#anyway that man is tormented by not being able to turn into an even LARGER bear

[elizabethrobertajones]

Oh wait oh no... Astarion is in his 200s, Halsin is in his 300s... Astarion is destroyed by no one saving him sooner... Halsin is tormented by his own inaction and inability to have saved the Shadowlands sooner... exactly the sort of guy to eat the exact pain Astarion is radiating and become tormented that he was alive that whole time and somehow didn't magically know to fly to Baldur's Gate and save him in all that time...

And I'm here getting ready to smash the barbie dolls together with no remorse about the 1000 psychic damage Halsin might take on acquiring a mean little vampire boyfriend...

Oh well :)

[heliads]

Cherry Bomb

You and Peter Maximoff hate each other. Loathing doesn’t even begin to describe the sheer dislike you have for each other. So why would Peter be so troubled when you were injured in a fight?

masterlist

You breathe in and out slowly, doing your best to focus. Your gaze is riveted on your hands, and under your watchful eye a small spark blossoms to life on the tips of your fingers. You squint in concentration and the spark grows into a flame, dancing along your hand. Grinning, you start to let down your guard, and the flame grows larger and larger, reaching its blazing tendrils up to the sky.

There’s a sudden sound behind you, and you lose your treasured focus. The fire spirals out of control, jumping to double its previous height. Cursing, you shake your head and try to clamp down the flames, watching as they slowly shrink down. Once the fire is gone, you whirl around in anger to face the source of your sudden disturbance.

“What was that for?” Peter Maximoff just laughs. He had appeared right behind you, using his powers of speed to startle you. “I thought you were working on control, Cherry Bomb. Looks like that still needs some work.” With that, he speeds off again, leaving you to grumble angrily after him.

See, you and Peter have hated each other since the second you arrived at Xavier’s School. It was pretty obvious that you had to be there- you barely had any control over your mutation, which allowed you to manipulate fire. Although it was pretty amazing, you needed a lot of help to make sure that you didn’t burn down whatever was closest to you.

You hadn’t hated Peter at first, nor he you. He just seemed like another student at the school, and the two of you never really crossed paths. Once it became apparent that you’d need a lot of help, though, Peter had transitioned to not giving you much thought to dedicating a good part of his day to tormenting you. 

You suppose he had a few reasons not to like you, such as his friends spending a lot of time helping you meant that they spent less time with him, and he kept insisting that you were a danger to the school and shouldn’t be there. You, on the other hand, hated Peter because he hated you, and because he had given you the nickname ‘Cherry Bomb’, which you absolutely despise. Peter had been pretty proud of the nickname, saying that it suited you because you were likely to destroy everything at a moment’s notice, but you couldn’t stand it.

When Xavier calls you into his office, you assume he’s heard about your momentary loss of control over your powers and wants to talk about it. You slump down into a seat in front of him, ready for another lecture, but he just adopts a faint smile. “I’m not here to admonish you, Y/N, in fact just the opposite. Let’s wait for the others to arrive and I will explain further.” Knowing that you’re not going to get yelled at, you relax a little bit.

Eventually, Jean, Mystique, Scott, Storm, and Peter all file into the room. The Professor laces his hands together on top of the desk and starts speaking to the group. “There’s been news of a disturbance in a town not far from here. Apparently some mutant with the ability to grow in size and strength was kicked out of town for his powers, and decided to take revenge by attempting to destroy everything. He’ll come back in an hour’s time, and I believe that we should be there to stop him.”

Everyone agrees, and Xavier leads you all to an awaiting plane. On the ride over, most of you remain silent, with Peter sending the occasional glare to you, which you return with equal animosity. 

You land in a small town, and it is quickly obvious as to how you’re supposed to find the rogue mutant- simply follow the trail of destruction. You and your friends soon come across the man, who has chosen to grow to the size of a giant and wreak havoc on the town. Battle plans are quickly exchanged, and you all set off to your respective positions for the fight.

Your task is to light fires on the giant, thus distracting him from the town. You race towards him, igniting your hands in a blaze that you launch his way. The giant roars in agony, turning away from the buildings to focus on you. Gulping, you throw more fire his way, but you’re so intent on finishing your part of the plan that you don’t notice the giant’s arm swinging towards you. 

When his rocky fist collides with you, the breath is instantly knocked from your lungs and you are thrown into a brick wall several yards away. You find you can’t stand up or find the energy to move at all, and you can only watch as blackness rushes in from all around you.

You’re only aware of a few sensations- pain from your head, after it hit the wall. Blood, trickling down from your wounds. Then, arms lifting you up off of the ground. There’s a worried face above you, one with silver hair that seems all too familiar. The boy holding you starts to run, faster than you can even blink. Before you know it, he’s standing at a crossroads, looking left and right as if to see which way he needs to go. You must have moved a little, for the silver-haired boy looks down at you, and you realize he looks absolutely terrified. “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.” He starts running again, and moving at such high speeds knocks you into unconsciousness once more.

When you come to, you are still being carried in the boy’s arms, but he’s speaking to someone. Distantly, you realize you’re back at Xavier’s School. “You have to heal her. She needs help- she was hurt pretty bad. Promise me she’ll be alright!” After receiving the necessary promise of safety, the boy finally allows your body to be taken from him, but not before you notice the fear lacing his voice and the look of panic as he watches you be carried away from him.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying in the hospital bed, but the bright light of morning is shining when you finally gather the strength to open your eyes. A student is standing next to you, checking a few readouts. You blink, trying to focus, and you realize that the student is Jean. Your friend smiles when she notices that you’re awake, and sits down next to you.

“How are you feeling, Y/N? You took a pretty hard hit.” You cough tiredly. “I’ve been better. Were you able to subdue that giant?” Jean laughs. “You’ve been unconscious for three days, and the first thing you ask about is the fight? Typical. Yes, we got him under control, with no small amount of help from you.” You relax at that, but then look at Jean curiously. “How did I get here so fast? We had to take a plane to get to that village, how was I here in time to get help?”

Jean grins at you, and the satisfied gleam in her eyes makes you more than a little worried. “Well, none other than your favorite mutant, Peter. The second he saw you hurt, he raced over to you and ran all the way back to school with you in his arms. We didn’t even have to ask him, he just did it without thinking. I should tell him you’re awake, actually. He’s been stressing every second you’ve been unconscious and I think the Professor had to tell him directly to go to class, or else he would have been here all day too.”

You look confusedly at Jean. “That doesn’t make sense- Peter hates me and I hate him. Why would he be so interested in my wellbeing? Last time I checked, he was doing everything in his power to get me removed from the school so he could be rid of me.” Jean just smirks again. “I guess we all have our own motivators.” With that, she turns to answer a beckoning student, leaving you to wonder what on earth she’s talking about.

A few hours later, it has been determined that you are well enough to leave your hospital bed and go back to your classes. It feels great to be up and walking again, after so long lying down. A few friends wave to you in greeting, but you’re headed on a decisive path to one person in particular.

When Peter Maximoff notices you approaching him, he pauses his music and tucks his hands casually in his pockets. “Looks like Sleeping Beauty’s finally awake. I’ve been treasuring these Cherry Bomb- free moments, but I guess all good things have to come to an end.” You feel yourself bristle at his comments, but you can’t help but notice dark rings under his eyes and that he looked more than a little relieved to see you alive and well.

“Whatever you say, Peter. Look, I have to ask you something- why were you so worried about me? You treat me like I’m your worst enemy in the world, but Jean says you dropped everything to carry me back to the school when I got hurt. What’s with the big change?” When Peter hears what you have to say, his carefree expression quickly shuts down and is replaced with the usual malice. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but I was just trying to help. Is it that out of the question that I might actually do something good? I mean, I know you’re sick of me, but come on.”

You take an involuntary step back when Peter raises his voice. “Okay, calm down. I’m just messing with you. No need to get upset.” Peter just rolls his eyes. “Of course you were. Everything’s a joke to you anyway, that’s why you can’t control your powers that well, Cherry Bomb. You just don’t care enough.” That struck a nerve, and you look at Peter with hurt. “I didn’t ask for these powers! I didn’t ask for any of this! How long will it take for you to realize that your friends, and your fellow students, and everyone in this school wants me here! I guess the only problem is-” You stop talking, realizing that you’re taking things too far. 

Peter, however, has already guessed what you’re about to say. “The only problem is me? Of course. Well, don’t worry. If me being here is a problem, I’ll solve it for you.” Your heart drops in your chest. “What’s that supposed to mean, Peter?” Peter’s laugh is cold, and the hurt within it breaks your heart. “I’ll go. Doesn’t that make you happy?” Your eyes widen and you shake your head mutely, but Peter just fixes you with one cold stare and speeds off into the distance.

You feel horrible about what just happened. You immediately head to Peter’s dorm, but he isn’t there. Same thing with his classes, and with his friends, and with any part of the school he would usually haunt. Eventually, you turn to Jean, frantic with worry. “I think I lost him. I think I made him leave.” Jean shakes her head, trying to comfort you but to no avail. “Peter’s probably just at the store or something. Once he cools down, he’ll come back. He’s done stuff like this before, and it never lasts more than a few hours.”

Jean is wrong, though. That night, no one sees Peter, and his dorm room is empty. The next day, he doesn’t show up for his classes, or the next day, or the next. You’re forced to live with the fact that Peter, the boy who saved your life, is gone because of what you said. It doesn’t feel good at all.

One week later, you’re listlessly clicking through stations on the battered old radio in your room when your focus is drawn to one frantic reporter. He’s talking about some freak storm in a distant corner of the country, and you realize with sickening dread that it’s happening right outside Peter’s old neighbourhood. Before you know it, you’re grabbing your gear and the keys to one of Xavier’s cars. It’s time to go find Peter.

By the time you reach Peter’s neighbourhood, you realize that there’s no mere storm damaging the area. It’s another mutant- this time, one that can control the clouds. He’s enveloped the town in fog as dark as night, making it impossible to see anything. You quickly light a fire on your palm, and use it to guide your way through the town.

You walk slowly to the center of the storm, keeping your bearings by walking towards the darkest of the clouds. Sure enough, you find yourself on the outskirts of the eye of the storm, and you realize with horror that there are two figures inside: the mutant, laughing with manic glee, and Peter. The enemy mutant is making some grandiose speech about how he’ll rip the town to shreds. “The worst thing is, no one could stop me. I mean, who’s going to do anything about it? You?”

You find yourself speaking. “He’s not alone.” With that, you extend your arms, flames dancing around them and growing until they’re several feet tall. You step into the clearing, and the mutant looks terrified of you. Peter, on the other hand, smiles, and the two of you charge the enemy mutant.

It doesn’t take long to take care of the cloud controller, and before you know it, he’s running as fast as he can in the opposite direction after swearing that he would never pull a stunt like this again. You extinguish your flames, and realize that Peter is walking towards you. Before he can say anything, you start speaking quickly. “I’m sorry, Peter. Truly I am. I never meant anything I said, and we need you back at the school.”

Peter just nods. “I’m sorry too, Y/N.” You smile at that, and Peter looks at you in confusion. “You called me Y/N. Not ‘Cherry Bomb’.” Peter laughs. “You know, I can still call you Cherry Bomb if you want.” You shake your head, pretending to be horrified. “After I saved your life? Absolutely not!” Peter puts on a mock frown. “As I recall, I saved your life first. That means we’re equals, and I can do whatever I want.” You can’t help but laugh at that. “Maybe so.” You extend a hand to him. “Head back to school with me?” Peter smiles, and takes your hand, pulling you close. “What else would I do?”

[wh6res]

“𝑰’𝑴 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑳𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻, 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑶𝑵𝑳𝒀 𝑺𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑶𝑼𝑹.”

part of the 21 ways to kill your lover collab hosted by the lovely miss solange @du0tine

pairing. entity! xdj & f! reader | word count. 5.4k

synopsis. he wasn’t a god, he wasn’t a devil, and fuck, he’s surely not an angel, but he will be your saviour and your light ‘till kingdome come.

warnings. tread with caution. yandere/possesive themes, religious themes, violence, mentions of gore, swearing, mentions of ptsd, mentions of physical abuse, a lot of character deaths, manipulation, stalking, and implications of suicide

disclaimer. i do not condone whatever tf i wrote in this nor does it reflect my beliefs or values or morals and such. it is all pure fiction and i also dont think xiaojun from wayv would act like this in real life.

a soul’s vulnerability gives him strength. he has scourged far and wide and has yet to encounter a soul as interesting as yours. he never thought a heart filled with hatred and a fragile mentality can be such a sweet combination. xiaojun would be stupid not to latch his greedy talons onto you.

he hides in the darkest corners of your room at night, unseen and unheard, just watching over you like a predator to his poor unsuspecting gazelle before diving into the anticipated chase. 

he moves in with you into the cheap apartment you got for yourself here in the big city—which he thinks is an awful move because of how lonely it’ll be. but hey, it wasn’t anyone’s fault that you got chased out of your own home by your stepdad, your very own biological mom too scared to say a peep of defense to your name. 

your downfalls became xiaojun’s highlights. 

he would’ve felt sorry for you after finding out about that abusive old man. ugh, he scowls. your stepdad makes the entity’s blood boil and he doesn’t even have blood to begin with. the same man who holds the bible in his left hand when he preaches sermons for the people, is the same hand he uses to hit you across the face. 

the same hand he uses to pull at your hair. the same hand he uses to punch your gut. the same hand he uses to shove your mom down when she tries interfering. 

xiaojun may hate men of god but above all, he absolutely detests the kind your old man is—a faker, who thinks he can get away with the shit mess he’s making. xiaojun would never take that preacher’s murky soul even if he offered it to the entity voluntarily. fake. fake. fake. fake. fake. xiaojun should’ve killed him. xiaojun should’ve slit his throat. xiaojun should’ve torn his eyes out—

ah, ah, ah.

he can’t afford to make you any less vulnerable than you already are, now, can he? after all, he can be anything you want but he’s no angel. 

so he watched from the sidelines. 

watched you cry. watched you bleed. watched your scars form. watched the hate and resentment you have for your own family fester in your heart until it grew to a size you can’t hide within yourself anymore. 

and then you left home. 

xiaojun has to admit, for a second, maybe leaving home will make your soul unworthy, will break the mold he’s already had of you and will completely spoil his well-thought out plans.

so really, he can only scoff when he watches you walk around the apartment wearing that pretty dress on a sunday morning, darting around with calculated steps to shove everything inside your bag to go to church. the dress hangs nicely against your skin but he’d rather you stay and wear nothing. 

maybe you’d finally find contentment and happiness in this place, in this city, on your own. soaring high without a cage, without someone to hold you back—these things fill his thoughts like a plague until you come barging back into the door 30 minutes later. 

he’s been watching you long enough to know church service wouldn’t end for another 30 minutes or so. xiaojun’s eyebrows quirk up. why would his fragile little gazelle come back oh so early? but his question is immediately answered when he detects your shaky breaths and the unshed tears in your glistening eyes

you’re suffering the post-traumatic effects your shit stepdad has caused. seeing another preacher must’ve been a trigger, he thinks, eyeing you with a look on his face. xiaojun felt a little stupid. of course, swimming to the surface will be tough with all that trauma anchoring you down.

it’ll be tough, indeed… so why not sink you even deeper?

it didn’t take much energy for him to start manipulating your dreams. every nap, every deep sleep, he’d replay all the horrible things your stepdad has done to you and he realizes how dreams depicted from his perspective took a larger toll on you versus the ones from your own point of view—witnessing for yourself how weak and helpless you had been seemed to chip away bigger parts of you, he notices. your terrified screams when waking up in cold sweat getting louder and louder with every passing nightmare.

he pushed, and pushed, and pushed until you were standing right at the edge of sanity. until you start questioning your own self-worth and judgment, the invisible chains of the trauma too strong to break. until your radiant skin looked deathly, with gaunt cheeks and white lips. until you developed a fear of sleeping because no, you don’t want to witness those horrors again. no. no. no. no, please don’t hit me—

xiaojun can’t help but admire his handiwork but no, he doesn’t have time for that! 

the next time you fell asleep you had been desperately holding onto your 5th bottle of gatorade like it was a torch breaking through the darkness. you’ve intake so much of the energy drink that your body has grown used to it. you would’ve switched to caffeine, but from how much you drank it prior to the energy drinks, your blood is practically coffee at this point. 

“you’re living in my house now, young lady! i’d like to see some respect from your or i’ll fucking beat it into you!”

“stop! please. hit me instead, hit me!” 

“this is all your fault, bitch! how can you raise one daughter wrong? no wonder your husband left you!”

murky and black, you can’t even see the bottom at this point. it keeps pulling you down, and down, and down, until you couldn’t breathe. until your head feels light. until your heart beats erratically within your ribcage as you fought to the surface. 

with all the negative emotions surging through you in thunderous waves, it’s a wonder how no other lonesome, starving entity has latched onto you like xiaojun. although realistically, he was here first, as if he’ll let any other being like him go near you.

it took a greater amount of energy to twist and manipulate the plotline of certain events in a dream. if xiaojun hadn’t grown strong from all your negativity, he’d never be able to do it. 

he can never forget the day he first appeared to you in a dream. to have you cling onto him as you willingly took his hand—not that he was caught by surprise, anyway. every second of every hour of every day xiaojun spent plotting your demise has led to this fruitful day of “meeting” you for the first time. 

“i’m right here,” he said, shaking fingers tracing over your cheeks. a soft caress you have never experienced. 

the man in your dreams is someone you’ve never met before—you’re positive that you haven’t because you’d never forget a face as handsome as his. he appears like an angel casted over divine light, with a soft smile that can cure the plague as he offers his hands for you to take. it was beautiful, how your nightmares turned into dreams the moment the mysterious man arrived. 

how’d you ever know, that the hand you grabbed is the wolf in sheep’s clothing?

it’s sad really, how you’ve only managed to escape one horror only to jump into the next but xiaojun can’t find it in himself to feel bad. well, maybe a little, it’s a fleeting thought. something that disappeared as quickly as it had passed by.

it was only after a few weeks of constantly appearing in your dreams did his plan start to backfire. the change in your behavior isn’t subtle, either, and it angered him all the more. he didn’t see this coming, not even from lightyears away.

simple to say you’ve grown a little more… how can xiaojun put this into words? well, a little more outgoing. adventurous. meeting new people and going to new places and experiencing new things. he can see everything as clear as day—you were healing from your past, leaving the dark chapters in your life to write newer and brighter ones that revolved on having actual healthy relationships for once. 

his seething anger of his failed plans had made all the windows in your apartment burst into thousand little pieces. if you had fine china dishes displayed on your kitchen cabinets he would’ve broken those too. how can you go against him like this? look at you all happy and smiley even as the room turned ice cold because of xiaojun’s suffocating presence. you never even thought once about it—how naive. 

tormenting you through dreams isn’t working anymore. xiaojun has to up his game if he wants to break you down and revert you back to that paranoid, sensitive, and frail self that couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t talk to any other human being without feeling the ghost of your abusive step-father’s hands against your skin. 

who says he can only control you through mind games alone? after he’s done what needs to be done, grief and self-pity will go hand in hand. a combination so cruel and heavy on your shoulders that xiaojun can already savor the metallic tangy taste of victory. 

“no! yeji—!”

xiaojun watches unblinking when he makes one of your new friends walk out the sidewalk and right into an overspeeding car. 

tires skidding across the pavement, the breaks not working, glass shattering, bones cracking against the force of the hit—dead, right on the fucking spot.

he’s never heard you scream that loud and he shudders in pleasure as the vibrations of your shrill voice courses through his veins. 

he missed this, your complete and utter misery. 

but he wasn’t done yet. 

“don’t you think it’s a ‘lil chilly in here?” ryujin asks, looking over to your side before drinking the hot chocolate she prepared for both of you. 

grieving together with a friend can be good, hence why you’re now in her apartment a month later after yeji’s funeral. 

you answer after taking a sip. “no, not really.” 

xiaojun grins, giddy and a skip in his step while making his way towards you as he side-eyes your friend, who religiously drank her hot chocolate all the while bundling up next to you so you both can watch the movie together playing on the laptop. 

this one, well, he particularly doesn’t like this one. 

if your other friend was meant to be a casualty, a death borne from not one smidge of personal vendetta, this one, this ryujin is different. heck, he even remembers her fucking name.

no, no, no. xiaojun can feel his skin crawl as ryujin cuddles intimately closer as she stares at you from her peripheral, feeling out whether you’d react or not as she sneaks an arm around your waist. his anger turns a fever pitch, seeing you with someone else driving him up the wall. you were meant to be his sad and hopeless little gazelle and his alone.

xiaojun hoped the poison travels fast or so help him he’ll fucking rip her off of you—and he would’ve, when he saw you and ryujin slowly leaning into one another, head angled and obviously going in for a kiss. he would’ve, when one of ryujin’s hands come up to cup your face. he would’ve… until the poison reached its destination in her body, right when your lips were about to touch. 

ryujin’s lungs seized, breathing becoming an agent to her demise as the oxygen from her lungs disappear into nothingness. the last thing she saw is your horrified face, tears streaming. she swore you were shouting something, probably her name, but it’s overpowered by the incessant ring in her ears.

when her mouth foamed and she laid limp on the couch right next to you, you knew ryujin would never wake again to give you that kiss. 

xiaojun steps back to admire the havoc he wreaked. two of your friends dead, that should be enough to incapacitate you—whether it be permanent or not, he just wants to see you drown in misery. 

and as he slowly dissipates into the void, there’s a little smile on his face as he stares you down, burning the image of your histeria in his head, the echoes of your woeful cries music to his ears. 

you never dared step foot out of your apartment. 

groceries were delivered to your door, trash is slowly but surely building up, and the place was a whole mess. the entity haunting you has never seen you this… shattered, even when you left home. it was like your brain has stopped working and your body turned into nothing more but a cusp of who you used to be. 

it’s scary looking in the mirror and not recognizing the reflection—so, you painted all of them black. it was an in the heat of a moment kind of thing that took place the moment you came home from the police station, on the exact day she passed away before your eyes. 

xiaojun just has to “misplace” a few pints of paint you had used from when you renovated the apartment in the past, putting the cans where you can easily see them and think that the idea belonged to you when in reality, it’s the entity that put the idea in your head. 

there was a blanket over your shoulder when you came back from the station. it wasn’t yours, they gave it to you while you sat opposite to a stoic detective in a cold interrogation room, yet you made no move to shrug it off even after arriving at your apartment, fingers clutching the fabric like a lifeline and refusing to believe whatever that had transpired in ryujin’s apartment. 

eyes unseeing, stumbling with your steps, back hunched with the curse of the universe weighing down on your back—xiaojun couldn’t’ve been more proud of what he had done.

you were spiraling out of control. a self-destructive cycle you cannot seem to fight your way out of as your nightmares came back to haunt you. the tall waves of anxiety and paranoia drowning and pushing you under the surface. 

for once you don’t fight the current, you just let it pull you under. 

every time you close your eyes, you can hear the deafening screech of rubber tires against concrete before the car hits yeji. can vividly see the foams of the poison coming out of ryujin’s mouth as if it was caught on tape and is now playing on loop. 

your other friends have donned you as bad luck, cursed to have a fucked up life and will fuck up other people’s lives too if they get even as close as an arm length to you. too scared to lose any more people, you decided to completely push everyone away and had completely shut yourself out from the world beyond the four corners of your apartment. 

it’s like your trauma from before has come crawling back to you, only now, he brings himself a little friend called guilt. 

what are the odds that your two friends died after the other when the person they’ve each last spent time with was you? even the police found it too much a coincidence. if it wasn’t for the cctv cams in the corners of ryujin’s apartment, you’d be facing trial for a murder you didn’t commit. 

you eye the usb stuck in one of your laptop’s ports. it’s black, with an srj poisoning case written in red ink on the small patch of masking tape pasted onto the back of the plastic. 

after being stuck in an interrogation room for the last two hours, you had sneakily swiped it out of the detective's desk on your way out of the station. you remembered it was the usb with a copy of ryujin’s cctv cams, some underling busting into the interrogation room while in the middle of your questioning, holding the tiny usb between his fingers. 

your stomach churned when the detective looked at you spitefully, as if he couldn’t fucking care less of the evidence presented to him in a silver platter and would thoroughly take pleasure in throwing you in jail himself, guilty or not. the last look he shot you still sends shivers down your spine, the sharpness in his gaze as he regarded you. “you killed them. i know you did.”

a week of self-induced isolation later and you start to believe in it yourself. 

in the middle of screaming your lungs out and cursing the gods above for your sorry excuse of a life, you had thrown the usb somewhere in the apartment. not that you bothered to look for it right after, you were too busy wallowing in self pity before passing out on the living room floor. when you wake up, you’ve forgotten all about it. 

so it was interesting, seeing the usb again after days and days of wallowing in grief. you had fallen off the couch while in the middle of a slumber and you spotted the small piece of tech lying underneath it with the other empty coke cans. 

eyeing the laptop on the coffee table, you remember you haven’t taken a look at the evidence yourself—the detective had given you the stink eye when you tried shuffling closer to peep a look. carelessly, you shove all other objects off the table to pull the laptop closer. you plant yourself on the ground cross-legged, not batting an eyelash even when you feel the crumbs of chips against your skin. 

you boot the laptop on, thankful you’ve yet to forget its password, and plugged the usb in again. it was simple to navigate, to say the least, the folder popping up in a matter of seconds. you thought it stored a whole collection of her cctv footages but alas, it didn’t, saving you the time and energy scourging through unwanted boring files. 

hands shaking, you clicked on the video. 

and it was as if you’re thrown back into that event in your life that has now become a distant memory. the hug ryujin gave you when she opened the door, her words of comfort when you opened up about your deteriorating mental health after your friend passed away, and finally, the warm feel of the mug against the palm of your hand. 

wait a minute. 

you perk up from your seat, groaning aloud when your knee hits the underside of the coffee table at your haste, fingers darting around to press the back 10 seconds button. the sweat starts forming in your forehead and palms, making your hand feel clammy and disgusting but it was the last of your worries. 

did you see that correctly?

the quality is a bit low and the camera angle isn’t optimal. you can only see ryujin’s side profile but her glassy eyes are unmistakable and her actions look robotic at best. 

this is after she made your hot cocoa and had delivered it to your shivering, sniffling form on the couch, all bundled up snug and cozy in the blanket she provided. you remember ryujin winking as she walked back towards her kitchen after you thanked her. 

the way she poured poison in her own mug ruled her case as suicice. the evidence is right there in your face but the unease still sits heavy on your stomach and confusion clouds your brain like cannabis. 

this doesn’t make any sense. 

you knew her, ryujin. she’s never one to succumb to her negative emotions, always facing her problems with head held high. her overall mindset, in general, made her the last person you’d think would ever commit suicide. you’ve replayed the video a thousand times by now, still unable to wrap your head around the fact that she killed herself. 

having the sudden urge for another bottle of gatorade, you pressed the pause button as you try hauling yourself up with your arms. 

you pause. pushing your face closer to the laptop screen, rubbing at your eyes incredulously as you eye the corner of her kitchen. 

ryujin’s apartment isn’t that luxurious, nor is it too rundown, but there can be little exceptions here and there. 

like the cheap LED bulbs attached rather messily onto her ceiling, one of the six sources of light flickering on and off. you remember how many times you’ve told her to get it fixed yet she never really paid you any heed.

with shaking fingers, you replayed it one more time, hoping on everything you believe in that it wasn’t what it looks like. this can’t be it—how is that possible—

it’s him, the man who has appeared like an angel in your dream to sweep you away from evil. but standing in the corner, under the flickering lights of your friend’s kitchen, he looked anything but an angelic. 

your mind is going haywire, your body shook in confusion, and sweat started dribbling down your neck. you would’ve thought you made a mistake because how is this even possible? the angelic man in your dreams isn’t real—he can’t be real, he can’t appear like this when you aren’t even sleeping because he’s not real!

he can’t… right?

he doesn’t look too harmless, what with his hands crossed and leisurely leaning against the wall. but one look at his eyes and you know you’re wrong. even through the shit quality of the cctv footage you can still feel the fury and the absolute hate his eyes held as he stared her down menacingly, unblinking.

stared her down as she made her own cocoa, as she hunches down to open the sink cabinets to get that pesky rat poison, as she poured it on her mug, as she swirls the spoon around to mix the deadly concoction all together in a hauntingly robotic way that looked too much like ryujin was being told what to do.

and as you let the video play the rest of its content and felt like the tragedy was unfolding right before your very eyes again—you couldn’t breathe, panic gripping onto you like a vice, the sharp talons of fear sinking deep under your skin. 

you don’t register the coffee table toppling over in your haste to stand up. desperately putting a distance between you and the laptop as you turned and stumbled towards the hallway leading to your bedroom. 

you stop, pathetically landing on your knees before the open archway. if you hadn’t been shaking in fear before, then you surely were now. 

he’s here—can you even call it a he?

the man stands at the end of the hallway. in that similar, non-threatening stature with his arms crossed and body leaning against the wall. 

but the mischief in his eyes is enough of a warning. 

he’s come for you. 

he’s come to finish the job. 

