#implied past murder

[whump-tr0pes]

Another Way to Be

Many thanks to @newbornwhumperfly for being so generous in letting me put their boy Morja in Situations, and many apologies to them as well for holding onto this story for so many months while waiting for me to finish it.

My masterlist

Morja is a diathésimos, one of a class of indentured servants owned by society’s elite - though some would call them slaves. He has been tasked with a mission of critical importance by his anóteros: to infiltrate a dangerous family that has taken refuge in the north, and kill the criminal that they are harboring: Gavin Stormbeck.

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.”

— Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2 | To Die Without Flinching | Relief

Contents: conditioned whumpee, implied past murder, false execution, misunderstanding whump, flashbacks, PTSD, guilt, past offscreen murder of children, forgiveness, recovery, collared whumpee, collar removal

Note: in @newbornwhumperfly's story, it is not canon that Morja has killed children.

~

Isaac separated Morja from the rest of the family again, a few days later, like a wolf cleaving a single sheep from the herd. Morja watched it happen - watched as Isaac suggested Gray, Vera, and Tori leave in their car to go into town. Then he watched as Finn and Ellis slipped out, encouraged by Isaac again. Sam and Gavin were harder to convince. Still, as Morja washed the dishes from the morning breakfast, scrubbed the counters that were already clean, wiped every surface in the kitchen and then wiped them all again - he could feel Isaac’s eyes on his back. He could feel the presence of Gavin Uriah on the couch next to him in the living room, too, and Sam’s in their room. 

Morja’s hands shook as he worked. He wanted to ask for something else to do, but the thought of breaking the heavy silence made his stomach clench. He reached for the broom and began to sweep the already spotless kitchen floor. 

“How about you go take a walk around the lake?” Isaac said gently to Gavin. “Get some fresh air. You’ve been inside all day.”

Morja froze, straining his ears for Gavin’s response. He didn’t hear one. 

Not only a useless diathésimos, but an eavesdropper, too. He set the broom aside and turned toward the back door.

“Where are you going?” Isaac called after him.

Morja froze. His heart pounded. His hands balled into fists. His spine was a rod inside his body, perfectly straight, as he turned and looked at the two of them. “I’m sorry,” he croaked, throat dry. “I didn’t mean… I was just going to–”

“I’ll come with you, if you want to go outside,” Isaac said, and he got to his feet.

“No,” Gavin breathed. His hand locked on Isaac’s wrist, pulling him back. 

Isaac stared down at Gavin for a long moment. Finally, he murmured, “I just want to talk to him. Alone.”

Gavin shook his head. “No.” The word was barely louder than a breath. 

Isaac turned, showing Gavin his back. Morja blinked, confused, before he realized - there was no gun tucked into Isaac’s waistband. That didn’t matter, Morja knew, Isaac could have a knife concealed on him and end Morja’s life that way. Or just use his hands. Diathésimos could be deadly with anything they were given. Morja had ended enough lives with his bare hands to know that.

Isaac turned back to Gavin and knelt, holding Gavin’s face in his hands. “I swear,” he whispered, and the gesture was so intimate that Morja turned away, face flushing. “I’m not going out there to kill him. I swear, I swear, I just want to talk.” He sucked in a breath. “D-diathésimos to diathésimos.”

Gavin took in a breath, too. Morja stared at the floor. 

Tactically, it was a good strategy to get Morja alone. He wondered what Isaac would say to Gavin once Morja was dead - what he would have to say to repair the trust Isaac was breaking right now.

Finally, Gavin nodded in Isaac’s hands. Isaac pressed a kiss to Gavin’s forehead and rose to his feet once again. 

“Let’s go,” Isaac said flatly. He brushed past Morja and slid the back door open. Morja followed behind, silent and still. 

He had already had Isaac’s gun pressed to his head once. He knew Isaac Moore would not hesitate this time. 

He trailed behind Isaac as Isaac walked out over the grass behind the house, then onto the pebbly beach of the lake. Isaac walked in silence. Morja’s legs moved mechanically, bearing him along, his hands and head numb. He wondered where and when Isaac would tell him to get on his knees and execute him with quick, clean efficiency. 

Isaac had hesitated before. And diathésimos never hesitate. 

Diathésimos never show the enemy their back, either. But Isaac was walking only a few steps ahead of Morja, and Morja was staring at his empty waistband. 

Once they were about a quarter way around the lake, Isaac stopped walking. Morja knew without looking back that they must be out of sight of the house now, or at least the rear windows. 

He wanted to say goodbye to Sam.

He dropped to his knees. 

Isaac wanted something else from him, last time–

Shaking, shaking, he crossed his wrists behind him. 

“Get up, Morja, I’m not killing you today,” Isaac said without turning around. 

Morja choked on a sob. He stared up at Isaac’s back, the pebbles digging into his knees through the soft sweatpants they had given him. 

He was tired of the tricks, of the games - ah, diathésimos, I never told you to scream, I only told you to beg, now contain yourself or I’ll bring in another friend to enjoy you tonight - he was tired of the nightmares. 

He was tired of never knowing when a correction was coming. Let one come now.

He held his tongue and bowed his head. His shoulder ached from holding his arms in the position they were in, but he would hold them there as long as it took. 

Isaac whirled on Morja. “I said get up,” he snarled. Morja flinched minutely. The motion was hardly noticeable at all. 

He flinched hard when Isaac held out a hand in front of his face. He steeled himself and braced for the correction. Heat spread through his face in anticipation of the blow. This, he knew. He closed his eyes.

The wind made a soft sound through the bushes and trees around them as Isaac stood motionless in front of Morja. The pebbles ground into his knees, but he hardly noticed it. 

Other than the barn, he had not been made to kneel in so, so long. 

“Please,” Isaac whispered. His voice sounded so broken that Morja’s eyes opened in shock. The hand in front of his face was still there, motionless–

Not motionless. Shaking. 

“Please,” Isaac said again. “Please get up.” He opened his hand further and reached for Morja’s bicep. Morja let himself be pulled to his feet. Helped to his feet.

As he staggered upright, his hand landed on Isaac’s wrist. Isaac allowed the touch, allowed the weight. Once Morja had righted himself, he pulled away, staring at his feet. They stood together in silence, closer than they had ever been. Isaac made no move away from Morja. Morja stood stock still - gunpowder near a flame. A wrong move, and the explosion might destroy them both. 

Still, Isaac didn’t seem uncomfortable with Morja so close. He tucked his hands in his pockets and looked out over the lake. The sun shimmered on its surface in the late afternoon. It looked more like a pane of glass than water. 

“I’ve been thinking about what I– what happened.” Isaac said. He swallowed thickly. “About what I did. What I…” He wet his lips and stared at the ground. “What I almost did.”

“I understand it,” Morja said. “I am… I was…”

“It’s not about that,” Isaac said. “I know it. And I think you do, too.” He bent to pick a particularly smooth and flat stone from the beach. He straightened and flicked it over the surface of the lake. It skipped along the top several times before it slipped beneath the surface, sending ripples in every direction. 

“But I…” Morja blinked, staring at Isaac. “I did. Try. I mean… I apologize. I did try to kill your…” He lapsed into silence. 

“You’ve been… forced,” Isaac said. “And I… I know what that… means. What that’s like.” 

If you return without proof of death, diathésimos, it’ll be you on the rack next. 

Morja shivered and looked out over the lake with Isaac. Large white birds twisted and soared in the air currents above it. His eyes followed them for a while. 

Isaac broke the silence. “It’s not just that,” he whispered, pained. “I mean, I…” He glanced back at the house. It was a brilliant white smear on the edge of the lake. “Even after Gray… found… me… I didn’t stop killing. Even when I… even when…” He drew a hand over his face. The pale scars at his wrist peeked out from his long sleeve. “Even after I knew there was… a different way. I… I killed someone on… on our side.”

Morja’s throat tightened. He said nothing, just looked at Isaac. 

Isaac chewed his lip and kept going. “It was an argument that got out of hand. They were… going after Gray about a difference of opinion on how to handle a syndicate target. Gray was calm, and the other person… wasn’t. And they… they raised their hand to Gray, and I–” He let out a choked sound and sank into a squat beside Morja. 

The birds whirled above them, indifferent to the tears that glittered on Isaac’s cheeks. 

Isaac shot to his feet again, swiping the tears away. “Fuck,” he breathed. He glanced at Morja. Morja looked at the ground, bowing his head again. Isaac huffed out a bitter laugh. “You ever kill any kids?”

