#like full on animalistic howling crying out. it was great

[thegempage]

alone, hunt, fear, and monster for both watchful eyes and hammerfall plsssss

oh Fuck yeah absolutely!!

context for the unfamiliar: they're both pf2e characters; watchful eyes (she/her) is my gnoll barbarian and hammerfall at high noon (or hammerfall) (any but mainly they/he) is a leshy gunslinger (as well as some fire bullshit)!

(from this ask meme)

alone: How does your OC deal with loneliness? Have they ever been completely alone before? How do they act when there's no one around to see them?

watchful eyes: uhhh badly! like really badly! in fact, being abandoned and alone is her deepest fear!! jfdklsajfdskfdls she was definitely completely isolated after she was separated from her original family until she found the orcs who ended up taking her in and she never wants to go through that again. but when she's alone at home, she ends up just being... quiet. meditative, almost. tends to talk to her mentor's skull to fill the silence when it goes on a little too long.

tbh i feel like she won't sleep alone if she can help it. part of why she loves going on missions is having a convenient excuse to sleep wrapped around her friends

hammerfall: hammerfall actually.... tbh i don't think he'd mind being alone. they've spent a lot of their time either actually or functionally alone, sometimes for working reasons and sometimes for traveling reasons. there was definitely a period where he was traveling through the mana wastes all on his own and he doesn't think much of it! they act pretty similarly alone to with people -- perhaps a little more willing to divulge their gunsmithing secrets bcus no one's around to hear them and they want to talk themselves through a project, or to the project.

hunt: Who or what is your OC hunted by? A person, a feeling, a past mistake? Is your OC able to let their guard down, or are they constantly alert?

watchful eyes: watchful eyes feels like she is constantly outrunning a moment of failure, a moment where she will no longer be strong enough to protect the people she loves. if she trains hard enough, she feels like she can out pace it for longer, even if she doesn't do so with that thought consciously in mind. she's often on alert when on missions, but at home at the lodge she will turn into a big, cuddly puddle for a while.

hammerfall: hmm... i feel like, even if he doesn't realize it, hammerfall is running from what happened to Pops. they're consciously chasing new gun techniques and new skills, but some part of them knows that going home means facing the changes Pops has gone through, and continues to go through now that they've left. he doesn't know what to do about it, or if he can, but that thought's for another day, as far as he's concerned.

also, 100% always has a hand near their gun. even when among friends. there's a reason his clothes are leather but his holsters are made of his body.

fear: What is your OC's greatest fear? What do they do when confronted with it? Are they open with their fear, or do they hide it away?

watchful eyes: see above jfkdlasfjds being abandoned and alone is her deepest fear, and she tries very, very hard not to let that happen. she starts to buckle whenever it comes up, though as much as possible she pushes off that melting until she's safe again. i really don't think she'd talk about it, though, not to others, because she doesn't want them to worry unnecessarily about her! she's supposed to be a tank, after all.

hammerfall: so canonically? the answer is that they... don't have one. hammerfall grew up in a terrifying environment and is an immortal soul temporarily bound to a physical body. fire is just a thing that Lives In Him. they have no reason to fear god nor creature, because at the end of the day, this is one lifetime of many, and they're the best shot they know. i feel like this shows, tbh, esp when the people around him are experiencing Horrors™

monster: Is your OC monstrous in any way? Is there something that makes them monstrous? Are they aware of their own monstrosity? Do they accept it or reject it?

answered watchful eyes here!

hammerfall: so here's like. the thing. i honestly?? honestly?? think hammerfall is fucking unsettling to look at. like, even if they look like any other sagebrush leshy, the smoke constantly rising from their body and the way they hold themself, plus the gun and the fact that they stand like they're always ready to shoot clearly makes them an outlier. i don't think he's necessarily monstrous, but unless someone is used to dealing with magic bullshit, i think you'd struggle to be around him for very long. and that's before they open their mouth to start talking about guns or the mana wastes or their life before the current mission and make vague references to doing crime and eating meat and their six-armed Pops.

thank you so much for the ask : D!!!

[mlmxreader]

Dream a Little Dream of Me | Eames x gn!reader

anonymous asked: Eames: Hi!! Hope you're doing good 🖤! May I please request something using the following prompts for Eames X non-binary, male, or gn!Reader: "I thought we were... forget it"+"Stay with me" Thank you 🖤!! 🐍anon

summary: there's certain people that are so far away, that there's only one place to ever meet them.

tws: swearing

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

Cobb certainly was not happy about it. Waiting around in the cold, shivering as he glared at Eames, seemingly content and smiling as he tugged at the collar of his arctic camouflage pattern jacket.

Everyone else was dressed in their usual clothes, hardly suited for the weather at all; the blisteringly cold icy winds, the harsh bite of the snow beneath them, soaking through trousers and jeans with ease.

Seeping through the soles of improper shoes. Yet Eames was more than happy; relaxed as he closed his eyes for a moment and let out a long sigh.

All day there had been a faint, muffled echo of some sort of animalistic noise, but the further time dragged on, the closer it was getting; slowly, the gang realised that they were surrounded by uninvited visitors.

Echoing became howling, and Cobb swallowed thickly as he glared at Eames.

"What the fuck is that?"

Eames leaned back, shrugging. "Don't worry about it."

But it was steadily growing closer, and it was Arthur who piped up. "Sounds like wolves."

Eames grinned at that, biting back the urge to laugh as he shook his head. "Those aren't wolves."

The tenseness and anxiety of his teammates only grew, but Eames didn't seem worried; with great suspicion, Cobb eyed him warily. There was something that just was not right. Arthur glared at him, frowning.

Something was not like it had been before, but whatever it was, Eames wasn't telling; he grabbed the red poker chip from his pocket. It felt the same as it always did; two grams heavy, an inch thick.

The colour of crimson lipstick that had been worn for a few hours. A small indent on the edge, like it had been bitten down on harshly by some kind of carnivore. He ran his thumb across the indent, smiling as he hummed.

"Every hour every minute seemed to last eternally, I was so afraid Fernando, we were young and full of life and none of us prepared to die and I'm not ashamed to say the roar of guns and cannons almost made me cry, there was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando, they were shining there for you and me, for liberty, Fernando…"

Eames' humming seemed to make the howling noise calm down, replaced by heavy and harsh breaths; something big and strong panting, lungs empty and legs falling beneath it. Snow crunching and crying with the weight of harsh, heavy steps.

"Gentlemen," Eames beamed, nodding at Minos, who had recently come out to the team as trans. He wanted him to know that they were accepted. Welcome. "If you'll excuse me."

"But-"

"I won't be a moment," Eames chuckled, shaking his head and darting off into the woods.

The others wanted to follow, but when they heard the howling begin again, louder this time, they decided to wait.

There was a shout, a thud, and although Arthur and Cobb grabbed their weapons, something told them it wasn't an issue.

Laughter.

"Eames!" A howl of delight.

"Hello, darling," Eames said softly, cupping your face gently and examining your features. "I could hear you for miles."

You shrugged as you laughed softly, shaking your head fondly. "I thought that's what you wanted, my dearest."

"Absolutely," he whispered, softly kissing you. "My love, my life… I thought we were… forget it. I'm glad you're here at last."

"Yeah?"

"Always," he chuckled, wrapping an arm around you. "Do you have your tooth?"

Grabbing the chain around your neck, you gave it a firm tug to release the pendant from beneath your shirt; a sharp wolf's tooth, wrapped in strong metal and hanging from the chain. "Always. Do you have the chip?"

Eames patted his breast pocket. "Always."

Cobb said to never let anyone know what you kept as a totem; not to let anyone else touch it. But you and Eames were too close, you could never be able to keep secrets from one another, you could never be kept apart. Just as you knew his totem, he knew yours. You smiled as you looked at him, daring to yawn softly.

"Y'know, you're lucky I'm here."

"Why's that?" Eames asked, scratching at his brow as he lazily grinned at you. He couldn't deny it, he loved the fact that you had arrived.

"I got work in the morning," you explained, "and I fear if I don't get a good night's rest, I'll be fucked."

"Are you at home?" He asked. "In Mombasa?"

You nodded. "Always. I don't leave without you, you know that."

"Thank you," he whispered, daring to steal a quick kiss. "Come on, darling, we'll go see the others and-"

"Wait, stay with me," you told him. "Please. I don't… it's been so long since it's just been me and you."

He nodded, sitting down in the snow and waiting for you to join him before he snuggled up to your side. "I waited all bloody evening for this."

"I take it you got a night off," you hummed.

"Just one," he admitted. "We're only here because it was the safest."

You nodded, holding onto him tightly as you sighed and closed your eyes. "I've missed you, y'know. Nowhere feels like home without you."

"I know, darling," Eames muttered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll be home as soon as I can be. I promise."

"I know you will," you reassured him gently. "You always are. I just hold out until you're back, huh?"

"If you think you can," he murmured. "If not, you can always meet me here. You know that."

You nodded slowly. "I know, it's just a… it's just that I miss you, y'know? And I hate being alone all day."

"Don't worry," Eames told you. "As soon as I can, I'll be on the first flight to Mombasa, and I'll make sure to pick you up something from that takeaway you love so much."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And sides?"

"Don't push it, darling. I've already agreed to takeaway."

[spinbitchzu]

lazarus | harumi

The elevator descends with sickening stagnance. All around her, the bodies tremble and sweat, fear pouring off of them in waves. Harumi has stopped being afraid; her skin is glass and everything underneath is missing, leaving only the terrible hollowness. Her heart beats slow in her head and chest and fingers, until she can hardly hear the whirr of the elevator car over the dull thud that feels like a countdown.

The shaft shakes with the commotion outside, and everyone moans in terror as one. Harumi is pressed against the cold doors as the inhabitants of the elevator seem to expand as if there’s anywhere to escape to. The walls seem to shrink down and the cold of the metal leeches into her skin. Another child whimpers and begins to sob, hidden somewhere in the crush of people.

“Honey, listen to me. Listen to me, everything will be okay,” a voice comes, shaking but tender. Harumi feels sick to her stomach.

The soft chime of the bell announces their arrival on the first floor, and as the doors crack, Harumi is shoved forward as the crowd flees in panic, scattering like ants. The woman, whose arms her parents had shoved her in, momentarily hesitates, a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on, kid, you need to get to safety!” she cries. The whites of her eyes are too big as her eyes roll like a spooked horse.

Harumi stays rooted in place, listening to the rumble in the distance that shakes her to her core. She’s completely paralyzed.

“My parents,” she manages to whisper, resisting the jostling. “They’re still in there.”

“Kid, they’re as good as dead, you need to leave with me,” the woman urges her, pulling more insistently.

Harumi shakes her head frantically, panic bubbling in her throat. “I need to wait for my parents!”

The woman stares at her for a moment, almost calculating, and then her head snaps up as she catches a glimpse of something over Harumi’s shoulder. She blanches, and when she looks back, any semblance of compassion in her eyes is replaced by the unflinching hunger of someone who’s survival hangs in the balance. The sword of Damocles whistles as it cuts through the air and the woman turns tail, leaving Harumi alone.

It’s a funny feeling, to be standing in the middle of the chaos as it erupts. Harumi turns, too slow, to see the source of the woman’s fear and watches in captivated horror as all hell breaches the earth. A colossal serpent explodes through the sky scrapers, sending debris in every direction, and blasts through the street, following a red blur. She stares at it, realizing it’s one of the ninja that protects the city.

Her heart lifts and her lips part to shout to him, shout that her parents need help, but he’s gone before the words come. Instead of rescue, she sees gleaming muscular coils constrict around her apartment building. The structure creaks and groans, cracks spiderwebbing up the stucco sides. Harumi’s breath catches.

And then the building just gives, shattering in every direction.

Plumes of dust billow into the air and all around her, the screaming swells, harmonizing in a dissonant chord with the wail of sirens and car alarms and something else. There’s a wild, almost animalistic shriek mixed in with the cacophony. It takes a moment before she connects it to the choked fire tearing up her throat, and she dimly realizes the scream is coming from her.

“Mom! Dad!” The words escape her in a wretched howl. Before she can even process, she’s kneeling in the wreckage, shards of glass digging into her knees. Her hands scrabble and scrape on the jagged edges as she digs through the pile, desperation coursing through her veins like rolling lava.

Unlike before, she’s no longer empty—rather the opposite. Every warring emotion seems to spill over the brim, every heightened sensation too overwhelming to process. She becomes aware of the hot tears spilling down her cheeks and tastes the salt mixing with acrid ash.

The sobs that escape her are huge and gulping as she furiously digs through the rubble. The yawning cavern that gapes in her chest feels like it’s swallowing her as her fists fall fruitlessly on the uncaring heap.

“Mommy!” she bawls, voice splintering. “Daddy, please come back! Please, where are you?”

Where are you?

She shoves what must have once been a table and keeps digging. Her fingers catch on a broken window pane and slick, hot blood courses down her palms.

I need you!

A fit of coughing descends upon her as dust motes float into the air. She blinks away the tears that mingle with the grime on her face and sniffles and keeps digging.

I don’t want to be alone...

The drywall she moves crumbles to reveal more rubble, endlessly heaped in every which way. But if she gives up, what will she have left? The all-consuming maw that threatens to finish her? Harumi grits her teeth, eyes stinging once more, and keeps digging. Every inch of her quivers with adrenaline and need.

I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE!

The thought explodes across her like a wildfire and she flies into a frenzy of digging. Everything kind of whites out for the next few moments. Harumi tastes metallic copper with the salt in her mouth, and as her breath turns ragged, her spittle is dyed scarlet. It seems like a loop where as much as she digs, she only finds more debris.

Then suddenly, she heaves a fallen door over and her whole world freezes over. Time trickles to a stop. Even her heart seems to pause in its hammering rhythm. Her hands stiffen over what she’s uncovered.

