#the brain claims yet another victim

[potatobugz]

so it turns out, i was not normal about the old man

[pnthra]

ive been working on this so long the intense manic fervor i had for this secretive seedy merchant man has temporarily died

[livwritesstuff]

I’ve got birthdays on the brain, so now I’m wondering how the guys handle the girls birthdays over the years and if they have any fun traditions as a family?

Oh yeah birthdays are definitely a Big Deal in the Harrington house. I feel like that comes from a combination of Eddie never having enough money to have a real birthday celebration growing up and Steve never having people who cared in the way he needed.

I think the way birthdays gets celebrated changes over the years and as the girls get older, but in general the conversation usually starts with we can do whatever you want (within reason, Steve usually interjects before things can get out of hand). When the girl are little, they do everything from hosting a formal princess tea party (Hazel’s sixth birthday — Eddie spent a month thrifting all the china cups and plates and saucers) to renting out a skate park after hours for laser tag (Moe’s 11th — Steve barely refrained from totally wiping the floor with a bunch of fifth-graders).

Once the girls hit middle school, they start wanting different things — usually big sleepovers with all their friends, but Hazel will sometimes ask for a shopping day instead, and for Robbie’s sixteenth birthday she bartered for her fourth lobe piercings (which Steve was happy to oblige given that it’s not exactly a big ask, and she’d done the second and third ones on herself which….wasn’t ideal).

No matter what the plan ends up being, they usually do the standard cake and ice cream and presents type of deal, and they definitely have some unspoken traditions that weren't necessarily planned, per se, but happen annually nonetheless.

Without fail, Eddie always gets all sad the night before a birthday because, "It's your last day ever being [insert age here]."

It first happened when Moe was about to turn two and Eddie realized that the year he’d spent telling everyone about his one-year-old baby (and it had been a seriously fun year too — the best one yet) was undeniably over, and he wasn’t ready to admit that Moe wasn’t really even a baby anymore. He spent the whole night before her second birthday snuggling her and bemoaning to Steve about how, “the merciless passage of time has claimed yet another victim”.

It turned into an annual thing — Eddie making a whole show out of telling the girls to stop growing up, which they totally eat up when they're little, and pretend to be exasperated by when they're teenagers (even though they still love it).

I also think Eddie would be the party mastermind, whereas Steve likes to focus on the little things.

Birthday morning breakfasts look like a whole plate with their name spelled out in pancake letters, and a little too much syrup and berries and a swirl of whipped cream with a candle sticking out of it, and Steve ties a bunch of balloons to their designated chair at the kitchen table, and he spends the whole rest of the day making sure that even the mundane moments are making them feel special and celebrated.

[daeneryseastar]

It absolutely gets me that the whole thing about Rhaneyra putting her siblings to the sword was made up by Otto, Rhaenyra did nothing to indicate that she would; Alicent just fixated on it like- how do they forget that they literally pulled that crock of shit out of thin air? 😭

it gets me too, especially show-wise. the only time rhaenyra shows any bit of fire against her siblings is during the driftmark incident, where it is blatantly obvious to anyone with a brain that she was bluffing when asking for aemond to be sharply questioned. granted, should she have done it? no. is she also a mother trying her best to protect her kids? and not being a super uber-perfect person in the process? yes to both. this is yet another change from the book i don't like, considering alicent demands luke's eye in retribution first, and rhaenyra retaliates against that rather than starting it.

i'm also adding some significant points that make no sense in the greater context if alicent truly thought her children's lives were endangered; which is how she actively antagonizes rhaenyra. in both medias. she raises her children to hate rhaenyra, to view their nephews as inferior and subhuman to them due to their blood, she instills fear for their lives as a part of their everyday activities, she tells her children that aegon will be king no matter what (which is treason, so she doesn't seem to care that badly about her children being found out as participants of those efforts). she does not act like someone who believes her children are going to be murdered once rhaenyra ascends the throne. it's why i can't take her stans seriously. none of her actions make sense in the grand scheme of things. she purposefully makes an enemy that is (TO HER) capable of cold-blooded murder. what terrified mother would do that?

there's also this fetish for infantilizing and victimizing alicent and co. otto manipulated her when she was a teen, which is a fair take. otto was also ostracized from court for TEN years. ten years with minimal to no contact with alicent. she is no longer a child during that time, she is a grown woman with four children to raise and a perfectly good brain to use. we're not shown or told once that rhaenyra *ever* showed an ounce of violence towards her siblings, and at most, she was indifferent to them. it is stated, however, that during that time skip alicent bullied and harassed rhaenyra, to the point where she abandoned the capital to have peace of mind and safety for her own children. still not the actions of a terrified mother (she also wasn't manipulated into doing any of that; it was all of her own accord because she hated that rhaenyra was afforded more freedom and leeway than she was).

what's more, there is minimal, if any, precedent that rhaenyra would be forced to kill her siblings to secure the throne. viserys was only the fifth targaryen king, not exactly enough time to really establish any killing family as a basis. maegor is the only one to have done so, and he's reviled for it even up to the current timeline. it is even thought that his death was the consequence of kinslaying. it's not normal. there has technically been some sort of succession crisis for almost all the rulers up to this time: aegon the uncrowned and maegor, rhaena and jaehaerys, baelon and rhaenys, viserys and rhaenys/laenor. there are, once again, many ways for aegon, aemond, and daeron to renounce their claim to the throne (night's watch, kingsguard, maester); but that would take away the power alicent and otto wanted to have, so not an option.

i wouldn't even consider daemon that much of a threat if rhaenyra had ascended peacefully. they've changed his character significantly in the show, but daemon explicitly states in fire and blood that they need to find a peaceful way to end this dispute, and not resort to fighting dragons versus dragons (a line they gave to rhaenys in the show) because it would only end in disaster. he doesn't resort to any brutality until after the first blood is drawn by the green's.

basically, it's just another ploy, a 'red herring' if you will, to distract from the true reason why rhaenyra was usurped (and hook, line, sinker; it's working fantastically for some in the fandom).

[crooked-wasteland]

The Toxic Romance of Fizz/Ozzie

I have gotten an ask in regards to depictions of abuse in Helluva Boss and there is obviously much to say on the topic. Many others have gone over and criticized the show for its poor examples of abuse, however I believe a greater problem exists on the flip side of that topic. Hand in hand with abusive relationships, the show has crafted romantic ones that are just as damaging to the young adult audience this show appeals to. Just as some say that poor representation of abuse and abusers puts people at risk of becoming victims, so too does the poor representation of love and romance turn into a quagmire of unhealthy codependency that sets unrealistic standards for relationships and people that are inevitably going to become toxic when removed from fantasy.

It is one of the few reasons why I insist that Helluva Boss is not a show targeting adults, as it does not appeal to mature individuals with any true life experience. Overwhelmingly striking a chord with the stunted, socially disabled adult minority, or the emotionally volatile demographic of early twenty-something teenagers who have yet had the experience in life to identify harmful relationships or the biological maturity of their brains to reason outside their emotions, who make up the majority. It feeds off the sense of victimization that both of these groups harbor towards reality and requires a fantastical disconnection of such to engage with authentically.

That is not to say this is an attack on that group. As seen before with the meteoric rise of damaging media like “50 Shades of Grey”, it is not fair to claim no one can authentically interact and enjoy the material at presentation. Identically it is not proper to claim that individuals who enjoy this sort of media for what it is are somehow of subpar intellect. However, it is more fair to recognize that many who did see “50 Shades” as a romantic tale often ended up in abusive relationships when seeking out that “ideal” they believed the book portrayed. Many individuals who wandered into the kink scene looking for their own Christian Grey found exactly that as they were manipulated, controlled and taken advantage of by unsavory individuals. As such, this is not to say that media of this sort should not exist or be banned, but that coherent and concise criticism is necessary for these topics to keep people from reenacting unhealthy and toxic relationships.

In the words of Youtuber Swoop, “It’s not drama, it’s dangerous.” I feel it rings true here and for artistic media in general. It’s not just fiction, and it can have a real world impact on people, relationships and lives.

I covered over some of the issues with Stolitz in a previous post found *HERE*, but for this breakdown of harmful depictions of relationship dynamics, I’m going to be focusing on FizzaRolli and Asmodeus. The reason being, this is a textbook codependent relationship that is portrayed as an ideal through the narrative, and it is rather alarming to witness the way the fandom fawns over it. As I previously pointed out in *THIS* post, the issue with the Fizz/Ozzie relationship in the special episode is that the story conflict is FizzaRolli’s codependent nature on Mammon not being corrected, but rather redirected to being purely codependent on Asmodeus. I have legitimately seen it argued that because the characters are happy in their relationship, then the codependency is just love, which is why this essay is being written in the first place. This is direct evidence of a harmful and unhealthy dynamic being sold to an impressionable and immature audience to their own detriment.

According to PsycheCentral, codependent traits can be broken up into cognitive (how you think), emotional (how you feel), and behavioral (how you act).

Cognitive traits of Codependency are that the individual has difficulty identifying their own opinions from another person’s, primarily the target of the codependency. This means the individual will often conform themselves implicitly to the beliefs of their target. They lack a stable sense of self and attach to their target in a way to ground them psychologically. Additionally, they struggle to identify or express their needs because of this lack of identity. And it should be made clear that the lack of identity does not mean that they see themselves as an extension of the other person, but are highly changeable and lack any core sense of who they are or what they believe in. Their self image is so volatile that the act of codependency is a maladaptive coping skill to find some form of stability in another person. This also extends into a form of mirroring; taking on the desires of those around you as your own.

The episode makes it very obvious how FizzaRolli is codependent on Mammon because it is seen in the negative lens it is expected to be. FizzaRolli’s opinions and beliefs are mirrored images of Mammon’s greedy philosophy. Being the best with all the money and fame is what Mammon has instilled in Fizz’s core, and from the jump Fizzarolli expresses these values as his own. FizzaRolli doesn’t communicate with Mammon out of a sense of fear and often shelves his own feelings and desires to accommodate the King of Greed. These are obvious and I am sure everyone can easily identify them in the dynamic.

However, these are identical to FizzaRolli’s dynamic with Asmodeus. At the end of the episode when Ozzie and Fizz have their minute in the greenroom, Fizz consistently fails to communicate with Ozzie about his needs or desires. In context of the episode’s opening, FizzaRolli is able to easily lie to Asmodeus as to why he is participating in the pageant. It is never established that Fizzarolli is expected to participate, additionally his job with Ozzie would make his need to be hired by Mammon obsolete, let alone their relationship. So it appears to be solely Fizz’s choice as to why this episode occurred in the first place. It is obvious that Fizz feels out of control and overwhelmed about this situation, but he believes Ozzie would want him to participate because he would “lose him” otherwise.

Which means FizzaRolli believes his participation in the pageant is also what Ozzie actually wants, seen when he says “You’re with me because of who I am at my best!” And FizzaRolli is so entrenched in that belief that he imposes it on his partner despite Asmodeus clearly stating he would wish Fizz wouldn’t go. FizzaRolli’s decisions and thoughts are just as entirely embedded in the thoughts, opinions and desires of Ozzie, if not more, than Mammon. Just because Asmodeus’ cognitive priority is Fizz does not change the toxic codependency that this cycle is rooted in. It could be argued that because Ozzie rejecting FizzaRolli’s belief at the end of the episode allows Fizz the freedom to quit, it is only because of Fizz’s belief that Ozzie wanted him in the pageant, not Mammon, is why he ever forced himself to go in the first place.

Emotional traits of Codependency can be broken down into a single feeling: Fear. The difficulty of saying “no” due to a fear of rejection or abandonment. A fear of not being accepted, loved or supported. Feelings of inadequacy and low self-esteem are all intrinsically tied to a codependent dynamic. This results in the individual giving of themselves beyond their own boundaries in order to appease their target and maintain a sense of value to that person.

Again, this is clear in FizzaRolli’s dynamic with Mammon. He never asserts himself in any way regardless of how uncomfortable he feels while simultaneously pushing the limits of his own mental and emotional health to the point of resentment. He attributes everything he is and has to Mammon, highlighting his utter lack of self-esteem. Additionally, the episode goes out of its way to show Fizz feeling inadequate in direct contrast to the competition.

This inadequacy goes deeper still, however, when presented with the Fizz/Ozzie dynamic because FizzaRolli believes he is unworthy of his relationship with Ozzie as a fundamental basis. He says, “I’m barely worthy of working with a King of Sin … Without all this, I’m just nothing.” And it isn’t FizzaRolli who finds value in himself. He spills himself out to Asmodeus, leaving himself vulnerable and empty, and instead of seeing his own value, it is Ozzie who fills him up. He originally places his value in his work. His fame and abilities are what his entire sense of self-worth is hinged on, which gets replaced by another external source that FizzaRolli arguably has less impact on One could argue that while unhealthy, FizzaRolli has a direct input in his work and thus feeds his self-esteem through his own merit. The solution to that problem is to give up all control and ownership of his emotional state for it to be regulated and maintained entirely by Ozzie. One could reasonably say that the solution to this episode’s conflict was for Fizz to actually become less of a whole person to find happiness.

And then there are the behavioral traits. Keeping in mind the emotional motivation behind all behavior is fear, the individual may take on more responsibility than they can handle or are not even their responsibility in the first place; pressuring themselves to support their target, getting caught up in the other person’s matters, or even “rescuing” them from their hardships. They tend to overshare, lack boundaries and are constantly seeking external validation and approval.

For this one, I’m skipping the Mammon comparison entirely because I feel the situation is self-evident. Instead I am going to pivot slightly to add onto this thought:

In the PsycheCentral article, licensed marriage therapist Kate Engler says, “All codependent people are people pleasers, but not all people pleasers are codependent.” She proceeds to expand this point by explaining how Codependency is a more extreme form of people-pleasing due to its mutual nature. When two people are in a true codependent dynamic, neither party can function without the other one.

That is to say, Asmodeus is also codependent on FizzaRolli.

Ozzie does not express his codependency in such a way that feels so textbook in comparison due to his social superiority, however, we see in Oops how codependent Asmodeus is on FizzaRolli to regulate and maintain his own emotional state. Ozzie is so incapable of functioning without Fizz that, if not for Stolas, he would have immediately signed away all his factories and even resulted in the death of his partner. He doesn’t make decisions based on his own values, but denies Stolas a crystal due to his partner’s wants and desires. Asmodeus’ proud announcement of doing so, as well, shows a degree of approval seeking. Being so pleased with himself on the belief that he did what his partner would have wanted him to do, and openly seeking validation for that decision as well. He lacks any sense of self outside of elevating FizzaRolli and Fizz lacks any sense of self outside of Ozzie’s approval.

The sole reason this relationship even seems to be healthy is because of the fact that Ozzie has no character outside of being in love with FizzaRolli. The unrealistic nature of a whole other human having no will, desire, or purpose outside of being in love with you is unrealistic and unhealthy. It is predicated on a belief that another person will make one "complete", placing the responsibility of your existence as a person on another and believing that is love. It is handing someone a gun to aim at your head, but its okay because they will never pull the trigger. If Asmodeus had any sense of his own identity, he would inevitably cause immense emotional and psychological harm to Fizz, and the only saving grace is that he is poorly written.

The result is that FizzaRolli and Asmodeus depict a fundamentally toxic dynamic being depicted as mutual support and love. It is a demented ideal of what a healthy relationship should look like that is actively poisoning the concept of relationships for an entire demographic of young people. It reaffirms anxious attachment styles that a concerning majority of the fandom embody, fundamentally dooming a percentage of those individuals to replicate this rotten cycle in their own reality. Regardless of how few people ended up abused following their romanticization of 50 Shades of Grey, the fact that even a single person ended up in that position due to a piece of media is too many. As such, I feel it is beyond necessary to denounce the “most wholesome” relationship of Helluva Boss for the dysfunction it actually is.

[sgiandubh]

Hi!

Fitness Anon here…

On Friday S posted the „Hotel Highball“ video which was obviously recorded in Scotland, not in the US. 

So now „Miss I know it all“ aka Marple rushed to readjust her guessing game and sources about S’s whereabouts. Until the occurrence of this video she claimed he was still in L.A., but now she tells her audience he is back since Thursday… . Because she knows and has proof and facts. Sure? 🤔 It took only a video posted by the „ King of latergrams“ to doubt her own predictions? Is she so easy to unsettle? 

Hopefully right now these are better sources than the ones she claimed to have to indicate what S was up to this weekend and why he couldn’t attend the Con in Birmingham weeks ago. 

But she always keeps it vague so that she can adjust depending on the actual outcome so that it fits into her made-up storyline. 

So, grab your 🍿 and wait what’s up in her  crystal ball next. Perhaps she will also find answers there to the still unresolved question of his IG unfollows and his hair length in order to be able to place the recording of his latest booze video more precisely in time.

Dear, poor (returning) Fitness Anon,

You must have the patience of an angel and put up with me being awfully, rudely late, here. However, and one more time: all of the above, and then some more.

Key quote being: 'But she always keeps it vague so that she can adjust depending on the actual outcome so that it fits into her made-up storyline.'

The beauty of your submission is shining through, here. You sent this to me a week ago (and I do humbly apologize, it's been crazy and yes, life-changing, down here) and yet nothing fundamentally changed, on that page. Same old, same old, not even different. BS presented as factoids, calumny and libel (different things, but they cover it all) towards people that are perceived as personal foes. In my book, to despise someone is to ignore someone, not to actively ill wish on them. Yet the person (a he? a she? doubt is allowed) never got that memo and keeps on victimizing themselves.

At the end of the day, that page reads like an umpteenth season of The Young and The Restless: you can miss I don't know how many episodes, you'll always find your way back to a stalling script.

So, dear Fitness Anon, cue in another round of obsessive talking in circles about S, mendacity on top (Ashley Anon was evidence enough of that and I have to say I was a bit surprised). This, and copying even my mannerisms - hence my complete disdain.