Shame clutched Morja’s heart. He swallowed, swallowed again. His hands squeezed into fists again.

They were enemies, diathésimos. An enemy is an enemy, no matter their age. Be careful, or I may suspect that you are beginning to sympathize with our enemy.

“Yes,” Morja said, more a breath than a word.

“Yeah,” Isaac responded, nodding. “Me, too.” 

More tears shone on Isaac’s cheeks, now. Gooseflesh rippled on Morja’s arms. His throat tightened. His eyes prickled, and he squeezed them shut. 

Sam’s body, juddering under his knife, flashed across his vision. He opened his eyes with a soft gasp. 

Isaac was looking at him with curiosity. Morja’s lips trembled as he returned the look.

“Is there a way to be something other than this?” Morja said with a numb mouth. 

Isaac was silent for so long that Morja thought he wasn’t going to answer. The lake made little ripples on the gravel. One bird landed on the lake and floated. It was joined by another, then a third. The wind moved through Morja’s hair. 

“I don’t know,” Isaac finally said. “I’m… trying to figure that out. With Gavin. With Sam. With my family.”

“And… could I…?” Morja’s knees shook. He was ready to let them fold, if it was the wrong question.

He was always ready to kneel.

“Could I… try… as well?” he whispered.

Isaac looked at him, then out across the lake. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He rubbed his fingertips along the scars along his throat, the ones that marked him for what he was - or used to be. “Yeah. I think you could.” He turned to keep walking along the edge of the lake. “Want to keep moving?” he said softly.

Morja paused. “Will you…?” His hand drifted up and trailed along the edge of his own collar, still buckled tightly around his throat. “Will you help me?”

Isaac’s gaze softened as he stepped forward. Gently, slowly - so slowly - he raised his hands and loosened the buckle of the collar. Just as gently, he drew the collar through the buckle until it was just a strip of leather hanging on Morja’s shoulders. Morja held one end of the collar in a shaking hand. As he did, Isaac covered his hand with his own. 

Slowly, Morja pulled the collar away until it slithered off his shoulders and hung from his fingers. He turned, resolutely, and faced the lake. Then, with perfect precision, he wound up and hurled the collar into the center of the lake, startling the birds who had decided to take their rest there. 

@womping-grounds , @free-2bmee , @quirkykayleetam , @walkingchemicalfire , @inpainandsuffering , @redwingedwhump , @burtlederp , @castielamigos-whump-side-blog , @whatwhumpcomments , @whumpywhumper , @stxck-fxck , @whumps-the-word , @justplainwhump ,  @finder-of-rings , @inky-whump , @thatsthewhump , @orchidscript , @this-mightaswell-happen , @newandfiguringitout , @whumpkitty , @pretty-face-breaker , @cinnamonflavoredhugs , @pebbledriscoll , @im-just-here-for-the-whump , @endless-whump , @grizzlie70 , @oops-its-whump , @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather , @butwhatifyouwrite , @carnagecardinal ​, @annablogsposts , @suspicious-whumping-egg , @starfields08000 , @morning-star-whump , @theelvishcowgirl , @i-eat-worlds

[umblrspectrum]

happy solvermas

[sillybunnoyd]

:)

[lordmushroomkat]

Was just thinking about shadowpeach and I remembered a line from a song that fits them so well in the way that it absolutely cuts to the bone.

So anyway here's the lyrics to Elsa's Song by The Amazing Devil so you can think about it with me.

I can hear the cannons calling as though across a dream

And I can smell the smoke of hell in every stitch and seam

And like flowers, the bodies tumble around this muddied lot

I cannot hear them scream, "Forget me not",

Your voice, it carries over the hubbub and the hum

And it paints the sky and circles high like the beating of a drum

You will scream, "I won't forget you, " but I'll cover my cold ears

It cannot be a lie if no one hears

'Cause although you say good day to me, I know I don't belong

And although you hold my hand and say, "I love you, " you are wrong

Because love does not exist here, in this garden, there's no feeling

And you say the words so often that I barely know the meaning

And when all the flowers are rotten and all the cannons shot

I'll scream, but you won't hear, "Forget me not"

And in years to come, you'll wander to the place up on our hill

And then you'll cry to our painted sky, "I loved him then, I love him still!"

And you'll strew some sage and lilies and roses where I rot

Of all the flowers you picked, I knew you would forget

Forget-me-nots

Just. The war with heaven, the loss, the separation, the death, the mourning, the coming back to life but still feeling dead, the distance, the love that was real but hadn't mattered when it needed to, the grief.

I'm gonna cry, I swear to the gods. If someone doesn't make an animatic for this I'm gonna be so upset. It's perfect!! (I guess I could try??? Ugh I have too many projects already, I don't need this!)

[yusuke-of-valla]

Hey guys I know we all enjoy the Pecharunt lore because it's a funny little accessory to murder but I do want to point out that when Okidogi and Fezendipiti are stealing the masks and Ogrepon's partner returns the specific wording is "[Okidogi and Fezendipiti] had no choice but to defend themselves" from the man they were robbing and subsequently likely killed despite the fact that being Pokemon and Okidogi specifically being labeled as very strong the human likely wasn't actually a threat to them

Kinda implies that the narrator is unreliable and maybe we want to take that into consideration before immediately slapping Pecharunt with "uwu soft bean with a sympathetic backstory"

[mythicalmoonfrog]

Welcome one and all to my Murder Drones AU

You and Me au

A male J x N centric au {it has other ship as well like Nuzi and extra but like I said it mainly focused on Male J and N relationship in this au}

But anyway speaking of relationships here is a quickly worked up drawing of a character relationship chart/circle of the characters we're mainly going to focus on {I will get to the others eventually}

Also I have made a music playlist as well:

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLGlgd_uVcRKu0-2Y3hT2Cv_9eGnNQZ-xe&si=hWLmCaLspH1aEz-8

{fun fact I started this playlist before I was even intending it to even be for an AU lol}

{ps I'm going to be updating and editing it because it's both a playlist for me to enjoy in general and for this au which I'm also making for myself, if you like it too that's cool if you don't that's also cool I'm just doing this for fun, anyway I'm gonna stop here I hope you have an awesome day/night an remember to drink water, Frog out :3}

[just-a-space-rabbit]

Flufftober 2024 Day: 23 Finally Safe

Flufftober 2024: Prompt List by @thepenultimateword TW:Character death, Past trauma, Implied Murder Mood: hurt/comfort

Part 1 : Part 2

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Have the artworks unloaded and brought up to the workshop for quality control.” Villain ordered as soon as they jumped out of the getaway in Supervillain’s lair. The henchmen quickly got to work unloading all the stolen works.

“Good to see you're keeping the goons nice and bussy” Supervillain smirked as they walked up to them,

Villain quickly turned to them, startled at their boss’s sudden return. Their full face mask hid their small smile. “Well… there is no reason to pay them just to sit around idling while you're gone.” They joke.

“Touché” Supervillain chuckled as they grabbed one of the artworks out of a passing henchman's hand “Jacobus Passereau? Early French Renaissance painter, seems to be one of the lesser known works in their early day” Supervillain talked mostly to themself while studying it. “Good catch. Bet it will go for a pretty penny on the black market.” They quickly handed the painting back to the henchman, and signaling Villain to follow them.

As the two of them walked along, Villain asked could see that Supervillain must have come back not that long ago as they were still in their travel coat, while looking rather tired. They wish they knew why their boss had to leave for over a month, but they knew that Supervillain would not give that info easely. But they could already tell, whatever news it was, it’s good news. “How was your trip overseas sir?” They asked.

“It went perfectly.” Spervillain said calmly as they entered the luxury office. “But more about that later.”

As soon as the door was locked behind them, Villain relaxed their shoulders as they were finally away from the goons and could let their guard down. “You done well, Hero” Supervillain said as Villain Hero took their mask off. “I knew you were ready to handle everything by yourself”

“That doesn't really make it any less tiring” Hero answered. The ‘career shift’ from crime fighter to criminal had been a long and difficult journey for Hero. But the change was needed, Superhero was never taking them back, and due to their influence neither was anyone else. 

At least in all of this, Supervillain had taken them in, trained them and given them a new home far from their old one. Hero don’t know what would happen to them without Supervillain. Most likely, they be dead. 

There was a light chuckle in response as Supervillain took off their heavy travel coat, revealing their supersuit in the same dark maroon color matching Hero’s suit. Only difference was the gold colored decal on Supervillain’s suit, a detailed Hero did not wish to have. 

