#and the the blood just overflowed to stain his (close to the wound) sleeve

[lucdoodle]

bro is straight up NOT having a good time

#to redraw this scene i noticed that in the show charlie doesn't stabs him in the arm #but in the side of his chest #and the the blood just overflowed to stain his (close to the wound) sleeve #that's wild #hazbin hotel #adam #charlie #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel adam #tw: stabbing #tw: blood #myart

[midoriyashotos]

Anguish of the Quirkless

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku/Todoroki Shoto (could be platonic... though I ship them a lot lmao)

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Todoroki Shoto; MENTIONED - Bakugo Katsuki

Summary: Izuku doesn’t explode.

But burn after burn, he can’t take it anymore.

AO3 / Fanfiction

A/N: I had no reason to write this other than the fact I’ve been really angry and I needed to write something down.

I guess this is technically my first Tododeku fic? But like, it isn’t the focus here, so interpret it the way you want (if you can). I hope this didn’t turn out to be too OOC, though.

Please be aware of the tags and disclaimers below. Be safe. <3

TRIGGER WARNINGS - childhood trauma, past bullying/abuse and injury

*NOT BAKUGO/BAKUDEKU FRIENDLY!

--

Izuku doesn’t explode.

If anything, he’s more than scared of explosions. The explosions that silence him, that burn his tongue and his arms and legs, and the notebook of his fanboyish train of thought. The blasts that keep happening no matter how far away he is.

So no, he doesn’t explode. He probably can’t.

--

Though every time he stares at the blond spikes of his classmate, Izuku is sickened by a cocktail of years of combustions.

Maybe he does admire the beauty of the explosions when far away. Depending on them, they can actually be quite beautiful when done for the greater good. But when he’s so near, to try to reach them, Izuku gets injured. It’s probably his fault to begin with.

But even with patience and care, Izuku is always exploded back to where he’s been stuck in since he was four.

Izuku is always behind Katsuki. He can’t go around him and walk away. He can’t push him aside, he can’t as much as talk to him. Katsuki will forever be a wall, a minefield that will remain activated until the end of time.

And most importantly, Izuku can never explode back.

He hates explosions, after all.

--

The flaming blend of feelings, however, reach his mind at times he should be feeling okay.

The image of himself exploding Katsuki, of yelling at him, beating the crap out of him sickens the young hero to no end.

But it replays in his head still, even when they’re not fighting and instead having fun with their other classmates. Izuku stares at Katsuki for mere seconds and the thoughts come to him. The freckled boy swallows it all back, until it comes to haunt him at night. Until the burns sting his arms and his heart.

Izuku has tense nights, yet he never explodes. Ever.

--

You’d think Izuku would be happy here. He is happy, though, to be where he’s dreamed of for so long.

But each day that passes, he seems to get worse, he’s sick and tired and angry, and the combustions are closer to his heart. The fantasies become more violent, they’re disturbing. Izuku stains his hands, massacring the remaining of blond hair and hateful red eyes.

Izuku could never take blood from someone. It’s awful – he’s being awful. What would others think? What would everyone else think? All Might, his mother, his friends?

Izuku knows he can cry, but what about the rage? What about the ticking bomb inside him? The bomb that might be close to destroying all around him?

He can’t let anyone see.

Least of all Katsuki.

--

Thankfully, U.A. owns several gymnasiums for the students to train. Few, though, are somewhat left aside due to the new ones, but they don’t really close them. His classmates don’t seem to use them either, as far as he’s concerned.

Izuku finds the classic training tools, including several, big punching bags – different from those you see in common gyms, obviously. They’re able to take up a lot more damage, useful for physical-focused quirks.

He prepares and attacks. Holding it back, Izuku knows to be careful, to protect others. He hates explosions. He hates hurting others.

(All everyone has ever done was hurt him. Why? He was powerless. Quirkless. Deku.)

(That’s why he reclaimed the name, to transform it into someone who could be trusted, someone who could never hurt.)

Izuku kicks, dodges, as if in a real fight. He gives the bag mercy. Probably unnecessary.

(No one gave him mercy.)

(Midoriya Izuku, a boy who could never do wrong, who did nothing but exist.)

(He was exploded like no one ever was.)

The boy’s hands shine red with One for All, as do his eyes. The punching bag absorbs the power, becoming harder to punch and overcome. Izuku continues to spare it, to no avail.

(No matter what he does, he’ll continue to be blasted on the face.)

(Whether he’s powerless or not. The explosions will punish him until he’s gone.)

It’s then that the bag’s energy turns against him and blows him away, Izuku falling back and failing, once again.

It’s all too familiar.

Izuku roars.

He advances with his all, at the same speed as Gran Torino’s, but with a rage unknown to others. A rage from no hero. Heroes don’t feel hate, only towards evil – yet never, never to this extent. With revenge comes nothing. No hero should be selfish.

(This doesn’t come from a hero. It comes from… a boy? A monster?)

And Izuku is attacking the bag with no barriers holding him back. The second time it attacks, Izuku doesn’t let himself fall again. He returns at full speed and destroys the bag. He’s yelling this entire time, his throat hurting yet he’s far from quitting.

“WHY?!” Izuku demands from the bag. “WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”

As always, he gets no answer, only blows and ignorance. And he’s punching it again.

The red of the bag infuriates him, it’s all he sees, and he wants to eradicate.

All those years, all that time never fighting back, never looking for solutions after years of rejections; they all come back to stab him again.

You’re useless.

Pathetic.

You need to deal with it.

“You RUINED MY LIFE!” Izuku screams, eyes shut but red, dams overflowing. “AND YOU DON’T EVEN CARE!”

Despite his cries and punches, they’re not moving, they’re not listening. When have they ever? When?

“I HATE YOU!” Izuku yells, his most disliked words. He’d never say to anyone.

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

“I

HATE

YOU!!! ”

 CRASH!

He yelps at the force thrown back at him. Smoke enters his nose, painful coughs echoing.

When Izuku looks back, he gasps without making a sound.

He didn’t destroy just one bag – it fired back and damaged the other ones, now abandoned on the floor.

And even then—

Izuku growls and punches the floor, this time without any power left.

He’s still burning.

It doesn’t matter. It never matters.

Now everything smokes and suffocates him, and he’s crying the most he’s ever did.

That’s why he hates explosions.

--

Izuku doesn’t go to Recovery Girl, nor does he tell anyone. He hopes Aizawa-sensei never finds out what he’d done. He looked for cameras and, thankfully, found none.

He lies to his friends he trained in the woods and got a little ahead of himself. As a response, Uraraka tells him to be careful and Iida insists Quirk training should be balanced for him, as a hero in training. Two important statements, of course.

Todoroki, however, observes.

It’s the most he does. Todoroki watches and sees all, barely saying much. He reads people like no one else does. He was the first to realize something would go wrong with Iida, when the latter had wanted to seek his brother’s almost assassin.

This is different, though. So much different.

Izuku ignores it the best he can.

--

Late at night, he can’t sleep. The green-eyed boy sneaks in the kitchen, to grab some tea to make. His classmates seem to have healthy sleep schedules, especially when exams are out of the scene.

So slow steps take him off guard, and Izuku hides his arms under his sleeves.

“Midoriya.”

He sighs deeply. “Oh, Todoroki-kun… it’s just you. What’s up?”

Todoroki shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh. Me neither.”

“Hm.”

Todoroki is doing it again, he can tell. Watching him. (Judging.)

Izuku hates being watched – he’s watched the entire time.

The tea doesn’t take much longer to be ready, so Izuku barely bats an eye to Todoroki and makes his way to the stairs.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he mumbles.

“Wait, Midoriya—”

“What ?”

Izuku regrets the moment he hisses, but he’s so tired.

“Just…” his classmate hesitates. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Todoroki’s tone has… softened.

Izuku doesn’t turn around.

“… Good night, Todoroki-kun.”

--

The days go by like usual. It’s like nothing happened. No one has found out, or so he hopes.

Todoroki hasn’t talked to him since that night. Or well, Izuku tries to avoid looking at him for too long in the first place. They have lunch together with the rest, but there’s no direct contact at all.

Todoroki isn’t the kind of person you can make excuses. He reads into your tone, he knows something is wrong. While Izuku’s relationship with him has definitely improved since the Sports Festival and Stain, he still finds that aspect of him a little intimidating. Because Todoroki, in contrast, is hard to read most of the time.

Izuku might as well be avoiding him. Of course, he’s polite when Todoroki has a question or when he asks for a favor. Though he rejects the suggestion they train together in the next day. Mostly, because Izuku’s wounds still sting, and he refuses to go to the infirmary.

At last, Izuku finds himself going to the old gymnasium, with no intention to seethe like before, even if the urge screams in his brain. It looks… the same, on the outside. As for the inside…

Instead of the gray smoke and destroyed reds, Izuku stops as soon as he catches white strands connected to wine, fire red. A fire that doesn’t explode, but fire, nonetheless.

Izuku’s veins fill with One for All, and before he goes Full Cowling to get as far away as possible, he’s less than lucky to expose himself.

“Midoriya?”

Nononononono—

Even though Todoroki isn’t using his Quirk, Izuku feels like he’s frozen by his giant ice spikes, caught to explain himself.

Why on earth is Todoroki here? Does he also know this spot? Oh, of course. Todoroki often trains alone but Izuku never knew where. Oh my god.

There are no words shared or spoken, least of all whispered. Izuku can’t bring himself to look up. There’s only shame to be shared. No one was supposed to find out and yet he just revealed himself. Stupid. Idiot!

A step.

“Midoriya…”

Izuku shakes his head.

“I know what you’re going to say.”

Todoroki stops. “What?”

“… that I’m supposed to be a hero, right? That I shouldn’t have done this? I- I know I shouldn’t have.” Izuku clenches his jaw and his fists, to contain the trembling rage. “I shouldn’t be angry.”

The fallen punching bags stare.

“But I didn’t know what to do with this anger. It only kept growing and- and it keeps growing inside of me, these thoughts, this scream in my throat,” Izuku spits out without much thought. “I’ve been hurt my entire life and I hate- I hate hurting people back, I hate wanting to hurt them, but I hate them, too, I hate-!” For a moment, he bites back the poisonous name, yet he can’t take it anymore, he’s tired of being silenced by the explosions.

“… I hate Kacchan. I hate that he always explodes me in the face, I hate that he used to go after other kids, too. He always explodes and hurts people, and he doesn’t give a shit.” Izuku’s tone is wet, soaked with weight. “He doesn’t give a shit about me, he still hurts me no matter what I do, and I’m sick of it. And god, all I want is to punch his fucking face and scream, because he never cared about making me cry or burning me at all, he- he doesn’t care! And I don’t know why I still do, why I even try to communicate with him! Nothing I do is enough for him!”

Izuku observes the multiple layers of old wood under his feet, each second finding new details, new splinters.

“This is why I don’t explode. Why I never burst out. I-I don’t want to hurt anyone… but I’m still so angry, Todoroki-kun. I’m only feeling worse than before.” The freckled teen pathetically dries his drowned face. “It’s like nothing is ever going to get better.”

The temperature is a bitter cold, despite the sun outside.

Izuku cries like that boy he’d known in Middle School, the one that would weep to himself in the shadows after getting burned on the face.

“W-What should I do?” He asks to no one.

It’s, again, a question without an answer.

Except…

His arms are taken by two hands that slowly pull up his sleeves, revealing the wounds from the hazard. The hands brush against his blistered skin as gently as possible. One hot, the other cold, but equally mindful.

“I think…” Todoroki whispers, “you need someone.”

Izuku’s face is close to the piercing gray and blue eyes, the ones who always read him… but not in judgment, he realizes. They read each sentence, each word of himself and take it to their heart, hopefully to come up with a meaningful response.

“Because then… who will protect you from the explosion?” Todoroki questions, his right hand reaching Izuku’s left.

The question is one he’s never considered. Izuku makes sure no one gets hurt, and maybe he’s successful at that, yet…

Todoroki’s face is close enough for their heads to touch, some of his red and white bangs touching Izuku’s forehead.

“It’s okay to be angry, Midoriya.”

“You’re… not mad at me?”

“Why would I be?”

“I don’t know,” Izuku gulps, “I feel… disgusting.”

“I understand. But you’re not disgusting. You were hurt.”

Izuku’s mouth quivers. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

Todoroki’s hands move from his arms to his shoulders, pulling him forward. Izuku shivers.

He’s…

Todoroki has never hugged him before.

Sure, they’ve gotten so far as friends. But after all this time, they’ve never touched each other; least of all Todoroki, who is, reasonably, a more reserved person.

The hug is far from awkward, nonetheless. It’s… good. Izuku has never been hugged like this. Even with the crime scene of his anger right there for Todoroki and everyone else to see… the red-and-white-haired boy chooses to hold him.

(After all, he’s also a boy. A boy afraid of his thoughts. Afraid while no one knows.)

Izuku returns the contact, his face somewhat under Todoroki’s chin.

“I’m sorry Bakugo is a piece of shit.” He adds quietly, “Well, more than he already is.”

That manages to attract a miserable laugh.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

Izuku hums, not up to protest as he melts in his touch. He could never have imagined Todoroki to be this… comfortable.

The permanent smell of smoke and dust does eventually bother him, so Izuku suggests, “Want to get out of here?”

“Sure.”

And they leave the gymnasium behind, hopefully their secret will be left alone.

Todoroki takes Izuku to a tree, the leaves green like the latter’s hair. There’s enough of a shadow to cover them from the sun, from the burning flames far away. Todoroki helps a little with the burns, his ice the most soothing Izuku has felt.

Until the sun sets, their hands are intertwined, scars only they know.

#tododeku #midoriya izuku #todoroki shoto #todoroki shouto #anti bakugou #fanfiction #my hero academia #lotus writes #abuse tw #bullying tw #vent fic

[suzu-kun22]

Mesmerizing

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25622446

Prompt: Impaled Chest Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Pairings: Sylvix Warnings: Lots of blood. War. Nameless character death. Stabbing (obviously). Summary: Sylvain’s always found Felix’s swordplay mesmerizing. Until his sword is no longer the one dancing.

@badthingshappenbingo​

If there are any specific prompts you’d like me to write and any specific scenarios/fandoms/pairings you’d like me to write for, just send in an ask!

Story below the cut!

"Remember our promise? I'm not trying to break it, Felix. If we die, we die together."

Axe in hand, war cry on his lips, and rage bubbling through his veins, Sylvain buries the head of his weapon in the chest of an Imperial soldier. It isn't as though he hasn't killed imperial soldiers before. It isn't as though the feeling of blood on his hands and a body beneath his weapon is unfamiliar to him.

It isn't any different, this time.

The man sporting bright red aside from the crimson staining his armor breathes one last desperate gasp before his struggling ceases. The death is quick. Sylvain can't remember the faces of most of the enemies he's slain – and he doubts many of those same enemies would remember his, if he had been the one to fall instead of them – and he doesn't think he'll remember this one either. There isn't time to remember the name, face, voice, life of every person who has wound up dead beneath his axe. There are more important things to worry about.

With the closest enemy down – dead, in the dirt at Sylvain's feet – he takes the opportunity to wipe cascading drops of sweat from his brow. If he can't see, keeping himself alive becomes that much harder. He takes a deep breath, swallows back the constant bile building in his throat, and takes advantage of the rare free moment to glance around the battlefield.

Ingrid and Annette, watching each other's backs as an ever-growing cluster of Imperial soldiers close in on them. One hand reaching for the reigns of his horse, Sylvain feels an urge to rush to their side and assist in whatever way he can. Of course, he doesn't get farther than considering the idea before Annette shouts the name of a spell that he's certain she's taught him and Ingrid flies right up into the air to avoid the massive boom of fire and wind that blows all their enemies away. Sylvain can't help the small laugh of relief at their strength. Really, what was the point of worrying over those two? They can handle themselves.

Next he finds Mercedes, back-to-back with the professor – Byleth, as she'd asked them to call her – casting some inconsistent combination of healing and offensive spells. No one bothers to reply with thanks, when Mercedes closes their wounds and offers her long-distance support from behind the walking weapon that is their professor. There will be time for thank-yous later. When each of them has managed to get out of this alive.

Byleth – ever the powerhouse – cuts down enemy after enemy as though they're made of little more than paper. Her eyes hold no malice or disdain for those in her way, but they also lack the sympathy that someone like Mercedes might carry for those they cut down. Sylvain can't help the thought that by the professor's side is truly the safest place on any battlefield.

Dimitri and Dedue fight side-by-side – as always. Dedue covers the prince's weak spots, while Dimitri deals most of the pair's damage. They move in perfect sync, as though they were one body with one mind. Sylvain supposes it really isn't far from the truth. 

