#self para

[tressashaw]

HELD OPEN

Khaos

She steps away from her Sire, only for a moment, chasing down a face that's naggingly familiar. That face slips into the crowd though, and she leers into it, searching, searching, searching. A thousand heartbeats (hyperbole) thrum in this place, obscuring that option for tracking them back down, and Tressa for all her newfound confidence isn't one to go shoving through a crowd. While she waits for it to thin, she turns at the feeling of a draught, finding then a stairwell that leads down. It's not marked off, or restricted, and so, possessed of her endlessly curious nature, she decides that Cordelia can look out for herself.

In the Depths of Khaos, she finds them; hands, each dangling or clutching or offering out it's little gift. She'd seen the masks upstairs, and even heard some of what has come of them, but, well... how many people have kissed those? Eugh.

She finds one that draws her eyes. Upturned, Held Open, as if it's just waiting for her. She can't resist it, and so she reaches out to take it, only to start when it grabs her hand clenching on. She tries to pull it away, and even with the spark of Vampiric potency, it threatens to crush the bones in her hand to dust.

Just as she's about to panic, though, she blinks and there it is, the hand, open, inviting. She takes the key. The key takes her through the depths of this strange building. Is it bigger than it seems? Is this part of whatever strange magic seems to be pulling her inexorably deeper in? When the key finds its home, and she opens the door - it's dark inside. She looks around - knowing full well this is tempting things, but before she knows it she's shutting the door behind her.

[king-magnifico]

Cliffhanger... || [Self para]

In which Magnifico performs a spell...[takes place: May 1]

[cw -- none]

Magnifico absolutely loved when people did the work for him! 

Truly, it couldn’t have worked out better. 

Maybe he should just hire the Magnifiques as his ghost writers. People did that right? And no one even called it lying! The author still got all the credit. Truly a wonderful system if you asked Magnifico. Though, he would probably have to kill them all, just to make sure they didn’t talk. Would be a shame. And difficult to get away with, as everyone knew they all hung out with one another. Cute, but not helpful for murderous plots. 

But no, this would be better anyway. 

Magnifico wanted to go home to Rosas. Where he was beloved. Where he ruled. Where taxes were paid to him, not the other way around.

There were things he loved about this world (the internet, mainly), but he missed being in charge! He missed his subjects. How they loved and worshipped him. And he was sure that they were missing him. His wife, especially. Poor Amaya. What had she been doing the last ten years without him? 

His heart pinched as he readied the final ingredients of the potion that was bubbling away at his desk. In it were all sorts of regents and ingredients. He had been crafting it ever since he had assigned the Magnifiques their task of writing an ending to his story. One where he triumphed. And now--it was ready. 

Magnifico held the stack of those chapters that the children had worked so hard on. 

He held them over a flame and then quickly moved them over the cauldron. Every piece of ash would have to fall into the potion. He watched eagerly as the flames licked the words right off the pages. As they fell into the pot, it began to bubble faster, hungrier. 

The last piece drifted onto the top and the surface became as smooth as glass. 

Inside the cauldron, the silhouette of his castle appeared in the liquid. So real, so close that it felt like Magnifico could reach out and touch it.

So, he did.

As soon as his finger touched the surface of the potion--a bright white light flashed. 

The light burst throughout the town like lightning and they were all sucked into the world of Rosas…

[ikarosx]

A trembling beneath your skin awakens you in the dark of the night, though when you open your eyes you do not see the interior of the Kossith ship. You pause, for a moment, and try to consider how much time has passed? Days? Weeks? They say you lasted longer than most, but broke, you did. Instead of the brig, you see a sky without stars churning above you like a wounded beast; threads of molten gold tear across it, tangled and sickened. Your body feels heavier, rougher and when you move you hear the faintest crackle of stone upon stone. 

You’re reminded of an old story, of a man whose family’s destiny was doomed and written across the stars. So afraid of the future was he that he aimed to steal the night sky itself: different have different variation of the God in the tale: Nótt, Nyx, Nox, Varda - but the root was always the same - someone wished to change a fate written in the stars, so they enlisted the aid of a God.  

When you awoke, a butterfly perched itself on your chest, resting against the collar of your a’dam. Its wings, inscribed with tiny runes, each pulse faintly. Somehow, without really knowing, you can see how it’s anchored to you, how this frail and fractured creature represents the shape of your soul. Its wings beat once, twice, then begin to ascend as the boat of the vessel blooms simultaneously around you into a ruined landscape. Thrones made of thorns, rivers of ash, statues weeping molten tears. Ahead of you a path splits three ways, each swallowed in mist.

"What Was Lost."

You step through a forest of petrified trees, their bark cracked and bleeding golden sap. Beneath your feet, runes writhe - ancient, primordial symbols, older than Avalon, older than the stars. The butterfly remains on your chest, its wings bright, but quivering. At the heart of the forest stands a figure: Titania, Queen of Avalon. She extends her hand - and you see that it is pierced through with nails of blackened gold.

Behind her, the trees shape themselves into the sigil of your House, but twisted, the roots choking the crown. Titania’s mouth moves, but no words come - only a sound like the flutter of a thousand broken wings. 

In her hand, Titania offers you something clutched in her bleeding hand: a mirror, fractured into seven shards. 

What do you do?

The air feels dead. His heart is heavy, his mind is fractured. To know the weight of the future had always been a burden, one he'd learned from a young age. Pushed for the power to see what would come next. Odin gave an eye for it, and the story of the man who wished to steal the stars. These stories are not new, they are not groundbreaking – greed drives every story, eveery bit of the future. And each vision that Ikaros gave, it felt like giving a piece of himself back to the weave.

How far down had he gone? This path, twisted and looming – like the life had been drained from it long ago. Every vision had a color, each one that he had known. Ikaros remembered green; the feeling of being lighthearted, the color of nature – of relief. White was peace, all consuming – but this melancholy of blue that he choked on, time and time again, like an ocean drowning his sorrows.

The a'dam sits heavy on his chest, body struggling to fight in a way that his mind could not. Torn in so many directions, the prince of Avalon was taught to bow to no one.

"Ir sa tel'nal." I am empty, full of nothing. He breathes the words at the sight of Titania, voice broken and raspy from disuse. He hadn't seen anything but his visions in so long, it made him want to fall apart.

The vision of his mother fills him with a sense of dread, piece by piece he tries to understand – why is she here? The sul'dam would take her, too. The Arishok would have his kill and his home – Avalon, so old and twisted – Abelas had said as long as the tree stood, there would be hope.

Abelas.

'Time was once a blessing, but long journeys are made longer when alone within. Take spirit from long ago, but do not dwell in lands no longer yours.’

Endure.

Ikaros' feet feel heavy, the fog of the dream fighting him as he lifts his hand to meet Titania's. He feels the blood in his mouth, the taste of remembrance. What he could do when he had his moments of reality, when the sul'dam allowed him to remember – he held onto those fleeting feelings.

There are no words spoken; his soul aches. It aches until he remembers what it's like to burn. Red. Anger. Blue. Melancholy. Choking.

The pieces cut his fingers, but he takes the mirror. Jagged edges; which way do they go? He tries to piece them together, forge the mirror, make it whole once more. Bleeding, endless ichor – again and again. Jagged edges to make a mirror whole, seven pieces, to gaze within and see a man he hardly recognizes.

"The Crown and the Storm."

Your mother fades, then a few paces bring you to stand before a sea of black water, frozen in time. Above, a shattered moon bleeds rivers of crimson light into the water below. A ruined citadel floats at the center of the sea. It looks like the castle where you were raised, your home, or something that once was. From the citadel’s highest tower, a second butterfly flutters toward you - this one twisted, thorny, armored in black crystal.

It circles you, whispering promises of power, survival, dominion as the butterfly on your chest shudders at its presence.

In your hand, a crown of thorns appears, heavy and wet with blood. 

What do you do?

The mirror and his mother fade, his hands no longer covered in cuts and blood, they're just his. He'd been so many people, so many consciousnesses that had pervaded his own. Vision after vision. The death of those who would never see it come. The pain of loss, the glory of a victory. The vanquishment of a threat.

Ikaros burning, too close to the light. Melted wings and broken promises, like the mirror that melted with the vision. A sea of black water, the air stale. No longer dead, but in stasis.

He remembers his own downfall. A blighted hand, reaching forward. Suffocating.

Time would never cease, but it often felt elastic. His visions made it as such, and the broken creature that remained looks at the ruined citadel, Arvandoril. The home of the people of the stars. Once so brilliant and bright, floating amongst the vast sea. Deep and full of despair, how could he fix such a thing?