The flesh under hers is cold and clammy, and does not give. It’s strange, almost grey, as if it isn’t human at all, but Harumi knows with annihilating certainty that it is.

And—

And it hurts unimaginably so. More than she thought it ever would. Pain seems to physically press against her heart as she lets out a strangled gasp, desperate for the inflation of her lungs to alleviate the pressure.

Her gut clenches, and she throws herself to the left as the contents of her stomach make a violent reappearance. She can’t help but weep even when her stomach settles and all the tension leaks from her body as she collapses into what used to be her home. She doesn’t stir from her position, eyes locked on the very thing that caused her nausea: a pair of intertwined hands that once stroked her hair and pinched her cheeks. Their wedding bands, though veiled in a thin layer of dirt, shine dimly in the light.

Harumi thinks, in an oddly abstracted way, that this is what it feels like to die.

Is this what damnation is? To have every little bit of you that loves be extinguished in one fell swoop? And if she lives still, what is left over? What survives the loss of everything that matters?

In the background, the sounds of the city carry on. The car alarms continue to rise and fall in their endless cry. The people continue to shout in fear. Even that forsaken snake continues to tear through the city, trailing destruction. But in Harumi’s head, everything has become eerily quiet.

Her eyes crack open as she senses something change. She opens her eyes to complete darkness, with just one beacon of light. Harumi’s eyes lock onto the tiny dark figure at the top of the building, sparkling with the golden weapons he raises. The crushing weight on her chest lifts for the briefest moment as Lord Garmadon’s mouth twists in a wordless scream as he plummets off the building. It should inspire terror or concern or satisfaction or something, but instead—

Instead, her mouth knifes up into a ruined little smile. And slowly, softly, Harumi’s heart begins to beat again.

…

Harumi waits for the rescue she knows will come. Soaked in the slimy aftermath of the Great Devourer’s defeat from head to toe, she sits cross-legged on the pile and makes up a little song in her head to pass the time.

The paramedic who puts a blanket around her shoulders has a gentle voice despite the exhaustion she must be fighting. Her tone is light as she remarks:

“My, my. Aren’t you the quiet one!”

... In the wake of the battle, Harumi is shepherded from place to place like a lost lamb. First, it’s a shelter full of cold strangers and burned-out volunteers. Then they drop her in an orphanage where the linoleum floors smell of lemon cleaners and the children cry all night.

Finally, she’s being chauffeured into the royal palace, feeling small and out of place to meet the royal family. The king and queen smile beatifically at her, but their painted masks ruin the effect. She shivers and pulls away from them, with their moon-white faces and blood-red lips, grotesquely beautiful. The cloying luxury of the palace, untouched despite the battle, disturbs her.

“This is your new home, Harumi,” the queen tells her, tucking her into bed. “Try to leave the past behind, okay? You’re a princess now.”

“And you should call us mom and dad,” the king adds kindly. “Good night, Harumi.”

She studies the happiness on their porcelain faces with detached curiosity and then imitates it. Like a little doll, she parrots back, “Goodnight, Mom, goodnight, Dad.”

That night she dreams of the elevator, of the doors that slide shut and seal her fate. Then four pairs of ink-black hands appear in the gap just before they close and pry the doors back open. In the darkness, a pair of glowing violet eyes appear, along with a razor-sharp smile.

Do not fear. I will protect you, daughter.

Harumi wakes up with something to believe in.

[lemon-writings]

Hamish Update Pt. III

Genre: Literary fiction // Word count: 77,037

Here we are! Chapters VII-IX! I’ve written these chapters really recently, so I can go a little more in-depth with the process. The second half of this book (and specifically this particular trio of chapters, for some reason) is definitely the part I’m most proud of. Writing everything coming to fruition is just so satisfying. Is this what people who write books with actual plot feel like? Because it makes me consider writing books with real plot.

But in all honesty, I really enjoy writing this part of Hamish. I’m super happy with how everything’s turning out. One problem I do have with the latter half is that it is super depressing to write all the time, especially with the amount of rain we’ve been getting in Ohio right now (we love depression), so it is taking me a little longer to write than normal, since I keep sidetracking with random projects to try taking my mind off the deeper things. But when I am working on it, the words just flow. It’s beautiful.

Chapter VII

Epitaph: “I’m a strange new kind of inbetween thing aren’t I? Not at home with the dead nor with the living.”-Anne Carson, Antigone

Here is what’s been building this entire time: the funeral. That, and everything funerals entail, with the Celebration of Life and whatnot. The first time I wrote this, I read the funeral scene to my mom in full detail, and she started crying, because it reminded her of her father’s funeral. I, personally, loathe funerals, for what boils down to the fact that I am greatly horrified by being in the same room as someone who I once knew to be alive. That, and the crippling fear of death most people experience at least once in their lives.

There’s also a lot of Horacio’s... fantasies. There’s something deeply personal about the way I write him, sometimes, that makes rereading certain parts difficult. Horacio, in his darkest moments, feels he deserves bad things happening to him, nearly craves them, and he hates himself for it. The amount of self-loathing in this work is high.

Excerpts: 

Horacio, as always, is concerned about Hamish’s state of being alive, because that man always looks halfway dead, and at times, he’s more ghost than living person

The question of if you were dead or alive laid on my tongue, begging to be asked. Maybe I should’ve asked you. Maybe I should’ve checked your pulse. Maybe I should’ve laid my head on your chest and listened to your heartbeat. Maybe I should’ve left with you then and there and avoided the trap Leon kept guiding us to.

Hot take from a Farm Child: broken machinery is one of the most haunting things you can ever see. I could probably wax poetic about how terrible their beauty is, but I really don’t think anyone wants to hear about farm machines for three hours. (On a completely serious note, my uncle’s coat got tangled in a grain auger yesterday, and he could have died. Be safe around farm machinery. Please. It can be really dangerous, even if you’ve been around it for 60+ years.)

Leon’s descriptions are always some variant of men thinking being tall is intimidating. 

Leon bared his teeth once more, the animalistic beauty of it all making me wonder where Leon ended and his rage began. Primal is often used as a way to pull down others, to say you are not advanced the way I am, but Leon’s rage seemed like an advancement of humanity, a way of saying I have advanced my own humanity through my anger. He was gorgeous in the same way broken tractors on the side of the road are, monolithic kings taken over by the passage of time, their steel teeth rusty and eternal.

Did I reference “Father” by Warsan Shire? Yes. Yes, I did. Hamish is a huge Warsan Shire fan, because, like, it has his vibes. 

You recited a poem about fathers, about death, about life, speaking it as if it were scripture. When you finished, you began again. Or perhaps you never ended, speaking this poem forwards, then backwards, then repeating cyclically.

Yeet.

Chapter VIII

Epitaph: “I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth on your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole. I could wait for you in the dark. I could howl against your hair.”-Catherynne M. Valente, “The Red Girl”, The Bread We Eat in Dreams

There’s a lot of plot stuff that happens in this chapter, so unfortunately, I do have to be a little shorter when it comes to this summary, but let it be said that I am not meant to be a thriller/action author. Do I enjoy watching Indiana Jones and Star Wars? Yes, I do. Should I be writing anything close to that? Absolutely not. It takes a lot of effort to do, and even with that, I would say that any sort of action scene I write is... not exactly “half-baked”, but most certainly not up to par with the rest of my writing. I’ll need to edit this chapter heavily the next time I go through Hamish.

That being said, there are moments in this chapter that I am proud of. Horacio and Ofelia’s interactions in this chapter are some of my favorites, just because they’re some of the only characters in this book who don’t violently hate/distrust each other.

Excerpts: 

When I mentioned kudzu to my mother, she mentioned it was an invasive species she’d seen a lot of during her time in the south, which just confirmed that it was a great metaphor to use. That’s always a sign, right?

I looked down at the flowers, then at her, wiser than anyone I’d ever met, the freedom ripping open her seams like something terrible and sharp, the parts of her that were so carefully cultivated spilling out of her like kudzu.

Horacio feels like he’s the only real person in a world of ghosts. The disconnect between Horacio and the people around him is heavily based upon the first time I disassociated. We watched the Blue Man Group in Chicago on a music/Spanish department trip, and the second I walked out of the building, I thought I was a freaking ghost. I had my first panic attack at 14 because I didn’t know if I was actually experiencing life. It was a wild experience.

Next to Ofelia, I looked out of place. Ofelia was hazy and magical in her presence, looking more like a dreamy memory than a real person, as if I touched her, my hand would touch only air. I was the solid type of real, unfortunately. Tall and unnaturally skinny, with a gritty, starving look to myself, the two of us next to each other were like a pastel-covered, out-of-focus impressionist painting next to a photograph of childhood labor in Industrial Revolution-era factories.

There’s also a confrontation with Leon that has some, um, spoilery moments. Leon is an asshole. I kind of love him.

Chapter IX

Epitaph: “[Grief is pain internalized, abscess of the soul. Anger is pain as energy, sudden explosion.]”-Lauren Groff, Fates and Furies

Again, there’s a lot going on in this chapter. A lot. Marcus the bodyguard makes another appearance (underappreciated character of the book) and acts as a guardian angel. Bless Marcus. Seriously.

This chapter is more introspective than the last, so I enjoyed writing it a bit more. Or... a lot more, actually. I was not created to write action scenes, and I accept my fate. Horacio’s musings on fate are long-winded and beautiful and what I’m meant to write. It’s just a chapter of him reflecting, pining, and wishing he was in a different situation. Which. Fair.

Moments like this make me realize I am a cruel god who treats her characters terribly.

Excerpts: 

Starting this chapter strong with the true weighted blanket: death.

Death cloaked me like your blanket.

As I said before, Marcus? Underutilized character. I use him as much as I can, but the plot makes it difficult to use him as much as I wish. He’s the man we deserve.

Marcus was smart, was good at playing the game we all played without making it apparent that he was playing it. He knew what he was doing. “I want the best for Hamish,” Marcus said. He looked into my eyes. “You do, too.”

Horacio takes a moment to think awful, rage-colored thoughts about the people around him, which are, of course, one of my favorite things to wax poetic about. He’s a salty man, and he has all rights to be, because this entire work is just “things to be salty about, the novel”. Poor Horace. He just wants to live in a gay daydream, but he’s stuck in a nightmare. 

(Not to sound too Midwestern, but OPE, the shade.)

These people played their sick, twisted games like gods, forcing everyone to play along for their survival while they watched and knew exactly what they were doing to the rest of us mortals around them. In that moment, I was filled with the type of righteous anger that made me understand why people were drawn to religion. I wanted a higher power to strike them down, to make an example of them all, to say don’t do this, or you’ll end up like them.

I sounded like my parents, like all the religious nuts I’d ever met, the ones who said that those who didn’t fall their doctrine were inferior, were going to die, and suffer for being different. Is that how it begins? Is anger the true root of all cruelty?

That last line, is anger the true root of all cruelty? was probably my favorite line when I first wrote Hamish. It’s sort of become a thesis statement for Horacio’s past and the way he sees the world. 

Lastly, of course, we have

The Jams

We have a fine selection of songs here, a lot from my Lucy playlist (Lucy has one of my favorite playlists I’d ever made).

Oh No!!! - grandson

Temple Priest (feat. Paul Wall & Kota the Friend) - MISSIO

Destroy Me - grandson

BTSTU - Jai Paul

Seven Devils - Florence + The Machine

Pretty Little Head - Eliza Rickman

That’s the tea, y’all. If you’re interested in this and hearing writing updates for Hamish, then ask to be added to the tags list!

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

The Flower That Blooms in Adversity - Chapter One

Sterek Persephone and Hades AU

When Stiles Stilinski – the God of nature and harvests – is bitten by a viper, Derek Hale – the God of the Underworld – fights to keep him alive, taking him to the Underworld where he can keep him safe. However, the Heavens are not happy.

The boy walked through the field of golden wheat, careless and unburdened. He trailed his hands through the stalks, watching as the crops slid through this fingers like ribbons of water. Veins of gold trailed after him as he wove this way through the flourishing crops.

The radiant sunlight played across his pale skin. His body was covered in moles that danced like the stars in the night sky, charting out constellations on his skin. The soft breeze blew through the tousled mess of his hair, his dark eyes catching the light and sparkling like golden liquor. The fabric of his robes billowed around him, the faint hem of golden embroidery glittering as it moved. A crown of flowers rested on his head, a halo of olive leaves, soft roses, pale peonies, and sprigs of baby’s breath that the children in the nearby town had made for him. Coils of vines and golden cuffs would their way around his slender arms, small buds and blossoming flowers making his pale skin seem radiant.

Stiles. The God of nature and harvests.

He was gorgeous; pure and perfect.

Derek watched him from afar, always scared to step out of the shadows; scared to get too close.

He looked down at himself, dressed in a smooth black leather vest that had been weathered with age. A long black cape billowed from his shoulders, pinned in place by two silver triskelion broaches – the symbol of the three Great Families: Argent—the Gods of the Heavens, Deucalion—the gods of the Sea, and Hale—the Gods of the Underworld. Silver cuffs were wound around his bare biceps, embedded with rubies and onyx. He wore black pants and knee-high black leather sandals that wrapped around his calves, decorated with shiny silver studs.

He felt his heart sink into his stomach, dropping his gaze as he disappeared into the shadows.

How could someone as radiant and pure as Stiles ever like a corrupted being like Derek?

Derek heart skipped a beat as a cry echoed throughout the field.

His eyes snapped up in time to see Stiles’ face turned towards the heavens, twisted in pain as tears broke past his lashes and fell down his cheeks. His scream died away as he drew in a deep breath, his body weakening. The swaying wheat surrounding Stiles withered and died, the golden stalks rotting and turning black as the boy collapsed among the crop. He disappeared among the stalks of wheat, pulling him down like foaming waves that surrounded a sinking body.

