#and she's trapped in her brain and swiftly rotting

[sketchy-saram]

Jiya’s Dream

((A prologue-ish story that explains the start of Jiyanti and Rojer’s acquaintance. Just a little thing I wrote last night, but I drew up a doodle for it so now y’all can have it! You know how it is--I like to play with the new kids ;P))

The sun was setting as Jiyanti Sainesh made her way back from the Center City Market, her pocket heavy with copper-candy, her footsteps light on the cobbled streets. It was a brisk spring day; not really cold, but with plenty of wind for the coastal country. Jiya tugged on her headscarf, grateful for its warmth as the heat of the afternoon began to slowly dissipate. She tried to whistle a tune as she walked--although she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet--and it galled her that her friend Mylania had picked it up so easily while she continued to struggle. Her mouth formed a tight ‘O’, but no matter how she blew, nothing came out of her lips but air. It isn’t fair, she thought again as she crossed the rickety bridge into the Flooded District. Mylania doesn’t even have to practice!

Jiya couldn’t remember what the District looked like before--she was only five-and-a-half, after all--but her parents often praised the Countess for the reformations she had put in place to improve the lives of those living there. It was no longer actually flooded, but the name still stuck--and The Not-Really-Flooded District just didn’t have the same ring to it. 

Giggling at the thought of such a long name, Jiya unwrapped a piece of her candy and slipped it into her mouth, dropping the wrapper into the canal. It tasted vaguely sweet on her tongue, with a hint of chalkiness at first that made her wrinkle her nose. She wasn’t supposed to have candy--It’ll rot your teeth out, Yanti--but she’d found a copper piece in the gutter earlier while waiting for her father to finish for the evening. For her, that forgotten copper was practically a count’s fortune, and the siren song of forbidden candy was too much. She knew there was a candy stall in the Market--her mother had to drag her past it once a week on shopping day--and before she knew it, she was already there, watching him scoop a handful of the tiny rainbow treats into her pocket. Now she was running late to meet her father, but she smiled as she continued trying to whistle.

Her father was a gondolier, and on weeks when his shift ended in the evening, Jiya would often come out to meet him and walk him home, listening to him tell stories of all the interesting people he had ferried that day. Usually he was tired, but sometimes, on a good day, he would let her ride on his shoulders as they walked back to their house. Thinking of this, Jiya sped up her steps, noticing the way the shadows of the ramshackle buildings around her were getting longer and darker. Going to the market had taken longer than she meant--if she didn’t hurry, she would miss her father and have to walk back home alone, explaining where she had been in the meantime. 

Just to the dock and back, Yanti. Vesuvia can be dangerous.

Just as that thought crossed her mind, she heard shouts--instinctively, she ducked down to hide in one of those long shadows, her back scraping against brick. There was a water-warped mess of wood nearby--the busted skeleton of an old wine barrel--and she hid behind it just as the shouts rounded a nearby corner. There were hurried footsteps, and then another shout from a different voice; soon, both voices yelled in unison, their owners running past Jiya’s hiding place frantically.

“Rojer? Rojer! Rojer, where are you? Come here, please! Rojer!”

What a strange name, Jiya thought to herself, peeking out around the barrel. She could only vaguely see feet running off into the distance, sandals kicking up dirt and sand as the desperate pair disappeared around another alley. I doubt anyone named Rojer lives here. I’ve never heard that name, anyway. But the thought was replaced by panic--she was so very late now--that she immediately forgot about Rojer as she began to run, her legs taking her with sure quick steps down to the gondola docks. 

Her breath was only slightly heavier as she stopped at the top of the gang plank, frowning and tutting in frustration; there was her father’s boat, tied up for the evening, but he was nowhere to be found. She loved her father’s gondola almost as much as he did, which, she thought, must be saying something, as she knew how much pride her father took in it. While some of the other gondolas docked here in the Flooded District looked worn and chipped, their seat leather faded and cracked, Emir Sainesh’s boat was polished and gleaming enough to see yourself in. A cheery wreath of spring flowers was artfully placed on its prow, and would be replaced again the next day with a new one woven by Jiya’s mother. On the dock, it was a well-known sight--but everyone loved her father, and so no one would begrudge him his beautiful boat. She could just make out the name, written in a small but neat and beautiful script. The Jiyanti.

Turning on her heel, Jiya swiftly ran across the newly-built footbridge that led towards the heart of the residential area of the district. If she was quick--as quick as a rabbit, our Yanti--perhaps she could catch up to her father and convince him not to ask too many questions. She would tell him about the people yelling and searching earlier. Maybe he would believe that she had been scared, and that was why she was late coming to see him. Her mother might not believe such a story, but Jiya’s father was more easy-going. Even if he could smell the sugar on her breath--can mother really do that?--he probably wouldn’t scold. 

So caught up in her plan was Jiya, that at first she walked right past the mouth of the tiny alley without a thought--and yet, something drew her back. What was it? She couldn’t remember, later. Maybe it was the unnatural wafts of cold air coming from it, as if winter still gripped that alleyway in its clutches even though beyond it was springtime. Maybe it was the sudden realization of stillness--that as she walked, all the sound seemed to have been leached out of the area. There was no familiar sound of running water, or of evening bird calls; even Jiya’s footsteps seemed muffled and distant to her ears. Maybe it was something out of the corner of her eye; that instinct that every child has of demons lurking somewhere nearby...and the irrepressible need to throw open the closet doors, even knowing that what is inside might swallow you whole.

And so, slowly, reluctantly, without really knowing why, Jiya took one step back, and then another, until at last she stood trembling at the entrance to the alley. Even under her scarf and her clothes, her skin was covered in gooseflesh; from the cold or from the sight of what was in the alley, she couldn’t be sure. 

Everything in that narrow, dirty space shone and sparkled as if it were covered in glass. Sprays of white coated up the dingy walls; long, vicious-looking daggers of ice jutted up from the ground and down from the rooftops above. Everything in the alley was coated in frost, something Jiya had only seen once or twice on the coldest of winter mornings in Vesuvia, and yet it wasn’t hard to see what was beneath it. Encased in huge blocks of ice were several confused and terrified-looking men, their frozen eyes wide, their skin tinged an unhealthy pale blue, their bodies in the middle of aggressive movements forward. One of them, she thought, held something aloft in his hand, although it was hard to make out. A knife? She felt her pulse jump, her heart race. In fact, Jiya was so caught up staring at their faces--those bulging, unseeing eyes--that she almost missed the flash of brilliant-orange hair that came from behind one of the human ice sculptures.

She flinched, prepared for...what, she wasn’t sure, but what she saw was the last thing she expected to see. A boy, about her own age and milk-pale, with that fiery hair, freckles, and blue eyes that were so striking and brilliant, they didn’t look human at all. He seemed to be observing her, like she was him, but unlike her obvious fear, the boy appeared unbothered--as if he was looking at a vaguely interesting bird that had landed on the windowsill. Something about that look made her feel pierced, even in his disinterest, as if by one of the long, sharp ice spears jutting from the ground.

She shivered again, feeling it through her whole body.

“D-Did you d-do this?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from shaking. The boy’s head tilted a fraction, and after a long moment he looked around him again, as if having completely forgotten where he was or what he’d been doing. He then shook his head.

“No. He did it.”

Jiya’s head twitched back and forth, looking for the person she seemed to be missing. Someone--or something--that could have done all this. 

That was when she saw him, and it felt as if the floor of her stomach dropped out. Everything stopped. Her body, heavy, took one small step forward, and then froze, as trapped to the ground as the ice-men.

“Babi?”

Emir’s body lay crumpled upon itself in a far corner of the alley, behind the blocks of ice. His head was turned away from her, and the length of him was covered in a fine film of icy-white frost...but the beautifully-tailored coat that he always hung by the door was unmistakable. Her mother had made it, imbuing it with hours and hours of her expert needlework, and it was the only thing her father would wear to ferry his customers around in the Jiyanti.

It was as recognizable as the blood that soaked it, and the ground, tingeing the snow around his body pink.

Jiyanti’s brain couldn’t register. It seemed to be trying to think through mud. How could her father be laying there? Why was he bleeding? Couldn’t he get up, so that they could go back home and she could stop having this strange and terrible dream? 

The boy took a step closer to her, still seeming perplexed by her presence. If it was possible, he looked more confused now than before.

“Why are you sad? He got rid of them. He got rid of the bad men.”

Jiya’s eyes, trembling with tears that stung in the cold, dragged themselves back to his icy stare.

“Who? Who d-did this?”

“...He has no name.”

“Is he your friend? B-b-but… But he killed...he killed them.”

“So? They were bad.” He emphasized the last word, as if she were slow to catch on; as if it were obvious. “They hurt people. They wanted to hurt me, too.”

“What do you--” she began, when suddenly, from behind the frozen statues, a large figure arose. She would have sworn it wasn’t there, until it was; iIt unfolded itself, a walking shadow, with tendrils of frozen air radiating from its body and eyes that burned. She couldn’t look at it, so she dropped into a crouch, her eyes jammed shut, her hands against her ears. She couldn’t look at it. She’d rather die, she’d rather go mad, than look at that monster. In the dark she could hear the sound of furious shattering as the alley shook, and every piece of ice smashed in unison around her, spraying her face with cold. Then Jiya screamed, her tiny voice shrill, her whole body lead with terror and fear. 

And in the darkness of her room, separated by 17 years from this distant memory, Jiyanti Sainesh sat up with a jerk, eyes wide, a familiar scream tearing out of her throat. Although she clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle it, to stop the scream, it didn’t help the spasms of cold that wracked her body, as real as if she’d still been in that frozen alleyway. 

The memory of her father’s murder that never seemed to go away. 

There were footsteps outside of her room; a violent rapping of knuckles on wood and a hissed whisper to be quiet!, but then nothing. Jiyanti’s breath hitched and hiccuped into her lungs, forced around the confused tears. She always woke up at that part--she could never remember the monster’s face. 

Maybe everyone was right, and there had never been any monster to begin with. 

With a broken, exhausted sigh, Jiya lowered herself back onto the threadbare pillow, scrubbing a hand over her face and through her hair, desperate for more untroubled sleep. But as she could already see the dark sky growing light outside her window, she knew that wish wasn’t meant to be--just like the constant wish that her father had never met his grisly fate that day so long ago. Instead, she sat up again, planted her feet on the floor, and heaved a jaw-cracking yawn, hand fumbling around on the bedside stool for her uniform. 

Strangely enough, inside her mouth, she had a deja-vu taste of that chalky candy from so long ago.

It was time to start another day. Maybe this time she would find the boy from that evening, and get the answers she craved.

I know you’re out there, no matter what they say. And I will find you. I can promise you that. You owe me answers. You owe me the truth.

#writing #the arcana next generation #my art #my writing #Jiyanti #Jiyanti Sainesh #my oc #Rojer #Rojer Devorak #other people's ocs #rojiya #vesuvia #arcana game fanfiction #origin story #fanfiction #with brief appearances by illain and portia #haha #enjoy~

[thehermitsforest]

The Hermits Forest

Prologue

When he was a child Simon had wanted to be a tailor, he wanted to make the rich wear what he thought was cool instead of their silly frilly capes, and he wanted to start a movement, a movement so strong that pale skins would stop painting themselves purple, back then the slave trade wasn’t even a blip on his radar. To begin a fashion career he needed to be fashionable, that was Simon’s first hurdle, he couldn’t wear purple paint on his skin, not from pride or injustice, but because he was allergic. He swiftly accepted defeat. Creating a device that would let him and other people allergic to paint appear purple, was not a thought that crossed his mind, the only thought that crossed his mind was, what job pays the most, and ideally will let me retire soonest so that I may sit in my wealth and die with no greater purpose? The Spirits Slave trade was one such position, however Simon did not think he was an evil man, nor corrupt or immoral, so he trained himself to steer a horse. He was only a delivery driver. 

After all had he not helped to push the spirit into the cage, or saddled up the horses he was sure someone else would, although this thought made sense in Simons head it would seldom hold up in court, after all it does not matter if you know your neighbour Beatrice plans to murder her husband Arnold, if Simon killed Arnold first, then his death would still solely be Simons fault. The spirit trade was a dying trade, not through lack of trying,  or customers and money, but lack of spirits. Spirits seldom survived months when captured and could take centuries to rebirth, if ever did.

Simon gripped the horses reins tight. When the horse began to tire Simon would take his whip, and encourage him forth. The horse didn’t like his new job, not only was he carrying Simon, but a fat man called ‘boss’, three spirit hunters, a heavy cart cage made from Airitlium the only the material that could hold spirits, and as if to add insult to injury, inside that cage was Carry. Ancient spirit of the wild horses. Not all wild horses just a small herd to the east that were said to be millennia old and devour humans, although even to the horse’s perception they did not resemble horses anymore, unless perhaps the only knowledge you had of horses was through word of mouth.

            “Simon.” Carry the spirit whispered rolling over to the cage edge. 

His skin was dark, and he had small black quarter moons spotted across his body, where old horse hide clothing did not cover his skin. 

           “Yeah?” Simon asked glancing back, eyebrows half raised as though he was dazed. 

Carry sat on his knees so that he could be face height with Simon, and he tried for a second to wag his white horse like tail out of view, when that failed he quickly scrambled after it with his hands and hid it behind himself.

           “Where are we going friend?”

Simon gave a dramatic roll with his eyes and head, he had only worked for 6 months but whenever there was a spirit in the cage, to the exact letter, this was how conversations began, and they always began with him.

           “We’re going to find another spirit or more if the opportunity arrives.”

           “Who?”

           “According to the kings bounty, there is an evil spirit residing in ‘The Hermit’s Forest’ who does away with anyone travelling through, most spirits that attack humans are normally animal in nature, so I suspect we will pick up a spirit going by the usually imaginative name of Animal.” 

           “A spirit that has the name of Animal must be mighty strong, do you really think you can capture such a being?” Carry asked with an unfaltering gaze.

           “We know other forests had small territorial animal spirits, and we also know that we can catch them, because they are not the spirits, of the animals, that sit at the top of the food chain,” Simon said with an unbearably smug grin “because that would be humans.”

           “I w’d’ve thought they were strong.” Carry said.

           “Perhaps if they attacked us one on one they would overpower us, or if we had no weapons, but they like to fight, and they like to walk into traps, their greatest weakness is their stupidity, it is almost like they forgot to form a brain.”

           “I can’t wait for you to die. I know the animal spirit of ‘The Hermit’s Forest’, she walks though my land at winter.”

           “Oh you’ve seen her have you, let me guess, you think because she’s stronger than you, a singular herd of horses, that she’s going to be stronger than humans, but you’re wrong, and I don’t suppose for one moment she’ll have any luck out smarting us.”

           “The spirit you seek is Forest.”

Simon rolled his eyes and a gentle smile sat upon his face “you trying to tell me the trees are evil?”

           “I do not suppose for one moment Forest is any more evil than any other Forest spirit, from what I understand neither takes too kindly to disrespectful humans, but I do hear Forest looks a bit peculiar and humans have a nasty habit of associating physical form with personality.”

           “I don’t believe you. Why would a forest that began as a few trees in the back of a hermits garden be peculiar? He’s new for a forest, and planted by a human, so they should look like any other forest, plain, simple, with no strong thoughts one way or the other except perhaps a minor instinct to protect himself.”

           “Suit yourself.” Carry said stopping the conversation and she sat back down in a position that was a little more comfortable.

           “Fucks sake” Simon said as he pulled on the reins of the horse who came to a thankful stop, at his action, but his boss looked down with fury in his eyes ready to be unleashed.

           “Why have we stopped!”

           “They’ve changed gender” Simon said tiredly and gestured to Carry.

           “Shit.” The boss said, and Carry looked to Simon surprised at the information.

           “I can quite assure you gentlemen that I have not come to any new shocking revelations about my own gender in the past - nigh at least seventy thousand years, and as such declaring I have changed my gender is ludicrous, besides if I wanted to change the physical gender I generate I could not do it for these chains are tighter than a stallions arse.”

           “Come on lads!” The boss shouted piling up several more heavy rusting chains into his arms.

           “Your form has changed slightly, and you voice is different, slightly higher I think” Simon said to the spirit who seemed generally bewildered.

           “That’s it?”

           “Simon you idiot, you are not supposed to tell the spirits how to mimic us better” his boss growled red in the face as he revealed his black rotting teeth.

           “We don’t change shape” Simon shrugged “if a spirit could work that out I’m sure they would’ve already.”

           “He’s got a point boss.” The spirit hunter with a spear laughed, just as he began to hear the sound of a man screaming, and quickly getting closer. The boss frowned and turned towards the empty marsh, in the direction in which the sound was coming from, just in time to see a man several meters away fall from the sky and hit the marshes swampy water making it splash into the air, his screams stopping immediately.

           “That’s odd” he said.

           “Must’ve been one of the folks from up top” the sword holding hunter said “though I’ve never seen anyone fighting up there.”

           “He probably just tripped” the spear holding hunter said “those stupid rich people would prefer their stupid city looks all magical rather than putting up some damn fencing, tripped over a dog a few months ago when I was up there, almost died, fucking rich people.”

           “I see. As long as they do not land on us I don’t care” the boss said, and he looked up just in time to get a glimpse of the falling elephant that crushed him, and everyone else within the elephants reach.

End Of Prologue

[  Follow me for updates on Chapter 1 :)  ]

#the hermits forest #prologue #original writing #original stories #prologuefull

[kiki-wiccan]

The Fire {Self Write/Big Plot Arc}

It had been a relatively normal day for Kiki she had gone to work another double shift and was now home in bed reading. It had become normal for her mom to text her at night just to see how her day went and vice versa. So when her phone buzzed she casually picked it up and glanced at the notification. It was from her mom as expected but the message was what caused Kiki to set down her book and sit up. “The fuck....” she stared at the message as though processing what she was just sent. ‘The house is on fire’ was this some kind of joke? She quickly texted back. ‘Is this a joke? Did grandma accidentally start a kitchen fire? The extinguisher is in the kitchen’ sending the text she wasn’t completely on alert yet. She simply thought maybe a small kitchen fire had been started. She went to pick her book back up when her phone went off again. She read the text out loud trying to make sense of the awful spelling as it seemed rushed. ‘Kiki the house is actually on fire....called department we are trapped upstairs’ she felt her blood run cold and she shot up from her bed. Immediately pressing the call button and held the phone up to her ear waiting for her mom to answer. She didn’t however and she heard her phone buzz again. “fuck....” she read over the text she couldn’t talk on the phone right now too much smoke. ‘The fire department is coming you said?! Just try to find a way out I’m on my way’ after sending the text she grabbed her purse and dashed outside to her car. Once getting in and sticking the key in the ignition, if she were to drive there it would take her a few hours. Kiki didn’t have that kind of time right now, she sat there in thought until....“ELIDI!” With her teleporting magic they would definitely be able to get there quick. She turned on her car and backed out of her apartment complex. Trying her best not to speed though she most certainly went faster than the speed limit when no other cars were in front of her. Her eyes glancing down at her phone every now and again to see if her mother had messaged back.

Pulling into Elidis driveway she jumped out of her car and ran up to the door banging on it. “ELIDI ELIDI!!!” Waiting for her mentor to answer it as she stared down at her phone. Still nothing, she was hoping the fire department had made it there by now and that her not answering was because she was being wheeled for smoke inhalation or some shit to the hospital. When Elidi wouldn’t answer she huffed and banged again, it seemed the witch wasn’t home which wasn’t good. Remembering a conversation the witch and her had awhile back she knew there was a spell for teleporting. Kiki being fascinated with her mentors normal transportation had inquired about it and the witch had said she had an old spell in one of her books that they could do sometime. She sent Elidi a text and reached into her purse fishing out the key that had been given to her to feed Binx and water plants. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Binx who had likely been lounging somewhere in the house came scurrying in and meowed at Kiki. “Hey Binx I’m sorry I can’t pay attention to you right now” she quickly walked past the black cat and into the living room where one of the witches bookshelves were. Her eyes scan through titles as she pulls out ones that had the word spells anywhere in the title. As she pulled out all the books she needed, she let herself fall back on her bottom and began flipping through the pages. Her eye focused on finding the word ‘teleport’ feeling Binx brush up against her back she didn’t even look over. Her complete focus was on finding that spell though she’d glance at her phone every now and again to see if her mother had sent any texts. Going through several books her hope began to falter, so far she wasn’t finding the spell. “Come on....” she muttered to herself as she cracked open another book. Her eyes scanning the pages until finally, she found it. “Teleporting spell....” looking at the needed ingredients for the spell she shot up and started going around the house. By now she knew nearly every inch and where most things were located.

Hearing a buzz from her phone she gets momentarily distracted. Hoping that it was her mother texting her that they were safe. However that hope faded when she saw it was Stan, the one time she was disappointed in seeing his name on her screen. With their bond he could sense her emotions and was checking up on her, she quickly texted that she was alright and everything was fine. Getting back to work she went around the house with the open book in her hand. Gathering everything she needed and bringing it back to the living room area. She sat down on the floor and began creating the symbol needed from the items she’d gathered. Binx was sitting just a few feet away watching the wiccan intently. Glancing back at the book she read over in her mind the words she needed to chant. Once she felt confident enough she grabbed her purse as slung it over her shoulder, standing in the middle of the symbol. Calming her nerves as she needed to completely focus on the place she wanted to teleport to. Teleporting inside of her house was a thought that crossed her mind. But what good would be be trapped inside as well? She settled for a safer location, the big oak tree that she used to climb in their front yard. Closing her eyes she took a deep breath as the words left her mouth. Feeling a similar sensation throughout her body as she did when Elidi would teleport them.