PS: Despina Vandi Anon, you have been waiting for a very long time and I hope you could forgive me for that. This week's audio will be for you. But now, onwards to some cookery. I always found it supremely relaxing for the brain.

[creature-wizard]

Quick rundown on my actual positions re: the Law of Assumption & reality shifting right now:

I think the practices associated with the Law of Assumption can provide a very real psychological benefit, and I think many practitioners have successfully used it to overcome problems stemming from anxiety, poor self-image, etc.

I am broadly in favor of people using these practices, insofar as they don't exacerbate other mental issues and insecurities, or create other problems. (Needing other people to feel jealous of you to feel good about yourself is inherently unhealthy. Revision is just lying to yourself or others. Everyone Is You Pushed Out is both dehumanizing and victim-blaming.)

I don't think "reality shifting" actually moves people into parallel universes or whatever. I think the manifestation type version works the same way I think the Law of Assumption works. I think the "travel to my favorite fictional world and meet my blorbos" version essentially works by inducing a kind of deep, intense dream state.

I also think confirmation bias leads people to interpret random coincidences and things that probably would've happened anyway as cases of successful manifestation.

I think many cases of successful manifestation can also be explained by the frequency illusion in action. I think they technically count as successes from a psychological standpoint, since it would mean practitioners have successfully trained their brains to hone in on things they want.

I genuinely don't care if you believe that a metaphysical element might be involved. That's fine with me. I draw the line at telling people that they can absolutely, 100% manifest anything at all if they just Do It Right, and at telling people that they are 100% responsible for literally everything that happens to them. There is no context in which claims like these do not lead to psychological and physical harm.

Maybe there are individual cases where Law of Assumption practitioners experienced an extraordinary healing of some kind. I have my own reasons to think that in some rare instances, these things actually do happen. But I also know that there is no reason to think that LOA practices were specifically responsible for it, and I also know that statistically speaking, faith healing kills.

I think a lot of people in this community are lying, because that's just human nature/the nature of the Internet. There's always people who lie.

I also can't rule out psychosis for some people, either.

I have learned from researching and studying scams, cults, and hoaxes that when someone refuses to provide solid evidence to back up their extraordinary claims, it's because they're lying, and that those who play the victim or vilify people when asked for solid evidence want to take advantage of others in some way.

I have also learned that all scammers, cultists/cult leaders, and hoaxters will try to make you think they're the Very Special Exception to this rule. They are not. They never are.

I think the practice of Living In The End is a potential incentive to make false claims. If you're living as if it's already fulfilled, it would only make sense to write a "success story," right?

People who claim they changed the color of their eyes might also not be aware that your eye color can look different under different lighting.

Use the void state or don't, I don't care. I don't think it's harmful. I think it might be beneficial for some. I just don't think it's going to enable you manifest new parents overnight or resurrect the dead or whatever. Again, I think the LOA's benefits are primarily psychological.

I think Neville Goddard was a liar. His ideas didn't come from Kabbalah, they came from Phineas Quimby. They don't derive from Jewish mysticism; they're a close relative of Prosperity Gospel.

I think "Edward Art" is yet another content farm channel.

Spiritual abuse dolled up as self-empowerment is still spiritual abuse. "But we're helping people!" Cool motive, still abuse.

If you're more upset by people calling out the toxic bullshit going on in the Law of Assumption community than you are by the toxic bullshit going on in the Law of Assumption community, you need to fix your heart.

For anyone reading this: If you are leaving or questioning the Law of Assumption and need help, please see this post.

[dittolicous]

actually more on my raging stealth black!sanji idea

the whole thing isnt kick-started by judge but instead queen, now in the custody of the marines, as he constantly curses the vinsmoke name. interest is piqued during some interrogation when he curses sanji's timely mutation and when pressed for more he angrily rants about judges 'failed' work on his children, how theyre basically living weapons, and that the cook of the strawhats is no exception if their battle was anything to go by, why he even goes so far as asking the pirate hunter to kill him if he went 'mad'!

perhaps word gets back to the gorosei or akainu, getting them thinking... despite their efforts strawhat luffy is becoming more of a danger with each passing day but maybe they were going at it all wrong...

what if they could get the strawhats to do themselves in? strawhat is willing to destroy the world if it meant saving his nakama - but is he strong enough to save them from themselves? to cut the arm off to save the body?

it doesnt take much to get vinsmoke judge on board, just the promise of give him all the tools he needs to 'retrieve his goods', going so far as to even give him access to vegapunks work and 'convinced' queen to aid him. their only stipulation is that he is to then use this weapon of his destroy the strawhats, no matter what it takes

so it goes like this - with the resources of the world government, a plan is put in motion. a random island that just happens to sit in the strawhats path is attacked by bloodthirsty bandits, ravenging it... perhaos the starving islanders won their empathy, perhaps it was just the whims of monkey d. luffy.

a battle breaks out though its hardly anything to write home about for an emperor's crew

if only they had known about the cp0 agents hidden amongst the riftraft, armed with weaponry specifically made to take down germa66 super soilders. all it takes is a single, well timed strike to the heart to bag their target

(in that sense, his death isnt faked at all. no, its quite real. they figured a little brain death was negligible, if not outright helpful, considering they were planning to wipe the cooks memories anyhow)

the body falls into the sea, where it is quickly whisked away by hidden agents before the first son of the sea can fish blackleg out.

as far as the strawhats can tell, the sea claimed his body into her embrace - it would be... a fitting death, in better circumstances... they search the surrounding ocean for three entire weeks before giving up, if you can even call it that. luffy refuses to accept his death, clinging desperately to the lack of a body. the rest are torn, unsure what to believe. but as their food supplies start to dwindle, theyre forced into moving forward to the next island.

(it takes even longer to contact the baratie)

time marches on, unconcerned for the despair flooding the thousand sunny

elsewhere, a prince is quietly reborn, reshaped in anothers image. he looks upon to world with blank, calculating eyes. unbeknownst to judge, when the words of his family cannot measure up to the reality before sanji, he puts his skills to the test to take what he needs from the victims of germa66's sieges

before long, the time of reckoning is upon them. stealth black is believed a success, the next step of the plan is put into motion... they need to send a message to get the strawhat pirates attention, so where better than their very first claimed territory?

fishman island doesnt even know what hit it as the sucken land crumbles, yet they let the royalty live... just so they can pass on a tiny tonedial with a message to strawhat luffy

an all too familar voice greets them

"hello captain"

[writer-of-the-shack]

pls can u write ANYTHING for a pretty boy x gn! reader? no one writes 4 him n im so desperate u don't understand 😭

In all honesty, I can agree with this. The lack of Intersection Pretty Boy fics just makes me- GGGGGGGGG

Also, sorry for the long wait!! Honestly, I had to rack my small brain for some prompts that would make a good scenario so- Ehe..??? HOW MANY YEARS??? THIS IS THE LONGEST I THINK THAT A BLOG HAS RELEASED ITS FIRST POST AND I'M HONESTLY SO SORRY I PROMISE I'LL DO MY BEST WITH THE OTHERS IT WOULDN'T BE A YEAR LONG WAIT I SWEAR--

Within the Fog

The town of Nanchou-Shi was eccentric in its own right. With the obsession of the townsfolk over intersection fortune telling and the rumors of the ghost that haunts the town's tradition, the Intersection Pretty Boy. Though intersection fortune telling was something that people mostly do in search of that one seed of hope, the circulating cases proved otherwise. If not, it proved to be more dangerous than helpful.

In truth, the strange problem of the town seemed to have beckoned a morbid curiosity within you. The fact that these unfortunate souls met their ends when all they wanted was hope for their romantic struggles was a tragedy in its own right. Yet not only were they caused by random strangers that happened to pass by, but the most intriguing part was that the victims would often talk of a beautiful boy in black wearing red lipstick. He was an unknown entity that piqued the fear and interest of many.

With the mystery of the Intersection Pretty Boy's origin and identity, all fingers are pointed at your unfortunate friend, Fukata Ryusuke, claiming he was the Intersection Pretty Boy. But doubt would always wrap your mind in its shadowy cloak as you think of the connection between the Intersection Pretty Boy and Ryusuke. He never wore earrings, nor had you seen him owning red lipstick. Yet the tension of his posture and the sweat trailing down his face roused your suspicion.

As usual, the rumors regarding Intersection Fortune telling had been one of the school's favorite topics to gossip about, and your piercing gaze with the worried glances of Midori was of no help as Ryusuke struggled through the day.

Through the classroom window, it was easy to know that it was another gloomy day in Nanchou-Shi. Though the school had sheltered the students from the fog, they couldn't stay in school for long. But it was a thought that barely reached their restless minds, for what drowns their caution was the overpowering curiosity and temptation of Intersection Fortunetelling. Ryusuke never seemed to do it for the sake of his struggles, but it seemed more of a responsibility for him, one that seemed to come at the price of his well-being. As the fog hung in the air, he'd walk through the town, passing through intersections and giving advice. As days went by, curiosity crept from behind, slowly engulfing your mind as the image of what remained of your friend, Ryusuke, would occasionally flash within your mind. How thin he had become, how dull his eyes would come. He seemed like a dead man walking.

Your thoughts continued to dive deep into the intriguing mystery of Nanchou-Shi. But with the chilling hush of the wind, you were dragged back into reality, your view obscured by the overwhelming fog. "Tsk… Lost. I shouldn't have spaced out like that." Frustration clung from the back of your head as you internally scolded yourself. Helpless, you tried to navigate through the fog, wishing for something to enter your line of sight, perhaps a wall or a sign. And so, your wish came true as gray walls entered your line of sight, concealed by a veil of fog. Towards the wall, you walked. Mind running through memories to see if this wall was a puzzle piece to a place you've walked past at some point. But to no avail, your thoughts froze as your fingers made contact with the sharp turn of the wall.

You were at an intersection.

Cold realization struck as you froze in your spot. It felt like the wall was absorbing your hand, refusing to let you escape. The silent atmosphere of Nanchou-Shi felt more ominous as your eyes darted around the fog, paranoia creeping in like a silent predator. Was that figure walking towards you just a figment of your imagination? A hallucination? A tall, slim figure walked through the fog, seemingly unaffected by the heavy fog. It wasn't in a hurry like a businessman running late for work or a daydreaming student idly walking from school with their bag in hand or shoulder. The figure strolled casually, the rhythmic clack of their footsteps growing nearer and louder.

Paranoia turned to panic as your silently wary mind exploded into a flurry of thoughts. Whether you believed in the tales of the Black-Clothed ghost or thought it was just an elaborate cover for someone's crimes, you knew the outcome was inevitably grim.

The fog soon made way for the figure, revealing an otherworldly beauty. Eyes devoid of life, red-stained lips curved in a small yet mysterious smile, he wore no other color than black. The fog didn't seem like an entity of its own, but rather, it was akin to a veil that lovingly embraced him.

And as your eyes found him, it felt as if your heart froze. It was a contrast to your mind running in a storm of frenzy. Yet like the calmness in a storm's eye, one thought echoed in your mind like a voice lost within a looming cave.

Run.

With sudden courage, you ran from the intersection. Your beating heart echoed in your ears as the heaving of your breath grazed past your auditory senses. Yet none of those seemed to drown the echoing footsteps of the Intersection Pretty Boy. The image of the tall ghost was carved in your mind as you ran through the streets of Nanchou-Shi, using every turn to your advantage. But no matter how many turns you took, the chill that clung to your back didn't fade.

With the doubtful reassurance of your mind, you finally slowed your pace as you leaned on a lamp post for support, catching your breath. As you looked up, your eyes met the all-too-familiar gaze of Ryusuke. His confused gaze set upon you as he approached you with caution. "(Y/n)..?" The sickly-looking boy gazed at you, cold sweat trailing down his cheek as he took in your disheveled appearance. With the haunting image of the Intersection Pretty Boy flashing in your mind, you chuckled as you smiled at Ryusuke. Finally, in the presence of a familiar face, the veil of caution and fear slowly slipped from your mind, leaving only a tiny stain of vigilance within your mind.

"Ryusuke! " A sigh of relief escaped from your lips which curled into a smile that Ryusuke reciprocated with an uneasy smile, shoving his hands in the pocket of his uniform slacks. The fragile smile on his face dropped, unease flooding through his eyes as he looked at you as he spoke. "I didn't expect that I'd see you here…" With his hands still in his pocket, he walked past you. The Black-Clothed Ghost loomed over you, and he stood with his back straight. Ryusuke, though he hid his hands in his pocket, walked with a slouched back and heavy shoulders.

"… The fog's heavy. You should go home." He said as he looked at you over his shoulder. Unlike the ghost, who seemed at home in the fog, Ryusuke seemed like a fearful prey within the heavy fog. As his figure disappeared into the heavy fog, you struggled to take in your surroundings through the heaviness of the fog. Relief flooded over you the moment you recognized the streets.

You were finally near your home.

Finally, inside the safety of your home, you hurried towards the privacy of your room and into the comfort of your bed. After your eventful walk back home, you were too tired to get back up from your bed to change out of your uniform. The softness of the bed was just too comforting for you to leave as your eyes shut, slipping into your dreams.

Opening your eyes, you found yourself on the cold streets of Nanchou-Shi. Upon noticing the familiar fog surrounding you, your eyes widened as you sat up and looked around. Echoes of steady footsteps reached your ears, sending your blood running cold as you turned your head to see the all-too-familiar silhouette of a looming figure.

As the silhouette grew nearer and nearer, your mind began to yell at you to run. But as you tried to stand and run, you couldn't. Your body felt as if it was frozen, glued in place. Why? You couldn't move your own body, and he was nearing you. His eyes were an empty void of lifeless white. With his red-stained smile, you could feel his gaze on you.

At last, you managed to stand to your feet, taking your steps back, away from him. Set on running away from him, you finally turned away and ran deeper into the endless fog. You couldn't tell where you were going. Your mind plagued with fear as the sounds of his footsteps didn't seem to disappear the more you tried to run from him.

It only seemed as if your attempt was futile. Wordlessly, he appeared from within the fog and walked past you. Each time he opened those red-colored lips, you ran faster, not wanting to hear any words coming out of his mouth. The more you ran, the more it seemed like you were in a desolate town. You expected to run into someone, perhaps Ryusuke, but there was no one except the Black-Clothed Ghost.

Feeling your heart hammer through your ribs as you ran deeper within the fog, breathing felt heavy as your body gave out. You didn't know how long you were running, and the more you ran, the more pointless it seemed. Countless turns and intersections greeted you, and it only seemed like you were running in circles. No matter how many turns you took, he's always there.

Leaning on a wall as you tried to catch your breath, you lifted your head to find the heartless ghost walking past you with an eerie smile. As you watched him walk past an intersection, a sigh escaped your lips. The momentary relief washed over you as you thanked your luck that you stopped on the length of the walls and not its corners.

Resting your head against the wall behind you, you closed your eyes in hopes of waking up. This was a dream, you were sure of it…

… And you woke up. Not on the streets, and most certainly not on your bed. Turning your head to look over your shoulder, you found yourself leaning against a person's leg. Standing with the back facing you, you let your eyes wander upwards only to find him again. His hands hidden in his pockets, his lithe figure loomed over you who remained on the ground.

Turning his head, he looked over his shoulder. Though his eyes were empty, you felt his gaze at you, felt him staring at you with the seemingly amused smile still on his red-stained lips.

And as his red lips parted, his voice rung to your ears, his words echoing in your mind.

"Never return."

[xfancyfranart]

THIS TAINTED LOVE YOU'VE GIVEN

As promised, here's the art post for my second @deancas-stabfest collab 😍 @lazarus-rose's prompt had me immediately hooked since it was music to my horror loving heart (with a spin on murder husbands I hadn't even considered yet) and takes the name "Stabfest" beautifully literal:

Summary: Everyone has their hobbies—Dean’s just happens to involve a lot more blood and screaming than most people’s. And sure, maybe murder isn’t the nicest way to blow off steam, but Dean’s always thought that being nice is overrated anyway. His latest victim, a pretty guy with startling blue eyes, should be nothing special, just another nameless body on Dean’s list. But then, after Dean kills and buries him, he turns back up at Dean’s house again the next day. What’s a guy to do when they’ve accidentally gotten an immortal witch convinced that they’ve got some kind of profound bond?

... can you blame me for claiming it? 😂 Read it NOW!! 🩸

Laz, I had an amazing time with you, your story and our collective brain rot. It's been so nice to meet and work with you and I hope it wasn't our last collab. Thank you for the A+ inspiration 🔪🖤

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: The Law's Delay

Shout out to @ibrithir-was-here for putting up with my never-ending goal of overfilling the glorious Blood of My Blood AU with my ramblings and extra shout out to @everchangingfungusthoughts and @animate-mush for tripping me down the slope of Writing Another Text Brick. Specifically via this whole thing.

Summary: Jonathan Harker, now fifteen years deep into his life at Castle Dracula, finds himself the unwilling guest of yet another frightful host and his company. Talk and violence and time tick by.

The sun sinks low.

The dead travel fast.

And a vital Lesson is taught regarding the Law of the land.

Warnings for graphic violence, suicide, and murder.

Jonathan’s head ached.

Partly from the agonized spot at the back of his skull where the cudgel had struck. Mostly from the state of his current company.

They were nomads, he knew, but not Dracula’s men. This lot were too fresh for that. In fact, some wore tailoring that the locals weren’t accustomed to apart from tourists and the occasional city dweller passing through. He wouldn’t bet money on how many were ‘donated’ from past victims and how many were afforded through helping themselves to said victims’ purses and personal cheques. They were a dapper group, whichever the case.