Derek leapt out of the darkness, the shadows trailing behind him as his cape billowed around him. The wheat parted as he ran through the field, a howling gust of wind thrashing the stalks. He sprinted to the boy’s side, dropping to one knee as he looked down at the young man.

Stiles lay on the ground, his face twisted in pain. He was ghostly pale, beads of sweat forming on his brow and trickling down the side of his face. His body was still, limbs sprawled and unmoving.

Derek listened, hearing the frail wisps of breath that passed Stiles’ trembling lips as he struggled to breathe. His eyes rolled over the young man’s body, catching a glimpse of a leathery-black body of something slithering across the boy’s leg before disappearing into the maze of wheat. Derek’s eyes drifted to Stiles’ ankle, falling on the bloody welts that pierced his skin. Streams of blood and clear trails of venom trailed across his skin, droplets like rubies falling to the earth where they shattered like glass.

Stiles’ expression weakened, his eyes fluttering slightly before falling still.

That’s when Derek heard them; the inhuman whispers and animalistic growls.

His head whipped up.

Hellhounds, he thought.

He looked down at the young man again, realisation hitting him hard: they were coming for Stiles.

“Damn,” Derek hissed under his breath.

He tore a strip of fabric from his own robes, tying it around Stiles’ leg to stop the venom spreading, or to at least slow it. He hoisted the boy’s limp body into his arms, digging his feet into the cool earth as he ran back towards where he had come from, to the foot of the rocky mountain bluffs where the entrance to the Underworld was concealed by the shadows.

His feet pounded against the earth, his blood beating in his ears. His chest ached as his heart thumped against his ribs.

They were drawing closer, rolling in like story thunderclouds and bringing with them a tense static that hung in the air.

The heavens above rumbled as the gods realised they had lost one of their own.

The misty clouds rolled into the valley, blinding him as he ran forwards. But it didn’t matter, he knew where he was going; it called to him.

Droplets of rain fell to the earth, gathering in puddles beneath his feet and washing over his face. The fabric of his robes absorbed the water, dragging him back.

He pushed on, running faster. He couldn’t let them catch him; he couldn’t let them take Stiles.

His feet struck dry earth as he burst into the cave, sprinting into the abysmal darkness and into the world beyond.

He burst through the gates of the Underworld and into his home, the heavy doors opening at his will. The torches in the metal brackets bolted to the walls roared to life as fire lit the way.

The doors slammed shut behind him as he burst into the open living space. His feet slid across the marble floors as he ran towards the sunken lounge room, laying Stiles’ limp body on the couch before the marble fireplace.

The flames flickered and crackled, burning brighter as the warm orange glow lit the room and cast shadows across Stiles’ face. In the light of the fire, Derek could see how sunken the boy’s features were; how frail he looked.

Derek felt them approach before he heard them. He ran to the heavy oak door by that was fitted into the wall near the living room, shoving it shut and pushing the heavy iron bolt into place.

The hellhounds slammed against the door. Derek stumbled backwards, his heart racing as the hinges rattled and the door struggled to hold them back. They snapped, snarled and growled ferociously, locked on to Stiles’ scent. The door rumbled as they threw their weight against it, over and over again, desperate to get inside.

“Enough!” Derek bellowed, his voice ringing out through the Underworld.

The room fell silent, the hellhounds retreating from the door.

Derek let out a heavy breath, feeling his body tremble and his power subside. He turned his attention back to Stiles. He hurried into the kitchen, trying to remember the ingredients his mother would use for the times when he or his sisters were bitten.

“Leafless mistletoe aerials, nettle leaves, grape seeds and fox-grape root,” he listed, pulling a mortar and pestle out of the cupboard. He froze, looking at the boy.

If something from the Underworld were to pass the lips of someone from the Surface World they would be bound to the Underworld; that was the rule. And that included medicines.

He couldn’t use the plants that grew in the Underworld. He couldn’t bind Stiles to a life of misery and darkness. He couldn’t deprive the him of that choice, of his freedom.

He rushed over to the lounged, kneeling beside Stiles’ frail body.

“I need you to hold on,” he whispered. “I know you are stronger than people think you are. You’re a fighter. I’m going to help, I just need you to hold on a little longer.”

Stiles’ breathing slowed, no longer stained by pain or weakened. His eyes fluttered as if he were dreaming. His fingers twitched as he balled his hand into a fist.

Derek felt his heart flutter as he looked at the young man.

He was fighting.

Derek grabbed a blanket, draping it over Stiles’ frail body. He gently brushed aside the stands of hair that clung to Stiles’ face.

“I’ll be back,” he promised. “Just hold on.”

He leapt to his feet and ran for the doors, the heavy gates opening before him as he sprinted towards the Surface, the darkness carrying him like a breeze. He ran through the fields gathering the things he needed before rushing back to the Underworld.

He slid to a stop when he noticed another person in the room; a dark figure standing by the couch, looking at Stiles with an expression of confusion and contemplation. His brown hair was pulled back from his face, his pale eyes flicking up to meet Derek’s.

“The God of Death, trying to save a life?” his uncle scoffed. “How ironic?”

“Peter,” Derek said warningly. “I do not need a lecture from you right now.”

He turned and rushed into the small kitchen. He set the herbs and plants down on the counter, sorting through them as he grabbed the parts he needed and put them in the mortar. He began to grind them together in a paste.

“What makes him so special?” Peter asked, glaring at the small figure that laid on the couch. A look of disgust twisted his face.

“He—” Derek stopped himself. He felt his heart skip a beat as he answered, “He just is.”

Derek set the pestle aside, gathering bandages and carrying the mortar full of paste over to the couch. He lifted the blanket, looking down at Stiles’ ankle, bile rising in his throat as he looked down at the bite.

It had gotten worse.

His veils were pulsing black as the venom spread, the bite was swollen and bruising, colouring his ankle with smears or black, blue, purple and green. Blood streamed from the wound, droplets falling into a pool that was gathering on the marble tiles.

Derek tried his best to be gentle as he wiped a cloth across the wound, clearing away the blood and fluid. He smeared the paste across the wound.

Stiles’ body tensed, but he was too weak to pull away. He whimpered in pain, making Derek’s gut twist with guilt.

“You do remember that your role as the God of the Underworld is to ferry dying souls into the Underworld, right?” Peter reminded him. “Not to try and save them.”

“Peter, please,” Derek said, impatience wearing this voice thin.

“Fine, I’ll leave,” Peter huffed. “But I can’t wait to see how you explain this to Argent. I warn you, it won’t be pleasant.”

Derek ignored his uncle, gently wrapping a bandage around Stiles’ ankle.

Derek watched out the corner of his eye as his uncle’s image blurred into smoke, folding in on itself as he teleported somewhere else.

He let out a sigh and sat down on the rug by the couch, waiting by the Stiles’ side until he settled.

[AO3] - [Ko-fi] - [PayPal]

[sagethewolfblooded]

Fool’s Walk- The Arcana ch.1

also i hope the read more works, because i have never implemented it before in my life

Fandom: The Arcana

Rating: General audiences (will change later)

Warnings: None (yet)

Word count: 4470 words

Characters: Asra, Nadia, Julian, Original Characters

It was a quiet night, a soft snow falling to the ground. The moon left little light. Amongst the hollow, one large, black dog stood. To his sides were two other canines, one much larger than the other. They talked among themselves quietly, not wishing to disturb the peace. Near the edge of the hollow, a shape the same color of the snow appeared. The black dog’s claws slightly pierced the frozen earth. His short cropped ears perked high, golden eyes stared down the newcomer with intrigue. His companions went silent, intrigued.

The white canine approached quickly, his enormous paws scraping snow from the ground as he dragged his paws. His own companions kept a few feet away from him. His white fur, lightly dusted in cold snow, was thick and pristine. He had clearly prepared for this moment. His head held high, his dark eyes filled with intent, he returned the stare. With every crunch of his paws on the snow, the black dog could feel his companion’s worry growing.

The hollow filled with a fear-scent, radiating from the four accomplices. Both leaders held their heads high and let nothing distract them. Finally, the smaller white dog came to a stop. The two continued to stare until the lighter male lowered his head to the ground. He bowed, and it seemed to pain him to do so. The black male stood and returned the gesture.

“I supposed you’ve come to challenge my leadership, Stone?” Asked the larger canine. Both of his companions edged further away from him.

“Why even ask? Why the hell else would I be out here in the cold, to play in the snow?” He shot back. A deep sneer tugged his lips to reveal pristine white fangs. “I’m not a pup anymore, Walker.”

Stone flicked his tail and his two companions dispersed from his sides. Walker’s did the same, joining the others on the sidelines. The four conversed silently, their worried eyes doing the talking.

“If you’re going to do it, then do it. I assume you remember the words, yes?”

Hatred flooded his eyes for just a moment before it dissipated. Stone blew air through his nostrils, causing a plume of vapor to conceal his face. Silence followed the noise, everything seeming to hold its breath.

“I, the White-Stone, Son of the Dark-Sky, challenge you.” Walker dipped his head forward enough for Stone to notice, who quickly caught himself with a sigh.

“I, the White-Stone, Son of the Dark-Sky…and the Bare-Moor, challenge you. I understand that if I lose, you may wish to exile me. You understand that if I win, I may wish to exile you. If these terms are satisfactory to us both, then announce so to the pack.”

“I, the Night-Walker, Child of the Great-Burrow and the Sun-Runner, accept your challenge. We will regroup in the meeting glade with the pack.”

With one last glare, Stone turned and stalked back to the entrance. Without asking to follow, his two companions leapt to their paws to follow. They kept their heads down and made little sound. Walker’s own companions rejoined his side.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Walker. If…if he becomes the new Alpha, nothing will be the same.”

He hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Nothing can stay the same forever, Springer.” A sigh escaped his jaws and he let his head fall. “Even so…his heart is filled with hate and anger. Who knows what he’ll do to gain power.”

Springer paused for a moment before filling the heavy silence.

“I mean…look at his father, what he did. He cheated and payed the price. Stone can’t possibly still be upset over that it’s-..it’s been years! And Faethon didn’t even care about him that much. Or any of his other bastards for that matter…” He shook his red-tinted coat, sending out several small flurries of snow.

Closing his eyes, the alpha tried not to think back to his last challenger, Faethon. A blood-thirsty beast, he had attempted to tear open Walker’s throat during their battle. When he had been disqualified for going against the rules, he later attempted to assassinate Walker while he slept. His punishment was an execution done by public pit. One of his many offspring, Stone witnessed the entire affair and has since kept his anger contained. Until now. It pained Walker to think about.

Both companions enveloped their leader, pushing up gently on his sides in a comforting gesture. Walker allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of warmth for just a moment before he separated from the two. He paced back and forth, kicking up the snow as he walked.

“We’ll be here for you. You know that.” His larger companion murmured. Love shone in Walker’s eyes.

“And I’m glad of it, Bull. The two of you have been by my side for a long time, and I can never tell you two enough how grateful I am for you. Now,” He exclaimed, turning to Bull and Springer. “We can’t wait any longer. Let’s call the pack and get this over with.”

–

Canines of all sizes and colors poured from their warm homes into the cold valley of the meeting glade, some in their human forms with blankets still wrapped tightly around their less-protected skin. Most idly chatted about anything and everything, but a heavy layer of nervousness coated everything in its path. Stone, his bright white coat stark against the shadows he hid himself in, paced angrily.

“Stop stalling, you murderer.” He mumbled under his breath. Each word dripped with poison. “Let’s do it already.”

After what felt like lifetimes, a solo howl split the noise of the pack, silencing everyone. Stone lifted his head with a grin. Anticipation filling his paws, he rippled his muscles and bared his teeth towards the howl. Without waiting another second, he shot from his containment area before coming to a halt at the edge of the gathering circle.

The pack members there moved out of his way, their curious eyes boring into him. He paid them no mind, taking his place marked with an ‘X’ in the snow. Ahead, he could see Walker clear as day. The large dark body of the current alpha threatened to grip his heart with fear, but he waved it off. He had come here to do one thing. Excitement and anticipation flowed through his veins, warming him against the cold of the winter dusk. His two right hands, Bull and Springer approached Stone to face him directly.

“Challenger. We are the-”

“I know damn well who and what you are.” He cut Bull off with a deep growl. “Just tell me the rules so I can get this over with.”

The two exchanged irritated glances before Bull continued.

“Areas that are not allowed to be bitten are: the throat, the stomach, the genitals, and the eyes. Doing so will require an automatic disqualification. You may not leave the ring, doing so is an automatic disqualification. In the event of a disqualification, the current alpha may decide your punishment as they wish, no matter how lax or violent it may be. The fight will be over once an opponent has defaced the other’s pack tattoo, or unless one party is no longer able to fight. If you still wish to continue, please state so. If you do not, there is no shame in turning back.”

Stone could feel the hope pricking the edges of his statement, hoping to intimidate the younger dog into stepping down, but he had come too far now to back down. Puffing out his chest, he stared deep into both of their eyes.

“I accept the challenge.”

“Then, by our call, you may begin.”

–

Everything had happened so quickly. Once Springer and Bull retreated to the sidelines and given the signal, the ring was alive with the sounds of guttural barks and howls, fur flying in all directions. Snow was kicked up in the daze, giving the two fighters the illusion of disappearing. Blood splashed the ground and tainted the snow that was left. Everyone in attendance to the battle for dominance held their breath. They all know how it went the last time.

Time slowed as Walker was slammed to the ground on his back. Stone gripped his chest with his fangs, clearly with no intent to release him. Blood pooled at his paws from a deep wound in his shoulder. Part of his ear had been torn, but he took no notice. Walker’s jaws were widened in an animalistic screech, showing who the clear winner was. His chest glowed brightly under his dark fur, then faded until it no longer shone. Instead, Stone’s chest inherited the glow.