Opening her eyes she was greeted with a sight that made her heart sink. Her home, the house she grew up in was completely burned down. Crime scene tape already covering the area near the house. That was the first thing she noticed, then the smell of smoke still in the air even though there was no sign of flames. From the corner of her eye she noticed the flashing lights from the cop cars, ambulance and fire truck. Her eyes scanned the area as she attempted to make out any figures that could be her grandmother and mother. It wasn’t until she saw two gurneys by the ambulance with white sheets over them. Tears pricked they corners of her eyes as her breathing sped up. She had been too late hadn’t she? Before she knew it her feet were taking her towards the gurneys she could hear people calling for her. Walking right up to one of the gurneys she ripped the sheet off and nearly stumbled backwards. The smell of rotting flesh met her nose as her wide hues stared at what she could barely make out to be her mother. Feeling someone grab her wrist and yank her back from the bodies she snaps out of her shock. Two policemen begin shooting questions at her, by the look in their eyes they seemed to be suspicious. Kiki tried pulling herself together and made up a story of being at a friends house and getting a text. Claiming she ran all the way home and had just gotten there. Pulling out her phone she showed the cops the texts between her and her mother. They had wanted her to come down to the station but she refused and even if it was their job they didn’t really seem fond of doing it. She wondered if they knew who she was, who her family was? It was likely since rumors and news spread around the town fast. Complying with the officers questions she allowed herself to answer everything the best she could. Words that didn’t even make it to her ears or register in her brain left her lips. The whole situation hadn’t full processed through her brain and she seemed to be on auto pilot.

The only time she tuned back in was when they mentioned that the fire was likely an arson. They claimed it was too dark currently to do a full investigation but they’d come by tomorrow to continue. Mentions of what would happen to the bodies came up and Kiki agreed cremation would be the best route. Considering how badly burnt the bodies had been and the costs of a funeral. She hesitantly gave them her contact information and they promised they’d be in contact. One of the cops offered her a ride but the other cop stopped him midway and bid her a goodnight. So they did seem to know who lived in this house and who she was. It was apparent through the whole conversation, the facial expressions, the tones, and body language from the officers. By then the ambulance had left with the bodies of the two most important people in Kikis life and so had the fire truck. She stood still and watched as the red and blue lights of the cop cars faded into the distance. Left in darkness with only the moonlight illuminating the yard. It was when everything was eerily quiet that the situation started registering in her mind and she fell to her knees letting out a pained cry. She sat there for a few minuets and just allowed herself to weep. Her breathing ragged as she wiped away at her eyes. Standing up on two shaky legs she allowed herself to stare upon what had once been her home. It was all gone, they were gone, this was happening, was this happening? It had to be a nightmare. Stuck in her mind debating wether this was fiction or reality she didn’t even notice someone from her past approach her.

“Hello Isabella” hearing that name caused her entire body to tense up as her eyes went wide. She slowly turned towards the voice and terror ran through her veins. The one person, the one thing she feared the most was standing before her. “You....” her voice was hoarse as she took several steps back. What was he doing here?! Had he started the fire? Reaching for her phone she was about to dial 911 but her cell was swiftly snatched from her hand. “Now that isn’t a very nice way to greet an old friend is it Isabella?” Her teeth gritting and jaw clenching as her old name was used. A grin stretched across his face as he saw how Kiki was reacting. “You know it’s a shame...your mother and grandma were really great people. After you left I’d often come by and have tea. It really is a pity that they ended up paying for your sins.” He stepped closer and grabbed Kikis wrist pulling her closer. “The whole town turned against them. They were afraid Isabella, afraid of you. I did my absolute best to help them...heard they had plans to move to Tabula....” his eyes narrowed momentarily at the mention of the supernatural ridden city. “Y...you started t...the fire didn’t you!!” She finally managed to yell out despite how scared she was. “Oh me? No of course not I’d never do such a thing. I have a reputation to maintain remember? I just happened to hear the chaos and came to investigate. I still walk along the paths we used to.” What a liar! She could see the lies through the glimmer in his eyes. Before she could even think she reached up with her free hand to smack him. Of course he was quicker and caught her hand, letting her phone he was holding fall to the ground. He roughly threw her to the ground before kneeling down and moving over her. Grabbing her wrists he held them down, Kiki squirmed and screamed out in a complete panic. This position was familiar, they’d been like this before and she knew that he was trying to frighten her. But she was already terrified of this man, her old art professor whom she had fallen for so long ago. “P...please James...” familiar words escaping her mouth as she pleaded. “You know if you stuck around and actually took responsibility for your actions instead of abandoning your family they’d still be here. This whole situation is your fault Isabella. Because of you they ended up burning to a crisp.” He leaned his face towards her own and she turned her head. Feeling his lips near her ear as he whispered. “Like all witches they had to burn....” with that being said he got up off of the wiccan. “Supernaturals don’t belong on this earth, and they definitely don’t belong in this town. It was nice to see you again Isabella, I have a feeling we will see eachother again rather soon!” With that he turned on his heel and walked off. Turning to her side the girl curled up and began to cry again. Her family was gone, she was alone, the town she had ran away from had once again broken her.

#kikiwiccan #trc:kiki #kikiplotarc #selfwrite #tw: death #tw: fire #tw:abuse

[antiquechampagne]

Beastly Kingdom - CH16 - One Good Turn

Nate saw Liz wordlessly drop the bloody note she had plucked off the hanging body, then run off while the rest of the bosses stood around, shocked.

“Hey…” he called after her, fruitlessly. Liz zipped around the giant circular market building and disappeared.

Mason looked up, echoing Nate’s confusion. “Boss?” he shouted. “Where ya goin’?” His pleas returned a similarly negative response.

Nate’s guard instinctively rose to high alert. He caught the other bosses, exchanging several confused looks, before they collectively took off after her.

Running through the park, they passed several bullet-riddled bodies strewn along the way. Something was very wrong; nothing in the park was moving. The underbosses stopped at the entrance of the Kiddie Kingdom.

“What the hell is going on?” Nate demanded as he panted in front of the giant smoldering lollipops adorning the park’s façade. Mason and William worked together to pull the collapsing structures aside that the barred their way.

Mags turned her hawk-like gaze laser in on him. “How the fuck are we supposed to know?”

With a final heave, the rotted plywood fell away. Nate started to rush forward before a hard hand on his chest stopped him.

“Careful of the sprayers.” Mags warned him. Mason passed an open bottle of Rad-X to them after popping a pair of pills. Nate took the hint, downing the chems before passing through the gates. Once inside, the group steeled themselves for a fight, but found nothing but death. Dozens of dead ghouls dressed in what looked to be various colorful costumes or uniforms lay strewn. Mags went up to a post mounted to the side of a nearby building, tracing it along until she found a dripping nozzle.

“Someone turned the sprayers off…”

Nate held up a hand to silence her, something had caught his attention. He concentrated as he cocked his head to the side. The wind brought the faint sound of shouting.

“Over here!” He dashed off with the others close behind him, their guns drawn.

Liz came into view as they rounded a corner. She stood at the base of the steps leading up to a crumbling tower, looking up. Bodies of more ghouls littered the tiny square. At the top of the steps stood Gage towering above her, with what looked to be a small wiggling ghoul in his grip in one hand, a gun in the other.

Liz pleaded below, her attention completely on scene unfolding in front of her. “-to get on board with the plan! Can’t you see that?”

As she stepped forward, Gage spat and raged down at her, his face red as he pulled the tiny ghoul close to him. Nate’s mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening. He could not understand why Liz refused to attack Gage. Every other perceived challenge to her control over Nuka-World he had seen was swiftly and violently put down… yet here she stood motionless, nearly cowering, under him. Behind him, the other bosses froze as well, unsure how to help, unconsciously taking the lead from their commander.

Suddenly, the answer clicked into place. Liz wasn’t watching Gage as he screamed, but followed the struggling child. Before the realization had time to crystallize in his mind, Nate watched in horror as Gage lowered his gun to the ghoul’s temple. Liz screamed. The fake stone façade of the tower was now painted a bright gory red. Nate felt frozen in place as Liz son’s body rolled lifelessly down the stairs, unexpectedly unable to lift his own gun. Memories of returning lost baseballs and summery neighborhood block parties played in the back of his head.

Liz’s scream morphed into something primal as she abruptly crouched, springing up the steps, hitting Gage at dead on run. She closelined him, knocking him to the ground before he could react.

“No… no,no…” moaned a well-dressed ghoul, uncurled himself painfully on the ground. He tried to rise, clutching his stomach with one hand. All he could manage was to pull himself closer with his free arm, leaving behind him a glowing streak of blood on the cobbles behind him.

Gage and Liz struggled, violently thrashing and wrestling on the ground, a whirlwind of enraged swinging limbs. Gage’s angry yell was cut short with a bubbly gurgle as Liz’s teeth tore into his throat. Mason and the rest of the bosses watched, still petrified in place.

Gaining some strength, the ghoul shifted to his knees. “Oh Liz,” his gravelly voice sadly lamented.

Mason stepped forward. “Boss?” Liz did not respond, but continued to viciously mutilate Gage’s unmoving body. “Boss? I think he’s dead. Boss…”

As the Pack leader put a foot on the lowest step, Liz looked up wide-eyed and growled, crouching low to the ground. Every hair on Nate’s body stood on end, tense with a primal sense of danger. Liz’s face was one of complete animal defensiveness. No human emotions read on her features.

“You all need to leave.” Hand still holding his body, the dapper glowing ghoul had managed to stand and hobble between Mason and the agitated Liz. “Now.” He didn’t raise his voice, but it carried the cadence of a formidable command, even under the burden of immense pain he appeared to be in.

“You’re Oswald, right?” Mags addressed him. The ghoul just narrowed his glowing eyes at her. “What happened?” she asked simply.

Oswald lowered his eyes slightly. “It doesn’t matter.” His steeled gaze waved a bit. “Not anymore.” He turned his back on the group and headed up the stairs towards Liz, who was still ruthlessly gnawing on Gage’s neck and face. “Leave before she gets bored and finds a moving target more enticing.” As he reached the top, Oswald approached Liz slowly, trying to soothe her with a few calm words. Liz snarled, pulling Gage’s limp body away like a dog guarding his food bowl.

Mason and the other turned to each other, realizing the gravity of the scene before them. Their leader had gone feral before their eyes. She was gone, as useless to them as if Gage had splattered her brain instead. They turned to leave, talking in low tones and shaking their heads slowly.

Nate watched Oswald as he patiently quieted Liz, getting her to release her bloody prize. Nate could hardly reconcile the crazed feral before him with the powerful and resourceful leader who had not only nearly tamed all wild raiders of Nuka-World, but, hours before, had the brass balls to ride a deathclaw into battle and single handedly taken out Liberty Prime with a backpack of explosives. She had snapped and lost it all… and now there were only two people left in all of existence who understood why.

Nate too, turned to leave. As he walked away, a sound came from behind him that stopped him dead in his tracks. He had never heard a sound like it before, and he hoped to never hear it again. It was an unnatural wordless moan, filled with unbridled grief and pain. Glancing back, he saw Oswald desperately trying to divert Liz who had, as she has lost interest in Gage’s corpse, had spotted the lifeless body of her son at the bottom of the steps. Something in her mind still knew what that was.

Liz skittered rapidly down the stairs, scooping up Louis’s bloodied small frame. She buried her head in his chest, moaning uncontrollably. Frantically Oswald tried to distract her attention before giving up and collapsing next to her. Nate could see Oswald’s shoulders shaking with sobs as he held her. Nate could only leave the pair alone in the quiet park, the harrowing scene etched in his mind.

Scattered memories flashed as Nate walked, uncontrollable and intense. The ghost of the muzzle flash shook him. He unconsciously flinched, recoiling from a phantom percussive bang that had ended his wife’s life as she clutched their infant son… the dominos of his life starting to fall. It replayed just for him, a deep feeling of helpless leeched into him… just as if he was trapped inside his Vault-Tec brand cryopod again. He began to shiver, the memory of the bone-aching cold reaching him, even here.

The other bosses had a sizable head start back to Nuka-Town. When he finally made his way out of Kiddie Kingdom, he halfheartedly tailed them, hanging back and observing, soaking in as much information as he could. Hardly anyone even noticed him as they were absorbed their own problems. The park was in chaos for the survivors as they tried to piece together what had happened to their home while they had battled the Brotherhood.

Much was explained when someone finally broke into the locked circular market. It was filled with bodies, many piled on top of each other near the exits, tables, chairs and food toppled and scattered. There were no overt signs of violence, but sickness. It was easy to surmise that Gage had lured most of Nuka-World’s residents to a party, probably celebrating the commencement of the Brotherhood offensive. After locking the doors, the party quickly soured as the poison Gage had laced the food and drinks with started to take their toll on the party guest; Gage had easily picked off the remaining residents at his leisure.

No one even noticed when he slipped out of the park after dusk fell.

In the silent parking lot, lit only by a few signs and neon lights, the General made his way to one of the two triple-decker parking structures that flanked the expansive crumbling concrete lot. In the shadows, away from prying eyes, he easily found Preston among the Minutemen crouched among the numerous rusting vehicles.

“General,” Preston tipped his hat in a salute. “Those involved in the morning’s offensive on the airport have all made it safely back to the Castle and the surrounding settlements. Casualties and injuries were lower than forecasted.”

“Good.” Nate answered but he felt his mind wander.

“The rest of us are ready for the next phase of the operation, Sir.”

Nate caught himself. Preston was expecting swift action. “Right. Yes.” He put his hand on Preston’s shoulder. “Give the order to start the attack. They are tired and disorganized… but I want you to make sure no one goes into Kiddie Kingdom. There are,“ he faltered for the right word, “friendly ghouls in there. We’ll negotiate terms later.”

“Yes, Sir!” Preston marched off, excitement brimming in his brown eyes.

Bodies rushed by; some saluting, some nodding greetings. Nate found a rusted out truck and slumped down in the bed, closing his eyes. His left hand propped up his head by the bridge of his nose. He kept playing the last few hours, and then days… years back in his head.

“Sir?” This time Preston’s hand came to rest on Nate’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Nate shook his head, his mind still clinging to his tumbling thoughts. “I can’t believe she actually pulled it off.”

“Come again?”

“Liz. She actually did what she said she was going to. She had really gotten them to convert.” He felt a little bit of admiration and astonishment creep into his voice. “The crazy bitch did it!”

“Is the Overboss going to be a problem? I heard some of the report from the battle at the airport. She sounds extremely resourceful and-“

Nate cut him off with a shake of his head. In his mind Liz’s crazed blood soaked face flashed, followed by the memory of her haunting mournful howls. “No.” The fresh memories make his speak slower. “No. When we returned there had been a coup. The Overboss… Liz,” he corrected himself, “won’t be causing us any more problems.” Nate’s eyes wandered to look out of the dilapidated concrete structure. He peered aimlessly out to the neon lit square filling with Minutemen soldiers, silhouetted red in the moonlight.

“Then what is the problem, sir? They’re just another bunch of raiders to eradicate.”

Suddenly, the parking garage felt like it closed in on him. Looking back at Preston’s confused face, he pushed the uncomfortable feeling out of his mind. “Yeah… just raiders…” He stood. He left Preston to lead their forces, citing the previous battle and dire need for rest. Nate knew as he walked away that he would not be getting any sleep any time soon.

#beastly kingdom #fan fiction #fanfic #fallout #fan fic #Liz Rosa #ghoul #feral #sole survivor #nuka world #ao3

[franpaw]

The Crashing of Waves Chapter 4 - Questions

A booming noise. A flash of light. He was falling. He was going to die. He flailed desperately in the air. He landed with a heart-stopping wrench and found he was in his nest of blankets, sweating and terrified. His mind had returned to the place illuminated with the sick light. 

The place with the pit. 

His heart pounded as fiercely as it had done then. Fear like he’d never known before engulfed him. Fear not just for him, but for another. He remembered being trapped in the ragged stony pit and above the wild thrum of his heart he recalled a voice. A woman cried out one word. 

“Ben!”

 Ben. His name. 

Despite his horror he was elated. 

He was Ben. He huffed to himself, sitting up and shaking his head. His avian bed companions squeaked their complaints at being jolted for the second time. 

Ben. 

He marvelled at it, eyes dancing around the lamp lit hut. 

Ben. 

Yet that name seemed old, seldom used. He sensed there was another one, more recent, comprised of two words. But he couldn’t grasp them.

“Kylo Ren.” Rey sighed out the name. “Kylo Ren is dead. Why won’t you believe me?” she asked her three inquisitors, her frustration rising with her voice. 

“How many times do I have to tell you? We’ve spent enough time on this.”She was almost pleading with them and hated herself for it.

But she longed to escape their scrutiny and the dimly lit shelter which had become centre of operations. One half contained a huddle of technav screens and signalling devices. The other half was screened off and held assorted items which served as seats, and where Rey was being questioned. She was on an old A-wing pilot seat while the ex-First Order man and two Resistance commanders were perched on barrels which were at different heights. It added to Rey’s sense of unease that she had to keep shifting her gaze up and down their row. Poe Dameron stood by the opening to the navigation area, ensuring that no one came in or lingered close enough to listen.

“Rey, your story isn’t credible,” said Avarr Targen, the ex-First Order officer. He was tall and lean with deep set eyes. The way the shadows settled on his sharp features gave him a disagreeable air. 

“I can’t believe that you stabbed Kylo Ren with his own lightsaber,” added Resistance Commander Beyanga. He had a reputation for being a stickler for details which he seemed to be doing his best to uphold. 

“Believe it. I did,” Rey replied, making her voice extra firm. She had difficulty believing it herself. 

She and Kylo Ren had been duelling on the freezing, ocean-drenched remains of the Death Star on Kef Bir. The waves roiled and crashed in rhythm with Rey’s rage. She was angry at him for taunting her, for crushing the wayfinder. Her loathing for him returned and she wanted to crush him once and for all. Her hate was so severe that she thought it would rebuff the waves, that the heat of her fury would turn the water to steam. It gave her the energy to attack Kylo despite him being larger. He swung clumsily at her to block her relentless saber blows. 

His turbulent Force signature contained anger but his familiar mix of fear and need were still there. She also sensed weariness. He almost slipped a few times and she tried to press her advantage. Most potently, like a deep current of cold water, was Kylo’s desire.

He still wanted her.

He used it to sunder apart the sheets of water to clear a path to her. His red saber hissed and sputtered and his face was grim, his jaw clenched, his eyes glaring. She didn’t want to look into those eyes. She was afraid of wanting him too. To prevent him sensing this she lashed out again, a frenzied sea-soaked dervish.

Then, incredibly, he paused. Something shifted in him and the moment he dropped his saber she was ready. She had no hesitation, no awareness of needing to spare him. She pierced him swiftly and surely. 

“Where did his body go, Rey? That’s all we’re trying to find out,” D’Acy inquired in a quiet voice. 

Rey gnawed at her bottom lip. There was no body, she almost blurted out. He just vanished! My beautiful big boy just fell back and faded to nothing. I held his hand to keep him with me but it wasn’t enough. She felt her face begin to break apart. 

Gripping the side of her seat, she wrenched her mind back to the Death Star. She pictured him lying stunned, his soaked dark hair smeared and messy. He was chalky pale and his red lips were twisted with shock. He looked like Ben then, haunted and vulnerable. 

“I left him lying there, on the wreckage. But he was definitely dead,” she told them quickly to cover the lie. People always said that she was easy to read, that her facial expressions clearly transmitted her emotions. She strained to maintain a steady serious look. 

“Then you went to Exegol and defeated the Emperor. You say that you went alone. So you just hopped into a highly customised, complex First Order ship and managed to fly it?” Ex-First Order Targen challenged.

“Yes, I took Kylo Ren’s TIE fighter and I flew it. On my own. It’s based on older TIE fighter models and I have salvaged parts from them.” At least that part was true. She had left him lying there before robbing his glorious piece of tech. 

She had to adjust the flexible seat and feet mounts to fit her dimensions but with the slick controls, the increased speed and spacious cockpit it had been a joy to pilot. His ship was indeed glorious. The man had taste. She wanted to tell him that when he appeared on Exegol. It was the first thing that popped into her head. She guessed that facing her Sith grandfather did ridiculous things to her brain.

“But I didn’t go to Exegol in his ship.” 

They all frowned before D’Acy leaned forward and inquired, “Then where did you go, Rey?”

She flew to Ahch-To to exile herself before she damaged others. Shocked at the strength of her dark hate she fled. Kylo lay pale-faced and bewildered at his seeming demise and then revival at her hands. But before she left she had told him the truth that she had been trying to keep submerged. 

“I did want to take your hand. Ben’s hand,” she acknowledged before turning her back on him.  

“I took his ship to Ahch-To,” she began to tell her interviewers, and once again there was that shimmery feeling. She heard the insistent swoosh of the sea and somehow it calmed her and gave her the courage to continue.

He took the top blanket and used it as a cape as he slipped out of his bed. He arranged his avian friends in a little nest by his pillow, shushing them. His carer was asleep, wool strewn in her lap, oblivious to his disturbance. He smiled at her, picked up her wool and placed it neatly by her chair. He took the lantern and padded outside in his thick coarse socks. 

It was dark and the whoosh of the waves was loud and near. It calmed him. The breeze ruffled his hair and he closed his eyes, feeling the air tickle his face. The wind and waves seemed to hold his name in the cool night air. Ben.

He pulled his blanket around him tighter and peered out. Several lanterns bobbed on a string along by a path to his left, their yellow light erratic yet enchanting. He glimpsed in his mind something similar, torches of fire, people huddled and frightened. He huffed again, shaking his hair from his eyes. His past was as dark and vast and unknown as the ocean which heaved in front of him.

He knew he was a man, a man called Ben. The other, newer name was elusive and he sensed it sounded similar. He knew words for things, he knew he had straggly black hair and he was taller than the erstwhile occupant of his clothes. The creatures, who had taken him into their care, had seen his kind before. There was the word Jedi strongly associated with the clothes he now wore. These things he knew. He also recognised feelings of awe and fear when he turned over the word Jedi in his mind. But when he tried to snag it further it broke up, merging with the shadows. It seemed that his memory was returning like the torn cloud fragments which scudded over the gleaming moon. He was desperate to know and yet desperately afraid.

“So you travelled to Ahch-To,” summarised Targen when Rey had finished and was sipping from a cup of water. “Where you intended to stay until,” he flicked at his data pad with long fingers, “the ghost of Luke Skywalker persuaded you to leave and hefted his ship out of the sea.”