From what he picked up while feigning unconsciousness, there was someone missing from their assembly. Someone’s…paramour? Wife? A young woman close to the presumed leader. Some grousing about superstitious idiots. Counter-grousing about precaution and history and how somebody’s cousin’s friend was slaughtered by the ‘superstitions.’ A third sect was grumbling about how thin Jonathan’s pockets were for a supposed noble, monster or not.

“A half-full purse and a few strips of dried pork don’t particularly line up with your theory, Jacob.”

“Props, idiot. Would some common huntsman be wearing what he wears? Would he have these?”

Jonathan heard the heavy jingle of his set of the castle’s keys. They had taken the ring of them from its chain among a handful of other lightweight treasures. All that and his wedding ring. That would cost them.

“Oh, yes. Of course. Because all the revenants who run a swatch of the Carpathians’ government are surely wandering around with frightful things like jerky and house keys.”

“Are you blind? Do these look like house keys? Half of them look older than the mountains!”

“Well, perhaps that is the ‘prop’ of his property, eh? A fancy set of keys made to look old. They certainly haven’t any rust. It wouldn’t be a terrible gimmick these days. Everyone is a fiend for the local bogeyman or a good haunting. I would do tours with my own castle, dribble a little red sauce on my lip, charge a fee for the thrill and the courtesy of not killing anyone on the way out.”

“You talk like it’s a joke. This, when I was raised in these godforsaken crags, and my own neighbor lost their newborn and its mother in the same night! The father blew his brains out when he found what was left of them in the forest. His forest.” The words were hissed in Jonathan’s direction. “God! If we had known how easy it was to take him by daylight!”

There was a snort. The leader’s voice. Sour.

“You say ‘we’ like you weren’t still in nappies, Jake. Like the castle in question isn’t a fortress on a cliff in the dead center of the mountains, all covered with wolves and your frightful bloodsuckers. What would Mama and Papa do if they knew better back then? March all the way up with the neighborhood and hope they made it in time before sunset? That’s assuming the advised tools of the trade actually mean anything against the bastard in question. If he’s as old as legends claim, throwing himself through a hundred wars’ meat grinders with his head and heart and all his other giblets getting minced, with him still standing after it, who’s to say an axe and stake are enough?”

A kick was delivered to the chair Jonathan sat bound to.

“Assuming this piece of work is said bastard.” Spoken with equal parts resignation and frustration. “I’ll grant he looked a bit off in broad daylight. Sure as hell would pass for a cadaver. But if this is the man who had your slovenly little villages soiling themselves after dark, I’m not impressed.”

Snickers from most of the room. A few grimmer sounds from the believers.

“If you don’t believe us, then—,”

“I believe in precaution, Jake. There are strange things in the world. If we want to believe that talking pile of dust, Vordenberg, who I’ll admit was a museum exhibit in his own right, we had us a near miss back in Gratz. So, fine. We finish this in the fashion of the locals. We can even set the pieces on fire if it makes you happy. Not the point. The point is—,”

A hand caught in Jonathan’s hair and wrenched his bowed head up, making the back of his skull throb anew.

“—we know Katrina was seen with you last, you ghoul.”

Jonathan opened his eyes. It had a noticeably sobering effect on much of the room. His host even eased his hold enough to stop trying to rip Jonathan’s hair out. A glance was spared for the assembled party. Easier now that he wasn’t doing it through his lashes. They really were a well-dressed bunch. One of them even wore the silver watch taken from Jonathan’s pocket quite well, though it clashed somewhat with the dagger he was fiddling with. He’d sprung for a handle with a gold hilt.

“Well?” He received a last yank before the man flung his head against the back of the chair. “Where is she?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name. Could you describe her?”

“Oh, I doubt if she would give her real one out to anyone. But we know you know her, Count.”

Jonathan felt the headache blossoming into a migraine.

“Count?”

“Dracula,” the one called Jacob grated out. He stood close to the table with his hand near the aforementioned tools of the trade. A wood axe. A sharpened garden stake and a sledgehammer. Matches. But he, like the rest of his friends, was content to leave his other hand resting on the pistol at his hip. “Don’t think you can throw your word games around here, you leech. You are not boyar here. You are not even a monster by daylight. Just a man—,”

“A man I am talking to, Jake,” from the leader. He turned back to Jonathan. “You see we have some bias in the retinue. Now, Jake and his cadre believe you are, in fact, the same awful old man who likely played out his Báthory fantasies by killing off a few local rustics for kicks once upon a time. Same white hair, same carcass complexion, and some properly unhealthy-looking windows of the soul. As an aside, you have the same body heat as a slab from the butcher. If you had a chance of living beyond today, I might have recommended you see a doctor about your circulation.

“Because I, like the bulk of the room, am of the belief that you are Count Dracula in the sense that the original Count and some Countess loved each other very much and managed to squat your malformed self out into the world before croaking. And, before departing, father dearest passed on the family tradition of idly killing off whoever was convenient as a little hobby. Am I near enough?”

Jonathan said nothing. Chiefly because he was fighting a wave of nausea, but also because it allowed him to keep his gaze steady. The westward window was visible over his host’s shoulder.

“I asked you a question.”

“I will answer if you tell me how you possibly concluded that a middle-aged man walking in the woods was a nobleman.”

To his surprise, the man revealed his evidence: the tarnished gold clasp of a dragon sitting against a garnet setting. This would also cost them.

“Hard to imagine the average hiker idling around in that corner of the wilds with this particular emblem on his coat.”

“That’s true,” Jonathan nodded. “I am not a hiker or a hunter any more than I’m a count. I am only the castle’s retainer.”

“Ah, well. That’s different. We are men of the people, sir, and we take pride in doing our fellow servile class the courtesy of a quick death. It’s only the aristos and nouveau riche who get the extra effort. Them and bleached out old bastards who go around taking what’s ours. What’s mine.” Jonathan watched the man slide a handsome pearl-handled blade from his pocket. It had a very fine edge. “Case in point, a certain young lady, of the flaxen and doe-eyed variety, being spotted in town with an older man of very unique description, not two days ago. Who she left with in his goddamn caleche.”

The blade came down in a gleaming arc. It sank cleanly into Jonathan’s left shoulder. Jonathan screamed at this and at the blade being flicked out. The steel was wiped clean on his sleeve.

“It should go without saying,” the leader said over Jonathan’s noise, steadily dwindling into hard breaths behind his teeth, “that the locals have a few choice theories about just who and what the man driving those horses is. Human? Dead? Dracula or one of his cohorts? Anyone who’d know for certain is either underground or a living antique themselves. Oh. But they did point out you seemed polite enough, according to most. Not someone anyone is eager to shake hands with, but fair. If you are the old devil of before, the younger generation are relieved you’ve gone mellow with the new century. Well done on the new leaf.”

“They were lying,” Jacob intoned, the picture of exasperation. “We all used to lie about him! He had eyes and ears everywhere! You didn’t mention him aloud unless you wanted to wake up to your child missing or you yourself being drunk dry or taken apart! I’m telling you, Katrina is already gone or worse!” His hand clutched eagerly at the whittled garden stake. “Let us be done with this, Anthony.” 

Anthony gave his blade another cleaning swipe. He opened his mouth—

“The stake is wrong.”

—and closed it. He and the others peered down at Jonathan as he righted himself against the chair. The migraine was marching in circles around his head now, lighting fireworks and banging pans. At least his shoulder was a small distraction.

“Say again?”

“The stake. You haven’t finished the end of it. If you don’t burn the point down, harden it, the wood will just splinter if you don’t get it in one blow. One of you took the flint lighter from my coat, yes? Use that and save yourself the matches.”

The room looked owlishly at him. Jacob and his small band especially. Awkwardly, one of the latter fished out the stolen lighter and began cooking the point with its steady flame.

“See that? He’s already feeling accommodating.” Anthony clapped his palm with heavy chumminess against the wounded shoulder. Jonathan winced appropriately, stealing another squinting glance at the window. “Care to keep in this giving mood, or would you like me to even things out?” The blade pointed airily at Jonathan’s right shoulder.

“No need. I said before, I do not know anyone named Katrina. But I did give a ride to a young woman two days ago. Not ‘flaxen,’ though. Her hair was red.”

Anthony abruptly straightened. The blade twisted and fidgeted in his fingers.

“Red,” under Anthony’s breath. His brow furrowed. “She took the wig too?” There was a low murmur from the less vampirically-invested portion of the group, of that specific tone that declares ‘I told you so’ by vowels alone. Anthony whirled on these members like a viper. Several mouths snapped shut. “Did you lot have something you wished to share? Hmm? I’m all ears.”

Interest increased in the state of each other’s shoes, the floor, the lovely view of the mountains, and the progress of the stake. It was now neatly blackened and free of loose slivers. Jacob stood by with it, toying with it as Anthony had his knife. He kept trying and failing to meet Jonathan’s gaze.

“Ah,” Anthony grinned mirthlessly, “that’s what I thought you said.” The blade flashed. “Now, Count, Retainer, Whoever or Whatever, while you are being forthcoming, is she alive or dead? I confess I might be just as happy with one or the other at this point, so no need to fret over a lie.”

“She was alive the last time I saw her. I dropped her off outside Bistritz,” Jonathan said, clearly recalling turning the horses toward Bukovina. He winced again as Anthony laid a hand on the bleeding shoulder, driving his thumb against the wound as he leaned.

“And? How did the bitch pay for her ride? Did you introduce her to necrophilia or did she just throw my money at you?”

“Neither. I am a married man and you can tell I had no bank vault in my pockets. In any case, I must assume whatever she took from you was fair recompense.” Jonathan felt a shift come through him. The old cold tilt that made him lean three-quarters of the way out of humanity and into something else. Whatever it was that lit his eyes and froze the air around him. That made the entire room shift an unconscious inch back. “Considering the state of her face.”

Anthony’s own countenance squirmed between aggravation, anger, and a surreal flash of embarrassment. As if leaving the girl’s face mottled with patches in shades of plum and charcoal was the equivalent of friends overhearing a marital spat in the next room. The man’s lip curled, making the well-trimmed whiskers twitch.

“Do forgive me if my decorum isn’t up to your standards, sir. I tend to get a touch irate when the thankless sow I’ve been bedding not only comes within inches of blowing our cover over some brat who went and poked his head out at the wrong time, but has the gall to try and resign after a few threadbare months. As if I didn’t scrape the little strumpet out of the gutter with my own hands.” A storm roiled in the man’s face. “Had a whole life of gold ahead of her, getting to play out her idiot actress dreams, and she thanks us by taking off with three hotels’ worth of work. Over a goddamn toddler. But that is the way with women, isn’t it? Always falling apart over a babe.”

“Men as well, in my experience,” Jonathan hummed. His line of sight drifted back to Jacob, whose attention was now firmly split between Jonathan and the view from the west window. Even halfway through spring, the sunsets did still tend to rush in the mountains. Shadows were already starting to stretch.

“Personal experience?” Anthony asked with an appraising glance that saw value in the negatives with Jonathan’s mien. “Is there a little Dracula pup crawling around nursing on the countryside?”

“Oh, no. He’s grown out of crawling. Apart from roaming along the castle walls, when he wants to surprise me. There’s no getting away with it with his mother.” Jonathan swallowed a bitter lump, knowing it had to be heard aloud, “Or his father.” Jacob was looking at him now. This time Jonathan held his eyes as they grew an increment wider. A slight dew of sweat had formed on the young man’s brow. “I only know where they are half the time. But they can always find me.”

Anthony barked an acidic note that tried to be a laugh.

“Is this the part where you tell us you’ll be missed? That there’s some cavalry who will come seeking vengeance? Please spare yourself the storytelling. If you were anything other than a relic living off a skeleton staff you wouldn’t be driving your own horses or puttering around by your lonesome. Really, what we’re doing here is a public good. What’s the loss of one more parasite riding into the twilight of peerage’s relevance?”

“Regrettably, he has thought ahead on that,” Jonathan admitted. “The gold he’s already sitting on is kept partly for emergency seed money, but mostly as a memento. He’s been on top of the capitalistic pulse since 1652 going by the oldest records. Given another decade, I believe he’ll be a magnate in a dozen industries from here to the United Kingdom.” A genuine moue puckered his face. “He calls it investing in the live-stock. No, I didn’t think it was funny either.”

This he addressed to Jacob.

Jacob, who had to set the stake down because his hand was shaking.

Jacob, who had been keeping watch of him and the window and seen how blandly Jonathan greeted the approaching dusk.

Jacob, who had finally taken a closer look at what Jonathan wore under his coat. His coat, worn because he was always cold—a chill that he truly felt. Covering an ensemble of boots, long sleeves, and a high collar. In mid-April. 

“…You still have time,” Jonathan told him gently. “If you had your childhood here, you know there’s time. You still wear your crucifix, yes?” Jacob flicked his gaze up to Jonathan’s. His whole face seemed to shine with perspiration. He did not know what was wrong yet, what piece was missing, but he scented something. “Do you? Any of you?”

Jacob nodded jerkily. The men behind him did likewise. Some fidgeted at their shirts.

“That’s good. It sickens them, did you know? Stings them away from the throat.” Jonathan smiled for him. A sad curl. “Hold it out before you if you like.” He tipped up his chin. Just above the shirt collar was a glimpse of sickish color against the maggot-white skin. Something worse than a bruise. “You can check. Or ask one of your friends. But it does help to know for certain. To have it confirmed.” The smile grew worse in its apology. “There have been no vampire attacks in Transylvania for the past fifteen years. The youngest around here take it all as local legends. Parents’ and grandparents’ fairy tales. Because they grew up without knowing what you do. Without realizing why people stopped disappearing after dark when Count Dracula still rules here. When there are still sharp mouths to feed up in his mountains.”

Jacob gawped openly now. He looked strangely like the boy he might have been fifteen years ago, hearing his neighbors whisper and moan about the latest loss in the night. Fifteen years ago, when a foolish young Englishman had come to Castle Dracula, and everyone had known. No one had seen him again…supposing one belonged to a family who had moved away at last, daring their monstrous master’s ire to save their son.

“Oh, for God’s sake, what is this? Are we playing theatre now?” Anthony and his handful of fellow eye-rollers looked between Jonathan and Jacob as if expecting to spot some invisible party holding up script cards for them. “Jake, if you want to play at slaying the vampire, you are welcome to it. Get your stick and your hammer and have at it. Erik, take the axe.” He waved his blade like an impatient conductor with his baton. “Well?”

Jacob moved forward without the stake. His crucifix was held out as far as the cord would allow.

Then he hooked Jonathan’s shirt collar and pulled it open.

Jonathan hadn’t been able to get a good look at the full state of himself in some while. Occasionally he might steal a glance in a mirror for sale or a clean shop window in town. There was rarely anything good to see as far as his development went. Age was not weathering him the way it would an ordinary man. What should have become the easy creasing of crow’s feet and smile lines had given way to something sunken and grey. More than a few children had come to nickname him ‘Herr Geist’ when he passed through. On one occasion, he’d been approached by an American claiming to be a talent scout for a circus who thought Jonathan could easily bill as, The Walking Corpse.

But that was all just the effect of his face. He hadn’t seen his throat or a clear view of his shoulders in years; the real estate with the greatest number of visits for fifteen years. It had to be at least twice as unpleasant a sight as his forearms, pocked by only one hungry mouth’s nursing. To judge by the shudder of revulsion that jolted the entire room back on its heels, his neck was apparently quite the visual.

To judge by Jacob’s expression, the discolored map of ruined skin and old punctures was his own obituary in all capitals. Nor was it a very peaceful end it spelled out. His eyes rolled up to Jonathan’s like wet marbles. Jonathan could no longer maintain his smile, however somber. There was only condolence in the look.

“I told you. I am Castle Dracula’s retainer. At least, in the sense of a retaining wall. I have played the role of its inhabitants’ personal bloodletting pantry for a quarter of a century. Which would be cause enough to worry. But I am also a married man and that is worse.”

Jacob wobbled on his feet like a sapling in a high breeze. He almost fell over with a cry when the first thunderclap boomed over the cabin’s roof. A horrified look shot to the westward window. Sunset was less than a jagged slit across the mountaintops, already erased in the smear of a rushing storm. Lightning drew livid eyes in the clouds.

“I am sorry. You might have had a chance if you hadn’t been cautious,” Jonathan went on. “There would have been a coin toss if you had simply shot me dead in the forest. I fear I am testing everyone’s patience in that household by keeping to my contract against turning until the twenty-year mark. Special occasion and all that. But if you had gone with a bullet or a slit throat, that would mean that I would be undead by sundown. You would still be slain for trespassing on private property,” he gestured to himself as best he could with his bound hands, “but it would have been tidier. They might even be grateful for ripping off the plaster and booting me over the threshold. A mere snapped neck apiece.  

“Unfortunately, I saw your tools of the trade. I heard your plans for ‘destroying the vampire,’ or the madman playing pretend as such. Heart staked, head removed, burn the body. All very thorough. But because I saw and heard these things, they saw and heard these things. Just as they know your faces now.”

Thunder snarled again. An explosive sound joined with a noon-bright flicker of lightning. Wolves sang a violent song. Close.

Jacob’s friends within the gang were talking in frantic tones to each other. The rationalists of Anthony’s side of the room seemed a touch less comfortable where they stood, grasping at their holsters. Anthony himself looked as if he was waiting to wake from a particularly confusing dream.

Jacob’s eyes were running. Pleading. A man only five short years past being a boy.

Jonathan still could not hold a smile for him, but he spoke in the tone he had for Quincey the time he’d came across a bat with a half-broken neck in the forest. Wings smashed, head cracked open, it had been alive in the worst way. Quincey had been thirteen then, considering himself practically a skip away from adulthood. He had still gone to his Papa, eyes dewy with blood trying not to spill, asking please…please…

Jonathan thought back to how his son had hidden in his coat sleeve while he ended the creature’s pain with a brisk twist.

It was quick, you see? It won’t hurt anymore now, shh, it’s alright, son.

