#what if one say he got a little clutch of some evil devil snakes

[belphieslilcow]

do you think levi gets baby fever by watching snake hatching videos

[okageshadowkingfannovel]

Book 1: Chapter 9

“Oh sure, by all means,” Ari’s father says pleasantly, “I have a feeling this will be interesting.”

He looks up at his son and the Evil King Stan as the Tenel Village Office thunders around them in chaos, more chaos than what is considered normal. Some workers run around frantically with stacks of papers haphazardly clutched in their arms while others hide under their desks, hoping no one will notice them.

“Um … is everything ok here, dad?” Ari asks.

His father pops up from fishing a set of keys out from deep within a severely cluttered desk drawer.

“Oh sure,” he says, his smile never faltering, “everyone’s just excited about the ghost in the Church and the village finding out about it.”

Ari looks again and catches tears running down faces and wails echoing throughout the office. “I don’t think ‘excited’ is the right word.”

“Don’t mind them, son. The town found out about the ghost in the Church and these guys are all panicking that there’s going to be a mob coming after the village office because we’ve been keeping it a secret for weeks. Here you go!”

He hands Ari a ring of keys. King Stan giggles maliciously.

“Perfect. Tell your fellow mortals that their ghost problem is coming to an end …” King Stan lowers his voice so that only Ari can hear him. “… and their Evil King problem is just beginning.”

Ari starts to rethink this strategy.

“Well, I’ll see you later, dad.”

“Be careful, Ari, and on behalf of the village of Tenel, Stan, we’d like to extend our deepest thanks for taking care of our ghost problem.”

“King Stan! KING! KING! KING!”

Ari makes his way out of the village office, stepping over several assistants and secretaries curled over in fetal positions along the way.

“Look at this pathetic rabble, slave,” King Stan murmurs as they make their way outside, “all this crying and panicking over measly ghosts and fellow humans with pitchforks. They have no idea the terror I have in store for them.”

It occurs to Ari that even though taking care of the ghost would be a good thing for Stan to do, he’s not sure if putting the Tenel treasure into the shadow’s clutches is worth it. He has no idea what sort of treasure is in the Church’s basement. If it’s really a thing of great power, Ari might just be dooming Tenel and who knows? Maybe the whole world. Stan has been pretty ridiculous up to this point, but how much would people be laughing if he truly has the power he brags about?

Before Ari knows it, he’s standing before the Church, key in hand. He hesitates.

“Don’t be chicken, slave! Those lesser evil being are nothing in the face of my awesome power! Now, get in there!”

“Oh! Master! Please wait!”

Ari looks over his shoulder just in time to see a ball of lightning appear and burst to result in James the evil butler strolling casually towards them.

“I long to see your evil plans come to fruition, my Master. I cannot wait! However, there is one thing,” James looks squarely at Ari, “you’re a rookie, Ari, and let’s be honest, not so sharp. Try your best to stay out of Master’s way.”

Ari stares at James, unsure if he should be offended or not. Then, he nods.

“Good! Well, good luck, my Master!”

Another ball of lightning appears, bursts, and James is gone.

“Does he always do that? Shows up, says a sentence or two, then poof! He’s gone?”

King Stan shrugs. “That is James’ way, I suppose. Now, slave, no more stalling!”

Before he can second guess himself, Ari steps up to the Church door and unlocks it. The door sticks terribly and only opens with a bit of force. A musty, rotted wood smell, mixed with ancient incense greets Ari as he steps inside. The only light comes from the sun reaching in through the stained glass windows. It’s weak and does little to dispel the darkness.

It’s been ages since Ari’s been in Church and he’s certainly not used to seeing it so empty. The pews are hauntingly dusty. The pulpit at the far end still holds homily notes and announcements.

“Slave, the basement,” King Stan manages to whisper.

The shadow gestures towards a door to one side of the Church. In the dim light, Ari picks out the right key and unlocks it.

This is it … I guess.

Ari’s heart pounds in his chest and it’s only when he removes the key from the lock that he notices his hands are shaking. The door opens with a loud whine that seems ear shattering in the solemn quiet.  Ari is greeted with basement darkness, a familiar phobia of his childhood days.

“I-I can’t see a thing.”

“Hmmm, that is problematic. I can’t exist in a completely dark room.”

“Wait, really?”

“Think carefully, slave. Is it possible to have a shadow in total darkness, where there’s no source of light?”

“Well, no-”

“Exactly! Sheesh! James wasn’t kidding when he said ‘not too sharp.’” King Stan pauses to look around. “Ah! But we can use those!”

Ari follows King Stan’s pointing finger to one of the floor candelabras lining the sides of the Church. Their candles are partially melted from previous use, but have become cold and dusted over.

“Grab one, slave!”

Feeling just a touch sacrilegious, Ari reaches up and plucks out a thick candle from the candelabra’s clutches.

“I don’t have any matches, King Stan.”

“Don’t bother me with your mortal problems, boy,” he grumbles and then whispers, “burning devil …”

Suddenly, black fire spurts from the Evil King’s finger and catches upon the wick of the candle. Ari nearly drops it in surprise.

“Careful, slave!”

“Whoa! What was that?”

“My power! The glorious malevolent flames of all the evil possessed within me!”

“… but it’s so teeny.”

“I was lighting a candle, slave! Not burning the Church down!” King Stan crosses his arms and mumbles, “and anyway, I’m nowhere near back to my full strength. Whatever! Just get on with it!”

Ari swallows all the questions he wants to ask and, raising the candle high, begins his descent into the basement. The stairs are old and rickety, the barest bones of what stairs should be. They tremble and squeal under each of Ari’s steps. It doesn’t help that the Evil King Stan must huddle close to Ari’s back to stay within the candle’s halo, lest he be swallowed up by the black. There’s a cold that crowds the basement. It’s clammy and wet, like the whole room is nervously sweating. And off in the distance, Ari can hear an indistinct noise. In one moment, it sounds like the natural settling of an old foundation, but in the next, it sounds like muffled howling and moaning.

“Look, slave!”

Ari jumps, his ears ringing from the sudden command.

“What?! What is it?!”

“An oil lamp!”

He swings the candle round and as he finally steps down on the floor, the light catches the faint gleam of a bulbous oil lamp dangling by a chain from the center of the ceiling.

“Looks like there’s still some oil in it. Go and light it!”

“Why can’t you light it? You know, with that burning devil trick, spell thing?”

“My powers are limited, slave. I’m not wasting it on every little light fixture we pass!”

Considering there’s still a ghost to deal with, Ari finds that fair. Standing on tiptoe and being extremely careful, he lifts the glass globe to share the candle’s flame with the oil soaked wick. The room floods with a warm, yellow glow.

“Ah, much better!” King Stan stretches out into the light.

If the cold, drippy atmosphere wasn’t a give away on the trip down the stairs, the oil lamp confirms the dungeony atmosphere, revealing muddy grey stone floors and dark stone brick walls. A collection of barrels off in the corner suggests the Church used this mostly for storage, but then Ari also finds a wooden bench and a lion headed fountain. The lion’s mouth is dry and dusty, having gone weeks without water to spit out into the basin below it. Finally, beside the fountain, there is a heavy metal door. When Ari draws closer to it, the room somehow gets even colder and his skin begins to crawl and itch.

“I-I think th-this is it, King Stan,” Ari says through fear and chattering teeth.

“Hmm, yes, I can feel the presence of a lowly being, skulking around in there. This must be where the treasure is!”

Reluctantly, Ari fidgets the still lit candle and the key ring to ready the fitting key.

“And-and you’re sure you got this?” Ari can’t help but ask.

“You doubt my power?!”

“No, not doubt, just … you know, checking in.”

“Open the door, slave!”

Ari takes a deep breath and turns the key in the lock. The mechanism makes a loud thunk which makes him tense up. The door opens and to his surprise, there’s already an oil lamp lit. And the first thing Ari catches in the lamp light is a hulking red cloud of a ghost, aggressively pacing the room. It seems to be muttering to itself, but of course, Ari has no idea what it’s saying.

“Booo, boobah, bah?! Boo boo bah bah!”

(Where am I?! I’ve been lost for ages!)

It doesn’t look like it’s noticed us yet, Ari thinks with a touch of relief.

“So, you’re the third class demon who stands in the way of my ambition!”

Well, that was short lived.

The ghost stops its pacing and spots Ari and King Stan in the doorway.

“Slave, move closer,” he whispers.

With King Stan’s prodding, Ari reluctantly inches further into the room. It has the same dungeon inspired atmosphere of the last room, but amidst the wooden crates and barrels, a giant, thick, rusty pipe snakes from one wall to another. A large valve sticks up out of the pipe and it occurs to Ari that this must be where the water issue is. The ghost puffs up, reclaiming Ari’s attention. Bits of debris supposedly trailed in by the ghost - sticks, leaves, and rocks - tremble on the floor. As the angry yellow eyes fall on him, Ari feels his stomach drop and a gross, clammy sweat breaks out on the back of his neck.

“Booh, baaah!”

(Whoa, what a weird shadow!)

“Ha ha ha! Look at it, slave! This low rank demon, he cowers before my divine dark power!”

Ari watches the ghost and it doesn’t seem at all like it’s cowering, in his opinion anyway. Then again, Ari figures he, himself, doesn’t speak ghost, so he’s probably just missing something.

“Boo bo bo behobooo!”

(Oh boy, this is too funny! What a weird shadow!)

Is the ghost chuckling?

“Ah, I see. You want to pledge allegiance to me?”

“Bubabubaboo …”

(Getting hungry … he’s weak-looking. He’ll do.)

The ghost’s eyes travel up and down Ari’s stature. Then, the big red cloud starts slowly drifting towards Ari and King Stan.

“Uh, K-King Stan?”

“Yes, very good! Once you become my follower, your existence will be devoted to me!”

Then, a terrible, awful thought strikes Ari. It’s so terrible and awful that Ari immediately rejects it in a desperate attempt to hold onto hope in this situation. But …

I don’t think Stan can understand ghost. He’s supposed to be their lord and master - how could he not understand ghost?!

“Booh boo ha!”

(Time to chow!)

The big red cloud charges Ari. Before the boy can move, he is swallowed up by a red mist. It feels awful, like he’s going through a light rain of dirty sink water. Through the red mist, Ari catches sight of three figures.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

“Funny, I was about to ask you something similar!”

Eventually, the mist clears and three monsters stand before boy and shadow, ready to pounce.

“M-monsters? I-inside the ghost?”

“Possessed beasts.”

Two of the three are giant frogs. They sit at half Ari’s height and stare up at the boy with wide, haunted white eyes. Their mouths are unnaturally wide and massive, possessing rows of neatly jagged teeth. The third hovers above the two frogs, swaying back and forth. To Ari’s surprise, it’s another, smaller ghost. This one is white however and looks more like a flying tadpole than a cloud. It wails with a forever open mouth, and long, noodley arms reach out for him.

“Minion! As the one true Evil King and Master of all ghosts, I command you to stop!”

Paying no mind to the talking shadow, the frogs leap forward in unison, mouths aimed for Ari’s legs. He yelps as he springs out of their way. Their mouths make violent snaps in the air where Ari was standing just a second before. He backs up and bumps into a barrel.