“In full working order!” interjected Beyanga with a raised eyebrow. “Did the Force help you mend it?”

Rey scowled at him. “No. I told you that he had kept parts on the island. And the rot from the sea wasn’t that extensive.”

“Here is our theory,” Targen announced. “You and Kylo Ren went to Ahch-To. The TIE whisper,”

“The TIE what?” she interrupted.

“The TIE whisper, as well as being equipped with increased velocity and firepower, also had two seats.”

“It did,” she agreed. She had noticed that but only now thought it odd. Supreme Leader Ren may have anticipated needing added protection while flying, yet both times she had witnessed him aboard his TIE he had piloted alone. Which meant ... she thought of his words, “The only way you’re going to Exegol is with me.” A ship built for two. Kylo and Rey strapped back to back. It was probably Kylo Ren’s idea of romance. She wondered if he had a cosy blanket stowed away along with luxury food packs and perhaps a bottle of Corellian liquor.

“Yes, it did. And Kylo Ren was in one of them when you left Kef Bir, wasn’t he?” Targen’s mean eyes were locked on hers.

“No, he wasn’t with me!” she exclaimed in frustration. “I said he was dead. On that wreckage.”

“So, Rey, tell me this one more time. You left him as he was? He was fully dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Describe him.”

“He was wearing his black cape, his tunic, his leather belt, large boots ... oh, what has this to do with anything?”

“It has to do with everything. Why do you insist on lying?”

Then he reached behind him and took out a canvas bag. From the bag he took out a familiar garment. It was Kylo Ren’s padded black tunic and attached to it, flowing over Targen’s knees to the floor, was Kylo’s black hooded cape. 

#reylo fanfic #reylo fan fiction #tros fix it #ao3 update #the crashing of waves

[mental-multiverse-blog]

Into the Dungeon of Darkness

A short story based on the game Darkest Dungeon, but it’s still readable for those who haven’t played it. It was meant to be just a small exercise, but it kinda... evolved. Enjoy!

The air this deep into the ruins was disgusting, oppressive, and uniquely scented. The cracks in the damp and crumbling walls provided no relief, revealed no landscape, they just gave way to oppressive dirt and rock. If you burned incense in a room down here, you could return years later to find its scent only mildly dissipated. I felt the rot in the air clinging to my lungs, coating them like oil. Given the strange fungal life we’d seen so far, it wouldn’t be surprising to learn the unusual odor was due to an abundance of spores. I imagined an impossible scenario where I died peacefully in my sleep decades from now and an autopsy revealed a bushel of mushrooms lodged in there, much to the bafflement of the local doctor.

My mildly amusing fantasy was interrupted by the whisper of one of my companions. Something was coming. Our Highwayman cocked his gun, the Leper readied his mighty sword, and I prepared my preliminary prayers to the Lord. The slow shuffling around the corner became clear to me now too.

The stale air stood even more still and our breathing became audible to each other as we braced ourselves for another grueling round of combat. Most abandoned places felt cold and uncaring, but these ruins felt actively malicious and cruel. What had apparently once been a warm and loving home had been warped and desecrated, twisted by its greedy sons into a maze of unfathomable evil. Their excavations into the earth below their home brought none of the power and riches that the rumors promised, just death and madness.

This place was an affront to the Lord and if my light was able to cast away even a fraction of the shadows that existed against His mighty will, then I would suffer whatever wounds, physical or mental, to do so. So what would I be smiting this time?

Giant slugs and spiders? The shuffling grew louder. Living mushrooms and slimes? With proximity came clarity: it was the sound of footsteps. Bandits and madmen? We could see the vague shadows of a hand gripping the wall’s edge. More of those blasphemous re-animated corpses?

As the rest of the silhouette stepped into view I called down the holy light, blinding the figure while the Highwayman interrogated it.

“Hold it! Who’s there?”

Instead of the usual ferocity, flurry of movement, and unfathomable sounds that started these battles the figure just held its thin arms in front of its eyes and whimpered “I mean you no harm.”

I dimmed the Lord’s light and took in the “man” that stood before us. There was no question of his humanity per say, but rather of his functionality. He was emaciated and pale, adorned only with tattered clothes and broken long-chained manacles clamped around his wrists. The most striking detail, though, were the scars: dozens upon dozens of them, some more aged than others, scattered across his skin like a dropped bundle of sticks.

“Please, help me get out of here. I’ve been trapped down here… so long.”

The Highwayman was a suspicious man under normal circumstances. He’d led a hard life, taking odd jobs and robbing banks when the work dried up. The only other thing I knew about him was that he’d been the lone survivor of a previous excavation, which was truly astonishing when you considered the wit and determination it’d take to survive the hostility of the ruins alone. So it made sense when he barked “Why should we trust you? How d’ja get here in the first place?”

“I was kidnapped by the cultists. I think they wanted me for a sacrifice, but the ritual… went wrong and I was able to escape.”

There was hesitation in his voice. He was holding back, but perhaps with good reason. We’d run into those cultists before and the power they had wielded in battle only hinted at the madness they might be able to inflict on a captive. We all had things we’d seen in the ruins we wished to never think of again and he surely felt the same about his torturous time with the cult.

The Leper, of course, immediately took sympathy on the tortured soul and sheathed his sword. I knew nothing of the Leper, but I sensed a piousness and decency about him that only those who’ve flourished despite true suffering seem to have. He did not speak, only extending his hand to the man in solidarity.

The Highwayman grumbled, “Keep in mind this gun of mine don’t leave my hand, should yah think of making trouble.”

Our newest party member nodded in acknowledgement, his gaze locked on the barrel that was equally focused on him. It was then that I noticed it: some weight behind his eyes, something dark deep within him. It almost felt… primal.

We continued our way through the winding halls and crumbling rooms, stopping to search abandoned crates and bookcases. It was uncommon to find anything worth taking, but we’d found enough valuables along the way that this looting became something of a habit. We’d made our way to a library of sorts: lined with collapsing wall-to-wall shelves and populated with half-burned books. We were all indulging in our habit, but I was ignoring the handful of strongboxes and trinket-filled desk drawers in favor of the cryptic texts scattered about. The abundance of forbidden texts down here made it easy for me to learn about the dark arts and while I was reluctant to pursue anything that endangered my soul, I knew it would prove necessary to surviving this journey.

“Stay away from there!” screeched the Highwayman with unprecedented fear and anger.

I was startled by such volume, as we hadn’t spoken so loudly since before we entered the ruins. It was dangerous to speak that way in a place that can echo a noise for miles. The object of the Highwayman’s ire was the manacled man, who had his hands up and was standing stock still next to a small fountain in the corner. It had no water running, but had a stained and mildewed basin. What was truly strange was that the centerpiece was no angel, bird, or even abstract architecture, but rather an oddly detailed tentacle. Our party had seen one or two similar stoneworks but never bothered them, having more than once learned the lesson of staying away from anything that hinted at the unholy so strongly. The newcomer was apparently still naive.

The Highwayman brought his voice back down and said “Did ya touch it?”

“N-n-no sir.”

“Good. Don’t. Lost some good men that way.”

It occurred to nobody in the room to inquire any further. It was not our place and we didn’t have the spare sanity to handle such things. I returned to my texts when I felt the slightest shiver on the back of my neck. Was the Lord warning me? Of what? I stood to attention, gripping my holy book tightly. I looked over at the manacled man and he returned the gaze, but with intense fear. There was a beat and I understood.

“Incoming!”

Unlike our last encounter, there was no time for preparation. A moment after the words left my mouth, cultists burst through the door we’d yet to clear. The Highwayman acted with his usual superb speed, letting off a pistol shot mid-dive behind a desk. Sadly his aim wasn’t as impressive and he only managed to clip the arm of one of the cultist brutes. I was already positioned beside a desk, so I had easy cover, but the Leper and the manacled man weren’t so lucky. The Leper was out in the open and his sword was sheathed, but on the opposite side of the room as the cultists. The manacled man was still at the fountain corner, which was adjacent to them. He ducked into the shadows and curled up, hoping his small stature would hide him.

There were four cultists: two brutes and two shamans. The brutes were massive beings of mostly muscle, probably supernaturally enhanced at the cost of their humanity. They were equipped with clunky gauntlet claws, essentially three swords attached to their hands. The shamans, always women for some reason, used their staffs to cast strange unholy spells, but each shaman’s magic was slightly different. Oh and they could see just fine despite wearing thick black blindfolds, which, while strange, was fairly useless knowledge combat-wise.

The bleeding brute leapt forward towards the Highwayman’s cover, determined to retaliate. Clearly the Highwayman wasn’t expecting such quick reaction, as he was reloading. I started to chant a stun prayer, but there was no need. The Leper darted forward with incredible speed, my vision blurring body and metal together as his sword swung downward, smashing into the ground. My eyes and brain caught up and registered the outcome. It looked like there was a section missing from the brute’s arm, as if someone had erased a few inches. The Leper’s sword had completely severed it, but at the cost of having those claws lodge themselves in his shoulder and upper arm. The brute’s delayed scream of pain boomed louder than overhead thunder, but the Leper made no noise as he discarded the arm, even though it took a chunk out of him in the process. The brute went to swing again, but was greeted by the barrel of a newly loaded gun and was swiftly removed from the fight.

To push our advantage, I’d have to take care of those shamans. I shouted the prayer of my Lord at one of them, successfully stunning her. As she collapsed, a slight glow around her, I heard the slight “thump” of her head hitting the stone floor. She’d be out for a while. The other shaman started muttering, practically hissing the foreign words through lips pursed with anger. Shadows slinked up from the floor, curling up the staff like snakes and gathering together into a ball around the tip. I was mesmerized by their movement, swept up in the surreality and a tad jealous I couldn’t wield light similarly. My stunned fascination kept me immobile for a second too long and I was swept off my feet as shadowy tentacles burst from the staff, stretching across the room and smashing into my chest. As my body collided with a bookshelf, which shattered easily, and then the wall behind it, I felt something in my body crack. A rib probably, given that impact.

I managed to keep my eyes open and stay conscious, but the wind was completely knocked out of me. I sat there wheezing, trying to regain my ability to breathe, but the musty and dust-filled air offered no relief. The Leper stormed forward offensively towards the shaman, his gouged arm dangling behind him as he ran. Before he could get close though, the remaining brute intercepted his path and the Leper narrowly avoided another claw strike. The Highwayman let loose a shot to cover him, which skimmed the neck enough to distract and hurt the brute, but not permanently impede it. The Highwayman cursed his shoddy aim this battle and ducked back down to reload.

The Leper heaved his sword and readied himself to attack again, but I could tell from the writhing shadows around the shaman that her counterattack was already poised. I tried to warn the Leper, but words require air and my lungs still had none to offer. As the shadow tentacles flew towards him the Leper defensively raised his sword, but there was no collision. The shadows just… passed through him. The Leper was stunned, but soon that surprise on his half masked face morphed into absolute terror and anguish. A pained croak, the most I’d ever heard from him, escaped his throat as he collapsed to the ground and began shaking violently. My recent research helped me recognize it: a nightmare spell, designed to make you relive your greatest traumas and worst fears. It’d take some time, some prayer, and a good woman but he’d be fine… probably.

The brute, its wound shaken off, advanced to finish the weakened soul. “Leper!” exclaimed the Highwayman as he vaulted over the desk. He ran toward the crumpled figure, drawing his dagger from its sheath. The brute ignored him, determined to wipe the Leper out. As it raised its metal claws in the air for the death blow, the Highwayman dashed across its vision, landing just outside the brute’s range with surprising grace. It took both the brute and I a few seconds to realize what the Highwayman had accomplished with such a strange attack, but as blood started to leak from a thin and long cut in the brute’s forehead I understood. The brute grunted, furiously wiping away at the blood that kept dripping into its eyes. The wiping became more and more exaggerated, slowly turning into a furious flailing as the brute lashed out against its blindness.

The Highwayman ducked a passing swipe and picked up the Leper, whose convulsing had stopped. As he turned to bring him back to cover, he stumbled and then froze. The shaman cackled, a single tentacle extended from her staff to the Highwayman’s ankle. That extra second in the range of the brute was all that was needed, as he was struck in the head by a passing arm and knocked to the ground. The brute, realizing it’d hit someone, re-oriented itself in that direction, and readied its claws for a more deadly strike. I begged the Lord for strength as I croaked out a stun spell, but the coughs confused my words and the sharp jab of a cracked rib weakened my will power. The brute’s fist came down and I closed my eyes. It was over.

The vibration of an unfamiliar roar shook my eyes open again. The brute’s fist was suspended in air, the claws paused mere inches from my companions. There was a chain wrapped around the brute’s arm, its links leading back to the corner with the fountain. From out of the shadows stepped a grotesque beast, a red-skinned devil with the teeth and claws of a wolf, the stature and build of a bear, and the horns of a ram. Where had it come from? Would its bloodlust end with the cultists or would it come for us too? How could we even begin to stop that… that monster?

The beast heaved back the ensnaring chain, pulling the brute off balance and bringing it to the floor. The predator leapt on its prey with uncanny speed for its size, its claws digging into the flesh of the almost-man that I now almost felt sorry for. The brutes death would have been quick and incredibly painful if not for its companion, as the shaman’s shadow tentacles wrapped themselves around the beasts neck and head, dragging the devil off her companion and slamming it into a bookcase. Unfortunately for her, the beast recovered quickly. She cast tentacle after tentacle, both tangible and not, but the beast kept coming and eventually overcame her. It took seconds for the body to become completely unrecognizable as human. The brute attempted to intervene, but the Highwayman scrambled to his feet and sliced its throat from behind. A more merciful death than it would have received at the beast’s hands.

Finally able to breath with some amount of regularity, albeit not painlessly, I too rose to my feet. The Leper propped himself up on his sword. The beast, bored with its prey, moved on to the unconscious shaman I’d stunned earlier. To die in her sleep was a mercy that blasphemer didn’t deserve. After finishing her off, the beast turned towards us. It walked slowly, each footstep almost as loud as its deep and labored breathing. The chains it was dragging clinked quietly, chains that were attached to… manacles? Wait… could it be? The beast roared a final time as its body contorted, shrinking and changing color. We all wanted to look away from the transformation, but we couldn’t. After what felt like minutes of convulsions and groans, the manacled man stood before us once again.

“Well… you know the truth now. I… am an Abomination. If you want to kill me, I’d understand, but I can’t guarantee that It won’t try and stop you.”

We were still dumbstruck, unsure of what to say. How do you address someone that’s simultaneously the most pathetic man you’ve ever met and also the most terrifying beast to walk this earth. The Abomination squirmed uncomfortably in anticipation of our response. For once it was I who spoke first.

“Do you have it under control?”

“Uh, for the most part? I can’t always control when it comes out, but I can stop it from hurting people I care about… assuming I have something else to attack nearby.”

The Highwayman sighed, sheathing his dagger and pistol. “Well that’ll just have to do then. We need all the help we can get I s’pose. Vestal, get to work healing Leper and yourself. We need to keep moving.”

The Leper smiled the faintest of smiles, patted the Abomination on the shoulder, and then followed after the Highwayman. I leaned over to the Abomination and whispered, “The Lord doesn’t approve of alcohol, but if- I mean when- we make it back to town I think we all owe you a drink.”

The Abomination smiled weakly and for a second I couldn’t see that weight in his eyes, that burden of the beast within.

“Thanks Vestal.”

He followed behind me as we joined our companions, resuming our journey into… The Darkest Dungeon.

#darkest dungeon #my writing #short story #video games #fanfiction #i guess #horror #action #fantasy #writing

[ethereal-wishes]

Zombelle ( Summary In the Wish realm, Rumplestiltskin is freed from his prison. The first thing he does after making his escape is go and find Belle. He uses a tracking spell to lead him to her, which happens to be the exact place he was in. However, he finds she isn't dead, but not exactly alive either.)

He'd been trapped in that prison cell for three decades, with his madness and lunacy only to keep him company. When the Evil Queen from the other realm had opened his prison, freedom had been the first thing on his mind. The second thing was an old memory he hadn't bothered to drudge up in ages. A young woman with chestnut hair and azure irises filled his head. Finding her and revealing his unrequited love seemed frivolous after so many decades of his absence. He found himself back at his old homestead, rummaging through the castle for a single one of her belongings. The only thing he managed to find was a moth eaten golden ball gown - the attire she'd worn the day she'd agreed to go with him forever. He held it delicately in his talons, imagining her middle aged with streaks of gray in her chestnut hair. He assumed she was still as lovely as ever, with a few age lines creasing her brow. She was probably married with grandchildren by now, but he didn't care. In his mind, it wasn't about being together. He knew she wouldn't want that after he'd thrown her out like day old rubbish. He knew he could live without her. However, he yearned to know of her well being. He managed to find enough ingredients to make a tracking potion. He respired deeply as he poured the ethereal blue liquid over the dress. It rose high into the air, floating rapidly to the north which would have been the opposite direction of Avonlea. Perhaps Belle had preferred to resettle elsewhere. Maybe she wasn't able to face her father's scrutiny. He could only imagine the yarns which would have been spun about her back at court: sharing a monster's bed. He scoffed, growing irritated by the amount of time it was taking for the spell to reach her. He snapped his fingers, speeding up the process. The garb soared swiftly over the treetops, and his heart sank as it flew in the direction of Regina's castle - the place he'd just left. He made his way through the dark abandoned corridors and down the damp steps to the dungeons. The gown floated madly in front of a tired old cell. He'd expected to find a pile of bones, but his pupils blew wide when he witnessed a figure hunkered down in a corner. Matted brown hair cascaded down the figures back. He could pick up the faint sounds of ravenous chewing. It couldn't be... "Belle?" he spoke her name with careful utterance. The figure turned, as if it'd been eluded by a spell before. A half-eaten rat hung from its mouth. Blood dripped down its chin as it looked at him with hollow eyes. Rumpelstiltskin wasn't terrified of anything, but he involuntarily shuddered, haunted by the creature's empty sockets. The distorted figure with flesh hanging loosely from its bones was his former true love – a shell of her anyway. Rumpelstiltskin was familiar with the spell, though it was rarely used. The name of it was so vile he didn't dare speak it. His blood boiled with vexation. Regina had used it as one last act of revenge against him. The Spell of the Damned. She'd cursed Belle to walk the world as a mindless zombie. The figure ambled over to him, eying him as if he were her next meal. It d desperately reached its bony fingers through the bars. Rumpelstiltskin waved his hand, freezing her in place. He could sense there was a tinge of Belle trapped within this rotting corpse. With careful precision, perhaps he could return her to her former self. Rumpelstiltskin transported them back to his castle. He placed the motionless corpse on his work table and began the tedious procedure. His Dark Magic was uncooperative at first. It didn't believe restoring Belle's life a worthy cause. However, he'd managed to bend it to his will in the end. First, he restored her skin back to its healthy peach hue and then commanded her organs to work. Most were nonfunctional, but he'd solved that dilemma by disemboweling a few of those which hadn't honored a deal three decades prior. He hadn't had time to contend with such traitors before being thrown into prison. The tricky part would be getting Belle's mind back to the way it was before. Her subconscious was barely a flicker – rotted away by her animalistic compulsions. He'd restored her outer shell to its former glory but it would be days before she would awaken. Then he would know if his work had been a success or if he'd merely transformed her into a glorified version of her flesh-eater self. One of the ancient laws of magic stated one couldn't bring back the dead, however it'd never said anything about the undead. When she'd first awoken, she'd thrashed about violently, hissing and salivating, like some rabid beast. Rumpelstiltskin had restrained her and fed her a bucket of brains he'd been saving from the deal breakers he'd slaughtered. She'd eaten them bare handedly, the juice dripping from her plump red lips. After a fulfilling meal, the light began to trickle back into her eyes. When she first spoke, his heart slammed into his ribcage as he stared at his ravenous beauty with mixed emotions. "Rumple, thank you, I was starving," she replied, wiping the saliva from her mouth. "Belle, do you realize what you are or how long it's been?" he inquired, his voice threatening to shatter his resolve. The Dark One wasn't terrified of what she was, but the former spinner trembled within. "Over thirty years, since Regina cast that spell on me, all I've craved is brains. However, I had to settle for the rats which ran rampant amongst the dungeons. Thanks to you, I was able to have a proper meal. Don't worry though, I promise not to eat your brain." She quipped, though he was certain she wasn't kidding about feasting on the brains of the living. He would need to keep a watchful eye on her and make sure she didn't assassinate anyone prominent.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fanfic #Zombie!Belle

[zu-daba]

The Hunt Begins

Zu’Daba bid his farewells to the Shadowtusk Clan after the day’s various adventures. They had learned how to trap a devilsaur and even captured a pair of eggs from the immense creatures while collecting still more from the massive stegodon native to the crater. It had been a great time for the trolls here, and yet Zu’Daba found himself trouble.

His hunt hadn’t made any progress. Kambakali was not anywhere to be found.

Several hours had passed of him searching through the warbling, claustrophobic jungle before he finally took a rest. Squatting upon the ground while rainwater and sweat pervaded every inch underneath his armor, he snuffed at the air. No sign of ravasaurs or their musk, let alone the musty rot that would no doubt mark the location of Kambakali’s killing ground.

He knew that the creature enjoyed playing with its prey.

As he took in a deep breath, the air felt heavy in this throat and the ground giving beneath his feet. It was mud, nothing more, and yet the feeling brought back strange memories from years prior, even before Venomclaw.

Timid and lost, Zu’Daba wandered with only his oaken bow, a couple of arrows and his machete through the sweaty Un’Goro jungle. Every noise gave him jitters, and even the slightest bit of movement had him jumping about on his feet. This particular spot seemed odd, though. He’d wandered here on purpose, as the titanic devilsaur did not bother hunting here. Nor did Kambakali.

At least not yet, he hadn’t..

It was the territory of the venomhide ravasaur. Creatures adapted perfectly to the crater’s apex predator and evading its slavering maw. While well-aware it was dangerous, he found it more comforting until he reached the center of that mush-floored clearing. The clicks of hungering predators could be heard nearby as his skin crawled before something lept from the thick underbrush.