Finally, Sylvain's eyes find Felix. His childhood friend and the one who had recently pointed a sword right in his face and threatened him with a duel if he didn't stop his reckless behavior. Felix who had barged in on Sylvain after such a minor wound with nothing but worry, and then reaffirmed a promise made so so many years ago – and Sylvain wonders if he had been aware of how furiously he had been blushing, or if he truly thought he was being subtle.

Sylvain watches Felix's sword dance through the air, and can't help but find it mesmerizing. Even more so than the way Byleth moves between weapons as though she can't find one to settle on. More fascinating than the fluid motion of Mercedes' hands or Ingrid's lance. Felix cuts down enemies with a grace and precision that Sylvain knows is absolutely unique to him. 

He almost thinks it beautiful.

Well, it would be beautiful. If not for the crimson staining everything from Felix's blade to his increasingly pale face, the scene would be nothing short of stunning.

Sylvain opens his mouth, about to call out to his childhood friend. Shout, perhaps, some kind of compliment or joking criticism or even a sarcastic inquiry of if he needs any help. He already knows exactly what the reaction to any and all of those options might be. The same annoyance, slight aggression, and soft blush that he's always loved to see on Felix's face. It's something he looks forward to. Something he seeks out. Something that makes his heart race, every time.

As much as he's known for chasing skirts, Sylvain knows better than to think that feeling of warm affection in his chest is anything short of genuine love.

"Felix!" He calls out, waving his hand above his head and anticipating the annoyed look in Felix's eye when he turns to look at him. Felix doesn't seem to notice, however. His sword continues its dance through the air – yet another enemy falls at the sword master's feet – and Sylvain remains absolutely mesmerized. 

Then, everything comes to a halt.

Sylvain feels his eyes going wide before he can even really register why. He feels his mouth opening and his entire body moving, and apparently the message hasn't reached his brain yet because about half-way through lifting his axe is when he wonders why he decided to make this effort on foot instead of reaching for his horse, just a few feet away–

“FELIX!” He shouts, loud enough that the entire battlefield seems to come to a stop. So loud that he manages to catch the heads of their allies turning. Quick and shocked and panicked. Perhaps just as panicked as Sylvain's voice had sounded. The message still hasn't seemed to reach his brain, because he struggles to register the sight before his eyes.

A sword is held high in the air. Stained a dazzling shade of crimson – perfectly matching the colors on the holder's sleeve – and the message finally seems to fully hit him when he realizes that it isn't Felix's sword.

The situation only seems to fully hit him – he only realizes why he's running across muddy earth with a war cry on his lips and his axe held high above his head – when he sees the one who lies unmoving at the Imperial soldier's feet.

Felix.

He brings his axe down with all the strength he can find in his arms. He thinks the solider struggles to move their sword in time – likely to block the attack – but their blade is no match for the axe that Byleth had claimed was forged from some kind of beefed up steel. Sylvain will never pretend to understand the material that goes into his weapons. He leaves things like that to Byleth. Dimitri. And Felix.

Felix.

He hears the soldier grunting. Struggling. Trying to breathe. He thinks he hears someone else talking – possibly shouting – something. He doesn't register what it is they're actually saying before he's dropping his weapon and crashing into the Earth. His hands scramble over Felix's bleeding torso. Desperate to find the wound. How does one treat a wound like this? Sylvain remembers some kind of lecture from Mercedes on this topic. Just in case. Just in case something happened and they needed to treat a wound on the battlefield without Mercedes' help–

"Felix!" Sylvain shouts his name again. His fingers continue searching increasingly blood-stained fabric. The weapon is here somewhere. Somewhere on his chest, where the deep blue fabric of his clothing is just getting redder and redder and– 

Felix grimaces, winces, and the reaction is so un-Felix that Sylvain thinks that it gives him whiplash. It's something he can't afford to dwell on, but fills his chest with insurmountable dread. There's no way. There's no way. Felix won't die. Felix won't–

He's dragged out of his thoughts by the sound of clashing iron, mere feet away.

"Sylvain!"

He raises his head, eyes still wide with panic as he finds the glowing mint eyes of his professor. He can remember, plain as day, the time before those eyes held so much more than quiet brilliance and a silent promise of trust. Back when they didn't glow, and were such a comforting soft blue. Before an explosion of light and–

"SYLVAIN!" Byleth shouts again, and Sylvain snaps out of his second trance of the past five minutes. Perhaps it has something to do with the adrenaline. He sees her deflecting a blade, thrusting her own forward. Her opponents falls, and she whirls around. "Get him to Mercedes, now!"

Sylvain nods. He nods without really processing the professor's words, and before he knows it Felix is hauled up onto his back and he's moving as fast as his legs will carry him across slippery Earth. Towards their class' resident healer – desperately throwing spells at anyone who dares approach her. Byleth must have left her – knowing that Mercedes is more than capable of handling herself – to jump to his defense. He would be honored if his entire body wasn't overflowing with panic.

He thinks other Imperial soldiers target them, during Sylvain's journey. His only hint is the consistently rising temperature and burst of flames that most certainly came from one of Annette's spells that he manages to catch the one time he glances over his shoulder.

"MERCEDES!" He shouts at the top of his lungs, and she drops her hands from the constant spell casting as Sylvain eases Felix to the ground. "H-He's hurt, I–"

"Focus on keeping the enemies away!" Mercedes doesn't let him finish. She pushes right past him and crouches at Felix's side, seemingly ignoring the red seeping into her hands as soon as she sets them on his chest. "I'll take care of him!"

Sylvain freezes. Nods. Bites down on his lower lip and ignores the feeling of something... wet, seeping into his back. Wet and slippery and sticky and–

Focus.

Sylvain tightens his grip on the axe, still clenched between blood-stained fingers.

Don't you dare die on me, Felix.

Don't you dare break our promise.

#sylvix #sylvain gautier #felix hugo fraldarius #three houses #fire emblem three houses #bad things happen bingo #prompt: impaled chest #angst #whump #stabbing #war #battlefield #writing #my writing #suzu speaks

[nikky-the-writer]

You left

Part 3

(You can find the first and second part on my Masterlist on my page)

Warning: cursing, mentions of death, spoilers for the show, blood

Summary: AU!Reader is coming back to the place where she has lived since was seven and never fitted in except with Ben and Klaus (In this there is no apocalypse, Vanya knows about her powers and Five is an adult!!!)

A/N: So I wrote another part and there will be I think just one more!! I really enjoyed writing this although I made so many of you cry!!

The requests for the Umbrella Academy are still open (Please send as an ask so that I don’t lose them)…

Past is written in italic

____________________________________________________________

Your hand sting like Hell, the blood already soaked through the towel you held against it. The small drops of blood followed after you as they fell onto the ground. Your eyes were getting overflowed with tears as you hurried. You constantly looked around to avoid everyone not wanting to get the one who cut you in trouble. It was an accident and you knew it. 

Ben was still under the influence of what happened yesterday. He had to kill more than ten people at once and it messed him up. He had only today fallen asleep for a short nap when you woke him up. It was an accident as he was startled, and although he insisted to come with you to find mother you said that he would only get in trouble and he was too shaken to help you on his own. Your steps were small but fast and because of that you almost crashed into a wall leaving a bloodied stain on it. “Shit…” you whispered and looked around. Hopefully, there was nobody so you could just step away and walk to your destination. However, when you reached your destination you sight in frustration. “Where are you?” you whispered more to yourself than anyone else as your eyes searched for your mother. “What are you doing?” You closed your eyes before whispering “Shit…” You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. So as carefully as you could you turned around while moving your hand to behind your back. “Hi,” you said staring at the boy in front of you while also waving awkwardly which was a mistake as there was blood on your sleeve. Diego didn’t miss the blood stains on your sleeve as well as on your hand, but he decided to stay silent wanting for you to speak up first. “So, the weather is nice,” you said gesturing towards the windows and only then noticing that it was actually raining heavily. “Ar…Are you bleeding?” Diego asked stepping closer and you stepped back almost falling over the small poodle of blood that formed. “It’s…it’s actually…mhmm,” you tried to say something and then you remember your recent conversation with your mother as she told you that boys will never understand the girl’s talk, it had nothing to do with this, but it seemed useful. “It’s girl’s stuff, you know. So is mom here, somewhere?” “You bleeding is girl stuff?” Diego asked narrowing his eyebrows at you. If you weren’t hurt he would even smile at your behavior at the moment. “Well, yes it is actually.” “But it’s on your sleeve?” he pointed out and you pressed your lips together as he actually was right. “Is she around?” you asked again as you moved your hand in front of your body. “Because this really hurts and I think I’m gonna pass out.” Diego cursed under his breath and although he knew where mom was he decided to help you on his own. He had seen mom do it a hundred times especially when fixing him at in the beginnings when he would sometimes cut himself accidentally, not really with knives, but when he was experimenting with other things.   “Come here,” he said placing his hand on your unharmed and leading you to the nearby bathroom. He knew where all the things needed were placed so it didn’t take him long to prepare everything. “How did it happen?” he asked as you sat on the ground with a fresh towel around your hand. “It was there when I woke up, maybe is a new power,” you shrugged as you stared at the blood. “It would even make me a less of a freak than I am now,” you murmured under your breath. “You are not a freak,” Diego said softly as he took your hand in his moving the towel away from the wound. “I am, Diego, you just didn’t notice yet. You are probably too busy playing a superhero to see it,” you admitted as none all of them were to engulfed with being heroes that you become an afterthought. “And why do you think that?” “I can control any being who I want. I could make you kill someone and you wouldn’t even blink. I’m a monster, not Ben, and that is why I refuse to do it, still, you all avoid me as if I will do something to you, yet Alisson is always seen as perfect.” Diego listened to you carefully as he was never aware of how you felt or why you were always on the side. He took care of your hand as slowest he could so that you would stay longer however not as slow to let you bleed out. “This silence speaks so much, there is nothing for us to say each other, it’s just silence,” you stated as he helped you to get on your feet. “You are not a monster, you are you.” You looked at him with your eyebrow raised thinking that he will say something else, but what happened left you staring at nothing like an idiot. He kissed your cheek before he hurried away probably scared of rejection while a smile formed on your lips. You stayed there for a few more minutes until you walked out only to bump into Luther. The crash almost sent you flying to the floor, however, he caught you before there was a chance for that to happen. When he was pulling away he noticed blood on your hands. He kept your hand in his as he observed the bandage. “Are you hurt? Does father knows?” he questioned as the bandage looked a lot messier than when the mother would take care of it. “Mmhhm,” you murmured without even acknowledging his words as a smile was still present on your face. “Why are you smiling?” “It’s a beautiful day,” you said silently before moving your hand from his and walking away, but not without tracing the tips of your fingers over the place which Diego’s lips touched.

____________________________________________________________

“Klaus, Klaus,” you tried to wake him up while shaking his shoulder. “Please tell me that you are not high right now…” you said out loud although he was still asleep. “Come on, you ass, wake up!” “It’s not mine…” Klaus murmured as his eyelids lifted only to be met with your red eyes. “What did you take?” he asked teasingly while poking his fingers into your side. “So, you are high, that’s awesome, kind of wish that I was as well, but I can’t afford it.” “Just take something from the house,” he said in a hushed tone while still rubbing his eyes. “What?” you asked not following what he was saying. “To pay…” he pointed out as if it was obvious. “Oh, God… I mean that I can’t get high as it would be irresponsible, you know, I could accidentally kill someone.” “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them that your sober self is sorry,” he assured you as he finally sat up on the bed with you now sitting next to him. “Is Ben here?” “He never leaves, like an untreated STD, he will stay forever until we all die,” “I am really hoping that you are not talking from experience, but putting that to the side can I use you for a moment,” he asked just wanting to leave the house as fast as possible. You just wanted to get back to your life and ignore the existence of your family. “Just don’t make me work; I’m still too tired,” Klaus stated and was already lowering his body down when you punched him in the shoulder. “What the hell did you take, you idiot? I’m not going to have sex with you,” you said with your nose scrunching as it was the worst thing ever. “The other brother already satisfied you?” he asked teasing you because of your too grossed out reaction for his simple joke. “Just shut up and only repeat whatever Ben says.” “Whatever Ben says, whatever Ben says, what-” he started repeating in hopes to make you smile but he only made you angrier. “Klaus, come on.” “Alright, alright, I was only joking,” he finally said as he waited for you to explain what was going on with you and your puffy eyes, you almost looked as if somebody punched you in both eyes. “Do you want to come live with me?” you asked calmly looking at him. “You are asking me or the ghost?” he questioned gesturing next to him which only caused Ben to roll his eyes as he wasn’t even there, but next to you. “Both.” “But you live nowhere, there is nothing there. Like nothing, no dealers, no ambulance, nothing,” he listed and was about to continue, but you were quicker. “Nothing except fresh air and peace, right? Klaus, it’s a peaceful and beautiful place and I’m willing to help you.” “What, now?” his eyes moved to you in a flash as he was surprised at your offer. “It was too much when I was a kid, but I could help you control it, I could help you to get rid of the fear,” you explained with regret as you wished that you could’ve helped him when you were younger. “But you said that you can’t.” “I’ll try, Klaus. We will both try, alright? Please, Klaus, just trust me,” you pleaded, placing your hands in his. He only smiled sadly before moving your hand to where Ben was actually sitting. The first thing Ben noticed was a scar on your hand and somehow it made him feel better as if he was still there with you as that was all that you had from him. “Ben wants to go,” Klaus said not even waiting for Ben’s answer. “And you?” you asked hopefully. “I…” “No drugs Klaus,” you reminded him wanting for him to be aware of what will happen once you leave. “But you will have to tie me,” Klaus said grinning at you. “I can do that,” you assured with a smile on your lips. “Great,” you whispered.  We leave in ten minutes, pack your things and wait in the car.” He was about to complain, but you stopped him and he only managed to ask one thing. “What about others? Do we leave a note or just leave?” “Do you really believe that they will notice that we are gone?” you questioned as you stood at the doorframe. Meeting only silence you got your answer and you were quick to move to your bedroom.

_____________________________________________________________

You carried your beg as you headed to the door only for your mother to stop you as your fingers touched the doorknob. “You are leaving already?” your mother asked as she looked at you. “Yes, sorry mom. I thought that I will stay longer, but I just can’t,” you admitted moving your gaze from the door to her. You wished to stay longer for her, but you knew that Diego will take care of her. “Oh, I thought that you would stay at least for a few more days.” “I wish I could,” you said softly before you placed your bag down to hug her. She held you close and just as you were about to pull away she spoke freezing you in place. “Did you talk to Diego?” she asked with a smile on her face as she looked at you expectantly. Your brows furrowed as you tried to understand what she knew. You stepped back as you hoped that it wasn’t what you feared it was. “About what exactly?” you asked as you grabbed your bag. “Nothing, I thoug-” “Are you in this with them?” you questioned stepping further away and closer to door suddenly feeling as if you were suffocating. “In what, honey?” “He told me that he loves me, he made fun of me,” you almost but shouted at her not believing that she would know that. “He would never make fun of you; he was always fond of you,” she said sweetly as she approached but you raised your hand to stop her from coming closer... “No, he wasn’t, he always hated me,” you were trying so hard to think why would your mother, the person who was always so nice to you say something like that, as since you could remember you knew that he never loved you, he never even liked you. “Diego never hated you; don’t you remember when he kissed you?” “What?” your voice came out like a whisper as you couldn’t think straight. You remembered what she asked you, but that was just a dream, it couldn’t happen, he hated you. “Stop messing with my head! All of you just stop it!!” you screamed as your eyes welled up. You noticed Diego, Alisson, Vanya and Five standing in the hallway as tears were sliding down your face. “I loved you,” you said loud enough for Diego and others to hear you. “I loved you all, only so that one day you decided to hate me, none of you loved me and that’s not what family does.” You wiped your tears away before turning back to your mother. “I’m sorry mom, but they are not my family. My family is waiting for me in the car,” you as fast as you said that you left leaving everyone behind. “Fuck…” Alisson said under her breath as she stared at the place where you used to stand. “What happened?” Luther asked as he was the last one to arrive in the room. “Fuck, fuck!” Alisson repeated oblivious to anyone else as everything was put in place after so many years. “What did you do?” Diego questioned as he moved towards her only to be stopped with Luthor stepping between them. “What did you do!?” he yelled at her and she stayed silent with guilt evident in her eyes. He was more than sure what she has done, but he needed to hear it from her, he needed to hear that she was the one who destroyed the connection between you and him. He needed it but before she could say anything Vanya took her away.

