#find me among the crimson trails { musing }

[crimsonbathed]

“ Won’t let a single sinew go to waste. You should stop, you know, you know you should. But nothing else could make me feel this good. “

Azalea Carrion /|\ Exile

Feast upon the sweet flesh of those provided by the island, for it will sustain you, should you sustain it.

Bio /|\ About /|\ Playlist /|\ Never /|\ Headcanons

Penned by Nyx, she/her, est

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

The Broken Spirit

Five years ago, Stiles Stilinski went missing. Derek’s pack find him in the basement of an abandoned bank, but he’s not the same kid he was when he disappeared.

 For @originfire 

[AO3]

 He lay on the cold stone floor, curled up in a ball.

He drew in shaky breaths, his body trembling as the icy chill of the darkness seeped into his veins.

His lips quivered as another wave of tears welled in his eyes.

The stone walls rose around him. There were no windows, no light. The only way in and out of the room was the heavy vault door that locked from the outside.

His stomach had stopped growling, replaced by an unending ache.

The heavy iron shackle that was clamped onto his legs tore at his pale skin, leaving angry red welts, weeping blisters and streams of blood across his skin.

He didn’t know how long he had been there—days, weeks, months—but he had long given up any hope of being rescued; he’d given up any chance of ever getting out of there.

His eyes grew heavy, his body weakening.

He blinked his eyes open, watching as the shadows began to warp and morph around an emerging figure.

A creature pulled itself forward out of the darkness. Their body was gaunt, the ridges of their ribs standing out against their grey flesh. Their legs were nothing more than bone draped in ashy grey skin. Their head was shrouded by a deer skull, the ivory bone cracked and aged. Streams of black ran through the cracks in the bone like veins of ink. Black antlers rose from the creature’s head. Beneath the jaw of the skull, the monster’s mouth hung open, exposing sharp teeth and rotting flesh. Its heavy breaths rolled through the enclosed space like a howling wind.

Stiles held his breath, hoping the creature wouldn’t see him. Tears rolled down his cheeks, clearing away trails through the dust and grime that covered his face.

The creature stalked forward, talon like nails scratching at the marble floors. The creature towered over him, hunched over and resting its weight on its front legs. It leant forward, bringing its face closer to Stiles’.

Beneath the hollowed eye sockets of the skull, Stiles could make out the marbled white eyes of the wendigo.

Stiles held his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he cried.

Give in, child.

The creature’s words rang in his head, its deep and gravelly voice leaving chills clawing at Stiles’ spine.

Stiles’ drew in a sharp breath as tears streamed down his face, blurring the image of the creature. Teardrops fell against the dusty stone floor, shattering like glass.

Give in and it will all be over.

No more pain…

No more suffering...

Just let go.

Stiles let out a broken sob. He shut his eyes, feeling his body weaken as he surrendered.

The creature charged at him, tearing through his body.

There was a deafening rush of air. Ice flooded his veins, knocking the air from his lungs and leaving him breathless.

He collapsed on the ground, shaking violently.

He fell still, his eyes falling shut as he fell into the abyss.

The next thing he remembered was the sound of the vault door screeching as the metal bars slid back, the heavy door groaning as it opened.

Footsteps echoed across the stone floor.

Stiles opened his eyes, his dark irises fading to a marbled white as he looked up at the man.

The alpha’s eyes lit up red and the corners of Deucalion’s mouth turned upwards in a wicked smile.

“Good.”

----------------------------------- 

 Derek stepped into the abandoned mall.

Bright halogen lights – the kind used in construction – stood on tall stands in a circle around him. The glaring lights were pointed at him, making Derek strain to see what lay beyond them in the shadows.

The smallest sounds seemed to reverberate off the walls around him, quiet voices echoing in the darkness. 

Derek squinted against the light, trying to make out the shapes among the shadows. He could see a large walkway overhead, an old railing running along the edge of it—some of the glass panels smashed in and other stained with dirt and grime or covered in graffiti.

The air was stale and dusty, plumes of dust stirred—the particles dancing about in the bright light of the halogens and the silvery moonlight that bled through the dusty skylight overhead.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Scott muttered under his breath as he looked around.

“So do I,” Derek admitted.

Boyd, Erica and Isaac stepped up behind them, turning as their eyes scanned the shadows.

“Hello, Derek,” the man’s smooth voice rang out through the darkness.

Derek turned to see Deucalion standing at the top of the broken escalators, a pair of blacked-out glasses over his unseeing grey eyes and a cane in his hands.

“I’m so glad you came,” Deucalion said, a hint of mockery and insincerity in his voice.

“Why did you ask me here?”

“I come with an offer,” Deucalion told him. “Join my pack or I’ll kill you and your pack.”

“That’s not an offer, that’s an ultimatum,” Derek corrected.

Deucalion’s expression soured.

“Make your choice, Derek,” he said—or rather, warned—his voice deep and threatening.

Beside him, a young woman stepped out of the shadows beside the still escalator. Her lips curled back in a snarl, exposing her sharpened teeth. She flexed her hands, balling her hands into fists before unfurling them again to expose her jagged claws. Her long straight hair hung loose around her shoulders. She wore a loose shirt and a pair of leggings, standing barefoot among the rubble and glass that covered the floor.

Kali.

Behind them, a man made his way up the stairs of the broken escalator that led to the floor below. He was tall and strongly built, with a square jaw and cold clear eyes. His hair had been shaved off. As he stepped into the edge of the light, his eyes lit up red.

Ennis.

From the balcony overhead, two teenagers leapt down, landing on their feet.

Scott turned, watching as their bodied melded together, morphing into a singular towering figure. The alpha had a seam running down the middle of their body like a scar. Their eyes lit up with a crimson glow as they roared.

“I guess we’ll have to make the decision easier for you,” Deucalion said.

He glanced in Kali’s direction and nodded subtly.

Her howl rolled through the darkness as she sprinted at Derek.

Derek braced himself, catching her arms before she could land a blow and tipping her off balance. He tossed her aside, digging his feet into the dusty floor as he faced off against her.

She charged at him again, slashing at him with her jagged claws. She swung her leg, slamming her foot into Derek’s gut and knocking him back.

Scott and Isaac glanced at each other before charging the Alpha twins.

They grabbed Isaac by the front of his shirt and threw him to the floor, quickly deflecting Scott’s attack. He threw Scott back against the nearby wall.

Scott’s back collided with the concrete with enough force to send cracks across the wall like fissures on ice. He collapsed to the floor with a painful thud, letting out a weak groan as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

He didn’t get time to recover.

The Alpha was on him in seconds, slamming their foot into Scott’s stomach and dropping him to the floor again.

Boyd and Erica turned their attention to Ennis.

Erica lunged at him, slashing at him with her claws.

Ennis grabbed her arm, holding it up as he dug his claws into her ribs and tore open her side. He knocked her feet out from under her, twisting her arm behind her back.

Boyd threw himself into Ennis with enough force to make the alpha let go of Erica’s arm.

Ennis recovered quickly, blocking Boyd’s attacks and knocking the teen to the ground.

Ennis grabbed Erica by the front of her shirt, hurling her across the floor. He hauled Boyd to his feet, wrapping his arm around Boyd’s throat in a headlock as he held him still.

Kali stepped over to their side. She swung her leg out in a roundhouse kick, landing a blow to the side of Boyd’s face. Her claws tore through his cheek.

Ennis let go, letting the teen’s body fall to the ground.

Kali stepped over to Erica and pinned her down, digging her talon-like toes into the girl’s throat.

The Alpha twins dragged Scott and Isaac across the floor, making them kneel as they held their claws to the napes of their necks.

Derek froze, looking around at his pack.

Erica struggled beneath Kali’s foot.

Boyd pushed himself onto his elbows, blood dripping from his mouth and streaming from the gashes across his cheek.

“Kill him,” Deucalion ordered, his level voice ringing out through the darkness. “And the others can go.”

Derek looked from Deucalion to Boyd.

Boyd looked back at him, his yellow eyes wide with fear.

“You’re beaten,” Deucalion said, a hint of pride in his voice. He sauntered down the still escalator. “Do it. Take the first step.”

“Are we serious with this kid?” Kali asked. “Look at him. He’s an alpha—to what, a couple of useless teenagers?”

“Some have more potential than others,” Deucalion mused.

“Let him rise to the occasion then,” Kali sneered. “What will it be, Derek?”

Derek looked to Boyd, his eyes wide and full of pain. He was torn.

A sharp whistle broke the silence.

Derek dropped to the ground as an incendiary arrow struck the Alpha twins, bursting into flames and tearing the two apart.

Scott, Isaac and Boyd dropped their heads, shielding their eyes from the bright sparks. Erica squeezed her eyes shut as another arrow struck the ground beside her, igniting into bright white flames and a spray of sparks.

Kali screamed as she staggered back, shielding her face.

“Cover your eyes!” Deucalion bellowed, but he was too late.

Another arrow struck Ennis, knocking him back.

Erica leapt to her feet, swinging her leg and roundhouse kicking Kali. The heel of her boot stuck the alpha’s jaw with a sickening crack, knocking her to the ground.

A figure stepped closer to the railing of the higher level, the light illuminating Allison’s face as she raised her bow and fired another arrow; a normal arrow that pierced Ennis’s chest.

The alpha fell back against the ground with a blood curdling howl.

Isaac sprinted to Boyd’s side, helping him to his feet.

“It’s over, Deucalion,” Derek said, turning to face the man.

“No quite,” Deucalion replied, his voice low. The corner of his lips curled up in a smug smirk.

Derek’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to ask something when the sound of claws dragging across the tiles reached his ears.

He turned, looking at the shadows.

He watched as a figure emerged; tall but gaunt, towering over them. The creature was hunched forward, resting their weight against their front arms. Their face was shrouded by an aged deer skull and black antlers rose from the creature’s head. Beneath the jaw of the skull, the monster’s mouth hung open, exposing sharp teeth and rotting flesh.

The creature stalked forward, talon like nails scratching at the marble floors.

Derek’s eyes widened, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He turned to Isaac, who held Boyd up. “Get him out of here!”

Isaac nodded, half-carrying, half-dragging, Boyd out of the mall.

He looked around.

The Alpha pack were gone.

He dug his feet into the ground.

Scott backed up to Derek’s side.

“What the hell is that?” Scott asked, his voice breaking as he stared at the creature.

“A wendigo,” Derek answered.

“What do we do?” Erica asked, joining them.

“Nothing,” Derek said.

“What?”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Derek explained. “Wendigos are stronger and faster than we are. If we run, it’ll hunt us down.”

“Derek?” Allison called from the higher level.

“Allison, you and Erica get out of here,” Derek instructed. “Slowly. Scott and I will keep its focus.”

“Derek…” Erica started.

Derek turned to look at her, his pale aventurine eyes softening as he said, “Go.”

She backed away slowly.

Derek took a step closer to the wendigo, catching its attention.

Scott did the same. “Why hasn’t it attacked us?”

“I don’t know,” Derek replied.

The creature stalked forward, tilting its head as it looked at Derek. Its marbled white eyes stared at the man.

The wendigo reached forward to the exposed concrete before Derek’s feet. It dug its claws into the floor, drawing what looked like four arrows pointing inwards.

Derek looked down at the ground, his brow furrowed in confusion.

The wendigo opened its mouth.

“Help me,” the creature said, mimicking a familiar voice.

Derek froze, his blood turning to ice in his veins as tears pricked at his eyes.

“Cora.”

The name fell past his lips in a breathless whisper.

The wendigo looked down at the insignia on the floor and back up at Derek.

Derek met their gaze.

The creature opened its mouth, letting out a blood-curdling screech.

Derek and Scott dropped to the floor, covering their ears.

When the ringing in their ears died away, they opened their eyes.

The creature was gone, leaving only the symbol on the floor.

  -----------------------------------

 Derek didn’t sleep. He stood hunched over his desk, surrounded by piles of old hardcover books, leather bound journals and other books that looked like antiques, all bound in magnificent colours of scarlet, burgundy, deep green, gold, and grey. The spines of the books were decorated by gold or silver lettering that read the titles, adorned with small metal studs and a few were even fastened with small hinges that looked to be made of brass or silver.

He turned through the wrinkled brown pages that had been thumbed smooth with reading, searching through pages of runes for something that looked like the symbol the wendigo had drawn, but to no avail.

He grew more and more frustrated, feeling desperate and helpless.

He glanced up, looking to where Boyd sat on the couch. Erica carefully cleaned and redressed the gashes across his face and chest.

The back of her shirt hung low with strings of fabric criss-crossing across her back, low enough that you could see the blood-soaked bandages that covered her ribs.

Injuries inflicted by an alpha took longer to heal.

He had to put an end to this. He couldn’t put his pack in danger again; he couldn’t let the Alpha pack hurt them again.

He let out a frustrated sigh, slumping down in his desk chair.

“Anything?” Isaac asked, stepping over to Derek’s side.

Derek looked up.

Erica and Boyd were also looking at him, hoping for good news.

“Nothing,” Derek said, dropping his gaze.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Erica suggested.

“I can’t,” Derek replied. “Not until I have answers.”

“Maybe try Googling it?” Boyd suggested.

Derek’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Isaac tried to hide his smirk as he picked up Derek’s laptop. He opened it, taking a photo of the symbol and running it through a search engine.

A match showed up.

Beacon Hills First National Bank.

Derek sat upright, opening the web page for the old bank.

“That’s it,” Isaac said, trying to hide the hint of excitement and pride in his voice.

“The symbol is the logo of the old bank,” Derek announced.

“The old bank?” Scott said. “The one that supposedly closed because it was haunted?”

“Yes, that one. And I’m sure that the fact it was robbed had nothing to do with it closing down,” Derek replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Do you think the rumours of the bank being haunted had anything to do with the wendigo?” Boyd asked.

“It’s possible,” Derek answered. “Regardless, it’s a lead I’m going to follow up.”

“We’re coming with you,” Boyd said, wincing as he pushed himself upright.

“No,” Derek said firmly. “If the Deucalion and his pack are there, you’re in no condition to fight them.”

“Or they could be waiting for you to leave so that they can kill us while you’re gone,” Boyd argued.

Derek opened his mouth to argue, but his words died in his throat. Boyd was right.

“Alright,” Derek begrudgingly agreed. “But I want you all to hang back until I know for sure if it’s a trap or not.”

“Okay,” the pack agreed in unison.

  -----------------------------------

 The building stood tall among the abandoned buildings on the far side of town, the streets left eerily quiet. The marble pillars either side of the front door were carved with elegant shields and filigree. The glass doors were still intact; the gold printing of the bank’s logo and the bold lettering of ‘BEACON HILLS FIRST NATIONAL BANK’ still clung to the dust glass, chipping away slightly. The glass doors had been walled up with cardboard and old brown paper that had withered with time; torn and falling away from the door.

Derek stepped up to the door, glancing into the dark building.

Allison stepped over to his side, notching an arrow as she glanced through the torn brown paper of the other door.

“Looks clear,” she whispered.

He motioned for the rest of the pack to hang back before gently pushing open the door.

Allison slid into the building and Derek followed, letting the door shut silently behind him

The rest of the building was in ruin; the tables were overturned and sheets of paper were scattered across the floors. One of the large chandelier-like lights had fallen to the floor, the chain rusted and the light bulbs shattered, scattering glass across the floor. There was a layer of dust over everything, disturbed by a few footprints.

The mezzanines that ran along the sides of the large building seemed to be intact, leading up to two large vaults—the one on the left hung open but the one on the right was locked shut. A third vault was behind what used to be the teller’s desks.

The building was silent.

Derek motioned for the pack to join them.

He looked at Scott and Allison. “Check the second floor.”

They nodded, making their way over to the staircase to their left that led up to the mezzanine.

The pack searched the old storage rooms, the file cabinets coated in dust and the smell of mould and musk hanging heavy in the air.

Scott made his way to the vault on the far right side of the bank.  Loud screech rang out through the old building, echoing in the shadows, as Scott pulled the heavy vaults back. He hauled the door open.

A moment later, he let out a startled cry as he was thrown back against the railing.

A figure darted out of the vault, sprinting across the mezzanine and down the stairs.

Derek ran to her side, catching her before she could reach the door.

“Let me go!” she yelled, thrashing about.

“Cora, it’s okay,” Derek said, gently shushing her as he bundled her up in his arms. “We’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

The girl stilled, slowly turning to look at him.

“Derek?” she whispered breathlessly, his name falling past her lips.

Derek reached out, gently brushing a strand of her dark hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. He offered her a soft smile.

Cora let out a sigh of relief, wrapping her arms around her brother and holding on tight.

Derek let out a breathless sigh, resting his face atop her head as he hugged his sister back.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Derek whispered, fighting back his tears.

Cora pulled back slightly. “Where is he?”

“Who?” Derek asked, craning his neck slightly to look his sister in the eye.

“The other one,” Cora replied, her voice quiet as she looked around the dark building.

There was a loud screech as Boyd hauled open the heavy vault door downstairs.

“Oh my god,” the beta muttered under his voice, frozen in place. He turned his head slightly, keeping his eyes forward as he called over his shoulder. “Derek.”

Derek turned. He glanced at Erica who nodded, stepping over to Cora’s side.

He made his way through the rubble and over to Boyd’s side. His heart began to beat faster when he saw the look on his beta’s face.

He looked into the vault, his heart dropping into his gut. His breath caught in his throat, his heartbeat hammering in his ears as he stared in horror.

He leapt over the threshold and rushed over to the body that lay curled up on the cold stone floor.

He carefully rolled him over, watching as his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.

He let out a sigh of relief, carefully manoeuvring the unconscious teen and lifting him.

“What is it?” Allison asked as she and Scott made their way downstairs and over to the vault door.

Derek stepped out of the vault, the frail unconscious body bundled up in his arms.

His face was turned in to Derek’s chest, but they knew who it is. They saw the moles that were scattered across his pale skin. His dark hair was a tousled, unkempt mess and his face was gaunt, but it was him.

“It’s Stiles,” Derek said.

  -----------------------------------

 Derek stood in the hallway, leaning back against the thin piece of wall between the doors to Cora’s room and Stiles’. Cora sat up in her bed, talking to a young police officer – Parrish – who was taking her statement. She shifted nervously, glancing at Derek for reassurance or screwing up her face at the discomfort of the IV in her arm.

Derek turned his head the other way.

Stiles still hadn’t woken up, his frail body laying still. The crisp white hospital sheets made his already fair skin look deathly pale. He too had an IV in his arm as well as a heart monitor that beeped wit the steady rhythm of his heart.

The Sheriff had rushed to the hospital, sitting by his son’s side for as long as he could before he was called away, his face torn and pained as he pulled himself away. Derek had promised to stay with him and to call the Sheriff if anything changed.

“Do you think one of them is the wendigo?” Scott asked, keeping his voice low enough that only Derek would hear him.

Derek nodded.

“How do you even become a wendigo?”

“A wendigo is believed to be an evil spirit. A human becomes a wendigo after their spirit is corrupted by greed or weakened by extreme conditions, such as hunger and cold. In some versions of the legends, humans become wendigos when possessed by a wandering spirit during a moment of weakness.”

“And you think that happened to Stiles?”

“Stiles is stubborn and resilient,” Derek said. “He’s a fighter. But there’s only so much a human can take.”

“But when the wendigo spoke, you said it sounded like Cora,” Scott argued.

“Yes, but wendigos don’t speak; they mimic,” Derek explained.

“You think it’s Stiles?” Scott asked, his voice still edged with disbelief.

Derek nodded.

The idea didn’t sit easy with Scott, but there was no point in arguing it.

Parrish came out of Cora’s room.

Derek pushed himself off the wall, straightening up.

“I have to head back to the station for a little while to write up this report,” Parrish said. “Please call me as soon as Stiles wakes up or if your sister remembers anything else that she’d like to add to her statement.”

Derek nodded.

“Can I sit with him?” Cora asked, standing a few steps back from the doorway.

Parrish offered her a friendly smile. “I don’t see why not.”

He turned to Derek, gently patting his arm before heading down the hallway to the elevator.

Cora shuffled towards the door, wheeling her IV stand forward.

“Come on,” Derek said, stepping back from the door and nodding towards Stiles’ room.

She shuffled into the room and sat down in the seat next to the bed.

“Erica and Boyd are still downstairs,” Scott told Derek. “Alpha wounds take longer to heal and my mum wanted to make sure they’re okay. Isaac’s gone with Allison to see if Chris knows anything more about wendigos or the Alpha pack.”

Derek nodded.

“I’m going to check in on Boyd and Erica.”

“Alright,” Derek said quietly, not taking his eyes off Stiles. “Keep me updated.”

Scott nodded, glancing at Stiles one last time before heading down the hallway to the elevators.

Derek stepped into the room, pulling the other chair over to the side of the bed and sitting with his sister.

Derek let his mind wander, time drifting away as he looked at Stiles’ pale face.

Stiles’ eyes flew open, wide and alert as he bolted upright in the bed.

“It’s okay,” Derek said softly, rising from his chair and gently holding Stiles by his shoulders as he tried to reassure him. “You’re safe.”

Stiles stared across the room, not looking at Derek as he said, “They’re here.”

Derek’s heart dropped, his body tensing. He stepped back from Stiles, looking towards the door.

“Stay here,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as he edged towards the hallway.

“I want to help,” Cora insisted. “I can fight.”

“You want to help? Stay here and protect him,” Derek ordered.

He stepped out into the hallway, the LED lights flickering overhead. The hallway was eerily quiet; the staff had disappeared into rooms to care for patients, leaving only Derek.

The elevator let out a quiet ding and the doors opened.

Deucalion stood proud in the elevator. A smug smirk turned up the corner of his lips as he stepped into the hallway.

“It’s good to see you again, Derek,” he greeted, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he made his way down the hallway.

Derek glared at him, his eyes flickering with a crimson glow as he faced off against the alpha. He balled his hands into fists by his side, flexing his fingers and exposing his jagged claws.

“It’s over, Deucalion.”

“Is that what you think?” Deucalion said, turning his head slightly and looking past Derek.

Derek turned.

Stiles stood behind him, his face void of any emotion. His dark eyes faded to a marbled white. His jaw twisted, revealing rows of jagged teeth as he half-shifted.

“You see, Derek,” Deucalion started slowly. “I’m his alpha. I control him.”

Stiles stalked forward, his gaze locked on Deucalion. His body began to morph, growing tall and gaunt. The shadows crept forward around his face, melding together in the shape of a deer skull before receding into the cracks and leaving the ivory bone over Stiles’ face. His body arched forward, resting his weight against their front arms, his talon like nails scratching at the linoleum floors.

Derek tensed, ready to fight.

The wendigo walked past him, dragging themself towards Deucalion. They paused for a moment, bracing themself before lunching forward, sprinting – full speed – down the hallway at the alpha. Their claws tore at the linoleum and the plastered walls, leaving gashes like open wounds as they moved too fast for either alpha to react.

The wendigo threw Deucalion back against the wall, towering over him. Their bloodied mouth hung wide open as they leant in close to Deucalion’s face and let out a deafening screech.

Derek and Cora covered their ears, dropping to the floor as they winced in pain.

The wendigo drew back, slowly morphing back into Stiles’ slender form. His eyes were still white, but his body was tense and his face was livid with rage.

“You are not my alpha,” Stiles said with finality, his voice low and firm. “You do not control me.”

Deucalion’s composure fractured slightly, glimpses of fear showing through.

“This is not your territory,” Stiles said. “Leave now, and don’t ever come back.”

Deucalion opened his mouth for a second to argue, but Stiles cut him off.

“I have your scent—and if you threaten my friends again, I will hunt you down and tear you limb from limb,” he warned. “Now, I suggest you leave, before I change my mind and kill you now.”

Stiles stepped back, holding his head defiantly as he watched Deucalion stumble backwards into the elevator, his hands shaking as he pressed the button.

He waited until the doors closed before letting the white fade from his eyes, his dark irises returning to their natural hue as he turned to look at Derek.

Derek looked back at him, equally stunned and relieved.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked somewhat hesitantly.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said nonchalantly. “A little tired, to be honest. But other than that, I’m fine.”

“You can control it?”

“Mostly,” Stiles replied. “It gets a little hard sometimes, but for the most part I’m in control.”

“What about the blood lust?” Derek asked.

“I’ve been friends with Scott since I was four years old, I learnt many years ago how to resist the urge to kill someone,” Stiles answered, making his way over to their side.

Derek let out a low chuckle.

“As for the craving flesh part, I’ll eat a raw steak every once in a while—probably on a night when my dad’s not home, otherwise I might freak him out,” Stiles mused. “And if the wendigo doesn’t like that, it’s more than welcome to leave.”

Derek couldn’t help but smile, looking at Stiles in wonder; if anyone could defy an alpha and tame a wendigo, of course it was Stiles.

[miss-ingno]

Eternal Eclipse, 7 out of 10(?)

Fandom: ragehappy Ship: Jerevinwood, past Freewood Words: 4.6k Tags: Sky Factory 3 Gods AU, (temporary) character death, blood sacrifice, magic rituals, amnesia, jealousy, relationship drama, religious imagery, cults

Summary: The Solar Queen is dead, long may the Dark God reign!

OR in which everyone has to deal with the fallout post-ritual.

Read here on Ao3 or Patreon. More chapters are available there already on early access, as well as two (2) outtakes. Updates will happen once a week every Thursday!

[Prologue] [Ch1] [Ch2] [Ch3] [Ch4] [Ch5] [Ch6] [Ch7] [Ch8] [Ch9] [Ch10] [Ch11]

***

On the third day after the Solar Queen died, the Blood Mage gathered His most trusted among His Acolytes.

He gathered them in a secret underground hideout through which the ley lines crossed, where they performed the most secret of rites. But before they could perform the ritual He sent each of them on a quest for the most powerful of ingredients:

The first He sent to find incense that burned for a day and a night, which grew in trees far to the south, where the ocelots roamed and mosquitos stole the blood of the unwilling.

The second He tasked to prepare the candles, made from wax which soaked in the blood of those who suffered most recently for a day and a night.

The third He assigned to cleanse clay bowls, made by their own hands and taken freshly burnt from the ovens, with tears of true regret.

Two He instructed to build an altar of pure black marble, seven floors above the secret hideout through which the ley lines crossed, and to baptize it with their own sweat and blood, which henceforth ran in red lines through the marble.

Another He sent to steal the magic scythe of the God of Farms, the blade of which should be reforged into a ceremonial dagger. This very dagger the Blood Mage would imbue with the remaining magicks of the Sun, and only metal handled regularly by the God of Farms would do, for He was a dear friend and father figure to the late Solar Queen.

Four days of hardships untold, they returned to the sacred site, battered and torn but triumphant.

It was the Blood Mage Himself, however, who brought the most important piece to the ritual: the corpse of the Solar Queen, and a willing sacrifice from the ranks of sun worshippers. For the sun priestesses were desperate, and having gotten word from the Blood Mage of the tragedy that unfolded amongst the gods, they were only too eager to set things right once more.

Thrice He asked the Sacrifice these questions, and three times the Sacrifice answered with utmost confidence.

What are you willing to give, asked the Blood Mage of the Sacrifice, for the world?

And thus she answered: my very soul.

And what are you willing to give, asked the Blood Mage of the Sacrifice, for the light?

And thus she answered: my very life.

And what are you willing to give, asked the Blood Mage of the Sacrifice, for the slain Solar Queen?

And the Sacrifice did not hesitate, and thus she answered:

Everything.

***

Jeremy paced back and forth in front of the altar. The chamber had emptied when he sent his followers to chase Gavin down, but so far to no avail. Two wide-eyed Initiates had been sent up to clean up after the ruined ritual, except for the drying blood running in trails down the altar, filling the cracks inside the black marble. Jeremy’s gaze lingered on their deep crimson colour for a moment, before tearing himself away.

“We cannot find him, my lord,” Gustavo reported, head bowed low. “But it’s only a matter of time. Guards are posted at all entrances, both known and unknown to temple staff. No one has tried to leave through them.”

“Then he must still be inside the temple,” Jeremy mused, turning on his heel to stop in front of his head priest. He mustered Gus for a long moment, then waved him on, already turning away to continue his pacing. “Go. Search every corner and hiding spot. Find him and bring him to me. He cannot escape-”

“No,” Ryan murmured, too quiet for human ears. Jeremy froze, slowly turning his head to glance over his shoulder at the Dark God. He stood at the window, arms crossed, shadows wrapped around him like a cloak. His eyes were focussed on a point in the distance, his brow furrowed in concentration. “He is far gone by now.”

Jeremy jolted at the implication, turning to fully face Ryan.

“You can feel him?”

A single, seering glare was directed at him before Ryan returned to stare out the window. “Can’t you?”

Jeremy bit down on his retort, following Ryan’s gaze. But even if he concentrated, there was only a gaping hole where the Solar Queen should be in his head. His eyes drifted away from the window, towards the red-stained altar. The ceremonial dagger pulsed with Solar energy when he reached out to it with his magic. However it seemed… weaker than before.