The Darkspear dodged to the side as a venomhide launched itself for him, turning and slicing for its tail; cleaving the end off while it squealed in agony. Blood and seeping poison splashed onto the ground, sizzling while he gripped his machete in both hands and grit his teeth. He backed up to the spot it came from, thinking himself safe as it turned and snarled; revealing a full set of pearly white teeth that gleamed with a thin film of venomous spittle. Yet a wrenching pain in his shoulder swiftly made him drop his weapon into the mud.

Another had emerged just behind him, and its teeth sunk deep into his shoulder. A spray of blood burst from the wound as he swung his elbow back towards the beast’s jaw and tore away, clutching the wound with his free hand and wincing.

“C-clevah BITCH..” He seethed, tearing his machete out of the mud and flinging muck towards the ravasaur’s eyes while he could feel nausea bubbling up in his belly and fever coming over his senses. He would not die from the toxin itself, no, but the combination of two of these things might well be enough to over-inoculate him or simply slay him outright. He wasn’t immune just yet, but he was close. He’d need to be careful.

As he performed the maneuver which slung mud into the female’s eyes, her mate (no doubt) sought to jump for Zu’Daba with its scythe-claws poised to tear him to shreds. He flung himself out of the way at the last moment, but even still received a wound upon his thigh as he backed up towards the trees and swung up into one of them. Slicing off the branches as he clambered just out of the tall saurs’ reaches, he drew out his bow and nocked in a bamboo arrow.

“HETHISS! GUIDE YA FANGS! An’ Junglesting.. YA FOCCIN’ ASSISTANCE WOULD BE MUCH APPRECIATED!”

With a twang, the arrow flew forth and slammed into the shoulder of the female; causing her to stagger and growl before a gurgle sounded from her throat. Soon, the most terrifying loogie hocked in existence was flung towards Zu’Daba’s face as he sputtered in surprise and pain. The stuff began seeping in as he desperately began wiping it off with his bracers and calloused palms. Unfortunately, that did not leave the other ravasaur with its own problems and a swift leap found Daba’s ankle in its mouth. He bit down on his tongue to avoid a wail of pure agony, rage boiling up in his throat.

Where..

WAS..

THAT..

WASP?!

“JUNGLESTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!” He prayed it would be loud enough..

And like the most baleful, malevolent light in the darkness, he came. Zu’Daba heard buzzing in the distance before a blur sped on past him at the speed of sound. Or was it unquenched rage? Whatever purpose this blur had, it was clearly murder. The jaws were loosed from around Daba’s ankle as he opened his maw, witnessing the brutal puncturing of that beast’s windpipe when Junglesting impaled it straight through the neck. A bone-shuddering, gasping cry of shock echoed out from the ravasaur’s throat as Daba jumped down, falling onto a knee and watching as Junglesting flew about a tree to prepare for yet another strike with that spear-like stinger.

He sputtered and spat out some blood as the female looked at the brilliant hues of the colorful, flying wasp in rage. She just couldn’t reach it, which left the master as the target of frustration instead. Dashing forward with determination, she thrust herself straight for the Headhunter’s neck; attempting to pin him against the tree he’d climbed to tear his throat out. 

Yet while he felt feverish, a bit sluggish and he could hardly feel one of his legs.. Daba could still move his upper body. He flung himself to the side, letting her strike against the tree-trunk before flinging himself back; right arm gliding through the air to wrap around her neck while his left hand curled into a fist and smashed her snout into the ground. Using all of his weight and strength he climbed atop the creature and pressed his thumbs against its maxilla to hold the jaw closed while his other fingers clenched up on its mandible. He drew his head back, then plunged it downwards.

A squeaking, desperate cry ebbed out as his mammoth tusks buried into the creature’s eyes; rupturing them in a fountain of blood, poison and other fluid. He continued to push forward as it squirmed with surprising willpower before finally slumping in defeat as he pierced into the brain. With one final convulsion and the killing stroke of Daba removing his tusks, the female went silent and the hunter’s gaze fell to the male which was still struggling behind him.

Not that it’d be alive long. Junglesting descended in a shower of broken twigs and disturbed leaves, falling upon the ravasaur like the angel of death. Buzzing about just above the ravasaur’s head, he bit once - twice - three times at the eyes of the large, ferocious male; blinding him before finally swinging his stinger up in under its jaw and sliding it straight up through its tongue. With another tear away and a wrench from the oversized raptor’s skull, the wrathful wasp allowed the corpse to fall to the ground as Zu’Daba collapsed and panted. Seemingly satisfied with this most grotesque killing-spree, Junglesting zipped on away; leaving his master lying in the bloodied mud as pools of sanguine lapped against his scalp and feet.

Shaking himself from this daydream, Zu’Daba scowled and rolled his eyes. That was a silly memory, if a fond one - Those last two were those which had finally given Zu’Daba his immunity, all while they were hunting him. It did make him miss the heroic Junglesting, however.. A bittersweet reminder of the loss he suffered in the ogre war. He prayed he’d never lose such a companion again, as even with a mere ‘insect’ (not that he ever felt that way, Junglesting was still family) really stung. 

Alas, the hunt had to continue, and so he continued on past the place without looking back, wondering why he even remembered.

[wilfordndarkdidntdeservethis]

@what-the-flug The idea of mad! Flug came from that beauty! Try checking out their blog before reading! :D ——————————————– “Flug!!” Snarled the annoyed voice. The anxious scientist made his way towards his boss, tripping on his feet along the way. “S-sorry sir! W-what is-” Dr. Flug pauses midsentence to gasp. There in Black Hat’s arms was a knocked out super hero. A wide grin stretches across the scientist’s hidden face. “We’ve brought in another one. 5.0.5 managed to grab him after destroying half the city. The hero knocked right out after he was used as a chew toy.” Sneered Black Hat. The demon dropped the hero to Dr. Flug’s feet. “Do… Whatever you do with those heroes. I’m surprised you manage to keep them quiet wherever you put them.” Muttered Black Hat, walking off. As soon as he laid his eyes on the unconscious hero, a million thoughts ran through his head on what he’d do. Flug immediately began dragging the body away. Dragging the body was easy for him, picking it or lifting it up long distances was another. He could only pick them up short distances. Enough to make it from the lab to a trash can out back that later burned trash periodically. I mean, what else was he gonna do with corpses? Leave them to rot and stink? He was evil, but he was not trashy, no. Flug dragged the body into the lab, and behind his desk. He glanced around, making sure he wasn’t followed. As soon as he saw the coast was clear he opened a small patch on the floor, tossing the body down, before climbing down himself. The room was dark, dimly lit by a light in the middle of the room, which shined above a glass dome over a large pit. Where Flug kept heroes to rot. He tossed the hero he had been given into the pit from a small opening in the dome before sealing it shut as he always did. He studied the hero, mumbling noted out loud. “Hero appears to be.. Cumulus. Abilities include controlling the amount of water in the air along with weather to a small extent.” He searches around the table he had beside the pit, finding a needle beside a multitude of blood samples from different heroes from the past. He tied a small cord around his body before hopping down into the pit holding a remote and a small needle. He gets on his knees beside the sleeping hero, poking her skin with the small sharp object. As he did this, the hero squirmed with discomfort. “Hey! Hey. Hey, sshh. It’s all fine. Doc just needs a bit of blood is all. Then we can poke you and cut you and potentially zap you until you make your way to the little gates down below!” Dr. Flug giggled softly. His voice wad smooth as silk and clear as day a polar opposite to him outside the room. He pulls the needle away, with a considerable amount of blood in the needle, the blood a grayish hue. He sighs, getting up. “Too bad too. You were such a cool hero.” Dr. Flug sighs. As he begins walking back, the hero shoots up with loud gasp, snapping her neck towards the villain. “you.” She spat. “Where am I!?” She raises her hand, shards of ice forming in the air at rapid speed as Flug presses a button on the remote. As the shards fly towards him, the rope around his waist pulls him swiftly out of the pit, missing the shards just barely! He slams the pit’s opening shut and giggled frantically. “Hahaha! You almost got me there you little hero, you!!” Dr. Flug cackles. The hero stands up. “where am I!? Let me go you bastard!!” She snarls. Dr. Flug ignored her, setting the blood sample inside a vial labeled the hero’s name, setting it right along side others. “interesting note to add! Not only can you affect the water levels in the air, you can also change temperature as well! You’re blood could make a great freeze ray!! Ohh, how exciting!” He grins. “Let. Me. OUT!!” Roared Cumulus, shooting a multitude of ice shards at the ice. The loud thud of the ice’s impact against the seal made Flug jump with surprise. “it’s no use doll!! Impenetrable!” Sang Dr. Flug. Cumulus snarls. “So- so what!? You gonna test me? You gonna torture me? Brain wash me? Control me!?” The hero growls out. Flug taps his chin. “you know. Giving the villain, the person with the upper hand, options is not a good move. However! I will happily accept torture!!” Cheered Flug. He presses a button on the table and arms flung out the side of the pit, grabbing the hero’s arms and legs. Flug hops down yet again with the remote, walking up to the hero who’s now unable to move. She squirms and tugs at the arms trying to break free, alas it was no use. Dr. Flug walks up to her, reaching his hand out. The girl immediately flinched making Flug laugh. He lightly grabs her chin, looking closely at her face. The girl shakes her head, snapping forward to bite his fingers. “You won’t get shit out of me.” She spat. Dr. Flug chuckles slowly, his laugh chilling and dark, unlike his normal self. “Oh sweetie. What do you think I’m torturing you for? Go on. Guess.” He eggs her on. “Info? Weaknesses? Any villain would be stupid not to want that.” She scoffs. “Not necessarily now! A smart villain tortures for info because he lacks it without others to give him the info. A GOOD villain tortures for fun because he already has all the info he needs.” Dr. Flug grins. “What? So you’re torturing me without reason? How stupid!” Cumulus cackles. “See now you’re learning! Evading me from my true goals! Good! Good! But you know, the thing is. When you have a reason, once that reason is reached, you no longer have a reason to hurt! Its a stopping point for pain. A way out for heroes,” He grips her chin rougher than before, making her unable to shake him off, “See, I don’t want that way out for you. You’re trapped here. No matter. What. You. Do!” Dr. Flug spins himself, harshly kicking her dead in the face making Cumulus let out a choked roar in pain. Flug spins back around to face her, punching her on the opposite side of her face, knocking out a tooth. She spits blood onto the doctor. “Fuck. You.” She pants. “Aww! No thanks.” He hissed, running back and kicking her in the stomach. She yells scratchily, doubling over in pain, gasping for air as she hack up blood. Her body falls weak. She’d have fallen on all fours had if not been for the arms holding her in place. Flug punched her face upward, staring her dead in the eye. “Go on now. Do something about this. Drown me, freeze me, stab me with a weak little shard!” Dr. Flug teased. She growls and Dr. Flug bounced out of the way and as he looks away the hero lets out a scream as he hears the sound of sharpness puncturing flesh. He spins around on his heel seeing she had accidentally stabbed her self in the stomach with her own ice shard. “Ohh! That works EVERY time! You heroes are SO gullible!” Dr. Flug smiles. She feels blood dripping from the ice. “S-so you gonna k-kill me huh?” Cumulus coughed. “Damn. Here I though I’d die by a successful villain.” She chuckles weakly. “Oh but honey. I am a successful villain. The disappearance of Unit, Mr Frost, Jubilee, oh what’s his name uhh, Storm clock? Yeah that’s it.” Dr. Flug lists. “Pfft. Idiot. Everyone knows it was Black Hat who killed them.” Cumulus scoffs. Dr. Flug stiffens, before walking closer. He put his hand on the ice shard, pushing it inward making her scream. “He. Did. NOT. A good villain does not boast. A good villain. Does not get caught. A good villain. Is not. That fucking. DEMON!!” Dr. Flug roars. He clicks another button on his remote, tossing it in the air. The metal shifts and reforms and by the time it hits Dr. Flug’s palm, it’s already a destabilizer ray. “Black Hat. Is no. Villain. He is just a cocky. Arrogant. Self absorbed. Fuck.” Flug growls past gritted teeth. Cumulus grins. “Damn. You must really hate him.” She sighs. “Yeah well he pays the money and brings in the heroes like you I get to play with.” Flug sighs, twiddling with the ray in his hand. “So. What are you gonna-” “God damn it. All this Black Hat talk has ruined the mood. You’re not fun anymore.” He pouts. He repositions his body, shooting the hero straight in the head, blood splattering across Dr. Flug’s bag and the ground. He sighs, as the arms around the girl let go and retract into the walls letting the hero’s body fall limp on the floor with a loud thud. Flug shakes his head. “These new toys get worse and worse.” Flug sighs. He digs out a key from his pockets, unlocking a hatch on the wall before dumping the hero’s dead body into the chute to slide out into the garbage. He switched his ray back into the remote, pulling himself out the pit without a care. He showed no pity, no remorse. Like a good villain. He switched out his clothes and bag for a cleaner pair before turning to head back up. As he turns, he stops dead in his tracks, staring at a wide-eyed, trembling, whimpering Dementia. Flug sighs. “How much did you see you little cretin?” He snarls. Dementia’s voice was barely above a whisper. “a-all..” She whispers. Dr. Flug shakes his head, walking up to Dementia. He switches his remote to the ray, the device making an intimidating hum as he slowly held it up under Dementia’s chin, raising her head up making her whimper with fear. “You do not speak. Of what you saw in this room. Black Hat does not know and he never will. Understood.” Dr. Flug growls. “Y-yes.” She whispers. Dr. Flug puts away the ray, patting her head. “Good pet.” He says calmly. As he walks to leave Dementia halts him. “W-wait! I-I just have one question.” She stutters out. Dr. Flug turns around, tilting his head. “why don’t you ever act like this in front of the rest? Wouldn’t black hat.. Y'know. Like it?” She asks. Flug shakes his head. “If a person has a double life, it is to protect the people in the primary life. People have faces. Different ways to act under different situations. No one is sane when no one is looking, Dementia. Besides. Don’t you think if I acted this way for you all, I would have shot that demon in the head by now?” Dr. Flug replies. “Come now. You have your jobs and I have mine.” He smiles. They get out of the room, and Flug shuts the door against the floor. As soon they get out, they hear black hat aggressively calling out for Flug. “FLUG!! WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU!??” he screeches. Flug sighs, looking over at the scarred girl beside him. “remember. No telling~.” He winks. He takes a deep breathe before running for the door. “C-coming boss! O-oh gosh!!” He calls out, flustered.

#read more #Villainous #i am so sorry #this is long and i cant do the thing on my phone ;-; #villainous fanfic #fanfiction #mad! flug #Dr. Flug #Black Hat #Dementia

[artificialqueens]

Gutted (Katya/Violet) - Fryshook

Violet and Katya - or rather Jason and Brian - run into each other in L.A. and reminisce about a close call on the road. And then they keep running into each other. Kinda.

AN: As seen on Ao3.

Meeting went well but idk. We’ll see what happens. Don’t forget that I’m flying in at 7am Weds. Pls don’t sleep in and make me have to talk to another fucking wannabe DJ who just does Uber as a side gig

Jason sent off the text and headed out of the WoW offices. The young Queen looked up from a particularly hypnotic thirst trap in time to notice a black-clad guy in a baseball cap also stopping to check his phone before exiting out onto the street. A smile crept onto Jason’s face.

“Dad?”

Katya - well, Brian, at the moment - whipped his head around to find Violet Chachki- or Jason, rather; Violet would surely be into a guy that jacket, but wouldn’t be caught dead in it, not to mention the floppy hat- standing in the door frame of the abandoned waiting room.

“I thought I smelled something,” Brian cackled, swooping his young friend into a hug, lifting skinny Jason Dardo off their feet like an uprooted sapling. He threw in a couple dry humps before setting the young Queen down and stepping back to get a better look.

“Look at you, you fuckin’ giraffe carcass.” He tweaked the big black hat covering Jason’s head. “Is nice,” he said, Russian accent thick, before dropping back into his natural voice: “How are you?”

Jason shrugged. “Getting laid, getting paid… I missed you, bitch.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m an All Star. No! You don’t even answer my texts, bitch!”

Jason rolled their eyes. That’s not true, but it’s not…not true.

“Look, Katya,” Jason shifted, posing. “I have to maintain boundaries. I am, after all… a winner.”

Brian laughed through his teeth as he slowly wrapped his hands around Jason’s neck. Jason laughed as the smaller man thought better of this move, dropping his hands and stepping away with a sniff.

“No, no…” he said. “You’d like that too much.”

Jason stared at Brian, taking her in. It was a night off, apparently, so her - his, Brian’s, beard was creeping in, a touch of silver shining on his cheek. Jason suppressed a weird urge to reach out and touch it.

Jason really had missed Brian more than they realized; not Katya blowing up Violet’s twitter mentions at 2am with some amusing nonsense (Jason hated this because it was stupid but also because it made them miss Brian’s sleep-deprived babbling on that disgusting tour bus), but Brian, right here, rolling his eyes and huffing behind those big, fake glasses.

Brian, who always answered the door when Jason, drunk and giggling and full of dumb ideas, knocked.

“I honestly don’t remember the last time I saw you when we weren’t like. Working,” Jason said, finally. Brian nodded slowly, his features narrowing with suspicion.

“You’re being shady,” he said, the smallest hint of a laugh in his voice. “You’re judging me for living my lumberjack fantasy.”

Jason rolled their eyes. “No, bitch. Sometimes I just forget that you’re like…” And now Jason did dare to reach out, their thumb just barely grazing the edge of Brian’s cheekbone,”…a dude.”

Brian’s eyes locked with Jason’s as they slowly dropped their hand away from his face, a curious smile tugging at his lips.

“Excuse you,” he said, scratching his chin. “Some of of the most beautiful women in the world have aggressive facial stubble.”

“Whatever you say,” Jason said. “Hot douche.”

That smile returned. “That’s ‘hottest’ douche,” Brian said.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Brian laughed. “I see what you’re doing, Chachki, and no, I will not choke you out, you horny, horny, little freak.”

*

About two thousand variants of “you’re fucking stupid”s later, Jason followed Brian home to his new pad in the hills which was, as expected, a fucking disaster.

“You need to hire a damn maid, bitch. Get it together.“ A thick booklet on the coffee table caught Jason’s eye. They took a hit off Brian’s vape pen and leaned over to pick it up, flipping through the pages. “The fuck is this? Your erotica manuscript? Am I in it?”

“I know you’ll probably never see one of these again,” Brian began, “but it’s a film script, darling.”

Jason stared at him, a small smile sneaking across their face. “Biiiiitch.”

Brian grinned, snatching the script away and tossing it back onto the table. “Got my SAG card and everythang.”

“Girl, you don’t gotta tell me,” Jason said. “I’ve seen your balls.”

Brian snatched a throw pillow and began to beat Jason with it. “Rotted-gutted-giraffe-cunt!” He tossed the pillow across the room and waited for Jason’s giggling to subside. “I’m still not gonna choke you.”

They sat on the couch in silence for a long stretch after this, smoking. And then Jason said:

“Do you remember Manchester?”

Brian nodded.

“No, I mean…” Jason looked at Brian now, who returned their gaze, his face unreadable. “Do you remember…? It was my birthday…”

Brian nodded again, slowly. “I remember.”

“You were so funny,” Jason muttered, embarrassed. Not sure why they brought it up. “You like, slapped my phone to the ground.”

“Girl.” Now there was an edge to the Bostonian’s usually soft voice. “You were blitzed and I was in my goddamned motherfuckin’ robe. I didn’t want you to record whatever was happening.”

“Yeah, but. What was happening?”

Brian rolled his eyes, tossing his glasses onto the table.

“I don’t know! I mean, at the time I had half a mind to think you were gonna ask me to put my ding-a-ling in your butt, but instead…”

“Tell me I didn’t ask you to do a shot with me,” Jason said.

“Ya asked me to do a shawt with ya,” Brian replied, voice low and slow, Southie accent thick. “Birthday cake vodka, if I recawl.” He cleared his throat and took a huff off his pen. “Something vile like that.”

Jason squeezed their eyes shut and sighed, collapsing backward onto the couch.

“We didn’t,” Jason groaned.

“No, no.” Brian cooed, patting and rubbing Jason’s thigh. When he stopped, Jason opened their eyes and looked at him. He was staring straight ahead at the taxidermy fox frozen on the table. “You did give me a hand job, though.”

Jason’s jaw dropped. Brian met his gaze, stone faced, for what felt like an eternity before finally breaking into a grin.

“You fucking bitch,” Jason felt their heart beat return to normal and relaxed into the couch, Brian’s cackle cracking into their fuzzy brain like a baseball bat.

*

They watched a couple of episodes of Hoarders and chatted a bit about Garbage Island and inevitable environmental destruction before Jason, reluctantly, decided to head back to their hotel in the city, a) because it was very late, but mostly b) because Brian did not offer them a place to sleep, whether that be a spot on the couch, or in his bed.

Which was… fine. It would have probably been a little weird anyway.

Actually, the only odd thing was how Brian dodged Jason’s texts the next day. Which was… well, too bad, because before they knew it, Jason was back home in NYC, working, goofing off with Brad, and trying not to let their mind wander back to the blond Masshole in the Hollywood hills.

Which was… difficult, seeing as Katya had infiltrated every aspect of “mainstream” drag and could be avoided about as effectively as one could avoid salt. You can try your damnedest, but bitch, it’s in everything. Especially if you leave the house. Even in fucking Williamsburg.

So after about a month of this, Jason went out, got drunk (oh, they were having a good time), whipped out their phone and tweeted: I am so going to fuck @Katya_Zamo in Mexico City.

Ignore that, they thought, slipping the phone back into their pocket and grinning at a drunken and very perplexed Bradley Callahan, who hesitantly smiled back.

“What?” He said, handing Jason a colorful shot.

“Go look at what I just tweeted,” Jason said, downing the drink and yelping like a wet poodle.