“It’s alright,” he said in the present. “You still have time.” Not much. A few minutes at most. But still, “You’ll be safe from it. From all of it.”

Jacob nodded with a twitch. A puppet on a caught string. His hand trembled as it held up the crucifix again.

“…May I keep this? After?” Jonathan nodded. “Thank you.”

Jacob kissed the Cross and tucked it under his shirt.

“Jake, I swear to God, if you don’t drop this act, I will—,”

Bang.

The sound was almost lost in another thunderclap. Not so for the sound of Jacob’s corpse hitting the floor, the new tunnel in his head oozing a scarlet pond out from under his skull. There was a moment of quiet.

Then the wolves bayed again.

The men bayed too. Curses and questions of equal inanity whirled around the room.

Bang.

The sound of Anthony’s own pistol firing a hole through the ceiling.

“Shut. Up. Every one of you, bite your idiot tongues.” The barrel swung to point at Jonathan’s temple. “He says he has people on the way? He says they’re vampires or werewolves or the Four Horsemen a-riding? Then it would perhaps behoove us to think rather than squeal like women over this,” his shoe struck Jacob’s corpse, “fool’s choice of exit. Coward.” He snapped his fingers at the room. “Come on! Block the windows, set up arms! Move!”

And so they moved. Some men scrambled and shouldered into each other trying to cover the windows. Chairs were broken into pieces for stakes. Guns were unpacked and loaded. Erik held the axe as if his hands were welded to it. Anthony, meanwhile, took one of the unbroken chairs for himself and perched at Jonathan’s side. Something between supreme irritation and a baffled sort of wonder shaped his face.

“I do have to give you credit if this is all improvisation on your part. You should have been booked at the Grand Guignol instead of rotting up here.”

Jonathan watched Erik begin to pace, gripping the axe as though it doubled for a shield.

“That or one of those hypnotist acts. Jake was always a nervous one. An easy mark, ironically enough.”

Jonathan’s peripheral caught on Erik’s figure as he came to a stop by the door. There was no peephole to spy through, yet he inclined his head toward it. His ear was cocked as if listening for something under the thunder and wolves.

“But supposing this amounts to something more than an act, I admit I’m curious to see what these things are supposed to be like outside the pulp on the bookshelves or clogging up the stage. Everyone has their opinion on them these days.”

Erik first frowned, then nodded at the bolted door. The anxious creases of his face began to smooth. A smile tugged his lips up as the axe lowered.

“Are they the same kind of horror show as you?”

“Usually quite the opposite,” Jonathan allowed. “But that is by choice. They make some rather impressive exceptions when the occasion calls for it.”

Erik set the axe down. His freed hands moved the wooden bolt aside and reached for the key on its hook. This didn’t go unnoticed. The nearest man, one of Jacob’s friends, jolted toward him.

“Erik, what the hell are you doing?”

“Didn’t you hear her?” Erik spoke over him in a dreaming lilt. “The girl outside. Lovely voice.” He turned the key in the lock. “She and her brother got lost in the storm.” He turned the knob. “Wouldn’t be right to leave them out th—,”

Bang.

Erik dropped like a felled tree. Jacob’s friend whirled on the rest of the room, his gun and free hand up. He had his crucifix worn outside his shirt now.

“I had to! You know I had to! Jacob and old Vordenberg laid it out, didn’t they? You invite the things in and it’s all over!” He pointed at the door with the new stain on its timber. “One of them is out there right now, trying to worm into our heads, so we’ll let it over the threshold.”

As every eye nailed itself to the man and the door and the second corpse within five minutes, no one paid attention to the fireplace. They had not lit it, having opted solely for lamps. Chimney smoke would give away their location to anyone happening by the area.

Only Jonathan stared at the open stone mouth of the hearth. Watching what crawled out. Watching it watch him.

Anthony swatted Jonathan in his bad shoulder. He looked up and realized he’d been asked a question.

“Pardon?”

“Is he. Telling. The truth. Or did Erik lose his brains over nothing?”

“A vampire cannot cross the threshold of someone’s home without invitation. I think, at a stretch, you could call this temporary base of yours ‘home.’ Strict definition is tricky for travelers. But if you declare this place yours—,”

“We do,” insisted half the room in unison.

“We do,” Anthony echoed, somewhat dryly. “Our lovely domicile, this. And we are strictly against welcoming any visitors tonight.”

“Understandable. But there’s still the trouble of this afternoon. It’s hard to be more insistent about an invitation than resorting to abduction.”

“And? What of it?”

The fireplace continued to purge its contents out and out and out. Cooling the room like a thin and steady gust. Heads finally began to turn as gooseflesh spread and the sight became unignorable: A thick mist had been pouring into the room since Erik’s brains splattered on the door.

“You thought I was Count Dracula. Whether I was him or not, he was the man you wanted here.” Jonathan looked Anthony in the eye. He was not surprised at what he found there as it squirmed and sweated. “I’m afraid you invited him in two hours ago.”

The lamps guttered. One snuffed. Then its neighbor. A third, a fourth. Voices raised in tandem with the weapons.

“Light them!” came the universal cry. “Turn them back up, come on!”

But the room blackened and blackened until it came down to one canny fellow who’d dived for a lantern. The same man who’d pocketed the flint lighter. He lit the lantern and set it shakily on the table, its glow seemingly safer than the lamps’. The lighter was almost as bright in his hand, making a spotlight for himself in the ruddy gloom.

“What? What is it?”

Every head was turned to face him. Every eye wide enough to show its whites, like the stares of startled horses. The man opened his mouth to utter a third query—and stopped.

There was a hand on his shoulder. Cold. Far colder than the man he’d taken the lighter from. Its fingers ended in claws.

Above his head, the firelight caught on what might charitably be called a grin. It was, in fact, the default state of Count Dracula’s jaw in this shape. A medley of the wolf and the bat and the nightmares that are born when children’s imaginations first start to sketch the things that will eat them in the dark.

Jonathan wished he could have closed his eyes for all that followed. He did try. But there was an implicit order sunk into his mind that demanded he watch. Had this been a decade ago, this may have been for the sake of an object lesson.

This is what I can do. This is what I would have done to your little hunting party at the right hour, with your guard down for an instant. This is what I will do to any sheltering cattle you try to run away to with wife and child. Watch, my friend. Watch.

But that was practically a lifetime past. They were coming up on a mere five years until the wait was over and his free will and the final fig leaf of humanity was forfeit. Which suggested that he was a captive audience solely for the fact that an audience was desired. There was some artistry to it all, in a medieval sense. Some of the acts performed with the makeshift stakes and the barrels of guns and certain repurposed bones reminded Jonathan of old woodcuts left out for him to see once upon a time, back in that first summer alone with the castle’s Master.  

By the time one of the men died choking on his own severed arm, the rest of the lot stopped shooting and herded themselves to the door, desperate. To their relief, there was no vampire at the threshold. They fled.

A heartbeat passed before the screaming began anew. Gunfire mingled with it. The screaming dwindled down and down, the choir thinning to a single shriek that ended on a terrible sound. Wet and crunching. Wolves were heard soon after.

Anthony had not moved from his position behind Jonathan’s chair. He’d resumed his grip on his hair, this time holding his blade just below the Adam’s apple.

“If you don’t have a head,” Anthony panted at the Count, now busy picking gristle from the spades of his nails, “you can’t be undead. The plays make a lot of fuss about staking the heart, but this?” He tugged Jonathan’s head back another inch and pressed the blade’s edge until the skin broke. “I figure it’s a fair bit more vital. I am a practiced man at my profession and quick when I need to be. You want him in one piece instead of two, you leak yourself out the door, call off your pets, and I’ll send him on his way come sunrise.” Though he couldn’t see him, Jonathan was certain the man was trying to smile. “If you’re amenable, perhaps we can even get a silver lining out of this whole thing.”

Dracula sucked a piece of sinew out of his thumbnail.

“I am accustomed to getting my hands dirty. While I’ve been in the habit of leading assorted hapless dregs around, I can easily see myself following someone worth respect. Your friend here indicated he’s on the edge of retirement anyway, and I imagine you could do with someone to step into the role. Or add to the ranks.”

Dracula busied himself with scanning the floor. He plucked up the silver watch still chained to a torso that was twisted like a wrung washcloth. A scowl was spared upon retrieving the key ring from a puddle of a head. Then the pouch containing Jonathan’s allowance. He deposited each bit of treasure found on the table. The last thing he discovered was Jonathan’s wedding ring. He seemed to ponder flicking it aside, but saw Jonathan watching. The ring was dropped in the pile the way one might discard a clump of dirt.

“Well?” from Anthony. “Do you talk or not?”

“I do,” from the Count. “Though not usually to vermin. Especially ones who raid my pantry.”

“Honest mistake on our part. I hadn’t realized you were the one-in-a-thousand legend that isn’t just the fumes of an invented ghost story.”

“I see.” Dracula bent and retrieved the stake that had its point burned. It left the holster of a man’s sternum with a damp sound. “And this too was a mistake?”

“Just trying to placate the skittish sorts in the party. You saw how Jake was.”

“I did.” The Count tapped the stake’s point against his chin, pondering. “In fact, I think I recall a face like his. A sailor I met once. He took to the sea, having no bullet in reach.” He leveled the stake at Anthony’s head. “You called him a coward for this, yes?”

“Am I wrong?”

“There is a fine line between cowardice and wisdom,” Dracula shrugged. “It moves more than you would think. Little Jacob was wise tonight, if sadly mistaken in his target. He was not the first of his type. Likely not the last. The same goes for you, vermin. You, who squeak and chitter about preying upon the predator, and then try to sell yourself to the cat.” Though much of his face had reset to a human shape, the Count’s teeth remained a bristling forest of white needles when he grinned. “I have had this land in my jaws for half a millennium. I have not gone a single century without your like slinking underfoot, thinking to kiss my cape and offer a tithe of others’ throats to win my favor. My power.”

“Way of the world, isn’t it? Strong bows to stronger. What makes this cadaver,” another jerk on Jonathan’s hair, another throb in his skull, “so special? Better resumé? Seasoned arteries?”

“A number of things.” Another shrug, a twirl of the stake like a toy. “He does so hate to hear it anymore. It has been so long since any kind of praise heartened him and age has made him shy. But he cannot shush me, so I can say he does far more than bleed, be it himself or his victims of old. He certainly has a more impressive history than robbing and gutting tourists for a living, and so is far more attuned to the Law of this land than any other. Not the yapping dogs of mortal authorities. Not your jailor or judge or bureaucrat. Not even those of the sciences, such as they are.”

Thunder cracked and lightning danced. The Count’s eyes burned brighter than the lantern.

“He knows that I am Law in these mountains. That my will, my word, and my want order all that is here. He knows that there is no escaping consequence for trespassing upon what is mine. But.” The Count clapped the stake into his open palm with the joviality of a cruel teacher with his yardstick. “Beyond all this, he is something which guarantees his value over yours or any other’s. He warned you himself.” The jagged grin turned almost saccharine. “He is a married man. And you have kept him out far too late for his spouses’ liking.”  

Anthony shifted behind the chair. The grip on Jonathan’s hair shuddered a moment as if suddenly repulsed to be touching it.

“God. Even the monsters are in on that depravity up here?”

“Depravity is a pastime of mine. But I am not so low as to debase myself by touching filth like yours.” So saying, the Count raised both hands in mock surrender. “I shall not waste my time or teeth on you.”

“Fine. Fine, you say that and I can believe you. Once you’re out the door.”  

The door, still open.

The door, which Anthony had not dared to look at for fear of taking eyes off the Count.

The door, full of mist.

“Ah, but I cannot go yet. There is a show I have been so looking forward to. You mentioned the Grand Guignol. Such a promising establishment! I plan to see it in person some night. But for now, we must content ourselves with your meager scene.”

Anthony opened his mouth to ask something. Say something. Maybe he was just drawing breath. Whatever the reason, his mouth froze in a voiceless O of epiphany.

There was a hand on his shoulder. Cold.

It distracted him from the other, decorated with its simple gold band, locking around the man’s forearm; the one responsible for holding the blade.

Snap.

Anthony’s mouth dropped open wider, belting a screech that left Jonathan’s ears ringing. Then the man was torn away from the back of the chair and all the noise of him was pinned and shrilling on the floor. Laced over the ensuing sounds of his dismantling, both vocal and visceral, was a voice that threaded through the mind more than the ear:

He cut you. Twice he cut you.

“I’ll be fine, Mina.” Said because there was concern in the statement. There was. But, more pertinently, there was the accusation. The condemnation. The citing of the crime.

He cut you. He meant to kill you. He meant to unmake you out of reach forever.

Anthony made a new and piercing noise. The kind just an octave short of a dog whistle. Jonathan winced.

“And he failed to. It’s alright, Darling.”

“Hardly,” from the Count, now turning Anthony’s abandoned seat around to face the slaughter. “You are too soft as always, my friend. Even when it comes to a rightful culling. Or do you think they deserved to live after their crimes?”

“I think this was excessive.” Jonathan withheld a sigh as Dracula hooked the back of his chair, hoisting and turning it so that his back was no longer to Mina’s work. She seemed to have an innate understanding of what could be taken apart and to what degree, the better to leave Anthony still clinging miserably to a thread of life. “And I also think I’m ready to have these off.”

He flexed his hands and feet as far as they could go against the ropes.

“Have what off?” Dracula asked as he swiped a finger into the shoulder wound. A child stealing cake icing. He clicked his tongue. “This would happen just after a feeding. All this guilt-free cuisine and your knights-errant are too full to enjoy the banquet. A pity. Have you eaten?”

“If I had my hands free, I could get my—,” Jonathan pursed his lips as Dracula brandished a bouquet of the retrieved dried pork. Deciding against waiting for the mesmer to prod him into it, he opened his mouth a crack. Bit. Chewed.

“Do you suppose the Grand Guignol has concessions? Any actual blood used in place of the stage swill?”

Jonathan swallowed. A nauseous feat, considering the piece Mina removed from Anthony in the same moment. 

“I doubt any director is so dedicated, Sir.” Anthony was growing quieter now. There wasn’t enough air in him. Jonathan could tell by the glimpse of lung through his ribs. “Does Quincey know about this?”

No. It was blocked from him. He believes we are out on business.

Crunch. Twist. Rip.

Anthony went silent and still at last. Dracula afforded this a light round of applause.

“Not wholly a lie, you will grant. Though I suspect the boy thinks it was code for a more,” the Count made a face caught between glee and disdain, “intimate excursion. Which should be an easy enough ward against any prying you fear from him. You may have made a sickening romantic of the boy, but there is never a child alive or undead who wishes to know what his parents get up to out of his sight.” The Count craned his head, squinting at what was left of Anthony. “Did you come across it?”

That depends. Where’s mine?

Mina stood with the dragon clasp in one red hand and her other held out and open. Dracula idled a moment or three longer than was necessary before the stolen wedding band was produced. Clasp and ring were thrown rather than exchanged. Jonathan had each reattached to him. Though the Count spared a curse in three different languages at finding the coat not only mangled at the shoulder, but torn where the clasp had been ripped away.

“As if they could not understand the mechanics of a brooch? You should have pinned this in his eye.”

You should have fed him the stake. Look at this.

Mina touched the nick on Jonathan’s throat.

I know you count my wound as a blessing, but I would think you’d not risk losing his voice.

“I had to stall while you cleared up the leftovers outside. I may as well have left you with the boy.”

And lost your show and your diversion.

“You—,”

“I cannot feel my feet anymore,” Jonathan announced. “And I would like to stitch and plaster myself before we head out. Whatever Quincey may think we’re up to, it will be easier to lie without me looking like I just left,” he gestured as best he could at the room, “this.”

A minor miracle came and went as there was no suggestion made that they simply lay a new bite apiece over the wounds. The ropes were cut, what was filched was returned to its owner, give or take a little scavenging of their own. Jacob and the others were left with their tokens of the Son. Outside, the wolves went on enjoying the meal Mina had left for them. Up until a titanic thunderbolt struck the cabin and sent them scrambling. The building went up like a great bonfire.

“I know, my friend, you were clearly looking forward to digging more graves. But you must admit my method is quicker and far more thorough in erasing evidence.” The nettling cadence waned. “I suggest you avoid wandering away from the castle for some time. Considering your state.”

Not while dressed in this, at the very least. It’s clear this insignia draws as much ire as it deters.

“A fluke,” the Count huffed. “Such degenerates as those are rare. The chattel know better. Besides, the folly was in drawing attention by playing Good Samaritan to the wrong victim and her maudlin pleading. Something else to keep in mind.” Jonathan tried and failed to keep his head down as the hook landed in his mind and turned his eyes up. Dead blue against burning red. “At least for as long you insist on holding to your last few years as…this.”

Jonathan bit into his last strip of the dried pork. Loudly.

“Five years. That’s all.”

“Four and a half.”

“Four and a half I mean to savor. In-between being waylaid.” The careful placidity fractured as his free hand drifted up to the back of his skull. Still aching. “I think I shall finish off the Golden Mediasch tonight.” His hand was plucked away by Mina’s own, her chilled fingers seeking out the tender place under his hair. Her fingertips felt the scabbing patch.

I should have skinned him.

“You are welcome to stroll through the fire and do so,” the Count hummed. But his smile stopped short of his eyes and his own hand swept Mina’s away to thumb at the ache. “The Mediasch is barely more than fruit juice. You will want something stronger.”

Jonathan didn’t argue. Nor did he protest when the horses of his ex-hosts were commandeered for the return to the castle. Quincey thrilled at the sight of them almost as if they had arrived riding wolves. Was this the business they went on? Tunet and Pretekár were quite new—and solid obsidian as the horses before had been—but it was good to see them gain more company. And they’d picked piebald this time!

“They’re beautiful. Do they have names yet?”

