand, because she was going to require almost boiling temperatures to rid herself of the cold, gross feeling she was now experiencing.

Another mass of filth slid from the back of her head down to the floor and she picked up her pace. Being huddled into an emergency shower and given paper underwear suddenly sounded like the best idea ever, if it meant being free of dead monster bits.

Her hand fumbled at the radio at her shirt collar. “Cam?”

“Yeah?”

“I want a milkshake after we get cleaned up. A big one.”

A fond chuckle crackled over the airwaves. “I’ll see what I can do.”

#31daysofwayhaven #my writing #Unit Charlie #gore tw

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a-copper-butterfly · 5 years

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Title Suggestions Needed!

OK so i posted this before but i have edited it a bit and added a new intro. im still not sure if i should continue this but what the hay, have a look and give us some feed back. :)

here is my re-write of good omens where the ineffable husbands raise Adam.

Monday, five days before the end of the world.

It was sunny, well, as sunny as it every was in the centre of London.

For those you don’t know, London is a vaguely potato shaped blob about ten miles across, with its own weather system which is almost entirely different to that of the rest of the UK.

Warlock was moping along his nose glued to his phone (not literally, thought Crowley sometimes wished he could get close enough with some glue without the little nuisance noticing.) Warlock had perfected the art of nearly completely ignoring the world around him, but remining just aware enough that he could complain at anyone who might distract him. His mother was walking along admiring the sculptures, pausing now and then to read an information sign. She did this much in the same manner as most people the world over when they want to look more intelligent than they are. They don’t actually read what is written on the information board, just frown and nod like you agree with what ever had been said then point to it and repeat a few lines when a friend or family member joins you. Thus, the whole cycle repeats itself.

A little way from the stroppy pre-teen, representatives of both heaven and hell discussed the fate of the world.

“I mean, he could just disappear,” suggested the Demon. He was slouched on the wooden bench. This was a master level slouch of someone who had trained for years to hold his body in such a position. A normal person if attempting this would pull a muscle if not worse.

The Angel that sat prim and proper next to him frowned,

“I don’t see how hiding him would help?” he said, which earned a glare form his companion. The thick sunglasses that covered the Demons yellow eyes obscure the fond irritation directed at the angel.

“I mean kill him Angel,” he clarified.

The Angel shuffles in his seat uncomfortable about this conversation. He tried to change the subject, but not too much avail.

“Are you going to get him a dog?” Azriaphale looks over at Crowley, know full well that he had been asked to provide the hound and that this was purely a diversion.

“I thought you were going to sort that out.” Crowley responded, rolling his concealed eyes.

“Why are we getting him a dog anyway.”

Crowley gave a side glances at his companion, silently noting the use of “we”.

Azriaphale wasn’t done with his grumbling, “Do remember the hamster?” he continued.

“Sir hamserlot? Yeah.” Crowley cringed at the memory of the tan and white little rodent. The poor thing when through so meant names it was a wonder it didn't have identity issues.

“How meant times did we have to pull that poor creature back from the jaws of death?” Aziraphale says shaking his head. The poor thing had eventual snuffed it permanently when the boy had gotten it into his head that hamsters could swim. They can, much like rats, but being put in a crudely made ship and pushed out on a duck pond in the middle of winter would be terminal for most rodents or any other small mammal.

A dog is a bit bigger. This was the only argument Crowley could come up with at the time.

“Well” Azriaphale relented “he is a bit older now.”

Crowley shuffled further into his slouch.

“It's the end if the world Angel.” He muttered gloomily, “Just give the kid what he wants. And he wants a dog.”

Aziraphale flinched at this painful truth.

“Well you have a point dear. Fine, he can have a dog.”

There was a pause as they watched Warlock ignore the world around him and play on his phone. The cartoonish sounds of games annoying the people around him. Crowley smirked; apps had been one of his ideas. Well, according to hell they were. Humans were always doing his job for him; he just took the credit when the higher ups asked about it. He sighs and slips back into the conversation about the end of the world.