Brad opened up his phone and scoffed. “Bitch, nobody’s gonna buy that.”

Jason squinted at him, offended. Brad took a long sip of his drink, waiting. Jason thought for a moment, swiftly tapped out another tweet, pocketed the phone again, and snapped their fingers for a another shot.

Brad refreshed his timeline and barked out another laugh. “There we go. That’ll do, pig.”

*

The alcohol was fun but it did nothing to keep Jason from obsessively refreshing their mentions; they’d never seen so many .gifs of Trixie fucking Mattel in their life, but that was kind’ve funny, at least. If anything, this little stunt would at least get the fans going, which Jason lived for.

A reply from @PearletsButtPads with a link to some bootleg YouTube video caught their eye: “Even after she said Ginger deserved your crown? Girl I guess…”

Mute. Blockéd. Jason thought for a moment. No, shit. Then they’ll know. Unblocked. Cunt.

The room was spinning and their ego was stinging like a motherfucker. Their phone whistled with a new message. Jason opened it so fast they nearly tossed it across the floor. It was a text from Trixie:

“Thanks for the fucking literal hundreds of tweets clogging my shit. So cool.”

Jason rolled their eyes and sent Firkus back a series of the unflattering Trixie screencaps riddling their mentions in wordless reply.

Another message. Not Trixie. Jason grinned.

Katya had replied with .gif of a winking lesbian.

Well, Jason thought. That’ll have to do.

*

A few days later, Jason was in Mexico City. The last BOTS stop of the year, and maybe ever for some, if Brian’s mumbling about retiring and leaving the RuGirl life behind held any water. Jason doubted any of that was imminent; Katya was still very much in demand. But the thought still made them a little sad. But only a little.

They walked into the dressing room, and Brian was at his mirror, starting his face. He spotted Jason’s reflection and grinned.

They hugged. “No hat today?”

“No hat today,” Jason replied, taking a step back to take in Brian’s hard new physique. “Jesus Christ, Hollywood Hogan.”

Brian cackled, horrified. “Hogan? Don’t start, you fuckin’ dickpig.”

Jason pulled out his chair, still staring at Brian. What the fuck. “It’s really just the hair,” they said, igniting a delightful series of curses from the older Queen.

 *

The show was a blast, as usual. A few of the girls, including Katya, were staying over a day to explore the city, so they made tentative plans to hit up a dispensary Katya had been recommended and have a little fun.

Violet was excited, wondering if they should use to opportunity to embarrass Katya in front of the other girls by bringing up the Ginger bullshit when he was in the midst of an edible-induced stupor. And they would have, but Katya ran out of the room at just the right time to diarrhea shit herself.

Violet figured they’d put a pin in it. Whatever. They’re having fun, for once - why fuck that up just yet?

An unpleasant shiver settled in Jason’s gut.

*

Mexico was a wash. Violet and Katya kissed and hugged and said their goodbyes, made empty promises to get together sometime, and Brian and Jason boarded their flights.

Jason didn’t bother mentioning that they had business in L.A. in the coming weeks. They assumed Katya would be on the road, and if not… well. It was probably for the best not to get their hopes up.

Jason made their way down the empty hall and stopped in front of one of the dressing rooms, debating a mirror selfie. They were excited and they wouldn’t be able to say a word about any of this for probably months…

Jason glanced around for any stray interns, and finding the coast clear, slipped into the room, where they found a half-naked Katya Zamolodchikova. Well, Brian. It looked like Jason had just missed Katya.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“What the fuck?” The words barely left Brian’s mouth. Jason collapsed against the door, wheezing. What the fuck.

Jesus, Jason thought, reeling themself back to Earth. They must keep this bitch on a tight leash.

They decided to actually use this as their opening line, to which Brian cackled and said, “Are you stalking me?”

“You fucking wish, bitch.”

“I do,” Brian nodded frantically, “I’m very lonely.”

Jason explained that they were just passing through, having worked out some kinks regarding a pilot they were hoping to shoot in the new year, and Brian had just wrapped some…thing he wasn’t really willing to discuss in much detail.

“Finally made that porn you’re always talking about?” Jason said.

“Girl please. You know I’d need you as a technical consultant,” Brian winked, shrugging on his coat. “But you are gonna love it.”

Jason couldn’t help themself: “I don’t really ‘do’ Youtube shows, Katya.”

Brian stared at Jason and shook his head, irritated. “Oh,” he said. “I miss you. I miss you all the time, you skunky cunt.”

Jason laughed and pulled him into a hug. Before they separated, Jason said: “wish I could say the same, but I’m a little sick of hearing about you saying I stole Ginger’s crown or whatever.”

Brian stiffened. He pulled back, looking up at Jason. “I never said that,” he said.

Jason pursed their lips. They were used to being the subject of shit talking, used to the disrespect and jealousy, but this was… a sore spot. More so than they’d realized before they’d actually said it. Of all the queens, they didn’t think Katya would still be flapping her big fucking mouth like that. It’s not personal, it’s drag, blah blah blah, but Jason just thought… Well, whatever.

They’d gotten so close over the years, working, touring. Hell, there were a couple times…Paris, Vancouver…where some of that playful rubbing and groping between Katya and Violet, and Brian and Jason - and whoever they were in between - got a little intense.

But they kept cool. They kept it professional. It was a lot less risky to just slink back to the hotel room and bust a quick nut, or fuck off with road trade… Why mess things up with a colleague - a sister - when you have so many more practical options?

I guess we won’t have to worry about that anymore, Jason thought.

“Once a hot mess…” They muttered.

“Jason.” Brian grabbed their hand. Jason looked at their joined hands for a moment, met Brian’s eyes and shook their head. “Violet,” he amended, squeezing the pale appendage. Jason’s posture relaxed and Brian took the cue to lead this conversation to the the couch. Jason followed, begrudgingly, letting Brian keep his hand as they sat next to each other.

“Whatever I said,” Brian held Jason’s captured hand between both of his, “I didn’t mean it. Not like that.”

“Of course you did, Yekaterina.” Jason extracted themself and drew their hands to their sides, a weird pleasure crawling up their spine at the dejection painting Brian’s features. “You’re entitled to your wrong opinions like everyone else.”

Brian pulled a distressed face that yanked Jason back to their long days in the workroom years ago.

At least she’s figured what to do with that hair, Jason thought. What’s left of it.

“Violeeeeet…” Brian clawed at his face and slid forward until he was face-down on Jason’s thigh, where he mumbled, “you’re making me feel like such a cunt. Not the good kind. Come on…”

Violet stared at the morose blond head bowed before them. After a moment of listening to Brian’s fake sobs, they sighed loudly and placed their hand on the back of his head.

“Katya,” Jason drawled. They felt the muscles work in the smaller man’s face as his mouth quirked up in a mischievous grin. “I forgive you.”

Jason watched Brian’s shoulders relax and curled their fingers tightly into his hair.

“Don’t be such a bitch, bitch,” Jason said. “You’re not good at it.”

This earned a shiver and a giggle from the other girl. Jason loosened their grip, so Brian reached out to grasp the young Queen’s wrist, lifted it away from his head, and slowly rose to face those pursed lips with an amused grin. He brought Jason’s knuckles to his lips.

“Yes, your majesty,” he said.

Jason ignored their twitching cock and rolled their eyes. “That might’ve actually been sexy if you had fucking eyebrows, bitch.”

Brian whipped his head to the side with a laugh, as if he’d been stricken. He tightened his grip on Jason, pressing a series of rapid kisses up and down their long arm, finally earning a genuine laugh from the young Queen.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Brian finally released the arm, letting it rest against the cushion. He didn’t leave it alone long, though, quickly intertwining his fingers with Jason’s, staring down at their joined hands.

“You’re so fucking stupid.” Jason watched him, reflecting on how, once again, this manic clown had completely obliterated any lingering resentment they had been holding on to. “You’re an idiot.”

Katya was good at that. Brian was really good at that.

Brian disengaged their conjoined hands to hold two fingers in place of his absent eyebrows and asked, “Are you hard right now?”

Jason stared at him.

“A little.”

Brian cackled.

“You fucking whore! I knew it.”

“What can I say,” Jason drawled. “Groveling just does it for me.”

“I have a boner too! See? I can admit that. Totally natural and not awkward at all. Just two colleagues with erections being emotionally vulnerable…”

“Just girly things.”

They laughed at how stupid this was. It got a little quiet until Brian finally said something.

“Well, Miss Chachki… Lady to lady…”

Jason braced for the incoming joke, but felt their eyebrows climb up instinctively. Something in Brian’s tone, his posture…

“…if you ever want to do something about that,” his green eyes slid to Jason’s crotch before meeting their eyes, and then in his fucking valley girl voice said, “I’m your girl.”

Tongue. Plop.

Jason felt their mouth hang open as they really and truly considered the creature before them. Katya. No; Fucking Brian fucking McCook.

They were just staring at each other now, Brian only smiling slightly.

Jason shook their head and thought about Paris, about Vancouver. Hell, fucking L.A. Fucking L.A. always got weird.

And then there was motherfucking Manchester.

Jason refocused on the carefully styled haircut they had just moments ago ruined, leaving Brian with his natural Jesse Pinkman-at-age-45 look.

They weren’t even mad anymore. But it might make them feel a little better to claw at that hair again.

“I’m into daddies, Katya,” Jason said, carefully. “Not creepy crossdressing uncles.” Brian’s smile melted into a grimace.

“You rotted, gutted… Look. Violet? I would be more than happy to spank you, if that’s what you want. Not even as a sex thing. As your friend and colleague, I will bend you over my knee right now.”

Well.

As his words pinged around Jason’s buzzing brain like a pinball, they thought: the only thing more insane than fooling around with Katya in this deserted dressing room would be running back to their hotel, again, to strip their cock raw, again, to fantasies of getting fucked by motherfucking… Brian.

Jason started laughing. Brian’s face fell. His ears turned pink as Jason’s shoulders shook. He looked like he was trying to force a laugh, but couldn’t quite conjure it up - and Jason felt a little bad about this, but they just could not stop.

“I’m sorry,” Brian mumbled. “That was a little-”

“You dumb whore,” Jason cut in, grabbing Brian by the collar of his coat and yanking him into a kiss.

After a minute or two of fevered, sloppy, I-can’t-believe-this-is-real-and-not-a-bit-for-once making out, Brian’s eyes shot open with a “wait,” as he pulled away from the flushed Jason Dardo straddling his lap and fumbling with his fly. “You know I really do have herpes, right? It’s not gonna be a problem, I just…you know…”

Jason let out an annoyed grunt. “You’re not special, Katya.”

Brian laughed and buried his face into Jason’s chest. “I’m just-”

“If you don’t have herpes,” Jason said, finally slipping their hand around Brian’s cock, “you’re not. Doing. Drag.”

*

Now, Jason hadn’t really been expecting more than some intense making out and maybe a dry hand job. That’s how these spur-of-the-moment hook-ups usually went; after weeks or even years of tension, you both remember what the other one looks like under all the drag and something brief and sexy happens. But just for a moment.

This moment kept stretching on and on and on and neither Jason nor Brian or Katya and Violet made any indication that it needed to stop there; and then again, they were both Queens notorious for pushing it.

So when things progressed and Brian finally said to Jason, “I want to fuck you until shit comes out of your ears,” Jason grabbed a fistful of Brian’s hair, yanked his head back, looked him in the eye and said, “then fuck me.”

“Okay,” Brian breathed, his grin creeping back, “but not here.”

*

They stumbled into the building across the street, Jason staring at the glowing vending machine - the only source of light in the dark…studio? It was hard to tell - as Brian fumbled around looking for a light.

“What is this place?” Jason asked, picking up a disturbing baby-face mask. Brian took the mask and placed it ever so gently back up on the shelf it occupied, along with various other props and knickknacks.

“Willam’s,” Brian said, leading Jason over to a very broken-in looking couch. “I’ve been shooting some stuff here and, uh. I think he’d be fine with this.”

“Couldn’t just spring for an Uber, bitch?”

“It’s rush hour and if I don’t fuck you in the next two minutes I am literally going to combust and burn this entire city to the ground,” Brian said, pulling Jason into a rough kiss. And yeah, he tasted like a cigarette butt soaked in black coffee, but when he tried to pull away, Jason pulled him back in again.

“I’m assuming you know where he keeps his lube and shit?” Brian nodded. Jason pulled him in close, fastening their teeth to his earlobe. “Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

*

At some point they wound up against the vending machine, but only for a moment as Jason suspected Brian was trying to see if they could knock anything loose; and if that wasn’t enough, once they finally made it back to the couch, Brian almost ruined everything by slamming himself into Jason and grunting, “it’s not that, fuck, you fucking bitch - I don’t think you deserved -” he bit into Jason’s shoulder as Jason murmured, “what? Oh fuck,”- “you deserved it, I was just- Jesus Christ- commenting on society’s tendency to-”

Jason grabbed him by the ears so that they were eye-to-eye and snarled: “Bitch if you don’t shut the fuck up and make me come, I am never going to fucking speak to you again.”

Brian answered with bruising thrusts, wrapping his free hand around Jason’s slender throat as the young Queen’s claws found their way, once again, to the back of Brian’s tender head.

#katya zamolodchikova #violet chachki #vatya #smut #tw choking #tw drugs #fryshook #rpdr fanfiction #submission #canon compliant

[imisphyx]

}  {  } - life, still

Even though he’d been skeptical of my monster-hunting plans, Joyce still brought them to life with inexhaustible enthusiasm. I could have traced it back to his father’s conditioning, if I’d looked hard enough, but I wasn’t looking. I was busy gaping at the walls of our tree-house, which he’d managed to cover with dancing paleolithic horrors within days of me first suggesting we play the game.

He still liked painting with white-out, and he went through bottle after bottle of it while inventing beast after beast to slay. No one monster on its own was very complex, each just a handful of gooey dots and smears on the rough wood boards. But their individual simplicity belied their combined menace: in the amber lantern light, they were a constellation of cryptid limbs and eyes, both lovely and terrifying.

At least I found them terrifying, because it was up to me to slay them all.

My own supply of dime-store dragons and demons had dried up fifteen minutes into our first practice, and he deconstructed my inventions so swiftly and so utterly, I realized it would never prepare us to face a real threat.

So I’d embraced my role as hunter, content to watch him squint at the walls of our fortress, like a small Michelangelo scrutinizing the Sistine, porcelain fingers caked with white dust that left ghostly streaks across his peacoat. His hands trembled when he lost himself in his dreams, and whenever I got close to killing one of his creations, he’d reach into his pocket for that little bottle of white, fussing with it as though he could barely wait to present me with his next invention. I don’t think he realized he was doing it.

Then one afternoon, his ideas took a sharp turn toward something…different. I recall watching as his meddling neared madness; his nails dug into the tiny ridges in the bottle’s plastic cap, twisting right for five or six turns, then twisting left for just as many, then right again.

Closed. Open. Closed.

I was so caught up the waltz that I lost my train of thought until he cleared his throat.

I glanced up to find him waiting, an anxious gleam in his eyes. The hieroglyphic outline of a perfectly average human haunted his left shoulder.

“Well, this… uh…” I fumbled back into my thoughts: “This ‘hobbit dance’… it’s a demon, right?”

“Hobbididance,” he corrected, gently. His lips twitched into the phantom of a smile. “…and yes.”

“Okay, so I would just exorcise it, right?”

“Exorcise it how, exactly?”

“I guess by reciting the right Bible verses? I mean, I’m not sure which ones. I’d probably have to try out a couple, but—”

“It wouldn’t work.”  

I scowled.

“Why not?”  

“Because, the Hobbididance is The Prince of Dumbness,” he said, with a gravity that didn’t at all match the ridiculous thing he’d just said.  

“The Prince of Dumbness?” I snorted. “What kind of lame title is that? Are you telling me he won’t understand the verses I’m reciting because he’s too stupid?”

“Not that kind of dumbness,” said Joyce. His answer was a very particular combination of warm and weary: a voice he used only when he knew damn well that he was withholding the lantern but was nonetheless teasing me for being in the dark.

“Well what kind of dumbness, then?” I played along.

“The Hobbididance prevents people from being able to speak.”

I considered this carefully. He returned to twisting the bottle cap.

“But, shouldn’t it only affect the person it’s possessing?” I asked. “So why wouldn’t I be able to speak?”

“That might be true of an average demon in his order. But he is The Prince. So his silence is a blanket effect.”

“That’s cheating,” I complained.

“How is that cheating?!”

It wasn’t cheating. I just really didn’t like it. So I huffed and went rummaging for my lunchbox in the corner, thinking maybe I at least had some celery sticks left.

“Fine,” he sighed dramatically, and collapsed down beside me, tossing up his hands. “Let’s just say, for the moment, that the Hobbididance only affects the person it possesses. How would you have known to exorcise it?”

“What do you mean? It’s a demon. That’s what you do to demons…”

“But how did you know it was a demon?” he demanded.

“Because you told me—”

“But I’m not part of this! If you’re out monster-hunting and you come face-to-face with a possessed person who can’t tell you they’re possessed, or by what, how would you know?”

He was close enough that I could nearly feel the way his throat clawed at the words of his question, trapping the last of his breath in his lungs. I stared at him, transfixed, and he stared back. It could have been seconds, or minutes, or seasons of silence—

—until he finally, finally blinked—

—his pale lashes looked like the afternoon light filtered through the slats in the wall behind him—

—and it seemed to restart time.

“There are lots of ways to detect demons…” I whispered, hoarse and barely believing myself: “Holy water. Holy artifacts. If the person cooperated I could have them write down what happened—”

“—If the possessed person cooperated?” Joyce’s eyebrows soared to the roof. “Gods, Danny, are you serious?!”

But he was laughing, and I allowed myself to feel triumphant for a spell. Not because I’d solved his riddle—I still hadn’t tackled the original version—but because I thought I’d succeeded in distracting him from reality. I believed I was fulfilling my duties as best friend, and admirably at that. I was too busy trying my damnedest to impress him with my hunting tactics to consider that maybe creating the monsters was his true catharsis. I was too busy battling a tiny, persistent creature in my stomach that watched the brilliant shiver of his hands and asked my brain what it might be like to reach out and hold them—just to stop them from trembling, just to keep them still.

My triumph upon closer examination looked an awful lot like greed.

- ❀ -

All the while, November’s chill took hold of the earth, and my desperate greed began to permeate my methods for finding Mrs. Jacoby’s flowers. The autumn crocuses were quickly passing their prime, as were the mums, and my  neighbors threw their browning pots into the compost heap.

I turned to exotic imports, stealing blooms out of the living-room vase my mother kept bursting with color year-round. At first I tried to be subtle about my selections, only taking smaller specimens, or the ones that were hidden in the middle of the vase, but after a week or so I began to grab the first thing that caught my eye.

Exotic flowers yielded equally foreign results, I learned. Brighter hues produced wilder stories, high on emotion but lower on coherence. Redder flowers seemed to agitate her, while those on the bluer side of the spectrum made her melancholy. I wondered briefly if maybe I was being cruel, but the experimentation seemed worth it, somehow, just to get her to speak at all. She seemed to relish the chance.

Then there was the zinnia.

The surprise on Mrs. Jacoby’s face was apparent when I pressed it into her fingers—as was the confusion. I took a few stumbling steps backward, in case she decided that my gift was unsuitable, or worse: an insult.

She scrutinized it for a long, silent moment, brows furled as she twirled it this way and that between her thumb and forefinger. Her two front teeth, almost fey in their smallness, peeked out to gnaw on her lower lip, and for a second her son was blindingly present in her features. I shivered and tried not to be obvious about pulling my coat tighter.

“I can take it back,” I began, “If you don’t—”

“What color is this?”

“What?” I said, one step behind as usual.

“What color is this flower, Danny?” she asked, more urgently.

“It’s uh… it’s pink?” I wasn’t very good at the shades of pink. I hoped she wasn’t expecting something more specific.

“No… no…” she shook her head vehemently, pressing her eyes shut like an insolent child. “No. No, that can’t be right.”

“Okay,” I said, softly. After months of playing games with Joyce I was always open to the possibility of my assumptions being wrong. “What color do you think it is?”

“When I came to him, the rot had already taken root in the earth,” she replied.

I sank slowly to the floor at her feet, because that had to have been the craziest thing she’d ever said, and she didn’t seem to be finished. She tugged the tiny petals off of the zinnia one by one, stripping it bare as I listened:  

“It had been summer for ages, and the hearts and souls of man had grown drowsy in the humid warmth, not recognizing the sweetness of the air for decay. He bought me spun-sugar at the county fair, and his sweetness wasn’t rot. It was dusty pink clouds and tacky pink fingertips and pink cheeks and pink-maned horses on a carousel meant for children. He brought me to his home, and his sweetness was bubbly rose wine and opal pendants and the ears of our newborn son. He was one of the last, the very last, and I came to him and kept the rot from finding him. But something else found him instead, and the pink in his cheeks became a fever, not a balm. And I could no longer protect him. I can no longer protect either of them, but—”

She stopped.

“But?” I whispered.

But she did not continue. Her fingers had frozen, centimeters from the head of the zinnia, but there were no more petals left to pluck. They were scattered like rain across her lap and around her feet.

That settled it, then—at least that’s what I remember thinking. Something sinister had gotten ahold of Mr. Jacoby, and possibly Mrs. Jacoby too, though she couldn’t say what. And even though she hadn’t finished her thought, I was positive that I knew its conclusion anyway:

“I cannot protect Joyce, but you must.”

I stood, shakily, and went to her, lowering her pinched fingers and extricating the barren stalk from her fist, settling both of her hands in her lap. “I-I’ll… I will,” I grit out. I had to say it twice to make the words intelligible; I was surprised to find myself in tears. “I… um… I’m going to go get the dust pan, okay?”

“Thank you, Danny,” she said. I was quick enough to realize that it wasn’t for the dust-pan.

I fled the room, scrubbing my shirt-sleeves hastily over my eyes and snuffling snot.  