The white dog dropped his opponent, letting him fall to the blood tainted ground. He had won.

“I told you, I TOLD you I would win. I did it. I’m the alpha now.” He growled through gasps of air. “I’m the alpha..”

Walker’s chest heaved in pain as he turned over and pulled himself out from under the victor. He couldn’t look up. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eye. Didn’t need to, he could feel the fear from every angle. Deep in his stomach, he could feel a sharp pain that became more agonizing with each breath. His whole body ached. He refused to turn around, to face Stone.

“I’m the alpha now.” Stone’ voice rung throughout the clearing as he repeated himself for all to hear. “I’m the alpha now, so you know what that means?”

He had lowered his voice so that only he and Walker could hear his next words.

“You’d better run, bitch. I’ll even give you a head start.”

Despite the crying of his body to stop, fear fueled his limbs to run. He looked no one in the eye, said nothing. The further he ran, the tighter he could feel his body becoming. The tight pain of a beast being thrown from the pack. His heart felt full of lead, as if it would fall out of his chest at any moment. Though he couldn’t hear Stone or any of the others giving chase, he knew he shouldn’t- couldn’t- stop.

After hours of fleeing, knowing of only one place to go, Walker found himself at the mouth of a cave. The cavern gave off a heavy wave of magic. This was the only place he could go. Without a second thought, the exiled dog pushed onward into his only hope for safety.

————

My name is Temba, and I’m an apprentice to a wonderful Magician. Who…just so happens to be leaving. Again. To go off to wherever it is that he wanders on nights like this. He’s packing his bag as I close the curtains of the shop, making sure to tuck them neatly together so that it would look neat.

“Do you have to go, Asra?” I ask my master once the curtains are finished. “I don’t feel confident being left by myself.”

He shook his head and shouldered his bag.

“You’re more than ready now Temba. Here, I’ll even give you this.”

I watch curiously as he fishes to the bottom of his bag. Finally, he pulls out a tarot deck, his deck. I can feel the energy coming off of it in waves, comforting my nerves. He held it out to me with a gentle smile on his face as he leaned back on the counter behind him.

“Asra, that’s your tarot deck.”

“Yes it is. And I’m leaving it with you.” He replied, matter-of-factly.

“I can’t take your deck Master- I won’t.”

“You’re still calling me that…” He mumbled. Pulling away from the counter, he started walking to the backroom before turning around and waiting for me. “Why don’t we let the cards decide, then, if they wish to stay?”

He pulled out the closest chair for me then went around the table to take a seat. The deck was sitting in front of my place, so I sat down and started shuffling nervously. Doing readings wasn’t the easiest thing for me to do, but Asra’s kind gaze helped. I laid the cards out on the table in front of him.

He reached forward and tapped a card, asking me to flip it over. I did and was met with the familiar sight of a beautiful fish with wispy fins, joined by three cups. However, it was reversed. The Three of Cups. Asra seemed surprised to see it, but nonetheless looked between me and the card, flicking his hand in an open gesture as if asking me to continue. I focused on the card and could hear- could feel- the meaning tickling the base of my neck.

“Someone from your past will be coming, someone you regret losing. It’s not too late to fix the rift.”

“It’s..not?” Asra said aloud. This is one of the few times I’ve seen him genuinely confused.

“Rejoice with your loved ones.”

I looked down at the card, waiting for more. Nothing came. Instead of dwelling, I look up at Asra to see him contemplating. His mess of white hair covered most of his face as he leaned forward on his hands.

“Asra?”

He started, his purple eyes widened as if he remembered that I was there. Before he could speak, there was a loud and frantic knocking at the door. With that, he rose from the table and picked up his scarf and hat. From her hiding spot, Faust slithered over to him and climbed up his leg to rest on his shoulder.

“Just as well, I can’t stay any longer. I’ll be back. Soon. I promise.”

His hand felt heavy on my shoulder as he left through the back door. Just then, I was reminded of the guest at the door by another round of hurried knocking.

Rushing to me feet, I approach the door and ponder for a moment who would be at our door this time of night. At first I thought I had forgotten to turn out the light, but the voice behind the wood snuffed it out.

“I know you’re in there, magician!”

It sounded so familiar, so commanding. Hurriedly I yank the door open, only to be greeted by a sight I’ve only ever heard whispers of. A beautiful woman with dark skin entered the shop, pulling back her purple scarf to reveal a face that I would have never thought would be seen this side of Vesuvia. It was the Countess.

“Forgive me for the lateness, but I could not bare another sleepless night.”

I take it that my face must have betrayed my feelings, for the Countess laughed. It was a light, heavenly sound. The dark blush that flooded my face surely would have been teased by Asra had he still been here. Composing myself, I straighten up and gave a smile.

“Countess! I…would be lying if I said I had expected you to come to the shop. What could I possibly do for you, tonight?”

“As I said, I could not take one more night without proper rest.” She walked with such grace the rest of the way inside, the click of the door as it closed was lost to me. “Funny, you look different than I had imagined in my dreams.”

Her…what? Dreams? I guess my mouth must have made me look like a fish the way I kept opening and closing it without a sound, for she gave another small laugh.

“I know what the people believe I think of those in your line of work, but something about you feels different.” She hesitated on ‘different’ as if it wasn’t the word she wanted to use. “But nonetheless. I would like to propose something to you. However, in return, I have questions for your cards. I would like a reading, and after that…I will discuss my end.”

She wanted a reading? A reading, of all things? Shaking my head of any other thought I may have had, I sweep my arm gently through the air to gesture to the back room.

“I can do that for you, Countess. This way please.”

As she passed me to enter the room, I got a hint of jasmine. She took the seat I had sat in moments before, and I took Asra’s. I again grabbed the deck and began shuffling, trying to keep my eyes anywhere but on the Countess. Reading the cards was far from my strong suit, but something so simple as shuffling them was the bane of my existence. If I even looked at the Countess, I was afraid I’d drop every single card. Her eyes were on me, I knew even without looking. But they didn’t feel scrutinizing as I had expected, rather they felt curious. Searching. It was almost comforting.

With the deck properly shuffled, I laid the cards before her. As my fingers slid over each card, I could feel their familiar hint of magic pulse underneath. I waited for her to pick a card, sparing a glance at her. Red eyes were concentrating on the cards, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. Suddenly her eyes flickered up to me, glistening with silent laughter as I quickly looked away. A slender arm rose to gently tap a card.

I slipped it over and was greeted by the sleek face of The Magician. I felt my shoulders sag in relief, though I don’t know why.

“How appropriate. And what might they hold for me?” Her lips rose at the edges in a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

I swallowed thickly and focused on the card. The Magician’s voice was and wasn’t in my head, in my ears. I could see the words in my head along with a voice, but it was in a language unheard.

“You have a plan. One that’s important to you.”

Before I could say much more, the Countess interrupted me.

“And? Should I set it in motion?” She leaned forward on her hands, like a perched bird watching its prey. I wriggled in my seat.

“Yes. Now is the time to act. Everything has fallen into place.”

“Say no more.”

Abruptly she stood and left the parlor, striding into the main room of the shop. I cleaned the cards up as best I could- leaving them a mess, really, but I’d clean it up later anyway- and followed her into the front. Wringing my hands nervously, I looked up at her as she covered her head once again in her shawl.

“I would appreciate it if you were to join me tomorrow at the palace. You will be my guest of highest honor, anything you need will be provided. All I require after that is your continued cooperation.”

She stood for just a moment longer before I realized I should probably open the door. Nervously, I skittered past her to pull on the handle, using its size to conceal me from the Countess and any further embarrassment. Another smile lifts the Countess’s lips, but this one is clearly genuine.

“I thank you, shopkeep. One again, I apologize for the lateness of my intrusion. I will see you tomorrow.”

And with that, she was gone. I weakly pushed on the door and let out a heavy sigh. It never felt so awkward to do a reading for someone, let alone someone of such high status. I leave the front room to retreat back to the parlor once more only to be greeted by an elongated shape. A flash of auburn hair topped the shape, pulling it together as a human shape.

I must have gasped or made my presence known in some way because the person turned around. Based on his expression, he must have been just as surprised as I was to see someone in the back room. His shock was quickly replaced with a dashing smirk as he leaned forward on the table. His right hand sat atop a plague doctor’s mask with red glass covering the eye holes.

“Ah, hello there, witch. Where is your master?”

I took a shaky step back and licked my dry lips. The man rose and took one step towards me. Because of his long stride, he was almost right in front of me. My hands instinctively searched for something to protect myself with. Nothing was within range, causing my mind to race. I had to think of something, and fast.

“Now, now, no need to be so hasty-”

I kick out a leg to catch at his knee. It connected and dragged him down like a falling tree. The cough that came out of him when he finally fell to the ground almost made me feel bad. In his moment of pain, I searched frantically for something, anything, to use as a weapon. I grabbed an empty bottle that once held a tonic and pointed it at the man. His face was familiar, but I couldn’t recall where I had known him. It tickled my brain trying to think of it.

“You sure do have some fight in you, huh? Well lucky for you, I’m not here for any of this.”

He stood up confidently, moving his mask around in his hands. Long fingers fiddled with the straps on the back while others tapped along the beak. Like a bird, his predatory gaze watched me.

“I’m here for the cards.”

His voice sounded familiar, too. The way his mouth moved when he pronounced words was familiar, why was it so familiar-wait. The cards?

“The…cards? You want them?”

‘Of course he doesn’t want them. If he did, he would have snatched them while we were busy with the Countess.’

“A reading, I mean. You can do that, can’t you?” He tilted his head to the side, almost like a cat.

I lowered the bottle and squinted my eyes, trying to remember anything I knew about this man. The way he looked at me asked if I had heard a thing he said.

“Who exactly are you?” I asked, choosing my words carefully and slowly. The way he blinks at me shows that he hadn’t anticipated me asking it.

“Why do you need to know, shopkeep?”

“I have to know in order to read the cards for you.”

His facial expression was priceless, as if he hadn’t expected me to seriously read the cards for him. I’m curious to see what happens. If I do what he says, he may leave without causing any harm for either of us. I could see the hesitation in his eyes, debating on telling me or not.

“Julian Devorak.”

The way he said it and tensed up as he did made me think that he had expected me to react to it, but I didn’t. Instead, I waved a hand for him to enter the back room. Confusion overtook his features before he waved it off. Pushing aside the curtain to the parlor once more, he bowed low and mocking.

“Magicians first~”

“What a gentleman.” I deadpanned as I past, causing a grin to spread on his face.

He took a seat across from me and watched with curiosity as I gathered the cards up from the previous reading and reshuffled them. My limbs felt tired and heavy from doing so many readings this quickly- it was normally Asra who did them for customers- but I kept on. Occasionally I would look up at Julian while I shuffled, only to catch him staring at me. He’d give a cheeky grin and would continue staring until I finally finished shuffling. Nervously, I spread the cards out in front of us.

“Pick a card.”

“Any card?” His eyebrows raised in jest, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“No, you can only choose a certain pattern- yes any card!”

His amusement was contagious, as was his laugh. I felt more at ease now, sinking into the plush chair as I waited for his pick. Black gloved fingers hovered over several cards before he finally stopped on two, side-by-side. He would hesitate over one before switching to the other, then would hesitate on it and go to its neighbor again instead. His other hand was clutching the headpiece of his outfit, the mask, and was rhythmically tapping on one of the glass eyes. I wondered if he could feel my impatience, because he glanced up only to stare back at the cards immediately once he noticed I was watching.

Finally, he chose a card. I reached forward to flip it over. Death. Its horse skull centerpiece looked oddly bright tonight, but I brushed it off.

“Death.”

I could feel the beginning of its words tickle my head, but it was cut off by Julian’s eruptuous laughter. I was startled as he stood, suddenly towering over me. It wasn’t long before he stormed out the curtain door to the front room. He was saying something, but I couldn’t catch most of it until I was standing in the room with him.

“She has no interest in an abomination like me.”

It seemed like it was the end of whatever little tangent he went on. He reattached his mask with a flourish, strapping the bands and buckles around his tousled red head. Gripping the door handle, he turned to me one last time.

“You’ve been hospitable, so I’ll let you in on a secret. Your witch friend will be back for you. He’s taught you his tricks. You may even say that he cares for you. But when he returns…” He hesitated on his words. Even without seeing his eyes, I could tell he was tossing his next words around in his head. “Seek me out. For your own sake. That creature is far more dangerous than you know.”

He lept into the street, and I followed. I stood on the shop’s steps and stared after him.

“Well, the time is late and it would appear that I’ve overstayed my welcome. Adieu!”

Then he was gone. I’m not even sure where he went, he just…vanished. I take another moment before shaking my head and checking the lantern to be sure it’s off. It’s too late for this. I reenter the shop and make my way to the back room one last time- hopefully- to clean up the cards. Luckily, no one is there and no one began pounding on the door. After the cards are cleaned up and stored in a safe space, I climb the stairs to the living area above.

I have never been so happy to see the bed. Sleepily, I drop onto the plush mattress and melt into the dozens of pillows and blankets. Anything else that had to be done can be done tomorrow. Without any sort of hesitation, I drift right off to sleep.

[batbobsession]

Shattered

What if Belle said “I love you” the moment she saw the Beast again instead of when he was close to death?  What would have happened then?

For all the lovelies from the rabb.it screening of the movie!!!!  Imma tag as many people as I can remember, so I’m sorry if I forgot you! [And if I mention you but you weren’t in the stream at all...well, here’s a fun AU fic!  Enjoy!]

