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lady-of-the-lotus · 4 years

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Xue Yang whisks a solipsistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen.

Lan Xichen can’t remember most of the day, spent pacing the Chang manor in a state of increasing desperation.

A-Yao had been back.

A-Yao had been in his arms.

A-Yao had been warm. Alive.

Whole.

And now, A-Yao is gone.

XueXiao & XiYao - Rated M - Read on AO3! Tumblr: Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6

a bit of blood here but the violence itself isn’t incredibly graphic...I mean, it’s still rated M!

Chapter 7: bigger than my bones

A-Yao sits up.

“A-Yao!” Lan Xichen falls to his knees beside him, staining his robes with blood from the array. “A-Yao!”

A-Yao stares up at him, dazed. He looks as if he’d just been struck over the head after having been abruptly woken from a drugged sleep.

“Er…Er-ge?” His voice is thick. “Lan Xichen?”

Lan Xichen grips his bare white shoulders. They’re warm. Solid. Real. Two arms— two. Both warm.

Solid.

Real.

A-Yao swallows hard. He’s shaking all over. “Er-ge?”

Lan Xichen whips off his outer robe and drapes it around A-Yao. “It’s me, it’s me, I’ve brought you back, I’ve brought you back—”

Xue Yang clears his throat. “Actually, you just stood there and goggled at me and passed out.”

Lan Xichen ignores him. All he can hear is A-Yao’s breathing, all he can see is A-Yao’s face. “You’re back, you’re back—”

A-Yao slumps forward, pitching against Lan Xichen’s chest. His face is warm against Lan Xichen’s throat, body completely limp against his own.

Lan Xichen turns to Xue Yang in panic. “What happened?! What happened?!”

“How should I know? The last time I did this I killed the man as soon as I confirmed I could do it. Was just trying to see if I was doing something wrong and that’s why it wasn’t working on Xiao Xingchen.”

Lan Xichen feels A-Yao’s throat. There’s a steady pulse, and the skin is warm. “Perhaps he's simply exhausted. It must take a lot out of one, being dead—”

Xue Yang laughs. It’s not a particularly nice sound. "I don't think anyone else has ever spoken those words."

Gently, Lan Xichen scoops A-Yao up into his arms and carries him to the first bedchamber he can find, laying A-Yao under the covers as if putting a newborn to sleep for the first time. He seats himself at the bedside, eyes fixed on A-Yao’s face.

“How many days will it take for those servants you let escape to reach Cloud Recesses?”

Lan Xichen barely hears Xue Yang, too intently focused on A-Yao. He’s too overwhelmed to know how to feel. Elated? Worried? Overjoyed? Terrified?

Xue Yang snaps his fingers in his ear. “Are you in there? How long do we have until those servants tell the Lan where we are?”

Lan Xichen looks up. “With no detours, on foot, two weeks.”

“Then we have that long until anyone comes after us on their swords. Unless they meet Lan cultivators on the road—”

“I told them not to speak to anyone.”

“As if they’d follow your orders if it were convenient not to?”

“I’m the clan leader.”

“Not of their clan.” Xue Yang loses interest. “Doesn’t matter. We need to get moving anyway. As soon as your dimpled little friend is on his feet, we’re out of here.” He stretches, yawning, and gives Lan Xichen a look he can't decipher. “Wake me if anything important happens.”

Lan Xichen sits at A-Yao’s bedside all night, longing to reach under the covers for his hand, hold it, feel its reassuring warmth and weight in his, but he’s too afraid that if he moves, if he touches A-Yao, A-Yao will dissipate in the moonlight pouring in through the open window.

Shortly before daybreak A-Yao stirs.

“Er-ge?”

A-Yao! Lan Xichen wants to say, but his mouth is suddenly too dry.

A-Yao sits up. “Where am I?”

“Chang Manor. Yueyang.” Lan Xichen runs his bone-dry tongue over his equally dry lips. It’s like rubbing sandpaper with sandpaper. “Xue Yang helped bring you back.”

A-Yao looks alarmed. “Xue Yang is here?”

“He helped get you back.”

“Have I any clothes?”

Lan Xichen points to Chang Ping’s clothes and goes to wait outside. His heart is beating fast again, a sick feeling in his stomach.

A-Yao doesn’t want to be back.

Or rather, if he does, he doesn’t care that Lan Xichen was the one to bring him back.

Or else—or else how could he speak so—so mundanely —

A-Yao steps out of the room. His hair is in a simple half-knot, and he’s wearing Chang Ping’s simple, if well-made, clothes and shoes. They’re too large on him, and he looks even smaller than he had when naked, almost frail.

Nothing like Jin Guangyao. Nothing like the man in Guanyin Temple. Hatless, unassuming, with no poisonous red dot between his eyes. Younger, too, as if the years of crushing responsibility, paranoia, and dread have been erased.

He looks , Lan Xichen thinks despite how illogical he knows it is, like Meng Yao.

A-Yao heads straight for the main hall, as if he remembers the manor’s layout from his one visit over fifteen years ago. He stops short when he sees Chang Ping’s body hanging from the hall's rafters, a sticky brown mass of dried blood with dozens of bloated flies feasting on its flesh. There’s far less of that flesh than Lan Xichen remembers, the body whittled down to a mere floppy, fat-coated skeleton, as if most of his flesh and bone and muscle had gone into remaking A-Yao’s fragile new body.

A-Yao looks down at the array on the floor, at the bucket, at the blood still staining Lan Xichen’s knees.

“Oh, Er-ge ,” he says.

Lan Xichen peers at him anxiously. “What is it? What happened?”

There’s sorrow in A-Yao’s large black eyes. “Did you help him do this?”

Blood pumps through Lan Xichen’s head with such force he’s afraid he might pass out again. “I—I—”

“Oh, Er-ge ,” says A-Yao again, and, his beautiful face twisted in agony, he begins to fade, rapidly growing fainter as the first touches of pink sunlight creep in through the front door.

“A-Yao!” Lan Xichen leaps forward, snatching at him, but it’s too late.

A-Yao is gone.

“Well, that didn’t go as planned.” Xue Yang stands leaning against the doorpost. He’s in his green inner robe, collar wet, as if he missed his face when splashing it with water. His glossy black hair is in a messy bun at the nape of his neck, feet bare, dark circles under his eyes. Maskless. He yawns, stretching like a sleepy cat. “He say anything interesting?”

Lan Xichen flies across the room and grabs him by the throat. “You little rat, what did you do, you promised me A-Yao back—”

Face turning purple, Xue Yang desperately tries to pry Lan Xichen’s fingers from his throat, but Lan Xichen is too strong.

“U—gh—uhg—”

Lan Xichen flings him out the door so hard he bounces twice and rolls down the discussion hall steps.

Xue Yang stands slowly, coughing raggedly. He’s a resilient little cockroach, Lan Xichen will give him that.

Lan Xichen flies down beside him. “What did you do, you repugnant little liar—”

Jiangzai appears in Xue Yang’s hand. “I brought him back!” he chokes through bared teeth. He’s bleeding from his tongue, face red with white splotches. “I swear!”

“You bastard, you lied to me—”

“I told you, I’ve never done this before! I swear I did my best! Do you think I wanted this? I need that dimpled little madman too!”

Lan Xichen hits him so hard that the delinquent cultivator is knocked flat on his back, Jiangzai falling with clang. He draws Shuoyue, but Xue Yang has Jiangzai back up, a new light in his eyes.

“Lay one more finger on me,” Xue Yang says, his voice a chilling rasp, “and it will be the last thing you ever do.”

“As if I care—”

Xue Yang spits blood. “I’m the only one who can get him back, and you know it!"

Lan Xichen freezes, then slowly sheaths his sword. “You have until tonight,” he says.

Rubbing at his bruised throat, Xue Yang grins. It’s a grin full of teeth. “Anything for you, my friend.”

* * * *

Lan Xichen can’t remember most of the day, spent pacing the manor in a state of increasing desperation.

A-Yao had been back.

A-Yao had been in his arms.

A-Yao had been warm. Alive. Whole.

And now, A-Yao is gone.

He avoids the main hall, where Xue Yang is holed up with Chang Ping's body. The ground is mere air beneath his feet, the walls and grass and trees and ceilings misty nothings. He tries to meditate but can’t. Can’t eat, can’t drink, can’t rest, can’t think of anything but A-Yao.

The way A-Yao had looked at him.

“Did you help him do this?”

And—

“Er-ge.”

That soft, sorrowful, disappointed, “Er-ge.”

Without giving Lan Xichen time to explain, without letting him explain how Chang Ping had deserved it, and how even had he not deserved it, nothing truly mattered, nothing mattered except getting A-Yao back. A-Yao, the only real thing in a world held together by spider-silk and starlight—

The moon is high in the sky when Xue Yang flings open the doors to the main hall. The day had been unseasonably warm, and a blast of rotting meat and stale blood comes gusting out around him.

“Your little friend is back,” he says shortly. “I’ll be packing. We need to leave this place.” He turns and strides off without so much as a smart remark.

A-Yao steps out of the hall, takes a few steps, and collapses heavily on the steps.

Lan Xichen opens his mouth to speak, then closes it and sits beside him.

“What did he do?” he finally asks.

A-Yao’s head jerks up as if startled. “Nothing, as far as I could make out,” he says, and his voice is the same old voice Lan Xichen remembers, the same…not casual, A-Yao was never casual, not even with him, but what passed as casual for him, the voice he had used while they lived together after he fled the Cloud Recesses. “I…I believe I will disappear every morning, to reappear at night.” He glances down at his hands. They’re lying like baby birds in his lap, shaking despite the night’s unseasonable warmth. Lan Xichen wants to reach out, cover them with both of his, but he’s too afraid to move, to do anything that might result in A-Yao drawing away with a hiss of disgust. “It...it hurts.”

Lan Xichen is crushed by a sudden wave of guilt. “My fault,” he says. “I never should have brought you back…”

“No, no, Er-ge, I—I thank you.” A-Yao darts a nervous glance around at the utter stillness of the courtyard, as if afraid his words might manifest a demon out of thin air to drag him back to his coffin with Nie Mingjue. He takes a deep breath, shudderingly, as if it’s difficult for him to fill his lungs.

On a sudden impulse Lan Xichen reaches out to brush his shoulder with the back of his hand, make sure A-Yao is in fact there, that he’s not a figment of his imagination, and A-Yao flinches at his touch, face blanching.

So Lan Xichen was right. A-Yao does not want to be here. At least not be here with—with him.

He forces himself to speak, say something, anything. To sound friendly, light, casual.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks A-Yao.

A-Yao closes his eyes and tilts his head back as if to catch the moonlight, painfully, eerily beautiful in its otherworldly silver rays. “I remember everything,” he says quietly. “I wish I didn’t, but I do. But I—I feel—I feel different. Feel like…”

“You look like Meng Yao,” Lan Xichen blurts, then blushes.

A-Yao opens his eyes. “You’ve changed too, Er-ge.”

“Lan Huan,” Lan Xichen hears himself saying. He needs to hear it from A-Yao’s lips just once, just once in case he loses him again, just one time he can look back on and remember. “Lan Huan.”

“Lan Huan,” says A-Yao, and Lan Xichen wants to reach out again, grab his hand, press it to his cheek, feel his warmth as he speaks his birth name, but is too afraid that A-Yao will pull away again. “A-Huan.”

Lan Xichen clasps his hands together in his lap so that A-Yao won’t see how badly they’re trembling. Perhaps if he thinks Lan Xichen is his old calm self then he won’t realize how different Lan Xichen has become, won’t think he’s changed any more than he already knows he has, won’t be disgusted.

Won’t leave him again.

“I am sorry, A-Yao,” he hears himself saying. It sounds woefully inadequate. “I’ve spent the past year trying to…” He trails off. Trying to forget? Trying to bring him back? Moving on? Mourning?

A-Yao doesn’t seem to hear the first half. “A year?” He looks almost anxious. “Is Jin Ling well? Koi Tower is a pit of vipers… Are the Jin prospering?”

“They’re doing well.”

“He must hate me.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.”

“I would, if I were him.”

“Jin Ling is fine.” Lan Xichen doesn’t know how true that is, but lying is nothing compared to the things he’s done. “Jiang Cheng supports him. He’s doing fine…”

A-Yao stares fixedly at the ground. He really does look younger. Almost most fragile, in a way that he never fully had in the past. “And you?”

“I’ve been…fine.” He hates the sound of that word. Fine.

A-Yao bites his lip. His voice is very low, almost inaudible. “I spoke to Xue Yang.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t ask him what exactly Xue Yang told him. Better not to know. Suddenly he’s having trouble breathing, anyway, and isn’t sure he can speak at all. He feels himself drifting, and he reaches down and squeezes the stone of the steps, but it’s soft and formless beneath his palms—

“Hey. Lovebirds.” Someone nudges him from behind. Xue Yang, prodding him with Jiangzai’s scabbard. Shuanghua and its scabbard have been safely tucked away in his qiankun sleeve since he used the blade to carve up Chang Ping. He’s wearing dark blue robes he must have found in the manor. “Time to hit the road.”

“A-Yao is in no shape to travel.”

“Then maybe next time don’t let witnesses escape. I’ll bet you even gave them money. You self-righteous naive types are all alike.” With a curl of his lip, Xue Yang heads off.

A-Yao follows him with his eyes. “Perhaps you haven’t changed so much after all, Er-ge— A-Huan.”

Lan Xichen feels a surge of warmth. “Let me help you up—”

“I’m fine,” says A-Yao, struggling to his feet on his own.

The warmth fades.

Lan Xichen changes into simple rust-colored robes found in one of the manor’s rooms before following the strangely silent Xue Yang up the road to Yueyang. It’s the obvious place for anyone to look for them, but it’s the largest city for miles around and the best place to get lost in.

A-Yao stumbles once, and Lan Xichen reaches out to steady him, briefly gripping his arm before A-Yao pulls away.

He feels better after that. He hadn't been mistaken before. A-Yao is real. Is here.

But for the most part, A-Yao makes it all the way there under his own power, somehow. As resilient, in his own way, as Xue Yang.

He’s had to be.

Lan Xichen remembers A-Yao telling him about how his father had kicked him down the stairs on his fourteenth birthday, how his mother’s client had kicked him down the stairs as a child before flinging his half-naked mother out into the street, how he’d lain in bed for weeks with a concussion that almost killed him. How the client had eventually returned, had pointedly ignored his mother and started patronizing another prostitute. “Why pay for something the whole town’s already seen?” he’d laughed—

It was Meng Yao who had told him that, he remembers. Jin Guangyao had rarely spoken of his past, as if afraid speaking the words aloud, even when cloistered alone with Lan Xichen in the innermost room of his chambers, would remind the entire Koi Tower of his past, would make him less worthy of his position, would form a black stain on his forehead for all to see.

Yueyang isn’t far, but the going is slow. They reach the city at dawn.

A-Yao fades as soon as the sky begins to turn orange and pink, his face a mask of pain.

“It hurts him,” Lan Xichen says, turning to Xue Yang.

Xue Yang tosses a candied peanut in the air, catching it in his mouth. “So? What do you want me to do about it?”

Lan Xichen presses his lips into a thin line. “Anchor him here. Do something !”

“You’re the scholar. You’re the expert on ghosts.”

“On getting rid of them! You’re the one who knows how to—to work your wicked tricks—”

“Ah, the second they’re no longer working in your favor, they’re suddenly ‘wicked tricks.’ ” Xue Yang points to a dodgy-looking tavern on the street corner. “Shall we stop there for the day, rest up, and decide where to go from here? I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.” Whistling, he strolls off towards the tavern, where he orders four bottles of wine up to their room.

“I thought you don’t drink much,” says Lan Xichen. Aside from that one time outside of Qinghe, he’s yet to see Xue Yang drink more than a cup of wine with dinner.

“Everyone has to start sometime. Besides, if you think I can put up with you and that dimpled weasel making eyes at each while sober, you are gravely mistaken.” He takes a deep drink from the wine jar. “Just go and ask the little freak straight out.”

A-Yao is clearly not “making eyes at him” in any possible way—he won’t even let him brush his arm!—but Lan Xichen doesn’t dare follow up on this. “I beg your pardon,” he says instead. “Ask him what?”

“ ‘I beg your pardon’?” Xue Yang mimics. “Just ask the dimpled little freak what he needs done.”

“Needs done?”

“Are all of you Lans this dense? This is demonic cultivation. Everything is the opposite of what you know. The thing that would normally set his spirit at rest will instead bind him to this world. No more disappearing and reappearing.”

“No more pain?”

“I can’t answer that. But I’d guess not.” Xue Yang has already finished one jar of wine. He doesn’t seem to be enjoying it—it smells like dry wine from where Lan Xichen is sitting—but he unstops the second jar and takes a sip, which goes down the wrong pipe. “Not that we can fix what’s wrong with him up here,” he adds once he’s finished coughing, tapping his head. A splatter of blood comes out with the clear white wine, as if the bite on his tongue has reopened. He looks at the blood on the floor, then gives a little laugh. “Guess being locked up for a year with an angry ghost who hates your insides isn’t a lot of fun.”

“What do you mean?”

Xue Yang doesn’t answer, just heaves a long-suffering sigh, rolls his eyes, finishes the jar of wine, and passes out—pretends to pass out?—on his bed.

Lan Xichen would have liked to spend the day pacing, but he’s too tired to do more than nap on the other bed, which is larger than usual for these kinds of inns. His nap is more of a doze than anything else, but he feels stronger when he wakes that night.

A-Yao is kneeling beside his cot.

“Er-ge?” A-Yao whispers. His face is glowing white in the starlight coming in through the window. “Oh, you’re just asleep.” His shoulders relax. “I…” He swallows and looks over his shoulder. Xue Yang is lying sprawled in an uncomfortable-looking position, four empty jars of wine on the floor beside his cot. “You weren’t waiting for me.”

A wave of crushing guilt. Lan Xichen reaches out for A-Yao’s hand, manages to brush it, be reassured of his warmth, of his reality, before A-Yao jerks away.

He continues lying there, A-Yao kneeling beside the low cot with his one arm lightly resting beside Lan Xichen. Close enough to touch him, if he wanted.

Which he clearly doesn’t.

“A-Yao,” Lan Xichen says finally, “what is the one thing tying you to this world?”

A-Yao looks slightly startled, like a baby deer asked who it thought the next Chief Cultivator should be. “I—I don’t know.”

Not me. Of course not.

“I mean, if you were a ghost, and there was one thing you needed done to set you at peace, what would that one thing be?”

A-Yao’s eyes are wide. Lan Xichen has only seen that expression once before—in Nightless City, when he hid behind him from Nie Mingjue, and he feels a sudden twinge of uncertainty.