____________________________________________________________

A/N: Thank you for reading!! Feedback is appreciated!!!

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#diego hargreeves x reader #the umbrella academy imagine #diego hargreeves imagine #klaus hargreeves #ben hargreeves #the umbrella academy fic #the umbrella academy x reader #the umbrella academy #diego hargreeves #the umbrella academy imagines

[liliumlies]

salvation

“I can kill a dragon... just like this,” the stranger revels in her newfound tactic, and laughs as she loses herself in the crowd of homunculi attacking everyone, not wanting to stand close to the now-thrashing Dog-Head.

Dog-Head screams in pain from the poison, flailing around and trying to find some sense to the chaos overflowing within their body.

Niamh screams out their name--too powerful to be held back by Rago, she dashes over to their side, unable to think of anything else in the situation. Taking any wound is nothing, if it’s to heal them--but heal them how--? How can she heal them of the black poison?

They reach up and snag her arm, dragging rips down her sleeve with their claws. “This will be your last loop.” The blood in their mouth is turning black or they’d kiss her, delirious with pain as they are. They settle with a smile, “I’ll make sure of it. So don’t give up, okay? I love you.” For a second, their grip tightens. Don’t go. I’m scared.

With a convulsive effort they push her away. “See you when we wake up.”

Close to the exit, Rago stabs his staff down on the ground, the golden sand spreading out around him. The movements of the Mother’s bodies slow. “We have to go,” he cries out.

But of course, Niamh would not leave their side, even as they wail and cry out in pain. Even as they are surrounded by the stranger’s puppets--and Niamh shows them the physical strength of a vampire close to the elder blood.

The stranger, of course, knew that, and waited close by, silver blade gleaming. Suddenly, a bullet breaks the blade. Arthur, from a distance away, had whipped out his revolver, and shot with deadly accuracy. And yet another, within stopped time, as a bullet drills into the head of the stranger. 

The stranger grins at him as she vanishes, only for a sickening sound to be heard some place else.

Auguste is laying on the floor, bleeding from his waist. The stranger prepares her stained blade to finish him off, until another gunshot sounds--this time, from Sally, And yet another from him, before the stranger could properly react, and she catches both shots--one with her weapon and the other on her collarbone.

Liesel hurriedly retreats as the stranger is distracted, dragging the injured Auguste through the exit with her as the others tried to deal with their ongoing surge of enemies.

Parian and Irezumi fight back and cover their retreat in the chaos, both swords and ink slashing through what they can. And they take the opportunity to stab the stunned stranger in the back.

She grins at them as she crumples onto the ground.

After all, she is not dead. She couldn’t be killed. Not this way at all. The one who could kill her is severely, gravely injured, and not in any state to do so.

And yet another of Mother’s bodies replaces the dead stranger, with the same glowing eyes and the same irritating grin.

All of them are the stranger.

All of them are Baika’s assassins.

All of them are Baika.

Despite all of Rago’s efforts, the remainder of the group is cut off from the exit, as Baika’s bodies stare them down.

As Rago kept describing her, she truly is unstoppable.

But a silence comes over them. Something stops them. They all look towards a certain direction, stunned with a terrified look on their faces.

It is silent. The screaming had stopped.

There is only... the dripping of black blood.

The eidolon stares them all down, quiet save for the soft sound of breathing.

...

Niamh swallows her own lack of words, and steps towards the dark being. She calls their name, knowing that they have to be in there.

The eidolon roars, and swats at the bodies in front of it, slashing through the homunculi and narrowly missing Niamh. It roars, and snaps its maw forward, as one unfortunate homunculus is caught as the others leap away. Its enormous body slams into the walls, ripping apart stone and wood.

The bodies of the stranger break apart, and the exit reveals itself again.

The eidolon thrashes about and swipes and bites at the homunculi trying to avoid its errant, chaotic attacks. Its otherworldly screaming and the rumbles of the tower sound louder than anything else.

A breath of black fire tears through Baika, and the columns of the room start coming down. And another. A hole is torn through the wall, and rubble falls from the ceiling.

“Niamh!” Rago calls loudly from beyond the exit. “The dungeon’s going to come down! Get out!”

It takes the combined efforts of Parian and Shinobu to wrest the struggling vampire out through the exit with everyone else, as Rago’s prophecy starts fulfilling itself. 

A screeching roar and the violent fall of rubble. 

The tower comes down in black fire.

They step through the gate of the exit, and it shuts close.

#ch6

[alnilam-fr]

-Down In Yon Forest-

The ice sparkles as though champagne were poured over the top of the snow, dripping off of the ghost-pale branches of the wyrwood. The crescent moon sings softly. 

Beneath the branches of the trees, the Progenitor walks. Her feet are bare as the white branches overhead, and she leaves no footprints. Light glimmers within the curve of her throat, the dusky skin spangled with constellations of blue and green. The wyrwood stirs for her as she raises a hand, the winter air steaming against her shining skin, and the branches move, angling a path down towards the river.

There is a road through the wyrwood now- architects from deeper in the Lightweaver’s territory laid it nearly a hundred years ago. It is still a new road, by the Progenitor’s long and aching reckoning of the years. Her Guardian, Baleen with the ocean eyes, came not long after it was completed. It is only Baleen who has stayed, though many come along the road and seek hospice. (Though the wood has not been cursed in living memory, time still flows a little differently in the Progenitor’s land, like amber, like syrup. Baleen looks little more than thirty, even now.)

The last merchant caravan to pass through before the snows came stopped briefly at the House, and a silk-voiced Wildclaw told them of the elemental magic surging around Sornieth. Emperor, he had whispered, his crest of feathers standing on end.

Emperor. They say it as an ugly word, and they always have, ever since the first. The Imperial dragons do not speak it at all. Do not permit the desecration to pass their lips. They do not bury their bodies in the ground, for fear of that disease which eats bone and blood and makes it into something savage and new. (“If I die here,” her love had said, long ago, when he had drunk just enough to think about it, “Be sure to burn my body. Bury the skull apart from the bones.” And then he had downed the rest of his drink and looked out the window at the slow dance of the stars.)

There is something lying sprawled across the river, blocking the flow of the water making its rambling way to the sea. Rivulets of overflowing water spill over the banks and track lines of ice in the snow. The creature has a mane of thick fur made heavy with frost, and as the Progenitor approaches she sees one pair of silver-blue eyes blink open, and then another, and then a fifth eye slits open to gaze at her as it exhales, rising steam billowing from its fanged mouth. The Progenitor looks at it, for a long time. This is not an Emperor, but it is something likewise ancient. 

“Are you wounded?” she asks. Her voice crystallizes like the starlight in the cold. “Do you have a two-legged form?” Lightfooted, shadowless, she steps closer. Another pair of eyes open, pale as mercury.

I am wounded, it answers. The length of its mouth peels open to reveal rows of ivory teeth. Here. Lifting a foreleg and wing- the stomach is gleaming and pearl-colored, but scored with red as vivid as a scream. Blood drips down into the water, and clots darkly along the edges of the wounds. Beast attacked me. It coughs a little, dark stains spreading along its teeth. Emperor.

“What are you?” asks the Progenitor. She places a hand upon its stomach, magic gathering beneath her skin as slowly- slowly- the torn flesh knits back into scale and fur. “I think I dreamed a thing like you, long ago. When I was a girl.”

It inhales slightly, tasting the air like a cat. In this draconic form, it is as large as an Imperial, at least. You are ancient too, but not like me. I was born in the great glacier. My people were made when the mountains and the rain were young. Nutaikok decreed it thus. The accent of its words is strange to her. Northern, and yet not.

She moves to the next wound. Blood and light and water run between her fingers, onto her wrists. The blue silk of her sleeves is stained with blood. Ankle-deep she stands in cold water, but the Progenitor does not feel pain unless she chooses to do so. “They named me Souhayla,” she says. “Souhayla the Sunbringer. Souhayla of the Empty Hall. The Progenitor.” 

I am Tekkeitsertok.

In a great rush of movement, he rises to his feet, blood running in sunset-red gouts from his stomach and side in the moonlight. The river water glitters in his fur, and then he folds in on himself with a ripple of magic. It is always difficult for large dragons, to turn themselves back and forth, but the man who collapses upon the side of the riverbank in the bloodred, copper-reeking mud is not so much larger than Souhayla herself. Perhaps a head taller. Broad in his shoulders. His many eyes still open and close- on his bare shoulder blades, along his arms, on the backs of his hands. The color of frost.

“I will bring you to the House,” the Progenitor Souhayla says, placing one hand on the bleeding gash on his stomach to seal it and looping the other arm through his. Tekkeitsertok nods, his breath still coming in ragged pants. I am of the Keepers, he says. Third Order. His voice still comes in a rumble from somewhere far away. Somewhere filled with ice.

“Be at peace, now,” the Progenitor murmurs. Her skin glows softly through her sleeves stained with water and blood, casting a faint light on the ground. “I will bring you home.”

#ch: souhayla #ch: tekkeitsertok #flight rising #fr lore #lore #christmas carol theme music for this lore entry. thematic

[wolf-555-writer]

Another One?

Here is- um... another one for Alex Danvers. Hope you enjoy it! ;)

Alex Danvers x Reader

Summary: Reader works as bartender at their Uncle’s Alien bar. You meet Alex during work as the bar is her regular spot. And… you obviously fall in love with her.

Word Count: 2,098

Gazing at the warm, cozy, crowded place, standing behind the wooden bar counter, you feel grateful. If it wasn’t for your Uncle you wouldn’t have a job in this new, terrifying, huge city where you moved to some weeks ago. It’s not something you expected to be doing at all, working in an Alien bar, but you love it, even though you just started. Casually leaning against the work table, having a moment of free time, you see a woman with blond hair and glasses cheerfully stride towards you.

“Hi! Another one?”, you politely suggest, remembering her order from earlier this evening. “Yes please! Can I actually have four of these?”, she gently responds, as you’re already reaching for the drinks while she pays. “May I ask? Are you new here? I haven’t noticed you here before”, she delicately continues, placing some money on the counter. “Yes! I’m new. I started working here last week as I just moved here”, you brightly answer since she seems friendly. “Ah, that’s great! My name is Kara Danvers and welcome to National City!”, she joyfully expresses, introducing herself to you. “Thank you, I’m (Y/N). It’s a pleasure meeting you. Here you go”, you respond while you’re handing Kara her cold beverages. “Thanks, you can keep the change!”, she mentions as she cautiously turns around. That's very sweet of her. You watch her walk towards a round table, apparently able to carry those four filled glasses with ease, and notice three other people seated there. But only one person in particular catches your undivided attention.

///

Hearing what seems to be a dispute between two people up front, you're pulled away from the task in the back, where you were busy stacking some heavy crates. As you hastily walk up towards the main bar area, you notice a woman with auburn hair color. She is, with a strict tone, interrogating an alien customer who's seated on a barstool. You immediately recognize her. She visits this place often, mostly with the blond woman you know as Kara Danvers. And of course you have a slight crush on her, I mean... just look at her. While you were standing there, speechless and staring at her with dreamy eyes, she suddenly smashed the alien's head on the hardwood counter. As a reaction you flinch, eyes widening. 

“What the hell just happened!? Was that necessary?”, you debate, while quickly marching up to them, since you don't want this to escalate any further. Honestly, this bar is a safe place for aliens. Positioning yourself right in front of them, reaching out to interfere, it kind of did escalate as you promptly end up in the crossfire. A filled glass is shattered to pieces due to the alien's violent outbreak and it scatters around, chunks flying everywhere. Unfortunately, some sharp, broken glass shards end up in your extended arm. It happened rather unexpected so there was no time to evade the fast moving fragments anymore. You avert your eyes to inspect the damage, bending the arm towards you.

“Shit…”, you painfully exclaim as the woman is now gazing at you, her beautiful brown eyes overflowing with guilt. “S-sorry… I-I can help you remove those if you want?”, she carefully proposes because she feels terribly responsible for what just happened.  

Seated on a large crate, you're back in the stockroom again. The sleeve of your right arm completely rolled up.

“My name is Alex by the way, Alex Danvers”, she introduces while she walks towards you, carrying some bandages and other medical supplies. “I'm really sorry about all of this. I needed information for a case I'm working on. For -eh, the FBI.”, she explains as she's currently examining your wounds. “Wait- Danvers? So, Kara Danvers is your sister?”, you swiftly puzzled together. “Oh, eh, I'm (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”, eyes highly fixed on Alex her movements. 

“Beautiful name”, she softly answers, while focused on removing the remaining splinters of glass embedded in your skin. “And yes, Kara is my sister, you've already met her I see?”, she chuckles. “Yes, I-”, you’re interrupted by an electrifying pain, quickly radiating through your arm, causing you to lightly groan. Alex just removed the largest and last piece, leaving a nasty cut as a little blood seeps out. “Sorry, but this is also gonna sting”, she announces, her voice laced with sympathy. She still needs to clean and disinfect the wounds. “Okay, let's get it over with”, you firmly state while you close your eyes and clench your teeth forcefully. Still holding up the sleeve, bracing yourself for that unpleasant burning sensation. “Ok, here it goes”.

As Alex is cleaning up after, you slowly roll down your sleeve. Carefully covering your bandaged skin while noticing some blood stains on your shirt. “I'm really sorry about all of this”, she apologizes again since she also noticed the red spots. “No worries. It's not that bad. I mean, I'll live”, you joke, seeing her expression change from shame to relieve right away. “I actually have to go now, I'm already running late, so... till next time then?”

“Yeah, guess I'll be seeing you around, Alex Danvers”, you keenly respond. Noticing a small grin appear on her face while she turns to the doorway. You watch her walk away, not feeling the pain for a minute because it feels like you’re weightless. No gravity pulling as if you’re temporary floating. Alex Danvers has caused all kinds of warm emotions to rush through your body. You’re heating up, while sensing a weird, yet pleasant feeling igniting in your stomach. Never having felt like this before, being totally amazed by her stunning appearance.

From this day onward when she visits the bar, which is rather frequent by the way, she always takes the time to make a chat with you while you're working. Without a doubt looking forward to this moment as it lights up your day, every single time.

///

Cleaning some used, dirty glasses due to your shift being almost over you delightfully watch Alex, patiently waiting for you to play some pool as you most often do. You avert your eyes to your Uncle, who's scrubbing the bar counter spotless. With your most hopeless, desperate, sad facial expression you stare at him. “Again?”, he sighs, whereas he quickly nods, giving you full permission. Only reason he probably lets you go is because he knows how happy Alex makes you.

“Ready to get your ass kicked again Danvers?”, you confidently joke while you've reached the pool table. “You do know that I let you win last time, right?”. “Wait- you did what?”. Alex laughs as she prepares the game. Slight disappointment that you didn’t actually beat her is already overtaken by happiness when you hear her goofy laugh, causing a subtle grin to appear. It doesn’t matter that she let you win. It also doesn’t matter that you lose the game every other time since Alex is far more better at playing pool than you are. It doesn’t matter, because you feel extremely lucky. Thinking you would have never met her if it wasn't for that little accident. Or for your Uncle. Or if you would not have moved to National City at all. 

You were pulled from your thoughts, perceiving aggressive shouting noises, becoming louder and louder. Averting your eyes to the entrance to check what’s causing it when all of a sudden the door slams open, forcefully, causing the nearby glass windows to shake. A couple of people with shiny golden masks covering their faces are as of now barging in, yelling loudly, pushing chairs away and breaking other things. 

They're better known as the Children of Liberty. Well-aware of their existence and their negative opinions on aliens, you stand there. Completely frozen, unable to move, as you have no idea what to do. You watch them viciously attack the aliens that were still in the bar while the situation quickly intensifies. Alex has already taken action and engages, knocking down the disturbers, being totally fearless. Supergirl also joined the fight, now posed next to Alex, offering each other backup. “Where the hell did she come from?”, you think as you had seen her flying inside, appearing out of nowhere.  

Now one of them marches up to you, barbarously shouting at you: “Are you also one of them!? Are you a cockroach!?”. Staggered by his yelling, you can’t seem to produce an answer and freeze, again. It’s taking him too long for you to react, so he decides to take a swing at you. Luckily, you duck in time, evading the blow since you had rapidly snapped out of your paralyzed state. Instinctively, you try to punch him back. It's a hard left hook, colliding with his face, while turning your whole body to provide the extra punching power needed. But it hurts… like a lot. You stupidly forgot he was wearing a gold-coloured, metal mask. Which now meets your balled fist as you knock it off his face. Ouch… definitely gonna end up with bruised, hurtful knuckles later, definitely...