“We’d better be there when the dog arrives” Crowley said darkly.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. I think he can look after himself and a dog for a few hours. He is old enough now, don’t you think?” Aziraphale smiles nodding in agreement with himself.

Crowley shot the angel a withering look.

“I meant the hellhound and Warlock, not some overly excited puppy with a bladder size of a spoon. This is going to a monster. The biggest they have got, according to downstairs.”

Aziraphale lip touched in a pout. “Oh” was all he said.

“I'm going as waiting staff don't want people recognizing me.” Crowley continued. “Can you bring him?”

“He said he doesn’t want to go. Said warlock isn't fun to hang out with anymore.” Aziraphale said, fumbling with a button on his sleeve cuff.

“Too bad. He is going to seeing a lot more of him whether he likes it or not. That is if there is anything after.” Crowley responded darkly. He still hadn’t figure how they were going to make it through the next few days.

A sudden though shot through Aziraphale mind.

“I could be the entertainment! I’ll brush up on my magic!” he said excitedly, beaming at the idea.

“Oh no, angel, please don’t. Really, it’s humiliating.” Crowley protested, “You can do miracles, why bother doing sleight of hand when you’re not good at it?” Aziraphale bounced in his seat. This was going to be fun.

One late august night just outside the small village of Tadfield,

When a snake regurgitates its food, its normally because it had been grabbed or handle soon after eating or is otherwise subjected to stress.

As Crowley knelt in damp grass on the bank beside the road, he wiped his mouth. The light from the Bentley’s open door revealing the grey sludge that was even now burning the grass. The small part of Crowley’s mind that wasn’t screaming in panic wondered when the last time he had eaten was. Without the help of the rest of his brain, he guessed around six years ago.

Pushing himself up onto wobbly legs, Crowley slid back into the driving seat, switched on the radio as he did so. As he pulled the car back onto the road, Crowley checked the rear-view mirror. The carry cot was still there. This was real.

“Shit, shit, shit, why me, why me?” he muttered to himself. The radio crackle,

“BECAUSE YOU EARNED IT CROWLEY” came the voice of Freddy Mercury.

“Fuck…” though Crowley.

Sister Annabelle Houghton was totally normal, much to the annoyances of her parents. They were traditional occultists who gave her supposedly cursed china dolls and pretty, frilly dresses in attempts to get her possessed. They had even moved at an old house which the nice estate agent had made very clear was the site of quite a few murders and ghost stories. It even had its own graveyard in the garden. Her swing was hung in an old knarred oak tree which legend had it was used as a hangman’s gibbet, but she never used it. When Annabelle eventually grew up, her parents had lamented and had sent her off to the Sisterhood of Chattering Nuns of St Beryl. Not too worried about this, Annabelle went along as she thought it might be interesting.

Now she sat looking out of one of the convent’s window keeping watch for the arrive of Master Crowley and the baby boy he carried with him. The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. She was very excited; this was a big day and she, Sister Annabelle, would be part of it. A cup of tea sat on the windowsill beside her. It had gone cold hours ago, No matter.

A car came screaming through the gates of the convert an excitement jolting up her spine. Sister Annabelle leapt from her seat and began to quickly click her way down the hall towards the foyer. She turned the corner expecting to see one of her sisters talking to Master Crowley but broke into a run when she saw which sister it was. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Sister Mary Loquacious, she was a lovely person when you were sat having a chat, it was just that things, important things, tended to go wrong when she was involved.

“Mother Superior! Mater Crowley is here!” she half-yelled, her fists full of her skirt as she leaped down the three little steps leading up to the corridor. Crowley quickly ducked behind a column in responses to the shouting. Shouting mostly lead to pitchforks, torches and a bad time for him.