He couldn't. He had failed. The reminder burns bright, his eyes he wishes to tear from his skull. But still, he'd see. Blinded for so long, it had done nothing but make his oracular ability stronger.

Broken, Sahlkareth.

The butterfly that floats towards him reminds him of what he'd done, what he'd become. Nail after nail in an obsidian coffin, would he ever remember the lives he'd help take? Ikaros had always had a healthy dose of avoidance to humans within Taravell. Avalon was always his main consideration.

He reaches forward, the thorns digging into his palms. He is the heir. He is the crowned. The next king – he would have that power. Ikaros' hands shake, his fingers curl around the crown to dig it further into his palm.

He thinks to place it on his head, to pull it down, down – until he could bleed as much as he wants to.

But he doesn't.

Someone is screaming.

The butterfly on his chest had shuddered, the obsidian one gone from his sight.

He was screaming. His hands, bloodied once more, both wrapped around the crown that breaks as he finally tears it apart.

Mythal'enaste.

"The Last Thread."

You walk along a crumbling bridge suspended over a void of stars and below, shadows twist and rise - broken echoes of yourself, of the futures you could have lived. The bridge groans under your feet, each step fracturing it further. Ahead, at the bridge’s end, stands Yhane - cloaked and veiled - holding a leash woven from rune-threads and he holds out his hand to you.

Between you and him, a final butterfly - massive, ancient, wings black as obsidian - blocks the way. It perches on the bridge’s edge, its wings torn but still alight with runes you do not yet understand.

What do you do?

The vision fades, but the pain always remains.

Hate is loud. Fear is loud, but it is only the desperation of a few who shouted, wanting to be heard.

He wants to hear her voice again, Titania reminding him what it meant to be a king.

You might not ever be able to change those few minds, but so long as you remember you're not alone, you will overcome.

Ikaros stands now, his vision returned to him, and he knows who this person is who waits for him at the bridge's end. Yhane, holding the leash to his end.

Sahlkareth wishes to take a step forward, and he does – a few that lead him forward, to stare at the butterfly. These runes had appeared on each pathway, leading him forward and speaking to him in a language he had yet to understand.

His mind aches. To force the butterfly to move, to let it all end in a way that he had seen. He was not the man in the story; he did not wish to steal the stars, and bend it to his will. The prince had never used his ability in such a way. The Kossith had pulled forth something that had remained within him, protected and pushed away – but perhaps he was the man he wished to change the endings he'd seen. The pattern wrote itself in many ways, many versions.

While the colors he knew and felt, the way he'd drown on melancholy blue, or sit in the electric yellow of finally feeling something for himself – they were dulled, but present.

He feels as if he'd be sick. Was this another vision pulled by the same creature that stands at the bridge's end? The veiled demon that had shattered his soul, these echoes of himself playing around him.

"Ir tel'him." I am me.

The butterfly fills him with a sense of dread, and Ikaros turns his mismatched gaze down onto the one that had settled on his chest. So delicate, some fractured part of him that carried the light.

His voice had been silent for so long, only echoing all what he'd seen. Any opinion forced from him by the sul'dam. Who was me?

IkarosSahlkarethIkarosSahlkarethIkarosSahlkarethIkarosSahlkareth–

He takes a step backwards, and another, away from the sight before him.

The stars were gone, stolen from the endless void around him. What god would aid him now? Who would intervene? Tempt the Norns, the Moirai, the Gulses – all versions of fate and death and vision. Ikaros had been in his head for so long, it was hard to discern reality from his visions – was this just another of Yhane's tricks? What torment would await him?

He held on to the semblance of who he used to be, backwards, off the bridge, lest he throw himself into the void below.

Ir tel'him.

[photoaria]

after the fight / the week after self para.

The first night was the worst of it — Aria sat at the window for most of the night, watching the cars passing by and hoping each and everyone of them was the Porsche. By the time the sun started peeking over the horizon, she knew that it wouldn't just a be a few hours break and then the snap of her fingers to fix it.

The next day was spent managing the store, stocking books, helping customers, and the like. The monotony of it seemed to help take her mind off of things, but by the time closing time rolled around, she was right back in her head again — wondering if it would be another long night of waiting by the window. Instead, though, she found solace in cleaning the kitchen spotless. By the time she realized that it was almost dawn again, she'd taken all of the cleaning supplies out of the pantry and set herself up sections to reorganize and scrub down every inch of space she could find.

It was a days long project in between managing the store, checking her phone obsessively, and watching out the window to see if she could catch sight of Autumn pulling back into the home. The radio silence was the worst part of it, looking down at her phone to see a big fat nothing - or thinking she had felt it vibrate in her pocket to, again, see absolutely nothing waiting for her from the one person she wanted to hear from. Every night, after work and cleaning for a couple of hours, she would curl up on the couch and either doze or flip through the dozens of streaming sites before settling on yet another Stephen King movie to hopefully try and jar something in her mind.

It was Tuesday when she made it to the bedroom, the closet still exactly like Autumn had left it. She started on the opposite side and worked her way over — only stopping when she caught sight of a box and some journals laid out. It was definitely an invasion of privacy to pick one up and flip through to see what was in it, but one of the poems was so obviously about her or about the situation that Aria found she couldn't put it down.

what if? what then? i don’t know what to do soft looked good on me, please don’t ask me to look good in that dress again

Sitting down and making herself comfortable, Aria flipped through until she found the very beginning of Autumn's journals.

The quick peek into her childhood mind left Aria laughing at just how young she sounded, but as she flipped through the words, she found more and more evidence of just why Autumn was the way she was. The mentions of her mother, the mentions of her college fling, all the way up until she'd met Aria —

She had to stop after that, needing to take a break from the bombardment of information that she felt like she should know. A break to feed from the bags Autumn had gotten her a few days before she left ( The supply was running low at this point, which meant she'd need to feed or find her own bags. Both would be a challenge. ) and she paced around the apartment, wondering if reading further would be too much or if it would help her try and make sense of what their relationship used to be.

She brought the notebooks into the living room, set them on the coffee table, and stared before muttering a quick 'fuck it' before grabbing it again. If anything, it would help her understand. Maybe Autumn won't be upset about that, about her trying. So many snippets and bits of poetry about her eyes, about her face, about the way she dresses and snippets of her time with their other friends: Kevin, Morgan..

Her breath caught in her throat when she read another poem titled 'infatuated by her'.

thinking about how if i want to taste heaven i can just think about dream about wonder about the way she kisses

And another titled 'party dress'.

i used to hate the way fabric hugged my shape but the way she looks at me makes me realize i was wrong

Aria chewed at her lower lip, bringing blood forth once more and traces the words with her fingertips. Does she look at Autumn the same way she used to back when they were first talking? Or was it entirely different now, that she'd had to start trying to feel whatever she felt before from scratch all over again? Clearing her throat and swallowing back the frustration at her situation, she reads further about the confusion from bites and bruises and though she doesn't remember biting her or feeding from her — there's still an overbearing sense of guilt that washes over her.

The longest entry yet is about Autumn finding out about her being a vampire, and she sits through it, chewing through her lip all the while. 'I hate being lied to.' 'It's driving me insane and I want more of it.' She heaves out another sigh, goes back into the depths of Autumn's psyche — all the beautiful and fucked up parts of it she isn't sure she's supposed to know about. From the revelation that she's a vampire to the werewolf bite to the.. Oh.

i hit her i feel so fucking miserable but then she kept just pushing me and pushing me and so i hit her again and again and again

Aria swallows down blood-flavored bile, sets the book down and sits back against the bed and stares up at the ceiling. Was that why she reacted to Autumn's anger? Was that why the argument was so difficult to get through? Every argument? She reaches a hand up to push her hair back and run the hand down her face, fingers catching on her skin and dragging it down until the hand drops to the floor. The information she'd been bombarded with by reading these is almost too much to handle, but she still hadn't reached the most recent stuff — the things that Autumn had said, had thought, about the memory loss about who she is now, she has to know. Privacy be damned.

She devours every single word, stopping to breathe and cry as she learns more about her pseudo-not-quite-girlfriend in ways that she knows she'd never have a chance to learn about her through the woman's own mouth. The final, most recent entry has her stopped completely in her tracks. Aria stands, leaves the books on the coffee table, and leaves the apartment. She needs to think. To feed. To be.

By the time she returns home, she feels a little less shell-shocked and much more sated. The journals are ignored in favor of a shower to wash the blood from her face, hands, and torso. As the warm water turns to pink in the tub, she silently promises to herself that Autumn will never be alone again, not if she can help it.