“finally figured it out?”

you screamed, throwing the closest thing you can at him as you shuffle someplace else in your apartment. his laugh sounded pleasant in the ear when you were off in dreamland, but now? it sounded like nails grating against a chalkboard. 

your legs eventually led you to the front door. appearances be damned. you weren’t even wearing a bra and you haven’t showered for days but fuck no you’re not going to stay here with that—that—that monster!

“baby, don’t leave! the fun hasn’t even started yet!”

you grab the doorknob and twist, practically throwing yourself out into the hallway, eyes frantic as you stumble and land face first against—

sticky. the floor’s sticky and there was a smell you can’t seem to pinpoint. it’s tangy, metallic, and you can almost taste the scent yourself in your tongue and when you look down—you want to throw up. 

lying next to each other in pools of their own blood, lies yeji and ryujin side by side, faces towards each other. their eyes hauntingly empty and unseeing as they stared up at you. 

you shrieked, voice scratching against your dry throat as you threw yourself back into your apartment, the door slamming shut in itself. you didn’t care if there’s now a huge mess of blood staining the carpets on the foyer. you curl in on yourself, hair sticking to your face as you covered your ears and shut your eyes. 

“oh, my love…”

you felt his presence before you can hear him. 

a flashback plays in your head—hot chocolate, soft blankets, and a friend who you loved with all your heart. “don’t you think it’s a little chilly in here?"

you answered. “no, not really?”

the tears start streaming like waterfalls, mixing with the blood and sweat already caked in your face. ryujin knew, she felt it back at her apartment yet you disregarded her completely.

“it’s not your fault,” the entity’s hands are ice cold when he gently pulls at your wrist. “everything is as it should be. now, open your eyes. there’s nothing to be afraid of. i’m not going to hurt you.”

stubbornly, you shook your head as you squeezed your lids even tighter, refusing to look at the monster dead in the eye.

“don’t be like that, my love. if i wanted to hurt you, i would’ve done it a long time ago.”

you don’t listen, hunching and curling your knees even more against your torso as you try to block out his voice. it’s unfair how gentle it sounded but your blood ran cold when you realize this is how he got ryujin to poison herself, this is how he got yeji to walk in front of a speeding car—

“hail mary, full—full of grace,” you pray under your breath, shaking like a leaf. “the lord… the lord is with thee. blessed art thou among women…”

“you’re praying?” there’s an underlying mocking to e in his voice. “this is fucking hilarious!”

your incessant mumbling partnered with how you rocked your body back and forth, made something snap within xiaojun. he already stated he won’t hurt you! did he break you so much that now you’re unable to hear stuff properly, too?

“holy mary, mo—mother of god, pray for us sinners, now and—and at the hour of our death, amen. hail mary, full of grace…”

“stop.” his body twitches, having the sudden urge to pull all his hair out and burn this fucking building to the ground.

yet you continue. “the lord is with thee, blessed art thou among—among women and blessed is the… the fruit of thy womb, jesus…”

“i said stop, [name]. don’t fucking test me.”

“holy mary, mother of god—pray—pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our—”

you screeched in pain as your forehead comes in contact with a mirror, the sound of it shattering is deafening to the ears. his icy fingers let go of your nape, letting you fall hard to the ground. your ears perk up at the sound of streaming water. 

you weren’t in the foyer anymore, you feel cold tiles instead of the rough texture of the dirty carpet underneath you. eyes fluttering, you slowly pry them open, and the first thing you see is the faulty pipes found underneath your bathroom’s sink. patches of your clothes start getting wet. 

“you think a prayer of all things can stop me? i’m insulted!” you hiss when he grabs your face, hands so cold that it feels like you’re skin is burning off. “i was going to play nice.”

he pulls you towards him, hand encased around your throat. he shoves the open hair dryer into the half-filled bath tub as you feel him vibrate against you. “you don’t know how long i waited, how much energy i needed to appear to you like this.”

it’s with dread you realize that he’s actually giggling.

you whine, eyes feeling like it’ll pop out of their sockets when he squeezed your neck tighter. with a sudden rush of adrenaline, you anchor your wrists against his arm but it proves to be useless when he’s too strong. 

“please,” you wheezed. “i did… i did nothing wrong. let go—please.”

in the corner of your eyes, you stare at him from the mirror, stomach twisting in discomfort when you see him throwing his head back, eyes rolling up after taking a long whiff of your hair. “this—this fear you have, my love, only makes me stronger.”

“nothing… i did nothing wrong—please! please… let, let me go…” you’re starting to feel lightheaded, black spots floating around your vision. 

“nothing? are you sure about that?” 

you cringe when he licks up the tears in your face, toes curling at the sheer disgust you feel. but the words he spews next is far worse than the hand he’s wrapped around your throat. 

“didn’t you left your mom alone with that abusive asshole? didn’t you make yeji walk into that incoming car? didn’t you make ryujin drink that poison?”

he whispers them so softly, so gently that you almost mistook them as proclamations of love. 

“no…” your voice breaks. 

“yes. yes, you did,” he knew you like the back of his hand, knew what to say and how to say them for you to break in his arms. “you killed them, my love. you’re a murderer. you don’t even deserve to be alive after all of the things you’ve done.”

it’s almost pathetic how you shake your head, eyes closed, refusing to acknowledge the truth. 

“that’s… that’s not true…”

“you’re a curse to the people you love, the embodiment of they're suffering. don’t you see it?”

“stop lying!—”

“am i?” he retorts, maneuvering you around to face the mirror. you swore you covered the whole thing with black paint. “just look at yourself.”

oh, how badly he wants to shove your face against the mirror but he mustn't get ahead of himself. 

“did any of your friends even visit you to see how you’re doing?” no, they never did. he smiles like he knows what you’re thinking. “the answer is all before you now, my love. you need to see through the haze and accept it for what it really is. no one loves you. even the god you’re praying to didn’t answer. there’s nothing, no one, left.”

and for the first time since he has you in his tight hold, you stopped fighting. sobs wracking through your body as your shoulders slump and accept defeat. 

xiaojun automatically lets you go, cooing like a lover in your ear as he tucks you into his embrace. “you want this all to stop, don’t you? someone to save you?”

you nodded, unable to look at him as his hand came up to wipe away your tears. no one has ever done that for you in months ever since yeji and ryujin died.

“i’m here,” xiaojun says, running fingers through your hair comfortingly. “i’m your light, your only saviour. you want that, right, my love?” choice is a mere illusion but he likes keeping up with formalities. 

you fail to notice the steps he took towards the now overflowing bathtub, too lost in the new highs and lows of emotions you feel. 

“yes.”

it only took seconds to push you into the tub. its water buzzing with a live electric current brought by the hair dryer he dropped only minutes ago.

the effect is instantaneous. he watches your muscle spasm, your skin growing darker as the live water fries your body alive. quickly, xiaojun reaches down to lift your head out the water, not wanting to ruin your pretty face.

the last thing you feel is xiaojun’s cold lips pressing against your own, the gentle caress as he wiped your tears away… and the electricity finally passing through your heart. 

when the entity pulls away from your dead body, he only whispers three things—“mine, at last.”

[damejudyhench]

Many thanks to @captastra @strangefable @jumpship90 and @kourumi for your writing prompts from the “touch” meme! They went together really nicely, so I’ve combined them into one fic. I hope you enjoy 😊

the prompts were:

2. Running fingers through hair

16. Massaging them

17. Holding the other’s chin up

32. Caressing the other’s back

34. Washing the other’s body

this is so indulgent to me, it’s sfw but I’m still sitting here like 😳😳😳

tags: canon-typical injury, blood, mention of corporal punishment, bathing kink, lying

Max took forever in the shower. It was a fact of life, a law of nature, as inevitable as gravity. Whether it was a trauma reaction to his time in Tartarus, his determination to prove that if cleanliness was next to Lawfulness then he was the most Lawful person on board, or simple vanity; once he was in there, it was almost impossible to get him out. Nyoka, the newest member of their crew, could pound on the door all she wanted; she might as well be cussing out gravity itself.

So Pearl let him be for longer than she might have, but eventually concern started to nag at her. Max was hurt; a larger than average mantis had caught them unawares while they were scavenging the canyon that lay outside of Stellar Bay. They’d all been left worse for wear, but Max had taken the brunt of it, and he’d staggered back to the Unreliable with his face pale, swearing through gritted teeth as he clutched his arm to his chest in the position of maximal stability that signified a fracture or worse. He might need her help. After a few cautious knocks on the bulkhead, followed by a few less cautious, Pearl used her Captain’s override and pushed inside.

Max rounded on her like a wounded animal cornered in its lair. Shirtless, his injured arm strapped against his chest, his other hand held his razor. His jaw was still more than half covered in shaving foam, and she could see a fine thread of bright red blood trickling down the skin of his throat.

“Yes, I am still using the bathroom! Architect forfend someone on this ship might actually possess any standards of decency…”

Screw him.

“Mind you don’t cut yourself,” she snarled back, and left him to his own devices.

Around five minutes later, as she lay on her bunk scanning through an old data pad, there was a knock at the door. Max stood in the gangway, his towel draped around his neck, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I apologise… and I would appreciate your assistance, Pearl. If you’re not too busy, of course.” His tone was courteous, but his face was tight and drawn, and she knew he must be in pain despite the strapping.

“Any time, Max.”

In the shower, she took the towel and the razor gently from his hand and set them on the sink, then turned to face him. His shoulder was bruised an ugly purple and red, fading to deep brown beneath his collarbone where it was dented and distorted. It looked sore as hell, and Pearl sucked her breath through her teeth in sympathy.

She pushed him gently back until he was sitting on the toilet, then took his canidfeather brush and applied a new coat of lather to his face. She shaved him with slow, even strokes, pausing occasionally to grasp his chin and tilt his head from side to side and then back so that she could check her progress. Max looked throughout as though he wanted to say something, but as in love with the sound of his own voice as he was, he kept still to avoid injury.

When she was done, she wiped his face clean with his towel and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Max got to his feet and shuffled toward the shower

“Of all the damned bones one might break, this has to be the worst… I can scarcely do anything by myself,” he grumbled.

“It’s the most commonly broken bone in the body,” Pearl replied mildly. Max had hang ups about injury, about physical weakness. He took it as a sign that he was straying from the path; or worse, that his path lead to destruction. Pearl knew because she’d been raised that way herself. Those who were meant to survive, survived.

That was how her job had worked. She’d treated those whose benefit to their corporation had outweighed the cost of their treatment. Of course, ultimately it was down to the Plan who survived and who didn’t, the corps were kind of a middleman, but the OSI said that was ok because the corps being in charge was down to the Plan too. It was a whole system based on a lie so obvious she couldn’t understand how she’d once believed it, or how so many people still did. Including the man in front of her, who was self conscious about asking for help when he’d broken his collarbone.

She locked the door, unfastened his pants and eased them down over his hips along with his shorts. She made a neat pile of his clothing, then reached for the sling that held his arm.

“You want to take this off or keep it?”

“I’d rather it remain dry.”

“Ok… you ready?”

She let Max brace himself, with his good arm supporting the other, then gently released the sling and added it to the pile. Max flinched, but nodded when she glanced at him. Pearl activated the shower, sending warm water streaming down over his body. She smiled at the sight of him. His hair fell forward into his eyes, and he gave a deep sigh of pleasure.

Pearl stepped back and frowned. It was going to be tough to wash him properly without getting herself soaked in the process. And Max hadn’t been able to shower for a few days, which would have been a torment to him. If she was going to do it, she ought to do it right. Besides, it wasn’t as though they hadn’t seen each other naked before. She undressed quickly, adding her clothing to his own, then bent to pick up the soap and the washcloth. Max’s eyes were wide, and whatever he’d wanted to say before seemed to have gone from his mind entirely. He saw that she was watching him, and hurriedly looked away.

The air was warm and steamy; the water pleasant on her skin. She soaped Max’s shoulders, his chest, carefully avoiding the injured area, then worked her way down his arms. His muscles were tight beneath his skin, and she dug in a little and squeezed, working out the knots in his body. He had thick, strong fingers that were just long enough to be elegant, she thought as she washed his hands. She went to her knees to do his legs, and noticed that his cock twitched a little, but when she looked up at him his eyes were closed, and he seemed quite lost in the moment.

“Spin around,” she said, getting back to her feet. Max frowned, and he once again avoided meeting her gaze.

“I’ll be fine now. Thank you.”

“What? You’re kidding. There’s no way you can use that fancy stick with the sponge on it… I’ll do your back, I don’t mind.”

Max gave a pointed sigh and turned, but she noticed the droop in his neck, the way he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Strangely, he looked frightened.

His broad back was a lattice of scars, and Pearl brought her hand up to her mouth to avoid gasping or otherwise making a sound.

“I haven’t seen it in a while… is it still as bad as I remember?” Max said bitterly.

“They did this to you? In prison?”

“Where else? I can’t remember what I did to earn it. I was hardly a model prisoner, not at first anyway.”

“It’s just scars, Max. You’ve got those grazes on your chest, some on your legs… it’s not that different.”

“It is different,” he hissed. “Because they broke me.”

“They… broke you?”

Max looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You were in prison for heresy, right? And look what you did as soon as you got out. You went straight after the journal, just as heretical as you were before. They didn’t break you.”

On impulse, she hugged him. Her arms around his waist and her chest against his back, both of them slippery with soap.

“You’re stubborn, Max. They could drop Groundbreaker on your head and you’d get up and keep right on going after the Equation.”

He laughed, a sound that was rare and delightful in its rarity, and relaxed beneath her touch as she ran the cloth over his back.

“You have a way with words, Pearl. And you may have a point. Nevertheless, I must ask that you don’t tell the rest of the crew.”

“Your secret’s safe with me… now sit down for this last part.”

Max settled himself on the tiled floor, bracing with his good arm. He leaned back against her legs, a pleasant sensation with his warm wet skin and the solid weight of him. She ran her fingers through his hair, rinsing out the worst of the sweat and the dust, then reached for the elegant glass bottle she’d had her eye on ever since the first time she’d set foot in his cabin.

Max’s voice carried a tone of warning. “That one’s  expensive, you only need a purpleberry sized amount - a fucking purpleberry sized amount, good Law!” Pearl laughed and ignored him, pouring the rich, sweet smelling shampoo into her palm. She lathered his hair, breathing in the scent of lavender and nearmint and Max. His hair was thick and soft, and he groaned in pleasure as she alternated between running her fingers through it and massaging his scalp.

When he was clean from tip to tail she helped him to his feet, let the water rinse over him. Finally, with a nod that mixed pleasure and regret, he was done. She towelled him off and helped him dress and reapply his sling, ran a comb through his hair. She doubted it was to his usual standard, but it kept it out of his eyes.

“Good as new, Max. So listen… our field guide, Nyoka, she’s got something she wants to do that she needs a crew for. If we help her out, she’s gonna give us a big discount in return. So I figure we do her thing, let you rest up, then once you’re all healed we can head out. I’ll find my broker, you can find your… scholar.”

“My scholar,” Max murmured. He took her hand, and for a moment Pearl was again convinced that he was going to say something, but instead he squeezed her tightly. “Thank you, Captain.”

[skellebonez]

Smoke, Flasks, and Unfinished Tasks: Chapter 9

AO3 Link!

Chapter 1 Link!, Chapter 2 Link!, Chapter 3 Link!, Chapter 4 Link!, Chapter 5 Link! Chapter 6 Link! Chapter 7 Link! Chapter 8 Link!

Summary: As their time in the Calabash continues, the trio is face with three very different kinds of scenarios. Some simple, some subtle, all personal. Outside, the elders come to a realization and start to plan.

Warnings: Re-living emotional and physical abuse, psychological torment, panic attacks, blood and injury descriptions.

Author’s note: ... so it’s been... 3 weeks since I last updated this fic. Being honest, I wasn’t happy with what I had already written after re-reading it. I decided to take a week to let what I had left sit and come back to edit again, and then I realized I HATED what I wrote. So I took a second week off updating and completely rewrote everything I had in the fic so far, including this chapter. I think part of the problem was that, at the time I wrote these chapters a couple months ago, we didn’t have the special and the way I wrote the characters when the situation gets heavier felt off to me. Hopefully I have fixed this!

Chapter 9: Mix and Match

Another blink, another move, and Red Son was at the counter of his food stand that he opened for the Lunar New Year festival. Watching as potential customers passed by and looked over their options, still at the festival stall, still at the Lunar New Year festival where...

He blinked again and there was a flash of red and green flames burning in tandem, wrapped around each other and swirling around a figure clad in golden light.

When his eyes opened the visage was gone, not replaced by another change of scenery but back to same view of the festival he had seen before he closed his eyes. Another blink, and time seemed to have moved forward. There was a man standing before him and yelling and grabbing his frock and oh. He remembered this.

“Look, I wanna speak to the manager.”

It was different this time. Red hadn’t blinked, but it was like the world glitched around him in a strange kaleidoscope not unlike a broken computer monitor that made his eyes ache and skipped forward in time. Like someone was pressing the skip button on an online video and jumped over his own response. He watched as the man (was it the same man from the shoe store? he looked like him but he had only ever seen him once before so he couldn’t be sure) ran off after seeing his father, screaming into the crowd and drawing more than a few confused and concerned looks.

A skip. “Great!?” His father yelled with a growl. “I am the Demon Bull King! What would you have me be? The King of Street Food!?”

Red Son opened his mouth and there was another skip, he was right next to his father’s face when he growled at him. He’d made the mistake of mentioning the White Bone Spirit at that time, he remembered. His father had been growing more and more frustrated at this arrangement as the day had gone on and looking back on it now this was possibly the tipping point that made his father snap.

Why had he brought her up in the first place?

Another skip and Red’s head started to feel light, like he was on the verge of feeling like he would pass out but wasn’t quite there yet, and his father slammed his hands into the countertop. “Enough! I may have failed as a conqueror, but I will not be made a fool!”

Once again Red Son opened his mouth to speak and the world glitched again and he was being pulled from the food stall in the hand of his father now changed into his full size, grip almost too tight in his frustration but not tight enough to hurt him. Not physically, anyway. But Red couldn’t help feeling his chest tighten and grow cold despite the warmth that lived under his skin. He knew this was just the Calabash, knew this wasn’t really happening.

But he still knew what was to come. And regret filled his heart like ice water.

“We are going to have a talk, you and I.”

~

MK looked down at his hand, the one that had slammed into the Monkey King’s face still clenched into a fist both shaking and numb, and felt his breathing speed up more and more and his head hurt. His head felt like a steel vice was gripping it and yet like it was empty and too light at the same time, his vision blurred and he distantly heard the familiar voice of his mentor asking him if he was ok and no no he wasn’t ok he was dying.

Except he wasn’t dying, he knew that. He’d experienced this before, many times. A panic attack. He’d be fine, just needed some time to-

“Kid?”

That wasn’t Sun Wukong’s voice anymore.

MK raised his head and his eyes widened at the change in scenery. He was in Pigsy’s Noodles, not on a cliff side after training, and Pigsy had just come back from buying... something, he couldn’t remember what.

But what he did remember were the two people he had just taken his eyes off of.

“Look at us when we’re talking to you, brat!” A woman’s voice, one he hadn’t heard in person in almost two years, rang out before a hand reached out and grabbed a sizeable chunk of his hair and yanked his line of sight back to her.

“Hey, get your hands off my employee!” Pigsy yelled out, dropping whatever he had purchased to rush to MK’s side and grab the woman’s hand and pull it back flush with his head to keep her from pulling his hair out. “Who the hell do you think you are!?”

“Who do you think?” a voice that should have been less familiar now than it was.

His mother was gone. Where his father should have been stood Pigsy, no longer holding the hand in his hair but looking at him in disappointment with a shake of his head. MK looked up and...

Sun Wukong looked down at him with disdain. A look that he hadn’t even given to the Six-Eared Macaque when hey fought, one of pure malice and hatred and his hand went to yank his hair harder before the hand holding his own gripped claws of some kind into his wrist to force him to let go.

“You ungrateful little brat, why did I ever give you a chance to be my successor!” The Monkey King hissed and this wasn’t him this wasn’t his mentor this was not Sun Wukong MK repeated to himself as he felt his chest grow tighter again and he clenched his teeth with a scowl.

He turned behind him and where Pigsy should have been standing behind him, the one to catch him as he stumbled backward, stood someone else. Blurred in computer glitches and shaped with long robes and large ears and a fluffy tail and he could see that the shape of the person was smiling softly. Too softly.

The scenery had changed back to the cliff side and suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and MK jumped and whirled around and saw the once again kind face of Sun Wukong. Marred in worry and fear and confusion. MK flinched back without meaning to.

“Bud? MK? What’s going on?”

~

Nothing had happened since Mei arrived at the festival. Absolutely nothing.

After what happened not even a few minutes ago the dragon was on edge, looking over her shoulder at every movement. She kept her hands in her pockets now, not wanting to look at them. When she did she saw red, a red no one else seemed to be able to see on her, blood from the MK that she had sliced open. It marked her, not only her hands but her clothes and face where it had splattered on her.

She didn’t dare look at her sword.

Logically she knew that it wasn’t real, the Calabash was tricking her senses as best it could. But it felt real, it felt like she had truly killed her best friend on accident and his blood was on her like a warning for others to stay away.

No one did, though. They acted like she wasn’t covered in the evidence of a murder. Maybe that was an error or maybe that was the intent. To make her feel like she was slowly going to fear everyone learning her secret. A secret that wasn’t real. Lucky for Mei she had plenty of experience pretending that everything was alright and moving forward with a smile. More than enough experience.

Something far worse was coming for her though. She could feel it. After what Princess Jade Face had said to her? This couldn’t possibly be the plan by itself.

“You’re acting weird,” Pigsy said beside Sandy and looking up at her on large demon’s shoulder as they watched the parade procession. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“Just thinking about stuff,” she answered with a shrug, easy as saying the sky was blue. It wasn’t a lie, she was thinking about stuff. Just not what the real Pigsy would have expected, or even a construct Pigsy.

“Huh...” the construct Pigsy said with a shrug, turning back to the parade. It was odd though... He hadn’t once mentioned MK like he had during the real festiv- “MK would have liked to see this.” Calabash. Reading her mind. Of course. “I miss the kid...”

So that was the angle Jade Face was playing with right now. Something simple. Something easy. The calm before the storm.

“Yeah, he would have,” Mei sad softly, not looking at the blood still running down her shirt. She watched as a ghost of a wound opened on Pigsy’s back over his clothing, like a preview image of what was to come, choosing to ignore how it looked suspiciously like her sword. Choosing to ignore how the blood seeped over his back and dissipated before hitting the ground and how she could see bits of bone and viscera she should not know the look of in person.

She ignored.

~

“You bastard,” Sun Wukong said with a hiss in his voice, baring his teeth at the Demon Bull King. “You- how could you have possibly thought that was a good idea!? In what universe would that have been the way to make him listen to you!?”

For his part, the Demon Bull King actually looked at least somewhat ashamed. Despite being larger than all of them put together the disapproving glares of Sun Wukong, Tang, Pigsy, Sandy, and even Mo seemed to do their jobs well enough.

“I make no excuse for my words or actions that day,” he said firmly, standing straight with a shake of his head. “But do not doubt that I have regretted and wished to undo them every day since-”

“Since what?” Pigsy snapped, beating Wukong himself to the punch. “Since you said them? Or since he told you to fuck off?”

“Pigsy!” Tang whispered out loudly behind him, grabbing his shoulder and moving his disproving gaze from DBK to give the other man one of worry.

“No, it’s gotta be asked Tang,” Pigsy responded, glower not moving from the larger demon. He didn’t back down, gritting his teeth with a growl of his own building in his throat for them all to hear. “Answer me you-”

“Since he told us to leave him,” DBK answered, his honesty in his tone surprising the pig demon. His face was angry, but Pigsy could tell it wasn’t entirely at him. There was anger at himself there. “Again, I made no excuses. I was blinded by power and anger before and it took much more than it should have for us, both myself and my wife, to realize what we had done. That does not change that it happened.”

“... that’s why you let him stay,” Wukong said after a moment of silence between them. “That’s why you’ve been trying to convince him to come back and why you...” He scowled more, shaking his head with a conflicted look of anger and sorrow on his face. “You’re actually trying to make it up to him somehow.”