@tinydooms @morgaine2005 @greensearcher @sweetfayetanner @lumiereswig @forr-everrmorre @im-too-obssesed @cad-enza @singingsweet @hathor-frozen @gastt @ebrienne @emeraldcitynative

There’s a moment when Belle thinks he’s going to fall.  

He jumps onto the highest turret of the castle, where two twin towers stand resolute beneath the full moon, anxious to hide behind the light, where Gaston’s eyes could not reach him.

But she is standing above him.  She sees everything in clear, gleaming clarity.  The light of the moon would not stop the hunter from getting his prey; she could see his red coat flap in his wake as he flies across the rooftops.  A great dragon, like the ones in the stories, circling closer, closer...

“No!”

Time seems to stop as Belle’s voice rings clear across the turrets.  Gaston skids to a halt, the Beast freezes, even the wind howling through the castle goes silent.  The Beast leaps from his place on the first turret and swings around to see her.  

“Belle!” he calls, and the moment shatters.  Gaston’s up again, running over the stone and the snow.  “You came back!”

“Of course I came back,” Belle replies, and she smiles despite the danger.  Here, standing at the edge of the castle, she knows what it’s like to be fearless.  “I love you!”

The words slip out without her realizing.  But as soon as the words register, her eyes widen as she finally realizes that they’re true.  They’ve been true for longer than she thought.  How could she have not said them back at the village, or when she and Papa were locked in the asylum’s carriage?

Oh.  Now she realizes.  She had thought, up until now, she thought she had the time to.  After rescuing her father, she was going to head back to the castle.  But now that she is back, she sees that there is no time at all.  She had to tell him before it was too late.

A few levels below the rooftops, as the villagers flee from the castle’s living halls, a beggar woman lowers her hood and smiles.

Gaston shrieks, a cry of animalistic rage and denial as the Beast falters, staring at Belle with something that looks like amazed disbelief.  

And the world erupts into a blaze of golden light.

It’s not just the rooftops. The light explodes across the sky, parts of it shining down on the castle below, streams and wisps of it floating off towards the forests.  The castle shudders with the might of it.  Belle has to shield her eyes—she can’t see the Beast, nor the turrets on which he stood, but she can see Gaston...and the look on his face is one that she never wants to see on the face of a human being—something that speaks volumes above horror and fury.  He raises his pistol and shoots off a round—Belle screams and runs toward him—but the bullet just flies through the magic like there was nothing there in the first place.

Then the light starts to move.

It’s slow, but the magic glides from the towers, across open air, towards the broken window of the West Wing.

Belle leaps onto the bridge of stone on which the other man stands, poised near the edge, ready to fire another shot.  When she’s within an arm’s reach of him, she lashes out, catching his arm just in time to push his aim upward.  The shot disappears into the night sky.

“Gaston, stop this!”

The fierce blue eyes slide toward her, caught in a fit of rage, jealousy, fear, and mania.  His lips draw back into a snarl—he does not recognize her; she only sees a soldier caught in the thrill of battle, a hunter driven mad by desire.  The hand holding the pistol shakes, twitches toward her—

And the bridge on which they are standing cracks between them.  The two look down, then back at each other—Belle gasps and scrambles backward, reaching the castle walls within seconds.  Gaston strides forward, trying to follow, but with one final shake, the stone crumbles beneath him.  His eyes widen in shock as he drops the gun, scrambling for purchase on the stone but finding none.  He locks gazes with her one more time, and she can see it; where there was once madness there is now terror, fear, a silent cry for help. Belle’s lips part, feeling a split-second urge to try to help him, but there’s nothing to be done.  Gaston screams as he vanishes from Belle’s view, but after a few seconds even those cries are cut short, forever silent and gone.

Belle lets out a breath, horrified at what she had just witnessed, but she didn’t dwell on it for very long.  The Beast.  The West Wing.  What had happened?

She slowly stands up, but the castle’s shakes and shudders have finally died down, and she stands on solid stone once again.  There’s no more time to waste.  She flies up the stairs and into the West Wing, only coming to a stop when she reaches the center of the room.  The golden light has mostly dissipated, snaking up to the vaulted ceilings and out the windows.  But what remains surrounds a man who is slowly being lowered to the ground.  His brown hair curls around his shoulders, and he stares at his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time.  But when he finds Belle, his expression incredulous and hopeful at the same time.  He takes a step towards her hesitantly, as if caught in a dream.

Belle doesn’t move.  This is all very strange.  Her mind tells her she’s never seen this man in her life, but her heart begs her to look closer.  There’s something about him that’s so...familiar…

“Belle,” he says, and gone is the low growl, the garbled speech.  His voice shakes, but is otherwise smooth and pleasant to her ears.  “It’s me.”

She steps forward now, peering into the man’s face, searching for a sign.  She puts her hand up to caress his cheek when she sees it—his eyes are a beautiful shade of blue, like the sky just after the sun rises.  She knows those eyes.

“It is you,” she whispers, and smiles through fresh tears.

“We’ve done it, Plumette!” Lumiére shouts, beaming as the villagers ran from the castle’s grounds in fear.  “Victory is ours!”

There is no response.  

“Plumette?” He turns and something strikes him through the heart; his love is lying on the snow-covered ground, more antique than alive.  

“No,” he pleads, rushing forward to cradle her in his arms.  “Mon amour, s'il vous plaît!”

She looks up at him, her wing shakily reaching up to touch his chest.   “Lumiére…”

“Oui, chéri, I’m here,” he says, trying to hold her gaze just a bit longer, but it’s no use.  They’ve run out of time.  “Plumette!  Not you, please, not you…”

He doesn’t notice the change in the air.  He doesn’t hear Mrs. Potts give a shout of exclamation, nor the shocked trill of keys from the maestro behind him.  So deep is his grief that he doesn’t notice anything until such an intense feeling of warmth washes over him that he fears he might have set everything ablaze.  Then it’s gone in a burst of gold and white.  He blinks, confused, before he sees her in his arms, dressed in white, surrounded by feathers, and staring up at him with such untamed joy.

His heart leaps, and his hand curls around her shoulder as she reaches up to touch his face.  

Wait.

Her hand.  His face.  His hand.  His heart.

Oh.  Oh.

He’s holding her.  She is alive and human and he is holding her.

Chip and Mrs. Potts are laughing together.  Froufrou, a mass of fur and happy yips, runs in circles around the two musicians.  And Plumette, alive, healthy, in his arms, and he isn’t burning.

It must register in his expression then, because Plumette laughs.  It’s a sound more beautiful than anything he’s ever heard.

“Oh, my love.  You are a fool.”

“Oui,” he agrees, and leans down to kiss her.

Jean stops when he sees the light.

He’s running back towards the trees, trying desperately to get away from the living castle, with its haunted furniture and roaring beasts.  He’d had enough of those for one lifetime.  He glances over his shoulder to see if anyone got left behind, and stops when he sees a pinprick of light, like a tiny ball, hovering above the castle.  

“My, what’s that up there?” he calls, pointing up at the light.  “Something’s happening!”

For a moment, no one listens to him.  The villagers run past him with their horses, too caught up in their terror to notice an old man’s rambling.  Then a hand grasps his shoulder and he turns to see Monsieur LeFou.  Jean’s lips part in surprise; when was the last time LeFou talked to him?  He couldn’t remember.

“Hey, everyone! Stop!” LeFou yells, and his voice rings louder than Jean’s, so that the people around them all slow their steps to hear Gaston’s second-in-command speak.  “M’sieur Jean’s seen something!  Look at the castle!”

They all turn to look, and by that time the ball has changed shape.  It’s separated itself into ribbons, flying out in all directions...one of those directions being the village.

Some of the villagers start backward in fear, while others only stand there, full of awe and curiosity.

When the light hits Jean, it’s warm and soothing, like a summer breeze.  But with it brings two faces to the surface of his mind: a woman in a white apron and a boy with curly brown locks and a bright smile.

Beatrice.  Christopher.

He gasps and almost sinks to the ground.  His wife.  His son.  Missing.  Gone for years of his life.  He had forgotten all about them.

“Oh my word…!”

Think.  When was the last time he had seen them?  The ball—the young prince had been hosting a ball and they had gone to the castle to help with preparations.  

Suddenly the castle’s towers no longer seemed like a threat.  It’s where his family was.  He has to go back.

All around him, the other villagers spring into action, running back towards the castle with smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes.  The old fishmonger has never looked so happy, and the headmaster is calling his daughter’s name.  

That’s right, Jean thinks.  He did have a daughter.  She would come by my shop every day to look at the new sets.

And with that, the old potter takes off running as well.  He had missed so many days that he could have spent with his family.  He has to get them back.

Golden light shines through the streets of the castle, where Maurice and D’Arque stand debating by the asylum cart.  The horses whinny nervously, but the two men do not notice at first.  

“Gaston put you up to this, I understand that,” Maurice is saying.  “But now that there is, in fact, a castle, wouldn’t that mean that several of your patients are saner than you think?”

Something flickers in D’Arque’s expression, but he scoffs.  “Even so...”

Then they see it, floating through the dark streets of Villeneuve: a golden spirit, a river of light, bringing the strong scent of roses in its wake.  

The hat shop owner runs outside, wrapping her traveling cloak around her shoulders.  Pére Robert already has his cloak on as he lights another torch, his expression one of relief and praise.

Maurice and D’Arque lock gazes in mutual understanding (Finally, Maurice thinks) and the asylum owner throws open the doors to his cart, making no attempts to retrieve the lock from the artist.  There’s only one thought in everyone’s minds: The castle.  They need to get to the castle.

A few minutes later, the sun has risen and the loved are being embraced by the lost.  The headmaster kisses his daughter on the forehead.  Clothilde throws her arms around her husband.  Jean has one arm around his wife and the other around his son, all smiles and bright eyes.  The triplet sisters run to their brother, weeping over how much they missed him, and how overjoyed their mother would be once they returned to Villeneuve.  

There are shouts of recognition as some of the villagers stare at the musicians, not only because they had exchanged blows a few minutes ago, but there are a few that recognize them from their status.  LeFou stares in shock as Mrs. Potts beams at him, realizing that he had saved her life earlier.  Cadenza extends a hand to Clothilde, though both look a little uncomfortable with it.  There are all kinds of emotions in the air.

The only time a hush comes over the crowd is when Belle and Adam come out to meet everyone.  The respect the villagers show Belle is astounding.  This girl, this woman that they had doubted has turned out to be the one that’s brought their lives back to them.  And they remember their prince, the young one that used to show kindness to the common folk before the queen’s death.  He smiles at everyone, and they smile back.  

Of course, there is still confusion in the air.  There are still people in the world that are waking up and not understanding what is going on countries, oceans away.  But there is no need to fear it anymore.  Darkness is only there to make light brighter.

This darkness has been shattered by love and light, and all words of protest on the matter are better left unspoken.  

[willsherjohnkhan]

The Werewolf of Baker St

RATED: Mature

Chapter 1: The Cry of the Wolf

***

221B BAKER STREET

On the strike of midnight a bloodcurdling howl pierced the air. As spine tingling as the sound was, there could be little doubt that it was a cry from the heart.

It spoke of rage, and of despair, and of loneliness.

The animalistic side of the creature was desperate to follow its natural instincts, consumed with an insatiable need to bond.

The creature’s human side however kept these feelings on a tight leash, refusing to give in to such powerful and primal emotions.

The battle between the two had been raging for hundreds of years.

It was inevitable that one day the tipping point would finally be reached. The wolf had recently detected the tantalising scent of the one destined to become their mate, and it was determined to have her, come what may...

***

Chapter 2: Something Amiss

***

BARTS HOSPITAL – MORTUARY – 11.50 PM

Hooper finished cleaning up after performing the final autopsy for the night. As he prepared to leave he couldn’t get the conversation he’d overhead between Detective Lestrade and the self-proclaimed Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes out of his head.

It was all so very odd, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. They were clearly withholding relevant and important facts from him concerning the grizzly death of the young woman on whom he’d performed the autopsy.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to seeing what the very worst of human nature was capable of. That was to be expected in his line of work.

He was confident that his secret remained safe. That Scotland Yards finest, and even the great detective had not yet ‘deduced’ that Doctor Manfred Hooper was in fact Doctor Margaret Hooper.

So why were they withholding information from her?

Molly carefully went back over the conversation that had her so troubled.

**

EARLIER

“Thank God it’s the final night of the full moon cycle,” Lestrade muttered to Holmes, who was currently inspecting the wounds on the deceased woman.

“Indeed,” the detective responded, having completed his inspection to his own satisfaction. “But this cannot be allowed to continue.”

“Agreed,” the inspector replied. “But how are we to bring this to an end when we don’t even know where they are?”

“Leave it to me,” Holmes said confidently. “I believe I may have uncovered a link, between the victims and a particular establishment. If I’m correct, then the situation will be in hand before the next…”

**

BARTS HOSPITAL – MORTUARY – 11.59 PM

She had been unable to learn anything more as the two men, possibly noting that Doctor Hooper was within earshot had left the morgue to continue they’re conversation in private.

Whatever was going on she was certain that the two men knew far more than they were letting on. It was clear from the looks she had observed between the pair, backed up by their conversation that they had seen wounds like this before. As well as the distinct pattern emerging for when these murders were taking place.

Well if they weren’t prepared to confide their findings with her, she was left with no alternative but to do some investigating of her own.

Reaching for her coat, hat and walking cane, she left the morgue, making her way along the teeming streets of London.

***

Chapter 3: Secrets Exposed

***

OUTSIDE ST BARTHOLOMEWS – EARLIER

A particularly heavy fog had descended over the City of London as Holmes and Lestrade left the hospital. It quickly merged with the heavily polluted air caused by the smoke and ash billowing from numerous factories. In a matter of minutes visibility had become severely restricted, with even that great city’s most notable landmarks smothered beneath a cocoon of off white haze.