[eivorx]

When your sul’dam forced your shift, there was no reverence or awe in the way they spoke to you - a dragon. It was with unbridled command, you resisted because of course you did, but it did nothing for you but cause more pain as you fought your own draconic transformation. Wings exploded from your back mid-scream, scales burst from your skin like bone shards, and as you spread to take flight, that lifting feeling of freedom never came. An island passed by on the horizon and you were the first instrument the sul’dam used to take it, those who did not bow were destroyed, those with a hint of magic were collared and as your sul’dam dismounted your back, he stroked your scales and whispered: good boy.  Vaelzhar, the Kossith have renamed you. Sky-Brand. You have been assigned to the Heart of Bone, run by the sul’dam Shaekir. A heart forged for precision, subjugation, and extraction. Shaekir believes that rahaat are little more than a flawed system, one that can be retooled and optimized to meet his expectations.  

Hiding for so long had always caused him pain. Every beat, every breath, it was one that was shortened for a reason, held back for another.

Eivor wasn't sure why he thought he could get away from this, hiding in his Elvhen form when they had others who could pull forward what he was holding back.

Pain was familiar, and pain was mindless. It wasn't unlike what he'd known for three centuries straight; what he'd felt beneath the hand of the Archon, of the Aetherians who ensured he held hearts in his palm and bodies beneath his jaws. But the Kossith knew what to pull, how much pain to inflict before it was against his will that his prismatic scales burst forth, his wings spread, and he roared to the sky.

It was a lesson, one that he had perhaps been wondering about all along. Why did the dragons of this world turn their backs? Because they were seen as fearsome creatures, beasts that held ill will towards all. The sul'dam only reminded him that he was a weapon; no great, revered dragon. No pride to be found swirling in his chest. Just obedience. Only violence.

Violence was an old friend, wrapped around the jaws of a dragon that had always been too afraid to open them and become what the dragons of the world had already learned. Yet he had been the first lesson, torn from this time, in a place that wasn't his own.

Witches crumbled beneath his claws, Elvhen, anyone whom the Kossith wanted, they bowed or they were torn from their world with a blast of prismatic magic that would leave nothing but perhaps a moment in the Wheel from when they had existed.

Anger. It was easy, and Eivor would let it consume him. He'd learned this lesson before, how easily rage could inhabit a body such as his. But this was his own demon, the one he carried with him. Every inch of him fought until he couldn't, until he could rise again the next day and start again. But more fell beneath him, with the sul'dam on his back, the praise that cut like knives through his scales. Another weapon for someone else's use. If he could've found death, it couldn't have been another answer. Not until he found his vengeance.

Vaelzhar. It wouldn't leave him; it would haunt him, or perhaps, one day, it would become another weapon. A tool against anyone that stood in his way. He'd become that dragon, and when it turned on the Kossith, with nothing in its gaze but the hate that filled its chest, he would have the last laugh.

He was a creature of pure magic, the telperion in his veins had only attempted to poison such a thing. He was Vaeros, and if he never became Eivor again, he would not waste a moment of mourning. Death would always answer in his place.

[vengeancedemon]

TIMING: february 24, 2021. FEATURING: juliana cortez, flora cortez. LOCATION: san agustín etla, mexico SUMMARY: emilio's family celebrates a personal 'holiday' for the first -- and last -- time. CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of child death

Cold sliced through the blankets, sneaking under the door like an insect. It rarely got truly cold in San Agustín Etla — Juliana often teased him for calling it cold at all — but February lacked the warmth of the summer months that Emilio so preferred. He burrowed a little deeper beneath the comforter, groaning as he pressed his face against Juliana’s sleeping shoulder. She stirred, shifting slightly with a quiet hum. 

“You’ve got ten more minutes,” she told him softly. “At the most.”

“I can get by with longer,” he insisted, muffled where he was pressed against her. “She’s three. She doesn’t know how to read a calendar.”

“Four now,” Ana replied with a click of her tongue, “and she doesn’t need to. Your brother is the one who’s been getting her excited about this all week.”

“I’m an only child. I don’t associate with him anymore. He’s a traitor to the family name.”

“You’re very dramatic.” 

He laughed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. Things had been rough, recently. They were fighting more and more, sniping at one another more often than not. The same could be said for his relationships with just about everyone in the family. His mother hardly looked at him these days, Rosa had been increasingly angry with him for months now. Edgar was avoiding him, Lucio spared him glances that were more pitying than anything else. Emilio’s reluctance to train his daughter was taking a toll on all of them, ostracizing him from his family more and more with each passing day.

But not today. Today was special, was important. It wasn’t a holiday in the wider sense — no one outside the Cortez family knew it was important at all — but it might as well have been one here, in this house. 

He’d never celebrated his birthday as a kid. His siblings hadn’t, either. Even Jaime hardly knew what a birthday was at all. Elena had always thought they were silly and her children, in a desperate bid to impress her, decided the same. But Juliana insisted that her daughter would know the day she was born, and Edgar had decided he needed some way to beat Rhett out for the title of favorite uncle, and things had spiraled from there. This was the first year Flora was old enough to be aware of her birthday at all. Emilio figured that meant they’d make it a good one.

The door creaked open, the pitter patter of feet on the floor quieter than it might have been with a child not born a hunter, but louder than it would have been if it were Jaime trying to sneak into the bedroom. Emilio smiled against Juliana’s shoulder, feigning sleep as he listened to those feet draw nearer and nearer to the bed. 

The comforter was pulled and tugged, used as a makeshift rope to assist a small frame in climbing onto the mattress. Emilio let out an exaggerated fake snore, and a tiny shape pressed against his back. He managed to keep up the act until the moment a pair of small, freezing hands pressed against his cheeks.

“Papa.” She sounded so serious, and he cracked one eye open.

“Mmm, who is in my bed?”

“Papa, is me.”

“It can’t be my daughter. She knows it’s too early in the morning.”

A giggle, and the hands pressed down harder, squishing his cheeks and pursing his lips. “Is me! Papa, is me!”

In a swift motion, Emilio rolled out of bed, scooping Flora up and holding her against his chest. “It is you!” He exclaimed, furrowing his brow in an expression of confusion just as exaggerated as his snoring had been. “So early! Why is that?”

“Bir’day!” Flora squealed, giggling. “‘Member?” 

“Hmm, I don’t think so. I remember your birthday. You only get born the once, you know.”

“Noooo!” She giggled again, hands patting his cheeks. “Tío said it’s hollow — holla — holly day.” She struggled with the unfamiliar term, and Emilio felt a strange ache in his chest. Should a four year old be more familiar with the concept of a holiday? Was it a failing, on his part, that she wasn’t? He shook the thought from his mind, keeping his grin in place as he shifted to toss her over his shoulder and carry her into the living room.

“Well, if Tío says so…”

“Come, mama!” She squealed again, and Emilio heard the mattress shift as Juliana rose.

“Ay, baby, mama needs more sleep than you and papa,” Ana sighed, though Emilio knew she’d join them all the same.

“No sleep! Holly day!” Flora cheered, and Emilio laughed.

“I can make breakfast,” he said. Juliana snorted.

“I’d like it if my house didn’t burn down,” she retorted. “Go. Take her outside, let her run some of the excess off. Better yet, take her over to your brother’s, let her wake his sorry ass up. Tell him he’s in charge of bringing beer. He drank what we had in the fridge last night. I’ll make breakfast.”

Emilio nodded, moving towards the door. He hesitated, hand on the knob. “Love you,” he said quietly, because he did. Because, even if things were hard right now, he wanted her to know. Some days, they hated each other. Last week, she’d screamed at him so loudly and for so long that she was hoarse after, and he’d slept on Edgar’s couch because even the one in their living room was still too close to her. But he loved her, still. Even when they were fighting; even when they hated each other.

She smiled, soft and sad. “You too,” she replied gently. There was something tragic about it, really; he loved her, and she loved him, too. He loved her, and she loved him, and most days, he still wasn’t sure it was enough. He wasn’t sure anything ever really could be.

But today was special. Today was a holly day. And his mother would hate it, of course, would be angry and roll her eyes and probably tell him just how stupid he was to celebrate something so mundane, but what did it matter? There was a squirming, squealing angel on his shoulder, giggling in his ear. The morning was quiet, with no yelling for the first time in so long now. There was a bag packed in his closet, hidden away where no one would find it. Things would be bad soon, but they were good now. Was it so wrong to focus on that?

(He wondered sometimes, looking back, how he might have spent the day if he’d known it was the last birthday his daughter would have. Would he have carried her farther than Edgar’s house? Would he have loaded her into the car and run as far as he could just to change it? Would he have told Juliana he loved her in a louder voice, or offered to buy the beers so Edgar wouldn’t have to empty out his wallet? Would he have invited Rosa over before lunch, or told his mother that the holly day was important even if she didn’t think so? 