Jeremy frowned.

“I wonder…”

He let his fingers glide through the air above the blade, testing the currents. A warm glow still emanated from the Solar energy trapped within, though it had slowly dwindled in the century since Gavin's death. The ritual had obviously used up a chunk, yet Jeremy still felt hope. Gavin's blood had turned golden, like it used to be when divinity flowed through his veins.

Perhaps even though interrupted, the ritual had still worked, in part.

Ryan had always been more sensitive to light magic, possibly because it was tied so closely to his domain of shadows and darkness, but probably because he spent so much time familiarising himself with Gavin. Glancing up at him, still standing at the window, unmoving, gaze fixed in the distance, Jeremy swallowed.

All he wanted was to make his friend happy.

"Well," he said out loud, trying for a little levity in the oppressive silence. "Not all is lost. It's going to take some time to prepare the ingredients once more, but if some of the power settles in him, chances are good-"

"Don't," Ryan interrupted him, voice tight. Jeremy's jaw snapped shut so hard his teeth clacked, aching. He eyed the Dark God warily. He hadn’t told Ryan of his plans to avoid hurting him, in case things went wrong. Just as no deity had died before it happened to Gavin, none had been resurrected before, either. Jeremy was stumbling in the dark, trusting his instincts and making shit up as he went. There was a risk, yes, but no reward came to those who played it safe.

Ryan’s reaction, however, confused him.

Sure, Jeremy hadn’t expected him to be overjoyed at being kept in the dark, but he’d banked on Gavin’s return to divine life to overshadow those pesky little details. Yet none of it had gone according to plan, even though it started off so well. And now Gavin was out there somewhere, unprotected, and Ryan refused to help him find him.

“Don’t you want Gavin back?” he tried, because surely that much couldn’t have changed.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Ryan kept his tone mild, but Jeremy heard the fury beneath that calm disinterest.

“No, I don’t. Don’t you understand? Gavin’s out there without any memories to guide him, any knowledge of how to defend himself!” Jeremy snapped, the words bursting from his chest, heart beating staccato. “If anyone learns who he is in truth- or if they confuse him for one of the Remnants- if any of your worshippers catch wind of so much as an inkling to what is going on-”

“So I should hand him to you on a silver platter?” Ryan growled. He pushed away from the window, dropping his arms to clench his hands into fists. “So that you can complete what you started here today? I should think not.”

“I can’t protect him out there!” Jeremy yelled, gesturing wildly towards the window. “And neither can you!”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe not,” he agreed, acid dripping from the words, “but what I can do is protect him from you.”

Time seemed to freeze, or perhaps it was Jeremy’s heart that simply… stopped. This must be what being stabbed feels like to mortals, Jeremy mused as he stared at Ryan, jaw agape. Swallowing around the knot lodged in his throat, Jeremy closed his mouth, opened it, and closed it again. To his embarrassment, he could feel his eyes sting, tears welling up. He shut them and licked his dry lips, before trying again.

“Ryan, I-” he started helplessly, only to be interrupted once more.

“Your Excellence!” A priestess burst into the ritual chamber, dropping to a knee before the Head Priest with a sideways glance at the gods. She didn’t dare address them directly, however. “The Hunter has left, Your Excellence. The guards didn’t see them leave, but the stablehand turned their horse over to them.”

This seemed to catch Ryan’s attention. The Dark God folded his hands behind his back as he turned his burning gaze onto the priestess.

“Has he, now.”

Jeremy narrowed his eyes at Ryan’s tone. “Have you sent him out?”

“Now,” Ryan drawled, gaze flicking over to Jeremy. He arched a brow. “Whyever should I tell you anything, considering the circumstances?”

“You haven’t,” Jeremy concluded, ignoring the jab. He furrowed his brows as he thought. “Do you think…?”

“And here I was led to believe that what I think doesn’t matter,” Ryan spat, before giving Jeremy the cold shoulder. Instead he mustered the prostate priestess, who shuddered under his attention. “When did this occur?”

“I…” The priestess visibly swallowed, stealing a glance up at Jeremy, who sighed.

“Answer him,” he ordered, waving her to get on with it.

"At least an hour ago, my lord. The news of an escapee had not yet reached the stables."

Jeremy stroked his chin in thought. "Was there anyone with the Hunter?"

“Not that we could tell, my lord.” The priestess shot the Dark God another uneasy look. “They left without a word. Patrol reported them heading down the South road at top speed.”

Jeremy frowned. If they hadn’t left on Ryan’s order, the Hunter must have some other pressing reason to leave. The only thing that changed that he could think of though was Gavin running away, and somehow having bypassed all guards to escape the temple. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Did they take luggage with them?” he hazarded a guess, feeling like he was grasping at straws. “A sack, or a rolled up carpet, anything of that size?”

“None that anyone could see, my lord.”

Weird. Jeremy glanced to Ryan, whose face was schooled into a blank expression.

“Any idea what this is about, buddy?”

“Yes,” Ryan bit out, shooting a look out the window, to that same distant point once more. “It’s called ‘none of your business’, buddy.”

“Dammit, Ryan.” Jeremy rubbed his sweaty palm over his bald head, taking a deep breath. “I get that you’re mad, okay? I get it. But this is about Gavin. So can we postpone this until after we make sure he’s safe?” He held out his hand, pleading. “Together, we can pool our resources, find him faster.”

Ryan didn’t reply, just stalked past him without a second glance, shadows trailing after him like a cloak billowing in the wind. Jeremy reached out for him, but a tendril slapped his hand away before he could. Stung, he stared after Ryan, heart quivering in his chest.

“Where are you going?” he called after him, half-expecting Ryan to ignore him again. But Ryan paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder, expression unreadable.

“To fix your mistake.”

With that, he left, only the clicking of heels echoing through the chamber. Jeremy swallowed, fingers digging into his palms.

Fuck.

***

The outside world was… dark.

Perhaps it shouldn't come as a surprise. After all, he couldn't remember a world where a sun rose and sunk in a clear day and night cycle. No matter that he sometimes dreamed of a world drenched in light, with fluffy white clouds floating in the sky and a yellow orb radiating warmth… he knew better. He’d heard the tales of the Dark God’s rise to power over and over again, had never experienced a night sky sprinkled with stars. The entire idea should be foreign to him, and yet… a part of him still didn't expect to find the world wrapped in total darkness.

He must've gotten too used to the redstone torches lighting up the temple, that was all.

Gavin leaned low over Sugarcube's neck, nudging her sides with his heels. The mare bickered in response but put on more speed. They were sticking close to the road, as best they could, marked only by the occasional lamppost every couple hundred feet. But Sugarcube was a good horse, used to running under these conditions. Her hooves thumped on the trodden path without hesitation, her footing sure.

Which was probably for the best, since Gavin had no idea where they were going. The only thing he knew was that he needed to put as much distance between them and the temple, before… well.

Before anyone caught up with him.

The wind picked up, blowing his borrowed cloak over his head. Sputtering, Gavin grappled with the dark cloth until he could see again - for what it was worth, with the lack of light around him. Which was weird, he could’ve sworn the next lantern wasn’t too far ahead, but the distant light had disappeared. Another gust hit Gavin in the back, nearly toppling him off the horse, and he assumed the wind had blown the lantern out.

Except… then he heard them.

Wings.

Turning in the saddle, he stared up into the dark night sky. He could make out two big winged shadows, just barely due to their movement. They glided silently across the sky, quickly catching up with Gavin. Heart beating double inside his chest, Gavin clicked his tongue, spurring the poor mare into breakneck gallop. He bent forward, close to her neck, to offer as small a target as possible and distribute the weight for speed.

Sugarcube tore across the landscape, and still the winged beasts were fast on their heels.

Dread filled Gavin. He hadn’t known the Acolytes kept any sort of flying mounts, but they had caught up to him at last. And now they would capture him, drag him back to Jeremy and make him face his worst nightmare. He wasn’t ready, had barely time to sort through the twist of emotions and thoughts cluttering his head.

Or perhaps they were Hunters, Gavin thought wildly. Maybe he could pass himself off as one of them long enough to flee.

“Hey! Hey, Gavin, slow down!”

The voice came as a surprise, at once familiar and reassuring. Before he could think twice about it, he pulled at the reins, slowing Sugarcube down to a comfortable trot. The winged mounts overtook him, larger than he would have guessed, even as he gaped.

Dragons. Those were bloody dragons.

They landed on an open field along the path, their wings beating double time to break into a controlled fall. Sugarcube approached them without hesitation. A light sparked to life, a lantern held up by one of the riders. She hopped off her dragon, scales glinting a beautiful red and orange in the flickering candlelight. But Gavin’s gaze was drawn from the dragon to its rider, long blonde-and-pink curls framing a familiar, smiling face.

“Lindsay!?”

Grinning, Lindsay waved, the lantern swinging dangerously in her outstretched arm. Sugarcube came to a stop several feet away from her and her dragon. Gavin brushed the hood of his cloak back and hopped off the mare’s back, clutching the reins tightly in a fist in case the dragons startled her.

“Hey, Gav. Thought you might need some help.”

“How’d you know?” Gavin asked, gripping the leather straps hard enough his fingers turned white. He wanted to trust Lindsay, he did. She was his friend. But then, he’d thought the same of Jeremy, and look how that had turned out.

“The way you ran like a bat straight out of the Nether was a big hint,” the other rider interjected, and Gavin blinked, startled. He knew that voice as well, from a more recent dream. He looked over Lindsay’s shoulder, watching the man approach. He had brown curls that gleamed red in the flickering light, and freckles that covered his pale face. His brown eyes were warm and alert as they landed on Gavin, looking him over.

Gavin hesitated. “Michael?”

The dragon rider arched a brow and shot Lindsay a look. “I thought he didn’t remember shit?”

“He didn’t,” Lindsay agreed, tilting her head. She mustered Gavin intently. “Unless the ritual knocked something loose…?”

Gavin took an involuntary step back, staring at her with wide eyes. “You knew?” he asked, then clarified at her confused look, “About the ritual?”

“I did.” Her frown deepened at whatever crossed his face. “I guess it didn’t work out well, huh?”

The man - Michael - scoffed. “Easy bet, seeing as he’s here, and not-”

He cut himself off with an odd sideways glance at Gavin. Gavin tightened his grip on the reins, bending his knees slightly, ready to jump back into the saddle. Sugarcube danced nervously next to him, picking up on his anxiety.

“Gavin,” Lindsay called out, her voice calm and soft. He met her eyes and could read the worry in her face. “What did Jeremy tell you?”

“He- he lied,” Gavin ground out, lips pressed into a thin line. He averted his gaze, let it wander over the dragons. The second one, Michael’s, was a beautiful blue with white spikes along the neck and tail,  darker blue, swirling lines painted along its flanks, reminding Gavin of clouds.

“Gods damn it,” Michael muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Did he explain anything at all?”

Gavin shrugged, eyes flicking from him to Lindsay and back. Lindsay held up her hands.

“Whoa, okay. That’s worse than I thought.” She exhaled, blowing her fringe out of her face and dropped her hands to her hips. “Oooh boy. Alright. Nothing we can’t still fix.”

“Not here,” Michael interjected, eyes travelling past Gavin, up and down the road. “It isn’t safe.”

“Right, right.” Lindsay nodded, determined. Her gaze settled on Sugarcube. “First things first. You can let her go. Dragons are way cooler anyway.”

“And if someone saw you leave on that horse and puts two and two together, it’s better to confuse the trail,” Michael added with a very pointed note to his tone.

“Yep, totally what I meant!” Lindsay exclaimed, clapping her hands together. Michael rolled his eyes, and Gavin couldn’t stifle the giggle crawling up his throat. It was just such a Lindsay thing to say. Hearing that, Lindsay’s manic expression softened. “C’mon, Gav. I know things must be strange right now, but I promise we’ll explain.”

“How-” Gavin cleared his throat, smile dying on his lips. “How can I trust you?”

“Do you have a choice?” Michael replied bluntly. Lindsay elbowed him in the side. “What? It’s true! Our dragons are faster than his horse, he isn’t even armed, he’s outnumbered, he knows fuck-all about what’s going on or where he’s going, I doubt he’s got a plan-” Michael paused and turned back to Gavin, brows arched with pure skepticism. “-or do you?”

Gavin glared at him defiantly, but his lack of reply was more than answer enough.

“Thought so,” Michael grumbled, shaking his head.

“Gavin.” Lindsay cleared her throat, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Look, I know you must be very confused by now, but have I ever pushed you to make a choice?”

“No,” Gavin murmured, mustering her carefully. She hadn’t, not that he could recall. Lindsay tended not to judge, and then to follow up with some cryptic non-sequitur that wouldn’t make sense until weeks later. “No, I guess not.”

Besides, she was the one to show him the secret passage out of the temple. That had to count for something.

“Alright,” he finally agreed, grip on the reins tightening before he dropped them. He turned to the mare who was eyeing him with more intelligence than he expected. “Thanks, girl. I’ll figure it out from here.”

He went to give her hindquarters a love tap and sent her on her way, but the dragon rider stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You should return the cloak to her rider, too,” he suggested, voice grim. “It’s woven of shadows. The Dark God tracks his followers through their equipment.” His brow arched and the corner of his lips quirked into a grin. “Unless you want to be found by him?”

“No,” Gavin denied immediately, shaking the cloak off hastily. It had done its job of getting him out, it would not get him caught now. He slung it over the saddle, wrapping the hood around the stirrups twice to secure it. Then he slapped Sugarcube, and the mare took off with a neigh that sounded almost like a goodbye.

The three of them watched her run off for a long moment. Then Michael broke the silence.

"You'll want to ride with me on Mogar. Lindsay's flying style is… very Lindsay."

"You know what, that's fair," Lindsay agreed with a laugh. "C'mon, you're gonna love it!"

However, when Gavin turned to follow him, Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he snatched his wrist, his grip gentle as he pulled him into the light of the lantern.

“You’re injured,” he hissed, and Gavin looked down his chest. The blood had dried on his robes, a rusty red colour, but it was still undeniably blood. But Michael tugged on his hand, turned it over and inspected his wrists. Flecks of blood had dried in his palms, partially rubbed off by his tight grip on the reins.

There was no lying on how he got those. Not when he had identical wounds on both wrists.

Michael brushed his thumb over Gavin's wrist, peeling flakes of blood away. Gavin averted his eyes, not wanting to see where he'd cut his own skin. He had no idea what he'd been thinking. Though, if Jeremy hadn't tried to… kill him, Gavin doubted he would regret it at all. And wasn't that telling?

"Hmm. Interesting," Michael hummed, drawing each syllable of the word out.

"What is?" Lindsay asked, bouncing over to them. Michael held Gavin's wrist up for her to see.

"I doubt he had this before."

"No, he didn't," Lindsay agreed, sounding startled.

"What?" Gavin asked, curiosity overcoming his hesitation. "What is it?"

Michael's finger tapped his wrist, right where Head Priest Gustavo had painted the strange blood. Gavin dared a quick glance down, looking up to Michael's steady gaze, before his eyes widened and his gaze darted back down. There, in the middle of his wrist, where he'd been marked for the ritual, gold lines twisted into a braided circle, from which straight lines extended in regular intervals.

"What…"

Gavin tugged his hand out of Michael's lax grip, staring at the mark. He rubbed his thumb over it once, twice, three times, again and again, first slow, then fast, until he was scrubbing his wrists together in sheer panic. Dried blood flaked off his skin, but the gold stayed.

Lindsay cupped his hands, stopping him mid-motion.

Gavin opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Lindsay carefully separated his hands, and a strangled noise escaped Gavin's throat after all. There on his left hand was another golden tattoo, a mirror of the first. The skin underneath remained unmarred by wounds or scars. Only the sun tattoo remained, the forbidden symbol of the Solar Queen. It had been outlawed long before Gavin was alive, or so he’d been told.

Jeremy had shown it to him, in a hidden nook and with much secrecy.

“What-” Gavin croaked, pressing the words out between trembling lips- “What does this mean? I-”

Jerking his hands out of Lindsay’s, Gavin scrabbled at his robe, the vest underneath. His shoulder ached around the injury but he didn’t pay it any mind, he needed to know. He ripped the cloth sticking to his skin with dried blood away, ignoring the sharp sting of pain, and craned his head to see-

The skin straight above his heart was still open, even though the bleeding had stopped hours ago.

“Oh.” Fingers trembling, Gavin touched the skin next to the hole. It looked… a reddish sort of pink, and still hurt, and for one dizzying second Gavin felt relief. It wasn’t gone, he hadn’t imagined the worst night of his life. But… it also looked like an old injury, flesh already knitting back together, and not nearly as deep as it felt.

“What the fuck,” Michael said, voice flat, and Gavin looked up at him.

“I, uh.” Gavin licked his lips, eyes flickering to Lindsay. She looked serious for once. “I got stabbed.”

“By who?” Michael inquired, and the fury in his face should be surprising, but instead felt… oddly reassuring. “What the fuck was Jeremy doing, he was supposed to look out for you!”

“He, he did the stabbing.” The words just tumbled out before Gavin could think it through, and the ache in his chest wasn’t coming from the rapidly healing wound.

“The fuck!” Michael spat, but Lindsay didn’t look too surprised.

“Change is hard for everyone,” was the only thing she said cryptically. “We should leave.”

She reached out to fix Gavin’s robes for him, patting him down and brushing off his shoulders once she was done. Then she turned on her heel and flounced off. They stared after her as she walked back to her dragon, taking the lantern with her. Michael shook his head.

“I’m going to fuckin’ kill him,” he muttered under his breath, taking hold of Gavin’s upper arm. “But she’s right, c’mon. Better get out of here sooner rather than later.”

Gavin followed him, stumbling over his own feet in the dark, mind preoccupied, fingers brushing over his wrists incessantly. Michael helped him into the saddle, strapping his legs in for safety. Then Michael hopped on behind him, one arm wrapping around his waist to grab for the reins. The dragons came to attention at once, standing up and spreading their wings.

And with a heavy beat of those wings, they lifted off.

***

On the eighth day, once the bleeding moon returned to sleep for another year, the Dark God spoke to his followers.

For a week now they had felt His power, as he draped the world in darkness, and thus they flocked to Him, young and old, eager to serve, for the Dark God had proven Himself supreme. They bowed low before His might and swore themselves to His will.

The Dark God surveyed His sworn servants, and divided them by three.

The first He split from the crowd by their shining wisdom, to lead the people and bring peace and order in these times of change. These were called Priests, and they spread across the world to organize the people in faith and govern the cities sprawling in darkness.

The second He appointed for their resolve and intellect, to research the ways of the red stone, and how they may return the warmth stolen from the world by the greedy Solar Queen’s last breath. These were called Scientists, and they took the technology gifted to them apart to learn how it worked and spread that knowledge amongst the people.

The third He chose for their strength and cunning, to observe the people for dissent and bring justice to all corners of the world. These were called Hunters, for the Dark God pointed to the stars, the last remnants of light still clinging to the world, and told the Hunters to ensure that darkness would prevail. They were to hunt down the fires in the sky, what remained of the late Solar Queen, and cleanse the world of Her existence.

And thus the world as we know it was created.

***

Practicing blackest magic You cast a spell on me That even today is hard to break While it was turning tragic Part of me stayed deceived Part of me clung to my mistake

- Numb by Beyond the Black

[talltales]

pair:   mark / reader desc:   and certain invitations, you learn         aren't designed to be refused words:  5.1k rated:  18+ genre:  drama/romance notice: major character death, violence, drug use, etc. gifted: to the detective tuan fanclub ♥

                                                            VIEW THE MASTERLIST

            —WELL IT'S ALL WAITING FOR YOU, AND BOY I KNOW YOU'RE EAGER                 BUT IT JUST MIGHT DESTROY YOU; DESTROY YOU

                                    “your timing sucks.”

his earpiece crackles to life and a tinny, sarcastic voice speaks over the pop-pop-pop of bullets whizzing past his head, “it might be even worse than mine—you know I nearly had a read on the leader, right? so maybe you can tell me, who fucked this up?”

the question is rhetorical.

he groans, one hand folding into a fist and the other flexing around the grip of his gun. whatever plan she did have—he pulls the trigger, once then again, watching as the bouncer crumbles to the ground with a heavy thud—had gone up in flames long before they’d even stepped in the door. it’s abundantly clear now that they were being lured into a trap.

and that it’s worked.

mark exhales, tried to think past the grumbling in his ear that sounds suspiciously like ‘they don’t pay me enough for this.’

“now isn’t the time, bam.”

from his vantage point on the second-floor balcony, he focuses his attention on picking off the suited guards pinning officers at the entrance with gunfire. semi-automatics are illegal nowadays—but that never stopped anyone from getting their hands on them with enough influence and money.

unfortunately, the sixth syndicate has that in spades.

“just get out of there, then. dispatch is sending more squad cars your way. if we’re lucky, they’ll actually be on your side.” and with half the force taking pay under the table, the odds of that aren’t promising.

he takes his chance then, between the shower of bullets raining down upon the first floor, to dart down the stairs and swing at the nearest warm body around the corner. his foot connects with the man’s gut, sending him to the floor in a mess of limbs. if somewhere along the way, his head catches the edge of an upturned table, mark isn’t too bothered by it.

he doesn’t give the man another look.

instead, his focus is on the back door and what lies beyond it. too easily, mark recalls the feminine figure he’d watched cut through the crowd ten minutes before, as she was led right into the lion’s den—wearing a cunning little smile on her painted lips.

“should’ve never trusted this.” he mutters under his breath, slinging the unguarded door open and skirting the closest corner. a glance around the richly decorated room finds it empty, save for the prone woman slumped against a wall beside the emergency exit, clothed in delicate black silk and draped in pearls.

a pretty thing.

marred only by the trail of crimson making a slow descent down her temple—

fuck.

—

she looks a little feral, mark muses—like a cornered cat, sunk into the armchair while her eyes scan the small office, flicking from face to face. it isn’t apparent what she’s searching for, but he observes her from his peripheral and tries to avoid scalding his tongue on his coffee. though his first sip makes him grimace just the same.

it should be impossible to make coffee taste that awful.

“are you listening, detective?”

“of course,” sliding his hands into his pockets, he tips back onto his heels and examines the ceiling, counting the divots that have only multiplied over the years, “you want me to babysit—”

if he listens closely enough, mark can hear the lieutenant gritting his teeth.

“tuan, are you asking for an insubordination charge? again?”

easily, he slides back into the appropriate role; straightening his back and clearing his throat before he offers the older man a faint—if a little smug—smile, “i’m shocked you’d think that of me, lieutenant.”

“impudent.” comes his retort, muttered as he lifts a hand to rub at his temple. mark takes the moment to stare longingly out the window; outside, the winds whisper harbingers of a storm to come. he focuses on it, though it isn’t easy to forget the woman behind them, watching from her claimed chair with equal parts irritation and trepidation.

“we’ve got a dead body on our hands,” his superior continues, folding his arms across his chest. “and she’s the only one that can possibly link it to the sixes. she’s under your protection now, tuan.”

“I refuse.”

a muffled snort comes from his left, and mark spares a glance at his partner—who promptly turns his head and feigns a cough, “I don’t do protective services,” he bites the words out with clear disdain, “lieutenant.”

jinyoung seems to recover quickly enough, brow raising as his eyes flick between them, “mark—"

“I know that you’re accustomed to other kinds of assignments, but this is not a request.”

his tone leaves no room for argument. mark reaches for the abandoned coffee mug sitting on the edge of the desk and takes a long drink, “well, since you’ve so graciously asked me, I guess I have no choice but to oblige.”

the lieutenant steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, though there is no hiding the pleased glint in his eye as he nods toward the largely ignored figure still eyeing them with distrust, “tuan, meet your charge. you’ll be responsible for her safety until we can conclude our investigation.”

the tell-tale shuffling of papers falls upon his ears, and mark knows the matter is officially settled.

whether he likes the conclusion or not.

in what he feels is a rather gracious move, mark turns and holds out his free hand toward her, “pleased to make your acquaintance, miss.”

jinyoung scoffs behind him, and he can clearly imagine the man rolling his eyes.

but his attention stays on her and the way she examines his hand, skeptically perhaps. after a moment, she pushes herself up from the seat and makes her way for the door, “this is a joke.”

with a hum, mark lowers his hand back to his side and trails after her. he lifts his mug to his lips and drains the remainder of the foul liquid, “so it is.”

his ready agreement only makes her tense. he watches her shoulders roll and her fingers flex.

she glances over her shoulder but says nothing, jaw setting and—if he looks closely enough—lips pursing together so tightly they flush a bright red. she’d be pretty, if all the ire that one look wasn’t aimed squarely between his eyes.

“stay in sight,” he orders, with no expectation that she’ll obey.

though her steps slow, she continues on her weaving path toward the exit.

“how do you want to approach this?” jinyoung asks, after clearing his throat. he falls into step easily, crossing his arms lightly over his chest, “we don’t have any… secure safehouses.”

his partner's voice levels until it is little more than a whisper, offered as he surveys the room with thinly veiled consternation. the precinct is busier than a thoroughfare, this time of night. though it isn’t the cuffed men being paraded through that catch his eye. with a quarter of their force on the syndicate payroll, his wariness isn’t unfounded.

“we’ll play it by ear,” he answers, with a dismissive wave of his hand. his other sets the empty mug at the edge of his desk and plucks his jacket from where it hangs on the chair—“I’ll keep her with me for the time being, if you’ll case out some of the hotels nearby.”

the sharpness in jinyoung’s gaze gives way to exasperation, “you mean you want me to do the legwork, while you kick your feet up at home.”

mark smiles.

“you always were the smart one.”

—

some things make more sense than others.

it had made sense at the time to find the nearest cop and beg—plead—to be taken to the station, but the relief of being among the uniformed protectors of the city had quickly given way to apprehension.

that half the force was just as involved in illegal dealings as the next criminal was an open secret.

so she insists on speaking to the highest authority in the precinct. he is a rather compact man, short and at an age where she can easily see the crow’s feet adorning his eyes. comfortingly, he also has numerous smile lines.

perhaps it isn’t her wisest choice, but she trusts him almost immediately.

after she relates her tale to him, his countenance becomes contemplative. he is silent for a long moment, regarding her with an odd sort of pity that settles wrong in her gut. then he picks up his phone and she misses the majority of the exchange but a minute later—

the detectives that he summons to his office don’t earn her trust quite so easily.

they offer matching nods and the lieutenant introduces them in a passing sort of way. detective park and detective tuan—they’re not unattractive men, though they have vastly different manners. jinyoung is upright. his eyes are clear, and he stands at attention in a way that almost makes her uncomfortable to look at. she suspects it’s because of his present company.

mark is his opposite; he keeps his hands in his pockets and his stance casual. he drawls instead of speaking, with a distinct sort of accent that hints at an upbringing in the underbelly of the city. his posture insinuates laziness, but the look that he gives her indicates that there is something razor-sharp lying just beneath the surface.

he makes her hair stand on end.

and so she watches him with a healthy dose of caution and attempts to merge with the armchair until she can be alone again.

if she camps out in the lieutenant’s office for a minute, maybe this will all die down with time.

but things hardly work that way.

having been placed into their indifferent care, the temptation to run is stronger than ever. just when she thinks of slipping through the open doors, a hand wraps loosely around her upper arm and she is confronted with an inquisitive stare.

“didn’t the lieutenant explain to you what protective custody is?” mark questions, tone light but gaze intently fixed upon her face—scanning, though for what she doesn’t know, “you’re not supposed to be going anywhere without one of us with you.”

she glances over her shoulder and finds that it’s just the two of them; jinyoung has disappeared into some corner of the precinct where he is out of sight.

it’s just her and the man whose presence itches like a bad bee sting.

“right,” she murmurs, turning her attention forward; unable to meet his discerning stare, “where are we going, then?”

“for the time being?” from the corner of her eye, she watches him scratch his chin thoughtfully like he doesn’t already have the answer for her question, “until we find another secure location, we’re going to my apartment.”

she doesn’t like the sound of that.

—

anywhere else in the colonies, it’d be considered a hole in the wall. here—in the dingiest city this side of mars, the detective’s apartment might as well be a penthouse.

albeit a small one.

even with a ten-foot ceiling and windows just as tall, the space is dark—filled to the brim with old mahogany bookcases and a suspiciously comfortable looking leather couch. she gravitates toward it before she can check herself at the door. though the place is empty, and if the good detective intended to kill her—

well, he could’ve given her a helpful nudge off the nearest bridge and washed his hands of the entire thing.

“nice place,” she offers, feeling charitable as circles his small coffee table and surveys the remainder of the space. the living space flows into the kitchen; an open space lined in appliances older than she is.

she wonders what the rent is.