“Thought we’d leave that to you,” Jonathan managed lightly enough. Or nearly so. Quincey frowned at him, nose pricking at the smell of dried blood.

“Papa, are you alright? You—,” his eyes landed on the coat, “—what happened?”

 “Just a quick lesson from our new friends about minding their moods. I was tossed and landed in a less than opportune pile of rocks.”

Quincey scowled at that and scrutinized the stallions.

“Which one? I’m not riding him. Or petting him, even.” He considered. “At least for a month.”

“Seems a cruelty too far. I suppose I just won’t reveal the guilty party.”

“And what if I get on the wrong horse and I get tossed and land on a rock somewhere? What then?”

“Then you will get back up and be perfectly alright. Or am I misremembering the night you fell asleep on the side of the north turret and fell through half a tree on your way down?”

“Yes, well. They were fairly soft branches.” Quincey fought and lost the attempt to keep his smile up. “Papa?”

“Yes?”

“The horses weren’t the actual business, were they? You could have gotten them yourself.”

“That’s true. The horses were only picked up afterward. Quite a bargain, not counting the lumps.”

“Then what happened?”

Jonathan looked at his son. His Sweetheart, though the boy had finally started to bud into that stage that visits all adolescents, demanding a shedding of childhood names. There was a dusting of stubble barely fringing his jaw and his mother’s own whorls outgrowing the edges of his last haircut. But the eyes were still a child’s. Bright and molten as the sun at dusk.

“…There was some trouble two days ago. I aided a girl trying to leave behind some people who hurt others. Who hurt her. They had some less than scrupulous plans for the future and had already bypassed local authorities to get where they were by the time I crossed them. So I reached out for some assistance.” And, because he felt the air prickling with observation, “Your Father was very keen to educate them on the difference between the laws of other lands versus the Law of his land. And your Mum has always been of a rescuer’s bent as a rule. So.”

“So Mum and Father caught them? Together?” The sunset eyes gleamed at the prospect.  

“They did,” Jonathan nodded.

“Were they bandits?”

“Of a sort. But they won’t hurt anyone now.” Jonathan watched from the corner of his eye how the boy, so near to a young man, glowed over the notion of being a son to heroes.

He got to the tower before he felt his eyes begin to sting as sharply as his head.

[soaringeag1e]

Escape {67}

Detective!Dean x Victim!Reader

Warnings: Language, Threats, Guns, Blood, Injuries, Lots of Angst

Words: 3,578

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Patreon

First of all, sorry this is so late. Second, I'm missing a few chapters on the Escape Masterlist, but if you're behind more than those few, you should be able to find them on my page if you scroll down. There shouldn't be much in the way of finding them.

Enjoy guys! Happy Saturday!

Squad cars surrounded the house. Flashing lights just spinning in circles and lighting up the neighborhood while officers searched Cassidy’s residents. Bobby was out front with a team, looking over a map and trying to think of where they should look next. 

They went through evidence and any clues that they could come up with that might help find where he was hiding, but they continued to come up with nothing.

There was one lead that they had a team looking into, but they haven’t heard back from that unit yet. Bobby had sent a few officers out to the house that Paul and, to whom they know now as Cassidy kept their victims and he was anxiously waiting to hear from them.

“I can’t get a hold of Dean.” Styles stressed, hanging up the phone for what felt like the hundredth time. “I texted Sam to see if he could go check on them, but…” When Styles sighs, Bobby looks up. “I don’t have a good feeling, Bobby.”

“Me neither.” Hoping that he would already have an answer, Styles looks down at his phone, but of course there’s nothing yet. “Alright, let's see what we can do.” As Bobby crosses off a few spots on the map, his radio goes off, getting the attention of every officer standing by.

“Captain?”

“I’m here. What do you got?” 

“Well, the house is empty. Doesn’t look like anyone has been here for a while. But, we got a call from someone claiming they heard gunshots not too far up the road from here, so we’re going to go check it out.”

“Gunshots? What direction?” Frantic, Bobby looks over the map to find where the house was located.

“Just a few miles East.” Bobby slides his finger along the road, looking to see if anything shows up on the map that could look like something.

“It looks like it’s all farmland. But there might be a residence up that way. Check it out, watch your backs.”

“You got it” By the time the team clicked off, Bobby looked up to see that Styles was looking at his phone again, his thumb clicking on the screen every now and again. 

“I don’t think you’ll hear back from Sam for at least another fifteen minutes.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” Looking confused, Bobby listens to his detective. “I’m looking into the land up that way. We know that serials not only like to take trophies, but they also like to feel safe. Comfortable.”

“Right.” Bobby agrees, still a little confused.

“I’m trying to see if there’s anything up that way that could be connected to Cassidy.” Bobby’s a little frustrated that he didn’t think of that earlier, but he was grateful that he had a team heading that way and that he had someone with a brain looking into it.

“The land belonged to the Vanderbelts for decades…” Styles shakes his head, hating that it didn’t sound like it was connected to their guy.

“Wait! Vanderbelt?” At Bobby’s excitement though, it gives him some hope.

“Yeah.”

“That was Cassidy’s wifes maiden name. That land must have belonged to her family.” Their eyes said it all and they knew they needed to move. “Alright! I need you, you and you to stay here in case he comes back! The rest of you, follow us!”

-

The first set of officers came upon the scene, seeing flames coming from the old abandoned barn. They got on their radios and called in for a fire team right away all while Bobby, Styles and the other officers that followed heard what was going on through the radio communications.

“Anyone seem to be there?” Bobby asks, the radio letting out a bit of static as he gets off the line. Styles stares ahead, wanting to get there as fast as he can because he just knew in his gut that something was wrong and he wanted to find out what it was before it was too late.

“I’m not sure. I’m approaching the entrance now. Hold on.” The seconds between that and the next call out was torture. It was so quiet in Eddie’s car, he didn’t even have the radio on. He kept looking from the road to the clock on his dash, minutes just kept ticking by and he didn’t understand why they weren’t coming back. Was Cassidy still there? Were they hurt? So many questions ran through his head.

It wasn’t until about five long minutes later that static picked up on the radio and Rocky, the main officer's voice came through, finally.

“We need immediate medical assistance! Officer down! I repeat, officer down! Requesting air support!” Styles stumbled with the radio, trying to lift it from the holder in a frenzy.

“Rocky! Who is it!?” he lets go of the button for a second to readjust the device in his hand. “Is it Winchester!?” Again, some silence goes by, making Styles want to scream, but then the confirmation comes through. 

“Affirmative! Detective Winchester is clear of the building but is in serious condition! We need to….” At the sudden cutoff, Styles begins to panic.

“Rocky!?”

“Rocky? What’s going on?” Bobby then chimes in and Styles holds his breath.

“Sorry. Winchester says that Cassidy took off. Not sure which direction he went though.”

“Does he have his car!?” Styles is praying that the answer is yes knowing that he can trace the squad car.

“No. Winchester is shaking his head. He…he’s not doing good though, guys.”

“Air support is on the way. Tell him to hold on.” Bobby was always someone that held himself together, but for the first time ever, Styles heard emotion in his voice. “What type of injuries are we looking at?”

“Uh…Three GSW’s, two to the chest and one to the thigh. It looks like he has a nasty laceration on his head too.” Styles instantly feels sick. Seeing him shot in the shoulder was enough, but this…this was so much worse.

“Is Captain Singer on this line?” A new voice comes through, getting everyone confused on what was going on now.

“I’m here. What is it?”

“Well, I know one of your detectives has a pretty distinct car, just wanted to check with you and see if you knew where he was tonight. You know, the one who owns the Impala?” All their hearts stop in that second.

“What about him?”

“Well, I just pulled one over for running a red light. License plate, Kilo, Alpha, Zulu, Two, Yankee, Five. But it didn’t look like your guy, so…thought I’d check.”

“That’s his plate, Bobby!” Styles screams into the radio, the anger he’s feeling because of this entire situation making it hard to keep his officer mindset. This was personal and he was going to make sure he finished this. “Where was he headed!?”

“Well, when I let him go he was heading south on Gilpin, just off of Blackwood.”

“Thank you, officer.” Bobby sends through, hoping that the officer will switch channels.

“No problem.”

“I’m going after him, Bobby.” Styles puts through, practically an order as he was more than ready to flip his car in the other direction whether Bobby was okay with it or not. It’s only silent for a few beats before the Captain clicks on.

“Okay. I need two other units to go with him. Don’t care who.”

“You got it, boss.” One patrol unit confirmed and seconds later, another. Styles slowed down and then turned back to see if he could cut off Cassidy from another direction, the two other patrol cars mirroring his movements and keeping up with no issues.

-

Bobby’s tires spat up the dirt as he pulled up to the barn. He barely got the patrol car in park when he was jumping out of his seat and rushing over to where the EMT’s were hovered.

“Dean!” As he gets closer, he starts pushing people out of his way. “Move! Move! Dean!?” They had him on a stretcher and were just about to lift him and move him to the helicopter a couple yards away, so he made it just in time. “Oh, son…” Dean opens his mouth to speak, but only gurgled whispers come out. Yet he doesn’t quit until Bobby catches at least one word.

“Y/N?” The detective nods, grateful that he understood. “Where is she?” When Dean’s eyes close, Bobby takes the hint. “She’s with him?” That’s when Dean opens his eyes again, tears pooling quickly and overflowing without a sound being made. “Okay. Well, Styles is on his way to cut him off. He’ll get her, alright?” There does seem to be a relief that washes over the man, but it’s not enough to heal him unfortunately.

“We need to get him out of here.”

“Right. Yes, go ahead.” The paramedics lift the stretcher then, but before they can wheel him away, Dean reaches out and grabs Bobby’s arm and in return he places his hand over his. “We’ll get him.” he tells him, squeezing his hand. “I promise.” More tears slipped from Dean’s eyes, the salty liquid mixing with the blood stains on his face.

While Bobby watches them load up his non-blood related son, he gets on his radio and calls out for Styles, wondering if he found Cassidy or not.

Thankfully, luck seems to be on their side.

-

“It’s over, Cassidy! Drop the knife!” You shook in his arms, the knife to your throat even pinching your neck a bit. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had nicked some skin at this point. “You’re surrounded and we’re not letting you leave here unless you’re in one of these patrol cars, so you mine as well give it up.”

“Man, you and Dean are so optimistic. But I can tell you right now that that isn’t happening.” 

Styles knew right then and there that Cassidy wasn't going to give in. He might not make it out of this alive, but he sure as hell will take as many of them out along with him and his first priority? Y/N. He knew that no matter what happened in the next few minutes, he had to protect you at all costs. For Dean.

Without drawing too much attention to himself, Styles glances at the officers to his right. They’re just out of sight for Cassidy and they may have the advantage of getting the drop on him without you getting caught in the crossfire. But he forgot how good Cassidy really was.

Seeing this, Cassidy’s eyes sneak a peek to his left, but they don’t waste too much time on looking for the threats. He’s as quick as a cat. With you still in his hold, he drops the knife and whips out Dean’s gun, sending off two shots and taking down the two officers advancing on him. In that time, Styles sends off a shot of his own but Cassidy drops to his knees, tearing you down with him.

But at least that worked to their advantage. With that motion, you were able to get free. Knowing it wasn’t safe to be within shooting range of Cassidy, you took off towards the woods just off the road. It wasn’t the first time you’ve had to run for your life, so it wasn’t a hard decision to make.

In retaliation, Cassidy sent a shot off towards Styles before turning and shooting the remaining two officers with him and then he took off into the trees after you. 

Grateful, Styles was able to dodge the bullet that went flying at him and when he realized that, he too took off into the tree line, hoping that he could find you before Cassidy did.

-

You had heard the other shots go off when you took off running. At first you were afraid that those bullets were meant for you, but when you heard boots shuffling through the brush behind you, the more you started thinking the worst.

The thought of all those officers, including Eddie, dying because they were there to save you caused you to choke up as you made your way through the trees. You only made it a few more feet in when you had to stop. Between the running and your emotions heightening, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

Finding a large tree, you leaned up against it, peeking around the trunk and trying to listen for any movement around you. When everything seemed to be clear, you rested back against the bark, taking calming breaths as best as you could.

Your eyes dropped to the handcuffs locking your wrists together and the pessimist in you seemed to seep out. Dark thoughts instantly clouded your thoughts and your emotions rose even more.

You thought about how you were stuck out here with Cassidy. Dean was gone, and if not, he was probably going to be soon because Cassidy was a good shot. For all you knew, Eddie and the other officers were laying out in the road, bleeding to death and if there was another unit coming, the odds of them making it to you before Cassidy does was very slim.

You were screwed.

Tears fell to the ground below you, your hands shaking as you let yourself break down. The heaviness of the situation was crippling and you were terrified that you weren’t going to make it out of this.

The thought of losing Dean was the worst of all. You couldn’t stop picturing him on the ground, bleeding everywhere as you were pulled away from him. But the more you stood there and thought about him, the more you were reminded that he wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want you crying over him when your own life was still on the line. You could even picture him there in front of you, trying to get you to move your ass. Sweet but firm, of course.

For how much your subconscious fought back and told him to shove it, you knew you needed to stop. You needed to get out of this and if anyone was capable of doing that, it would be you. You escaped hell once before, who's to say you can’t do it again? 

Taking another moment for yourself, you looked down at the ring on your finger, letting a few more quiet sobs shake you before lifting your hands and kissing the object that connected you and Dean. Then, cautiously, you peeked around the trunk again. You couldn’t hear anything but that meant nothing with this guy. He was good and you had to remember that.

Taking a chance, you slowly made your way further into the trees, keeping your eyes peeled and your ears on full alert. You were terrified. You were trembling, but you knew you needed to keep going.

After making it a few more feet, you heard a twig snap somewhere behind you. Out of reflex, you spun around, your eyes darting all over the place as you tried to find what made the noise. But there was nothing. Of course you knew better, but you couldn’t see anything which only made you more scared. 

Carefully, you kept moving. Slow but steady as you tried to make it to the next huge tree so that you could get some cover again. 

You were only a few feet away when you were swept off your feet, a hand going over your mouth as you were flying forward. Just as you were shoved up against a tree trunk, you started flailing your arms, trying to hit anywhere and everywhere you could, refusing to be taken prisoner again. Heavy breathing and panicked noises were kept muffled by the man in front of you and it wasn’t until he was able to pin your arms against your chest that your eyes widened.

“Shhh.” Getting you to calm down a little, Eddie then peered around the tree, hoping he was covered enough to keep himself safe but exposed enough to where he could spot Cassidy. But just like you, he sees nothing. “Okay. When I say so, we’re going to head that way.” he nods to his right. “Try to keep low and stay close to me. Alright?” You nod against his hand and he finally peels it away from your face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” you answer as quietly as you can, tears still falling from your eyes. “Dean.” you choke. “He…”

“He’s getting help.” Your eyes widen, your breathing becoming shaky again from the shock.

“He’s….”

“For now.” Hearing that, a sob slips from your lips and Eddie pulls you close, whispering ‘I know’ into your hair. “But we need to get you out of here, alright?” You nod frantically, wanting nothing more than to get out of there and get to Dean. “Alright…” he peeks around the tree once again, his eyes sharp before he pushes you a bit to get you moving.

Like Eddie, you keep an eye out still, looking for any movement and listening for any sound, but thankfully it seems to be clear for now. You followed his orders, keeping low and making sure he was right behind you the entire time. If anything, it brought you comfort to have him so close.

But for what happened next, it only reminded you of how much better at this Eddie was than you.

“Y/N!” His loud voice caused you to flinch forward, but the sound of a gun going off made you collapse onto the ground. You fell face first into the dirt and when the shock wore off, you frantically felt yourself up, wondering if you were shot.

Grateful that you didn’t feel anything, bullet hole or blood, you flipped over onto your back, keeping close to the ground since you knew now that Cassidy was close. You looked into the distance, still not seeing anything and it honestly pissed you off that he was this good. But it’s when you look to your feet, to where Eddie should be right behind you when your panic comes back.

“Eddie?” you cry out in a shaky voice, but he doesn’t move. “Eddie?” you call out again, just a little louder this time. When you hear a low moan you scramble to his side, not caring if you’re seen.

Once you’re over him, you see that he’s in pain and that’s when you look down to his chest. Blood was starting to soak into the side of his shirt telling you he was hit.

“Eddie.” you cry, trying to keep yourself together, but you just couldn’t do it. “Hang on, please? Please.” you melt a bit more, your hand pushing on his wound to help stop the bleeding.

“Well, well, well.” Hearing Cassidy makes you freeze, but you don’t move from your position. You refuse to let go of Eddie. “This wasn’t my plan but I guess it’ll have to do.” You finally look over your shoulder to see him standing over you both, the gun pointing in your direction. But you can tell by the angle that he’s pointing it at Eddie. A kill shot for sure, right to his head.

Taking Eddie’s hand, despite how weak he may feel, you place it on his wound and tell him to press down as much as he can and that’s when you turn around and block the bullet's path to its indicated victim. Cassidy of course gets that smug smirk and to your surprise, that’s when he shifts the barrel, the kill shot now intended for you.

“Seems my plan has already been fucked, so I guess there’s no reason to keep you around any longer.” he states as he gets a better grip on the gun. “Say hi to Dean for me.” Your entire body shakes, your fear of death front and center as he starts to pull the trigger back.

“Drop the gun, Cassidy!” 

“Drop it!” Multiple people start screaming at the man to drop his weapon and you take a second to look around. The three of you are surrounded by officers and you even spot Bobby in the crowd.

“Now, Cassidy! Drop it!” He clearly doesn’t want to follow orders, not that you expected him to. You figured that he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

You have no idea where it came from or why, but somehow in that moment, surrounded by all of Dean’s fellow officers, you got up the courage to stand up to Cassidy. Getting up from your knees, you stood right in front of him, holding your head high as you challenged him to shoot you without saying a word.