“As long as you remember to not show them fear, the goons will listen to ya. But never mind that!” Supervillain gave a gentle wave for Hero to come over to the table “I brought you a gift.”

There on the table stood a smallish white gift box with a golden ribbon. Hero looked confused at it. This was not the first time they had gotten something from Supervillain, but that was only on holidays. There was a gut feeling deep inside them that they tried to push aside as they still smiled and silently opened it. “Strawberry shortcake?” Hero asked, looking at the beautifully decorated yet slightly crumpled cake.

“I bought it from your favorite bakery back in [city-name].” Supervillain said walking over to a drawer were two small plates and dessert spoons already had been brought out before they got there. “Should probably eat it now as it took some time to traveling here”

Sitting down, Supervillain quickly cut and handed them a large slice of the cake. Hero took it, but did not eat as the nagging feeling was growing in them. 

“Thank you,” they said way too late, before finally asking them the question that was all over their mind “but…what’s the occasion?”

“What? Can’t I spoil my best worker?” Supervillain deflected, but Hero noticed their lack of eye contact. And it seems that Supervillain noticed that Hero noticed as they sat their own slice of cake back on the table.

“Superhero is dead.” Supervillain said gently, making Hero freeze up “And…” they continued “by the latest news I received just before you got back. It looks like the whole agency itself is crumbling”

Hero could not believe the words, they felt something deep inside them come undone, making them feel like they were drowning and soaring at the same time. “did-”

“The less you know, the better. So, don’t think about that.” Supervillain cut them off before Hero could speak. But when Hero remained quiet, they softened up. “Hero? Is everything ok?” Supervillain asked, seeing tears silently falling down Hero’s face.“I…” Hero stated as they began shaking uncontrollably, tears and small gasps of air, making their voice stutter. “Yes, I’m fine… It's just that it all came crashing down on me just how not fine I have been…” they could not finish the sentence as Supervillain grabbed them into a bearhug, and Hero finally felt completely safe.

… … … … …

Day 22 -🎃- Day 24

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

A Couple Nights Later...

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Penn here. For more information about Caliban, go here. For more information about Azalea, go here. Illinois belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe. The same thing goes for Murdock...but if you'd like to see my personal headcanons on him, go here. Ness belongs to the creators of the FNAF movie; I've got some headcanons on him too, which can be found here.)

(Also, for more information on the mob Murdock, Caliban, and Azalea work for, go here.)

(This is yet another gift from me to @insane4fandoms. Just a little something in return for them remembering my fanmade egos in their lovely drawings. Please give them a follow and boost their art! You won't regret it!)

(One more thing: this story is an epilogue to my latest work. You can find that story here; it has some clarifying details...)

(Trigger Warnings: implied murder/death, implied violence, descriptions of illegal business, implied cannibalism, cravings/hunger pangs, mentions of knives/blades, mentions of poisoning, mentions of blood, eating/drinking, anxiety/paranoia, implied past trauma, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

The sun was setting again, as it tended to do. The remaining light shone between the trunks of a nearby copse of trees, casting long shadows to stretch over the road. 

That was what made Penn question if he and Illinois had left one desert only to end up in another: the trees. That is, he knew logically that this county was in one of the dryer parts of the States, and any trees growing here had more than likely been planted by the locals. Once Illinois drove to a less populated part of town, there wouldn't be much in the fields besides sagebrush. 

But right here, right now, all the trees and hills were a huge change from the cacti and rock spires. 

It was refreshing. 

It reminded him that he and his companion were closer to their respective homes than before.

It reminded him that they were at least a thousand miles away from that cavern. 

(As for the horrific thing they’d found in said cavern. . .well, the duo had stopped at two more hotels by now, and Penn thankfully hadn’t seen any maladjusted figures looming outside the windows in either of them. The combination of a threat and a promise was still fresh in his mind, yet part of him was somehow sure that it’d be a long time before that monster made good on it.)

Just one more day, Penn thought as he shifted in the passenger seat. Just one more stop at one more hotel, and then we’ll be back sometime tomorrow.

The Warden hung from the rearview mirror, silent and creepy as ever. While Illinois’ personal rituals included hanging it on the doorknob of whatever bedroom he slept in for the night, he usually moved it to his breast pocket the next day. Ever since that one terrifying night, however, he’d made sure to keep it in the open, as to let its protective juju slowly but surely cleanse the surreal dread from his and his friend’s minds. 

Penn wasn’t quite sure how, but that strategy seemed to be working. 

He reached up and gingerly poked the little totem, making it sway to and fro. Illinois glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, then took one hand off the steering wheel and poked it himself. The odd game of makeshift tetherball only lasted a moment, but it still brought a smile to both the adventurer and paleontologist’s faces.

As the jeep descended a small hill, its passengers were treated to the sight of a fork in the road, the section of grass between the two pathways adorned by a large blue sign.

The top-half silently announced NEXT REST AREA—20 MILES in bold, white letters. The bottom-half, meanwhile, displayed a row of universal symbols: a gas pump, ATM, WiFi, a bed, a plate with cutlery on either side. . .and an arrow.

“Right on cue,” Illinois remarked, the wheel spinning in his grasp as he edged in the pointed direction.

___

The car’s headlights caught a pair of raccoons up ahead, waddling on their hind-legs and fidgeting with their weird little hands as they sniffed at a lumpy mound of. . .something that sat right on the seam between asphalt and grass. 

Murdock tapped at the center of the steering wheel; the horn’s blare was short and quick, but it still made Azalea flinch in the passenger seat. Just behind her, Caliban did the same, instinctually grabbing Snare and holding him to his chest. The raccoons each let out a startled squeal as they scampered off into the nearby trees, their striped tails swaying back and forth.

Azalea stared after them before raising an eyebrow at her accomplice. “What was that for?”

“Yeah, they weren’t even in the way,” Caliban chimed in, his crimson leather jacket sliding against the similar material of his seat. 

There was actually a fourth passenger here, but only in a technical sense, considering he’d been crammed into a hidden compartment in the trunk. And while that probably would’ve led to a chorus of dull thumps and muffled shouts, he wasn’t really capable of complaining. 

Or moving. 

Or breathing.

Murdock lifted his chin, glancing at the backseat as he shrugged. “Well, if we make a pit-stop, I thought I might as well scare off the competition for you, Cal.” 

Caliban tilted his head, unable to stop the confusion from creeping onto his features. It only lasted a few seconds before the hitman eased on the brake pedal, ever-so-slightly slowing down as the car drew closer to the rancid pile that the raccoons had been examining. 

“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you, ‘Doc,” Caliban replied, now understanding as he rolled his eyes, lips quirking into a sarcastic smile. “But I think I’ll pass.” 

“I thought you were hungry?” Murdock hummed as he picked up speed yet again. 

Caliban nodded. "That’s right. Hungry, not desperate.”

Murdock huffed a laugh, black-tinted glasses shuddering on his face. “Said the cannibal.”

“Exactly! I eat people, not roadkill or garbage.”

“Eh, not so sure about that last part. You’ve helped me get rid of some real scumbags before. Besides, you follow your feeding schedule like some kind of religion.”

Caliban paused. “. . .Okay, that’s fair. But the point still stands! If I’m gonna eat anything, it at least has to be somewhat fresh.”

He then leaned forward, resting one hand on the back of the driver-seat, still focusing on the rearview mirror; if he looked closely enough, he could make out his companion’s dark brown eyes behind his shades. He could make out the way they glinted with morbid humor and a challenging air. 

Caliban made sure to return the unconventional vibes tenfold. Joking with Murdock could be a gamble sometimes, but that was what made the dynamic between the two of them fun.

“I mean, that stuff might’ve been part of a person at one point,” Murdock mentioned. “It’s not like we got a good look at it, but I could turn around—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Azalea interjected, reaching over to flick him on the side of the head.

Caliban snickered, flashing a big grin his sister’s way. Azalea smiled right back, firmly ignoring the offended hitman noises.

The snickers and grin died down, however, as his stomach started churning with a hollow ache.

The presence of a fresh corpse stowed away further behind him didn’t do many favors. But then, that target was off limits. Yeah, his organs could still be harvested to make a nice little profit on the Black Market, but they’d already been tainted enough to effect the prices. (He’d been given a hefty dose of batracotoxin courtesy of Azalea. Not that Caliban was blaming her; poison was her personal signature. She’d just been doing her job, just like he and Murdock had been a little while ago.) 

That wasn’t quite what annoyed him, though. 