Not shortly after you had landed that hook, the police arrived, expertly arresting the aggressive troublemakers. So you noticed in the corner of your eye while painfully shaking your left hand. Fortunately, there is no time to hit you back because the guy now starts running, fast, hoping he can escape law enforcement. But, of course, he's not as fast as Supergirl. So, jokes on him, being uncomfortably struck to the ground. Face pushed into the dirty floor, as he was easily captured by the heroine.

After the raging event, everything had settled down again. Officers are currently taking statements from the eyewitnesses that were in the bar, including your Uncle. You're leaning against the pool table, painfully looking at your left hand when Alex walks up to you, finished with her conversation with Supergirl. 

“Come on, let me put some ice on that for you”, Alex caringly offers since she had already examined the injury. You and Alex step behind the bar counter where she grabs a small towel and some ice cubes. “You've got a mean left there (Y/N)”, Alex grins, complimenting your fighting skills. “Yeah... I kinda regret doing that. It hurts like hell”, you painfully answer, maybe exaggerating a little. “Here, put this on. To suppress the swelling”. 

Gladly accepting the improvised cold-pack, you're as of now noticing how close you're to Alex since there is not much space behind the bar. Turning your head away from the injured hand, you stare at her with all of your desire, desperately longing for her. Trying to stay cool, but it’s not really working as you feel your heartbeat rapidly pounding in your chest. Suddenly your eyes meet, now deeply staring into her beautiful brown ones. You both stay silent. It seems like time stood still because all the noise and voices around you had vanished. The space between you two becomes less and less, slowly moving closer, both tilting your head a little. Eventually, your lips tenderly touch. Easing in this magical, loving moment of affection while satisfyingly closing your eyes. Moving your warm bodies even closer together when kissing each other.    

Your sensual kiss was miserably interrupted as you -not so cleverly- pushed the just cleaned glasses from the bar counter while moving your hands to Alex her hips. In the heat of the moment, right? The glasses had fallen onto the solid floor. Hearing a loud fracturing noise while glass shattered to pieces which, sadly, made you pull apart. All eyes are now fixed on you and Alex. With Alex her soft hands still on your cheeks as you look up. You notice your Uncle giving you that approving nod again. But also someone else. A very, very enthusiastic, wide smile on their face, once seeing you and Alex totally making out with each other. It's Supergirl. Weird... why would she be so thrilled about this? So happy? Does she know Alex that good, almost...  personally? 

Anyways... everyone in the bar is still staring at you two, quite unashamed, making you whisper: "Ok... can this become any more awkward…?", with a face turning quickly bright red as a ripe tomato. But Alex doesn’t care. She doesn’t care what all the staring people in the bar think. She only cares about this moment. This tender moment with you. Instantly craving your touch and soft lips again. She had already turned your head back towards her, gently with her hands. Still embracing you as she passionately gives you another one. 

#alex danvers #alex danvers x reader #alex danvers imagine #alex x reader #alex danvers x you #supergirl #supergirl imagine #wlw fiction #wlw imagine #fanfiction #kara danvers #alex danvers fic

[zeciex]

Obsidian & Angelite Ch. 14

Oya has spend centuries bound to one single plot of land when one day a stranger with a voice of velvet and presence that can only be described as dark and outmost interesting. He comes with an offer she can’t refuse and suddenly her entire world changes, both for better and worse.

But what does Langdon need of her? And how can she use him to get what she want? Maybe they’re bound by something bigger than fate.

Warning: Dark themes, death, stabbing, blood, murder

A/N: Since tumblr kills everything with links, I’ll reblog this post with the links to previous chapters and archive link I’ll need some extra love for these next chapters since its getting increasingly harder to find inspiration to write. We’re so close you guys!

Reap what you sow

Dusk painted the sky a brilliant pink, the clouds turning a violet hue while the sun sank below the horizon of dark trees and colorful lake. Soft whispers filled the air around her, her stomach turning in strange knots, her skin feeling cold and electric. The whispers spoke in a language she didn’t know, they seemed to tie silver strings around her being, guiding her towards where they were spoken aloud. It happened one moment, they started to speak at her out of nowhere, pulling at her heart and soul. It felt like power, like being put on a pedestal, it made her heart drum within her chest, rapid as a hummingbird. It made her feel anxious.

“Michael,” she spoke gently to the man leaning against the kitchen island taking a bite of an apple while reading something on the tablet. He didn’t hear her, didn’t notice the shift in the air around her.

“Michael,” Oya repeated louder, looking over her shoulder while she wrapped her arms around her form. Blue eyes looked up, dumping the tablet on the counter, apple placed beside it. His brow raised at her voice, eyes reading over her form, looking through the veil of anxiety that had wrapped around her. Did he feel it to? The pull, the need to go somewhere unknown? Did he hear the whispers?

Though worry worked its way upon his face, there were no sign of him hearing what she did nor feeling the pull. He walked to her, the warmth radiating off of him but not enough to engulf the cold touch that had fallen on her skin. When he placed his hand on her arm his touch was scorching and to him she was freezing.

“Something is happening,” she said looking towards the trees. It almost hurt remaining there, not letting the voices guide her, let the strings decide her movements and beckon her forward. It itched in her and put her on edge.

“What?” Michael asked, his voice soft as velvet and warm in a way that was hard to describe.

“I don’t… I’m not sure,” she managed to speak, stepping away from his touch to place her palm against the cold window. “Something is pulling at me and I feel like I have to follow it.”

Michael came up behind her again, placing a soft kiss on her shoulder, the touch burning through the fabric of her long sleeved dress. “Then follow it, I’ll be right behind you.”

With Michael severing the last strings that kept her in place Oya was guided forth on a wave of relief, the air electric around her form. One moment she was inside, the next there was grass beneath her bare feet, wind taking hold of the fabric of her dress, dancing with her hair, while she moved over the lawn. In this time between night and day dew had formed on the grass, wet and cold under her feet. Grass turned to fallen leaves and twigs as she entered the forest.

Though there were no path to be seen it was somehow still clear to her, where to step, where to turn, letting her body move through the space appearing further and further into the forest. With each move closer to the clearing the voices grew but the words were still indistinctive.

Oya appeared half way through the clearing and stopped. In front of her were a figure kneeling down in front of what looked like an alter with a statue of a woman with snakes climbing up her legs and a crow on her shoulder. Candle lights flickered in the wind that carried a sent of burned herbs, an offering. The form moved, standing in one swift motion letting a shawl fall from their head to pool in the grass. For a moment ice ran through her veins when the blond hair got tousled up in the wind, recognizing her sister instantly.

And that is when it happened, in an instant she heard Michael let out a guttural groan that split open the clearing. She felt ties wrap around her form in an effort of constrain her. The rest of the coven had appeared in hooded figures holding flickering candles in a circle around them. Oya looked around, her head spinning and heart violently beating.

Michael had fallen to his knees, looking down at the tip of the knife grimly sticking out of his chest coated in blood. One of the hooded figures stood behind him keeping a hold on the shaft that was buried to the hilt in Michaels back. Every time Michael moved or drew his breath the knife was twisted. It kept him in place while they wrapped ties around his tendrils to keep him from lashing out, if only just while their Supreme took care of her sister.

“Do you have any idea how many you’re killing?” Oya hissed, trying to twist herself loose from the covens hold on her powers.

“Acceptable losses for how many we’ll save on a greater scale,” Ina spoke calmly. Cold fingers wrapped around her skin, drawing shivers down her spine and making the hair stand throughout her body. She felt breathless, finding that the oxygen surrounding her were not enough.

Ina walked slowly towards her sister, the wind pick up strands of her hair and her dusty blue dress ruffled. There were purpose in her walk, her head held high and back straight, the air of elegance around her, elegance and anger. “First I lost my sister, then I lost my father and now you killed the only one I had left. Did you think we’d just let you go? That we’d just roll over?”

Michael groaned from behind Oya, his hands clenched in fists at this side, blood running down his white shirt ruined by the stain. His breaths were strained, hollow and raspy, it made Oya twist her head to look at him. The blade must have pierced his lunge, made it fill with blood that would make its way up the windpipes in a painful manner. She wanted to rip herself lose from the spot she had been nailed to, not caring if she’d be wounded herself as long as she could make it to him, ease the pain.

Instead she turned towards her sisters voice, the fear clutching at her heart and hollowing out her bones to make itself home there. “I believed the fear of killing thousands would be punishment enough, that you’d spend this time with your loved ones as the world runs towards its end with open arms. Call it generosity.”

“Generosity was when we left you on a nice little plot of land, with a house and a well and an agreement with the village to bring supplies. Generosity was when we left you with traces of your power. Generosity, sister, was when we gave you more than what you deserved because we loved you.” The anger made itself known in her voice, drawing out a storm that formed itself on her lips. Crystal blue eyes remained cold as ice, they pierced through Oya painfully in a way that reminded her of needles picking over her skin. Ina’s power was vast, like a Supremes should be, but it was also limited.

Ina’s eyes left Oya for the first time, falling upon Michael’s hunched over form with slight enjoyment at his pain. “He’ll bring forth the end times, we cannot have that, we will not allow that.”

“There’s nothing you can do to stop it,” Oya hissed at her sister, face in a sneer, with teeth bared and ready to sink into her enemies soft flesh. It was never a good decision to corner a predator, let alone one with sharp poisonous teeth and razor claws. The ties seared around her powers, burned like melted metal on skin. It was dreadful and agonizing.

“We’re going to make it as painful as it could possibly be,” Ina voiced and smiled, maybe her goal wasn’t saving the world, maybe it was the simplest and purest of things, revenge. The thought crossed her mind but quickly evaporated when Ina continued to speak. “You’ve made it so easy for us, binding yourself to him, the antichrist.”

There was a viciousness to her sister she had never seen before. One that was created by her own hand just like hers was by theirs. To Ina their mother had been the world, she had been her guardian, her guide, a mother whose love was not limited and restricted but rather overflowing. As long as Oya had spend imprisoned Ina had spend with their mother. Losing her was what broke the fine porcelain that was her and from the broken shards a need for vengeance formed.

That was where she was different from her sister, instead of remaining in broken shards laced with vengeance, Oya had turned to stone, to metal, to something else, stronger.

“I’ll correct the mistake of showing you mercy and atone for our sins,” Ina spoke, brushing a piece of hair out of Oya’s face with a strange softness, to cup her cheek. Ina’s hand burned against Oya’s cold skin. “You were my sister and I loved you, truly. It was my biggest mistake. I should have led her do this but I couldn’t.”

“Do what?” Oya breathed, feeling her fingertips tingle strangely as if the blood in her veins didn't quite reach them.

Ina smiled cynically. “We can’t kill him, not really. He will just return again and again.” Her eyes went to Michael, two angelite eyes connecting, both looking at the other with a piercing coldness, with hatred and something deeper than just annoyance. Blood was not ebbing down his chin from his mouth, staining his soft and pale skin crimson. Michael looked angry rather than fearful, opposite of what showed on Oya’s face.

“But we can kill this body of his,” she mused with a soft smile on her lips. “And you,” Ina took hold of her sisters shoulders, thin fingers wrapping around flesh with burning force, rilling up her heart to beat out of rhythm. “we’ll send somewhere far away, to a cave, to a hole in the ground, to a fucking underground pocket of air. He will lose you and you will lose him and because of your bound souls it’s gonna hurt like nothing ever has before.”

Oya’s bottom lip quivered, her shoulders shook under her sisters touch, body aching from the hold on her powers. The more her sister spoke the bigger the fire within her chest grew.

“He’ll never find you,” she whispered gently and let go, stepping back until there was a considerable distance between them. The air was crisp and biting, filled with anticipation. Above the sky turned dark grey, the sun's last rays shining over the top of the darkened trees before disappearing completely. In the newfound darkness Ina looked more like a ghost than a woman, with a haunting beauty and pained expressive eyes.

“You’d live forever alone, in a place with no comfort and with the constant agony of losing your counterpart,” her voice came out smooth and icy. “And he will do the same.” Ina nodded towards Michael who let out a harrowing scream, the knife twisting into his flesh. She felt him, how his powers were tied down just as hers, how they tugged at their restraints in an attempt to free himself. She could see the fury in him, almost feel it radiating off of him, how he wanted nothing more than to tear them from limb to limb one at the time.

He screamed once more as the knife was pulled out and planted deep within his chest again, the blade fearing through fabric and flesh all the same.

“You will not fucking touch him!” Oya screamed, the searing hot anger she was feeling grow within her chest erupting out of her. It was like a dormant volcano that finally awoke from its slumber. She felt the invisible tethers wrapped around her snap once by one and with each her power grew, vibrating over her skin and warming her up from the cold state she was in.

With each tether that snapped a candle went out, their long flame no longer casting shadows through the clearing. Panic filled the air seeping out of the pores of the coven members while they alarmingly began chanting once more trying to put new tethers on her form. The panic didn’t quite reach her sister and Oya wasn’t sure if she was brave or stupid.

“You can fight all you want, sweet sister, but he will be your destruction.”

“You keep saying that but has it ever occurred to you that maybe,” she stepped forward, feeling the constraints that was still wrapped around her strain. “I will be his destruction?”

Ina’s power grew in the wake of her sisters, two titans readying for battle. “So you shall.”

Though it was not to be seen their tendrils collided, wrestling for the victory. It made the wind bend to their desire whirling in a circle around all of them, tossing up dirt and fallen leaves. It was the start of a tornado, one fueled by the two fighting, one made to destroy the other. The air was filled with electricity, knitting between the molecules and almost causing the atmosphere to light up with lightening.

Thought power like this was neutral, it was the intent behind them that coloured them good or evil, in Ina’s eyes, in her place, her sisters power was dark, it was cruel and evil and it had to be stopped at any cost. It was a price she’d soon find out she’d have to pay.

For while Ina was powerful she didn’t have the blood of a goddess running through her veins, with each step Oya took a tether broke and her power grew. It forced Ina to step backwards, to put distance between them, while her face fell victim to shadows that only enhanced the growing worry.

Trees surrounding the clearing began to break, the wood exploding into millions of pieces flying through the air only to stop a hoover as if time had been stopped.

Oya felt her powers surge through her, it felt absolutely fantastic, like she could breath for the first time. More trees fell victim to her, the sound of them exploding and falling to the ground with a haunting whoosh. She concentrated her powers, turning them towards the coven members.

“I gave you a chance at mercy and this is what you do with it?” The first coven member exploded like the trees had done. “Now it’s my turn to fucking talk.” Another member exploded causing wide panic that showed itself through screaming and scrambling away. They couldn’t come far though trapped by the wind whirl circling them in. “The end is already set, there is nothing you can do to change it, you of all of them must have realised this.”

The shift in Ina’s eyes told her everything, that this wasn’t done to simply save the world but in vengeance. She wanted to make her pay by stripping Oya of her powers and send her far away to a place she’d never see the light of day and know that Michael, the only one she had, would have to fight his way back from death and then to live a painful existence in search for her.

“Do you know what happens to the ones who die by my magic?” She asked. Another coven member exploded into guts and pieces. The air smelled of cobber. “They end in the underworld, in my underworld. All of those who die because of this, because of you and your coven, they will not go to heaven even if they were destined to go there.” Something broke behind Ina’s mask, her eyes watering up at the realisation that she had doomed good people, people who would have had more time with those they loved. The next coven member exploded into a mist of crimson that landed as droplets upon her skin. “I will make sure you face each and every one of them, you have to explain to them why they died and why they’re where they are. You, sweet sister, have to tell them that you doomed them to misery because of vengeance, not because you expected to save the world. This was a suicide mission from the start.”

Screaming they went to their deaths, becoming nothing more than bone and flesh and blood upon the grass, a mist of red spraying over Oya’s skin and painting her red. Death lingered in the air thick enough to be cut through. With each step she took she came closer to her sister. By the time she was in front of her, dark and crimson against light and blue, Oya was all but dripping with blood. The coven member that had wielded the knife exploded behind Michael, his bits and pieces spilling over Michael’s hunched form.

“Do you know of the story of Inanna’s descent into hell?” Oya brushed a blond piece of hair out of her sisters face, her touch leaving a bloody stain on her pale skin. “ When Ereshkigal ascended the throne of the underworld her baby sister sees how powerful she had become and decides that she’d want to extend her powers there too, so she travels to the gates of the underworld.” Water spilled over the edge of her sisters eyes, traveling down her skin and dripping from her chin. “Ereshkigal knew of this and sought to bold each gate so that Inanna couldn’t get through unless she shed a piece of clothing. After passing through the seven gates Inanna was naked and powerless standing before the throne of the goddess Ereshkigal, there she was judged and found guilty. Do you know what happened to her?”