“Stan! What’s going on? Why aren’t they listening?!”

“King Stan, and I don’t know, slave! Perhaps my subjects have grown disobedient in my absence.”

The frogs are back on the prowl, inching their way closer to Ari. He thinks he can hear a croaky growl gurgling from deep within their throats. The ghost seems a little slower and more thoughtful with its movements. It floats towards Ari, but stretches its arms out as if to block possible escape routes.

WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?

“Stan! Do something!”

“Pesky frogs and tricky ghost, cease immediately, or I’ll get really angry!”

“BESIDES THAT!!!”

Ari makes another last minute dash, just as the frogs jump and the ghost tries to make a grab for him. He trips in the rush and hits the floor, his head violently smacking the hard stone.

“Slave! Be careful! If you die, I die, remember?!”

Ari sits up, his head pounding and spinning and his thoughts a scramble. His gaze falls on the three monsters again.

I-I can’t keep this up. I-I-I …

Still on the floor, Ari clumsily backs up until his hand touches something other than hard stone. He looks and finds a long, thick branch. He grabs it and brandishes it desperately.

“I’m going to die.”

“You better not!”

“I can’t believe this. I’m actually going to die.”

One of the frogs goes after Ari’s outstretched legs, its teeth sinking into his left calf. Ari screams.

“Burning devil!”

A blast of black flame leaps over Ari’s head and strikes the frog. It releases Ari’s leg with a high-pitched squeal, writhing on the ground. Ari hugs his bleeding, stinging leg and stares as the fires make quick work, dying out once the frog is nothing but a fine, black dust.

“Why didn’t you do that before?!”

“It’s very difficult to do in my current state!”

One frog down, one more and a ghost to go. Watching their amphibious associate perish seemed to make the other two more cautious. They keep their distance, eying Stan warily.

The frog bite burns and Ari hisses at the pain. Looking closer, through the diamond rips in his pant leg, he can see the curved line of punctures, oozing little rivers of blood. It looks nasty, but it’s not very deep. Ari stands up. Stick still in hand, he holds it out like a sword.

“Alright, King Stan, go ahead and toast the other two.”

“I can’t, slave.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I’m in a weakened state, remember? I can only do that once a day!”

“Once a day? You just did it twice!”

“The small one didn’t count!”

“Well, what am I supposed to do, Stan?!”

This time, the ghost comes for him. It swoops at Ari with a wailing roar, its stringy arms clawing at the air. As he watches the ghost come at him, something strange happens in Ari. It’s a surge of energy in his chest. The world suddenly goes slow and blurry.

“Stan?” he calls as the room bleeds more and more into itself, but there is no answer.

The smearing of the room intensifies until nothing around him is discernible. There is no Church basement, no ghost, no frog, not even an Evil King Stan. Even the stick is gone, his hands suddenly empty. It’s just a sea of swirling, messy color. Ari looks around frantically, but otherwise, stays stock-still lest any stray movement cause something even more bizarre to happen. Suddenly, despite the stillness, something even more bizarre does happen.

A shape suddenly makes itself defined out of the blurry mess. It appears before Ari as a dark rust stained iron gear, turning in midair. It’s about the size of a dinner plate with medium sized teeth, interlocked seemingly with nothing at all. It moves so painfully slow that Ari’s not even sure it’s moving. He looks around it, under it, over it, but nothing seems to be holding it up or causing it to rotate except its own gearish will.

Ari reaches out a curious hand and taps a finger against one stubby tooth. He shudders all over with the contact and it briefly occurs to him that this could be some kind of ghostly trick. But something bigger in him, something instinctual, something like a mysterious gut feeling tells him to not just touch it, but to take it.

He reaches up and wraps his hands over the edges. The iron is cold and the rust has roughed up the surface. He starts to pull and twist it in the opposite direction of its turn. If the tap before just produced a shudder, this feels like his whole body is being put through an earthquake. The gear resists, determined to continue its slow turn. Ari grips tighter and throws everything into that contrary twist.

And then the gear shatters.

“Oh,” says Ari stupidly.

The shards fade into nothing, but Ari’s hands adopt a strange, tingling glow.

“SLAVE!!!”

Ari looks up from his hands to find the world returned to high definition, including the ghost coming right at his face. Without thinking, Ari sweeps his hand upward to hit the ghost away, but then, the stick is back in his fist. And more than that, it glows a strange, eerie white. As it connects with the ghost, the white glow releases, turning a swat into a hefty punch. Ari can feel it - the satisfying follow-through of making a really good hit.

The strike sends the balloon like ghost flying across the room until it smacks into a far wall.

Ari stares at the stick still tightly gripped in his hands. The strange white glow hums up and down the length of it from his fists to the few remaining dying leaves on the branch’s tip.

“What was THAT, slave?!” King Stan frets behind him.

“I don’t know,” Ari mutters, partially to himself, “but I don’t think I can count myself as ‘ordinary people’ anymore.”

The simple, if obvious, statement inspires the boy to action. While the ghost and the frog are still stunned by his sudden not-so-ordinary abilities, Ari rushes the frog, the stick drawn back over one shoulder, ready for the strike.

“Overdrive!”

Ari spits the word out without thinking. Later, he’ll try to explain that he just said it in the heat of the moment or that Stan made him believe all strange powers had to have cool names in order to do them. Either way, with the utterance of that word, the white glow flares up into blinding waves rippling up and down the length of the simplistic weapon. Upon reaching the frog, Ari whips the stick in a brilliant arc, striking the monster across the face and scattering its body into a cloud of dust particles.

In a last ditch effort to get itself a bit of lunch, the wobbly, battered ghost picks itself up off the floor and drunkenly makes its way over to Ari, wailing as it goes.

“Destroy it, slave!”

Ari is way ahead of him. He runs towards the ghost and with another mighty, burning swing, he crashes the stick down upon the ghost’s round, tadpole head. Ari obliterates the monster.

All that’s left of the battle in the basement is a few drops of Ari’s blood and several curious piles of dust and ashes. In the silence that follows, the glow in Ari’s hands and in his weapon slowly dies away.

“Phew … that was odd … oh well, never mind! I showed that floor-scrubbing demon what happens when you turn against me!”

Ari looks over his shoulder, saying nothing, but launching a barrage of protest with his eyes. The small motion hits him with a wave of dizziness. His limbs suddenly feel very tired and ‘floaty.’

“Look, slave!”

Stan frantically gestures towards a dark corner of the basement, just behind the giant pipe. Though his vision feels off kilter, Ari can just make out a chest shaped object hidden back there. On numbing legs, Ari walks over and carefully climbs over the snaking pipe. Sure enough, the chest shaped object is in fact a chest.

“This must be the treasure that the old coot was talking about!”

“You’d think they’d be better about hiding something this important. I mean … this thing isn’t even locked.”

Ari kneels and gingerly lifts the lid, the old hinges whining in protest. The inside first strikes Ari as being overwhelmingly disappointing.

“It’s empty?!”

But a lump in the corner of the chest catches Ari’s weary eye.

“No, take a look at this.”

It’s a dusty, velvet black bag that makes a strange jingle and a glass clacking sound when Ari picks it up. Evil King Stan hovers heavily with treasure hungry anticipation.

“Open it, slave. Open it.”

Curious himself, Ari doesn’t hesitate to slip open the drawstring and reach inside.

“Slave, what is it? What new weapon or power has fallen into my terrible grasp?!”

“A glass tube, and … 14 sukel.”

“… what?”

“I think it’s about 14.” Ari flips the bag upside down to be sure. “Yep, 14 sukel and a glass tube. Why would they keep their spare change in here? It’s not even enough to buy a pound of beef from the butcher.”

“Focus, slave! Is the glass tube magical in some way? M-maybe it’s a piece from some horrible, world shattering device?”

Ari holds it up into the light and looks over it, turning it round to get a view of every angle. He even holds it up to his eye like a telescope.

“Pretty sure it’s just a glass tube.”

The evil king trembles in fury. It builds and builds until the paper-like Stan explodes in a gust whipped frenzy of flailing.

“They’ve tricked me! They will all pay for this! My wrath will know no end, boy!!!”

Ari is frankly too tired to be fazed. As the evil king flaps about, he remembers the valve. Ari feels like the string of a tornado caught kite, but with outraged Stan in tow, he makes his way along the pipe to where the valve sits covered in weeks old cobwebs.

Might as well fix this while we’re down here.

Ari grabs the valve and twists it, reminded immediately of the strange floating gear he accidentally shattered.

I suppose I should ask Stan about that … once he’s calmed down.

The valve gives in and begins turning, though it takes quite a bit of strength on Ari’s part.

Maybe it’s a shadow thing?

As the valve turns, Ari can suddenly hear the sounds of rushing water. And with it, comes a sudden rush of exhaustion.

Oh … oh, I think that did it.

Once Ari releases the valve, he falls to the ground.

“Slave?!” is the last thing he hears as a sweet, restful darkness overwhelms him.

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6 • Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9 • Chapter 10 • Chapter 11 • Chapter 12 • Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15 • Chapter 16 - Finale

NOTE: Okage Shadow King is owned by Sony Computer Entertainment and Zener Works. This novelization is purely a fan-work and the writer claims no ownership over the characters, general plot line(s), etc.

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Madman Chapter 1

Barty Crouch Jr. X reader

Summary: When the dad of your fairly-evil boyfriend doesn’t know how to knock

Word count: 1345

She’d known from the beginning that getting involved with this particular man was probably a bad idea. He’d been . . . odd, to say the least, since their school days, but they’d been close since third year. She’d helped him pass McGonagall's class, and he’d subtly taught her some of the more prohibited aspects of magic. The Dark Arts had fascinated her since she was little, after all. Some would suppose it might have something to do with hearing too many fairy tales about the witches in the woods growing up. Or maybe even blame it on being raised with no-maj tales of ‘evil witches’ that’d really been innocent that’d opened her eyes to how magic wasn’t necessarily good or evil even if it was labeled as such by society.

Either way, most of the school didn’t realize that they were actually friends--and more by the start of their fourth year. They just assumed the duo had an arrangement that was purely business (as far as they knew, the Crouches hired her as a tutor for their troubled son.) Granted, the two liked it that way as it kept people from asking too many questions about why a Gryffindor and a Slytherin were hanging out.

The man had always been a bit manic, but he was loyal to a fault. They were absolutely head-over-heels for each other, and not a single other soul knew about it.

Once the war began, they disagreed on which side was right. Well, disagreeing was a strong word for it. He was on Voldemort’s side and she couldn’t be bothered to care too much either way. As long as he came back to her at the end of it all, she honestly couldn’t find it within herself to give a damn. Her apathy put her in a prime position to spy on Dumbles and his lot, and when her family was slaughtered by no-majes back in Salem, she generally didn’t feel much empathy for the Order’s cause anymore, falling from apathy to siding with her long-time lover. She never committed so far that she was a full-blown Death Eater, but she helped her boyfriend scheme and gather information about what the Order was doing.

Then everything fell apart.

The Dark Lord fell. She would probably always have the sound of Barty’s agonized screams as he clutched the angry-looking Dark Mark echoing in the back of her mind. After that had passed, she simply held him as he panted and recovered from the abrupt, unexpected suffering.