What annoyed him was the fact that the target had been working with a crony when the trio had tracked him down to the dilapidated lakehouse he’d apparently been using as a hideout. 

The aforementioned crony had looked very healthy (read: appetizing) and had screamed and struggled in such an exciting way when Caliban and Murdock corned him on the pier, taking turns stabbing and slicing to interrogate him.

The smell of blood had been so heavy and rich in the air.

The red splatters had looked so dark and deep.

The adrenaline-high had been awesome, as was the anticipation of eventually getting to eat a very well-earned meal. . .and then some LAZY BASTARD OF AN ALLIGATOR had decided to JUST LUNGE UP from the water, clamp its jaws around the crony’s neck, and dive back down again in LESS THAN THREE SECONDS! 

Because APPARENTLY, when you’re a creature that nature has given so many deadly gifts for HUNTING YOUR OWN DAMN FOOD that you barely even had to evolve since prehistoric times, you STILL find it easier to STEAL from hard-working contract-killers who are just trying to earn their keep and get some fresh air. 

Caliban sighed through his nose, leaning back and propping his elbow up to rest his cheek against his hand. Snare, like a good little emotionally-tuned boy, wasted no time craning his neck to nudge at his owner’s face. With a smile that was softer than before, Caliban gently scratched his pet’s ears.

Now, he did have some well-preserved, perfectly edible human remains at home, hidden in that huge chest freezer in the corner of his abandoned-subway-tunnel-office-den. But he, his sister, and their mutual companion still had a ways to go before they returned to the Cove Port Inlets. 

This certainly wasn’t the first time his cravings had acted up, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, either. This wasn’t even the worst instance; the emptiness wasn’t wracked with gnawing and pinching sensations for flavor (pun vERY MUCH INTENDED) just yet. It would get to that point if left unchecked for another hour or so, but that wasn’t going to happen. 

Things like beef, chicken, pork, or fish may not have been as savory as Caliban’s addiction, but they were good enough. So long as he got a bite to eat in general, he’d be fine. Sure, part of his mind wouldn’t know peace until he cooked up some pieces of human-person, but his stomach wouldn’t twist and growl and beg. Not for a while, at least.

Gravel ground beneath the tires. Bright, artificial light streamed in through the windows.

“‘Sparky’s,’” Azalea announced, reading off the sign that stood tall before a tidy little building that carried the exact same aesthetic of all roadside diners in the known world. “Looks nice enough. Have you been here before?”

Murdock nodded as he maneuvered into a space on the very edge of the parking lot. “A few times to test the waters, yeah. There’s no cameras anywhere outside the entrance, and even if there were, not many people stop here at hours like this.” 

Caliban made sure to crack both of the backseat windows open before the engine stopped rumbling. He then tugged his black hoodie off over his head, leaving its sleeves tucked into those of his jacket. He draped the clothing-combo over the vacant seat beside him. Snare promptly scurried over, flopping down and curling up on the makeshift nest. 

Caliban chuckled, reaching over to pet the hare’s fur one more time before heaving the car’s door open and stepping out.

Azalea stood at his side soon after, fidgeting in place, clearly still full of energy from the kill. The two of them shared another grin; it helped keep the awkwardness at bay as they waited on their accomplice. 

Varying shades of red weren’t part of The Pentas Family’s signature just because of the flower it’d been named after. Red was a very convenient color. Wear it to a kill and no-one would be any the wiser (especially not if you combined it with black). 

Murdock was aware of this, almost always wearing his currant-colored turtleneck and ebony overcoat when working on gruesome assignments. And yet he still remained in the car for another minute or two, elbows knocking against the ceiling and window as he took off both articles. 

He then leaned over the center console to pop the glove compartment open and fished out a bundle of dark fabric adorned by a pattern of gray leaves and orange petals. 

Once he finally emerged into the cool nighttime air, the hitman looked almost nothing like himself. 

His tinted glasses were gone too, replaced by a headband that was wider and stretchier than the cherry-tinted one Azalea was wearing. It mainly kept Murdock’s nearly shoulder-length raven hair back, but the white-as-snow material gave it an ambiguously medical look. Murdock pulled one side of it down in order to cover his right eye. 

Or, to cover the misalignment of his right eye. The way it was turned to the right as though he was looking as something sideways.

It wasn’t like his right eye was infected; it wasn’t even useless. It could still blink and see. . .it just couldn’t move around in its socket like the left one. Sure, it was a bit jarring to look at, but not too jarring in the grand scheme of things. 

Still, it was very understandable for Murdock to always keep it hidden. And that wasn’t even due to how needlessly judgemental other people could be.

No, his eye had been damaged in his former life (due to a near-death paragliding incident that he proudly enthralled any newcomers to the mob with), before he’d discovered his skill and passion for killing. All the pain that had apparently come with it...

It’d been a type of rebirth for him. There was no questioning the significance. 

(Although Murdock hadn’t appreciated Caliban’s thoughts on the matter. Which was just another way of saying that Murdock didn’t appreciate comedy. Not even the eloquent, well-thought-out masterpieces of wordplay.)

“. . .Damn,” Caliban had murmured, thoughtfully drumming his nails on mahogany. “I know people just throw words like ‘legendary’ around for almost anything these days, but that. . .that story really does feel like a mash-up of Neil Gaiman, Monty Python, and a sugar-bombed nine-year-old.”

“An inspiration to everyone, me.” Murdock had grinned, the definition of cocky as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. “Anyone can survive Death Gulch if they WANT to. If they want to BADLY ENOUGH.”

“Words to live by,” Caliban agreed, his eyes shifting about. 

The Pentas Family’s base was a lot like the dens he and his sister now worked out of. Hidden underground, once part of the subway-tunnel-system that had died quite a while ago. It was bigger than the other dens down here, able to fit more furniture along the walls, like the table in the corner that he and his accomplice were sitting at. 

But just like all the other dens, the base came with relative darkness and a slight chill in the air. 

The darkness and that chill. . .they were part of his and Azalea’s lives now, as fundamental as oxygen. 

They now made their way with blood and blades and screams and secrets, and that was more than fulfilling enough after all the things they’d gone through together. 

And it was all thanks to Murdock. (Yes, The Boss had obviously contributed, but meeting the hitman who sat across from him had been the thing to really put the change into motion.)

Caliban had licked his lips, his smile stretching wider to reveal his teeth. To reveal the new silver one that glinted more than the rest. “I guess that really must’ve. . .shifted your view on things, huh?”

Murdock froze, which was the green light for Caliban to start giggling. His shoulders slumped. Even with his shades on, it was very obvious that he was now questioning some of the choices he’d made to get to this point. 

Murdock heaved a long-suffering sigh. “There’s something very wrong with you.”

“Pot-Kettle-Black, ‘Doc!” Caliban, whose giggles had quickly transitioned to cackles, replied. “C’mon, that was a good one! You can’t deny that!”

“I can, and I will,” Murdock retorted, getting dangerously close to tipping his chair over. . .

Azalea pulled the glass door open, eliciting that well-known whoosh. Caliban felt a rush of cool air as he followed his sister into the diner, Murdock right behind him. A little bell suspended above the threshold let out a chipper jingle. 

The walls followed a simple wood-panel design, though the powder blue paintjob on the windowpanes gave it a little more personality. Cushy leather booths were lined up here and there; a small pendant lamp hung over each table, some flickering more than others.

A coffee-bar stood across the building, separating the main dining area from an aluminum door that had to lead to the kitchen. 

True to Murdock’s word, the joint was pretty empty. A muffled chorus of clinks, footsteps, and running water that leaked through the kitchen door was the only sign that anyone else might be here. 

Along with the voice that called, “Sit wherever you like! I’ll be out in a just a sec!”

Murdock pursed his lips and shrugged. Following standard protocol, the three contract-killers claimed a spot that was closest to the entrance.

The kitchen door swung open and a man came strolling out, dressed in a white button-down with sections on the collar and sleeves that matched the dark blue apron tied around his waist. He held a bundle of laminated menus the same way a stereotypical schoolgirl would hold her textbooks, a tired-yet-genuine smile on his face.

As the waiter came to hover in front of the table, Caliban got a clear look at the little nametag pinned to his breast-pocket: NESS.

“Welcome, welcome!” Ness greeted, setting the menus down before his customers. “What can I get for you—maybe some coffee to start off?”

“Oh yes, please,” Azalea replied, her brother and Murdock murmuring in agreement. 

Ness nodded, quick to retrieve a steaming pot from the bar-counter, as well as a trio of mugs and a bowl full of sugar packets and creamer cups. 