“She was struck dead and hung on a hook for the underworld to see,” Ina finished. A defiance flared up in her, the spite something Oya knew of very well. “But she was also brought back to life and freed.”

“A thing that will not happen to you,” Oya responded coldly. Tears climbed up Ina’s arms and legs, skin breaking apart and clearing the way for blood to spill out. Pain bloomed on her face like the flowers of spring, though it was all the more sinister and cruel.

Oya’s eyes turned red, shadows forming on her face that made her look like a haunting goddess of death, like something entirely ancient.

“You fool yourself, sister, if you think he loves you,” Ina commented, blood pouring out of her mouth while the cracks of her skin climbed up her body, up her neck, over her face. “He cannot love. You will come to know this.”

“And you will come to know you’re wrong, like you’ve always been,” Oya said and let her powers tear the soul out of her sister. Blond hair stained with blood turned black as ink, her pupils exploding into blue and white before the blue also fell victim to the black. One last breath left her, light as a feather and barely noticeable.

With a thud her sisters body fell to the ground, porcelain skin broken apart with blood spilling from the cracks. The grass was painted a dark crimson, human remains scattered across the clearing. The wood that was frozen in time was released from its hold, joining the remains on the grass while thick trunks came crashing down taking everything with it in its path to the ground.

Oya remained there, out of breath and clutching her dress with sticky fingers. Her powers had been exserted, leaving only the tiniest whisper of its greatness behind. The fear that had hollowed out her bones and made home there was replaced with an exhaustion that words could not tell of. Her whole body ached, pulsated like an open wound.

And then she heard him, the gugal sound of his breath drawing her attention from what was before her, what was brewing up a storm in her mind and turning it towards him.

Without a second though she turned and ran to Michael, falling to her knees beside him and took his face in her hands forcing his blue eyes to hers. “Michael! Michael!”

With her mind racing so fast that no proper thought would stick and no logical sense was left, she grabbed Michaels ruined clothes tightly, holding him to her as she focused the whispers of the power that coursed through her blood to move them from the clearing and into her bathroom.

Nothing, she couldn’t grasp the little power that was left. Panicked she held Michael’s face between her hands, thumb brushing lovingly over the red painted skin. “M-Michael, can you move us to my bathroom?”

Michael nodded, extending his powers with a feverish touch that set the bodies spread across the clearing aflame just before wrapping them both in his tendrils and moving them out of the cold and into the warm familiar setting of Oya’s bathroom. In an attempt to get the knife out of his back Michael twisted and found that it was too far from his grasp, instead he tried to calm Oya, shushing her and brushing her hair out of her face.

“Oya-Oya look at me,” Michael spoke with soft but raspy voice. “The knife in my back.”

She understood immediately, cursing at herself for not thinking of it sooner. On her knees she scooted closer to his back, wrapping her shaking fingers around the hilt and pulled. To her surprise she had to use more force than she thought she would, inching the knife through Michaels body as he let out pained groans, rolling his neck in agony or was it annoyance?

Blood poured from the wound, the blade completely soaked with the crimson liquid. The blade skittered across the floor as she threw it from her hands, blood splattering onto the surrounding tiles. Oya stood quickly, running past Michael and into her room. “I have something that- that will help you with the pain!” She yelled over her shoulder, ripping open the old doctors chest Michael had given her for her many potions. The glass clincked against one another as her hands frantically ran over them trying to find that one potion. Bottles with different kinds of liquids were pulled up recklessly and tossed to the side when they didn’t carry the right name written on the side.

When she finally found the bottles she was looking for she ran back to the bathroom and found Michael standing, head crooked to the side while he observed himself in the mirror, hands carelessly pushing at the ripped hole in his shirt.

“I won't be needing that,” he smirked at her gabing face through the mirror. “It will take a lot more than that to hurt me.”

Michael turned to Oya taking her face in his hands and placing a soft kiss on top of her head. She looked tired, exhausted really. And maybe that was why she had panicked as if he was a normal human. But Michael was anything but normal, this was a testimony to that. Most witches wouldn’t be able to get up after that, let alone heal themselves the way he had.

“You scared me,” she whispered barely loud enough for herself to hear. They could have destroyed this body of his, made it harder for him to return. They could have banished his soul to wander limbo, the inbetween. If that had happened all would have been lost, he would have a hard time getting back and she… She would have been somewhere cursed, beyond his reach.

Michael didn't respond, maybe he didn't hear, all he did was place another soft kiss on her head before turning from her to button down his shirt. Oya placed the bottles on the counter top, using it to lean against while she looked at herself in the mirror.

Between the two of them Michael was the most crimson, his hair had turned red, both his back and chest messy with his own blood, while his shoulders was stained with the blood that had seeped through his shirt from the coven member that had exploded into bits and pieces while towering above his kneeling from.

Oya however looked like a painting. Her sun touched skin now pale with exhaustion, splattered with red dots and lines to remind her of what was done. The fingers on her hands were soaked with blood that was a mix of Michaels and the covens.

“Have you noticed the pattern of ruined articles of clothing wherever you go?” Michael spoke with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.The faucet began to pour water into the tub, slowly filling it up. “After you’ve come here you’ve managed to ruin more clothe that I ever have. It’s becoming quite expensive.”

“You don’t mind though,” she stated with an amused tug on her lips, pushing the pink straps of the dress from her shoulders to let it pool at her feet. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him, the curve of his collarbones, the painted skin of his toned body, all the way down and up again, while she pinned her hair up in a messy bun, small strands and curls escaping her lazy fingers. She watched Michael turn and get in the hot water before she herself came to stand by the side of the tub.

“We also always manage to become bloody messes and end up in my bathroom,” Oya mused, picking up a bowl by the tub and filling it with water. Michael moved forward in the tub, allowing Oya to use the back of it as a seat while she poured water through his hair. The water was stained with blood quick enough, with each pour over Michael's head the water at her feet became a deeper and deeper red. It seemed like blood clinged to his golden locks, refusing to be washed out. Would her own hands ever become clean of blood? Her sisters blood.

Oya clinged to Michael, focusing on cleaning him up rather than get lost in the many thoughts and doubts that was beginning to claw at her mind. Warmth radiated off of the boy who sat ever so calmly, relishing in the touch of his lover, embraced by the warm and cleaning water.

“I think I’ve poured water over your head fify times but the blood just wont come out,” Oya complained loudly, pouring water over his head once more and then using her fingers to shift his golden locks.

Though she couldn’t see him, she could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. “You did explode a man right beside me. I’ve never seen such raw power unleashed, it was quite something.”

“If I hadn’t exploded him this body of yours would be gone forever,” Oya playfully bit back, deciding that the water that ran through his hair was clean enough, meaning there were not much if any blood left. The bowl was placed beside the rub and replaced with a sponge. She cleaned off his back with light touches.

“My father wouldn’t have let them,” Michael hummed.

“It didn’t seem like that.”

“I wanted to see how things played out,” Michael confessed. Oya stilled behind him, withdrawing her hands from his body and stepped quietly out of the tub to kneel at its side. Michael leaned back, revealing the lines the water had carved across his face in the blood and those blue eyes that was ever so observant, reading into her every move. He watched her to figure out how she’d react.

And maybe if it had been any other time she’d have cursed him out, thrown some stuff aimed at his head or shove his head under water until there was no air left in him lungs. Instead she continued to wash the blood off him, first his face and then his chest, until there was nothing left but soft skin.

“You could have prevented it all?” Michael took the hand that held the sponge and held it, motioning with his head for her to join him in the tub.

Without a second though she did. The water embraced her with warmth, cleaning off her skin. She stopped the faucet from running any more, plucking the hole in the bottom to ensure the water remained where it should. Michael calmly drew the sponge over her skin, ridding her of bloodspeckles and dirt.

“No,” He admitted. “Not all.”

Her bones felt like glass, joints grading against each other every time she moved, every cell in her body screaming out for sleep, for rest. Everything hurt, even his touch. The pain kept her conscious, it was as dull as it was piercing. With the streams of water she could have slipped away, sink below the surface and towards sleep.

Then she felt him, wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her to his chest, placing a soft kiss on her shoulder. She leaned against him, rested her head on his chest and closing her eyes to revel in the feeling of his skin against hers. He was warmer than the water.

“You were like the moon on a starless sky,” he told her with that velvet voice she had grown so accustomed to. “Beautiful.”

“It wasn’t beautiful, I thought you were going to die, that-that,” she began trying to figure out where her thought was really going. Tears began to press at her eyes, threatening to spill over and join the water the two of them were sitting in. “That I was going to be stripped of everything I am and send away to some wretched place.” She licked her lips and closed her eyes. Michaels fingers gently brushed along the skin of her thigh, whirling up the warmth in the surrounding water.

“They were wrong,” she spoke. “They thought that separating us would stop the world from ending but you’d drop the bombs anyway, weather it’d kill me or not.”

Michael didn’t speak, he neither confirmed nor denied it because it wasn’t needed. They both knew that he would. The bombs would be dropped, maybe at a later date, after he had scoured the earth, searched it high and low and still stand alone. Then he’d drop them and the fire would not only wipe out mankind but also claim her life.

The end was invenedable. No matter what happened between now and then was mere instanced and decisions, the end was set.

“How do you feel?” Michael asked. How was she supposed to answer that? What she felt was a hurricane of emotions all the while also feeling numb. The only thing that was definitative was the aching pain in her body.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“You’ve spent centuries having only one future, you’ve only thought about your revenge and how you’d take it if you were ever to be released. And when you were it was your only goal, weather you knew if they were alive or not,” he mused with the same drawl she found so intriguing. “In Venice you showed your mercy, you gave them time while it was also revenge. You knew it wasn’t over, it wouldn’t be over before the bombs dropped but now… Now everything you’ve wished for is done.”

Oya moved away from Michael, turning in the tub so that she could look upon his face. A tear made its way down her cheek, he watched it drop and wished to pick it up and taste the salt, the raw emotion she was feeling, but he didn't.

“You’re not only mourning the death of your sister but also the end to your vengeance.”

“What am I to do now? The one thing I’ve wanted to achieve in centuries, my one goal, has been done. I never imagined that freedom would feel so… hollow.” Admitting to it was far harder than it would seem. Being victor was as rewarding as it was lonesome, as if she had reached the mountain top and was now looking at the horizon knowing that she was now without reason.

“I don’t know what to do now, Michael.”

Michael brushed a stray piece of hair out of her face, swiping it behind her ear in one swift move, his finger brushing against her cheek in a loving way. “I can give you a new purpose, if that’s what you want.”

“It is,” she breathed, feeling electricity shoot out from his fingertips into her. Her heart fluttered at the feeling. It was warm and familiar and welcome.

“I need someone by my side who I can trust, someone who’d build this new world with me. You’re already that someone, you were the moment we met, the moment we bound our souls,” as he spoke his blue eyes seemed aflame, flickering in the moonlight that shined in through the window. She saw herself reflected in them, so small and without meaning, then blooming into something more, better. They had spoken about it many times before. To stand by each other's side in this new world, to build it and rule it together. “Let this new world be your purpose.”

“I will give you all that I can. I will grow this new world of ours,” she promised. Now it was her turn to reach for him, caressing his cheek and placing a soft and gentle kiss on his lips before turning around and leaning back against him. Though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was smiling. Somewhere within his chest, where most thought would be an empty hole or rotting black heart, was a very human heart, that fluttered at her promised and quickened its pace when she leaned against him.

Born of life and death Michael had always been caught in between. He had brought on more death than life and would bring on much more, and from death life would spring, a new cycle would begin and just maybe, there would begin to be more life than death in his existence.

Many times he had been called a monster, to have been seen as something less that human. He considered it his punishment for the life he was given. But just maybe it was the opposite, that Michael was more human than anyone ever realised. Even behind the facade he had created for himself. Humanity was afterall the greatest thing to exist and quite possibly god's biggest mistake. Humanity and the human condition was a puzzle never to be solved, it intrigued him as much as it infuriated him.

Like him Oya was born with a link to the grave. She had killed more than he had but less that he will. But she had also brought more life into this world, nature spoke to her in a way it never had to him. She would from that in which life could grow and just maybe in that he could find merciful peace.

#michael langdon #michael langdon fic #michael langdon imagine #ahs apocalypse #ahs fic #obsidian & angelite

[atmaandauraofdean]