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he might have done differently; he only knew what he did. He only knew that he carried Flora to Edgar’s and let her jump on his bed, only knew that Rosa hadn’t come by until late afternoon and left before evening, only knew that when he told Juliana he loved her, it was in a voice so quiet that it could have been swallowed up entirely by a strong breeze. His mother hadn’t joined the festivities; Edgar used the last of his cash to buy the beers. It wasn’t a perfect day. He wished, sometimes, that it could have been.

But it was still good. He thought it mattered that it was still good.)

[waitingona-mirabel]

The Miracle is You | Oneshot

Date: Early April 2025 Featuring: Abuela Warnings: Just a reference to the house collapse

During the week, it was almost easy to forget that everything was different now, and everything was awful. That Casita was gone, a pile of rubble in its place. That it was potentially Mirabel's fault.

But on the weekend, it all hit Mirabel again. She started pedaling her bike in the direction of the farmlands and had to turn around. She walked into the lobby of the Tipton and had to ask, for the hundredth time, where everyone's rooms were.

But at least they were together. Mirabel knew there were many worse things than losing physical items, physical places... places were harder, though. Even after everything that had happened with Avalor, at least they'd always had Casita.

Mirabel made her way up to the floor where all the Madrigals were staying, and she was going to go find Antonio first when an unexpected door opened.

"Mirabel," Abuela said. "I recognized your footsteps."

For a second, Mirabel was felt a little caught off-guard that Abuela would recognize her footsteps— what did that even mean?— but then again, this was Abuela. She didn't miss anything.

The more important question was, what did she want? Was she still mad at Mirabel for (quite literally) blowing everything up?

"Come in," Abuela added. "I want to talk to you."

Mirabel did as she was told, following Abuela into her room. It was still a bland, carbon-copy Tipton room, but Abuela had some personal touches now. A stack of sweaters someone had brought, sitting tidily on the chair in the corner. A rosary, hanging on the closet doorknob.

Upon Abuela's command, Mirabel sat down. "Um, what's up?" Mirabel asked.

"I've been thinking," Abuela replied, still revealing nothing. "The house falling down, it was you who did that."

Mirabel's cheeks burned, and she was quick to jump to the defensive. "Abuela, I know, and I feel terrible, but I still think-"

"You don't have to defend it," Abuela cut in, still calm but pensive now. Pensive in a way that Mirabel didn't entirely recognize. "I was thinking that you did it because I gave you no other choice. And if I think about it more, I did it too, the way I reacted when I saw your tío. I was angry, yes. But it was more than just anger. I missed him. And I was angry with you, but I was also angry with myself."

Mirabel blinked, shocked at this admission. She'd thought she was the only one mulling over that fight. And she'd assumed that Abuela would blame her unequivocally— not that Abuela would put any of that blame on Abuela.

"I- you-" Mirabel stammered, at loss for words.

"I think you were right, Mirabel," Abuela said. "We should be able to talk about things. I thought I was protecting our family, because that is my job, to protect our family. But pain does not go away just because we try to hide it."

In that moment, Mirabel didn't feel any kind of vindication. She didn't feel she'd won. She just felt for Abuela, in a way that she'd never really felt before. All this time, Mirabel had just made assumptions about Abuela, seeing her as an obstacle to her family communicating better due to her old-fashioned ways. But now, Mirabel could see that they wanted the same thing: they wanted to help. And they just had different ideas about what "helping" was.

But maybe they could work together now.

"Abuela, I-" Mirabel started to choke up now. "I'm sorry too. That wasn't the way to go about it, I should've- I could've warned you, or- or-"

"No shoulds," Abuela said in that decisive voice of hers. "Let's not focus on the way things may have gone."

"Okay," Mirabel said, nodding and wiping at her eyes. "You're right. There's still so much time ahead of us, we can maybe- would you want to talk to Bruno, maybe, both of us? Try it all again?"

Abuela smiled and produced a handkerchief, hand-embroidered in the way she'd once taught Mirabel. "Yes, I had thought the same."

Mirabel smiled back at her abuela. She'd always thought they were so different. But their eyes crinkled at the same places when they smiled and, Mirabel thought, maybe deep down, they had more in common than that, too. No magic, no gift, just love for their family. And maybe that was what was needed most of all right now.

[harri-pottr]

Habían pasado tres días desde que se fue de casa. Mejor dicho, desde que se fue de la casa de Graham. Planear todo no había sido fácil, pasar casi tres semanas pretendiendo que no pasaba nada mientras que, al mismo tiempo, planeaba a escondidas cómo es que lo haría.

Cuando despertó esa mañana supo que algo no estaba bien. El olor del desayuno le revolvía el estómago y estaba sumamente cansada, como si apenas y hubiera dormido la noche anterior. Nunca se había puesto a pensar sobre qué haría en una situación así, porque para ella eso simplemente nunca fue una posibilidad. El tenerla a ella había arruinado la vida de su madre y pasar por algo parecido le aterraba. Tiempo era algo que no tenía así que lo primero que debía hacer era confirmarlo.

Tuvo que pensar en una excusa lo suficientemente convincente para salir sola y que no fuera preocupante si es que tardaba demasiado. No tenía ni la menor idea de cuánto tiempo podía tomar algo así.

Camino hasta el pequeño hospital muggle del pueblo donde solo había estado una vez, precisamente cuando apenas habían llegado a la casa de Greengrass. El ir de compras, encontrar a Rebel e incluso ir a la feria habían ayudado a mantener su mente en otra cosa que no fuera el motivo por el que habían llegado a ese lugar en primer lugar, pero al quedarse al fin sola en la habitación que ocuparía durante su estancia, se quebró.

En ese momento le pareció que era mejor idea salir al balcón. Lo que había pasado con su familia, si es que aún les podía llamar así, había sido ya bastante humillante. No quería que además Graham pudiera escucharla llorar por la misma gente que la había hecho a un lado. Dejó entreabierta la puerta corrediza que daba al balcón donde tomó asiento en la única silla del lugar, abrazando sus piernas. No había sido su intención, al menos no conscientemente, pero en algún momento durante la noche se quedó dormida después de llorar. El clima aún más frío que en Londres y no tener la ropa adecuada terminarían haciendo efecto y fue así como Graham la encontró a la mañana siguiente. Había perdido el conocimiento y debido a la baja temperatura sus labios estaban incluso morados. Fue necesario pasar un par de días en el hospital donde afortunadamente nadie de su familia se apareció.

Lo que había pasado en su primera visita al lugar era mucho mejor que lo que estaba pasando en ese momento. Ella estaba casi segura de la noticia, pero el que se lo confirmaran fue como un balde de agua fría. Desde el momento en el que salió del hospital su mente comenzó a trabajar en cómo es que lo haría.

No era la primera vez que tenía que huir de esa manera. Esa mañana, en cuanto Graham le dejó saber que saldría a la tienda con Rebel, saltó de la cama para ir directamente a su armario. Con ayuda de su varita guardó todas sus cosas en una mochila agrandada con magia. Volver a Inglaterra no era opción, tampoco el quedarse en Escocia. Así terminó huyendo a Irlanda, tan al Norte como fuera posible. Había encontrado un pequeño hotel en el que podía quedarse por un largo periodo de tiempo. Ni ella misma tenía idea de cuánto tiempo pasaría en el lugar o que haría ahora, pues ya no estaba sola. Al menos no por el momento. De lo único que estaba segura era que se negaba a que otra persona en su vida se quedara cerca por lástima.

De encontrarse en otra situación ni siquiera se molestaría en comer, pero no podía simplemente no hacerse cargo. Al menos hasta que tomara una decisión. Pedía comida a su habitación y se bañaba por las noches. Esos eran los únicos momentos en el día que se levantaba. Estar tan angustiada no le permitía ni siquiera dormir y aunque odiara la idea, sabía que no podría estar más tranquila hasta que se lo dijera.

Estaba molesta. Molesta consigo misma más que nada. Había permitido que unas fotografías en El Profeta de esos niños que Albus había tenido poco después de que ella se fueran la alteraron más de lo que nunca admitiría. Una cosa había llevado a la otra y ahora tenía que encargarse de las consecuencias de su descuido. Consecuencias que no solo la afectaban a ella y eso era lo que más le molestaba.