Once the fresh brew was poured, the trio was given a few minutes of quality time with the menu. After that, Ness returned, fishing a notepad and pencil adorned by a tiny rubber chicken-head topper from a pocket in his apron. “So, what else would you guys like tonight?”

Being a hitman meant having experience some odd emotions. Such as the instinct to keep yourself and your business hidden clashing against the desire for attention or recognition. It was a matter of (very relative) sensibility and twisted pride. And Murdock was a prime example of that.

“Oh, well—y’know, I. . .I think, m-maybe. . .maybe I could. . .” Murdock stammered, fidgeting in his seat as though he was about to pass out right then and there. “Um. . .ah. . .w-what do you recommend? If you—if you don’t. . .mind me asking.”

Even after all the time he’d spent working with Murdock, it still took some effort for Caliban to not snort at the sight. Yeah, the social-anxiety-incarnate-facade had never failed yet, but Murdock always laid it on thick. He tossed a subtle knowing glance at Azalea, who was carefully biting down her own chuckle. 

Ness, meanwhile, stayed focused. His smile softened as he pointed out certain things on the menu and explained. He was patient and polite, nodding along and not seeming to mind all the verbal vomit he was being doused in before Murdock’s mask finally made a decision. He then moved on to take Azalea’s order with not a finger out of place. 

As he watched all this, Caliban realized that he liked Ness’ spirit, even if he didn’t really know him. The food service industry was infamous for how its workers were treated by customers and higher-ups alike (with Aftertaste being one of few exceptions, of course. Azalea was living proof that even a professional murderer could have a bit more compassion than the average Joe, and that was equal parts impressive and depressing). 

If you knew what to look for and how to look for it, you could see the exhaustion and stress behind Ness’ friendly demeanor. . .and yet, that demeanor wasn’t at all fake.

Ness truly seemed to be doing his best, determined to earn his keep and survive, while still maintaining some positivity. It was refreshing to see that type of energy.

Not only that: Ness was clearly the observant type. Perhaps (hopefully) not enough to cause any problems for the trio or their work right now. . .but enough to see the rising hunger Caliban specifically attempted to hide while in public.

“Did your lunch get away from you?” Ness asked, the playful tone of his voice somehow mixing very well with the slight concern in his eyes as he wrote down the order for a rare steak. 

Caliban laughed, offering a combination of nod and shrug. “Something like that. . .”

One part of him was all-too happy to make his typical jokes, the actual meanings of certain phrases slyly hidden under a veil of casual innocence. (The way Murdock’s facade got close to twitching as he side-eyed him was also amusing.)

Another part had to focus on reminding himself that this guy was a waiter, and any waiter who wasn’t used to seeing hungry people probably had a few issues to work on. He had absolutely no way of knowing about his true eating habits.

With that, Ness vanished into the kitchen once more, calling “Order In!” to whoever else was back there, his words hanging in the air as the aluminum door swung to and fro. 

The shy simper on Murdock’s face warped into a more typical sardonic grin. He put a hand to his chest and leaned forward in a tiny little bow. 

Caliban clicked his tongue, grinning back as he offered a slow applause. “Bravo.”

Azalea waited a few seconds before joining in. “Encor, encor.”

The grin fell from Murdock’s features as he corrected his posture and pouted. “Hey, say what you will about my act, but at least it’s convincing. Not quite as obvious as your pun-addiction.” He kept his voice low as he pointed an accusatory finger in Caliban’s direction. 

“Oh, c’mon. It’s not as bad as you always make it out to be; let Cal can have his fun,” Azalea argued, nudging at her brother’s arm with her elbow. 

Caliban nodded enthusiastically. “Besides, that one doesn't count. I only make things obvious when they need to be obvious.”

“. . .When?” Murdock asked, his brow furrowed as a concoction of blankness and aggravation flashed in his left eye. “When do things ever need to be obvious?”

“When it’s already too late,” Caliban chortled, deciding to be wild and add some extra sugar to his coffee.

“You of all people should know,” Azalea agreed.

Murdock was in the middle of an overexaggerated sigh. . .only to flinch and put his facade back on when the bell above the entrance interjected.

___

“It’s them,” Penn declared in a hushed tone, struggling to keep his head down and his eyes fixed on the table. 

Illinois hummed and squinted at him, a spoon in his hand softly clinking as he stirred creamer into his coffee. “What are you talking about?” 

Penn shuffled in his seat and pursed his lips, nodding past his companion. 

The adventurer turned his head, tossing a glance over his shoulder at three other patrons who sat at another booth on the opposite side of the diner. The only other people here aside from the waiter who he'd half-chatted-half-flirted with five or so minutes ago.

“Those guys?” Illinois murmured as he returned his focus to the paleontologist across from him. “Do you know any of them?”

Penn nodded. “Not the one with the white-band-thing wrapped around his head, but the other two. . .”

The other two indeed. They sat side-by-side:  a lanky man in a dark blue button-down and a truly petite women wearing white with a cherry-red headband. They both boasted fair skin and chocolate-colored eyes to match their hair. 

That was what really caught Penn’s attention.

Those two looked distinctly related. . .like siblings. . .or cousins. 

Cousins.

Cousins, cousins, cousins, a voice in Penn’s head chanted, getting a bit louder each time, competing with flashing images of that ever-shifting monster. . .of that ungodly amount of teeth, of what the monster had said about those teeth. . .

“It’s. Them,” Penn repeated, quieter yet harsher than before, willing his eyes to give off the same vibe as concrete in order to somehow beam that particular recent memory into Illinois’ head. 

Apparently his efforts were successful, as Illinois’ eyes widened from under the brim of his hat.

“Are you sure?” Illinois inquired, leaning ever-so-slightly forward. 

For a few seconds, Penn’s mouth merely opened and closed with no words coming out. Was he sure? Or could this be some weird cosmic coincidence? (Of course, Penn’s deeper instincts already knew the answer, but some of his nerves were now on fire, and the smoke obscured that just a bit.)

There was one guaranteed way to find out.

Subconsciously weaving his red neckerchief about his fingers, Penn gazed around the diner before zeroing in on the kitchen door. He watched it, listened to the muffled chorus of sizzles and hisses and pops and other trademark noises of cooking for what almost felt like an hour.

Until the wait—uh, Ness glided back out, this time deftly balancing a platter of food on one hand. 

That was where Penn finally moved. 

He shuffled out of the booth and headed over to an empty doorway near the far-side of the coffee counter with a sign proclaiming RESTROOMS hanging just above it.

He walked right past the table Ness was now delivering meals to; right past those three other customers. Penn let his eyes briefly wander over them as he traipsed by.

In a way, it was truly fascinating just how much you could see and feel in under a minute. (And it was equally embarrassing that whenever you knew that you had to be subtle or casual about something, you inevitably ended up trying too hard.)

Two pairs of eyes flicked over in Penn’s direction, one after the other. 

Memories from his childhood flashed in that millisecond of darkness as he blinked. Those images blurred in his peripheral vision as he got further away from that table, almost like they were trying to physically get out of his head and connect themselves to what he was seeing like puzzle pieces. They lingered in his reflection as he ducked into the restroom and hovered over the sink. 

He’d seen them both pause. 

He’d seen both their eyes widen. 

He’d seen that same spark of what could only be recognition etch its way across both their faces.

Both he and the sibling duo had just barely been teenagers the last time he saw them, and somehow. . .

Penn sighed, taking a long moment to splash some cold water on his face before trudging back out. He felt his cousins’ eyes on him as he passed by yet again.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he announced in a small voice as he sat back down.

Cal and Aza, his mind whispered, dredging up names from years and years ago. They’re here. They can see me, and they know I can see them. 

Illinois offered a slow nod, chewing his lip as his eyes wandered over to the window by the table. “Well. . .” Sooner or later, a bit of expectancy mixed into the contemplation in his features. “Are you gonna go talk to them?” 

Penn blinked. “‘Talk to them?’”

“I didn’t think there’d be an echo in here,” Illinois chided. 

If there was one thing to know about Illinois, it was that he had a knack for taking things in stride when they probably shouldn’t be taken in stride. It was usually his best quality, though sometimes it could also be his worst. 

Penn wasn’t quite sure which of those categories this scenario fell into. 

“I can’t just do that.” Penn argued.

“Why not?” Illinois wondered. 

“Don’t you remember what that thing said? How he worded it?” Penn couldn’t help but shudder.

All of those godforesaken eyes and fangs. . .