“You okay?” she asked, gazing into brown eyes that were only ever gentle when they looked at her.

“For now yes. I’m not sure it’ll stay that way, though.”

She’d had a sinking feeling since that morning.

There was a knock on the door right before Barty Sr. used his wand to simply waltz into the house and up to the bedroom. Neither the two in the bed nor the father expected there to be three people in the room.

“Bloody hell, what’s going on in here?” Sr. demanded.

Fortunately, Jr.’s left arm was hidden under Y/N’s head; the Mark was safe from his father’s view. “The fuck are you doing in here?!” he demanded, scrambling to cover his less-than-dressed significant other.

“Language, son. You’re the one that needs to explain why you’re consorting with some harlot.”

“Excuse me?” Y/N’s indignance was clear in her voice as she sat up, making sure to keep that telling tattoo tucked away behind her back. “I’ve only been coming around since we were thirteen, you right bastard.”

“Y/N?! How long has this been going on? It’s improper!”

“Get. Out!” Jr. shouted, throwing a pillow at his father. His tongue lashed with agitation like a snake’s.

“Be downstairs in five minutes. Both of you,” the man spluttered as he left.

The couple took one look at each other and fell back laughing.

“Ridiculous,” Barty gasped. “You’d think we were sixteen.”

“Never thought I’d live to see your father of all people barging in on us.” More quietly, Y/N added, “We were damn lucky he didn’t see this,” while moving his left arm around so she could kiss the Mark.

“That we are,” tongue flick. “Come on. We’d best hurry before he decides to come back up.”

Downstairs, Sr. was mentally combing through his son’s friendship with the girl. Looking back, there were signs he should have caught onto. His son was never one to just ‘play,’ but this girl--albeit a girl from a well-to-do family--had come over for years to do just that. Hushed whispers written off as childish games. Secret smiles they didn’t realize he’d seen . . . The list went on and on.

Finally, the two came down. Each looked to be in mismatched pajamas, not in the well-groomed dress they’d each been raised to wear. She looked to be wearing very short shorts and a shirt that practically hung off her curved frame--must be his--while he at least wore a dressing gown and pants even if he hadn’t donned a shirt.

“Hello, Father,” the young man hissed as he plopped down onto the chair. A simple tug on the hand he was holding had Y/N moving to sit on his lap. “What the actual fuck,” tongue flick, “are you doing in my house?”

“That can be discussed shortly. First, we’re going to talk about what the devil is happening between you two. You’re both from high families; you were raised better than to be . . . fraternizing in secret!”

Y/N blinked apathetically at that. “Somehow that doesn’t strike me as any of your business. We’re both well above age.”

“And if bloodlines are your issue, at least I’m not sleeping with some Mudblood,” tongue flick. “As you said, we were both raised better than that.”

“You two are still being improperly cavalier about all this!”

“And you barged into our bedroom!” Y/N raised her voice right back. Unfortunately, her anger caused her to reveal a little more than she intended in that last statement.

Jr. at least noticed that his father caught that little ‘our’ slip. “Besides,” tongue flick. “Who said this was a casual affair in the slightest?” He let his hand slip up the back of her borrowed shirt to rest against her warm skin in an attempt to calm her.

Anger flared in his father’s eyes at that little gesture. “What exactly is going on between you two, then?”

“Like my lady said,” tongue flick, “it’s none of your business. What the hell caused you to barge into my house at seven in the morning is the real question here, Father.”

Sr. decided to temporarily let their illicit relationship slide for the sake of making his son obey his next order. “Karkaroff’s trial is this afternoon. You will attend.”

Jr’s hand slid down to trace small circles on Y/N’s upper thigh. “Why?”

“Because you did nothing to help the war, so you’re going to show your face at the trial. And you’d be wise to look your best.”

Brown eyes rolled. “Whatever you say, Father.”

“It’s at one. Don’t be late.”

“If that’s all, do me a favor and get out,” Y/N’s voice ripped with false sweetness for the first half of the sentence before turning to an animalistic snarl upon reaching the last two words.

“Do not think this discussion is over,” were Sr.’s last words before storming out.

“Bastard,” she swore in his wake, eyes not leaving the place where he’d been standing.

“Relax, love,” Barty soothed, lips pressed against the back of her neck. “Let’s go back to bed for a while.”

“Ooh, I like that idea,” she grinned. “Carry me?”

“Always.” With that, he used that handy little Death Eater trick to turn them both into black smoke wandlessly to whisk her away to the bed. “There we are!” he exclaimed once he had her pinned beneath him. This time, she could see that his tongue was sent flicking by excitement.

“Put that overactive thing to use and kiss me,” she commanded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A/N: First time posting one of these, this’ll be several parts long, depending on how long it takes me to type up what I’ve got. Working on a masterlist to keep everything neat.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

No Such Thing, Part 3

An evil presence sealed every door and window shut. Nobody waking could hear the screams erupting inside the dilapidated old mansion. Even in the eerie quiet that dominated the streets of Crimsonport at this ungodly hour in the early morning, the nearest folk slept in their beds across the cobblestone-covered streets, oblivious to the fate of the two people trapped inside the Hayes residence.

Pàdair’s agonized cries stopped first. Bobby’s shouts, carrying helpless despair, ceased next. Other strange noises and voices echoed through the mansion, making way to silence once more. A thick bank of fog rolled past the wrought iron fences of the mansion with a painful slowness. A huge shadow cast by sheer nothingness crept by the windows inside the haunted house, with no human eyes to witness it.

The cone of a desolate little light pierced the mist, emanating from a gas-lit lantern in Sir Arthur Thompson’s hand. He approached the mansion, though not as alone as he had been when he had left Pàdair and Bobby alone. Mere steps behind him followed two curious figures: a giant of an officer in a constabulary’s coat, complete with helmet and bobby club dangling from his belt; and a smaller figure huddled in a long coat, with a red scarf and a tricorne hat’s shadows concealing any semblance of a face.

They stopped outside the gated fence to Hayes Mansion. The iron hinges creaked as the gate moved under the pressure of a soft gust of wind. The old structure loomed above them. Menacingly.

Arthur hissed into the air, “Pàdair? Bobby?” His breath condensed in tiny little clouds just outside his mouth each time.

Nobody answered. The constable behind him, Todd, cleared his throat and Arthur did not respond to that. Instead, his eyes squinted and his gaze swept over the overgrown garden of the mansion and the darkened, grimy windows of this abandoned home.

“For heaven’s sake, why do they never listen to me?”

The constable and the figure in the tricorne hat exchanged a long stare between them. Eyes, icy enough to make the winter’s own cold shudder, met each other’s gazes.

Behind Arthur’s back, Todd asked the figure in the tricorne hat, “Ghost, you wager?”

Arthur turned and shone his lantern’s light at them. The contrasting shadows revealed a more slender, feminine figure hidden underneath the long coat of the second figure.

“Probably. Though anything is possible,” she replied to the constable in a tired monotone, muted by the red scarf covering the lower half of her face.

Arthur’s brow furrowed and his voice pitched higher when he asked, “Excuse me? Ghosts? I never mentioned—” Darkness overtook his mien as his words cut off. “Please don’t tell me that you, too, believe in such bunk.”

“If they’re inside already, we need to act fast. Iron, salt, any holy crosses will do if you believe in them well enough, I suppose,” mumbled the woman in the tricorne hat, evidently ignoring the knight’s objections.

She walked past him and he stepped into her path, nearly provoking them to bump into each other.

“As my name is Sir Thompson, I am one of the king’s knights and I will not be made a mockery of,” he said, puffing out his chest. “How on earth do you conclude that us following some strange phenomena of this ivory comb here has anything to do with fairy tales such as ghosts?”

With neither a shred of respect nor an ounce of a gentle touch, she pushed past him, prompting him to scoff out loud, and she approached the gate.

“Fairy tales relate to fair folk, which I don’t believe have any business in the city,” she said. “And never forget, sir knight—those stories are supposed to frighten little children and grown men alike because there’s a grain of truth to them.”

“The missus here knows what she is doing,” said Constable Todd to Arthur. “You must forgive her—her, let’s say, criminal—lack of manners.” His lips curled into a sneer as he emphasized the word “criminal” in his speech.

The huntress, Nora Morrissey, gripped one of the rods of wrought iron protruding from the fence in her leather-gloved hands. Then she bent and twisted it until she wrenched a portion of the rod loose. She weighed the object in her hands like a crowbar.

“Right. Move along, Mister Thompson. We’ve got this matter under control,” she muttered.

“Sir Thompson,” Arthur insisted, his cheeks turning red. He then shook the lantern, making Nora’s shadow dance through the untamed garden behind her. “And I will not follow your insipid orders nor will I leave. In the name of king and country, I will not abandon my friends if they are—if they are in there.”

She shrugged and turned, pushing open the gate and wandering through the garden. The constable followed. His hands had been folded behind his back all the way over to Hayes Mansion and now they hung by his side, balled into fists.

Todd patted the bobby club and asked, “Will conventional arms do any good here?”

“I highly doubt it,” Nora replied on the way to the mansion’s front door.

Arthur fumed in silence behind them, flabbergasted and struggling to find the right words to throw at them.

Nora paused just a few steps away from reaching the house’s entrance. Peering over her shoulder back at Arthur and staring him dead in the eyes for the first time, all the heat of anger emerging from his exposed skin turned icy cold.

Unlike her indifferent tone until now, she raised her voice to ask with a sudden spark of fiery determination, “Who sent you that comb?”

Arthur blinked. Realizing he had no answer, he snapped out of it and followed the two people down the meandering narrow path in between the garden’s hedges.

“I do not know, truth be told. It was addressed to Von Brandt. Johnn Von Brandt,” he said after a moment of consideration.

Nora swiveled and took a step into the cone of Arthur’s light, “Come again?”

“Johnn Von Brandt. A man who lived in the house before I acquired it in an auction. Pàdair never mentioned a sender’s name, though.”

The constable asked Nora without turning to face Arthur, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

She turned and continued on towards the front door and the constable followed. Arthur felt an inexplicable rush and onslaught of goosebumps riding down the back of his neck in the uncomfortable silence that ensued. The strange woman and the constable stood in front of the entrance, motionless.

Nora slapped the iron rod against her empty leather-clad palm and finally answered, “Yes. It has to be him.”

Arthur caught up to them and asked, “Him who?”

They ignored his question. Nora pushed the front door open, and together they entered the creepy house with the woman spearheading their advance.

Arthur’s stomach knotted and he took the lantern into his left hand, then drew his holstered flintlock pistol from inside his coat. Constable Todd stopped in his tracks and shot the firearm a disapproving, wordless glance.

“Unless that weapon is loaded with an iron bullet, you might as well put it away, lest you shoot one of us,” the constable growled. “And truly, if you are not ready to open your mind to the possibility of the unnatural, you are of no use to anybody here. Rather a danger.”

“I will have you know that I served in the war in the north, my good man,” Arthur said with a sneer.

“Took you long enough to see the world behind the world,” Nora muttered over her shoulder at Todd. The constable’s stern face drooped into a frown. “Strength in numbers, constable. And, well, if you’re going to stick around, then call out to your friends,” she then said, motioning at Arthur with the iron rod.

