#just as soon as the shackles of high school fall from my wrists

[bambifornia]

sneak peek for tomorrow

[pendragonsandbuckleys]

hold me like the moon holds onto the tide (1/3)

Summary: Kidnapped and locked in a cell with no escape. Alex and Michael are faced with an ex-Caulfield employee who is prepared to do anything to get alien powers of his own. (Inspired by the Daisy/Sousa scenes in Agents of Shield 7x06)

Word Count: 2,946

[Also on AO3] [Part Two] [Part Three]

This wasn’t the first time that Alex had woken up somewhere with no memory of how he had gotten there.

There was the happier occurrences of this, such as waking up at his grandparent’s place after falling asleep during the car ride there as a child or ending up at home in bed with a killer hangover the morning after an unexpectedly wild night at the Pony.

Or the not so happy occurrences like waking up in the hospital after an encounter with a roadside IED or tied to a chair in his father’s basement after an unfortunate meeting with his metal cane.

But this. This was definitely the first time that he’d woken up in an unfamiliar cell with his hands shackled to the wall.

His head hurt and there was a weird heaviness in his limbs that could only be explained by the uncomfortable sensation of drugs running its course through his body. Blinking a few times in a poor attempt to clear the haze from his vision, he lifted his head to get a better look at his new surroundings.

“Alex?” Came a murmur from nearby, which only confused him more.

He let out a slight groan in response as he pushed himself up to rest on his forearms, the chain securing his cuffed wrists to the cell wall jangling nosily at the movement.

To say that Michael was a sight for sore eyes was an understatement at the best of times. But right now, the sight of him was practically angelic. He was sitting with his back against the wall, legs stretched in front of him, matching cuffs around his wrists. His hair was more of a mess than usual and he was looking at Alex with such big eyes that the worry radiating off him was palpable.

He looked beautiful, of course. But above all that, him being here meant that Alex wasn’t facing whatever this was alone.

“What the hell is going on?” Alex croaked around the unexpected dryness of his throat. How long had they been here?

“No clue. I woke up about twenty minutes ago, haven’t heard anybody outside.” Michael shook his head, eyeing Alex carefully.

They may be chained to a wall but at least their mysterious captors had the consideration to secure them within reaching distance of each other. Pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, Alex shuffled over and rearranged himself to mirror Michael’s position, their shoulders bumping as he rested against the wall.

Now that his head had cleared a little, Alex took a moment to survey the cell. It was a small room with dull grey walls and a cold, dirty floor.

There was one window positioned high on the wall behind them that was allowing a few beams of light into the room. The dim rays hit the door opposite them as if preparing to provide their captors with a golden entrance.

There wasn’t much to deduct from their closed means of exit, but the solid metal of the door was worrying. It didn’t look like some makeshift prison hidden in the basement of someone’s house, this looked professional and if someone had access to a place like this, who knows what they wanted with the two of them.

Alex lowered his head to rest it against Michael shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to take a calming breath.

“Your head hurting?” Michael whispered, feeling himself relax just a little from having Alex so close.

Alex nodded gently, “Yeah, yours?”

“Yeah, it’s been throbbing since I woke up.”

Michael had been worried when he had woken up first.

The first thing he had registered was the hard surface beneath his cheek and he had thought for a moment that maybe he’d been drinking the night previously and hadn’t quite made it into the airstream before passing out. The drumming in his head sure seemed to support that theory.

Opening his eyes revealed how far off he was with that prediction and it had set his heart racing. But seeing another person lying nearby had his heart jumping straight into his throat.

He had only allowed a second to compartmentalise the fact that he had clearly been kidnapped before clumsily crawling over to Alex, instantly shaking the man in an attempt to wake him.

After a brief flash of panic, Michael had taken note of Alex’s small breaths and the rise and fall of his chest before letting out a nervous laugh of relief.

And now that Alex was finally awake, Michael took solace in his breathing once more as the man sat next to him.

They were silent for a moment as Alex glanced down at the metal cuffs cutting into his wrists. The thick grey bands looked stronger than standard police issue handcuffs and the sturdy chainlink connecting them to the wall bracket was not going to be easily broken.

“I feel like this is a dumb question, but have you tried to break the cuffs?”

Michael smiled fondly, glancing down at the top of Alex’s head, “It was the first thing I tried, but my powers aren’t working. It feels the same as when Helena dosed me with that stuff.”

Alex sat up straight with wide eyes and Michael mourned the sudden loss of contact. “That means they know that you’re an alien.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” Michael replied, biting his lip. A situation where someone else knew about his powers - let alone how to neutralise them - was concerning to say the least.

And downright terrifying to say the most.

Though he was quietly glad that Isobel and Max were nowhere in sight. At least they were safe, for now.

“Shit.” Alex looked towards the door as if expecting their captors to burst in at any second, “I don’t even remember what happened.”

“I’m pretty sure we were at the junkyard, but apart from that I’ve got nothing.”

Alex leant his head back and closed his eyes as he tried to get everything straight in his head, the incessant throbbing in his brain doing its best to distract him.

There was very little information to go on regarding who had taken them and how, but the part that was screaming out to him was why the pair of them had been taken together.

Their captors clearly knew that Michael was an alien, but if they’d kidnapped him because of that, what was Alex’s role in all of this? And if it was Alex they were targeting, why bother with the extra hassle of bringing Michael along?

There was no situation that would require them both. Not unless they’d gone back in time and were part of a secret organisation’s plot to create an atomizer that would eradicate an entire species.

Then the kidnapping would make sense. Maybe.

But after CrashCon, they had ensured that the devices and all existing blueprints were destroyed thoroughly and the only remaining knowledge of the chemical formula could be found locked away in Charlie Cameron’s head.

And well, after his father’s death, the threat of a systematic elimination of the alien bloodline had unsurprisingly become less of a problem.

So who was this new threat they were facing?

-

They were making them wait.

Classic interrogation technique Alex had told Michael. You leave the subject just long enough to let them get inside their own head and think through - in painful detail - every possible reason for why they could be there. Then you ambush.

And if that was the plan, their captors had succeeded.

After confirming that they were both reasonably unhurt and a few very unsuccessful attempts to break their chains and find a way out of the cell, they had managed to compile a rather long list of why they could have been taken and who might have been responsible.

Maybe there was a new alien in town who thought they were a threat. Maybe Jesse Manes had been brought back to life like some alien hunting Frankenstein’s monster who wanted to finish what he’d started. Maybe this was all some giant ploy by their friends to force them to get their act together and go on that first proper date they had been trying to arrange for weeks.

In truth, they knew that every idea was either completely far fetched or extremely possible, but they all ultimately came back round to Michael being an alien. It was the one thing that Michael had feared, above all else, for as long as he could remember. Someone had discovered that he was an alien and now they wanted to know more.

It was about an hour before they heard any signs of life beyond the door. Heavy footsteps and low mutterings could be heard muffled through the metal, before the door creaked open and a man in air force fatigues entered the room.

For one tiny moment Alex was hopeful enough to think that this was a rescue. That by some miracle his base had known that he was missing - despite the fact that no one was expecting him to report to them anytime soon - and had sent an officer out to find him.

It quickly became apparent that this was not the case.

The man closed the door, stopped in front of them and said nothing, simply stared at them as if surveying his goods. It made Alex feel very exposed. And concerned. His brain flicked through several reasons for why the air force might want to kidnap them and they weren’t exactly pleasant.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here.” The man spoke, his tone patronising as if speaking to a toddler.

Alex felt Michael stiffen beside him. He clearly wasn’t expecting the air force’s involvement either.

Alex schooled his features, making very sure to hide any trace of unease or confusion, as he studied the man in front of him for any hint that they may have met before.

Hughes, his uniform’s name tag spelled out in thick capital letters. He was a middle aged man, maybe early forties, with dark hair and the beginnings of a beard to match. Alex didn’t think he’d come across any ‘Hughes’ during his time in the air force.

“You’re here.” Hughes continued, unfazed by the lack of response, “To give me what I want.”

“Oh yeah?” Alex asked with an air of defiance, “And what’s that?”

“Power.” Hughes grinned and the sight was unnerving.

He began pacing the room and Alex could sense an evil monologue coming.

“Let’s skip the pretence of you not being aliens and get straight to the point. You see, when I was nineteen I joined the air force and found my true calling, my one purpose in life. But there came a point a few years ago where I felt like I’d lost my way.” He paused for dramatic effect, coming to a stop in front of them, “That is, until Master Sergeant Manes recruited me.”

Alex and Michael glanced at each other as if reading one another’s minds. It was always a possibility that someone new would discover the alien secret, but despite the jokes earlier they had truly believed that the Jesse Manes chapter of their story had come to a close.

“Thought that name might be familiar,” Hughes smirked, crouching down to their eye level, “He told us about you. About the aliens that hadn’t quite made it to Caulfield.”

Without a second to hesitate, Michael went to lunge at Hughes, the sudden memory of his mother’s death flashing before his eyes but Alex’s quick hands coming to rest on his thigh (and the rather inconvenient chain) stopped him from giving Hughes the satisfaction. The man almost looked pleased with the reaction, chuckling to himself as he began pacing once more.

“‘Those three aliens are practically inseparable!’ He’d told us. 'You find one and the others won’t be far behind!’ And he was right.”

Michael watched him carefully as he reached one side of the cell before turning gracefully on his heel to continue the motion towards the opposite wall. If this guy knew about the three of them there was no reason for him not to go after Isobel or Max next. In fact, they could very well be in a cell just like this, right now, waiting for their own personal soliloquy.

And Michael was powerless to help them.

“Learning about your species altered my path in life, but now you’re going to change it completely. Starting with you.” Hughes pointed to Alex with a meaty finger and any response Alex might’ve had ready fell away with complete bewilderment.

Wait, what was going on? Alex glanced at Michael once again to make sure he had heard the same thing and he could have laughed at the mystified look that Michael was unable to hide.

“But he’s not an alien.” Michael furrowed his brow, suddenly feeling very unsure of what details Jesse Manes had given him.

“You better hope he is.” Hughes stepped closer, not even blinking as he stared Michael down, “Or he’s of no use to me.”

“And what exactly is it do you want with me?” Alex held his head higher, ready to offer himself up willingly if it would keep the attention off of Michael.

“The power flowing through your veins. It might take a few tries but it’s an easy enough experiment and I’m sure I’ll harvest the right cells eventually before it kills you.” Hughes watched him carefully, practically daring him to break eye contact first. “Besides, I’ve heard you heal quick so there’s nothing to fear really.”

“Wait, that’s your plan? You think you can just give yourself powers? You’re deluded. That’ll never work.” Alex remarked as Hughes pursed his lips at the comeback.

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

“Take me first!” Michael blurted out, ignoring the confused glare he could see Alex giving him from the corner of his eye.

“Hmm, telekinesis is impressive, but the power to kill with a single touch? That’s what I want.” Hughes smirked, his eyes still not leaving Alex.

And well if that didn’t slot a few more puzzle pieces into place.

It was true that Alex had been spending a lot of time with Michael and Isobel lately, and with Max more likely to be found in Liz’s arms than at his sibling’s side, it’s clear how this little misidentification may had occurred.

Before Michael could argue his case further, Hughes turned to leave the cell. “I’ll be back when we’re ready,” he stated simply as the door slammed shut behind him, leaving the room quiet once more.

Neither of them spoke as they tried to organise their scrambling thoughts. An hour ago, when they were making their list, they would never have guessed the correct outcome of that conversation.

“He thinks I’m Max.” Alex whispered into the silence, his eyes still on the door.

“We have to tell him you’re not, we have to do something.” Michael turned his whole body towards Alex, a determined look in his eyes.

“Guerin, we can’t tell him.” Alex furrowed his brow. Even if they could convince Hughes that he wasn’t an alien, it wouldn’t suddenly make everything better. He may be pretty useless to the man right now, but Alex knew full well how expendable he would be if Hughes found out the truth about his lack of alien abilities. With no means of escape and no sign of a rescue anytime soon, he knew that this was their only logical option, no matter how deranged and barbaric it sounded. “Whatever the hell is going on right now, we definitely don’t have the upper hand here, so if he’s gonna take anyone it’s better me than you.”

“Are you insane? If he experiments on you, he could kill you!”

“And if he experiments on you, he could discover everything.”

Michael opened his mouth to argue but Alex barely gave him a chance to take a breath before continuing.

“You’ve always been careful to make sure that nobody even has a chance to get access to your DNA but now you want to what? Give it up freely? No.” He stated firmly, shaking his head. “Him thinking I’m an alien is our best case scenario right now. This guy clearly knows a lot about you already - I mean who knows how much my father told him - I won’t let him learn any more.”

Michael had always known that Alex would go to great lengths to protect him, but to see his resoluteness firsthand sent a rush of warmth through him.

Still, he bit his bottom lip as he tried to grasp at any response that would overrule how right Alex was. Putting his own safety above Alex’s had never - and would never - be an option but, as selfish as it was in that moment, the thought of doing something that would put Isobel and Max in danger made him feel physically sick.

Without thinking, his hands found Alex’s and he wrapped his fingers around them tightly, undeterred by the awkwardness of the cuffs. He watched as Alex weakly gripped back despite the odd angle.

“This is insane.” He whispered dejectedly.

“I know.”

“He knew your dad.”

“I know.” Alex let out a huff of laughter and rolled his eyes, “Fucking Jesse Manes.”

Michael couldn’t stop the corners of his own mouth turning up into a small smile.

Trust Alex’s father to still manage to upend their lives from beyond the grave. And unless Hughes had somehow managed to pass his medical exams alongside serving his country, this was definitely not going to end well.

[haro-whumps]

Ritual Sacrifice

CW: RITUAL SACRIFICE BABIES I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SINCE THE PROMPT LIST CAME OUT, lady whumpee, dismemberment, panic, slight body horror(?)(just to be safe), semi-human whumpee, non-human whumper, trans woman naga caretaker, chains, blood

@whumptober2020

--

Marielle brushed her hands down her arms again, smoothing the thick lotion into her bronze skin so that it held an almost golden sheen in the candlelight. Her curly black hair had been pinned back from her face in a series of intricate, jeweled ornaments that matched with the rest of her glinting jewelry: the heavy earrings, the heavier arm bands and anklets, the necklace that was heavier still, and heaviest of all, the shackles.

She’d fastened them herself. It was not as though she had any real desire to run, or anywhere to run away to. Her tail twitched agitatedly at the thought, the thick pink and teal feathers flaring with her disquiet, but she twisted on her stool and forcefully smoothed them right back down. It was an honor, to serve in this purpose. And Marielle volunteering meant the other girls in the roost had another year to figure out a more permanent solution.

She picked agitatedly under one of her talons despite the fact that she’d bathed far too thoroughly to have left even a speck of dirt on her person. Then she preened the tiny, peach-pink feathers of her lower legs and ankles again, touched her hair, stood up, and began to pace. Her toe talons click-clacked against the wooden floor, digging into the grooves between the planks for purchase and filling the room with the only sound beyond the gentle swish of her clothes and the tinkling of her jewelry colliding.

Marielle had expected to be interrupted. Rushed. Hurried along. She hadn’t expected to be left waiting.

“Um, priestess?” she asked, rapping her knuckles gently against the doorframe. If we do not enact this soon, I fear I might reconsider my resolve not to run away.

“Are you ready, little Marielle?” The low, soothing pitch of the kindly priestess’s voice settled some of Marielle’s nerves. This priestess had been the one to teach religious studies during her school years, patient, sweet, familiar. Comforting.