Sabía que la extraña sensación en su estómago cuando se apareció fuera de la zona de seguridad de la casa no se debía solamente a que estaba nerviosa. Podría haber usado la chimenea, pero necesitaba esa pequeña caminata a solas para agarrar valor. Abría y cerraba sus manos tratando de regularse mientras caminaba. No parecía haber luces encendidas en la casa y por un momento temió que él se hubiera ido pero tan pronto abrió la puerta de entrada Rebel llegó corriendo por el pasillo para recibirla con tanta efusividad que casi terminan los dos en el piso.

— Hola bonito.— Aprovechó que el perro se había parado en sus dos patas traseras para abrazarlo. Si su perro se encontraba en casa, eso solo podía significar que él también, como confirmó con los pasos que se escuchaban a lo lejos.

— Tengo que hablar contigo.— Fue directamente al grano. Le parecía completamente estúpido preguntar cómo estaba o incluso saludarlo como si solo hubiera salido de compras.— Tengo que decirte algo, sé que todo esto es mi culpa y no quiero que digas o hagas algo estúpido solo porque crees que es lo correcto.— Porque definitivamente no lo era. Que pudiera pensar que debía forzarse a quedarse con ella por lo que estaba a punto de decirle era lo último que quería. No podría vivir con eso. Tomo aire antes de continuar.— Estoy embarazada.

[ikarosx]

The dreams are no longer your own. Your waking visions have returned, but they are not your own. This was the end that you foresaw, your own destruction and the end of your agency. You see things - yes - but only what he lets you see. Where once the threads of fate wound themselves into truth, now they are tangled into madness. Visions of war, of fire, of your family broken and screaming, haunt your mind - but it’s with clarity that the path is laid ahead. You foresee a storm, so the sul’dam avoids it, you foresee resistance, so the sul’dam cut down the rebels, you foresee the Arishok cutting your mother’s throat - and the Kossith drive ahead. You are commanded to speak them aloud, and each time you do, another nail is slammed into your coffin. The sul’dam keeps your eyes covered, though you are not blind - your Sight is made stronger in darkness. Sometimes he lets you remember who you are  - Prince, Crowned, Chosen - but only just before you are made to kneel. And when you do, it is not for Avalon, but for Sahlkareth - his prize, his puppet prophet. Sahlkareth, the Kossith have renamed you. Seer-Unmade. You have been assigned to the Heart of Veil, run by the sul’dam Yhane. A heart forged to weaponize silence, sorrow, and shadows. He is one who dresses in veils, hiding his face and his missing horns and demands obedience through manipulation, memory, and shame. 

some content warning

The visions were always mixed with colors. Colors that the Prince had associated emotions with, feelings, experiences – all as they threaded into a vision of the future for whomever was asking. It was always an ask, someone always sought him for an answer to what they desired.

His mother taught him how to ground himself. To take a breath, remind himself that he wasn't these whom he saw in his visions. Those feelings, those colors – red for anger, purple for despair – all sorts of things that pulled at Ikaros' mind and sent him into a hollow darkness that he would pull himself from – they were manipulated into his gift. The Prince had five centuries to attempt to perfect his feelings, what he knew to be reality, and it seemed to unravel within moments.

He remembers the feeling of watching his people get chained, fighting until he couldn't anymore – until the threat of those around him became enough to lower his weapons. The dash of Saleba as she escaped, all these moments in time that felt like a fever dream.

Until he barely remembered them at all.

He was the crowned heir, one that did not bow to those who demanded it. But when his eyes were covered, when the madness began – that lesson on how to ground himself became mixed with the emotions themselves.

Ikaros witnesses the death of those he knows. The blood that pours from Titania's throat, the storms that shock a body from bone to soul – and the sul'dam demands more.

With every vision, another part chips away. One more falls into the abyss of feelings that these visions consume. He is a Kossith, driving a spear into a mother and her children. He is another rahaat who mounts a head on the dreadnought. He is the Crowned Prince, on his knees with nothing but darkness to remind him.

Never ending puzzle pieces that float by. A memory, like the roots of a tree, tangled beneath the black feeling of dread that haunts his every moment.

Who was he?

Sahlkareth.

There was always power in knowing what came ahead, empty promises and avenues of the future that could come to pass. How long had he fought? He can't remember. Did he fight? Perhaps, Ikaros had fought until his ability had fought back. Forced to see the future, speak them aloud as he ensures they come to pass.

No longer a master of the shadows, he's a subject of the darkness.

In those moments, brief ones, where he knows he is Ikaros–

You were named after my grandmother, Ikaria–

An owlbear, two small dragons wrestling for a treat–

A brother, nameless, with a laugh–

A flash of pink scales and a smile–

The purr of a Cat-Sith–

And when Sahlkareth kneels, he recognizes the metallic taste of blood fill his mouth. A taste of the future.

[rowsandrows-of-roses]

Turning Over a New Leaf --@ [Self-para]

In which Isabela reflects on a very important birthday year...[takes place: April 8]

[cw -- the existential dread of getting older and not feeling like you've accomplished anything]

--@ --@ --@

Isabela was thirty.

Her life looked nothing like she imagined at thirty. 

She had once had her entire life planned out: married by twenty-three to a powerful man in the Avalorian court or government. Earlier would be even better, but no later. Have at least one child before twenty-five. At least two, maybe even all three, before thirty. 

This had been the plan before Isabela had turned twenty. 

But then, she had turned twenty and six months later, Avalor had fallen. Her future had been blown to smithereens. Before her twenty-first birthday, she had moved to a completely new country and had to start all over again. She had given herself some wiggle room on her timeline, due to this upheaval. 

Married by twenty-five. First child before twenty-seven. The other two before thirty. 

Twenty-five had passed her with nothing to show for it. Twenty-seven had passed quietly. By twenty-eight, she had been set to marry Clayton and things would move quickly after that. He had needed an heir. Isabela would have wanted children as soon as possible, so she wouldn’t have to have anything to do with Clayton afterwards. 

But he had wanted nothing to do with her first and left her. 

So, Isabela had started over again. 

Her thirtieth birthday was upon her and Isabela had nothing to show for it. 

She had a boyfriend whom she loathed, who made her feel more awful than she already did. A stupid crush on someone she couldn’t have. No home. No magic. 

Thirty turned the world over. Just like twenty had too. 

Was Isabela doomed to have to start over every ten years? Was that the other side of the vision that Bruno had told Isabela when she was a girl? How she would have everything she ever wanted? Only for it to keep escaping her, like trying to catch smoke? 

That was what it felt like. Her future was smoke. Thick and heavy. She couldn’t see through it, even as she cheers’ed and laughed with her friends at brunch. All of them crowded into one table, overflowing with food and champagne and smiles. She couldn’t see through it in the dark of Pixie’s with lights flashing all around them, smoke machines filling the room. Filling her lungs. She danced through the doubt and the fear. She had built things back before. She had nothing at all, so there was nothing more for her to lose. No more mistakes for her to make. 

Thirty and her life was brand new again. 

Where should she start? 

[ironlvngs]

part 1.

self para.

where: basement of administration building when: after midnight

the trick to breaking into somewhere you're not supposed to be was to act like you've done it before, because link certainly has.

he slips through the west-side utility entrance of the administration building just past 1 am — late enough that the night staff would be getting tired, early enough that they'd be distracted by students drunk off cheap beer in the dorm courtyards. the door gives with a few clicks and turns of link's favorite tool (an old bobby pin) and he disappears into the shadowed stairwell without a trace. the air seems to change as he goes further down — colder and heavier, like the building could tell he doesn't belong down here.

the basement is predictably unglamorous — cement floors, buzzing fluorescents overhead, and rows of dented filing cabinets standing like forgotten sentinels. most people wouldn't bother and assume all this would be digitized by now. link walks with intention, footsteps silent and scanning the room like he's memorized the shape of it. he finds stacks of old storage boxes lining the walls — unlabeled, misfiled, some caved in from years of neglect. a warped "student affairs" sign leans sideways off a shelf. his lip curls, and he thinks, yeah, this screams 'well-maintained institutional integrity.'

the first drawer he pulls sticks halfway out. he yanks it free with a grunt, peering in at a mess of outdated forms — copies of parking violation reports from 2017, forgotten student event proposals, a smashed thumb drive taped to a post-it note that just says "don't use - virus?" so nothing useful, not yet. but he wasn't here for obvious, clearly, he was here for buried.

link works the room slowly. opens drawers, flips through folders, takes photos of anything with names that ring half-familiar. there's no system, no sense, just decades of forgotten paper and bureaucracy left to rot. seems like exactly the kind of place secrets like to hide. he finds a filing cabinet with no label, just loose memos inside along with internal emails printed out and haphazardly stapled, post-it notes still stuck to some of them. he sifts through them, eyes narrowing as he starts to see certain names recurring: deans, faculty, admin staff. the sort of people who would bury things when it was necessary. though, so far, no mention of penny — but something tells him he was close to it.

he glances up after feeling like he heard a noise, and listens — silence.

he keeps going. he doesn't rush too much since link wasn't the type to panic. one box splits as he lifts the lid, the contents spilling with faculty rosters, disciplinary paperwork, a stack of student appeals. his gaze lingers on some of them, but does not open any of them yet. he senses a flicker of movement, maybe just the lights shifting, maybe not. he straightens and waits, but nothing follows. still, he was careful to return what he felt like he didn't need.