Not that he has any reason to doubt A-Yao, he reminds himself. This is just his paranoia speaking. A-Yao has made no promises to him. A-Yao is not trying to get out of anything or manipulate him into doing anything. He had been the one to ask A-Yao what it was A-Yao wanted.

Besides, that had not been manipulation back at Nightless City, he reminds himself, no matter what Nie Mingjue had claimed. A-Yao had been ready and willing to die for the terrible things he’d been forced to do to maintain his cover…

“You want to get rid of me?” A-Yao asks. He leans forward slightly, so close Lan Xichen imagines he can feel his breath on his skin.

“Xue Yang says that it would bind you to this world.”

A-Yao glances over at Xue Yang again. “He might be right.”

“You think so?”

“I think it’s worth a try.” He rests his cheek on the rough blanket, closing his eyes. “It’s worth a try…”

Lan Xichen inches over to the other edge of the bed, glancing over at A-Yao across what feels like a vast expanse of mattress. “Are you tired, A-Yao?”

A-Yao opens his eyes at the sound of his name. “In a strange kind of way.”

Lan Xichen takes the one pillow and lays it beside him as a kind of invitation. He doesn’t say anything. They’d shared a bed many times before while hopping from one run-down inn to the other after the destruction of the Cloud Recesses, always with a pillow between them. Does A-Yao remember? Or will he think Lan Xichen is being presumptuous—

A-Yao lies down beside him.

He lies on his back, rigid, like a corpse laid out in a coffin, straight and stiff and still until he finally relaxes into something almost human. Lan Xichen thinks he can feel his body heat, feel it radiating into him, warming him, making the dark shapes of the room come into sharper focus, the cool night air almost alive in his lungs.

“If I had to choose one thing,” A-Yao finally murmurs, in a voice very unlike his usual clear, almost over-enunciated tones, “it would be to kill him.”

Suddenly Lan Xichen knows that his having remembered A-Yao’s story the night before was no coincidence. He knows exactly whom A-Yao is talking about.

“I should have done it myself long ago,” continues A-Yao in that same low, uncharacteristically natural-sounding voice, “but his death would have raised too many questions back then, and after that I had too many things keeping me busy…I owe her this much. I should have long ago…”

“What’s his name?”

“Wu Shen. He’s a merchant in Yunping City.”

“Not…” Not Nie Huaisang?

A-Yao shakes his head. “I have been unfilial.”

“Then I’ll…I’ll go to Yunping.”

He hears A-Yao swallowing hard. Something brushes his hand, very briefly, and then A-Yao pulls away as if he can’t bear to touch the man who rammed a foot of ice-cold steel through his chest.

Lan Xichen doesn’t close his eyes the rest of the night. He lies very still, watching A-Yao sleep, memorizing every flutter of eyelash, every murmur, every twitch. A-Yao seems to be plagued by nightmares, but Lan Xichen doesn’t dare wake him.

“If I had to choose one thing, it would be to kill him.”

Lan Xichen thinks back to those idle days in the Cloud Recesses all those years ago. Lan Qiren’s interminable lectures, Wei Wuxian’s question about pacifying restless spirits: “But what if the wish was to kill many people in revenge?”

Deserving of death, is Wu Shen. As much as Chang Ping had been. And if Lan Xichen were to refuse now, then Chang Ping’s extrajudicial death, his torment, would have all been for nothing. Real or not, his pain had existed in some form.

Lan Xichen raises the hand A-Yao touched, stares at it in the moonlight, presses the spot A-Yao had brushed to this cheek. He has to do this. Prove he’ll do anything to bring A-Yao back fully.

Maybe then A-Yao would forgive Lan Xichen for killing him.

* * * *

The trip to Yunping City takes a week. Fourteen times Lan Xichen is forced to watch A-Yao suffer, fourteen times he’s forced to endure Xue Yang’s intense stare as it happens.

The sun is setting when they arrive in Yunping, bloody red streaks across a sky hung with thick gray clouds. A light early-season snow is beginning to fall as they check in at a reputable inn and hurry up to their room.

“Dinner first, I think,” says Xue Yang after A-Yao has appeared. “Can’t practice demonic cultivation on an empty stomach, now, can we?”

A-Yao gives his head a little shake. He hasn’t eaten anything since he’d been brought back.

“Zewu-jun? No? Suit yourself. Meet back here in an hour, and we’ll head out.” Humming, Xue Yang disappears down the stairs.

Without a word A-Yao follows him. Lan Xichen hurries after them. With every passing night A-Yao has become more and more detached from this world, not uttering a single sound on some nights. Lan Xichen sometimes thinks A-Yao’s skin has grown translucent, at least from certain angles, as if he has begun to fade as his connection to this world weakens.

Tonight will change that.

Lan Xichen wishes Xue Yang hadn’t insisted on eating. Every second, every minute is precious—

But he silently walks beside A-Yao, following him out of the inn all the way to Guanyin Temple. It’s no longer a temple, just a pile of rubble belonging to Jin Ling as A-Yao’s next of kin. He flies A-Yao over the wall into the courtyard, waits outside the temple as A-Yao disappears into the darkness.

Lan Xichen paces the courtyard as he waits. The last time he was here—

The last time he was here —

Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter, not anymore—

The snow is falling faster now, thick eddies of white whirling around the courtyard, wet powder melting on his hair and robes, but he barely feels the cold.

Tonight—tonight—

There’s a smear of red on A-Yao’s face when he eventually emerges, as if a tear of blood had been clumsily wiped off. A-Yao notices him looking at, reaches up, scrubs the last of the blood from his face.

“I interred her,” Lan Xichen says, very quietly, “near the Cloud Recesses. With honor.”

A-Yao gives a brief nod. No need to tell him of the concessions he’d had to make to Nie Huaisang in order to get him to release A-Yao’s mother’s body.

There would be plenty of time after tonight.

They’re about to leave the temple courtyard when Xue Yang flies over the courtyard walls and lands in front of them, grinning.

“Figured you’d be here,” he says, dumping a man on the thin layer of snow blanketing the ground. A bound, mustached man with a face that it was a crime for him to inflict on the local populace without a license. Xue Yang has placed a Lan silencing spell on him, and the man’s face is bright red with anger as he struggles to tear his lips open.

Lan Xichen darts a glance at A-Yao. A-Yao’s eyes are wide, the rest of his face frozen.

Wu Shen.

“Let’s go inside,” Xue Yang suggests, shaking the snow from his skirts and hair. “Too many eyes out here.”

Lan Xichen glances around at the walls surrounding the courtyard.

Xue Yang sighs. “There are Lan cultivators flying around the area. I saw them on my way over. Besides, it's cold and wet."

They hurry inside the temple. The ceiling is half cratered, the entire place turned upside-down, but the damage isn’t as extensive as it could have been. Humming, Xue Yang moves around the temple, lighting the surviving candles with his Wen talismans.

There, right here, that was where Lan Xichen had stabbed A-Yao—his blood remains on the stone floor; shielded from rain and snow by fallen beams—

A-Yao’s breathing is shallow. Desperate for a distraction, Lan Xichen removes the silencing spell on Wu Shen.

“—sue you all! Unhand me at once! What is the meani—”

Lan Xichen replaces the silencing spell.

“ ‘Unhand me at once’?” Xue Yang snickers. “If you don’t kill him, I will.”

Lan Xichen glances back down at Wu Shen, who’s rolling quietly towards the front door.

Xue Yang places a foot on his shoulder and shoves him down to the floor. Jiangzai is out, slung casually across his shoulders.

“He’s all yours,” he says. He sighs at the look on Lan Xichen’s face. “Our dimpled friend can’t do it, or it would just create more resentful energy,” he explains, answering a question Lan Xichen didn’t realize he had. “You know about these things from your studies, don’t you, Lianfang-zun? Tell the man.”

A-Yao ducks his head in agreement, eyes still fixed on Wu Shen.

Xue Yang prods Wu Shen’s belly with the tip of his sword. Wu Shen gives a silent eep of indignation. Strangely, he seems more angry than scared. “Better hurry, Zewu-jun, before I give it a shot myself and nab all the credit. ‘Unhand me at once’—”

A-Yao looks up for the first time. “Er-ge?”

Shuoyue is quivering in Lan Xichen’s hand. He shoud let Xue Yang do it, he knows he should, but A-Yao had asked him, asked Lan Xichen—this is his one chance to prove himself to A-Yao, be the instrument of his salvation just as he had been the instrument of his destruction—

“Take my advice,” says Xue Yang, leaning on one of the surviving columns, “and get it over with quick. Don’t try to have fun with it this time. I mean, I did my first time, but—”

Lan Xichen plunges Shuoyue through Wu Shen’s heart.

A-Yao watches impassively, then spits on the man’s corpse, a vulgar gesture Lan Xichen would never have expected from him.

Lan Xichen releases Shuoyue’s hilt, leaving the sword stuck deep in Wu Shen’s chest. His hands are shaking, and he can’t take his eyes off the corpse.

He just murdered a man in cold blood, in almost the exact spot he had murdered A-Yao—

Two wrongs to make a right. A-Yao would be back now. A-Yao would have a second chance. Wipe away what had happened here a year ago—

A-Yao turns to Lan Xichen.

“I didn’t think you would actually do it,” he says, very softly. “Xichen, I…” He grips Lan Xichen’s sword hand. “Goodbye, Xichen,” he says. Lan Xichen feels a stinging spark where A-Yao is gripping his wrist. “Find m—”

He’s gone before he can finish, diffused light flowing outward to join the flickering candlelight, a thousand sparks of gold fading for the last time.

Gone. Gone, just like that.

For good this time.

Lan Xichen stares at the spot A-Yao had been standing, at the bleeding corpse at his feet, and drags his eyes up to look at Xue Yang.

Xue Yang glances up from where he’s using Wu Shen’s blood to draw an array on the floor.

He’s grinning.

“That went well,” he says.

“Did you know?” Lan Xichen grabs Xue Yang by the throat. “Did you know he’d disappear? You told me it was different for demonic cultivation; you told me it would bind him here—”

“Better question to ask is if he knew,” Xue Yang chokes out.

“If—if—”

Xue Yang pries Lan Xichen’s nerveless fingers from his throat. “It was a test. You failed it. Gave in right away, as I understand.”

“I—”

Xue Yang is laughing as he rubs the bruises forming on his throat. Lan Xichen has torn his Xiao Xingchen mask, but Xue Yang doesn’t seem to care. He peels it off and drops it to the floor, his disarmingly boyish face mottled with pink and white. “You were the better part of him,” he sneers. “Supposed to be the better part of him. Moonlight in the darkness and all that nonsense.”

“You—you lied to me!”

“I suppose all the beads were put in the looks bucket when you were made,” Xue Yang grins, “without a lot left over for brains.” He clicks his tongue. "What else did you expect from someone as repugnant as me?"

Lan Xichen falls to his knees, palms pressed to the spot A-Yao had been standing as if he can still feel his heat on the stone tiles. The room has faded, and the old weight is crushing his limbs again, keeping him pinned to the ground, barely able to breathe. Squeezing his lungs, threatening to crack his skull, a thousand times worse than it had ever been in the Cloud Recesses. There’s a dark red spot on his hand where A-Yao had been touching him—

“Aw, how nice,” Xue Yang clucks. “He marked you as his own. Can’t decide if it’s like a dog pissing on a tree or—no, I think I’ll go with ‘dog’ on this one.”

Lan Xichen stares at the red spot. Something is pricking at his half-melted brain—something familiar—but his blood is pumping too hard to think. He’s hot, so hot —

“To help find him in the afterlife,” explains Xue Yang. He bites his lip, hesitating, then shrugs. “Better not blow it again the next time, my friend.”

Lan Xichen is on his feet, swaying slightly. “Why did you do this?”

“About time you asked.” Xue Yang removes a folded sheet of paper from his qiankun sleeve. “You really should have asked more questions, my friend.”

The missing page from the book, the one that had supposedly been destroyed in a fire.

Lan Xichen grabs it.

“The ritual calls for the corruption of a soul of equal so-called purity in order to create a proper vessel for me to call the soul into before putting it back in his body,” Xue Yang explains as Lan Xichen stares at the paper, as if knowing Lan Xichen’s thoughts are too hot and flurried to be able to read, his vision blurred. “Not exactly easy to find a person like that in this fucked-up world. Not to mention access to the Lan library and Inquiry.” He shrugs. “You were the very obvious choice. Too bad you didn’t intentionally kill those Lan cultivators when we left the Cloud Recesses or those Nie guards, or I could have saved a lot of time.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Lan Xichen can barely hear his own voice over the blood roaring in his ears.

Twice. He’s killed A-Yao here, in this same temple, twice.

And A-Yao—

He has to find him. Has to explain. Has to be explained to. About why A-Yao would prefer death over life with him—

“Kill Zewu-jun?” Xue Yang twirls a strand of hair around his finger, eyes wide and innocent. He takes the pages back. “I can’t take you down on my own. But I figure they can, which is why I invited them. Right on time, too—”

With a squelching sound Lan Xichen draws Shuoyue from Wu Shen’s corpse and flies at Xue Yang. Laughing, the hooligan easily springs out the way, and Lan Xichen is about to pull out Liebing when he hears a familiar voice from behind him.

“Clan Leader!”

He whirls around. Six high-ranking Lan cultivators have dropped through the ceiling, swords in hand, snow gusting down around them. One has his guqin out and has begun to play the Song of Clarity—

Shuoyue arcs through the air, slicing the guqin in half.

And the cultivator.

Lan Xichen hadn’t meant to kill him but he, Lan Xichen, the top-ranked cultivator of his generation, is suddenly unable to govern his own spiritual energy.

But—

Is it really such a bad thing?

They’re trying to stop him from joining A-Yao. Stop him from killing the man responsible or A-Yao’s death. They're trying to bring him back to the Cloud Recesses—

Something echoes through the blood pounding in his ears.

“Too bad you didn’t intentionally kill those Lan cultivators when we left the Cloud Recesses—”

How many other Lan cultivators has he killed?

No. He couldn’t have killed them—

But he remembers the sound of the cultivator’s bones cracking against the stone as he fled the Cloud Recesses, and something bursts inside him.

A fistful of blood spatters out past his teeth, hot on his chin, speckling the floor with red.

A dozen more Lan cultivators have appeared, flickering around him, laughing, grinning, sneering. Despising him, ridiculing him for his desperation, his weakness, for his having fallen for Xue Yang's lies not once but twice—

Coming to take him home. Coming to lock him up again—

Something inside him snaps.

Blood burns his eyes, his vision half-obscured, but he hacks and slashes at the phantasms around him. There’s not a hint of his old elegance as he spins and whirls and lunges. He’s seized by Nie-like berserker rage as he rips them apart with Shuoyue—(they’re not real, anyway)—he knows they aren’t real—they’re just specters sent to haunt him, to taunt him, inventions of his overheated brain—

(Not that it matters, now. Nothing is real, nothing matters.)

The cultivators' bodies disappear. A dozen more men and women have appeared to take their places—

A face.

Wangji? No. Wangji couldn’t be here—nobody is here—

Sorrow on Wangji’s face— not Wangji’s face—not the real Wangji, anyway; if Wangji were truly here Lan Xichen wouldn’t stand a chance, not in his current condition—

A tear slips down Wangji’s face.

A hand on his shoulder, the first solid thing he’s felt other than Shuoyue’s hilt in—in how long—?

Where is he—

The temple. Still in the temple.

He scrubs the blood from his eyes, looks down. His blue robes are soaked with blood. Fresh blood dribbles from his eyes, his mouth, from the thousand ruptures in his flesh. Blood coats the snowy floor, taints the air, blossoms beautifully on the while robes of the six Lan corpses surrounding him.

Xue Yang looks down at him, watching him bleed out. Xiao Xingchen’s spirit-trapping pouch is in one hand, the Stygian Tiger Seal shard in the other.

For once there is no smile on Xue Yang’s face. “Shall I do it, my friend? The ritual will heal any damage to your body so that he will be whole when he returns—”

Lan Xichen stabs upward with Shuoyue.

Cursing, Xue Yang falls to his knees before the kneeling clan leader, blood spraying out past his teeth, eyes wide with shock. Lan Xichen must have struck an artery, because there’s a rapidly spreading pool of red around him, the hot crimson liquid surrounding the two of them.

Instead of using his spiritual energy to heal, Xue Yang instead begins to laugh, a laugh tinged with more than a touch of hysteria.

His knife is out.

Lan Xichen stares down at the mark A-Yao branded into his wrist, barely visible through the blood.

He looks up at Xue Yang again.

Waits.

“You’re welcome,” says Xue Yang, blood spurting over his chin, and he plunges his knife deep into Lan Xichen’s breast.

Lan Xichen hears a cry from the doorway, a familiar voice.

Or maybe he just imagines it.

The metal blade is cold as it pierces his skin, enters his muscle, scrapes bone. As cold as the mountain stream outside his mother’s house—

Lan Xichen wonders if the crane is still there.

He can almost see it now. Fluffing its wet feathers in greeting as Lan Xichen glides low over the Cloud Recesses—

The faint red light of an activated array comes from far away. Dimly-glowing symbols spin around him, as if someone is pouring the last of their life essence into the array as a soft new presence envelopes Lan Xichen—

The red light fades as he circles the mountain, flies higher into the crystal-clear sky. Frigid air is all around him, caressing his bare arms and legs, but he’s wrapped in warmth, in starlight.

A growing, glowing feeling, as if he’s bigger than himself, as if he’s become something more.

Something new.

He soars higher.

The Cloud Recesses looks so small from up here. So insignificant.

Like everything else.

He’s out among the stars now. Glowing, expanding, leaving a trail of green and purple stardust behind him.

Cosmic light envelopes him.

He melts into it.

* * * *

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. AO3

#The final chapter: Things come to a head #Or: The night sky sure is pretty and stars are cool #Fractured Ice #Lan Xichen #mdzsnet #Xue Yang #the untamed #mdzs #cql #check out Ao3 for the warnings

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chimtaesty · 4 years

Text

Dark Creatures | part 1

pairing: OT7 x reader | 1,5k words

warning: gore, angst, swearing

plot: leading the biggest mafia group there is, is a job for a woman. So is living through things no one should witness. After keeping those secrets to stay alive it’s time to bring justice upon the ones who deserved it.

a/n: hi there! I’m finally back after a big writingblock. I’ve been thinking and thinking about what I would like to write and to be honest, I’ve been hit with so much sexism nowadays that I thought that this account needed some feminism content. So here is the starter to a two or three parter story. If you like my work, please let me know in the comments or like my works! Thank you a lot for your support and encouragements. I’ll be taking time to write new stuff and update u more frequently now :) - love ellie

masterlist

Loud grunts wake you from your nap. A knock on your office door let’s you sigh “Miss Y/N, there is someone here to see-“Open the fucking door” a low voice interrupted the poor bodyguard. You know who this voice belongs to, Kwon Mark. The son of a bitch who owed you a shit ton of money and snitched you out to the government a year ago.