They stood inside the mansion with its moth-eaten carpets, rotting curtains, and dusty cloth draped over the furniture everywhere. The three people stood still within the sprawling entry hall, at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the atrium. Wisps of fog snaked about just outside, almost as if they were alive—and apprehensive. The three people slowly turned, looking around themselves and drinking in every strange detail within their environment.

“Pàdair? Bobby? Stop faffing around,” Arthur said with growing fear.

The air inside the mansion bit even harder into Arthur’s skin than it did outside. As if the temperature dropped by the second in here. His skin crawled with an inexplicable tingle spreading throughout his limbs, the knot in his belly region tightened, and he swallowed.

Something watched them. Something invisible.

His mouth opened to say something, but no words followed.

The front door slammed shut behind them. Arthur darted to it and clutched the handle. He shook and rattled at it, but the door refused to open as if its lock had engaged when the door closed. A huge shadow passed by, just outside the stained glass window adorning the front door; causing the knight to gasp and stumble back a few steps.

He bumped into Nora’s back, who gripped the iron bar in both hands like a weapon.

Turning his back to the other two and with his posture turning militant, ready for a struggle, Todd asked with a stiff tension to his words, “What are we dealing with?”

“Don’t know,” Nora answered. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Fabric tore somewhere upstairs. Loudly. Groans echoed through the unhallowed halls, followed by a shriek—at first, sounding like the terrified screech of a human being, but transforming into something inhuman, like metal scraping over metal.

Someone cackled behind a door at ground level. Starting high-pitched, then dropping to a deep, baritone. Something hideous; something demonic.

Whispers of unintelligible words erupted all around Arthur, and he met the wide-eyed gazes of both Constable Todd and Nora.

“What in the blazes are you saying,” Todd said with anger resonating in the words.

“That’s not him,” Nora said, taking a step away from Arthur.

Arthur wanted to ask what in the devil they were going on about until he realized that his lips had been moving the entire time—of their own volition. The whispers poured out of his own mouth. He could not fathom what his lungs expelled, but his throat emitted alien noises and the air condensed in front of him, barely visible in the pale moonlight pouring in through the windows from outside.

He nearly dropped the lantern in his hand and covered his mouth with the other hand holding his pistol. His lips chafed against the back of his hand, whipping up and down as the whispers continued spilling out and warm breath struck cold skin.

Todd asked, “How do we stop—how the hell do we exorcise that?”

Nora produced a tiny silvered object—a symbol of the good god—pulling it out from inside her coat, still attached to a fine chain around her neck. She held it out at Arthur and returned whispers, though her words made sense, albeit it being barely audible. Until they transitioned into a furious shout, “Begone, foul beast!”

Arthur fired a shot, prompting both Todd and Nora to flinch and duck despite it missing anybody by far and hitting the atrium overhead. His fingers cramped up and his heart raced, terror itself clawing at the back of his mind as he realized how he now struggled for control over his own body.

The knight flung the discharged pistol away from himself and staggered past the other two, collapsing into the steps of the stairs. He grabbed at his own throat and choked himself. Or was something else doing it to him?

The lantern clattered out of his hands and fell to the floor as the giant constable and the woman grabbed him by his wrists and pushed him down. She threw something into his face that caused his skin and eyes to burn like fire. Just when he blinked to clear his vision, she splashed his eyes with droplets water and caused him to cringe violently, to the point of temporary blindness.

He thrashed against them, but the weight of the constable alone sufficed to pin him down, painfully pressing the edges of the stairs’ steps into his back. Or the thing inside of him thrashed. One of the few things Arthur could make out was Nora pressing the holy symbol against his forehead and chanting words in something he recognized from his college days as a dead language.

A warm red glow spread all around and Arthur thrashed harder.

Todd shouted something abrupt, “Bloody—”

But before he could finish that exclamation, Arthur threw him off of him in an incredible arc, sending him flying back onto the floor and knocking the wind out of his lungs.

Arthur choked and wanted this to stop, but one of his strong hands shot out and clamped down around Nora’s slender neck, triggering her to emit pained gagging sounds. He hoped she could read his dread and helplessness, trapped behind the windows to his soul.

Instead of the fear or surprise he expected to read in her eyes, he saw only a cold-blooded rage. Then he saw stars, registering the pain of something heavy and iron hitting him in the head with a significant delay. His left temple throbbed and he blinked, tumbling down the steps. Something warm and sticky trickled down from his forehead into his left eye.

Just like that, he regained control over his body. Everything tingled and everything hurt—just like the phantom pains that regularly came back to haunt him about his days back on the misty battlefields, following a stint with crippling injuries. With that, he remembered his long conversations with Pàdair about the war in the north, and then realized that he had come here to rescue his friends.

Rescue? Yes. From something unnatural—from a ghost, no less. Not a single doubt remained in his mind or heart now.

And then he realized that the world around him burned. The carpets had caught fire from the lantern he had dropped; of which the glass had shattered nearby. The flames had spread and grown. As if just seeing this caught him up to reality, he coughed from the smoke, as did Todd. The other two people helped him back up onto his feet.

“We need to put out the fire,” Todd shouted.

“Forget it,” Nora responded with volume to match. “Find the other victims. We let this damned place burned down to the ground.”

Arthur need not be told twice and he charged into the nearest door. It splintered and broke open as he barreled through its frame.

“No,” Nora shouted after him. “Nobody goes separate ways. Stick together.”

Something shattered, a bright and piercing sound. Shards of a vase flew through the air like tiny knives, slicing into the walls like lightning-fast projectiles and cutting into any exposed flesh of the three people, eliciting them to shout in pain.

Todd cried out, “Move!” He pushed from behind them, shoving them down a corridor and out of a room in which all the furniture hovered inches off the ground and slammed into the door just before Todd kicked it shut behind him.

Though her scarf should have helped against the billowing and growing clouds of smoke, Nora coughed multiple times, remarking in between, “Definitely ghosts.”

Arthur seized the initiative and burst through one door after another, ignoring the urge to identify the rooms and their previous purpose, from before the house had been abandoned by the people who once lived in it. He ducked back out from a room just in time for a fireplace poker to ram into the wall near his head—and it burst out the other side, sticking there like a menacing reminder of what could have killed him. It wriggled, as if a ghostly hand tried to pry it loose and lance another attack at him.

They stumbled through the mansion and the cackling returned. Louder, more sinister than ever before.

A woman’s voice—not Nora's—shrieked in what sounded like agony, at first. But as Arthur’s mind processed it, it carried more rage than anything else. The walls trembled with it, thrummed. They throbbed, like pulsating flesh, and seemingly swelled.

“You stabbed her with your pecker all these years, so she should be fine with me stabbing her with these knives,” said the woman in a sudden singing tone, dripping with insanity. The voice dropped several octaves, devolving into monstrous snarls and growls, “Isn’t her skin so pretty as it peels back, layer by layer?”

Todd slapped Arthur in the face, leaving a burning sensation on his cheek. This helped the knight realize that the horrid woman’s voice had escaped his own throat.

The ceiling in the hallway burst apart, raining dust and splinters down on them. Arthur ducked underneath the jagged edge of a wooden board as it shot towards him, then fell to his knees, making the pain from an old injury flare up. When he turned to look behind him and grimaced, his face fell back into the familiar shock he always suffered whenever he saw a compatriot injured on the battlefield—he saw that the wooden board had impaled Constable Todd, pinning the lawman against the wall.

Nora tried to help him get free, but he shouted in agony as the piece of wood had lodged itself deeply into the man’s belly region. Nora turned to Arthur and grabbed him by his shoulders, pulling him in so close that their foreheads nearly touched. A fury still burned in her eyes as she told him with ceaseless conviction, “Find your friends, quickly. I’ve never seen anything like this. We need to get out of here.”

Arthur looked past her at Todd, who gurgled and spat out some blood. He broke the wooden board apart and coughed as he fell onto a knee, gripping his side.

Nora shook Arthur’s shoulders and shouted at him, “Now!”

He shot one more glance at Todd as Nora knelt beside him to help the constable back up. Arthur ran on through the mansion. The cackling and laughter coalesced into a chorus, echoing all around him once he rounded a corner, charging through room after room of this labyrinthine house. If he had not known better, the knight would have begun to think that the place was reshaping itself around them, trapping them inside.

Despite a sheet of smoke spreading along the ceilings throughout the place, the cold never parted. The atmosphere grew more oppressive with each step as he climbed the spiraling staircase of an empty library. He coughed and ghostly piano music resounded from the depths of the mansion, causing the blood to curdle in his veins. Melancholic, sad, and punctuated by screams and wet sounds. Like raw meat slapping against a kitchen counter, and blood invisibly splattering all about.

The growling voice called out to Arthur, “If you like her so much, why don’t you try on her skin for a change, my love?” He heard Nora shouting something down below, a million miles away.

In the hall he arrived in upstairs, a lump formed underneath the carpet a few steps in front of him, like a cancerous tumor growing from the floor. Thick black smoke billowed out from the carpet’s edges.

Arthur shouted in furious anger, stomping on it with a boot and stamping it out, leaving nothing of substance behind. The thing had vanished, as if it had never been there.

When he turned, he stared into Bobby’s eyes and relief overtook him. He had never been so happy to see her. His heart dropped from his chest into his feet from one moment to the next, though. All blood drained from his face when he saw the maggots writhing underneath her pallid, corpse-like skin; and he stared into the cold dead of glazed, dull eyes, all milky-white and devoid of color. Her mouth opened to reveal rotten teeth and a foul breath hit his face, making Arthur flinch.

The very sight paralyzed him. If mere fear, or something far more evil had seized him, he could not tell. Her shambling arms stretched out and clawed at him with feeble strength until deathly fingers curled into the fabric on his shoulders, pulling him closer.

With a voice not her own, Bobby hissed, “You dare kiss your wife with the lips that kissed a whore?” She pulled Arthur in closer and his skin burnt like fire.

Something sliced through this false Bobby, diagonally swiping through her—from a knife that swished through the air. She dissipated like an ephemeral cloud of smoke and in her place stood Pàdair, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, bathed in a sheen of cold sweat, and panting in exhaustion. Despair, disbelief, and fear marked his visage.

He gripped his fierce-looking hunting knife which he had used to cut through the ghostly apparition and stared Arthur in the eyes.

“Arthur? Is that really you?”

The knight blinked and gripped his head, embracing his ability to control his own body once more. He saw Bobby hiding behind the northerner, peering past the tall man’s arm at Arthur. A palpable fear—that must have matched Arthur’s own—contorted her facial features. Pàdair grabbed Arthur by the shoulders and shook him a few times. The warmth from the man’s hands—Arthur could feel it through his coat. He was definitely real. This helped him snap out of any lingering confusion and paralysis.

Arthur breathed, “Yes. Pàdair, Bobby, come! We need to escape this dreadful place!”

Wasting no more words, they did. They fled through the hall—Arthur stepping out of it last, just before it twisted like a kaleidoscope, turning and folding in on itself with a cacophony of cracking and splintering wood. As if the house itself tried to swallow them. The hallway behind them collapsed—or compressed.