But just because you couldn’t see something didn’t mean that it wasn’t there.

And Holmes knew as he glanced skyward that though it remained conveniently hidden to the naked eye, the full moon remained ever present somewhere above them.

More than that, he could feel it. And with every ounce of his remarkable control, he resisted its pull.

Turning back to address his companion, Holmes stated “I’ll take care of it, Lestrade. No need to involve Scotland Yard in this business.”

Lestrade was a good man, but he and his constabulary at the Yard were simply no match for what they were currently up against.

The inspector gave a resigned sigh. He knew from Holmes’ tone that there was no arguing with him on this point.

“Very well, Holmes,” he replied. As the consulting detective made his way briskly down the street, to be immediately swallowed up by the enveloping fog, Lestrade added. “Take care.”

***

DESERTED ALLEYWAY – MIDNIGHT

Mabel Sykes had fallen on hard times. And for a young single woman with no family and of limited means there was only one option if she wished to escape ending up in the Work House.

So when she had been approached by the Madam of a well-known ‘house of ill repute’ The Whip Hand it seemed, on the surface at least, to be a far safer option to roaming the streets in search of paying customers.

But as she stood in the alleyway next to the brothel just as the clock struck midnight, Mabel began to have second thoughts. This despite the fact the Madam had assured her that she would be completely safe here as she awaited her client’s arrival.

As the minutes ticked by Mabel felt increasingly nervous and vulnerable, absolutely certain she was being watched. But her attempts to breech the thick, murky fog proved unsuccessful.

In desperation she called out, anxiety making her voice unusually high. “Who’s there?”

When the only response she received was a series of growls she began to shake uncontrollably. In growing fear she turned with the intention of going back inside the brothel, only pausing when a familiar voice called out to her.

“Oh no, my dear,” the voice said. “Not that way.”

Turning back, Mabel frowned, there was no-one there.

Adding to her confusion and growing unease was the certainty that although the voice had belonged to the madam, it was deeper, gravellier, and harsher.

“Madam Adler,” the girl called out. “Where are you?”

“I’m right here,” was the reply she received.

But by this time Mabel wasn’t listening to what was being said. Her focus was on the three beasts that had emerged from the shadows. They were enormous hulks, with blazing eyes, slavering mouths full of viciously sharp teeth.

Without warning the three werewolves launched themselves at her.

*

The blood-curdling scream came to an abrupt end. It was immediately followed up by a chorus of howls.

Unlike many in the metropolis who chose to turn a blind eye and a deaf eye to any strange or unusual goings on, Mabel’s fateful cry was heard, and responded to by not one, but two individuals in the area.

***

TWO STREETS AWAY

“Damnation!” Holmes roared, the knowledge that he’d been too slow to save another unfortunate woman adding fuel to his determination to catch those responsible.

He picked up his pace as he tore down the street, aided considerably by the fact he now travelled on four legs instead of two.

***

SEVERAL STREETS AWAY

At the awful cry Molly immediately gave up all pretence of being a gentleman on the lookout for some evening shenanigans.

Though the fog was still very thick, she let her instincts guide her in the direction she should go. Due to her stature, her stride was no match for Holmes. But she was small and she was agile, and at this time of great need she used them to her advantage.

***

THE WHIP HAND ALLEYWAY

When Holmes arrived on the scene he found himself confronted by the three werewolves, one female and two males.

Protocol stated that when werewolves from different packs first meet they revert to their were-form, the halfway point between human and wolf. Its purpose, so that all concerned would know exactly with whom they were dealing.

It was a courtesy, an unwritten rule that no pack dare disobey.

This the four immediately did.

Holmes instantly identified the other three as: Madam Irene Adler, Prof. James Moriarty and Master Charles Augustus Magnusson.

That the three should be involved in a despicable act as the murder of young women was of no surprise to the detective. What did surprise, and concerned him greatly was the unmistakable fact that they had joined forces.

And that was a disturbing development indeed.

But before he could begin questioning them pandemonium broke out, thanks to the unexpected arrival of St Bart’s Pathologist, Dr. Manfred Hooper.

For while in their were-forms werewolves are extremely skittish. This is due to their synaptic pathways in their brains becoming overwhelmed by both their human and their wolf sides. This leaves them feeling incredibly vulnerable, at least until their brains calm down and adapt. And this is another reason why they must greet in were-form, for they are far less likely to be aggressive with one another.

*

The sight that greeted Molly’s horrified gaze far surpassed her worst nightmares. Standing around the butchered remains of another innocent victim were four – creatures.

At her audible gasp three of the creatures ran off, but the fourth one remained, standing there still as a statue.

**

In truth Holmes would have preferred running off as well, instead he didn’t move, frozen in shock, as internally man and wolf conducted a heated debate.

Both were looking at Hooper. But where one saw a respected colleague, the other saw –

“Mate!” Holmes wolf howled in delight. The search was finally over.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Holmes argued. “Hooper may be small, but he is most definitely male.”

The wolf could not believe what he was hearing. Could his human half not smell the tantalising scent coming off of her. It rolled over the wolf in continuous waves, it was driving him crazy. They’d been waiting so long to find their mate, how was it possible his human half couldn’t see what was right in front of them.

**

Scared though she was Molly still maintained enough professionalism to catalogue details about the creature before her to memory, so she might give a full and accurate description in the police report, should she make it out of this situation alive.

It appeared to be a cross between a man and a beast.

‘It could possibly be a dog. No.’ Molly shook her head. ’That howl.’ It still caused shivers to rush up and down her spine, wolf, was a more accurate description.

The creature’s body was tall and slim, though surprisingly muscular. The extra hair that covered its body ensured enough modesty, stopping it from revealing its completely naked form.

It was only as she looked at the creature’s face that incredulously she realised she knew the creature before her.

The cry she gave alerting Holmes, who immediately reverted completely into human form.

This was too much for Molly, who took flight back the way she had come.

With no consideration to his nakedness, Holmes took off after Hooper.

“Wait, Hooper! Let me explain!”

Molly could feel Holmes catching up to her. She felt as though her lungs were going to explode, but still she pushed on, the vision of the young woman’s ravaged body still fresh in her mind.

Holmes knew he couldn’t allow Hooper to escape, so he brought him down with a rugby tackle.

Molly hit the pavement hard, hard enough that her wig and false moustache were dislodged. And Holmes found himself looking down at a young woman with big brown eyes and long chestnut coloured hair.

His wolf had been right. Doctor Hooper was indeed a woman.

Holmes shook his head in disbelief, a self-deriding smile turning up his cupids-bow lips as he was forced to acknowledge his own folly.

“It would appear I always miss something, Miss Hooper.”

*

Skulking in the shadows, Moriarty’s human collaborator Moran didn’t know what to make of what he had just witnessed between Holmes and the woman who had been masquerading as a man.

But he knew the good professor would have more than a few ideas.

***

Chapter 4: Revalations

***

221B BAKER ST

Behind closed lids she remembered... - “Thank God it’s the final night of the full moon cycle,” Lestrade muttered to Holmes, who was currently inspecting the wounds on the deceased woman. - The viciously ravaged body of the young woman in the alleyway. - The creature that transformed into Sherlock Holmes. - Running for her life. - Being caught.

And then... - A carriage emerging through the fog. - Being bundled inside. - Finally overcome, and everything going dark...

With the greatest of reluctance Molly’s eyes flickered open, to find herself lying on a sofa. She then became aware of voices, some she recognised, others she did not. Although she strained her ears to hear what was being said she could not make out the detail, but it was clear that whatever the disagreement it had descended into a heated, if whispered, argument.

But if she hoped to remain unobserved she was to be disappointed.

“It would appear your ‘damsel in distress’ has deigned to rejoin us,” remarked the pompous, heavily-set, official-looking gentleman sarcastically.

“Enough Mycroft,” the familiar baritone of Holmes growled.

“How exactly brother mine do you intend to explain to your mate what it was she witnessed?”

Mate? Molly’s brow furrowed at its implication, while at the same time noting the undisguised loathing with which Holmes, the elder all but spat the word.

“Mycroft,” this time the growl was more pronounced, animalistic in its intensity as the detective took a threatening step towards his brother.

“Oh shush you two. Doctor Hooper has more than enough to deal with without you two going all Alpha,” admonished the blonde-haired women, clearly confident that she was more than a match for the bickering siblings.

She made her way over to where Molly lay and assisted her in sitting up.

“How are you feeling my dear?” she asked kindly, with a friendly smile that instantly put Molly at ease, despite the bizarre circumstances she found herself in.

Molly took the opportunity to survey her surroundings. Given the practical nature of the furniture and the sparse, simple furnishings, with an assortment of books, papers and medical instruments that littered the place, it was clear she was in the private rooms of a gentleman, or as her eyes came to rest on Holmes, now suitably reclothed, one gentleman in particular.

And her breathing immediately became more rapid. “Who..?” she choked out, fear once again threatening to overwhelm her. “What are you people?”

“Werewolves,” the woman responded airily.

“Mary!” the outraged exclamation came from Holmes’ associate and chronicler, Dr. John Watson.

“Oh pish, she has already witnessed Sherlock in his were-form. There seems very little point in beating around the bush,” Mary tuttered impatiently.

Before Watson could attempt reprimanding his wife, Holmes smoothly stepped in.

“Quite right Mary,” the detective acknowledged warmly.”Any attempts to conceal or deny what Hooper...,” he paused briefly, a light tinge of pink highlighting his perfectly sculptured cheekbones. “...what Hooper witnessed is pointless. She is an intelligent, astute and resourceful young woman, who herself is well-versed in the art of disguise, and understands the need for concealment. We therefore have no option but to throw ourselves at her mercy, and beg her to listen to what we have to say before making any judgement for or against us.”

The request was made with such earnestness, with none of Holmes’ usual arrogance. Throughout the impassioned plea he maintained eye contact, a surprisingly intimate act for one known to prefer to remain detached from all forms of sentiment. Though Molly now knew that this reserve was not shown within that small exclusive group of those he regarded as his nearest and dearest. So where did that leave her? What in particular was she to him?

Mate.

The mere implication of the word, not to mention the way he continued to watch her caused violent shivers to race up and down her spine, though whether a sign of fear or awakened desire she was not willing to speculate.

“There’s no need to fear Sherlock,” Mary assured her.

Certainly to look at the now impeccably dressed gentleman before her it was difficult to believe that he was anything other than what he purported to be, in this case the world’s only consulting detective. The man with an extraordinary brain, capable of finding details and clues that others either didn’t see, or failed to comprehend there importance until the great detective placed all the facts before them, leaving them dumbfounded that they had not been able to deduce what had been right in front of them all along.

But it was all a deception, a mask of civility that hid something far more powerful, and primitive...

“Tea, that’s what we need right now,” Mrs Hudson, Holmes’ erstwhile landlady announced as she headed out the door to make the necessary preparations.

*

Molly raised her cup to her lips, grimacing with distaste when she found the contents stone cold. On reflection there hadn’t been much time to drink the tea, overwhelmed as she had been by what she was being told.

Even now she found it all so fantastical. It was the stuff of fairy stories, or nightmares. And yet she had witnessed with her own eyes that which should not have been possible. She felt the weight of responsibility, as those before her watched her closely as they waited to see how she would respond to all she had learned.

“It’s a lot to comprehend,” Holmes noted in a rough yet gentle tone.

She put her cup and saucer down, as she nodded in acknowledgement.

“So, if I have this aright,” she began. “Werewolves have always lived among us. Living and working with the human population, a few of whom know your secret. And you have managed to remain hidden for centuries, until recently when a new breed of werewolf arrived.”

Molly paused. She knew she should be more concerned with the details of what made these werewolves different to the new arrivals, but for the life of her there was only one aspect that she wanted answered, the one that Holmes had been at pains to avoid at all cost.

But all throughout the explanations, Molly had been aware of his constant regard. His eyes remained fixed upon her, and what she read in their depths had her head filling with thoughts that had her pressing her legs closely together

It was only when he inhaled deeply, his gaze turning positively molten, that she realised he could scent her arousal, and that it was increasing his own.

Mate. The word hung between them, pawing frantically at them, refusing to release them from its hold.

With Hooper’s renowned forthrightness, Molly decided to take the plunge into the unknown.

Turning her gaze to meet Holmes’ full on, she inquired. “Why is your brother is under the impression that I’m your mate?”

It was clear that the conversation was about to turn to more delicate and private matters, so the others quietly withdrew, giving the couple the privacy necessary for such an explanation.

Mary Watson paused as she made to follow her husband, catching Molly’s eye before remarking as she nodded towards Sherlock, “He’s a puppy dog really... when he’s not howling at the moon.”

With an impish grin she took her leave.

***

[angstgods]

Okay, I'll try bc why not? I hope you're still recieving prompts (

no way boo, prompts are free for sure! especially for you darling! otayuri suicide aftermath (in the bell toll universe because why not, also this prompt is PERFECT) 

Also, I can’t update tonight cuz time got away from me and the update is no where near done lmaoooooo sorry, i work 3: 

Go!!!!! 

 They found him sprawled out on his childhood bed. His eyes were blown black, blood poured from his nose. When Victor kicked down the door and charged up the stairs, Yuri was still warm, clutching a woolen scarf. He had an aneurysm, died shortly after.

 Paramedics carried him out of the house in a black bag. Neighbors peeked out of their front doors, alarmed by distaught, animalistic wailing coming from the mouth of the house. Strangers were frozen on the stoops of their steps, compelled to listen to Victor cry, watch as Yuuri tried not to. He waited until the ambulances cleared out before calling Yakov.

“Yuuri! Did you find him? Is he safe? … Where are you? What do you know? What’s going on?”