“Greeting Master Crowley” she said, tried to smile and make her voice sound cheerful but her eyes were screaming at Sister Mary Loquacious. If she wasn’t holding The Anti-Christ, she may have shoved her out of harm’s way (harm’s way meaning any damage Sister Loquacious could cause to others, not the other way around). Sister Annabelle stopped next to her sister, peering at the bundle in her arms. The baby gurgled quietly. She quickly curtsied to Master Crowley who was still looking between the nuns wondering if he could slip out before anyone noticed.

The double doors leading to the hospital rooms flew open and a furious old nun stormed through. This was not part of the plan. She ran her icy gaze over the two nuns, who both know the consequences of that stare. Her eyes found Crowley who was trying not to look like a rabbit in the headlights, he was a demon after all. There was no escape now.

Long hair, sunglasses, modern suit, snakeskin shoes? Not what she though one of hell’s best demons would look like. She raised an eyebrow and forced a smile.

“Master Crowley, you’re just in time.” she walked slowly with an air of control. Crowley drew himself up to his full height. The Mother Superior had the eyes of a school master and they are well known for making even the naughtiest individuals squirm.

“Sister Annabelle, please go and retrieve the child of the ambassador and inform the other sisters that the switch will be taking places presently.” she smiled at the terrified nun who swallowed and nodded, turning to hurrying down the hall. Crowley tried to sidle towards the door. He stopped dead when the older nun eyes dropped on him. He tried to give her a confident smile.

“Master Crowley, if you would just pop over to the desk, we have a few papers for you to sign just to keep everything in order.” she turned and glided over to the foyer desk and began to draw papers out of a file. Crowley reluctantly followed her, dumping the now empty carry cot on the desk before propping himself up on it.

Sister Mary Loquacious frowned. She rocked the Anti-Christ in her arms. He was chewing on his hand. She had checked, it didn’t have claws. She looked up at Master Crowley and frowned again. She walked over to the desk,

“Umm Master Crowley?” she asked and terrifying yellow eyes looked at her over dark sunglasses. Something in the very pit of her soul screamed and told her to run. It was the same part that makes skulls scary, even though they are always smiling. She took a step back,

“Yeah?” he grunted. Mother Superiors levelled her glare at the Sister. She didn’t notice, now over the shock of yellow eyes she felt bolder,

“What is going to happen to the spare baby?” she asked. Crowley rolled his eyes to the Mother superior who was trying to set the younger nun on fire via sheer force of will. Without taking her eyes of her pray the Mother Superior said,

“Yes, that was something I was going to ask you as well Master Crowley. We are willing to go through with the switch, but we want nothing to do with disposing of the baby,” her eyes now turned on Crowley “We may be satanic Nuns, but we are not monsters.” Crowley paused at this juxtaposition. He huffed and turned back to the paperwork, one of hells better inventions,

“Put it in the carry cot, I will deal with it,” Crowley replied absentmindedly. “Sure, why not?” Crowley thought “Not like it will matter in a few years anyway”. Sister Mary Loquacious ginned the kind of grin that would suggest she didn’t quite understand what was going on.

“Sister Mary, please take The Young Lord down to Sister Annabelle.” Mother Superior said as she started pulling out more official looking papers. Crowley slouched at the prospect of more paperwork. Sister Mary Loquacious nodded happily and pushed through the double doors leading to the hospital rooms. Now that The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness was out of eyesight, Crowley felt a weight off his back. He no longer wanted to vomit.

Sister Mary Loquacious had found a potable cot for the anti-Christ, in which he now rested. his red blanket tucked around him. She pushed him down the hall spotting sister Annabelle pushing a similar cot out of room 4. Sister Mary paused outside room 3 ready to make the swap. A putrid smell began to waft up the hall. Both sisters gaged. A similar smell began to rise form the baby in the cot in front of Sister Mary and the babies began to cry in unison. Sister Annabelle reached Sister Mary, her face pushed into her shoulder and her eyes watering.

“I think our lord has made us an offering,” she gaged as she spoke, “and this little man has also given us a gift too”. She pushed open the door to delivery room 3 and hurriedly pushed the cot in. Sister Mary followed with her own charge.