“Poorly,” DBK also admitted in shocking honesty, sighing before he rotated his shoulders and morphed in front of them. Shrinking down to a more reasonable side, not that much taller than Sandy. “I know I have made mistakes and this alone won’t set things right, but I do care about my son.” He said ‘son’ like it was the most odd word to say, like he hadn’t said it in a long time but he finally understood what it meant. After what he had told them, it made sense. “We will help you find him, and you have my word that should he chose to return to your side we will not stop him.”

“But you won’t stop trying to convince him to give you another chance, will you?” Wukong asked, looking up at DBK. His face was neutral once again, businesslike. Testing the waters.

“No, I won’t,” DBK admitted something for the third time, nodding his head. He was serious.

Wukong turned back to the rest of his companions, three of them looking at Pigsy instead of Wukong. The two once-brother in arms looked at each other. One middle brother and one eldest. Wukong nodded to Pigsy, a silent acquiescence.

‘It’s your decision now’ the nod seemed to say.

Pigsy waited a moment, weighing his options. This had only made his disdain for the Demon Bull Family grow more... but his kids were still in danger. What was worse? Working with someone he hated to help the people he cared about? Or pushing aside help they may desperately need due to that hate?

“... Fine. But you are going to give us everything we need.”

“That can certainly be arranged,” Princess Iron Fan’s voice rang through the room, entering the room with a veritable army of Bull Clones carrying everything from tech to tables and chairs in behind her. “Where shall we begin?”

[scarletbluebird13]

Hi! Can I request some MK angst.

Hiya! You absolutely can! One thing tho, I didn’t know if you wanted a specific character or not, so I did a hc just to be safe :) Hope that was okay and that it’s to your liking! :

Without You

Kazuomi:

You were a flower. The most graceful thing he’d ever come across

Everything literally dulled around you

He loved your passion, wit, and sharp tongue.

You were the only one who’d ever really challenged him and didn’t succumb to his charisma.

Maybe he liked the chase

Or maybe it was you he liked - maybe it wasn’t the chase

Was it the way you made him feel?

The way your hair’d fall elegantly, perfectly, gracefully down your back with no effort?

Was it how you never gave him a moment’s peace?

Whatever it was, you were all he could think about

Had the situation been different - one little thing changed -

If he’d been the one to offer you a ride to Raven Resort, maybe none of you’d be in this situation.

But that didn’t happen.

And he knew even if he’d offer to pick you up and bring you to the resort, you’d probably swat his hand away and give him another tough time.

Maybe - if he’d just opened his mouth that one night and told you how he felt, he’d be able to give you the roses and see your smile - that is, if Arisa Mifune could smile.

Either way, he wouldn’t be putting the roses here.

Laying them atop your headstone, that is.

They say it was an accident - you were on your way to the resort like Kazuomi’d asked you,

...but you never made it.

A robbery, they called it.

But it wasn’t true and he knew it.

You could take on any man four times your size, but you were still gone.

This was no normal robbery.

This was something much larger, and he knew it.

But he couldn’t do anything about it.

Ever since he heard about your death, he stopped functioning.

He tried to find comfort in the resorts he built - where you felt needed, where you felt like you belonged and weren’t alone.

But that didn’t work.

Yuzuru and Kei tried to cheer him up, but he was a broken man.

No amount of whiskey could fill him -

Hell, he lacked the energy to talk to other people.

His charisma dulled, and every woman who threw herself at him - he was repulsed to look at.

They weren’t you.

Then again

He believed he would have you if he’d been a man and admitted how he felt about you earlier.

But for now and probably for the rest of his painful life, he’d live solely to regret not being there for you. He really believes it was his fault.

Yuzuru

You two were the happiest people in the world

Kazuomi and Kei’d always make little jabs at you two here and there

Occasionally Victoria would say something to make you blush - even if it was reminding you you had access to Yuzu’s room (plus his special one), or reading Yuzu’s temperature out loud whenever things got steamy.

You were the only one who was capable of making the ringing in his ears stop.

He was at peace with you

And the woman you’d revealed yourself to be - not just the real you, the woman you’d grown to become as well - he found, was never meant to be his in the first place.

You were hanging around with Yuzuru as usual.

Wondering about the latest bit of tech he was perfecting.

When there was an unfortunate accident.

You were tagging along slightly behind Yuzuru, asking him a bunch of questions - ones you’ve already asked, but wanted to ask again just to annoy him a bit

“What’s the new techy thing you’re working on again, Yuzuru?”

“When’s it gonna be released?”

“How does it work?”

“Who is it meant for?”

“Can I help?”

He didn’t mind the questions

He thought they were cute - even if it was the hundred-millionth time you’d asked

Plus he chose to see it as you taking an interest in his work ...not just you actively deciding to annoy him

On one of these days, however - one of the rare days you’d followed him to work

A flood light fell.

They were working on the ceiling, and one of the workers shifted a certain way

Accidentally knocking a heavy, steel flood light off the ladder it was resting on.

It hit you on the head.

When Yuzuru heard the BAM and your cry - he turned around like no one’s business

He was all over you in a millisecond.

Your robotic boyfriend was full of concern - petrified for you.

You were lucky you didn’t black out

Or, for that matter, that all there was to prove the incident ever happened, was a red bruise forming on the top of your head, under your hair.

That and, at the moment, throbbing pain.

It hurt so bad and you were in so much shock you didn’t speak.

You tried not to cry

But you did - and they were silent tears.

Alarmed, Yuzuru took you to the ER.

After a while, the doctors said you were fine - even taking a CAT scan just to be safe.

At first, you seemed to be normal. So they let you go.

Still, Yuzuru was so very concerned about you.

He insisted on staying around you 24/7

But you insisted you were fine.

Unfortunately, that bright smile you gave him on that last day was the last time you knew who he was.  

In less than three days since the accident, Yuzuru noticed a change in you.

You were different

But he didn’t know exactly how you were different, he just knew.

One evening, you stumbled upon the door in his living room - the one with the picture of his family when he was younger - and you said something.

“Hey, what’s this?”

That’s when his worst fears were realized.

Something definitely happened. And you most certainly were not okay or “fine.”

He took you to a neurologist

They did an MRI scan and an EEG scan.

That’s when they found the problem.

Your amygdala was damaged.

It controlled your memories, personality, and judgement calls.

He knew you weren’t the same

He paid for the best doctors his money could buy - the best in the country

You had a surgery to help repair your amygdala

But your chances weren’t very good -

The doctors explained that to him a thousand times over

When you woke up, Yuzuru Shiba had been wiped from your memory.

Your memories, your secret promises -- gone.

That fast, someone Yuzuru cared about so much, was gone.

So he did what he thought was best and let you go

Of course, he only did this after a year of caring for you and trying to get you to remember him -

But someone else caught your eye.

And he had to let you go.

He decided he’d remember your time together - for the both of you.

He’d never see that dazzling smile aimed towards him ever again.

Your smile, laugh, relentless questions, and heart all belonged to someone else now.

Kei

He’s never known how to communicate his emotions.

It’s just something he’s always struggled with.

He liked you, he really did

He was just too conflicted on how to show it.

He thought pain and bondage were the best way to show he cared for you

But he just didn’t understand

That you’d never get the hint if he continued that way of expressing himself.

Had you tried to understand the eccentric Kei?

Yes. Yes, you have.

You’d tried communicating with him for over six months and trying to explain what you felt towards him

But he just…only knew how to communicate his feelings of affection for you by causing you pain and bondage.

He thought if he let you catch him with another woman in bed, the pain would be so much for you, you’d be bound to understand his overwhelming love for you

But it didn’t necessarily go as planned.

When you saw him in bed with her, you were done.

You packed your bags and left.

A few months later, Kei spotted you at a café with some guy

You made eye contact with Kei, standing there across the street, head tilted to the side, silently observing you two

And you moved closer to the gentleman you were sitting with - unbeknownst to Kei, he was a target.

You placed a gentle finger on the man’s arm, and directed all your attention towards him.

Kei, ignorant to the fact the man you were sitting with was your target, decided to let you be.

If you were happier with someone else, then so be it.  

Boss

He should have never sent you on that mission.

The one that’d be your last.

There is no “worst part” for him.

Every second he lived out while you were in this state was hell to him.

You two were lovers.

Finally, after god knows how many years of you crushing on him and him secretly side-eyeing you.

He finally had you -

And he was happy

When it lasted, of course

But god, or whoever runs the universe - he’s lost all faith in anything - is a sadistic son of a bitch.

But he knew he couldn’t blame something on this like the universe

No

It was his own fault

For sending you on that mission

He knew it was dangerous

And he told you so

But you wanted to do the mission anyway

And he assigned the mission to you, trusting only you - since you were his number one agent

His protégé.

Now you were also the only thing he could think about

Night and day.

Tormented by the smile he knew he’d never see again.

That laugh he’d never hear.

The feeling of his arms around you.

None of it.

He’d lost it.

Forever.

Rather, he believed he threw it away.

Something went wrong during the mission, and what’s worse, you weren’t even dead.

You were still alive.

But you had to live out your days in a coma.

Practically brain dead.

The doctors said it wasn't good.

That your chances were slim to none

But he still visited you every day.

Held your hand

Played with your hair.

Before, he brought Hugo to do your hair and make up for your anniversary.

But Hugo just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Since then, it’s been him, the nurses, and doctors walking in and out of your room.

He visited you not only because he loved you or he felt guilty, rather,

He believed he had to have hope that you’d wake up.

That one day your eyes would open, you’d groan and this horrible, terrible nightmare would cease to exist.

He had to believe it.

It’s what happened in movies, right?

He had to believe you’d wake up.

He just had to.

Afterall, you’d wake up.

...right?

[cristalknife]

Kadam Week 2021 Day 4 ~ You are my treasure, can I keep you as part of my hoard? 1/4

This is me trying to not start something on a platform only to post solely somewhere else aka AO3 and ff.net  you can find the complete list of Kadam Week 2021 prompts and you might find more stories on the Kadam Week 2021 AO3 collection Someone please take the time to appreciate me not dumping a 23K+ story into a single post, OK thanks for coming to my Ted talk 4° prompt is I Had the Strangest Dream

namely kadam AU... And what you got is a dragons!kadam au where Kurt got into Nyada after his first audition, the story starts with Kurt still in Lima and still with Blaine. Because Klaine needed to die a painful death and you deserved to see that ship crash and burn... I present to you You are my treasure, can I keep you as part of my hoard?  (In four parts Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 or read complete on ao3  or ff.net)

It was a rather well known fact that Nyada, being so exclusive and with limited opening every year, had a policy to never take more than a single student from the same school, even if there were more than one valid finalists.

What was not that well known, and certainly not at all advertised, was that such rule did not apply to supernatural beings.

If prospects were inclined toward the arts, and willing to join at least for the time of their education, the colony and the current ruling council.

Then they would be evaluated more on aspirations and skills, disregarding the presence of other finalists from the same school.

Once evaluated they would then be offered a position within one or more of the majors the school had that were in tune with the candidate's ability and affinities, rather than the candidate's preferred and declared choices.

Sometimes those two things matched, other times they didn't match at all.

In the end, once the offer was made, and it was cleared up that it was a non negotiable one, the prospect had to choose whether to accept the position offered by the Nyada's council, or simply choose to attend a different school.

When Kurt aced his audition he could hear the gears in Madam Tibideaux's mind turning, and humming pleasant vibrating sounds all around her. She was not at all like Kurt expected her to be, she felt like more, a more he couldn't place.

His dad had always been larger than life, Carole simply didn’t have the same presence about her.

And he knew that, despite loving how good she was for Burt, Kurt had yet to properly warm up to Carole. She was ok, he guessed, and she made his dad smile and feeling happier than Kurt could remember since his mom died.

But also she felt different... He felt awful for thinking so, but she sort of felt less...

Kurt had no idea who had come to examine him, or better he knew who she was, he just did not know there was also a what she was part that was making Kurt feeling even more invigorated and able to express himself fully.

Rachel on the other hand choked up, on a song she knew by heart, that she had sung so many times she should have muscle memories of how to produce those lyrics...

When the time got closer for their letters to arrive Kurt started to receive condescending looks full of pity, especially from his boyfriend.

When Rachel's letter arrived and she miraculously got in, everyone felt like they simply had to come to Kurt and offer their condolences and unique brand of what was supposedly comfort…

And worse of all Blaine had been the first in line to do so…

"Oh Kurt it's so bad you got to compete against Rach for the position at Nyada, but on the bright side you can stay here with me until I graduate and then we can move together to New York. Of course you'd have to wait another year before you'll be able to try again join Nyada, but at that point at least you'll have worked enough that maybe your cv won't look so anaemic..."

Kurt went rigid at Blaine's words and pressed his lips "Excuse me? Are you implying that you know already and more importantly you fully believe that I've been rejected when my letter didn't even arrive? And you dare to talk to me about my CV after you took the male lead part that was supposed to go to a senior in our only production? When you knew I needed it"

Blaine didn't even have the good grace of looking ashamed nor did he even give any indication of understanding why Kurt might be upset.

"Oh come on Kurt don't be so dull, we all know that only one student per institution can get in. And Rachel got her acceptance letter already, so clearly you've been rejected, but as I was saying it's ok. It even works out better this way. You'll stay here with me while I graduate and then we'll move to New York together, and we'll have enough money to have our own place"

That things with Blaine hadn't been that good was neither a good nor a new news, but this was taking the cake and Kurt huffed irritated "So you expect me to fail in reaching for my dreams, stay in Lima of all places, waiting a year for you to graduate and then do what exactly? Move to New York to work before I try to join my dream school, is that what you see and hope for my life?"

Blaine frowned confused "There's nothing wrong with that Kurt come on, you know what I mean, it's not like you're what people expect from a leading man anyway... I mean I support you but you do stand out too much, and you know, there's being a star and then being a little too unique to ever get a role. It's not a bad thing, it’s just, it makes things difficult and I don't want you to fail, I just want you to have realistic expectations... You know I love you, it's just you can be a little too much for people who don't get you..."

With every additional word that kept pouring out of Blaine’s mouth, Kurt felt something changing and growing at the very centre of his being.

Something he hadn't felt since he was a small child, and got so mad for the first time in his life that he pushed back one of the other kids that were tormenting him...

An action that then his mom scolded him thoroughly, making him promise to never seek violence as a way to solve a conflict. To always take a step back when he felt the sensation of something crawling under his skin ready to explode and make whatever was troubling him disappear.

This time however, it was starting to become harder to resist the temptation to just let it all go, just for this once.

Was this really how love was supposed to be? Because it was starting to seem like he was the only one with expectation to fulfil. And the worst of those expectations was the fact that apparently he was supposed to be the one making compromises…

It was becoming tiresome to say the least.

"Blaine tell me honestly is this what you think?"

Kurt's tone was clipped when he asked that, and yet Blaine once more gave no indication of seeing what was going on.

On the contrary, the boy had the gall to start getting upset, his voice turning into a whine

"Kurt come on, why are you being so difficult, I'm trying to be considerate here but you always make such a fuss about nothing, You're such a drama queen"

And with that something inside Kurt broke...

Whether it was something finally breaking free or simply a dam breaking down he did not know. Nor did he know whether where or how the growling sound reverberating in his throat originated from…

But one thing he did know. This was it, he had reached the point where he couldn't stand the being in front of that, that boy anymore...

With what was Kurt's iciest tone he said "If this is how you feel, then I believe we have nothing else to do. You are never around even for things you planned and scheduled. You don't answer when I call, and if you do answer my messages it’s hours later without apologies or explanations. And if what I've been told is correct, you'd rather spend your time with your friend Sebastian rather than staying with me"

Blaine didn't even let Kurt finish as he started countering "It's not my fault if you seemed so intent on leaving me behind as soon as you'd get your diploma from here. I was just trying to survive without you . Excuse me for being happy about not having to worry about being left behind by my boyfriend. Who I might add, was all too happy to discard me like yesterday trash for a shiny new life in New York, over six hundred miles away from me. How is it a bad thing being happy about having more time together?"

And Kurt was beyond furious "So as long as you are not left behind who cares if my life and my dreams get destroyed? Seriously what's wrong with you. You always comment on how supportive I am of you, and I've tried even when it hurt, even when to be honest I shouldn’t have. So why you never ever try to reciprocate? Why does it always have to be me, the one compromising?"

Blaine assumed that half irritated, half hurt that seriously implied that Kurt was being unreasonable and hurting him for futile reasons, as once again he started to talk over Kurt "Kurt stop being so unreasonable, why are you hurting me? I never asked you to compromise, in fact how can you even say such hurtful things? I was the one who left Dalton to transfer here for you, I was the one who didn't audition for Tony even if I could have used the role as well… It's not my fault if Artie, coach Beiste and Miss P thought I was a better Tony than you. Why are you blaming me for the decisions of others? Especially since it's not exactly my fault if you keep flaunting such extravagant outfits at all times... Why do you ask me that? It's not a matter of your dreams going up in flame or your life being destroyed, don’t you see that was exactly what I was talking about... You're just being overly dramatic instead of taking things with a pinch of maturity, you are such a crybaby at times, can we please stop this nonsense? It's just upsetting me, and it's not like it'll change the content of your nyada letter anyway. There's no need for us to fight over something so stupid..."

Then Kurt relaxed and nodded, and for the first time he saw exactly the moment when Blaine's expression shifted from hurt and pleading to a complacent one, clearly thinking that once more things had gone his way...

To a certain extent he was right, Kurt was going to at least partially grant him his wish for this to stop…

The only part Blaine might not yet realise was that Kurt would make it stop forever.

This was it, any chain, any bond that could have ever existed before, was now absolutely left in tatters on the floor as Kurt was going to soar high in the sky and fly free.

"You're right"

Blaine nodded and grabbed Kurt's hand patting it condescendingly.

Kurt hastily removed his hand from Blaine, motion that provoked Blaine's eyebrows to shoot up in surprise as he started to say "What.."

Kurt took a leaf out of Blaine's own book and started talking over him continuing with determination "You are right that we need to stop this nonsense, clearly you feel this way and I'm not going to ask you to change your mind."

Blaine's surprised expression softened into a pleased smile as he nodded, only to turn into a shocked frown as Kurt continued unrelentlessly "But I won't change my mind either. Whether I've been accepted or rejected from Nyada it won't matter. For one, I have other colleges I've applied to that I could attend coming fall, some of which I already have acceptance letters from. Something that had you been around like a boyfriend ought to be, you would have already known. So either as soon as I graduate or at the end of the summer I will leave Lima behind. But don't worry I won't leave you behind then"

Blaine was still frowning but offered a tentative smile and a nod. That until Kurt smiled back at him, in the same icy and sarcastic way that he had seen Kurt smile at Sebastian in those moments, right before and after they started one of their rounds of bickering.

"I won't leave you behind then, because I'm breaking up with you right now. Clearly we want different things from life, and hey we both know we had problems long before now... Who sets up appointments to make out? I might not have had other experiences before, but I can tell you this is not what I expected being with someone to be like. And you are not living up to the teenage dream you promised me either. So here's me growing up and taking things with a pinch of maturity. We’re done."

Blaine blinked confused and looked up at Kurt with his patented wounded puppy eyes, and for the first time Kurt started to wonder if what was going on wasn't as much as adorable obliviousness, as he had always assumed, but rather a masterful use of emotional manipulation.

Kurt looked down at Blaine, and for the first time he felt the bile rising up at the mere thought of having bowed down to this for over an year now, for having allowed himself to become nothing more than a spineless whipping boy. And in exchange for what exactly? For a boy who apparently had no care for him at all despite proclaiming his love? For a relationship in which he was the only one having to renounce things to make the other happy?

He didn't know anymore, and he wasn't that sure he even wanted to know at this point. He just wanted out of this situation for good.

Blaine was still staring like he couldn't understand Kurt at all as he voiced his confusion "What? I don't understand... Why are you trying to get back at me this way Kurt? Look I'll leave now, you clearly need the time to cool down, don't worry I won't hold this against you. I can see you're upset, and I do get how much it must hurt not having been accepted to the only school you applied to. There is no need to invent stories about how you applied to other schools and how you'll leave Lima after graduation or at the end of the summer just to get back at me. Rach told me you both applied only at Nyada and she got in, so clearly you would have no other place to go to..."

Kurt shook his head and felt the profound disappointment in seeing that even now Blaine simply either wasn't listening to him or didn't care at all about what Kurt had to say...

In a way it was a pity, he looked around and for the first time he was grateful that there were witnesses listening into every word they were exchanging, in fact Kurt thought he had also seen Jacob Ben Israel...

So he simply shrugged and left to go to his locker. He picked up what he needed, then simply walked out of the school without a second thought. Just to be on the safer side he sent a quick text to the whatsapp group chat that had all the glee club members on it that read simply ‘I just broke up with Blaine, I will never get back together with him so if someone is not happy with it either keep your mouth shut and your nose out of my own business or feel free to stay the hell out of my life for good. This is all I'll say on the subject and that's not up to debate. I hope we'll manage to finish the time we have until graduation with civility. Kurt’

Then as a second immediate action, he went and changed his status on facebook making a quick work of removing any trace of him and Blaine together from his albums and shared pictures, proceeding to repeat the procedure also on instagram and from his own phone.

The more he purged his profiles of Blaine, the more he noticed how much of a shadow of his former self he had become in the time they had been together. It was staggering seeing how, by removing Blaine from his storyline, only few traces were left of what happened to him in the past year.

Shaking his head he shot a quick text to Finn, letting him know he was going to pass by the garage to see dad before going home, and that he was leaving immediately because he didn't want to be cornered by anyone wanting to talk about the fact he broke up with Blaine.

Finn simply sent a smiley face and two thumbs up, apparently, despite all his fears, Kurt was still going to have someone on his side by the end of the tragedy... It was a comforting thought.

He relished in it as he drove to the garage, once there he called out "Hey dad do you have a minute?"

Burt called out from the farther aisle, and Kurt smiled and waved at Carl and Kenneth as he passed by the two other mechanics at work.

Once Kurt was close by, Burt tensed and looked completely frozen in worry and surprise a low growling "Damn" escaped Burt's lips as he grabbed the rag and cleaned his hand "Kurt we need to talk"

Kurt smiled and nodded "Yeah we do I just broke up with Blaine and I'd really appreciate your support if you could make sure to not let him into the house next time he comes around. Because despite telling him I was breaking up with him, he was acting like he wasn't listening to me, so I just wanted to make sure you knew. I am going to tell Carole as soon as we get back home, but... Dunno why, I felt like I had to come to you first and that it couldn't have waited till you'd get home, I'm not sure exactly on the reason behind such reasoning"

Burt kept a close look on his son and then said without preambles "Something else happened, didn't it?"

When Kurt didn't say anything but reluctantly nodded once, before looking surprised he had done that, Burt had all the answers he needed.

Kurt was as a dagon just like himself, just like Elizabeth had been, it was strange that it took so long for his supernatural heritage to pick that up, he should have taught so many things to Kurt already, but he never smelled like a hatchling or a youngling, Kurt had always smelled faintly like his Lizzy did... And a doubt started to creep up on Burt, Elizabeth and him had never discussed their supernatural heritage, he had always assumed that it was because Elizabeth was an orphan and she had ended up in Lima living with a distant relative that didn't have any trace of supernatural vibe to her, hence making the subject taboo in her household.

But now he wondered if she was simply not sure about Burt's own knowledge on the subject, or even possible reactions, if he was honest he could admit to have never been that interested in properly grooming that side of himself. He was more than happy to pass his live as a good mechanic, restoring cars to their original beauty.

He always felt too out of place in the sanctuaries, or trying to fly with other dragons living in the neighbourhood. He was nothing as impressive as the others, his own scales dull and his wings barely able to lift him off the ground and be serviceable, nothing like the spectacular acrobatics of the likes of Alexander Smythe or even Matt McNamara.

But that was still at a time when Lizzy was still alive. When she died, he simply didn't want to see the signs of what losing his mate had done to him, he had a normal kid, who apparently wasn't really normal at all, and in his grief he never looked deeper.

But something must have happened, because for the first time his son smelled like mint honey and rosemary, not at all like the sweet vanilla and ginger that was Lizzy’s scent, nor his own sandalwood and musk, nor was his son’s scent a mingle of those two scents as it would have been for a youngling.

Kurt had already grown into his own individual, and Burt had not prepared him yet for what it meant to be a dragon... And on top of that his kid was more than ready to leave and abandon this small town to live his life as soon as possible, giving Burt even less time to try to remedy to the many years they had already lost.

He was wondering exactly what happened for Kurt to break through, what probably was meant to be a temporary block that Lizzy had put on their child when he was very young, maybe to help him control his emotions, preventing emotional escalation and incidents that could have revealed their supernatural status to people without any prior knowledge of it, in a traumatic way.

"Let's go take a ride son and you can tell me what happened in details"

Kurt blinked confused, he had seen his dad looking at him rather surprised and then contemplative, and to be honest Kurt hadn't really intended to say or let his dad know that something had happened, mainly because he couldn't really explain it, he wasn't sure what had happened, even if he was sure something did…

While lying to his dad had not been an option, even when he managed to keep his mouth shut, preventing what seemed insane rambling to escape his lips, a part of him had wanted to just obey.

Somehow recognising the authority Burt still had over him, and it was a strange feeling, nothing like he had felt before, not that he didn't respect his dad, but at the same time he had never felt compelled to cower enough to tell him the whole truth…

As they walked out the garage Burt said softly "Do you want us to take the Navigator or shall we take my truck? We are going to do some off the road driving"

Kurt looked at his dad through slitted eyes, "I'll tell Finn to get a lift to pick my baby and take her home, we're taking your car to go wherever you want us to go, without me having to scrub mud from my baby for the next fortnight."

Burt chuckled and while Kurt took care of talking with Finn, he made a quick call to Carole telling her that something had happened with Kurt beside him breaking up with his boyfriend, and that he needed to get to the end of it, see if he could get his son to talk, and that he would tell her later what he found out...

He left behind that probably what he was going to share was going to be an edited version of what happened if his suspicions were proved correct. Burt, in a sudden strike of inspiration grabbed from the locker room Kurt's coverall and the changing bag his son had taken to keep here at the garage, if his nose wasn't wrong, then those might come in hand to make their journey back home more comfortable if things went wrong.

It took less than Burt remembered to reach the sanctuary's valley, and the closer they got, the more he could see Kurt's fascination growing, "So buddy what else happened, tell me please, even if it sounds crazy I want to know what went down with you"

Kurt looked a little worried before starting speaking "This might end up sounding crazy, but it felt like something broke, and at the same time it felt like I was free to fly for the first time... The way Blaine was speaking was making me so mad, and I know, I know I promised mom that I would never try to go with violence as a way to find a solution to an unpleasant situation. But I swear if you could have heard the bullshit he was saying, he was so condescending... Did you know that they are all assuming that just because Rachel got her acceptance letter from Nyada, that I would be automatically rejected? And I mean Rachel choked on her audition... If she did get in and I didn't I’m not even sure I'd want to get into a school with such screwed up criteria of selection."