“Yes ma’am,” she said, glad that her favorite schoolteacher was the one who would be guiding her. Really, any priestess would have been fine as long as they weren’t the skinny, wiry one who always dug her talons in whenever she gripped someone by the arm. But Marielle took comfort in the familiar voice.

The door opened and the intricate carvings of the priestess’s mask greeted Marielle, who smiled unconvincingly. 

“Marielle,” she said warmly, softly, reaching out to squeeze two handfuls of her hair before cupping her cheeks. Although Marielle could not see her face, it seemed to her that the priestess looked… sad.

“Priestess,” she returned, leaning into her touch and bracing one of her hands with her own.

“Do you want to hear the words?”

Marielle snorted softly, a quiet rush of air, and shook her head. She knew. That her sacrifice would keep the greed-gods at bay for another year. That the life of one could preserve the lives of many. That she would be honored, venerated, and mourned.

She did not want to hear it. Did not need to.

So she lifted her wrists and let the priestess clip the chains upon the heavy cuffs.

And so we pass the point from which there will be no return. 

She pondered, as the priestess led her through the ever-familiar pathways of their winding tree homes, if she ought to feel the truth of it all setting in yet. That she was going to die. That she was going willingly to her death. That her death was going to be a very bad one. Maybe, she thought as she walked the smooth wood of braided trees, she was numb from shock? Her mind’s desperate way of protecting itself.

A falling flower crossed her field of vision and pulled her from her thoughts, head raising to view its source. Her sister perched on the canopy. Traditionally, it was a woman’s mother who dropped the first flower. But Marielle’s mother never came to the marches, even when it was not her own kin on the trek.

Dozens, hundreds more descended in the first blossom’s wake, littering the path Marielle walked, a vibrantly orange bloom catching in her hair. It was just as easily dislodged when she reached the edge of the roost, spread her arms, and jumped.

Dropping was harder, weighed down by the unfamiliar jewelry, but the wind caught in the ceremonial glider as easily as her homely, family-spun one. The chains tethering her to the priestess were also new, Marielle generally preferring a bit more space between herself and a drop partner, but her tail fanned and caught the wind currents with enough precision that she was able to successfully drift down to the forest floor. Her toe talons sunk into the soft underbrush, and for an inane moment she pouted internally at the fact that she had just washed those.

Then the feeling evaporated, replaced by something much colder. Oddly enough, it was being down on the ground that set primitive, self-preserving fear through her. Nevermind that she was only there in the first place to bring those fears to life. She kind of wanted the numbness back now, please.

“Breathe, sweet Marielle,” the priestess murmured, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The priestess’s glider sleeve covered Marielle’s back like a cloak, and she rested her head on her shoulder with a shallow nod. “It is not far to the altar now.”

And it was not. Last year’s blood, the years’ blood before it, still stained the holy stone. It was huge, square, too massive to lift and therefore something Marielle had never before witnessed, in her life high among the trees.

“In the center.”

Marielle climbed up, her tail flaring out to counterbalance as she perched awkwardly on it. It was uniquely smooth, entirely flat and level without a groove or grip in sight. Her toe talons scratched roughly against the unfamiliar surface, unsure of how to stand.

Or sit, as the priestess locked her right arm’s chain to one corner of the holy stone, and her left to the other. The priestess cupped her cheeks once more, bringing their foreheads together, and Marielle took a deep, shaky breath.

This was the last time anyone would ever touch her. This was the last person she’d ever see.

“Brave Marielle. We will miss you.”

Those were the last words anyone would ever say to her. This was it. It was over. Her life was over, why had she volunteered for this?! She didn’t want to die!

“No,” she gasped, “No, wait! Come back!”

But the priestess was already out of earshot by the time Marielle’s lagging tongue caught up to her delayed fears, talons sinking into soft bark as she carried herself back into the safe embrace of wooden limbs.

“No, wait! Wait! I change my mind! Wait!!”

Rustling, but not from above. Marielle went suddenly still, suddenly silent, as though the gods might not find her.

The greed-goddess that emerged was massive, shaped like a pig--or maybe a lizard--and it was lumbering, hulking, its stout legs crushing the brush. It was less “warty” than the simple state of it was that warts comprised the entirety of its skin, the reddish brown, leathery quality churning Marielle’s stomach. The goddess had no visible eyes to speak of, but its snout ended in giant nostrils that hovered just above its massive, filthy tusks.

The goddess rattled a nearby tree with those tusks, not hard enough to damage the homes above or the structural integrity of the tree itself. Just a reminder of its power, of the fact that it, and all the other greed-gods, could have their fill of Marielle’s people, should they ever fail to present the yearly offering.

Then the goddess turned its snout on Marielle.

“Please,” Marielle breathed, struggling backwards, wishing her ancestors had evolved wings. “Please, no.” Tears were budding in her eyes, the rattle of her chains loud in her drumming ears. The goddess set one massive, heavy leg upon the stone, air rushing over Marielle’s all-too-mortal skin. A tusk, big as Marielle’s thigh--bigger--slid beneath her knee, its snout twitching as it sniffed at her legs. Her breath was caught in her throat, the moment suspended, overwhelming horror choking her.

Then the goddess opened its mouth, two rows of glistening fangs revealed, thick, viscous saliva connecting the lower jaw to the upper. The greed-goddess’s fangs were chipped, rotting, some blackened by spots of mold, some pinkish with the blood of its last meal, some yellow or orange with age.

Marielle screamed.

The pain in her leg was blinding, worse than anything she’d imagined or feared. The goddess’s teeth were grinding against her bone, it cast her thoughts out, her wrists began to bleed where the shackles cut as she struggled mindlessly. She wailed, thrashed, kicked, anything to get away from the horrible beast rending her flesh, gnashing, eating her. Why had she been left conscious for this? Why wasn’t she knocked out?!

Just when she’d accepted that she would die from the pain before the goddess could even bite anything vital, a bellow of pain, too loud to be her own, shook the very treetops. It took Marielle’s lagging presence of mind a moment to catch up, that her ruined leg was no longer attached but also no longer trapped in the goddess’s maw.

The goddess was--tangled?--being--

There was a giantess here. Marielle had seen such people, slithering with their strange snake bodies across the forest floor. Always just glimpses, too far away to see anything meaningful, but she was close now.

The giantess had brown scales on her lower body, green where they caught in the light, and they were wrapped around the goddess’s heavy, massive bulk. Her upper body was more personable, with almond eyes in a sunlessly beige face half-hidden by strange, thin, straight hair. Silky, almost.

And oh, yeah, she had a massive boar spear clutched in both her hands.

The giantess let out a war cry, driving the spear into the goddess’s skull, where an eye might have been on a lesser creature. Black, thick fluid gushed, bubbling, as the goddess howled again. Its thick legs stomped, pawed at the giantess, but she was too firmly wrapped around it for its legs to loosen her grip. It tossed its head, nearly goring her (and a tusk did slice her side, the giantess’s blood a comforting, mortal red) but she held onto her spear and used it to leverage herself, riding the movement out.

Watching her move was captivating, enthralling even (although, that might have been the bloodloss talking). She was strange, and beautiful, and she’d just saved Marielle’s life.

She ripped the boar spear out and attacked the other side of the goddess’s face. Again, one nostril, again, the other. Once more, the final blow, right in the open mouth. Its wicked teeth crushed the spear, wood splintering, but the goddess--a goddess--was already in its death throes. The giantess curled herself around its middle once more, only barely avoiding having her skull crushed by its massive legs, and constricted, and constricted, and constricted, until the goddess went silent, and its body landed heavily atop the scaled coils on the ground.

The giantess rose slowly, arms outstretched, and lifted her face to the heavens.

“Behold Yuiko! Godslayer!!!” she crowed, and birds would’ve taken into flight had they not already been frightened away by the goddess.

“Uh,” Marielle tried, her breath still shallow and too-fast.

“Oh shit!” the giantess yelped with a snap of her head, shoulders suddenly hunched. “You’re still alive!”

“Y-yes?!” Marielle squeaked, alarmed by how quickly she slithered over, by the intensity of her focus.

“Okay, okay shit shit fuck uhhhhhhhh tourniquet!” she shouted, then wrapped her tail around Marielle’s mutilated stump and squeezed. She screamed, thrashing sharply at the fresh agony.

“Sorry! Sorry! I have to cut off blood flow so you don't bleed out! More. Gee, you little folk sure bleed a lot huh?” ‘S why I figured you were dead. Sorry about using you as bait, by the way. I just can’t get ahold of those motherfuckers unless they’re busy--I’ve seen way too many people die approaching them from the front y’dig?--and you seemed like my best shot. Fuck, that makes me sound like a total ass, huh? My--most sincerely--bad, my dude. Hey so my name’s Yuiko!”

“...Hi?” Marielle said, her mind reeling.

Yuiko grinned wide, black blood splatters on her face and up her arms, her eyes squinting almost closed with her smile. Marielle wasn’t sure if she was actually smiling back or not.

“Hey you’re kinda pretty, you know that?” Yuiko stated with the same manic bluntness. “Like all shiny ‘n shit.”

“That… might be on account of the jewelry?” 

“Yeah that too. I’m taking some of that as payment for totally saving you and stuff.”

“You’re uh, welcome, to it?”

“Anyway, let’s get you off this rock, huh? Kinda mean of that other lady to strap you down like this ‘n shit.”

“We, have bargained a yearly sacrifice with the greed-gods, so they, do not take from us all.”

“Whack. We just hide and try to kill ‘em before they kill us,” Yuiko said, undoing the first chain from Marielle’s wrist and leaving it on the altar.

“You people, have been able, to kill them?” Marielle asked incredulously.

“Well hey hey, it’s not as easy as I just made it look,” Yuiko said, slithering to the other side of the sacrificial slab without loosening the end of her tail from Marielle’s stump. “Most people die trying, and we haven’t had a successful deicide in 30 years.” She made two Vs with her fingers and crossed them over her chest. “Until today!”

Yuiko uncrossed her arms and stared at the goddess’s corpse victoriously, her grin wide and boastful, but then she seemed to settle into something more contemplative. Marielle used her newly freed hand to undo the lock on her other shackle, fingers shaking as she did, since Yuiko seemed occupied.

“Hey if I drank goddess blood whaddaya think would happen?”

“I don’t think you should do that.”

Yuiko’s body undulated, and she tilted her head. “Okay, but like, just a taste,” she said, eyes not leaving the goddess. Her head snapped suddenly down, to the drying tar on her hands and arms, and she slowly lifted the back of her wrist, tongue poking out.

“Um, Yuiko?”

Her attention surged back onto Marielle. “Fuck! Right! You’re dying!” She rejoined Marielle at the slab. “Okay tell you what. I’mma carry you back to my burrow and get you to the village crazy lady.”

“What?” Marielle squeaked.

“She’s a healer?” Yuiko said, as though that explained it. “Oh, shit, wait, I can see why calling her nuts would not instill a proper confidence in you. Don’t worry, she is totally legit. I get my girl juice from her on the reg.”

“What are you saying?”

“Okay so you seem sorta outta it. Probs cause blood loss. Don’t worry about it though I will get you totes taken care of I just gotta figure out how to like, move, y’know, without letting you bleed out.”

Marielle stared at Yuiko, and Yuiko stared thoughtfully back, fingers in an L at her chin and smearing god blood on her face.

“Wait I got it!” Yuiko exclaimed, lifting her arms and pulling off her shirt by the back collar. “Oh hell yeah I am so fucking smart.”

Marielle watched her begin to tear the shirt mutely, wondering if maybe she was dead and this was just an acutely peculiar afterlife.

A sound in the woods had both their heads snapping up, breaths quickening.

“The gods smell blood; we gotta bounce!” Yuiko hissed, tearing faster, tying the tourniquet where her tail had been, and threw Marielle over her shoulder.

“Hey so you never told me who you are!” Yuiko commented, slithering across the forest floor at a dizzying speed.

“My name is Marielle.” It was the last thing she said before she passed out.

--

@killtheprotagonist 

[nalgenewhore]

A Promise Is A Promise ~ Chapter Four

In a world in which Elide Lochan can only remember that she is someone’s prey and they will stop at nothing to find her, trusting Lorcan Salvaterre, a man whose past is as cloudy as hers is quite possibly the most sane thing she could do.

TW: Panic attack, PTSD due to sexual abuse, blood, gore, past trauma, death 

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He couldn’t tell what time it was when he finally woke, his head pounding the moment his eyes fell on the gray sky behind the window. 

Though it was cloudy, the sun hiding today it seemed, it was still light outside and he lurched out of bed, staggering to rip the curtains closed, the flimsy linen drapes barely blocking the outside from his little corner of the world. 

Lorcan couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this sick after a night out, always able to bounce back like nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t spent the hours drowning his demons until he could forget that they swam and would find him wherever. 

Every step out of his room had his head feeling like someone was striking a hammer on his brain, hammering out metal on his shattered mind. He felt her hands still on him, every second, every fall of the hammer had him remembering a new night, a new way she made to label him as hers. Nausea rolled through him at the sight of the bite mark on his hip, at the memory flashing behind it, her sheets like silken midnight but cold like the frigid depths of his dark god’s realm. 

Her lips, tracing over every harsh contour that made his body, his muscles trembling at the restraint it took to stay there and not rip her away from him, to not snarl in her face, to not tear her throat out with his teeth. 

It felt like someone was holding a brand to every mark she had ever made, searing into his flesh so that no matter how far he went, there was still a collar around his neck and shackles around his wrists, ones that she could yank on at any moment. 

Lorcan threaded his hands through his hair, pulling on it and using the sting of his force to bring him back from the brink of another flashback. His heart raced, his breathing erratic and chest heaving as he stumbled towards the sink, only slightly feeling guilty at the dishes piled in the sink and on the counter as he stretched his arm up to grab a new glass, filling it to the rim with cool water, the liquid cutting back the cotton in his head, lessening the blow of the hammer by a fraction. 

He raked his hand down his face, scrubbing his eyes as he stumbled to the couch, throwing himself onto it, swearing when the sudden movement sent a sharp burst of pain lancing through his head. He threw his arm over his face, screwing his eyes tightly shut as he breathed past the queasiness and let out the breath he had been holding for far too long, sitting up slowly to avoid setting off another wave of nausea. He sighed as he opened his laptop, clicking on the new email Vernon Lochan had sent them, more photos of the girl, Elide. 

He couldn’t quite put his finger on where he had seen her before, something about her eyes so familiar but not quite what he was looking for. 

The first picture he opened was one of her face and he did a double take, sure that he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was. 

No, no, it couldn’t be her. 

The one they called Anneith incarnate. 

But it was. 

Her eyes, he’d recognize them anywhere, the flatness of her dark, dark irises. The only time he’d felt fear in his life was around her, the pure ice that flowed through her veins, no matter the job they had to do. 

He’d seen her cut up men so viciously it nearly made him sick just thinking about it. He’d seen her kill with no hesitation, no mercy as she cut men and women down like stalks of wheat. She had never spoken in all the time he had spent with her, spent doing things he only ever wanted to forget. 

He had never seen her entire face, always hidden behind a mask that covered the bottom half of her face and she had never spoken, just a shell of a girl that had taken too many lives and dealt death like she held every soul in the palm of her blood soaked hands. 

The only glimpse of human he had ever witnessed was after a particularly gruesome and almost surgical execution, he had come out of the bloodstained tiled room to find her slumped against the wall, her angular eyes filled with an emotion so elemental and pure, he believed her to be human as she stared at her dirty hands, nails caked with blood. 