“You change the babies and I will fetch the carry cot from Master Crowley.”. It was clearly just a excuse to getting out of having to be in same room as the stench for any longer but Sister Mary didn’t want to argue. The smell was truly awful.

In the bed, Mrs Young turned over a frown wrinkling her brow, some internal mothering instinct told her that a baby needed changing but something else told her it wasn’t hers so sleep on.

Sister Mary hesitated as she plucked the Anti-Christ from his cot and laid him on the changing table beside the door. She unwrapped the blanket and dropped it back in the cot. The baby whimpered as she removed the dirty nappy and cleaned him. She cooed at him. “Imagine little me changing the Destroyer of worlds’ nappy and powdering his little tush.” Sister Mary thought to herself. The baby in the other cot began to cry.

The mother in the bed yawned but stayed asleep. In an attempted sooth the baby, Sister Mary picked the ambassadors baby up. He was a chunky baby and quite heavy. Sister Mary had to shift him about a bit before they were both comfortable. The white blanket was lost in this juggling. As she bounced the baby the door to the room opened. Expecting sister Annabelle, Sister Mary turned to face the door where a man peering around the door.

“Err Hello. I’m the father, the husband, whatever.” He stammered, walking over to stand by his wife. Looking up he wondered over to the babies looking down at the baby on the changing table.

“Is this him?” he asked in awe. The baby looked up at him and immediately began to cry. Terrified about what he had done he scooped up the baby and began to pat his back.

“Umm no, these two not yours. Your baby is with your wife over there.” She nodded towards Mrs Young and the cot next to her.

Sister Mary was beginning to gag over the smell coming from the baby in her arms, she laid him on the changing table and began to clean him up.

After soothing the baby in his arms, Mr Young laid the baby down in the empty crib. He picked up the white blanket and tucked it around the baby. He walked over to the cot next to his wife and looked down at the baby. A small part of him was hopeful that he would look upon the face of his child and instantly recognized it as his own. But when he looked down at the sleeping baby, he looked identical to the two with the nun. This one was a little smaller but there wasn’t a moment of recognition. Of course, he didn’t say that. He smiled and looked back at the nun who was disposing of the nappy in a small bin next to the table.

“You know he looks like me.” He said proudly. The Nun smiled at him, rewrapping the baby,

“Have you thought of a name?” she asked. There was a nervous air about her. That probably came with having to look after two babies at once. He had new respect for people with twins and triplets.

They had discussed names but not come to any solid concoctions, they had a name if it had been a girl and after twitching the blanket back it couldn’t be used anymore. The baby snuffled in its sleep; Mr. Young jumped back afraid that he would make it cry like he had the other child.

“We haven though of any names for a boy,” he explained as the nun had finished changing the baby in front of her. Then, looking down at the second with a frown, she looked at the baby in her arms. After a moment hesitant, she seemed to come to a conclusion and plopped it in the second cot wrapping it in the red blanket.

“Well, what about the classic like Luke, John, Adam. Bible names and the like?” She rocked the babies in the cots. Mr. Young though about this for a second as he looked back at his son. He didn’t really look like any of those names, but they were good honest names. Suddenly a nun scuttled into the room. She looked a little out of breath. She looked at Mr. Young the way one would look at a velociraptor. She managed to school her features and smile at him.

Sister Annabelle had returned to the front desk and immediate run into Mr. Young who had asked what room his wife was in. Directing the man to the room without a though until she had picked up the carry cot. She had just sent an imposter into the same room as The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. Picking up her heels again, she took off down the hall and was now stood with Sister Mary, two babies and the carry cot. She turned her slightly manic smile on Sister Mary. She winked. Sister Mary Winked back. They smiled at each other.