“Let him in” you shout as you get up to get a glass of water. The door opens with a creek and a grumbling man enters. You text the rest of your team to immediately arrive in your office since you might need someone who stops you from ripping this bastard apart. “Sit down” you demand and he huffs with his eyes rolling in disrespect.

The connection you share with the seven of them is something special. You were the one to save their lives and change them to the people they are now. They owed you their lifes as much as you owed them yours.

Namjoon and Yoongi are the first to arrive. “Everything alright, Y/N?” Namjoon asks as you take a seat on your desk. Was everything fine? No, nothing was fine.

This bitch here owed you so much money that killing him wouldn’t be efficient at all. But letting him live came with a damn headache, he is associated with Joon-Hyuk and you didn’t like that connection. After Jimin, Jungkook, Hoseok. Jin and Taehyung arrived as well, Mark took it as the start for a conversation.

“Now that the men are here the secretary can leave and someone can tell me who the boss among you boys is” Your eyes widen in anger. The last thing you needed right now was a sexist man barging into your home. Men don’t fit the position of power.

With two steps towards the disgrace of a man you punch him square in the face. He jumps up trying to get a hold of you as you once again give him a punch to the throat.

“For starters, I’m not a fucking secretary you motherfucker. I’m the fucking boss, I’m their boss. So if you want to talk to the boss, you’ll have to talk to me, you piece of shit.” He gasps for air as you push him up onto the couch. Jungkook chuckles as you kick Mark’s shin in frustration.

“I’m gonna make things very clear for you, okay” he nods his head in a frightened manner as his wide eyes stare at you “You owe me a lot of money and I don’t like being called a secretary so here’s the deal. You get me my money by friday and I won’t chop your dick off” a gasp of air leaves his mouth

“My-y d-dick?” He whispers with tears in his eyes. “Yes, your fucking cock, Mark. So it’s really your choice, my money or your dick” he nods. With a shove you let Jin get him outside.

You turn around to sit yourself down at your desk. Jimin reaches out for the gin bottle and gives it to you, you take a sip and let your head fall back. “His dick, huh?” Hoseok laughs. “That’s something new, I haven’t done that yet” you chuckle.

“I can’t believe he didn’t know who you were,” Jin states as he re-enters the room. “Me neither, do I look like a fucking secretary?” Yoongi laughs as he takes the bottle from your hands “You? With that look? You look like you slash throats for a living not type emails for a rich bastard” you are satisfied with that answer.

“Alright boys, we need to meet Choi Joon-Hyuk in half an hour. Let’s see what this whack job has for us” you stand up just to be followed by the boys. The car outside is ready to take you to the location. “Jungkook, please enlighten us with the basics of Joon-Hyuk” he nods and starts to explain

“Joon-Hyuk, the right hand of Kim Lucas. He’s meeting us, technically Y/N but she insisted on having us all at the gathering, to discuss weapon and drug exchanges. Joon-Hyuk is an excellent sniper and very well trained in hand to hand combat. He has been working for Kim for about ten years now, so we know his loyalty lies one hundred percent with his boss” that’s what people like to believe, in all honesty, he’s a twisted motherfucker.

“What did you do?” The room was quiet. The only sound which could be heard was the sound of blood dripping to the floor. He was hunched over a little girl. She was whimpering, silently pleading for help as he raped her. You couldn’t breathe. At least ten more bodies were splattered over the white tiles.

Without thinking you grabbed the broken off leg of the ruined chair next to you and with all the strength you had in you, you struck it over his head. He fell over with a loud thud and you could see the only one alive. Her hair was wet with blood. Her skin cut and bruised and her pants ripped apart. You took the girl into your arms as carefully as possible and kissed her forehead. “No one will ever hurt you again, I’ll make sure of it. You’re save now” she was barely ten years old.

You nod and with the end of the explanation you all leave the car at the location Choi wanted you to meet him.

The door is opened by two packed men. You follow the waitress to a closed room where the man of the hour waited for you. “Ah, Y/N. How beautiful you look” he tries to pull you in for a kiss on the cheek but Jimin is faster to pull you away from him “Watch it” he threatens him and he backs off with a chuckle.

Your eyes narrow at the table in front of you. There is one chair on your side, but you are eight people. “What the hell is that?” You curse at Joon-Hyuk. “Now, now. No need for language. Take a seat, I’m sure your guard dogs can endure standing for a while” your face changes from confusion to anger.

“If there is one thing I hate more than men who think I’m a secretary are men who call my boys guard dogs. These men are the most loyal and skilled men you can find and they belong to me, If you like it or not. For the love of god, treat them with respect and get them chairs or I’m not sitting down”

Joon-Hyuk sighs and signals his men to arrange some chairs. “They are coming right up so please sit down” you take a seat and you start to discuss business over the very delicious dinner. “So what do you say to the offer?” You look at the man and think for a moment. “The offer is shit and you know it” his eyebrows fasten up and he is about to say something “We are not selling your stuff for this price let alone are you getting in our area on your own” Taehyung says as he takes a sip of the very sweet wine.

“And what would you prefer?” He asks carefully. He knows not to mess up. Lucas needs his stuff to be sold in our area and he has to accept our offer even if he doesn’t want to because having someone else’s stuff here would be unacceptable for him. “We thought about 30/70 for starters. If your stuff sells we can talk about changing things up” Jin smirks at Joon-Hyuk, he knows damn well that he has to accept. “But isn’t that a bit cruel?” You laugh “I could give Lee Ji-Won a quick call if you fancy that” he grunts in frustration. “Alright, I’ll mail you the contract.” You chuckle and eat one last bite of the steak. “Good, let’s go boys”

Joon-Hyuk is fast to stand up „Why are you leaving us this early? Not to mention that I actually invited only you, I would like to spend some alone time with you, Y/N. Catch up on the last years“ you close your eyes in frustration. Hoseok sighs and grabs your arm „Absolutely not.“ you signal him to simply just wait a minute. You push yourself through your boys to the other side of the table

„Let me tell you something, Joon-Hyuk. Men like you don’t attract me. You’ve been serving Lucas like a little rat. treating this man like god in hopes that the guilt you feel because of what you did to those kids might diminish. But the truth is that what you did is in no way ever forgivable and Lucas is just as much a piece of shit as you. You’re a disgusting cockroach, a nasty little leach. And if you don’t stop acting like he shouldn’t have decapitated you then I’ll change my mind and put your penis in a blender. Do we understand each other?”

He was about to say something. „And don’t talk back to me, I’m not your mother“

You grabbed Namjoon’s and Jungkook‘s hand and left the restaurant. In the car Jimin carefully started, testing te waters “Y/N, what exactly did he do?” You closed your eyes for a second to recall the tragedy.

“We were supposed to work together..”

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spacegaywritings · 4 years

Text

The Wonders of Sleep - You are a Nightmare (4/5)

Summary: Remus is in another chaotic frenzy and refuses to calm down, so Virgil has to step in and convince the Dark Creativity that sleep can be fun too. At least Thomas well get to rest with this.

Tags: Remus things! Talks about murder, death, violence, inflicting pain etc on others/self (your basic favourites in intrusive thoughts), weapons, brutality, Remus, virgil, dukexiety, the duke of nonsense and bullshit, caps, angery remus, moth man/ rat man mentions, sexual innuendo, food, (eating) worms, plants, weird living conditions, disgusting room description, absolute chaos, caring about thomas, mutual care, fluff, domestic fluff, swearwords, lotsa cursing, dismissive nicknames, self harm (mention)

Tumblr : 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 . Ao3: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / all.

My KoFi - Support me ♥ or Commission me

Story under the cut: (<2k)

A gargantuan mace hit the ground, sending splitting stones and other pieces of damaged ground flying through the heart of the imagination.

“KILL HIM, I SAY!”

Dark Creativity screeched into the air. He ripped the mace out of the ground with great effort and immediately struck the ground with a loud war scream.

His deafening screams and yells filled the vast emptiness of the mindscape. Other than that, the slightly more silent noise of Remus consistently breaking and devastating the rocks and mountains of the desert he was in.

“Thomas just needs to get a simple baseball bat and SMASH HIS SKULL IN!”

Remus repeated his motion of shattering the bleeding ground as he hurled his mace out and behind his back for the maximum amount of swinging power science would give him.

“No more PAY! No more BILLS!”

He worked the mace down into the ground, his whole body following the movement. His upper body went down with the large weapon and stopped just shy of the unsteady ground, splitting it.

A growl could be heard. It erupted from the depths of the ground could as the dark floor slowly drove itself away from one another in two halves.

The Duke’s rage had halved the currently imagined world.

He freed his mace and brought it back to his chest. One of his hands brushed over the end of it, the one without stabby spikes! Still a pretty side, to Remus.

A little light bubble, dark pink, grew at said end with a bit of distance to the stick-part itself.

Remus shook the mace, letting the spikes give way to nothing but a long, black stick. Once the hurty spikes were gone, he YEETED the consistently expanding bubble in front of him and repeated.

“KILL HIM!”

The bubble manifested itself in the air, sticking to the invisible laws of the Duke’s whimsy. Slowly, a picture started to fade onto the dark background. Thomas could be seen, holding a bat. It was just as Remus had predicted.

The scene became crystal clear and with a simple snip of his fingers, Thomas moved as if trapped in the gifset of a violent mind. He bashed into his head, again, again, again and again as Remus chanted in moral support.

“GO! YES! GO! AGAIN! MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE-”

“Remus.”

The Imagination shifted at once, the bubbling magma morphing into a small river while the dark ground, the stones and rocks and destruction turned into a field of grass.

While the air remained heavy, the bubble popped and Remus’ stick became nothing but an elegant twig.

“Why are you up so late?”

Creativity growled in response and shook his body like a wet dog. His flouncy outfit floated as if in timelapse.

“Why are you up so late? Stop asking me silly questions. I am creating.”

Virgil hopped over the small river and turned to look directly at the raging side.

“You look as if you are pouting”, he stated calmly, much like Logan would, “what got ya stinki mood up, poopy boy?”

Remus glared back at the smaller side and cleared his throat. He bowed to pick up his twig.

“My mace.”

That was definitely a pout. Remus’ lips were pursed into a pout, even his words seemed to pout despite his sentence being so short of them.

The mustache seemed to stretch his face into a long, sad face. Maybe he was actually manipulating his appearance, maybe the facial hair really put an extra emphasis after all.

“You are the Duke of Creativity. If you want it back, you do that. Now, how about we give this financial discussion a break and fucking chill for a minute.”

Remus threw the twig away and shook his head, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Yeah, you would like that. How about Thomathy here gets it on with a hot dude and I will shut up?”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

“We could eat that cockroach Thomathy squished this morning! I will get it from the trash!”

The Duke started running for time before the other could even react. Anxiety kicked in, shifting the imagination in a way, they found themselves in Remus’ messy bedroom.

A huge vine came out of the closet and ended mid-room before the bed.. or whatever one wanted to call the mess of clothing. There was a glowing blue trail of splatter on the floor. Weapons and.. hair??? were cluttered all over the floor.

Virgil could hear a distant slapping of meat.

The floorboards seemed rather loose and rattled.

“My room! ROOM ROOM ROOM!”

Remus drew Virgil close.

“Emo! Look at my plant! It is really cute! It will love you!”

Virgil clung to the ever-changing mess of ideas and shook his head.

“I want to sleep, Remus. Shut up and go to sleep with me. You can wreck havoc and reek tomorrow but Thomas needs to sleep or else he will be shit in the morning.”

The man in question bounced.

“If I make Thomathy beat up himself, he will look like shit for sure!!!”

The emo rolled his eyes and nudged Remus towards the bed. He had not even expected the room to look as bad. Maybe he should have taken this to the living-room or literally any space that had a comfortable ground to lay on. He was a metaphysical being who could not really perceive pain after all - the choice to sleep was really just allowing Thomas to deal with things more calmly, at least in the case of Anxiety. Also, only given that Virgil did not deliberately clock out in order to spare Thomas any effect from his side.

“Nah, that is work. Work sucks. We wanna sleep forever and eat weird shit, right?”

Remus grumbled.

At heart, he sort of agreed. Right now, he was driven to do things, to be active and creative or destroy and simply do as much as he could because he had that energy.

“Nap time, Dukey.”

Virgil tugged him towards the bed.

“Oh, Virgil ~ I did not know you were into this kind of thing ~”

The addressed side blushed but shook his head.

“In your dreams, fucker.”

He stepped closer to the unmoving wall of Creativity. Confidently, he let their chests collide, sending Remus backwards.

The wavering Duke gasped in surprise and squeaked insolently.

“EmO!”, he screeches with a voice that got scratchier and scratchier by the minute. His arms flailed into any direction until he drew them in front of his chest to cross them.

“How can you be cunning and cunt-y?”

Virgil could hear his brain yell a conditioned “language!” response at him. He literally heard Patton scold Remus in his brain. Judging from the sour look on the other’s face, the anxious trait assumed he could hear it too.

“Now you know how tiring it can be to hear something in you, that you can’t stop? Pretty fucking shitty, huh? Move, babysitting you is tiring.”

The reveal of a long, pink tongue was the response but Remus kicked off his boots and patted his clothings until they dissolved into some sort of magical glitter dust. It silently trickled down onto the floor and was blown into all directions of the room.

This place really had a mind of its own. Not that Virgil really minded this.

“Good Remus”, Virgil praised softly as he joined the other on the bed. They laid down together and Virgil kicked a bundle of weapons and books off the bed, “oops. My bad. I thought it was your pet raccoon.”

Remus giggled.

“No! That is you!”

Virgil shook his head, grinning into his oversized mess of a self-ruined jacket. The Duke looked at him in his own naked glory and patted the space next to him. To join him on the fun, he eyed the stack of his dirty single socks collection and gave it a strong kick.

“PARTY!”

“Nooo, nap time. We wanted to be nice to Thomas and fuck shit up tomorrow.”

Creativity blinked at Virgil. A rare occasion. The blinking and directly looking at someone. He usually just stared into something nobody but him could see. It was chilling and so deeply terrifying, Thomas would feel it in his bones when anyone but Logan or the (former) Others interacted with him.

“You will join me?”

Virgil threw his head back as he slowly snuggled up to Remus, filling the spot he had previously patted. A groan escaped his lips and he let his head roll against Remus’ shoulder.

Instead of answering, he clapped his hands together, summoning a little bowl he thrusted into Remus’ hands.

The bowl was full of little gummy worms which looked surprisingly disgusting with how slimy and wet they appeared to be. They had a certain shine to them and the colour was so unnaturally neon orange, they were glowing in the dim lighting of the Duke’s room.

“Have a cursed snack and get your creative energy into a fucked up sex dream instead of making Thomas uncomfortable. He’s got some shit to do tomorrow.”

Silence took over the room.

Virgil caused some rustling sounds as he curled up next to Remus. The room was surprisingly un-stinky compared to what he had expected.

Loud chewing sounds interrupted the momentary silence.

It was good while it lasted but Virgil was willing to trade his own discomfort for the sake of Thomas’ well-being. He needed his sleep with another tough schedule coming up.

“Virgil?”

He hummed in response.

“Are you anxious because of the new projects they planned?”

The former dark side curled further into himself, shaking his head stubbornly.

Chewing sounds continued for a bit until Remus took a small break and suddenly snapped his head back and emptied the whole bowl into his mouth. Without even moving his jaw to chew, he swallowed his big ball of cursed sweets and made a lewd lip-smacking sound.

Virgil opened his mouth to comment on how disgusting the other was but he interrupted him.

“Come cuddle. It is okay to be scared. I will eat your mean anxiety.”

He shook his head. The Duke turned to pull Virgil into a hug. The anxious side chuckled.

“This is not how I work.”

“Yeah, but it is how I work.”

“Whatever, Remus. Shut up if you wanna cuddle, you rat man.”

It was Remus’ turn to chuckle.

“You just wish I was moth man!”

Virgil shook his head, smirking into Remus’ neck. He finally allowed himself to close his eyes and hold onto the other.

It was silent.

For real.

Within minutes, Remus was asleep and Virgil was ever so silently snoring, nobody could hear it.

#ts remus #remus sanders #fanfiction #fanfic #fanficion #fanfic fluff #ts fanfiction #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides virgil #virgil sanders #joey writes #domestic fluff #Fluffy Fic #fluff

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doe-s-labyrinth · 5 years

Text

Saviour

Saviour - Arthur x F!reader | Oneshot

Word Count: 5,308

Warnings: Angst, execution

They weren’t coming.

Nobody was going to come and save you - and the two weeks you had spent in that prison of a cell was proof of that.

The familiar damp, grey walls of the Strawberry jail had become home, and the little you could see out of the window bars was comforting. Two weeks in that grotty cell was enough to make anyone go insane. The little amount of food given every two days didn’t help in the slightest - and your clothes always felt wet from the constant dripping of water on the walls. The cot - now nothing could be as comfortable and homely as your bed back in the camp, but you’d somehow managed to sleep on the dingy fabric for the past few nights. They obviously hadn’t washed it in years, and you could smell every other person that had ever slept on it. The floor would have been cleaner bed if it wasn’t for the disgusting amount of cockroach carcasses you’d kicked into a corner.

Two weeks had been an absolute hell, of course you had been through worse, but the boredom you felt caused the two weeks of rotting away to be a firm contender with spending 3 days of being tortured in an O’Driscoll camp. You still had deep scars from that event, but you hadn’t told the Irishmen a word, and for that you were proud.

But at least then you were occupied. You’d had far too much time to think in that Strawberry jail cell - resurfaced memories that you’d blocked out, theories on how you could have escaped the bounty hunter that had once caught you, a comeback for Grimshaw’s relentless nagging.

Yet you couldn’t stop thinking about how stupid you had been to get caught - while wearing a dress of all things. It had become loose during the two weeks of little food and activity - a visualisation of the weight you’d lost, and the mud on the fabric had caused the outfit to become itchy and unclean.

It wasn’t like you weren’t being careful, but the increase of security in the town after Micah’s outburst had affected things. You were simply there to visit your mother’s grave - it was nearing the anniversary of her death and you’d welcomed the distraction with open arms. The tension in camp had increased after moving to Beaver Hollow, and all the secret conversations of leaving the gang was becoming heavy on your conscience. Of course you didn’t want to leave - you were all a family after all.