The sound of the heavy iron door closing had her snapping her head up and shooting to her feet, moving past him like a shadow down the hallway. 

Lorcan felt dread settle into his stomach, knowing why the price over her head was so high and why Maeve had sent him to find her. 

He was the best and even still, now that he knew who she was, he was doubtful they’d ever find her again. 

She had been kept as someone’s pet for far too long and he knew that she would fight tooth and nail to keep whatever freedom she had won, through blood and death and by selling her soul to whoever would take it, even if that was ruination itself. She would ruin herself, for any scrap of liberty she could find. 

The heavy silence of the apartment was sliced through by the shrill sound of his phone ringing and he picked it up, knowing who was calling. He began hyperventilating, his skin clammy while his hands began to tremble, a voice in his head hissing that he was weak and pathetic.

What kind of man lets someone do this to him?

How do you look at yourself in the mirror, knowing what she’s done to you?

How do you live with that weight? 

He picked up the call and before he could speak, her voice was pouring like oil into his ear, cold and suffocating. 

“Lorcan, dear. How are you?” 

He gritted his teeth, keeping his breaths quiet as he fought through this. “Fine.” 

Maeve laughed but there was no trace of joy one would expect from the sound, no, she would not know joy if it dropped dead at her feet, she had never known it, he knew that much. The noise that left her throat was a cacophony of something that was definitely not a laugh. “Oh, darling, it’s ok. You’ll be home soon enough.” 

He cringed at her calling that house home because it had never and would never be home to him. 

Home was the little cabin he had shared with his mother and sister. His entire life had been that cabin, nestled in the heart of the White Fang Mountains, the forests around them filled with other families like them. 

It was always warm and cozy and just big enough for the three of them.

His entire life had been in that cabin until that fateful day he had come home from school in Anielle to find the front door ripped off its hinges as it hung drunkenly. His stomach had dropped and he had thrown his backpack to the ground, sprinting through the threshold to find every surface completely drenched in dark red liquid, his eyes falling on the bodies of his mother and baby sister, the little girl barely even seven years old as she was strung up, her body so mutilated he had vomited before dropping to his knees, the blood soaking through his pants, sticky and cold. 

A woman he had never recognized had walked up beside him, smiling at him as if he couldn’t see the blood of his family on her pale hands and as though her pants weren’t soaked in it. He had been so broken, so defeated he hadn’t tried to fight her, everything he had lived for gone. 

He hadn’t fought when she took him away from the little cabin to her manor in Rifthold, far too big and cold for a house. 

He hadn’t fought when she forced weapons into his hands until he was the weapon and then he was able to avenge their deaths, imagining that every body he cut, every person he slaughtered had her immortal coldness and beauty. 

“Lorcan, are you even listening to me?” 

He snapped out of whatever he had been held captive in, “What.” 

Maeve sighed, “Is it the distance? Oh, my love, are you missing me?” 

He suppressed the gag he felt at her words, swallowing past it as he ground out, “Yes.” 

“Liar. You couldn’t wait to get away, could you, Lorcan?” She crooned,  “Is it hard, not being able to do the things you wish you could to me? The things I did to your mother? You poor, poor baby sister?” 

Lorcan nearly snapped, the thread of self control close to breaking when she said that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

She laughed again, the sound setting him on edge. “You’re a terrible liar, darling. It’s alright, soon, so soon, you’ll be here, right next to me in bed, you miss that don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re keeping to yourself, yes? No playing on the job, my love, you know that.” 

“The job is my only priority.” 

Maeve sighed, “You’re no fun. I’m getting bored and so is dear Vernon. Have you lost your touch?” 

At that he finally snapped, snarling, “You know who she is and you expect me to find her in three months? She’s a killer and has been let loose. She could be anywhere in the world right now.” 

She cackled, “So you finally figured it out, did you now? That’s fun, I was beginning to wonder if you would ever. You two always worked so well together, it was such fun watching the two of you break someone, like an art. Vernon says she’s been blessed by Anneith since birth, interesting, no?”

“No. It isn’t.” 

“Oh, surely it is,” she insisted and he could almost see her, sprawled over her bed, a viper’s smile pulling at her lips as she talked on the phone. She sighed again, “If you can’t find her soon, I might have to find a replacement for you. Maybe you’re worn out now, hmm?” 

“I’m fine. I don’t need a replacement. I can find her.” 

“Good. ‘Cause if you don’t, I’ll have to think of an appropriate punishment, won’t I?” 

He knew exactly what she meant by punishment and he shut his eyes, pulling away from the memories of past disciplinary actions she had taken against him, each one killing him just a little more, each one chipping at the childlike innocence he still had deep inside him. Lorcan didn’t answer and the only thing that kept him sane as Maeve began listing past measures she had taken against him was his eyes tracing over Elide’s picture, over the face of someone who knew pain like him. 

Minutes, hours, maybe even days later, the call ended and as he flung the phone across the room, watching it shatter after it hit the marble countertop and fall to the floor. He slammed the laptop closed, shaking as he stalked into his room and tugged on a pair of sweat shorts and a t-shirt, not bothering to lock the door as he left and began to run down the streets of the Witch City, moving until he didn’t recognize the names of the streets and stood on an empty bridge, his throat raw as he panted, leaning his forearms over the metal railing, eyes on the river below. 

He wouldn’t bring her back. 

He couldn’t be her damnation after she had gambled everything to escape. 

He would do whatever he could to keep her free. 

apiap masterlist ~ masterlist

A/N: if y’all wanna be tagged, lemme know and if you think of any other TW i could put, please please tell me!

tagging: @myfeyrelady​ @kandasboi​ @the-regal-warrior​ @highqueenofelfhame​ @rhysands-highlady​ @westofmoon​ @empire-of-wildfire​ @shyvioletcat​ @alifletcher2012​ @tangledraysofsunshine​ @ttakeitbacknoww​ @tswaney17​ @dayanna-hatter​ @lovemollywho​ @pilesoffriles @thephilosophyofblank​ @faellyrian-warriors​ @bat-wing-rhys​ @velarian-trash​ @chemicha​ @th-th-th-thats-all-folks​ @elorcanforever​ @littlehoneyybee @rowaelin-cressworth​ @mis-lil-red @lord-douglas-the-third​ @acourtofbookworms​ @ladydippinstone​ @flowerspringsea​ @sezkins79​ @court-of-fuck-me-daddy​ @blogdaydreamerblr​ @over300books​ @unapologetic-fangirl-4-life​ 

[nautiscarader]

Marichat - 2. Hesitate

Nautiscarader’s Smutember 2 - hesitate

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Marichat, (ML, E

===========================

- Ch-Chat!

Marinette’s voice filled her room, as her lover’s tongue lapped at her exposed folds, making her cries mix with the slow music that seeped from the speakers plugged to her phone. Chat Noir’s guttural purrs and groans only added the base to the carnal symphony, generated by his steady caresses.

With a strong grip on her thighs, Chat dived between her legs, making sure to cover each inch of her wet sex, as well as all nearby places that made her jitter from excitement. Adrien gladly explored more and more of her body, mapping it as meticulously as he could, making sure to remember which areas resulted in Marinette’s voice cracking the most.

- Chat!

His ears twitched, as he suddenly realised his lover’s plea had a note of annoyance, and he perched up from her sex to meet her smiling face.

- Is there something wrong, purrincess? - No, no, kitty…

She dug her fingers into his hair, and pulled him towards her, while he peppered her exposed chest, circling his cat tongue around her nipples, which made her arch her back. Chat used that opportunity to sneak her arms underneath her and slide his body onto hers in a single, graceful move. She opened her mouth when she felt him brush her folds, and subconsciously closed her legs behind his back, while his lips pressed against hers.

While she couldn’t argue that the long and passionate kiss was more than pleasing, she still had one issue on her mind she wanted to address, and she broke the intimate connection with her half-naked lover.

- Chat… I’ve been meaning to ask you… - she shied away for a moment - You know that now we don’t have to worry about my parents, right? - I do. - he smiled with a charming, cocky grin - Just your roommate that would looove to get a scoop on Chat Noir’s love life. - Don’t worry about her, Alya’s with her boyfriend. - she cupped his face - But… You know you can get a little… rougher, right?

Chat raised his eyebrows, as he leaned up over Marinette’s naked body.

- Is my purrincess ready for it? - Maybe the princess doesn’t want to be a princess anymore…

Marinette spread her arms and wriggled on her bed, twisting her body in a seductive, hypnotising, snake-like move that only made Adrien’s mouth water. Marinette arched her body and turned around, exposing her naked bum to the superhero sitting in the legs of her bed and wriggled her cheeks, hoping beyond belief to feel Chat’s hands on them.

Instead, she felt his lips again, placing delicate, butterfly kisses all over it, and she let out an impatient groan, pushing her back higher, until she had to pull back, knowing that making love in such position would cause more problems than pleasure.

She let out a yelp, when Chat dragged his claw against her skin, that got covered in goosebumps almost immediately. Her groans turned into wails and chirps, and the lack of visual contact only made her shiver in anticipation.

- Does my princess want that…? - Chat’s deep, but sweet voice rang somewhere behind her head - Does my princess want to be… punished…? - Oh, yes! - Marinette cried without thinking.

This was a fantasy she has had on her mind for quite some time, and could never verbalise it, but as soon as Chat spoke those words, her reply escaped her mouth before she had chance to tone it down. She turned around and Met Chat’s slightly surprised eyes, though as soon as he saw the flirtatious spark in hers, Chat grinned and stroked her bum again.

- Well, as you wish, princess. - Don’t hesitate, Chat…

Marinette mentally prepared herself for the pain she could feel in her nether regions, but instead, she shrieked, when she was thrown into a different world. Her ears were filled with a strong and lout guitar riff, her vision became a blur for a moment, and when she landed on her back again, her arms were pushed up and propped against the long heating pipe in the corner of her small room.

She looked up and spotted Chat’s leathery tail, that on so many occasions was an intricate part of her fantasies, tied around her wrists, immobilising her and leaving on the mercy of her lover. When Chat finished fiddling with the playlist on her phone, he walked on all fours towards her, his pose and look in his eyes emanating with hunger.

Though she couldn’t move, Chat made sure to put the mountain of pillows into the corner as well, making sure her half-sitting position was more than comfortable. And Marinette very quickly learned why. His claws dug into thighs, and she unceremoniously pushed her twitching legs up and onto his shoulders, before he leaned onto her and plunged himself deep inside her without any warning.

Marinette let out a cry that was silenced with his mouth immediately and for a moment, she was forced to breathe the hot breaths Chat was expelling from his mouth, as he panted with each forceful push. She didn’t even mind the rubbery, alien feel of the condom, as the ferocity with which her lover filled her made up for it tenfold. As he pressed her legs against her body in near-vertical fashion, he was able to stimulate parts of her sex he never previously has, making Marinette let out wail after wail.

- Is… Is this what you wanted? - he whispered, leaning onto her. - Yes! - she cried in response, wishing she could close her arms or legs around him, the frustration of her position only adding another wave of shiver onto her skin.

Adrien moved his hips in sync of the aggressive music that filled her room, mixing with her cries and moans, and the sight of his usually shy girlfriend writhing and coiling under his forceful moves made him lose himself in the passion that only fuelled itself. He was used to making slow, passionate love to her, especially when she was still in high school, and lived with her parents, though he could definitely see why her new, student’s life made her crave for something different.

For a second, he wondered how Jagged Stone would react knowing the designer of his clothes and CD covers was making love to his music, but Marinette’ rising voice quickly put that random thought out of his mind. The blue-haired girl was babbling, as her mind was slowly going blank, and Adrien could only recognise his mangled name between cries and wails. Though he preferred keeping his grip on her legs, he sneaked his right hand between thier pressed bodies, and as his fingers crawled to her sex, Marinette’s voice grew in volume again, culminating when his clawed finger brushed her clit.

Without taking eyes from his lover, Chat let her left leg fall to the bed, though she curled it around his bum almost immediately, exerting at least a fraction of dominance, and gaining some security to contain her oncoming orgasm. Though Chat wished he could dedicate more time to her jewel, he knew this time a more direct approach is necessary; mashing his fingers against in a circling motion, he made Marinette throw her head back, or at least af far as she could, given her position. Through her words, he could finally recognise clear signs of her peak, and he doubled his efforts, wanting to finish simultaneously.

her free leg suddenly bucked his ass, and her whole, petite frame writhed and spasmed around him coating his lower costume, as well as her own bed with copious amount of her juices in an exploding orgasm that set her on fire, and continued to burn as she suddenly couldn’t dissipate the raw energy, with her hands still locked. As her body writhed in her temporary shackles, Marinette suddenly felt a different kind of warmth on her body. The discarded condom fell next to her, while Chat’s orgasm continued to pour and stain her abdomen, as his his hips bucked in animalistic, subconscious motion, marking her as his for a solid minute.

- Sorry about the mess, princess - Chat addressed her - That wasn’t too rough, was it?

Before hearing her answer, Chat undid the buckle of his belt and took Marinette’s hand in his own, placing a gentle kiss on each of her wrists.

- No, it wasn’t, Chaton. - she cupped his face and kissed him - It was great. - I didn’t want to punish you too hard, Marinette… - Chat dragged his hand across her bum and gave it a light spank - Mostly because, well, I’m not sure how hard should I be. - Aww, that’s so sweet. I’ll need to ask Alya, she and her boyfriend are a bit into it. Maybe she can teach you a thing of two? - I think that would destroy the whole “journalistic integrity”, wouldn’t it?

Chat raised his brow and gave Marinette a pack of tissues to clean herself up.

- She knows we’re a thing and yet, no word on Ladyblog about that. - Marinette smirked - Imagine, so many girls heartbroken…

Marinette leaned and closer her arms around Chat, bringing him down onto her bed, once again crashing her lips against his.

- Does my purrincess want me to be rough again? - Chat asked, stroking her waist. - Mhm-hm - she shook her head - I want all the cuddles in the world now. - I shall not hesitate…

[scarletgardensrpg]

LIVING ♦ FORTY-FIVE ♦ ASCENDANCY

NIKOLAAS VAN HOUTEN is Head of the Ascendancy—commonly addressed as De Dominee by Undead members—and was Senior Advisor to Agostina for the first two years of the House's inception before stepping down. He is also a founding member of the infamous Red Room, where the fatal PM-GRNT 197 drug was first conceived. For his unapologetic and public involvement in this project, Nikolaas remains a controversial figure, especially among the living. Although he possesses the rare and coveted gift of resurrection, he avoids using his ability, preferring instead to work through Cecile.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: violent death, needles

This is how it starts. A bullet splits a woman's head in two outside Patisserie Chez Maitre Pierre, and her shopping bags fall to the ground, tipping over as children's books and clothing scatter across the pavement. She drops the cake, too, and it smears against the plastic casing, blood red velvet on black chocolate. The paramedics come and go, taking the body with them, but her bags are abandoned in the street, kicked aside by passing strangers. She lives in an apartment in Riquier, a stone's throw from Nice. They send someone, who pounds twice on the door with a closed fist and only hesitates for a moment when a boy answers, blonde and brown-eyed, not a day older than thirteen. He knows, because there had been thirteen birthday candles in Eva van Houten's coat pocket. Nikolaas, the man says, and it is not a question. He looks just like his mother. Something's happened. And just like that, the serene, open look on the boy's face begins to change.