“Baby removal services,” she laughed pushing the baby with the red blanket out of the room. She pointed at the carry cot next to the remaining baby and nodded down the hall. Sister Mary nodded back. She placed the carry cot on the changing surfaces and placed the remaining baby in the white blanket in it. Scooping up baby and carry cot she moved to leave the room,

“Umm,” said Mr. Young using the tone of someone who doesn’t want to be a bother but is no doubts going to be a problem.

“Is there any paperwork I need to fill in,” he asked nervously. Always ready to be helpful, Sister Mary nodded and beckoned for him to follow her. It wasn’t until they entered the hall that she realized this might have been a bad decision. She could see Master Crowley’s back to her when Mr. Young held the door open. Trying to think fast she walked up to him putting the now full carry cot next to him on the desk.

“Here is you son Master Crowley,” she said as way of explanation. The yellow eyes turned on her and the primal urge to run shot up her spine. Mr. Young was too distracted to notice, walking up next to her and leaned against the desk.

“Umm, does the birth certificate need signing?” he asked looking over the desk at all the papers. The Mother Superior who had been overseeing Crowley filling out all the correct papers in the right places. It wouldn’t do to have buggered up the paperwork on such a big job. She pulled a file over the papers and put on her best plastic smile. She flicked through the relevant files and produced a birth certificate for Mr. Young. She also pulled one out and handed it to Crowley. Conscious of the presents of Mr. Young, Crowley took the offered page. Mr. Young peeked into cot at the baby.

“He’s a cute one,” he says trying to rope Crowley into a conversation so he can talk about his own kid. Crowley doesn’t acknowledge him. Not deterred, Mr. Young filled in the birth certificate leaving the name till last. He still needed to talk to his wife about it.

“Though of a name yet?” he asked. Again, this was met by silenced. Mr. Young looked over at Crowley, he was well dressed and very out of places here. He didn’t have the look of expectant father. He looked worried.

“We were thinking about Adam,” he continued. This conversation was going to happen even if he had to do it himself. However, this got a reaction out of the other man. He laughed. He snorted then laughed out loud.

“Something wrong with Adam?” Mr. Young questioned, getting slightly defensive over a possible name for his son. The man pushed his long hair back away from his face. He was handsome, even Mr. Young had to admit that.

“No, it’s a fine name. But I knew an Adam once, he was a complete bastard,”.

Sister Mary giggled under her breath. But then frowned at the thought of how a demon knew the original Adam. She puzzled over this for the rest of the conversation.

Mr. Young let his shoulders drop,

“What would you suggest then?” he asked sheepishly. Crowley turned on him and Mr. Young had to squash a sudden urge to back away and make himself small. Crowley looks him up and down before speaking. His emotionless sunglasses making it feel like he wasn’t blinking. He wasn’t but behind the glasses no one could tell.

“Something royal may be. Henry, James, William?” he suggested. Mr. Young felt better about these names.

Crowley looked back at the almost complete page in front of him.

“It doesn’t matter, it will all be over in eleven years anyway.” Crowley mumbled glumly as he looked at the last section of the certificate

FIRST NAME:

It was blank. He stared at it. Did he have to name it?

“Oh,” Mr. Young said confused. In an effort to change the typic he looked into the cot again, “You know, he looks like an Adam.” he added.

Crowley huffed but he couldn’t think of anything better. Plus, it made sense in an ironic way. Crowley scribbled the name down on the final dotted line on the page pushing it towards the nun. He snatched the carry cot of the desk and strode out the lobby. Mr. Young tried to wave goodbye, but Crowley was long gone.

Sister Annabelle handed the baby to the ambassador’s wife who looked down at him with the love of a first-time mother,

“Sorry that took so long Your Ladyship, he is such a scrumptious little man. Every nun in the convent had to coo at him,” Sister Annabelle sighed as she stood back, her job was done. She really needs a cup of tea now.

Mother Superior quietly pushed open the door and came in.

“Oh what a little lord,” she said causing all nuns in the room to smile. “Have you thought of a name?”