Joyce was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. It was unclear whether he’d been on his way up to find me, or if maybe he’d just been standing there the entire time, waiting for me. I braced against another shiver. But he was smiling, and enthusiastically thrust a tiny object into my fingers.

“I’ve been monitoring the flowers for days now,” he said. “And I think you might be right…”

The object was a ring, made of polished aluminum, and lined with tiny blueish lights that flickered on and off in an inscrutable pattern.

“You know I don’t know how to work this thing,” I said, tossing it back.

Joyce rolled his eyes and sighed a why-do-I-even-bother sigh. He slipped the ring onto his own thumb, and grabbed my coat sleeve, dragging me into his living room.

The last light from the front windows was barely enough to resolve the outlines of a camelback sofa and a few wing chairs—and the silhouette of Joyce lifting his hands toward the ceiling beside me: a shadowy maestro about to conduct a symphony.

The ring on his finger uttered a tiny, agreeable chirp, and the coffee table before us glowed brightly—lit by multitude of tiny projectors embedded in the geometry of the room. Arthur Jacoby had always been into the latest gizmos and gadgets, and their house, despite its Victorian charm, boasted a hidden myriad of high-end tech.

I fell back into one of the wing chairs, sitting on the edge of the seat so as not to drown in the size of it, and waited as Joyce commanded the “Ring of Power,” as he called it, with a series of delicate hand gestures.

“Shoulda just let the scrying stone watch them,” I joked.

Joyce said nothing, but spared me an approving glance in between hunting through the videos he seemed to have been collecting.

One by one, I watched the bouquets I’d given to Mrs. Jacoby take shape, suspended above the coffee table in a neat matrix as he stacked feed upon feed. The resolution was almost too good. It made the flowers look like the ever-perfect plastic replicas that my Mom bought in craft stores. She always claimed she would make a wreath for the front door, but they usually ended up on the opposite side of a closet door, never touched again…

“I kept a camera on each one for three days. It’s mostly the most boring thing ever,” admitted Joyce, and the flowers all flickered in unison as he skipped forward in time, “but I watched almost all of it—

“—What?!—”

“—I kinda thought it would help me get better at drawing if I tried to sketch them all,” he explained, hastily, “But just like you thought, every so often one of them changes color. Like—there, see?!”

The flowers flickered again as he rewound and replayed the last ten seconds. My gaze darted from bud to bloom, eagerly awaiting something fantastic—but I saw nothing.

“I feel like I’m trying to set a bunch of my mom’s ugly old paintings on fire with my mind,” I complained. “What am I looking for?”

“There,” said Joyce again, pointing at a cluster of red and orange mums. “That one got a little more purple.”  

His fingers continued to play and replay the same few seconds of footage, twitching an obsessive pattern at his side. It did look like one of the mums was changing. But even though I’d been quick to suggest that monsters were mixing colors, I now found myself desperate to disprove my own hypothesis.

“It was probably just a change in the light. Like, a cloud passing over the sun or something—”

“But that would make it darker,” he protested. “It’s not darker. It just goes magenta and then back to red again.”

“Well maybe the camera is broken,” I said, suddenly irritated. “Give me the ring.”

“You said you didn’t want it.”

“Well, I changed my mind,” I said. “Give it to me.”

“Make me,” he taunted, idly. He was still watching the flowers, lost in his thoughts. He clearly didn’t expect me to take him up on the provocation.

…which made his undignified yelp twice as satisfying when I lunged for his hand and checked him bodily onto the carpet.

“What the hell, Danny!” he coughed, breathless and struggling as I tried my damnedest to uncurl his knuckles and claim the ring.

Above us, the video feeds began to dance, swapping places with each other and exchanging themselves for other videos in the family collection—birthday parties and science documentaries and a tutorial on how to bake christmas cookies. They cast a discotek rainbow around the dark walls of the room, and through the quartz of his wide eyes beneath me.

“C’mon! I wanna see something,” I said, pinning his arm to the floor.

“You said you didn’t even—Ow!—know how to use it!”

“I just didn’t feel like it right then.” It was only half a lie. “I needed to get the dust pan for your mother, and I—”

“Wait. What’s that?” Joyce cut in.

His eyes were glued to something beyond my shoulder.

“Yeah no, sorry. Not falling for that,” I said.

But to my surprise, he twisted and slipped from my grasp so quickly that it left me staring gobsmacked at the rug where he’d just been.

“Danny,” he hissed. He was standing behind me at the table, as if our tiny sparring match had never happened. “Look at this.”

“The flowers didn’t change color,” I pled with him in a whisper, suddenly incredibly tired. “They couldn’t have.”

“It’s not the flowers, Danny. Someone’s been in here. Look.”

At that, I whipped my head around, following Joyce’s gaze to a dimly lit feed on the far right. A few flicks of his wrist got rid of the rest of the miscellany and centered the footage in the room. He zoomed in until the shadowy protagonists were nearly life size.

“That’s your basement…” I said, because I always provide helpful commentary. Joyce, understandably, did not reply. His earlier delight had been replaced by quiet terror. “What are they doing?”

“I don’t know…”

There were two figures moving about the lab bench Arthur Jacoby kept downstairs—one altogether average, with short, dark hair, and the other thin to the point of frailness, with long, lighter hair drawn back into a ponytail. They dressed in black, the way spies from old war movies did, and the amber Edison bulbs that Arthur fancied didn’t shed much light on what either of them were doing.

And neither of them had a face.

The videos were three dimensional. I could walk around the coffee table and see the scene from whatever angle I wanted, thanks to the absurd number of cameras Arthur had installed. But there wasn’t a single angle that revealed so much as a nose. Anywhere there should have been a face just seemed to fade, like when you try to take a picture indoors, but you’re too close to a window, and all you get is glare.  

Another twirl of Joyce’s fingers conjured the video’s metadata out of thin air. The timestamp read October 12, 8:47PM.

The night his father died.

Joyce was frantic, whirling through all the video feeds of his house, hunting for any other glimpses of the mysterious intruders. But my eyes were stuck to the original footage, desperate to make sense of it.

All at once everything went black, and it took me a moment to understand that Joyce had shut down the media system, and not my mind. We stood there, side-by-side in the dusk, listening to each other’s hearts pound for what felt like an hour, until I managed to find the courage to speak:

“We need to tell somebody.”

“No!”

His reply was barely more than a whisper, but it stung like a smack to the face.

“But—”

“Danny, we can’t. You can’t tell anyone,” Joyce insisted, voice trembling. “If they think I’m not safe here—”

“—But what if you’re not safe here—”

“—they’ll take me away. They’ll take her away. I won’t let them take her away from me.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but my jaw dangled uselessly on its hinges.

“Please…” he whispered.

I sat with a thump on the floor for the second time that afternoon. Mrs. Jacoby’s lament echoed in my skull: I could no longer protect him. I can no longer protect either of them, but—

“They won’t take her from you, and they won’t take her from me, and they won’t take you from me, okay?” I said. I didn’t even know who ‘they’ were. Why had they come? Were they Mr. Jacoby’s colleagues? Burglars? Wraiths? By that point in my life, almost anything was starting to seem possible. “Nobody will.”

He sank down beside me, hugging his knees to his chest.

“… Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I sleep over at your house tonight?”

“Sure,” I said instantly, but then paused. “I mean, I think so—but only if my mom says yeah.”

My words were only a formality, and he knew it. He smiled, gently.  

- ❀ -

Every time Joyce spent the night at my house, my mother would try to offer him the guest room, and every time, Joyce would politely turn it down in favor of sleeping on my floor, causing her to turn the house inside-out to give him every spare pillow and blanket we owned, while Joyce tried and failed to stop her. This time was no different. It took her an hour to finish doting and leave us alone, and when she did it was with a reminder not to stay up talking on a school night.

Joyce didn’t need the warning; he shook hands with the sandman the second he crawled into his enormous blanket fortress. But I couldn’t for the life of me get the crusty bastard to pay me a visit less than five feet away, so I just lay there in a ball at the very edge of my mattress, and watched Joyce sleep.

We’d made sure Mrs. Jacoby was settled for the evening before we’d taken off for my house, but it didn’t feel right, leaving her there alone. My legs twitched with a ceaseless desire to get up—to don my shoes and coat and venture back into the night to check on her—or, at very least, to walk down the hall and wake up my parents, and tell them about the trespassers in Joyce’s basement.

You can’t tell them. They’ll take her away…

Joyce’s hands were curled into fists in one of my mother’s quilts as he slept. I stared at them, thinking suddenly about the way they’d felt in my grip when I’d tried to take the ring from him. I’d been afraid to pry too hard for fear I’d snap his fingers. His wrists had been warm and beating with life, their blue and red blood barely concealed beneath milk-white skin. I’d thought I’d had him pinned, yet he’d vanished the moment his will had shifted…

They’ll take me away…

I’d kept secrets from my parents before, but this one felt awful.

You have to protect him…

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

At some point, finally, I slept, and dreamt that the wraiths in Joyce’s basement were there because they were waiting for light to seep through the cracks in the concrete and give them their eyes back.  

- ❀ -

He was gone by the time I woke up at eight— he always was, when he stayed with us on weeknights. His school started an hour before mine, and even before his father died, Joyce was the one who made his mother breakfast.

I, meanwhile, slouched sleepily at the kitchen table like a typical ten-year-old as my mother plopped a waffle and a bottle of maple syrup in front of my face. She hovered as I began to eat, and I waited for a question. For an announcement. For her to realize I wasn’t Joyce. For something.

“Danny, why do you keep taking flowers out of the living room vase?” she asked, finally, and I nearly choked.

“I didn’t—”

She sank down into the chair across from me and tilted her head toward the refrigerator door, which was displaying the last few days' worth of home-security footage at 40x speed. Apparently Joyce hadn’t been the only one pointing cameras at flowers that week. 

I watched myself repeatedly plucking blossoms from a bouquet: a thief caught red-handed, and yellow-handed, and pink-handed. A thief like the wraiths in Joyce’s basement.

I pushed my plate away across the table, suddenly too nauseous to eat.

“It’s not okay to just take things that don’t belong to you, Danny.”

“I know,” I mumbled.

“You could have just asked me. I would have let you have them.” My mother’s voice was gentle, but unyielding, and it only made me feel sicker. But to my surprise, when I didn’t say anything, her mouth slid into a mischievous smirk. “If there’s a girl at school, you can ask her over, you know. I’d love to meet her.”

“No! Mom. Ew. No. It’s not… it’s… it’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it like, Danny?” she pressed.

There are monsters in Joyce’s house, and I think they killed his dad, and I’ve been using your flowers to try to track them down.

“They’re for Mrs. Jacoby,” I sighed. “There’s nothing in her garden anymore and… I dunno… I thought they’d make her feel better?”

My mother’s face was a difficult thing to read, at that moment. It somehow simultaneously softened and tensed.

“I’m sorry,” I added, when I didn’t get any other response.

“I wish you wouldn’t go over there so much.”

She said it all at once, like she’d been trying really hard not to say it.

“Why?” I asked, startled.

“I just don’t understand why you’d want to. There’s nothing for two boys to do in that house. Over here you have your tree-house, and all sorts of games, and I keep the pantry stocked with all your favorite snacks—”

“All of Joyce’s favorite snacks!” I snapped, before I could stop my half-awake brain from sending the words to my tongue.

My mother blinked at me like I’d smacked her. I half expected her to yell, or ground me on the spot, but nothing came. I pulled my plate back toward me, mostly so the squeal of the china across the table would fill the silence.

“Danny—”

“Why don’t you like Mrs. Jacoby?” I asked, impaling the undeserving waffle repeatedly with my fork.

“Honey, it’s not that I don’t like her. She’s… I mean… your father and I don’t know her that well—”

“Because you’ve never even tried!”

“Because we’re scared, Daniel!” cried my mother, then, and it was my turn to blink like I’d been struck. “It’s not just Joyce’s mother, Danny. You know that! You know there are other people at your school who just—” she made some opaque gesture with her hands, “And if you follow the news, it’s the entire East Coast! Maybe the whole country. And nobody knows how it happens or why it’s happening, Danny. And your father and I, we love you, and we care about Joyce, and we don’t want either of you to—”

“Hey-ho, my Comet and Cupid!” my father’s voice echoed through the landing. He walked in still buttoning the last few buttons of his dress-shirt. The collar was still all askew. “Who here is ready to rot behind a desk for the next eight hours, huh?” he asked, jovial until his gaze fell upon our faces. Then he frowned. “Christ, who died while I was in the shower?”

“Hank—”

“Mom thinks Mrs. Jacoby is going to make me sick,” I said.

“I didn’t say—” started my mother, but she trailed off with a sigh.

She and my father shared a long look, while I shared a long look with my abused breakfast and pretended not to notice.  

“I, for one, think that it’s very noble of you to be so kind to her,” my dad announced, then, putting his hand on the back of my chair. His voice had the same soft tension as my mother’s face. “I’m proud of you for having such a big heart. We could all stand to learn a little from you, son.”

“We just want you to be careful, okay?” whispered my mother.

“Right. Just be careful. That’s all.”

You know nothing. You’re worried about Mrs. Jacoby making me sick, while there are monsters in Joyce’s basement. I watched the damning security footage of my flower-snatching continue to play out across the fridge, and said nothing.

#imisphyx #prologue #danny #oh look an update #progress is progress however small!

[networkingdefinition]

Hummingbirds Quotes

Official Website: Hummingbirds Quotes

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push();  • A day so happy. Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden. Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers. There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess. I know no one worth my envying him. – Czeslaw Milosz • A rhododendron bud lavender-tipped. Soon a glory of blooms to clash with the cardinals and gladden the hummingbirds! – Dave Beard • Across the downs a hummingbird Came dipping through the bowers, He pivoted on emptiness To scrutinize the flowers. – Nathalia Crane • After a few mouthfuls of moon-flavored air, even the stubbornly drowsy can find themselves wide-eyed.. All the normal noises of life were gone, leaving behind the secretive sounds, the shy sounds, the whispers and conversations of moss disputing with grass over some soft piece of earth, or the hummingbird snoring. – N.D. Wilson • And in time it will be as though men had never come to this perfect corner of the world-never called it paradise on earth, never despoiled it with their dream factories; and in the golden hush of the afternoon all that will be heard will be the flittering of dragonflies, and the murmur of hummingbirds as they pass from bower to bower, looking for a place to sup sweetness. – Clive Barker • As long as the hummingbird had not abandoned the land, somewhere there were still flowers, and they could all go on. – Leslie Marmon Silko

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Hummingbird', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '68', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_hummingbird').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_hummingbird img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • By the way, did you fellows know that a hummingbird weighs as much as a quarter? Do you think a hummingbird also weighs the same as two dimes and a nickel? But then she asked a question of her own: How do they weigh a hummingbird? – Calvin Trillin • Charm is the enchanted dart, light and subtle as a hummingbird. But it is deceptive in one thing: like a sense of humor, if you think you’ve got it, you probably haven’t. – Laurel Lea • Coming eyeball to eyeball with a hummingbird on my terrace is as exciting to me as any celebrity Ive met as a result of Downton Abbey. – Lesley Nicol • Dancing is such a despised and dishonored trade that if you tell a doctor or a laywer you do choreography he’ll look at you as if you were a hummingbird. Dancers don’t get invited to visit people. It is assumed a boy dancer will run off with the spoons and a girl with the head of the house. – Agnes de Mille • either you take in believing in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird. – Henry Miller • Flutter like a hummingbird, Dive like an eagle, Ain’t no bird that’s my equal. – Twilight – Kathryn Lasky • furious flutter awakened hummingbird heart hello hello love – Megan McCafferty • Gentle day’s flower – The hummingbird competes With the stillness of the air. – Chogyam Trungpa • He has the attention span of a hummingbird. – Christopher Moore • He was becoming unstuck, he was sure of that – his bones were no longer wrapped in flesh but in clouds of dust, in hummingbirds, dragonflies, and luminous moths – but so perfect was his equilibrium that he felt no fear. He was vast, he was many, he was dynamic, he was eternal.- Tom Robbins • He wasn’t that good looking, he had the social skills of a wet cat and the patience of a caffeinated hummingbird – Karen Chance • How do you view God in a desert? There’s two types of birds. There’s vultures, and there’s hummingbirds. One lives off dead carcasses, rotting meat. The other lives off the beautiful, sweet, nectar in a particular flower, on a particular desert plant, in the same desert. They both find what they’re looking for. Do you know – take it all the way back into the Old Testament – and the Muslim and you, we actually serve the same God. Allah, to a Muslim; to us, Abba Father, God. – Brian Houston • I always loved those little creatures [hummingbird], always feel blessed when they appear nearby. There’s a magical quality to them. I finally put one in a song. – Leonard Cohen • I had the metabolism of a hummingbird on crack. – Ilona Andrews • I like snakes. I like hummingbirds. There’s nothing on earth I don’t like. Frogs. Salamanders. The bunnies, the giraffes, the hippopotamuses. – Ted Turner • I love devastating movies, documentaries and hummingbirds (yes, in that order). – Tig Notaro • I would say the hummingbird really deserves the royalties on [some of my songs]. – Leonard Cohen • I’d like to be like a hummingbird. You see them every now and then. You don’t see them everywhere. – Shailene Woodley • I’d written a lot of songs with hummingbirds in them. None of them ever came to anything, but I did write a few lines last month. It went like this: ‘Listen to the hummingbird whose wings you cannot see. Listen to the hummingbird, don’t listen to me’. – Leonard Cohen • I’m a Gibson guy. I play anything from Hummingbirds to J200s. – Corey Taylor • I’m more of a culture hummingbird. – Jai Rodriguez • In Mexico people wear hummingbird amulets around their necks to show they are searching for love. Here people pretend that they aren’t. Searching. – Francesca Lia Block • it doesn’t matter if Prince Charles falls off his horse or that the hummingbird is so seldom seen or that we are too senseless to go insane. coffee. give us more of that NOTHING coffee. – Charles Bukowski • Most elegantly finished in all parts, [the hummingbird] is a miniature work of our Great Parent, who seems to have formed it the smallest, and at the same time the most beautiful of the winged species. – J. Hector St. John de Crevecoeur • Much still remains to be learned about his sex life because the Hummingbird is quicker than the eye. – Will Cuppy • My mind, I know, I can prove, hovers on hummingbird wings. It hovers and it churns. And when it’s operating at full thrust, the churning does not stop. The machines do not rest, the systems rarely cool. And while I can forget anything of any importance–this is why people tell me secrets–my mind has an uncanny knack for organization when it comes to pain. Nothing tormenting is ever lost, never even diminished in color or intensity or quality of sound. – Dave Eggers • My mother’s eyes were large and brown, like my son’s, but unlike Sam’s, they were always frantic, like a hummingbird who can’t quite find the flower but keeps jabbing around. – Anne Lamott • My work is the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird – equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. – Mary Oliver • One day a hummingbird flew in– It fluttered against the window til I got it down where I could reach it with an open umbrella– –When I had it in my hand it was so small I couldn’t believe I had it–but I could feel the intense life–so intense and so tiny– …You were like the humming bird to me… And I am rather inclined to feel that you and I know the best part of one another without spending much time together– –It is not that I fear the knowing– It is that I am at this moment willing to let you be what you are to me–it is beautiful and pure and very intensely alive. – Georgia O’Keeffe • Question four: What book would you give to every child? Answer: I wouldn’t give them a book. Books are part of the problem: this strange belief that a tree has nothing to say until it is murdered, its flesh pulped, and then (human) people stain this flesh with words. I would take children outside and put them face to face with chipmunks, dragonflies, tadpoles, hummingbirds, stones, rivers, trees, crawdads. That said, if you’re going to force me to give them a book, it would be The Wind In The Willows, which I hope would remind them to go outside. – Derrick Jensen • Quick as a hummingbird…she darts so eagerly, swiftly, sweetly dipping into the flowers of my heart. – James Oppenheim • Regularity chauvinists are people who insist that you have got to do the same thing every time, every day, which drives some of us nuts. Attention Deficit Disorder – we need a more positive term for that. Hummingbird mind, I should think. – Ted Nelson • Shortly before she died Janis Joplin gave me the Gibson Hummingbird she recorded “Me and Bobbby McGee” on … Janis was a good guitar player, for her purposes .. she just wanted to play along with her songs, and she had a real pure and nice style for that. – Sam Andrew • Some of my old memories feel trapped in amber in my brain, lucid and burning, while others are like the wing beat of a hummingbird, an intangible, ephemeral blur. – Mira Bartok • Some people never find the right kind of love. You know, the kind that steals your breath away, like diving into snowmelt. The kind that jolts your heart, sets it beating apace, an anxious hiccuping of hummingbird wings – Ellen Hopkins • The first and most important thing for me is that people feel how beautiful fashion can be and that it is not just a case of well-made and expensive clothes. Fashion is so rich and it is such an amazing occupation because we can draw on so many different sources of inspiration – just as a hummingbird feeds on a multitude of flowers. – Dries van Noten • The retriever took each bit of meat from his master’s hand with a delicacy almost equal to that of a hummingbird sipping sugar water from a garden feeder, and when it was all gone, he gazed up at Dusty with an adoration that could not have been much less than the love with which the angels regard God. – Dean Koontz • There is a difference between our wisdom and nature’s simplicity. That reflects the burden of a complex intelligence. A complex intelligence like ours is impotent compared to the intelligence of a monarch butterfly migrating from Canada to Mexico, or the intelligence of hummingbirds that have co-evolved with the flowers all along their migration route. That seems so simple; it just happens, it just unfolds. – Alison Hawthorne Deming • There’s as much chance of repealing the Eighteenth Amendment as there is for a hummingbird to fly to the planet Mars with the Washington Monument tied to its tail. – Morris Sheppard • They always mean beautiful things like hummingbirds. I always reply by saying that I think of a little child in east Africa with a worm burrowing through his eyeball. The worm cannot live in any other way, except by burrowing through eyeballs. I find that hard to reconcile with the notion of a divine and benevolent creator. – David Attenborough • Up north, you could find these radio stations with no name on the dials that played pre-rock ‘n’ roll things – country blues. We would hear Slim Harpo or Lightnin’ Slim and gospel groups, the Dixie Hummingbirds, the Five Blind Boys of Alabama. I was so far north, I didn’t even know where Alabama was. – Bob Dylan • We at Google have made tremendous advances in understanding language. Our knowledge graph has been fundamental to that. The new algorithm that we launched today called Hummingbird has been a great leap forward. – Amit Singhal • We spend so much time, these days, on forms of literature that don’t rise to be literature, and I’m speaking about Twitter posts and quick and hot takes on different websites. We sort of zoom from thing to thing like a hummingbird. – Ben H. Winters • We’re constantly being bombarded by problems that we face and sometimes we can get completely overwhelmed. [But] we should always feel like a hummingbird. I may feel insignificant, but I don’t want to be like the other animals watching the planet go down the drain. I’ll be a hummingbird, I’ll do the best I can. – Wangari Maathai • We’ve all led raucous lives, some of them inside, some of them out. But only the poem you leave behind is what’s important. Everyone knows this. The voyage into the interior is all that matters, Whatever your ride. Sometimes I can’t sit still for all the asininities I read. Give me the hummingbird, who has to eat sixty times His own weight a day just to stay alive. Now that’s a life on the edge. – Charles Wright • When I did the Abyssinian mass, I went through the whole history of the church music and the gospel music, even with the Anglo American hymns, the Afro American hymns, the spirituals and how it developed, up to Thomas Dorsey and the Dixie Hummingbirds, going through the history of the music, jazz musicians. – Wynton Marsalis • when you are convinced that all the exits are blocked, either you take to believing in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird. The miracle is that the honey is always there, right under your nose, only you were too busy searching elsewhere to realize it. The worst is not death but being blind, blind to the fact that everything about life is in the nature of the miraculous. – Henry Miller • You are Life passing through your body, passing through your mind, passing through your soul. Once you find that out, not with logic, not with the intellect, but because you can feel that Life-you find out that you are the force that makes the flowers open and close, that makes the hummingbird fly from flower to flower. You find out that you are in every tree, and you are in every animal, vegetable, and rock. You are that force that moves the wind and breathes through your body. The whole universe is a living being that is moved by that force, and that is what you are. You are Life. – Miguel Angel Ruiz • You are so high in the tree.If you jumpyou will live a full lifewhile falling.You will get marriedto a hummingbirdand raise beautiful part- hummingbirds. You will die of cancerin mid-air. I will not lie. It will be painful. You are a brave little boyor girl. – Zachary Schomburg