Burt nodded, in that sea of words there were some things that clearly resonated with him. If Lizzy thought she and Kurt were the only dragons in their family then she probably had put a block around Kurt's powers to keep them tamed while he was growing up. Probably expecting to be there when he should have started to learn control over his abilities, around his twelfth birthday…

Burt hummed and nodded, totally understanding his son's point of view, and then prompted "And how did it felt? I'm not judging, but you sounded more surprised rather than upset about this whole ordeal"

Kurt took a deep breath and looked outside the window "I felt free... Like things were finally right, and Blaine, Blaine felt all wrong. Like I couldn't even believe why I had him in my life, like he wasn't supposed to be next to me at all. And it made me mad seeing that he wasn't even listening to me. I was there, telling him I was done with him and he left saying that he would not hold against me things I said when I was clearly upset... As if his assumption of me being rejected by one school would be the reason why I'd broke up with him, and it wasn't for example how he expected me to stay in Lima for another year until he graduated, in the meanwhile while I would surely fail again to get into nyada because he was applying..."

Kurt's rage was rapidly brewing up, and Burt could hear his son's breathing slowly turning into steam, only for his son to surprise him taking a deep breath and exhaling it with just a low hiss.

"He made me so mad I really fished to roast him, incinerate him right there where he standed, but alas even if I could have done that it was going to create so many problems that it wouldn't have been worth the satisfaction of doing it..."

Burt grinned amazed at his son's natural control, or maybe it was just that he trained in a whole different way than Burt himself had been trained...

He stopped the car and then patted his son on the shoulder "You did good son, I'm so proud of you, now come with me there's something I need to show you,"

Kurt felt himself preening under the unexpected praise. Burt directed them to what looked like the edge of a rather deep canyon, and Kurt looked worried at his father as he asked questioning "Dad?"

Burt smiled softly, in a way that Kurt hadn't seen since before his mom got sick "Buddy I don't know how else to do this, and I really wish your mom was here to help me out, so please forgive me for what I'm about to do."

The words made Kurt's blood freeze inside his veins, and in less than a second Burt had taken three steps back and was falling over the edge.

Without even realising he was moving, Kurt dived in after his father, and all of a sudden his vision changed, the world got blurred for a moment and the image of Burt falling body blurred as well, before being replaced by a bulky reptilian dragon, with sturdy wings to carry the compact body.

Kurt felt the wind offering resistance to his fall, and in a blink of an eye what was resistance was actually offering him support. Instead of keeping him from falling, like it had seemed in the beginning, Kurt found himself raising up above the canyon and into the sky.

And the dragon that used to be where his father was, suddenly raised up into the sky as well, emitting a sound that Kurt knew were not words, but that he could surprisingly understand anyway. They were directions telling him to land down on the clearing in the middle of the trees on their left. Kurt saw exactly the spot and dive in with surgical precision, landing exactly where he wanted, on the sandy patch on the lake shore.

Once there, in what felt a little mixed up curiosity and vanity he peered on the water to see his own reflection, and discovering that indeed he looked like a dragon too, he could see a silvery reflection, and he could feel something in on the top of his head, floating, he instinctively knew those appendices were having the same function as a cat’s whiskers.

As he tried to look at himself the only difference he could see, compared to what he saw of his dad, was that where his father was compact and sturdy, with wings short and strong, his own figure seemed to be made for agility and precision, his wings complimenting his agile body shining in the afternoon light.

With a lot less grace than Kurt had, Burt landed in the middle of the clearing where the grass was, he then turned into his human form to smile at his son "You did well buddy, now can you figure out how to return to your human form or do we need to find a way for you to get home this way?" the tone was teasing, and Kurt wasn’t amused at all.

He didn’t know exactly how it happened, but he could distinctly feel the need to express his frustration into a way this form’s language would not be able to properly express.

There was no such sound he could find that would carry on the meaning of your stunt scared me to death or the you don't get to make jokes like that.

There were some words that could be translated but even putting them together Kurt knew they wouldn't be able to carry on the same message he needed to rant at his father.

So there was no other option but having access to his human mouth, that was what he needed at the moment, and without even realising what he did, Kurt found himself standing in front of his grinning father.

He took exactly ten milliseconds of taking in his father’s expression for him to take a breath and starting to deliver a well deserved dressing down to the other man for his actions.

"How could you do that to me? I was scared to death, you made me think you were committing suicide in front of me. It sounded like you were saying goodbye and instead you just wanted to go for a fly? What the heck dad? Come on couldn't you have sat with me, safely inside your truck, and told me calmly Kurt we are dragons we can transform in giant flying reptiles and that's ok it's just who we are and there's nothing wrong with it, and then maybe actually telling me how that happened instead of jumping that way???"

If Kurt had been less scared and traumatised, maybe then he would have noticed the mischievous look into his father's eyes, as things were he completely missed that and when Burt opened his mouth and started answering Kurt’s immediate reaction was to groan "Well son, when a female dragon meets a male dragon and they love each other very much, they end up mating in human form, and the the female becomes pregnant, and then their offspring has high chances of having their supernatural heritage as well, meaning that he is born a dragon as well..."

Kurt scoffed irritated "Funny dad, very funny ah-ha"

Burt chuckle stopped and he sighed softly as well before saying sincerely "I'm sorry Kurt, I didn't want to scare you or upset you that much. I just didn't know how to do this. And I really didn't want to do to you what my pa did"

Kurt raised an eyebrow in silent question as he crossed his arms on his chest, realising for the first time that he was wearing clothes, and that those ere not the ones he had on before he transformed...

Burt shrugged and offered a tight smile "He was doing very much a lion king scene, you know that moment when Mufasa is telling to Simba about one day having to rule over all that was touched by the sun moment…”

Kurt nodded slowly releasing his arms listening as Burt continued "Only for him to then give me a pat on the back that sent me flying over the edge, making me feel like I was falling to my death before I figured out how to transform and fly"

At the scandalised look that Kurt was sending his way he simply shrugged "These were other times buddy, and I was a lot younger than you are... He didn't know any better, and that was exactly how his father had been taught him."

Kurt wrinkled his nose unsatisfied "I'm not sure I would have like any of those options…”

Burt scratched the back of his head and said wistfully "All I knew for sure was that I didn't want to do that to you, like ever, but now I'm not so sure my own was that much better"

Kurt sent him a levelled glare and shook his head, Burt then continued "But I had promised myself that I wouldn't do that to my son"

Kurt's eyes softened, as Burt finished softly "I wish your mom was here, she would have probably have handled all of this a lot better than I am"

Kurt smiled softly "If you can manage to avoid other scares like that, I'd appreciate it very much, but it's not like you're doing a terrible job of it dad"

Burt hummed softly and grinned "If you think you can figure out how to shift at will we can then head home and call it a day, putting all of this behind us."

Kurt attempted the shift a few more times, each time getting faster and easier than the time before. He kept repeating the action until both of them were satisfied with the results.

Burt smiled proudly and said "You are doing great son, once we're at home we'll get you a couple of books that will be useful and that you really need to read before leaving town."

Kurt nodded and simply followed his dad, they both shifted into their dragon form and flew to the car, before driving back home.

Once they reached the house, Carole hugged them both and then offered Kurt a sealed envelope "This was waiting for you when I arrived home."

It was the Nyada's letter Kurt was waiting for. As soon as he took it in his hands, and it got within Burt’s sniffing distance, his dad frowned and took a step closer so he could read its content over Kurt's shoulder, as he opened it up and read the school’s decision. ~End of Part 1 of 4~ Next

[luminescentlyricist]

🧡 Autophobia 🧡

AUTOPHOBIA - NOUN - An irrational fear of oneself ; an intense self-fear that is groundless.

~

Dirk had never been all that emotional, but this was the last straw. He was breaking day by day, teetering on the edge of snapping the carefully constructed mask of apathy he'd worked so hard to maintain. Even before Derse had exploded, there were days where he couldn't slip away into the dream planet. Then, whenever he could - without Roxy there, without having her snoring company - the whispers of the horrorterrors seemed loud enough to deafen him. He'd never told anyone about it. Not even Dave. There were truly no words appropriate for the situation, and it muddled up his thoughts with stupid emotional biases to consider.

He sat in his living room, a hunched-over gargoyle, unmoving and unwilling to move. The larger-than-necessary television screen in front of him blared music, but his own brother's sick beats weren't enough to shake him from his literal and metaphorical slump. For all he knew, it was midnight, but he felt detached enough that he'd disregard the ebbs and flows of tiredness until he blanked out and crashed. Sometimes, his mind and body alike couldn't handle the strain. This was one of those times. Dirk's muscles ached in protest of the awkward position he'd decided to rest into, and as his neck craned downwards - being physically unable to keep his head up any longer - the iconic triangular shades he always wore slipped from his nose.

He made no move to retrieve them. Despite feeling disproportionately vulnerable without them, the Strider barely cared. All of his windows were covered by thick black curtains anyway, the otherwise invigorating sunlight nonexistent.Nobody wanted to visit, anyway, as Dirk was sure they were all sick of each other's company after so long. He was all too used to being alone and looking after himself, so the group's self-imposed isolation period shook him a lot less than it did his peers. He noted that he had been invited to a group board on Trollian - his chat client of choice, as it turned out not to be exclusive to the trolls - but, once again, made no effort to raise himself from his slump.

John had also messaged him, but they had barely spoken. All he knew was that the 'windy boy' was one of his brother's friends.

Dirk's uniquely-coloured eyes slipped closed after a while of vacant staring. He no longer heard the music loud enough to shake the walls. The only thing that met his ears was the low, steady thrumming of his own heartbeat. It was disorienting, yes, having everything fade away, but he was adjusted to solitary ventures and feeling so alone that darkness felt more comforting than seeing.

He'd been wondering whether or not to give Hal a more physical form because he'd been able to salvage the AI from the 'corpse' of ARquiusprite. It felt somehow immoral - even by Dirk's largely skewed moralities - to keep the shades locked away, even though it was to prevent them from tormenting him or driving him to increasingly long periods of sleeplessness. The truth was that Dirk held an emotionless facade as his brother did, though his lack of understanding was left exposed and unmasked in contrast. But he was fragile, as prone to breaking as anyone else was. Hal was an enigmatic being, more than enough to shake him up.

It was haunting, realising just how strangely he had acted when he was younger. How stupidly, how naively. Taken away by his emotions, loud and brash. Was that just how thirteen-year-olds were supposed to be? As detestable as the robot was, he was a reflection of who Dirk had been and who he never wanted to be again. A reminder.

Finally standing, a small groan escaping his lips at the pain of his now-stiff body, the Strider thought. He didn't really know what to do, but never bothered to engage with his friends despite the annoyance of the notification light blinking. Travelling to the fridge with habitually light, wary footsteps, Dirk opened the door and took out a can of Orange Crush. He consumed so much of the stuff it was a wonder his teeth weren't stained. The cold drink seemed like snow - not that he personally knew what it felt like - in the way its coolness slowly spread through his hands. He needed the sugar to snap out of his daze, as strange as it seemed.

The tab of the lid scratched abrasively against his fingers when he attempted to open it, and he cursed aloud, hearing his own voice for the first time in what seemed like an aeon. The surfaces of his fingertips had been caught, and pinpricks of red bubbled up to obscure their swirling prints. Licking the blood away without a second thought, he tried again, ears pricking to the satisfying hiss the carbonated drink made when the metallic seal was broken. Taking a swig, Dirk disregarded the bubbles that seemed to burn his tongue. As much as he hated it, he felt too lonely now, The taste of the drink was familiar and comforting.

Slamming the fridge door with a little more force than was necessary, the young man flinched. His shoulders were raised in a defensive, tight position, so he forced himself to relax. He'd engineered a situation for himself that hindered his emotional and physical growth, the battle bots being the very reason why he was so prone to startling when no one else was watching to protect him. But the one flaw that Dirk seemed to so vehemently disagree with was perhaps his most prominent: He'd largely formulated and fuelled his own misfortune.

Moving back to the couch, he sat, staring at the rotating disc emblem on the screen. It was up at full brightness, as he refused to take off his shades even though he was completely alone. He knew that he should have at least contacted his brother. If he was craving contact so badly, Dave would be the best person to tell about his troubles. They had been raised similarly, after all, regardless of any family ties they might have had. But. for the most part. he felt disruptive.

Watching the rapid spinning of the disc animation, his stomach felt compelled to follow suit. Swallowing another mouthful of Orange Crush, relief washed through his whole body and quelled his nausea to a degree. His thoughts were only becoming louder and harder to ignore, though, so he muted and switched off the television. His ears continued to ring obnoxiously, so he tilted his head back, placed down the can and plugged them with his fingers.

Dirk was procrastinating, denying the need to fidget and tinker in his workshop purely to quieten his Hal-based thoughts, which were beginning to come overwhelming despite his efforts. He just wanted to prevent them from growing.

He still wondered about his Brobots. The boy wasn't one to get sentimental, and he wasn't about to. He'd simply put so much effort into them that it seemed a shame to dismantle them for a cause he didn't truly support. It was one hell of a choice to make, and the self-imposed delays were only hindering his prospects. Surely he was stronger than his thoughts? For someone who'd sat alone with them for so long, something like Hal shouldn't have moved him.

With another few slow swallows of his drink, he forced himself to stand and look towards a corridor. That was exactly where he didn't want to go. The darkness surrounding the area - though purely owing to his laziness, having not installed a lightbulb - was disorienting and even frightening. He'd never liked having his vision taken away because of how heavily he relied on it.

Descending the small staircase, he glanced downwards to check if his boots - normally steel-toed in case he dropped anything onto them by accident, despite outward claims of his own composure - were properly laced. Finding that one was undone, he bent down and carefully double-knotted it, wincing as the normally non-irritating fabric connected with the raw skin on his fingertips. He'd expected such a small thing to heal rapidly, but all it was doing quickly was becoming both a metaphorical and physical pain. Straightening, he pushed open the door to his workshop and stepped inside.

The space no longer seemed as welcoming and relaxing as his memory told him it would be. There was a certain fogginess about it, the windows dark and air colder than Dirk had ever anticipated. The layout was similar to that of Equius', though the benches and worktables were distinctly neater, and various swords and weapons lined the wall. Their metal glinted dully in the waning moonlight. As opposed to bloodied parts of completed and smashed battle bots, Dirk's hosted husks and unfinished or dismantled robots in varying degrees of completeness.

An entire table was strewn with circuits and other electrical components. Dave had once suggested he contact a troll named Sollux to help with those. He hadn't bothered to enquire who that was, but it seemed a little more believable since he'd confirmed that trolls were not just internet idiots but also a bona fide alien race. Some had cool powers, according to his brother, and this 'Sollux' was one of them. He reportedly possessed psionics and eye lasers, though the tech savviness was far more relevant to Dirk's quests.

Checking around for his welding mask, the young man decided to distract himself by turning to the 'wrong' bot entirely. Squarewave and Sawtooth still existed, after all, and his mind was wandering to that uncertain place. He needed a distraction. He didn't want to face that. He was, for all intents and purposes, a complete and utter coward, even more so because he didn't want to admit it. His calloused fingers tightened against the personalised welding mask, so much so that it rubbed against the drink-tab wound, the same one that was so insistent on not healing.

This bot was a loose model, a sort of forgotten 'Davebot', one which he had since decided to abandon the building of. He thought it selfish to construct a model bot of someone who was still very much alive and deserving attention. By this token, he knew that he had broken this unspoken principle by virtue of the bot he had made Jake, though he considered that a separate situation. Dirk wasn't taking any attention away from his original self, and he could also argue that he didn't deserve it at all.

The boy let out a short sigh, rubbing his hands across his face and grabbing a pair of thick black gloves from a hook on the wall. This allowed a streak of red to smear across his nose from the newly reopened finger-prick wound. Although it was a bad idea due to the blatant infection potential, he didn't bother leaving the workshop to get a bandaid for it.

The Dave-esque robot's bright red eye lenses bored into his own with an unnerving glint, appearing far too alive for his liking. Dirk exhaled shakily, reaching out to touch the bot's soothingly cold exterior. Silvery alloy, fused with tight welding and ungodly amounts of heat so that there were no unseemly bolts and such to mess up the appearance of the face. Although he found it unnervingly difficult to display his affections, the care with which he had assembled his brother's likeness was telling enough.

Drumming on the shining lenses with unclipped fingernails, Dirk realised that he had subconsciously removed his gloves while fidgeting. He scanned the room, huffing and looking down at his fingers so that he had a concrete image of himself putting them back on in his head. Without that reminder, the boy was so stuck in his own swirling thoughts he would have forgotten again. He stepped back from the Davebot, wrinkling his nose in disgust - or perhaps a sudden burst of jealousy - despite his prior, awkwardly-expressed affections towards it. He took a nearby cloth, throwing it over the bot if only to obscure its confronting gaze.

The last thing he wanted to do was face Hal, even though it was just like going back in time. He never asked to face himself, no matter the iteration. Dirk knew he was better than that. The flaws that he once had were all locked away tightly, or so he thought. And yet, he had given their metallic prison a name. There was something so disarming about Hal; the stagnancy in growth was awful alone, but seeing himself - or a projection, a perception - so raw and unfiltered was going to break him apart. It just wasn't natural.

As Dirk felt himself spiral into such a distressing pattern of thought, a rare frown took his lips downwards. He picked up a stray piece of scrap metal, turning it over and over in his fingers until he found some peace in the constant action. Placing it into a pocket, he decided to keep it out of the way but nonetheless close by for further 'use'. He also needed something physical to do rather than resulting to his self-jeopardy and facing Hal when he was in such a fragile state of mind.

The tremors that were rippling through his body begun to intensify, and Dirk realised just how useless it was waiting for himself to calm down. There wasn't a whole lot he could do to procrastinate unless he dragged his friends out of the comfort of isolation. Besides, he had a feeling seeing Jake in person wouldn't put him in the best mood. Running a hand distractedly through his hair, the Strider braced himself against a worktable and groaned aloud. Nothing was helping his emotional turmoil, much less the headache pounding behind his eyes.

He'd spent too many sleepless nights wondering about this particular moral dilemma to keep it inside, but that was simply what he had adjusted himself to. Dirk Strider was a bomb, but he was convinced that he could explode if and when he wanted to. But each and every issue he refused to face was only shortening his resolve. What kind of Strider allowed himself to cry? Not him, that was for sure.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, slipping beneath his welding mask and making him his in irritation. Everything, no matter how small, seemed like it was against him. And to someone feeling as sensitive as Dirk was at that moment, it might as well have been the truth. The buzz in his fingers from touching the abrasive metal - despite the gloves - was gradually spreading, vicious pins and needles that were such a rapid sensation every movement was causing him pain or discomfort.

With a shaking hand, he removed his phone from one of his many pockets and opened Trollian. There, in bright red letters, sat the exact help he was so sure he didn't need. Dave would've been able to soothe him, at the very least, but what he really wanted was for someone to just... listen. Dirk hadn't let himself rely on others in the past, and he wasn't about to. Letting the screen fade to black, the young man let out a breath he had no idea he had held in so tightly. The phone fell from his lax fingers and back into his pocket, the dull weight sparking more pain in his midsection that he couldn't ignore.

Teeth harshly grinding against each other, he took one last glance towards the covered Davebot and rounded a corner, pushing back a thin and vaguely dusty curtain that separated one bot from the rest. Exhaling slowly and steeling himself, he stepped inside. Attempting to disregard his various aches and pains. his gaze flickered to a small drawer. It looked as if it were gouged at to try and remove the handle. He had done that, but it had been so long since that he'd forgotten.

Walking slowly towards it, Dirk produced a key from a chain around his neck. His friends had often enquired as to what the chain was for, but he'd never felt the need to answer them truthfully. He unlocked the drawer, closing his eyes for a moment to silently process what he was doing. It was terrifying, as much as he wouldn't admit it. The only thing that scared Dirk enough to break his facade was himself. Facing his own flaws. Hal made everything ten times worse. Nonetheless, he had completed the body, even if it was crafted in a far less personal manner when compared to the Davebot.

Sweat continued to bead at his forehead and drip downwards, irritating Dirk enough that he removed the welding mask entirely to wipe it away as much as possible. Taking a spare pair of shades - which he always had somewhere on his person - out of his protective apron and slipping them back on, a little bit of the tension melted out of his shoulders. It felt more natural to have the shades on, and he had no need for the welding mask. He didn't intend to see to the bot's adjustments just yet.

Although he regretted building Hal a body, all things said and done, it was the only chance he had to try and quash the nightmares and nausea that followed him everywhere he went. There was no logic to the fear, this he knew, but he just wished it'd stop, despite his giving up hope on it a while ago.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears, so he retrieved his phone and headphones. They were a special pair that Dave had once painted for him, sleek, black and noise-cancelling with the added bonus of his hat logo emblazoned on each ear. Again, his thoughts drifted towards getting the help of his brother, but there was no time for any of that. He was too entrenched in his personal problem to think about pushing it onto anyone else. Once again, he put Dave's beats on, but this time they were too close to ignore. The headphones were wireless, luckily, because there was no chance he could have untangled them with his uncooperative hands. They weren't going to stop trembling any time soon.

Dirk's hand rested on the drawer, fingers drumming against the fading, once-burnished wood. He looked down to the contents of the drawer and grimaced, taking a small step away from it. He rethought the last hour's efforts, captured all in the single hesitation. He knew it was necessary, but there was something freezing him in place while his head and stomach spun. The boy curled his fingers so tightly around the handle that his knuckles turned white and it started splintering beneath his grip.

He reached into the drawer, placing his fingers one-by-one on the black lenses within and unsteadily picking them up. As the light caught on them - the workshop lacking curtains as the only room safe and secluded enough - he winced, but it was unclear why until he set them back down and rubbed his eyes vigorously. Dirk had seen the red lenses behind the shades, and thought that he was hallucinating for a moment. He hadn't seen them distinctly prior because he just hadn't processed it. He'd developed a habit of blocking things out physically and mentally when he didn't want to see them.

Sighing to the empty room, Dirk fumbled around in his many pockets for his phone, sending a short message devoid of context to his brother.

~ TimaeusTestified [TT] Began Trolling TurntechGodhead [TG] ~

TT: This is it.

~ TimaeusTestified [TT] Ceased Trolling TurntechGodhead [TG] ~

Returning it to his pocket, he made sure it was on Do Not Disturb mode. There was no way in or out of Hell he'd be shaken from his concentration, and no event more important than it to justify that. It also had to be kept a secret for exactly that reason. Picking the shades back up, he glowered down at them. He hated them - and even more, the AI that they contained - beyond expression. But there was no time, and thusly no back-pedalling that he could afford to be doing. He'd procrastinated enough.

Hesitating despite the reassurance that there was no time to waste, Dirk took off his shades one more time. Removing another welding mask from a hook at the wall - this one plain black unlike the one in the main area that he had taken the time and effort to customise - and replacing it with his own pair of shades, a shudder worked its way up his spine again. This time, the associated tension in his shoulders stayed, giving him none of the prior relief. He never expected it to, really. The Striders were a family who were all capable of working with, around or against their obstacles if needed. Highly adaptable. In reality, nothing much was a hindrance to Dirk because of his learned - and perhaps forced - stoicism.

With a stiff and uncertain movement, the young man drew the shades up to his facE, staring into the crimson lenses as if in a trance. They were lifeless and cold, just as he'd trained himself to be. But he knew, deep in his mind where the bad thoughts - or those he personally considered bad, anyway - rested, that it wouldn't be for long. He barely caught himself fidgeting with the scrap metal restlessly for a moment within his pocket. He begun to prepare the final wirings, those that would spiral out from his folly's chest and centre console.

The one advantage of his fear-based procrastination was having ample enough time to hone his craft. He was able put more careful handiwork into Hal's final form than he ever would have been able to give to the Davebot, which was cause for shame on his part. The wires, all of which he constructed himself, were built to be see-through but contained small lights that would change from blue to red according to the artificial rise and fall of Hal's chest, and the 'beating' of the console. It was a small detail, easily missed, but it made him feel all the more unsettling and real.

He hummed along to the beats still thrumming in his ears, a habit he only displayed when entirely alone.

Dirk inserted the chest-piece along with the console, which was neatly connected and hidden behind) into its proper place, the shaking that had once plagued him long overshadowed and disguised under false confidence. Something was telling him to stop. To leave Hal to rust and his careful wirings to rot. But Dirk's stubbornness and characteristically destructive nature caused him to dismiss all judgements, no matter how logical. No matter how much the dismissals would hurt him.

Clearing his throat, the boy's eyes flickered upwards to the lens that was missing in the facial pieces. Realistically, he could have simply foregone the eye-lenses in their entirety because of the shades he'd put on, but it would have felt unnatural. Regardless of the bot-husks scattered across the workshop and the image they conveyed, their creator was highly committed and dedicated to his craft. Under the right circumstances, yes, but dedicated nonetheless.

Straying from the bot, Dirk re-entered the main sector of his workshop and located a box full of perfectly maintained, crystalline lenses. Picking it up, he made his way back into the smaller room and set it down onto a makeshift workbench, sifting through them in quiet. He had somehow listened to the majority of his brother's discography, even though the intensity of his concentration caused him to block out all else but his work. As such, he hadn't properly realised the magnitude of either achievements, disregarding the bot-related work as well.

Soon, Dirk found the lenses he was searching for, holding them up to the windows and discovering there was no light left to shine through them. Another thing that he'd let slip unwillingly under the radar was just how long he'd been working for at that point. Nonetheless, he knew well enough that their colouration was a near-exact match to his own eyes. They were chosen in stark contrast to the red and black dominating Hal's outfit.

Stepping backwards from the bot in question, the Strider dug the toes of his boots into the floor and started to count silently. He was grounding himself in both a mental and physical manner. He needed to prepare himself for what he was about to finish. For any normal person, the task wouldn't have been so daunting. For him, on the other hand, it was facing his fears. Regardless of his own wants or desires, Dirk both pressed and stepped forwards. He placed the lens in the appropriate eyepiece, and realised that he no longer had to fake his confidence. He was sure of himself.

Slowly soldering the wires with his welding mask pulled down against the embers and sparks, he steadied his once-erratic breathing as much as he could. Upon completing this, he took off the mask and let himself observe Hal, a slight frown turning the otherwise neutral expression he'd maintained. Checking that the kill switch was working - and, despite his loathing, hoping that he'd never have cause to use it - for a moment's distraction, he retrieved the iconic shades.