But the reality of playing happy families had turned stale months ago, everybody knew it, but nobody wanted to acknowledge it. The bank robbery in Saint Denis had really set a damper on everyone’s mood - and with the loss of Hosea, Dutch had no rationalisation in his plans, and it had been costly for everyone.

You couldn’t wait to get away for a while. It was originally meant to be a four day trip - head to Strawberry, visit your mother’s grave, and head back to camp. You didn’t want to leave for too long - the Pinkertons had been hot on the gang’s trail after all, and you didn’t want to abandon them. You’d told them of your plans and nobody seemed too fussed, so you didn’t wait before leaving. You had offered Arthur to come since it had been some time since the two of you had spent any time together. You’d barely seen him after he returned from Guarma, but Dutch had him doing all sorts of work. He was always busy, and you didn’t doubt that if you all still lived in Blackwater then he’d come along in a heartbeat, but things had been hectic lately and you understood that.

The entire trip had been peaceful until you entered Strawberry, and the alone time had been nicer than you thought it would, but things seemed off and the atmosphere was almost eerie. Nobody was very talkative - and for the small reserved town that wasn’t uncommon, but the uneasiness you felt was more off-putting than usual to say the least.

You’d only decided to wear a dress to visit your mother’s grave - you wanted to look nice for her, and she’d always loved seeing you in them even if they weren’t your favourite thing to wear. You’d missed her greatly, and placing some fresh flowers below her headstone was calming.

A nice drink was needed after visiting her, and so you’d decided to head to the saloon. You didn’t plan on having much, just a single bottle of beer to destress, but of course someone just had to recognise you. You could remember the interaction as clear as day, and you cursed yourself for letting it happen.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” The drunk man’s words were slurred and his was accent thick throughout his sentence.

You’d tried to ignore him, all you wanted was to finish your drink before heading to the hotel, and you couldn’t wait to take that damned dress off. But of course he had to try and get your attention once more. You felt his greasy hand on your shoulder and you couldn’t help it when your jaw stiffened.

“Let go of me.” Your voice was clear and threatening, but of course he took it as a joke. The drunk laughed and mocked your words as you took a short sip of the alcohol in your hand.

“Wait, wait - I know you!” He bellowed, his wide grin showed off his lack of teeth.

You stiffened up at his words, and what felt like a hundred pairs of eyes moved to your back from the drunkard’s loud banter. Yet you turned to him, pushing yourself off of the bar you were leaning on, and standing straight as you gazed at him with a sickly sweet smile,

“Oh, you must have me mistaken with somebody-”

“No, I know you! You were walking with those - uh, Van Der - uh, what’s his name? Van Der Loins?” His rambling mumbles cut you off and your breath visibly caught at his words. More eyes looked curiously at the mention of the well-known name, and you were frozen in your place. You were about to move to leave when someone else stood up, pointing at you as he yelled,

“Aye - I recognize 'er too! she’s one of ‘em!” He shouted, his yelling just as slurred as the man beside you.

“That Micah bastard killed my brother,” another voice shouted from the growing commotion.

Your hand shook from where it hovered by your thigh - under your dress was a handgun, but a single pistol stood no chance against this crowd and you wouldn’t trust your shot with the anxiety building in your chest. You prayed to stay calm - but your nerves were getting the better of you as more and more people joined in on the yelling. Why couldn’t Arthur be there with you? He would know what to do - he wouldn’t let this happen.

“Get ‘er!”

Your widened eyes shot to a fairly large man pouncing at you - but thankfully your reflexes were quicker as you moved to run out of the saloon. The heavy downpour drenched you within seconds as you raced out of the bar - your horse was in the stables for the night, sheltered from the storm, but maybe you could make it-

A firm grip on your bicep pulled you back into a set of strong arms that easily lifted you up - you struggled and kicked at the perpetrator as the crowd that had gathered cheered at your capture. You screamed out as your foot collided with the man’s crotch, causing him to drop you onto the wet mud on the road,

“You bitch!” He roared, his fist colliding with your cheek and sending you back into a puddle before you could get up.

The crowd swarmed you, arms grabbed at you as you yelled out, desperate to escape them.

A gunshot rung through your ears, catching the attention of the mob. They cleared a path and the town's Deputy came into view before you, his gun still raised as he took in the scene. But he must have already been informed as he shot you a sickening smirk,

“Someone’s gotta pay for the rat’s actions.”

And so they carried you to the cell and set your date to hang.

You’d learned later on that Micah had killed the Deputy’s father during his mass-shooting - and he had definitely made you suffer for Mr Bell’s actions. The first week had been full of beatings that you were sure weren’t allowed, but the Sheriff would turn a blind-eye whenever they happened. Bruises littered your skin, but the lanky man’s punches were no match when compared to an O’Driscoll’s, and for that you were thankful.

The long wait period between your incarceration and your execution date was surprising, there was only one other man in the jail when you had arrived, and he had been hung two days after your entrance. Jail’s didn’t usually wait - they liked to have a free prison if they could, but you bet the lengthy period had something to do with the Deputy’s ‘payback’. Nobody ever answered when you asked about it, but you had a feeling that they were using you as bait. If they wanted Micah himself then they would be sore out of luck, he didn’t like you very much after you and Arthur became official, but at least this gave more time for word to spread about your incarceration.

The thought that you and Arthur were even together still made you smile, even if it had been a year. You couldn’t deny that the relationship had been rocky lately. The reappearance of Mary in Arthur’s life had set you on edge, and you were uneasy even with Arthur’s endless reassuring.

'We’re just friends’, his words rung in your head like a ghost’s whisper. You wanted to believe that, but you knew their past together, and that Arthur had never really gotten over her. The night’s he’d stay up after he saw her again worried you, and his denial of your comfort had hurt.

The two of you hadn’t been very close since you saw him with Mary in Saint Denis. He’d taken off that morning in a hurry after receiving a letter, and you’d thought little of it considering he was always rushing off to places unknown. Hosea had sent you and Charles into the city with a wagon to get some supplies, and on your way into the general store you’d spotted Arthur. His presence had brought a smile to your lips, and you were about to call out to him until you saw a giggling Mary at his side, her arms clinging onto his.

It felt like you’d been stabbed when you saw them, and Arthur looked the happiest he’d been in months. They didn’t notice you as they walked down an alley into god-knows-where, but you still stood frozen on the pavement, biting back tears and chewing on your lip.

Charles had noticed your shift in mood when you were leaving, but you didn’t spill a word of what you’d seen despite your friend's prying. You didn’t speak about it to anyone for weeks until Abigail pulled you aside one night and made you confess. You’d been acting like a zombie ever since you’d seen the couple, and Arthur hadn’t noticed your upset demeanour with all the time he’d spent out of camp. Those who had noticed had been worried, and Abigail had had enough of your moping.

With a bottle of whiskey and your best friends comfort, you spilled your guts. Abigail listened and offered you her solace - you had to stop her from storming over to Arthur and giving him a piece of her mind. But your mood brightened after that weight had been partially removed from your shoulders, but then the bank robbery happened, and Arthur went missing.

The time without him had let you think about the situation with a clear head - or as clear of a head as you could have with the amount of chaos. You'd managed to convince yourself that Mary would stay out of your relationship - that you would believe Arthur for now. You didn't want to lose him - he was one of the best things that had ever happened to you.

You were the first to greet him when he finally came back and found you in Lakay - even if the two of you had been distant before it happened, his complete absence was a horrible time. You had run outside when you heard Sadie call his name, and he was barely off the stolen horse before your arms were wrapped firmly around his torso. You couldn’t help but cry into his chest when you felt him hug you back - and for a second, everything felt whole again.

‘I’m here now, don’t cry, Sweetheart.’

You'd spent the entire night of his return together, and it was one of the best you'd had in a while. He’d held you so tightly, like he never wanted to let go of you again, and you gladly returned his feelings.

Your brain would always trick you into thinking he was laying in the cot beside you when he was gone, but when you’d reach out for him all you’d feel was the chilly swamp air. And now it was the same once again. You’d imagine that he was right there with you. You could imagine his strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer whenever he felt a chill in the night. His hot breaths on the back of your neck, and his snoring that never really bothered you. You even missed the way his beard would brush against you whenever he let it grow out, and the way he would always whisper sweet nothings to you whenever he thought you were asleep.

But now you were alone again, tears rolling down your cheeks with nobody to brush them away.

But there was one thing you had thought of over and over again in the past two weeks. It was almost all you’d dreamed about when you could sleep, and you could only hope that the past would repeat itself.

He’d saved you when you were trapped in the O’Driscoll’s basement, beaten and bloody, and he’d killed everyone there in a rage for what they’d done to you. You would often fantasise about seeing his face through the window bars of the cell, his ever calm expression would be filled with determination to get you out, and then you would run away back to camp together and spend the night holding on to one another like you did back in Lakay.

But the wall had been reinforced after Micah’s escape, and the machinery Arthur had used in their great escape had been moved so it couldn’t happen again. A stick of dynamite would do the trick - but your time was wearing thin, and your belief in your lover was slimming.

It had been two weeks since you were put away after all, or that was what you could tell from the shift in the sunlight you could see. Your hands clung loosely onto the window bars from where you stood, gazing at the lightrays, picking at the few blades of grass you could reach.

A crash behind you caused you to jump, your arms retreating back inside the cell as your eyes moved to the commotion. The Deputy closed the cell door behind him, a large bucket of water in his hands before he put it on the floor, some of the water sloshed and spilled onto the already damp ground.

“Clean yourself up, your hanging in an hour.” his accusatory finger pointed at you as he spoke, and he was about to leave until he turned to you again, “Too bad we couldn’t’ve had more fun.” the slimy man sneered, but you refused to reply as he left, locking the door behind him and shooting you one last snide smirk.

Your breath caught in your throat when the Deputy had finally left, and your knees felt weak as you fell to the floor. Tears brimmed your eyes as reality set in - your time was up. Your shaky arms reached out and pulled the bucket of water closer to your crumpled body. The least you could do was freshen up for your big show. But you didn’t doubt that you looked a mess. Your hair was greasy and knotted from the caked in mud and your skin was bruised and dirty. The cold water stung your arms as you rubbed the dried mud off, the skin was red and raw underneath. Your teeth held your bottom lip captive as you moved to dunk your face in the icy water.

The ‘bath’ was refreshing while it lasted, and you felt a bit better about yourself when you’d finally cleaned the mud from under your fingernails. You’d even managed to wash most of the mud out of your hair before the Deputy returned, rope in his hands.

No words were spoken as you stood and willingly let him tie your hands behind your back. Your legs hurt from their lack of use as he moved you forward and out of the cell, but the relief of finally leaving the small room was enough to mask the pain.

He pushed you through the door of the jail and down the wooden steps, but you couldn’t help but smile and take in fresh air. You’d forgotten how nice the air was outside of the musty cell, and if you hadn’t already been crying then you would have teared up.

But the Deputy spared you no time before he was forcing you to walk again. Your eyes caught sight of a large crowd - and you knew that they were there for you. They were there to watch you hang, to watch 'justice' be served. Even if you hadn’t committed the crime, you were associated with the perpetrator, and they were desperate enough to watch anybody pay for their losses.

The noose was already tied and it hung like a daunting reminder of what was about to happen. The crowd silenced as you neared and the countless amounts of eyes watched your every movement like hawks as you were walked up the wooden steps and onto the stage.

Nobody spoke a word as your eyes met the crowd, searching the people for any familiar faces - the least your ‘family’ could do was be there for you in your final moments. Nothing met your gaze but the angry stares of Strawberry’s townspeople as they awaited your death.

Steady tears glossed over your rosy cheeks as you were placed to stand right behind the noose, the Sheriff cleared his throat, and your breath hitched once more as he began reading from the paper in his hand,

“Fair citizens of Strawberry...” You rolled your eyes at that - this conviction was in no way fair, but nobody would testify for you, not when they knew who you associated with, “for as long as any of us can remember, it is justice that separates us from barbary.”

Your heart ached - not at their savagery, but the fact that the last time you saw your family, nobody had been happy. Times had been so rough lately and everynody was still mourning for Hosea and Lenny. You loved them all, but none of them knew what was happening to you right now - or they did know and they just weren’t coming to help.

The Sheriff’s eyes moved to you and your heart almost stopped at their evil glint, “Yet justice itself can at times be barbaric.”

He stepped forward and addressed the crowd once more, they watched on with interest, ready for main event, “For sometimes a man is so savage, the only way to deal with him justly is by savagery. Micah Bell is one such man.”

You let out a long breath at Micah’s appearance in his script, this was unethical and inhumane, you weren’t exactly innocent yourself, but you weren’t being hung for the crimes that you had committed. You were being hung for crimes Micah had committed. But the people were desperate to see someone swing - and you were the innocent they were about to watch.

“He has murdered, robbed, stolen, escaped and abused our town seemingly with impunity. Today justice catches up with him in the form of Ms Kingston.” the Sheriff’s arm extended out towards you and the Deputy pushed you forward a step before tying the noose around your neck.

He tightened it to a point past uncomfortable and you winced as he let go, the rope digging into the skin of your neck painfully as a few more tears spilled from you eyes. You couldn’t explain the flurry of emotions that ripped through your soul as you stood, tip toed on the trap door in an effort to lessen the pain of the rope. The crowd let out a few cheers before being swiftly silenced by the Sheriff. You swallowed thickly and your teeth bit onto your bottom lip as you put on a brave face. Arthur wouldn’t be scared if he was in your position, but you were terrified. But you had to be strong for yourself - it would be over in a second, and the pain tearing through your heart would be over.

“Your sentence is that you are to be hanged by the neck until you are dead.” The Sheriff’s words held no remorse as his eyes met your pained expression,

“This is not a task we take lightly, it is not a task we enjoy, but it is a task we must carry out if our civilisation is to prosper.” The lack of emotion in his voice was a cruel irony to his words.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you felt the trap door beneath you move - it was only an inch, but it was a sick, taunting taste of what was about to occur, the Sheriff turned to his Deputy and another man who stood next to the lever that held your fate, “Gentlemen, are we ready?” you assumed they were as the Sheriff quickly carried on with your sentence,

“Ms Kingston,” he began, and your breathing became erratic as you prepared for what was to come - but not even the noose around your neck would compare to the pain you felt of having to leave your family behind. Your heart yearned for them and you wished they could hear your subtle prayers of goodbye, “may God, in his infinite wisdom have mercy upon your soul.”

His words burned through your ears as you were forced to stare out at the anticipating crowd, and before you could think another syllable, the trap door beneath you disappeared.

But you fell straight through, the tail of the rope hit against your shoulder, the ends blackened and burnt. You barely had any time to think as a gunshot rung out and a body fell on the stand above you, and the crowd yelled out in screams and yells, quick to run for cover and pull their own guns out.

“Stay quiet,” a voice behind you said as you felt the bindings on your hands be cut, your eyes moved to the familiar voice, landing on a focused Charles,

“Charles, oh my-”

“I know, but we have to go.” He was quick to cut your reunion short as he helped you to your feet and took hold of your wrist, pulling you down the street with him in a qucik run,

“H - how did you know I was here?” Your voice caught in your throat - you still couldn’t believe what was happening, had they really saved you? Your brain hurt from your confusion, you were so ready for your fate, yet not ready at all.

Charles pulled you behind a tree as a bullet whizzed past your bodies. Your hands held onto his arm as he kept you out of sight. You still couldn’t believe he was here - and as you watched dead bodies fall on to the street you knew there were others here too.

“When Arthur noticed you hadn't come back, he started asking around. Figured something like this might have happened, and then we caught wind of a 'well deserved hanging' happening in Strawberry,” Charles did his best to answer your question while he aimed at a man behind a crate. Yet there was little time for more questions as he rushed you from behind the tree and down the street.

Arthur met you at the crossroads, and you couldn’t help waterfall of tears that left your eyes from just the sight of him. Your heart felt like it was exploding from all the emotions that flurried inside of you, and the look in Arthur’s eyes as he saw you only caused you to cry harder. Relief and concern, worry and love - you couldn’t shake the look he shot you as you were pulled over to their hitched horses.

They’d been shouting at each other as you were pulled along, too overwhelmed to keep yourself moving as reality drew you back in,

“Come on, darlin’” Arthur said as Charles let you go so he could mount his horse. Your eyes met Arthur’s as you turned to him and your hands immediately cupped his cheeks, slightly squishing his face. You had to know he was real, and time seemed to stop as his own large hand moved up to cup yours, you’d never seen his eyes look so gentle - his expression so soft in a time of such high pressure. You wanted to leap into his arms, hug him so tightly and keep him all to yourself for the next century or two. The way your heart calmed when you were in his presence made you feel almost lightheaded and-

“Hate to ruin the moment, but we gotta go!” John's voice yelled out, completely obliterating the tender moment, but he was right. Now was not the time, and you would have plenty when you were safe.

Arthur was quick to cooperate as he helped lift you onto his Arabian before getting on himself. His arms held onto you as well as the reins and your head moved back against his chest as he raced to get you out of that hell of a town.

John and Charles were quick on your heels, but went their separate ways as you left Strawberry as to not raise any more suspicion.

“I can’t believe you came for me,” you whispered once you were safe, walking on a unused trail in the direction of New Hanover. You felt Arthur let out a heavy sigh from where you sat leaning against him. The sun was beginning its descent into the sky as you trotted on and Arthur let out a laboured breath,

“We should have come sooner.” his words were heavy and laced with so much guilt that it caused your chest to swell. Your hand reached out and squeezed his thigh in a comforting yet forgiving manner,

“Don’t - you came,” You started, your heart felt heavy, you thought he wouldn’t come and now you those thoughts forced you to carry a guilty conscience - but it was nowhere as guilty as what Arthur felt for leaving you there. “That’s all that matters.” you words were genuine and soft, bringing tears to your puffy eyes once more.

Arthur didn’t say another word until you reached Valentine, the sun had set an hour before your arrival and he left you to tend to his Arabian for a few minutes while he walked into the hotel and rented a room for the night.

Your lips formed a small frown as you moved off of Arthur’s stead, your hands brushing through her glossy coat as you tied her to the post for the night. Arthur came out after a minute and signalled for you to go inside.

“I paid for a bath,” he stood awkwardly and his eyes refused to meet your own, “I’ll bring ye same clean clothes once you're done.” He didn’t bother to wait for a response before moving to walk up the steps and see which room he'd been given.

Your eyes met the floor briefly before you walked through the halls and opened the creaky bathroom door. You could have been shown a bath or a hundred bars of gold at that moment and still chosen the bath, it looked so heavenly and the steam in the room immediately eased you.