“Cassidy! Now! Drop the gun!”

“Drop it, Cassidy!”

“Drop it!”

While everyone around you yelled at him to surrender, you just kept your eyes locked with his, your gaze hard and unwavering. Then, as some more time passed without any movement on his part, you closed your eyes, practically giving yourself up to him.

You don’t know what had calmed you so much, but you were suddenly unafraid. You were expecting him to shoot and you were waiting to hear the echo of the shot before peace took you over. But all you kept hearing was the officers screaming at him to drop the gun.

For a brief second you could hear Eddie behind you, calling out for you to move. But before you could react to him, it happened.

The gun went off.

[light-lanterne]

this was supposed to be two paragraphs long,,, anyway, little idea i had:

tw // mentions of death, murder and violence - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ☽ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - small offering, @boycattj, @byelerss, @catboy-cabin, @dark-quill, @conanssummerchild, @fenixashes, @fluffyfangirl, @foodiewithdahoodie, @holyvirgilscriptures, @hyperfixationcentralsvoid, @ivytheenbyfae, @runninguplenorahills, @rotisseries, @saffirez, @willow-lark, @yearninginblue.

au where paladin mike is so caught up in winning all his battles that, when he is on the verge of finally losing a campaign and therefore a whole war, he is quick to make a deal with a powerful god to salvage the situation and emerge victorious once more.

so he makes this pact. offers his eternal loyalty to this god in exchange for good luck and near invincibility, then continues waging his kingdom's war as they conquer new lands. he never once doubts his purpose within the king's reign, nor does he question why the deity he made a pact with never asked for anything in return for their favour other than for mike to keep fighting.

that is, until the day of his final mission, where he's tasked with conquering a small village that will grant the kingdom undisputed advantage over their enemies.

so he goes. single-handedly slaughters everyone who gets in his way. destroys all defences the town ever had and makes his way to the town hall to claim his victory. as he walks, he steps over the bodies of his victims and something in the back of his mind tells him this is wrong; urges him to look at the weapons his enemies were carrying and realise that they were nothing but farming tools and normal household utensils.

but his bloodlust doesn't simmer down until the very moment when he walks over the corpses of his entire family and beloved childhood friends.

the people he loved most, all slaughtered by none other than him.

all because the god had granted him with good luck, near invincibility, and a terrible fog that would settle in his brain every time mike picked up a sword, blinding him from seeing the world as it truly was —his "enemies" as they truly were—; forcing him to fight and feed the god more and more blood until every living being in the periphery was dead.

so there, amidst the ruins of his hometown and surrounded by the bodies of everyone he ever cared for, mike makes a promise: he vows to kill this god, no matter what it takes, and avenge the lives of all the people he killed in their name.

(all the people who now haunt his every move, phantasms of his victims teasing and torturing him every waking minute as punishment for breaking the deal he'd made)

,,,but of course, a human killing a god by themselves is not easy and thus, mike makes yet another deal, convinced that he's got nothing left to lose.

so this time he makes a deal with a demon, one that's long waited for the moment someone made mike's mistake and required his assistance. one that doesn't have a hidden agenda and truly just wants to see this pretty little human kill god with his bare hands.

and thus, a new partnership is born: will gleefully offers his services and guidance to mike, leading him through a vast battlefield full of enemies of all sorts (divine and otherwise) and, whenever the situation is dire, offering his strength and power to the frail human, their selves merging into one for limited time and only separating once they are both covered in blood.

the catch ? with every time will possesses mike, the human will lose a memory of the people he loved, insignificant at first, then more and more important as time goes on until there is nothing left in mike's brain but the demon's name and the bloodlust that led him here in the first place.

but such is the price mike has to pay if he is to fulfil his promise.

so oblivion it is.

- the end -

(this is obviously inspired by the original god of war trilogy so, for extra horror, please imagine that mike's punishment for breaking the deal with god includes him being covered in the ashes of his loved ones, a cruel, constant reminder of what he did to them, his reflection becoming yet another sight to torment him until the day he dies)

[blissfulstarsfics]

Black And White

Hi, everyone! It was suggested to me to make a tumblr to promote my A!A Fanfic. I'm very new to tumblr so please bear with me.

Black And White is a friends to lovers story set after the fall of the Netherbrain. It's currently up to 12 chapters. I hope you enjoy!

Here are chapters 1 and 2. Rated M. Feel free to like, comment, or reblog.

Summary: With the ritual complete, Astarion endeavors to make Baldur's Gate his. When his partner in crime, Tav, leaves for the hells with Wyll to save Karlach, he begins to build his web of influence while patiently awaiting for her return. Will he be able to convince her to join him in the Crimson Palace? Will their friendship become something more? Astarion dreams of having her be his for eternity, but will he succeed? Or will their respective pasts get in the way?

Read on AO3

Chapter 1

One evening. This is all that was left for the companions until they faced the Elder Brain, their penultimate foe. While their leader, Tav, distracted them from their worries by playing her lyre and singing elvish songs, the vampire ascendant’s thoughts were elsewhere. He smirked at the others’ lack of mettle, their worry of what tomorrow will bring, the idle chatter of “will we die” or “will we succumb to the tadpole?” Laughable, all of it. In his mind, the powers of his ascension all but assured their victory.

Setting down his cup, he discreetly exited the Elfsong Tavern to take in the night air. Outside he began taking in the full scope of the world around him in ways that were denied to him for two centuries. There was no compulsion, no scouting for victims, no mechanical movements or lines to be rehearsed on potential meals for Cazador.

Ah, Cazador, his former master and tormentor. Astarion smiled knowing he was now counted amongst Mephistopholes’s 7,000 newest playthings. In an ironic twist, he felt a small surge of gratitude for the bastard. After all, he did much of the work for two centuries in putting together the ritual which Astarion and Tav gleefully usurped from him. The research, the turning of spawn, the marking of the runes. 

I shall enjoy every moment of this, he thought to himself, still grinning. A gentle breeze swept through his curls that was warm, slightly humid, and aromatic from the bustling kitchen inside the tavern. Closing his eyes, he attuned his hearing to the whispers of the night. They were so close, yet so far out of reach. 

Astarion had to remind himself that it had only been a few days since the ritual and to be patient, difficult as that was. As he had told Tav, it would take time for him to become acquainted with his new self. His powers would grow, they had to. Despite himself, a kernel of insecurity floated in the back of his mind. The last thing he wanted was to go through all that effort only for the ritual to give him a minimal power boost. Astarion shook the doubt out of his head, focusing on the rather interesting conversation his companions were having.

“Do you really think we can trust him now?”

“I’m not too sure. He had no qualms with sacrificing 7,000 of his own kind to an archdevil for power. We’ll need to keep an eye on him tomorrow.”

“Should he try to take control of the brain, he will meet the end of my blade.”

“Let’s not be hasty. Astarion is currently our ally…”

“Currently, yes. Now that he’s a vampire lord that could change on a whim.”

“Don’t be fools,” he heard Tav interject, “Astarion is still the same person that he was before the ritual. He wants to be rid of the tadpole just as much as we do.”

“Ha! You say that and claim we are the fools,” this time it was Jaheira’s voice, “His whole personality and demeanor have completely changed, or haven’t you noticed? Who’s to say he won’t be another Cazador? After this is over, I plan on being a very nosy neighbor to his lordship.”

Oh Jaheira, I would love to have you for supper, he thought with a chuckle. 

“No, he’s still the same as before. Had you been paying attention you would realize that this is who he is,” he heard her get up, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk.”

He rested his head against the exterior of the tavern, smiling. One of his companions understood him, knew him. The rest only saw the superficial side of him, the overbold hedonist that was a bit workshy when it came to helping those in need. Tav was the first person in two centuries to ever give a damn about him, to ever bother helping him. All the heroes up and down the sword coast only saw him as what Cazador made him. With her he was never a mere spawn, he was a person. Suddenly the door swung open and Tav walked out in a huff. 

“There you are,” he called out in an almost sultry tone. Tav let out a startled gasp, not expecting him to be lounging behind her. With his heightened senses he could hear her heart begin to flutter and her cheeks redden. These little quirks of hers made it difficult to read what he was to her. During their travels she would favor his company, assist in his schemes (he would never forget how she distracted a group of travelers with lively songs while he pickpocketed them), occasionally she would even give him a sweet peck on the cheek. Yet, when he propositioned her she politely rejected him.

“I should say the same thing,” she smiled sweetly, “You left without a word.”

“Yes, and it gave our friends a wonderful opportunity to decide what to do with me once we finish our quest.” 

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, but,” Tav made her way to him, taking his hands in hers, “They have to get through me first, so don’t worry.”

“My great protector,” he laughed, “While I appreciate the sentiment it is no longer necessary. My strength will only continue to grow while theirs will fade with age and die with them. What reason do I have to worry?” 

“True,” she squeezed his hands, “Anyway, I was going to take a walk and clear my head.”

“Then I shall accompany you,” he took her hand in his, looping it around his arm, “It wouldn’t do to have such a beautiful elf wandering by herself in the city after dark.”

“Now who’s the great protector?” Tav mischievously smiled at the apparent role reversal. 

“It wouldn’t be very lordly of me otherwise. Shall we?” Astarion gestured to the mostly empty street before them. Tav replied with a nod and a curtsy. The sudden etiquette took him by surprise for a moment, but quickly realized this was his new reality. He was now entitled to the privileges and respect due to a patriar.

And he liked it.

They walked arm in arm through the Lower City in near silence, basking in the simple pleasure of each other's company. A lord and his lady. 

“Oh gods,” Tav laughed, pointing at a poorly hidden couple on the docks near Heapside Strand, “Are they even trying to hide what they’re doing?” 

“I feel bad for that poor girl. Look at him,” he waved his hand in their direction, “He looks like he’s spearing a whale! There’s no satisfaction to be had in such poor form.” The girl peeked over the boy’s shoulder and pointed at them. In turn, the boy whipped his head around.

“It seems we’ve been caught peeping, my lord,” Tav giggled, “Let’s go, we’ve embarrassed them enough.” But Astarion was just getting started.

“Hello down there!” he shouted, “Having a bit of fun are we? A bit of advice, my boy, be more sensual with your partner. She will never finish with you rutting her like a pig. Would you like me to come down and show you how it’s done?” A pair of hands fiercely dug into Astarion’s arm, forcibly dragging him away. Behind them they could hear the fading laughter of the girl and the confession that her lover was, in fact, terrible. 

Continuing their walk, now with an occasional snicker, they made their way to the now closed weapons and armor stalls. Tav looked anxiously at the one run by Karlach’s friend, Fytz, her thoughts now turning to the one loose end of the journey.

“Is everything all right, darling?” Astarion asked.

“We never found a way to calm her engine,” she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder, “I can’t let her die, Astarion, I just can’t.” 

“Worry about that when the time comes. I seem to remember that someone was trying to clear her head right now.” He was more than a little annoyed at Tav’s sudden distraction. Tonight was to be about them and he didn’t appreciate her thoughts being diverted elsewhere. Notably, he didn’t appreciate her thoughts wandering to one of those who, not even an hour ago, was contemplating whether he should be left to live when the dust had settled. 

“I know. You’re right. For now, we focus on the elder brain. After that we focus on Karlach’s engine.” She smiled and nodded. It was almost cute how she said “we” as though he was going to tag along for a post tadpole adventure. Should she wish to help the barbarian not burn to death, that was her prerogative. His endeavors lay elsewhere.

“And after that? What will you do?” Astarion lifted her chin to meet his gaze, “I could always,” he thought carefully about his next words, “use an advisor. You have proven quite useful.” An advisor, yes. That would suffice for the time being. 

Unsure of how to respond, Tav inhaled deeply as she gave the offer sincere consideration. Before she could give an answer, Astarion heard footsteps rapidly approaching. Looking at the source of the noise, he was bemused to see it was the boy from earlier. This time with a knife in hand.

“Finally caught up with you, ya loudmouth fucker!” He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties, cocksure, foolhardy, and a full head taller than the pair. Astarion and Tav took one look at him and rolled their eyes. He even turned his head to laugh.

“You made me look like a bitch in front of my girl,” he pointed the knife at Tav, “Now you can either- HEY! LOOK AT ME!” Despite the knife that was aimed at her throat, Tav was scanning the area for guards thus fueling the boy’s chagrin. Her body language made it painfully clear that a petty thief of his station was of no threat or concern to her.

“Coast is clear,” she said, ignoring her would be assailant’s command, “Tell me, my lord, have you had dinner this evening?” She patted Astarion’s arm while looking deviously at the boy. Confused, the boy turned his gaze from Tav to the now livid vampire ascendant. Astarion’s face was that of preternatural anger, inhuman, and utterly frightening. Before the boy could scream, his throat had been gripped with a force that left him struggling for air.

“I have not, darling.” With that he sank his teeth harshly into the boy’s jugular. Tav watched the boy’s futile attempt to struggle from his fate, shaking her head.

“So young. So foolish,” she lamented. Soon he went limp and ceased to be. Hiding the body was easy. With the cult running around there was no shortage of piles of bodies or mass graves. One more on the stack wouldn’t be noticed. 

“I’m growing tired of this riffraff, shall we tour the Upper City?” Astarion suggested. The hour was growing late and he decided he didn’t want to be spending what remaining time they had dealing with common criminals or, worse, beggars. At least with the criminals he could kill them and be done with it. Society felt differently when you slit the throat of the downtrodden asking for a handout. 

“Hmm,” was all she responded with. Tav looked toward the Upper City, her face full of apprehension. Astarion cocked his head, intrigued.

“Are you all right, darling?” There was a long pause from question to response, with Tav blankly staring into the distance. Then, as if nothing had happened, she resumed her confident demeanor.

“Lead the way,” she nodded.

“Very well.” Astarion was unsure of what to make of the now awkward situation. Continuing their stroll, they crossed through the Lower City Central Wall to the park where they had a playful spat about whether or not flowers were truly beautiful. Astarion, of course, had to mention the “little garish things,” as they went by. Tav pretended to not hear him. Soon after they arrived at the gate to the Upper City where they were stopped by the guards.

“Halt! No one’s permitted through at this time.” The Fist took a firm stance and placed his hand on the hilt of his blade. Astarion took a step forward, mustering a polite smile.

“Surely the gates are not closed to those of us who dwell in-”

“Piss off. I ain’t letting a couple of bumpkins in blood stained rags who I never seen before through to the Upper City.” 

“You…” Astarion snarled. He took a step forward, but Tav pulled him back. He snapped his head toward her, a bit humiliated that she would stop him from reprimanding the contemptuous guard. 

“What are you doing?” he hissed through his teeth.

“Now, now. He does have a point,” she calmly gestured at their travel worn attire, “We aren’t exactly dressed to impress. Besides,” she leaned in and whispered, “after we’re done you can always talk to his superiors about his poor conduct and get him fired. Or he could become one of many in your new spawn army.” Astarion thought for a moment and smiled.

“I do love the way you think.” Truly, he did. He loved how in sync she was with him, how he could plant an idea in that brilliant mind of hers and watch it grow and blossom into a full blown scheme. 

While he ruminated on the thought of the guard crying from unemployment, they made their way back down the street and passed the Facemaker’s Boutique. Tav abruptly stopped, her eyes widening with amazement.

“By the gods, Astarion look ,” she gasped, pointing at the window. At first, he thought Figaro had some pretty dress on display that caught her eye but then he saw it. Specifically, he saw himself.  

“It’s…me,” he walked to the window, “The ritual gave me back my reflection. After all these years. Hello again! Gods, I missed you! How did I go 200 years without seeing that face?” Astarion began posing in front of the makeshift mirror, “Oh yes, I can see what all the fuss is about!” Tav was covering her mouth the whole time, stifling her giggles.

“My first gift to you after we remove the tadpoles will be a floor length mirror. Then you can preen and primp to your heart’s content,” she gibed. Paying her no mind, he continued to study and relearn the features of his gorgeous face. Astarion pulled her in, equally impressed with how they looked side by side. 

“We are rather excellent together,” he commented, “which brings us back to my question. Will you return with me when this is over?” More footsteps approached, this time they belonged to their favorite warlock.

“There you two are! I need you to come back to the Elfsong on the double,” Wyll’s breath was heavy from his sprint, “Karlach and Minsc have had two cases of Ithbank each and now they’ve decided to make a merry contest over how many of the empty bottles they can smash over each other’s heads until they knock the other out. Jaheira and Halsin are trying to stop them, but we could use some added assistance.” 

At this point, Astarion made no attempt to hide his frustration at his complete and utter absence of luck. It was as if the gods themselves were finally taking an active role in his life after two centuries and not in a good way.

“What in the hells, why do you need us? Can’t Gale use a spell on them” he shouted.

“Oh, I’m sure he could if Minsc hadn’t missed Karlach during the first round and hit Gale instead.” Wyll laughed sheepishly.

“Lae’zel and Minthara are there, are they not?”

“As spectators, yes.”

“This is not what we need the night before we face a would-be god.” Tav ran toward the tavern, shaking her head, with Wyll not far behind her. Astarion’s eye twitched, his mouth agape.

“I should kill every single one of them,” he grumbled.

The final battle was a long, drawn out, grueling affair. Wave after wave of cultists and mindflayers tried to bar their way with no success. After what felt like an eternity, they triumphed. The tadpoles painfully shriveled and died in their skulls, taking with them the possibility of ceremorphosis. 

Safely on the docks, the group began to celebrate. For the first time in months they could finally breathe. It was being suggested that they return to the Elfsong for a well deserved rest when Karlach began to swelter.

“We did it, soldier,” she said to Tav, who immediately ran to her side. Saddened, she knew what this meant. They all did. Astarion had mixed feelings. Loathe as he was to admit it, he didn’t wish for her to meet her end like this. Yet, Tav would no longer be beholden to fixing her engine. She would be free to stand with him during his eventual takeover of Baldur’s Gate.