Tell me again. What do you remember? We were at Grandma and Grandpa’s… Which ones? Deanna and Samuel Campbell. Good. What happened while you were there? The house was surprising cozy and normal looking for it being owned by two never retiring hunters. There was a ranch-style feel to it- something to be expected of couple born and raised in Kansas. The room that always stuck out in Dean’s mind was the guest room that he shared with Sammy whenever they stayed over there. It was like the rest of the house with the old western feel, the touch of antiquity and grandparent style softness of it all. Every visit left Dean with a hazy, blurry feeling- even after ‘the incident.’ Safe to say, Dean- much to his embarrassment- had many a night for the following eight years where he woke up to the damp discomfort and fetid stench of piss stained sheets that could only be the result of a nightmare about a very traumatizing incident from the past. Back to the room. It had a thin yet heavy tan ranch style quilt with matching pillow cases on the pillows and the sheets were a broken in, baby soft brown. There were nightstands on either side of the bed. Along the wall next to the door to the room was a large vanity style oak dresser with a mirror just as long as Sammy, at the age of 8, was tall. There was another taller oak dresser on the wall opposite the bed that sat in a little cubby like space thanks to the closet that jutted out from the wall behind it and was closed off by two large mirrored sliding doors. On the wall above the bed, slightly off center, was a very old, very expensive painting of Jesus Christ holding a sort of amulet dangling from the hand level with his eyeline and a rosary dangling from his other hand that clutched at his robes. There was a window to the left of the painting that was lined with salt. Three large plush, mock persian rugs of the same design covered most of the visible wooden floors, under each was a devil’s trap. The wall opposite the door had squat but abundant and overflowing bookshelves with different knick knacks and toys decorating the top. This was Dean’s favorite room in all the world. Dean was haunted by a weekend that he’d spent at his grandparents home. Everyone said it was amazing he remembered the night at all since he was only two when it happened. Mommy had already died but Dean couldn’t remember it. Sammy said it was a fire in his baby brother’s nursery- which made sense since the younger Winchester had an indescribable fear of fire from before he could truly remember. Since Sammy was four years older than him, Dean was inclined to believe his big brother and trust his memory. Daddy wouldn’t talk about it, nor would he discuss the events of ‘the incident’ at his in-laws’ home. It had been late at night and two year old Dean awoke to his big brother Sammy snoring and his own wet diaper. Memaw had warned him about drinking too much before bed but he was two and he wanted his sippy cup of warm milk, like Sammy always gave him as he explained that Mommy used to do that for them. Dean was not very happy to be awake and therefore quite close to tears as he hugged his stuffed moose with a scrap of Daddy’s plaid shirt tied around its neck like a winter scarf and patted his brother’s shoulder until the giant slowly awoke with a sigh and slurred ‘what’s wrong, bud?’ It hadn’t taken the older Winchester long to figure out that his baby brother was in need of a change. As Sam swallowed a moan of frustration and cooed nonsense to his brother, he slipped out of bed and looked around the room before remembering that Memaw had given Dean a bath before bed and the diaper bag was left in the bathroom down the hall. “Can you walk, De?” Sammy croaked, turning toward his brother as he stood next to the side of the bed closest to the door, the side Dean preferred to sleep on. As Dean reached out to Sam with his moose dangling from one hand by an antler, Sam frowned ever so slightly- despite how it actually warmed his heart and turned him to a pile of useless mush. They moved down the dark hallway, Dean tucked comfortably tucked into his big brother’s arms and sucking on the pacifier he refused to give up (that John only allowed to keep his youngest calm and quiet since he was a bit more sensitive than his stubborn, thick headed eldest son), towards the bathroom with its open door and faint glow from a soft nightlight. Once Sam had his brother in a better state and in a clean diaper, he opened the door and turned back to Dean. He paused when he heard voices- angry, low toned voices hissing at one another. Dean toddled closer and hugged his big brother’s pajama clad leg, looking up at his brother with fear in his eyes. Sammy felt bad for his baby brother, but he was also about as curious as a cat with all nine lives- very. He led Dean towards the kitchen where only sage scented candles cast their dull glow to allow any sort of light. There sat who they assumed to be Deanna Campbell, their grandmother. In front of her sat two Doberman-like dogs with glowing red eyes and tribal patterns in neon blues, greens and yellows adorning their fit frames. Looking in their eyes and the way they held themselves, Sam swore the two hounds looked familiar. “Look familiar, Sammy?” The woman questioned, turning to look at him and his baby brother with a sick pleasure on her face. The voice was their grandmother’s but the eyes were cold, dead, and black as midnight when they were cast on the boys. “Who are you?” Sam warily asked, resting a hand on his brother’s head as the younger started whimper. “What the hell do you want?” “It’s not so much what I want as what Hell itself wants.” The demon controlling Deanna spoke. “And what it wants is you and your brother.” “Well good luck with that. You’re already stuck in a devil’s trap, stupid.” Sam pointed out, tensing as her pleasure faded to annoyance and malice. “Oh, don’t you worry, Daddy and Papa are gonna take good care of both of you.” She spat, pursing her lips in distaste.The two hellhounds straightened up and any familiarity they held prior to her statement and the following snap of her fingers vanished. “Shit!” Sam breathed, roughly yanking Dean into his arms and dashing towards the guest room. Dad and Papa- no, the hellhounds were hot on their heels the whole way, snarling and foaming at the mouth for taste of the children in front of them. Sam practically tossed Dean on the bed, forcing himself to ignore the toddler’s screeches of fear, and slammed the door, barricading it as best he could with the most empty but still solid and quite heavy dresser beside the closet. He went to the nightstand below the painting of Jesus and ripped the two drawers out, dumping their contents onto the bed. Sam paused for a second to slip Dean’s pacifier back into his mouth to lessen the younger’s cries- not that it did much- and began to dig through all the little pieces of jewelry, amulets, charms and tiny herb bags. Just as the hellhounds were starting to make progress on scratching and ramming through the door and dresser blocking it, the distinct sound of the front door being kicked in sounded through house and reverberated through the structure. Sam looked up as the sound of the snarls retreated and a familiar voice was heard shouting near the front door. There was only one person that voice could belong to. “Get outta her, you black eyed bitch!” Bobby Singer’s voice roared through the house. Sam sighed in relief as he found the amulet he was looking for. It was the amulet of Christ, the one from the painting- the painting done by Jesus’ very first disciple. He clutched it in his fist and carelessly shoved the dresser back in its nook. Then, he took Dean in his arms and ran out the kitchen where their Uncle Bobby had barely managed to tie down their possessed Memaw and was wrestling with the two hellhounds, one of which he proceeded to shoot with a specially made bullet that was filled with holy water and made from melted down demon blades, which they had collected off the bodies that had formerly been inhabited by various demons. The hellhound collapsed to the floor and morphed back into Samuel Campbell, their beloved Papa, who began to sputter and cough up blood as the wound in his chest bled out. “Uncle Bobby! Stop!” Sam shouted as Dean wailed in his ear and the bitch inhabiting their Memaw cackled gleefully. “That’s Dad!” “For fuck’s sake, Sammy! Get back in the goddamn bedroom with your brother!” Bobby shouted, grunted as he used his shotgun to hold the remaining hellhound off. “DON’T SHOOT HIM!” Sam hollered once more, freezing as the hellhound turned its attention towards him and his screaming baby brother, staring long and hard at the amulet dangling from the older’s hand, after being thrown back by their uncle. “RUN GODDAMMIT!” Bobby bellowed, reloading despite Sam’s argument. The elder Winchester booked it out the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. The hellhound that was formerly their father growled and snapped as it lurched forward in attempt to nab one of the brothers- flinching away from the amulet when Sam used his free hand to hold out behind him to protect himself. He scrambled up to the top of the slide connected to the swing set and perched on the topmost support beam with Dean hugged to his chest. He said a prayer under his breath and swallowed his own panic as he wiped his baby brother’s face with the sleeve of his pajama top. Over the barking and snarling of the mad hound that so far seemed incapable of climbing up to get them, they heard screams of pure agony from inside. Uncle Bobby had to be exorcising the Demon. His gruff deep voice could barely be made out over all the other sounds that broke through the once peaceful midsummer night. After what felt like an eternity, the screams stopped and the hellhound became utterly docile and calmed until it laid on the ground in show of submission. Their uncle came out to fetch them, warily eyeing the former John Winchester as the patterns on his fur glowed softer than before. Once they were sat down in the kitchen, across the table from their dead Memaw and beside their dead Papa on the floor, with Sam in a chair across from Bobby who held a sniffling and clingy Dean in his lap while the John-hound lay quietly at their feet. Once Dean was sufficiently calmed, Bobby cleared his throat and stopped as Dean whined in distress when the John-hound nudged his foot with his cold, wet nose, who was rewarded with a good kick to the snout for his efforts to comfort his son. “He ain’t gonna hurt ya no more, Duckie.” Bobby soothed, bouncing the toddler on his knee and kissing his forehead. “And if he tries, I’ll shoot ‘im.” “Uncle Bobby?” Sammy hesitantly prompted, hugging his knees to his chest. “Yer Daddy will be just fine. Just a spell. He’ll back to ‘is old self in a couple days.” Bobby responded, wiping a few tears from Dean’s chubby cheeks. “Me an’ the fellas looked into all this before I got here. Had a feelin’ them black eyed bastards had somethin’ in mind. Didn’t hurt that a similar incident happened about a month ago.” “So he’s just gonna be dog for awhile?” Sam asked, an uncertain look on his face as he eyed his morphed father. “There’s no safe way to turn ‘im back far as I know.” Bobby affirmed, looking down at his fellow hunter and friend with a huffed sigh. “Ya sure know how to get into some messed up shit, ya idjit…” The John-hound whined and huffed. “Yeah, yeah, quit yer bitchin’.” Bobby teased. “Ya think you and yer brother’ll be able to get back to sleep?” Sam shook his head as Dean fussed and rubbed at his eyes. “Didn’t think so. We’ll call the authorities and say it was a home invasion. That way no one will go snoopin’ or come lookin’ for no one.” Bobby voiced, grabbing the landline and dialing 911. “After that, we’ll head back to my place and wait things out till yer Dad’s back to normal.” From there it played out just as Bobby Singer had promised it would. The authorities accepted the story of the home invasion and Bobby’s heroic arrival- claiming he had been coming over to pick up the kids for some bonding time but arriving late due to car trouble (the mechanic cringed at that particular part of the lie). They then headed back to Bobby’s with Sam and Dean dozing and cuddled up in the backseat while the John-hound sulked in the front passenger seat, curled up into a ball, occasionally huffing, whining or softly yipping in response to whatever Bobby said. A few weeks later, the Campbell property and all its contents were sold off to one Robert Singer since none of the designated recipients of that part of the estate were still alive to claim them. The shabby but impressive for a hunter savings was put aside for the brothers whenever they came of age. No one knew that Bobby had purchased and deep cleaned the property to one day hand over to the brothers if either ever managed to retire. You have excellent recall for being so young when it all happened. I didn’t want to forget so I had Sammy and Bobby re-tell it over the years. We do it once a year on the day that Deanna and Samuel Campbell died. Why would you want to remember such a horrible night? Wouldn’t you rather have them remind you of all the other visits where you were simply a toddler playing at his Memaw and Papa’s? No. That’s not who I was, who any of them were. Interesting… What? When your brother recalls that date, it’s a very different story. What do you mean? We’ll get to that in just a moment. First, do you remember what I had you recite when we first started? Yeah? Say it for me one more time. My name is Dean Winchester. I am the son of Mary Campbell and John Winchester. My older brother is Sam Winchester. I was born on May 2nd, 1983. My grandparents died as result of a plot by demons and a family friend and fellow hunter’s attempt to save them and us. I am a hunter of the supernatural and vessel of the archangel Michael. I am told to be the Righteous Man. The way your brother tells it quite different in some aspects. Like what? You are the older brother to Sam Winchester. You were not born on May 2nd, 1983 because that is your brother’s birthday. Your birthday is January 24th, 1979. You never met your grandparents and neither did he because they died the night your mother eloped with your father and were allegedly left vulnerable to the yellow eyed demon that your brother names as Azazel. He states that the entire incident you have recited to me never occurred. So which one of you truly remembers? Are you who you say you are? I… I am Dean Winchester… and I… You what? I remember…?

#supernatural au #supernatural roleplay #supernatural rp #supernatural #spn rp #spnfamily #spn #spnedit #ficlet #death #dean winchester #sam winchester #memories #recall #doubt #self doubt #confusion #mixed timelines #crossover universes #fanfiction #fanfic #Deanna Campbell #samuel campbell #bobby singer #hellhound #demon

[a-k-i-m-i-c-h-i]

It was like life had stopped, clear in the middle of its own chaos. Deafening noise, then remnants of it, then silence.

"...Jim?"

Blood. That was all he saw for several seconds. There was so much of it, blood staining everything, flooding the subway, blood, so much blood.

"Jim..."

The child gripped his newsboy cap tightly in both hands, raising himself up on his toes enough to better see the train tracks, his face a nearly lifeless display of shock.

His hands were wet. His cap was wetter. All three had been painted in dark, saturated patches to match their freshly decorated surroundings.

After a long pause, Christopher walked forward. His legs were shaking, so much that it was hard to stay standing up, and he had to sit down once he reached the edge of the platform. He set his cap on the ground, and, with his hands free, gripped the platform and slid down.

He barely registered the splattering noise when he hit the ground.

He turned around and immediately whimpered, trying to hold back his tears, even though he wasn't sure anyone was even there anymore to see him cry - it was even worse on the train tracks. His shoes were almost entirely saturated, and the smell of it made him want to stop breathing, but all of his thoughts and senses halted when he-

The red lump had only caught his eye because it was so 3-dimensional. It had been covered in it too, and it had stayed camouflaged all too well before that. He had initially thought that, maybe, his friend had simply disappeared.

Now he nearly wished that he had.

He stepped forward, almost gagged, and realized that he could still see different colors underneath the camouflaging red. His coat, once a bright shade of blue, was dyed to a shocking brownish-grey, and vaguely Christopher thought about color combinations and mixing, the kind of things he learned from the woman who'd worked with Jim's father. If you mix red and blue, look - the warmth and coolness start to make something different and very pretty - purple.

"Isn't it lovely, Christopher?"

This was, if anything, the farthest he could possibly get from lovely.

He reached forward, and, despite his own mind screaming at him not to, ran a hand over one end of the lump.

Skin. Bruised and split beyond repair. His already red hair dripping in front of his eyes, open, unrecognizable, no white or yellow visible anymore. It was too surreal to be happening. It was dizzying. His mouth wasn't open or closed, really, but his lips fell open in an expression similar to that of someone who'd been slapped in the face. A small glint of what must've been his teeth, covered in blood, showed underneath. Despite feeling like he couldn't stand to look anymore, Christopher reached out a hand, and tentatively, as the tears started overflowing from his eyes, rested it on one of his friend's arms.

Something hard and thin was sticking out of his arm underneath his sleeve. Christopher swore he could feel his heartrate double as his mind registered one more of what was already far too many horrors for him to handle.

As the dripping ceased from a lock of Jim's bangs, he moved his other hand toward it, realizing that at some point he'd picked up his cap again, and, shifting the object from his left hand to his right, he took in a shallow breath and brushed the hair hanging over Jim's face aside.

The teardrop shape of his irises looked almost warped, broken, and his eyes had gathered rings and layers of deep red, it looked like, from beneath their lenses. They were stained with almost mesmerizing patterns from the inside.

But that meant he had to be...

He remembered the health lessons from his father's group.

The blood in his eyes was...

After his eyes darted around his friend's face for several agonizing seconds, he saw the likely source.

A part of his head, obscured at first, was completely caved in. Pieces of tissue he couldn't begin to identify spilled out, overlapped, and deformed each other. Christopher reached both hands up and tried to turn his head back over a little as he began to hyperventilate, and was met with a soft grinding sound.

Pieces of bone.

He started bleeding heavier when Christopher set his head back down, which only made him cry more. Something in him, ridiculously, desperately hopeful, had him reaching back out, holding up his friend's head and trying to stem the bleeding, lightly pressing his sleeve against the wound like he'd seen the surgeon do. Before he could stop it, flashes of tearing flesh, clanging metal tools, choking, the shrill tone of flatlining, everything- everything rang in his ears. He couldn't think straight. The smell of blood was making him nauseous, and he could almost feel the surgeon's hands on him, and somehow that memory was an infinite number of times better than what was happening now.

Then, just as quickly, the memories changed altogether - he saw moment after moment he'd spent with Jim, smiling, happy, laughing, anxious and clinging to him for comfort, crying, sleepy and content - living, breathing, his heart still flooding life through him.

Life he might never get to appreciate again.

Christopher's mind all at once froze, sparked into rapidity, and turned to sludge. This time- this was the time that Tony wasn't here with them. Just when he'd felt, in the part of his brain that could still process things, that he'd been hit as hard as was possible, now he felt like his own heart could very well stop from the sheer crushing weight being put on him.

He didn't even feel like he'd care anymore. He didn't know where else to go from here. Nothing felt real and he wished, with every single cell that made him up, that it would turn out not to be.

He barely let go of Jim's head in time to swivel around, holding his mouth shut as he sprinted for the edge of the tracks.

Bile burned his mouth and throat as he threw up, the ever-present smell of the blood slamming into his stomach like a tire iron and sending waves of disgusting nausea crashing into him. His head spun; it was hard to keep his balance already, but his focus being shot only made it worse.

Why...

Why?

No no no no no no no no no no no no no why-

He didn't realize he'd screamed until the noise, and its echoing remnants, tore themselves from his throat.

Before he could focus on anything again, he'd already found himself turning back around, not even having caught his breath yet - he began bracing his weak legs against the uneven ground at the same time as he started nearly running back. He brushed the saliva off of his chin with his sleeve and blinked more tears from his eyes, feeling them fall cold down his cheeks.

His vision, despite its crisp clarity, felt unclear enough that he barely saw the gory details of his friend's demise anymore - maybe for the better, given how precise he was about to have to be. Telling himself, even now, that maybe, maybe he could still be saved, he gingerly cradled Jim's head between his palm and the crook of his elbow, putting another hand underneath his legs and feeling a painful weight settle in his stomach at the feeling of more blood soaking into his hands.

He gritted his teeth as he tried to get him off the ground and keep him like that, crying out when the hand under his legs slipped. Choking out an "I'm sorry" to his friend, a moment later he dropped his legs as slowly as he could and wrapped his arm around the boy's torso, just under his own arms. Then, quickly and reflexively adjusting his feet, he began pulling him toward the edge of the platform.

It took what felt like far too long to even drag him a foot away, given the lack of difference in size between the two, but the absolute last thing the child was going to let himself do was give up. He thought he felt something pull in a way it shouldn't have in his shoulder, accompanied by a disturbing popping sound, and a dull, yet somehow searing wave of pain threatened to break through his resolve - his left hand went limp, dropping the older's lower half momentarily with another nauseating crack. He tried to bring him back up, by his legs this time, feeling himself start to lose both awareness and control of everything else happening to him.

He yelped when his fingers slipped into a groove, a tearing noise reaching his ears all too late - when he frantically pulled away and brought his hand to his thigh instead, Jim's leg sunk downward, revealing a horrifying gash in his calf that split it from heel to knee and went deep enough to easily reveal bone - he'd seemingly only ripped it further open, and the sight of the blood leaking slowly from it now made him stop breathing for a few seconds.

He took hold of him again, with both hands now under his arms, this time moving faster than before. He couldn't stop. If he could still be saved, he wasn't going to let either of them miss that chance.

"Help!!"

His voice was frantic, desperate - he took in as much air as he could in spite of the metallic reek that felt like it was choking him. His heart pummeled against his chest as he doubled his efforts.

They were only a few feet from the platform.

He's not going to...

"Somebody please help!!"

The shrill echo taunted him, but it barely registered as anything anymore. Christopher managed to get one hand on the edge, pulling himself up until he had his knee against the platform. Gripping his friend's arm tightly, he turned, making sure he himself was stable, and pulled.

He'd misjudged.

Christopher screamed as he slipped, pivoting to avoid landing on Jim - he succeeded, resulting in his own arm hitting the ground with one more horrifying crack. The pain didn't stop him from scrambling to stand, but-

A horn blared from the tunnel, slicing through what almost felt like silence in comparison. Christopher's vision started to blur. He could've sworn he heard his friend's voice as he stood up completely.

He couldn't even tell which direction he was running until the blinding light cut into his vision and consumed the entirety of their blood-soaked surroundings.

He brought his hands to his face reflexively.

The last thing he did was faintly wonder if, now, he would get to see Jim again.

The train hit him.

[wildlingknight]

Here and There - Rain

The storm had been predicted.

He’d ignored the prediction, as predicted.