You were quick to undress and get in, your body completely relaxing for the first time in weeks. But even with your body submerged in the warm water - you couldn’t help but think of Arthur. Wasn’t he happy to have you back? He’d saved you and yet he was acting like you were a complete stranger. Your teeth bit onto your bottom lip for the thousandth time that day - it was an effort to keep yourself from crying again, but you were already drained of tears from the emotional day you’d had. Your hand moved to your neck where it was still sore from the noose - a reminder of your almost demise.

What if he didn't come? What if he’d left you to swing? But he hadn't’t - he’d saved you - so why weren’t the two of you making up for the lost time? He was leaving you to yourself - he probably thought it was what you needed, but you’d already had two weeks without him, and that had been enough to last you a lifetime.

You cleaned yourself properly before leaving the bath, determined to get to Arthur as quickly as possible and show him how much you’d missed him. One of the bath girls handed you your clothes and it took you less than a minute to put them on. It didn’t take long after that for you to reach your hotel room, your hand hovered over the doorknob for a second - hesitating. But you’d already made your decision. You wanted to see him.

You opened the door to find Arthur sitting at the edge of his bed, his jacket hung lazily over a chair, and his head buried deep in his hands. His head shot up at the sound of you, and you slowly closed the door behind you before walking over to him.

His eyes were red and he was embarrassed as he tried to hide it from you, but your hands cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look up and meet your gaze. You knew why he was like this - it was the same with the O’Driscoll’s, and Arthur was beating himself up over it. He’d promised to never let it happen again - but it had, and this time it was much worse.

“Arthur,” your voice was full of comfort and emotion as your thumbs traced his cheekbones, “its not your fault-” you couldn’t finish as he angrily got up, frustrated with himself, he walked to the other side of the room.

“I let it happen. Two damn weeks-” he cut himself off as he took in a deep breath and tried to calm himself, his hands forming fists at his sides, “I almost lost you.” he was tearing himself to shreds over it. You watched with an even gaze as you made your way over to him, trying again.

Your hand seemed small as it held onto his large bicep, turning him gently to face you. You smiled up at him with glossy eyes, “I’m still here,” You whispered calmly, your heart swelled for this man - his eyes finally met yours as he took you in for the first time in weeks. His eyebrows were furrowed - he didn’t understand how you could just forgive him so easily when you were littered in bruises and scrapes.

“Arthur, I’m here.” Your words were filled with love as you held onto his cheek once more, raising on your tiptoes slightly as your eyes flickered between his. “I’m alright,” You spoke quietly as you held onto him, pulling him closer as you rested your head on his shoulder and hugged him tightly, “I’m alive, because of you.” You whispered and you couldn’t help but place a small kiss on his neck.

All you wanted right now was him, and as his arms slowly held you back you knew you had him. In that moment you were his and he was yours, and that’s all you’d longed for for the past 2 weeks you’d spent locked up and away from him. You’d dreamed about this moment, and now that it was finally happening, it didn’t feel real.

You both needed some convincing, so your grip on him loosened as your fingers travelled the length of his arms until they were holding onto his large hands. Your eyes stayed on his as you stepped backwards, leading him with you until you reached the bed. You let yourself fall onto it, pulling him on top of you. His eyes searched yours for any trace of hatred - but he found nothing but love as your hands moved to his shoulders and then his neck.

“I love you, Arthur Morgan.” you whispered with such purity - as if you were an angel forgiving every sin he’d ever committed. He couldn’t ask for anything more as he hovered over you, his eyes never leaving yours as he neared you. He watched as your lids flickered closed peacefully, and his followed suite as his lips found yours in a tender kiss. He was being so gentle and soft - as if he were move too quickly or too roughly then you would disappear or break.

But you needed him, and you filled the kiss with passion as you pulled him closer, onto the bed. You’d missed him so much and now you finally had him all to yourself. He held onto you so tightly as he laid you down completely on the bed, you showed each other just how much you missed one another in your embrace. He’d never been so loving and you’d never needed him so badly - but that night you were each other’s saviours.

Your lips pecked his from where you lay cuddled up beneath the blankets. Arthur was like a furnace against you and it was the warmest you’d felt in weeks. You were at ease as he kissed over the marks on your collarbones and neck before you finally relaxed in his embrace. Your eyes watched his with love and you couldn’t deny just how much you loved this man - and he felt the same way. Life wasn’t going to be perfect after this - you both knew that, but you could always relish in these moments of pure love. You would never let yourself doubt him again. He would always save you, and you would always love him.

A/N: Hello! I hope you like it - this was my first fic on here with rdr2 and jeez is it a long one. Feel free to send any requests or just send a message, I’m always here for you lovelies~

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #angst #charles smith #arthur morgan x female reader #self insert #doeslabrynth #oneshot

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itsclydebitches · 5 years

Text

I consider taking angsty prompts and turning them into absurd fluff to be a specialty of mine~

Wretched

Aziraphale had always had a soft spot for children’s books. One wouldn’t think it based on the antiques and religious texts crowding up the shop, but if you took your time and wandered all the way to the back you’d find a sizable collection waiting, enhanced by the occasional plush and toy truck. They were mostly books from the mid-18th and 19th century, didactic texts with (surprise, surprise) religious bents. A Little Pretty Pocket-Book Intended for the Instruction and Amusement of Little Master Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly had been a long time favorite of his, both for the brightly colored paper it was bound in and the absurdly long title by contemporary standards.

The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes. The New England Primer. Millions of Cats. Peter Rabbit, The Secret Garden, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland...that was about as modern as Aziraphale was willing to go—for now at least—with the exception of one co-authored series from the 1990’s.

“The Bailey School Kids,” Crowley read. He flipped through one at random, eyes already skittering away from lack of interest. The cover got an amused snort though. “Dracula Doesn’t Drink Lemonade? Wouldn’t mind showing that to old Bram sometime.”

“You’re welcome to take that copy if you ever pop back downstairs.”

“Isn’t he with your lot?”

“Can’t quite recall anymore.” Aziraphale’s fingers skimmed the spines until he found the book he was looking for. With a dramatic flourish he showed off this cover too: a glowing woman performing a kick in front of four children.

Crowley’s lips twitched. “Angels Don’t Know Karate.”

“I’ll admit this one certainly doesn’t.”

“‘She’s too good to be true!’ Well they got that part right at least.”

Crowley’s admiration was rarely verbal. He preferred actions over words and when something did come tumbling out it was quickly followed by an insult for balance. You’re so clever. How can someone as clever as you be so stupid, and so forth. Thus, Aziraphale waited for the blow and instead felt his cheeks heating when all Crowley did was glance up over his glasses, eyes soft. He’d bent to get a look at the book and having him in such a, ahem, submissive position did nothing to calm Aziraphale’s racing heart.

What absurdities human bodies were. His palms had begun to sweat so badly that Aziraphale feared he’d do damage to the pages.

Yet when he dropped one hand to brush against his trousers he found it caught halfway, Crowley’s fingers ensnaring his, right at the tips. He drew Aziraphale’s knuckles to his mouth and placed a kiss there, reverent.

“Too good by far,” he murmured.

“Oh,” and Aziraphale was floundering, choking a bit, trying to put the book down and pull Crowley forward all at once until they were simply a mess of limbs and laughter. They finally succeeded and as Aziraphale bent to press his own kiss into the hollow of Crowley’s throat he forgot the reason he’d brought him over here in the first place.

I was making a joke, he thought faintly. Then Crowley took his face between his hands and Aziraphale forgot that too.

***

It came to him thirty hours later when a stray cat nearly upended itself into a drain in its attempt to get away from Crowley.

That was it. The Bailey series was missing a title: Demons Don’t Keep Pets.

“Wretched beast,” Crowley muttered and Aziraphale kindly ignored that the words were spoken in the same tone as, ‘I’m not nice’ and ‘That’s ridiculous,’ and ‘Shut up, angel.’

“We merely startled the poor thing,” Aziraphale said. He kept his eyes straight ahead.

“Shut up, angel.”

Hmm.

Spending time in the company of demons resulted in all sorts of odd, but really quite predictable outcomes. The stench of sulfur and chlorine was a given. Aziraphale had long ago ceased trying to cover up Crowley’s scent with any human-made creations and after the first couple of hundred years he’d forgotten why he’d wanted to in the first place. Minor mischief was another. Not anything planned, demons simply had a sort of... bad luck that surrounded them. Minor falls, forgotten words, and lost socks followed them everywhere. There was the expected gravitation towards warmer climates—many were cold blooded by nature—and the inevitable itch to groom one’s wings once the encountered concluded. Though that was due more to self-comparative embarrassment than anything the demons actually did.

And then there were the animals. Needless to say, creatures of Earth didn’t take kindly to demonic entities from the literal depths of hell.

Over their multi-millennium friendship (Courtship, Aziraphale silently corrected himself, experiencing a little thrill) he had seen Crowley interact with every animal imaginable. Or rather, unintentionally terrorize every animal imaginable. Cats, as established, had enough sense to get out of his way. Dogs were a little dumber, but that just resulted in shaking, whimpering, and a pungent mess on the floor. The Bentley was beloved not only for it style, but the freedom it had afforded him. Over the years Aziraphale had watched Crowley get bucked off of horses, camels, donkeys, mules, and on one memorable occasion an elephant. Though there were upsides too, of course. This particular body was quite susceptible to bug bites, though Aziraphale never needed to worry about such things when on a dusk stroll with Crowley. In decades past a visit from him had been more than enough to scare off the rats and cockroaches plaguing Aziraphale’s home. Squirrels and other rodents never bothered them while eating outside. Birds wouldn’t dare to defecate anywhere in their presence (smarter than the dogs then). It had taken a hundred years for the ducks of St. Jame’s Park to become accustomed to their routine... and even today they very obviously only ate the bread on Aziraphale’s side of the pond.

In short, there was a reason that poor unicorn had bolted the moment Crowley come on the scene.

“You’re thinking about how I’m responsible for the extinction of the unicorns, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale faltered only briefly. Uneven pavement. Such a danger. “Not at all, my dear.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Zira.”

“I am quite accomplished in the art due entirely to your influence. Now hush and enjoy the sunset.”

Crowley grumbled, but slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s when they just so happened to brush. They did enjoy the sunset while strolling back from dinner and as they did not a single mosquito, bird, or daring cat came their way.

***

Crowley would have dearly loved to have a pet.

He’d never said as much, not even at their most inebriated, but the desire was clear as day to Aziraphale. Put aside how well they knew one another; Aziraphale was, quite literally, a being meant to understand and exhibit love, someone who could feel it in all its forms. He knew that Crowley loved animals with the same surety that he knew Crowley loved children. And him. The duck obsession, the drunken worry for all the ocean’s creatures, they were just neon signs pointing to an already obvious statement.

Aziraphale had briefly thought that Dog was the answer. Who better to love a demon than a hell hound? Sadly, a visit to the Young household established that Adam had been a bit too thorough in transforming Dog into a normal dog. The puddle on the family room rug had created quite the stir.

So, with Armageddon two weeks behind them and all the freedom to do as he pleased, Aziraphale went shopping.

“Angel, when you said you’d gotten me a present...” Crowley’s mouth worked for a moment, seeming to taste a whole lot of words before rejecting all of them. “Weeellll. Kinda thought it was another stuffy old book.”

“You love when I give you stuffy old books.” Aziraphale had seen the small collection in Crowley’s apartment, as loved as anything else in that minimalist space.

“Is this a stuffy old book then?”

Crowley pointed to the box. The box moved.

“No, dear.”

In truth Crowley already knew what was inside. He could no doubt smell it, but he went through the motions of surprise all the same. Aziraphale watched how hard he swallowed and the shake in his hands as he pulled back the flaps.

“...You got me a snake,” he said and Aziraphale smiled at how wet his voice had gotten.

Specifically, Aziraphale had gotten him an Eastern Hognose Snake, black with a reddish tint to match Crowley’s hair. Docile and small, the little dear had no sooner tasted the air then it was making a beeline for Crowley, around his wrist and up onto his shoulder.

He’d been right. The curse didn’t extend to one’s own species.

“I’m surprised you never got one for yourself,” Aziraphale said. He watched as Crowley ran two fingers delicately over the scales, entranced. A soft, subconscious hiss was emanating each time he breathed. “It’s rather the perfect pick for you.”

“Way to toot your own horn. But nah, just... snakes. Not very cute, are they? Not the sort of thing people want in their home.” Crowley used his free hand to sit his sunglasses more firmly onto his face and... oh.

Oh.

Aziraphale felt something in his chest tighten. He stepped forward and removed those glasses, despite the protest.

“I think they’re positively adorable,” and a laugh bubbled out of Aziraphale as Crowley spluttered. The tension in his shoulders released though and the little Hognose ended up better settled between them. “A snake will make a wonderful addition to this home, rest assured. You’ll have to give him a name.”

“Her,” Crowley croaked.

“Her then.”

“Got any suggestions?”

“Not just yet.” Stepping closer Aziraphale laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder, eye-to-eye with their little lady. He wasn’t at all scared though. Like with the snake above him, Aziraphale knew he was perfectly safe. “I hear these lovelies play dead when feeling threatened, so the name must be something suitably dramatic. You see? You’re perfect for one another.”

“Shut it, angel.”

“And yes, there’s a collection of stuffy old books in the second box. You must read up on how to properly care for her. You don’t really think I’d pass up the opportunity to—”

“Somebody give me strength do you ever shut up?”

Crowley finally decided that the best way to achieve silence was to get it himself, which was precisely why Aziraphale blathered on in the first place. Kissing one snake while another watched wasn’t precisely what one would consider angel-like behavior.

Although, given that Aziraphale was an angel and here they were, perhaps it wasn’t so far off the mark after all.

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #air conditioning #which one of you lovely readers wants to name the snake #because I am bad at that kind of stuff :D

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myshittybrainwontshutup · 4 years

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I had a dream where I was wandering in the woods and I found some weird abandoned facility. The Dream Works logo was painted on the side and the door was open, so I just sauntered inside. There were tons of big, drab concrete rooms all full of toppled over desks. Giant pillars held up the ceiling and plunged down into the earth. I thought that this place would be a magnet for graffiti artists, or just delinquent teens in general, but this place looked untouched by everything except me. There wasn’t even rat poop or cockroaches to point to a sign of life. Like the dumbass I am, I started walking down the staircase that wrapped around one of the concrete pillars. On the forth or so level down it stopped being the same old rooms full of desks and started being bedrooms and showers. There were literally hundreds of bunk beds, all with the same cheap white sheets. I investigated the bathrooms and found that the showers still worked and even better, they still had hot water. I guessed this place had an independent generator and the dim ceiling lights supported my hypothesis.

I decided I needed a shower and scrubbed down, then wandered over to one of the beds for a nap. (Yeah, sleeping in your dream is kind of weird, but I do it rather routinely. I guess I’m just that tired.)

My thought process for using the beds is that they may be dusty, but I hadn’t seen any evidence of any other life, so bedbugs were unlikely.

After I woke up I pulled on my clothes, which I vividly remember being a burnt orange tank top patterned with tiny carrots, high waisted jorts and my three-sizes-too-big black jacket.

I kept going all the way down to the bottom level where I was confused to hear talking. I crept around the corner and saw this old dude in a lab coat and these two blond collage age girls drawing a circle on the ground. The amount of sigils inside the circle made me think that this couldn’t be anything good, but before I could really do anything about it one of the girls spotted me. She shouted, “Hey!” and pointed at me. I didn’t waste any time getting the hell out of dodge, and I heard the old dude yell, “Stop them! No one must know!”

The two girls started chasing me. Because I don’t ever skip leg day, not even in my dreams, I made it up the stairs before they could. I made it through the door and almost made it back to the woods, but instead of going forward and disappearing into the flora I was suddenly going up. Out of freaking no where, I was caught in a tractor beam and being towed up into a space ship. I didn’t get to see if the girls had seen me getting abducted, but my prior circumstances were quickly ripped out of my head as I was blasted with water. Even though I’d just taken a shower I guess I was too dusty for these aliens to handle. I was “disinfected” and my wet clothes were confiscated and replaced with a very unflattering blue-gray jumpsuit. These particular aliens were very octopus like, but slightly taller than humans and their version of an invasion force was capitalism.

Instead of being forced into hard labor I was forced into a job that is actually hell to me. An “internship” as they called it, where I had hours of paperwork to do. Paperwork is a punishment worse than hell to me, so I did the absolute minimum effort I could get away with. I was set up at a station with three other people. One was Merida from Brave, one was Miles from into the spider verse and one was Stanford from gravity falls. I didn’t let on that I knew them, but I did become pretty close with them. While we were just doing paperwork together time was sped up, but as soon as we were called out to test a new piece of tech that the squid aliens had invented time resumed its normal pace. We were brought out to this floating asteroid that seemed to have an atmosphere that I guess was their testing site. One squid alien on a three piece suit came along to supervise us. The thing we were supposed to test was a Portal esc wormhole gun. I had to keep from laughing my ass off for reasons that will become apparent later. The squid fired it off, setting of each side of the portal in mid air about twenty feet apart, gave Merida a rope and instructed her to walk trough it. Reluctantly she agreed and walked through. The portal didn’t immediately close or collapse as she entered and she wasn’t lost in some in-between place, so the squid was ecstatic. However, Merida and the squid pulling on the rope was apparently enough to rip a hole in space and time. The rip started to drag Merida and the squid in, but Miles, Ford and I were standing far enough away. Miles managed to pull Merida out of range of the rip’s suction, but the squid fell into the gaping black maw. It was growing larger by the second and I knew we would be consumed before long unless I did something.

One of my recurring powers in my dreams is that I can open my own portals, in addition to some others. I turned around and opened my own portal back to the woods I was wandering earlier and had everyone run through. I closed it off as soon as we were all through. We landed on a dirt road that was at least sixty percent mud. It must’ve rained since I was abducted.

Ford immediately turned to me, his eyes wide.

“How did you do that?!” He demanded. I shrugged.

“I just... can?” I said. I actually have a reason, but I didn’t feel like telling him. I opened another portal to the room where our stuff was being kept on the ship and let it just fall through into my arms. We each headed into the woods to suit up in our normal clothes, though Merida forwent a dress for jeans and a tee shirt. We started walking down the road as quite the marry band until we found a homestead. No electricity, no generator, just one small shack and the sound of a lot of voices. Out back was a pigsty and it looked like this place hadn’t been up kept in years. The others wanted to take the stealthy approach, but I just kicked in the front door. There were a bunch of middle aged men sitting around drinking, about fifteen children ages nine to four and six toddlers, all huddling together in the corner around the one teenager who seemed to be about sixteen. Most of them didn’t have clothes any more sophisticated than a potato sack, and all of them had bruises. The teenage girl had a black eye. Cold rage bubbled up within me. I have very strong opinions about how children should be treated, namely, they should be treated with dignity and respect, no matter what age they are and no one ever has the right to hurt them. Something told me that there used to be more older women, but they’d died due to either violence or childbirth.