“thanks—”

“is there a refrigerator under those take-out flyers or…” trailing off, she occupies her hands with gathering her hair into a messy ponytail, “will I be eating garbage for the foreseeable future?”

if her line of questioning irritates him, the detective—mark, she reminds herself—doesn’t show it. he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it beside the door. his holster stays on, and she isn’t sure if it’s a comfort or a cause for concern.

he pivots, turning to face her with an idle tilt of his head, “it’s not that bad. still,”

mark lifts his hands, palms up. his eyes slip into a half-lidded stare, focused on her in a way that says you.

it lasts a second too long. she bites her tongue.

“if you want to risk using the stove, be my guest. but I don’t intend on keeping you here that long.”

then he’s off, slipping down a darkened hallway where she assumes the bedroom and bathroom are.

quietly, she makes her way for the nearest window to peer down at the rain-slicked streets below. the pane feels icy under her fingertips—biting, even in the first weeks of spring.

the atmospheric systems need to be recalibrated; her neighbor would say.

it was widely believed that the best substitute for the decaying earth would exist in close proximity to the planet itself—thus, the first post-lunar colonies were built on the red planet and the minds behind the science of atmospheric replication were lauded as geniuses.

and while the wealthiest families soon moved onward to the perfected metropolises on callisto and europa, the rest of the world was soon left to languish under the shelter of outdated technology that would fail them sooner rather than later.

maybe they’d all deserve it.

“you’ll be taking the bed tonight.”

her attention shifts back to the hall where mark emerges, dressed in a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a tank top. his gun holster remains securely strapped against his ribcage. he moves about the space as if it isn’t there; digging through a laundry basket tucked into the corner of the room before he pulls out a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

she catches them in an outstretched hand and considers the message scrawled across the front.

to the ends of the earth.

“only one bed?” watching as he lifts his arms and stretches them over his head, she rolls her makeshift pajamas into a ball under her arm and rests her hand on her hip. “you were really blindsided by all this, huh?”

mark hums vaguely, silent for a long minute. when he speaks, it’s punctuated with a soft yawn. “some murders just happen at the most inconvenient times.”

“i imagine any time is inconvenient if you’re the victim.”

“touché,” he says, with a humored quirk of his lips.

when the conversation lulls, she makes her way down the hall and slips into the bathroom. the sight of herself in the mirror staring back is enough to sober even the clumsiest drunk. as the door clicks shut behind her, she turns fully to face her clouded reflection. the woman boasts little more than the dusting of shadows beneath her eyes and specks of red dotting the left side of her side, from temple to cheekbone.

she must've turned away, at the last second.

they flake away under her touch, and the smell of copper comes flooding back; the deafening click-bang and warm something on her face. she chokes on her next breath.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

the bile comes rushing up before she can control it; acidic and sour, it lingers at the back of her throat as she rushes to the toilet and cradles it between shaking hands until there is nothing left but the taste of sickness on her tongue.

“you alright?” comes the muffled voice on the other side of the door, and she can imagine him bracing his weight on the frame—biting back a sigh.

she says nothing.

then she hears him sigh, “at least say something if you’re conscious, or i’m breaking in.”

“i’m alright,” she sniffles, reaches for the box of tissues beside the faucet and wipes her mouth. her head lifts, gaze flicking across the rest of the counter before she turns her head to the door, “do you have a spare toothbrush?”

—

when he can hear the shower turn on, mark feels confident enough to step away from the door.

in hindsight, he should’ve anticipated her reaction. it was a natural one that he’d seen—experienced—more times than he cared to count and letting himself be fooled by her easy banter was a rookie mistake.

he dispels the unease with a shake of his head and sets about straightening the apartment into something semi-presentable; gathering the take-out boxes and beer bottles scattered throughout the kitchen and living room.

let it never be said that he was a neat man; his work demanded enough mentally that he found himself exhausted most days. ordering his dinner and sinking into bed was a temptation he never resisted.

though cleaning is strangely cathartic. when he’s finished, the apartment looks as it did the first time he’d walked in the door.

come on. we’ll get you fixed up and then i’m feeding you—don’t argue with me, tuan.

the memory is an innocent one, but also a reminder of things lost to the dark.

and it is best not to think of it.

he considers the merits of putting in an order for his new charge but discards it immediately. she’d hardly be able to keep it down. instead, he pulls a baking sheet from a drawer he’s never opened before and tosses two slices of bread on it.

by the time she emerges from the bathroom—looking clean and fractionally less like a stray cat—her food is plated and sitting on the bar, residual heat curling into air invitingly.

“come eat your dinner,” he commands, and leans against the counter with his arms loosely crossed.

“it’s toast.”

“and it’s homecooked, so count your blessings.”

mark watches as her brow twitches upward; though the only indication that the expression is amusement is the accompanying tilt of her mouth. otherwise, she is inscrutable. not for the first time, he wonders what might’ve fostered that ability in such a delicate looking thing.

“can’t argue with that,” with that, she slides onto the barstool and bites into the corner.

i don’t do protective services, he thinks. and he has never meant it more.

—

he watches her while she eats, in a way that she supposes is meant to imply idle interest. but there is no denying the calculating glint in his eyes; one which again contradicts his relaxed posture and hints at a sharp intellect hidden behind the guise of indolence.

she contemplates the image of him working in interrogation—using that carefully careless demeanor to unsettle lesser men. there is little question that it would be an effective tactic, if the unease settling deep in her gut is any indication.

“you don’t have to watch me eat,” she comments, in hopes of diverting his attention.

it doesn’t work quite the way she pictured.

he shrugs in response, picking up his phone—“i’m waiting for word on what our next course of action is. but our options are limited in any case.” the explanation is concise, and though she appreciates that—

her stomach sinks at the thought of not knowing what comes next.

“and what are those options?” she asks, contemplating the last bit of bread held between her fingers. when she looks up, mark is still watching her. the phone is cradled between his ear and his shoulder, and his free hand taps lightly on the counter; a staccato beat that matches the anxious fluttering in her chest.

“either we find a secure hotel where you’ll be registered another a fake name or—” he pauses, eyes leveling on the wall beside the front door. “jinyoung, did you find anything?”

though muffled, his response is audible and carries a distinct air of disappointment.

not really. half of these places are hotbeds for dealers and the most reputable place in town—well, i was propositioned by two high-class escorts on my way to the front desk.

“i’m sure that’s just your charm and good looks.”

shut up.

  the exchange almost warrants a laugh, in any other circumstance. she watches mark’s lips quirk in an absent sort of way as he listens to jinyoung relate the details of his findings. when he hangs up, she can guess what comes next. it’s the safest option, at least, and she finds she isn’t too opposed to it after the hours spent in his company.

“looks like you’re stuck with me for a while, princess.”

she stares, and he clucks before reaching out and nudging the back of her hand—

“finish your dinner.”

—

wrong place, wrong time.

anywhere else, the turn of phrase was something innocuous, like walking into the wrong class or coming home and finding her roommates making out on the couch. innocent. but on mars, being somewhere you weren’t supposed to be too often became a matter of life and death.

it was why the average citizen skirted the areas of town where the place was always wrong; why dusk, whenever it happened to fall, was a signal to most—

pack up and go home.

maybe she’d gotten a little presumptuous, ignoring how low the sun fell on the horizon.

“where are you?” she whispers, lacing her fingers together and breathing into them—the night is unforgiving for more than a single reason—to warm them. it is the only sound she hears, aside from the hushed, tinny summarizations of the films playing in the theater behind her.

it had been the plan to watch one of them, dissect them with an old classmate she lost touch with years ago. the girl had dropped out, yes. she’d gotten involved with things that put her on a different path.

it would’ve been a lie to say she wasn’t relieved on some level, to have her mother dragging her away from those particularly dark parts of the world.

you are an earthling, she’d said—and that is martian business. of course, mom wasn’t around anymore and things…

things changed.

miyoung was a good person. just one that occasionally did things that most would consider illegal. her call had been out of the blue, but a welcome distraction from the monotony that had become her daily life.

work, home, work, bar, home, work, work, work.

not a soul walks the street at this hour, and the booth attendant has long slipped inside to clean the popcorn machine. she sniffs, adjusts the scarf on her shoulders to cover her neck. the hem climbs to brush the tip of her nose instead, obscuring all but her eyes.

she watches the play of red, yellow, and green on the pavement at the intersection closest to her. after more cycles than she cares to count, she pushes away from the building and begins the long journey home.

so much for reconnecting.

she gets three blocks before she hears it.

the soft sound of sobbing and faint whispers catch her ear as she passes a darkened alleyway between an empty law office and a corner store where the lights are dim—though if the passing of figures by the window is any indication, the store isn’t dark because it is closed.

at first, she assumes that the woman—the source of those soft cries—is in there.

but the sound fades when she makes for the door. instead, she turns and stares into the darkness of that narrow alley, watching the city rodents cut a certain path through on the rain-slicked concrete.

“please—” she hears, barely audible over the pressure building behind her ears—the dull thumping of her pulse reminding her that this is dangerous. this is exactly the sort of martian business that her mother tried so hard to shield her from.

she is an earthling; one of the last to be born on the dying planet, and this—the things that happen on mars are brutal and ugly. the red planet, they say, is stained crimson for a variety of reasons these days.

but if dread pushes her back, conviction drives her forward. somewhere there, cloaked in shadow, is someone begging for help.

or for mercy, she realizes, when there is an answering male sigh.

“don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” he says, in a strangely melodic tone that reminds her of the singers that take up residence in softly lit bars—delighting the local drunks with stories of missed chances and love lost.

in the following silence, she hears the distinctive click of a gun safety being disengaged.

one doesn’t live in this city without hearing that sound at least once.

“i won’t tell—” the woman breathes out, and she registers that she is close enough to hear it; to hear the answering exhalation and see him shake his head—a delicate gesture at odds with the rest of his stance. he stands before her, staring down at her kneeling figure with something akin to pity shining brightly in his eyes.

in any other situation, she’d find him stunning to look at. but she recognizes the woman at his feet, clasping her hands together in supplication.

her mother always said that miyoung’s choices would catch up to her, one day.

“you’ve already told, miyoung,” he says with an air of finality. the barrel of the gun is pressed to her forehead, and the steel black against her pale skin does little but make her stomach turn. “you know by now that the information you were given was false—individualized just enough to point the finger directly at the leak.”

she watches, paralyzed as a tear slides down miyoung’s cheek. her gasp bares the truth in his words, and again, he sighs.

“i told you being an informant was dangerous. i told you not to get caught.” his voice raises in those last words, though the sound still comes out as a hiss absorbed by the beginnings of a thunderstorm. lightning flashes in the distance.

she feels the pelting of water drops upon her shoulder, icy cold. they soak into the scarf still sitting over the bridge of her nose. still, her eyes—fluttering under the sudden onslaught of bad weather, remain fixed on the scene before her.

“just let me run—” miyoung starts, but she doesn’t have the chance to finish before there is a violent crack in the air and a hole between her eyes.

her body crumples to the ground and begins to bleed. the viscous fluid swirls with the forming puddle of water beneath her head. miyoung is gone.

there is scattered warmth dusted across her own cheeks and eyes; her forehead. she doesn't think about it.

and the man stands over her motionless figure. the hand not holding his gun—finger off the trigger, now—raises to his face to rub his eyes. he tilts his head back and stares into the sky. and it opens on him without mercy, washing away the droplets of red that lay across his cheeks.

now, the stranger is stunning for a different reason altogether.

she isn’t aware of the gasp that slips into the night air until his head turns toward her, lightning quick.

“who’s there?” he asks, and she watches his grip on the gun shift.

that is the last thing she sees before she runs.

—

he’s awoken by the muffled sound of footsteps in the hallway outside of his room. instinct has him reaching for the gun under his pillow and slipping the safety off before he’s fully awake.

the footsteps go silent, and he rushes to the cracked door as quietly as he can manage. his hand is on the handle before he hears the quick, panicked gasps of the person on the other side. soft, feminine.

his charge.

the events of the day come flooding back like an old montage, leaping wildly from one conversation to the next as he opens his door the rest of the way.

“hey,” mark says, to the shivering woman frozen mid-step outside his bedroom, as if he hadn’t been prepared to do something hopelessly irreversible just a moment ago, “what are you doing up?”

she doesn’t appear to hear him; her only response is to stare at the gun held firmly at his side.

the terror in her eyes is unmistakable; an expression that he remembers seeing in his own reflection, for a time. automatically, he clicks the safety back into place and moves his hand half behind his back. as soon as the gun is out of her sight, she seems to snap to attention—meeting his eyes in the dark.

“i couldn’t sleep,” she says, and she sounds a million miles away.

he nods, laying a tentative hand on her shoulder before he nudges her in the direction of the living room. idly, he takes note of the pack of cigarettes clutched in a fist by her side.

her knuckles are white.

“let me get you a drink,” mark offers, not knowing if it should be something stronger than water. he decides against it; if she didn’t already have that bad habit under her belt, he wasn’t going to introduce it.

as he makes his way to the kitchen, he hears her—a whisper against the sounds of the night; the droning of cars on the highway three blocks over; closer, the muted sound of raindrops hitting the rooftop.

the climate system must be on the fritz, with how often it rains now.

“can i smoke?” she asks.

he gestures wordlessly to the window, and she unlocks it before pulling it open with a firm jerk. the pane swings outward just enough for her to settle there, straddling the ledge separating the warmth of his apartment from the chilled spring rain on her shoulder.

“did you have a nightmare?”

mark isn’t sure why he asks, or why the answer matters. something in him, he supposes, recognizes the haunted look in her eyes and the way she clings to the cigarette perched between her fingers like it’s a lifetime.

he pours two glasses of water and crosses the space between them with quiet steps. the floor is dreadfully cold beneath his feet, “here.”

she takes the offered glass but doesn’t drink.

“yeah,” her answer comes on an exhale, distorted by the wisps of smoke that escape her parted lips, “yeah, i did.”

[kileyrose-2003]

Jenny Lind x Fem! Reader

A/N: Hello lovelies! This wasn't really a request but more something I decided to write for my dear friend @merci-bitch If you guys like this enough, maybe I'll open up request for Jenny.

I haven't been that well with my stress levels and mental health lately and she's been there to ground me and keep me as sane as I can possibly be. This is for you Tina. I love you and appreciate you and sincerely hope you enjoy this. Side note for all the people who have requested fics from me, I have not forgotten you. I know I'm behind and I will be getting to all of you eventually. Love you all and I hope you are all well. Stay safe, lovelies!

Warnings: Sexual content, implied mentions of self harm.

"...May I now present the most beautiful bird of song in our ring. Miss Y/n Y/l/n." The crowd cheered wildly as you stepped on stage. The spotlight making you sweat through your millions pound of caked on makeup as you forced a dazzling grin.

They say Phineas is The Greatest Showman but really if there was a true actor among people in the circus, it was you. To the crowd you came off as this charismatic, happy go lucky girl but you were far from that.

You were happy once but that seemed a dream now, hanging off far in the distance with all the stars shining in the sky.

You were born into a family of the musically elite. Your mother was a lyricist and your father, a prominent composer. For the first few years of your life were fairly pleasant.

You never wanted for anything and anything you desired within reason but something was always off when your parents were together. Exchanges of words that were once long and loving and had exchanges of pet names on the end of it were a thing of past and you couldn't help but wonder what happened. What changed.

They simply couldn't love each other anymore and then came the next two years of hell. The divorce. It was painful and confusing seeing two people who loved you fighting over you. Neither of them budging on which one would have primary custody of you.

You didn't feel like a person anymore. You felt like an object. A doll that only either of them wanted when they felt in the mood to play house. Because no man or woman that either of them dated would want to deal with their "baggage"

That's what you were. You were baggage. It killed your self esteem. Made you feel weak. Made you feel useless. Because if your own family looked at you like that, certainly you were useless, weren't you?

Desperation and depression set in and you wanted to find a way out. Find an escape to some place warm and kind where you could cry and have someone listen to you. Tell you 'I hear you' and 'I believe you'. You tried to find that place. Sometimes in the worst ways you could but you failed. Luckily.

When people would ask why you wanted out. Why you didn't want to deal with it anymore it was hard to talk about it. Because no one believed you. No one ever believed you about of the things your parents girlfriend or boyfriend said to you or what they did to you. No one ever believed you when you said you were hurt or needed a hug. The moment you would try to talk about what made you sad or angry you'd be brushed off to the side like a piece of garbage and so you refused to their answer their questions on why you wanted it to end, and learned the art of smiling.

You quickly learned people liked it when you smiled and acted preppy and in ways, you enjoyed it too. There weren't as many questions you were asked and had to answer and you were fine with that. It didn't make you feel any better though. At the end of the day when you looked at yourself in the mirror, you didn't see yourself. You didn't know who your reflection was besides a lie. An empty shell of yourself you wanted to curl up into and just cry.

You went on like for a while until you turned 16. That was when the "accident" happened. You could still remember it so clearly in your mind. Going to visit your father and finding a trail of crimson on the cake white tile flooring. A red hue that would never truly be erased from how ironic you found the colors to be. The white being the small tattered piece of childhood innocence you once held onto so tightly slowly fading away with the red which shone of what horrible events happened before you got there before you even see what happened.

It truly was only you and your mom after that and you were never the same. Hearty laughs you would bark out at jokes that once made you laugh were replaced by a fake giggle and no longer did you even bother with smiling. You were hurting and because you were hurting, your mom hurt too. Reality finally setting in on the fragility of your mental state that no person or form of tenderness could fix and even after everything your parents put you through it hurt you to see your mom hurt.

You ran away from home not long after that. Phineas was the one who found you on the street, dirt matted in your hair and a mess in every way imaginable. He was kind to you. Offering you a warm meal and a family and so you let him take you back home with him.

It took you a while to get used to the Showman's antics but you eventually got used to it. Though you never got used to his wife though, Charity. Something about the woman just rubbed you the wrong way. She always seemed so stiff but she was motherly in a way and you eagerly accepted her affection. The two of them built up your confidence. Made you feel at least somewhat whole again and not as empty.

When Phineas first brought up the idea of the circus, Charity thought it was ridiculous. You didn't though. You found it unique.

"And what would you provide for entertainment? Bafoons?!"

"People of talent my dear. Acrobats, swordsman, tightrope walkers, you name it you can find it!"

"And where would you find these people? Do we even know anyone talented to enough to even provide a simple song."

"I-i can sing." Your voice was sheepish and made the couple stare at you as if they never even seen you before. "What?"

"I-i can sing. Both my parents were musician. I was raised around music." When the shock finally fell off of Phineas' face he managed to form a full sentence. "Can-can you show us?"

You nodded and took a deep breath in and sang a bit of opera you remembered from your childhood. "..Il n'a rien dit, mais il me plaît."

"Stop! Stop!" You jumped at the abruptness of his words and waited for a response. "Y/n, why didn't you tell either of us you could like this before?"

"You like it?" You were in shock. Besides Phineas and Charity, no one ever really recognized your talent before and you never thought it was anything to brag about. "Like it, is an understatement my dear. You have the voice of angel."

"Well I guess you found your singer," Charity mused sipping a cup of tea. 

It wasn't long after that Phineas started posting help wanted signs around the city. You were there with him through the entire process. Sitting through some of the best and worst auditions you'd ever heard.

Charity was skeptical of the whole thing at first but she eventually came around. Attending most of your performances and comforting you back stage before you went on. For the first time in the longest time, you felt complete. Like you had a family and people who loved and cared about you.

The show became a hit and eventually you moved into your own apartment but you stayed close with Phineas. You were one of the first ones to find out about the Queen's Invitation to the palace.

" ..Phineas, Phineas! I know I told you I signed up for this so whatever you dealt my way, I'd deal with, but this. I did not sign up for this." You chased after the showman as he threw clothes in your suitcase.

"Nonsense, my dear. The Queen calls upon us to grace her presence and what she wants, she shall receive." The smile on his face was obnoxious and you wanted to smack it off.

"Yes but Phineas, I don't know anyone there and you know how I get around new people." You looked down at the ground, trying to hide just how small you were feeling in the inside.

Phineas stopped what he was doing and took your hands in his, fatherly gaze gleaming in his eyes. "I know but you know me. Think of it like a show. That's all it is. All you have to do is smile, greet people as you normally. If you get, perform as you normally would, sing, floor the audience with your incredible voice and then we go home. If I didn't think you could do this, I wouldn't ask you to come with me."

The grin he gave you made you feel warm inside and you let out a throaty noise. "But what will I wear?"

"Don't worry about that." You rolled your eyes as he carried your trunk out of your room. "When are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow." Your eyes widened. "Tomorrow?!"

"Royalty doesn't wait for excellence." You let out a groan and looked at yourself, seeing that girl again. The girl you locked away a long time ago, never wanting to see her again but today she made herself prominent and you hated it. "Fuck off!" You put your hands over your face and let out a sigh. You really didn't want to do this but you made a promise to when you joined the circus that you'd do something better with yourself, make something of yourself and now you had that opportunity laying in front of you on a silver platter. "God help me make it through this.."

....

The palace was even prettier than you could imagine. The lighting from the ceiling cascaded all around, highlighting the gold trim on some of the paintings. You caught a glimpse off your own necklace and it reminded you of being on stage. The lights shining down on you. You were next to be announced and all the sudden it felt as if the world came crashing down around you.

"May I present, Miss Y/n Y/l/n."

In that moment it felt as if the entire world had their eyes on you stood their for a moment, your body stiff and stuck in the moment. 'This can't be real. None of this is real.'

You could see the other guest staring at you for a few seconds until you heard your name being called. "Y/n! Y/n, come here." Phineas. You pulled yourself out of your trance and walked over as elegantly as you could, trying not to make your anxiety evident.

"Yes, Phineas?" A butler came by with a tray of champagne and you quickly took the glass, holding it up to your lips as if it was a comfort mechanism. "Y/n, there's somone I want you to meet."

'How lovely,' You thought to yourself and took a sip of the liquor. "This, is Jenny Lind." The red head infront of you smiled and you nearly choked on the alcohol. "How do you do?" You stood their for a moment with lack of words. She was probably one of the most beautiful women you ever seen. Her red hair complementing her olive green eyes and her white dress creating this aura of welcoming glow around her yet left you questioning what thoughts layed in that pretty little head of her because something to told you the woman infront of you wasn't as angelic as she seemed.

"Very well, thank you," You finally managed to mumble after a while. The other woman eyed you up and down as if she was analyzing you. "Y/n is a singer as well, Ms. Lind."

"A singer you say? How lovely. Perhaps we can do a piece together sometime, dear. I am told to be quite the piece of work." Her eyes interlocked with yours and you felt your cheeks growing red, letting out a slightly nervous giggle.

'Piece of work isn't even the right word for it.' You thought to yourself. Phineas seemed to pay no mind to what Jenny said and she smiled. "I'm sure she'd love that, wouldn't you Y/n?"

"O-of course.." You muttered. "Then I'll make it a point to see you again before the evenings events come to an end. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have some matters to attend to. It was a pleasure Mr. Barnum, Miss Y/n." She gave you a nod of acknowledgment and you laughed nervously as she was walked away.

"She's lovely isn't she?" The corners of your lips twitched into a smile. "That she is." Yours and Phineas' eyes interlocked and he gently patted your back. "Are you okay?"

"Of course, why?" You smiled. "You just seem a bit off, my dear." You waved your hand dismissively. "I'm just tired, that's all. I'm sure the liquor isn't helping any either," You chuckled and Phineas nodded in agreement. "Tis true, you are a tiny little thing and people with such delicate stature as your own tend to be a bit light weight it comes to liquor. Would you like to get some fresh air?"

"Please." You nodded and Phillip took your arm. "Come on, I'll take you out." You clung onto his arm tightly, breathing in deeply as the cold air brushed against the sides of your face. "You're alright?"

"Yes Phillip, I'm fine." He nodded hesitantly. "Alright..if you need anything let me know."

"Sure," You mumbled softly and leaned against the balcony. You heard him walk away and breathed a sigh of relief. Rubbing your face and staring out at London. The lights though far away burned so bright and you felt small.

"You know, I've made a lot of people flustered in my life but never have I seen someone react the way you did." You spun around to look at Jenny and coughed. "Y-you scared me."

"If that's what you want to call it sweetheart, sure. We can call it that." You smiled and blushed slightly. "What do you want Jenny?"

"To chat." You heard her heels clicking against the floor and the singer moved dangerously close to you, looking out in the distance. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" She gestured to all of London.

"It is. I've never seen anything like it before." She furrowed her brows. "You've never left America before this?"

"Never..but I'm glad I did."

"Did you not want to come initially?"

"To be frank, yes..I guess you could say I'm a little shy. Large crowds terrify me. There's something about the crowd though with singing that makes me feel at ease. Like it's the one true way I can express myself."

Jenny eyed you up and down as if she was inspecting you and smiled slowly. It was unsettling grin at first but you felt at ease when she brushed your cheek with your thumb. You just this woman? Why were you so comfortable with her?

"I think all singers can relate but someone as beautiful as yourself shouldn't be afraid of the crowd. For it's all the more people that love and adore you..and I my dear, already adore you?"

The way the light glistened on her face made your stomach flutter and it felt as if in that moment, you and Jenny were the only people alive. She leaned forward as if she was reaching out to touch you.

"Miss Lind!"

"What?" Phillip. "Miss Lind, Mr. Barnum-"

"Tell Mr. Barnum, I'm preoccupied with his lovely singer and I shall be with him in a moment." Phillip looked surprised by her attitude and nodded. "Sure..my apologies."

"It's fine, Phillip. We'll be out in a minute." You smiled and gave a slight wave as he walked away. Jenny let out a groan. "Is he always like that?"

"Sometimes but he means well. They all do. Phineas, he's like a father too me. Always has been and always will be."

"Is he married? Actually are either of you married?" You looked at the Swedish Nightingale, slightly boggled by the question. "H-he is but I'm no-"

"Such a same. For a tyrant he seems like a nice man." You felt yourself growing slightly annoyed with Jenny and was taken off guard when she cupped your face. "You both seem like such nice people. Phineas doesn't deserve you."

"I-"

"If you ever need me, this is my address. I'd like to keep in touch after this whole function, darling girl." You blushed and Jenny laughed. "My, you are such a precious creature and one so beautiful and rare for the eyes to behold."

"Y-you flatter me."

"I can tell. Come, darling. I'd hate to keep your beloved Phineas waiting longer he has..."

...

"..Oh please, don't be daft Phineas!" You downed another glass of wine as Jenny laughed, trying to become oblivious to the tension that was radiating from the two people next to you. "I don't mean to cause a row, Miss Lind but my proposition was for you to come for us. Not for you steal away my top singer."

"Well you're trying to steal me away from my own obligations so wouldn't it be fair to offer the same?" The smile on Jenny's face was sarcastic and you could see Phineas' face turning several shades of red. Jenny lifted up your chin with her index fingers. "She is quite darling, Mr. Barnum. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, she is and she's her own person who makes her own decisions. Am I correct, Y/n?" You nodded limply, seeing the tension in his eyes. "Which is exactly why I offered her. Because she can make her own decisions." Her eyes were full of lust and you tensed as you felt her caress her cheek. "What do you think, darling? Doesn't a life in Sweden sound nice?"

You felt Phineas' eyes burning daggers into you as if it was a test of your faith even though he knew very you knew where your alliances laid yet you found yourself so drawn to Jenny. "I mean-" You let out a giggle, attesting to your drunkenness. What was muttered between the two next, you didn't know. You glanced over at Phineas who snapped his fingers. "Yes sir?"

"Will you take Y/n back to her room please? I'm afraid she's been spent for the evening. Aren't you, my dear?" You nodded in agreement. "Sure. Goodnight, Jenny."

"Goodnight, darling." She kissed your hand. "You know where to go if you need to find me?" You met her eyes as if to say yes and left with Phillip.

What happened after you left, you would never know. All you could remember was someone changed you into y/f/c nightgown and being woken up by the heavy treading of feet down the hall followed by the sound of numerous voices. You were still slightly drunk and were too dazed to pick them up but you could hear what they were saying.

"So what she did say when you offered?"

"She refused, of course! I don't know what to do at this point. I can't force her to come and I'm certainly not going to just give up Y/n. She's family."

Eventually after a while the voices faded away and you laid in bed, staring up at the egg shell white ceiling. The words replaying over and over on your mind. Surely Jenny was quite flirtatious with you but she didn't mean anything serious. Did she?

Memories of how she caressed your face so tenderly ran through your mind and you felt yourself swelling up inside with what was a mix of lust and adoration.

You didn't have to be around her for a while to take the hint she was a good time girl but it was driving you mad. You had to know and you had to know now. You turned the lamp on in your room and searched through your trunk, pulling out a pair of flats and slipped them on. Not even bothering to change out of your pajamas. You still had the address of where Jenny was staying hidden in your bra and you took the paper out, memorizing the street and room number before grabbing your room key. The halls of the hotel were completely and you glanced at the old grandfather clock at the end of the hall.

"3 AM." You shrugged, quietly walking downstairs. The lobby was completely empty with most of the lights off but it didn't bother you. What mattered was making it to Jenny.