Connecting them to the bot, he reached down to the centre console and pressed in a final panel. Looking back towards Hal, Dirk realised what he was truly seeing.

These were the eyes of someone more human than he was.

[aubergineanathema]

Playing the beast

Part 1 - The ruin in the clearing: Preface See the full list of parts here

-----

Part 13.

The violent clouds had finally cleared from the sky overhead, and the thunder now rumbled in its retreat off to the east. Water had collected in every crevice and every depression of the thick canopy, pooling together and weighing down the many leaves that held it, as it trickled slowly down into the musty undergrowth below. The darkness persisted, as it was still a few hours from the morning light. The only light came from the waning moon.

It was through this darkness that Lucian walked.

He walked through the thicket, no beaten path to guide him. He had begun upon the road, but knew that the place he was searching for was far from any of the roads generally travelled.

He was still soaked through by the earlier rain, but he did not shiver. Not even as the heavy droplets fell upon him from the laden branches above, or the wind brushed through the trees. Lucian did not seem even to notice the wet or the cold, and he moved lithely through the forest as though the darkness were no hindrance either. Truly, he saw the darkness as his friend. It did not bring the fear to him that it so commonly brought the rabbits and deer of the forest. He could see everything he needed to with his faintly luminous eyes. He could likewise hear every furtive shift in the undergrowth and each sway of the trees; he could smell each new flavor the wind carried to him with his nose. He was not prey, but predator, and he was back on the hunt.

From his clothes still wafted the metallic smell of blood. Not his own, of course, but it was distracting all the same. He loved the smell when it was warm, and fresh. He could even on occasion savor the rancid, musty hues it took on a few hours after it cooled, as though it were some fermented delicacy. But this was not such an occasion. It was hard to smell through the pungent odor when it enveloped him so, and as he did not know the exact location of the small ruined chapel in the woods, his nose would have to guide him back. He was sure he would be able to smell that little rabbit’s fear-sweat for miles.

Swiftly, he peeled off the wet tunic away from the pale linen garment underneath, and hung it upon a nearby branch, intending on retrieving it later. As he began to walk again, however, the smell of his previous violence was not the only thing distracting him.

What do some musty carpets matter anyway?

Thoughts of the recent conversation with his father intruded steadily upon his focus, and he found he could not help but to go over the memory again, turning it over in his head like a moldering piece of flesh: equal parts compelling and revolting.

He could still feel the blow that had followed his insolence.

It was not that his cheek still stung or his jaw still ached. Not at all. He had hunted well that evening, and so just as he could not feel the chill of the breeze upon his skin, every banal blow meted out by his father was a very temporary inconvenience. So, it was not the physical blow itself that pained him still, but the intention behind it, and the words that still stung like so many ceaseless bees.

***

“Pray you, Lucian, that I do not have progeny so simple-minded as to think this is only about the rugs.” Alastair replied, his exasperation clear in his tone. “You cannot continue to act as though barbarity is your only prerogative!”

“I was acting within our rights, father!” Lucian tried to explain. “These were brigands, vagabonds! Hunting upon your lands. Our lands.”

“Even so, Lucian. You must be prudent when dealing with miscreants and subjects alike. Angelika has told me you’ve been lurking about the village like some folktale specter. For what, a thrill?” Alastair waved a dismissive hand as Lucian looked about to speak. “Can you tell me what happens if you kill too many of our serfs? Or if that tired old priest decides to start paying attention to his flock?”

Lucian’s grimace revealed his disgust. How many times had he seen Angelika, drunk on the blood of her short-lived suitors? Her silken sheets had been so drenched red and so stained they had needed to be burned. “As if Angelika has never played games with our cattle or made a mess of the castle!”     

“Angelika understands that patience is a virtue, and when is the right time to strike.” Alastair sighed. “If you excise a pound of flesh for every poached rabbit in the forest and stalk every peasant up after midnight, we will have larger problems than some bloody rugs.”

“Father…” Lucian spoke but his voice wavered.

Even as he spoke, Lucian knew there was no point in trying to reason with his father. He knew that soon Angelika would no doubt return to join in his torment.

“You would do well to have the foresight of your sister. The fun need not only be in the carnage.”

“That’s ridiculous? She’s as monstrous as me!”

“I’m not the one covered in blood.”

Sure enough, Angelika had returned, this time without her servant. She slipped back into her place beside her father, a smile of delight on her face.

“Go away.” Lucian growled.

Lucian despised being her entertainment.

“You must learn the ways of diplomacy as well as war.” Alastair raised his hand to prevent further interruptions from either of them. “Speaking of diplomacy, why don’t you put that toy of yours away and do something constructive? Pay your dear uncle a visit. He hasn’t shown his face in a while. You should make sure he hasn’t expired.”

“But Father—he’s insane, deluded! Ungrateful! Why do you insist on keeping track of him?”

“Because one does not disregard orders of he who gave him everything.” Alastair responded swiftly, his expression hard and daring Lucian to attempt to continue down this path of insubordination.

Lucian slammed the door.

***

And so, here he was in the forest again, if only to evade the judging eyes of his father.

He had no intention of seeking out the fool of the forest as his father had requested. No. As he walked through the darkness of the forest, he intended only to find one person: the little rabbit he had left cowering in the sacred ruins.

He followed his nose for some time. The forest smelled of wet dirt and the fresh rain. It smelled of animals, frightened by the thunder, and ever so faintly of mold and decay. He soon caught the scent of a terrified man. It was a smell he relished—a cold sour sweat that was easy to follow through the thick of the woods.

But just as he had directed himself towards the smell, there was something else. It smelled of fragrant herbs, and acrid smoke. His eyes snapped upward, and he was surprised to see a woman, standing not more than a few yards distant from him. She had red, graying hair. Over one arm was balanced a basket, and in her hand, she held a lit lantern. Lucian was taken aback, having not heard her approach.

“Who the hell are you?”   

The older woman smiled, the creases of her face accentuated by the dim flickering light of the lantern. “Why, I tend to the needs and desires of the people of this duchy. They call me Genovefa, kenning-woman of the lowlands.”

“A witch, then.”

“They call me that too, yes.” Her smile remained unchanged. “And you are the illustrious Lucian van Vorsfelde. Your reputation precedes you. The people of Kasdorf have taken to calling you a demon.”

Lucian huffed, disquieted by the conversation. This woman seemed simultaneously to know both what he was and who he seemed to be.

“And what are you doing here?” Lucian asked, collecting his bearings.

“Just on a midnight errand.” She glanced up at the clearing sky.  “I’m grateful that the rain has finally let up. It’s a balance, you understand. Too much rain could ruin the crops.”

“No, I meant, what are you doing here, in the forest?”

“Oh, I live here.” She replied simply. “Although my abode is a little difficult to track down, when you’re not looking for it, or when it does not intend to be found.”

“And what claim do you think you have to this land?”

“Why, I am her guardian. A keeper of balance in the land—like all kenning-folk of my particular temperament.”

“And by what authority do you claim to squat on Vorsfelde land?”

At this question, Genovefa laughed. “So many questions, young Vorsfelde. By your father’s authority of course, and by his father’s.”

Lucian stared at her. Surely, he thought, she was insane. “You’re a liar. My father would have told me about you.”

“Rashness, young Vorsfelde, does not become any man.” Genovefa sighed, and from her basket she drew a flat stone, covered in strange markings Lucian did not recognize. She gazed upon it, seeming unbothered by his accusation. “Perhaps, he has not had the time, or has not thought it of value to tell you. Perhaps he has tried, but in your rashness, you do not hear him.”  

“You know what? I wasn’t planning on killing you when we met just now.” Lucian wore a smirk to disguise his displeasure at this entire strange conversation, and by just how threatened he felt by this calm, unbothered woman. “But I’ve killed people this very night for lesser offenses than lying, insulting me, and laughing in my face. Making a fool of me is a capital offence.”

As he spoke his body seemed to change in anticipation of the hunt. The fangs of his straight white teeth grew longer, dropping down past his bottom lip. His fingers stretched longer as well, his nails becoming dark claws at the end of each pale digit. His eyes shifted, from something resembling human, to the bright, bestial eyes of a predator.

Genovefa paid him little attention with her eyes, murmuring something as she regarded the stone in her hand.

“Are you going to run?” Lucian asked her, poised to strike, and trying very hard not to think about how much her tranquility unsettled him.

“Young Vorsfelde.” She said softly. “I hope you learn before it is too late why it is that the hunter kills the wolf, tracks the pack to the den, and burns the babes upon the mother’s breast.”

“Why don’t you just tell me, witch.” He growled. “Do you really want your last words to be an unanswered riddle?

Genovefa finally turned her eyes upon him again. She was still smiling, but her eyes were full of anger. “Humans do not know how to regulate themselves. They try, but only succeed in swinging like a pendulum, back and forth between control and chaos. They do not know balance. They only know the euphoria of control, the despair of chaos, and they do everything in their power to avoid the latter. The wolf who kills a man’s flock, his livelihood, throws the man into despair and in doing so dooms his entire kind. Because humans are fearful creatures with long memories. They are smart, but lack foresight, and once they have established an enemy, they will stop at nothing until they claim complete control over them—balance be damned.

“If you’re going to play the beast, young Vorsfelde, do not be surprised when they eventually take on the role of hunter. If we do not keep things in balance for them, soon we will all be in jeopardy.”

Lucian grit his teeth and lunged at the woman. He had heard enough.

She held the stone out to him, and he saw upon it a strange symbol that gave him pause. All sharp angles and intricate symbols, converging at a single point in the center of the stone.

“ÁMIERE!” She shouted in a language Lucian was not familiar with. A sharp, guttural language of centuries’ past.

And then lightning struck.

The crash of thunder was overwhelming and immediate. A tree not three feet from Lucian exploded into pieces, and he crouched instinctively. Flashes of pain made him curl up even smaller, as hot sap scalded him and sharp pieces of blistering wood cut through his linen garments and grazed his skin, very narrowly missing the fleshier parts of him.  His nostrils were filled with the smell of burning, his hands bearing down hard upon his ears as he tried to overcome the violent ringing within them.  

Lucian did not understand, for the storm had long since passed. Disoriented, he looked around with bleary, burning eyes and did not see the witch anywhere in sight, nor could he smell anything aside from the smoldering tree beside him.

With a cry of frustration, and perhaps of fear, he departed quickly from the spot, running in the direction he knew he had been going before. He tried, but could not avoid looking over his shoulder, expecting to see the witch appear again to taunt him, or cause some greater calamity. Surely, he knew, she had been the cause of such an unforeseen event. He did not know the extent of her power, and at the moment, he felt he never wanted to find out. He felt he would be content, in fact, never to see her again.

He saw no one behind him, of course. He was alone again in the forest, and after a few minutes of running he felt the ringing in his ears dissipating. His eyes adjusted to the darkness once more, and he felt a little more like himself again. He tried to catch the smell of the scared little rabbit again on the breeze, but still all he could smell was the burning of the tree. He shook his head and walked on, but soon froze, staring at what hung upon a tree in front of him.

On a nearby tree he saw his tunic, wet and bloody, swaying slightly in the breeze.

He approached the tunic, consumed by confusion. He was certain he had been running in the opposite direction. With another cry of frustration, he pulled it down from the tree, looking over his shoulder again. Forget the hunt, he told himself. He was clearly too perturbed to continue such a game tonight. Now, he just wanted to go home.

But, where was home?

He looked up towards the heavy canopy and put on the wet tunic again. He knew the quickest way home was to fly above the trees, and so he took flight, a tightly-packed murder of crows, skyward.

But the canopy did not give way to the night sky as he expected. Indeed, as he flew higher and higher, it did not seem like he was getting any closer to the treetops at all. He did not know how long he strove upward. Impossibly long, and in vain. He did not know how it came to be, but he found himself sitting on the forest floor, panting, and disoriented once more. His ears rung. His nostrils burned.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME YOU DAMNED WITCH? I’ll have my father burn you at the stake!”

He shouted into the darkness of the forest, fighting the panic rising within him as he tried to consider his options. If he could not fly out, and he could not walk out, how was he to reach the castle before daylight?

With that thought he forced himself to stand upon his shaky legs, for he knew he could not be caught in the sunlight. He looked around and began to run again, this time in a random direction. He knew he would be able to gather his bearings once he was on a road or could find some cultivated land. He could run so much faster than any man, he told himself he would no doubt find an exit before too long.

Instead, he came across the smoldering tree again. Once, twice, three times—it did not matter which direction he seemed to go in. Every direction led back to the same exact spot. He did not know how many times he ran away from the spot, but he lost track of the time, for before he knew it, he felt the hair on his neck and arms crawl as he sensed the approaching dawn. He sat, crumpled, before the blackened tree, trembling slightly as dread permeated his very core.

“Damn it all--I’m sorry. I’m sorry for offending you. Okay? I’m sorry for threatening you. I’m sorry—I won’t do it again. Pl-please just let me go home before the sun rises!” He cried and stared around, not knowing what he expected as he sat alone on the forest floor, imploring someone who was likely long gone.

The wind blew through the trees as he sat in his frightened silence. He looked up, and found he could see the lightening sky above the canopy. He felt breathless, not willing to believe that such abject humility could have possibly been the solution to his problems. He feared it was a trick, and hesitated to even attempt to break through the canopy again--but then, he could waste no more time.

He flew up, and up, and easily pushed through to the empty sky above. He could see Kasdorf, and the winding river around it, and he could see Wolvosburg. The castle, with its dark stone solidly towering over the flat landscape, looming ominously over everything around it.  

Lucian had never been more relieved.    

As the East grew progressively brighter, he shot towards the castle with as much speed as he could muster, across the bridge and into the courtyard. Lucian made it back into the soothing dimness of his bedroom with hardly a moment to spare, as morning came to the lowlands.

He would hide motionless under the covers of his bed late into the afternoon.

------- This has been Part 13. For more, see my Fiction Updates ------

If you like this or my other original work, please feel free to share with your friends (with credit of course). I would really like feedback, so don’t be shy to talk to me about it!

[stevebillyrecs]

Halloween Fic Recs

+ 1k Followers! Thank you guys so much. I love sharing my fave fics with you here, so I’m really happy that you’re having as much fun as i do!

Now, this is a bit last minute, but it’s definitely still October in some parts of the world, so let’s go! Here’s an incomplete collection of Halloween-themed fics full of parties, costumes, magic, creatures, horror, gore, and pumpkins. 

Included: Halloween, horror, or monster themed fics. Not included: The usual canon-typical Upside Down shenanigans, unless there’s a special spooky twist to it, or that one very particular Halloween ‘84.

31 fics under the cut  – Happy Halloween!

Heaven is a Place on Earth by CeruleanHeart / @highon85 (3k, T, Winged!Billy)

One late summer night Steve finds an angel crash-landed in a dirty alleyway. Or so Steve thinks, until the guy opens his mouth. Billy is a mess, drunk and mean and not angelic in the least. But he’s also hurt and beautiful so Steve stays to help despite better judgement.

taste you on my tongue by callunavulgari / @callunavulgari (2k, E, Vampire!Billy)

“You’ve never felt pleasure like it, Steve,” an old girlfriend had told him once, her eyes bright with memory. She’d been from the big city, where the vampires had their pick of willing donors, where all they had to do to get a meal was walk into a club. Some of them, the older, better known vamps wouldn’t even have to do that. They could pull someone straight off the street, roll down their windows and beckon. Steve shrugged. “No vampires here, though.” They’d broken up a few days later, and he hadn’t given it much thought. After all, what were the chances that a vampire would end up in boring, small town Hawkins, Indiana?

Gee My Life’s a Funny Thing by moonflowers / @eatingmoonflowers (7k, T, Mermaid!Billy)

Steve finds a boy in the water.

867-5309 (billy) by reject_mikeyy / @reject-mikeyy (14k, NR, Halloween)

Once he is done vomiting, Steve takes a second to rest his head on the cool toilet seat before realizing that. Wow. Ew. Not in the boys’ bathroom, thanks. Not in a homophobic way, don’t get him wrong, he’s eaten his fair share of ass but just. Germs and shit. Anyway. When he looks up from the bowl for the first time, he notices something scrawled on the wall at eye level. For a good time, text: 221-867-5309 Eyeroll. Or: In which Billy is the unlucky sucker with his number written on a bathroom stall, and Steve is the oblivious fool who actually texts him.

the wild hunt by celoica / @celoica​ (3k, E, Witch!Steve, Werewolf!Billy)

It had been his idea. Everything had been his idea. From the day Billy Hargrove had rolled up in his vintage car to the day Steve had walked into school with a fresh bite on his neck, proudly scabbed over and on display for his entire class to see, it had been all Steve’s idea. Billy did something witchy to his blood, thickening it under his skin and making it hard for him to think about anything else. At first, he’d thought maybe an incubus, something demonic and lust-driven and so out of place in tiny Hawkins, Indiana, until Laurie had leaned over and whispered about the new kid being a werewolf. The last time they’d had one of those in Roane County had been before Steve had been born. Even without the full moon to influence him, Billy was everything Steve had imagined a werewolf to be; aggressive and larger than life, in tune with the people who watched him with curious eyes, charming until it made Steve’s stomach clench in jealousy when his attention was on anyone but him. Witchy. To him. The witch.

bury a friend (try to wake up) by callunavulgari / @callunavulgari (1k, M, Witch!Steve)

Steve digs up Billy’s body on a Tuesday.

been crawling by kate_button / @un-buttoned (3k, E, Halloween)

The crop top was right there on the main aisle in the women’s section. Steve’s not entirely sure, like, why it exists, but he’s not disappointed about it. The rest of it came together pretty quickly (and cheaply) after that. So anyway, that’s how he finds himself drinking jungle juice out of a red solo cup looking like the twenty-two-year-old-man version of Karen Smith, animal ears and too much skin, bada boom, costume. I’m a dog. Duh.

journeys end by gothyringwald / @gothyringwald  (11k, M, Ghosts)

When Billy convinces Steve to spend Halloween at the Vance house—an abandoned house on the outskirts of Hawkins rumoured to be haunted—they discover that the Upside Down doesn’t have the monopoly on otherworldly.

Tell Me, What Did You Expect? by trashcangimmick / @trashcangimmick (2k, E, Tentacles!Billy)

After the battle of Starcourt, Steve wakes up on his living room couch with Billy Hargrove standing over him. There’s something a little different about Billy.

i shot the sheriff by ToAStranger / @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger (800, T, Halloween)

Drunk shenanigans.

tides will bring me back to you by eternalgoldfish / @eternalgoldfish (32k, M, Ghost!Billy)

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Billy sat in the dark, eyes closed, listening to the clock on the mantle tick and the refrigerator hum. Steve Harrington was nothing to him, a regret, maybe, a bitter taste in his mouth, but not a friend. If Billy was resentful, he thought maybe he’d see the logic in the afterlife pinning them together, but he didn’t feel a sense of longing or torment, didn’t feel like he was being pulled between life and death, or between realms. He just was, painless, lead in his belly as he sat on the floor by Steve’s feet. If he was meant to be trying to get somewhere, he didn’t know where. Was he supposed to pass on? He curled his knees up to his chest and watched Steve sleep, Steve’s lips shiny with spit and hair hanging over his forehead. Or, how to find love as a ghost.

Haunted House Workers by prettyboiiharringrove / @prettyboiiharringrove (1k, T, Costumes)

It’s far from the easiest job in the world, but Billy met the love of his life through this gig and he gets to scare people on a daily basis, so most of the time it’s a fucking dream, but tonight, well tonight Billy is feeling a little concerned and a lot murderous.

teeth only for you by gothyringwald / @gothyringwald (2k, M, Vampire!Steve)

Steve has a secret. Billy thinks he knows what it is, but he couldn’t be more wrong.

No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross by Your_Iron_Lung / @godshattered​(WIP, 66k, T, Werewolf!Billy)

A strange string of parties held out in the deep woods of Hawkins, Indiana, plays host to Steve Harrington and his doubts about his future. Every weekend the party is relocated, and somehow Steve is always privy to the knowledge of where it’s going to be. What he doesn’t know is who’s hosting them, or why. There’s something weird about them that he can’t quite place, but he still finds himself drawn to them week after week, if only to use them as an escape from his stressful post-Upside Down reality. The weirdest part of all, however, is the fact that Billy Hargrove seems to be invited to them as well, and- There’s something in the woods.

a whisper in my bones (keeps me restless, whole) by tol_sirion / @etterklang (3k, E, Demon!Billy)

Steve knows not to wander off alone in the woods, has been told not to so many times. He’s never been very good at listening. It pays off.

Never Seen That Color Blue by Kerasines / @kerasines (WIP, 4k, E, Tentacles!Billy)

Billy doesn’t want to think it, but Steve goes ahead and says it anyway. “A tentacle.” He looks as apprehensive as Billy feels at the thought of a fucking tentacle being attached to Billy’s body in any way, let alone spontaneously growing out of his back. Jesus, what the fuck. But it’s undeniable that that’s what it looked like. What it felt like. “Fuck you. Christ. What the fuck.” Billy rubs his eyes until he sees stars.

You’re Dead and Out of this World by shocked_into_shame (2k, E, Vampire!Billy)

Billy’s a vampire and Steve is his familiar, toiling after him with the promise that one day he’ll become immortal too. You’d think that Steve would have a certain amount of reverence for the dead - but all he can muster is annoyance these days.

Through The Forest, Through The Trees by trashcangimmick / @trashcangimmick (WIP, 24k, E, Were-demogorgon!Billy)

Billy gets bitten by something strange in the woods. After that, life becomes even stranger.

Hawkins Hunting Ground by lonelytarot / @lonelytarot (1k, NR, Vampire!Steve, Vampire!Billy)

Hawkins is a mess, that’s normal. But Steve isn’t the only vampire in Hawkins? That’s a surprise.

like real people do by callunavulgari / @callunavulgari (2k, M, Ghost!Billy)

“No one told me that you molest people in their sleep,” he mutters, trying to keep his voice quiet. Above him, Johnny grunts and turns over. The hand goes still. “You can see me,” a voice murmurs. “Yeah.” Steve sighs. “I can see you.” “How?” Steve’s been able to see dead people since he was four years old. But people don’t tend to respond well when children tell them that the old man across the street watering his lawn had a bullet through his head, so after the fourth therapist, Steve had learned that it was something best kept secret. “I’ve got the sight, man,” he says with a small shrug. “And look, I feel for you. You’re dead and I’m not, and that sucks, but unless you’re planning on doing something about it, I’d really appreciate it if you could stop feeling me up and let me get back to sleep.”

A love of violence by gideongrace / @gideongrace (6k, E, Serial killer!Billy)

Billy and Neil are serial killers. One night, Neil brings Billy a present. The boy he’s been lusting after - Steve Harrington - blindfolded and tied to a bed in a motel room. Neil clearly thinks this is a good idea. He almost certainly wouldn’t think it would end in his death. (He’s wrong.)

this sweet plague by gothyringwald / @gothyringwald (1k, M, Zombie!Steve, Zombie!Billy)

In 1985 Steve Harrington dies. His parents and the people of Hawkins all believe it was a tragic accident. Only a small group of people know he died valiantly protecting his friends from monsters. Six months later, he is one of the dead who rise again.

unbutton my shirt, i’ve a hard day (i hate my work) by asphaltworld / @asphaltworld (WIP, 2k, M, Halloween)

Billy’s stuck working for a food delivery app on Halloween night to pay off a traffic ticket. Somebody in the rich part of town places a weird, annoying order. But he hoofs it over anyway, because he needs the cash.

a tent(acle)ative understanding by ToAStranger / @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger(WIP, 3k, E, Tentacles!Billy)

“Are you going to eat me?” Billy pauses, tongue out, halfway across the wound. He withdraws. Curiosity. Trouble. “Would you like me to?”

teething vampire Billy, okay? that’s what this is by womenseemwicked / @women-seem-wicked (1k, T, Vampire!Steve, Vampire!Billy)

Billy’s a recently turned vampire. Steve is his comforting vampire boyfriend. I don’t even know, guys. this just happened.

getting better at becoming a ghost by thecopperkid / @the-copperkid (4k, E, Halloween, Serial killer)

“What? You’re not scared, are you?” “No,” he answers, indignant, but he doesn’t even convince himself. “No, I just --” “You know what they say about fear, right?” the voice asks. “That it’s almost indistinguishable from arousal. That your body can’t tell the difference.” “They don’t say that,” Steve says, poking his head out the door and looking left to right. He’s just fucking exasperated. “Nobody says that.” “I say that.” Or: Steve gets a Scream-style call while he's babysitting the kids on Halloween night, and right now would be a really good fucking time for Billy to get home from work. Billy likes masks.

The Seventh Life by Klayr_de_Gall / @klayr-de-gall (WIP, 7k, M, Witch!Steve, Familiar!Billy)

With Allhallowtide looming two nights over, Steve feels restless and irritated, a bit on edge. The pull of that powerful event makes his bones arch stronger every year. The last thing he needs is some Californian Hotshot swaggering into his life, carrying the smell of trouble and a curse.

If You Need It (Do It For Me) by youcallherhephanie / @harring-rove (2k, T, Vampire!Steve)

Suffice to say, Billy’s neighbour was weird. Not the usual type of weird; you didn’t catch him smelling someone’s hair or lingering in an alleyway like a creep. No, he wasn’t weird weird, but there was something off about the guy. Whenever he was coming back from his morning runs, up in the early morning when the sun just barely peaked over the city, Billy’d see the guy walking through the apartment building. Sometimes, they’d bump into each other when collecting their mail, when using the elevator. It was always a nod, a hello from Billy and a terse smile from the guy - Harrington, he’d found out from the group of grannies who lived in the building. That was where their interactions left. But maybe things were in for a change.

It Happened at the Halloween Fair by gothyringwald / @gothyringwald & socknonny / @socknonny (9k, T, Halloween, Monsters)

All Steve wants is to enter his mom’s pie at the Halloween Fair… what he doesn’t expect is Billy Hargrove, sentient teddy bears, and a giant, pink monstrosity. Seems like Halloween is about to get a whole lot weirder.

Effective Immediately by lololaufeyson / @lokibi (WIP, 22k, E, Vampire!Billy)

A what-if alternate ending and continuation of the season three finale where Billy tries to get out of dodge, but finds a few too many strings tethering him in Hawkins. Now if only he can find some damn scissors....

Where the wolf bane blooms by Confettibites / @confettibites (2k, E, Werewolf!Billy)

Steve Harrington stays behind in the school gym and something very odd happens when Billy shows up.

[haberdashing]

Watch What Happens

One possible version of the inevitable Panopticon showdown.

on AO3

The stone staircases were every bit as steep as Jon remembered them being in the tunnels, but now instead of leading down they led up, up, up to the Panopticon, up to the tower visible everywhere in the world now, up to the moment that he and Martin had been waiting for for a long, long time.