The biggest beefiest guy stood up and demanded to know who I was and what I wanted. I could tell he wasn’t seeing me as a threat due to my appearance. I mean, I’m exactly five feet tall, very feminine and not exactly buff. I demanded to fight him for the children and he laughed. Until I summoned my weapon. In my dreams I also can summon quite the arsenal. This time, I summoned my whip made of razor wire and cracked it right across his face. He immediately grabbed a huge black iron sword off the table and rushed me. I sidestepped out of the front door and cracked my whip again. It happened extremely fast so I’m not sure on the specifics of the fight, but I do know it ended with my whip wrapping around his throat. One quick tug and his head was on the ground as his body slumped to the side. All the other men, enraged that I’d killed their buddy grabbed their own swords. My whip is an awesome weapon, but it’s only good against one opponent. I tossed it aside and it burst into glitter, just before I summoned my sword.

I really like my sword. It’s a short Damascus steel blade with a gold gilded hilt and a ruby pommel. I’ve been using it for a really long time and I’ve gotten really skilled with it.

These guys clearly didn’t expect me to hold my own against all of them, but in combination with my portal magic I’m a formidable fighter in my dreams. For some odd reason the thing that ended the fight was a misstep from one of the men that lead to me accidentally chopping off the toe of his boot and the toe of his foot. He fell to the ground crying and demanded that everything stop. They agreed to leave and wandered back down the road, carrying their now toeless friend.

I went inside and found a yellow construction paper crown sitting on the table. I picked it up, put it on my head and muttered, “I’m the king.” With a big fat smile. I was mobbed by the little boys that demanded I teach them how to sword fight, the sixteen year old thanked me for getting rid of the people who hurt her, Merida asked where I learned to fight like that. Everyone else hung on the sidelines, not exactly liking that I’d just straight up killed and maimed on a whim. Ford was mostly interested in how I could summon and dismiss weapons on a whim.

“That’s not all I can do!” I grinned and stepped back outside. I told the teenager to release the pigs into the woods and told the kids to grab any items that they would want to take with them. Then with the three other interns watching, I waved my hand and an oak tree started to grow out of the ground. It grew so big that at a glance you could think it was hundreds of years old. With a snap of my fingers a massive treehouse constructed itself in the cradle of the tree’s uppermost branches. I subconsciously made it Halloween themed because it’s my favorite holiday. There were leaf streamers and grinning jack-o’-lanterns all over the place. One more wave of my hand and it was fully stocked with food and clothes and solar panels for its own electricity. I instructed the kids to climb up. The bigger kids carried the toddlers up. After we were all on board I snapped again and the tree started moving, walking along on its roots. I headed up into the main dining room and tried to add a little more decor, but it wouldn’t work. The plate of Halloween themed sugar cookies started laughing at me.

“What the-“ Ford started.

“I’m loosing control. I’m waking up.” I interrupted.

“What? Waking up?” Ford asked. I pulled him in with an arm around the shoulders.

“Listen, I don’t have much more time, so you’re in charge. I may be the most powerful here, but you’re the smartest. Keep them safe.” I said and put my paper crown on his head.

And that’s when I woke up.

#dreams #dream journal #dream #slight gore #true story #you could probably do a whole psycological analysis of this and come up with a compleate personality prophile #but i dare you to tell me something i dont already know #short story #all critques welcome

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tylerspicknell · 6 years

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My Essay On A Possible Steven Universe Metal Race

Alright Folks, I hope you have some free time because I've got a heck of theoretical essay for what I believe will be the next enemies of Steven Universe: the Metal race (or as I call them: The Metal Axis Empire). Now I've actually imagined what their culture and empire would be like in great detail and I do believe I may have gotten it provided they actually appear of course (which I think will most likely be).

1.Biology

Naturally as the sister (or should I say "brother) race to the Gems they'll be a species of sentient minerals that use polymorphic bodies....well stuff like any form of life would do. However, the two main differences will of course that said minerals are NOT rocks or Gemstones but plain pure pieces of METAL, and their polymorphic bodies are not made of LIGHT like the Gems but DARKNESS (more specifically dark energy)! The Metals would refer to their pieces the same way the Gems refer to their "gems" and instead call them "pieces". Said pieces can also summon weapons and give Metals abilities like gems but also make the Metals that are magnetic affected by magnets. As for the other difference just as the Gems use female bodies and personae for their sexless race, the metals will use MALE bodies and personae. They'll all refer to as he or him and all that and of course they'll also be capable of relationships with both genders like the Gems. They'll also be capable of Fusion like the Gems but that will be explained later. They can produce Bubbles but theirs are cubes shaped. Last but not least Metals are affected by Peridot's ferrokinetic abilities or (depending on what kind of Metal) magnets..

Now much like the Gems should their piece get destroyed the Metal will die or at the very least live in constant agonistic pain in a perpetual state between life and death like the Fusion Experiments. However, while it's simply easy to kill a Gem just by shattering their gem a Metal on the other hand is a little more complicated. As you know their are different types of metals and those metals are disposed of different ways so in order to kill said Metal you have to destroy their piece in said way. For example to kill an Iron Metal you simply have to get their piece wet with water and they'll eventually rust away or for Metals that are more difficult to destroy such as Chromium you'd would have to completely annihilate the piece into tiny little particles.

But there is also something that I and the Metals call "Refeshment". When a certain Metal's piece is melted down and reforged into a new piece that Metal is reborn into a new body. However, that Metal has absolutely NO MEMORY of who they were before or what they did. They become a complete BLANK SLATE and only know what their Classification ID (for example: Peridot Facet-2F5L Cut-5XG but of course Metal ID will be different) is and what they're supposed to do. Refreshment only happens to certain types of Metals that I will explain in the next section.

2. Hierarchy

Much like the soon to be dissolved caste system of Homeworld the Metals have one of their own albeit slightly different. To the Metals the SHINIEST RULE ALL except for their ruler as I will now explain the order of the Hierarchy of the Metal Axis.

The ruler: Unlike the Gems the Metals do NOT have multiple rulers. Instead they just have ONE ruler: Lord Boron! The strongest and most powerful of ALL METALS (due to boron being 9 on the mohs scale) and as such oversees EVERYTHING in the Axis from its culture, to its military, to the whole of the empire and the rules within and anyone or anything that goes against him will be severely punished (especially if you call him Lord MORON!)

The commander: While Boron is the supreme ruler of the Metal Axis he mainly just stays behind the scenes and is only seen by a select few (some of those select are Metals to be Scrapped). His commander on the other hand is entirely different. His name is Commander Chromium and he is not only Boron's second-in-command he oversees the Axis's military as well as make public appearances in place of his majesty Boron. Much like Boron and the Diamonds there is only ONE OF HIM. This is because of him being the second strongest Metal and as such desires respect and fear from all the other Metals like Boron.

The Precious Metals: They are the highest class of Metals in the Axis next to Chromium and Boron. As the rarest and shiniest Metals they are quite high up on the Axis hierarchy. They are not only aristocratic Metals but also serve as military officers and depending on what Metal they are they are given said rank permanently (for example: Silvers are Captains, Golds are Colonels, Platinums are Generals). As Precious Metals they hold power over all lesser metals and as such are the only ones allowed to be Refreshed. For when a Precious Metal is considered a failure or defective or anything that ruins the Metal caste system they are allowed two choices: to be destroyed, Scrapped, or to be Refreshed and regain their lost honor as a whole new Metal. Most Precious Metals take Refreshment as they would rather be a brand new them then to have their reputation live with the tarnish (no pun intended).

Weak Metals: While Precious Metals are the high military officers the Weak Metals (Iron, Copper, Zinc, Cobalt, and Nickel) are basically the captains of the Metal Axis footsoldiers the Tins and the Leads (which I'll get to soon). They assist the Precious Metal officers whenever the Axis invades someplace and as I will explain later are a major part of Metal Fusion.

Worker Metals: They are basically the Metals that don't do any military work and are given different jobs throughout the Metal Axis (for example: Uraniums and Plutoniums work with radioactive materials (while the Radiums actually go out in the field for battle and use their radiation to destroy their enemies), Aluminums are basically plumbers who work on water pipes and water treatment areas, Zirconiums are the Metal equivalent to Zircons, Rheniums are brutal slavedrivers to their organic alien prisoners, and of course Bismuths who are actually made to forge certain new Metals and their pieces and other non-sentient metal ships or weaponry which is of course what OUR Bismuth loves to do).

The Soft Metals Tins and Leads: Due to them being Soft Metals they are the 2nd lowest on the Metal caste system. They are nothing more then the footsoldiers of the Metal Axis, fighting in wars and doing whatever they can in the Axis's ultimate goal of the destruction of the Gem race and taking over the universe for themselves. Tins are very short army soldiers that all summon laser rifles from their pieces and Leads are more bigger and slightly more stronger then the Tins and summon giant blunt weapons from their pieces. Because of being Soft Metals their intelligence is very basic and as such are hilariously incompetent and can only say their own names like Pokemon. But, thanks to the Weak Metals they can be very powerful as I once again will explain during the section on Fusion.

Scraps: Finally, we have the lowest of the lowest of lowest that's lower than low in the Metal caste system: the Scraps. They are tiny little creatures like the Pebbles but UNLIKE them they USED to be REGULAR Metals. Should any Metal ever commit the most heinous of atrocities in the Metal Axis they are what the Metals call "getting Scrapped"! You see, Lord Boron has the power to shoot a laser from his one eye (his other eye is a giant ball of Boron that serves as his Metal piece) that will Scrap any Metal that's unfortunate enough to get caught in the blast and when a Metal gets Scrapped they turn into a Scrap a tiny creature made up of different scrap metal parts and appliances and is considered the most disgusting thing in the universe (like Metal cockroaches or rats). Worst of all their new forms are PERMANENT and not even Steven's Healing Powers can ever turn them back to the Metal they used to be. To a Metal becoming a Scrap is a fate worse then death and as such all Scraps are in a perpetual state of misery and self-loathing. In fact, a favorite pastime for the other Metals is Scrap Bullying which is beating up and torturing Scraps which to the Scraps feel like they deserve their suffering and actually thank their bullies for beating them up. It's a horrible existence which NO ONE should have to go through.

3.Fusion

Now we finally get to (as stated before) Metal Fusion. Now Fusion for a Metal is pretty different then Gem Fusion. First off, they don't call it Fusion they call it "Alloying" or being an "Alloy". Furthermore while Gem Fusion requires Gems to combine their whole bodies to become a bigger Gem, the Metals have found out a way to Alloy with different parts of their bodies while their heads and minds remain dominant. This is where the Weak and Soft Metals come in. See, only Metals that are on the Periodic Table of Elements are singular beings. Everything else only exists as Alloys. A Precious Metal officer will Alloy parts of their bodies as his soldiers will Alloy their whole bodies into said body parts. Thus, allowing the soldiers to become stronger armor for their superior officers because while Precious Metals are shiny and beautiful they are nowhere near as strong as their (so-called) Weak Metal counterparts and thus the Precious Metals need their Alloyed armor in order to become stronger and therefore protecting the Precious Metals while Alloyed Metals take all the damage. In the eyes of the Metal Axis Weak Metals and Soft Metals are created for the sole purpose of being expendable and Alloying is nothing more but to protect their "superior" masters. In fact, should any Metal underneath a Precious Metal ever become the dominant mind in an alloyed body and the Precious Metal becomes the armor then the non-Precious Metal gets themselves either Scrapped or have their pieces destroyed!

Now if A Gem and Metal ever tried to Fuse or Alloy with each other it would have a TERRIBLE consequence as their bodies of light and dark energy would react adversely and the two or more would become a giant immobile and pretty much lifeless rock-like thing made up of metal and gem. There would be a way to turn them back to normal but their combined body would have to be destabilized in a certain way and they would turn back into their Gem and Piece and eventually Reform.

4.Culture

The Metal Homeworld (which I believe will actually HAVE a name unlike the Gem Homeworld) and all their colonies have whole cities made of similar material that Homeworld uses only more metallic and will be designed after an amalgamation of classic London, France, and other European Countries and of course Steampunk cities (even Lord Boron will dress like a 16th Century King). In fact, many Precious Metals and Worker Metals that are higher up on the caste system have outfits that look Victorian but more futuristic looking. They'll even have living objects and places like with Comby or the Wall Gems. But there will be one major difference to Metals then with Gems. Gems just basically kill all organics on the planets they colonize but the Metals....they actually capture the survivors of those planets and brutally enslave, torture, and even kill them for their sheer amusement and act of superiority.

The Metal Homeworld also orbits a black hole that is covered by a gravity-free laser net that prevents the planet from getting sucked in.....for the time being. But, should the planet ever get conquered by its enemies the Metals have a contingency: the laser net will disappear, sucking the planet and everyone and everything around on it or around it into the black hole thus allowing the Metal Axis to have the last laugh.

5.Technology:

The Metal Axis have technology different then the Gems. Like how all Gems are created by Injectors, the Metal Axis have different forms of Metal creation. First and foremost the differences in technology allows them to make all their Metals made of dark energy instead of light and thus have them come out male instead of female (for example Gem Bismuths are female while Metal Bismuths are male). There are also multiple ways Metals are made. For Natural Metals that are made in the ground, they use Injectors of their own, only they won't call them Injectors (I haven't come up with a name for them yet). As for the Metals that are forged (or to be Refreshed) they use places similar to Steel Mills called Metalwurx. Where Metal Axis Bismuths forge said Metals. All this is possible because Lord Boron extracts "fluid" from himself the same way the Diamonds do and use said fluid for the Metal forging. However, as a being of pure dark energy and not life-giving light Lord Boron just doesn't simply make fluid on his own. Therefore whenever the Metal Axis invades one of the first things they do is release tiny little robotic insects they call Metalsquitos. The Metalsquitos inject their stingers into any living organic thing and quickly suck the life fluid out of it, then they release the life fluid into special canisters that is later used for Lord Boron to drink allowing him to produce more fluid and thus more Metals to make.

They also have something that Gems have yet to master: TRANSWARP TECHNOLOGY! Where they use special gates that open up wormholes that allow anyone who passes through to travel anywhere in the universe within a matter of moments. This is how the Axis are able to do surprise attacks on planets.

6.History:

I haven't come up with a detailed history yet but here's the abridged version of it.

Homeworld used to belong to a race of Snake People and for some reason they wanted to create a race of artificial life forms. Thus they used the energy from an all-powerful interdimensional being to bring to life the most powerful minerals in the universe: a Diamond infused with living light and a Boron infused with living darkness. Diamond and Boron were very happy with their lives and their family but something went wrong and the two of them were led to believe that they were the most powerful and perfect beings in the universe and all life that weren't their own didn't deserve to exist. So they rose up and conquered the Snake People Homeworld and the few survivors were forced to travel to the deepest reaches of space. Diamond and Boron tried to rule the planet together but they had a falling out and much to Diamond's heartbreak tried to destroy Boron. Diamond tired to create her Gem civilization but spent centuries with the crushing guilt of killing her brother that she could barely get any work done. Thus, she created Yellow and Blue Diamond, Gems that would take the anger and sadness (the main components of guilt) from her and leaving her guilt-free and in her mind PERFECT and thus renamed herself White Diamond.

As for Boron his giant Metal piece traveled to the distant and darkest reaches of the universe and eventually reformed. Angered and filled with hatred over her sister he decided to create his own race and empire. Thus he slowly took over several planets by himself and created the Metal race and the Metal Axis (an empire that was far from the eyes of the Gem Empire) and renamed himself Lord Boron. The Metal Axis spent thousands of years hiding in the shadows and growing their forces awaiting the day when they could finally reveal themselves to their sister empire and begin their campaign of eradicating them all and taking over all of space and everything and everyone in it for themselves. I believe that at the end of the movie Homeworld will decide not only to no longer colonize anymore planets but to start a new campaign where they will make it up to the universe for all their wrongdoings which leaves the Metal Axis the perfect opportunity to finally step out of the darkness and strike back at the Gems.

So there you have it, my essay on what a possible theoretical Metal race would be like. I would very much like to recieve comments on what you think.

#steven universe #diamond authority #SU #steven universe metals #crystal gems #garnet steven universe #pearl steven universe #amethyst steven universe

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harper-hook · 7 years

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Relationship Questions | Jay and Harper

Who is more affectionate?

Jay, 100%. He’s naturally very flirty and even though they’ve been dating for almost a year and a half, he still makes Harper blush like crazy when he kisses her unexpectedly. She, of course, blatantly denies this.

Most common argument?

They argue when Jay flirts with other girls, especially princesses. It’s not just about him flirting, it’s Harper threatening whoever Jay was flirting with afterwards.

Who apologizes first?

It depends. Sometimes Harper will apologize for overreacting and not trusting Jay. Other times it’s Jay who’ll apologize for making Harper feel insecure. They don’t stay mad at each other for any longer than a few hours.

Favorite non-sexual activity to do together?

They both workout together. They’ve recently gotten into indoor rock climbing. Harper’s really fast and it usually ends up as a race to the top, Harper taunting Jay the whole way up.

Who drives and who rides shotgun?

When they got to Auradon, they were both really excited to learn how to drive. Harper passed her written exam fine but when it came to the actual driving, she tried to steer while wearing her hook. She failed obviously and just never tried again, saying she preferred to steer the ship. So now she plays navigator in the shotgun.

Who is more likely to carry the other?

Jay! It doesn’t take much to set Harper off so it isn’t uncommon to see Jay carrying Harper around by the waist while she’s trying to fight somebody.

Nicknames?

Harper calls Jay Luv. It started as a teasing thing but it became real.

Jay calls Harper Angel because he thinks of her as his Guardian Angel.

Who proposes?

Jay! He proposes with a golden lace-like ring during a dinner date. Harper is honestly so shocked all she can do is nod. That ring is now the only one she wears on her left hand.

Who sings along with the radio?

Both! Anyone that drives past them on the road is just so confused because they’re both just jamming out. To be honest, it’s not safe for them at all.

Who worries the most?

Harper! She worries so much that she will get severe tunnel vision when it comes to certain things. Thankfully Jay will pull her away to help calm her down.

Who always wants to take selfies with the other?

Jay! His thing is he likes to take selfies with Harper when she’s not expecting it and she tries to hide her face to no avail.