“Yakov–” the words stuck in his throat, slipping out of his reach. He didn’t even know if Russian had the words he was looking for. It was inarticulable. Victor slipped out of Yuuri’s grasp. His knees hit the floor, then his right shoulder. He curled up on the floor in a fetal position. 

“Vitya…?” On the other line, Yakov spoke at the edge of a whisper, recognizing Victor’s voice from a distant memory. 

“We were too late.”

Yakov sped to the scene with Lilia beside him. The car ride was dead silent. When they arrived, most of the people had gone back into their houses. The body was taken to the mortuary. They stepped out of the car like they were entering a different universe, an alternate reality. There wasn’t a breath of wind, not a bird in the sky, nor people in the streets. The Earth breathed a sigh of relief, finally at peace. But the front door, hanging loosely on its hinges, couldn’t close all the way. Voices leaked out onto the porch.

“You have to get up.”

“No!”

“Victor, please–”

The front door kicked open and big brown eyes flicked up to watch Yakov and Lilia step into the house. Yuuri was kneeling on the carpet, trying to haul Victor to his feet and he just wouldn’t move. He could barely breath between devastated laments. Lilia dropped to the ground to help.

“I don’t wanna leave him.” 

“He’s already gone, Vitya. Come on, we have to leave…” 

Outside on the porch, Yakov leaned heavily against the bannister, clutching at his heart. He took his hat off, dropping it onto the lawn. He plopped down onto the top step when his knees gave out. Inside, Victor was finally standing. Lilia was out the door first, her eyes bloodshot and her face as white as a ghost.

“I was just talking to him,” he mused mostly to himself, “I was just shouting at him.”

“We couldn’t have known–”

“Yes we did, Lilia. All the signs were there. We knew what he was capable of, and still, I pushed him.”

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Staggering out of the house, Victor zoomed past Yakov and Lilia just a hair out of Yuuri’s reach. Yuuri caught him by the arm but Victor tore out of his hands. Sprinting ahead, Yuuri blocked Victor’s path to the car. He planted his feet, raising his hands in surrender.

“Move,” Victor threatened low in his throat, a shadow of his usual self. Yuuri shivered but stayed right where he was. 

“Victor… calm down. You’re beside yourself, you don’t want to do th–” 

“Get out of my way, Yuuri.”

Yakov stood up slowly. Digging deep and gritting his teeth, Yuuri shook his head. He put up an honorable fight, but Victor was a different person, with no regard for his husbands wishes at all. He was barely conscious enough not to throw him to the ground just for hindering him for a few seconds. He slammed the driver’s side door closed. He tore down the street, heading south.

“Yuuri,” Lilia hurried to his side, “are you okay?”

“There’s no time, we have to go right now. He’s gonna kill him.”

…

Mila idled around her house, feeling cold and numb, when a strong force attacked her front door. After two heart-stopping thumps, the door flew off it’s hinges, landing into the house. The noise brought Otabek charging down the stairs to see what was the matter. Mila made herself small in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, backlit and snarling, Victor set his sights on his target.

“Victor…?”

Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He breathed heavy, ragged breaths. His voice trailed out with them in warning growls.

“It’s your fault,” he seethed. Dawning realization crossed Otabek’s face. Victor was shaking. “This is… This is all your fault!”

“Vic–”

“I’m gonna fucking KILL YOU!” Grabbing Otabek by the collar of his shirt, Victor pinned him to the back of the sofa and buried his fist in the bridge of his nose. It broke with a sickening crack. Mila shrieked. Otabek groaned. His mouth filled with blood from his nose. Victor punched him in the teeth, loosening two of them. “How could you?” he sobbed, “he loved you so much, you son of a bitch!” Spitting out a mouth full of blood, Otabek was blinded by a blow to both his eyes, swelling them shut. He slid down the back of the couch onto the floor where Victor beat him to a pulp. Only the combined strength of several people all rushing in could stop him. Even then, he slipped out of their grasp to pummel Otabek some more.

“Stop!” Mila screamed powerlessly. “Victor, stop, what’s wrong with you?!” 

“It’s Yuri,” Yuuri spoke around a thick lump in his throat. He fell back into the floor, holding Victor in a headlock while he howled in great waves of utter torment. Yakov and Lilia leaned over Otabek’s face, starting to clean away blood. He was barely conscious and slipping away fast. Everyone held their breaths. “Yuri is dead.”

Mila’s voice cracked. “He’s… He’s dead?” she squeaked. Otabek gave a pained whine, forgetting his injuries entirely.

“Yurochka is dead because of you.” Victor condemned through his tears, spitting on the floor and cursing the day Otabek was born. Yuuri lead him out of the house to take him home. Lilia and Mila escorted Otabek to the hospital. Yakov made the necessary preparations, left alone to think about the funeral.

Surrounded by hundreds of white lilies and carnations, people lined up by the dozen to pay their respects. The guest list was very exclusive, no randoms or reporters allowed. A few news stations wanted to televize the early funeral of a rising star and quickly saw the ugly side of Victor Nikiforov instead. Yuuri had to fight to gain Otabek’s acceptance, resulting in their first ever big fight. The girls had run out of their room to stop them, but it was no use. Victor disappeared into the night and Yuuri didn’t see him until the service two days later.

It was open casket. Even days later, Yuri lied like he was sleeping, like if they spoke too loudly he’d awaken and they’d never hear the end of it. He was wearing a belt, he was cleaned and laid out for three days before the service, and still no one could believe it. Even after most of the crowd had dispersed, Yuri’s closest friends stood over him, reluctant to close the coffin doors.

Otabek sat beside him, staring at his face, afraid to look away in case he breathed or moved at all. But Yuri’s lips were pale, the warmth of his soul had left him. Three thin braids framed his face, given to him to serve as a reminder of Otabek in the afterlife.

Mila was gone. He had a feeling that he’d never see her again.

Victor and Yuuri stood off to the side, further apart than they’d ever been before. Victor watched Otabek whisper little things that came into his mind to Yuri’s body. He didn’t even think Yuri would listen to him, wherever he was, but still he spoke to him. Told him he would never stop loving him.

“I’m a monster…” Yuuri tensed.

“What?” he couldn’t believe his ears, but Victor was serious.

“Look at what I did to him,” Victor lamented quietly, “I can’t believe… I can’t believe I spoke to you like that…” Yuuri sighed his name, pulling Victor into his arms for a kiss but he refused it. He was undeserving. “I’m so sorry, Yuuri,” he apologized with a waver in his voice, “I hope you can forgive me.”

“You’re already forgiven,” Yuuri reassured, smoothing his hand over Victor’s back.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri could feel Victor’s tears on his neck, “we’ll get through this, Victor. I’ll never stop loving you and being there for you when you need me.” Yuuri wanted to kiss him, some things weren’t easily said and Victor needed to know. He accepted an honest, communicative kiss with his husband. Yuuri was strong when he couldn’t be, he needed him like he air breathed. Yuuri would help Victor get over this loss. He couldn’t say the same for Otabek.

Moments before they’d all gotten the courage to walk the coffin to it’s final resting place, a beautiful woman with long blonde hair approached solemnly. She couldn’t have been older than Victor, with the only lines on her face framing her lips when she tried to smile. Her snub nose was pink and as raw as her eyes. She floated in to see the body, stopped in her tracks by none other than Lilia.

“Get out,” she dismissed right away, a warning in her eyes.

“Please,” the woman begged meekly. Lilia wouldn’t repeat herself. “I need to see him,” she tried to convince. “Please!” she implored, but Lilia was resolute and would not be swayed. “He’s my son!” 

Otabek whirled around. So did Yuuri. Yakov and Victor stared at the floor. She was here, she actually came… They should’ve told Lilia. 

“He is my son,” she glowered, taking a menacing step forward. “You are a ghost.”

The woman gave up, she disappeared.

After Yuri’s body disappeared into the ground, after the public mourned his loss, things started to go back to normal. The vacancy Yuri left was wide and unfillable, but slowly, everyone moved on. The girls donned their smiles again after months of solemn silence. Victor and Yuuri rediscovered each other after a bout of lonely impotence. They discussed adopting a son every once in a while. Yakov and Lilia put all of their time and effort into Georgie, who thrived from their attention and guidance. Mila moved to Italy, unreachable by anyone she knew in Russia. She was happier in starting again.

Otabek stayed in St. Petersburg, picking up the lease on Yuri’s apartment. He hid himself away, only leaving the house when he absolutely had to. He slowly faded from everyone’s memory. People stopped texting him. They didn’t notice him delete all of his social media accounts. No one showed up at his door when his phone line disconnected. No one batted an eye when he slipped away, peacefully bleeding out in the bathtub.

[chibi-writings]

Ink 2/?

Characters: Frollo, Esmeralda (Disney)

"He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure." - Psalm 40:2

Deliverance

The morning had dawned with an ominous red sky, choking black clouds still crawling across its length like a great heard stamping their airy hooves in a sea of blood. A tapestry of doom woven by the Moirai, the most hopeless and the most vengeful sky that Esmeralda had ever seen in her life. People had started to gather and stare at them all from the shadows of their houses, visible only when they moved, frail grass stalks bending to their own unseen winds. Esmeralda looked among their faces for any sign of pity, anything that would tell her they were here to help, but she only saw anger and fear.

How could they all do this? Could they really just sit there and watch them all die and not do anything?

She sensed Frollo coming long before she saw him. The sound of hooves clacking on the stone was the first sound she heard, then a ripple passed among the crowd that stirred them into life, the air buzzing with their whispers and the swish of their clothes. The air pressed on her as if it had become water and somehow the shadows seemed even darker, more substantial. She shrank away from them, overcome by the insane feeling that if they touched her then she would feel fingers across her skin.

The clopping of hooves became louder and then she could see him and the people parting around him hurriedly, throwing themselves away as if he would burn them. Even in his most consuming of rages, the coldest of his disdain, the thickest of his confusion, Frollo had the most perfect horsemanship Esmeralda had ever seen. He sat upon his Friesian like a king and it responded to signals and touches she could barely ever discern, they were so complete that it was more like he spoke to the animal with his mind. How could this not be seen as witchcraft by such a dumb and foolish population as these people?

Frollo's swaying in the saddle was perfect and the horse nearly glided across the space that separated them, the leaders of a procession of guards who were infinitely more clumsy and awkward on their own mounts, their armor rattling and half of them looked like they would fall off at any moment compared to Frollo. Esmeralda could not take her eyes from him and even with the distance between them she could still feel his scorching gaze across her flesh, gripping her in a restraint that existed without touch. Her heart galloped in her chest, her ribs which before had seemed so protecting before were like a cage now, a cage made of her very own body.

Each growing step made her realize how huge his horse truly was, how large they both seemed and they stole the air with their very presence. No matter how many times she inhaled it didn't seem like it was enough, her head was light and spinning and they pressed down on her, she felt as much in their shadow as she did of Notre Dame. Her knees trembled and she would have probably fallen if her knees hadn't been locked and her hands gripping her cage with an intensity born of fear. She looked up defiantly as they stopped in front of her, seeing them framed by the sky above that seemed too perfect to be natural for them.

At first all Frollo did was stare at her. His dark eyes were unreadable, unchanging, and it was more like an animalistic instinct that whispered to her what he was feeling than what the judge actually gave away. Anger and desire that chased each other, all wrapped up and caught in each other so it was impossible to separate one from the other entirely. Smugness that oozed from him in every movement, but his face so frozen and cold...So cold. He was close enough for her to nearly reach out and touch but he was as indifferent as a hermit on a remote mountaintop.

Frollo and his horse could have been a statue carved from ebony, marble, and amethyst. Neither of them moved.

"Take her."

She jumped when he suddenly spoke. Everyone did, it seemed. Snapping into action, her guards quickly unlocked the door and then they were around her, grabbing her wrists and yanking her away. Her fingers ached horribly from how hard they had been holding the cage and their hold burned harshly against her wrists. Esmeralda gritted her teeth at how hard they tugged her, but she did not protest and forced her feet to move with them.

"All of them," came the second, imperious command.

There was commotion everywhere, the people around raising their voices in a shout that she could not understand. She couldn't understand anything, her blood was roaring in her ears, roaring like the clanking of armor and the constant buzzing voices around her. The one thing she could hear clearly was Frollo's voice, like cold water against heated skin. It always pulled her back to the present with the shock of hearing it.

Soldiers were pulling her, dragging her along with them, closer to the front of Notre Dame. A platform had been erected there earlier, with a single pole serving as its decoration. Her heart tripped and froze at the sight of it all, her mind just now comprehending the full meaning even though she had spent the whole last night knowing what was to come.

Then, like a slap to her face, came Phoebus's voice rising above the din. Frollo's voice was jolting as the cold, but Phoebus roared like a clap of thunder. "What is wrong with all of you?! He burned your houses and ransacked your city! Can't you see what he's doing is wrong! He--"

"Witch!" Came an insane shriek that Esmeralda had to turn around and see. The others were behind her in their own twisted procession, but Phoebus was the only one resisting his captors. Then from somewhere in the crowd came a rock that hit Phoebus right in the gut, driving the breath out of him and his knees buckled. All around them the crowd cheered.

It felt like her heart had been torn instead. Esmeralda couldn't hold back the small scream in her throat at the sight of it all, and just like wolves smelling blood, their attention turned to her.

"Gypsy witch!"

"Burn her!"

"There she is!"

Another rock came sailing by, passing so close to her that she heard it whooshing in the air as it passed. Their screaming, frothing rage was stirring into a frenzy, as mindless as howling dogs. Other things were being picked up, fruits and sticks and anything they could get their hands on to hit and attack the gypsies with.

"Enough!"

Frollo's voice rose above it all like a god and at all once there was silence. An incredible, single breath of shocked silence before his soldiers snapped into action, those not holding prisoners pushing the crowds back, screaming threats and waving their spears around to herd them into a more acceptable position, forcing them to leave the prisoners with a wide berth.