Illinois’ brow furrowed with a combination of empathy and exasperation. “Yeah, I do. I heard it all, and I know how awful it sounded. But like I said before: since you don’t know what he meant by all that, then you need to find out.”

Penn couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “You really think I can just ‘find out’ everything I need to know about such a cryptic message right now? In a place like this?” He spread one arm to gesture at the diner around them.

Somehow, the diner’s atmosphere remained quiet and normal. For the most part.

“. . .The Walmart incident really did a number on you, huh?” Illinois asked, though the question seemed a bit more aimed at himself than his companion. “I didn’t say you had to learn everything right now. Hell, I know that you probably won’t be able to. I’m just saying that you might not get an opportunity like this again. So. . .why not at least try to give it a shot?”

Any words that might’ve been forming died a quick death on Penn’s tongue. He shifted in his seat, suddenly compelled to stare at tiny imperfections in the table’s surface. 

Illinois sighed. “Look, whatever’s apparently going on is your business. That means you deserve to choose however you may or may not get some information or closure. I’m just trying to help.”

Oddly perfect timing worked in mysterious ways, as the statement had barely left Illinois’ mouth when the universe saw it fit to have Ness reappear and drop off ordered meals (eggs benedict for the paleontologist, biscuits and gravy for the adventurer).

With that, the duo tucked in. It’d been a long day, and it was unbelievable just how much being trapped in a car could really take out of you.

There was much less conversation than usual, but that wasn’t too much of a problem.

Though Illinois hardly ever missed a chance to talk someone’s ears off, he still knew when to keep quiet. So, he fished one of the many old novels he’d collected in his career (specifically The Egyptian Book of the Dead) out of his satchel, reading and reminiscing while he ate.

Penn, meanwhile, couldn’t stop glancing past his friend and at his cousins. 

On one hand, he knew it probably looked weird at best and maybe a little creepy at worst. 

On the other hand, while both Caliban and Azalea’s focus was fluctuating between their entrees and their companion, whose HMS Self Confidence seemed destined to keep hitting iceberg after iceberg. . .they were both glancing at him in that same quick-but-not-quick-enough-thus-painfully-awkward way.

They both shifted in place, whispered to one another. Just a moment ago, they’d acted with a confidence that Penn had never seen before, only for said confidence to evaporate when they realized who he was. 

Caliban had filled in nicely. He looked to be at a healthy weight now, but Penn couldn’t avoid recalling just how skinny he’d been in his youth. (Now, Penn knew he had no room to talk, because he’d had quite a metabolism as a child, but. . .well, people usually didn’t stay so thin after they had their first growth spurt, like the kid he’d seen at just a couple family reunions.)

Out of all the differences between then and now, the biggest one was a small scar that dragged over the skin on the left side of his upper lip. Each time Caliban took in a bite of food or spoke words that just couldn’t be made out thanks to the relative distance, Penn caught a glimpse of something silvery in his mouth, right below that scar. 

Azalea had been downright tiny as a child, despite the fact that she was a year older than both her brother and her cousin. Right now, her skin was practically glowing. Quite the departure from how pale she'd been back then, which had made the rings under her eyes stick out like a pair of sore thumbs.

And that, Penn realized, was something that had stayed. 

Neither of the siblings’ eyes looked sunken perse. . .but the skin beneath each pair of sockets still boasted hollows. 

The eyes themselves were a different kettle of fish. 

For Caliban, a vague hunger was still present, going deeper and darker. 

For Azalea, vigilance remained, now much sharper and more cunning. 

But there was. . .something else in both of them. 

Penn couldn’t tell what it was exactly. But somehow, he knew that it was very, very wrong. 

He took a break from his dinner to scrub at his own eyes, not hearing the footsteps until he re-opened them and saw the latter sauntering up to his and Illinois’ table.

___

“E-everything was great, thank you!” Murdock’s mask offered what had to be the sixteenth nervous smile tonight as he paid his portion of dinner. Aforementioned smile trembled on his face as he continued, “. . .Gareic would’ve loved it! Probably as much as he loved fireworks. . . ah, w-well, I don’t know for sure. I’ll never—I’ll never really know. . .”

Murdock then hunched his shoulders, forehead suddenly an inch from the table, putting on a truly Grammy-worthy act of fighting back tears. 

A cocktail of sympathy and confusion swirled about Ness’ features. He merely nodded, giving an appreciative look to Caliban and Azalea in turn. 

The siblings nodded right back in that classic Don’t Worry, We’ve Got This fashion. 

And as the waiter retreated once more, the trio made their way back outside, a rather hefty tip left in their wake. 

The shaking and choked sobs up and disappeared from Murdock’s body as he trekked over to his car, quietly celebrating a successful evening of making someone believe that he really was just another poor sap who probably wouldn't survive a public speaking class. 

While Caliban and Azalea would’ve given more sarcastic commentary on the matter, they found themselves having to concentrate on not looking over their shoulders. 

“. . .Why did you do that?” Caliban finally asked, referring to the way his sister had eventually gone over to strike up a conversation with their cousin. The way she’d acted all surprised to see Penn, given him a quick hug, introduced herself to his friend, the works. 

The way she’d ended up giving Penn one of her business cards for Aftertaste. . .

“I should be asking why you didn’t follow along with it. I had to make excuses about you being tired from a wild day. . .well, I mean, I guess I can cut you some slack for that part,” Azalea replied. 

Though that did get a chuckle out of Caliban, it was still laced with a bit of anxiety.

Azalea winced, giving him an apologetic glance before she continued. “I was setting up a gameplan.” 

“You saw that look in his eyes.” Caliban sucked his teeth. “We both did.”

Azalea fidgeted with her sleeves. “It’s been years upon years. It’s impossible for him to actually know about our work.” 

“Right, right. It’s just—” Caliban sighed, running a hair through his hair. “Something obviously happened. I don’t know how it could relate to us, but. . .” He trailed off as something cold traced along his ribcage. 

Azalea reached up to place a comforting hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Hey, we’ve gotten through much bigger things. I know how this feels right now, but it won’t be so bad later on. I promise.” She hesitated for a few long seconds, then added, “. . . It’s not like he ever tried to make things worse back then.”

Caliban gazed down at her and nodded. She was correct; she was taking initiative like she had so many times years before. She wouldn’t have to handle things alone. 

And Penn. . .well, Penn had been a good egg as a kid. Chances were he was still smart and reasonable today. 

Azalea nodded back. “What I did bought us some time to go over our stories. To come up with something convincing enough. So, once he accepts my little invitation and stops by for a visit—” 

“—we’ll be ready to put him at ease and keep him off any scent,” Caliban finished.  

Headlights beamed to life as Murdock took his place behind the wheel. 

Azalea didn’t call shotgun, but she didn’t really need to, She already had earlier that day, and Caliban, who knew his car etiquette, slithered over to the backseat without any fuss. 

Snare stirred, letting out a tiny yawn and stretching before clambering into his owner’s lap, curiously sniffing at the to-go box in said owner’s hand. 

As Murdock eased the car out of Sparky’s parking lot and back onto the main road, something in Caliban’s brain decided now was the time for him to start staring at those glowing windows. He glimpsed his sister looking in the same direction. 

Penn and his friend were still there.

It only took a moment or two before the restaurant became a small blur in the distance, but Caliban's instincts told him that his cousin could still feel his and Azalea’s eyes. . .

@sammys-magical-au @insane4fandoms @b-is-in-the-closet @im-a-weird0 @lexusinsannus @sunny011387 @x-hotrose-x

[therantingsage]

After everything we've been through, where do we go from here?

[lichqueenlibrarian]

Sarek and Spock are having a heart to heart, and Sarek tells him they’re not going to arrange another marriage for him and that he hopes Spock finds his life’s mate and has what Sarek shares with Amanda.

[teamfortresstwo]

In a life swap AU rather than just a role swap I think it would be sooo fucked up if Patroclus swapped with Theseus and Achilles with Asterius

[what-have-you-contained]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ sweet and sour ɞ˚‧｡⋆

🍫 || 🍋

✨ pairing: Murder & Crop, implied Murder Time Trio + Husband Trio

✨ summary: Murder and Crop bake a wedding cake together.

✨ word count: 795

✨ a/n: Hehe fluff attack!! Another ficlet based on my evil twin's surprisingly fluffy idea ヾ(≧▽≦*)o The fluff virus must have hit them hard this time 〜(￣▽￣〜)

The smell of coffee and vanilla extract wafts through the air, mixed with a faint scent of citrus that always clings to the country farmer that is Crop. Murder stands at the kitchen counter, just a few feet away from his kitchen helper. He watches as Crop squeezes the lemons into a bowl, his movement unhurried and relaxed, so different from all the times Murder had Killer and Horror in the kitchen to help him.