Rain was pelting down from the lit up sky, the light illuminating the cool liquid that caressed your cheek. You shivered slightly from the cool breeze outside but pushed it aside. Walking through the wet streets on London.

You were getting soaked and you were sure your y/f/c nightgown was becoming see through but you paid it no mind. 'Jenny will probably enjoy it,' You thought snidely. Her hotel came into sight and you walked past all the rooms until finally finding her room number. Ever so hesitantly you knocked on the door.

There was pause, an agonizingly long one. You debated on knocking again when the door swung open. Even with bed messed hair and scantily dress she was still one of the most beautiful women you ever seen.

Her eye makeup was smeared, highly the disdain in her eyes. "What the hell are you doing here? It's three in the morning." Her voice came out as low growl and you found yourself surprised. Her voice was so smooth the entire evening and you could never picture it being as nasty as it was now.

"Can we talk?" You asked softly. "At three in the morning?! Wow darling, you must truly be desperate." You seen her eyeing you up and down like a piece of meat and you shifted uncomfortably as you seen her eyes eagerly sizing up your breast.

"Maybe but does it matter?" Jenny let out a humming noise. "I suppose it doesn't. Very well, come in my sweet."

You stepped inside and Jenny shut the door before tossing a nightgown at you. "What's this for?"

"Because you're soaked. You might of pissed me off but how well mannered would I be to leave you cold and wet?" You shrugged, as if silently saying yes to what she was saying and turned your back as you stripped your clothes off.

Changing into the warm outfit. You could feel her eyes like little beads on the back of your neck but said nothing. Not knowing what you would even say to her. The situation was incredibly awkward as it was and you didn't want to make it any worse.

You turned around as you finished changing and Jenny smiled at you. "That's better." She sat down on one of the sofas and you followed her motion. "Now, tell me darling. What brings you here so late? Did the tyrant send you as a ploy or are you seeking out for a new..experience?"

The words came out so voyeuristically you had to do everything in your power not to shudder. 'What a milf.' You thought to yourself before responding. "Neither."

"Oh? Enlightenment me, Y/n. For now, I'm curious."

"I want you to come with us." Jenny laughed. "Phineas must be truly desperate." Her expression was so snide and you wanted to smack her across the face. "Actually, I want you to come."

Jenny choked on the water she was drinking. "Me, come with you? My dear, the offfer was you come with me."

"Yeah well, compromise is needed in both love and war. Don't you agree, Miss Lind?" You met her eye with a certain sassy glance Jenny found so attractive. "We're off first name basis?"

"We are negotiating business, aren't we?" She hummed softly and smirked. "Yes, we are...give me one reason why I should come with me. I am a very busy as you know. I know Chopin, people at the Music Academy.."

You said nothing and Jenny grew impatient. "Speak!"

"I-i feel connected to you..like I can trust you." She laughed. "Oh darling, do you honestly think I'm going to fall for that?"

You furrowed your eyebrows at her. "I'm speaking the truth!"

"Are you sure it's not for another reason?" Her eyes found their way back down to your chest again and you cringed. Jenny stood up and placed two of her fingers underneath your chin, caressing your cheek with her other hand. "You are quite the precious thing. Aren't you? My precious thing."

"I-i belong to no one." You tried your hardest to sound firm but knew it wasn't working. "Sure you don't. When do we leave, darling?"

"Y-you're going to come with me?!" Your eyes lit up with pure joy. "Only because you asked so nicely." She climbed into bed and held her arms out for you. "What are you doing?"

"It's three in the morning and I'm sure darling Phineas won't be looking for you a while. Now come." Hesitantly you slipped into bed next to the older woman, letting her run her fingers through your hair. You knew it wasn't right but it felt so nice just to be there in that moment. Could you be having..feelings for her?

....

To say yours and Jenny's friendship was a peculiar one was an understatement. No one could wrap their heads on the dynamic between the two of you. The two of you were surely best friends as wherever you went, Jenny was and vice versa but the two of you were very physically affectionate with each other.

Jenny always kissing your cheek before she would leave the seem and it seemed more often than not the two of you were either holding hands or hugging each other.

Not that the others minded but they just couldn't quite wrap their heads around it and you always seemed to have an excuse for her when people would ask why she was always all over you.

"I just think she's trying to be sweet." You smiled as you sat down next to Anne after one of the shows.

"I think she's trying to be a milf." You furrowed your brow at Anne. "What do you mean?" She shrugged. "Have you not seen all the people that come in and out of her trailer?"

She was your partner. It was hard not to notice or know about how much of a flirt she was, especially towards Phineas, but it was none of your business anyways as far it was your concern. You and Jenny worked on a policy that the other wouldn't ask unless you wanted to tell and you were fine with that.

Screw what other people thought and if you're happy shouldn't they be happy for you?

...

"So I started working on a new piece-" Jenny hummed as the two of walked hand and hand towards the piano. "I don't know what to call it yet but I guess that doesn't matter now though. You well be happy to know that I thought you of you since there are a-" She tapped her finger on the piano. "F5's in here."

You smiled and looked at the woman sitting down in front of you. "I want you to work on this with me. Critique me."

"Oh no, Jenny! I couldn't possibly-"

"Do you know what one of the main claims made by successful musicians and writer's are? They listen to the criticism of others so you can and you will, now sit down." She commanded, patting the empty space next to her on the stool. You quickly did as she asked, not wanting to make her mad and straightened her posture. "You'll do the soprano section and I'll do the alto."

"Yes ma'am." You hummed softly. You noticed a little smirk forming on the sides of Jenny's lip and you bit down on your lip, trying your hardest not smile. "Now, 1 and 2-"

Her long, nimble fingers hit the keys on the lower part of piano and your voices met in harmony. "Everything went wrong, and the whole day long I'd feel so blue. For the longest while, I'd forget to smile, then I met you. Now that my blue days have passed, Now that I've found you at last."

Your echoed her words and Jenny smiled. "With a love that's true always. When the things you've planned. Need a helping hand, I will understand always."

"..Always." Jenny turned to look at you and for a moment you could of sworn you seen a look of something other than lust in her eyes and she leaned towards you.

Despite your inner voice screaming at you stop what you moved closer to her, your lips nearly brushing with her plump reddened ones before she pulled.

"Oh god..I'm sorry. That was-that was inconsiderate. I-i don't know what came over." Jenny's laugh was almost brimming on nervousness and you had to try your hardest not to frown. "I-it's okay. I wasn't thinking either."

Jenny stared deeply into your eyes and for a second you could of sworn you seen a glimpse of love in her eyes.

"I should leave." You shook your head. "No, no! Stay, Jenny. Please, I insist." She shook her head. "No, no, no. This would be inappropriate of me to do."

"Aren't we already inappropriate?" She narrowed her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not blind, Jenny. Nor am I deaf. The others ask me things about us. Why you touch me so much."

"Y/n, my dear, this a step above us holding hands. This is kissing. We are partners. It would never work." She growled. "But you love Phineas, do you not?"

Jenny looked at you almost betrayed and stood up. "That doesn't matter right now! I overstepped my boundaries and made you uncomfortable. Now if you'll excuse me."

"But Jenny-"

"No buts, Y/n. Please! You're just making this harder on yourself but me as well. For us to do this, we would have to live a lie. Do you want to live a lie, Y/n?"

"But aren't we already living a lie as it is?" For the first time since you met Jenny Lind, you could of sworn you could seen that she was at a loss of words. For once.

"Yes, I mean- No! No, we are not! I love Phineas! I want to be Phineas!"

"Then if you love him, then why would you of tried to kiss me?" Jenny's cheek turned cherry red as if she was child caught in the midst of stealing a sweet. "He's married, Jenny! And he's not leaving his wife anytime in the foreseeable future. You're setting yourself up for heart break and I love you Jenny and I want you to be happy!"

"If you love me you'll let me do what I need to do! Now if you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to." She stormed past you.

"Jenny, I'm telling you-"

"And I'm telling you, to let me do what I do best.." She grabbed the sides of your face, staring deeply into your eyes before kissing your forehead. "Now if you'll excuse me, for the last and final time."

The singer walked past you. Leaving you with millions of unanswered questions and emotions. Did she love you? Did you love her? You didn't even know anymore. You walked out of your rehearsal space, nearly bumping into Phineas.

"Jesus!"

"I'm sorry my dear, I didn't see you coming. I just bumped into Jenny down the hall. Am I interrupting something?"

"No." Your tone was sharp and it made Phineas narrowed his eyes. "Don't ask. It's a long story. Anyways what do you need?"

"Are you performing tonight?" You shook your head. "No, this is Jenny's solo night."

"Okay, I just wanted to ask because she ignored me when I seen her...are you sure you're alright my dear?" You stared at him for a few moments, not knowing what to say. It was an incredibly awkward situation. What could you even say to him. "Yes, everything's fine. I'm just not feeling the greatest."

"Go get some rest then, my dear. I shall see you tomorrow morning." He placed a small kiss on the top of your head. "Goodnight Y/n."

"Goodnight Phineas."

....

"It's not tight enough!"

"How tightly do you want the bobby pins then, Jenny?" You sighed and ran a hand through her red hair as curled it. "Sorry..sorry."

"It's fine, You huffed. There was an awkward silence for the moment. "So are we going to talk about what happened earlier?" You shrugged. "What is there to talk about?"

"Y/n-"

"No, Jenny. I'm not doing this with you. You pushed me away. There is nothing for us to talk about. There is nothing I want to talk about. You burned the bridge. You deal with the consequences."

You finished her last curl and set the iron down. "..I didn't mean to hurt you, Y/n."

"Sure you didn't." Jenny sighed and pulled you into a slight hug. You softened up a little bit and sighed. "Don't do anything brash please?"

"I make no promises."

"Jenny-"

"You trust me right? Trust me enough to make my own decisions?"

"Jenny you know I do but I'm just afraid of you getting hurt."

"I won't. What's the worst that can happen? He turns me away." You shrugged as if to say maybe and Jenny smiled. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck." She pressed a kiss against your cheek and smiled. "Bye, Y/n."

"Bye."

....

The next few hours you laid in bed in yours and Jenny's hotel room, wondering how the show went and what she was doing. She should of been back hours ago. What the hell was she doing?

Your eyes settled on the clock at the far end of the room. 12:55. You brushed it off as maybe she lost track of time but you knew that was too good to be true. Something felt wrong.

A few minutes later you heard the door unlock followed by the sound of heels clicking against the floor and sniffling. "How much did you have to drink?" You joked but there was no laugh.

"Jenny? Jenny, are you okay?" You felt her weight sink down next to you on the mattress. "H-he doesn't like me." You furrowed your brows. "Who?"

"Phineas." You sat up in bed and took her hands gently in your own. "Jenny, what the hell did you do?"

"Remember how you told me the story about your first time on stage and Phineas tolf you, you have to learn to fall before you fly?" You grabbed a tissue out of the box besides your bed and handed it to Jenny. "Yeah.."

"So I thought maybe, just maybe, he'll like me the way I like I like him."

"Jenny-"

"I tried to kiss him. I tried to kiss him but he refused me." She looked so mad and upset. Despite the part of you that was relieved Phineas didn't cheat on Charity, you felt your heart breaking for the woman sitting next to you.

"Jenny.." You wiped some of the tears off her face and she pulled you into a hug. You never seen Jenny act like this before and it shocked you. It was the look of rejection. It was the look of pain. She never had been rejected before.

"And the worse part is, is I thought I love him but I don't know what I feel anymore. I-i'm just so confused." You shushed her and hugged her tight. "It's okay, Jenny. Everything is going to be alright. It's okay to be confused. It's normal. I'm sure everything will work out. Everything happens for a reason. We may not understand why in the moment, but eventually it will make sense in the future. It's going to be okay. I promise."

"Yeah but, where do I go from here? People will talk. Say things about the both of us and nothing is going to be the same after this." She was practically panicking. "Just relax..For right now, no one has word of anything and don't worry about where to go yet. You have time to figure all that out. It's going to be alright." You held onto her tightly, not knowing if you should do more or less for her. "Thanks, Y/n."

You kissed her sweet smelling red hair and patted her back. "You're welcome." The two of you sat together in silence for a moment. Despite not knowing how you even felt about all this, you treasured the silence between the two of you.

After a while, Jenny pulled away from you abruptly and stared deeply into your eyes. "Jenny? Jenny, you're staring at me. What's-" Her luscious red lips smacked against yours and your eyes widened, trying not to melt into the kiss. "Don't speak."

"Jenny..Jenny, what are you doing?!" You rasped and attempted to pull away from her but she grabbed your hand. "It's always been you, you know that right?"

"Jenny, it has not always been me. You basically just told me, you want to fuck Phineas. This is not you acting out of love. This is you acting out of-"

She interrupted you, putting a finger up to your lips. "I've always loved you. I thought I loved Phineas but no, I love you. You and only you."

"I-i love you too..I think? I don't know! I'm so confused! Jenny, people will talk. People will say things about us. Mean things about us. Don't you care?" She kissed you sweetly on the lips. "Who cares what people think as long as we have each other."

Despite how wrong it felt, it also felt so right and you gave into her touch. Praying you wouldn't regret it later as she ran her hands through your hair as she kissed you. "I..I love you my darling."

"L-love you too." You could feel Jenny caressing your sides and you moaned slightly as her lips left yours. "I want you, Y/n. I want you right now." She pressed you back again the mattress and you looked at her wide eyed and terrified. "I-i never done this before."

"Then I'll teach you. No fear, understand?" You nodded in spite of your growing anxiety and Jenny began to pepper small kisses down your face and neck, leaving little love marks here and there. "So, so beautiful." You could feel her hands working at the buttons on the top of your blouse, the sides of her hands kneading your breast.

You bit down on your lip to prevent a moan of frustration and you could of sworn you seen Jenny smile. "Oh darling..by the time I'm done with you, there will be no amount of lip biting to hide those luscious noises."

You blushed in embarrassment as she pulled off your top and bra. Peppering tiny kisses all over your breast before playfully biting at your nipples. You hissed in a mix of pain in pleasure, pulling at her hair as she moved lower down your body.

She looked up at me before pulling all your clothes off, dragging your silk panties along the way. Jenny spread your legs apart before lifting one of them up, placing it on her shoulder. You felt her trail small kisses on the inside of your thigh, your tongue licking alongside your folds.

Jenny's hand took hold of your thighs, holding them in place as she started to lick back and forth with her tongue against your cunt. “So wet and I’ve barely touched you” Your eyes rolled in the back of your head as your head fell back against the wall.

You felt her tounge flicking back and you arched your back. "Fuck, fuck!" You screamed then covered your mouth, not wanting anyone to hear you. "T-this feels so good!"

"I told you..I'm a piece of work!" You heard a hand bang against the wall from whoever had the room next door to you and Jenny sighed. "Oh fuck off!"

She quickly got back to work. The room which felt cold from the rain a outside was now hot like a sauna and the two of you were sweating. You were hitting your peak and you gasped, squeezing onto the white satin sheets.

"I-i can't take much more!" You grunted. "Cum for me, my darling. I want you to." You felt the pit in your stomach growing and you screamed in euphoria as you came. What the hell had you been missing all this time?

As you laid there, still in a daze. Jenny wiped the sweat off your forehead and laid down next to you. "That was...amazing."

"It was always is when you're with me." You slapped her arm and planted a kiss on her lips before burying your head in her chest. "My good girl." She kissed the top of your head and you laid there in her arms, not caring who thought what about anything that just happened between the two of you. None of that mattered now. As long as you had your Jenny.

[flos-timore]

Send “🌺” to put a flower in my muse’s hair! // Still Accepting!

@destructiveglitch​​ sent :  🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺 decorates Full Grown's hair with all of them : - )

O-Oh! Oh, MY! 

When the assault, the flurry, of flowers, comes, GRACES her head, The Witch barely expects it! She hadn’t even heard or seen (let alone sensed) her beloved Cadillac gift her with his presence. It was only when the first few plants were already touching down on silky locks that she turned- effectively putting a pause in the kind and gentle act. 

--- “Wh- Wh-What is the MEANING, of this?” she simply HAS to ask, lifting a hand to pluck at one of the delicate (yet DISGUSTING) intrusions on her person. Curious, she sniffs it, but... doesn’t have the heart to just... let it drop.

No.... No. In fact, she- SURPRISES herself by letting out a rather indulgent SMILE. 

--- “Having FUN, are you? Coming up behind me and littering my PERFECT hair with common filth?” 

That smile turns to a grin; needle-sharp teeth JUST poking out from behind full lips. She doesn’t think, really, before acting out on her impulses. The brilliant red rose still in her grasp found itself another home, before long, but NOT among swaths of light pink curls. 

A dash of crimson among astral, otherworldly locks. With the favor returned, her grin widens, still. A coquettish smirk to pair along with the ADORING trail of her hand along his jaw. How she cherishes him- relishes in their moments. 

If he somehow doesn’t know, doesn’t REALIZE, just how much The Witch can love, as well as BE loved, then she sure as hell hopes that he does, now. She’s quick to close the distance; to steal a kiss. 

Such a typically REPUGNANT action has never felt so sweet. His lips on hers.... Does he understand just how completely and utterly PERFECT they are, together? Because she does. 

Who could have known that a creature of destruction, of hopelessness, of RUIN, would find her place beside somebody.... who could comprehend her? Who could walk a mile in her own shoes? 

Full Grown doesn’t devote her time, energy, and attention to those unworthy of it. She doesn’t hand out kisses without intending to KEEP what she’s marked. 

--- “Although,” she comments, once she pulls back. “I suppose I can make an exception...” 

She chuckles, pausing a moment to soak in Cadillac’s..... EVERYTHING. 

--- “..... seeing as there is NOTHING common, about you~.” 

[erinelizabethh]

it’s your world, not mine | The Umbrella Academy (2/?)

You are Number Eight, the epitome of extraordinary in a crowd of the mundane. So is Number One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, and... maybe not Seven. The more you remain aligned with the Hargreeves name, the more you wish you weren't.

Reality is what grounds you to this fact, although you can't help but like your siblings... just a bit.

Chapter One: An Unfortunate Beginning 

Chapter Two: Diego

Summary:  What a mistake it was to seat you right next to Diego Hargreeves at the dinner table.

As if not being able to put into words the disaster that was the city you inhabited, the ordinary chaos you were thrust into at an early age, a huff fell from your lips as your back pressed against the double doors of the Hargreeves residence. When the sun rose and birds sang their tunes on a weekday, your home would gain its vigor once again, as one would find children running around with the intention to grant pride to parents that returned the favor with love that didn’t feel like love. Today was no different, except there came the unfortunate fact that you were different, so your siblings would peek their heads out from their bedroom doors to witness your retreating back the moment the sky manifested itself into hues of pink and orange. Then, as if you never left, their doors would close and they all would climb underneath their covers for perhaps two more hours of sleep before breakfast.

“Welcome home, Eight. Was the weather to your liking?”

You strode past the chimpanzee with another huff, your hand waving off his greeting as trivial with a, “Kinda,” murmured under your breath. Perhaps that was a sign you were lowering your guard, since a grin stretched at his cheeks and accentuated his youth of a way of thinking that outmatched yours. Nonetheless, his hands remained clasped with one another behind his back as he trailed behind your sulking form into the dining room where your family gathered around the table fit for ten in silence. Behind your adopted father stood your mother with a grin so wide your hairs used to stand at the thought of it, her crimson nails tapping at the skin of her knuckles as her feet were planted in the carpet with no intention of moving towards that seat beside him on the table. A waste of space she was, feigning interest in a complete waste of your time: a compulsory silence upon a home that housed eleven people.

Claiming your spot at the table beside the prosaic Hargreeves sibling incapable of performing feats like you or the other six seated before you, the weight upon your shoulders lifted the moment you dragged your body along the back of your chair. A squeak was what echoed through the silence, the groan of a chair sliding just an inch to the right, except you inhaled the intake of air Vanya was meant to breathe in before your eyes shuffled to the gaze averted by your fellow Libra, Diego. A scowl weighing down at your face, nose crinkling at the audacity of him to go through such lengths just so he wouldn’t have to experience your powers… perhaps the demonstration of anger would only satisfy you if spite was the catalyst behind it. With your body still reeling from the commotion beyond the walls of your household, your mind struggling to adjust to the hush compared to the coughing and sputtering of engines and careless banter among cultures, you snuck a glance at the head of the table too occupied in cutting into egg yolks spilling all over his plate.

Fuck you, you decided, and fuck Dad’s dumb, stupid eggs.

Your hand creeped towards Diego’s, snatching it from his lap and intertwining his fingers with yours. The millisecond of bliss granted to you, a child up to no good, was a wave of water edging closer to feet sinking in the sand; just one blink and the wave slithered between your toes, another one washing away the vision of the place you had been unfortunate enough to call home the past year. When your eyes adjusted to your surroundings, no longer of rays of light phasing through the squares of your windows or children already looking forward to the end of their day, the sight you were greeted with was the reminiscence of a past left behind.

“W-W—” Diego paused, his lips twisting in an attempt to force one word out, but your eyes rolled to the back of your head at his futile endeavor. What followed this was a squeeze of your hand, and your eyes left the disco ball in the midst of completing its revolution to find Diego’s hand around yours. A sigh of relief escaped you upon realizing that the boy stood in his spot, rigid, his feet elevated by four-wheel skates that neither of you knew how to use. A tune faded to its untimely end at your desire, mere seconds passing before another song began with the temptation that one had to perk their ears up in order to hear and mutter the lyrics under their breath. A glance at your shoes became a prolonged fixation at the rink as smooth as the last time people glided past you, sparing one look at you in their periphery before they moved past you with ease and inevitably forgotten about you.

“Are ya’ scared, Diego?” The name tasted bittersweet on your tongue, as he was the first of your siblings to be given a name at your age. “Is that why you stutter like crazy?”

Diego shook his head and jerked his hand back to his side with the word ‘cooties’ muttered under his breath. “No.”

You shrugged. “I think my mom liked it here, took me all the time after work. Don’t think she likes me anymore, though.”

That moment in time led to Diego’s heart perhaps growing two sizes at your musings, not quite regretting becoming a part of your world when you were no ugly face. Too confident he was to consider it near sublime, as he made the mistake of putting one foot in front of the other only for his skates to slide off the ground… with his body following. For a world where reality could be bended, twisted, created, the ache of his back latched onto him was nothing short of tangible. The notion of this inner world of yours as comprehensible was a question he would have to save for next time because the insight into your mind was no longer timeless the moment Sir Reginald Hargreeves somewhere, out there, ruined your morning with a clenched fist to the dining room table.

The next morning, and many more that followed, what was supposed to be your mother’s seat at the table inevitably became yours.

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Black Fire and Violet Flowers

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Light angst

Word count: 7467

Summary: The King of the Dead is lonely and sullen. That is, until a strange god wanders into his realm. Based on "reunion kiss" request.

Read on AO3

AN: A fic while I'm updating another fic? What?! Well, that fic is all written and just needs editing. So I wrote this in between doing that. And honestly, I just really wanted to write a Persephone/Hades AU. It's one of my fave myths. The earlier versions though, without all the kidnapping and trickery. I don't see this as "sanitizing it" like some people say tbh cause A) Greek mythology is very fluid and B) The myths we consider "standard" are really just the much later versions that were written down by sexist men. Soooo imma go with the one that gives Persephone agency and choice in her life, k? Anywho, feminist Greek myth rant over, here's the fic! :)

EDIT: Also, yes, I’m aware there’s no read more on mobile app. Tumblr is a dick cheese and doesn’t put a read more on longer posts which is totally counter intuitive. I’m sorry. I wish I could fix it.

———————————————-

O gather round, lovers of stories. Listen as the muse Erato flows from these pages. Listen to the story of the King of The Dead and The Lord of Spring.

Many eons ago, after the Titans fell from their thrones, a young god was given a land to rule over. It was the Underworld, where all mortal souls find themselves when their time on Earth ends. The Underworld was misty, dark, untouched by the sun above. And the young god matched his domain. Legends say he had hair as dark as night and eyes like storm clouds. He wore a cloak made of black fire that hid his face and body from all. He has many names, some shrouded in mystery, but there is one we all know. A simple name: Baz.

Baz was a sullen but dutiful lord. He spent his days on a throne of ebony, maintaining his kingdom of wandering souls, keeping them confined, making sure those who were proclaimed damned by the demanding king of the gods were dealt with so. But his only company were the spirits, who moaned and groaned ceaselessly. They did not make for conversation. So Baz was alone, spending his days doing work, reading when his time was free, heart growing as cold as the air around him.

Some said he was more dead than the souls around him.

But one fateful day, Baz was checking the edges of his kingdom for faults in it’s enormous walls. But suddenly, his cavern lit up with golden light. Baz hissed at the unfamiliar view that burned his eyes. He could only squint at first, and saw a faint silhouette in front of him.

“Who are you?” The King hissed.

“Where is this?” The silhouette answered a question with a question. And Baz was not amused.

“It is the Underworld, the realm of the dead. Where else?”

“Oh,” the voice chirped. “I wondered where the noises were coming from.”

Baz’s eyes adjusted. The light dimmed into a soft glow. And there stood before him was a boy made of gold. Tawny skin, bronze curls, everything bright in contrast to the darkness of his realm. Spackles of strange spots covered his rosy cheeks. His chiton was made of small green leaves and blooming multi coloured flowers. Blue eyes the colour of the sky blinked back at him. Baz had never seen someone like him. He had never seen someone so alive.

“Who are you?” Baz asked once more, voice softened

“My name is Simon,” the golden boy said. “Son of David, god of earth and sky, and Lucy, goddess of nature. I was wandering through a meadow when I entered a cave. I heard the groans of pain and wished to know if someone needed help. I did not know it would lead to the Underworld."

Baz slinked back into his cloak. “You may leave if you wish,” he muttered.

To the King’s surprise, the Lord just shook his head. “No,” he said simply. “I wish to see what is here. May I?”

The King could only stare in true confusion for a moment. No one ever wished to stay, even the spirits housed here. They’d all flood out the gates and back to the world of the living if they could. But Simon’s mannerisms showed no deceit. He was genuine, and he was kind.

“If...you wish,” Baz said cautiously.

“I do,” Simon replied, and he was off.

Simon skipped into the depths of the dead like it was a daisy field, and all Baz could do was trail behind him. With every step Simon’s bare feet took, small flowers bloomed in the his wake. They pushed between the rocks, finding life even in the dark. It was the first time anything had ever grown from the barren soil. Baz was confused by the green things, avoiding them like an ill man’s cough. But he followed. For David already despised Baz's family, and he wished not to invoke any more of his wrath by letting his son perish in his realm.

“This place is quite cold,” Simon commented as he touched the rock walls, small vines crawling out of the cracks behind him.

“It is the realm of the dead,” Baz said. “There is no need for warmth.”

“Do the dead not deserve some warmth at the end of their lives?” The Lord asked. It was a question so simple, yet Baz had never once thought about it.

To Baz’s utter shock, Simon walked down the winding stony path, down towards the Fields of Asphodel, without a hint of fear. The few who had ever come here shuddered at the spirits. Simon was not like others though. With no hesitation, he walked through the see of moaning ghosts. Baz pulled his cloak closer around him. The spirits recoiled from his dark flames.

“Why do you not let them touch you?” Simon asked. His questions were endless. They were as annoying as they were intriguing.

“They are...not pleasant,” Baz replied. For it was easier to say that than to admit he had never once thought to walk among them. And he knew not what to do.

“They are your subjects. You should not be afraid.”

Baz sneered. “I am not afraid.”

“Then do not shy away.” Simon reached out his strong arm. The spirits gathered around his warmth.They clambered to touch his glowing skin, for but a taste of the sun they once knew. Baz was amazed and horrified. So many feared the dead. Simon treated them like they were old friends.

“Why are there so souls many here?” The Lord asked simply. “They seem a bit cramped.”

“They have nowhere else to go,” Baz replied.

“Really? There is nowhere else they could stay?”

Baz twisted his mouth, for he knew he was only telling half truths. And if this were anyone else, he would have left it at that. But Simon was so genuine, so trusting. There seemed to not be a truly deceitful bone in his beautiful body. And Baz, no matter what David proclaimed, was not a monster. He would not hurt a person who only showed kindness.

“Come with me,” Baz said with a flick of his head.

The King lead the Lord through the sea of souls to the opposite cliff. Together they ascended to its peak. A pair of dark wooden doors were set in the jagged rock. They were smooth and handless. Baz pushed them open with ease.

Simon gasped at the sight. It was a large field of bright green grass. Trees with twisting vines were sparsely interspersed in the area. Everything was bathed in yellow sunlight. Baz instinctively sneered at it. He did not come here often, for he did not like the light. It always revealed too much.

“What is this?” Simon asked with utter awe.