- ❀ -

He was conceived against the counsel of every Moulin Rouge whore with a say in the matter. Pretty Mila had struck Eva across the face, red nails leaving lines, hard enough that she saw stars. Do you think he is your husband? She was on the brink of tears, but her expression bore nothing but cold rage. He will have you killed for the information you have stolen. If not him, his wife, de Dame. She is Queen of the Penoze. She will spare neither you or de klootzak. And Eva, in knowing this and more, had silently slipped out of her heels and wiped off her makeup. She placed a delicate hand to her stomach, which would begin to swell soon. By then, she'd be long gone from this place. Mila began to sob finally, but Eva felt warm. She felt sure. That spring, in a hospital in Rome, Nikolaas came into the world with a wail, no larger than a doll and twice as pretty. He was a dangerous, miraculous child, the love crime of a common whore and a lord of the underworld; a fugitive on the run the moment he was born. And loved, still. One year hiding in Italy, two in Germany, another six months in Thailand. Three and a half in the safehouse in Nice, hopefully longer. Eva ran the coordinates in her head over and over. She sang them softly to the tune of nursery rhymes, lulling her son to sleep.

Nikolaas and Eva; Eva and Nikolaas. His world began with her hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake, and ended with the sound of her laughter on the evening balcony. He had never felt embarrassed for it, had never felt compelled to earn the doggish approval of neighborhood boys by treating her poorly, as they treated their own mothers. All other things, after all, were temporary: the apartments they lived in, the cities and schools they rotated through every six months, the men who came and went; some kind, some cruel, none permanent. The kind ones, he ignored. The cruel ones, he broke his knuckles on their teeth. Eva always said: You deserve a father. Nikolaas always replied: I have you. His mother, beautiful as she was, carried with her a sadness Nikolaas could not understand. She was lonely, but enforced their rootless existence year and after. She slept fitfully and jumped at loud noises. He knew better than to ask. Once, he had seen the puckered line that ran up along her abdomen, too high up to be a cesarean scar—as if someone had vivisected her and clumsily sewn her back up. He would grow up to look just like her: high cheekbones, straight nose, sun-silver hair. He acquired her love of books and silence, her intimate charisma, her academic wit. And the things he did not inherit from her—that needle of unfeeling darkness when he ought to have felt affection or love for someone other than Eva, that cruel thread of pleasure when he hit a classmate—he pushed down dutifully, deep where it would not be found. And so it festered within him, a slow night-falling in his soul while he won awards and played tennis and made Honor Roll, cloying and uncomfortable—growing larger and larger, until, after Eva died, it became unbearable at last. Something's happened, the police officer said. Nikolaas had found the papers the night before. They'd fought the morning she left. When they returned her coat to him, the wool was still spattered with blood and bits of dried cake. She had gone out and gotten the gifts as an apology.

After: an apartment of ghosts, the incessant whir of press outlets, the city of Nice at his back for the next ten years. Teachers and students alike either pitied him or adored him—usually both at once. Fatherless, motherless, and with nothing to his name but thirteen candles and a ruined coat, he became something of a tragic hero. Poor thing, so went the lamentation. Another victim of the Penoze. Another helpless child unjustly bereaved. Of course, he was also an adept actor: warm to the touch, willing to pose for photographers and sit in studios, bringing journalists to tears while the funds and donations rolled in like tidewater. And all the while, the first tendrils of a gestating obsession gripped him: something to ease the agony of waking in the middle of the night to the sound of a skull splitting, sometimes Eva's and sometimes his, the smell of rotten cake, the nonsensical pulse of a ghost scar on his abdomen, sheet after sheet of stolen papers—papers that had costed Eva her life. His mother had not been killed. She'd been hunted. Death, death, death. It was all he thought about. At Johns Hopkins, at Harvard. Gripping Agostina's hand for the first time in an empty classroom. How to outrun it. How to survive it. In Palestrina at midnight, listening to the sound of Thalia's velvet voice, saying, We never wanted you, just your drug mule of a mother. And still, death. He thought about the shape of it as he squeezed the syringe into Cecile's neck, then his own, the pain immediate. It lingered in the air as he stood in her and Evander's empty cell, the metal bars bent, his creatures gone to set fire to the world. And when he returned, at last, to bury the ruins of Amsterdam beneath a new order, he thought of Death once more. How to conquer it. How to master it.

CONNECTIONS

AGOSTINA – MIRROR, MIRROR.  She was no lamb. He had seen it in her the moment they shook hands and exchanged names and vices: the deceivingly delicate curve of her steady mouth, the lush dark of her infinite gaze, the edged grace with which she commanded lecture halls and courtrooms—and later, entire cities. In Agostina, Nikolaas found a place to put down his dreams. She was someone to share with, when he had not thought sharing was possible. She was intelligent, unafraid, his. For who else but him had she bared her true face to? Who else but him was privy to her spider-web mind, had indulged in the dark waters of their shared ambitions? Life after life. Deathless death. Together, they had destroyed a world, and raised it once more from the ashes. Whatever strange, bleeding thing bloomed between them in the wake of those rituals, it was intimate. Rare. Pure. Nikolaas considers their falling out over No. 200 and subsequent separation his biggest failure. Up until then, she had remained his unconstestable ally—an unquestioned friend and irreplaceable life partner. Almost naively, he had not thought it possible for the two fo them to disagree. But in the end, Agostina had shaken her head and refused to venture deeper, go darker. He does not disagree, that Agostina looks radiant under the sun: a leader among lambs, herding her flock toward salvation. But deep down, he is sure she would look even lovelier among the wolves. At his side. Nikolaas may have been the one to walk away, but it was Agostina who refused to follow. 

CECILE – LITTLE MONSTER. If there were a God, Cecile would have bitten his wrist. If God were a beast, she would have had his throat torn out and his body tossed at Nikolaas' feet—and they would have both understood it to be a gift. Fifteen years ago, when she entered the Red Room as a test subject, she did so with all the flagrant, unwavering arrogance of a true American. They wound up developed a strange friendship over the years: steady Doctor and willing patient, two dark things who could never quite look away each time something died in a cage. She had egged him on and dragged him into deeper, more depraved depths than either could imagine on their own—daring him to find a place she could not follow him to. You aren't going to escape? He had asked, if only to watch her face twist in amusement. This is my sanctuary, she purred. Out there is where I'm shackled like a dog. So he had killed her, and freed her, and damned her, and saved her. She had done the same for him. When the worst of the chemicals subsided, she awoke: Undead and terrible, his first and only creation. Somehow, he knew there would be no one else after her. They are tied together forever, by flesh and blood—and perhaps this is why Cecile will always find him, again and again: shivering together on the laboratory floor, in Warsaw at the end of the world, in Amsterdam at the start of it. When they had agreed to perform the act, two syringes in Nikolaas' coat pocket, he had said to her: Don't be afraid. Every transformation requires the death of its predecessor. To this, he still remembers the way she had tipped her head back and laughed. That rich, terrifying sound. Then, Doctor, I am a woman who has died a hundred times over.  

LUANA & MAURICE – COME ASTRAY, LITTLE LAMBS. He likes them. They hate him, of course, but their hatred is grown from a dishonest seed—they hate him for a crime he did not commit, and see only a monster among monsters when they look to him. The irony is not lost on Nikolaas: that the royal twins, upon their return, learn immediately to eat from the hand that ruined them and snarl at the one that saved them. He sees Agostina's bloody signature written all across this devil's deal. It's a clever political play on her part, Nikolaas can admit; something that will guarentee the twins' eventual alliance to her, provided the truth of the family massacre never comes out. Regardless, Nikolaas is not concerned; just as all blooms grow toward the sun, the Prince and Princess, being clever children, will grope their way through the darkness and eventually come out with the horrible, funny truth. He feels no need to personally reveal this crucial information to them either, as the discovery will be sure to do greater damage if they can find out on their own. As such, he will only gently nudge them closer, disincline them to partake in blind obedience, and encourage them to see the ugly light. While Luana remains steadfast in her condemnation of the Undead, Nikolaas sees something more hopeful in the boy, Maurice—his resolve wavering in the wake of Dimitri's most hospital gestures, his curiosity rising to defeaning volumes with every night he spends racing with Nikolaas' garden of monsters.  

OPEN ♦ FC: MADS MIKKELSEN

[ariadnelives]

Chapter 14 -- The Tables, Turned

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3”]

“Yeah,” Prescott muttered blearily, “she's not coming back.”

“Shut. Up.” The red-robed acolyte insisted, jabbing him in the back with a pistol. “Keep moving.”

“Hey! Watch it!” Prescott slurred, “I need medical attention!”

“You're going to need more if you don't keep your mouth shut,” the acolyte growled.

The three prisoners were marched down a long corridor and finally shackled into several antique chairs in a dusty room that reminded Ariadne of her childhood home. She was sure that the chairs in the dining room of Ramos Manor didn't have manacles built into the armrests, but otherwise they were shockingly similar.

Prescott's bleeding hand was given some rudimentary bandaging and the three of them were left to sit together while they waited for whoever was coming to interrogate them.

Their weapons were laid out carefully on a table in the corner next to the backpack containing Ariadne's cybernetic legs. A single Acolyte watched them intently from another chair, sans manacles, between the weapons and themselves.

“Do you have a plan?” Pilar whispered to Ariadne.

“You have been told to shut up,” the acolyte reminded them.

“I do, but you have to be quiet and don't blow it.” Ariadne whispered back.

“What are you two talking about over there?” The guard asked, and stood up.

As soon as he'd made it to his feet, he immediately collapsed into a heap on the floor. Behind him, Ariadne's four mechanical legs clumsily held her weapon, aiming it at approximately where the acolyte's head had recently been.

“Is he…?” Pilar asked cautiously.

“No, if I did it right he should just be unconscious for about half an hour.”

Prescott gave a delirious chuckle. “How did…!?” This was about as articulate as he knew how to be.

“The legs have a telepathic sensor, they respond to my—” Ariadne began to explain, but soon realized this was completely in vain as Prescott had lost too much blood to understand the finer points of bionics. “If they wanted to disarm me, they should've put the pack in a different room.”

The backpack crawled its way over to the chairs and began attempting to free Pilar from her restraints. The tip of one arm fired a small jet of plasma at the shackle and managed to get halfway through it when they heard the gunshot.

Ariadne let out a yelp of pain and the backpack collapsed immediately. Pilar glanced down and saw a large scorch-mark on the back of it.

The source of the gunshot stood in the doorway, holding a very large blaster. She was about fifteen years old with white-blonde hair, intricate patterns of orange drawn on her face, and a dark red robe.

She looked down at the passed-out acolyte. “Pathetic,” she muttered. “Why are the three of you in my house?”

Ariadne looked up at the young girl. “You look an awful lot like that brat who stole my identity.”

“Strange,” the girl said. It was almost comical, hearing this girl who was younger than both of them but talked like she'd learned English by watching old movies about southern preachers. “See, I was under the impression that 'Ariadne' was just a folk myth. It sounds like something a high school girl with a superhero complex would come up with.”

“I never went to high school,” Ariadne said indignantly. The look on Pilar's face reminded her that their captor was holding a very deadly weapon while they were unarmed, and that this was not the time for backsass.

“Can you give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot the three of you dead right now?” The girl asked. “I mean, if you're really the legendary Ariadne, keeping you alive would be quite a liability for me.”

Ariadne began, gesturing towards Prescott, “I can't speak for this eight-fingered waste of hair gel—”

“—Seven,” Pilar corrected.

“Thank you! You can go ahead and kill this seven-fingered waste of hair gel, there's definitely nobody who knows or cares where he is—”

“—Heyyyy…” A half-lucid Prescott objected, although he could not argue that she was wrong in good conscience, which would have stopped him if he had a conscience.

“—excuse you, you have been told to cram it,” Ariadne snapped back, “as I was saying, me and my girl? Some very dangerous people know where we are and will come looking for us. If they show up and we're dead, everyone here will die. If we're alive, you might just get roughed up.”

The fake Ariadne laughed derisively. “How am I supposed to believe they can do anything to us when you two got captured like that?” She snapped her fingers to illustrate the point.

“Okay, that's …” Pilar said, “ …fair.”

“Now, I'm gonna give y'all the benefit of the doubt because I've got questions and I don't usually enjoy killing children,” this struck Ariadne as somewhat strange, as the girl before them was easily four years younger than her. “First, how did you even get into this place?”

“Door was unlocked,” Ariadne replied. “This clown was already in here, I suspect he's the one who unlocked it.”

“Ah yes,” their captor responded, “our friend Mr. Cain. I believe we were promised an impenetrable security system. I think we should have a talk about a refund.”

“I think we should talk about a… fingers…” Prescott droned, and laughed near the end, as though what he'd said made any sense. The laugh quickly transformed into some pretty heavy crying. “Shit, man, you cut off my fingers…”

“That's an excellent point, darlin,” the impostor Ariadne replied.

“It is?” Pilar asked, genuinely confused.

“My next question is, why did you liberate Mr. Cain’s fingers from his hands?”

“Pissed me off,” Pilar replied simply, “seems to be going around today.”

“That's—” The impostor Ariadne suddenly winced in what seemed to be pain, as though struck by a sudden migraine. She almost lost her balance, but found her equilibrium before falling over altogether.

A voice came over an intercom somewhere near the door, “Prophet, are you alright?”

“I'm fine, leave me,” the impostor Ariadne snapped.

“Prophet, I must advise that we—” the voice over the intercom did not get to finish his sentence, and instead made a noise that sounded an awful lot like someone stuffed something in his mouth and then hit him over the head with something else. Judging by the sounds alone, it was probably a sock and a shoe, respectively.

“That doesn't sound good, faker,” Ariadne offered. “If you want to go check on that guy, we'll wait!”

“Sounds like our crew figured out we were in distress and sent someone to help,” Pilar casually commented back, “that or a third person decided to break into this place tonight.”

“Be quiet,” the impostor snapped back, and winced again, more severely this time, as though her body was racked with pain. She collapsed to the floor very suddenly. Ariadne and Pilar exchanged a glance, and Prescott started to laugh deliriously.

“What.” Ariadne looked down at the now completely unconscious girl on the floor.

As suddenly as she'd passed out, she awoke, sprang to her feet, and darted for the door.

“You've got to get out of here,” she said urgently, fastening the locks from the inside. Something was incredibly different about her voice. It seemed a lot less cruel and there wasn't a trace of southern drawl in it. “You need to get as far away from here and from me as possible, right now.”

She darted over to Pilar and Ariadne and began to loosen the restraints.

“Care to explain, suge?!” Asked a bewildered Ariadne. Someone very strong began banging on the door, seemingly trying to kick it down.

“You don't know what he's like.  He'll kill you if you don't get out of here.”

“Who's the 'He' you're referring to?” Pilar asked.

“My father, the Zealot,” the girl explained, rushing to untie a now mostly unconscious Prescott. “May the Red God forgive me for my betrayal,” she began, and sprung into a rapidfire language that Pilar and Ariadne didn't understand, but Ariadne was sure she'd heard somewhere before. “Confíteor Deo omnipoténti et vobis, fratres, quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo, ópere et omissióne: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa. Ideo precor beátam excélsus Prophéta supra, omnes servos et disciplos, et vos, fratres, oráre pro me ad Dóminum Deum nostrum. Amen.”

She continued repeating this as Ariadne and Pilar got loose from their chairs started to look for ways out of this room.

“Window,” Pilar said, and gestured at a window with several velvet ropes. They rushed towards it, hoping to be out of the room quickly, as whoever was attempting to kick down the door was clearly going to be momentarily successful.

They stopped just short of the window when a new sound caught their attention: a repeating thud coming from inside the room, coinciding with the pauses in their captor's chant.

Ariadne and Pilar turned to look back and saw the girl was rhythmically beating herself, closed-palmed, about the chest and face.