“You sure lemon goes with chocolate?” Crop asks Murder, his voice curious. The warm light in the kitchen makes Crop’s features appear softer than usual.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Murder answers, turning his head away so Crop won’t notice his stare. “If it doesn’t, I’m going to burn down Muffet’s shop.”

“No need to be that violent, sugar,” Crop drawls, an easy smile on his face. “Worst case scenario: The cake turns out a little bit weird. But that’s a given for a wedding cake for six people, don’t you think?”

Murder lets out a quiet laugh. “You’re not wrong. Who else but us three disasters would plan a joint wedding with their exes?”

“Well, I think it’s cute,” Crop says. There’s no judgement in his voice. If anything, he sounds amused. “You guys always know how to keep things interesting.”

Murder pauses in his work, his hand gripping a bit tighter on the mixing spoon that he uses to stir the batter. “Interesting is a way to look at it.”

The kitchen falls silent for a moment, save for the sounds of clanking utensils. Murder glances at Crop, who is engrossed in his share of work. The farmer is quick and nimble with his hands, steady in a way that Murder can’t help but admire. He feels grounding, a trait that Horror has always needed. No wonder the usually irritable skeleton has chosen Crop. Murder feels a pang of something in his chest, and he’s unsure what it is exactly.

“You’re good for him,” he blurts out, then regrets it a second later when Crop turns to look at him. Crop’s eyes are warm and crinkling at the corner as he smiles at Murder.

“Why, thank you, city boy,” he says. “I reckon I try my best. And he’s good for me too. I’m glad to have him in my life, honestly.”

“Good.” Murder nods, a bit stiffly. “He deserves it.”

Crop doesn’t reply immediately, his attention focused on the cream mixture he’s whipping. “What about you? Do you have that too? Something – someone – good that you deserve?”

Murder is still. His thoughts flicker to Red, his soon-to-be legal partner, the light of his foggy life. To Killer, whose smile is so bright these days when he’s with Color. To Horror, who is more mellow now. And…

He stares at Crop, who stands easy alongside with him. If someone had told Murder years ago that he could live a day without someone flinching close to him, he’d have laughed at them. But now, he looks at Crop, and he feels hope. Hope for himself, for Killer and Horror, who he still feels such complicated and messy emotions whenever he lands eyes on them, but-

“I have some, but only in pieces,” he says finally. “Here and there. Nothing much.”

Crop’s face softens with understanding. “Pieces are enough. Sometimes, we gotta do what we’re dealt with. You know…” A smile quirks on his face. “When life gives you lemons…”

Murder lets out a surprised laugh. Crop chuckles along with him, the air between them becoming less tense.

Crop looks down at Murder’s hands, still holding the batter. “You’re better at this than I expected,” he hums. “Not your first time?”

“Baking? Oh, yeah, it’s a hobby of sorts. I’m not good at it, but…” Murder trails off. “It’s… nice. Relaxing.”

“Heh, I figure someone had to cook between you three, and it sure wasn’t Horror.” Crop chuckles, a light, breezy sound. “I don’t think I’ve ever said it, but thank you.”

“For what?” Murder asks, confused.

“For being there for Horror, and Killer too. You were good for him, you know? And you still are.”

Murder feels a blush creep into his cheeks. “Careful,” he mutters, slightly turned away. “Compliments like that might go to my head.”

Crop chuckles. “Well, good. Reckon you could use a few.”

After they slide the cake layers into the oven, Murder leans against the counter, watching Crop swiftly clean up the messes they’ve made. There’s something reassuring and reliable about the guy, and Murder can’t help but think fondly about how lucky Horror is.

“Hey,” he says, his voice softer now. Crop looks up, his hands pausing mid-motion. “Thanks for helping me today. I appreciate it.”

Crop smiles back, small but warm. “Anytime, partner.”

dividers by @\wearmyhood here

[bijoumikhawal]

got bad financial news and I'm going through the seven stages of grief about it

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 6 - 23

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, Honor Bound 5, and the prequel Vera.

Masterlist

AO3

Contents: past attempted murder, past implied noncon, conversation about improving as a person, mis-naming, past hallucinations, Sam being very low on patience

~

“T-twice,” Edrissa murmured, her voice thin as a string. “I’ve tried to kill him… twice.”

Sam swiped tears from their eyes, their giggles finally dying down. “Twice,” they managed, their stomach sore from laughing. “You’ve tried to kill Gavin twice, and he hasn’t laid a hand on you, and you still think people can’t change.” They chuckled, unable to stop themself.

Edrissa shot them a dirty look. “You don’t—”

Sam held up a hand to stop her. “If you tried to kill me twice, Edrissa, I’d have a problem with you. Why didn’t…? Does anyone else know about the other time?”

Edrissa’s eyes searched Sam’s for a long moment before she answered, “No.”

Sam sighed and pulled their hand through their hair. “When?”

A long silence drew out between them. Edrissa scooped up another bite of pie and avoided Sam’s gaze.

Sam chewed their lip. “Edrissa,” they said quietly, trying to duck into her eyeline. “Is it that people don’t change? Or you don’t?”

Edrissa’s eyes snapped up to meet Sam’s, fire momentarily flaring behind the ice. “O-of course I’ve changed,” she snarled, stumbling over the words. “Sir changed me.”

“But nothing else can change you?” Sam challenged. Their shoulders stooped with sudden, bone-deep exhaustion. The door beckoned to them again. “You can’t change for the better? Our relationship didn’t change you?”

Sam watched as the fire died in Edrissa’s eyes. “That’s not fair,” she murmured. Tears glittered on her lashes.

“None of this is,” Sam retorted. The words came out softer than they meant them, though.

Edrissa drew in a deep breath, held it, let it out. She leaned her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. The silence drew out so long between them that Sam thought she probably wasn’t going to speak again.

Finally, she said, “No telling Isaac.”

“I won’t,” Sam said gently. “You know I won’t.”

Edrissa heaved a sigh, but didn’t lift her head. “In June,” she said. “Back in June. That was… the first one.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

Edrissa’s golden hair flew around her as her head snapped up. “Of course, I’m serious, Sam,” she said through her teeth.

“So,” Sam said. They nodded as they thought. “For… what, for two months, Gavin lived with you, after you tried to kill him? Even though you tried to kill him? And he never told… anyone?”

“I don’t think so,” Edrissa whimpered. Her hands curled into fists on the table. “I never… I mean, Isaac never… came after me for it, so…”

“Shit,” Sam breathed. They couldn’t help the huff of laughter that came next, and avoided Edrissa’s glare. “So… how did you do it?”

Edrissa cringed and stared at the table. “I…” She screwed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I, um… well, I waited until everyone in the house was either gone or, um, asleep.”

Sam’s eyes widened. This probably happened while I was asleep in that house, and I had absolutely no idea. Gavin never let on at all.

Edrissa cleared her throat. “I stole a knife from the kitchen and I, um, lured him to the barn.”

“H-how did you lure him to the barn?” Sam asked, a pit growing in their stomach.

“I…” Edrissa’s cheeks flared with a blush of what Sam hoped was shame. “I said I needed help getting something down off a high shelf.”

Relief crashed through Sam, guilt right on its heels. Relief that the lure had been something so innocent, and guilt for considering, even for a moment, that it could have been anything else.

Edrissa continued. “S-so then I… well, I made sure he had his back to me, then I took him down with the moves that Vera showed me. That’s why I learned them. So that I could… could kill him, when I was ready.” Edrissa lifted her chin, but couldn’t seem to meet Sam’s gaze. “I h-held a knife to his throat.”

Sam’s own throat tightened. “But you couldn’t do it?”

“I tried to,” Edrissa said, the words tight with tears. “I really did. I broke the skin. I told him to stop me, or I was going to kill him. But he just kept saying that’s not who he was anymore, and that his name is… is Gavin Uriah, now.”

“It is Gavin Uriah,” Sam said defensively.

Edrissa waved the comment away. “I know, I know. But… I kept trying to make him stop me. Hurt me. I kept telling him that I was going to do it, I kept on… trying to make myself do it. But I… I couldn’t.”

“And neither would he.”

Edrissa slowly closed her mouth and raised her eyes to look at Sam. Her gaze was softer than they had seen it since they’d walked in.