“It is the Elysian Fields,” Baz replied. “It is where souls worthy of the gods’ honour are supposed to go. But...there is no true way to determine who is worthy. Many earn one god’s praise while angering another. So these Fields remain empty.”

Simon frowned, and it made something in Baz twist painfully. He had never felt like this before. He’d never felt sad because someone else was. “Poor souls,” the Lord sighed. “If they are good, they should come here.”

“They would if I could figure out how to judge them fairly. I am a god, I could never be impartial.”

Simon’s face looked forlorn for another moment, but it quickly softened once more. He kneeled down and touched his hands to the bright grass. Purple flowers bloomed to the surface. Their colour was rich and deep, with a little touch of darkness. Simon plucked one easily, and held it out towards Baz.

“Here,” he said sweetly.

“Why did you do that?” Baz asked.

“There are no flowers here. Everywhere could use flowers. As well as everyone.” He shoved the flower more insistently towards him. With great caution, Baz reached out from his cloak and took the single bloom. He spun the small stem between his long fingers for a moment. His arm pulled back under the black fire, but he tucked the flower into his hidden chiton belt.

“Is there anywhere else just as beautiful down here?” Simon asked, looking around the Fields.

Baz knew of only one other place that could match the Elysian Fields in the Underworld. It was somewhere he frequented even less than than the Fields. But Simon would like it. So he started walking, and the Lord of Spring followed.

They walked out of the Fields, along cliffs over the sea of souls, and finally reached their destination. Together, they entered The Cavern of Riches. Baz could hear Simon gasp behind him. It was gasp worthy for many. The Cavern was a glittering marvel of jewels. Deep green, rich crimson, shining blue, and every other colour imaginable all decorated it’s walls. Simon traced the gems and marvelled at the many shaded lights they made. They shone brighter with Simon’s glow. Baz had not entered this place in eons. He saw no need for pretty things in his own dreary existence.

“You have so many jewels,” The Lord gasped.

“They grow here,” Baz muttered. “All the wealth the mortals desire lies in this cavern, but it is useless to them when they are dead. It is some form of final mocking, I suppose.”

“You did not create it?” His question was reasonable but simple, but Baz still scoffed.

“No. I was given my kingdom as it was made. I merely maintain it.”

“That is sad,” Simon sighed. “Everyone should be able to choose your home.”

Baz heard something helpless in the Lord’s tone. His glow dimmed for a moment. But only a moment, then he became bright again. Baz wondered what could make such a gorgeous, shining light blink out like that. Even if only for a moment.

Simon spent a few more minutes looking at the cave and all it’s majesty. But soon he walked out, wandering once more with the King following behind. The Lord stopped at the mouth of the River of Leith, the flowing water of forgetfulness. He dipped his golden legs in the cold stream. Baz would have been worried if gods were not immune to river’s effects. He stood behind as Simon kicked the water lazily.

“How did you truly come to be here?” Baz asked quietly.

Simon shrugged all the way up to his ears, then let his shoulders slump down. “I found the cave, I heard the groans, I wanted to help,” Simon replied.

“I know half truths well, and that certainly is one.”

The Lord did not answer. But he kicked the water violently, spraying it in a chaotic blue arc. Baz’s feelings twisted again. Slowly, he sat close to Simon, but still too far away to be considered comforting. For the King of The Dead was frightened for the first time in his long life, and to think it was of what a beautiful man would say to him.

“You do not have to tell me,” Baz said. “I am just confused. No one ever wants to comes down here, let alone stay. David tells everyone it is an awful place. But you are...different.”

Simon let his head loll back, blue eyes meeting Baz’s grey. He looked forlorn again. Baz realised he was forlorn. But he did not understand how such a bright creature could be sad. “It is not simple,” Simon whispered.

His head rolled back, his body pulling in on itself. Baz’s chest- no, his heart ached. He did not wish to see the bright boy so sad. He did not wish Simon to be alone. Slowly once again, Baz moved toward the Lord of Spring. As he did, he pushed off his hood, so he sat beside Simon with his face showing.

“I would not mind hearing it,” Baz whispered as well, fearing a raised voice would make Simon run.

The Lord lifted his head, eyes going wide for a second a Baz’s bare visage. Their gazes met. And soon, Simon sighed and nodded.

“I am the son of two great gods,” he said quietly. “My father is always watching over me from above and my mother from the ground. He commands me to perform tasks for him across the land, and she worries constantly for my well being. I love them both dearly, but sometimes their twin gazes are too much to bare. Humans believe I am the god of unbridled freedom. But I am surely not. I am duty bound and smothered. So when I saw the cave, all I hoped to do was hide for a short while. But then I heard cries and moans of the souls. I followed the sound only wanting to help a person I thought was hurt. The path kept going, and I ended up here, where I saw you. Then-”

“Yes, yes,” Baz sighed. “I was there for that part.”

Simon chuckled, and Baz could not help but laugh as well.  He could not remember the last time he laughed.

“My father,” Simon sighed, “he also told me this place was frightening, but I wanted to see for myself. I now see that he was surely wrong. The spirits are not scary, they only need care.” Baz felt his pride soar, but it fell as Simon slumped forward again. “But I suppose I must go back to the surface now. Thank you for letting me see your kingdom, Baz.”

Simon began to stand, and Baz's pulse doubled. He was a selfish, greedy creature by nature, for he was a god of riches as well the dead. And he did not want to let Simon go. Not yet at least.

“Well,” the King said quickly, pushing it past his lips before he got scared. “I would not mind if you stayed a bit longer...”

Simon froze. His whole golden body went rigid like the human’s statues of the gods. Baz slowly stood as well. They were face to face. Though Baz stood a half a head taller.

“Really?” Simon breathed out cautiously.

Baz nodded. “You said you wished to help who was hurt. I shall accept your help with the souls, if you would be so pleased to offer it. You do not have to if you do not want to though.”

Baz did not want to be Simon's father. He wanted to give him choice. It was a flimsy excuse, but it was less pathetic than Baz’s desperation to not let him leave. And thankfully, Simon nodded. “Yes, yes, I would be happy to help.”

Simon's voice trailed off strangely, like he was going to say something more but stopped himself. He hoped he meant to say “and I want to stay with you.” But Baz did not question, for he did not wish to scare him away. So all he did was walk back towards his throne area, with Simon following behind.

“Come then,” Baz said, “there is much work to do.”

———————————————-

And so Simon stayed. He slept in Baz’s room, which was merely a cave harbouring meager possessions and a bed. Baz did not tell Simon it was the only bed, that he had sacrificed his own resting place for Simon’s comfort. It would be too difficult to say, for Baz could not give a rational explanation for it.

During the day, Simon became a constant companion at Baz's side. The souls rarely saw the two of them apart. He was a nice presence to have while Baz performed his duties. And when his time was free, they wandered the realm together, the fields, the rivers, everything. Simon told Baz stories of his adventures across the world performing tasks for his father. He used few words but many expressions and big gestures. It amused Baz greatly, and he started smiling more than he had in centuries.

Simon was just finishing his latest tale while they sat at Baz’s long, ebony dining table near his cave home. He reached towards a bowl of pomegranates, but Baz slapped his hand away. The Lord looked at the King with true confusion.

“Do you not know?” Baz asked horrified.

“Know what?” Simon replied, his voice simple and eyes wide.

“If you eat food in the Underworld, you will be trapped here.”

“But I like it here,” Simon said with a frown.

“But do you wish to be trapped for eternity?”

Simon looked at him for a few more moments, then pulled his hand away. Baz knew he would. For as much as Simon seemed to like his kingdom, no one would ever desire to be trapped here. Baz knew that far too well. He would not wish his fate on anyone, least of all Simon.

Baz still kept up the facade of needing Simon's help, because he did not wish to seem pathetic. They sat together and went over ideas. Simon told him of the human ritual of trials, where wise, objective people judged if others were innocent or guilty of a crime. It was a brilliant idea. However:

“Who will judge?” Baz asked. “I cannot do it. I have not the time, nor am I impartial.”

“Souls of mortals who were wise and strong in life.” Simon suggested with ease. “They do not know the god’s motives and will judge fairly. Do you know of any?”

“No. I do not speak with the shades.”

Simon’s mouth pulled into a smile. “Then I may know of some.”

It turned out that Simon had met many great people in his immortal life and travels. He had met Agatha, the late Queen of Athens, who had fairly ruled the great land without a king her entire life. He knew Nicodemus, King of Macedonia, a powerful demigod who fought many wars and did so with honour. And finally, he spoke of Ebb, Queen of Crete and Nicodemus’ sister, who was even more powerful than her twin but incredibly kind. Simon brought them out from the sea of spirits, and they were all elated to see him once more.

“Simon!” Ebb yelled with joy, wrapped her incorporeal arms around him as best she could.

“Hello, Ebb,” he said with a giggle. “It is good to see you again.”

“We never thought we would,” Nicodemus added in, placing a kind hand on Simon’s shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” Agatha asked. “This is far from your realm.”

Simon gestured behind him, to where The King who stood a distance away. “I have been helping Baz.”

Agatha raise a curious brow. “Oh? The King of the Underworld has finally accepted assistance?”

Baz glared from under his hood, while Simon simply nodded. “Yes, and we have a task for all three of you.”

A great structure was erected for the rulers. They towered over the many spirits on thrones of diamond and obsidian. And after a soul had drank from the River of Leith and forgotten their life, they went to be judged. The Three Wise Ones, as they have come to be called, determined whether the person had lived an honourable life. If so, they would be born again into a new life. And they would at least three times if they were judged worthy after every death. Eventually, the good souls would be allowed to rest in the Elysian Fields. A paradise no longer left to be empty.

“Will this help them?” Simon asked as he sat on a cliff’s edge with Baz.

Baz turned his head slowly. Simon looked at him with wide eyes, and he knew the real question he wished to ask. Baz thought of how his realm would look without Simon’s light. And he decided it was not the worse thing in the world to seem pathetic.

“Yes,” Baz replied quietly. “But you may stay longer if you please.”

A grin threatened to split Simon’s face in two. “I do.”

———————————————-

And so Simon stayed even longer. He and Baz kept wandering the kingdom together constantly. Simon told even more of his stories, happy for the audience, and Baz let himself laugh louder. Baz introduced Simon to Cerberus, the fearsome three headed guard god of the Underworld. Simon loved the animal immediately, scratching under his many chins and petting his ears. Cerberus licked his tawny face with three big tongues.

“Who would ever be afraid of such a wonderful creature?” Simon cooed.

“Many are afraid of what they do not know,” Baz answered.

“Is that why mortals and gods are afraid of you and I am not?” Simon’s question were always so simple but carried so much. Baz’s heart beat faster, the same strange phenomenon he’d been experiencing since shortly after Simon’s arrival in his world.

“Yes,” Baz said. “I suppose so.”

Baz showed Simon his library, a small section filled with scrolls that branched off of his cave. They were piled so high they reached the ceiling. Many mortals were buried with them and ended up taking them down to the Underworld. Baz tended to keep the ones he found interesting.

"Why do you have so many?" Simon asked as he looked through the stack.

“My mother, the goddess of knowledge, she loves stories,” Baz explained. “She would read to me when I was younger. Before I was put here. I sometimes wonder if she still reads and thinks of me.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Many ages ago. I cannot leave here, and she cannot come to me by order of David. He is still angry that she initially took the Titan’s side over his in the war. She has already apologized too many times but he will not listen. So, she can not visit me."

Simon frowned, for he always felt the sadness of others with as much intensity as they did. “I am sorry. I wish she could be here with you.”

Baz did not react. He did not want to seem as weak as he felt. But when Simon’s hand lightly brushed his cloaked, he let out a breath. And he let himself not be strong for once.

“I wish she were here as well,” he whispered.

Simon leaned his entire body against Baz. He did not flinch from his flaming cloak. For Simon was already the sun, and fire did not frighten him.

“I am not good with words,” Simon said. “I do not think I would read your stories well. But maybe you would...like to read to me?”

Baz turned his head slowly. Simon’s soft face was not deceitful. Not even the sign of a half truth was shown.

“You would not mind?” Baz asked.

Simon grinned. “I have told you my tales. I would like to hear some of yours.”

Baz smiled back.

In Baz’s spare time, the pair sat together as Baz read from his scrolls. Simon would lounge on Baz’s bed, on the Elysian Fields, or in the Cavern of Riches as he listened to the words. They were not frantic and energetic like his own tales. But much more paced, a slower build up to the end. Simon seemed to enjoy them, so Baz kept reading. He liked the way Simon listened. He gasped at tension, cheered at triumphs, laughed at comedy, and frowned at misfortunes. Baz enjoyed having such an engaged listener. He enjoyed everything about Simon.

One night, as Baz finished what he was reading, Simon was falling asleep on the grassy land of the Fields. Baz stopped his tale, and carefully put the scroll under his cloak. With even more care, he picked up Simon in his arms. The Lord of Spring curled against him in sleep like an infant dog. Baz’s arms shook nervously until he placed Simon upon his single bed. The god stretched out on the soft furs. He smiled as he dreamed. And Baz wondered if his heart had ever beat so fast.

Baz curled up on the pile of rocks that he had been using as his sleeping place. He always woke up before Simon could see him. But when he woke the next day, Simon stood over him with utter shock in his eyes.

“Is this where you have been sleeping?” he asked horrified.

Baz pulled further into his cloak. “Yes,” he replied.

Simon frowned angrily. But not at Baz, per se. He seemed to be more angry at the situation, glaring at the rocks and not the god.

“This will not do,” Simon said resolutely. “You need a house.”

“A house? You mean, a structure to live in?” Baz remembered hearing of those in Simon’s stories and reading of them in his own.

“Yes. Would that be nice to have?”

Baz was still unsure, but it sounded intriguing. “Yes, I believe it would.”

Simon told Baz what they needed to do. They chose the cliff with Baz’s throne for his home. Baz used his power to raise large blocks of black obsidian from the ground. Simon, feet as light as the wind, jumped up and ripped large parts away with incredible strength. It was crude but effective form of initial carving. Then he helped Baz shape everything how he pleased. The spires were tall, the entrance two large stone doors, all of it large and intimidating.

But when they moved inside, Baz made smaller rooms, ones that were cozy and comfortable. There were many fireplaces that let out a dim glow and warmth equal to Simon’s. Furniture was draped in comfortable furs. An entire room was dedicated to his scrolls. Baz’s bed chamber itself was the opposite of his almost empty cave, now with decoration and warm brown walls. It was a somewhat daunting task, even for a god. But Baz did it. For he wanted a home, a place he made and chose instead of being forced upon him.

“So shall I stay in the cave?” Simon asked when it was all done, tone joking but still nervous.

“No,” Baz said firmly, leading him to the room just beside his own. He pushed open the doors to reveal a large but cozy area. Small green gems from the Cavern of Riches decorated the walls. Leaves and flowers were carved into the wood of his bed. When Simon stepped in, his light made the room sparkle. He giggled with disbelief.

Baz stayed by the door, drumming his fingers nervously. “Is it satisfactory?”

Simon whipped around so Baz could see his smile. It was as bright and beautiful as he was. “It is wonderful, Baz. Thank you.”

Baz was about to say “you are most welcome” , but Simon ran into him before he could. His strong arms wrapped around Baz fiercely. Baz stood still for far too long. He did not know how to react to such affection he had not been shown in ages.

“Really, Baz,” Simon whispered, “thank you. I have always been forced to wander from place to place. I...I have never had somewhere made for me either.”

Baz sucked in a breath. He still could not believe that someone so bright was also so broken. Just as broken as him. He carefully put his arms around the Lord of Spring in return. His warmth prickled Baz’s cool skin. But he liked it, and he adored Simon more than anything ever before.

———————————————-

Baz soon lost track of how long Simon had been in his realm. He had become as much a part of the Underworld as the souls or the jewels. Baz could not imagine it without him. He did as he pleased, going where he felt he most wanted to be. And Baz always took time from his godly duties to be with him, reading to him or listening to his oral tales.

Together they sat in the Elysian Fields. Baz read as Simon twisted the last flower into his many coloured new crown. Simon paused his story telling to ask for some assistance. He dipped his head so Baz could place headdress on him. The smile Simon had lit up everything around him. Baz only wished to keep him here.

But the Fates had never been kind to him.

A figure appeared in lush green field. Baz stood to attention immediately. Simon followed, and then ran towards the person. Baz had no choice but to chase after the Lord of Spring and hope he did not become injured.

The figure bolted towards them to meet the pair halfway. Baz recognized her immediately. It was Penelope, the messenger goddess, wearing her usual knee high winged sandals and matching winged helmet. Baz had not seen her in ages, for though she brought souls to his realm, she did not enjoy his company and avoided him at all cost. The feeling was mutual.

“Penny?” Simon said with awe.

“Simon!” She yelled, immediately capturing him in a fierce hug. Simon hugged her back. But soon, her dark gaze moved to Baz, and she glared fiercely.

“You,” she growled, pushing past Simon to better jab her caduceus in Baz’s face. “How dare you!? Do you believe just because you are the King of the Dead you can capture another god and hold him prisoner? Arrogant bastard!”

Baz’s eyes went wide from behind his cloak. He leaned over her, unafraid and furious. “Captured?! I have done no such thing!”

“Liar!”

“No, Penny,” Simon said, trying to pull down her sceptre arm. “He is telling the truth. I wandered down her and chose to stay. Baz has been nothing but kind to me, considering I invaded his kingdom without invitation.”

The messenger goddess’ eyes went incredibly wide. She lowered her arm. “But...David said he saw you get carried off from a meadow. No one knew who it was. Only I thought to seek you out in the Underworld after so long.”

Simon looked very surprised. “So long? How long have I been away?”

“Months, Simon. You have been missing for half a year. And you must return to the surface right now.”

Baz clenched his fist under his cloak. Simon’s mouth fell open. “What?” Simon asked dumbfounded. “Why?”

Penny looked forlorn. “Because your mother has been in despair since you vanished. Her sorrow has made all that is green die. Your father is furious, and his anger has made the sky go cold. The mortals cannot eat, find warmth, or survive. They shall not live much longer like this. You have to come back so they will lift this frost.”

Simon’s face immediately fell. Baz could tell that he was horrified that he had caused such suffering. He was so kind, so giving, so heroic. He would never want to hurt anyone. But he had, by doing as he pleased and staying with Baz.

“You must leave, Simon,” Baz said gravely, but could not hide a waver in his voice.

Simon looked over Penny’s shoulder at him. His expression was broken, desperate, wishing he could refute Baz’s words. But they both knew it was true. Their dream together must end.

“Allow me one more hour,” Simon said quietly. “Tell my father and mother you will retrieve me in one hour’s time.”

Penelope almost protested, mouth open and ready to argue. But Simon’s gaze was fire incarnate. He would not give any ground in this.

“One hour,” the goddess said before vanishing.

And so Simon and Baz were left alone together, as they had been for half a year. Simon slowly approached him. His eyes were round with sorrow. Baz tried to school his expression, but he knew Simon could see through him.

“I suppose this will be goodbye.” Baz tried to keep his voice neutral still. But his composure had already cracked and was still breaking with every passing second.

“Not yet,” Simon whispered. He stepped forward and reached behind Baz’s head, pulling down his hood. Baz did not protest. “We have one hour. So...shall we take the long path home first?”

Baz, despite his heart tearing in two, felt his pulse fly at the word ‘home’. That Simon considered the palace home. So Baz reached out of his cloak to offer his hand. And Simon took it without a second thought.

Together, they walked slowly across the gorgeous Elysian Fields, through the glittering Cavern of Riches, past Cerberus who licked Simon’s face, to the cliffs overlooking the Fields of Asphodel, finally ending at the palace. At the home they had created together.

Simon turned to Baz and reached into his cloak to take his other hand. Baz felt the warmth dance across his cold arms like rays of sunlight on his skin. Simon looked as sorrowful as the day he first came here. Baz wanted to hold him tight and never let go.

“Now we must say goodbye” Simon said quietly.

“I know,” Baz replied, voice just as soft.

“Will you forget me?”

Baz tugged him closer. “No, absolutely not. Will you forget me?”

Simon ran his thumb over Baz’s thin wrist. “No. Never ever.”

They stared, and they did not let go. Baz tried his best to commit Simon’s face to memory. Every freckle, every mole, every smile line and sweep of curls. He knew that when he was most miserable and lonely, when he would almost become the bitter man he was again, he would need to remember this face.

Simon stepped even closer, the flames of Baz’s cloak licking at his glowing skin. “I am glad I walked through that cave,” he said with utter conviction.

“As am I,” Baz replied instantly.

Carefully, cautiously, Simon reached up between them. Baz’s breath held, and then it hitched when Simon touched the cool iron of his cloak’s clasp. When the King did pull away or slap down his hand, Simon undid the hook. The dark flames pooled at his feet. Baz was only left in his simple black chiton and sandals. It had been too long since he had been without his ever present flaming cape. But he found did not mind with Simon. The Lord of Spring had already seen many parts of him. He was content with showing one more.

Simon warm hands trailed up Baz’s bare arms. Shakily, Baz placed his cool touch on Simon’s leaf covered waist. The Lord sighed, leaning forward so his ear was right over Baz’s heartbeat.

“I do not want to go,” he choked out.

Baz’s heart shattered into a hundred shards. He held Simon tighter, not caring how it appeared. He did not care. He just wanted to hold his Lord as close as he could.

“I wish you did not have to,” Baz replied.

Simon’s arms wrapped around Baz’s thin neck. He stood on his toes to better bury his face in Baz’s shoulder. Baz spread his hand against Simon’s strong back. He inhaled against his curls. Simon smelled like fresh flowers and sweet fruit. Like everything wonderful and beautiful in the world.

The men slowly pulled back, but not apart. Baz’s gaze drifted down to Simon’s slightly open mouth. His lips were the colour of the scarlet roses he had made grow in the Underworld. Baz had read of the human ritual of kissing, the act of two people who cared for one another putting their mouths together. He never understood the reason or urge for such a strange practice. Until now.

“Simon,” he whispered.

And Simon, Lord of Spring, god of growing, the shining sun in Baz’s dreary existence, kissed him.

His warmth did not tingle across Baz. Rather it exploded in him. It was like biting down on a fruit, letting the juices burst in your mouth and the sweetness coat your tongue. Baz’s whole being felt filled with light, alive and ecstatic. Simon kissed him with force, pressing their mouths together as hard as he could. Baz tried to match him but had no knowledge of what to do. He simply followed where Simon went. Tilted his head similar to how he did, mimicked the way his lips moved, held him so tight against him that he could feel every lean muscle in his golden body. He never wanted the moment to end.

But the Fates were never kind.

Simon pulled away. His blue eyes were glassy and his lips were swollen and even more red. Baz assumed he was in a similar state. They gazed at each other for many moments, committing their expressions to memory. But bit by bit, their arms had to fall from each other, because their time was running out. Simon lifted his flower crown from his head and offered it with outstretched hand.

“Here,” Simon said. “To remember me.”

Baz did not hesitate to take it. The petals were soft to the touch, like Simon was. Baz reached towards his belt and lifted a singular violet. The everlasting flower was still as beautiful as when Simon gave it to him. He placed the bloom behind Simon’s ear, taking a lingering moment to trace his jaw. Simon's blue eyes quivered.

“To remember me,” Baz said. “I was more lost than the souls here before you came. I can never thank you enough for that, Simon.”

Simon surged forward and kissed him once more. Baz felt he would surely melt like a wax candle. Simon pulled back, but kept their foreheads together. “You gave me so much,” he whispered. “A true home, freedom, happiness. Thank you.”

For once in his eternal life, Baz had no words. He wished to say three ones in particular, ones he read in the great love songs of the mortals. But they stayed stuck in his depression choked throat. All he could do was watch silently as Simon stepped back, and Penelope appeared, and the Lord of Spring waved before he vanished in a shower of light.

When he was gone, Baz struggled not to collapse immediately. Instead, he put his cloak back on, walked back towards his palace with his head held high, and entered his room silently. It was only when the door was closed that he let himself fall apart. He sat on the obsidian floor, curled within his fire and fiddling with Simon's crown under it. He did not cry, for the King of the Dead was still too proud to let tears fall. But he sat, and he did not move for a long time.

———————————————-

Baz did not neglect his duties. He still made sure the realm was secure, watched over the souls, kept them from the Cavern of Riches. And soon the days slid back together into endless duty and darkness. Baz occasionally felt the urge to become cold again, to abandon any sense of joy. But when he did, he simply touched the crown of flowers he always kept attached to his belt, and resisted temptation once more.

He was sitting on his throne, observing the souls and making sure they were calm, when the sound of pitter pattering steps resonated across the stone. Baz immediately stood. He was prepared to fight any intruder. His hands were already smoking with fire.

“Who goes there?” He announced.

“I have not been gone too long,” an all too familiar voice chirped. “Have you forgotten me already?”

Baz’s hands lowered immediately. His jaw feel to the ground. The pitter patter became closer, until a dim glow shone in front of him. The Lord of Spring was still as bright and alive looking as ever. And his grin was the most shining part of him all.

“Simon?” Baz whispered in disbelief.

“Hello, my darling,” he replied. “I have returned.”

Baz practically ran forward, immediately encircling Simon in his arms. Simon laughed with utter joy and hugged him back. They held each other so close that nothing could get in between them. Simon angled his head so their lips met with force. He was just as soft and warm as Baz remembered. Kissing Simon was a tidal wave of warmth. It was a sensation of falling and rising up all at once. It felt like coming awake after a long dark slumber. Baz only pulled off his mouth when he was sure it was not a dream.

“How are you here?” he asked.

Simon’s grin was playful, more like a god of mischief than spring. “When I returned to the land above, my father and mother were waiting. Father was angry but mother was overjoyed. I was not though. I love my parents and my land, but I...I already missed you so much it ached. Suddenly, Penelope asked me if I had eaten anything in the Underworld. I did not understand at first. But her face told me she had seen my sorrow, and her clever mind had found a compromise.  I answered yes. Father was so angry and mother was so sad, but I promised them it was just six pomegranate seeds. So I would only spend six months of the year with you and the other six above with them.”

Baz’s brow pulled together, for he was even more confused than before. “But...you did not eat anything here.”

The Lord grinned wider. He loosened himself from Baz’s embrace and led him by hand towards the obsidian palace. Weaving through rooms, he ended in the dining area. Quick as the wind, Simon scooped up a pomegranate, ripped it apart, and tossed six seeds in his mouth. He was still grinning as he gazed up at Baz.

“Now I have,” he said. “And now I shall stay.”

Baz was once more at a loss for words. Words seemed insufficient for the joy in his heart. So he took Simon into his arms with one swoop. Simon shrieked and giggled, warm nose pushing Baz���s cold neck. Baz carried his love through their home. With a sweep of his powerful hand, their two rooms melded together. Walls joining, decorations mixing, two beds for a single person becoming one made for both.

Simon smiled into Baz’s skin. “Take me to bed?”

“As you wish,” Baz replied immediately.

He gently placed Simon on the furs. Simon reached up and undid Baz's cloak without hesitation. Baz let it fall, then leaned down to capture Simon’s warm mouth with his. They fell onto the furs together, shedding clothes like the trees shed leaves in autumn. They stayed in their bed until Baz’s cool skin felt truly warm.

Later, they rested, bare bodies still tangled under the soft furs. Baz watched as the low torchlight danced across Simon’s tawny skin and bronze curls. It astounded him that this man, a being of life, a piece of the sun, would willingly bring his light to his world. But he was here now. And for half the year he would for eternity on.

Baz held Simon closer. He leaned towards to his ear, and said the words he’d express through actions too many times, that were already obvious, but he never managed to say out loud.

“I love you.”

Simon pressed his face into Baz’s cool chest. His curls tickled his chin. He put one warm hand over his heart.

“I love you, too.”

———————————————-

And so the world became as it is now. Six months of the year, it is warm. The crops flourish and flowers bloom. But once the final harvest is done, aumtn and winter begin. For Lucy is sorrowful over her son’s impending departure, and nature shrivels and dies with her grief. Because David is angry over his son's choice in marriage, and the sky becomes dark and cold with his rage.

Lucy, unlike David, who prefers to brew in fury on his mountain, always hugs and kisses Simon goodbye. Wearing a crown of violets and dressed in a dark green chiton, he tells her that he loves her, that will see her again soon, and that he will be alright. She still watches with tears in her eyes as Penelope takes his hand and they disappear in light

But she does not see Simon as he returns to the Underworld. How he smiles at the large obsidian palace on the cliff. How he runs towards the figure in an open black fire cloak. How the Baz holds Simon close and kisses him like his eternal life depends on their lips being together.

“Welcome home, my love,” Baz always says.

“Thank you, my darling,” Simon always replies.

They walk to a pair of twin thrones overlooking the Fields of Asphodel, one made of ebony and the other of iron. The couple sit together above their kingdom, hand in hand. And if a spirit is lucky, they may see the small smile playing on Baz's usually sullen lips, as well as the less subtle grin spread across Simon's. For husband and husband are reunited once more.