“No! Stop! I won’t allow this! Karlach, you’re coming with me - back to Avernus,” Wyll cried, “We can’t let her die, not like this. Not now”

“You can’t. You…” she protested.

“Enough, Karlach. The three of us will make a new life in Avernus. Together,” Tav pleaded. Gods no, Astarion thought.

“So, what do you say? Die here or live on with people who love you. Zariel won’t touch you. I swear it, Karlach.”

“All right, but we have to go now. I can’t hold on much longer.”

“Come, to Avernus! Where our next adventure awaits.” Wyll and Tav quickly opened a portal to the hells, pulling Karlach with them. And with that, she was gone. 

Chapter 2

Summary: Astarion is approached by an unknown entity during a masquerade he is hosting with an invitation for a reunion of allies. How will he feel when he sees the object of his affections once more? Will the battle hardened Tav reciprocate or play coy?

Wine was flowing, the dance floor was full, and the new lord of the crimson palace basked in the adorations of another well executed event. With the refurbishing of the ballroom now complete, Astarion thought of no better way to break it in than with a grand masquerade.

Gone were the dark walls, the heavy drapes, the dim lighting, and the overall foreboding feel of the former owner’s tacky style. Astarion chose a pale blue for the walls that he adorned with gold trimmed mirrors and light fixtures, crystal chandeliers hung from the now frescoed ceiling, and as for curtains? Why would the vampire ascendant need them? It would be a pity for his guests to be denied a view of the lush garden outside.

The attendees complimented him left and right on the new style, on how the lighting danced off the metallic fixtures and chandeliers to create an iridescent illumination. Outward, he took it in the stride befitting a lord. Inward, he loved having one more triumph over Cazador.

In truth, the new ballroom wasn’t entirely to his taste. One important lesson he learned from a certain bard was the importance of appealing to your audience. A light, cheery room would be better suited for merrymaking, which in turn would win over the city’s elite and powerful. The more they loved him, the less suspicious they would be, and that was what he needed at the moment. His plans for the city were still in their infancy, so he took no issue with sacrificing one room’s color scheme in order to build his great web.

Across the dance floor was a guest he hadn’t recognized. He was peculiarly dressed with a skull shaped mask and mingling with no one. The figure made his way across the floor, somehow managing to evade the dancing couples, and silently handed Astarion a letter of sorts. Upon inspection he noticed that its parchment quality was unremarkable, the wax seal was plain, but the writing was somewhat familiar. Obviously this wasn’t sent by one of his peers. No one in the Upper City would send such a ghastly looking note. Remembering his manners, Astarion looked up to thank the individual but by then he had already disappeared. Curious. He placed the letter on one of the servant’s trays and told them to place it on his desk. Right now he had more important things to attend to.

Hours later the masquerade came to its conclusion, allowing Astarion to retire to his private chambers to finally read whatever was on the parchment. He inspected the letter carefully by smelling it for poisons, feeling it for powders, but there was nothing. Not that any of that could cause lasting harm to him, but it’s still nice to know if he had made an enemy or two. He broke the wax seal on the envelope and pulled out the contents to reveal an invitation from Withers of all people.

“Thou art invited to return to the place where thy journey began,” he read aloud. At first he wanted to discard the invitation, but then he wondered if perhaps Tav would show up. While he had little interest in reuniting with most of his former friends, he could spare an evening for the woman who still captivated him. Perhaps she could even be convinced to return to Baldur’s Gate with him. No, that wouldn’t happen. Not yet at least. Tav was a woman of her word and she wouldn’t come home until Karlach’s engine had been repaired. Still, he hated knowing she was on another plane where he was unable to ensure her safety.

“Matteo,” he called out. Moments later a middle aged man, a thrall who served as the new chamberlain, entered the room and gave a deep bow. Astarion nonchalantly handed him the invitation and said, “Make preparations. I will be going out of town in a tenday.” Without a word, the man bowed and left. 

~~~~~

Hellwasps swarmed the trio in a vain attempt to either overwhelm them or distract them from Commander Zhula’s heavier hitters. They were quick, but Tav was quicker. She sliced and parried the insectoid devils, rapidly diminishing their numbers.

“Fuck, soldier, I’m never making fun of your little flourishes again,” Karlach laughed, sinking her axe into a magma claw. When they first met, the tiefling thought Tav’s acrobatic fighting style was ridiculous looking as it relied on graceful spins and twirls versus the brute force she was used to. That is, ‘til she saw it in action. Tav was more than happy to change her fiery friend’s opinion by cutting down scores of absolutists. Suddenly, the elegant maneuvers seemed more like a lethal dance.

“Duck!” Wyll shouted, readying a volley of arrows. Both ladies got down, letting him finish off the wasps. They readied themselves as another wave of devils began their approach when they heard an unexpected voice in their minds.

“Heroes of Baldur’s Gate! I am summoning thee to a gathering of thine allies at the place where thy journey began.” 

“Withers?!? Did you two hear that?” Tav asked.

“Don’t question it, let’s go! Withers get us out of here,” Wyll called out into the air. A portal to Faerun opened next to them and they didn’t hesitate to dart through it. The air was fresh again, the screams of the damned were replaced by chirping crickets, and the greenery. Gods, how she missed the beauty of nature! 

“Withers you mad bastard, you did it!” Karlach scooped Tav and Wyll into a hug, ecstatic at having a night of reprieve, “Commander Zhula won’t know where the fuck we went. Ha!”

“This will be perfect,” Tav noted, “Just what we needed. A night of proper rest, some good food and friends, perhaps some time to form a proper strategy to take the forge. The end of this nightmare is already in sight.” They high fived each other, then took in their surroundings. True to his word, their allies were there. Well, all but one. For the first time in months, Tav felt as though she could relax.

“Look at that spread! I plan on having half a bottle of wine myself. Oops, did I say half a bottle? I meant half a dozen.” Wyll rubbed his hands together as he made a beeline for the food and drink. Tav took a slight detour, opting for a fully clothed plunge into the nearby water. That decision was instantly regretted since the water was as cold as Avernus was hot. Still, it helped wipe some of the muck, grime, and sweat away. 

When Tav felt she was as clean as she was going to get, she followed Wyll to the table. She’d scarcely begun filling her plate with the first bits of real food she’d had in six months when her friends flocked to her. Understandably, they wanted to know all about her adventure in Avernus with Wyll and Karlach.

“It’s been hell,” she quipped, taking a seat by the bonfire. Shadowheart picked up a nearby roll and threw it at her. Not wanting to waste food, Tav happily stuffed it in her mouth, “We found blueprints that we think can fix Karlach.” The news delighted everyone. 

“Does that mean the three of you can come home soon?” Shadowheart asked enthusiastically. Wyll tried to respond, but his words were muffled by a mouthful of venison.

“That translates to yes,” Tav clarified, “But enough about us. What have all of you been up to?” Each of them took turns updating everyone about their goings-on. Some things Tav expected, such as Jaheira rebuilding the Harpers, but others surprised her. For example, she never expected Halsin to settle down and establish an orphanage. She sighed, content, listening to everyone’s stories.

An hour went by and Tav was trying not to show her disappointment that Astarion didn’t show up. When she left with Karlach and Wyll there was no time to say goodbye to anyone. It was either leave then or she risked dying. She wondered if he was upset with her, not that she would blame him. Another half an hour went by when she heard a distinct rustle. Tav ignored it, believing it to be Scratch or the owlbear.

“FANGS! YOU MADE IT,” Karlalch blurted. She stumbled a bit as she drunkenly got up and lifted Astarion off his feet in a massive hug. The look of shock and horror on his face made a few of them giggle.

“What in the hells? Put me down you insufferable oaf!” Astarion broke free from her grasp and regained his composure. Tav studied everyone. To her relief, their moods didn’t appear to be soured or hostile now that the vampire ascendant had arrived. Cautious would be an accurate description.

“Will his lordship sit with us?” Gale motioned to an empty seat next to him. Astarion side eyed the spot in question, smirking. Instead of the seat offered, he took the vacant one next to Tav.

“Hey, I was sitting there!” Karlach whined.

“And you got up,” he retorted, still riled from the earlier embarrassment. She pouted and sat next to Gale. Tav picked up an opened bottle of wine, offering to pour Astarion a cup. He politely nodded. She took great care to not spill any on what was no doubt a very expensive outfit. 

“How is ascendant life treating you, Astarion?” Jaheira asked with a stony expression. Tav winced for a moment, knowing that this was no mere question among friends. The old Harper was fishing for information.

“Splendidly! I’m finally living a life worth living,” he sipped the wine, “Cazador’s mansion has become my palace and played host to every kind of banquet, soiree, and masquerade imaginable. I would have loved to have hosted tonight’s little get together, but it seems old Withers beat me to the punch. Perhaps next time.” Astarion took another sip, purposely being vague about his activities. He and Jaheira stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.

“Is that all, Astarion?” The druid’s fierce look was accusatory, untrusting. The vampire began to wonder if she knew something or was bluffing. Tav noticed Astarion’s face slowly shift from being smugly confident to outright irritated. 

“Watch your tone, Jaheira,” he said in a low growl. The atmosphere was quickly deteriorating, so before blades could be drawn Tav stood up.

“I need some air,” she announced, “Astarion, would you like to join me?” Neither he nor Jaheira were taking their eyes of the other. Calmly, he got up and resumed his smug confidence.

“Darling, I would love nothing more than to accompany you.” He gave a slight bow and followed her to the shoreline. Tav looked over his shoulder to assess how much privacy they’d been afforded. Most of them were back to enjoying each other’s company, except Jaheira. It was obvious she was trying to listen in. Tav turned her back to her and pressed close to Astarion.

“All right, what have you really been up to?” she bluntly asked.

“Oh my dear, you wound me,” he chuckled, “All of what I said was accurate, but I may have left out the clandestine deals, unrestrained hedonism, and the occasional disappearance,” he paused when Tav snorted, “I’m spinning my web. Power grows slowly, but I have nothing but time now.”

“That sounds more like you.” She liked this new self assuredness of his, this certainty about him. Most of all, she loved that after all this time he looked happy. In his element. Although it did make her increasingly self conscious being next to him. Here he was in fine silks, jewels, and gold while she was in scorched rags. 

“I do miss you, you know. There’s a sense of loneliness that comes with power. We did share a great adventure together. A pity to see it end, in some ways. But, we have great new lives stretching before us.”

“Just don’t get too soft in your great new life,” she teased, “I would hate to see a merry band of adventurers show up at your doorstep because they found out you’ve been spending your days in revelry and not training.” 

Astarion laughed, waving his hand, “I almost wish they would. I have yet to have an opportunity to flex my ever growing powers.”

“Oh? Perhaps you’ll spar with me when I return from the hells. I’d love to test my mettle against the vampire ascendant. I want to see what you can do now.”

“Darling,” he slid his hand around her waist, pulling her close, “I would love to show you everything I can do.” Astarion felt her heart pound as he leaned his face to her ear, “Is Mother Dear still watching?”

“Uh,” she stammered, quickly glancing at the now sleeping Jaheira, “Ha! She’s asleep. Old woman can’t stay up late anymore it seems.” She felt a second hand make its way to the small of her back, his lips brushed against her neck. causing her to shudder.

“Just a nibble? For old time’s sake?” he cooed. She nodded in consent. Fangs pricked her neck in a familiar way, her heart throbbing as he took just enough of her lifeblood to be satisfied. This time, in a break from his traditional feeding habit, he sensually licked the puncture wounds. Tav certainly wasn’t expecting that and she certainly wasn’t expecting to moan when he did. Mortified, she pulled away, her face beet red.

“I think I should lay down. Too much wine.” No one was buying that excuse. She nodded and returned to the tents. 

~~~~~

Astarion felt a sense of pride well within him as he watched Tav make her way back to the party, taking great pleasure watching her stumble and waver over the terrain. The steadfast leader, now flustered and shy. It was kind of cute, in a way.

The festivities had begun to die down at this point. Everyone was either fast asleep or on their way to their bedrolls. Lae’zel’s astral projection had evaporated and Minthara was long gone. Astarion tilted his head, seeing the humor of how six months ago they were discussing whether or not they could trust him. Now, they were peacefully asleep in his very awake presence. He could end them all right now if he chose.

Such a motley crew they were. He looked at Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart, Minsc, and Jaheira huddled under one tent, Halsin meditating next to the owlbear and Scratch, Gale resting with Tara on his chest, and he honestly wondered how in the hells they managed to beat the Absolute. Then he looked at Tav, feeling no envy for the task she bore for so long. It must have been like herding cats.

Tav was deep in her trance in a smaller tent. He laid down next to her, stealthily as to not disturb her rest. Gods, she was beautiful! As much as he hated laying in the dirt like the pathetic spawn he used to be, he would tolerate it to be next to the one he deemed worthy of his obsession. 

Her eyes began to rapidly flutter and her body twitched. Astarion recognized this all too well. Unlike other races, elves did not sleep. They relived memories of their pasts and if your life was full of torment, well, rest did not come easy. Gently, he shook her out of her trance. She awoke with a start, breathing heavily. Astarion brought her groggy head to his chest where she immediately fell back into rest. Yes, this could be tolerated.

Morning came far too quick. The camp stirred, coming to life one more time before they would again part ways. Tav shifted against him as she woke up and was a bit surprised upon seeing where exactly she was. He gave no indication of being put off, that is until Gale called her over to speak in private. 

“I’ll be back,” she said, getting up. Gale looked to and fro, giddy as a schoolboy. He took her hands in his and whispered some nonsense to her that Astarion couldn’t care less about. He didn’t like the way Gale was speaking to her, the laughing, the giggling, it made him boil with jealousy. 

“Hey soldier, the engine’s starting to act up. We’ll need to leave soon,” Karlach hollered. Tav and Gale finished conversing, giving each other a quick hug before she ran off to do the same with the others. Finally, she came to him.

“I guess this is it,” her hands fidgeted, “Will I see you again?” A smile formed on the vampire’s face. 

“Of course my dear. In fact, you’ll need to come to the Crimson Palace if you want your precious harp back.” During the ruckus on the docks between the Netherbrain’s defeat and Karlach’s impending doom, Tav dropped her harp. It was a gift from her grandfatherly figure and held great sentimental value to her. Astarion thought it best to keep it safely stored in his mansion. 

“My harp? You kept it for me?” She looked elated when he nodded, “Astarion…Thank you!”

“Then you will come to me when you’re done?”

“Hmm,” she grinned impishly, “I just might.” Tav waved one last time, then stepped into the infernal portal with Karlach and Wyll. Six months and he finally had his answer.

[aaluminiumas]

You Shall Be Mine

Feel free to read my other works here.

Red ribbons of gathering mist are capturing your limbs, immobilizing you, depriving you of the ability to move. While these gusts of smoke seem imaginary, they penetrate your ears, eyes, and nostrils, aiming directly for the brain, trying to hook the tail of the restless tadpole safely nesting in your head. 

You’re trying to wrench free, but the ropes twine around your wrists and ankles, splaying you further, turning you into a peculiar specimen for alien research. As if intoxicated, you comply with the tentative touches of the vermillion cords, feeling a weird sense of apprehensive, inevitable comfort. It isn’t a cozy feeling; on the contrary, you are being inexorably put at ease like a fly entangled in a spider’s net. The spider, however, is not revealing itself: it’s hiding in the shadows, in the eddies of the scarlet smoke, waiting, preparing an ambush. 

“You shall be mine,” a calm, remotely familiar voice pierces the cloud, “From now on, you belong to me.” 

You cannot define the source of the voice, nor can you identify its owner, but it doesn’t bother you in the slightest. All you can do is watch the carmine fog disperse to disclose an enormous, sprawling shadow stepping forward. It stops for a second and bestows a predatory, devilish smile on you so that you discern the glistening fangs grazing across the lower lip. 

“You shall be mine,” the creature repeats in a low growl, extending his hands for you, “Forever.” 

You idly register the ivory skin stained with brownish blotches. The elongated claws are covered in some oozing viscous liquid, and you’re not sure you want to know what this is. Another bizarre thing is that you are not scared: while the creature is certainly intimidating, consternation refuses to chain your body. 

You know the Creature. You can’t quite grasp it; your brain fails to process it properly, but you perceive an inconceivable touch of familiarity in the feline gestures it greets you with. 

He knows you, too. 

The Creature is looming over you, enveloped in the scarlet cloud of mist curling behind his back. The monster reaches out to you, his bloodied claws brush across your jawline, and you feel a warm trail in their wake, but you can’t tell if he’s hurt you. Is it his blood? Yours? Has it already satiated itself by wallowing in the blood of other victims?.. You don’t know. And you doubt you will ever find the answer. 

The features that seem familiar grow more grotesque; the talons are now reaching for your throat, and you dutifully obey, staring directly into the red eyes flashing in the slits of the maroon mist. 

Out of the blue, his fingers brush across your face, lingering on the lips, leaving the iron flavor of blood. 

“Forever,” he repeats in a singsong voice… and you wake up. 

You wake up with a startle. You jump up on your bedroll, trying to shake off the tenacious remnants of the nightmare that stick to the back of your eyelids, painting the world red. Gradually, your vision clears, but objects still cast a vague red shadow, dissolving in the peaceful murk of the camp. 

Looking around, you discover Astarion lying beside you on his stomach. You don’t even know whether he actually sleeps: vampires are normally claimed to be insomniacs of the fantasy world, but this one is certainly special. Special is probably an understatement he would loudly argue. This man, destined to drag out the miserable existence of a nocturnal animal, consciously or unconsciously tried to redeem himself all the things he had been deprived of. He was succeeding: histrionic, capricious, and remarkably flamboyant, Astarion never missed an opportunity to express his emotions in the most unacceptable way, adding a waspish note to every darling he granted you. Why did you end up with him anyway? How did you happen to stay here by his side, watch him read ancient manuscripts, and languidly drink wine? 