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

Sam’s mouth twisted in a half smile. “Maybe that’s what healing looks like,” they said carefully. “Two idiots who’ve been hurt by the syndicates refusing to kill each other in a barn.” They sucked in a breath and bit their lip, waiting for her response.

For a single, delicate moment, neither moved or breathed.

Then, Edrissa let out a broken laugh and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Okay,” she snorted. “I’ll give you that one. I was sort of being an idiot.”

Sam let out a breath of relief. “I think we’re all entitled to those moments every now and then. This is a crazy world.”

Edrissa cackled. “Everyone is entitled to exactly one attempt on Gavin Stormbeck’s life.”

Sam let out a huff. “Gavin Uriah, Edrissa, come on…”

She sobered quickly. “I know. I’m sorry.” The corner of her mouth pulled into a smile. “Besides, I’m over my quota.”

“That’s okay, so are Isaac and Vera,” Sam said gently. “They’re both at two as well, I think. Although, I don’t know if Vera was intending to kill Gavin when she blew up his compound. So, I don’t know if that one counts.”

Edrissa snickered and took another bite of the pie. Sam scooped up their own bite, contemplating it silently. They set their fork down and wet their lips.

“What made you stop this time?” they said, voice low.

Edrissa’s smile fell as she swallowed hard. Her gaze fell. She tucked her hands into her lap and stared at the table in front of her. “I… don’t know,” she said stiffy.

Sam peered at her, trying to catch her gaze with theirs. Her eyes stayed fixed on the rough woodgrain in front of her as if her own survival lay in keeping them there.

“Edrissa?” Sam murmured, ducking lower, trying to catch her gaze. She lowered her eyes into her lap, letting her hair fall in curtains on either side of her face. Sam tapped their fingertips on the table and leaned back. They blew out a slow breath. “Are we done talking?”

Edrissa’s head shot up. There were tears glistening in her eyes and a shameful flush coloring her cheeks and neck. She pressed her lips together and leaned back in her own chair, mirroring Sam’s posture. Her arms folded stiffly across her chest.

More than the hurt at her closed-off expression and the loneliness at the distance between them, Sam hated the resentment that prickled through them like feeling coming back into a limb. It ate at their insides and their throbbing heart and they were just so damned tired of it. They pushed their chair back and nodded.

“Okay,” they murmured. “Thanks for the pie, Edrissa. I’ll see you around.”

Edrissa’s pale arm shot across the table as if to hold them there. “Wait,” she breathed.

Sam waited. For a breath.

Then, Edrissa said, “I… I d-didn’t stop.”

Sam blinked. “Um… what?”

The tears in Edrissa’s eyes spilled over and she dashed them away. “I didn’t stop,” she whispered, leaning forward as if horrified that anyone else might hear her confession.

“But… Gavin’s—”

“Alive because Isaac stopped me,” Edrissa breathed, and pressed her face into her hands.

Sam stared at her, mouth open. “So… you were… about to—”

“Yes.” The word was a sob. Sam glanced around the store, but they didn’t see anyone inside, not even Meredith. “I was going to do it. I had his wrists tied, I had him in the bathtub, I had the knife to his throat, and… and I was going to do it. I did it, he was bleeding. But then Vera… Vera called Gavin’s name outside the door and I, I knew I was caught.”

The air Sam breathed felt icy in their chest, their blood cold in their veins. “But…” They forced themself to take a deep breath. “But… Edrissa… if you knew you were caught… you could have just done it anyway. Why didn’t you?”

She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“You thought Isaac was going to kill you. I saw your face, you were… terrified, Edrissa.”

She raised her eyes to theirs. Her lashes were stuck together, her cheeks red and blotchy. They saw, for perhaps the first time, how truly exhausted she looked. They wondered if they had ever seen her truly well-rested or happy – or if that would have ever been possible for her, living under the same roof as Isaac and Gavin. They leaned forward and carefully took her hand in theirs. She watched them with wide eyes, as if ready to bolt if they moved too quickly.

Sam stroked the back of her hand with their thumb as they said, “Edrissa, if you thought Isaac was going to kill you anyway… what stopped you from going through with it?” They searched her eyes with their own, silently begging her for the truth. Begging her to tell them something that would let them know Gavin wasn’t still in danger.

Do I need to tell Isaac about this?

Will Isaac let her survive this?

They knew without having to think about it that he wouldn’t – but they also knew they would at least give her enough warning to run from his fury.

They were about to release her hand, get up, and walk away when she parted her lips. Quietly, so quietly they almost couldn’t hear her, she said, “H-he protected me.”

Sam blanched. “Who? Did what?”

“G-Gavin,” Edrissa said, shaking. “Gavin did. Protected me. When…” She shuddered and forced her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her chest. “When Isaac was about to break the door down, Gavin, he, um… he called out and… told him not to. Again and again. Even though he was…” She shrugged jerkily. “He was… struggling. He was seeing things, I think.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up.

Edrissa chewed her lip. “He kept calling me, um, th-the mayor. And telling me things that his parents did to him when he was, um, a kid.”

“Oh, no,” Sam breathed. Suspicion crept into their mind. “You didn’t… give him anything…?”

“No,” Edrissa said distractedly. “No. But then he… right before Isaac came in, Gavin said…” She blinked more tears out of her eyes, and they ran down her cheeks. “‘Get behind me.’”

Sam sucked in a breath through their teeth. “So he definitely knew that Isaac might—”

“Of course, he knew,” Edrissa whimpered. “It’s why he didn’t say anything the first time, either. He promised he wouldn’t. And he… didn’t. He never told. Or I wouldn’t be alive right now.”

Sam met Edrissa’s gaze and pressed their mouth into a line. No, probably not.

“He begged me.” Edrissa dissolved into messy sobs. “H-he begged me. Over and over. To let him live. So he could see his… his family again. You and, and the rest.”

Each heartbeat was an ache, and Sam felt sick with it. Their eyes smarted and their throat grew tight.

Edrissa pressed her hand to her lips and spoke in muffled whimpers. “I c-couldn’t… do it after that. I thought I was ready, but… I couldn’t. Not after hearing him… sound like that. Not after hearing what happened to him. Not after… what he said to Isaac. Before, in the barn, it was a truce. But two days ago? He… s-saved my life. And I could have killed him anyway.” Her voice faded away into nothing, leaving only stunned silence between them.

Sam felt their pulse in their ears. Their right fingers ached. Slowly, they drew in a deep inhale, and slowly, they let it out. Again, in. Again, out. They hoped Edrissa would follow suit. She sniffled and wiped her nose on a napkin.

“Sounds like we’re all having kind of a hard week,” Sam said carefully.

Edrissa let out a weak laugh and nodded. “Yeah,” she grumbled.

Even more carefully, Sam said, “Also sounds like you probably won’t be trying to murder Gavin again…?”

Edrissa shook her head. “No,” she said. “I think I’m done with that.”

Sam leaned back in their seat, not willing to push the topic any further. They nodded once and glanced around the store. Meredith seemed to have somehow chased all her customers away, both current and potential, while they were having this conversation. The place was completely empty and had been for some time. Sam’s lips quirked as they looked at Edrissa again.

“So… what else here is good?” they said.

“I’ve tried their tea, and it’s okay,” Edrissa said, wiping her nose again. “I think I’ll have to hook Meredith up with my connections in Burmingham so we can at least increase the variety.” She sighed.

“Your connections,” Sam said with a breathy, nearly-silent laugh. Relief fluttered in their chest – the air was escaping too quickly with each breath out and they couldn’t pull in enough air with each breath in. Edrissa offered an unsure smile.

“I have those,” she said as she jutted out her chin. “I’m just like the rest of you.”

Sam bit their lip and returned her gaze. Her smile widened and her cheeks flushed as they did, and they couldn’t look away fast enough. In that momentary glance, they could see the hope blossoming in her eyes, the fondness that had once made Sam’s heart swell to bursting with longing. Now, it only made their stomach sour to realize her feelings were still there, despite everything that had happened.

Despite everything she had done.

Their throat worked. They scooped up another bite of pie. “Fair enough,” they said, and ate the bite quickly.

Continued here

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[thecityofdoors]

if raphael had the sense to offer me Emperor Gossip Hour whenever i wanted then maybe i would have taken his deal

[wisteriavines]

“No one knows what happened to them or can even find them for that matter.” She lightly sighs, absently twirling her teacup to watch the liquid swish about.

“Simply gone. Like ash in the wind,” she muses, not sounding all that upset for speaking of the missing status of her family’s killers.

She takes a sip of her tea. After a beat the other ladies copy her.