The King of the Dead and Lord of Spring are in love, and they are happy.

———————————————-

AN: Fun fact: Crete has a well known wild goat population. Perfect for Ebb :D And I know many parts of this are different than original Greek myth, but I wanted to adapt it more to Carry On than make Carry On adapt to Greek myth. So no, the goddess of knowledge didn't initially take the Titans' side in the war, her son is not the trapped king of the underworld, and the god of spring isn't sent around on missions by his father. David just needs a reason to hate Natasha, Baz needs to be lonely and depressed, and Simon needs to be the overworked tired hero. Also tried to involve both Lucy and David in the myth of spring cause they both have a roll here with Simon. That is my mini explanation because I feel the need to explain myself all the time lol.

So I tried to incorporate some of grand poetic nature of Greek myth but that is a difficult style to mimic. Only successful case I've personally seen is Madeline Miller's books. But also credit where credit is due: this fic was heavily based on the version of the Hades and Persephone myth seen in George O'Conner's "Olympians" graphic novel series, specifically "Volume 4: Hades, Lord of The Dead". Olympians has some of the best myth re-tellings I've ever read. And I've read a lot lol. Highly recommend them. Though I also used one of the version of the myth I've heard where Persephone goes into the Underworld because she wants to help the spirits, cause that's something Simon The Hero would do.

Hope you enjoyed that. Requests are still open on my blog. If any of you aren't already, feel free to check out my ongoing fic, "Watford Cove". It updated yesterday and will every few days. Thanks for reading :D

[captivesrp]

Ever since Alaric’s final departure, Ainsley has been improving. Skepna is almost completely silent during the day, and even during the heaviest nights his voice seems muted, struggling to break free. Some nights are worse than others, but overall, Ainsley feels much better than he has in seemingly forever.

If he is honest with himself, though, he knows it cannot last.

One morning, he emerges from his tent, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. As he looks around the encampment, he catches a glimpse of a figure, partly obscured by the early morning fog. He does a double-take.

No, he thinks, horrified. No, it can’t be. As he looks again, the figure is no longer there, vanished into the fog. Ainsley rubs his eyes again, shrugging off the vision, putting it to the back of his mind. Yawning, he shuffles over to the central campfire and grabs his breakfast---which appears to be a bowl of grey mud. He looks for a place to sit outside his tent, finds a beat up stump beside his tent’s flap. Ainsley sits down. As he begins to eat, he looks up to see the figure again, a flashing image among the trees beyond the village. Letting out a small gasp, Ainsley falls off his seat in fright, dropping his food in the process. He lands on the dew-wet dirt, cursing. Ainsley waits for the voice in his head to ridicule him; surprisingly, Skepna remains completely silent. Ainsley scrambles up, looking around again, but the mysterious figure is nowhere to be seen. Ainsley grabs his bowl, hoping to salvage what is left inside it, and looks around to find his seat, but it is nowhere to be found.

“What the . . .” Ainsley mutters under his breath. The stump is gone.

*     *     *

Later that day, Ainsley finds himself at the edge of the forest surrounding the encampment. Since Alaric’s death, the village has been subdued and melancholy; almost lazy, as Ainsley finds often himself without anything to do. Ainsley walks along the treeline, remembering how he used to be so easily distracted by the intricate and seemingly random patterns of the plants around him.

So much has changed since then, he muses, placing a hand on the rough bark of a tree and taking in the whorls and knots of its surface. As he stares contemplatively at the trunk, he sees something in the corner of his eye---further in the forest. He stiffens, looking through the maze of tree trunks and bushes. A figure is standing there, ghostly among the gnarled branches; a glowing grey silhouette shimmering in the foliage, its face is obscured by the tangle of trees. Heart pounding, Ainsley slowly edges into the forest. The apparition stays put, its edges fading into the surroundings like wisps of smoke. On Ainsley trudges, the snap of twigs beneath his feet almost drowned out by his beating heart. Ainsley pushes branches out of his face as the figure grows closer, but the glowing sheen of its head obscures its face still. Prying a tangle of brambles away from his path, Ainsley steps into a clearing about a stone’s-throw long. Trees overhang the space, casting sickly green shadows over the mossy ground. Ainsley finally gets a good look at the figure; as his eyes adjust to the strange light, the figure solidifies in Ainsley’s vision.

It’s him.

No, Ainsley pleads.

Standing before him is Fil Skepna.

Ainsley’s former master stands there in the clearing, his outline shimmering with a menacing grey light. He is just as Ainsley last saw him. Scars from dozens of battles lining his face. A cruel smile playing at his lips. Eyes gleaming in a cold red fashion.

Red---thinks the last rational sense of Ainsley’s mind---that’s new.

Skepna’s lips part and his shrill, gravelly voice comes through them: “Hello, Ainsley.”

Ainsley feels faint. Lightheaded, he stumbles slightly, and his arms wobble to find balance. He blinks hard to wipe the image from his mind. But when he opens them again, Skepna is still standing there, no longer just a voice in his head, but a physical manifestation of Ainsley’s own torturous mind.

“You may have noticed I’ve been quiet recently,” Skepna says calmly. “I’ve been experimenting, and look at me now.” His smile seems to split the very air in front of him.

Ainsley begins to shudder uncontrollably. “You c-can’t b-be here.” His voice wavers and his teeth chatter.

“Now, now, Ainsley,” Skepna tuts. “You should know better than anyone what can appear and what can’t.” He pauses, seemingly lost in thought. “In fact, I think that it’s your doing that led me here today.”

“W-what?” Ainsley stutters, unable to think clearly.

Skepna chuckles malevolently. “Poor, misguided Ainsley. Your mind is your own worst enemy. You have so much---” he pauses, searching for the right word---“potential.” With this, Skepna’s grin stretches even further. “Perhaps you need a little helping hand.”

Skepna’s eyes seem to glow slightly brighter, their crimson contrasting with the greyness of the rest of him. Ainsley feels his muscles tighten, and suddenly he sees flames sprout in his palms. Orange tongues of fire dance across his fingertips and Ainsley’s eyes widen in shock. He feels no pain, just a tense pull in his hands.

“See what you can do?” Skepna almost cackles. He waves his hands down, gesturing to his shimmering form. “Imagine if the old fool Fundian could see you now! Imagine---” his eyes widen with glee---“imagine if your father could see you now!” Skepna laughs with a cold delight that rings around the clearing.

“SHUT UP!” snarls Ainsley. In a fit of rage and instinct, he thrusts his hands towards his old master and the flames on his fingers elongate into blades of pure heat. Skepna reacts just in time to skitter to the side, although he does not otherwise appear fazed. He just laughs harder, the red gleam in his eyes brighter than ever. The flames shoot past where he had stood and land on a tree behind him. A blaze quickly starts, and the fire spreads faster than Ainsley can comprehend. Soon, the clearing is brightly lit by a ring of flames encircling the boy and his master. Skepna’s laughs combine with the crackling forest to form a malicious cacophony of brittle malevolence. Terrified, Ainsley looks around wildly for a route of escape. He finds none.

“This is all your fault!” he screams at Skepna. Hot tears form in his eyes, but he angrily wipes them away. The roar of the fire adds to his own screams, and in his subconscious Ainsley is surprised at the ferocity of his own voice. Skepna is still smiling ear to ear as he absorbs Ainsley’s verbal attack. Ainsley feels something long and heavy in his right hand. He looks down to see a wooden spear, with a metal tip, balanced to perfection and sharpened to a wicked point. He curls his fingers around the handle. Without warning, he whips the spear towards the sound of Skepna’s laughter. The laughter persists. Skepna had just managed to evade the weapon. He stands slightly to the left, and Ainsley feels something else appear in his hand. A stone, weighted perfectly for Ainsley’s own purposes, grooved with convenient creases for Ainsley to hold. Heart pounding, he takes careful aim and throws the stone towards Skepna. The rock strikes true, smacking Skepna hard in the cheek. No blood is drawn, but Skepna quicky places a hand to cradle what will surely be a large bruise. A grin returns to his face as he turns his gaze directly towards the boy.

“Well struck, boy,” he sneers, his figure trembling against a backdrop of roaring flames.

Hands outstretched, Ainsley snarls and leaps towards his old master, but his image suddenly disappears and Ainsley is left grasping at air. His arms pinwheel wildly as he tries to grasp something that is no longer there. He falls awkwardly to the mossy ground and hears mocking laughter behind him. Breathing heavily, a red tinge invading the edges of his vision, he turns slowly and launches himself towards Skepna with ferocity that seems to surprise the old warrior. His red eyes widen as Ainsley slams into him. The boy lands on Skepna’s chest, quickly draws back a clenched fist and begins striking the man’s face. Again and again Ainsley rains blows down on his old master and, though Ainsley’s arms seem skinny and frail, his time with the Gwaedwn have toned his muscles and the blows fall with increasing fury. Skepna’s face becomes more bruised and bloody, but his smile gleams through the wounds and in between blows Ainsley can still hear him chuckle.

“STOP!” Ainsley screams. “JUST STOP!” He feels another shaft appear in his hand and without thinking he drives the object down into Skepna’s chest. A spear enters the body with a clean snick. Ainsley had closed his eyes when he drove the spear down, but when he opens his eyes again, it is not the face of Skepna he looks down on, although he can still hear the warrior’s distinct laughter ringing around the clearing. Instead, he looks down to see his own face, showing no sign of injury, but with dead eyes that shine like a frozen lake under moonlight. A small trail of blood leaks out of his reflection’s mouth. Ainsley stumbles back in absolute shock as he sees his own image impaled with a spear of his creation. He feels the warmth of the fire at his back. Horrified by what he sees, Ainsley can barely comprehend his own thoughts. The spear emerging from the corpse is a black shadow against the bright orange flames. As he gazes upon the scene, a flicker of change occurs on the reflection’s face. For an instant, the hair grows longer and a large scar appears on the left side of its face. An eye seems to disappear under it. Ainsley forces his eyes closed and feels tears escape his eyelids. He is afraid to open them again, but the clearing is suddenly wreathed in silence. Barely daring to breathe he slowly opens his eyes to see an empty clearing, without sign of any conflict; he sees no ashes, no burning trees, no Skepna. The clearing is untouched and empty. Ainsley sits in silent shock for what feels like an eternity.

*     *     *

When Ainsley finally regains some capacity for action he resolves to find the others. He picks himself up off of the forest floor and starts the trek back. Along the way, he experiments with his newfound abilities. He conjures a walking stick to assist him on the trail and experiments with flames that, it seems, have no lasting effects of any kind on the surroundings. All of this trivial meddling distracts him, for the time being, from reliving the events in the clearing.

Suddenly Ainsley hears muffled voices nearby. He turns his path slightly and sees a break in the trees beyond. As he draws nearer he recognizes the forms of Anwen, Ffrewgí, Cydwag, and Heulwen, and suddenly remembers a conversation he had with Anwen just before breakfast that morning. He had completely forgotten it amidst all that had happened. Anwen had told him about some kind of meeting between the children tonight, and by what appears to be sheer luck Ainsley finds himself stumbling upon it, just like he had agreed to. 

Ainsley exits the woods and enters the livestock field, approaching his peers and looking around quizzically, wondering both what the meeting is for and where the rest of the children are. Anwen nods towards Ainsley in greeting and looks around at the rest of them.

“I guess that’s all of us that are coming, then,” she begins, and the group turns its attention towards her.

Cydwag looks worried. “What about the others?”

“They’re gone,” replies Anwen bluntly. “We couldn’t find them anywhere.”

Ashrille, Murchadh, and the boy Wyddryr are missing, Ainsley recognizes.

“Do you think the creature is behind this somehow?” asks Anwen. “It’s behind everything else that’s been happening.”

Ainsley shrugs. It certainly seems plausible, and Ainsley has no doubt that his new “gifts” are a product of the creature’s intervention as well. Ainsley does not follow much of the following conversation. He picks up bits and pieces here and there, but the events of his own day overshadow him densely.

Ainsley is jolted from his daze when Cydwag poses a strange-sounding question: “So, what can you all do?”

Ainsley waits desperately for someone else to answer, but the others seem about as willing to share details as he is. Steeling himself and taking a deep breath, Ainsley mutters, “I can make things appear.” Looking sheepishly around, Ainsley conjures the image of a medium-sized brown bear. He tries not to look at the others’ reactions and he focuses on the bear, which he causes to lumber around him. Ainsley’s knees begin to wobble as he grows increasingly self conscious. He lets the bear fade away and summons a seat. This act, however, is what produces the strongest reaction from the group.

“What . . . what are you sitting on?” comes the timid voice of Ffrewgí.

Ainsley looks down at his tree-trunk chair, puzzled. “You can’t see it?”

“See what? You’re sitting on nothing.”

“Or,” Anwen ponders aloud, “something only you can see.”

Ainsley feels the gazes of the group and looks down, embarrassed. “Weird . . .” he mutters, regretting speaking up.

He is saved from further embarrassment by a loud noise coming from the village behind them. Tension crackles in the group.

Cydwag jumps in. “We’ve been out here too long. What’s our plan?”

Anwen, looking frightened, but determined, answers, “Escape? Tonight?”

“Now?” Ffrewgí looks nervous as well.

Ainsley says nothing, but knows that he will follow the group. They are, after all, the closest thing he has ever had to friends. Except for---except for Alaric. Ainsley is surprised at this thought; earlier, he would have been unable to cope with the thought of his old pit-mate.

Strange.

[sssoueri]

early morning, marble tiles

link. rated m, a shameless soueri lemon.

it's morning, exhaustion is welded into her bones and speaks with each breathy, languid sigh. broken down into the quiet, smothered between her lips, and the noise of water hitting marble. it's in that quiet that she hears him before all else, the unmistakable padding of feet against slick tiles.

the snap of the door is muffled under the trickling of water against skin, white marble and fogged glass. her ears are far keener to him than she likes to admit, can hear the intake of breath as his nears; can feel the heat radiating from him.

( she knows it's him because lukewarm water did nothing to warm her — not like he did )

then it's quiet. his breathing breaks the silence, but he doesn't near. stopped in his tracks and it's that small moment she knows that he's watching her. sparkling topaz meeting beige flesh, running along the planes of her back where it meets the curve of her ass until smooth, milk-white thighs held to thin ankles and wet marble. he takes it all in with his amber gaze, and he can't help but sigh.

she feels him, then, his hand flush against her abdomen, pulling her to him; skin against skin. lips lap at wasted droplets decorating her neck. fingers running lightly through damp blonde,

"we've really got to stop meeting like this," the gruff, stifled tone trembles from the back of his throat as his whispers make their way from the crook of her neck to the back of her shoulder.

she chuckles, "if by meeting like this you mean you actually telling me you're coming over instead of stopping by unannounced, then yes — we've really got to put a stop to this bad habit of yours." the blonde mocks through her teeth but truth be told, there's a part of her that doesn't mind it. that actually likes the way he finds himself drawn to her room at all hours of the night, falling into her bed, against tiled walls, and within her embrace.

there's no stopping his chiding tone, not when fingers rise up. gathering her breasts in his large hands, fingers tracing tempting circles along her nipples – an action that has her head lolling to the side. "doesn't seem like you mind it all too much," a smile hidden against her ear, lips pressing into the shell – hot air spilling from them as his teeth nip at the lobe.

she turns only for slender limbs to wind around strong shoulders, dancing across tensed back muscles, dwindling further along deep collarbones. a purple haze meets the smile of a yellow sun, "i do mind, you just seem to ignore it."

this brings a wolfish grin to his face, far too bright that it lights his topaz eyes up like an angel at the top of a christmas tree. all jest, teasing – mischief rolled into two very dark yellow orbs. glowing greedily, hungrily beneath red tendrils. he leans down, lips mere centimeters from her own. words that flow from them causing each and every determined brush of his lips against hers seem hesitant and questionable. "by all means, then, if you want me to stop –" his heavy palms drag along her waist, space a nonexistent entity between them — a useless commodity that no longer seemed necessary. not to erina, and especially not to souma; not when his intentions were far more dire than polite pretenses. "tell me,"

like an artist in his craft, his fingertips draw dizzying circles against slick skin, smiles pressed into each turn, curve and sharp corner. falling further and further from the apex, past a tuft of curls; knuckles nudging thighs apart. they're strenuous and slow, achingly drawing breaths from above. erina sucks in a breath, eyes fluttering closed as she melts into his embrace, clutching at the red falling against the nape of his neck. lips falling apart, pressing into his shoulder to muffle dangerous groans and impatient squeals that were tearing through her.

a hand breaks between them, taking her chin. topaz meets amethyst, forcing her gaze still. "should I stop?" he asks, his fingers slowing to a stop within her. and like always, his face is consumed by his grin – cheshire-like in nature, a wolf hidden behind his innocent tone. one that erina can't help but want to slap away. but instead, she draws closer – lips crashing against his. tasting every bit of yukihira she can get.

"n-never," she whispers into his mouth; fingers threading through crimson tresses. her lips drag across his, forcing him to eat away at her moans when he resumes his pace. fingers plunging into her – deeper and deeper as his thumb caresses at the jewel hidden among golden-haired treasures. her blissful sighs make her chest bloom in warmth, out of lust, out of — each are kissed away, melting on the tongue.

his own kisses run amuck along teeth, the outer rim of lips and along her collarbone. and as gleaming white sink into beaded flesh and tasteless dew, his fingers do the same, parting slick folds as his thumb finds the precious nub hidden beyond.

nails gather each droplet, dragging them across skin, digging into taut muscles. her hands move, from his shoulders to his upper arms then to his chest. each has her retracing faint memories, dimming bruises that hide beneath kisses and other nights. her own battle scars are peppered across her own skin, like a case harboring each and every one of his wins and losses; showing them off to him alone. she watches, intoxicated by the way his golden eyes fall upon her, it's scandalizing, a bewitching stare of molten gold that lures her in and bares her more than being in nude and all his ever will. every trail left behind, each faint lingering is pursued and swiftly followed by gentle brushes of lips.

time was a telling tale of lost sand and not enough minutes and yet, his fingertips barely miss a beat, as if time didn't exist for him to rush, following the thundering of the shower head with each slender descent of sly fingers; cascading across the expanse of smooth skin and crafted abdominals.

her lips fall apart once more. "souma ..." heavy, heated breaths drag from a heaving chest; the rise and fall increasing just as quickly as her heartbeat. the repetitive thump quickening as she feels her very soul get torn apart, her insides clenching around his fingers before she cries out. lips covering hers, taking her pleasured moans into his mouth, consuming them. devouring her lust as his own rises to the occasion, pressing for attention along her abdomen.

droplets follow each tantalizing movement, skating along slick ruins, a mesmerizing dance of skin on skin and each continuous lash of water against pressed flesh. violet hues gaze up from below heavy lashes, hand retrieved from the depths, stopping just above the point of no return.

it's slow, a conscious effort on erina's part is made to raise her hand, drawing away from its intended course to instead graze dampened rouge from his eyes, brushing them back against his temple, regressing only to curl against his jaw.

she loves the way he looks at her. how topaz yellow felt more luxurious than a million glittering diamonds when it came from his gaze. he doesn't stray from her own bejeweled orbs. taking point to never look away, to see her — all of her. from red, bruised lips, the rosy blush that runs along the nape of her neck, her heaving chest, knobby knees and distressed blonde falling into her eyes. he truly sees her.

( a confident woman, jaded by memories and exhaustion - satisfied (only) by the hand owned by golden eyes and a wolfish grin. he takes her in his arms, comforts her - protects her. gives her a new hope that's hidden beneath another four letter word, something they've yet to breach but have found solace in all the same. it's comforting to know but frightening to admit - he sees it all, and feels it all the more. )

he sees it all and it makes her feel weightless, despite her heavy heart and breathless lungs. it was like she was on top of the world. all because of his topaz gaze.

"you're so beautiful, erina." he whispers, chants, worships her name as it rolls off the tongue and hangs in the air.

it's unbearable how heavy the air around them is but she manages another breath before a smile curls against tired lips, mirth found despite the exhaustion telling her to slow down — to find solace in his arms instead of the pure ecstasy her desires wanted to drown in. fingers tiptoe across the embrace that holds her close; pulling her further in, keeping her from falling from the shakiness that still has knees weak.

this time it's him drawing a breath, sucking in through his teeth as her hand winds around his length. thumb circling the tip in painfully slow circles that remind him of his own musings just minutes prior. and when erina breathes in slowly, a clumsy exhale, he knows she's doing it on purpose. it's only when topaz eyes meet bright amethyst, gleaming, teasing their way into a smile that it's all but confirmed.

her chest rises and falls just before toes point, the slightest bit of height appealed for noses to brush and lips to inch forward. and with fatal initiative, eyes watch intently, a silent urging; the dare among dares for him to finish what he had started.

erina grins, "should I stop?"

never.

[ellipsesarefun]

Three thousand years have passed since I outlined this. LMAO It was left in the WIP folder for three or five years and I finally finished it!!!! This concept has probably been done but I hope you enjoy this? You can read it here or on the link above.

Soul Perception has always been a useful tool for a meister. Maka had heard several anecdotes from her mother and her mother's friends on how it was done, and none of them came close to a general path in training their own perception. Perception manifests in several manners. Some people have a combination of soul perception types, and some only had one. Her mother's aunt had openly bragged once how she spotted a kishin with her hypersensitive sense of smell. A professor once explained his soul perception through the vibrations of the materials around him. Maka has yet to discover her type. 

 She had only discovered that her abilities awake during her subconscious: in her dreams. There are moments when she felt a crowd of people in her room, alight with a wondrous image of colors, vibrant and alive. It only lasted for a few seconds at best and rarely does she remember the visions, merely the strange feeling that bloomed in her body when she woke up, as though she was once submerged in an ocean of entities. 

 At this hour, she sets her plan into motion. Like any other night, the house empty and the front door's locked. Maka expects her dad to come back a week or so after his manwhoring excursions and she has less expectations of her mother visiting her after years of lost contact. She closes the door to her room and saunters over to her desk to place the text books she recently bought for her upcoming classes next week. Once finished, she crosses her legs on the bed, waiting for something. 

 Nothing. 

 She takes a deep breath and exhales. 

 Still nothing. 

 Maybe she was doing this the wrong way. She careens her head towards the window, eyeing the empty streets of Death City. Lifting her gaze towards the sky, Maka eyes the moon that laughs and mocks under its own jurisdiction. She rears her head back to where she can see the edge of her bed and closes her eyes. 

 Breathe in. Breathe out. 

 Still nothing. 

 The deep breathing exercise continues, however, and as the time ticks by, a strange feeling blooms within her.

   And then suddenly there was strong torrent of emotions. She could feel them, see them, spherically with a spectrum of colors, in shades of light and dark in each one of them. Her head spun around this panorama, dazzled by the immensity of her own perception. She instinctively reached out and took one in her hands. It was warm and when she held it against her chest, she could feel the synchronization of their heartbeats. She could feel him, whoever he was.

 “Soul Eater Evans.” She uttered his name. Once. And her senses placed all focus on him.

 Crimson. His pupils were crimson and he had soft, white-pillowed hair. How she knew, she’ll never know. Music flooded her ears, a deep, dark, symphony that clashed with those crimson eyes. Her senses fully locked in on him like there was a secret code between her and this mystery man. Without warning, she saw herself floating amidst a pitch black room, where a light was shown on the man named Soul Evans. Step by step, her heart thumping along, his fleshed phalanges swiftly danced from octave to octave, gradually increasing the pace of his symphony.

 And the music stopped. All at once, the void was flooded with bright, chandelier lights. She was standing in a middle of a room, the walls as white as his hair and curtains as the color of his eyes. Soft couches appeared in all corners in the room, and a door, revealed itself right at the very end from where the piano faced.

 It must be the exit.

 The man closed the piano and stood, turning his head at her while he did so. For a moment, no one spoke. In the silence, she took her time scrutinizing the boy. He seemed more of her age, born from a family of elite (as afar as her perception whispers answers in her mind). The boy, Soul, shuffled his feet about and fiddled with his piano fingers before she drew a large breath and took a step forward. The boy looked up from his hands with an unreadable expression.

 “So, you must be Soul.” She began. His eyes narrowed, mirroring her usual mistrust towards certain people.

 “How the hell do you know my name.” For boy born from elite, he certainly lacks such manners.

 “I… don’t know.” It wasn’t much of an answer, because how can she explain this perception to a mere stranger; a stranger who knows nothing of her kind, of her world. It did not appease the boy’s suspicions, only narrowed his eyes and his frown more prominently.

 “Is this… a dream?” He asked. Maka moved towards the couch and took a seat. She drew random swirls on the lush carpet, trying to keep her mind as calm as possible. There was no roundabout way in proceeding this dream-like state.

 “It must be.”

 And then suddenly, the room changed. Swirling her vision as the room expands and the walls, curtains and furniture fade away. A swarm of people in masques fade in and surround them, and a chandelier above lights a spot on the two of them.

 As the room finally stabilized, her gaze rests on Soul’s. She blinks, feeling her eyebrows touch her hairline, and elicits a gasp at swarm of people crowding in with masks on their faces. Her gaze trails down, speechless at the obsidian satin that fits through her hands to the ends of her forearms, and a dress that accompanies the same color hung until her knees. She turns to him again, teeth gnawing at the bottom of her lip.

 He smiles and offers his hand. “I don’t dance but, would you like to?”

 She lingers at the hand, tracing the scars on the palm, and wonders for a moment if it was best to decline. Her musing lasts for a second because she finds her hand reaching out to grasp his own. They were a scene in a play and there was something outside her control that pulls the strings.

 He pulls her in and at the same time she ushers herself towards him as she says, “I have two left feet, so you lead, ok?” A simple statement, as it is, but there was a ring of a bell; a moment of deja vu.

 She smiles, anyway, and it’s genuine. They share a look.

 “Yea sure. Whatever.”

 And a series of events happened at once. They dance, twirling around the ballroom as their conversation blooms along with their feelings.

 “I’m from Death City.”

 “Oh, I just arrived here. Ran away from home.”

 “Oh. My home left me and I had to find someplace else in Death City. But that was years ago.”

 They exchange small anecdotes of their lives, giggling over the randomest nonsense and sharing the deepest heartfelt experiences all in the same night. From the heated gazes of crimson and veridian, from the subtle grips on the shoulders and their hands, she feels her soul brush against Soul’s. There seemed to be a familiar vibe around him. Around them. As though they had done this some dreams ago, may a lifetime ago even.

 The Soul that she has come to learn now becomes tangible. Someone who grew up in a family with old royalty, with a weapon bloodline clandestine and forgotten among the family members. Someone who decided to carve his own future instead of the path built on his parent’s expectations. Someone who has a name, a face, with experiences. Someone she’d want to meet someday.

 This surreality baffles her, as she realizes that this came from her own Soul Perception. Just how masks she’s seen, how far her Soul Perception stretches and lapses, and the many times her soul merges with Soul’s… it’s bizarre. She wonders if this Soul right here might be her potential partner.

 It all ends however, for time is static and powers have their limits. The end begins where their dance stops. Gradually, she feels the energy ebbing away from her body. At the precipice, she finally slunks down, body almost hitting the floor, when Soul catches her in his arms. The walls rumble, and the people around them have cracks in their skin as though they were made of marble.

 She looks up at Soul and she finds a large crack on his face, through one of his eyes, past his nose, and at the edge of his jaw. She lifts a hand to it but falters midway as tiredness sweeps into her mind, begging her to stop the process. Everything else is falling apart as the shards of this dream fall apart into dust.

 “Look for me when this is over, okay?” Half of his face is gone and all that’s left are those dark crimson eyes.

 “Yea. Okay.”

 And then there was nothing.

   Maka wakes up to sunlight flooding her sheets and finds her body laid down on soft cushion. Groggily, she pushes herself out of bed and looks through the window where the laughing sun overcasts the entire Death City. Her memory rewinds to the events that occured the night before, and she can only nitpick those dark melodies, ballroom dances, and a person who goes by the name Soul.

 Soul Eater Evans.

 She’s finally able to tap in her memories of her Soul Perception. Although wary of how she’ll progress here on then, she’s a step ahead. Just needs a little more practice.

 The elated surreality from last night dwindled into planning out the tasks for today, and reviewing for tomorrow’s quiz. Today is the day unpartnered weapons and meisters meet and greet. She isn’t sure how it’ll go but there’s a small ounce of certainty that maybe she’ll find her partner there.

 But until then, she prepares herself for the day ahead of her.

[turtlesoupstories]

retrouvailles (pt 2/4)

Hi folks! Its your second weein here, coming to you live with the second chapter of our 500 follower celebration fic! This chapter has been a bunch of firsts for me! It’s my first time writing something from a Jamie perspective, and my first time writing something a little steamier! As always, thanks to Kait, Shan, and Mik for editing, and I really hope you enjoy!