[itsmee-william]

The Night Before

Truth be told, even though Smee had known for a while now that James and Tina had been engaged, and were planning their wedding, it didn't feel real. All of the glitz and glamour... it felt somehow like a dream, or an illusion. That was... until he received the formal invitation. This... this is it. It's really happening. Wow...

Smee stared at the piece of paper in his hands for what felt like an eternity. That's all it was, really, a single, fragile, piece of paper. So frail that he could easily just... crumple it, tear it up, burn it. He thought about doing all of those things, but only for a brief moment. But, as he sat there with the invitation in his hands, pondering, he tried to correctly name whatever feeling he was having in the moment. It wasn't that he despised Tina... Sure, she got on his nerves, and to be honest, there was a bit of an age gap between them, which felt a little questionable. No, this was more like... resentment.

For whatever reason, there was just something off about this wedding, and he couldn't quite place his finger on it. But James... James was his best friend. Perhaps one of his only friends now, since coming out of prison. And despite the eerie feelings about this wedding, he was not going to be the one to break James' heart. He knew that it was shitty, but Smee had been avoiding James in the days leading up to the event. Making excuses, finding reasons to keep himself busy... but there was no more time for hiding. James needed him. No, wanted him there. And god dammit, he would be there.

So. He put aside his feelings toward the man's choice in bride, pulled himself up by his bootstraps, and got to work. If this was what would make James happy, then he was going to do whatever it took to make sure this wedding goes off without a hitch.

[vengeancedemon]

TIMING: the night of april 9th, late. LOCATION: worm row. SUMMARY: a client fails to meet emilio at the bar where they were scheduled to link up. luckily, they're waiting to meet him outside instead! CONTENT WARNINGS: suicidal ideation tw, alcoholism tw

It was a call he’d gotten a dozen times since opening Axis, the kind of thing that was to be expected. I want to hire you, the person on the other end of the line always said, but I can’t come to your office. There was always some kind of excuse for it, some kind of explanation. It boiled down to the same thing, of course: people didn’t always want anyone figuring out they’d hired a PI. 

For some of them, it was about reputation. That was usually the housewives who were worried their husbands were stepping out, the ones who wanted to know the truth but only so they could make sure no one else figured it out. They didn’t want to be the person everyone else in the neighborhood whispered about, didn’t want Kathy from next door to tell Brenda from the HOA because she might tell Sharon down the street. There were politics involved, even more confusing than the ones that sent people to polling places in election season. Emilio didn’t understand any of it. He’d never cared to try. Those housewives’ money spent the same as anyone else's, so he met them in restaurants and bookstores and coffeeshops, and he told them facts they didn’t like very much. Those were simple enough.

For others, though, it was about fear. In a town like Wicked’s Rest, there were a lot of people who hired PIs for things more complicated than a spouse’s suspicious behavior. Some of the cases he took on were things that probably should have been handled by the police, but the police were busy, or the people who hired him didn’t want them involved. For those people, there was a paranoia Emilio understood intimately. They worried that if someone saw them hanging around a PI’s office, they’d take action. They worried that the second the person they were onto knew that they were onto them, things would escalate. Those clients asked to meet in neutral, public spots, where they could pretend they were meeting a friend. 

This guy asked to meet him at a bar. Emilio figured that put him in the fear category, and his foot tapped against the ground in anxious anticipation. He’d never met the guy face to face. He’d been dodgy on the phone, nervous. He was in trouble. That was all he’d said. He was in trouble, and it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about over a phone line. The Wormhole was a better bet, he’d claimed; Emilio wasn’t sure if he’d chosen it because it was seedy enough for a suspicious conversation to become background noise, or because it was near the location still listed for Axis’s office on half his advertisements. Either way, he didn’t mind it. The Wormhole was familiar territory. He liked it there.

He liked being stood up a little less, though. He’d accepted the first drink the bartender poured for him when he came in, figuring the alcohol would stop his hands from shaking and ease his nerves. He’d said no to the second, offered soon after the first was gulped down, because his client was supposed to arrive any moment. Half an hour after the meeting time, when the client was still nowhere to be found, he’d had that second drink. Then he’d said yes to a third, then a fourth. 

By the time he lost count of the drinks, he’d also lost track of how late his client was. The bartender tapped the bar in front of him as Emilio held out his glass, shaking his head. “I’ve seen you drink enough to know your limits, Milio,” he scoffed, pulling the bottle back. “And I’m pretty sure you’re past ‘em. Guy never showed, did he?”

Emilio sighed, rolling his eyes. “Look like he did? Still sitting alone.”

“Sure are. Go sleep it off, yeah? You can settle your tab in the morning, when you can actually manage to count the bills in your wallet.” 

“Ah, vete a la chingada. Not even that drunk.” But he stumbled as he stood, and his vision swam uncomfortably. Judging by the snort the bartender gave him, he was swaying, too. He slapped the bar once, then headed for the door. He figured the bartender knew he wasn’t going to pay his tab. It was the guy’s own fault for kicking him out, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes as he yanked at the door, then paused and pushed it open instead. 

The cool air hit him, and he mumbled his dissatisfaction as he pulled out his cigarettes. He ducked into an alley and out of the wind, digging around in his pocket for a lighter. He felt an undead presence in the alley and tensed, but didn’t react otherwise. It could be fine. It could be nothing. It could be…

“Need a light?” The voice came from the darkness. He paused, looking over. A figure stood in the shadows, not as well hidden as he would have been without the slayer’s night vision assisting him. At the sight of him, Emilio faltered. 

There were few faces that stuck with a man forever. Fewer still that were granted a permanent place in memory after being seen only on a monitor. But this face…

He’d seen a video, after. It was covered up before it could reach anyone who might spread the word, erased from public view to keep the supernatural factors that had played into the massacre of San Agustín Etla a secret. But Emilio had been allowed to watch it… after making it less of a request, more of a demand. It was a short video, with shaky camerawork and fear pouring off the screen. A teenager behind the camera, screaming out as she ran. Her death hadn't quite been captured. The camera shook and dropped, showed feet instead of a throat torn out, and then a corpse had fallen into frame before it was picked up again. The killer had looked into the lens for half a second before the video ended, but his face was ingrained in Emilio’s memory all the same.

And now, that same face stared back at him from an alley in Wicked’s Rest, Maine, years after that video was shot. 

He moved quickly. The cigarette fell from between his lips, the pack dropped to the concrete beneath his feet. His hands shot into his pockets, one wrapping around a stake while the other found a vial of holy water. He was going to kill this vampire. He was going to make it hurt. The thought was a quiet, matter-of-fact thing, something that wasn’t quite a question. He was going to kill this vampire, and he was going to make it hurt, and it wouldn’t do anything for the dead girl in the video or the one who’d died in Emilio’s living room, but Emilio could pretend it’d do something for him. He was going to kill this vampire, and he was going to make it hurt, and his town would still be destroyed and his daughter would still be dead but maybe he could look himself in the eyes the next time he walked by a mirror. 

It was a split-second thing. His hands wrapped around the weapons and whipped them out, and if he’d jumped then and there, if he’d attacked swiftly, he probably would have killed the vampire right away. But that wasn’t enough for Emilio. Not with this vampire. Because he was going to kill this vampire, and he was going to make it hurt. He was going to take it slow. That meant a moment’s thought as he decided where to splash the holy water and where to stick the stake.

And the moment was just long enough.

Hands wrapped around him from behind. Someone grabbed one arm, someone else grabbed the other. Another arm locked around his throat. This wasn’t one vampire in an alley; this was an ambush.

“Sorry I couldn’t make our meeting.” One of the ones behind him sneered, and he recognized the voice. It had sounded different on the phone; tinny and shaky and scared. The guy was a decent actor; Emilio had to give him that. “But I think we can do it just as well out here.” 

Emilio grunted in response, throwing his head back and grinning sharply when he felt it make contact with someone’s nose. That was the thing with guys who liked to boast: they always got just a little too close to do it. A string of curses came with a slightly loosened grip on one of his arms, and he seized the opportunity to yank himself free and pull out the stake. Backwards first, he thought; he needed to take out the ones behind him so he could deal with the main event. Because he still wanted to make it hurt, still wanted to make the monster pay. 