The convent burnt down that night. However, the only paperwork that was destroyed was form that night. Apart from the birth certificate of one James Henry Young

Crowley pulled the Bentley into a short dead-end road that was the entrances to a farmer’s field. He cut the engine and the lights of the snarling beast of a car disappeared, leaving only the dark hedgerow in front of him.

The silence enveloped the car, seeming to seep in through all the gaps in the doors and poured out of the vents. Soon Crowley was engulfed in it. He paused, appreciating the moment. The sound of the engine cooling was the only noise that could be heard inside the car. The carry cot next to him cooed. He looked over at his new acquisition and pulled it closer to him. He carefully pulled the small and oh so delicate baby out and laid him across his knees looking up at him. The baby yawned but seemed very much awake. The white blanket that was bundled around him stopping his arms from moving.

Crowley huffed and rubbed his faces pushing his glasses off slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to mutter at the baby,

“Okay first test,”

He pulled his glasses off completely and crouched over the baby sticking his tough out. Letting the glamor over it drop so the tips flicked over the babies scrunched up little nose. His eyes almost glowed yellow in the darkness he didn’t show his true, true form just these small parts. The Baby screeched and Crowley jerked back worried, but unsurprised, that he had terrified the poor thing. When the screech turned into a gurgling laugh, he looked back at the baby who had wiggled free an arm and was grabbing at Crowley with a gummy grin. Slight confused Crowley rewrapped the baby in his white blanket and shifted it to be cradled in his arms,

“Okay so you passed the first test. Now we need to go other some ground rules if this arrangement is going to work out.”.

The baby babbled at him trying to wiggle free of his confines. He seemed fine with the whole yellow eyes and snake toung though. Probably knew no different, Crowley wondered leaning back in the driver’s seat.

“So I will house you, feed you and take care of you until you have worked out how to use a toilet after that we can look into the walking, talking, reading, writing business but there are some conditions that you have to uphold,”.

The baby sneezed, looked shocked at this strange turn of events, blinked a few times before looking back up at the demon. Now that he had the baby’s attention again Crowley continued,

“Firstly, the family you came from, the one that has the antichrist.” The baby watched him with uncanny eyes that seemed to understand what he was saying. That or more worryingly for Crowley he was ranting at a newborn infant that had no idea what was going on and was just watching him make noises in the dark car.

“Warlock, they called him Warlock.”

The baby gave him a half smile, hoping that the smile was from recognizing the name.

“You’re gonna have to be friends with that brat. secondly you will not get in my way or interfere with my work.”

The baby yawned at him. It seemed that all the excitement was getting the better of him its eyes began to slip closed. Crowley rocked him slightly trying not to enjoy holding the child, a small part of him that was thought to be long dead, started to thaw. He placed the baby back in the carry cot in the passenger’s seat. The baby whimpered at the movement but settled back in the crib snuggling into the blanket.

Crowley backed out and onto the road, where was the nearest mother care?

Azriaphale had just got back to the book shop when the phone rang. He paused hanging his coat up on its peg, before picking it up, he suspected who it might be but wasn’t sure. He plucked the phone from the handle and held it daintily to his ear,

“I’m dreadfully sorry but I’m afraid we are closed at the...,” his polite but discouraging scripted was cut by a very familiar voice,

“It’s me Angel.”

It sounded although Crowley was making this call from a phone box. Oh dear, what trouble had he gotten himself into now.

“Crowley? Is that you?” he asked anyway knowing the answer,

“Yes. We need to talk.” He said matter of factly.

“Yes, I rather think we do.” Azriaphale thought of the conversation he had had with Gabriel earlier that day.

Crowley looked through the window of the Bentley at the sleeping baby inside. He hung up the phone and got back into the car. He looked over at the child. He was so small. Crowley stroked his cheek with a black nailed finger.

“You have no idea what is going on. I envy you Adam,” the baby sighed in his sleep.