Link stumbled under the weight of his wet hylian tunic, feeling the water sloshing around in his boots where he’d waded through the flooding paths and overflowing creeks of the Faron rainforest, shaking with the sudden chill the storm brought despite the humidity dragging at his breaths.

He squinted from under his hood looking for a place that could offer him any semblance of shelter and decided an overhang in the rock face was probably the best he was going to come up with at this point, he’d be lucky if every nook and crevice wasn’t swarming with Lizalfos, and he unceremoniously planted himself down on the ground and pushed his hood back with a cloudy exhale of air. Keeping a careful lookout he began to peel off his wet clothes, wringing them out before laying them flat, hoping they would dry even though the very air itself was wet. He needed a fire, but the surrounding native trees of the rainforest were saturated with water even on a dry day. No joy there then.

Link reached for his pouch, searching elbow deep in it for the bundle of wood he hoped he remembered stashing for situations like this, face scrunched as his hand touched everything he didn’t need, and then clearing when he found the burlap sack he’d stuffed the clothing he’d salvaged and worn upon awakening from the shrine of resurrection into. Pulling it out, he decided dry clothes wouldn’t go amiss while he waited for his tunic and hood to dry, or for the rain to let up enough for him to make a break for the nearest settlement or stable.

Laying the old neutral coloured clothing on the ground he resumed looking for the wood he knew he’d put aside, edges of his mouth lifting despite the splinter he felt embedding itself into his skin when his knuckles scraped it. He searched next for the flint and had phenomenally more luck in finding it that than he had the wood. Striking it with his travellers sword, he waited for the fire to warm and turned to the clothing, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickle of gooseflesh.

He lifted the brown trousers up and let them unfurl, creased from where they’d been folded, and eyed a line of tiny neat stitches over the faded knee. So they’d been repaired before, whoever owned them before Link having loved them enough to keep them even after they’d been damaged. Well he wasn’t going to let warm dry clothing go to waste. Standing, having to hunch slightly to avoid hitting his head on the overhang, he pulled them on. He felt the ward against the chill immediately, despite the draft around his ankles and silently thanked whoever decided to leave them for him. The faded knees were an inch or so higher than his actual knees and he subconsciously brushed at them as though this would bring some colour back into them.

Next he shook out the shirt. Linen and plainly dyed, it also showed signs of having been loved, the edges fraying and what looked to be a faint grass stain on the elbow. Well it would do. Pulling it over his head as he sat down he shifted close to the fire, lifting his hands to warm them and grinning at how the shirt sleeves didn’t even reach halfway to his wrists. Looking down his grin widened when he saw a thin band of stomach showing under the hem above his trousers. Whoever had owned these had been short, he mused.

He turned his outstretched arm to take a closer look at the previously scrubbed at stain on his elbow when he caught the scent of the material. Musty with age for the most part, but there was something else, something underneath the time and wait, something familiar. He hesitated before lowering his face to his arm and breathing it in.

Hateno.

It smelt like Hateno. The unmistakeable smell of home. Of his house. He stared nonplussed at the fabric for a few moments. Perhaps the smell had clung to it from the last time he stayed there? Although he didn’t remember his other clothes smelling that way. Shrugging it off he reached for his pouch again where it lay against his knee. His hand hovered over the stitches. He traced a finger over them, feeling the slight raise in texture. They’d done a good job at repairing them, whoever had saved them. Perhaps the owner? Maybe a member of their family? Like their…

His mother had been good at sewing. He stared blankly at the fire as he recalled the image of her sitting in one of the comfy chairs under the stairs, darning whatever sorry item of clothing had fallen victim to Link and his father’s mischief.

But she’d have been dead by the time he’d grown big enough to wear these clothes. He shook his head. These didn’t belong to him. Impa, or more likely Purah would have procured and left them for him, that would explain the Hateno smell on them. There. That solved it. His finger continued to trace the line of stitches and a small voice in the back of his mind asked ‘then why do they feel so familiar still?’

Link heaved a sigh and forced himself to stop tracing, pulling his knee up and resting his chin on it while he wrapped his arms around himself. The trousers hiked up with his movement and he felt the rougher thread sit against his lower thigh. He shifted the way he leant on his knee so as to avoid a scar he had there, a long, thick white divet, slashed almost diagonally across his knee. He couldn’t remember if it was from fighting the Calamity or before-

Yes he could.

He got a flash of an image, a snapshot, much like he did back in his house in Hateno, his father kneeling on the wet and muddy path, using his sleeve to try and wipe the grit and dirt away without hurting him to get a good look at what he’d done.

What had he done?

He scrunched his eyes closed, fingers tracing over the scar in his skin underneath rather than the scar in the fabric. It had been raining, the sky a miserable grey, they were soaked through. Why? What had been so important that they were out in such a downpour? He listened to the rain falling around him and tried to place it at the time. He tried to recall the image of his father kneeling in front of him. He must have been sat on the ground too. If his knee was bleeding had he tripped? Fell?

Fell! He’d fallen off his father’s horse! Suddenly it became as crystal. He’d been training. His father had been teaching him to ride and shoot a bow simultaneously. There was a track, just down from Hateno, a loop of path around a copse of trees, and wooden, painted targets had been erected, he wasn’t sure by whom. His father had been teaching him...because he was going to join the army. He was going to become a trainee, just like his father had been, and he’d wanted to impress.

He’d naturally excelled at archery, and he could ride well, but putting them together had led to some accidents at first. This particular time he’d leant too far out of the saddle in an effort to hit a target and lost his footing in the stirrup with the rain slicking his boots. He’d landed hard on his knee and tore his trousers as the gravel tore up his skin and stained the elbow of his shirt a bright green. He’d rolled onto his back and gingerly sat up, taking stock of himself to make sure there were no broken bones. His father (Goddesses he wished he could remember his name!) had come running over, skidding on his knees in the mud as he’d reached Link, asking if he was alright, telling him not to move, and after he’d seen the gash in Link’s knee, telling him it was alright to cry, if he wanted. Link had shaken his head furiously even as he’d released an involuntary sob as his father pressed his sleeve to his wound. It had stung like hell.

He’d hissed and bit back any further sounds as his father gently wiped at it, trying to clean away the dirt and blood to see the extend of the wound, before declaring he wouldn’t lose the leg with a small grin on the corners of his mouth. He’d helped him to his feet, clicking his tongue at his mare to follow them back to the house, and helped a limping Link climb the hill. He’d sat him on the table like his mother used to do when she tended to his scraped knees as a child, though his most recent scrape would have had her in tears. She’d have hugged him and sniffed and stroked his hair and face, calling him her ‘bravest boy’.

His father had told him to strip to his shorts and, after getting them both some dry clothing from the upper floor, used a clear, strong smelling spirit soaked into a soft, off-white, linen cloth to rub away the grime and blood. If Link had thought the sleeve was bad, it had been nothing like what he’d experienced sitting on the dining table, gripping the edges with whitened knuckles, toes curling and teeth grit so hard he had been sure he’d heard one of them crack.

After dressing his wound and helping Link climb the stairs to his bed, his father had told him to rest while he sorted out their clothes. Link had protested the throwing away of his ruined shirt and trousers, they had been made by his mother years before, he remembered now, with the promise he’d grow into them and she’d never broken a promise to him. But his father had pointed out that neither of them knew how to repair them, so they had to go. That had been the last time he saw them.

So how did he come to have them now? Who had repaired them? When had they repaired them? His fingers moved back to the line of stitching, as though committing the feel of them to memory would help him recognise the handywork.

He hadn’t been wearing these when he died. When he fought against the Calamity. He hadn’t recalled his death yet, and though it probably should have, it didn't concern him all that much. He had been doing his duty and protecting the princess as best he could against the onslaught of guardians and monsters set on bringing them down.

Then where had these garments come from? As far as he had known they’d been thrown away, ripped up and used for rags and scraps. Had his father secretly had them repaired as a surprise for him? Surely he would have known someone capable of fixing them for him. Then how did they come to be the first items of clothing he found in the shrine of resurrection one hundred years later?

Had Purah or Impa sent for them? Had they been to his house at some point during his slumber? If his father had died along with the rest of his regiment during the Calamity, either in Castle Town or the Akkala Citadel, had they stole into his house and searched for something for him to wear when he finally woke up and stumbled on this potential gift from his father?

If his father had survived the initial Calamity, had they told him what had happened to Link? That his son had died? Had they asked for clothing and received these? What reason did they give for wanting some clothes, did they tell him of the shrine of resurrection or did they tell him it was for a burial? No. If Link was to be buried his father would have been there, so they would have informed him of Link’s stasis.

In that case, had his father come with them? Had his father seen his body, beaten and bloody and deathly still? Had his injuries began to heal by then, or had he still been raw and torn open? Link tried to imagine how he would have reacted. Would he have cried? Had he been proud that his son had stood his ground and gave his life for the princess like he’d vowed, or was he ashamed that he hadn’t beaten the Calamity? The sword had chosen him after all, shouldn’t he have won?

He didn’t feel like he had died. It felt like he was trying to remember the tale of a stranger. The memories he’d managed to gather from the locations on the sheikah slate didn’t feel like his either. It was like he was party to them, but not directly involved in them, like he was watching someone else from the sidelines.

Link heaved another deep sigh, familiar ache of loss and longing settling behind his sternum. He absentmindedly touched a scar on his chest through his shirt that no doubt contributed to his death. He regretted not writing to his father as much as he should have. He regretted shutting him out, like he had everyone else. So much lost time, even after all the time they did have, there was still so much lost.

He stretched his arms and legs out toward the fire again, warming his hands and bare feet and marveling at his growth. He must have grown a good few inches, had it happened while he slept? It must have. He’d fallen from his father’s horse a mere two years before he’d joined the army and impressed his commanding officers so much that he’d been awarded the position of the princess’s appointed knight, and he’d died a few months after that. He’d have noticed if he’d grown so much in that short a time. No he must have continued to grow while in slumber.

Would he grow anymore? His father (what was his name?) had been a tall man, would he grow to be as tall as him? He’d always seemed so big to Link, so giant, but then he’d always considered himself to be short. Not that it mattered. He’d been able to best the biggest brute in the barracks without breaking a sweat. The sword chose him. Size meant nothing.

It was quiet. Blinking his eyes tight and clearing the cloudiness that came with being lost in his own head, he looked out from under the overhang, noting how everything glistened with the rain that had finally stopped falling in the weak rays of new sun. It would start warming up again soon. Reaching over to touch his tunic sprawled out on the rocky floor he decided it was dry enough to put on. The last thing he needed was to run into some monster and be unprotected. Removing his old clothing, he reverently folded them up and carefully replaced them in the burlap sack and then his pouch. Plus, he thought to himself, he couldn’t bare to lose them a second time.

Kicking dirt onto the flames to douse the fire, Link did another once over the little shelter he’d found for himself, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Time to move on. He poked at the sheikah slate, tapping and flicking until he found his map and searched for a stable near his location. Finding one, he began trudging in the direction of the sun’s shadows, thinking idly about what food he might find along the way when it came to him, the thought as explosive as though he had been struck by lightning.

Dara.

His father’s name had been Dara.

#botw #loz #breath of the wild #legend of zelda #link #here and there #Link writes

[vexedbuckbeak-blog]

♫Lead Me Out Of The Dark- Crown The Empire// Marauders Era: Regulus x Reader

Request:  could you do a imagine with Regulus and his muggleborn girlfriend after he finds out about horcruxes and decides to bring Voldemort down with song 'Lead Me Out Of the Dark' by Crown The Empire?

A/N: I know this is one of my more recent requests, and even though I try going in order, sometimes I just get inspired and this was one of those times, so I hope it’s good! I don’t know if it’s exactly what you had in mind, but I hope you like it either way and it was worth the wait!

You never really know anyone's story, Y/N writes on a torn piece of parchment, ink already staining her fingertips, trapped tears glistening in her y/e/c eyes and filling her soul, not even when you've heard it from their very lips time and time again. Not even when you see the honesty in the glimmer of their eyes and know that they are telling you the entire truth, stripped of coats of sugar and hidden details. You never really know anyone's story, because they don't know it themselves until it comes to an end.

She takes a deep breath, letting a teardrop fall onto the parchment and leave a grief filled stain at the bottom of the page. Her heart feels heavy as it brims with a storm of words, words she cannot sew together, and emotions she cannot describe that reflect off its velour chambers with unheard sounds. Each breath she takes stings at her lungs as she sits on the worn armchair that he once sat in, his arm wrapped around her waist while he whispered I love yous in her ear, filling her with joy she thought only existed in romance novels.

With a pained sigh, she picks up her quill and dips it into the small bottle of ink that sits by the parchment, the top of which is graced by her looped cursive writing, which almost seems to dance in front of her tear filled eyes. Her lips quiver as she presses the quill to paper.

Regulus Arcturus Black was the love of my life. Pain overflows at the truth filled words that have now left her mind, but she continues. He was a brave, loving, kind man, but no one knew, no one could guess the battles he was leading with himself for the things he was roped into doing, or the Gryffindor-like courage that filled him on that day. No one knew the whole story. No one but me.

The Black family is a cruel one: they could find flaws even in deity and make Merlin himself feel insufficient for the "privilege" of their presence. Regulus was nothing like that, a sob escapes her lips and she finds ink spilling onto the light surface of the table through the parchment that was now holed by the force with which she pressed down the quill. She doesn't care at all.

He never struggled to escape the cruel, elitist prison he was born into, like his brother did. He wouldn't jump to marry a muggleborn like his cousin did. No, somehow, Regulus found respect for his parents within his pure heart, admiration even, despite the knowledge that they were anything but good people. Their support for the Dark Lord during his rise shocked Regulus, even though he'd never find himself admitting to anyone but me.

I am writing this to explain his actions, to defend his actions, to present him as the man he truly was, rather than a corrupt Death Eater that only cared for pure blood. To finally show the unmasked reality, free of assumptions and venomous, uninformed lies that seem to be the only thing people think they know about Regulus Black.

With a stifled sob, she places her quill down on the wooden surface, stands from her chair and wipes the tears that threaten to spill from her eyes with the rough fabric of her sleeve. She takes a few hesitant steps towards a towering closet in the corner of one of the worn down bedrooms of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Its door opens with a melancholy creak, revealing a massive stone bowl filled with silvery liquid which holds untold stories and unsaid words. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a minuscule bottle, silken liquid dancing and whirling around inside it. With one motion, she pops it open and pours the silver strands into the pensieve, allowing her tear stained face to touch its surface and descend into a whirlwind of unclear pictures and painful thoughts.

A familiar scene unravels around her, the same room she was standing in seconds prior, its features settling down like turbulent mist. And then she sees him, happy, radiant, alive, holding her hand and whispering I love you in her ear, her memory fresh as a painful wound. 

"I have to tell you something," excitement is clear in his voice and her past counterpart seems just as happy as he is. She remembers her exact thoughts from that moment: He's going to ask me to marry him.

She had never been that wrong.

Anticipation is clear on her face and she wants to scream at herself, frustrated at how oblivious she once was. The sound of his voice overwhelms her with emotions and her tears begin pouring down her tired face as she listens to the words that she has replayed in her mind a million times, watching a broken scene she could not mend.

"I've figured him out." he speaks like an excited child, innocence reflected in his face. She notices the sun hit the black ink on his left wrist and feels herself flinch at the sight. 

"What do you mean?" she hears herself say.

"I've figured him out. Voldemort, the Dark Lord, whatever you want to call him. It. Whatever you want to call it."

"Reg, love, I'm going to need you to expand on that," she hears a chuckle fall from her own lips and looks at her own happy face, one she hasn’t seen in too long.

"I know how he's so powerful."

"How?" she hates the skepticism sticking to her voice, suddenly wishing she could have simply listened to his eager words.

"He's split his soul, Y/N. He's split it and I don't know how many parts it's got, but I know where one of them is and I'm going to go destroy it. If it's the only one, we can defeat him," courage glows in his dark eyes and she sees worry flash across her own sunlit face.

"Regulus, that sounds dangerous. What if he realises--"

"He won't, love. He still thinks I'm on his side, remember?" 

"Please don't do this," she hears her voice crack with the plea, turning away from the scene in front of her and facing the freshly painted wall of his bedroom. 

"I have to. It could save everyone."

"And what if it doesn't? What if something happens? What then?" she can hear the tears streaming down her face, feeling the very same constricted feeling in her heart that haunted her on that day.

"It will do something, Y/N. Something to make him weaker. Please, just trust me."

She didn't have to turn around to recall taking his hand in hers and looking straight into his eyes, glimmering with determination and bravery. Fighting back another flood of tears, she felt her jaw clench and her nails dig into her palm as her hands balled into fists.