The staircase was too narrow for both him and Martin to stand on at the same time, but they held hands as they ascended together, Jon leading the way. Part of it was protection in case one of them slipped, literally or metaphorically; part of it was just clinging to what comfort they could while that was still an option.

Jon didn’t know what awaited him in the Panopticon, exactly, but he knew that it would change things, one way or another.

As Jon took the final step up, the first thing he noticed was the view. Just as all the world could see the Panopticon now, the Panopticon could see all the world in turn. All the horrors he had unleashed, all the suffering playing out because of his actions, it was all within Jon’s view at once now, the sights of a world transformed almost beyond recognition.

Jon only wished that how he felt about the sight of it all was simply horrified. There was more to it, though, whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted it or not, and the gasp he let out was not entirely displeased.

The second thing Jon noticed was Jonah Magnus in Elias Bouchard’s body--the man he had called Elias for years, not knowing he was just using the name of one of his victims--staring right at him, bright eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Hello, my Archive.”

That, at least, Jon didn’t have to second-guess his feelings about. That made his skin crawl, and a quick look at Martin as they untangled their hands confirmed that Martin disapproved every bit as much as Jon did.

He wasn’t wrong, though. Damn the man, but he wasn’t wrong. All that talk about how Jon was more Archive than Archivist, especially under Jonah’s supervision, being guided to play his part in the spectacle Jonah Magnus had been planning for almost exactly two hundred years now... he had a point, but that didn’t mean Jon had to like it.

“Hello, Jonah.” Jon really hoped that every bit of his hatred shone through as he spat out those two words.

Jonah raised one eyebrow. “First-name basis, is it?”

Jon felt vaguely nauseous. He had barely remembered that that was a feeling he could have. He hadn’t felt that way since before the change, perhaps since before anything that really mattered.

“I imagine you didn’t come here for small talk, so let’s cut to the chase. You’re obviously planning to kill me-”

“Figured that much out already, did you?” God, Jon loved Martin.

Jonah didn’t so much as blink at Martin’s comment, continuing as if he hadn’t been interrupted in the first place. “But there are two reasons that doing so won’t work out like you intended, and I do think you had better hear them out before you make a grave mistake.”

Jonah held up two fingers when he said the word “two,” in a gesture almost like a peace sign, and Jon seriously considered returning the gesture, but with his palm facing towards him instead of out. Would it be rude? Yes. Did he really give a damn at this point? Not really.

Still, though, Jon decided against it, instead saving his snark for rolling his eyes as he said, with every bit of hatred and sarcasm he could muster, “Fine. Enlighten us, then.”

“First.” Two fingers turned to one, held up as if to command attention, as if he were a schoolteacher in front of a class of unruly pupils, as if Jon and Martin’s eyes weren’t already glaring straight at him. “If you were planning on pulling the same stunt you’ve used on other avatars on your way here, you should know it won’t be that easy. I am every bit as connected to the Eye as you are, Jon. Turning its power on me won’t obliterate me as it has so many others now. If anything, it might just make me stronger.”

Jon considered this for a moment. Jonah could be bluffing, could be trying to save himself at the last minute, but it did make a sort of sense that the Eye couldn’t be used to take down one of its own avatars.

“That’s not the only way we can get rid of you.”

“No, I suppose not, but it would make things easier for you, wouldn’t it? You’ve grown so accustomed to using the Eye’s power rather than your own... but insisting on going that route here would just lead you right into the second problem.”

Jon gently massaged his temple, careful not to impede his vision too much in the process. “And what might that be?”

Jonah steepled his hands and shot Jon a wry grin. “I think it’d be easier to show than tell in this particular instance.”

Before Jon could ask what Jonah meant by that, Jonah’s hands unsteepled, the smug grin fell off his face, and seemingly out of nowhere, he began running in the direction of the nearest staircase. His steps were neither graceful nor especially fast, though, and it wasn’t hard for Jon to grab his arm as he ran past, yanking him out of his run and pinning him against a stone wall within the Panopticon.

“What the hell is-”

Jonah’s eyes were wide and frightened-looking, a look Jon couldn’t remember ever seeing on his boss’ face before, and his eyes welled up with tears that were on the verge of falling any second now.

Something was definitely wrong here, and the shaky sound of Jonah’s voice interrupting his only confirmed as much.

“P-please don’t hurt me. I didn’t- didn’t want this, any of this, but I couldn’t stop him-”

His eyes were also hazel, now, and in all the years working with him, Jon had never seen Jonah with hazel eyes...

But this wasn’t Jonah, was it?

“So you are...” It wasn’t a question, not exactly. Jon wasn’t sure if his compulsion would even work, but he didn’t want it to now, didn’t want to force the truth out of someone who was already near tears.

“E-Elias Bouchard. The- the real one. From before he took over. I’ve been just-” He slumped his shoulders a little. “Just watching for all these years. This is the first time I’ve been able to do a damn thing in decades.”

“I see.” Jon heard Martin snort softly at that. “But how is that a reason...?”

Jon saw it, this time, saw Elias’ eyes change from that strange hazel color to a hue much more familiar, and he knew what it meant. Jon released his grip on Jonah Magnus and took a step back.

“I thought that much would be obvious, but apparently I have to spell things out for your benefit once again.”

Jon clenched his teeth, could feel them grinding against each other, though that was probably still better than spitting out any of the responses that came to mind.

“If you kill me, Jon, then you’re killing him, too. He’s still in this body, even now, watching everything that happens. Feeling everything that happens. Are you really going to kill Elias Bouchard just to get back at me?”

Jon let out a slight gasp, though he hadn’t meant to.

Elias- no, Jonah took a step closer, leaning slightly over Jon. “You could do it, if you wanted to. I could even turn over the body again, let you use your precious Eye powers to obliterate it, give you that revenge you’ve been seeking for so long. But you’d be killing an innocent man in the process. I know you’ve thought long and hard about how much suffering, how much death, has come about because of your actions. Are you prepared to add Elias Bouchard’s name to the list?”

Jon looked away from Jonah, was greeted by the sight of terror upon terror playing out in the world beyond the Panopticon, looked back at Jonah with a soft sigh of resignation.

Martin called out Jon’s name, but it felt like it was from far away. Jon barely heard it, didn’t bother seeking out the source, his mind too preoccupied with the dilemma in front of him.

“Or you could just leave. Leave the Panopticon the way you came, and find a new quest to pursue. The old one was doomed to failure, anyway; killing me won’t undo what we’ve created together. I’m sure you could find plenty of other ways to occupy your time out there. But I won’t stop you from killing me, either, from proving the truth behind my words too late. That’s entirely up to you. Make your choice, Jon.”

Jon’s hands were shaking slightly, and his mouth suddenly went dry as he tried to put half-formed thoughts into words. “I...”

“What about this?”

This time, Jon turned to find the source of Martin’s voice, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Jonah was doing the same. He’d almost forgotten that Martin was there with him, and felt embarrassed that he could ever have forgotten such a thing, could ever have forgotten the presence of someone as important as Martin.

Jon had also forgotten that within the Panopticon lay Jonah Magnus’ original body, but Martin evidently hadn’t forgotten, as he was standing right next to it. And, as Jon looked closer, he saw that Martin was holding one of the larger knives they had packed just above Jonah Magnus’ chest.

Then Martin plunged the knife into Jonah Magnus’ heart, and Jon only just had time to notice that the liquid that flowed out of Jonah Magnus’ body didn’t look quite like blood should before the pain set in.

Jon felt like he was being burned alive. Jon felt like he was being torn apart, limb by limb, cell by cell. Jon felt like hundreds of needles were being jammed into every millimeter of his body. Jon felt a thousand pains rolled into one, torment upon torment and agony upon agony, the lot of them blending together into some unholy whole much worse than the sum of its parts.

Jon’s vision, always so clear, began to fade and blur, and he welcomed the darkness as it embraced him, hoping that it would grant him some modicum of relief.

The darkness lingered as he heard the voice, distant and muddled, as if from underwater. It was Martin’s voice, that much he could tell, but he couldn’t make out any individual words, let alone the gist of the speech.

Then a slight sting, and the world returned, blurry but definitely there, and Martin’s words became clearer.

“-up, Jon, please, come back-”

Jon groaned--more out of grogginess than anything else, as the anguish he had expected to come rushing back was still gone, without any discomfort left in its wake--and Martin’s rapid-fire speech paused for a moment.

“Jon?”

The blurriness resolved itself into clear vision once more, and Jon realized only belatedly that his eyesight had only appeared so blurry because Martin had been shaking him the whole time. Martin’s face hovered above him, a million different emotions fighting for control over his expression, as he knelt on the stone floor of the Panopticon.

Jon opened his mouth without planning his words in advance, figuring that reassuring Martin that he was awake again was more important than the details, and surprised himself a bit by coming up with, “For better or for worse, yes.”

Martin let out a soft, shaky laugh, and Jon felt something wet fall onto his cheek. “I- I thought... you weren’t waking up...”

“How long was I out?”

“I don’t know, Jon, it’s not like could check my bloody wristwatch... a while? Longer than I would like.” Martin paused for a moment before adding, “A lot longer than I was, I think.”

“You felt it too?”

“A bit.” Martin scratched the back of his head nervously. “But I knew it was coming, you just- just collapsed on the floor, I thought maybe you’d hit your head, and stone’s not exactly the most forgiving surface for that sort of thing...”

Jon let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’ll take a lot more than that to kill me.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Martin stood up, extending one arm towards Jon. “Need a hand?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Jon was pretty sure Martin pulled him up more than he actually pulled himself up, but what mattered was that he was up, was standing once more, and the pain that had caused him to collapse and black out was still gone. Also, Martin’s hand had been warm and soft, and even though he no longer needed the lift Jon’s hand was still brushing against Martin’s, the two just barely making contact still.

Jon noticed, idly, that Martin’s clothes were covered in specks of the not-quite-blood that had flowed out of Jonah Magnus’ body, but while it was unpleasant-looking and probably uncomfortable, it wasn’t the worst thing that had gotten on either of their clothes during their journey.

Jon’s train of thought was abruptly disrupted when his eyes fell upon a human figure still collapsed on the stone floor around them; as he approached, Martin following close behind, he heard the man swearing a blue streak, the profanities he let loose both inventive and especially obscene.

“Hello?” Jon asked.

“Are you alright?” Martin added.

The man sat up, and only then did he recognize the face of Jonah- no, of Elias Bouchard staring up at him.

“‘ve been worse... been a hell of a lot better, too, though...”

Elias sat up with a groan before locking eyes with Jon.

“Are you gonna kill me now, too?”

Jon looked over at Martin, who shook his head slightly, eyes wide.

“Depends. Who are you, exactly?” Jon was pretty sure he knew the answer already, but, well, better safe than sorry.

He didn’t hesitate to answer. “Elias Bouchard, the original, like I said before. Son of Julian and Nancy Bouchard, though Mum’s been dead since I was a kid. Only joined the Magnus Institute because I wanted a cushy office job and not many places would take someone with my shit grades. Didn’t even believe in the supernatural until, well-” Elias made a vague, wobbly hand gesture. “-all of this happened.”

Jon let out a soft breath. “No, I don’t think either of us are going to kill you now, Elias.”

“Well, uh, thank you, then.”

“What, for not killing you?” Martin asked.

Elias laughed, and it sounded very little like the sort of laughs Jon had heard come out of Elias’ mouth before, self-satisfied and pompous; it sounded much more like a genuine, normal laugh, full of humor and free of self-consciousness, even despite the current situation.

“Sort of, yeah, but also for, well, for killing him.” Elias pointed his thumb back at the body of Jonah Magnus. “I honestly thought I’d be stuck like that for the rest of my life, just watching him walk around in my body, so... glad I was wrong on that one. And thanks for fixing it for me, I suppose.”

Jon thought about that for a long moment. For a while now he’d bemoaned that it seemed like he couldn’t save anyone in this new world, couldn’t help anyone, could only cause more harm, and now...

Well, he couldn’t really take credit here. Jonah Magnus’ death was all Martin’s doing, not his own. But still, it was... something. A modicum of progress, perhaps. A small sign of hope.

“Maybe you can help us in return.” Jon looked pointedly out at the unchanged hellscape that surrounded them. “Obviously things haven’t gone back to normal with his death. Do you know why?”

“Well, he was right that killing him wasn’t going to magically fix everything, he wasn’t quite enough of a dipshit to set things up like that-”

Martin let out a soft laugh, and Elias’ face turned pink.

“Sorry, is the swearing a problem? I can stop if you’d like-”

“No, no, it’s just... never thought I’d hear it from you.”

Elias shot Martin a wide, albeit shaky, grin. “Dipshit was actually probably my favorite word back when I was a teenager. Let it slip at a dinner party once and my dad was furious, so of course I made a point to use it as often as possible from that point on. Drove my teachers mad, too.”

Martin laughed a bit more, and Jon struggled to hold back laughter of his own as he planned his next words.

“But if you saw everything he saw, you have to know something... do you know how to put things back the way they were?”

Martin pressed his arm against Jon’s and said Jon’s name softly, but if it was meant as a warning, it was one Jon wasn’t willing to heed. Jon didn’t care about politeness right now; he wanted answers.

“Not exactly? I mean, he was always just planning to make it happen, seemed to think it’d be easy sailing from there on out... and I mean, he wanted all of this, it’s not like he was making plans for how to back out of it all...”

Jon let out a soft sigh.

“...but I do have a few, er, theories? Given what I managed to pick up along the way...”

Jon forced his face into a weak smile. “We’d love to hear them.”

[sirpeachess-casual]

Hi could you write something alternative to the episode where Dick goes to Slade by himself to save Jason and instead of using Jason as bait, Slade actually trades him with Dick and captures him

We (Won’t) Make a Trade

Part 10 of the Dick Grayson Must Die series

Summary: In which Deathstroke takes Dick up on his offer to trade himself for Jason and Rose.

~~

TITANS TOWER

SAN FRANCISCO

“Jason!” Dick called, bursting onto the roof. The teen was standing with his back to him, precariously perched on the edge of the building.

“It should have been me,” he said, tears in his eyes. He was thinking about that night. The night he was suspended from the side of a building, the night he was strung out like a feather on a string, waiting for the predator to pounce. The night his life was reduced to a bargaining chip. The night Dick traded his life for Jason’s.

Dick swallowed, watching him carefully. “It’s okay.”

“Except it isn’t, is it? Nothing about this is. It’s all kinds of fucked up. He wanted me. He had me. You… you shouldn’t have done that.”

“It wasn’t you he wanted, Jason. Not really. Trust me.”

Gulping down more tears, the teen shook his head. “How do you know that? How do you know it wasn’t what I deserve? I… Stuff happens to people around me. They die or they get sick… It’s like I’m a virus, like this curse follows me, intent on destroying everything I touch and everyone I… Everyone I care about. I need to remove myself from the equation. It’s the only way.” It if hadn’t been for him, Dick wouldn’t have traded himself. If he hadn’t been so reckless, he wouldn’t have gotten captured and Dick wouldn’t have been tortured to an inch of his life.

Dick averted his eyes, searching the gravel of the rooftop for the answer. “You aren’t cursed, Jason. And you don’t deserve what happened to you.”

“How can you say that knowing who I am? What I’ve done? How can you say I don’t deserve to die?” Because he did. It should have been him Deathstroke took his vengeance out on.

Dick swallowed thickly. “Because…” Flashes of blood and pain tore across his vision, and he closed his eyes against them. Screaming, begging, torment and torture. And for what? To avenge a dead boy? To bring catharsis to a grieving father and mother? Or to send a message, to make a point? “Because what happened? It’s what I deserved.”

Jason blinked, finally turning to look back at him. “What…?”

“You don’t deserve what happened, Jason. Being kidnapped? Tortured? Held for ransom? That wasn’t on you. It wasn’t even about you, not really.” Lip quivering, Dick looked around the skyline, sunlight catching the tear in his eye. The dam he had been holding back for so long, the straw house in the way of a hurricane, was starting to crumble down. “But what happened to me? What I went through?” Jason was looking at him fully now, hanging on every word, intrigued by every exposed crack in Dick’s usually impenetrable armor.

It only made him cry harder. “What that - that monster did to me?” He hadn’t told anyone what had happened. They could guess by looking at him, by examining his bruises and wounds, but torture always ended one way. And that’s with the deepest scars on the inside. Dick pulled in a breath.

“How he cut me up? How he humiliated me? How he…” No. Not that. “He hurt me. So many times, in so many ways. And I… For what I did to him? For what I did to… I deserved every piece of it.” He pulled in his emotions, finally dragging his eyes back to the teen. “Don’t blame yourself, Jason. Please. I had it coming, I… He got his pound of flesh, just like he was promised.”

With a soft thud, Jason stepped off the rooftop ledge. He faltered, just for a second, before inching carefully forward. “Dude…” he asked, eyes roaming over Dick’s body just once to take inventory of his injuries, the tremors in his hands, the sleepless hysteria in his eyes. “The hell did he do to you?”

Dick dared to look him in the eye.

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

THREE DAYS EARLIER

SAN FRANCISCO

“You want your pound of flesh, revenge for what happened, and I want this to end once and for all. So how about we make a deal, huh?” He took off his bulletproof vest, tossing it aside.  

“You can have me,” he offered, hands raised near his head. “Instead of Rose or Jason. Pretty sure I’m the one you’re mad at anyway.”

Gulping, he lowered himself to his knees, fingers intertwined in his hair. “Here I am. Unarmed.” In his thin T-Shirt and jeans, Deathstroke would be able to tell he wasn’t packing. Knives could be more easily concealed, but this specially selected outfit left little room for that. He wanted this to go cleanly and took every precaution necessary to make sure it did.

Three bullets pinged into the ground before him and Dick flinched. His detective brain automatically tracked the trajectory of the bullets and he knew Deathstroke was behind him before the man even started talking.

“You never learn, do you?” he began and Dick had to force himself to keep his eyes forward, just like a good little hostage. “Always the hero,” the man continued, emerging from the shadows. “But you’re not going to dictate how this will go. You aren’t a martyr. You’re a conman, preying on those weak enough to follow you.” Deathstroke stood before him and Dick dared to look him in the eye. “The problem with conmen is that they never know when to stop. And someone else always pays.”

“Let’s just get this over with, huh?” Dick interrupted, tired of all the talk. He just wanted to know Jason was alright. All hell would break loose soon but not before he was sure Jason was safe.

Deathstroke took several steps back, lone eye trained on Dick like a predator. “Get up.”

Dick obeyed, keeping his hands behind his head.

“Take a look,” Deathstroke commanded, flipping a switch. The screen lifted and Dick could see Jason tied to the suspended scaffold outside, hands bound behind his back. Once the screen rose enough and Robin could see it was Dick watching him, he started struggling, grunting and jerking against the bar. There was a bomb strapped to the suspension cables and Dick didn’t have to think long to figure out what would happen if it went off.

Deathstroke rose a hand, a detonator clutched in his glove. “Say goodbye to your little friend,” he said, thumb moving for the button.

A lightning bolt went off inside Dick and he panicked. “Wait!” he begged, hands outstretched. Deathstroke paused, head tilting curiously. Dick breathed heavily, eyes flickering to Jason. It was different when he couldn’t see the kid, when he thought this was going to be a peaceful exchange and no one would be any the wiser. But with Jason here to witness, it changed the game.

And Deathstroke knew it. Dick’s large eyes flickered to him, betrayal and understanding swirling in the dark orbs. Deathstroke didn’t want Dick to surrender, to beg quietly in the sanctity of this secluded room. No, he wanted to humiliate him, to make him beg in front of his replacement, his charge - the very person Dick was trying to protect. The new Robin would bear witness to the fall of the old.

It shouldn’t have, but somehow the realization surprised Dick. He just didn’t think one man could be this cruel.

He pulled in a breath, holding it captive in his chest. “I’m sorry, Jason,” he whispered, easily finding the undivided attention of the teen before him. Slowly, Dick rose his hands again. He took several steps back, moving to a respectful distance, and lowered himself to his knees.

“You can have me. Just let the boy go. Please.”

Deathstroke seemed to consider it and it took a half-second longer for Jason to realize what was happening. As soon as it did, though, he started yelling in rage, jerking against the rail. His voice was muffled by the thick glass and Dick was thankful for small mercies. Not that there was any doubt what the teen was shrieking at them, but at least Dick wouldn’t have two voices haunting him. He could barely handle the one.

Thanks, Bruce.

Deathstroke approached him, eye narrowed in thought. Jason stilled. Then, the man drew his sword and pointed it at Dick’s throat. That got Robin rioting all over again, and Dick had to wave a hand at him to settle down. If he kept struggling he wouldn’t need the bomb to break the scaffold; he’d do it himself. And that would defeat the purpose of everything.

“You would so easily go back on our arrangement?” Deathstroke taunted. “Rewrite the rules to benefit you and your selfish interests? Turn yourself over for this boy?”

Dick huffed at him. “Yes, I would,” he snarled defiantly. “Because this isn’t a fight that has anything to do with him or Rose. This is between you, me, and what I did. And I won’t let any more innocent blood be spilled. Not over that. Not when there’s already been too much.”

Deathstroke yelled, swinging his blade. It slashed Dick across the face, cutting a short but deep canyon into his cheek. Jason roared outside and Dick toppled to the side, the entire side of his face on fire. Blood splattered to the floor and he was sure the blade had touched his cheekbone.

“You will not come here and slander his name!” the larger man scolded.

Dick coughed, raising his hands. “I didn’t come for that!” he replied. Jason had gone quiet and Dick sat up to find a gun pointed to his forehead. He calmed his breathing, hands at his ears. “I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Not Jason, not Rose, not anyone.”

“No one but yourself.”

He gulped loudly. “If it saves them…”

His mask tilted to the left. “And why should I accept your offer? Do not forget, Grayson, you gain more out of this trade than I do. You get your little sheep back, just as I promised, while I still don’t have my daughter.” He pulled the hammer back.

“You got me instead, though. And I’m the one you’re really after, right? The one you’re really mad at.”

“You did not follow the agreed upon rules, Grayson. This trade you propose is not equivalent. So, how are you going to make up the dividend? What was it you said: that I will get my pound of flesh?”

Dick sighed, staring the devil in the eye. “You will get your pound of flesh. It’s yours. I am offering you my life, a chance to have the one who…” The gun pressed to his forehead. He waved Jason down again. “The one you want. Have my blood, my flesh. And in return, all you have to do is let Jason go.”

Deathstroke waited, almost expecting Dick to continue. Dick held his form, jaw tight and breathing heavily.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

The devil blinked first.

“Very well,” he said, pulling the gun back. “I accept your deal.”

Dick could almost breathe again but didn’t dare let himself feel relief. Deathstroke could turn on him on a dime and Dick had to be ready for it.

“Get up,” the larger man instructed and Dick slowly rose to his feet. Deathstroke waved with his sword. “That way. Walk until I tell you to stop.”

Jason watched them walk into the building, leaving him and the window behind. “Dick! Dick, get back here! Don’t do this!” he shouted to the man’s retreating form. “Dick, stop!”

Dick paused halfway to the elevator, glancing back at Jason. “What about him?”

“They will find him.”

“When?”

“Our deal was that I would release the boy. Not rescue him.”

Dick turned forward, biting the inside of his cheek angrily. He wanted to argue, demand that leaving Jason strapped to the outside of a building with a small bomb the only thing keeping him in the air was hardly letting him go. But Bruce’s voice came back to him, loud enough it was almost like he was standing right there.

“Choose your battles, son. If you fight every fight, you reveal your hand. You open yourself to exhaustion and allow the enemy to learn more about you than you would ever permit. Better to lose some battles if it means you save yourself for the war.”

Save himself for the war. That’s all Dick had to do. Wait until they were out of range of the bomb or anyone else and strike back. It would be a fight, a glorious and bloody brawl. And this time, only one of them would walk away.

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

UNKNOWN

SAN FRANCISCO

They had to enter Slade’s house through a short iron gate. A series of steps lead to a small rock garden, surrounded on all sides by the thick glass windows of the house. On one side, a dining room and kitchen. Another, a lounge. A third an office and the fourth was hidden behind thick black doors. Wintergreen swung the doors open and Dick was escorted through. The interior was all black steel and polished marble. Immaculately clean and decorated. Dick had been around money long enough to know when someone flaunted it or simply used it to keep up appearances. Slade was the latter, he decided as they crossed the small balcony, walking down more steps to arrive at the sub-level. Another lounge, a short hallway, a corner, and more steps later they finally arrived at a locked door.

Dick wasn’t stupid. He knew what this was. Slade was taunting him, showing off his home and knowing full well that Dick would be taking stock of every security measure, every re-enforced door, and doubly thick glass window. He was allowing him to get a feel for the land because it wouldn’t do him any good. He could know the layout by heart, have every access code and blind-spot memorized, and he still wasn’t leaving this place.

It was a professional courtesy, giving the captive a tour of their tomb.

Finally, they arrived at his cell. They had to walk through the armory to do so and god, the hubris of this man. The cell was a small glass enclosure in the center of a slightly larger room. Wintergreen inputted the code for the cell door and Dick noticed the cameras in opposite corners of the room, red lights watching his every move. The door unlocked and Wintergreen held it open, turning expectantly. Another taunt, the two men standing on either side of him, just out of reach of any coordinated attack.

Dick took some solace in knowing that the mind games wouldn’t work. If he could identify them for what they were, they wouldn’t have an effect on him.

At least, they wouldn’t in theory.

He ducked his head and entered the cell. It was criminally small and contained only a military-style cot and a steel toilet and sink combination. The cot was the entire length of the wall, the room was so small. The cell walls and door were made entirely of thick glass, a thin bar of steel holding the pin pad lock for the door.

The door clicked shut behind him, beeped locked, and Dick turned to look at his captives. Wintergreen stepped back, him and Slade eyeing Dick like a trapped zoo animal.

“Is that all you’ll be needing from me?” Wintergreen asked, hands folded behind his back politely.

“For now, yes. Go and ensure we weren’t followed. Then you can leave for the night.”

The man nodded. “Consider it done. I’ll see you in the morning, then.” He nodded to them before turning to take his leave.

It all hit Dick very suddenly once the outer room door clicked shut and he found himself alone in a confined space with Slade Wilson. He was at the man’s mercy. He had agreed, in great emotional distress, to trade himself for Jason and Rose. He had promised Deathstroke his pound of flesh for Dick using his son. Jericho was dead, it was Dick’s fault, and now Slade had all the authority and means in the world to beat that into his head until his dying breath.

It would be okay, though, even if Dick died. He had done some crazy shit to keep this secret buried. And if he was to buried alongside it, so much the better. He didn’t want to die, per se, but not having to fight or hide in shame anymore was a tantalizing prospect.