Lots of Love- Marlo ( @marlosbooknook )

Read Part 1–> Here

Jamie nervously paced the crowded restaurant. He was surrounded by a sea of strange faces, a cacophony of French, English, and God knows what other foreign languages. But the one person he so desperately wanted to see remained absent. Checking his watch and suppressing a groan,  he made his way over to the bar.

She’s not coming, you daft fool.

Still, some part of him hoped that she would make her way through the door, emerging from the fog of cigarette smoke, the flickering candlelight glinting off the streaks of auburn in her riotous curls.  Jamie sat at the bar, nursing a glass of whisky, dreamily reminiscing over the stranger who had (rather ungracefully) intruded his life with a scalding cup of coffee.

He checked his phone. Nothing.

I should send her a message, make sure nothing has gone amiss. What if she’s hurt? Or there’s been an accident? Lord, let her be safe…

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

Jamie looked up with a start, nearly pouring his whisky on the beautiful creature perched beside him at the bar.  

How ironic.

“Jesus, Sassenach, ye nearly scared the life out o’ me!” He exclaimed. She had made it, and she looked just as elegant and picturesque as he had imagined; like a Greek statue in her black dress and strappy red heels–that just so happened to complement the crimson tie he had selected for the occasion. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, but a few curls hung loose around her face, gently caressing her ivory skin. Jamie could imagine gently tucking the strand behind her ear, and how soft the flesh at the nape of her neck would be to the touch as he so gently skimmed his hand over it.

That’s enough, Fraser.

“Sassenach? Gaelic, I assume? I sincerely hope you weren’t insulting me for my lateness. Navigating the metro is nearly impossible; I nearly ended up on the other side of Paris!”

“Och. I could never insult you, late as ye may be. Sassenach means outlander ye ken… I’d wager to say that we both fit that description right about now. Now, how about I buy you a wee dram to thank ye for allowing a mere stranger to admire your beauty.”

He could see a blush paint it’s way up Claire’s neck and across her skin. The lass has a glass face, to be sure. And a bonnie one at that.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” She waited until the bartender returned with her drink in hand. “And I wouldn’t call us strangers anymore, Jamie; I’d say that we’ve become rather acquainted  ever since I drenched your crisp white shirt with my americano. Glad to see you were able to find a replacement, by the way.”

She reached over and gave a quick tug on Jamie’s collar. He swallowed hard. Never in his life had he felt such an inexplicable, divine connection. Not with any of the girls his sister had tried so desperately to set him up with, nor with Annalise, his first and only comfort in Paris. Claire was nothing like them; a different creature entirely. He wished he had his camera on hand so he’d be able to capture every movement she made, every little sparkle in her amber eyes. Whether it be through fate, luck, or even pure chance, James Fraser had found his muse.

“Come, Claire, I’ve a surprise for you.”

A bemused look crossed her face, as Jamie took her hand (how perfectly it fit in his own), and helped her dismount from the barstool. As she stood,  Jamie was able to admire her once more. The dress was simple, yet it clung to her every curve, and every move she made sent a shiver down Jamie’s spine and a stirring in the pit of his stomach. She turned to retrieve her clutch from the counter and Jamie couldn’t help but stare at the slinky black fabric showcasing her glorious round arse. What he would give to feel it under his hands…

Claire turned suddenly, and Jamie quickly averted his eyes. A knowing smirk crossed her lips.

Cunning wee temptress.

“Lead the way, soldier.” Claire said, a mock salute causing Jamie to break out into a grin. She linked her arm through his, and together the pair made their way through the crowd. Muffled conversations came to an abrupt halt as they made their way past.

Claire leaned in. “Is it just me,” she whispered, “Or are they staring at us?”

“They’re staring at you, Claire. Wait just a moment and you’ll ken why…”

As they drew closer to the back of the room, the crowd dispersed, allowing the artist and his subject prime access to the display. From floor to ceiling, prints of various sizes stretched along the wall. Blurs of motion and vibrant colors greeted Jamie as he stared at the compilation of two years of dedication.  There were scenes of Parisians strolling along the Seine, freshly baked macaroons sitting in a bakery display, a couple clutched candidly in a passionate embrace. And right in the center, the star piece among the endless sea of photos, was a girl clutching a cup of coffee, eyes gazing playfully over the rim, with streams of curls flaring out from either side. Jamie watched as Claire’s eyes darted over the photos, gasping when she spotted her own.

“Is- is that from today?” She asked.

“Aye. I hope you dinna mind me using it without yer permission. The lighting was just so perfect and weel… There was something missing from the collection until that photo. Until you, Claire.”

There was no response, and Jamie felt his heart drop.

“But if ye dinna approve, I can take it down this instant. I would never wish to offend you–”

“No,” she said quietly. “Please, don’t take it down. It’s lovely. It’s just…”

“It’s just… what?”

“It’s just… that girl in the photograph; that’s not me. She’s so beautiful and full of light… I could never look like that.”

Jamie stared at her in disbelief. How could she not see the radiance exuding from within her? He grabbed her face, forced her to look him in the eyes as he used his thumb to wipe away the single tear trailing down her cheek.

“But that is you, Claire. You are that woman. D’ye ken what I named that photo?” She shook her head meekly. “It’s called Sorcha–your name, in Gaelic. It means light… and ye’ve so much light inside of ye. More light and radiance than I could ever capture on film, no matter how hard I tried. You are the most beautiful thing I ‘ave ever beheld; the very thing missing from all of these photographs. I will’na rest until ye see yourself as the rest of these people see you. As I see you.”

He stopped as Claire’s lips crashed onto his, the sweet taste of her muddled with the whisky on her tongue and the salt of her tears. He leaned in, soaking in the feel and taste of her, praying that he would drown in her embrace. She pulled away first, begrudgingly, but self-conscious of the eyes trained on her back, watching the spectacle.

Jamie whispered into her hair, “Come to my studio tomorrow. Let me prove to you how magnificent you are.”

Jamie sat in his overcrowded loft, eyes trained to the pattering rain rolling lazily down the window pane. The smell of developer filled his nostrils, a new batch of photos waiting to be brought to life sitting haphazardly on a crowded table. But they would have to wait. The ticking of the clock was a metronome, slowly driving Jamie mad.  Would Claire do what he had asked of her? He remembered the fear in the pit of his stomach as he asked her the previous night; absolutely dumbfounded when she agreed. Now, all he had to do was wait.

There was a knock at the door: a series of sharp, quick raps that sent Jamie scrambling out of his folding chair and racing toward the door. Claire stood on the other side, rain dripping off of her yellow jacket, the hood pulled unceremoniously over her head.

“It’s raining.” She said stupidly, unable to conjure up anything else as Jamie ushered her inside, hanging her coat up on the dusty rack near the door.

“Aye. I can see that.” He stifled a grin and felt Claire giggle. There was a tension in the air, the unaddressed question of whether or not they would follow through with their original plan looming over their heads. Claire looked frightened, her eyes flitting about the room, absorbing the array of equipment and antique furniture strewn about the flat.

“Lovely little space you have.” She said, walking around the room and running her fingers over the carved wood of a Victorian chair.

“‘Tis a wee bit cramped for my liking, but it serves its purpose. Should I gain a bit of notoriety, perhaps I’ll be able to afford something a bit larger.”

“Perhaps…”

Jamie could see that he needed to take charge; she needed him to guide her. He cautiously made his way to her side, gently laying a hand on her shoulder.

“We dinna have to do this, Claire.”

“No.” She turned around, finally meeting his eyes. “I want to do this. I want to know what it is you see in me.”

Jamie breathed a sigh of relief, but the flutter of nerves failed to leave his stomach.

“Then let’s begin.”

Jamie busied himself setting up his camera, choosing the perfect spot between the window and the wall. He imagined what Claire was doing just a room away, slowly shedding off her cocoon of clothing. It had taken a lot of convincing to get Claire’s acquiescence to his plan, but he had never been more sure of anything in his life.

They strolled out of the restaurant the night before, Jamie gently trying to coax Claire into his plan.

“I want to take your photograph, capture your likeness for all eternity.”

“You’ve already taken my picture. What would be so different this time around?”

“I want it to be staged. To capture you in all of your glory. You look like a goddess Claire, a grecian statue, and I want to create that illusion in print. With you.”

Claire looked at him in confusion.

“A Grecian statue? Somehow I find it incredibly difficult to picture myself looking like one of them. Besides, weren’t those all…nude?”

Jamie stopped cold. He had hoped that he would be the one to mention the caveat of his endeavor.

“Aye. They are. And, weel, I was hoping…” He rubbed the back of his neck anxiously, unsure of how Claire would respond to his… forward request.

“You want to photograph me? Naked? Jamie… I… don’t know if I can do that. I barely know you.”

“But you trust me?” He asked, hopeful. She looked at him, unsure, then bit her lip in thought. He desperately wanted her to say yes, for his own selfish pleasure of seeing her naked in the flesh, but more importantly to allow her a glimpse of the radiance from within her. All he wanted was for Claire to see herself in the same way that he did.

The pair paused, standing shoulder to shoulder along the Seine. A boat drifted lazily past, the echoes of music and lively conversation momentarily filling the silence between them. In the distance, the lights of the Eiffel tower twinkled like lights on a Christmas tree. What Jamie would give to have had his camera to capture the magic of the moment.  

Claire gazed wistfully over the water, lost in thought. All Jamie wanted to do was reach out and touch her, lay a hand reassuringly on her shoulder and confirm that she had nothing to fear from him. That he would be there for her always. That he loved her. But he couldn’t say that. Not yet, anyways. Claire needed to come to this decision on her own. He couldn’t be responsible for forcing her into a situation where she felt uncomfortable or scared. So he waited.

After what felt like an eternity, Claire at last turned to face him. The light danced in her eyes, and Jamie could feel himself going weak at the knees. He grabbed the railing for support.

“Jamie,” she began, hesitantly. “I do trust you.”

He felt himself exhale.

“I’ll do it.” She said, slowly growing more confident in her words. “But you have to promise me, that this will stay between the two of us.”

“Aye. I would’na have it any other way. Thank ye, Claire. You will not regret this. I can promise ye that.”

She linked her fingers through his own as they they continued their walk.

“Don’t make promises you cannot keep…”

Jamie was so lost in his memories of the night before, he hadn’t noticed Claire until she strolled up behind him.

“I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.” She whispered in his ear, a small laugh escaping her as she spoke.

Jamie whipped around. There she stood, completely nude; her hands gracefully placed over her chest and abdomen. He felt his eyes tracing and lingering over every inch of her, wishing to remain in that moment for eternity. Every single curve and line and ridge on her perfect flesh. His trousers suddenly seemed to be a bit tighter. He said a Hail Mary.

“Jesus Claire…” He murmured, half to himself. What did he do to deserve this nymph, this human Aphrodite before him?

“Is this ok? Will it look alright?”

“Better than alright, but I canna promise to fulfill your Jack Dawson fantasies.” She smiled. “Come. Stand in front of the camera.”

She moved slowly, unsure of her steps. If Eve had existed, unsure and soft footed in the garden of Eden, Jamie swore she would have looked just like Claire in that moment. She positioned herself, her hands still covering the most private and intimate parts of her, directly in front of Jamie. God, what he would give to touch her… Her eyes were wide and innocent, her curls splayed haphazardly around her face, a stray lock clinging to her skin, still damp from the rain.

“Don’t move, just like that.” The camera clicked.

“Was that good?” Claire inquired, frozen where she stood.

“Perfect.” Jamie responded earnestly. “Now, turn and look out the window. Yes, just like that, dinna change a thing.”

Her body turned at an angle, and he could see the elegant curve of her spine, leading down to the smooth expanse of her arse. A gray light passed through the rain on the window, sending translucent specks of light dancing across her hand. She moved her hand, ever so slightly, and Jamie could faintly see the pink of her nipple, peeking from in between her graceful fingers. Speckles of gooseflesh rippled up and down her arm, making the soft hairs stand at attention. She tilted her head to look at him, seeking reassurance in her actions, and her hair fell across her face like a waterfall of decadent chocolate.

Jamie could hardly concentrate, transfixed by the masterpiece before him. Never, in all his years, had he seen a woman so perfect in form, and never had he had the opportunity to capture the image of such a goddess. Until now. He stared through the viewfinder of his camera making sure everything was perfect, down to the last detail. The camera clicked once more. She turned again to face him, and he felt himself go weak in the knees. Yet, she still looked so unsure, so dissatisfied with herself. It needed it change.

“Move your hand. I want to see you.” She hesitated, taking a step backwards until she was flush against the peeling white plaster of the wall.

“Jamie,” She said, her voice hushed and somber. “I can’t. You don’t want to see me.”

Jamie stepped out from behind the camera, crossing over to where Claire stood in just a few strides. He placed his hands on her hips, slowly running his fingers up until they met hers, draped across her breasts.

“Yes, I do. I want to see ye. To touch ye. More than anything I have ever wanted in my life. Will ye let me?”

Claire inhaled sharply, staring into his azure eyes before nodding almost imperceptibly.

Slowly, never once taking his eyes off of Claire’s, Jamie linked his fingers with hers, gently lowering her arms until they lay limp at her side. He could see her fighting the urge to raise them again, but it faded as he slowly put a hand to her breast, running his thumb over her nipple. He caressed the skin around it before delicately running his hand down her torso, stopping at her navel.

“May I?”

“Yes.” She breathed. If there was a line, they had crossed it a hundred times over.

His hand continued along its path, grazing the inside of her thighs before reaching their destination. Claire gasped, her arms snaking around Jamie’s neck and hands rooting into his hair.

“Jamie, ” she murmured longingly. She pressed against him as he went on, feeling him hard against her abdomen.

“Jesus… God, Claire. I want ye so badly.”

“Then have me. I’m yours.”

That was all he needed to hear. He ached for her, felt himself bursting at the seams to be one with her. He needed her like he needed air. Craved her like an addict awaiting his next fix. Is this love? He wondered to himself. It had to be, for never had he felt an inexplicable pull like this before.

His lips met hers with an all consuming fire. He poured everything he had into that kiss, spilling his very soul into her. She reciprocated in kind, clutching him like a feral animal.  They held each other close and felt things that they had never felt before. The purest ecstasy of passion as they came together again and again.

Together, they were a masterpiece.

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

A Boy Becomes an Alpha

Stiles was never meant to be an Alpha, but fate had other plans.

Give away commission for @s-is-for-stiles. I hope you like it. ❤

Stiles’ feet slowed beneath him, his feet sinking slightly into the cushion of damp autumn leaves, piles of rotting flesh which littered the forest floor.

The usual autumn tones of brown, gold, orange, and red were darkened by the night, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space, shutting out the sky and filtering moonlight. Streams of silver light surrounded him, not enough to see but just enough to distinguish shapes from shadows.

Among the darkness he could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows as eye-like rings watched him from all angles.

He turned in circles, the pale light of his torch gliding across the forest floor.

It was around here somewhere.

The police report had said there was a body in this part of the reserve.

Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath his feet as he slowly turned in circles, surveying his surroundings. Fallen branches snagged at his ankles, scratching at the pale skin. He hissed in pain, pulling up the cuff of his jeans just enough to see the small droplets of blood.

There was a rustle in the bushes in front of him.

He bolted upright, holding his torch out in front of himself and staring at the bush.

Clumps of leaves and low hanging branches crackling, shaking and bowing as a shadow moved in the darkness.

“Scott?” Stiles whispered. “You came after all, huh?”

There was no reply.

“Scotty,” Stiles said, his voice flat. “It’s dark, we’re in the middle of the forest looking for a dead body. If you think so much as think of sneaking up on me to try and scare me for fun, I will kill you.”

The cold air blew through him.

Stiles took a hesitant step forward. “Scott?”

The figure burst out of the bush, slamming into Stiles and knocking him to the ground.

He curled up in a ball, shielding his face with his arms as the thundering hooves pounding the ground. He slowly opened his eyes, watching as the deer disappeared into the darkness.

His heart hammered against his ribs, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

He braced his hands against the ground, sharp sticks prodding his palms. He grabbed his torch, hands shaking as the echo of the deer drifted away into the cool night air.

Stiles drew in measured breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. He slowly turned back to where the deer had come from.

His heart stopped. His blood ran cold in his veins.

He watched as the shadows shifted around the figure.

Claws dug into the mud, upturning the dirt and releasing the sweet earthy scent. Crimson eyes turned on him as the creature rose up on its hind feet.

Its large form was unhuman; standing tall on curved, slender legs. The bright red eyes were set above an elongated snout. Long arms hung at its side, disfigured hands – hairy, like a wolf’s paws – tense, and thick, curved claws lit by the bleeding streams of moonlight.

Stiles swallowed against the lump in his throat, his eyes wide with terror. He held his breath, his pulse pounding in his eyes.

The creature let out a low growl and lowered its head, arching its shoulders like a predator about to pounce. Glowing red eyes narrowed on him.

Run, his mind screamed. Run!

Stiles flailed about, stumbling backwards. His feet slid out beneath him and he hit the ground. He used a hand to steady himself, digging his feet into the dirt and tearing into the darkness beyond the trees.

He sprinted through the dense forest, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He sprung over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs, his nimble legs and spring-locked ankles projecting him over the large logs. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet. He tried to keep himself upright, struggling not to stumble or trip as he sprinted away from the creature.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

The creature pounced on him.

The air was knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground, rolling down a rocky embankment. His head striking one of the rocks, his body falling still among the jagged slate and the moon-lit water.

He wheezed as pain tore through his body, his head pounding and his side burning. The creature caught up to him, their weight bearing down on him and claws digging into his shoulders.

He felt his eyes grow heavy, darkness creeping in with the promise of relief. The cool water of the stream caressed his face, his unfocused eyes watching the way the silver moonlight caught the water, making it look like ribbons of silk as it threaded through his fingers.

Beyond the pounding blood in his ears, he heard another growl. A dark figure sprinted towards them, tackling the creature and knocking him off of Stiles.

His lungs flooded with air, a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Stiles didn’t spare a second look. He pushed himself to his feet, struggling to find footing among the uneven rocks and trickling stream. He staggered to his feet and sprinted away.

The air was filled with animalistic growls and snapping jaws, draining away the further he ran into the dense forest.

His legs burnt as he forced himself to run further and further, until he was sure he was away from them.

He slowed, running on the spot as he turned about to check whether he was being followed.

His shallow breath swirled before his in a thin white cloud. His eyes flickered among the shadows.

He took a second to orientate himself, running towards the end of the reserve that backed onto the small children’s park a few streets over from his house.

His lungs burnt and his ribs felt like they had been shattered, but he couldn’t slow down. Tears streaked his face, pain coursing through his veins as he held his arm to his ribs and ran.

He ran until the golden glow of the streetlights broke through the dark labyrinth of trees. He ran across the open soccer field and down the abandoned street. He sprinted to his house, climbing up the through his window and into his bedroom.

He staggered across his room, reaching for the light switch, but froze.

He took a step back, turning to look at the mirror that hung on the inside of his open closet door.

His hands shook as he reached down and pulled back the hem of his jacket.

He swallowed hard against the bile that rose into his throat, tears welling in his eyes as he stared at his reflection. The sickening smell of copper filled his nose as he stared at the growing red stain that covered his side.

He reached around with his free hand, fingers brushing against the frayed edges of his torn shirt and gouged flesh.

He slowly lifted the hem of his shirt, his heart sinking into his gut as he realised there was a pattern to the bleeding wounds.

A bite.

  Peter’s dark eyes were distant as he stood before the ashy ruins of the Hale house. His face was still rippled with burns and scars, slowly healing.

“Power tends to corrupt,” the man mused, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “And absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed as he stared at the man in confusion.

“My sister used to say that a lot.” His voice drifted off and he fell silent for a while. “I once knew an Alpha who controlled a pack of Alphas. He tried to enlist my sister, but she was too stubborn—too blind—to see the power he offered her,” Peter said, staring at the withered wood and scorched glass that had once been his home. “She thought the price to pay for power was too high; said that he was asking too much of her.”

Stiles swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “What did ask of her?”

“To become a stronger Alpha, you must take your Beta’s power,” he replied.

“Take a Beta’s power,” he repeated.

The mulled the words over.

“Like, make them human? You mean, you make me normal again?” Stiles asked, hope filling his voice.

Peter was silent for a moment. He lifted his hand to his face and flexed his fingers, his nails extending into jagged claws. His eyes lit up red as he turned to look at Stiles.

His voice was deep and merciless as he said, “No.”

Stiles didn’t have time to react.

Peter grabbed him by his throat, hoisting the boy off his feet.

Stiles lashed out, dragging his claws across Peter’s arms but the man wouldn’t let go. He slammed his feet into Peter’s chest.

The Alpha cried out in pain as he dropped the boy, his eyes burning brighter as he glared at Stiles, livid with rage.

Stiles scurried backwards, scrambling to his feet but his was too late.

Peter grabbed his ankles and pulled him across the ground.

Stiles kicked out, the sole of his shoe hitting the Alpha’s hand, but this time he didn’t let go. He knelt down on the boy, pinning him to the ground as he raised his hand.

“Peter!” Derek bellowed, catching the Alpha’s attention. He turned to glare at his nephew.

In that second of hesitation, Stiles acted without thinking. He swiped at Peter, his claws tearing open the man’s throat.

Blood sprayed across Stiles’ face, gushing from Peter’s throat as the man stared at him, eyes wide.

Stiles stared back, sickened by the smell of blood. He watched in horror as Peter gasped for air, choking on his own breath as he tried to hold his hands against his throat.

Blood spilled over his hands. The red glow from his eyes faded as his irises returned to their natural hue. He collapsed to the ground.

Stiles kicked himself free and scrambled to his feet, staring in horror as Peter’s body grew still. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision as he turned to look at Derek.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, tears clearing trails through his blood-splattered cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Derek said softly, stepping over to Stiles’ side and pulling him close. “You’re okay.”

“He was going to kill me,” Stiles rasped.

“Come on,” Derek said softly, gently leading Stiles back down the long driveway to his car. He pulled the door open and helped Stiles into the passenger’s seat before hurrying around to the driver’s side.

Stiles felt numb, watching the world flash by. Street lamps strobed, lighting the world before plunging him back into darkness.

They made their way down the abandoned streets of Beacon Hills where no-one else dared to go at night. The glass of the streetlamps were clouded and muddy, the old bulbs strobing and flickering as they struggled to hold onto life. The surrounding buildings were decrepit: old workshops and industrial buildings, some in ruins – with buckling walls, crumpled bricks and streams of water coursing through the rubble like ravines – and others were just abandoned and tagged with crude sprawls of spray-paint.

The building they were looking for stood tall among the rest, old but not the least bit damaged.

The loft.

Derek helped Stiles upstairs, shoving open the heavy iron door and guiding him into the open lounge room. He stepped away from the boy, hurrying over to the small corner of the room where the large bed was shoved up against the wall.

He dug through a dresser, pulling out a grey Henley and a pair of jeans. He set them down in the bathroom before returning to Stiles’ side.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” he said softly.

“We should call the police,” Stiles uttered.

“No,” Derek replied firmly.

“It was self-defence… They’ll understand, right?”

“They’ll understand how you tore open a man’s throat with your bare hands?” Derek said. “I don’t think so.”

“What do I tell my dad?”

“Nothing,” Derek answered.

“You don’t understand—” His words drifted off as he struggled to breathe.

Derek took a step closer, craning his neck to look Stiles in the eye. “You’re right, I don’t understand. I was born like this, I don’t know what it’s like for you. But I know you want to keep your dad safe. So, for now, it’s best that you don’t tell him.”

Stiles opened his mouth to object, but Derek cut him off. “You can tell him one day, just not today.”

Stiles nodded.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed.

“It’s okay,” Derek said softly. “I’ll take care of everything. Just get yourself cleaned up.”

Without another word, Derek left.

Stiles did as he was told. He showered, watching as the blood swirled across the shower floor like ink through water bleeding into the drain. He dried himself and got dressed.

Derek still wasn’t home when he came out of the bathroom.

He made his way over to the couch and sat down, pulling his legs up to his chest and burying his face in his knees. He drew in deep breath, letting the soft must that clung to Derek’s shirt sooth him.

Finally, Derek returned. He made his way over to Stiles’ side.

Stiles could smell the rich heart that clung to his clothes, but he didn’t question it. He knew what Derek had gone to do.

“Stiles,” Derek whispered. “Show me your eyes.”

Stiles shook his head, his tear-stained cheeks glittering in the light of the full moon.

“Stiles, look at me,” Derek said softly. He gently cupped Stiles’ cheek, turning the boy’s face towards his and forcing him to look into his eyes as they flickered and glowed red.

“How am I an Alpha?” he asked. “I didn’t take the power from my uncle, so how am I the Alpha?”

“You’re the last Hale, it’s only natural that you would inherit the power,” Stiles suggested.

Derek shook his head. “No, the power is only inherited through a familial hierarchy if the Alpha dies of natural causes or by human hand,” he explained. “When an Alpha is killed by another werewolf, the power is passed on to the one who killed them.”

So, Peter really is dead, Stiles thought, dropping his gaze.

“Stiles,” Derek said with the authority of an Alpha. He craned his neck, his glowing eyes catching Stiles’. “Show me your eyes.”

Stiles blinked heavily, his irises igniting with an unhuman glow.

Red.

Alpha.

  “Oh my God!” Stiles threw his head back, slumping back against the couch as he let out a frustrated groan. “Will you please shut up.”

Peter narrowed his glare on the boy. “You killed me, remember that?”

“I also brought you back, so quit your bitching,” Stiles replied.

“I died,” Peter said. “I feel like I’m doing an adequate amount of bitching.”

“I can always kill you again,” Stiles said without a beat of hesitation, his eyes lighting up with a crimson glow.

Derek couldn’t help but smirk.

Peter opened his mouth to say something when the blaring alarm echoes through the loft.

“What’s that?” Isaac asked.

Derek’s eyes drifted to the flashing light by the heavy iron door.

“Bad news,” he answered.

Stiles rose to his feet, standing into the middle of the room. Derek stepped forward, instinctively ushering his Betas behind him.

There was a thundering bang as the iron sliding door was thrown back.

A woman with tan skin stood in the doorway. Her long hair billowed down her back, streaked by gold and orange. She had a slender figure but she had enough muscle on her that she looked like she could hold her own in a fight. She was bare foot, her nails curved and dark like claws.

Behind her stood a tall man with no hair. He was built, with a square jaw and cold dark eyes.

The woman casually stepped forward into the loft, her nails tapping against the concrete floors.

Derek instinctively edged closer to Stiles, ready to step in or push him aside.

Steels didn’t move, he squared off his shoulders and set his jaw, his dark eyes shifting from the man in the doorway to the woman who took another step closer to them.

She turned her glare on the boy.

“Move and you won’t get hurt.” she growled. She turned to look at Derek. “We’re just here for the Alpha.”

Stiles’ was eerily calm as he levelled his eyes on her. His irises lit up red. “Think again.”

“Two Alphas?” the man in the doorway said, shocked. “In the same territory? How have you not torn each other to shreds yet?”

“Because I’m his,” Stiles answered.

The woman – Kali – frowned in confusion. “His what?”

“His mate,” Stiles said as if it were obvious. He glanced over his shoulder at Derek. “You’ve been tiptoeing around it, but you’re not exactly subtle.”

A soft blush coloured Derek’s cheeks.

Stiles turned back to Kali, his crimson eyes filled with rage. “And if you want him, you’re gonna have to go through me.”

Kali arched a brow at him, impressed. A smirk played across her lips as she shrugged, her eyes glowing red. “Very well.”

She lunged forward.

Stiles caught her arm, turning into her body and hauling her over his shoulder.

She hit the floor with a painful thud, snarling as she rolled over and dug her feet into the concrete.

Stiles was grabbed from behind. He slammed his elbow into Ennis’s gut, balling his fist and slamming his knuckles into the man’s jaw.

Ennis staggered backwards, snarling as he glared at Stiles. He lunged forward, swinging his arm in a wide arc.

Stiles ducked under it, slamming his knuckles into the Alpha’s ribs.

Ennis doubled over, staggering back and falling to his knees.

Kali leapt forward, catching Stiles from behind. She pulled him back, tipping him off balance so his feet pedalled beneath him uselessly. Her claws dug into his throat, drawing small beads of blood.

Stiles winced, sucking in a sharp breath through gritted teeth.

Derek tensed, rage brewing in his eyes.

“Do you know how an Alpha gain more power?” she whispered in his ear.

“By killing their beta,” Stiles answered, shooting a glare at Peter.

“Someone’s been doing his homework,” Kali teased.

Isaac and Boyd edged closer to Derek, their eyes darting from Ennis to Kali, then to Derek as they waited for their Alpha’s orders.

Derek took a step forward.

Kali took a step back, pulling Stiles back with her.

“Uh-uh-uh,” she scolded.

Stiles gasped, grimacing as her hand tensing around his throat, nails digging into his skin.

Derek stood still, his anger intensifying.