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jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'y', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_y').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_y img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

[equitiesstocks]

Hummingbirds Quotes

Official Website: Hummingbirds Quotes

(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push();  • A day so happy. Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden. Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers. There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess. I know no one worth my envying him. – Czeslaw Milosz • A rhododendron bud lavender-tipped. Soon a glory of blooms to clash with the cardinals and gladden the hummingbirds! – Dave Beard • Across the downs a hummingbird Came dipping through the bowers, He pivoted on emptiness To scrutinize the flowers. – Nathalia Crane • After a few mouthfuls of moon-flavored air, even the stubbornly drowsy can find themselves wide-eyed.. All the normal noises of life were gone, leaving behind the secretive sounds, the shy sounds, the whispers and conversations of moss disputing with grass over some soft piece of earth, or the hummingbird snoring. – N.D. Wilson • And in time it will be as though men had never come to this perfect corner of the world-never called it paradise on earth, never despoiled it with their dream factories; and in the golden hush of the afternoon all that will be heard will be the flittering of dragonflies, and the murmur of hummingbirds as they pass from bower to bower, looking for a place to sup sweetness. – Clive Barker • As long as the hummingbird had not abandoned the land, somewhere there were still flowers, and they could all go on. – Leslie Marmon Silko

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Hummingbird', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '68', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_hummingbird').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_hummingbird img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • By the way, did you fellows know that a hummingbird weighs as much as a quarter? Do you think a hummingbird also weighs the same as two dimes and a nickel? But then she asked a question of her own: How do they weigh a hummingbird? – Calvin Trillin • Charm is the enchanted dart, light and subtle as a hummingbird. But it is deceptive in one thing: like a sense of humor, if you think you’ve got it, you probably haven’t. – Laurel Lea • Coming eyeball to eyeball with a hummingbird on my terrace is as exciting to me as any celebrity Ive met as a result of Downton Abbey. – Lesley Nicol • Dancing is such a despised and dishonored trade that if you tell a doctor or a laywer you do choreography he’ll look at you as if you were a hummingbird. Dancers don’t get invited to visit people. It is assumed a boy dancer will run off with the spoons and a girl with the head of the house. – Agnes de Mille • either you take in believing in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird. – Henry Miller • Flutter like a hummingbird, Dive like an eagle, Ain’t no bird that’s my equal. – Twilight – Kathryn Lasky • furious flutter awakened hummingbird heart hello hello love – Megan McCafferty • Gentle day’s flower – The hummingbird competes With the stillness of the air. – Chogyam Trungpa • He has the attention span of a hummingbird. – Christopher Moore • He was becoming unstuck, he was sure of that – his bones were no longer wrapped in flesh but in clouds of dust, in hummingbirds, dragonflies, and luminous moths – but so perfect was his equilibrium that he felt no fear. He was vast, he was many, he was dynamic, he was eternal.- Tom Robbins • He wasn’t that good looking, he had the social skills of a wet cat and the patience of a caffeinated hummingbird – Karen Chance • How do you view God in a desert? There’s two types of birds. There’s vultures, and there’s hummingbirds. One lives off dead carcasses, rotting meat. The other lives off the beautiful, sweet, nectar in a particular flower, on a particular desert plant, in the same desert. They both find what they’re looking for. Do you know – take it all the way back into the Old Testament – and the Muslim and you, we actually serve the same God. Allah, to a Muslim; to us, Abba Father, God. – Brian Houston • I always loved those little creatures [hummingbird], always feel blessed when they appear nearby. There’s a magical quality to them. I finally put one in a song. – Leonard Cohen • I had the metabolism of a hummingbird on crack. – Ilona Andrews • I like snakes. I like hummingbirds. There’s nothing on earth I don’t like. Frogs. Salamanders. The bunnies, the giraffes, the hippopotamuses. – Ted Turner • I love devastating movies, documentaries and hummingbirds (yes, in that order). – Tig Notaro • I would say the hummingbird really deserves the royalties on [some of my songs]. – Leonard Cohen • I’d like to be like a hummingbird. You see them every now and then. You don’t see them everywhere. – Shailene Woodley • I’d written a lot of songs with hummingbirds in them. None of them ever came to anything, but I did write a few lines last month. It went like this: ‘Listen to the hummingbird whose wings you cannot see. Listen to the hummingbird, don’t listen to me’. – Leonard Cohen • I’m a Gibson guy. I play anything from Hummingbirds to J200s. – Corey Taylor • I’m more of a culture hummingbird. – Jai Rodriguez • In Mexico people wear hummingbird amulets around their necks to show they are searching for love. Here people pretend that they aren’t. Searching. – Francesca Lia Block • it doesn’t matter if Prince Charles falls off his horse or that the hummingbird is so seldom seen or that we are too senseless to go insane. coffee. give us more of that NOTHING coffee. – Charles Bukowski • Most elegantly finished in all parts, [the hummingbird] is a miniature work of our Great Parent, who seems to have formed it the smallest, and at the same time the most beautiful of the winged species. – J. Hector St. John de Crevecoeur • Much still remains to be learned about his sex life because the Hummingbird is quicker than the eye. – Will Cuppy • My mind, I know, I can prove, hovers on hummingbird wings. It hovers and it churns. And when it’s operating at full thrust, the churning does not stop. The machines do not rest, the systems rarely cool. And while I can forget anything of any importance–this is why people tell me secrets–my mind has an uncanny knack for organization when it comes to pain. Nothing tormenting is ever lost, never even diminished in color or intensity or quality of sound. – Dave Eggers • My mother’s eyes were large and brown, like my son’s, but unlike Sam’s, they were always frantic, like a hummingbird who can’t quite find the flower but keeps jabbing around. – Anne Lamott • My work is the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird – equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums. – Mary Oliver • One day a hummingbird flew in– It fluttered against the window til I got it down where I could reach it with an open umbrella– –When I had it in my hand it was so small I couldn’t believe I had it–but I could feel the intense life–so intense and so tiny– …You were like the humming bird to me… And I am rather inclined to feel that you and I know the best part of one another without spending much time together– –It is not that I fear the knowing– It is that I am at this moment willing to let you be what you are to me–it is beautiful and pure and very intensely alive. – Georgia O’Keeffe • Question four: What book would you give to every child? Answer: I wouldn’t give them a book. Books are part of the problem: this strange belief that a tree has nothing to say until it is murdered, its flesh pulped, and then (human) people stain this flesh with words. I would take children outside and put them face to face with chipmunks, dragonflies, tadpoles, hummingbirds, stones, rivers, trees, crawdads. That said, if you’re going to force me to give them a book, it would be The Wind In The Willows, which I hope would remind them to go outside. – Derrick Jensen • Quick as a hummingbird…she darts so eagerly, swiftly, sweetly dipping into the flowers of my heart. – James Oppenheim • Regularity chauvinists are people who insist that you have got to do the same thing every time, every day, which drives some of us nuts. Attention Deficit Disorder – we need a more positive term for that. Hummingbird mind, I should think. – Ted Nelson • Shortly before she died Janis Joplin gave me the Gibson Hummingbird she recorded “Me and Bobbby McGee” on … Janis was a good guitar player, for her purposes .. she just wanted to play along with her songs, and she had a real pure and nice style for that. – Sam Andrew • Some of my old memories feel trapped in amber in my brain, lucid and burning, while others are like the wing beat of a hummingbird, an intangible, ephemeral blur. – Mira Bartok • Some people never find the right kind of love. You know, the kind that steals your breath away, like diving into snowmelt. The kind that jolts your heart, sets it beating apace, an anxious hiccuping of hummingbird wings – Ellen Hopkins • The first and most important thing for me is that people feel how beautiful fashion can be and that it is not just a case of well-made and expensive clothes. Fashion is so rich and it is such an amazing occupation because we can draw on so many different sources of inspiration – just as a hummingbird feeds on a multitude of flowers. – Dries van Noten • The retriever took each bit of meat from his master’s hand with a delicacy almost equal to that of a hummingbird sipping sugar water from a garden feeder, and when it was all gone, he gazed up at Dusty with an adoration that could not have been much less than the love with which the angels regard God. – Dean Koontz • There is a difference between our wisdom and nature’s simplicity. That reflects the burden of a complex intelligence. A complex intelligence like ours is impotent compared to the intelligence of a monarch butterfly migrating from Canada to Mexico, or the intelligence of hummingbirds that have co-evolved with the flowers all along their migration route. That seems so simple; it just happens, it just unfolds. – Alison Hawthorne Deming • There’s as much chance of repealing the Eighteenth Amendment as there is for a hummingbird to fly to the planet Mars with the Washington Monument tied to its tail. – Morris Sheppard • They always mean beautiful things like hummingbirds. I always reply by saying that I think of a little child in east Africa with a worm burrowing through his eyeball. The worm cannot live in any other way, except by burrowing through eyeballs. I find that hard to reconcile with the notion of a divine and benevolent creator. – David Attenborough • Up north, you could find these radio stations with no name on the dials that played pre-rock ‘n’ roll things – country blues. We would hear Slim Harpo or Lightnin’ Slim and gospel groups, the Dixie Hummingbirds, the Five Blind Boys of Alabama. I was so far north, I didn’t even know where Alabama was. – Bob Dylan • We at Google have made tremendous advances in understanding language. Our knowledge graph has been fundamental to that. The new algorithm that we launched today called Hummingbird has been a great leap forward. – Amit Singhal • We spend so much time, these days, on forms of literature that don’t rise to be literature, and I’m speaking about Twitter posts and quick and hot takes on different websites. We sort of zoom from thing to thing like a hummingbird. – Ben H. Winters • We’re constantly being bombarded by problems that we face and sometimes we can get completely overwhelmed. [But] we should always feel like a hummingbird. I may feel insignificant, but I don’t want to be like the other animals watching the planet go down the drain. I’ll be a hummingbird, I’ll do the best I can. – Wangari Maathai • We’ve all led raucous lives, some of them inside, some of them out. But only the poem you leave behind is what’s important. Everyone knows this. The voyage into the interior is all that matters, Whatever your ride. Sometimes I can’t sit still for all the asininities I read. Give me the hummingbird, who has to eat sixty times His own weight a day just to stay alive. Now that’s a life on the edge. – Charles Wright • When I did the Abyssinian mass, I went through the whole history of the church music and the gospel music, even with the Anglo American hymns, the Afro American hymns, the spirituals and how it developed, up to Thomas Dorsey and the Dixie Hummingbirds, going through the history of the music, jazz musicians. – Wynton Marsalis • when you are convinced that all the exits are blocked, either you take to believing in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird. The miracle is that the honey is always there, right under your nose, only you were too busy searching elsewhere to realize it. The worst is not death but being blind, blind to the fact that everything about life is in the nature of the miraculous. – Henry Miller • You are Life passing through your body, passing through your mind, passing through your soul. Once you find that out, not with logic, not with the intellect, but because you can feel that Life-you find out that you are the force that makes the flowers open and close, that makes the hummingbird fly from flower to flower. You find out that you are in every tree, and you are in every animal, vegetable, and rock. You are that force that moves the wind and breathes through your body. The whole universe is a living being that is moved by that force, and that is what you are. You are Life. – Miguel Angel Ruiz • You are so high in the tree.If you jumpyou will live a full lifewhile falling.You will get marriedto a hummingbirdand raise beautiful part- hummingbirds. You will die of cancerin mid-air. I will not lie. It will be painful. You are a brave little boyor girl. – Zachary Schomburg

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jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'u', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_u').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_u img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'y', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_y').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_y img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

[rattle-the-stars-gb-blog]

ACOTAR fanfic ch.3

The shadow lashed out at the creatures with her power. Her pooling dress took form and wrapped around their necks as she walked towards them. Her face void of kindness or compassion, only leaving room for malice and anger. Holding the creatures in place while she held them was so... delightful. If she could even feel that emotion. She did enjoy a good game. She raked her claws over the leader's face as he screamed.

"Why are you here?" she questioned, taking enjoyment in his pain.

"None of your business faerie scum!" she spat out, his rage getting the better of common sense. He winced as she claws dug deeper into his flesh and she chuckled at his carelessness.

"Do you think you are in a position to say such things to me, creature?  Are you not a faerie yourself?" as she spoke she was inspecting her claws, as if she found something interesting.

"Well I guess I don't need the lot of you though," she snapped her fingers and the flesh rotted off the leader's companions. The shadow tasted the air as their fear and pain permeated the air. The shadow reveled in her favorite taste.

"Now, will you cooperate and answer my questions? Or will you die the same way they did? If you answer my questions, I will give you a clean death," she smiled at the lie.

"Fine! Fine!" he screeched. "What do you want to know?"

"Why are you attacking Velaris?"

"We are here for an extermination. To weaken the high lord, Rhysand." At the mention of his name something weak stirred inside the shadow's body. She rolled her eyes, shrugging off the waves Asteria was making in her body.

"Who sent you?"

"The King of Hybern."

"Are there more of you at your base?"

He smiled, "Yes, so much more." He started laughing.

The shadow grew impatient. She was done dealing with this vile creature. She didn't need him anymore.

This time it was her turn to smile. Taking pleasure as his smile slowly faded and hers grew.

"Your death will have more suffering than you can even imagine." Fear crept onto his face as her dark tendrils of power forced him on his knees. "You see, I have been asleep for a long time and I seem to be a little rusty. And seeing as your the only one left..." she trailed off waving her hand around the collapsed street, "You seem like the perfect practice."

The creature started to squirm under her power. The shadow stood there for a moment, enjoying his fear. She watched as a dark stain grew on the front of his trousers.

"Pathetic," she murmured as she held out her hand. His screams filled the air as the world stilled. She watched as her power found its way into his body, eating, rotting, and burning its way out. His screams became desperate as he panted, sweat streaming down his vile face. As her power reached his shrivelled brain he breathed his last breath and the shadow sighed.

"Pity I couldn't leave him to suffer longer, but I have work to do," she let his body crumble behind her as the shadow strode onto the streets of Velaris.

She unfurled her wings made of shadows, hearing the cracks and groans they made, due to their imprisonment within Asteria. Her wings flapped and she rose into the air, dust and debris swirling behind her. Her dress reshaped into one of nightmares. A plunging neckline, shoulders made of spikes, and a skirt that when you looked into it, your worst pains became real. Her hands created a wave of a lightless night. It rippled through the street, leaving nothing in its wake. Not even the innocent citizens of Velaris. The shadow flew behind the wave and not even the people that the girl once possessing this body considered her friends survived. But that girl was no longer in control.

The shadow stopped for nothing as the wave of pure power rushed down the street. Once the woman reached the edge of the rainbow she stopped. Something that she didn't know was here. Something she could not face. A familiar smell. The shadow felt the need to go the opposite direction. As if there was someone else on the inside directing her away from the glistening and broken place. The shadow didn't care and flew into the rainbow, relishing her newfound freedom from the one they called Asteria.

But, there was something she couldn't control. Her shadowed wings faltered and vanished. Her wave of power vaporized.  Leaving the shadow to fall to the street below her. The bitch. Controlling her. She reached up, hissing as she felt the gash on her head. Asteria dared stop her from the destruction she had craved for hundreds of years. Craved from inside this shell of a person. The shadow retreated from the body and strode into the starry room inside the woman's body, to destroy the enemy she had lived with for four hundred years: compassion, love, and hope. The shadow approached Asteria, preparing for a fight, and Asteria rose to the challenge the shadow proposed.

------Asteria-------

I felt my power curl around my fingers, I manipulated it into shapes and watched as it flowed violet from me.  It pooled behind me, a reservoir waiting to be tapped into.  I crouched down, ready to break free of her hold on me as the silent request the shadow made rang through my head.

"Fight me" she said.  I unleashed my own power in answer to fight the evil that had swelled inside me for so many years. The bitterness, the hate, the regret.  The one I feared. Black waves met my purple shield, and I staggered back, my feet bracing against the impact. We both have been waiting for this battle for all their painful years we have been together. We pushed against each other and the shadow roared a cry of triumph as I faltered. I grit my teeth as sweat dripped down my back.

I am so tired. So tired of this struggle between us. I am ready for it to be over. Would it be so bad if I let her rule my body, hiding deep within myself, or let her kill me. I began to let up and she smiled at me knowing what I was thinking.

But then I remembered what waited outside the door to this room and outside my body. Hope for a better world. Out there, a woman named Feyre was fighting with her life to save the city. People were defending one another. The world was not lost, and she was not lost along with it. She remembered her dead family, herself, and the one piece of life that she had left, her brother; and her shield surged towards the shadow with new strength. Hope, compassion, love split the despair in her. The shadow looked at her with hatred and anguish. But underneath that lay fear. Fear that she would once again be trapped within my body. Watching but never able to act on her murderous urges. My power surged, one that could wipe cities of the map and burn bones. I gritted her teeth and took a step forward walking with my shield.

-----The shadow---

The shadow took a step back, looking towards the door that held the key to her long awaited freedom. Why wouldn't t Asteria give up? The girl wasn't strong enough to defeat her. But then she felt it. The awakening.

She could smell the new magic in the air. The girl had found what the gods had gifted her long ago. The girl did not know it had been lying dormant and that it was what had been feeding the shadow all these years. The pool of power behind Asteria grew and grew until it engulfed the entire floor behind her, and then some.  It crept up the walls and onto the ceiling of the room.   The shadow felt fear, real fear. And she knew the girl could smell it.

----Asteria------

I could feel the fear rippling off the shadow. I could see the shadow wings growing behind her back and I felt the tingle along the two scars on my back.  My own power wanting to bring my wings, but that could not happen.   The scars were a reminder of what I had lost, and what I would never be able to use again. The shadow was planning to flee. But, I would not let her escape, not before I put the shadow back into the crevice in myself she came from.

A new burst of power from me punched through the thin curtain of black that remained and I grabbed hold of the shadow by her neck. I threw her to the ground and stood over her. My power leaking around me in a purple mist, my violet eyes gazing upon the enemy that I had been harboring for so long: anger. My anger of the death of my family and all I had lost. The grudge I held against the responsible men and the love I felt for the dark high lord.

My power chained the shadow to the ground and I turned away from the shadow to stride through the door back to my body. Leaving the shadow for another day. One not as painful as this one.

But as I walked through the door, something was wrong. I was unconscious. The head wound the shadow suffered when she walked into the rainbow was still bleeding. I sent out my power to heal me, but then retreat back into myself when it was done.

Thrown back into the hell around me I continued running for my apartment. The memory making the gash in my side throb as I realize its presence.  Swiftly avoiding the stone and glass. I dodged the bodies. Oh gods, the bodies. I stopped to look at a charred child's remains and tears once again brimmed in my eyes. Charred black bones. Bones that bore the marks of my power, my hands had directed the demise of this child. I stared down at my hands and the mark from the medallion was now burned into my skin: a mountain with three stars. I cried even more. I cried for the promise it once held and the pain it now brought me.  A reminder of what I had lost.

Once I reached my loft apartment, I collapsed on the couch. Collapsed from the memories of the faraway southern court and the Illyrian Stepps. Of the mother, brother, father, and wings I lost. My hands grazed the scars on my back. Of the place where my wings once were and the joy they brought. I remembered flying with my mother and brother. Of the anger that my father felt when we did. I remembered the fine clothes and the court under the mountain. The Illyrians that would never accept me and the family I could never return to. To the high lord and his mate-- one I would never meet. To the friends that he held but I never knew. To the cousin that could not cry on my shoulder. Because someone who is dead cannot be there for you. A dead woman cannot be with her family. But I was not dead. When my wings were taken from me by the evil high lord in the south, I had escaped. If only because of the son that loved me , but could never be with me.