He thrust the stake back with only a quick glance to pinpoint the nearest chest, shoving it through dead flesh until it found a still heart and the body around it turned to dust. One down. He spun around to see how many were left, the pain in his bad leg dulled by adrenaline. He was expecting the other two who’d had a hold on him.

There were more than that.

The odds were bad. He knew it right away, knew it the moment he caught sight of how outnumbered he was and took stock of how much he’d had to drink. He couldn’t let himself think about it. Another stake exploded one to dust, a splash of holy water sent another tumbling back. But one of them kicked at his bad leg, and the adrenaline covered the pain but the limb was still half-useless when it came to holding his weight, especially when he was intoxicated, so he stumbled. His stake sunk into someone’s shoulder instead of their chest, and he couldn’t get leverage to pull it free. Hands were all around him, shoving him back until he was against the wall, pinning him to it and holding him still. He was strong, but he was so outnumbered. He was angry, but it was more of a hindrance than a help. 

His chest heaved as the one who’d spoken first, the one from San Agustín Etla, the one who must have been in charge stepped forward. He sneered at Emilio, and Emilio snarled back. Like this, with his teeth bared and his eyes wild, it might have been hard to tell which of them was the monster.

Emilio was never quite sure himself.

“I was surprised to learn you made it out,” the vampire said, speaking clipped Spanish. Emilio tried to surge forward, but hands held him back, kept his back against the wall. “I thought the Cortezes were all dead.” 

“You thought wrong,” Emilio spat back, falling into his native tongue with ease. Only the good ones died, he added silently. Only the ones worth keeping. It was the worst of them who’d walked away. Wasn’t that always how it went?

“Well,” the vampire hummed, reaching forward. Emilio bucked and thrashed against the grip holding him down, but the hands held tight as the vampire slipped a hand into the slayer’s jacket and came back holding a blade. “I guess I won’t be wrong for much longer.” He held the blade up to the dull light, as if inspecting it. Emilio’s eyes never left his face, in spite of the obvious threat.

“I’m going to kill you,” he said plainly. Then again in Spanish, “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to make it hurt. Your friends, too. Every asshole in this alley, everyone you give a shit about. I’m going to take them apart piece by fucking piece. You’re going to wish you’d never come here.” He wasn’t sure it was a threat he could follow through with. Not with the hands pinning him down, not with the knife gleaming in the dull streetlight. 

The vampire knew it, too. He smiled, all sharp teeth and red eyes. “No,” he said. “You’re really not.” 

There was no more preamble; somehow, Emilio had thought there would be. He’d expected a long speech, a monologue that he could interrupt with snide remarks until he finally managed to catch one of the people holding him down off guard. He’d been in a thousand situations like this one, been up against a million walls. He was never the one who died, even when he wanted to be. It was never his blood staining the floor.

At least, not until tonight.

This villain wasn’t one for speeches. This monster wasn’t interested in playing with his food. He smiled, and the knife gleamed, and that was the only prelude Emilio got. It was quick, like a bullet from a gun. The knife shot forward, and he felt the pressure before the pain. He thought, damn, getting stabbed is always a fucking ordeal. He thought, shit, that bartender’s going to make me pay my tab if I go back in for stitches. 

And then, the pain hit, and thinking became a little harder.

His head dropped, eyes locking onto the knife sticking out of his chest. He’d never been stabbed in the chest before, had he? He was usually able to twist it to a better angle, usually able to move with whoever he was fighting to control it. He knew the best places to get stabbed, knew that you wanted, ideally, to take the knife in a meaty part of your body without any major arteries. Shoulder wasn’t as good as people thought it was — there were a lot of nerve endings there, a few arteries — and thigh risked knicking the femoral. Lower abdomen wasn’t so bad, if it was below the belly button. Missed the big shit, even if it hurt like hell. Bleeding was something to watch out for, but if you could get somewhere to get patched up, it wasn’t a death sentence. If he could have moved, he might have tried to redirect the blade there. But he was pinned to a fucking wall, because this wasn’t a fight. This was an ambush, something a coward had set up. 

He knew the best places to get stabbed. He also knew the worst. This was the latter.

He coughed, tasting iron on his tongue as the blood painted his lips. His eyes were fiery as they rose up to meet the vampire’s, rage burning through him. The hands pinning him to the wall let him go, and he took a step forward, but a step was all he could manage before his legs gave out. He collapsed to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Slowly, the vampire lowered himself to his level.

“I thought this would be harder,” he admitted, reaching for the knife. He twisted it, pulled it out, and wiped it on Emilio’s shirt. “Guess I overestimated you.” 

“Gonna… kill you…” Emilio struggled to force the words out. Each syllable tasted like blood. The vampire only laughed.

There was no way he’d be able to follow through on the threat now; he knew it with absolute certainty. There were black spots dancing on the edge of his vision, growing larger and larger with each blink of his heavy eyelids. The pain felt far away; he knew this wasn’t a good thing. 

(This wasn’t what he’d thought dying would feel like. He’d always imagined something more honorable. He’d pictured a battlefield, a grand rescue, his life laid down for someone else’s. He’d wanted to die a martyr. Instead, he was bleeding out in an alley. It might have been funny if he could have mustered up the energy to laugh.)

Distantly, he was aware of someone picking him up. It jostled him, sent the pain that had distanced itself rolling through him again, but he didn’t make a noise. Already, he was fading. He wanted to speak, but his tongue was too heavy to move. His vision went next, those black spots overtaking him until the world was a vast, endless nothingness. He could still feel hands on his body, but they felt separate, somehow, like his body wasn’t quite his own. There was a weightlessness to it as he was carried and then thrown, crumpling into a space small enough that he would have panicked if he’d been more aware of it. 

And then he was floating, was nothing, was capable only of listening to the last hints of the world. The voices were far away, and he couldn’t make out what they were saying, couldn’t even fathom what language they were speaking. Something slammed and echoed, and then there was silence. 

(Anyone who knew him would be unsurprised to learn that Emilio Cortez’s corpse wound up in a dumpster behind a dive bar, his own blood staining his teeth. Anyone who knew him wouldn’t need to ask to know that he’d taken out more than one of his murderers, even if it hadn’t saved him in the end. Anyone who knew him would understand that this was inevitable, that this was always how it was going to end. His story was written the day he was born, the end spelled out with fangs and blood and senseless tragedy. Anyone who knew him knew that, too.

But no one who knew him could have predicted what happened next. Emilio knew, better than most, that what died didn’t always stay dead.

He’d just never thought he’d end up counting himself among the things that didn’t.)

[morrisxn02]

from g with love–

(self para)

that a compliment? he read the message again, staring at the kind word in which the first line of text ended. bet g said that to every guy… but he also wanted to revel in the flattery – that feeling of outsmarting someone you always thought smarter than you and suddenly you prove yourself more intelligent than them and life is beautiful again because the one person who made you insecure finally had to bow and recognize you were better than them. well, not exactly the scenario here – just for the sake of being realistic – but he allowed himself to pretend that that was what it was for a moment. it even distracted him of what that entailed… that greer had been the muse of a project by––

basement. main administration building, the next one said. take advantage of midterms. wow, what was with all this serendipitous generosity? had g taken a liking to him all of a sudden? he wouldn’t look the gift horse in its mouth, of course. just surprised. but he’d follow the orders. make sure to look for any information on greer.  

computer closes immediately. thank god. finally a decent reason to stop looking at those endless lines of 0s and 1s. jesus christ, he had to drop out of this fucking thing or he would flunk this semester and his parents would find out that– well, never mind.

basement. main administration building. he had to devise a plan. no time to think about such an unimportant thing like his major. daytime. to hide in plain sight. no one would suspect a morrison going into the administration building in the middle of the afternoon. nights would be madness. he was sure there were all kinds of alarms and security cameras that he wouldn’t be able to spot. plus, there were patrol cars on campus now. all through the night. bound to suspect a scarecrow-like figure walking around faculty buildings with a black hoodie. better to go in with the full staff there and trust his ability to lie his way in and out of places to help him escape. years of theatre classes had to serve him for something since his parents never let him become a real actor.