“Knew I recognized that damn prayer,” Ariadne muttered and rushed over to her.

“¿Qué haces? Time is a factor, querida!” Pilar rushed her.

“What kind of hypocrite would I be if I left her?” Ariadne demanded, and grabbed the flailing girl by the wrists, “baby, I'm here, okay? We're gonna get you away from him, I promise.”

The girl kept thrashing against Ariadne, “No, no, it's too late for me, you have to just go—”

“It's not too late, I promise, we're going to get you to safety,” Ariadne assured.

“Ari, we've got to go,” Pilar insisted.

“I'm not leaving without her,” Ariadne snapped.

Pilar understood this, but this did not deter her. “Throw her over your shoulder if you've got to, but that door is coming down!”

“It is, it is too late, I've betrayed the Red God and he's going to kill me,” the girl insisted. “He's in my head, he goes where I go, I can't escape him.”

The girl seized up suddenly and her earlier, more authoritative voice rang out: “DO IT NOW, SMITE THIS HEATHEN CHILD.”

The door finally gave in as the young girl burst into flames.

“What the hell?!” Sweettalk announced over the girl's pained screams as she and Sasha barreled into the room in flight suits, apparently carrying their own weight in weapons on their backs.

“Pilar, the curtains!” Ariadne shouted, and Pilar almost instinctively ripped them down and threw them to Ariadne, who used them to smother the flames as quickly as possible.

“Of course,” Pilar said, gazing out the now-exposed window, “of course we're in space.”

“Sasha, I'm so glad you're here, this girl needs medical attention now,” Ariadne said, “When the hell did we leave Mars?!”

Sasha immediately kneeled down on the ground and began bandaging the girl as quickly as possible. “I don't have a dose of serum strong enough to heal burns this severe, I'll do what I can, but there might be permanent damage.”

“If we could get her back to the ship?” Ariadne pleaded.

“With your knowledge of cybernetics and my medical expertise we should be able to keep her alive, but it won't be easy.”

“We've got to get a pickup, have either of you been in contact with Alicia?” Pilar asked, “Christ, how did we get to space?!”

“Fastwing is locked onto a signal in our suits, we knocked out the guards and she'll be boarding to pick us up in two minutes,” Sweettalk explained, “you left Mars as soon as you crossed the plane of the front door. Turns out the life centers are just portals to this place, Fastwing says they've been using something called Quantum Shift Generators to operate out of this space station. All the entrances lead here. That way, if their operation is ever busted, they can flip a switch and leave the authorities with a bunch of empty warehouses to search. I'm guessing that was this prick's idea,” she gestured at Prescott.

“You know him?” Pilar asked.

Sweettalk scowled. “An old thorn in my side. Who did that to his hand? And did someone punch him in the eye?”

“I did the hand, Ariadne did the eye,” Pilar said, “He was annoying us.”

“Okay,” Sweettalk said, “I might literally kiss you both later, but for now, we've got to get to the airlock.”

Sasha and Ariadne supported the badly-burned girl, who thankfully seemed somewhat delirious herself, and walked her out the door as Pilar and Sweettalk covered their six with guns drawn. Pilar slung Ariadne's broken mechanical legs over her shoulder.

As promised, Alicia was waiting for them at the airlock. They loaded onto the ship, where Ariadne and Sasha rushed their patient into the back and quickly got to work on healing her wounds. The tissue damage was too severe to be healed by any amount of Sasha's serum at this point. Sasha got to work on amputating the irreparably damaged tissue while Ariadne got to work on crafting cybernetic replacements from the cannibalized remains of her own cybernetic enhancements. By the time they were finished, their patient would have lost her right eye, her left arm, both legs, the bulk of her skin, and use of her lungs and heart. Luckily, the ship had a respirator that allowed her to continue breathing, and Ariadne was able to cannibalize the motor of her cybernetic legs and construct a crude fluid pump which would keep her blood flowing.

Luckily, they were able to anesthetize her so she would feel no pain. Her delirium had not settled, but she was still conscious and able to speak.

“Why did you… why am I alive…” She stammered.

“We got you away,” Ariadne replied in her calmest tone of voice, “just like I promised.”

“You should've left me,” the girl replied, “I deserved to die, you should've left me…”

“You didn't deserve to die, suge.” Ariadne suddenly realized she didn't know this girl's real name. “Hon, we're gonna get you through this. What's your name?”

“ViLaz,” she responded, “you should've… you should've left me there…”

“We're losing her!” Sasha shouted, and injected her with more of her regenerative serum.

“Stay with us, ViLaz, we're gonna keep you safe, okay?”

“You should've—”

“I don't want to hear that. We didn't leave you there. You're going to live whether you like it or not, okay?”

ViLaz nodded and Sasha exhaled in relief.

“Her vitals are stabilizing. I think she's going to be okay, but she's going to need a lot more treatment. I think your cybernetics made the difference, cap. They're crude, but you'll make slicker replacements when we're back at the station.” Sasha removed her gloves and sighed.

“Thank you,” Ariadne held back tears and hugged Sasha.

“Can we talk in private?” Sasha asked seriously.

“Of course!”

Sasha pulled Ariadne out of earshot of everyone and said, “I saw who this was, before she was burned. I thought you wanted her dead.”

“I had a change of heart,” Ariadne muttered.

“I'm glad you did, ” Sasha said plainly, “but I don't know why.”

“Sue me if I saw a little bit of myself in a little girl reciting a Catholic prayer because she's afraid of her father.”

Sasha considered this. “I had no idea you were Catholic.”

“I'm not.” Ariadne was having trouble holding back tears. “Now, come on. Our new friend needs her rest and I'm sure Sweettalk is explaining all sorts of things to Spacebreather, which should be fun to watch.”

Sasha laughed, less because Ariadne had said anything funny and more because Ariadne really seemed to need a shift in tone. They made their way up front, and sure enough, Spacebreather was intently listening to Sweettalk recounting the whole wild story.

[waywarddaughterwrites]

Weakness Ch.2

A/N: Here’s chapter 2! This one has more than Reader involved, but not in the ways you may expect. Just because we’re in the bunker...doesn’t always mean we’re home. I’ll post the third and final chapter tomorrow! Until then, much love and chocolates to you all <3

Read Me on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14536836/chapters/33616497

Part 1   Part 3

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Everything Tag List:

@kissofthebadwolf @eurusholmmes @ourloveisforthelovely

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I almost laughed in relief. I had no idea how the hell I’d gotten here, or where the hell I’d come from, but I was home, somehow. Were the boys here? I wanted to find out, but before I could go any further down the hallway, my knees gave out and I sank to the floor. The adrenaline that had been pumping through my veins for who knew how long was waning and I was crashing, hard. My breaths were coming in deep gasps and I put my hands on top of my head and tried to slow my breathing before I fell into a panic attack. A few hysterical tears escaped down my cheeks before I wiped them from my face and pulled myself up. I had a horrible thought and quickly turned back to the door I’d entered through. Preparing myself, I turned the handle and jerked the door open. It was a small supply cupboard full of dusty brooms, mops, buckets...it reminded me of a janitor’s closet in high school. I breathed a sigh of relief, I was half convinced that I’d open the door and find a double-barrel in my face. Closing the door, I didn’t bother to sneak forward down the hallway. Why should I? The bunker had been my home for almost a decade, now. I didn’t get very far before a door opened beside me. I barely had time to turn before a hand covered my mouth and another one pulled me forcefully into the room. The door closed the instant I was clear of it and in the three seconds between being outside of the door and suddenly inside, my wits had come back to me and I began to struggle against my captor. “Sssshhhh, Sugar. Calm down. It’s me.” The hands restraining me loosened their grip and I turned to face my captor. “Gabriel?” Gabriel looked me over, obviously inspecting my well-being. By his face, I could tell he was none-too-happy with my state. I hadn’t seen myself, but with my swollen ankle, cuts and scrapes from glass and tree branches, my fights with the benders, and everything in-between, I was sure I was quite the sight. I rubbed my wrist where the shackle had bruised it self-consciously. Gabriel placed one hand tenderly on my shoulder and lifted my chin with his other. I looked up at him. “Sweets, are you okay?” I opened my mouth to reply, but no sound came out. I closed it and shook my head. He pulled me to him in an embrace. I gripped him tightly and he stroked my hair comfortingly. “What was it?” “Benders.” I felt his grip around me tighten. I sunk into his chest and grounded myself against him. Too soon, he pulled himself away from me. Holding me by the shoulders, I felt his grace wash over me, healing my wounds. It was rejuvenating. I smiled at him and he kissed my forehead. Suddenly, his face grew serious. “Y/N, there’s something you need to know. All of what you went through just now with the benders, all of this, it isn’t real. I mean, it is. But it’s complicated. You have to understand, you’re—“ His words were cut short as an invisible force seemed to rip him away from me and teleported him elsewhere. “Gabriel!” “That was touching, but you know how I feel about chick-flick moments.” I whipped around and saw Dean and Sam standing in the doorway. Dean’s hand was bloody and pressed against a banishing sigil painted on the open doorway. “Dean, Sam, what the hell?!” I yelled. “Why did you banish Gabriel?” “Fucking angels,” Sam sneered. I looked to him in shock. Dean had pulled his hand away from the sigil and wiped the blood off on his shirt. I was so stunned by how they were acting it took me a second before I realized they both had guns drawn. At me. I looked from the guns to the men in front of me. “Guys...it’s me. What are you doing?” They started to approach me and I found myself backing away. I’d seen both men in action for years, now. They were well-oiled machines of death. Having their sights set on me was incredibly intimidating. “Dean...?” “Sam...?” I looked at each of them in turn, but got nothing in response but cold hatred in their eyes. “Guys! It’s me, come on! It’s Y/N!” “Oh, we know who you are,” Sam stated cooly. “And we told you what would happen if we saw your face again.” “Yeah,” Dean joined. “How we would separate it, along with your head, from the rest of your body. Showing back up here was a damn stupid move, Sweetheart.” The nickname stung when he spit it at me like that. I was dumbfounded. What the hell was going on? The Winchester’s were like my brothers! Why did they suddenly want to kill me? Unless... “You’re not Sam and Dean.” Dean chuckled. “Oh, I assure you. It’s us. If we had the time, I’d let you perform any test you wanted. But I’m a little too excited to see your head on a pike.” His finger twitched and I threw myself to the side as a bullet whizzed from the gun in his hand. It grazed my cheek, leaving an angry cut that I could feel blood instantly beginning to pour from. I didn’t have time to regroup before another bullet landed near me. I scrambled away, crawling around bookshelves and piles of boxes. I tried not to focus too much on who was shooting at me as I attempted to strategize my escape from the room. I needed to get past them out of the door. I leaned up against a bookshelf and had an idea. Turning and leaning my back against the shelf, I pushed until I felt it give way. It fell and knocked into another shelf, which gave away like dominos. I heard the gunshots stop and a yell as the boys dove out of the way of the falling shelves. I ran at the door and out into the hallway. For a split-second I considered running straight down the hallway. I knew my best shot was to hide in another room, though. I heard the boys scrambling to their feet behind me and I ran toward a door across the hall. Unknowing about what may be beyond the door, I threw it open and closed it back behind me as quickly as I could. I was in another hallway. Perfect! I ran down the hallway and opened one of the rooms on the end of the row. Closing the door behind me once more, I looked around at my new surroundings. I was in another library. A smaller one, more compact. There were bookshelves and cabinets lining the walls, rows of shelving with books and other items piled on top of them. “Y/N?” I spun around and threw myself at Gabriel, standing in front of the door. “Gabriel! How did you get back here so fast? The boys! They’re trying to kill me! What’s going on?” “Woah, woah, slow down,” he said, holding me strangely stiffly. “Where are Beavis and Butthead?” I pulled away from him, searching his face. “They’re not too far behind me, Gabe. I could really use some backup. And an explanation as to why my best friends want me dead?” Gabriel held me by the shoulders, his grip uncomfortably tight. “Well, darling,” he began, “I’d imagine they want you dead—“ In one fluid motion he released me and sucker-punched me across the jaw. “—for the same reasons I do.” I crumbled to the floor at the blow and began to crawl away from him, tears of pain and confusion and heartbreak welling in my eyes. This Gabriel was not my Gabriel. My mind knew that, but my heart was harder to convince and the pain of betrayal was somehow worse. I needed to focus. If I thought the Winchesters were dangerous, they were nothing compared to the might of an archangel out for blood. He snapped his fingers and I was picked up and thrown across the room, slamming into one of the bookshelves. I felt blood trickling down my head and I knew I’d cracked my skull when my head hit the shelf. The feeling was making me dizzy almost immediately. I didn’t have time to dwell on the feeling before an invisible hand began to choke me, lifting me off of my feet and pressing me harder against the bookshelf behind me. Just then the door burst open and the brothers entered the room, guns drawn, an unmasked bloodlust on their faces. Tears trickled down my cheeks. The three men I loved most in the world... Sam and Dean pointed their guns at me. “You see, Y/N,” Sam started, “your mistake was thinking we wanted you dead immediately.” He pulled his trigger and I felt jagged, white-got pain erupt from a spot on my shoulder. “We’re gonna do this nice and slow,” Dean finished his brother’s thought. He pulled his trigger and I felt the pain of a bullet wound in my thigh this time. The force gripping my neck wouldn’t allow me to scream at the pain. It was allowing me just enough oxygen to keep me conscious. Tears were pouring down my face, now. I wished they would aim for my heart. A bullet there would hurt less than this and would end the emotional torment of knowing who it was that put it there. “Get your slimy grace off of her,” a voice said. My vision was blurry and there was a thudding in my ears that made it difficult to tell who was speaking. I noticed, however, when the force choking me relented and I dropped to the floor, agonizing pain from the bullet wounds coursing through my body. I looked up as my vision cleared and saw a struggling Gabriel being held prone against the wall by another invisible force. Sam and Dean has been thrown at the wall and knocked unconscious. “Y/N!” I turned and blinked a couple of times to clear my vision. In front of me stood a second Gabriel, holding the first one at bay. “Y/N, I should have explained before and I don’t have much time to now, I can’t hold him back for very long! You’re in a dream! A nightmare! Created by a djinn!” Djinn. Djinn. Djinn! We were hunting a djinn! I must have been caught! “Y/N, you know what you have to do! Everything will be okay, I swear! I’ll meet you on the other side, come on, Sugar!” I looked around quickly before my hands landed on the small bit of a knife I’d salvaged from the equipment room at the Bender’s place. Locking eyes with the Gabriel in front of me, he gave me a small nod. I looked down at the knife. At best, It’ll be true and I’ll wake up in the warehouse with the boys and the djinn. At worst, it would simply kill me. I’d be away from this hell, though, so it seemed like a fair trade. I drew the bit of blade deep across my throat. The pain was excruciating. I felt the blood pouring down my front and I gurgled as I fell over. Through my blurred vision I could see the second Gabriel pop out of existence, releasing the first one from his hold. I saw him step toward me, malice in his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but I couldn’t hear what he said. Everything went black.

[truthofherdreams]

Long and Lost (chapter 10)

(also on ao3)

The blood rushes to her ears before she even makes it to Main Street, thumping loudly to the rhythm of her heart. She grits her teeth and forces herself not to step on the gas, because the last thing she needs is for the Deputy to get into a car accident when the Sheriff is in danger. Still, her knuckles are white around the wheel and James switches off the radio - some cheery pop song she doesn’t recognise – after taking just one glance at her face. Emma isn’t sure if she should be grateful for it or not.