From the top of the atrium in the entry hall, Arthur glimpsed Nora helping Constable Todd near the entrance below. She braced him as they limped towards the exit. Fire raged all around them and distorted everything; thick smoke obscured the periphery of what the knight could see, and burned in his lungs.

The demonic laughter gathered in a crescendo all around them, culminating in a strangely human cry, “If I cannot have what I want, then so shall all others suffer like I!” The ceiling above the entrance hall groaned and bent inwards, as if a giant hand pushed down against it, creeping down closer and closer as if to prevent them from using the stairs.

With Bobby at the front, pushed and ushered along by Pàdair’s meaty hand, they stumbled and tripped their way down the stairs from the atrium, just in the nick of time before the ceiling crushed into the uppermost portion of the stairwell. This mansion had turned into the spitting image of hell itself, with its walls ablaze all around them—and brought to life by some unholy, vengeful entity. Carpets peeled themselves off the ground and whipped at them like angry, monstrous tongues.

Near the bottom, the railing Arthur gripped as he followed the others split apart and cut into his hand, slicing his flesh down the length of his forearm and ripping his sleeve open.

To the best of his knowledge, Arthur could not explain any of this way. He perceived not a single clue that could help rationalize anything with scientific explanations.

Ahead of them, catching up to Todd and Nora, he watched the constable collapse onto the floor, reeling and heaving as small pools of blood formed underneath him. Nora threw a small table at the front door, shattering the stained glass window and then beating the door with the table. The door refused to give way and the window was too small for anybody but Bobby’s small frame to fit through. Pàdair joined Nora at the door, and they combined their strength to smash it down, hurling the table together at it one last time before the door cracked apart and exploded outwards.

The fires roared around them. Something followed them.

Arthur screamed in terror as he saw something—simultaneously nothing—an evil presence, like the devil and a host of demons descending upon them. It followed them down the stairs. Walking gingerly, with no worry in the world, for it did not belong in this world. The carpets exploded into fire underneath this invisible entity where black soot took the shape of dainty foot prints. Silhouettes formed in the hot air above them with vaguely humanoid shapes. Embers flitted past where eyes should be.

Millions of hateful eyes.

“You will taste my wrath,” said the woman’s voice through Arthur, prompting him to scream in anger, his only attempt to resist this possession. Arthur knew it to be Ellen Hayes. The ghostly mistress of this mansion, seeking to kill anybody who had stepped foot inside. A chorus of agonized shrieks filled the air and froze the knight into remaining standing still on the spot, despite every fiber in his body screaming at him to move and step outside into safety.

Not even coughing from the suffocating smoke could tear him out of this unnatural trance. What made the difference was a set of strong hands, ripping him away, dragging him outside into the cold wintry air.

Burning bright, every window of the mansion glowed with the fires inside of it. Pàdair pulled Arthur a few steps farther and knight’s life and senses returned. His knees buckled and wobbled, but then obeyed him. He followed right after Pàdair, whose iron grip clutched Arthur’s wrist, and they fled with the others onto the street.

Something powerful gripped at him, nearly made Arthur stop. Like a hand the size of his chest, it held him, pulled back the way they came—towards the blazing fire within the entrance, that all-consuming inferno inside. There and not there at the same time, a figure stood within the door’s frame, glaring at Arthur. Or glaring at all of them, he could not discern the difference. All he knew was that the hatred was as tangible as the heat from the fire.

The five people had crossed the threshold of the fence’s gate, just beyond the overgrown garden. The mansion burned, and something watched them. Something furious. Something deadly.

They had escaped with their lives. Even Todd would recover from his grievous injury—Arthur saw to it that he got the best medical attention he could afford.

After asking Pàdair who had sent that cursed ivory comb and him being unable to answer it because the parcel featured no named sender, Nora disappeared into the night.

The lawman remained rather tight-lipped about the whole affair in the days that followed—though in confidence, he had the three witnesses swear an oath of secrecy, and revealed the existence of a conspiracy that involved black magicks. He urged them to never speak to anybody else about this and said he might call upon them for help again in the near future.

Other authorities never visited Arthur’s residence to question him. Arthur and Bobby eventually visited the strange site where Hayes Mansion had burned down that fateful night.

Staring past the warped iron fence and the scorched earth that used to be the garden, now surrounding the pile of rubble, Bobby wanted to say, “I just don't—there is no such a thing as gh—”

Arthur raised a weary hand to silence her. She never again insisted on denying the existence of ghosts and both of them had an unspoken agreement to curb their skepticism from there on out.

When Arthur met Todd again a few months later, the constable told him in private that an exorcist had cleansed the ruined mansion grounds, ensuring that the angry ghost could never again harm anybody else.

But the vision of that silhouette, standing out against the flames, watching them as they retreated from it—it haunted Arthur’s nightmares ever since. He woke up almost every night, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. The room always felt colder than it should. The whispers from those nightmares, the voices—he could have sworn they came from his lips upon rousing from his restless slumber.

That, however, was not what disturbed him the most.

Whenever he awoke thus, he coughed up a puff of thick black smoke.

—Submitted by Wratts

[kneesheee]

Little Devil

Warnings: vague mentions of child abuse| talks of death| talks of pregnancy| politics| vague mentions of sickness| other warnings to be added

|seven|

Batman was compromised. He could feel the emotions of Bruce seeping into him and he didn’t like it. And like most things, the problem stemmed from Talia. The Arabian princess was currently resting in Jason’s old room as she recovered from aging overnight. She took her “niece” with her.

He was already piling a file together on the young heiress. There was no telling what she would do, and he didn’t know much about her. He observed as much as he could, but she seemed to watch him more than he watched her.

It was unnerving.

It was as if she was playing some game with him and his children. And that code word she used on him. He will need to find this “system” she spoke of and neutralize it. He couldn’t afford for any of his enemies to use it against him.

He turned his gaze back to his computer and watched the cameras. He could feel his fists clenching as he watched the family prance around Talia. An almost recognizable emotion boiled inside of him whenever he saw the gentle way, she ran her hand through Jason’s hair. How his son leaned into her and the bright smile he gave that was unburdened with bitterness and anger.

He only got a small satisfaction out of watching how Talia had to learn what he already knew about Damian. And yet it still pale in comparison at how at ease he was with his mother. As if he knew just speaking with her would solve his problems. Did the boy forget how she let him be raised? As a soldier! As a murderer!

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It was appalling. What did this wicked woman have that he did not? How could his sons forget all the love he had for them and give it to her? She was evil! She didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as them.

And yet she was.

She looked comfortable doing pushups with Damian sitting on her back as he recounted a tale about one of his missions with Jon. She was approving and complimented him on his friendship. A Kryptonian? A good choice.

Her niece. Jamila Al Ghul. He had never heard of her until Jason brought her up and yet she seemed to age backwards as she sat cross-legged on Jason’s bed sporting a soft smile. Talia had fussed over her greatly as soon she was on her feet. There was a story there and he will find out what it was. It didn’t help matters with the guilty looks the two gave Jason whenever his attention was diverted elsewhere.

He didn’t to save his sons for her clutches but how could he save them when he was the villain in the story?

He just knew that when everything was over. Talia would take them from him.

Batman was compromised and it was all that devil of a woman’s fault.

--

Jamila was nervous as she sat in the chair of Jason’s office. Her aunt had convinced her that she should tell Jason why he was named the Heir. She didn’t necessarily like it, but she could understand. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths. She had nothing to worry about.

Her aunt was currently at the Batcave arguing with the others over the plan to get inside of the compound. She had already contacted Lady Shiva and Ubu. Plan 88c was being used by the workers at the compound. And their esteemed dimension guests were hiding them and informing them of what was going on.

Her aunt wanted to include them in the cover but then Jamila reminded her of how Batman was an asshole and she refused to let him anywhere near them. Talia agreed, of course.

They would be leaving for the compound soon. Aunt Talia trained nonstop to get herself back in shape, but it’d be another month before she back to her full capacity. Jamila ran a hand through her hair. Once they settled things with her mother, she was going to stay with the League for a little while longer. She had been away from her home for too long.

She almost jumped out of her skin when Jason walked through the door. He looked at her in worry and quickly crossed the room. He had her cuddled up in his arms before she could even blink.

“What’s wrong, Jami?

Jamila almost flinched at the long-forgotten nickname. It made her feel guilty for keeping such a secret an even though it wasn’t bad per say… she and Jason didn’t really keep secrets between the two of them. And this would be two major secrets… well no, this would be three.

One would be the fact that she had died nearly a year and half ago. The single strip of cotton colored hair was proof of her descent into the waters of the Lazarus Pits. Her connection to the Lazarus demon was stronger than ever. Probably the strongest in record of their family especially since the death of Ra and taking on his inner demon.

And now these two secrets that are so intertwined that one doesn’t know where it begins and where it ends. She, the Jamila Al Ghul, had been bested by her own body. She couldn’t even be the Heiress anymore. Bah, she hated politics and the ruling of the clans that made up the Nanda Parbat.

She detangles herself from her cousin and sat up straight. She wiped her face to get rid of any traces of tears. Straightening out her clothes, it was as if a switched was flipped inside of her.

Jamila sat forward like the regal being that she was. She folded her hands in her lap. “Jason, I have something to tell you regarding the clan.”

He looked at her curiously before nodding his head at her. He relaxed in his own seat and tilted his head to her in an almost bored manner. He doubted it was anything that could really knock him off his feet. Not like being secretly named the heir.

“Well first off, I’m technically the reason you’re the heir to the title.”

“…”

Jason could only stare.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, “And how is that?”

Jamila shot him a carefree smile, “Well, when I told you all that I was the rightful heir, I wasn’t lying. And it has nothing to do with my brother.”

She turned her gaze to look at the picture of Jason and her aunt that he had on his desk. “I’m currently the eldest biological grandchild of Ra Al Ghul. Damian relinquished his title as heir when he turned his back on our family. Grandfather hadn’t chosen a successor when he died so the title fell to Mistress Talia as the only legitimate child to take on the position. Mother and Uncle Dusan had been exiled.”

She hated talking politics. It just added on to the reasons of her being glad to no longer be heiress. “The Mistress needed to name an heir. My brother was too far removed and could not take it on. He left the clan willingly and with Mother exiled, it only added on more reasons why. Damian renounced the title and the council didn’t want to treat him for the disrespect. He was just jumped to the end of the succession line. “

Jason nodded his head seriously, “That only left you, me, and Anastasia.”

She nodded her head once, “The council was afraid that if Anastasia ended up in her father’s presence anytime soon, he would poison her mind and turn her against our home. She has done well for herself despite being only thirteen. She had her first kill almost a year ago. I was so proud. A servant of the Zoldyck clan stepped out of line and she went in to put an end to them.”

Jamila smiled serenely, “It was one of my newest poisons. I had just brewed a new batch and I hadn’t even thought of an antidote. It was lethal and fatality rate was at eighty-seven percent. She stole it from me, and I didn’t even notice! A small tick was all that was needed to get it in his bloodstream. He had been dead in mere minutes, but the compounds of the potions made the made feel as if he had been poisoned for days. Its one of my favorites.”