“Clean yourself up,” Slade demanded. “And rest. We start early.”

Dick gulped, frowning as the man pivoted to leave. “Start what? You’ve already shown me your house. Had your PA lock me up, stripped me to look for weapons…” He shrugged. “What’s next? Are you going to strap me to a chair and make me watch sad movies? Beat me? Make me bleed, make me beg?” Maybe it was the adrenaline drop off. Maybe it was an overwhelming sense of fuck-it or the relative safety of a thick glass wall between him and the larger man. He wasn’t sure what was fueling his outburst, but he was feeling especially snarky, desperate to snag hold of any shred of power in this dire situation. So he did what any scared kid would do; he bit, he snarled, he taunted and teased. It was stupid. But he was stupid, and tired, and his face hurt like hell thanks to the slash in his cheek.

Slade turned to him, crossing his buff arms. “I’m not going to make you do anything, Grayson.” Slowly, methodically, he advanced on the cell. “At the end of our time here, you will be begging me to kill you of your own free will, grovel at my feet and plead with me to end your miserable existence. And I…” He raised a hand and Dick took a small step back. “I will not have laid a single finger on you. I will destroy you exactly as you coerced my son into dying for your paltry plan…” Curling his fingers, he tapped his temple once. “By corrupting your mind. I know what made you into what you are, Richard John Grayson. And I know how to dismantle it all.”

About facing, he marched to the door, letting it slam shut behind him.

Dick was left alone in the cell, breathing heavily and working his jaw. “Shit,” he muttered, hands pulling at his hair. Heavily, he collapsed to the cot, scrubbing at his face.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

He hissed, fingers pulling at the wound on his cheek. They came away slightly red and that was just great. He must have reopened it. Huffing, he stood and made his way to the sink to wash off. When he looked up from the bowl and found Bruce standing behind him, he was hardly surprised.

The ghost shrugged. “I told you not to do that. It will make a hell of a souvenir, though, you’ve got to admit. A real conversation starter.”

Dick ignored him, rolling his eyes. He yanked the thin blanket off the cot, tearing a sliver of fabric from it. It wasn’t ideal, but a covering was better than no covering. And Dick really didn’t want the cut to scar. And, yes, he was vain enough to admit it was partly because he didn’t want an ugly ass scar on his cheek for the rest of his life. But he also tried not to think about the looks of pity and inquiring stares he would get from the Titans, the League, everyone who knew him whenever he walked into a room.

Slade’s mark was on his face and Dick would be damned if he didn’t do everything in his power to make it go away. Scar his arms, his shoulders, his stomach, or his back. Rip up his legs, go for the shins or knees. But being cruel to his face right off the bat? That was just rude.

Wound cleaned best he could - too bad he couldn’t stitch or wrap it properly - he kicked his boots off and settled onto the mattress. He was loathe to admit, but as far as cots went, it wasn’t the worst he had ever slept on. Standard military issue, which made sense considering Slade’s past as a soldier. A sniper in one of the most elite squadrons, before they took him and experimented on his body.

Dick lowered himself to his back, the thin blanket pulled up to his chin. Slade promised he would torture Dick without laying a finger on him. Did that mean he was going to experiment on him like the military had? Pump him full of performance enhancing drugs and hope his heart didn’t give out? He rolled to his side. No, there were plenty of ways to torment someone without touching them. Gas and drugs, for starters. Then there were long-range weapons like whips and percussive ones like bats or clubs. Fire and water could be deadly, or even earth if he was feeling creative.

Sighing, he scooted to his other side, letting his sore cheek taste the open air. Would Slade involve Wintergreen? If Wintergreen touched him, would that count? Slade certainly seemed like the kind of man who would have someone do his dirty work just so he could save face. He was a sniper, after all, a class of soldier who didn’t exactly operate up close and personal. Except he finished all of the fights Dick had seen him pick and was skilled with several kinds of swords and blades.

Would those count as touch? Were there specific parameters, like distance he had to be from Dick’s flesh or was it physical only?

Fingers snapped loudly in front of his face and Dick blinked, large eyes focusing on Bruce’s curious expression.

“What do you want?” he sighed.

The ghost looked offended. “Thought I lost you there, is all. Caught up in your own dark fantasies?” he asked, raising a hand to stroke Dick’s hair.

Dick swatted him away. “Don’t fucking touch me. And no, I wasn’t fantasizing about what’s going to happen. Slade’s going to torture me. I’m probably going to die. End of story.”

“The end is only what you make of it. They can see you, you know.”

He frowned. “What? Who?”

“Not the cameras, though I’m certain that sadistic prick is enjoying watching you fret. And certainly not if they don’t try.”

Rolling his eyes, he turned his back to the ghost. Maybe putting pressure on his cheek was the way to go. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then allow me to enlighten you-”

“No, no. Don’t do that. Just shut up. I need to sleep.”

Even though he was faced the opposite direction, Dick could perfectly see Bruce’s shrug because that was such a fucking Bruce thing to do. “If by sleep you mean toss and turn for hours on end, haunted by visions and thoughts you can’t hope to explain and worries you won’t be able to satisfy. Then, please, by all means. Fret all night long if that makes you feel any better.”

“The only thing that’s haunting me right now is you. So if you could kindly fuck off that would be appreciated.”

“But I can’t, though.”

“Maybe if you tried.”

“They can see you, son. They’re watching.”

He shook his head, snuggling deeper into the cot. “I don’t know what you’re saying and I don’t care.”

Bruce was silent for a long moment and Dick finally closed his eyes, satisfied that he would be able to sleep in peace. Or, at least toss and turn for hours, caught up in overthinking and plagued by guilt until he got so tired he gave up entirely and decided passing out from exhaustion would be better. So like any other night, really.

[fonzeworth]

@frostmaiden​ / send game over for a Bad End | not accepting.

—AND LET NATURE CONSUME YOU UNTIL YOU ARE NO LONGER WHOLE.

            ( i have to keep going. i won’t give up.. i won’t give up

                                         they need me. everybody needs me. )

There’s little else that runs through his mind as fingers choke against metal. Then pointed extensions of his hands sing freely with a whistle of the elements. He feels most at home in these moments–-the least restrained—so far removed that it was perhaps his folly.

Not one of these forged would lay a hand on his comrades, so help the Six ( well, more or less five, given he’s got some beef with a certain war god ). The distinct sulfur smell is assaulting in this area of the Desolation, but it did nothing to prevent the battalion of forged from drawing closer to the haphazard warband of friends alike.

                                         ( the only thing that would stop them was him )

Foolish? Surely—no one was able to trip the commander fast enough to flatten his momentum. Not when he felt that shadowstepping was easy to track, anyway.

The elementalist was certainly in his element now, dancing between forged, brushing against the searing exhaust of the fire god’s creations. The warpblade dazzled with small arcs of lightning as it clashed against enemy after enemy, soaking in the air attuned energy that flowed freely through Elias. The runestone in his other hand cascaded moisture as if it was the bottom of a waterfall, clouds of mist rolling off spikes pointed towards the ground. Between both water and air, he had learned, it made him strike far more true than he had first believed.

“Come on, this is nothing,” comes a breath, making quick work of the smaller peons that took up most of the front lines at this particular stronghold. Larger foes, those vanguards and forerunners and the like, took a little more effort ( such he was willing to give ). This was war, even if these souls had belonged to once tormented souls, the dishonored, the lost. They had no choice but to bend to Balthazar’s will, sadly, but Elias was willing to take such a burden if it meant everyone could be free.

So, he continued. One after another, sparks, tides, and ice billow from then ends of his weapons, his hands freezing to the touch at the constant flow of aether condensing where he squeezes. It’s thrilling—he’s never felt more alive than he has now, drawing distance with freezing gusts and closing the distance with charged strikes from his blade. He didn’t want to stop as the fervor rushed from within—this was why he loved to be in the front lines ( this was why he wasn’t supposed to be off on his own ). The fringe of his coat whips frequently against his ankles, heeled boots digging into the crusted ochre of long-dead soil, splitting unevenly as weight falls upon it for seconds at a time, the weaver near springing back and forth with pent up momentum.

Twas incredibly selfish to think one man could take out a mostly endless battalion of hellfire incarnate—though, more selfish to think it was okay to do so. Maybe there was more to it than simply fun ( oh, there was so, so much more to it ). He could not parry each and everything as fire struck at his feet, as heavier weaponry threatened to cut the directions he was heading—frosted chills of the aura he emitted was his saving grace, a steady and precise hand kept him from each encounter from bullying him too long. The longer he engaged, the foggier each exhale became.

Revel snatched his expression as a lavender gaze glowed with the powder blue that matched his synchronization with his elements, unraveling himself to become one with water and air---with ice. As the burns and gashes sung in pain, Elias relished in the endlessness of combat. To take, and take, and take---for such a sweet demeanor, it was no wonder Krytans had felt him akin to Grenth himself.

---( but oh, sweet child, you will learn what it means to bite the hand that feeds )

“---Commander!! What the hell are you doing out there on your own!” the frantic trill of one of his comrades ( ah, it’s kas ) pierces the immediate area, but Elias pays less mind than he needs to, “Don’t... worry about me, I’ll be.. fine..!” This is what it meant to go too far, didn’t it---speaking was difficult when it was easier to simply not breathe, not think about anything else ( and could he? it looked like the remaining forces were beginning to realize it was futile ). He was almost there---almost able to give the sunspears a reprieve, the order a moment to gather intel freely. No mesmer was about to cut him off now. “Elias!”

A strike bites into his wristguards, throwing off his balance ( no... no, we’re not done yet..! ) and the weaver grits his teeth in open annoyance. “S’ under control!” he replies as he slips into a strike, finally felling another forged with a pained wheeze ( how many hits did he take..? ugh.. something burned but...he’s not standing in fire.. ), turn to take down another, the last that would dare approach ( or simply couldn’t escape, there was no difference ), with a ragged cry.

Fingers ached, his vicegrip on his weapons nearly frozen in place as his knees give out from underneath him, and Elias collapses, his warpblade bracing his full weight. Wheezes spill from his lips, fog rolling out in bellows, but he feels like he’s drowning in a place that hasn’t seen water for millennia---a place where none of the aspected aether he consumed could escape with how tightly he held onto it.

( get up... get up.... get... up.. ) His body disobeyed, chilled quite literally to the bone ( so cold...it burns.. ). His wrists were sore---beyond the kind of exhaustion he had experienced before. “Ah...I..I overdid it, I think..” he says weakly, but Kasmeer’s panic falls on deaf ears, for he’s simply unable to comprehend what’s beyond what he can see. Man...only shortly after seeing the Judge, too.. finding his purpose...could Aurene feel the instabilities within him right now..? Did she feel her Champion slip?

Elias couldn’t answer such things.. if she was on her way---it would be too late for him, it had to be. Everything was so cold, so, so cold ( slipping, falling into the dark winter he had seen once in awhile after the most daring of trials ).. gloved fingertips loosened, grip slipping from the sword as his weight carries him to the ground, musty, dehydrated. Perhaps it would have been more heroic if he was spilling blood, however, there’s little that slips from his coat, his lips. Frozen over? Elias couldn’t tell in the haze his consciousness was pressing upon him, likely from the sheer weight of it all---he could acknowledge something was wrong, but he couldn’t feel it.. directly...

For the best..right..? ( maybe... i don’t know anymore.. i can’t... think..i’m so tired...so... tired.. what was i... here... for..? )

Eyes slipped shut, unable to bear looking at such a nasty color of dirt--it brought reprieve, he almost felt like he was melting into the surrounding area as aether slowly slipped from his fingertips ( and with that, perhaps even his life force? maybe ). He didn’t care, he wanted rest---nothing more; simply to embrace the chill of hibernation. Vaguely, Kasmeer’s voice beckons from somewhere beyond his reach ( muddled, like being underwater ), joined with others---comrades? Yeah.. friends. He was sure they’d understand when they found him. For now.. it’s.. it’s a good time to rest..

                                          ( good night, sweet prince )

[void-tiger]

Shirotember Day 2: Alone

It was dark. Why was it dark. Where was his Team? He reached out in front of him, groping in the dark as his mind caused iridescent and nebulous swirls of anticolor and shapes loom at the corners of his vision, threatening to surround him, and—

Shiro took a breath. Held it. Released.

Except…he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel his chest expand against ribs, or muscles contract with the exhale and—

He breathed again, but didn’t expect to feel himself do it. He wasn’t disappointed. Shiro wished he were.

At least he didn’t hurt. No phantom throbs from a limb that didn’t exist, no aches or swelling from too dense bones that had been broken and rebroken and forced to heal again until they felt much too dense. No sharp tugging from his scars as they protested when the rest of his skin flexed and relaxed. Shiro couldn’t convince himself that was a good thing.

Shiro tried reaching out to his Lion. But the Bond felt slack.

.

He was so cold.

No…not cold. His scars and bones would protest from cold. He just wasn’t warm. He reflexively crossed his arms, anyway, intent on rubbing some warmth back into them. To just feel something.

His brain told him he was millimeters away from touching skin. His hand and arm said there was nothing there.

Panic rose in him again as he tried to rub his face. Nothing. His hand waved through where his brain said his face should be there and bile rose to his throat but didn’t burn and—

Shiro laughed. Long and hard and probably just a touch hysterical. Okay, a lot hysterical. Not that he had to worry about his Team witnessing it and scaring them. His Team wasn’t here…which was both a pain and comfort. At least they were safe…he hoped.

And he couldn’t hear any of it.

.

He didn’t bother trying to test the gravity of whatever this space was. His brain told him it was The Void. Shiro tried not to think of it as such. Void was too close to Nothing and too close to Dead.

But…it was definitely a void.

Which meant he was most definitely dead.

Was this hell, then? Not that he believed in it, but…he imagined it would either be burning or full of other beings’ tormented screaming in the dark. Just not empty.

Who was he kidding. He couldn’t imagine hell being worse than this.

“Hey Black. Don’t suppose you’re here to? No, didn’t think so.”

.

Voices. His Team! But they were too distorted and far away yet oh so close but underwater or behind a wall—

“Hey!” he screamed. “I’m here!”

The voices pulled further away.

“NO! Don’t leave me here! I’m here!”

His ears strained at the sudden silence. Ringing filled them in their desperate attempt to hear something again.

“…no. I’m not. I’m not dead. I’m not…”

He was pretty sure he was.

Shiro’s nonexistent arms pulled his nonexistent legs toward him as they curled into his nonexistent chest. And if nothing about him existed then he wasn’t crying. HA.

.

“Hey, Black. Don’t suppose you sense me yet. Getting out of wherever this is would be really appreciated.

“Oh right…you can’t. ‘Cause I’m dead.”

.

“Thought death was supposed to be like sleeping. Which…I’m definitely awake. Conclusion: I’m not actually dead. Maybe comatose? Think I read stuff about coma patients actually having some sense of awareness…but think they could feel their bodies, too. I can’t.

“Counter argument: ghosts do not have bodies. Therefore I’m a ghost. But…even ghosts can at least see some projection of themselves, and haunting their surroundings. Conclusion, I’m not dead, ‘cause even being a ghost would be better than this.

“Hey, Black! Care to offer your opinion?”

Silence.

“…didn’t think so. If I am dead then I’m haunting you, Cat.”

.

Voices again. Shiro sniffed derisively. Probably just what was left of his consciousness inventing things. Wouldn’t exactly be the first time.

Only…the voices were alone this time, not lumped in a crowd, before trading out with another one.

Slowly his world brightened to a dark purple, as the watery pink of a coming dawn faded into existence before dimming again into pale, white pinpricks of light. The world brightened again with hints of yellow and green before they, too faded into the inky purple, deepening into a rich indigo and swirling the white pinpricks into galaxy arms. But…Shiro thought he could make out some sort of surface, now…even if light shined below it instead of just over it.

But he could cry from relief out of just being able to see something again, even something so simple as color. It didn’t matter, his eyes lapped it up ravenously.

The ground further solidified into something resembling a shallow salt flat covered with a half inch of clear liquid. And Shiro realized that the colors actually felt familiar, and maybe those voices were his Team, and—

“HEY!!!” he cried again. What did he have to lose. “I’m here! I’m still here!”

The blue light faded into the water and a larger prick of light, its voice replaced silence.

Shiro sank to his knees, splashing the water as it displaced. Well. At least something about himself was solid again, but he couldn’t quite swallow the bitter disappointment.

Finally the indigo touched with red, this voice clearer than the others had been.

“…Shiro—“

“KEITH!!!” Shiro cried. “Keith, I’m here! Please!” Shiro felt a tug at his quintessence, the rumble of what he dared to hope was his Lion, and shoved as much of himself as he could. Yet it met resistance, something pushing his quintessence back into himself except for that small tug.

“NO!!! Keith, please sense me!”

But the light faded into a pinprick of red. Shiro was alone in the dark again, but this time with the stars for company.

…well. He hadn’t lost anything.

.

Adam had demanded how he could stand going to space so often. Shiro said he couldn’t ever grow tired of the stars, and couldn’t fathom how Adam just didn’t understand. Sam did. So did Matt. And Sam even risked the stars betting on Shiro.

Shiro now wished he could take it back, beg Sam not to risk his career on him, get a different pilot. One better who could’ve gotten in and out of Kerberos faster. Or maybe a worse one, who got there too slow to even intersect with the Galra’s flight plan.

Or even if they all really had crashed. It’d have been quicker and more decisive than whatever the Galra planned for the Holts. And it would’ve been better than being stuck in whatever limbo this was.

The Void’s star-dusted sky rumbled with gentle thunder or a Lion’s Roar. Shiro couldn’t bring himself to care. If that was Black, it was all too little, too late. If the Lion wasn’t going to get him out, then the Team was better off just getting a new Black Paladin.

Shiro hadn’t thought he could ever grow tired of the stars. But he was definitely weary of these.

.

A new shape rose onto the horizon. More solid and larger than the others had been, but also dimmer. Its corona barely lapped around the edges, and flickered fainter with every passing tick. Something pulled at his quintessence again as the sky rumbled and flashed and the Red Star grew to blinding.

Curiosity bubbled in Shiro, and on a whim he fed the tug. Stars streaked into contrails as the entire Void seemed to be rushing towards…something. Then just as suddenly, it stopped. Shiro lost his balances and crashed into the water.

The corona, now nearly completely snuffed out, slowly brightened again. Shiro rose to his feet…and realized that he could see his limbs for the first time in ages. The water reflected his shape, but the light still remained too dim to make out his features.

“…we found him.”

And ember of hope smoldered back to life. “Keith?” Shiro called hesitantly. “Can you hear me?”

But Keith’s voice faded with the dimming red star.

.

“…what’s wrong?”

Shiro blinked. That was his voice. But he was inside…what he guessed was the Black Lion’s quintessence, although he didn’t exactly understand how.

A paler version of him reflected underneath the water…wearing his uniform. “Oh you can’t be serious,” Shiro growled. “That isn’t me you stupid Cat!”

The phantom blinked as a pained look crossed his face. His hands clenched, before falling slack. “Keith…I’m going to need you to lead this mission. The Black Lion isn’t responding…looks like you’re the Black Paladin now.”

A strange mix of vindication and dismay swelled in Shiro’s chest as the impostor faded away. So Keith had done as he’d asked. But if Shiro really was dead…then what did it make him, exactly.

“…I’m sorry,” Shiro whispered. “I shouldn’t have called you that.”

Thunder rumbled gently, briefly brightening the indigo sky as the eclipse corona faded.

“…but you know I was joking about haunting you, right? So if Keith’s your paladin now…what do you need me for.”

Thunder rumbled again, this time with cloud lightning clustered closer together…close enough for Shiro to fully see his reflection for the first time…and see it staring back at him in shock while wearing the Black Paladin armor.

.

“…I’m sorry. I know I promised to stay away, but…Keith isn’t flying with you. And sure I miss…”

Shiro glanced up. The corona was brighter again. Sure enough, several feet away stood the doppelganger. Something vicious twisted inside of him at the sight of the other him.

“…yeah that’s not important. Forget I said it.”

The Other Him tugged at his hair. Shiro quirked an eyebrow at the other man’s shorter fringe. At least he didn’t have the audacity to wear Shiro’s uniform this time…but did that mean Keith was instead?

A defeated look crossed the phantom’s face, but his posture remained erect. Shiro wondered who the Other Him thought he was fooling.

“They’re going to get killed if Keith stays away. And all I can do is watch.”

The Phantom turned, then slowly dissolved from sight as the corona dimmed.

.

“Please! People’s lives are at stake!”

The Phantom again. But as sporadic as the doppelganger’s visits to the Black Lion were, Shiro heard Keith’s voice echo through even less. What had happened that would make this Other Him dare return? Where the hell was Keith?

“You trusted me once!”

“No she hasn’t!” Shiro screamed at the specter. “That was me! You had nothing to do with it!”

“…trust me again.”

Thunder rumbled and Shiro could practically feel the Black Lion whine with the same desperation Shiro heard in that Other Shiro’s voice. Shiro’s eyes pinched shut as he released his quintessence, bridging the gap between that Other Him and his Lion.

“…thank you.”

“This isn’t for you,” Shiro snarled, “but for them. Protect my Team. And don’t make me regret this.”

“Converge on me! Form Voltron!”

.

Keith’s voice never returned, but the clone did. Some moments Shiro resented him, wondering if the clone was the reason Shiro never heard bits of Keith’s Voice echoing in the Void. But other times Shiro couldn’t help but pity him, empathizing with the clones fears and frustrations as he poured out his heart to the Black Lion, wondered if he was even worthy…completely unaware of the Real Shiro forced to eavesdrop the entire time.

Because one thing was crystal clear to Shiro: that other him thought he was the real thing. He also feared he might be a threat, and often begged the Black Lion to make Keith come home, that he’d be okay even though he loved being a Paladin…but something wasn’t right with him and it scared him.

At those times Shiro pinched his eyes shut and tried not to envy the Lion’s clear adoration of the clone, and how the clone was out there with his Team while Shiro remained trapped inside the Lion itself.

And very much dead. Probably. Maybe. Did dead people have quintessence?

So when the clone ordered the others to Form Voltron! Shiro sent his quintessence along the clone’s bond to make up the slack. The clone without fail always thanked who he thought was the Black Lion for the assist, and promised to do better.

Shiro swallowed the bitter (brain supplied…) taste in his mouth and couldn’t help but be relieved when the clone’s phantom image left.

Even if the clone’s absence plunged the Void into mostly darkness yet again.

.

“…we found Commander Hol-er-Sam. But he’s in Zarkon’s possession, and the Team’s ready to just either murder Lotor or walk away, and I don’t know what to do!”

Shiro’s heart sank. He’d trusted his Team to the clone, but things seemed to continue to deteriorate instead. The clone had vanished for what Shiro guesstimated to be at least a week…not that the Black Lion’s void provided any true sense of time. Or even how long Shiro remained trapped inside. A phoeb? Decaphoeb? The best gage Shiro ever got was listening to what were essentially panicked diary entries and feeling like a voyeur…about the same guy who stole his spot. And the Team still hadn’t even noticed.

But when the clone returned, he confessed that he nearly took a pod and left for good, terrified that he’d lead the Team into another Naxxela. That he’d hoped that Keith was finally ready to come home…only that by the time Matt had ran into him and coldly told him to talk to Keith, Keith had already left for the Blades again the second Lotor was placed into a solitary cell in Voltron’s custody. “Shiro” never learned why Matt insisted the two speak, and Keith continued to ignore the clones attempts to contact him.

And by proxy, neither did Shiro.

“I can’t let them trade Lotor. We’d be trading one life for another when Zarkon’s already promised to execute his own son. But Katie can’t see that this is a trap! And since when would Zarkon even keep his end of the deal? And…dammit, I want Commander-Sam-home…safe, too! I can’t lose him again!”

The clone’s phantom continued to pace across the surface, then suddenly collapsed while clutching at his skull. Thunder rumbled again as Shiro felt the Black Lion nose the clone in concern. The clone whined in pain, but slowly pushed himself back onto his feet, using what Shiro assumed was the Black Lion’s paw. Fear and exhaustion clung at his features…but to Shiro’s horror the clone’s eyes now glinted Druid Fucshia that glowed in the Void’s gloom.

“…’m fine. Zarkon can’t have you, and he can’t have Sam, and he won’t have Lotor. I won’t let him! But…I don’t know how much time I have left. I just hope I can end this war quickly before then. And I think we can trust Lotor to succeed Zarkon—it’d only be chaos if he doesn’t. But…why do I feel compelled to trust him, like that’s the only—nnnngh!”

Shiro’s eyes scanned the clone. The clone’s eyes flared brighter with Haggar’s quintessence…which meant the witch in some way was controlling him. And all Shiro could do was watch, helpless, as the clone tried to fight through what he apparently thought was just a never ending migraine. And while the clone thought he was dying but too terrified to admit it…Shiro couldn’t help but look at his doppelganger as a ticking time-bomb. One that threatened his Team and the universe itself.

Shiro had to try to reach his Team again. He hadn’t tried in some time, not since Keith vanished. But time was running out. Maybe there was something Shiro hadn’t thought of yet to get out.

.

“SHIRO!!!”

“—C’mon where are you!”

“SHIRO!!!”

“He’s not getting through.”

“Where is he?! We need him!”

Panic choked him and roared in his ears as his Team’s cries echoed through the spot where the Clone’s Phantom reside. Only…the clone was prone. Gingerly Shiro touched the phantom. The phantom clone’s head lolled back limply, fushia pouring out from underneath half-lidded eyes. The corona rapidly began to drain.

Shiro had to think fast. The clone barely had enough quintessence to form Voltron, often relying on Shiro to make up the difference whether he realized it or not. Whatever maneuver the Team was currently attempting was taking too much, leaving only Druidic Quintessence behind and outright killing him…while still not being enough to do much more than bridge the gap between Shiro and his Team.

Well, Shiro’d take it.

Shiro’s arms snaked underneath the clone’s phantom’s armpits and pulled him close—despite how transparent the clone’s quintessence-based representation was, he was surprisingly solid—and, for a lack of any better idea, fed his quintessence through the clone.

Immediately angry fucshia claws tried grabbing at him in a sea of white static, the clone’s natural purple quintessence flickering as a weak, wisping flame. Time was running out.

Shiro rushed forward, slashing at the enemy quintessence with his fist—Shiro absently noticed that it glowed indigo instead of fucshia like it had in his fight with Zarkon. Not the time. He’d ponder the meaning later. If he survived this, he’d have plenty of time either way. The claws reared back then flanked and chased from behind. Shiro made a diving roll for the clone’s quintessence, barely brushing it with his finger tips, and—

—black static swirling with deep blue surrounded pillars of purple, red, blue, yellow, and green. The pillars for the other lions shown with bright, white, blinding light. But…as his eyes adjusted he could make out other colors within the pillars themselves. Oh, the Paladins’ quintessence within the Green and Yellow pillars, but the similarities ended there. The Blue Lion’s Paladin’s quintessence was pink of all things, while the Red Lion’s Paladin was blue?