It takes about five minutes before Emma does the worst parking job of her life in front of the house, opening and slamming the door before she jogs to the front door. She is welcomed by Leo and Henry’s anguished faces, her stomach turning into knots before she even makes it to the living room.

Mary Margaret is kneeling in front of Graham, a wet cloth to his forehead. They have wrapped him in the ugly patchwork quilt, only his face uncovered and lying on a pillow. The pallor of his face clashes with the chestnut brown of his hair, a coat of sweat glistening on his skin. A pained moan gets stuck in the back of Emma’s throat at the sight of him, and she falls to her knees by Mary Margaret’s side, her fingers trembling when they ghost against his temple. He’s still burning up, and shivering a little, and she feels out of her depth. She has never seen a dead body before, never seen someone dying, but still she wonders if this is what it looks like. If Graham’s life is hanging on a threat, if there is anything to be done against the Fates’ work.

“Is he gonna be okay?”

She looks up to Henry, speechless. His bottom lip is quivering, his eyes getting wet, and Emma really doesn’t want to lie to him, but she also really doesn’t want to give false promises. Brunt honestly will have to do, then. “I don’t know, darling. But we’ll do our best to help him, okay?” Emma makes the split decision before Henry even has time to nod. “Hey, how about you show James how to play Mario Kart, huh?”

Henry starts complaining straight away, and James bristles in the corner of her eye. Not that Emma cares about what either of them want in that moment.

“It wasn't a question,” she tells Henry in her Mom Voice, and he thankfully knows better than to contradict her. Instead, he glances James’ way before leaving the room and stomping his way up the stairs, the man having no other choice but to follow the boy. Not without one last anguished look Graham’s way, reminding Emma that she isn't alone in caring about the sheriff.

“Okay,” she breathes, and rocks on her heels a little. Her fingers shiver slightly when they rise to brush strands of hair away from Graham’s face. He sighs at the touch, his skin hot under the cold of her hand, a moan of pain stuck at the back of his throat. “Okay,” she says again, to brace herself more than anything else. “We need the fever to drop, first of all. Mary Margaret, help me strip him down.”

The school teacher thankfully doesn't hesitate and gets to work immediately, helping Emma move Graham into a sitting position before unbuttoning his best, then his shirt. His chest is burning up, his skin a worrying shade of pink, but Emma wills herself not to focus on it too much as she goes through one layer of clothes at a time.

It is only after they manage to strip him off his undershirt that both women gasp, loud in the silence of the house. For a scar mares Graham’s chest, white and ugly, the size of a fist just above where his heart rests. Emma has never seen anything of the like - not with today’s medical progresses, not when doctors make such a good job at plastic surgery.

“That's when she took his heart,” Leo explains softly, and Emma doesn't ask who he's talking about. She doesn't need to.

 …

 People talk of the adrenaline of battle, fire surging through your veins and ringing to your ears, keeping you up, keeping you going, keeping you fighting. People talk of the euphoria of battle, of men and horses restless both before the first assault, of men still fighting despite mortal wounds. People say it is a drug of its own, more latent than pixie dust, more powerful than poppy seeds.

People never tell you what happens after. When the strength rushes away from your body, leaving you boneless, brainless. They never tell you how you will fall to your knees with no will to ever stand up again, not even to celebrate victory.

Snow takes no pleasure in winning the war, in defeating Regina. Her fingers dig into the soft, muddy ground, her lungs fill with smoke and the smell of burnt bodies, her ears still ringing from the cries and screams. She barely notices Regina being taken prisoner, David to one side and Marian to the other, barely even cares about the shackles around her stepmother’s wrists, blocking her magic away as she's led to her cage. She will rot in a dungeon while Snow sits on her throne once more, the true queen rising once more, but Snow is tired and her skin smells of war and death and her hair is coated with blood and she knows why nobody ever talks about the after.

“Assess the enemies,” she tells Lancelot. “Shackle those who will bend the knee. Kill the others.”

Surprise flashes through Lancelot’s eyes at Snow’s lack of mercy, but he doesn't go against her words. Instead, he calls after a few of his men and starts walking around the battlefield, starts looking for survivors. How many, Snow wonders. How many died for Regina, because of her?

Someone calls her name, and Snow raises her head just in time to witness Red turning back from wolf into human. Dorothy was the one to call after her, arms full of heavy red fabric Snow knows too well, even though she never would have thought she would ever see it again. Her mother’s cloak. The royal cloak. Dorothy smiles at her when Red holds one arm for her to take, pulling her up.

“It is time,” her best friend says.

It is as if the entire queendom holds its breath as Snow White rises and takes the first step toward the castle. Soldiers and healers alike turn to look at her as, one step at a time, she makes her way toward the high entrance gates. Her heart beats faster when she looks up, even if her mother’s colours haven't flown over the castle for the past decade. But she still remembers the flag high in the sky and the banners hanging from the walls, and memories will have to do for now. Soon, so soon, Snow will make memories of her own.

Where the battlefield was a mess of soldiers and wounds and blood, the entrance hall is eerily silent but for the sound of her boots on marble and her puffs of breath, shallow to her own ears.

She stops in front of the throne, long enough for Dorothy to drape the cloak over her shoulders and clasp it at her neck. She misses the royal sceptre but the sword is still heavy at her hip, and that will have to do.

She wonders if she should wait for David for this moment, and her second of hesitation is enough to have Red stop her with a hand on her forearm and her nostrils flaring. They have all aged so much in the previous year, but never has it been more obvious on the teenage werewolf’s features – gone is the round face of childhood and the dreamy look in her eyes.  Red has grown out of the wolf pup in the middle of a war, and Snow is only now noticing.

The she-wolf’s eyes meet hers, and she frowns slightly. “Someone’s here,” is all she says at first. Soldiers have scouted the castle already, looking for guards and prisoners alike, and declared it empty of any living soul. For Red to find out a lone survivor barely comes as a surprise, even an unwelcome one.

“Where?”

Red doesn’t need more to make her way toward a case of stairs, then another, going down the kitchens then down the dungeons, down down down until Dorothy lights up a torch for them and Snow wrinkles her nose at the putrid smell of urine and death. She could have done without visiting Regina’s torture chambers.

Light and shadows are cast along a row of empty cells, dancing in the firelight, until a low groan has all three women sharing a glance before they make their way down the corridor. There, finally, in the last cell, Snow finds a body. Alive, thank the gods, a sigh of relief escaping her. The noise turns into a gasp when Dorothy comes to stand behind her and the torch casts its light on the man’s face. Even bruised and battered, Snow would recognise this face for it is one she knows well, one that belongs to a man who sealed her fate.

“Huntsman,” she breathes out as she drops to her knees in front of the bars.

He raises his eyes to her, something akin to recognition flashing in the grey of his irises before a pained smile curls his lips. “Your Highness,” is all he says at first, ignoring the way Red claws her way through the lock of his cell, ignoring everything but Snow’s face only a few inches from his. She doesn’t want to know what happened to him, what she did to him. She doesn’t want to know, and yet Snow knows she will have to face the truth soon enough.

Red helps him to his feet, struggling slightly under the dead weight until Dorothy comes to help her out. Both women do an effective job of walking him outside of the cell, and they would have continued that way down the corridor and up the stairs, if it weren’t for the Huntsman’s whimper of complain.

“My heart…” he breathes out. “She took my heart.”

Snow’s own heart sinks in her stomach, knowing perfectly well he doesn’t talk in metaphors. The rumours have always been true – Regina crushing hearts, when she simply didn’t collect them to create an army of puppets to use whenever she wishes. For her to take the Huntsman’s heart after he failed in his mission would make sense, as sickening as the thought is -- either that or death, and Regina has always delighted in the idea of a slow vengeance.

Snow stares at Red, panic in her eyes, and the werewolf replies in kind – she seems out of breath for a moment, before her ears perk up and she focuses on the world outside of the dungeons. It takes long, interminable seconds, before she says, “I can hear them… Faintly, but they’re in the castle.”

Bile comes up Snow’s throat at Red’s use of the plural. So many hearts out of their chests, so many lives ruined by the Evil Queen. How they will give them all back to their owners, Snow has no idea, but they will make do. As they always seem to do, when it comes to righting all of Regina’s wrongs.

“Show the way,” she tells Red, taking her place at the Huntsman’s side and throwing his arm around her shoulders. A grunt escapes her as he weighs down on her back, but Snow ignores it as she helps Dorothy hold the man out of the dungeons and back upstairs. It is a low process, Red long gone in front of them before she comes back to make sure they are all right. She nods at Snow, a silent confirmation that she found Regina’s trophies, before she shows them to the room.

Her mother’s cabinet.

Of course.

“I hate her,” Snow sighs as she lowers the Huntsman into a chair. By her side, Dorothy stretches her back, purposefully not looking at the rows of pulsing red on the shelves. One after the other, dozens of boxes with beating hearts in them, their low drumming giving Snow nausea. She fights against the wave of uneasiness as she turns back toward the Huntsman. He looks so pale in the light of day, his cheeks emaciated, his hair a mess of dull locks, and she wonders when was the last time he was outside of that cell. “Which is yours?” she asks him softly, afraid to startle him.

Even then, his eyes are wide when he looks back at her, and Snow remembers how skittish he was around her all those years ago, unable to look her in the eyes and stuttering on his words. The knowledge that he was sent to kill her hadn’t worked around the fact that Snow had found him oddly charming, naive teenager that she was.

“To the left,” he tells her in a broken whisper, his hand trembling as he raises it to point at a row on the shelf.

It takes a few moments of trial and error, Red pointing at this or that box until the Huntsman nods his approval, and then Snow is delicately taking the box and walking back to him. The heart is a beautiful thing, not one speck of black ruining the crimson, and she gasps a little at its beating when she grabs it between her hands. It is a human life she is holding, cradling to her chest, the enormity of it taking her breath away. A human life, so fragile and precious.

“I’ve never done this before,” she confesses to him.

He somewhat manages a smile that, despite its weakness, wants itself reassuring. “Worry not, Your Highness. It cannot be worse than taking it.”

He opens his shirt with feeble fingers, having Snow gasp once more at the large scar where his heart should be. Taking a heart usually doesn’t leave a mark, and it is a testament to Regina’s heartless fury that she would purposefully mark the Huntsman while taking his heart and will.

Snow hesitates, just for a moment, before she all but shoves the heart back into the Huntsman’s chest. He gasps so loudly it startles her, and for one excruciating second Snow fears she killed him, before his eyes open again, his entire body rising with the next breath he takes. His fingers graze the scar, no doubt to feel his own pulse, before a grin settles on his lips and in his eyes.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“You saved my life, once. It was time I returned the favour.”

 …

 Emma leans back on her heels for a moment, just long enough to pull her hair into a ponytail and assess the situation. Which. It’s not looking good, any way they look at it. Because something tells Emma that bringing Graham to the hospital would not help at all – she is familiar with spiking fevers, has gone through quite a few of them with Henry, but this doesn’t look like anything she’s ever seen before. She doesn’t want to entertain Leo’s fantasies but. But.

Mary Margaret comes back from the master bedroom with two more comforters, and Emma forces herself to stand up again so the two of them can wrap everything around Graham’s body. Trying to take care of his fever has proven itself unsuccessful so far, his forehead only slightly less hot than before, but at least he seems to be sleeping peacefully for now.

Emma takes a few steps back, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes until she sees stars and feels dizzy. She blinks against the white spots before her eyes focus on Leo, sitting with his knees to his chest in a chair and staring at Graham with anguish. Emma finds herself lacking words of comfort, feeling as dejected as Leo looks, so she elects instead to move closer to him and to put a hand on his shoulder. He looks up at her, blond hair falling in front of his eyes and lips turned white from pressing them together too much. Not for the first time, Emma remembers that he’s only a teenager with too much weight on his shoulders.

“It’s going to be okay,” she tells him.

“You don’t know that,” he replies, making her sigh. Neither of them know that, neither of them know what to do – Mary Margaret puttering around in the kitchen as she makes some tea, not to feel too useless and to leave them just enough space. Emma makes a mental note of thanking her later, for that and for the day off school she is taking to help them.

Emma shoos Leo to the side, if only to squeeze herself between him and the chair’s arm. She pulls him into a hug, both of them staring at Graham’s sleeping form in front of them. One time, when Henry was three, he came down with a nasty cold after playing for hours in the snow. She had rushed to the ER in the middle of the night when he started having trouble breathing, and had spent too many hours biting her nails and sitting in a shitty plastic chair while waiting for someone, anyone, to fix her baby boy.

She feels equally as useless today, watching her boss and friend fight for his life with his cheeks a worrying shade of red and his skin glistening with sweat. She’d never planned on staying in Storybrooke for so long, let alone on getting attached to so many people, but here she is now. Caring. Worrying. Suffering.

“Tell me how to fix him,” she asks Leo in a broken whisper.

He tenses against her, but knows better than to question her motives or her beliefs. He heaves a sigh, his entire body moving with the rise of his chest. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Regina was the only one to take hearts. We’ve never seen this before. I don’t know…”

“It’s okay,” she comforts him, even if it’s anything but. If not even Leo has a magic solution to their problem, then where does that leave them? What is she supposed to do, she they call the Saviour, if she isn’t able to save Graham?

“It doesn’t make sense,” Leo goes on, rambling to himself more than anything else. “Mama gave him his heart back after the war… He shouldn’t be affected by the Evil Queen anyone. And even then – no magic. Can’t magically control people without magic. It��s impossible. It just…”

“Here,” Mary Margaret cuts him off as she hands two mugs to them. Hot cocoa for Emma, black tea for Leo, the usual. Emma smiles gratefully as she takes her drink, burning herself on the first sip even as she ponders Leo’s words. It stopped being jibberish a while ago, if only because he always makes a point of explaining everything there is to know about magic to her. Probably so she can’t point out the holes in his story. Or because he thinks this will trigger her memories.

“Wait a second,” she says slowly, as her brain works the details of her wayward thought. “You said time was frozen, and then it wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but…”

“How does that work? What happened for time to start ticking by again?”

“You happened.” Leo frowns, before his eyes widen a little. “You happened! You have magic! It must be you! But… this still doesn’t make sense. Why would…”

Emma straightens a little – the thing not made easy by the fact that they are still squeezed together on the tiny chair – and ignores Mary Margaret’s surprised look as she turns toward Leo a little more. “Okay. Let’s say I am the key to break your curse. Could spending time with me, you know, unlock something in him?”

Leo frowns a little bit more, before his mouth opens in shock, before a sound of disgust escapes him. He glares at Graham, then at Emma. “True Love. Ew, gross, Emma!”

Emma finds herself at a loss for words, struggling to understand what her brother means by that, and by the grimace he’s still aiming at her. Surely he can’t be implying…? But the way his eyes travel toward Graham, then her, then Graham again and, more surprisingly, the stairs behind her, has Emma squirming a little. Because, yes, her brother definitely is implying that the magic of True Love between her and Graham caused the sheriff’s sudden illness. She leans backward and away from him, until she has no other choice but to sit on the chair’s armrest.

“I’m not in love with Graham,” she whispers angrily. “What the fuck, Leo?”

He doesn’t seem to believe her at first, sending her the kind of suspicious glance one can only associate with siblings calling you out, but Emma holds his gaze, chin up, until Leo finally agrees to read the truth in her eyes. He sighs, just a little, his shoulders sagging. “‘Kay, fine. Still.” He vaguely points at Graham, then at Mary Margaret where she stands in the kitchen, pretending not to be eavesdropping. “Maybe you care about each other enough…. Just, like, platonically. Like Mama, or Papa. Not all True Love is romantic. And anyway, you can’t be Graham’s True Love.”