Esmeralda felt her eyes burning, but she refused to cry. How could she have ever expected these people to help? These were the very same heartless bastards that had tied a poor hunchbacked man to a wheel and thrown fruit at him, all to make fun of his ugliness. And they had laughed at his suffering cries!

God damn them. God damn every single one of their souls to the deepest pits of Hell.

If she was destined for Hell, then Esmeralda would laugh while she was there. She knew all of them were destined to end up there with her, and how she would be the one to laugh at their pain in the end.

She tried to be brave and defiant and strong, but her knees were shaking so badly that she could barely walk. Not even she understood how she was managing to do it, it was as mechanical as breathing at this point. Even if the guards weren't holding her she had no idea if she could even pluck up the strength and courage to run. Where would she go? Right into the waiting jaws of the peasants who would enjoy tearing her apart with their bare hands? The images of Phoebus played over and over in her head, how easily he fell and how they cheered at it. He was the captain of the guard, one of the most respected men in the city, and how quickly they turned on him! What hope did she, a gypsy, have?

Oh God she hoped Phoebus wasn't badly hurt. He had only been shot a day ago and he needed to recover. Wrestling with his guards couldn't possibly be easy with his injury and stupid, ridiculously noble Phoebus was doing it anyway because it felt right. At the very least one of them would go to heaven. That was a small spark of happiness that glowed in her. She could bear Hell easier not seeing Phoebus there and knowing that his immortal soul would be taken to God's kingdom.

The stairs leading up to the platform banged against her ankles and she screamed again, the pain momentarily crippling her as her legs refused to walk. She wobbled and her guards stopped her from falling, but she could hear their sneers and their annoyance with her. Angrily, she tried to fight her way past it, to show that she would walk proudly to her execution with her head held high and uncaring because she was better than all of them. But she had already been too slow and her guards hauled her up the steps, her feet barely finding purchase and her shoulders screaming as her arms pulled against them.

For a moment, she could breathe. There were no longer people swarming around her and the air was clear and she took a deep breath. Instantly she coughed on the smoke and turned her head to cough into her hand. From the corner of her vision she could see the whole length of the courtyard and the sheer amount of people that swelled inside of it made her blood freeze. Fear unlike anything she had ever known pounded in her veins and once again deafness fell upon her, all other sounds drowned out by her terrified blood screaming in her ears.

They dragged her to the pole. They had to drag her because her legs refused to work altogether. She saw a few things roll by her feet, a much smaller rock and an apple so rotten that it didn't so much roll as flip its way over. One of the guards kicked it back into the crowd before they pressed her against the pole and began to tie her to it, the ropes biting into her skin.

She couldn't stand, her legs felt like water and could not hold her up, all her weight pressed against the ropes until the pain became too great and she forced her legs to move until they finally began to hold her weight again. Pinpricks at her feet made her look down and only then she noticed that other guards were swarming around, throwing bundles of hay beneath her. To burn her. She had seen the displays before.

Her breath screamed in her ears, tearing out of her throat in ragged, panicked gasps. Her eyes darted around, looking for any sort of help, and the sea of angry, jeering faces being held back by the guards made her turn away from the earth and up to the heavens. Those dark, opaque, heavens.

Notre Dame towered over it all. Two pillars of harsh, jutting stone presiding over the gathering like distant judges. Their firm edges were at once both terrifying and somehow comforting, the safety and solidity of the cathedral apparent in every stone, yet hard, unfeeling stone did not move the slightest when souls were in danger. The eyes of Notre Dame watched, but did not care.

Esmeralda looked up to the bell tower. She could not see much through the haze of smoke and the distance, but she thought it looked empty. Where was Quasimodo? What had happened to him? A wild, desperate part of her wanted to scream for him to save her like he did when he carried her from the church, but she knew it was hopeless. He wouldn't hear her. And he could not fight through the crowds around her anyway.

Silence descended upon the square, as if Death's shadow had passed over. Esmeralda had no idea how much noise she had been blocking out until it was all gone and the utter lack of it was now what was uncomfortable. Instinctively she looked back down and there he was at the top of the steps, his robes blacker than night and his face still set in its cold scowl. He was so pale and haunting, his eyes burning out at her from the dark circles around them.

Seeing that he had her attention, he began to walk to her. His robes rippled around him with each liquid movement and the clunk of his shoes against the wood seemed as loud as a cannon in the quiet. The air coiled around him and made his movements seem strange, as if he was stalking upon something like a predator rather than walking. He came closer, and finally she saw a smile start to emerge on his face.

"Gypsy."

His lips moved, and his whisper was so soft that her ears strained to hear it. Immediately the crowd began to whisper and grumble, and she heard from somewhere a man shouting at him to speak up. Frollo ignored the comments.

"What do you want?" she tried to growl in a final attempt to be careless and defiant. Her voice broke and her snarl refused to stay in place no matter how hard she tried.

"Do you remember what I said last night, gypsy?"

She balled up her hands. "Yes, and you can go to Hell."

He chuckled, stroking his chin a little as he leaned in closer to her. "How amusing. Do you tell me that because you yourself fear for your soul, knowing that is where you shall go? Redemption is not too late for anyone, you know." His eyes shifted, flickering to the assembled crowd that was grown more irritated by the moment. "Tell me, did you see them?"

She blinked at him, her mind stumbling in the dark, groping for a meaning to his questions. "I--Of course I did. Do you think I'm stupid on top of everything else?"

"Do you think they would see it that way, Esmeralda?"

The use of her name stopped her. "What?"

"Redemption, gypsy, redemption. Do you think they want to see you redeemed? Do you think they would like it if you fell before me and begged God to purify you and forgive you of all sins?" He looked back at her. "What do you think they came here for, gypsy? Did they come to watch a woman's soul be saved, or did they come to watch a witch burn so they could scream and humiliate her and feel righteous about themselves?"

An uncomfortable truth flooded her and made her throat close. Her mouth had no answers to give him. She could not speak and admit he was right, especially not to him.

But, for all her silence, he seemed to know. "Hear them yelling now? They want me to get on with it, to burn you for the crime they believe you are rightly guilty of committing. They are not here to help you, Esmeralda. They are not your allies. Remember that." He stepped away.

The first beat of the drums made her jump. She had not seen them at all earlier but of course there would be drummers here for the mass execution to take place. Frollo did not take his eyes off her and lifted his right hand, which she realized had a rolled-up parchment grasped in it. The light of the torches danced across his rings as he moved with a practiced, ceremonial air and unrolled the parchment.

His voice boomed out, suddenly so loud and commanding that it seemed impossible that such a frail looking body could produce it. "The gypsy, Esmeralda, has been accused of witchcraft," he read to the cheers of the people. "The sentence: death!"

Whatever he said next was lost in the roar of the crowd that mirrored the roar in her brain. She tugged at the ropes vainly and felt more straw being thrown under her. It was nearly up to her knees at this point, digging through her dress and scraping at her skin; no matter how much she squirmed and wiggled it still hurt, she couldn't escape from the pinpricks. But that would be nothing compared to what would happen when the straw would be lit. She had seen witch burnings before--how they screamed, God...

Light invaded her eyes, and she looked up, trembling, into the face of Frollo just a foot away from hers. He carried the torch with him, just like how she saw at the miller's. The light danced across his face and the shadows cast by its planes and the wrinkles decorating them danced with it. It gave him a twisted, ethereal appearance that shifted and morphed wickedly under the display, like his face would melt away at any second and reveal the demon beneath.

"The time has come, gypsy," he said to her, the smooth tones of his voice rolling out in that baritone that made her bones tingle. "You stand upon the brink of the abyss. Yet even now it is not too late." He was leaning closer to her, smiling and bringing his torch closer at the same time, his growing more earnest. "I can save you from the flames of this world, and the next." There was a heartbeat, a solitary breath of a pause where they both tottered on the edge of an abyss that had no bottom. "Choose me, or the fire." He brought the torch closer.

The heat was scorching her face, everything seemed too bright, too hot and she tried to turn away from the flames but the ropes barely let her move. Her heart still thundered, her blood racing yet she couldn't explain how she was still shivering as if she was cold. She knew what he meant by his words, and what choosing him would mean. She knew and yet--yet to stand here in flames, in the heat and everyone would laugh and cheer all because she was hated. But Jesus bore such suffering, did he not?

She could smell burning hair--hers! She jerked away, gasping for breath. "I--" Yell! Scream! Be defiant! The words would not come. She was split between two halves of herself, titans facing each other on a battlefield that existed only within her mind, as different as any two sides could be. "I--"

"Speak quickly, Esmeralda," Frollo told her, unrelenting. The way he said her name, rolled her syllables so beautifully from his cultured accent... "It comes down to this. No more running, no more sorcery. Choose."

He would burn her. She knew that in the very depths of her soul. His attraction, whatever form it might be, would not prevent that. She watched him barricade an innocent family inside their home and set it ablaze for no reason, he would absolutely let her burn alive and enjoy it. Either way he would win.

She trembled, fear making her head spin, tears filling her eyes. Frollo would win no matter what, but he could win with her alive or her dead. And one of them, just one, kept her alive and out of the flames of Hell for a little while longer.

The crowd was screaming, frenzied, a writhing mass of righteous fury.

Heat still burned her, so close it felt like her skin was about to peel off. It hurt so much, so much.

She was no Jesus.

"I--" she faltered, a bird flapping unsteady wings. "You," she said to her feet.

The surprise from him was palpable. Even the flames seemed to waver and become unsure of themselves. "What?" she heard the single, silent whisper of shock. Then a louder, vicious growl. "Say it again."

Now it was her turn to be surprised. "What?" she blurted out in an exact echo of Frollo. The bottom dropped from her stomach, sweat pouring from her skin. Did he not accept it? Was he dangling freedom in front of her just to snatch it away? "But I said it!"

"Say it again!" Frollo snarled, thrusting the torch inches from her face and bearing over her, his hellish expression boring into her.

The heat and flames were too much, she cried out and tried to run from them. "You, you, you! I choose you!" She wanted to scream the words out but her throat was too choked with fear to strangle out more than a whisper.

All at once it was gone and the blessed colder air kissed her face. "The gypsy, Esmeralda, has recanted!" she heard Frollo's voice shouting, and the roar of the crowd. Yelling, booing, disappointed that she was not currently screaming from the flames at that very moment. "She will be brought to confess for her sins, and may God forgive her for them!"

The citizens went insane, screaming and throwing more things and a few even tried to force their way past the guards until one of them was stabbed. Frollo was about to have a full riot on his hands. But the judge didn't seem to care, he unsheathed a dagger that he carried from his belt and cut her ropes in a few short, sharp strokes. His robes seemed to nearly engulf her, hiding her from the accusing, malicious stares of the peasants. If only briefly.

"Come quickly," his hand seized her wrist, his skin still burning compared to hers. But this time he gripped her with a tightness that seemed born of desperation and urgency. Oh, he didn't care that the crowd was about to throw a revolt, but he was certainly aware of it. He dragged her to the steps, his feet taking enormous strides and forcing her to nearly run to keep up. "Quickly, quickly!" he hissed at her, passing her over to two guards who caught her as she stumbled down the steps. "Take her to the Palace of Justice immediately. You may kill anyone who tries to stop you. You--" he pointed at some other soldiers. "Bring me another one of the prisoners, now, dammit!"

There was a torrent of noise around her, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the hatred that glared at her from hundreds of pairs of eyes. It was shocking and utterly crushing to see. Just some days ago she had danced for these same people in the Festival and they had loved her, adored her, called her the finest girl in France and praised her dancing. And now--now it was all gone, just like that under the one simple accusation: witch.

"This way," a soldier growled into her ear and he hurried her away, her trembling legs stumbling awkwardly after him like a child. It was hard for even her to imagine that these very same legs were capable of dances and acrobats that had even landed her the title of witch in the first place.

She was surrounded by men, soldiers, all of them except her escort forming a ring around her that lashed out at anyone who managed to break away from the blockade to try and rush at her. They herded her and she saw Frollo's carriage of wood and iron at the other corner of the courtyard. She wondered who had brought it.

"Here!" Frollo shouted above the mass, somehow still able to make himself heard. "Another witch! And a king of the gypsies, too!"

The words sent a dagger into her heart, as did the shrieking that threatened to split her ears open. She whirled, not wanting to look but at the same time needing to, and met the eyes of Clopin. His mask was gone and even as he was being tied to the pole his gaze was on her.

The shock and betrayal on his face was too much for her. She turned away away, tears burning in her face and sick to her stomach.

Of course, freedom for her didn't mean Frollo would let everyone else off so easily. He probably didn't even offer them the choice.

And Phoebus... No, she was absolutely not going to look for Phoebus. That was the last time she was going to look back or she would actually go insane.

Tears made her vision wobble and ran tracks down her face, stinging her sensitive skin before the air cooled it back down. "Inside," she heard one of the men say as he opened the door to the carriage. She nodded dumbly, mutely, and forced her limbs to cooperate and properly climb into the box. The prison, it all but felt like.

As soon as the door shut she let herself collapse, though. A small part of her noted that Frollo's seats were made of some sort of fancy fabric that she had never felt before, but the most of her finally broke down and sobbed. Sobbed in total, overwhelming terror, anger, grief, and tying them all together: relief. It made her hate herself to feel it, but at the same time she was still alive.

The carriage shuddered and swayed as someone whipped up the horses and set them off as a fast trot, no doubt to get as far away from the volatile crowd as possible. She didn't care, she could finally lay down and cry until there was nothing left inside of her anymore.

A/N:  Aside from the obvious change in the end, I made a few minor tweaks to the story and setting and characters to fit in with a more realistic depiction of when HoND takes place, the most obvious of course being the peasants.