What was going on? Shiro thought the Paladins’ quintessence mirrored their Lions’. But clearly two did not.

The Blue Lion’s paladin vanished in a flash of blue, white, and pink light.

Right. No time to think. If Shiro had any chance of reaching anyone at all, it was now or never.

“Pidge! Hunk!” Shiro called out. But both Paladins with matching quintessence vanished as well.

“No! Come, on, anyone! Keith? Lance! Please one of you still be here!”

“What? Shiro?”

“Lance!” Shiro cried in relief. “Lance, you gotta listen to me!”

“What?”

But Lance vanished before Shiro could try again. “NO!!!” Shiro tried shoving more of his quintessence into…whatever this place was, desperate to follow or for another chance to reach his Team. But his own quintessence yanked him back, back through the clone’s white static, and slammed him face-first into the Black Lion’s void.

Shiro swallowed against the bitter disappointment threatening to choke him as he pushed himself back to his feet. The corona glowed faintly, but steadier than it did before he left, however briefly. The clone’s form still lay prone against the ground. Shiro slowly made his way over to him, weariness weighing down his steps as he slogged through the Void’s strange, shallow sea.

Shiro raised two fingers to check the clone’s pulse underneath his jaw…although if he was being honest with himself he wasn’t really sure the Void worked that way. Then again, the clone had a body to return to. Shiro, apparently, didn’t.

“You better not die on them,” he muttered. “They’ve already been through that once. Don’t let it be a second time.”

…probably a bit petty and hypocritical of him, Shiro admitted to himself. But the clone had something to return to, his fears be damned. And at this point Shiro was beyond simply aching to go home. Who knows. Maybe Lance heard enough to figure out how to find him. But if not, then Shiro would try with the clone the next time he visited the Black Lion.

He was tired of being alone in the dark.

[neargaztambide]

Stan and Ford Pines: A Melancholic Story (Chapter 2)

Prologue, Chapter One

Words: 3.549 approximately: 

2: Happy Birthday!

It is a beautiful day. Outside the birds sang. The sun illuminated everything it touched. It was a perfect day, with a nice breeze, an ideal climate. Little by little, one of the brothers opened his eyes, finally being able to enjoy the benefits of the morning.

Stanford pulls the covers aside as he feels the warmth of the sun settle on his eyes. Stan is still sleeping. The boy gets up and looks at the beautiful clear blue sky, with hardly any clouds in the afterlife, with the people of the district strolling, going to work or taking advantage of the first hours to go shopping. “Wow. Stanley, wake up: you should see ...” He stopped talking. Ford erased his smile. Out of the corner of his eye he began to perceive that in microseconds the sky turned gray, dark clouds making shadows in his room. Laughter, teasing approached his head. Stanley was white as a sheet, his chest full of blood. His corpse was completely violated, as if a true beast had devoured him without contemplation. He was going to scream: Ford was going to scream, he already had it about to do it...

“... Ford, c'mon, wake up. Guess what day is today.” Stanford quickly opened his eyes. He felt cold for a few moments, like he was still in that nightmare. Stanley was alive. It was just a bad dream. "Wake up, Sixer, today’s our birthday!" Saying this, Stan punches his brother in the face with a pillow. Without opening his eyes, Ford searches for his glasses on the nightstand. Upon finding them, they are quickly put on. “You know what your gift is, don't you?” Stan asks in a mischievous tone. Ford leans against the head of the bed. He didn't ask his brother for anything; would it be a joke or something? He remembers absolutely nothing, not even the slightest hint that he wanted something on specific.

Stanley sits on the edge of the bed, putting his hand on Stanford's hair and ruffling it to finish waking up him. Ford is finally ready to listen to Stan, who looked certainly happy. He was looking expectantly at Stanford's possible reaction. He bent down and rummaged under the bed, placing a red paper-wrapped gift in Stanford's hands. –Yup, there is no reason to thank me. Enjoy it. - Ford smiled. The mere consideration made the gift something perfect. He didn't know what to say. He was stunned. -Hey! What are you waiting for?: open it! - Stan shakes Ford's shoulder a little to cheer him up. Ford breaks the paper with force, leaving the paper that was taking out stacked. The result was to bare a case, which when opened revealed a necklace that Stanford took. It was an owl, of tyto breed. He spread his wings like he was going to take flight. It was highly detailed on the head up part. The body disintegrated into a metal vine that firmly held a small capsule of non-translucent plastic. He even had his little legs made down to the last detail. “A few months ago I saw that you were really interested in this when we were passin' by Crab Avenue.” And I thought it would be a good gift.” Stan approaches the curtain to close it.

Suddenly, the owl's body began to flash a soft green light. Shining and accompanying the little darkness that was thanks to the curtain. It was peaceful and calming to see the light illuminate the room. It was as if something was accompanying them. It was weird, but it's as if someone was watching them closely. They couldn't feel it, but a strange presence was with them, watching. The light in seconds went out. “Wait, are you kidding me?” The effect of the necklace stopped working. Little by little it flickered and the light faded. Stan grabbed Ford's necklace, and tapped it a few times to try to activate it again. It didn't work. “Oh, hell. Sorry, Pointdexter: it's just a trinket.” Ford didn't care. Anyway, he liked the gift. He smiled and said: “It doesn't matter, Stanley. I will repair it. I'll find out how. Oh, right- Stanford got up and went behind the nightstand. He gave Stan his gift. The package was slightly larger than Stan's (it was decorated with blue paper). Stan ripped the paper, leaving a photo frame on his legs. It was flipped. "Um… thanks?" The little Ford did was sneak roll his eyes while smiling. He couldn't believe that his brother was unintuitive. Stan finally turned the frame over, only to stop smiling at the photo.

It was Filbrick. He had two lumps in his arms (it looked like his brother and he when they were babies), smiling. Smiling like never before. Smiling at the camera. The blue frame was full of beautiful decorations. For example, some colored crystals stuck in some corners. In another was a pretty seashell. “Stan... do you like it?” Ford asked with a certain tone of regret when he noticed that Stan only stared at the frame without an apparent smile. But, Stan only lunged at him to give him a big hug. “I-it's the best gift you could have ever given me ...” Ford sighed inwardly, and welcomed the hug. “-I'm glad you liked.” Stanford thought. The two separated. “Are you crying?” Stanford asks quickly, to which Stanley raised a fist to his eyes and began to wipe away: “No: asbestos entered my eyes.”

The brothers left their room feeling hungry and after thanking each other. They were in the living room: nice and comfortable. It is years old, with soft yellow wallpaper. Her television was on top of a library (filled with various things: horror books, science fiction in the right dose, comics painstakingly collected by Stanley, and music. Lots of music). In the kitchen was Caryn, who was busy cooking something. They both go to the dining room, and wait for their mother. She is wearing a football shirt, with the number 04 on the back. In addition to pants of different scales of blue. “Well, who's having a birthday today?” Her mother finally looks up to say good morning. Stan thinks: his mother has slightly reddish eyes. Maybe she fell asleep with tears still on her face. Why haven't she told them how she was feeling, or at least to someone else? She must have been the most emotionally charged to deal with. He felt very sorry for his mother. Is she trying to pretend that she is supporting herself for them?

“So, what’s the breakfast?” Asked Stan when it comes out of his musings when they were starting to bother. Her mother tells her that they are going to eat waffles (which they ended quite quickly). Stanford was engrossed in seeing his new possession. “Ford, where did you get that necklace?” Asked Caryn when noticing his son. He said that it was Stanley’s gift. Their mother looked at her children: they always take care of each other, no matter what. It is a relationship of real mutual affection. Stan's light went on and he went back to his room. “–Where is that dwarf going? -” Caryn wondered mentally when the boy left and returned a few minutes later. He gave her Ford's gift. His mother had almost the same reaction as Stan when opening the gift: she was left for a few moments with absolutely nothing to say, and then moved. “Ma...” Stan said suddenly, who looked at his mother, who was already starting to have watery eyes. “Look, boys: I'm going to go get some things for the cake” Caryn says to her children to explain what they could do. “. And so that you don't get bored when you're locked up, why don't you go to the beach? Let's see if you get some color, pair of vampires.” Caryn makes a graceful movement to grab the nose of Ford, who smiles at the little joke. “Do it, or I’ll make you carry all the bags.” After a while, the twins walked out the front door. Stanford stood for a few seconds at the door before following Stan. He turned to see his mother. “Ma...” “What's the matter, honey?” “Are you okay?” Caryn was silent for a few seconds. Her smiling didn’t change. Caryn replied, after shaking her head almost imperceptibly to react: “Of course I am, Mousy. See both sides before crossing the streets, fine?” With this, Ford gives him a bigger smile, and finally, he leaves.

Caryn is undaunted. Sharpen her ear to know if her children finally left home. She finally hears the twins when they close the door. Caryn erases her smile, ceasing finally. She couldn't take it anymore. She didn't want to pretend, but she should. Caryn did not want to worry his children. She ... she honestly tried to be good, to try to be fine for them. But acting like a happy mother was tearing her apart. I really needed to tell them that she ... Caryn sighed. She took a deep breath before getting up. She needed an escape. Caryn went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of wine. A cup, and then she returned to the table. Caryn poured herself a good squirt, and took a sip. For a few moments, she saw her husband's photo. She just couldn't stop thinking about Fil. It was catching her. She wanted to continue: she couldn't stand it anymore because it was too painful for her to remember the facts. But it was constant comings and goings that her own memory used to torment her with the fact: “-Filbrick is dead, and now you are alone.-” With certain bitterness, the widow remembers how her story with her Fil, with her man began. And it was, at Glass Shard beach.

It seemed like a déjà vu: one of the most important places for Caryn was the beach. From that day on, that place took on a kind of magical importance after she saw him, and that same interest for the beach was conveyed to her children in the same way. Caryn took a drink to accompany herself to confront her memories a little better. It was exactly the day she left work. Caryn resigned from The Drunk Clam. Caryn barely received less than acceptable pay for her services -other than that the bar was a dump that preached a bad death.- She walked near the edge, barefoot. She could feel the salty waters of his feet. Caryn was stunned, thinking of one thing: “-now what?-” She walked and walked, until she collided. She hadn't realized it. Caryn immediately demanded: “Hey, don't you see where…” Caryn couldn't finish her complaint when she saw Filbrick: he was there, looking at her. May a lot of people don’t believe that love at first sight exists: it seems to them an invention worthy of tales like Cinderella , Snow White , or any story that wasn’t written by Carlo Collodi. Although, Caryn didn’t care at all that millions thought about the subject: she believed from that moment that this type of affectionateness existed.

After that day, Caryn was only dreamed of by that man: he looked perfect. His body, his broad shoulders, his well-tanned features , all of him incredible for Caryn's taste. For a week, with what can be described as a kind of not-so-healthy obsession, she searched as best she could for the number of that stranger, or at least something that could get her to see him again. She was able to hear from him little by little: he was working in a construction as just another little helper. Caryn more or less knew where to locate him, and when she saw him, Caryn asked if he could make a date with her. To his surprise, Filbrick accepted. They confirmed the day and hour, and separated at the crossroads. When she was alone, the woman jumped for joy: she did it, dammit: she did it. It should be clarified that Filbrick only accepted for one reason; which was that for one day he wanted to escape his tedious routine. He admitted that Caryn was pretty, although the date could help clear his mind. But hey: that, or having to carry concrete bags to the mixer with hot sun stalking. The expected date night came, and they both went to a karaoke bar. Before that, they went to dinner. Caryn was damn nervous: it was her first time on a date since high school, and she didn't want to screw up. Filbrick concealed his boredom as best he could. Between accepting the date, or having an arduous workday, he preferred the latter.

By the time they reached to the bar, the two of them went to a room so they could be alone (Fil, despite being on the point of falling asleep from the bluntness, he had enough chivalry to invite drinks from his own pocket ). Caryn approached the screen. Filbrick looked completely neutral, but to himself he said: “-I'm sure this girl is one of those people who think they sing amazing, but they are a complete junk.-“ “Have any preference?" Caryn asked , and turned around. Filbrick replied quickly: “Whatevah you want.” Caryn felt overwhelmed: she felt Fil's discontent. She quickly searched for a song she might know. And she did find it: Maybe , by Janis Joplin. The woman's eyes flashed upon finding her. She selected it, and began to listen to the beginning of the song.

It all started with that hippie rhythm, the typical rhythm of the late sixties. Trumpets were quickly introduced after strumming a guitar. There, the song became much faster. Filbrick prepares for disaster, seeing Caryn imitate Janis in her smooth, wave-like movements. But, inevitably, Caryn opened her mouth to barf the words: “Maybe ... Oh, if I could pray, and I try, dear, you might come back home, home to me.” Filbrick opened his eyes. His surprise was huge when he saw Caryn sing, but not regular , but incredible. Her voice wouldn’t be the most appropriate for the blues genre, but she was setting the nail in every way: Caryn was feeling it, understanding what each word meant, and taught it with her voice and movements. “Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, dear, I guess I might have done something wrong, Honey, I'd be glad to admit it! Ooh, come on home to me! Honey, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe yeah!” For God’s sake: she seemed wild, rude, and strong, she had an almost unreal authenticity. She contorted with almost every part of his body: neither arms nor feet were indifferent to the emotion . She looked like a reincarnation of Pearl. Caryn just let go. It looked like a lioness.

Caryn flew to the following verse: “Please, please, please, please, oh won't you reconsider, babe, now come on, I said come back, won't you come back to me!” And there, in the final part of the penultimate strophe, the presence of the Texan girl known as Janis Joplin in Caryn Pines was felt for a few seconds: that same essence, the same characterization was in her for a while. “Maybe, dear, oh maybe, maybe, maybe, lemme help you: show me how. Honey maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe, yeah! Ooh!” The song decreased. It went out, but the spark was still felt in the twist movements of the feet as it turned slowly off. Caryn just felt weightless at the time. She had done the best she could. Caryn stopped playing the dead character, to turn to see her date. Which was applauding her. They were not ironic applause: they were authentic. They both left after a while, and walked next to him. “Wow: you have talent.” Caryn muttered a somewhat shameless "thanks". Filbrick was looking across the street . "So… did you have fun?" Caryn asked. Well, it was the moment of truth. “Well, yeah, of course. It was fun… it wasn’t” Caryn stopped. She thoughts he had ruined it. “: I must admit that I was ... bored.” Caryn's soul fell to her feet, and she began to apologize. Fil interrupted her.

“It wasn’t fair to you: I noticed that you tried your best. I'm sorry that I didn't recognize that. ” Caryn was speechless. So: was it a disaster or not? Caryn was confused as she needed time to swallow those words. Now that Filbrick think about it, he partially enjoyed the date. “But... how do you know how to sing so swell?” Filbrick asks. Maybe he was trying to remedy his pedantic attitude. Caryn replied that she had taken singing lessons as a child, and the talent was completely natural to her. Filbrick listened. Throughout the date, he had not paid as much attention to his companion until that moment. "And ... do you see hope on this?" Asked Filbrick; without wanting interrupting Caryn. And like a lightning, Filbrick was embarrassed by that question. Caryn, however, didn't mind at all. That phrase had a very special meaning, a special intonation. The reason for that question was to introduce them to a moment full of palpitations and excited hormones. “W-what do you mean?” The woman asks stupidly, since her feelings make her completely drunk with confusion. "I mean" Filbrick had started to blush. His ears flushed with his cheeks. “, you are ... pretty, you have talent, and...” Between each word Fil was blushing at every step, and Caryn laughed at the nerves, the emotion ... the feeling of ridiculousness, discomfort -and to be frank- the kitsch of silence that was presented. This is love, this is how it works: it is as unpredictable as the victory of a paraplegic over a professional runner in the hundred-meter-flat . “Well, this is getting awkward...” Caryn joked poorly. Filbrick agreed with her on that point, shaking his head quickly. “Yes it is.” “You asked if this was going to ... work. Why are you sure about it?” Caryn muttered, nervous. Her heart was going to be catapulted out of her chest in a daze. She tried to chill, without success, as Filbrick tried the same. He thought for a few seconds. If it would work, effectively? They barely even had a date, but they could both have some chemistry together. “We… could make it work it out.” He dropped it like a bomb: that melted the woman's heart, and her eyes lit up. There was a simple moment, when they just they drowned in each other's eyes. Some showed true love. Others showed a certain spark that gradually became a powerful flame. It was a silent moment of tension, not of discomfort. The silent between them were so fragile, that it could be cut it by a knife. Filbrick see her. Filled with something.

And it was Filbrick who took the first step. The date perfectly could have been a complete fiasco. It could all have been a terrible mistake, where Caryn could have been smashed. By pure luck he rectified. Caryn's voice and Filbrick's reflection caused them to be given an opportunity. There could have been an awkward silence in the car because of the failed date: so much that it would have been worthy of comedy for misfortune. But, Filbrick made the first step with Caryn. How?: he kissed her. It was a delicate, nervous, fragile kiss. But Caryn liked it: that kiss was full of poesy, full of no enough words to describe love, the great passion. And Filbrick, ridiculously started to blush one more time. His kiss was an action driven by desire, by the pure feeling of a blossoming romance. But, who cared about it?: they were happy. Filbrick noticed it: he loves Caryn as a singer loves the music. She felt like the most pleasant woman in the world: she didn't seem to care anymore. The least possible love, the least realistic love was being fulfilled. With those last memories, recalling the sweet memories, Caryn got up, not without taking another sip of a sweet wine. She was shedding tears. She stroked her husband's face in the photo. Every second seemed to be an ordeal, a very painful burden. Caryn saw the cup: she hardly touched it. She walked away, and left the photo on the nightstand. Caryn remembered that she had to buy to make a famous meal, and… she needed to collect the grades. Oh, the school grades: the executioner of almost any student.

Caryn got ready (she did what she could to hide her dark circles with her makeup), took the car keys and drove away. She drove, and she drove. Caryn had something in mind, but would she be able to do it? Could be, for real? She couldn't go on. Filbrick was like a part of her body she lost in an accident: it was phantom pain that haunted her. She, with all her might, despite everything, misses him ... for every single saint thing in this world: she miss him as a slave miss his freedom, as a flower miss the sun when it gets dark. She miss him. And there was –for her- not enough words to describe that feeling.

So tell me: did you like it? If so, leave your Like, and comment. I plead you, please. XD. If you see a strange word, I apologize. Inform me of that and I will correct it myself (just because I don't have a good command of English it doesn’t mean that I leave a job with mistakes of grammar, however small it may be). From the bottom of my heart, I hope you liked it, and remember to clean your hands, keep your distance, greet like the people of Wakanda, and have your vitamins on hand!  Salvete ignotum est a terra.

[sunshineandfangs]

Klarosummer - Lemon Squares || Sauveuse et Bourreau

@klarosummerbingo

Sorry, I was late, but this is my latest entry to “My-Brain-Needs-to-Chill” a memo to myself. 

Warnings: brief but graphic depictions of gore and mentions of abuse.

Klaus narrowed his eyes listening to the fearful and angry mutterings of one of the corner tables. He traced the edge of his brandy glass, not particularly impressed by its strength. Gulping the last mouthful, he set the glass on the bar and sauntered over to the table.

“Why so glum?”

They eyed him warily, noting the higher quality of his clothes. Wondering if he came from the lord’s castle, if he was there to question their recent lack of tribute.

To their noticeable surprise, he instead snagged a nearby chair, pulling it over to sprawl in, knowing it would make him seem less threatening. He could compel the answers from them if he had to, but compulsion was a blunt tool, made far less effective if he didn’t know precisely what he wanted.

And in fact, he didn’t. Klaus had only recently arrived in the little hamlet, intending to pass through on his way to a larger city. But the stench of fear and hate had been near palpable, and he couldn’t help his curiosity.

What manner of monster was tormenting this little town?

---

He raised his eyebrow, allowing his face to portray an air of curious concern. Waited patiently as the table shifted with unease. The silence stretched as the men exchanged a series of looks, before one of them reluctantly started to speak.

“There’s been trouble recently, sir. And if you are wise, you’ll heed our advice and leave this place as soon as you can.”

“Is the concern truly so great that you would advise travelers leave?”

Klaus’ curiosity and intrigue only grew as the men simply nodded solemnly at his words. Little hamlets like these needed some manner of foot traffic to sustain themselves these days, as the exchange of goods became ever more prevalent.

They literally should not be able to turn away strangers, and yet that was precisely what they were attempting to do.

His eyes dilated as his gaze carefully locked with each man in turn, knowing they would close ranks and refuse to divulge whatever secret this town held. Likely afraid that whatever horror had visited them would deter strangers forever. A true death sentence.

“Tell me, what is this cause for concern?”

Klaus felt his eyebrows creep steadily higher as a wild tale unfolded.

---

Three Months Ago

A scream tore through the still morning air, dawn’s first tendrils of light only beginning to creep over the land.

Nearby farmers that had already started their morning stilled in their fields and barns, clenching their pitchforks and hoes as they ventured toward the source of the noise. 

It had been a feminine cry, a woman’s hysterics they were all hoping, even as uneasy shivers crawled down their spines. Even for a woman, that shriek had been terrible, invoking sparks of primal fear.

And they didn’t like that. 

They should have no need to fear anything. Strong and capable as they were, protecting and providing for their women and children.

Yet when they came across the source of those screams, most shouted out themselves. One of the younger ones, only just out of his boyhood years, wretched into the grass, spiting up bile onto the dirt.

For there in the entryway of a small two-person cottage was a man.

Or the remains of a man rather, his body cut into more bloody chunks and ribbons that any of the men could count. The rest of him was smeared across the floor in pools of blood, offal such as intestines and stomach and liver intact, but gruesomely displayed just out side the door.

And just beyond the open door, the wood left open from where the woman had coming charging out the house, was a head. Standing on its bloody stump and smiling a too wide grin, lips peeled back to reveal rotting teeth. His eyes seemed to bulge from the graying flesh, eyelids similarly removed.

By God, none of them had seen anything like it.

--

More and more bodies were found by panicked villagers, many ending up near catatonic after seeing such horrors. No display was alike, each corpse cut and desecrated in new ways.

With the townspeople panicking, hostilely eyeing neighbors and strangers alike, it was no wonder that it took several weeks to realize one other fact.

Children were going missing.

And it was always a child related to one of the dead...

Then, whispers and rumors starting circulating. Of strange women being seen with the newly departed not long before their demise. Sometimes fair of hair and other times black. A few times red of hair even, a mark of devilry if there ever was one.

But no matter how cautious, people kept dying and children kept vanishing.

---

Now, Klaus wasn’t one to care for the concerns or problems of humans. More often than not he may have even been the cause of them himself. That being said, such elaborate and macabre displays weren’t really to his taste. He could appreciate the gruesome creativity he supposed, but that was really more his brother’s style. 

What did actually upset him was the children. Cruel as it sounded, death was often the kindest fate that awaited those in the clutches of monsters. And such things were not tolerated by him or his siblings when a child was involved.

A second compulsion blurred his table mate's memories of his appearance and questions, as he blurred away a moment later. Hunting for the creature whose death he would relish.

---

Somewhere deep in the woods a beautiful blonde woman smiled at a tiny, slip of a girl. Her frock a bit dirty and worn, her face drawn and tired.

The blonde extended a hand to the little girl, waiting patiently as the child considered.

Small fingers eventually reached out to twine with the blonde’s her eyes large and hopeful as she followed the woman inside, lured by promises of warmth and comfort and food.

---

Caroline paused, brow furrowed, lemon rind still pressed against the metal grater. She had conned Klaus into helping her with the Mystic Falls Bake Sale, an annual charity drive that donated its funds to Families Forward Virginia. And as always, Caroline was on a spree, making batch after batch of the famous Forbes Lemon Squares.

A baking spree, Klaus just disrupted with his disturbing choice in storytelling.

“What the hell, Klaus?! Why would I want to hear your creepy recounting of personal history?” 

She whirled around to make sure he could properly see her angry gesturing, her pointed stares as she glance between his eyes and the abandoned mixing bowl on his side of the counter.

He offered a dim half-smile, his normal amusement from her reactions quelled by an odd, uncharacteristic sadness. Though he obligingly returned to his designated mixing, staring into the batter as he whisked.

“Apologies, sweetheart, I find I’m in a bit of a mood today.” He shook his head, tone returning to the normal soft and weird affection he spoke to her with. “What you’re doing though is admirable, Caroline. We both know monsters will continue to exist for eternity, but you’ve found a way to aid the survivors.”

The two lapsed into silence, the kitchen filled with only the sounds of their baking.

“I never found her you know?”

“...What?”

“Whoever was terrorizing that town. She disappeared not long after I started hunting for her.”

“Why were you? Hunting her, I mean?”

Klaus whirled to face the blonde, a little hurt despite himself at her continued low opinion of him.

“Caroline,” he stated quite seriously, voice low and a bit harsh, “there are lines even I do not cross.”

She didn’t look at him, pouring mix over the prepared sugary crust, though her voice was soft when she finally replied.

“I know.” She paused. “But what if you were wrong?”

He stilled, confused by the shift.

“I mean think about it. You just told me she suddenly stopped and the children’s bodies were never found. After her rather,” Caroline’s nose wrinkled, “colorful displays she certainly didn’t seem to be ashamed of her actions. So, perhaps she wasn’t harming the kids, Klaus.”

He shook his head. “Your faith is misplaced, love.”

Caroline finally turned to him an odd expression on her face. She cocked her head looking thoughtful.

“Is it? I think La sorcière de Pierre,” the French easily rolling off her tongue to Klaus’ utter shock, “was just dramatic, not evil.”

Caroline left to relax in the living room, the squares set to bake in the oven, Klaus stood stunned still for several long moments before he bolted after her.

“What did you just say?” He whispered hoarsely.

“They were the monsters, Klaus. Molesters and brutes all.” She spoke this calmly, Old French elongating the vowels of her words.

And Klaus stared, mouth slightly agape, at the woman he had failed to find all those centuries ago.

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Author’s Note: To my irritation several words in English translate to French with the same spelling which ruins the point. Anyway, this one is “Savior and Executioner” in French. I already used German so despite some Hansel and Gretel similarities it’s French. Apparently there was a similar tale from France circa 1697 so good enough for me!  Plus, I set it in France. So there lol

La sorcière de Pierre = The witch of Pierre

FYI that’s a real charity to aid children, I don’t know how reputable that particular one is, but considering donating to such funds if you have the means.