“Because he already has one?” she guesses. She’s getting half-good at this game.

“Something like that, yeah.” And here it is again, the way his eyes flicker toward the stairs, even if Emma doesn’t know why. Leo does as Leo wants, after all.

“How's he holding up?” comes a voice behind her, and Emma glares at the smirk Leo sends her way, before turning around to face the newcomer.

James is standing between the living room and the hallway, like a vampire waiting to be invited in, worried eyes not leaving Graham. Emma sighs loudly. “We don't know.” And then, with an eye roll, “How's my son?”

That gets a reaction out of James, a half-smile tugging one corner of his mouth when he looks at her. “The lad accused me once again of hurting you in the mine and then was so stubborn about ignoring me he bore himself into falling back asleep.”

A little snort escapes Emma. Always count on Henry to hold his grudges – he takes from her alright in that department. She's about to answer something positively sarcastic when a low groan interrupts her, and then she's on her feet again long enough to fall to her knees in front of Graham. He moans her name, so low it barely sounds like anything at all.

“Shh, I'm here,” she whispers to him. His forehead is still burning up when she brushes a few stray strands of hair away from his eyes, his breaths laboured as they come out of his mouth. “You're going to be okay.”

He smiles at her words, but it looks like a grimace on his handsome features, and makes him look younger than he is. Emma is certain such a thought would please him beyond reason.

“We're going to fix you, you hear me? We need you. Who else is going to kick my ass at darts?”

His chuckle is half-hearted at best, but it's a start. At least until he frowns one more, a bead of sweat rolling down his eyebrow. “She'll kill you. If I don't. You need to. She'll do it again.”

“It's the fever speaking,” she tells him softly, even if her voice is more clipped. Emma doesn't need to glance at Leo to know what he's thinking. They both are. “Nothing is going to happen to me. Or to you.”

Her fingers trail down his temple, the way she found herself doing a hundred times when comforting Henry. Delicate caresses along Graham’s temple and cheek, down his jaw. She doesn't remember starting to sing but here she is, the lullaby soft on her tongue as it echoes in the silence of the house. Graham's frown isn't as deep anymore, and she would think him asleep again were it not for how he whispers her name every so often. Her free hand finds his on the couch, fingers linking until she holds on to him so tightly her knuckles turn white.

The melody is a little broken, the lyrics uneven on her tongue when a sob gets stuck at the back of her throat. A fat tear rolls down her cheek and dies at the corner of her mouth, hot and salty against her lips, but Emma doesn’t rise a hand to wipe it away. Instead she keeps brushing her fingers against Graham’s cheek, hoping the motions to be soothing enough.

He heaves a loud sigh, the blanket around his shoulders moving until it leaves his chest uncovered, his scar shining white against his burning skin. Emma makes for pulling the blanket back around his shoulders, her knuckles brushing against his chest in the process.

She startles at the warmth.

Her eyes widen – she can’t have seen sparkles, it must only be a trick of her mind – even as her hand brushes against Graham’s skin once more, almost of its own accord. She doesn’t imagine the warmth this time, doesn’t hallucinate the fact that it comes from her as much as it comes from Graham’s burning body.

Nor does she imagine his sigh of relief.

Or how peaceful his features suddenly are.

His pulse is still strong against her fingertips, his breaths deep and even, so Emma’s panicking moment of ‘oh no he’s dead’ comes to a rest before it even has time to properly find its way to her mind. Instead she witnesses Graham’s temperature plummets out of nowhere, his skin back to its usual pallor after only a few moments, leaving only a pinkish hue to his cheeks.

Emma blinks, before she turns to stare at Leo. “What happened?”

He’s next to her in a heartbeat, kneeling on the floor by her side, a gasp escaping his lips. Her brother remains silent for a few moments before, slowly, as if searching for the truth in his own words, he replies, “I think... I think you saved him.”

Emma sits back on her heels, and breathes out.

[wordsablaze]

Love Ignores Hierarchy

Malec met at a party, but this party isn’t held by the High Warlock. In fact, Magnus is held by this party. Until Izzy drags Alec along and changes their lives for the better. A Malec meeting oneshot featuring Sizzy and Clace.Enjoy!

Alec sighs.

Of course Izzy would try to drag him along to one of the many annual parties their classmates throw.

He sighs again as Izzy hold up a pair of jeans, lifting them out of his cupboard. She’d made a habit of marching in his room at random times to ask him about his fashion sense, or lack thereof.

“How’s this one?”

“Do I have to go?” Alec rolls his eyes.

Izzy makes a face at him, “Of course! It’s saturday and there’s no way you’re getting out of it.”

“Fine.” Alec caves in, “And the jeans are okay, I guess.”

“You better know, you’re wearing them.”

Alec rolls his eyes again but doesn’t say anything, instead lounging on his bed with the play he’d started reading before Izzy had marched in and declared that the three of them were going to her friend’s party.

“Who are you looking to catch?” Izzy asks suddenly.

Alec looks up to see a knowing smile on his sister’s face and frowns at her, “I’m not catching anyone.”

“Oh, come on, are there any guys you like in school?” she asks.

Alec makes a face, leaving that as his answer: an obvious no.

She sighs, “Fine, we’ll just go with generally attractive.”

As she rummages through his shirts, he puts her favourite song on repeat, making up for the lack of his talking to her.

Once she’s picked his outfit for him, taking his approval, she throws it at him, “Get changed within the next two hours, I’ll be back.”

Alec shrugs before placing the shirt and jeans to one side and continuing to read his play for the next one hour and fifty five minutes. In the last five minutes, he quickly gets changed, just as Izzy walks back in.

While she wasn’t dressed shabbily before, she’s now gone for a striking look with a laced, black, knee length dress and dark make-up to match her deadly attire, a small amount of silver glitter shining on her skin. Her silver, coiled snake bracelet gleams on her wrist to match the hem of her dress. Her hair is left down, cascading over her shoulders in a sleek waterfall. A small silver diadem holds up the heart-shaped bead resting on her forehead, adding to her black and white look.

Alec laughs, “You look good.”

“You sure?” she asks, fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist.

Alec nods, knowing that her question is a show of the vulnerability she usually hides away. But that vulnerability sometimes comes through when she’s with Alec, something he gets to see only because he’s her blood brother; it’s his job to chase that away.

She nods in satisfaction and grabs his comb, raking it through his hair, “By the angel, Alec…”

“What? I didn��t need to brush it for reading a play!” he says defensively.

She cracks a smile before deciding his hair is neat enough and pulling him along, somehow not losing equilibrium even in her high heels. When she catches him staring at them with disapproval, she sighs.

“Nothing less than seven inches, that’s my motto.”

“That motto will get you killed, you mushroom.”

“Was that meant to be offensive?” Izzy flicks her hair over her shoulder as she scoffs.

Jace joins them at the door, his blue and yellow t-shirt with sporty trousers a contrast to Alec’s grey shirt with black jeans.

He does a fake double take at Alec, “Alec Lightwood, willingly stepping out the house on a weekend?”

“Oh, shut it,” Alec grumbles, amused nonetheless.

It takes them no less than half an hour to drive to the party venue, Alec having to drive because he’d gotten his driver’s license first time so Maryse had said only he could use her car for outings.

The other two hadn’t argued.

Much.

“Izzy…” Alec’s voice takes a warning tone as he sees whose house it is, and something clicks inside his head.

It’s Sebastian’s.

“This can’t be it…”

“This is the address,” Alec confirms.

“But… Clary didn’t tell me that-” she stops talking as her phone rings, answering it immediately.

Jace looks confused before he spots someone coming their way, “Iz, the downworlder guy?”

“Straight ahead.” The downworlder who’d appeared tells them, pointing.

“Thanks man.” Jace smiles as Alec takes a breath and drives ahead, parking their car.

“Izzy, you didn’t know?” Alec questions as soon as they get down from the car and lock it.

“I know, I know…” she says to whoever’s on the phone, simultaneously shaking her head as a no to Alec.

“I can’t go to a party where they mistreat downworlders, I can’t.” Alec firmly folds his arms.

“I know but Clary’s saying that he’s going to leave, then it’ll be fine.”

“We’ll just try not to draw any attention,” Jace relents, clapping his hands together with a wink.

“Alright, fine.” Alec’s response is stoic.

The three of them make their way inside and through the hallway into the living room, where Clary and Simon greet them with small smiles and waves.

Clary’s wearing a simple red dress that ends halfway down her shins, with red ballet pumps and a ruby pendant resting on her collarbone. Her make-up is clearly done to impress, pink blush on her cheeks and a pink arch on her eyelids. Her eyes are lined with double wings but there’s no trace of glitter on her face.

Simon is dressed in his usual ‘use the force’ t-shirt and baggy bottoms that clearly show he isn’t really bothered about the party as such. He has, however, gelled his hair to stay in a permanent quiff, perhaps to impress a certain Lightwood…

“Jace!” Clary grins and hug said shadowhunter.

Izzy goes over to Simon, nudging him as a greeting, “Hey, nerd.”

“Greetings, empress.” Simon salutes at her in return.

“Who are you?” Jace asks Simon, apparently not having seen him before.

Izzy glares, “That’s Simon Lewis, and he is my boyfriend.”

“Nerd love, huh Izzy?” Alec grins at his little sister as she rolls her eyes and loops an arm around Simon, the two of them going to get a drink and Izzy probably going to find Simon a stylish jacket from somewhere.

“Drinks?” a soft voice asks behind Alec, startling him.

“So sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.” The voice continues, “Drink?”

Alec finally blinks away his shock and stares at the boy facing him.

The downworlder with the most magnificent eyes he’s ever seen. The kaleidoscopic yellow and green shaped into a vertical almond inside the pupil make them seem like cat’s eyes, downright magical.

Alec’s breath catches as he lets his gaze roam over the boy’s warm caramel skin and inky black locks that fall over his eyebrows. The locks that loo softer than velvet, smoother than chocolate and sleeker than Izzy’s eyeliner.

With that thought, Alec notices the dark kohl drawn around his mesmerising eyes that seems to enhance the glitter on his skin. Izzy might have added a sprinkle of glitter to make her shine but the boy has much more glitter than one person should be allowed to use in a lifetime.

And yet, there’s something so innocent about the boy’s stance, the way his shoulders are dropping in a resigned manner and the way his feet are placed one behind the other, as if he’s preparing himself to run away with a split second’s notice.

His clothes are a vast array of colours bright enough to make him seem like the human embodiment of a rainbow. He’s wearing purple skinny jeans and a cerulean shirt that seems to match Alec’s eyes. Not that you can see much of it with the three scarves, all different shades of the same colour: emerald green, fern green and mint green.

Alec forces himself to breathe again as he shakes his head, “N-no, thank you.”

He instantly chides himself for stuttering, especially in front of a downworlder.

Even if it was a handsome downworlder.

Said handsome downworlder smiles at him, a half-hearted smirk devoid of actual joy, before turning on his heel and walking away.

Only now does Alec notice that the boy is barefoot, small scars winding up from the soles of his feet. Only now does Alec see that the boy has shackles around his wrists, linked to the back of his waist with a silver but unnoticeable belt. Only now does he realise the downworlder is limping but walking a lot faster than he should be able to with such an injury.

Alec’s heart twists.

He vows to find the downworlder again.

Clary nudges him, “Hey, earth to Alec, you need anything?”

Alec jolts out of his thoughts as he glances down at the redhead.

“What’s his name?” he finds himself asking.

Clary tries to see who he’s pointing at and shrugs, “Who, Magnus?”

Magnus.

Alec mentally rolls the name on his tongue and smiles, unable to help thinking that the name is absolutely perfect for the boy.

“Why?” Clary asks.

“I… put my phone on his plate,” Alec lies, trying to make use of the otherwise pointless drama lessons he has to endure in school.

“Oh, that sucks. Try the balcony, he goes – um, works there a lot.” Clary doesn’t wait before sauntering off to join Jace, whose current focus is the pixie asking him about the newest trees planted outside.

“Magnus…” Alec whispers to himself.

He checks that Izzy and Simon aren’t in trouble before weaving through the crowd and trying to find the balcony Clary had described. Half an hour, two polite tries to decline a drink and, not one but four awkward encounters with passionate couples later, he finally sees the silhouette of the boy. Honestly, why can’t straight people control themselves?

“Magnus!” he calls, sliding to a stop next to the boy.

The boy jumps, his shackles rattling as he frantically stands upright, “Sorry Se- oh, it’s you.”

Alec frowns but sits next to him as Magnus resumes his previous position, rubbing his wrists.

“Do they hurt?” Alec asks.

“No, not anymore.” Magnus looks to Alec, his eyes shining brightly, “Why do you care?”

Alec tries to feel offended but the plain question throws him off and he knows Magnus isn’t being rude.

“I just… it doesn’t seem fair.”

“I’m dangerous.” Magnus’ reply is so droll, Alec can’t help thinking he’d been told to say that.

“Oh really?” Alec raises an eyebrow, trying his best to make it a jovial matter.

“I could kill you with a snap of my fingers,” Magnus says, humouring him.

“How?” Alec asks, now curious.

Magnus cocks his head at him as if he can’t believe how someone could be so oblivious, “I’m a warlock.”

Of course.

Alec kicks himself for not making the connection.

Of course he was a warlock; his eyes are his warlock mark.

“So, you have magic?”

Magnus sighs, “Look, sweet pea, I know warlocks aren’t exactly a subject in school but having magic is rather an obvious, is it not?”

Alec blinks before laughing, properly laughing for the first time in weeks. A small blush appears on his cheeks due to the nickname, which goes unnoticed by Alec but not Magnus. The warlock looks surprised but his mouth curves up into an amused smile.

“You’re not exactly dressed up for a party,” the warlock comments.

“I don’t do parties so this is me 'dressed up’.” Alec grins.

“Oh consarn, the party!” Magnus exclaims, the smile sliding off his face.

“How old are you?” Alec asks, puzzled.

Magnus pauses, “Pretty boy, I was alive when the Dead Sea was just a lake that was feeling a little poorly.”

Alec feels the blood rush to his face again and has to cough before he can talk again. By this time, Magnus has assembled the small snacks on his tray and is standing up with his shoulders angled downwards again.

“You just swore straight out of an 1854 dictionary.” Alec chuckles.

Magnus winks, “I’m a vintage warlock, you literature geek.”

“Hey!” Alec protests, but not unkindly.

Magnus salutes before slipping back inside, pausing briefly before joining in with the crowd as if he never left, offering the bitesize food to shadowhunters as he goes.

Alec smiles sadly, wanting to spend more time with the enigmatic warlock.

He ends up claiming a table in the corner, watching as people go past and keeping an eye out for a certain colourful warlock.

It’s about half an hour later when a hushed rumour spreads through the masses like a long awaited wildfire: Sebastian has left.

After a few minutes of clarification, there’s an explosion of excitement where shadowhunters are drawing runes on the downworlders’ shackles to break them. Naturally, some shadowhunters leave, unreasonably repulsed at the very notion of equality. They’re swiftly escorted out of the house, less than politely, and they’ll be the ones who complain on just about every social media platform, also being ignored on most of them.

Unfortunately, Alec has lost sight of the one downworlder whose shackles he’d like to shatter.

“Alec, where did you go?” Izzy asks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Have you seen Magnus?” he asks her, not bothering to answer her question.

“Uh no-”

“I have,” Simon interrupts, “someone asked him to grab their coat from the storage room.”

“That can’t be good.” The lightwood siblings say in unison.