“C’mon, Harper. You’re hot, I’m hot. We’re especially hot together.”

Who has the weirdest taste in music?

Harper! She was raised on Hip Hop and sea shanties so when she got to Auradon, she pretty much fell in love with everything.

Who remembers what the other always orders at a restaurant?

Jay! He’s got it memorized like the back of his hand. Harper’s a little bit embarrassed and tells him that she can get it.

“Jay, I can get it, you know?”

“I’m being a gentleman!”

Who is embarrassed to take their clothes off in front of the other?

Harper! She’s embarrassed of all of her scars and marks. Thankfully Jay is there to kiss all of her scars and convince her that she’s still beautiful.

Who initiates kisses?

Jay! Harper is rather shy when it comes to affection so it’s usually Jay that initiates everything romantic.

Who reaches for the other’s hand first?

Jay! He mainly does it when he gets nervous like during the car ride to Auradon or during the fight with Maleficent. Harper’s noticed but hasn’t mentioned it. She thinks it’s cute.

Who kisses hardest?

Harper! She gets great satisfaction when Jay gets surprised by her sudden, hard kisses. She’ll run one hand through his hair and tilt his head forward so she can reach. She’ll smash their lips together, teeth clacking, not pulling away until they’re out of breath and their lips are swollen.

Who is more ticklish?

Harper! Jay found out by accident one night. They were laying in Jay’s bed and he ran his hand down Harper’s side, making her squirm. Jay quickly put the pieces together and spent the rest of the night, tickling Harper at random times.

Who brings an animal they found home?

Harper! She has a soft spot for animals because Captain Hook drowned her cat when she was little. Jay’s just became used to finding Harper with a random animal in her lap.

Who hold the umbrella for the other when it’s raining?

Jay! He holds it right over Harper to make sure she doesn’t get her hook wet even though it usually ends up with Jay getting soaked on one side.

Who tries to playfully embarrass the other in public?

Both! Jay’s way of embarrassing Harper is being overly affectionate to make her blush. Harper’s way to embarrass Jay is to be loud and overdramatic.

Who kills the scary bugs?

Jay! Harper can deal with a rat or anything like that but let a spider or worse, a cockroach get involved. Jay doesn’t mind the bugs but will tease Harper over being scared

“Hook wielding Harper scared of a little bug, huh?”

“Rack off!”

Who asks the weird questions in the middle of the night?

Harper! Her mind is a very weird place and she’s gonna say what she’s thinking. Jay’s just became used to it.

Who hogs the blankets?

Harper! She gets cold very easily and she’ll curl up with all of the blankets, leaving Jay to try and pull the blankets back to no avail.

Who wants to stay in bed just a little bit longer?

Jay! Moving to Auradon and having to be up early for school is a huge difference, especially with the comfy beds. It usually ends up with Jay holding Harper in the bed.

Who always make coffee for the other in the mornings?

Harper! She always made coffee for Captain Hook in the morning so it’s ingrained in her head. Jay loves waking up to the smell of coffee.

Who cries during certain films or when reading sad books?

Neither. It just doesn’t really affect either of them.

Who gets scared during horror films?

Jay! Harper isn’t really scared of anything other than her Dad and crocodiles. They’ll cuddle up together either in their bed or in a big armchair and whenever something scary happens, Jay’s grip on Harper will and he'll bury his nose in Harper’s hair.

Who cuts the other’s hair?

Harper! She’s always cut her family’s hair growing up because Captain Hook didn’t want to fork over money.

Who tells their friends/family about their relationship first?

Neither. Their families find out by watching Ben’s coronation on TV.

What do their friends/families think about their relationship?

Jafar doesn’t like Harper but can appreciate the connections she has. Captain Hook couldn’t care less. CJ pretends like she doesn’t care but she does, too much. Jay and Harper dating just gives Harry another reason to hate Jay. Harriet is exasperated because she “raised her eviler that that”.

Who is more likely to ask the other to dance with them?

Harper loves music and just gets into the rhythm. She’ll start dancing while Jay just watches her, laughing. Whenever she asks, Jay will say yes because it’s one of the only times that Harper is truly relaxed and happy.

Who cooks best?

Harper! She worked at Hook’s Inlet for over 12 years so being in the kitchen is natural to her. Jay’s tried to help her before which she appreciates but doesn’t need.

Who wears the other’s jacket?

Harper! It’s not just Jay’s jacket. She steals his beanies, his jersey, she even sleeps in one of his shirts.

Who uses cheesy pickup lines?

Jay!

“Are you Cinderella? Cause I see that dress coming off at midnight!”

“Jay, pickup lines only work on me when I’m drunk.”

Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear during inappropriate times?

Jay! He and Harper always sit in the back of their classes and he’ll just casually throw his arm around her shoulder and will whisper dirty stuff in her ear.

She just freezes and turns bright red, giving him the worst death glare she can. He just laughs and continues until the end of the class. And as soon as they get out, Harper is dragging them to the nearest broom closet.

Who makes the other laugh most?

Depends. Jay makes Harper laugh more on a daily basis but when Harper’s drunk, Jay is completely red in the face from laughing at her.

Who needs more reassurance?

Harper! She’s never been on top in her life. She wasn’t the smartest, the most successful, Dad’s favorite, never the prettiest either.

Who would have to bail the other out of jail?

At first thought, Jay would be bailing Harper out but in actuality, they’re probably sitting next to each other in their jail cell.

What would be their theme song?

Bad Romance by Lady Gaga

Criminal by Britney Spears

Stand By You by Rachel Platten

Who would sing their child back to sleep?

Both! Jay and Harper love singing, especially duets. They’ll sit on either side of their child’s bed and their voices just harmonize.

What do they do when they’re away from each other?

As sappy as it sounds, Jay is usually texting Harper when they’re away. Just like sending little texts every now and then to make sure she’s ok.

Harper just throws herself into her work or whatever she’s doing to distract herself until Jay gets back. Either that or she’ll hang out with Tessa.

A headcanon about them that stabs your feels?

When they got to Auradon, Harper didn’t really know where they stood as far as a relationship because dating wasn’t a thing on the Isle. They were mainly friends that made out sometimes. But Harper really did like Jay so she was furious when she saw Jay flirting with some random princess.

A headcanon that mends the previous one?

Just when she was getting ready to go give Jay and that stupid princess a piece of her mind and hook, Jay walked over to her, holding a hand full of stolen jewelry. He handed her a pair of golden hoop earrings and told her that they reminded him of her.

It made her feel better that he was thinking of her while he was with someone else.

#jay #harper hook #harper x jay

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jaxdcnn-blog · 7 years

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⟩ — ❛ BOILING POINT :: SELF PARA !

laughter, even the question of singing heard in the distance. eight figures standing around fire and all jackson dunn could consider was--- is this my friday night now? doing something unaccountably good. he told himself time and time again, the only way to evoke change was the rip the poison from the hands and give it back to the people. burn it to the ground or watch it bleed dry. put heads upon spikes and pray that the men around them get the message.

his skin felt hot standing so close to the flame. he swore just a few seconds ago it wasn’t so huge. it was like burning a pile of furniture upstate back home. except, there was no furniture, and they weren’t upstate. anarchy. chaos. screaming men and chiming women who danced at the feet of what they believed was good. jackson just looked on and thought of a mother who wouldn’t be able to work. a teenager just trying to earn money for their first car. a retired teacher getting extra money to make up for their shit retirement plan. god bless the government, right?

jax took a step forward, he could feel the fire. he could feel it under his skin. it burned. capitalism, the unrepresented poor; everything came crashing down to this moment. they were the fire. this building was what they were eating up. if jax just walked closer maybe he could understand---

“ jackson dunn ! ” a pound shook him from his thoughts. looking up, the woman in the robe had a stern face, which only lasted a moment before it softened. “ listen, kid. we don’t want to ruin the rest of your life. you got stuck in a pretty bad spot with some pretty bad people. you didn’t start the fire. you didn’t even plan it. you were just there. “ she leans forward, quirked eyebrow. “ you get this one chance--- you can make yourself better, or do something stupid again and end up in prison. it’s all up to you. “ she sits back, looking over her papers. “ two years probation. “ slamming down the gavel, jax jumps at the sound, feeling the clasp on his shoulder from his lawyer; an old friend from high school his mother had.

jax barely remembered him. he moved to san diego for law school before jax even started the first grade. nice guy. jackson wonders if they weren’t just friends. if maybe he was doing this for emily dunn rather than him. his mother told him not to care, jax just doesn’t want his mother’s debts to be in his name.

“ nice work, jack. you hungry? “ the name rings true to just how long it’s been and he stands from his seat, turning around to look for his mom.

“ please don’t call me that. “ he says softly, his hands sweaty from having to listen to the case. all that nerve wracking information. jax doesn’t even know what his friends got. they’ve all been kept apart--- which was their call. and a good one at that.

jackson steps over the railing, not bothering with the proper entryway, to meet his mother halfway. from her tall, gangly crying body, he wraps his arms around her tightly, his face tucked into her shoulder. for the first time in a long time, jackson cried, in the courtroom, where he was granted freedom. he pushed the boundaries too far and had his taste of a life he didn’t want.

his mother rubs her hand over his back, his body trembling as the blouse gets clenched in his fingers. she hushes him quietly as he weeps, collecting herself quickly so she could be there for her son. rocking him gently, she whispers to him softly. “ it’s okay, baby. it’s okay. it’s all over now. “ soothing words he hasn’t heard since the funeral. words she hasn’t dealt since the last time he wept on her shoulder.

“ let’s get out of here. okay? “ she slowly pulls away from her son, wiping away the wetness from his cheek. “ we can get something to eat. i know you haven’t touched anything in days. “

it’s a moment he hasn’t had since he was a child. using the back of his hand to wipe his cheek after her, nodding with pouting lips at her words. it reminds him of being a kid, crying at the kitchen table and her telling him all would be fine, and handing him lunch. jax doesn’t get this fragile around anyone, really. except emily dunn.

consuming like a vaccum cleaner, jax had cleaned his plate in a matter of minutes. his mother suggested he pick bottomless pancakes and now he understood why. by the third plate he finally slowed down and his mother caught up to him, still on her first. he listened to her intently go on about their plans from now on. he always listened to her. no right mind would allow him to tune her out. she’d have his head.

“ i’m going to stay for another two weeks. “ she said plainly, and jackson set down his fork.

“ what? mom, you can’t. what about work? you can’t put your life on hold for me. “ he shook his head, his palms still sweaty from this morning, wiping across his jeans. “ i won't allow that. “

she laughs, shaking her head as she cuts another piece of her pancake off. “ well, it’s not your call to make. and thankfully, i barely have a life to begin with. i haven’t taken any vacation days and the ladies owe me this. you think i’m leaving your ass the second you’re let off? for fuck’s sake, jackson, you have four shirts and two pairs of pants. everything you own fits into your backpack. when i came here, you were living on the street and rolling around with a bunch of west coast cockroaches. “

emily dunn rarely called people cockroaches. they were worse than pigeons, and even below rats. she would always say; there’s a special place in hell for roaches. it didn’t help she hated california and all the west coast pricks around her. she was a new york girl through and through. this place made her skin crawl.

but she had a point. his life was in shambles and the second he tried to fix it, he ran himself into the ground with self loathing and trouble. he needed her help to get his life in the right direction.

chewing on the fluffy pancake, she points his fork in his direction. “ so after this, we’re going to mall, i’m buying you some clothes. while we’re there, you’re going to pick up some job applications. “

“ i already have a job. “ his eyebrows furrowed, hands folded together in his lap.

“ i know. you’re getting a second one. “ this wasn’t a choice. these were his mother’s terms. ones he would abide to more than he would to his probation officer. she’d have his ass, and he knew to respect that. “ we’ll start looking for apartments tomorrow. i don’t care if you live in a pantry, you’re going to have a home by the time i leave. “

“ yes, ma’am. “ he nodded, picking his fork back up. another large chunk of pancakes is shoved into his mouth.

just as the conversation was rapping up, their server comes back with the coffee pot. her hair is long, brown, and tied back. she wears a cheery smile but he can tell she doesn’t mean it. it reminds him of the woman across the table when she was young--- when they were just kids. a little more curved, definite bags from under her eyes. her hip look perpetually popped, probably from balancing a child over it for so long. she looks like someone with a life beyond this one. she looks like someone who is just trying to make it through ‘til tomorrow.

jax slides his mug across the table, giving her a smile--- genuine too, in hopes that she’ll return it back. and seeing that that smile was returned, he felt that fire in his skin return. set ablaze, he saw what he was hoping to see engulfed in the flames. right as she walked away, coffee pot in hand. he could see clearly now what the world was trying to tell him;

in the darkest of nights, where he’s certain evil lurks, the solution is to not cure fire with fire. as much as he wishes it not the case, you need evil in order to keep the world going. the great consumer mind--- that which kept this establishment alive, was the sole reason a mother had a job. it was the reason for the kid in the back learning to cook, with dreams of becoming a chef.

his fire was not for his cause. it was selfish. a one-sided cause only meant to fuel himself and his anger. what good was it if he only used it to hurt? he told the world he’d never harm with his fists again, but that didn’t exempt him from what his hands did elsewhere.

the past was all but that--- the past. his chest ached so much for it, and he wanted that to end. but what good was wanting it to end if he didn’t let it go? all the way to the beginning--- his father, mandy, the endless girls who stepped on him in high school, the pain he caused farida, blaise and her tyraids; what good was all of it if he didn’t take the evil, and see what it did for the good?

“ jackson? “ a snap of fingers in his face and he’s pulled away again for the second time today. “ you sure are spacey today. you should drink more water. “

he snorts at her comment, taking the glass as suggested. “ noted, “ and he took a long sip.

the journey to freedom would be a long, but rewarding one. he feels a weight lifted from his chest already. “ i love you, mom. “ he says after he sets down his glass, smiling. “ i appreciate all you’ve done for me. “

she looks up from her plate, about to take a bite before she sets the fork down, reaching over to pat his forearm. “ i love you too, jackson. nothing in this world could tear me away from you. you’re my son. my only one, too. i want you to be happy and successful. i’m going to do what i can to make sure you get there. “

he knew there wasn’t an ounce in her lying about that. “ thank you. “ he nods, wiping his hands across his jeans again.

she pulls away, taking the bite from her pancakes she didn’t hadn’t before. “ you’re going to start showering more, too, you know. you always look like you crawled out of the trash. how are you going to get a girlfriend like that? “

he laughs, sitting back in the booth, picking at his pancake. “ you’d be surprised, mom. some girls like that. “

she hums, rolling her eyes. “ hard to believe. “

he missed her more than anything.

#⟨ .:｡✖ ⋅ ⋆ — ❛ development .#//#ok i wasn't telling everyone what this development was #bc this would do it far better than me #so here u go #this is what's been going on w jax #tw fire #just in case #(also note this is basically his secret so this is unknown to all characters)

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blaineandsamevanderson · 8 years

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Title: Once in A Lifetime Chapter 22

By: @blaineandsamevanderson (SageK on ff.net, kaitlia777 on LJ and AO3)

Graphics and Assistant Brain Stormer: @lauraperfectinsanity

Pairing: Blaine/Sam

Rating: R

Summary: Late Spring, 2014 Sam auditions for a role in a TV show and Blaine comes along for moral support…and that’s just the beginning of their adventure!

Authors Note: I don’t know anything about the casting process for a TV show or what the process might be before filming. This is all fiction. I also don’t have any affiliation with Glee, Agents of Shield or any of the men and women who are involved with making the show. Again, this is a work of fiction!

Authors Note #2: This is AU for Glee Season 5, pretty Episode 100 and anything after isn’t applicable to this. Also, the plot for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. was thought of before I saw CA:TWS, but was easily adapted…but let’s just say AOS is AU as of Turn, Turn, Turn.

Authors Note #3: We named Blaine’s Mom Anna before we knew Glee had named her Pam and hired and actress to play her…so we’re gonna stick with our name and FC!

Authors Note #4: This isn’t really a fic for fans of Kurt and Rachel. They’re the antagonists in this fic and are way over the top (in keeping with Glee’s tradition of being OTT).

Authors Note #4: Sorry for the crappy Google translate Spanish!

Most mornings, Blaine woke up comfortably starfished on the bed, a cat or two and a wiggly puppy cuddling him. Sam continued to wake early to run before set and then he’d bring coffee home from the small café on the corner. The smell of fresh brewed dark roast was what tended to finish rousing Blaine from his slumber.

Today though….

“Mmmm,” he moaned, pleasure rolling through him, mingling with the happy morning haze. His hips rocked, thrusting up into warm, wet softness…. “Sam?”

Still blinking sleepily, Blaine reached down, a hand coming to rest on Sam’s head as it bobbed, hidden beneath the blue and white striped sheets.

“Mo-in,” Sam replied, voice garbled because he didn’t stop what he was doing, something Blaine truly appreciated. The feel of velvety lips wrapped around him was one he’d really come to love.

Hands delving under the sheet, Blaine ran his fingers through Sam’s hair, blunt nails scratching his scalp, making the blond hum happily. Little by little, Blaine shed the last vestiges of sleep, focusing on the feel of Sam’s mouth and the hands stroking his thighs. By the time he came, he was fully alert, arching up under his boyfriend with a cry.

As Blaine shuddered, panting as he came down from his orgasm, Sam crawled up his body and popped out from under the sheets with a grin. A drop of cum lingered on his lush lower lip before his tongue swept it away. “Happy Birthday,” he murmured sweetly, leaning in to press a kiss to Blaine’s jaw.

A chuckle burst from Blaine as he ran an hand down Sam’s broad, bare back. “Definitely a happy way to wake up,” he agreed, angling his head to catch Sam in a long, slow kiss.

“That’s only the beginning,” Sam promised with a nod, settling his body atop Blaine’s and pinning him to the mattress. “We don’t have to be on set today and I got some stuff to make crepes later, so…no rush to get out of bed.”

“Oh, I like the way you think,” Blaine hummed, pulling Sam closer again.

He couldn’t think of a better way to spend his birthday!

“I can’t believe they didn’t answer!” Rachel complained as she and Kurt climbed the narrow stairs. “Perhaps they’ve allowed their brief taste of fame to go to their heads.”

Kurt huffed in agreement. “Well, now I suppose it will be an even nicer surprise for Blaine! We’re going to celebrate his birthday in style together.”

Behind them, laden down with luggage, their cab driver snorted, doubting anyone would be thrilled to see these two shrill, demanding people.

Checking his phone, Kurt began down the third floor hall, stopping before a door. A wooden sign with red letters that spelled out Happy Valentine’s Day (How tacky) hung below the peephole and, rolling his eyes, he declared, “This is it!”