#good omens #good omens fic #Ineffable Husbands #crowley x aziraphale #crowley good omens #aziraphale good omens #adam young good omens #fanfic

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restrainedubiquity · 5 years

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Into the Darkness

It was early when she slipped out from under his arm. Or late, depending on how you looked at it. The artificial lighting was still on night mode, casting a dim orange glow down the empty concrete walls. Were the stars still out? Had the sun started to rise? Was it raining? Snowing? They’d taken so much of the outside for granted when they landed, slept through sunrises, worked through sunsets, ran for shelter from the rain instead of dancing in it. And now they’re trapped again, rationing again, dying again when they never got more than a few days to live.

She’s tired of it all; consumed by a bone-deep exhaustion, but unable to sleep. This is when she works. In the quiet dark of not-quite-morning, when no one roams the halls, when no one was around to see, she slips into the morgue and start her day amongst the dead.

Abby doesn’t know when she started talking to him, but now he’s a natural part of her day, her partner in crime. Abby Griffin and the ghost of Thelonious Jaha: the butchers of the Wonkru Bunker. She kept it light at first, just needing to fill the silence even if it was with her own voice.

She lost the levity a while back, her humanity further back than that. Now she’s just lost.

The lights turn on when she enters, harsh fluorescents that have her hiding her eyes in the bend of her elbow and smacking out against the wall until the lights dim to something tolerable. There are three bodies laid out for her, stripped of their clothes, cleaned of blood, covered in a sheet. It’s all she’ll allow Jackson to do. He’s never entered this room when it wasn’t empty and cleansed of the sins she commits here. No one has. No one will.

He sets scalpels out for her, blades as sharp as the first time he laid them out for her. She pushes them aside as she does each morning, reaching instead for the knife in her boot. Niylah had given it to her when she first resolved to do this on her own. It was bulky the first few times, she sliced her hand bad enough that Jackson had to stitch her palm back together. Now, it’s an extension of her arm.

The first body is dealt with before she stops to wipe the sweat from her brow, before her steady hand starts to tremble. “Not as long today,” she tells whatever ghost is listening as she slides down the wall to the floor and fishes a little orange bottle out of her boot. “I’m sorry,” she whispers not knowing who she’s apologizing to for her failings. She knows she’s killing herself slowly. Knows the science of the addiction, the chemical composition, the risk she takes every time she forces down another capsule. They don’t last as long; they don’t help as much, but she doesn’t know any other way to survive in the dark. There’s no more path to follow out, no more light at the end of the tunnel. Not for her.

She squeezes her eyes tight until the medication takes hold. She feels herself receding it spreads through her, filling her once again with emptiness. Normally, when she reaches this equilibrium between functioning and feeling she’s quick to rise and finish her work before it fades again. Today she’s tired; today she stays on the floor and stares up at the pile of protein that yesterday was a man from Trikru. It’s quiet. Too quiet with only the sound of the lights humming and her pulse beating in her ears. So she talks. Soft and low, confessions meant only for those who can no longer betray them.

“I never thought I’d miss the protein packs on the Ark. Do you remember those? The color that wasn’t even a color, just blob of grayish, brownish…” she trails off, pressing her fists into her eyes until colors burst behind her lids. “Did you like the pasty blob or the dry blob? They were the same, you know. They just added water to the dry and put it in a tube. It was all about perception. We thought we had variety; we thought we were given a choice. We weren’t. Same old blob.

“They’re pink now. Perfect little pink cubes all pressed together so you don’t know if you’re eating a shoulder, a kidney, a thigh...It’s just protein. Just protein. Just what we have to do to survive. It’s what we have to do. It’s what I have to make them do because if they don’t...if they don’t, they die. People I love die, the human race dies.” Her head drops to her knees, hands pressed flat to the cold floor to stave off the tilt of of the room.

“How did you do it? How did you do it all those years? How did you make these choices? I hated you. God, I hated you for making us monsters, for forcing us to choose who lives and who dies. But you had to. And you had to live with it. How did you do that? Did you know that this was going to happen? Is that why you wouldn’t let me save you? I could have saved you!” her voice rises, echoes in the room. She looks around expecting to see herself yelling at her from above. “I’m good,” her voice continues, softer and trembling. “I was good. These hands made hearts beat again, sewed flesh back together, put air back into lungs.