Jason thought that neither of them should feel so proud over small children murdering, but they had long since desensitize themselves to such petty things. Though he is not too proud to admit that he was glad that Damian no longer killed or that Anastasia had waited so long in life before her first kill.

Jamila shook her head slowly, “Either way, the council had not wanted Anastasia as the heiress until they could be sure of her loyalty with no setbacks. And that left me and you.”

It was as if a weight had settled onto her shoulders, “I had been instantly named heir. The last biological grandchild of Ra Al Ghul. I have full control over Lazarus. Skilled in every which and way. My alias brought fear into my enemies’ heart. I was perfect. I grew up in the compound. I grew up in Nanda Parbat. The perfect choice.”

Jason’s brows furrowed, “So how did I end up becoming the heir?”

Jamila’s jaw clenched.

“I relinquished my title. Not because I just didn’t want to be the heiress, but the way that clan was structure would’ve made it impossible for me to do so anyway.”

Her cousin rose a brow before she took a deep breath. She removed the hair tie on wrist and instantly her appearance change. The henged dropped. Her hair grew longer down her back. Her ankles swollen to an uncomfortable portion. Her skin seemed glow and look deathly pale at the same time.

Jason was frozen in shock as he looked her. He read the laws of the league. Hell, Talia made him take classes in law, philosophy, psychology and business. He knew exactly why she couldn’t be the heir any longer.

“I’m pregnant.”

--

Kyle was a detective. Not in the way that the Bats were or even the Arrows. But he was a space cop and he was good at his job. One of the most important lessons that he learned was that when shit went wrong… blame Hal.

And boy, he is blaming all of this on Hal.

He hadn’t even been gone from Earth long. But he comes back to find out that his slightly trigger happy sometime-boyfriend’s foster mother had been turned into a baby. His knife wielding cousin looked like she wanted to simultaneously give him a hug and gut him like a fish before skinning him like snake.

Then there’s also the fact that his best friend Connor had been kidnapped by his batshit crazy mother. (And Kyle had been there for many nights of listening to Connor cry and scream thinking that the crazy lady was coming for him).

Did he mention that the scary cousin was also Connor’s sister? But that’s not even the kicker…

He ended up watching as the badass ninja-assassin mom take part in some ritual with his constructs keeping the weird potion (I don’t deal with potions, kid!) that Constantine cooked up inside with her. It had been the longest three days of his life listening to the woman scream and thrash on the medical table.

It had taken the combine strength of Kori and Artemis to keep Jason down and from attempting to get to Talia. Even Bizarro had to deal with the enraged form of Jason’s cousin as her green eyes seemed glow with rage as she struggles against him.

It was heart wrenching watching the two of them shake and tremble as they tried to desperately reach for the Matriarch of their clan. (He could remember the whispers of secrets Jason would tell him about how he didn’t feel like a Wayne. How he felt more of a demon than a bat. (he would whisper back that he loved him all the same))

Soon the two of them seemed to overpower everyone just by their mere presence alone. The two of them had been carted off to the Outlaws hangout often. Roy had taken charge of the two and locked them in a training room.

It had been ruthless to see them attack each other and with all the intention to kill and only just shortly missing their marks. Red and green eyes seemed to bore into each other. Whenever Kyle managed to find sleep in between Talia’s haunting screams and murderous growls of cousins he swore he saw two spirts dancing over the heads of the cousins laughing at him. They seemed to grow stronger every day.

It hurt him to do so but he forced himself to leave the warehouse at almost every hour. He always ended up back by the woman whose vocal cords should have long went out. And yet her screaming never seemed to end.

Kyle was kind enough to pretend he didn’t see Batman handcuffing himself to his own chair and nervousness that seemed to run through the man. He pretended he didn’t see the look of pain and regret mixed with slight approval in Dick’s face. And he definitely didn’t see the affectionately dubbed demon baby crying silently as he watched his mother thrash on around.

He wasn’t a religious person, but he thanked all the gods he knew from all the worlds he had visited for the day the woman stopped screaming and woke up.

Kyle didn’t know how but he was sure that it was somehow Hal’s fault.

--

Talia sipped her tea as she watched everyone go over the last of the most acceptable plan to enter the Nanda Parbat and the Al Ghul compound. It would’ve been done with quicker, but her idiotic ex-lover had the audacity to think that she would give him a detailed outline of her home.

It was times like those that made her question what she had seen him so long ago.

She had already taken stock of some of the weapons that Jason brought. There were adequate and she made the mental note to buy him better ones. No child of hers was going to be walking around with such meager weapons.

Talia had dressed in one of the outfits that her darling niece managed to get for her from one of the Leagues stashes stationed around the city. She made another mental note to have them updated as the jumpsuit she was currently wearing was just a tad bit too little. Not enough to cause her problems but enough to irritate her.

She flickered her eyes over to her niece that was practicing some of her katas. She could tell easily from her posture that she was slipping herself into battle mode. Her hair had been pulled into an elaborate braid with senbons and small pocketknives. Her mask covered her face and the glow of her eyes could been seen through it.

From the way Jason worriedly glance at her, she knew that Jamila had told him over her condition beforehand. And yet, a simple band of interdimensional technology and medicine kept her true appearance from showing.

Her son had already come to her nearly five times now to find a way to keep her out of the fight. But she knew how stubborn her niece was. She was going to join in the raid of taking down her mother or she’d just take everyone down that stood in her way.

She made another mental note to drag her niece to the medical teams after everything was finished. And another note to take her off the roster for missions until after the child was born and she was recovered.

Talia glanced worriedly down at her tea. Looking at her niece and her children only made her more worried for her own daughter. She hoped Anastasia was safe and far away from Nyssa. She would make her sister beg for death if her baby girl had been harmed in anyway.

A small tap on her shoulder had her looking up to see the space cop smiling lightly at her. She wondered if he knew that she knew about the relations that he was having with her son. Or that she knew that the two of them pretended to only be around each other for having mutual acquaintances.

He was holding onto a travel bag, “Everything’s set and ready. We leave in three minutes.”

She hummed lightly and accepted the bag from him, “Thank you, Kyle.” The answering smile made her wondered how irritated her son would be if she took in another child.

Probably exasperated. She wasn’t Bruce.

--

“Mistress, we’ve just received word that the Batman and the Green Arrow are arriving with their entourage. Reports have stated seeing a woman that looked like Madam Talia.”

“Dismissed.”

Her eyes sparked with rage as she looked out at Nanda Parbat from her father’s throne. They had managed to reverse her dearest sister’s transformation. No matter. Nyssa was currently the Demon Head and she had already presented her son as her heir.

There was no way for her sister to change anything she had already won. And she couldn’t wait to rub it in her face.

“Come, oneechan. Let us prove which of us is the better daughter once and for all.”

[sweetpeaismybae]

“Who the hell are you?” || Sweet Pea x reader

“Could you please do an imagine where the reader is jugheads old friend and she goes to jughead for a place to stay and both sweet pea and Toni are there too and the reader bonds with the two of them and sweet pea takes a liking to her”

From @thejilypage

----> Part 2 <----

A/N: First request, whoop, whoop!!! So excited to write this one!! Let me know if you like it, want a part 2, etc.

Words: 1.5k

Warnings: a little swearing

You had always known your family was a bit whack, but it wasn’t until they kicked you out you finally realized how much was wrong with your “perfect little Northside family.” Your mother had always pushed you to be perfect and fit into her family image, and try as you might, you felt like you couldn’t ever please her. But you had never, NEVER, expected to be thrown out onto the street like an abandoned puppy the moment you set your foot too far out of line.

You hadn’t even done anything that bad, not really. Sure, maybe letting Ronnie convince you to go to that party hadn’t been the best of ideas, but one night of fun wouldn’t kill you. Well, the moment your mother caught wind of that you had gone to a party and taken some JJ, she snapped. You shuddered just thinking about it, clutching your soaked sweater tightly around you. After being quite literally tossed out of your own home with nothing but the clothes on your back and your phone in your pocket, you had wandered around aimlessly for what felt like hours, trying to absorb what had just happened. After who knows how long, long enough for the sky to have darkened to twilight, the sky opened up and managed to soak you through before you could duck under a roof.

Which lead you to now, seated on the doorstep of a long-abandoned storefront, trying to retain some inkling of heat. In your wanderings, you managed to find yourself in the Southside, a place you had been told harbored evil, sin, and danger for as long as you could remember. If your mother knew where you were..

You shook your head, dispelling any thoughts of the devil you called “Mom.” With a sigh, you pulled out your phone, scrolling aimlessly through your contacts, still unsure of what you should do. You had no idea how long it might be until your mom was willing to make amends, and even then you had no idea if you even wanted to go back to that hell-hole. You scrolled past several names, Archie, Betty, Kevin, Veronica, but none of them seemed plausible options.

“Shit!” you suddenly muttered under your breath. You only had 1% left of your battery, barley enough to make a single phone call. Now urgent, you quickly scrolled passed all the names on the screen until you came to a number you hadn’t used in a while, at least since he transferred to Southside High. You knew he lived in a trailer in the trailer park, only a few minutes’ walk from where you were. Despite having been told of the evils of the Southside, you had still paid a few visits to your old friend without your family knowing, so you knew the area relatively well. As you went to press Jughead’s contact, your phone screen sputtered and turned black.

You were too exhausted to even mutter a curse as the phone failed to come back to life. With a sigh, you turned in the direction of the trailer park, which you could see from where you stood. It looked like Jughead was going to have an unexpected visitor that night.

A few minutes later, you were stood by Jughead’s trailer, trying to muster up the courage to knock. Finally, when the rain began to start up again, you simply swallowed your pride and rapped your knuckles on the door. A few moments passed, enough for you to worry that he wasn’t home, when the door to the trailer flew open, but you were suprised to see someone who was most definitely NOT Jughead standing on the other side.

“Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?” the tall boy snarled, but you were too shocked to reply.

He was cute. Like, insanely cute. Like, hands-down beautiful. His tall, muscular build towered in the doorway, nearly casting a shadow across you. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt with a leather jacket thrown over it, a snake tattoo on his neck, marking him as a Serpent. His hair fell in black locks, framing his face and looking perfectly and effortlessly messy. By far however, his best feature was his eyes. They were a dark, rich chocolatey brown, the kind you could get lost in for hours.

Serpents were yet another thing you had been warned to stay away, but you felt instantly drawn to this one as he continued glaring at you while you stared, still having yet to say a word.

“Y/N?” You heard Jughead’s voice and glanced over the tall Serpent’s shoulder to see two figures behind him. One was Jughead, same as you remembered, still wearing that stupid hat of his, and the other was a pink-haired girl you had never seen before. She was also clad in the classic Serpent jacket.

Realizing you still hadn’t said a word and were standing in the rain, you quickly looked over at Jughead. “Jug, I need your help. My mom kicked me out and…and I just need a place to stay. I know this seems out of the blue, but I just...” you trailed off, not wanting to seem too desperate.

“You know this Northside princess?” Mr. Hottie piped up, now adressing Jug. “Yeah, yeah, she’s an old friend.” Jughead answered. “Look, Y/N, just come inside and I’ll see if I can help,” he said turning to you. He sighed and beckoned you inside, and for a moment you felt guilty, as it seemed he already had a lot on his mind.