***

two days into midterm week, there he was. at daytime. main administration building. blood thumping. so fast he could almost hear it. somehow sense it on his ears. in his stomach, a tight feeling. he’d never been used to sneaking in or out. never needed it actually. maybe at his grandparents, first year in france. his friends always invited him to parties grand-père et grand-mère disapproved of. but other than that, he never needed to be stealthy about anything. but he had a perfect plan – 95,7% failproof. if he got caught he would just say oh shit i got lost. what was the worst that could happen?

he walked through the doors seamlessly – messenger bag hanging from his shoulders, hands in his pocket, sleeves of his shirts folded up to three-fourths, and a smile on his face. oh, hello. good afternoon, mrs. hershkowitz. how’s the wife, mr. koubeck? yes, yes. we all saw that oppenheimer win coming, susan. kind of a disappointment if you ask me. zone of interest deserved it more. a charming smile, a little chuckle. just another wednesday. he still needed a good excuse to be there, though, just in case.

two knocks on a wooden door, above the frosted glass, gold letters read office of extracurricular affairs. the door swung open, and the small, middle-aged, white-haired, pale-skinned woman’s frown suddenly turned into a soft smile. hi, mr. morrison. hi, annie. and she moved away from the door, inviting him in. what can I help you with? um, i’m in a bit of a pickle… a few students are saying their report cards are not showing that they participated in the writing club last semester… looked straight into her eyes as he said this. eyes pleading, telling her, look at me… i’m the one who has to solve everyone’s problems all the time. can you help me? if he weren’t so conscious about being a good liar, he would’ve self-diagnosed as a high-functioning sociopath. but he never abused this skill. saved it only for times of absolute need.  

really? and they’re just now realizing that? oh, annie. you know how we are. attention spans of goldfish. she chuckles. just want to make sure all their participation and attendances are accounted for… think you can get that paperwork for me? annie, tips of her toes sustaining her weight, put a hand on his cheek. well, at least they have you to make sure things are going well. you know, it’s great you’re the student rep for the writing club. reports are always on time. wish more students were like you. he smiles. you’re too kind to me. she turned around, unlocked a door to another room, where they kept all the file cabinets. this might take me a while, eddie. you might want to make yourself comfortable there. there’s coffee and some biscuits, if you want. oh, don’t worry, i’ll be here. he waved a hand in the air, moving to sit on a chair. she walked into the other room, door closing behind her, he got up – back barely touching the cushions – and walked out.

not too happy about lying to her. sweet lady. like fooling a puppy or a child. but it had to be done.

door closed delicately as he stepped into the hall. got to be careful. try to make the round trip before she’s out looking for him. either way, the messenger bag still awaited him on the coffee table. he’d just gone to the toilet, she would think. down the hall, right, right, second door to the left – he’d been there enough times to know. and, at the end of the hall, was the emergency staircase. he only had to make sure that he looked like he was going to the bathroom to the cameras just in case.

so he went. wump-wump. wump-wump. heartrate rising. he tried breathing a little slower. to no avail, obviously.

down the hall. right. right.

wump-wump. wump-wump.

no cameras beyond that spot, he noticed. and if he were guessing right, the last camera couldn’t even catch the first door to the left – the women’s room – much less the men’s. so, he walked past the second door to the right and went straight to the one at the end of the hall.

wumpwump. wumpwump.

door shut lightly, again. footsteps echoing inside the concrete walls as he paced downwards, below the ground floor.

wumpwump. wumpwump. wumpwump. as he reached the door to the basement.

maybe it would be locked and he would have to turn around and go. but he pressed down on the handle and something clicked behind it. no turning back. also, he couldn’t disappoint g……. what a stupid fucking thought. what did that mean? disappoint g. fuck g. he was doing that for himself.

wumpwumpwumpwumpwumpwumpwumpwumpwumpwumpwumpwumpwumpwump. the last door closed behind him. basement lit up instantly. heart felt like it was about to stop as something churned at the bottom of his stomach. but he was alone. motion sensors, he figured. fuck muttered under his breath. only then he realized the lights were a cozy, warm yellow. the horrified state started draining away, but the wumpwumpwump remained. not much to look at. old boxes collecting dust. spider webs. some movement in a corner. rats or cockroaches. quickly, he started searching around. it was an ample space, but the things he was looking for couldn’t be that well-hidden. they’d barely had the time to pack everything up properly. a pile of cardboard boxes caught his eye. newer, brighter brown. not moldy or dusty as the others. a few steps towards them. something touched him, squeaking as it passed by. dust falling on him, feeling like small animals crawling through his hair. fucking disgusting. but there it was. flashlight of his phone illuminating dark sharpie writing on the outside of the boxes. dean zuko, it read. a late birthday gift, maybe? g really had been generous to him, after all…

[nomanslannd]

[...incoming transmission, interlude]

It's been too long since Ian had any communication with the people he cared for deeply. Going MIA was for the best—letting them believe he was dead or had disappeared was the right choice. He might not have been able to prove it, but he could feel Zola hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

They might call him paranoid, but blood ran through his veins, and he knew something was off. So he had disappeared. Truly becoming a nomad, he spent months hiding out. However, something eventually lured him from the shadows. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was, only that it called to him.

Explaining where he'd been would be difficult. Mending the bridges he'd destroyed would be even harder. But he’d made the choice to run, just like he had in the past. Running was safe, easy. As long as he kept running, no one could hurt him.

—Maybe it wasn't too late.

         ❛ THEY NICKNAMED HIM THE BOLTER ❜

[wretchedsums]

2018. november.

"You know what to do."

"Yeah."

"S'go make papa proud, then," he says, pushing the clump of fabric into her hands. Hands wrapped in ink take it from him, turn it around in hands peppered with the phantoms of knicks and cuts and bruises and too many tiny horrible icons etched in indigo ink. Her eyes crawl up to his and he stares into them, dismissive of the hestation he finds there.

"Aw no, none of that," he says, stroking the back of his hand along her cheek before it spins to take her cheeks up in his thumb and forefinger. "Think about what you're doing for me. For them. This is your freedom, Birds. Do this and you can be one of us. Get a piece of the whole damn pie. Live forever."

His eyes crawl all over her face in that moment, the face he'd built. Not that pretty shivering little thing from SoCal. Annoying resilient, this one had been, and who knows how many times he'd considered just… ripping her neck out, or giving her something to really pout about before he snatched the life up out of her. But look at her now. Wicked little thing; He'd taken some little designer dog and turned it into a trained dog, all mange and nicked ears. Ugly. He did love breaking pretty things.

He watches her pull the black mask on on the way over like an executioner's hood, listens to the way her heart thunders in her chest, amplified to absurd rhythms by drugs and anxiety and an all consuming fear of what fucking this up could look like. He sneers as he watches her pull a revolver from the pocket of the coat and checked it for bullets, can practically feel her playing with the idea of turning it on him, or the driver, or maybe herself. She won't though.

No compulsion needed, because she's not brave enough for that. She'd have done it already if she were.

"Alright, kids. Show me how much you all wanna be a part of things." The black van door slides open and a throng of them flood out, and Skinner follows behind, watching a few fan out, going around the sides of the house. He watched them smash the door knob off and file in, flipping the sparker on an old lighter to pass the time before he sparked the tip of an old cigarette.

It's Birdie who brings a guy back to the threshold, gun pressed to his head, a trickle of blood streaming down the side of his face from up beyond his hairline. "Invite him in." She says, pushing the gunbarrel into his temple. Skinner watches her eyes bounce between him and her hostage. Hesitation sees her thumb pull the revolver's hammer back. "Invite him in or it's your fucking brains on the fucking wall and then I go get your wife."

"Hi," Skinner grins apologetically, his face almost splitting in half with how many teeth the expression showed. "I'd listen to her, this bitch is… phew, crazy. I might be your last hope."

"…C-c-come in." He says.

Skinner nods with a little too much glee, crushing the cherry of his smoke between his fingers before tucking it behind his ears and stepping across the threshold. "Thank you," he says before taking in the beautiful home. Wine country. Isolated. Big. They have a couple other stops to make tonight before the long haul that sees them vanish back into the desert.

He spreads his arms wide as he steps down into the den, the rest of his little clan-to-be shoving their selection of hostages down stairs and into place. Meat for the grinder. Raw product. Reinforcements. He examines the hostages, walking in front of them, all lined up like it's boot camp.

“The guy’s useless to me.” He says, turning back to Birdie.

There’s a pop and a spray and a thud and then the ghosts of screams, but hands clamp down over mouths and arms wrestle themselves around necks to tamp down the spirit of rebllion. Skinner looks at Birdie's eyes, pupils big enough to hide the color of her eyes, looking at the crumpled heap in front of her, blood all over her face. She tries to wipe at it, but it only smears into a ruddy stain.

Skinner nods. “Score one for feminism,” he barbs before turning back to the rest of the family, leaning into each of them, peering an authoratative stare into each of them with a predatory eye. “Shh. Not a peep until I say so.”