“Now, since you’re so smart, can you tell me why this little predicament you’re in is so interesting?” Kali asked.

“Because his beta is another Alpha,” Stiles answered.

“Very good,” she said condescendingly. “Now, Derek – here – is faced with a choice; either he kills you and joins us, or we kill his entire pack.”

“That’s not a choice, it’s an ultimatum,” Stiles corrected. “And you’re forgetting one thing.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“I’m an Alpha too.”

Before she could react, Stiles reached behind himself, digging his claws into her shoulder and hauling the woman over his shoulders. He pounced on her, using his knees to pin her arms to the ground and holding his claws against her throat.

Ennis took a step forward but Stiles’ head snapped up, his glare pinning the man in place.

“And you can tell your Alpha that we’re not interested,” Stiles growled, blood dripping down his throat. “You have twenty-four hours to get out of our territory.”

He rose to his feet, letting Kali scramble to her feet.

She skulked back to the door, retreating with Ennis in tow.

Stiles waited, making sure they were gone before turning back to the others.

Derek just started at him, his expression a mix of shock, admiration, and arousal.

“Everyone okay?” Stiles asked.

“You’re bleeding,” Derek said, shaking himself from his stupor.

Stiles waved his hand dismissively. “It’ll heal.”

Derek didn’t listen to him. He ran to the kitchen and grabbed the First Aid kit. He hurried back to Stiles’ side, guiding him over to the couch. He opened the small metal box, pulling out the rubbing alcohol and a small cotton pad. He knelt before Stiles, carefully pressing the disinfectant to the gashes in his throat.

“Please don’t tell my dad about this,” Stiles said, gesturing to his blood throat and stained shirt. “He’ll freak out.”

“He’s probably going to find out,” Derek told him. He was as gentle as he could be as he held the gauze against his torn flesh and taped it in place. “Alpha wounds take longer to heal.”

Stiles shrugged. “I’ll tell him I walked into a tree.”

Derek smirked. “He’ll believe that.”

He set the First Aid kit aside. “So, uh… You know.”

“That we’re mates? Yeah,” Stiles replied. “It took me a while, but yeah.”

Derek let out a measured breath.

“I know you don’t like to talk about what happened to you,” Stiles said. “But I’m not her. And I want to be with you.”

Derek looked up at him, stunned.

“That is, if you want to be with me,” Stiles added.

A breathless laugh escaped Derek’s lips as he smiled sweetly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to.”

Stiles leant forward, craning his neck and pressing a soft kiss against Derek’s cheek.

[AO3]

[heahmundandivar]

001.

Words: 1763 Tags: Knives, blood, prisoner Heahmund. Summary: Ivar has some fun mocking a captured Heahmund and his faith...

His head still hurt when he awoke. He had been stuck somewhere in between awake and nearly unconscious ever since his path had crossed with the pagan leader at the gates of York. The searing pain that seemed to haunt his skull appeared to be the culprit behind his misery. The bishop felt weak. He tried to hide it whenever he was awake, knowing that the heathens would be watching him. They were always watching, and the devil was with him. He fears no man and until his path had crossed with the cripple, he had always thought the devil to be of a monstrous kind and no man. But the Bishop did not cower in fear. The pagan leader was but a man and if this was the shape of the devil, then he shall not fear this evil but face it instead. 

He could feel the eyes poking at him, the gazes of the guilty and the cruel. The pagans were eyeing him like hawks would lure at the mice in the forests that laid near the city of Jorvík. Heahmund knew this feeling - or at least the feeling of being watched. He does not mind people watching him, for it brought him power and confidence - and it made him feel so much closer to the Father. But here, in this moment, it all is different. 

The Bishop knew where he was. The smell, however, he did not like. For such evils and dishonour to be brought upon the house of God - he will make the pagans pay for their sins! A church, once so peaceful and a home to many more than just God and Christ, was now but a barn - but at least the rats were gone. If he had anything left in his stomach, he would have thrown up at the thought of rats littering and rustling through the deepest root of his darkened heart. 

Silence ruled in this house, and the Bishop preferred it this way. What was left of the church should not be harmed further by these vile pagans. It should be kept and restored. But first, he must kill them all.

There was no scratching and squeaking of any rodent. But he could hear the scraping of other things, a sound so eerie to the tired Bishop’s ears that he did find the strength to open his tired and aching eyes. And there he sat - the devil in a crippled man’s disguise. Heahmund’s mouth was dry. He could not spit at the man, but he would as soon as he could. For now, a lousy grin would do. 

And the heathen grinned in return. Ivar the Boneless sat with his pet priest and observed him with a smile so kind and welcoming it would have frightened any other Christian - but not this one. The young prince found it quite interesting, but kept his surprise for his own and displayed a look of seriousness instead. He licked his bottom lip slowly, showing the prisoner bishop that he had quite some time on his hands this time. Their first encounter had been brief, and they had not been alone. But now was different, and so was the pagan leader. Not a single word had been spoken between the two of them, yet Heahmund could see that the boy did not behave the same way he does when he is among his people in moments where he can be on his own, free from any spying eyes. It brought a thought to the Bishop’s mind - Perhaps this heathen is more man than animal after all, but how could one commit such crimes and cruelties? It must be that their pagan gods lack the concept of love, the Bishop nearly pitied the child.

A child, indeed. This boy could not be much older than the brave prince Alfred the Bishop knew so well. But this child was in charge of an army, and Alfred was not. In a sense, it could be intriguing, but the Bishop found it foolish. Had these pagans any sense of doing just...about anything right?

The men looked at each other in silence. There was a silent battle between them, a game of observation to see who could pick up the most from the other by only watching them. Neither of them owed the other any hint of emotion though, both men perhaps being equally stubborn in their own ways. Ivar found it pleasant - almost like a child, indeed. Heahmund found nothing special about it and soon chose to wait instead. Surely, this heathen must have something up his mind if not only a turd. 

“I have heard many stories about you,” Ivar the Boneless then stated. “Just like you must have heard them about me.” Heahmund remained silent and watched the pagan. He wanted to hear what this evil child has to tell him. “I have heard that you fear no evil, and that you fear no man.” Ivar pushed himself up, moving closer to the bishop so that he could reach out to the man if he wanted to do so. He found no threat in the prisoner. Ever since he had returned to him, the Bishop had not moved one muscle. It could of course be a trap, but Ivar was confident that he could easily end this man. It would be a shame, however, and it made the prince wonder if this man fears death just like his people. 

Their eye contact broke for the first time when Heahmund’s gaze moved down to watch what the crippled boy pulled from his belt. He did not cower when he saw the blade. He would not allow the child such pleasure and met with his eyes in return. Heahmund did not fear the boy - a child perhaps young enough to be a son he could not have. “But, you see-” Ivar commenced, speaking slow but clear. One might just ask themselves where this boy had learned the language of his enemy, for he could easily make the Bishop feel like he is being put under a pagan spell by speaking his heathen tongue. Yet even if he had such power, Ivar would not want to use it. He wanted the Bishop to understand him, and smirked. “This, is not a man.” Ivar finished his sentence by lifting up the blade and bringing it to Heahmund’s cheekbone. He poked the sharp tip at the man’s skin, just hard enough to create a small drop of crimson red. Heahmund didn’t budge, and Ivar hummed pleasantly. “Oh, so your god does bleed!” the young prince mocked. It angered Heahmund that he lacked the strength to fight this heathen and teach him a lesson of his own. He could only roll aside and away from the blade, exhaling a deep grunt. Heahmund tried to block out the boy’s childish giggle. 

Ivar crept closer again, the blade clutched in his fist and a grin plastered on his face. He could not let the Bishop get away with this so easily... 

“Is your god a coward, priest?” Ivar asked, but his question seemed to fall upon deaf ears. “If you choose yourself to be godly, then is it not your duty to act in the name of your god?” Heahmund tried to block out the annoying sound of the pagan’s voice, but it was difficult, for this child was insulting him and his religion. It fueled the anger in the Bishop’s heart, but it did not spark the energy he needs in order to silence this heathen by himself. 

The blade returned. This time, Ivar left its cold metal on the other cheek the Bishop had offered him - and Heahmund wished he could beat himself up over this foolish martyr’s move. “They say your god has a sign,” Ivar mused, teasing the Bishop’s skin with the sharp edge of his dagger. “I saw you do it. Perhaps I should cut off one of these hands of yours, hm? So you can no longer reach to your God. So that he can abandon you.” 

“Heathen.” The word was exhaled in a sigh from the Bishop. Ivar snickered briefly. It seems to be the only word this Bishop knows apart from the angry shouting of what seemed to be the poems of his people. Ivar had caught up that these Christians believed for the Vikings to be angry, ruthless and mindless beasts, but it stood in sharp contrast with how this particular priest has acted among his enemies thus far. 

Ivar pressed his lips together and grinned. His thumb carressed the knife handle patiently while he waited for the priest to seek eye contact with him from the corner of his eyes, for he chose to not move against the blade - like a coward, perhaps? “I believe your sign goes like this,” Ivar spoke in a whisper. His eyes were hard, wide and set on his blade when he pushed its tip down, into the Bishop’s flesh. Another speck of crimson red escaped from the man’s cheekbone before Ivar trailed the knife downwards, leaving a cut on the Bishop’s cheek. Heahmund could only grunt like an old pig at the pain the heathen child was inflicting on his sacred skin. He would make this wretched heathen pay for his sins! 

“And then... I believe, it went like this.” Ivar placed the knife on the Bishop’s skin a third time, now starting on the right side of the cut on the man’s cheek. He did not wait before he drew the blade towards him, slowly, but with enough pressure in order to draw another red cut in the Bishop’s skin. When finished, Ivar could only laugh at his own creation and he cheered up visibly. He drew back his dagger and grabbed the starved and weakened Bishop by the shoulder in a manner a friend would do and flashed him a wide grin. 

“See! I have carved the sign of your god in your skin! Now he will be with you every day,” the young prince mocked. He pat the Bishop on the shoulder before he turned and left, dragging his heavy, but deformed legs behind him. Bishop Heahmund said no more, but he thought plenty and cruel. The ache in his arm was minor to his need to stroke his cheek there where the pagan boy had maimed his skin and when he could see the blood on his fingers, the Bishop could feel the rage burn within him...

[niteowlsabinewren]

My Nightmare Ends

Take my lips

Kiss me sweet

Take my feelings

Stop me from sweating fear

My sweet nightmares end.

Saturnus, I long (from Veronica Decides To Die album).

Synopsis: this story started as AU, but soon I surrendered to the fact I swallowed more than I could chew. So it was ultimately transformed into 5-chapters of nightmares and inadvertent manipulation of the Force bond that ended in some unexpected results. Kylo Ren wakes up as the First Order general after a successful coup against Snoke staged by him and other high ranking generals (something similar to how German generals ultimately rebelled against Hitler). He is deeply depressed ever since Han’s death and meets Rey on Coruscant under rather twisted circumstances. There’s happy ending, tho: I’m not only a perv, I’m also a sappy perv.

References to 2004 film “Closer” (because Padme Amidala working as a stripper was too alluring to this basic Reylo bitch brain of mine to pass unexploited), mature content warning and a trigger warning for mental illness.

“They understood: in every alternate reality of the multiverse, the forces of destiny gathered to bind them together – the rising darkness and the light to meet it. But unlike what their masters and foes predicted, it will not be their ruin – it will be the Balance everlasting.”

 Prologue

Rey wakes up in cold sweat, again. Ben’s eyes: hungry, desperate, pleading, loving… no, Kylo Ren: the murderer, the traitor, the enemy. The strain of nightmares makes her thirsty, like an animal: she drains her meager daily ration of water in one long, greedy gulp.

She almost chokes.

I cannot drown like this, Rey muses, dark mood setting in – the Resistance needs her. Near her bed, Rose Tico sleeps, a bacta bandage still covering part of her bruised nose.

What little she managed to decipher from the Jedi texts helped her manipulate the Force to the extent she blocked any unwanted intrusion but the skill still needs some…

Fine-tuning.

*

Kylo Ren wakes up in cold sweat, again. His father’s forgiving, pleading eyes… no, Han Solo, the criminal, the murderer, the traitor. White noise he took last night makes him thirsty, like an animal: he drains the whole bottle down in two long, greedy gulps.

He almost chokes.

Gods be willing, he will choke and drown one day soon.

He needs to talk to his medical staff about these… side-effects. He either dreams of Han Solo, or of her – of Kira Rey, of her eyes full of hope and forgiveness. No: of traitor, Rebel scum, of Jedi that must be destroyed. It’s either his highs or his lows or both in these seemingly endless nightmares that border on lucid dreaming.

The White Noise does wonders for his burning sense of guilt and shame, as well as his ever looming depression, but still it demands…

adjustments.

Chapter I.

It’s the first day of his leave as the general of the First Order, General Kylo Ren. Fighting against another General, who also happens to be his mother: he was actually registered as Solo-Organa in Hanna City - all records of his existence atomized with the remainder of the Hosnian System: a deranged display of violence he didn’t condone, not even then.

But then again, he didn’t oppose it directly, either.

He would rather stay onboard Supremacy, their flying capital providing more than enough for anyone’s comfort. He has no friends and no acquaintances in the freshly re-organized First Order: only enemies, or should he say, an enemy – Armitage Hux.

But they land on Coruscant – any other planet he’d easily scorn, but it is different here. The place is probably the only soothing place left for him in the whole galaxy: everything else is just too painful or sickeningly tedious. He sighs. He takes his shuttle and his adjutants and his body guards with him, but gives them leave as soon as they land. Even they struggle to hide immense relief for being freed from his presence – and the feeling is mutual.

*

Of course, his reputation precedes him, so it proves nearly impossible to move anywhere without being noticed, feared or exalted. This sort of unwarranted attention tires him, but the rage is subdued by the White Noise. The name suits it well – he invented it. It’s exactly what it is – a constant low static, muffling the voices of guilt and pain and of his mother’s presence in the Force; muffling the Dark Side and the Light Side alike, drowning both cosmic and the life Force in him so he just remains relatively numb. It’s not an unpleasant numbness, but it’s not pleasant, either.

It’s just – nothing.

The rubbles of Jedi temple, first destroyed by the Empire, then re-erected by Luke Skywalker, then again demolished under Snoke’s orders, stand as he left them. Why is he here, anyway? Perhaps it’s because this part of the town is generally avoided: the First Order infected it with fear and threat, and the victory of the Dark Side over the remnants of the Jedi Order spread unnerving feeling, one even layman can sense. Still, this place of ruin and despair is somewhat comforting, and he doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s because it’s so empty, and so perfectly deserted it’s almost serene; perhaps it’s because it reminds him of his own self so it alleviates his crushing loneliness.

There is some comfort in nothingness, apparently.

And there is an establishment nearby – among the many seedy taverns, coffee shops where the patrons recline in half-sleep induced by soporific aftertaste of various drugs, night clubs and casinos.

He remained loyal to the principles of the Jedi to retain the powers he so carefully nourished all these years, and then because of the wounds Snoke left in the wake of his training. Touch became first strange than insufferable to him – still, he has needs.

Roaring needs.

So in lack of better alternative, he becomes visual in his guilty pleasures: and discovers he has a thing for Twi’leks, finding sort of lustful melancholy in the fact how Empire handled Ryloth.

There is a part of him that both wants to ravish and be ravished the same way.

*

He enters the ovoid room filled with diverse and devious life forms – humans not quite human and aliens that resemble nothing of their respective species. The room is dimly lit, gilded, crimson and covered with mirrors – all of which create a nauseating effect and remind him unnervingly of the throne room: only without the corpses of Snoke and his knights, the former fellow Jedi. His own image, reflected multifold from the mirrors on the opposite side of the room, greets him like a mockery. Many frightened eyes directed his way – that fear would feed him only if he could channel it like a Knight of Ren – a skill the order subsequently passed onto Sith. Now it is only highly irritating, all those jittery bodies around him. He almost cringes at the sight of the manager, a particularly obese and conniving Jablogian that he knows from before.

„Welcome, General Ren,” the lump bows before him and his despicable neck pouches fall over one another like disgusting lard they are. „Your usual booth? And usual Twi’lek?“

„Yes,“ he squeezes through gritted teeth, abhorring the fact that he has to waste even one breath on the creature. And as he strides between the tables and patrons parting before him like tide, something else draws his attention. Something – a humming energy. Weak, but distinct. His eyes dart instinctively in the direction of the energy source as that radiance becomes brighter and stronger, even below the buzz of White Noise.

And there it is, the source. Or should he say, there she is.

Force is truly perverted, he confirms yet again.

It is one of the dancers, a young creature of no more than twenty (too young, he grunts, clenching his fists), swirling around the pole in a highly elaborate routine that was apparently more of a testament to her physicality than to her sensuality. He stops and turns away from the startled manager to come as close as he can to the podium (a group of Aqualishes vacating their table in panic as he does).

He thought it might be a delusion created by the medicine, but no: this one is strong with the Force, completely untrained and powerful, all that raw strength making a whirlwind of energies in the room, overflowing his own bridled one. Sharp jitter of frustration spikes through the White Noise: what he really wants to do is to absorb this creature energy’s signature in the Force, to see her for what she really is. Exasperated, he removed his cap in a downright breach of every First Order protocol and although mere physical vision is so crude compared to the power of the Force, still he cannot claim that he’s not being gratuitously rewarded. She should play a part of a sex slave in her metallic, copper-hued bikini, matching short wig and a narrow tail of translucent fabric in front and at the back covering exactly nothing (if anything, only accentuating her strong and well formed legs and bottom), but in his eyes she is a war goddess. He knows the air of war – he could recognize it half-dead. And that is exactly what she promises, even if unaware: the metallic surface of her ensemble reflecting the crimson lights around her so she appears as though she’s bathing in the blood of her enemies; her muscular arms flexing under golden serpent-shaped bands, her nostrils slightly expanded in deep focus, her intensely kohl-contoured eyes fixed on the target, and full lips colored deep red closed tight.

She doesn't detect the Force – she detects his hungry gaze and regards him in turn completely undeterred, even if slightly contemptuous. She sees the uniform – old Brendol Hux guided their design, so it's intentionally flashy, over-the-top, menacing sort of shameless self-promotion even when compared to the Empire, but it doesn't frighten her, none of it: his long gaberwool coat or his stature that was usually regarded as intimidating. She slides down the pole – her act is over and she is only slightly out of breath, with a shimmering, thin trail of sweat between her breasts: her face still emanating firm sense of superiority. This was her manifesto – a forewarning, directed at him.

„The girl,“ he gestures at her curtly. „Send her.“

“I must warn you, General, that one has a bad temper,” the amorphous mass of lard squeals behind him. “The only reason I hired her is because no one wants to work anymore, especially during night-shifts, with all these insurgents and rebel criminals running amok. It is so good to have your presence here, General, to restore the…”

Breaking his blabbering skull never seemed so alluring.

“I said,” he snarled. “Send her to my booth.”

And before the manager has the opportunity to defile his personal space with more sleazy flattery, he stalks away.

[snappedsky]

Borderlands: Skies the Bodyguard 3

Vaughn, Sasha, August, Loader Bot, and Gortys go to Sanctuary while Skies checks out Opportunity. Previous! Next!

---

Chapter 4

Previously

           Rhys woke up in a familiar spot: the kitchen table in the Old Haven Atlas facility. He groaned and buried his face into his hands, digging his palms into his eyes.

           “Morning,” Skies said as she sat across from him, handing him a mug of hot coffee. Rhys breathed it in deeply before taking a sip and sighing.

           They drank their coffee in comfortable silence until Rhys was about halfway done. He stared at the liquid in his mug before setting it aside and rubbing his eyes. He was so exhausted; getting eight hours of sleep doesn’t do much when you spend the majority of it running around, screaming.

           “I can’t do this anymore,” he groaned, “there’s gotta be some way to stop all this sleepwalking.”

           “Short of therapy,” Skies grunted.

           “Well, where am I gonna find a therapist on Pandora?”

           She shrugged. “Maybe you should try carrying him around in your pocket.”

           Rhys shuddered. “I told you to stop referring to it as ‘him’.”

           “Sorry,” she smiled weakly, “but seriously. If you keep your old ECHO eye on you, it might remind you that he’s gone. It could help. Worked for me.”

           Rhys considered the idea as he finished his coffee. “Well, I guess there’s nothing else I can do.”            He left without another word and went up to the room he claimed as his own. It was an old office, probably belonged to some kind of manager. It was where he slept- when he could actually sleep- kept the few belongings he had, and worked on plans for bringing Atlas back to life, among other things.

           He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, which contained only a small box. Inside was his old ECHO eye, which held the AI of Handsome Jack.

           He let it hang from his fingers for a second and stared at it. The blue ocular device shimmered slightly from the early morning light streaming through the window. Briefly, he wondered if Jack really was calling to him, or if it was just his guilt-ridden subconscious.

           “Of course he’s not calling me,” Rhys scoffed before slipping the device into his pocket. Maybe Skies was right; maybe it will serve as a reminder, even when he’s unconscious.

---

Now

           August stops the vehicle as they enter the Whispering Riverbed in the Highlands. Skies hops out of the back and points towards the north-west.

           “That way is Overlook. Use the fast travel station there to get into Sanctuary,” she explains, “don’t be surprised if they hold you at gun point. Just tell them you’re Vault Hunters; they eat up that shit.”

           “Where are you going?” Sasha asks critically.

           “An old city on the coast called Opportunity,” she replies, “when you’re done in Sanctuary, meet me there. There’s a computer system we might be able to use.”

           “Oh, and while you’re in Sanctuary, look for Patricia Tannis,” she adds quickly, “she knows more about the Vaults than anyone. She might be able to tell you something about the Vault of the Traveler.”

           “Alright, good luck.” She pats the side of the technical and August takes off out of the dry riverbed. Skies watches them leave before putting on her Psycho mask and beginning the long walk to Opportunity.

           It doesn’t take them long to find Overlook. After parking the car outside, they enter the small town, looking around curiously.

           “Where is everyone?” Gortys asks.

           “I don’t know,” Vaughn replies warily as he spots a curtain in one of the windows falling back into place. “But I think we’re being watched.”

           “There’s the fast travel station,” August says.

           They quickly approach but hesitate.

           “So uh who’s first?” Vaughn asks nervously.

           “I’ll go,” Loader Bot declares and activates it. The others follow one by one.

           They each appear in the flying city of Sanctuary. Before they even have time to look around, they’re greeted by the assault rifles of the Crimson Raider guards.

           “Whoa, whoa!” Vaughn exclaims, their arms shooting up. “Don’t shoot! We’re-we’re Vault Hunters! We’re Vault Hunters!”

           “Vault Hunters?” one of the guards question and they all share a look.

           “Lower your weapons,” a woman’s voice demands and the guards quickly obey. Vaughn and the others slowly lower their arms as a woman with fiery red hair and Siren tattoos approaches.

           “State your business,” she orders, hands resting on her hips.

           “Ya-d-um,” Vaughn stammers dumbly, unable to find his words.

           “I’m Sasha,” Sasha says quickly, “this is Vaughn, August, Loader Bot, and Gortys.”

           “Hi!” Gortys chimes cheerfully.

           “We’re Vault Hunters and we opened the Vault of the Traveler,” she explains, “but my friend and sister disappeared when they went into it. We’re trying to find them and we need…Claptrap’s help.”

           “Wow,” the Siren grins, “that’s not something I hear often. Well, if you’re telling the truth, then welcome to Sanctuary, home of the Crimson Raiders. I’m Lilith. Claptrap is always rolling around. You’re welcome to try and find him. But we’ll be watching you.”

           Sasha and the others nod understandably. Lilith smiles before walking away and the guards disperse after her.

           “Alright,” Vaughn sighs, “shall we look around?”

          The group head into the city together. There are all kinds of people here: fully armed guards, obvious refugees. But they seem relaxed, if a bit suspicious as they eye the group going by.

           “Maybe we should ask for directions,” Gortys suggests brightly before turning to a nearby person. “Excuse me, sir or ma’am. Do you know where we can find Claptrap?”

           “Pft, who knows,” he scoffs, “hopefully he rolled off the city.”

           “What about Patricia Tannis?” Vaughn asks.

           “Oh, she’s in the main headquarters,” he replies, pointing at a nearby building.      

           “Cool, thanks,” Sasha says and they head to the building. As they enter, they spot two men on the balcony overhead, watching them. One of them is wearing a mask and goggles with a small bird sitting on his shoulder and the other is an absolute brick-house.

           The only person they see on the bottom floor is a woman standing by a table covered in books and documents. She         seems well put together, with short, neat black hair and tight fitting clothes. But there’s a wild look in her eyes and an incessant twitch in her cheek that suggests maybe she’s not all right.

           “Um, Patricia Tannis?” Vaughn asks.

           “Yes,” she replies like it’s so obvious. “Who are you and why are you invading my precious space?”

           “Uh we’re Vault Hunters,” he explains, “and we were wondering if you could tell us something about the Vault of the Traveler?”

           “Vault of the Traveler? I never found much information on that one,” Tannis replies, “it was being researched by Atlas before they were wiped out years ago. It teleports all around the galaxy and they were creating a beacon to summon it and defeat the Vault monster.”

           “Yeah, we know that already,” August grunts, “we already opened it.”

           “You did?” she questions with surprise, actually looking at them for the first time. She quickly notices Gortys by their feet.

           “Is that the Gortys bot?” she exclaims, getting on her hands and knees to view Gortys at eye level. “Fascinating. I thought it disappeared when Atlas went under.”            “It did,” Vaughn says, “but we found it. Completely on purpose. Not by accident at all.”

           “Hi!” Gortys says cheerfully.

           “Well,” Tannis says as she stands up, dusting herself off. “If you already opened it, then why are you coming to me?”

           “Our friends disappeared when they went inside,” Sasha replies, “we’re wondering if you might know what happened to them?”

           “Hmmm,” she muses, “the Atlas researchers had a few theories on what might happen when the Vault is opened. One such theory was that the Vault was not the only challenge. Those who entered would be subject to multiple trials before receiving their ultimate prize.”

           “So they could’ve been teleported to these trials?” Vaughn suggests.

           “Then are they okay?” Sasha asks.

           “I don’t know,” Tannis shrugs, “who knows what these trails are or even where they are.”

           “Hmm,” Vaughn sighs, “well, thank you for your time.”

           “You are welcome,” she nods, “now please leave. You’re starting to make my skin crawl.”

           The group quickly leaves, stopping outside the door.

           “Well, that didn’t help much,” August grunts.

           “No,” Vaughn sighs, “let’s just focus on finding Cl-.”            He stops as they hear a loud, grating voice talking incessantly about how good he is at dubstep. They look down the street and spot a yellow, rectangular robot on a wheel.

           “Claptrap!” they exclaim simultaneously.

           “Huh?” he squeaks.

           Meanwhile, Skies arrives at the bridge leading to Opportunity. She stares at the city skyline across the ocean for a moment. From here, it looks like it always did the couple times she visited. But she’s heard about the raids and the riots after Jack’s death. There’s no way the city is as intact as it appears.

           She turns away and approaches the control console for the bridge. She pushes the ‘lower’ button but nothing happens. After pushing it a couple more times to no avail, she kneels down and opens up the console.

           “What…” she breathes with surprise. The console’s been completely gutted, the wires torn out.

           “This wasn’t done by bandits,” she muses, “this was…systematic. Deliberate. Like someone is trying to keep people out of Opportunity. Or keep something in.”

           Skies scratches her head as she stands up and exits the control hut. Folding her arms, she sighs heavily and stares out at the city.

           “Now how are we gonna get there? From the water? That construction site is probably still flooded; we can get in through there. But that’s a long swim and where are we gonna find a boat? Maybe we should go to Lynchwood and use Nisha’s fast travel station. But that’s a long drive. Maybe Claptrap will be able to hack the bridge with the hardware underground, if we can get to it.”

           While she babbles endlessly about possible choices, she hears a vehicle engine coming down the road. She quickly dives back into the hut and crouches below the windows, straining her ears to listen.

           “Keep driving, keep driving,” she whispers as the vehicle approaches. Then it stops. “Dammit.”

           “Are you sure?” a male voice asks.

           “I swear, I saw someone here,” a female voice replies.

           Skies immediately recognizes the voices and it makes her blood run cold.

          She hears their footsteps approach the control hut and she draws her rifle, swallowing hard.

           Just before they turn into the doorway, Skies smashes one of the windows with the butt of her rifle and dives out. She races away towards their outrunner. If she can make it, she can drive away before they realize anything.

           But just as she gets close, her body freezes with one arm out and one leg up, in a frantic running position. A purple, shimmering wall appears around her and she’s lifted up and carried back towards the control hut.

           The wall disappears and she’s dropped onto her butt. The force causes her mask to fall off and she blanches.

           “Uh oh,” she mumbles and looks up into the faces of two very familiar, very shocked Vault Hunters.

           “Heya, Axton, Maya,” Skies says, smiling shakenly. “Long time no see…?”