When you got inside, Jughead quickly. introduced you to his friends. “Y/N, this is Sweet Pea and Toni. Toni, Sweet Pea, Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, any friend of Jug’s is a friend of mine.” Toni greeted with a smile. You smiled tentatively back, still weary of Serpents, even though they were Jughead’s friends. It’s a pleasure, princess,” the boy you now knew as Sweet Pea responded, smirking and voice dripping with sarcasm. Usually, you would have been annoyed if someone treated you the way Sweet Pea was, but somehow you just felt more attracted to him.

You ended up pretty much forgetting about your family situation as you lost yourself in conversation with Toni, SP, and Jughead. You and Toni pretty much instantly connected over your mutual friendship with Jug, teasing him about his behavior and habits. “...and he’s ALWAYS wearing that beanie of his!” Toni exclaimed. You laughed along with her, giving Jughead a playful kiss on the cheek as he glared daggers at you and Toni. You glanced over at Sweet Pea, who was staring at you with an odd look on his face, something akin to- jealousy?

However, despite your connection with Toni, you found yourself even more drawn to Sweet Pea as the evening dragged on. He flirted incessantly with you, taking every available opportunity to call you “princess,” especially after the incident with Jughead. Toni even pulled you aside at one point and divulged that Sweet Pea almost never acted like “this,” though you weren’t exactly sure what “this” was. Anyway, you felt that maybe whatever was going on with you and Sweet Pea maybe wasn’t just one-sided.

It was late at night when both Toni and Sweet Pea said they needed to be heading home. You felt sad as you said your goodbyes to them. Even though you had only been chatting for a few hours, you felt more connected to them than you had ever felt with any of your friends at Riverdale High. Toni waved goodbye to you, and you went to say goodbye to SP before he grabbed hold of your hand and kissed the back of it. You felt a shiver go down your spine and a blush rise to your cheeks as he muttered “Goodnight, princess.” He then promptly closed the door behind him without another word, leaving you flustered and dumbfounded.

You stayed up for a little while longer just talking with Jughead, catching up with what had been going on in his life. However, your mind wasn’t fully there, caught up with certain Serpent and playing the moment where he kissed your hand over and over again on repeat. You kept trying decifer all his actions, from the kiss to every smirk or wink he had thrown your way. Eventually, the two of you decided Jug would let you crash on the couch for the next few nights until you could work out your next steps.

That night, you fell asleep with only one person in mind, not even realizing you had the back of your hand he kissed cradled against your chest.

----> PART 2 <----

[dargeereads]

The Proposal Kitty Thomas Publication date: October 14th 2020 Genres: Adult, Dark Romance, Romance

I got in over my head.

I bit off more than I could chew.

And now my fate is sealed to the most ruthless man I know.

Two hundred and fifty guests. They think they know what’s happening today. But they don’t have a clue.

My wedding day. But it’s so much more than that.

NOTE: This is a standalone contemporary dark romance with NO cliffhanger!

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play

—

CHAPTER ONE:

I stand at the back of the enormous church. The stained glass windows mute the over bright sun outside on this unassuming summer Saturday at half past four. The string quartet begins to play Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Two hundred and fifty guests stand. I take a deep breath and walk down the aisle clutching the bouquet of pale pink roses which hide my shaking hands. I’m wearing a stunning white Valentino gown which I’m convinced has seven thousand buttons down the back. It’s a true white, but it’s a soft, elegant white.

You don’t realize the variety of white until you shop for your wedding gown. The color palette of white goes all the way from the harsh tacky bright white of office supply copy paper to off-white, into beige and blush barely-there pinks and lavender. Occasionally there is the most subtle mint green which you are sure must be a trick of the light.

And even though they aren’t all really the same color, lined up on the racks they seem like they all belong together. Like family. I’d considered going a little less traditional with a pale lavender or pink gown, or even that daring pale fairy green, but in the end I went with tradition—anything else feels like half measures with a man who doesn’t know the meaning of that word.

I chose to walk down the aisle by myself. I’ve never liked the idea of giving the bride away or what it represents. Besides, I don’t want to bring my father into this; it feels wrong. He’s here, on my side with the rest of my family and friends who admittedly take up a much smaller portion of the guest count than the groom’s side and business associates. His business associates are seated on my side, so everything looks more even and normal for the pictures.

I am twenty-nine, and to everyone here my story is the story of Disney Princesses—the story every seven-year-old girl fantasizes about until she’s long grown out of such fantasies. But I’m not walking down this aisle to my prince. I’m walking down this aisle to the most ruthless man I know.

I feel as though I’m being kidnapped in the middle of a crowded room, but I can’t scream. It’s like a dream where everyone acts as though everything is fine even though an evil killer clown is sawing my hand off. But still, everyone smiles politely and makes small talk—or in this case, everyone stands and murmurs complimentary things they don’t think I can hear as I drift down the aisle like a fairy tale princess.

They think this is the part of the story where the princess gets the prince, where they get married and live happily ever after. But this is the part where she gets locked in the tower.

When I reach the altar, he takes my hand in his, helping me up the two small steps to stand in front of him. The collective sitting of two hundred and fifty people is the last thing I consciously hear as his intense, searing gaze holds mine hostage. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand, and I don’t even know anymore if the gesture is meant to comfort or control me.

We stand there, staring at each other. Words fall over me like gentle rain. Vows are spoken. Rings are exchanged. The announcement that we are now husband and wife moves through the air like a cool breeze.

His hand snakes behind my neck pulling me possessively toward him as he claims my mouth as his property. Later he will claim everything else.

I’ve never had sex with this man. I’m not an innocent. I’m not a virgin, but right now I feel like one—off balance and unsure of what’s in store for me behind the closed doors of our suite in only a few short hours. I want to run as far and as fast as I can, but I know he would catch me. Right now the reception is the only thing that buffers me from his dark intentions.

We take what feels like a thousand wedding photos, each one more intimate and romantic than the last. His hands and mouth suddenly feel foreign on me as though he’s a stranger and not a man I’ve been seeing for the past year. The reception is being held at a swank nearby 5-star hotel called The Fremont, where we’ll spend the night before taking his jet to our honeymoon in Costa Rica. Our jet. Is it our jet now? Or am I merely an indefinite extra on his stage? I’m not really sure anymore.

We don’t speak during the limo ride to the reception. I don’t know what to say to him. Suddenly, for the first time ever, I have no words. All I can think about is what will happen later when there are no longer hordes of unassuming guests to protect me from his attentions. I feel more and more uncertain about this devil’s bargain I’ve made—like I ever had a choice.

He would have destroyed me. At least this way there is a veneer of love and respectability. At least this way it looks like he is giving me the world instead of taking it all away.

I glance up to find his triumphant gaze locked on mine. It scares me as much as it thrills me, and then his thumb is stroking the back of my hand again. I find the courage to speak, but the words fly out of my mind as soon as they appear as the limo comes to a stop in front of the hotel.

The door is opened for us and my husband guides me out, helping me so that my dress doesn’t get dirty. Husband. That word feels so strange to me. So wrong and somehow scandalous. This can’t be real.

His grip on my hand tightens as he leads me up the stairs and through the hotel lobby back to where our reception is starting. The guests are already seated and being served their dinner. We’re led to our own private table at the front of everything. Some people come by and talk to him. He’s so polite to everyone, so normal, so different from the man I’ve come to know.

As we eat, silverware clinks against glasses, and each time we kiss as expected. Before the first dance, he rises from his chair, takes the microphone that is handed to him, and addresses our crowd of guests. And he is so charming. So smooth. The perfect beautiful lie.

“Livia and I would like to thank you all so much for coming to share this special day with us and supporting us as we start our life together. Don’t get too creeped out, but I filmed the proposal. If she’d said no, I would have burned the evidence.”

Obligatory laughter. He continues.

“But it occurred to me that probably many women wish they had a video of the proposal. And so now she does. With Livia’s permission I’d like to share that video with you now.”

Our guests are very excited about this prospect. No one knew they’d be seeing this. A large projector is rolled out along with a screen and a few minutes later a video begins to play.

He and I are on his boat in the middle of the ocean. I’m lying in the sun in a red bikini and oversized dark sunglasses. He approaches with a wrapped gift. It’s large—about the size of a Labrador puppy.

“Livia, I have something for you.”

My eyes light up on the screen. “A present? Is it a pony?”

He chuckles. “Not a pony.”

“A Ferrari?”

“Nope.”

Our guests laugh at my antics, their anticipation growing, knowing somehow inside that giant box is a ring.

“Open it,” he says.

I dutifully open it, only to find another gift wrapped box, then another, then another as I go through about five boxes, each time the gift getting smaller and smaller.

“Is it an empty box?”

He chuckles again. “No. There’s something in there.”

I open the final box to find a blue box. Yes, that blue box. A box from Tiffany in just the right size. The me on the video screen looks up at him and says playfully, “Is it a clown pin?”

He laughs again. “No.”

I open it and start to cry when I see the ring.

He gets down on one knee and says, “Livia Fairchild, will you be my person?”

I’m blubbering and crying and say, “Yes, I will be your person.” We kiss. He puts the ring on me. It’s all so perfect.

Our guests say a collective, “Awwww” as the screen goes black. Then they’re back to clinking their silverware against their glasses, and he leans over and kisses me again.

Before he pulls away, his mouth brushes my ear. “Time’s up. You’re mine tonight.” His words are a growl so different from the version of himself that everyone else in this ballroom sees. It’s jarring the way he can go from this charming facade to something so dark and menacing in an eye blink—the way he can transform only feet from our guests. Yet only I can see the monster. Everyone else sees the man.

I swallow hard at this proclamation and twist the wedding band on my finger. There are three words engraved on the inside of the band. Those three words seal my fate.

The rest of the reception goes by in a blur. The first dance. The dances with the parents. The cake. The bouquet. The garter. All the well wishes that come from guests as they each take turns wishing us a long and happy marriage. We go through a tunnel of sparklers created by our guests, riding off in the limo with the just married sign on the back and the cans dragging along the road behind us, only to circle back into the parking garage so we can go up to our suite for the night.

My hand is trembling as he takes it in his, leading me back inside the hotel and up the elevator to our room. He carries me over the threshold. Inside are candles and champagne and fancy chocolate and rose petals everywhere.

Two men in tuxedos step out of the shadows, looking me up and down with an appreciative once-over.

“It’s about time,” one of them says.

My husband guides me over to the other two men, and then all three of them are touching me.

The words inscribed on the inside of my wedding band are their names: Griffin. Dayne. Soren.

Author Bio:

KITTY THOMAS writes dark stories that play with power and have unconventional HEAs. She began publishing in early 2010 with her bestselling COMFORT FOOD and is considered one of the original authors of the dark romance subgenre.

To find out FIRST when a new book comes out, subscribe to Kitty's New Release List: KITTYTHOMAS.COM

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[everlark-your-own-adventure]

Mockingjay Manor - Ch 8

Chapter One /// Chapter Two /// Chapter Three /// Chapter Four /// Chapter Five /// Chapter Six /// Chapter Seven

It’s Tuesday everlarkers, and that means it’s time to visit Mockingjay Manor again! Last week’s action-packed installment gave us some much-needed smut, but also found our foursome reduced to a trio and under attack on two fronts. You voted for Katniss to shoot the nefarious Dr. Snow and SAVE HER MAN! What happens now? Let’s check in with @xerxia31 to find out….