Only a few minutes longer, she told herself, still listening to the deafening silence that suddenly filled the room. No, she didn't have to turn around to know that his arms were wrapped around her and he was placing kisses on the top of her head, his embrace tightening with every breath he took. And when she heard the sound of a sigh, she didn't need to look to know that it would soon be silenced by him pressing his lips to hers, soft and loving, filled with fragile promises and the forethought of the unknown. 

"You know I have to do this," his words are unclear, but she remembers them well enough to hear every single one echoing in her porcelain mind: "We know that this is wrong, that it isn't what this world is meant for. It's not what magic is meant for,'' disdain and disgust cling to his hoarse voice, "and if I have a chance to stop it, I have to take it. I have to."

"I know," she hears her own voice, weak and filled with cornered sobs, a sudden hope leaping into her voice, "I can come with you."

"I can't risk that," he doesn't waste a second before he retorts, not for her safety, not for her life. She knows now that there is only moments left before the pain in her heart vanishes along with the surroundings of the past and she closes her eyes tightly, anticipating words, the dramatic irony of which stings at her skin and claws at her heart.

"When I come back, my love," she hears him saying as tears sneak out of her tightly shut eyelids and slip down her face, "I will marry you. And we’ll be the happiest two people alive, no matter what blood is running through your veins."

She turns rapidly, in time to catch a glimpse of the shining ring that he slips onto her finger and the beaming grin on his vibrant face. As he leans over to kiss her ecstatically worried lips once again, everything begins to shift and swirls of colour take her back to the same room, 5 years later.

An hour has passed, and Y/N has written every detail of her memory, every word, every breath, every tear that slipped from her eye on that day and every glint she saw in his dark, loving eyes. Now the facts are out of the way, and she picks up her quill for the final time after taking a deep breath, to write the end of her story. Of his story.

I knew he was dead before Sirius Black came banging on my door with an unshaven face and tears in his bloodshot eyes. I knew he was dead as soon as life left him, because I felt a part of me vanish into thin air, like it had never existed. Regulus Arcturus Black was the bravest, kindest, most loving man I have ever known, and he deserves better than to be remembered as a villain. If you are reading this, remember that you never really know anyone's story. Not until it's over.

She places the quill on the tabletop and finds the fingers of her right hand tracing the silver, diamond graced ring on her left ring finger, and gives the cool metal on her skin a nostalgic look. With an agonised smile on her face, she reads the small letters, elegantly engraved in his own handwriting beside the shining crystal, feeling a tortuous sting of yearning in her heart at the look of their loops and curls: Yours forever and longer, R.A.B.

#request #hp #hp imagine #marauders era #slytherin #marauders era imagine #regulus black #regulus black imagine #regulus x reader #regulus black x reader #rab

[lpdwillwrite4coffee]

CHILDREN OF LILITH CHAPTER EIGHT

Griffin stood next to Nikki, watching her retrieve her keys from her bag. He glanced around the hallway, remembering the night before. Looking down, he spotted several rust colored stains on the grey carpet. It was blood from the She-Vamp he shot.

“I can’t remember what state I left the place in,” she said. “So you’ll have to forgive the mess.” Nikki moved to her door, starting to put the key into the deadbolt.

“Why don’t you let me do that,” he said, stepping closer.

She stared up him for a moment, concerned. His grave expression squashed any desire she had to question him. She took a step away from the door and handed him her keys. Griffin reached into his holster and pulled out one of his Glocks before unlocking the door and twisting the handle.

Nikki stayed back while Griffin entered her apartment first. He methodically inspected her entryway, kitchen and living room, as well as her coat closet. He was silent as he went down the short hallway to her bathroom, giving it a fast look through, before finishing his patrol by heading for her bedroom.

“All clear?” Nikki asked, stepping further into her living room. She assumed, by the lack of gun fire, they were alone.

He strode out of her bedroom, replacing his gun in his holster. “Yeah, it’s safe.”

She nodded. “I’ll just start packing then,” she said, tossing her purse down on her coffee table. “Make yourself at home. I’ll try not to take too long.”

Griffin slipped off his coat, draping it over the arm rest of her sofa. He paused, finally noticing the inviting warmth of her apartment.

The living room was comfortably messy, with magazines and books covering the table. Her butter yellow couch had a small blotch that looked like a coffee stain on one of the cushions. Her television and CD player had a faint layer of dust on top, and her DVD collection was in disarray. Several small bookshelves sat under the windows, overflowing with both hardcovers and paperbacks. Pale blue curtains were tied back and sunlight poured in, casting a glow on everything in the room.

Griffin sat down on the edge of the couch, and shuffled the magazines around the table. National Geographic and Smithsonian were in abundance, as well as several travel magazines with exotic beaches or grand mountain ranges on their covers. Underneath the table were two stacks of worn textbooks. He picked up the first few, reading over their titles. Most of them were on ancient history or geopolitical theory, something he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of.

“Are you in school?” The question left his mouth and he immediately flattened his lips into a hard line. It wasn’t his place to pry into her personal life.

“Ah…”

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I saw the textbooks and… Never mind, it’s none of my business.”

“No it’s okay,” she said. There was a pause in the rustling coming from her closet and she appeared in the doorway, holding a grey sweatshirt in her hands. “I… Well I was going to NYU, but I decided to take time off, so I haven’t finished yet. That’s why I still have those.” She motioned to the hardcovers under the table.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t you finish?”

“Oh,” she looked down at the medieval history book he was holding. “Um, it’s… kind of a long story.”

She cringed inwardly at the lame cop out, and felt even lamer when he simply nodded and went to put her book back.

Inhaling deeply, she took half a step forward and forced the explanation out of her throat. “I’ll spare you the tedious details…” She smiled, hoping it didn’t look like a wince. “But the gist is, I was in a not-so-great situation, and I needed to take some time off to think things through.”

There was a pause as he held her gaze, and she counted the heartbeats before he spoke.

“Did it help?” He asked gently. “Taking time off?”

She nodded. “It did actually.” She felt her shoulders relax. “It gave me some breathing room and I was able to put things in perspective.”

“Then it sounds like you made the right choice,” he said.

The smile that flashed across her face was genuine that time. “I think you might be the first person who’s ever said that to me,” she said, twisting the shirt in her hands.

“Did you tell anyone else about your not-so-great situation?”

She shook her head. “Not really. It wouldn’t have really answered questions, just brought up more.”

“This situation,” he started, holding her gaze. “Are you still in it?”

“No,” she said. “I got out a long time ago.”

He nodded. “That’s good.”

Griffin didn’t say anything more as he picked up a National Geographic, which Nikki took as his cue that he was dropping the topic, more for her comfort than his. He had looked utterly disappointed in himself when she had stepped into the open doorway to answer his question, and the self-berating expression on his face had thrown her for a moment. It was like he hated even the possibility of making her feel uncomfortable.

She went back to packing her duffel bag and occasionally glanced over her shoulder at him while he continued to read. As she folded a pair of her jeans, she turned, looking back into the living room.

“So, Boz and Lisa told me about this friend of yours…” She paused, watching him glance up again. “They said she’s a Seer.”

Griffin nodded, closing the magazine. “She is, but she’s not a Hunter.”

“I didn’t realize there was much choice in the matter,” Nikki said.

“There’s always a choice,” he said. “Being born with a gift doesn’t automatically make you a Hunter. You have to make the decision yourself.”

“Oh…” Now it was Nikki’s turn to feel embarrassed.

“It’s okay.” Griffin smiled. “The ins and outs of the Underground are hard to memorize.”

Nikki shoved her folded jeans into the bag and picked up a long sleeved tee. “So if she’s not a Hunter, what is she?”

“In a word?” He sighed. “An opportunist.”

“She sounds like a great friend.”

“It’s her way of surviving,” he said. “I can’t exactly blame her for it.”

Nikki frowned. “Does she work for Vampires?”

“Sometimes. Like I said, she survives by using what she can to her advantage. And if that means doing a favor or two for one of our undead foes…” He trailed off with a shrug.

“So do you think she’ll help us?”

“Maybe,” he said. “She’s not really my biggest fan though.”

“What’d you do? Break a family heirloom or something?” She smirked.

“I guess you could say… I rejected her.”

Nikki stared at him for a long moment, her eyebrows arched with surprise.

Griffin shook his head hurriedly. “Oh no, not like that,” he said. “I think Mary would rather rip her own finger nails out than date me.”

“That sounds a tad overly dramatic.”

“She really doesn’t like me.”

“Well fingers crossed she likes me enough to help,” Nikki said.

“If she can like a Vampire, she’ll like you.”

“Speaking of… How exactly does one fight Vampires? I seem to recall you promising to explain that one last night.” She leaned into the door frame and quirked her lips up in a small grin. “I’m guessing garlic and crucifixes are out.”

Griffin chuckled. “There are a few things Bram Stoker got wrong.”

“Alright then, what’s fact and what’s fiction?”

He leaned forward, pressing his forearms into his thighs. “Well for starters, they have reflections and they can have their pictures taken. Holy water only gets them wet, and bibles are just reading material.”

“What about wooden stakes?”

“I’m sure it hurts getting stabbed with one, but it won’t kill them. The only things that do are fire, silver and decapitation. But really, who can survive decapitation?”

“I thought silver killed werewolves,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

He grinned. “Well if I ever run into one, I’ll ask.”

“You use silver bullets then?”

“Lead bullets tipped in silver,” he said. “Pure silver bullets are almost impossible to use. The metal is too soft.”

“Check you out, Bill Nye the Science guy.” She smiled again.

Griffin chuckled to himself. “Yeah, I’m a total lab nerd.”

“Do you hide your chemistry set in your closet?”

“Under my bed actually.”

“I guess that’s acceptable.” Nikki folded one of her shirts and continued. “Okay, so fire, silver, and decapitation are bad. Next?”

“Sunlight isn’t lethal but they don’t like it. The older a Vampire is the more they can tolerate an extended amount of time in the sun. But Newborns can’t even look out a window during the daytime for a least a month after they’ve turned.”

“Sunbathing is out. Got it,” she nodded. “What else?”

Griffin stood up, slowly wandering towards one of her bookshelves under the window. “If they’re wounded their skin heals almost immediately, unless they’re cut with something silver, in which case it’ll take a bit longer to heal.” He picked up one of her worn paperbacks and thumbed it open, scanning the pages. Glancing back at her, he said, “They can also regenerate parts of their body.”

Nikki’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, still holding the book. “If a Vampire has an arm cut off, it’ll grow back. It takes about a week for larger parts- arms, legs, that kind of thing- but only a day or a few hours if they lose an eye or finger.”

Nikki blinked in shock. “That’s… unbelievable.”

“And helpful,” he said. “Vampires get into more fights with each other than they do with Hunters. I’ve seen Newborns tear each other apart over a drop of fresh blood.”

“It’s like they’re rabid animals,” she said, feeling her face pinch with disgust.

“They’re hungry all the time,” he said. “It’s nearly impossible for them to think about anything other than feeding.”

Nikki’s frown deepened. “But those Vampires last night didn’t seem crazed,” she said. “They were intense and more than a little scary, but they were in control. So if they weren’t after a meal-”

The shrill interruption of the phone made her heart leap into her throat. Exhaling roughly, she finished folding her jeans and threw them on top of the pile.

“You want me to answer that?” Griffin asked from her doorway.

“Just let the machine get it,” she said. “It’s probably just my boss calling to tell me I’m fired.”

After the third ring the answering machine beeped and the recorder kicked in.

“Well if it isn’t the one who got away.”

The woman’s voice brought them both to a halt. The menacing chill of it permeated the entire apartment, rippling out from the small plastic machine in Nikki’s kitchen.

“That was a nice little escape act you pulled,” she woman continued. “But I guess we have our boy to thank for that.” There was a pause, and the dead air was deafening. “Hello Griffin. Nice to see you’re still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Nikki slowly moved passed Griffin into the living room, staring in the direction of the voice.

“I’m sure you’re very confused little girl, so I’m going to spell things out for you: There’s nowhere for you to run. There’s nowhere for you to hide. And this game has no rules.”

Griffin’s chest felt like it had been filled with cement. He struggled to breathe as he watched Nikki move closer to the source of the voice.

“Nikki, I’m sure you’re wondering what all of this has to do with you, and while I would love to tell you, I think it’ll be more fun for all of us if we wait for you to figure it out on your own. But in the meantime, I hope you like surprises. Because I have quite a few of them I’m dying to show you. Oh, and I hope you don’t mind, we borrowed a few of your things…”

Nikki glanced at him before running back into her room, heading for the closet.

“Our bloodhounds needed something with your scent… So we can always find you.” There was another icy pause. “Goodbye Nikki. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you very soon.”

There was a click and the answering machine beeped, ending the recording.

Nikki rushed back into the living room. “They took two of my shirts from my hamper,” she said, her voice hitching.

Griffin’s insides had knotted up, the cement hardening and weighing him down. Hearing Serena’s voice left him desolately numb.

After everything, did you really think you could just wash your hands of this and be done?

“Griffin?” Nikki stepped closer, watching him. “Griffin, who was that?”

“I don’t know.” With three words, his self-preservation instinct turned him into a lying coward.

“This isn’t a random pack of hungry Newborns playing a trick,” she said. “This… This is worse than that, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said thickly.

Nikki wrapped her arms around her stomach, protecting herself from the inexplicable cold she felt. “What do we do?”

Tightening his jaw, Griffin locked down the panic that had started spinning inside him and whiting out his vision.

“The plan stays the same,” he said firmly, moving towards her. “We’ll take your stuff back to the house and then go to see Mary.”

“But what do we do about…” She glanced at the machine and then back at him.

Placing his hands gently on her shoulders, he held her in hopes of comforting her. “We’ll figure this out,” he said. “I’m gonna keep you safe, I promise.”

Nikki could only nod and focus on the warmth of his hands radiating through her sleeves. “I’ll just finish up and then we can go,” she said, glancing up at him.

Griffin watched her retreat back to her room and he found his seat on the couch again.

Serena’s voice scratched at the inside of his skull. Oh baby, what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now?

He blinked rapidly, as if trying to wake up from a dream.

What are you going to tell her, lover? Her voice coiled around in his head. What lie are you going to coddle her with next? How are you going to keep fooling her into trusting a worthless drunk like you?

Griffin closed his eyes, shutting everything but the sound of his own breath out. But even in the near silence of his own head, he found no solace. He was in trouble. They both were.

His legs forced him off the couch and brought him to the telephone in Nikki’s kitchen. Picking up the receiver, he pressed the call log button and studied the screen. The number Serena had dialed from wasn’t her personal cell number.

Griffin reached in his pocket and grabbed his phone. He hit the speed dial number one and waited.

“You’ve reached Boz the Almighty, please state your request.”

“Boz are you still at the house?”

“Yeah, I was just about to leave. Why?”

“I need you to do a trace on a number,” Griffin glanced down at the cordless phone in his hand. “Someone called Nikki’s place and left a message on her machine.”

“What kind of message? A ‘hey your prescription is ready to be picked up’ kind of message or an ‘every breath you take, every move you make, we’ll be watching you’ kind of message?”

“Take the creepiness of that Police song and multiply it by a thousand,” he said.

“Gross.” Griffin could hear Boz typing on his laptop. “Alright, what’s the number?”

After running off the string of digits, Griffin said, “You’ll let me know what you find?”

“ASAP. Faster than ASAP. I’ll even invent time travel just to make it happen.”

“Thanks Boz.”

“You got it.” There was a pause on the line before he spoke again. “Hey Griff, be careful out there okay?”

“Yeah,” Griffin said, struggling under the weight of uncertainty.

He hung up and placed the receiver back in its cradle. When he turned around, Nikki was standing by her door with her duffel at her feet. She had changed out of the previous night’s clothes and into a pair of dark wash jeans and burgundy long sleeved tee. Her denim jacket was gripped tightly in her left hand.

“Boz is gonna do a trace on that number,” Griffin said. “He’ll call back when he’s found something.”

“Okay.”

“Nikki I-”

“Do you know her?”

Griffin’s heart stalled in his chest and he couldn’t take in air.

Taking a step forward, Nikki continued. “The woman that called, she said something about you sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. And she knew your name…”

Unbearable nausea hit him and for two seconds Griffin wondered if his stomach was going to betray his guilt and send him heaving towards the bathroom. But his throat contracted, and he held himself steady.

“No,” he finally said. “I have no idea who she is.”

A lying coward, Serena’s voice seethed in his head. That’s all you are.

And Griffin couldn’t even argue.

#Children of Lilith #free fiction #free novels for pandemic times #original work #original content #my writing #my work