Alec thinks he manages to thank the nerd before making his way to the aforementioned storage room, knowing that nobody leaves a party like this with their coat. Nobody even comes to these kinds of parties with a coat in the first place because they know that getting it back is almost certainly impossible.

With a stone weighting down his heart, he notices that the cupboard is locked. Strangely, he can’t hear anything from inside, the silence only adding to his worries.

He curses as he drops his stele, quickly drawing a rune – a perfect one – to unlock the door.

The door swings open and Alec gasps.

Magnus sighs with relief.

The warlock is currently unable to move, his shackles looped and knotted behind one of the racks at an awkward height that renders him incapable of both standing and sitting, forcing him to kneel with his arms uncomfortably pulled behind him.

Alec rushes forwards and redraws the same rune he’d used for the door on the silver metal, having to do it thrice before the shackles give way and unclasp themselves.

Magnus gasps as his numb legs tremble and the momentum of his arms falling forwards causes him to tilt forwards.

He lands on top of Alec, whose knees fold and send them both toppling to the floor.

Strangely, both Alec and Magnus are laughing instantly, pulling themselves upright.

“Thank you, sweet pea.”

“My name’s Alec. Well, Alexander. But most people call me Alec.”

“In that case, Alexander, it’s a good thing I’m not 'most people’.”

Magnus winks before rubbing his arms, purple tendrils of what seems to be a fusion of smoke and fire twirling around his arms as the bruises fade away into nonexistence.

Alec watches, transfixed, as the magic dances around the warlock’s eternally sun-kissed arms.

Magnus smiles as he looks up, clicking his fingers as the magic folds in on itself, vanishing with one last curl around his pinky finger. Alec finds himself noticing the warlock’s nails – each one a different base colour and small patterns drawn on with yet another colour. It looks like the rainbow shattered and his nails caught each fragment, placing them all together to make miniscule art.

“You should let me paint yours.”

Alec nods, then coughs, “Wait, what?”

Magnus laugh sounds as lovely as someone releasing auditory beauty into the air around them.

“I said you should let me paint your nails, sweet pea.”

“I don’t know…” Alec can hear the conflict in his voice as clear as crystals.

Magnus only winks, “Maybe that’s a third date thing?”

“D- Date?”

Magnus walks backwards until he’s out of the room, then lifts a hand, curling one finger with a sly grin, “Why don’t you come out of the closet first, then we can carry on talking…”

Alec would be mad if it weren’t for how clever the warlock’s pun is. As it is, he shakes his head and walks out after Magnus, locking the door behind him.

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

“Well, some shadowhunters did…” Magnus admits quietly.

“Who were they?” Alec demands, “I’m going to kill them!”

He can’t explain the sudden blaze of protective anger that surrounds his heart and rushes through his veins, he can’t think of a reason for him wanting to pay revenge on behalf of the warlock. But it turns out he doesn’t have to.

“It’ll be the ones who don’t turn up to your school on monday,” Magnus tells him with a sly smirk and a twirl of his magic.

Alec laughs, pulling the warlock back into the main room and quickly locating Izzy.

“You found him!” Izzy cheers, Simon making a four – fingered peace sign.

To Alec’s shock, Magnus does the peace sign back at Simon and smiles, “How’s Raph?”

“Raph?” Jace asks, joining their conversation along with Clary.

Magnus rolls his eyes, “Raphael Santiago? The head of the vampire clan?”

Izzy’s eyes widen, “Simon, you know him? And you didn’t tell me?”

“It’s not exactly an everyday casual conversation, is it?” Clary laughs before Simon can attempt to explain himself.

“You lose, Iz.” Jace elbows her, which only makes her pout.

“Hey Biscuit, you might want to remove the soundproofing on the cupboard.” Magnus looks to Clary, who profoundly swears.

“Woah, calm it down, spitfire.” Alec holds his hands above his head with his fingers splayed.

Clary sighs, “Sorry. It’s just that I only undid that an hour ago…”

“Why don’t you try making a rune for it?”

“You really believe I came do that?”

“I swear on us, there isn’t anything I believe in more.” Jace puts an arm around her shoulders, giving her a sideways hug of encouragement that makes her smile widely.

“And anyway, it’s not your fault shadowhunters are crazy!” Simon protests.

She gives him a pointed look, gesturing between their small gang.

“It’s not your fault that certain shadowhunters are crazy.” Magnus winks.

“And what are the rest?” Izzy asks.

“Dateable,” Magnus jokes, intertwining his hand with Alec’s and letting their fingers lock together, his warm hand a pleasant shock to Alec, whose breath seems to get stuck in his lungs.

“Breathe, sweet pea, breathe,” Magnus whispers softly, squeezing his hand.

Alec grins and, much to everyone’s shock – especially Izzy’s – kisses Magnus’ cheek softly.

So softly that his lips barely even brush the warlock’s glittery cheek, but it’s a kiss nonetheless.

“Dude, get a room!” Jace whisper-yells, clapping Alec on the shoulder.

“Oh, trust me, that’s the plan,” Magnus says coolly.

Alec, on the other hand, chokes.

Simon whispers something to Izzy, who unceremoniously bursts out laughing before clapping a hand over her mouth. “Ah, nerd love…” Alec uses this as something to cover up his own embarrassment.

“It’s a beautiful thing, whilst also being an object of hilarity and mockery for those of us who are more sophisticated…” Magnus finishes, smiling fondly despite his words.

Izzy just smiles back and Simon goggles at her before his face splits into a broad grin.

“Should we make this party more private?” Clary suggests, “We could all go to my room?”

Jace gives her a lopsided smirk; Clary whacks him.

“Shut up, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“I agree with Biscuit, let’s go.” Magnus suggests.

Izzy and Simon follow as Clary leads the way, the redhead obviously hand in hand with Jace.

Alec glances at Magnus with a proud, happy smile.

Magnus returns the gesture, “Speechless, Alexander?”

“Maybe?” Alec murmurs.

“That’s okay, you have centuries to find your words again,” Magnus murmurs back.

“You think we’ll be together for that long?”

“I hope so.” Magnus’ eyes suddenly stop focusing on Alec as he loses himself in the thought.

Alec nudges him softly, “We’ll find a way.”

Magnus nods, “That we will, Alexander. That we will.”

And, with the promise of an entwined future, the two of them head upstairs.

Hand in hand.

Together.

like/reblog but don’t repost, thanks!

[tekowolfsbane]

Tale of a Murderor

Chapter 1 - Fresh Meat Darkness falls over a desert land; with skulls and dehydration filling the bottom of the cup, it is then topped with skin piercing sand. As one fateful night a mysterious conversation fills the echoing corridors of a tall stone building, that has stood for decades slowly degrading as many travel by. A slender women puffed her cigarette dunking and darkening the room, she sat dominantly in her high chair as it towered over a short stubby man while he gave his proposal to the lady. "I can't let this happen!" The Short man demanded. "If this is why you have brought me here then I will leave immediately!" "Well aren't you quick to jump to conclusions?" The women smirked sucking her life away. "All I need is a few months and I assure you he will change..." "What makes you think this murderer will change after he's employed to do exactly what he was imprisoned for!?" He yelled as she smiled creating more vapors curling around her body. "This isn't your average Company...He will get quite the surprise when he gets here" A wicked grin spreads right up to ears as the smoke escapes her lips. "Bring him along he has 3 months and if you fear he hasn't changed you can take him back, but this is much more worse than prison...." 500 miles away from the institute is the most secure prison in America; with walls stretching over 10 foot, with many attempts leaving cracks and some scratches since it was built back in the 1900's, Not one criminal has escaped and for good reason. The jail is full of the worst inmates in the world, some even not based in America; they have flown from all over the world and put in the tightest of rooms and people, all of them big muscular and frankly scary. One day this slammer got some fresh meat. Four Men stood in line as the Governor checked them all out; first in line was Bones, he was a big lad with muscles complementing his shirt, tattoo's and scars covering his upper body and his tiny legs barely lifting his weight. Next was Rocky he was your typical sized man regular height, weight and tone and finally Savage he didn't seem to look like he knew a lot or speak for that matter but he was slightly beefed up but not as much as Bones, Oh I forgotten one...There was a lot of difference between the three with this guy he was tiny, in fact in between them he was barely visible cramped between Savage and Bones, this little one's clothes looked like it was draped over him, they were so baggy he had to roll up his sleeves and tuck his trousers in his socks, his sneakers looked stolen in fact it all was probably stolen and his dog tags just poking out from the white shirt underneath. The heat was sweltering making it hard to breath, the sweat from the two big guys helping the runt; with it running to his wrists making them slip out, a huge grin was on his face as the Governor drew close. "STAND STRAIGHT FAGGOTS!" The officer instructed. "Bones, convicted for theft and before arrest smashing 5 officers ribs and bones...Don't think we won't just kill you if you act out of line" Bones snarled as the governor walked past unfazed. "Rocky, responsible for being able to crack concrete and aiding in the theft" Rocky smirks as he breaks a large rock in his hands....the chief not moved. "Savage, jailed for explicit uses of dynamite and fierce attacks on officers" Savage glared trying to intimidate him but the head just snuffed at him. "And finally D-...E-Erm Deo?" "Yo wha'sup?" Deo smirked as the Governor stood before him. "DON'T TALK TO TH-" Shouted the Officer beside him as he got cut off with a raised hand. "Are you sure your in the right place?" He asked Deo slightly bending down to his level. "You tell me?" Chuckled Deo as he smugly rocked back and forth in front of both of them. "STAND STRAIGHT I SAID!!!" The officer demanded. "Whoops sorry pal" Deo giggled. "I guess I shouldn't be so bold yeah?" "What are you smug about boy? A simple beating will wipe that look off your face" The Governor explained as the officers readied there batons. "OH PLEASE NOT THAT!" Deo sarcastically pleaded. "JUST SLAP MY WRISTS AND SEND ME TO A CORNER!" He fell to the floor exposing his unchained wrists to the Chief. "How did you!?" The Head exclaimed as Deo's wrists were quickly bonded. "Maybe you shouldn't expect big bald guys coming into your prison ey Chiefy?" Deo laughed as his hands were rapidly shackled. "You address me as Governor, Nothing else you hear me!?" Yelled the Chief spitting in Deo's Face. "Nice Slobber you got there" Deo smiled. "Maybe I'm not in the right place? But who knows there was only evidence of me with a gun nothing ELSE!" Deo Raged as he was smacked across the face with a baton. "YOU NEED TO LEARN SOME MANNERS BOY!!" Exclaimed the Governor. "I WOULDN'T BE SURPRISED IF YOU WEREN'T BEATEN TO DEATH THE FIRST NIGHT!!" The Head of the institute left in a rage as he was humiliated by a infant; he struggled on his feet as they were dragged along by the guards to get moved into there cells, he barely was able to stand when they got shoved in the holding rooms. Each criminal was taking into a separate area and questioned for general details; Where they live, Any Relatives and what they were convicted for. This was simple for the others but with one prisoner it caused a lot of distress for him and the officer that was interrogating him; he was in the room for well over 5 minutes, not saying a word and refusing to cooperate. It came past 20 minutes and the convicts outside were  waiting on him and getting very impatient. "I'll ask you again and if you don't say it this time we'll have to use force" The Guard sighed in frustration. "Where are you from?" "Why don't you beat it outta' me" Deo scuffed rocking in his chair. "WE'VE BEEN AT THIS FOR 20 MINUTES!! TELL ME OR ELSE!!" The Guard yelled with all his force throwing his chair to the floor. "If you say 'or what' you will be shot where you sit!" With a big sigh and rolling his eyes he stopped rocking on his chair and sat forward with his hands clumped in a fist, he looked directly into the cops eyes and spoke with great sympathy. "Boston....Massachusetts" Deo sighed looking to the floor. "34 Terrace St, You happy now!?" "That weren't hard now was it big Baby?" Snarked the Guard while writing the information down. "Any Family or Relatives?" "I DON'T NEED TO TELL SHIT ABOUT THAT OKAY!!!" Deo lunged towards him but held back by a officer behind him. "WHY DON'T YOU FUCKING LOOK IT UP!? I'M NOT SAYING SHIT ABOUT MY FAMILY! I'M FUCKING INNOCENT YOU HEAR ME!? I DIDN'T DO FUCK ALL TO THAT WOMEN!" "Calm down..So no relatives?" Cautioned the Guard as reinforcements were going to be called in any minute. "DIDN'T I SAY FAMILY!!! I HAD ONE A'RIGHT! A FUCKING GOOD ONE...." Deo slumped back in his chair. "A real good one...but then she...she died..." He was practically on the floor as his life was presented on a board to the guard; all about his father leaving him at the age of 8, breaking his mothers heart causing her depression and then finding out the news she was addicted to pills and at the age of nine coming back from school she had overdosed herself and she lay lifeless in the tub not knowing what could happen he was on the streets for 10 years and in a gang got him in the mess he is now. The Interrogate sat there in shock as the once arrogant kid were melting in the chair before him, tears running down his now deformed face from the excessive droplets coming from the eyes of a crook. "M-Maybe I'll get details off the governor about your arrest? If your not feeling up to it?" Gulped the guard as he reduced a kid to a puddle. "Yeah...." Sniffed Deo as he whipped memories from his face. "They won't be any hold-up's either next time..." Everything seemed to skip Deo that day from the many questions he was asked by several officers, being searched and being given his prison uniform, the bundle of blankets, cups and plates, then getting seen by the doctor which didn't take long as he was in fine shape and finally being shoved into a cell with the 3 he met today; These three were a gang for sure, all from Boston and all looked like they knew nothing but to cause trouble. Bones was stood at the back dominating the room with his strength, Rocky carving into a stone like it was bread and Savage grumbling on the bench to himself...Deo just sat beside him and with a little growl from Savage he just shrugged it off and leaned on the wall putting both feet onto it. "So your the runt who took on the Governor?" Bones spoke in his american accent. "Yeah what of it!?" Deo spat still pissed after the interview. "Nothing man, takes guts to do that, me and Bones give you props to that" Rocky smiled stopping his sculpting in the process pointing at Bones. "Yeah well I don't fucking deserve to be here" Deo puffed in anger. "Ha none of us do, But who'll believe us?" Rocky chuckled continuing with his model. "They had no fucking proof with me! All I did was had a gun in my hand at the scene...THAT'S IT!" Deo fumed. "That's all they need....Especially with a baby like you" Bones joked. "Did you just call me a Baby?" Deo looked at bones with fury. "I did, I heard you crying" Bones laughed as Deo stood with dominance near him. "What are you going to do about it?" "THIS!!" Deo violently said leaping onto his opponent swinging around his neck, the brute underneath him tried grasping the twig on his shoulders, but because it was only a stick it was impossible to lay a punch into the twerp, The runt on his back were grabbing his bulky neck trying to choke his foe; since his hands were doing nothing he ripped off his dog tags and latched them around his throat the only thing saving the opposer were the one thumb separating the chain from his nape. Rocky and Savage stood there seeing who would kill the other and become there leader, at first they thought the kid would have perished a few minutes back but the fight was getting intense, But there fun was soon drawn to a close when guards flown from every angle separating the two and putting them in different cells.

***************************AUTHORS NOTES*****************************

Before publishing any more chapters I will only post this chapter on Tumblr until I get more people wanting more... If you would like to follow more of this story you will find it in my gallery on DA: http://furryfluke.deviantart.com/gallery/ On another note I apologise in the future for my bad German writing I noticed after learning some of the language that it’s shocking but I may change it in the future once I learn more thank you and enjoy