I cried for all I had lost and what I had abandoned. The life I once lived and the brother that lived and could have shared it with. With a brother that avenged me and our mother alongside our father. With an older brother I had protected and gazed upon from afar. A brother that still flew above the city as if I was still there with him. A brother that people loved and feared. A brother with violet eyes and night black hair like my own. A brother that ruled over two factions in his court: dreams and nightmares. A brother named Rhysand. A brother I would never laugh, or talk, or be with ever again.

[shep-writes]

The Queen for a Kingdom, Prologue

Fandom: Dragon Age Character(s): f!Cousland, Alistair Theirin, Nathaniel Howe, Velanna, Bethany Hawke, Sigrun, Oghren, The Architect Pairing(s): Alistair/f!Cousland, Nathaniel/Velanna Rating: T Genre: Romance/Angst Warnings: N/A Language: English Summary:  The Hero of Ferelden is missing. With the Divine Conclave fast approaching, tension is mounting between the mages and templars, especially in Redcliffe where a whole host of rebel mages has taken refuge. However, with the Blight finally starting to take hold of her beloved King, the Warden Queen finds that her fate lies down a different path than that of the rest of Thedas. A/N: N/A Read On: fanfiction, AO3 Chapter: 1/? Chapter Title: Prologue

Black roots had sprouted beneath his eyes. They were faint, barely noticeable, but they were there nonetheless, ugly, seething lines of corruption crawling beneath what once had been healthy tan. It was only natural that the flesh that covered his bones would pale overtime, for he was nowhere near as active as he was in his youth—and at that he would have undoubtedly scoffed and said “In my youth? I’m still young! I barely look a day over twenty!”—his warm, sun-kissed skin dulling as years spent wrapped in regal garb and trapped indoors slipped by.

But this.

This.

This was not natural.

The Warden Queen stood above her sleeping King, soft beams of moonlight slipping in through the partially cracked window of their bedroom to alight upon his broad, naked chest that rose and fell with each deep breath of solid slumber he took. Every ounce of self-control she possessed was required to keep her from reaching out and running her fingers through the golden hair that trailed down his abdomen. A thin blue sheet was lazily draped about his hips, hiding his lower body from sight, though the Warden Queen didn't need to remove it to know what laid beneath. She knew his body as well as he knew hers—the spots that tickled, the joints that ached when it rained, the muscles that needed massaging, the scars that crisscrossed and marked wounds of old.

Something moist and warm spilled from her nose. On reflex, she wiped the liquid away, the soft material of the glove adorning her long-fingered hands brushing against her pale skin to absorb the thick, dark glob. The dull throbbing of a migraine in remission came with it, her vision splitting and refocusing with frighteningly wild abandon.

Thick-soled boots carried her across their modestly furnished suite to the writing desk littered with stacks of books, rolls of scrolls, parchment paper, quill pens, ink bottles, a variety of poultices and tonics, and the wax stamp of the Theirin family's royal crest. Purposefully ignoring the tear-splattered letter that neatly lay atop a stack of grievances, laws, tariffs, and all other sorts of official things requiring a King's—or Queen's—touch, she grabbed a vial of deep red, threw back her head, and gulped it down in one swig.

A heady rush swept through her even as the last drop was falling from the glass rim, numbing the tips of her toes and fingers, chasing away the darkness. Leaning forward, she closed her eyes, let the cool breeze of a mild summer night brush her fevered forehead. The scent of roses danced beneath her nose, though she could not smell them. All she could smell was rot, death, decay, the goo that had begun to seep from her pores far too frequently for her taste, accompanied by the low, breathy chant of the damned.

Darkspawn blood.

The Blight.

Green eyes snapped open, bright with fiery determination.

It was essential that she move quickly. Unburdened by her Warden-Commander armor—strategically left at Vigil's Keep years ago for this very occasion—she would move swiftly and quietly in the black bodysuit lent to her by a certain fair Sister, creeping undetected through the halls of her own castle like a thief.

The irony of the situation was not lost on her; of the two classes she could have chosen, she had gone the brutal, uncaring, loud route of the warrior, a Berserker no less. The combined efforts of her rogue companions had been enough to teach her how to tiptoe stealthily in plain clothes, but not in full armor.

Casting her gaze out the window, she watched the guards that marched the grounds of the Royal Palace. It would be hard to slip by them; training by a familiar former-Crow had seen to that. But slip by them she would. She had to.

Without a backwards glance, she strode towards the heavy wooden door that led to their chambers, making sure to tread lightly lest she wake her sleeping King as she moved across rug and stone. She was surprised at how easy it was—to leave him. Perhaps it would come later, the heartbreak, the longing. Perhaps it would remain at bay, her head overpowering her heart for a change.

Tugging her hood into place, she tucked her short-cropped red hair behind her ears. Sweat plastered her bangs to her forehead, a cold, clammy dread chilling her bones while her skin remained hot.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she pulled the door open, the hinges creaking in protest.

A groan issued behind her and she froze, waiting, waiting, waiting. For what, she wasn't sure. For him to wake up and call her back to bed, sleep fogging his brain and clouding his thinking, thus preventing the inquiry of, “What in the Maker's breath are you wearing?” For him to spring to his feet, claim that he had known of her plan all along and was hurt that she hadn't included him?

Neither of these things happened, and she loosed a breath from her tight lips. Instead, she heard the mattress groan as he shifted and mumbled incoherently, doubtless searching for her even as he remained oblivious to the world in sleep.

A lump in her throat spurred her into action, steeled her resolve. Heaving the great door open, she stormed into the hall boldly yet quietly. Torches lit her path, throwing her shadow across the red carpet lining the vacated passages she walked.

He would have gone with her. He would have abandoned his post, his people, for her. She couldn't allow that. Not when she had selfishly declared herself his consort all those years ago, when she had thrown logic and reason to the wind—you can't give him children, you're a Grey Warden, you can't give him children, you're a Grey Warden, you can't give him children, you're a Grey Warden—and let love rule her thoughts, govern her actions, be her motivation. In doing so, she had doomed her homeland, subjected it once more to petty squabbles of who would inherit the throne once the barren Warden Queen and bastard King died.

And so gone was the Queen, for what she did now was not for her people, though help them in the long run it would, one way or another. If she was blessed with success, an heir would they receive, Eamon's concerns of keeping Ferelden in Theirin hands eased. If met with a crueler fate she was, well…

Gone was the Warden, for what she did now—though potentially beneficial yet devastating for the order of warriors this quest might prove to be—was not for her fellow cursed brethren, though their sufferings she longed to quell.

Gone was the Cousland, for this was not a journey of vengeance that she embarked upon, nor one that required someone of noble blood.

All that remained was Miri, once a young girl, now a grown woman, still caught in the throes of love, desperate to save the one she could not live without.

#f!cousland #femcousland #cousland #alistair theirin #king alistair theirin #miri cousland #alistair x cousland #alistair xfcousland #dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age: inquisition #shep fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction

[riventing]

Chapter 8

Read from the beginning on AO3 or FF

Summary:  Max should have been able to sacrifice the girl she loved. Yet the bullet continued to hover in front of Chloe. The moment that started everything was frozen in time.

Rating: Teen

Excerpt: The drive was silent. The road stopped long ago, in its place was a dirt path and darkness. The only thing that lit up the path were her headlights. The crunch of gravel beneath the wheels of the truck were the only sounds she could hear. In the silence, her mind screamed at her.

Rachel was in the dark room.

Memories flashed before her eyes. Memories of the previous timeline. The images of Rachel in the darkroom came rushing back. Images that were once repressed burst free. They ranged from Rachel unconscious to bound and angry to being buried into the ground. Her eyes were devoid of life as they lowered her into the hole. Suddenly they weren’t images. She remembered the smell of Rachel’s decaying remains. She remembered how pliant and soft the rotting flesh was beneath her fingertips.

But things were different. This wasn’t the same timeline. Rachel wasn’t dead, there was still time to save her. She had already lost Max, she wouldn’t lose another person again. Not in this timeline at least.

She finally arrived at the barn. The sky was black save for the full moon. The light of the moon casted shadows on the trees. The shadows looked like fingers reaching out to her. This whole forest managed to give her the creeps at night.

Chloe grabbed the gun that lay on the passenger seat and placed it in her jean pocket. She made a beeline for the dilapidated barn. She had to be careful with this. One noise would alert Jefferson of her presence. Her footsteps were muffled by the ground as she peeled back a metal sheet that hid a hole in the barn’s wall. Even in this timeline, the barn hadn’t changed.

She crept slowly and placed a foot carefully through the opening, the wood creaked under her. She paused waiting for any tell tale signs of movement. Silence only met her. Chloe breathed a sigh of relief. She walked slowly and carefully to the door hidden amongst the floorboards. By the time she got there, the lock was removed on the metal trap door. Jefferson was in the dark room.

She bent down to lift the heavy metal door. It was a lot easier with Max’s help, but she was alone now. She used the strength of her legs to pull the door up, her muscles burned in protest against the weight of the door. Her fingers ached from trying to lift the metal up.

The door creaked as she finally pried it open. The very sound was high pitched and penetrated the silence. It seemed to echo in the quiet of the barn. The only person that couldn’t have heard it would have to be deaf. She cursed inwardly at the offending creak.

Ahead of the door lied a small staircase that would take her to the dark room. The staircase was dimly lit by a small light that flickered. Jefferson might have heard her. He could be ready for the intruder. She had to think. She had to be silent.

A thought popped into her head. If she went down the stairs and rewound to when the door was closed then there would be no sound. Time would rewind and she would still be behind the door. Technically, she would have never opened the door. Instead she could ‘teleport’ behind.

The very idea made her hesitate. You haven’t used the rewinds enough to cause a storm. There’s still time to stop the destruction. Max’s voice was but a whisper in her thoughts yet they rang clear. But Rachel was in danger, that was enough to let her ignore Max’s plea. Besides she’d probably only rewind once or twice. What was the harm in that? The gentle voice inside her head went silent.

She crept down the small opening while holding the door. Her muscles trembled in exertion. As she went deeper down the staircase, the door gradually shut. Her arms burned as she tried to close the door slowly. But she couldn’t stand it much longer. Her muscles gave out on her, the door slammed shut.

The very sound made her jump, it bounced off the staircase and echoed. Further ahead she felt the barely-there vibration of footsteps. Jefferson knew she was here. But she couldn’t panic. With a deep breath, she raised her hand and felt for that tangible force.

The familiar ache started in her temples until it became a pressure that engulfed her head. Her head was pounding, her vision blurred. She saw herself move backwards. Time was rewinding, an imprint of herself walked backwards and re-opened the door and out the previous Chloe walked. The door re-shut as if it were never touched.

Chloe stayed behind the door as she watched her imprint disappear out the door. Not a single sound was made. She breathed a sigh of relief and walked down the stairs. The light in the small corridor continued to flicker with artificial light. At the end of the corridor was the vaulted door. Beside the vaulted door was the keypad.

Her fingers automatically typed the code. The numbers beeped quietly as she typed the familiar code, the fading on the keypad still remained the same. It was eerie how everything stayed the same as if it were untouched by time. It was eerie how Jefferson remained the same.

The keypad beeped and the door unlocked. She could hear footsteps inside, Jefferson knew she was here.

The entrance of the bunker led to a sink. On the side of wall were shelves stocked with food supplies. A curtain separated the dark room from the entrance. She opened the door slowly and raised her hand once more just before she entered the door.

In that moment time felt tangible. The pain that started as an ache in her temple swiftly became piercing. She felt a trickle of blood down her nose as the pain kept intensifying. Her vision blurred and refocused in on itself. The room was spinning. Her hand came up and clutched her head in an attempt to soothe the pain.

For a moment, she forgot where she was and what was the point of all this. All she could feel was the pulsing in her head. Chloe stumbled through the door, with each step her vision started to clear and the room became gradually clearer. She nearly fell as she approached the curtain that separated the entrance from the dark room.

Chloe took a calming breath and walked towards the curtain. Her hand went towards the gun tucked into her jean belt and pulled it free. With both hands on it, she walked through it ready in case Jefferson decided to jump her.

Yet when she passed the curtain, Jefferson stood crouched behind it and armed with a tripod. He didn’t make a move, his gaze never wandered. He was frozen in time. He was vulnerable.

Just the sight of him triggered something within her. It was as if her brain stopped thinking, her hand moved automatically to the gun. She raised it and cocked the hammer. The click resounded in the room.  It was so simple. All she had to do was pull the trigger. He’d pay for what he did. Heck he couldn’t move out of the way, the gun was so close.

He didn’t even look at her. He was still anticipating her arrival, ready to strike had it not been for time freezing. He intended to harm whoever walked in. She was ready to shoot him when the thought struck her.

Jefferson would never know that he was killed by her hands. He would never know why he died. The thought left her feeling strangely unsatisfied. He needed to know who killed him and why. He needed to know her hate.

Her hand shook, the gun felt heavier in her hands. He wouldn’t die, at least not like this. It was too easy. The gun was lowered. Instead she raised her fist.

She exhaled softly and felt time start. Jefferson’s head whipped around when he saw Chloe beside him. His shocked expression greeted her as he tried to figure out how she appeared there. She wouldn’t give him time. Her fist connected with the soft skin of his cheek. The crunch of soft bones beneath her fist was strangely comforting.

He fell backwards on the tiled floor clutching his face. But one punch was enough. It was as if a switch flipped within Chloe and her actions seemed a blur. She climbed on top of him and raised her fist just once more. She kept telling herself once more but each punch never felt like enough. Even when his blood coated her knuckles. Even when the skin of her knuckles split from the repetitive abuse. The pain wasn’t enough to stop her, she barely felt anything.

He struggled against her and managed to land a blow. She staggered back with the force of it, her vision became blurry but she didn’t feel the pain. If anything, she felt more alive. The savage beating wasn’t enough anymore.

She stopped time before he could land another hit. His fist froze midway. The pain that came from rewinding didn’t even matter. The adrenaline kept her going. She moved to land a punch square in his face. Time started just before her fist collided with his face. The fist that was supposed to contact her fell. The punches seemed to rain down on him. Even when he tried to shield himself with his hands, it only delayed the inevitable. It only delayed his death.

His movement gradually became weaker and weaker as he lost consciousness. Eventually his movements stopped. Yet Chloe kept beating him. She forgot why she was here. The only thing that mattered was making Jefferson suffer.

Until she felt something akin to a hand lay on her shoulder. It made her pause, fist still in the air. From the corner of her eye, Chloe saw a shadow of a person. She looked over her shoulder but nothing was there. As quick as the touch came it faded.

Below her, Jefferson’s face was a big bloody mess. His glasses had skittered off while his face started to swell. Various bruises lined his head. Just by looking, his nose was broken as blood trickled down into his beard. Just the sight of him disgusted her.

For a moment, she had forgotten herself. For a moment, she wasn’t Chloe Price. She was the epitome of human anger. The thought alone shamed her, she didn’t want to believe she was capable of this degree of evil yet the truth lied underneath her. A man was nearly beaten to death because she couldn’t control her anger.

She gazed around the room feeling almost surreal, the room seemed bigger. All her thoughts stopped when her eyes landed on the very reason she was here.

Rachel laid on the floor of the white backdrop. Her arms and legs were bound by duct tape. The only thing that covered her was a black robe. Chloe clambered off Jefferson and rushed to the other girl. Soon Chloe had Rachel propped up in her arms. But the girls body sagged in her arms like a rag doll, her head lolled to one side. Hazel eyes remained closed.

Carefully, Chloe took out the knife she kept tucked in her jeans and cut the duct tape that bound Rachel.

Chloe tried to shake the other girl. For a moment, Rachel still didn’t move. Several moments later her eyes fluttered open. Those eyes focused on nothing in particular.  The hazel was glazed over, the blank expression remained on Rachel’s face.

Chloe merely cradled Rachel’s head in her arms. “I’m here Rachel. I’m finally here.” She curled in on herself and leaned her head on Rachel’s. The tears came automatically. Whether it was tears of relief for actually getting to Rachel on time or tears of sadness for failing to protect her best friend. She couldn’t tell. All that mattered was that she saved Rachel. The mistakes of the past wouldn’t happen.

“I’m sorry.” Had Chloe not been so close to Rachel, she wouldn’t have heard those words. It was barely a whisper.

Chloe broke away from her position and gazed at Rachel. Hazel eyes looked back at her weakly. They were still slightly glazed. No words needed to be said. With one look, they understood each other. It was as if those weeks of silence never happened. Forgiveness rang out between the two of them.

Rachel attempted to get up but her body felt like jelly. Chloe seemed to sense this, with a quick inhale she kept one arm to support Rachel and hooked another underneath the other girl’s knees. When Chloe went to stand the floor seemed to shift beneath her. Chloe stumbled towards the couch and gently placed Rachel atop.

Rachel’s eyes gradually focused. “Your nose is bleeding.”

Chloe’s hands went to her nose immediately. When she looked at her hands she couldn’t tell whether the blood belonged to her or Jefferson. She didn’t look at Rachel, she couldn��t. “Don’t worry about it.” She knew her friend was looking at the blood on her shirt and hands, she couldn’t meet that gaze. Her brutality hung over her like a dark cloud.

Chloe turned away and walked towards Jefferson’s body. She dragged him towards the chair he placed Max in. His body pliant as she threw him into the chair. Only a groan escaped his lips, he was too weak to move. Rachel only studied Chloe in silence.

Chloe moved to get the duct tape he kept. She took her time binding his arms and legs to the chair, layering his limbs with absurd amounts of duct tape. Just so he wouldn’t break free. The silence in the room was deafening. Rachel didn’t have anything to say, she merely watched Chloe at work, the blank expression still on her face.

Chloe wasn’t satisfied with just binding his limbs to the chair. She took one last piece of duct tape and covered his mouth.

For a moment, everything felt surreal. Jefferson was gone. Once the police stormed this place, he’d be in prison. Even in the darkroom, a sliver of peace made its way to Chloe. All that was left to do was to call the police.

She took her phone out of her pocket and dialled. Her tone was surprisingly calm as she gave all the details about the barn. She relayed every single bit of information on Jefferson including what took place in the dark room. The police were on their way. After everything was said and done, she hung up. The click of the phone was the only sound in the room. Rachel’s gaze wasn’t on Chloe, instead her eyes focused on the floor.

The dark room made Rachel look smaller. Then again, this whole issue was bigger than the both of them yet here Jefferson was bound. They won. Chloe wanted to at least tell Max what happened. She actually saved someone rather than being the person who was saved.

Chloe walked towards the sofa and sat beside Rachel. The silence between them seemed to stretch. After a couple of moments, Rachel laid her head on Chloe’s shoulder. In that moment, they didn’t have to say anything. The only thing that mattered was that they had each other.

In the silence Rachel reached out towards the bloody hand between them careful of Chloe’s wounds. The skin atop Chloe’s fingers had split. Even then Rachel couldn’t tell whose blood was on Chloe’s hands.

Chloe's gaze drifted from her hand to study Rachel’s face. She noticed the bruise that was starting to darken on the other girl’s cheek. Her newly found peace dissolved, she went to stand and get one last hit in. The rush of anger seemed almost foreign. Until she felt a hand grasp her own.

Rachel couldn’t meet her gaze. “Don’t.” Her voice was gentle, it seemed to relax Chloe amongst the anger and hate. She paused and finally looked at Chloe “Besides, I’ve got you here.”

Chloe’s anger melted away as fast as it rushed in. Rachel gently pulled her back to the couch, she couldn’t find it in herself to resist. Rachel laid her head on Chloe’s, their hands intertwined and rested on Chloe’s thigh.

Rachel broke the silence. “Thank you, Chloe. I… I don’t know what I’d do without you. If it hadn’t been for you, I… don’t know what would’ve happened to me… He… He…” Rachel couldn’t finish her sentence; the emotions became too much. She started sobbing and buried her head in the crook of Chloe’s neck. She needed to shield herself from this room, she needed to shield herself from the world.  

Chloe could only hold her close. Rachel kept repeating “I’m sorry” in a whisper of a voice against the crook of Chloe’s neck. She felt each of Rachel’s sobs and shivers, the tears dripped down her skin. It hurt Chloe to see her best friend - the girl that was outwardly strong for those around her – crumble.

Chloe only pulled Rachel closer to her and murmured “There’s nothing to be sorry for” near the shell of Rachel's ear. In that moment, Rachel pulled away and their eyes met. “I… I should have listened to you… I- Fuck, Chloe I’m so stupid. I should have known.” Rachel’s eyes filled with a new wave of tears, her fists clenched out of anger.

“Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for.” Chloe’s words came out soft. “He assaulted you. He manipulated you. You’re a victim. And look” Chloe gestured towards the dark room, with each word she became stronger “All this is going to be gone. That motherfucker is going to pay. I’ll make sure of it.” Chloe went to wipe a tear that managed to fall on Rachel’s cheek.

Chloe continued “If anything… I’m sorry for not being there for you sooner.” The sincerity behind Chloe’s eyes made Rachel pause. The emotion was raw and genuine, just like Chloe. The sheer force of it made Rachel’s heartache. In the end, the only person that truly accepted Rachel stood in front of her.

A crash resounded at the entrance and soon footsteps could be heard. The police were here. They swarmed the scene and the moment was ruined.

Everything seemed to be a blur for Chloe. She answered all the questions, all while keeping Rachel in her arms. It wasn’t until the paramedics had to check on Rachel that the two girls had to separate. As Chloe went to leave, she took one last look at Rachel. The girl met her gaze, those soft hazel eyes made Chloe want to stay a little longer. But she had to get home.

She walked out of the barnyard. Outside police cars and ambulances parked in front of the barn. The forest was no longer moonlit. Instead the red, blue and white lights penetrated the dark. The forest had less shadow to it. The night became clearer.

But that wasn’t what caught her eye. In the sky, there was no longer a full moon. Instead two full moons in the sky stood side by side.

#Enter the Storm #chapter 8 of Enter the Storm #max caulfield #chloe price #pricefield #pricefield fanfiction #life is strange #max and chloe #my fic #El_Por0