This chapter is rated M for canon-typical violence and lots of bad language.

As always, you have 48 hours, until noon EDT on Thursday, October 19th, to cast you votes in the notes or reblogs, not in the tags!!!

I’ve been shooting a recurve bow since I was barely tall enough to hold it, but a crossbow is a different animal, and this one is larger and more powerful than any I’ve ever shot before. Military-grade, in all likelihood. Deadly accurate in the right hands.

Mine are not those hands, not with this bow anyway. Not with my heart pounding like a jackhammer. Not with the wildly flickering lantern light, and with Finnick and some sort of deranged wolf-mutt screaming just feet away. But what choice do I have? I can’t let that madman drag Peeta away.

There’s no time to think. I lift the heavy crossbow with shaky hands, and aim. Snow is using Peeta’s much larger body as a shield, practically laughing at me from behind the semi-conscious form of the man I love. I take a deep breath, settle my body into the correct archer’s stance, and try to block out the chaos all around me. I can’t afford to miss my mark. Peeta’s life depends on it.

Snow has a single red rose in the lapel of the white jacket he’s wearing, I catch glimpses of it each time Peeta sways to the left. It’s what I hone in on as I gently squeeze the trigger.

And then Finnick and the wolf-mutt careen into me, slamming me into the wall, knocking me off balance.

The clattering cacophony of crystals crashing into each other is my first clue that the arrow has missed. I glance up from where I’ve landed on my knees on the carpet to see the chandelier swaying wildly overhead, one of the chains that secure it to the ceiling having been neatly severed by the erstwhile arrow. My heart sinks.

Snow starts laughing, an awful, gurgling cackle. I turn my gaze to him. He’s released Peeta, who now lies slumped and still on the carpet. Snow’s bent over, blood dribbles down his face, a Rorschach blot on his pasty-white cheek. The syringe full of Devil’s Breath I’d jury-rigged to my arrow - the one I’d intended to fire at the mutt - has somehow detached and pierced the old man right through the eye. I shudder in horror and revulsion.

He meets my stare with his one good eye, that single beady snake-like eye searing into my own, silently judging. Then the eye flickers shut and he falls to the ground.

Behind me, Finnick is frantically calling my name. The mutt has him pinned, only his strong legs braced against the creature’s chest keep the evil beast from reaching Finnick’s jugular. I heft the crossbow into my arms again and load another arrow. It strikes the creature between the shoulder blades, but it barely seems to even notice.

Several of Finnick’s and my earlier arrows stick out of the mutt like porcupine quills, I don’t know what kind of genetic engineering is at play but I’m starting to think it’s indestructible. It glares at me over its shoulder as I nock another arrow, those creepy jewel-green eyes almost sentient. I don’t even think twice, aiming the bow right at a green orb. This time, my shot is true, and finally the thing, whatever it is, collapses, landing on Finnick’s prone form.

With both Snow and the beast dispatched, I’m momentarily paralysed by indecision. Finnick, to my right, is under the mutt, only his face visible. Peeta, across the room, is completely soundless, body twisted onto itself. They’re both unnaturally still. “Finnick?” I whisper, barely audible over the blood thrumming in my ears.

His eyes flutter open. “I’m okay,” he says, his normally jovial expression stoic and serious.

Reassured, I dart across the room and drop my weapon on the carpet as I fling myself at my boyfriend. “Peeta?” I say softly. I brush the damp blond strands of hair back from his forehead, find the pulse drumming against my fingers at his neck. Sigh in relief. He’s alive.

His lashes flutter open and his eyes meet mine, unfocused. The pupils are blown wide, black pools swallowing all but the thinnest ring of summer blue. His features register confusion, disbelief and something more intense that I can't quite place. As if in slow motion, he lifts his arms, reaching for me, to caress my face, I think.

My lips are just forming his name when his fingers - those long, artist’s fingers I’ve loved since we were just children - lock around my throat.

I try to yell his name, but all that comes out is the consonant, followed by a squeak. He’s not squeezing as hard as I know he’s capable of, but he’s not joking either and I can’t breathe. I grapple with his arms, trying to pull him away. Claw at the rock-hard muscle, panicked and afraid as he stares at me, unblinking. I manage to dislodge his thumbs enough to suck in a lungful of precious oxygen. “Peeta!” I wheeze, and recognition flickers in his eyes.

His hands loosen, just a little, and he whispers my name, as if he’s not certain I’m real. His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. An expression of pure horror crosses his face as he takes in our positions, his hands on my neck, my shuddering gasps, and lightning fast he releases me, scrambling backwards until his back hits the wall.

The madness of our situation fades into the background as we stare at each other, uncertainty and apprehension thick between us. I regret coming to this house of horrors, regret every decision I’ve made since the reading of Haymitch’s will. No amount of money is worth having Peeta look at me like this.

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder and I scream, my elbow instinctively flying backwards, connecting with soft flesh. “Dammit, Katniss,” Finnick yelps, doubled over and clutching his stomach. Peeta cowers, flattening himself even more against the wall.

“Shit, Finnick, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I bark. Finnick opens his mouth, no doubt to deliver a snappy comeback, but then he catches sight of my throat, where I can still feel the impressions of Peeta’s fingertips. He glances over at Peeta, maybe evaluating the potential risk, but the way his expression softens at the image of Peeta trembling in fear tells me that he knows this particular danger is no more.

“What happened?” he mumbles, crawling closer until he’s kneeling right in front of Peeta, who flinches, as if he doesn’t even recognize one of his oldest friends.

“Snow shot him full of something. The Devil’s Breath, I think. A whole syringe full.” My voice breaks and fear claws at my stomach. “I think Madge used all of the antidote on you and Jo.” Used it saving their lives. I shudder, thinking about what Madge said about their hearts possibly stopping, like her aunt’s had. Like my uncle’s had. But Peeta is conscious, surely that means he’s going to be okay?

“The stuff that was in those freaky wasp’s stings?” Finnick asks, and I nod. His lips form a silent O. “That shit made me hallucinate pretty badly, see all kinds of awful things I’d have sworn were real,” he says, “and I only got maybe a dozen stings.” He pulls Peeta’s arms away from where he’s hiding behind them, shielding his face. My boyfriend looks almost childlike in his palpable fear. “Hey, buddy,” Finnick says gently, softly, as if talking to a spooked horse. “I know you’re seeing scary things, but they’re not real, okay?”

Above us, the house gives a mighty shake, plaster dust snowing down. I glance uneasily at the ceiling, then over to where Snow lies unmoving, and finally towards the door where the golden wolf-mutt is sprawled in a pool of blood. I think plenty of the scary things Peeta is seeing are, in fact, quite real.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Finn. This is too big for us, we need to call the cops.” I know both his phone and mine are dead, and I haven’t seen Peeta’s since the attic. Our only hope is to get to one of the neighbouring houses. I reach for Peeta, to tuck my shoulder under his arm and get him to his feet. “Can you help me with--” my words cut off sharply as Peeta recoils from me.

“I’ve got him,” Finnick says, glancing at me with something akin to pity. I swallow the hurt. Now isn’t the time. “Where’s Jo and your cousin?”

I shrug helplessly. “They disappeared back into that dumbwaiter, but surely Madge wasn’t crazy enough to head back for the attic?” The shrieking of birds has stopped, but periodic thumps still rock the building, along with faint groans, as if the very walls are in pain.

“We’ve got to trust that they’re someplace safe,” he grunts, struggling a little under Peeta’s weight. I don’t try to help.

We pick our way out of the room and try to navigate in the darkness. I’ve long since lost the floor plan Plutarch gave me, and I don’t think we’re in a section of the house we’ve explored before. Finally, the narrow corridor opens into a kitchen, large but dated. Thin moonlight streams through the windows, falls across Peeta and Finnick and my heart plummets. Finnick is covered in blood, his own or the mutt’s I can’t tell. And Peeta is barely conscious. In the moon’s pale glow, the circles under his eyes look like bruises. If Haymitch wasn’t already dead, I swear I’d kill him now for subjecting us to this.

“There’s a door,” Finnick says, breaking me from my homicidal thoughts. He’s right; at the far end of the room is our way out. Though my every instinct is to bolt for that door and leave this place far behind, we instead skulk along slowly, cautiously, aware that every black shadow could potentially hold more horrors. Somewhere from deep in the bowels of the big house, a clock strikes midnight. It feels like an omen. Finnick starts singing under his breath.

Are you, are you Coming to the tree Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me. Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

I elbow him in the gut again, and reach for the door. Unlike the front door, this one swings open smoothly, clearly it’s been recently used. We emerge onto a flagstone patio that overlooks what must have been gardens at one time, but is now no more than dimly illuminated overgrowth. The rain has stopped, but the full moon is still mostly cloud-obscured. “This must be the back of the house,” I guess and Finnick nods.

We skirt along the outside of the mansion in the shadow of the imposing facade, walking through wet, waist-high grass and even taller weeds, grumbling the whole way. Wind whips around us, making the trees whisper and wail, a devil’s lament.

As we round the corner, under a massive bow window, Finnick suddenly grabs my arm and tugs me down, pressing me flat against the cold stone of the foundation. My shoulder bumps Peeta’s as I crouch, and he whimpers. I glare at Finnick, but he raises a finger to his lips, then peeks around the corner, gesturing me to follow suit. Finnick extends his free arm, pointing to a car parked on the grass, its headlights shining on the side of the house not fifty feet away from where we hide.

It’s a car I recognize, a sleek Jaguar SJ that I know was custom ordered in gold, to match it’s owner’s hair. “Oh shit,” I murmur, squinting. Sure enough, I catch sight of a flash of brass in the passenger seat. “Aunt Effie,” I hiss. “I should have known that Haymitch’s gold-digging wife--”

“Forget about her,” Finnick growls. “We have a bigger problem.” I move my gaze from the car to where Finnick is pointing. Illuminated by the car’s headlights, a man who can only be Seneca Crane is splashing something over the house. Only when the pungent stench of gasoline hits my nostrils does it finally click. That bitch is trying to burn down my house! Whether to destroy the evidence in the attic laboratory, or to prevent me from taking half of Haymitch’s fortune I don’t know, and I don’t care.

“What do we do?” Finnick asks, an edge of hysteria in his voice. I know he's thinking about Jo, worrying. Peeta’s car, and along with it the promise of escape, is no more than a hundred yards away. But how can we run when our friend is still inside that house, and a crazy person is trying to burn it down?

We need help, real help. Peeta is no use to us right now, not without the antidote to the poison that’s polluting his body and mind. Finnick is injured and we’re all unarmed and exhausted. I have no idea if Seneca or Effie might be armed - they’re mad enough to commit arson, it’s certainly not a stretch to think they could also contemplate murder if we confront them. But running to Peeta’s Jeep and alerting the neighbours and authorities will take precious time that we just might not have. There’s really no good decision to be found here, but we have to make a choice: confront Effie and Seneca, or run for the Jeep?