You have no answer to that. Yet you still have to admit that his presence mollifies you and gives you an obscure sense of security you have never experienced before. He might not immediately come to the rescue when you jeopardize your life, but he will certainly not deny you, even though his refined face revea

ls nothing but languorous irritation.

What do you actually like about him? He’s insufferable, arrogant, prim to the extent that even the nobles can't stand him, but you feel an opaque flair of something else he’s striving to conceal. His drawl reverberates in your head each time he stares at you from above. His attentive ruby eyes are always perusing you, prying into the depth of your soul to fish out an attempt at an amateurish gambit. His mischievous smirk always bodes an ambiguous proposition easily surpassing Raphael’s enigmatic and equivocal inklings. Though his wisecracks and ostensibly exaggerated courtesy tend to infuriate you, more often than not, you find yourself shuddering with galvanic anticipation. Astarion’s innuendos, though, are more straightforward than they seem at first. You just have to know him better.

However, under the guise of the deprave libertine, you can discern a vulnerable creature, scared to death and trying to hide. Astarion didn’t choose the life he was condemned to, and while he spread thundering braggadocio about his days at Cazador’s, he was genuinely frightened.

Brooding over this, you mentally return to one particular recollection that still leaves you speechless. This man is instrumental in controlling his emotions: for all his bluster, Astarion never lets you know what's on his mind. Covered in blood, smirking greedily, dreaming about power and strength, he feeds as much information as necessary to keep you mesmerized and enthralled.

Yet, you've got a chance to spot a terrified boy encapsulated in the body of a charming wanton. You saw him lose control only once in the House of Healing when Malus matter-of-factly left a long, ragged incision on a living man, tightly bound to the gurney. Astarion gasped; his red eyes widened, he grew even paler, and when he shouted, his voice almost broke.

That’s when you saw him in a different light. That’s how you started cutting him some slack and ignoring his sardonic, acrid remarks. He wanted to win a few points back, obviously noticing that you had noted that weakness and were now aware of it. 

Your eyes pass over the intricate pattern of scars on his back. Normally unbearably garish, Astarion locks up in his head when it comes to his major insecurity. He’s told you about the blemish as a last resort, hoping to get a scrap of help, expecting you to find a way out, otherwise you would never have known. Otherwise, he would have never dared mention it to anyone, including himself. 

You can’t resist the temptation, and your fingers hover over the quaint marks. You’re both reluctant and curious to touch them for the umpteenth time, trying to pry into the mystery encompassed in the symbols he so despises. You caress them all the time when you’re in his tent, but Astarion doesn’t seem particularly fond of it: he tries to change the subject and propose another round to make you forget about them. Does it cause him to remember the excruciating throes he had to go through? Does it hurt? Does it remind him of the days spent in Cazador’s captivity? 

These questions, much like the previous ones, receive no response either.

“They give you no peace, do they?” Astarion yawns, not even turning his head toward you. “Touch, if you so wish. You won’t get another chance, my dear.” 

His words embarrass you, and you jerk away the hand, albeit the desire to caress him only grows stronger. 

“Scared already? I thought you were my biggest fan,” he cackles, turning on his back and squinting at you. For a talkative companion, he’s remarkably quiet. He’s calmly observing the taciturn camp, ruby eyes listlessly taking in every detail. His usual volubility has vanished, and he simply examines the surroundings as if he sees them for the first time. Is he pondering over something? What is he thinking? Is he contemplating his previous experiences, analyzing the past, and comparing it to the present? Is it you who makes him brood over the subject he so passionately wants to erase from his memory? 

“Have you ever thought of life eternal, Tav?” Astarion finally utters, his stare drifting across the velvet sky stretching over you. “Have you ever wanted to spend eternity with someone?” 

His red eyes, now two shades darker than usual, slowly swivel to look at you, and you suddenly recognize an affectionate sparkle in them. Is he slowly melting after years of total freeze? Is he letting himself feel? Is he finally going out of the shell of neglect and sarcasm that indemnified him for more than two centuries? 

You shrug and look away. Though always persistent, Astarion rarely brings up such metaphysical topics. 

“Really, Tav,” Astarion tries to reason with you, his voice dropping a notch, gaining seductive notes that entrance you. Still, you can hear him ring with yet unknown craving. It’s unbearably close to the lustful whisper, soaring over your neck every night you sneak away from the prying eyes, but at the same time, you feel that his lust is not directed at you. “Look,” he mutters, licking his lips. “Look at this!.. Eternal life filled with power! With Cazador dead and buried, we can rule this world together. We can finally assert our own world order, wallow in luxury and love till the end of the world. Can you imagine, my love? This is going to be magnificent. Magnificent.”

He spelled the last word with the stress on each syllable, his ruby eyes glowing with the eerie backlight, breaking through the darkness of his pupils. Astarion no longer conceals his sheer exultation and excitement, his lopsided smirk discloses one of the fangs. 

Enthralled, you can’t take your eyes off of his pallid face. Life eternal? Is this what this is all about? Is this what he truly wants, spending his eternity with you, relishing the endless night together?.. 

You give him a subtle nod. Astarion hums curiously and scrutinizes you, his grin growing wider, eyes narrowing. Slowly, steadily, he brushes his fingers across your jawline and gently props your chin up, as if he has never seen a more beautiful sight. 

“Magnificent,” he repeated, lowering himself on you, his lips gliding across your sensitive skin, his hands exploring your body. “Just magnificent.”

You feel his fingers clutching at your wrists like the red ribbons from the nightmare, but it arouses no fear: instead, you submit to the butterfly kisses he leaves on the tendons of your neck, seeking the pulsating spot with the blueish vein. In a moment, you can hear his hushed voice, hitting your skin, 

“You shall be mine forever, my love. You shall be mine.” 

[hhighkey]

Decode // Chapter Nine, Hard Times

Dracule Mihawk (opla) x OC (female)

Rating: mature

Story Contains: live action characters, related and non-related one piece plots, unspecified religion, OC is a nun on sabbatical, trauma, violence, age gap (40 v 23), insecurities and self doubts, possessive / protective behavior, kidnapping, true loves, eventual smut

Masterlist

-

A noxious fume whirled up her nose and through her brain, burning as it imprinted itself to her very core. Bile stuck in her throat as she stared at the far wall, wanting to ignore what was taking place in the corner. Rigor mortis had barely kicked in when she heard the news from an out of breath Cardinal Joseph who raced to the hotel to inform her. And by the time Mihawk convinced her it would help to look over the body- the woman had been dead for four hours. 

She’d been entranced staring at it, transported back to the sights of each from the past. Victims of her incompetence, she felt. 

The sight of a dead body made Sabine’s stomach churn, yet something about it cleaned and in the morgue struck her more. The woman looked as if she were only sleeping. Yet the gouges and a black goo that seemed to engrave itself into her skin told otherwise. No matter which chemicals or the amount of scrubbing would have cleaned it from the deceased’s skin. 

“What are you looking for again?” Sabine was impatient, moreso disgusted and needed out of the room that reeked of chemicals and death. Heaviness weighing down her chest as her eyes burned, water lined her lashes as she continued to look away. Anywhere other than the body. A woman who looked around Sabine’s age, dark hair and full lips much like her own. 

“Traces of… aura. You continue to dream of black morphable darkness, like these burn marks on her. Peculiar.” Mihawk answered. 

“Aura?”

“Someone who can use haki, spiritual energy, will leave traces if inexperienced or sloppy.” 

“Is that limited to devil fruit users?”

“No.”

Mihawk steered Sabine out, a clicking of his tongue to garner her attention from the room. He saw how her eyes glossed over the second they entered, distraught as she looked over the victim. Getting her out and somewhere lighter was of top priority to him, her discomfort made him uncomfortable. A tugging within him. A clawing against his chest at the thought of Sabine laying on the table in the morgue. He saw the similarity. And oh did Mihawk feel how his body went taut as he saw how the woman mirrored Sabine, from the hair to the porcelain skin and build. Too many connections that led back to the woman he’d claimed, that she may have not yet seen, that he didn't want her to see.

Mihawk, in that moment, swore to himself that nothing would ever happen to her. He’d keep her by his side, cared for and protected, almost unaware of a threat. Even if it wasn’t viable. It wasn’t. He realized he couldn’t do so, she’d never be able to step away from this. The intensity in her eyes he knew all too well, Sabine would get answers one way or another, this had plagued her for too long. 

They walked side by side out the funeral home, onto the half empty street under a dim light that flickered against the pink sky, a litany of darkening clouds taking over the horizon. Sabine was nervous, nervous about the fact she looked like the woman who laid on the slab. Nervous because this was never something she would have been able to handle.

“Can you use haki?” Sabine inquired, remembering he’d mentioned the unknown word. The term was new to her, but she barely knew about devil fruits prior to meeting Luffy. Or that a pirate could be good. So she wanted to know as much as she could about Mihawk.

“Yes.”

With her curiosity glaringly obvious, he tried to explain the concept to her. Pieces of Mihawk wanted to hide from her the reality of who he was or what he was capable of. That his own experiences with such power within him were all he could properly tell her. Or that of past opponents. 

But Sabine had seen the lowest of society through the years. Had felt terror from a man beside her that such heavy dark clouds followed and relief only came once she was out of his peripheries. So she could not judge as he sailed the seas of his own accord waiting for someone to best him, not torturing and killing innocents who had nothing to do with his life goals. 

Sabine listened intently as he talked of haki, of times out on the sea, small explanations of how he came to be the strongest swordsman. His words settled something within her. As if finding solace with him as if she were home. How he’d offered his arm to her to grasp onto as they walked. Leading her from larger groups he knew would spike her anxiety. 

“What will happen if we don’t find him? Or if we do?” 

“If we don’t? I’m not sure, I’m not able to stay forever, eventually I’ll get a call from the Marines for a job they need handled.”

“I understand, technically I don’t have forever either.” Her heart hurt at that. A reminder she’d be taken from Mihawk soon, but also that more people could die if her little investigation failed.

“If we find him? He’ll die.” 

“It’s a strange feeling, to not care what happens to the assailant.” 

“Not very becoming of a nun, hmm?” The corner of his lip twitched up. 

“Oh well.” She said with a light taunt to her tone. Oh! It felt so scandalous to think that way. To know for certainty she didn’t care if someone died, that they deserved it. Such bullshit to think everyone could be saved, especially if they commit atrocious crimes with little remorse. 

The sky began to rumble above. It grew darker. A chill blew through the alleys, using the buildings to create a slight wind tunnel. Her hair whipped about, her having to try to tame it with her hands, discontent with strands contorting her view. 

“Come. We’re close to the hotel, we’ll have a late dinner there instead.” 

Sabine called out that it looked like it was about to rain. But her voice was lost in the shrieking wind, more thundering roars above. A split second flash of light. Tonight would be quite a storm, she thought as street lights flickered on through the darkening skies. 

He led her with ease through scattering crowds, people yelling about as they tried to board up shops and homes. Mothers calling for their kids to come inside. Squawking of groups of birds fleeing. A heavy presence falling over the sprawling city that almost felt more like a maze at times.

His hand on her arm grounded her though. She trusted him far too much. She didn’t bother to watch her step, trusting him to guide her safely. Trusting he had her best interest in mind. And time again he proved he did, the hotel’s sign coming into view. He held the door for her ushering in her, a wall of heat meeting them. 

Standing inside the foyer, a clattering could be heard outside, the wind managing to pick up even more. Patio chairs from a nearby cafe launched into the air, sporadically circling every which way that the poor worker couldn’t catch onto. Windows and structures groaned from the pressure change, a sweet musk reeking inside that signaled coming rain. 

Sabine was out of breath, a giggle sounding from the depths of her chest. She felt ridiculous, as if aware their actions the last few weeks were turning futile. If they continued on this path any longer she might not have any dignity left to face Mihawk with, to return from her sabbatical with. 

“Seriously Mihawk, you can tell me this is all a wild goose chase. We don’t have any leads, just more bodies.”

He sighed as he glanced at her tense body language. Her lack of patience didn’t surprise him but he’d need her eventually to see there may not be anything they can do, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“It wouldn’t be your fault. Neither of us are exactly… detectives.” 

“No one is perceptive in this town it seems. Normally, a few coins gets you answers.”

“It’s a religious city. I think you’re used to shoddy places with pirates.” She poked fun at him, her fingers casually grazing his coat, eyes transfixed by his cross.

“Perhaps. Though they make for more interesting times, and better information. If another old lady tells me she thinks she saw a sketchy dark man--” 

“Is it normally easy to find someone?” Sabine snickered, cutting him off, he didn’t need to finish that sentence. It’d probably be crude. 

“Yes. I had no issues finding Luffy at Baratie. Painstakingly easy.” 

“Luffy doesn’t try to hide, that’s for sure. Not in his nature.” Sabine outstretched her arms as she released his coat, muscles twitching as she relaxed, “Zoro recovered well, you never asked.”

“I had no doubts.” He moved between her and the main entrance of the hotel lobby, unsure why. But he let his large figure cover her from the street. Faint chatter from the front desk lost on him in comparison to the mess outside. A potted flower flung by with a crash, soil going everywhere onto the cobblestones. 

“Hm. I’m not sure how I feel about his goal, realizing now that besting you means killing you, or dying in the process. How about you call a draw? Or no fighting to kill? I can’t fathom one of you… being gone.” 

“That isn’t how it works, my dear. I am thrilled to see what he becomes, I have a feeling he’ll be great. Much better than me if he continues on.” 

She scowled at his words, “We’ll get to that at a later date I suppose.” She’d figure something out, even toss herself in between them if she must. They’d have to stop their duel if she stood in the paths of their blades! 

Mihawk smiled to himself at that. At a later date. Consciously or not, she was thinking of the future, one that seemed to involve him, “I suppose we will.” 

A sudden change in his demeanor, his yellow eyes focusing on movement outside. His brows furrowed as his attention was elsewhere. A strange sensation. Chills down his spine. A gut feeling that called for him to investigate, someone or something was close.

“Stay, go up to the room.”

“Huh? What’s wrong?” She asked, hushed. Fear struck inside her as she tried to look around without drawing attention to them. She clung to his arm, tugging at him to keep him there, but his mind was elsewhere.

He shot her a look causing her to shy away, understanding this moment was not for questions. Though pleas still lodged themselves in her throat, wishing to be freed. Sabine steeled herself and let him leave, then marched her way up the staircase to her room, afraid if she looked back or faltered that she’d disobey him. 

Nothing seemed amiss as the door slammed behind her, her back flush to it as she took jagged breaths. Chest rapidly rising and falling as she lulled her head back, staring up at the ceiling resting against the wood. She tried to urge her worries downwards, to lock them away, curse them for bubbling up. Bile rose in her throat. Swallowing did little. She felt heavy, limbs thickened and burdened as she slowly crept through the hotel room. 

It was a larger suite, a sitting room looking outside expansive windows where she first saw Mihawk when he arrived. Adjacent to the bed she slept upon. A strange separation between the doorway then to the bathroom. Enough so it made her pulse spike, not able to see every crevice to know she was truly alone. 

The floorboards creak with each careful step, Sabine grimacing at each note that blared when she attempted to gently move. Because her heartbeat should have calmed by now to signal she was safe. The hairs that stood tall on the back of her neck should have relaxed. Whispers licked the back of her ears. Stringy whips that swept about her, a force that urged her to move forward. Voices she did not recognize, like breathy gasps that did not seem in the same room, yet within her at the same time.

Stepping behind a wall that would look over the main room, she saw no windows open. The curtains lifeless. The covers of the bed how she made them that morning. Her clothes still folded in her bags. Had she left her hairbrush out here? She carefully touched its handle, frowning as she tried to remember. Static electricity shocked her, she pulled her hand away with distaste. A bitter taste of smoked wood like a forest filled her senses, a haze to the air- 

Sabine jumped as a boom of thunder reverberated. She grasped the side table, feeling foolish due to her unfounded fear. Swallowing her paranoia, she grabbed her brush to head to the bathroom, content thinking she must have misplaced it this morning. This morning had been hectic finding out about the body, how taken aback she was when Mihawk wanted to go to the morgue. Flustered. That’s all. A hairbrush cannot move itself. 

Guard down, she made her way to the bathroom. A soft pattering of rain began to trickle down, hitting the window panes, tap tap tap. Of comforting sorts as her stomach still coiled into knots, hoping Mihawk would come back soon as she closed the bathroom door behind her.

With glassy eyes, she pouted at herself. Hairbrush then placed on the sink’s counter, where she swore she’d left it that morning. She prodded her fingers against her cheeks, then against her brows, critical thoughts dancing in her brain. Sabine who had been at the Monastery was sullen, a sickly beauty if you could call it that. In these months she’d been able to flourish, she supposed. Life to her eyes, pink in her cheeks compared to a yellow tint from being inside all day. A heavy sigh left her as her face crumbled down to her hands. Huffing she leaned down, elbows on the counter and breathing heavy into her palms that shielded her eyesight. Feeling morose suddenly, wishing Mihawk was with her or that she’d followed him outside. 

The air went frigid, almost dead as if all life had been sucked out. Warm and dense. Sabine choked in a breath, eyes shooting open panicked understanding there hadn't been enough air. A sudden comprehension that she was not alone. She dared not look up, but when she did there was nothing in the mirror beside her reflection. She officially could not breathe as suffocation was all she felt in its place. Alarm bells went off. 

When she spun around to flee the room with her consciousness just intact, she stopped in terror. Feet glued in place. Her mind short circuited at the figure blocking the door. It hadn’t been in the mirror! A familiar sick grin, pale skin, those monster-like teeth, all in the shape of what she knew well. She couldn’t scream. The stagnant air swallowed her whole. 

Sabine’s body thumped to the ground. 

-

posted: august 20 2024

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