“They’re still good. They can skin a body, cut muscle from bone, harvest organs and get everything into a perfect...little...cube,” she turns her hands over and over inspecting strong tendons, short bitten nails, spotted with life and death.

“I was so selfish when I asked him not to include me in the lottery. So so selfish. I could have saved one person then. One. And now, now I think I could save at least five? Maybe seven. I look at my body and all I see is muscle and bone but there’s organs, blood, marrow,” she chuckles dryly, eyes darting around the dark room letting memories of Mount Weather filter in. She digs her fingers into her knee, pushing hard into scar tissue, into nerves that haven’t quite healed. The pain barely registers.

“I don’t feel anything anymore, Thelonious. Nothing. He used to help, his arms, his voice, his cock. He used to help. But nothing helps anymore. I don’t feel anything. I can’t let him touch me because if he touches me than he’s helping me. If he makes me feel better than he’d be helping me do this thing; he’d be complicit in it. And he’s a good man. He’s a good, good man and I won’t put this on him. I’ll keep us alive and he’ll make sure we deserve to live. How’s that for irony.”

“He knows. He knows I still take the pills. I can see it in the way he looks at me. He’s sad. Disappointed. I’m hurting him, but I can’t stop. I can’t feel it. I can’t let him know. He can’t see. He can’t…” she’s shaking again, breath heaving into her lungs, tears and snot running down her face into her tangled hair. It’s too soon. She knows it’s too soon it can’t have been an hour since she took the last pill. It’s too soon, but her shaking hands are opening the bottle, fishing out the only thing that can get her up to finish her task. She fights through hiccuped sobs to swallow it down; it scratches as she struggles to pull enough saliva to move it along.

She finishes her work quickly once the second pill kicks in, making up for the time she wasted lost in her spiraling thoughts. What she can’t use from the bodies gets burned, the room scrubbed and mopped, surgical instruments rolled back to their position beside the empty metal table. When she leaves it looks like nothing’s happened in that haunted place.

The hallways are still dim when she returns to their room. He’s still in bed where she left him, but she doesn’t go to him yet. She heads to the shower, letting the hot water cleanse her body, the steam fill her lungs. When she emerges, pink and pruny, she’s still blissfully numb.

“Come back to bed,” his voice startles her as she reaches blindly into the drawer for the clothes she washed blood from the night before. “Abby,” he says more firmly, reaching across the small space and brushing his fingers against her bare hip. “Come back to bed. Please.” She shouldn’t. She doesn’t deserve to. But she’s too far into the high to remember why she’s punishing herself. So she takes his hand and lets him pull her down onto the mattress.

The pills quiet her thoughts. They let her sleep. Let her push past Abby and Dr Griffin, past the butcher she’s become until she’s only hands that do what they must to feed her people. The pills let her face the world without categorizing muscle mass, without picturing where she’d make her first incision. The pills let him touch her without her mind wandering to whether or not she’d be able to dissect the arms that hold her through the nightmares, if she’d recognize the taste of his flesh on her tongue as she does now. Open mouthed kisses pressing half-heartedly into his shoulder as he moves over her, as he tells her how much he loves her, as he silently cries for the woman she used to be.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she rolls away. The pills take the pain, but with it goes the passion.

“Me too,” he reaches for her tentatively this time, fingers barely touching her arm yet she still flinches at the contact. Marcus moves his hand away letting it drop to the mattress between them. She hears him breathing, slow and steady; feels it raise goosebumps on her back. “Tell me how to help you, Abby. Tell me how to get you back?” his voice breaks. She won’t turn to see the tears she knows he’s crying. She won’t because she can’t cry for herself anymore. The bed barely moves when she rises, silently dresses, and takes a pill.

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