Without pausing, Rachel raised a hand and rapped briskly on the wood. She fluffed her hair and Kurt straightened his jacket…and then they waited.

Waited far too long.

When it became clear that the knock had not been heard, Kurt banged his fist against the door. “They must be here. Their cars are in the lot, as was evidenced by the various nerd/music bumper stickers.”

Rachel nodded in agreement, but before she could respond, something inside the apartment let out a loud yip.

Oh right.

The dog.

A second later, the door opened slowly, revealing a flushed and disheveled Blaine. He was shirtless (hello new abs) and a little sweaty, wearing too long pajama pants that seemed a bit tight across the hips. A red mark that looked suspiciously like a bite was visible on his iliac crest. Those pretty eyes were wide and shocked as he stared at Kurt.

Obviously, Kurt’s brilliant plan to surprise him delightfully had worked to a T!

“Surprise!” Kurt sang, his voice chorusing with Rachel’s and he took a step toward Blaine. From beside him, he heard the click of Rachel’s phone as she snapped a picture of Blaine.

Who took a step back, a hand coming up between them even as the small dog scurried to sit in front of Blaine.

“Kurt?�� he asked, brows furrowed in confusion. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

“You didn’t think I’d miss your birthday, did you Silly?” Kurt laughed as he entered the apartment.

Sam, in a similar state of undress, popped around the armoire, looking befuddled (though that was a fairly common expression for him). “We weren’t expecting guests,” he said, then gave a wave that made his pectorals move in a rather intriguing manner. “Hey.”

“Hi, Sam,” Rachel chirped with a smile. “Could you be a dear and go help our driver with the rest of our bags?”

That made Blaine and Sam exchange a look. “Why didn’t you drop them off at your hotel?” Blaine asked slowly, taking a few steps toward Sam, stooping to pick up the wiggling puppy as he did so.

“We’re staying here, of course,” Kurt told him, eyeing the little furball who seemed to be glaring back.

Rachel gestured around. “I assume the guest room is through there?” she asked, nodding at the closet.

“We don’t have a guest room,” Sam said flatly. “And I’m not dressed to go carry bags.”

Kurt couldn’t believe how rude Sam was being as the Cabbie snorted. “Meter’s running.”

When Kurt and Rachel followed the cabbie out to retrieve their bags (something they were not happy about), Blaine turned to Sam. “What the heck is this?”

“No idea,” Sam said with a shrug, returning to the bedroom to grab his phone, rapidly shooting off a text. “Santana didn’t know about this either. She’s pissed….”

“So am I,” Blaine said, placing Nyota down on the bed before stepping up behind Sam so he could wrap his arms around his boyfriend’s lean waist. Pressing a kiss to Sam’s spine, he laid his cheek against the blond’s shoulder blade. “I wanted to spend the day with you!”

“That was the plan,” Sam sighed, resting his hands atop Blaine’s. “We should call Sugar and Sebastian, get them to run interf….”

The apartment door was flung open and Sebastian’s voice rang out. “Tell me this text from Santana is a joke made in very poor taste and that deluded, fashion impaired elf did not show up here uninvited!” Prowling the apartment, Sebastian looked at them in askance. “Well?!”

Sam’s shoulders bobbed in a shrug. “They’re down getting the rest of their bags,” he said, pointing at the already impressive pile of luggage.”

Sebastian, clad in linen pajama pants and a white V-neck t-shirt, blinked at them for a moment before shaking his head. “Nope. C’mon, let’s toss their crap into the courtyard and have a bonfire. Millie made homemade sausages the other day, we can have a party.”

He had a suitcase in hand when Kurt reappeared and shrieked, “Unhand my Louis Vuitton, you sneaky Attempted Boyfriend Thief!”

“Please don’t try to pass this cheap knock off as the real thing to someone who actually owns the Horizon 55 collection,” Sebastian sneered, dropping the bag onto the floor in distaste.

Rachel appeared behind Kurt, lugging a bag nearly as large as she was. “What are you doing here?” she demanded of Sebastian, who had wandered over to pat Nyota.

“I live upstairs, not 2,500 miles away, so it’s perfectly reasonable for me to pop by for a surprise visit…unlike some people,” Sebastian drawled grumpily and Blaine sighed, hiding his face in Sam’s back again.

Sam’s back was nice and warm and smelled really good….

“This kitchen is a mess!” Kurt announced, looking annoyed. “What happened to the Blaine who insisted on doing the dishes immediately at the loft? Oh, do you have help to come in and clean up?”

“We don’t have to worry about rats or cockroaches invading if we leave a dish in the sink,” Sam sighed. “We got…distracted after breakfast.”

“Ew!” Rachel announced, holding up a hand and displaying the condom wrapper that had stuck to her when she settled onto the couch.

A laugh burst from Sebastian. “Well I guess we know what distracted you!”

Blaine and Sam traded an amused shrug and Kurt plowed on as though Sebastian hadn’t spoken. “Anyhow, you should get dressed, Blaine. It’s early enough for us to grab a nice brunch.”

Peeking around Sam’s back, Blaine asked, “What?”

“Silly, I came to spend your birthday with you. We’re going to go out…Sam, you can entertain Rachel while we’re…catching up.”

Blaine blinked, but before he could speak, Sam said, “No, Sam will not entertain Rachel. Sam will spend the day with Blaine while you two go find a hotel.”

The looks of unhappy shock on Kurt and Rachel’s faces would have been amusing if the whole situation wasn’t so horrific. Somehow, the fact that their behavior was grossly inappropriate had escaped them. “Blaine!” Kurt exclaimed. “Are you going to allow him to speak to me like that after I came all this…Keep that beast away from me!”

Nyota had leapt off of the bed and planted herself between Blaine, Sam and Kurt. She was growling softly, though not making any aggressive moves.

“She’s not a beast,” Sebastian said with a raised brow. “She’s just protecting her Daddies.”

“Your animals are rather aggressive,” Rachel said, looking up to where the cats were perched on the armoire and Wolverine hissed down at her.

“I’ve never seen either of them behave like that before,” Blaine said with a puzzled look down at Nyota. “What’s wrong, Baby Girl?”

As he bent to gather her up for a cuddle, Sam plucked the cats off of the tall cabinet and held them close.

“Blaine, could you please pay attention and tell Sam to stop interfering with our day!” Kurt demanded, crossing his arms. “We want to get a good seat on a patio at a café, so we should get moving.”

Gaping at Kurt, Blaine shook his head. “No. Because Sam isn’t interfering, you are, Kurt. I’m going to spend my birthday with my boyfriend. I’m dating Sam, not you.”

“Oh please, you can drop the act. It’s just us here, so you two don’t have to pretend. I’m sure you don’t want to spend today….”

“Shut up, Kurt!” Blaine snapped, seeming to surprise even himself. “No one invited you here to spoil my birthday!”

As Kurt and Rachel stared, once again dumbstruck, Sebastian made a sound of approval and Sam shifted the cats into one arm so he had one free to wrap around Blaine’s shoulders.

“How can you say that….,” Rachel began, but was interrupted as the door burst open once again.

“Oh my God! I didn’t believe Sebastian when he called….”

“Ustedes dos egocéntricos, ignorantes Fuckettes! Yo sabía que ustedes dos no shitgoblins talento fueron engañados, pero maldición! Newsflash, tetas de bolos y gallo Malabarismo Thundercunt, nadie quiere que usted allí! Teniendo en cuenta la enorme inversión craneal rectal que tienes pasando, estoy desconcertado en cuanto a cómo se arreglan para creer que su mierda no apesta! Haz un favor al mundo y vete a coger un cactus…..” *******

“I called Sugar,” Sebastian said with a grin thrown at the small girl, who was holding up her phone so that she and Santana (via FaceTime) could berate Kurt and Rachel in stereo. “Want me to call the crew that moved me into my apartment? I’m sure if we tip them good, they’ll get rid of Kurt and Rachel along with all their stuff.”

Pressing a kiss to the top of Blaine’s head, Sam sighed. “t might come to that, but I think we should try getting them to leave willingly first.”

Somehow, Blaine didn’t think that was going to be an easy task…but he was willing to try.

If it didn’t work, Sebastian’s movers could be their back up plan.

“Is he seriously singing….?” Sam began, gaping at the karaoke stage where Kurt was belting out a Katy Perry song.

Rachel swatted at him. “Sshhhh! Hold your tongue!”

Beside Sam, Blaine sputtered, “But…he’s singing The One That Got Away. With customized lyrics and staring intently at me. That’s grossly inappropriate.”

“Shhhhhh!”

With a grimace, Sebastian drawled “Why are we here?”

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Blaine curled under Sam’s arm and ate the cherry off of his virgin pina colada. “It was the only way to get them to agree to staying in a hotel without forcible removal.”

“Sh-mph!” Rachel began, but was cut off when Sugar wrapped a hand around her mouth.

The younger girl narrowed her eyes and hissed, “I swear to God, Rachel, you shush us one more time, I will rip out your extensions and gag you with them.”

With a relieved chuckle, Sebastian raised his glass to Sugar in a toast. “Thank you, Sugar. You’ve been added to my ‘Totally Doable If She Had A Dick” list.”

She beamed at him. “Aw, aren’t you sweet, Sebastian.”

As Blaine and Sam stood in line at the café near their apartment, they were shocked when Kurt popped up beside them. “So, I was looking over one of your scripts…”

Blaine blinked and traded a look with Sam. “What? Where did you find that?”

“In your desk drawer. Anyhow, I was thinking, that if they beefed up the Nova character, it’d be perfect for me,” Kurt said and Rachel nodded as she joined him, wearing a dress that would have looked at home at a cocktail party rather than a coffee shop.

“And I think I’d be suited for playing Barbara!” Rachel added, peering out from behind oversized shades. “It’s fate, given my idol!”

“What? Bobbi Morse has already been cast and Nova isn’t in any script I’ve seen….” Sam said, grabbing his and Blaine’s drinks from the counter even as Kurt pulled out a copy of script pages…which, how the hell did he have those?

A thin, pale finger jabbed at several lines. “See, I could totally play this part!”

“We’ve already cast Noh-Varr too,” Blaine sighed, trying to make his way out of the shop so that they could head to work.

Kurt and Rachel followed at their heels. “Well, what parts were you thinking for Rachel and I? Clearly it would be a waste of our talents to cast us as extras.”

Again, Sam and Blaine shared a look. “We don’t have any part in casting.”

“You got Mike and Puck parts!” Rachel protested. “With our skill and resumes, surely no one will want to miss a chance to cast us!”

“No, they came by set and were asked if they’d like to be extras. We didn’t get them the jobs,” Blaine protested, biting his lip when he realized his mistake.

“Fine, let’s go to set!”

“That was humiliating!”

“They offered you both….” Blaine began, intending to sooth bruised egos, but Kurt cuth him off.

“Extras! Rachel and I are not extras, it’s insulting! How dare they!” Kurt bemoaned and Rachel let out a disgruntled huff beside him. “You really need to have a word with those people about their inability to recognize talent!”

Sam gritted his teeth, but managed to be civil as he asked, “So…when do you two have to be back in New York?”

Honestly, Blaine didn’t think it could be soon enough.

(Turk Rant about spotting Blaine out in LA with his ‘real boyfriend’ Kurt)

TBC....

**Translation (again, via Google Translate): You two self centered, ignorant Fuckettes! I knew you two no talent shitgoblins were deluded, but damn! Newsflash, Skittle Tits and Cock Juggling Thundercunt, no one wants you there! Considering the massive cranial rectal inversion you’ve got going on, I’m baffled as to how you still manage to believe your shit don’t stink! Do the world a favor and go fuck a cactus....

#Blam #Blamily #Fic: OIAL #lauraperfectinsanity

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hey-i-wrote-a-story · 7 years

Text

Chapter 37 Unpleasant Dreams

After all that he had seen that evening, Freddie was quite certain his night could not get any worse. He was mistaken.

It hadn’t started out that way. In fact, it was very much the opposite. Freddie had already planned out how he was going to sit down with his hero, ask him to recount his tales of adventure and excitement, perhaps over a big bowl of popcorn or a plate of s’mores. But after what transpired at the lacrosse field, indoor campfire stories were pretty much out of the question. So! You just barely saved the lives of an entire crowd of innocent people under attack by a monster I helped unleash. How does that measure up with your other thrilling escapades?

Freddie forced himself not to dwell on it. Instead, he focused his thoughts on another recent memory, and soon drifted off to sleep on the Stilinski’s couch reliving how he and his big red truck had come to Scott and Stiles’ rescue. Mostly Stiles’. True, all he did was pick them both up off the deserted road, thus saving them from a long walk home in humiliating—if adorable—attire. But if that was to be his first time saving his hero, he’d take it. With just a bit more effort, the reality of what had happened that night drifted into cheerful thoughts of Stiles the Pastoral Detective in his overalls, boots, and straw hat solving paranormal cases across the rural countryside, with his trusty sidekick Freckles Freddie, clad in his own matching bibs, boots, and (slightly smaller) hat ever at his side. They rode their shining red pickup from village to dell, saving countless lives by bringing down carnivorous cows, porcine poltergeists, terrifying were-chickens, and other nether-worldly threats. But all that was only as Freddie drifted off to sleep. Once he had slipped into deep slumber, his wistful smile was replaced with a grimace of pain. His fingers clutched at his blanket as his eyes moved rapidly back and forth beneath their lids. Trapped within the world of his mind, Freddie’s mouth moved as silent pleadings for release fought to escape his lips. Dark memories had overtaken the eager redhead in a brutal assault that no reverie could fend off.

Malia nudged Stiles in the back. The two of them lay together in Stiles’ bed, spooning (Stiles as the little spoon), when the young woman was pulled from her sleep by a faint smell that was growing stronger.

“Stiles”, she said softly.

Stiles didn’t budge.

“Stiles”, she said again, nudging a bit harder.

“Hrnf”, Stiles mumbled back.

“Stiles, wake up.”

“Hrrnf-mrrhm.”

“Stiles, get up already—“ She stopped, recalling that there were more effective ways to rouse her boyfriend. She pulled him close, hugging him tight. Stiles wheezed out a contented whimper. His hands reflexively moved to hold Malia’s arms. Malia nuzzled against the back of his neck. “Sti-iles”, she whispered.

“Hmn?”

“Stiles, are you in there?” She began to nibble on his ear, which made her boyfriend quiver happily. “Time to get up, farm boy.”

“Nmr...’m notta frm boy”, he mumbled back. “Sctt may’me drss lik’iss…”

Gently, Malia moved her arms to lift Stiles quickly into an upright sitting position. He came to his senses immediately.

“Huh? Wha--? Monsters attacking? Whuh?” Almost to his senses. He was no longer deeply asleep, if nothing else. He got his bearings and looked at Malia, who was still lying comfortably with her head upon a pillow. “M’lia? What’s your deal, hon?”

Malia pointed lazily to the door. “Go help Freddie.”

Stiles blinked himself awake the rest of the way. “What? Why? Is he in troub--”

Malia pulled the blankets up over her shoulder and adjusted her head on the pillow. “Because he’s having a nightmare.”

“He is? How can you know—“

Malia tapped her nose. “Anxious smell. And it’s getting worse. Go.”

Despite how tired he was, Stiles formed a half smile and gently brushed Malia’s hair off her brow. “You want me to make sure he’s okay. That is so sweet of you.”

“His nightmares are making him stinky. It’s annoying. Make it stop.” With that, she rolled over and began to doze again.

Stiles’ smile fell and he rubbed his forehead. “Well”, he muttered, “as long as I’m up.”

Stiles padded silently to the living room. He was unsure what time it was, but it was still very dark. Using the ambient light from the streetlights down the block to guide him, Stiles made his way to the couch where Freddie was sleeping. Malia’s nose was spot on. It did not look like Freddie was having a restful night. Not by a long shot.

Freddie was twitching in his sleep. That was normal for some people, but not for Freddie, who usually dropped off within two minutes of hitting the pillow and lay like a brick until morning. Not so tonight. He turned slightly to the left, then a bit more to his right. Perspiration dotted his forehead. His breathing was irregular, and every so often he seemed to be working to catch his breath. Stiles looked down at Freddie and wondered if he should attempt to wake the frightened boy, or if that would make things worse. For all that Stiles knew about Freddie, he realized that he really didn’t know much.

Freddie Newmeyer had spent the majority of his life in foster care. There are a great many foster homes with loving parents and supportive siblings who care deeply for those in their charge and welcome them into their family. Freddie Newmeyer never had the good fortune to be in one of them. Background information concerning Freddie’s past that was meant to remain confidential with his foster parents remained anything but, and was often used as a weapon against the small boy. The adults in the foster home used their knowledge of Freddie’s unfortunate beginnings primarily for the purposes of humiliation and shaming. His foster brother and sister took a much more aggressive approach with what they had been told about him.

As Freddie lay in restless sleep on the Stilinski sofa, his dream held him in far less comforting confines. Freddie was younger in his dream, and his surroundings far too familiar. His foster brother and sister, both older than Freddie—by five years and three years, respectively—had found an amusing pastime in locking their youngest foster sibling in a dumpster in a back alley near their home. The dumpster was old, rank, and routinely used as a receptacle for some of the foulest refuse in the area. With businesses whose back doors opened onto the alley including a pet store, a Swedish delicatessen, and a taxidermist among others, the inside of the dumpster was always wet, sticky, and stinking. Its contents made it overrun with flies, cockroaches, and the occasional rat. Freddie was currently inside it, with the fetid mixture of garbage sticking to his hands, face, and clothes. His eyes watered and stomach churned from the smell. In the dark of the closed dumpster, unable to see what he was touching or which way to move, young Freddie was subjected to the taunts and insults of his foster tormentors.

“How does it feel to be back home, huh?”

“This is where you belong, isn’t it? Dumpster baby!”

“Puttin’ the human trash out with the trash!”

“Say that you’re trash! Say that you’re worthless and stupid garbage and you need to be thrown out! Say it!”

Crying, unable to see any other way out, Freddie would eventually break down and say it. Once was never enough.

“Say it like you mean it! Louder!”

They were never satisfied until he screamed it.

“Like you’re proud of it! You know what you are! Make us believe that you know it! Come on!”

Freddie would have to shout at the top of his lungs, eyes stinging from the smell, stomach churning from the touch of the wet slime he couldn’t see, heart breaking from the humiliation. “ALRIGHT! I’M A STUPID, WORTHLESS PIECE OF TRASH! I’M HUMAN GARBAGE AND A WASTE OF SPACE! I DESERVE TO BE THROWN OUT WITH THE REST OF THE TRASH! I BELONG IN A DUMPSTER WITH THE REST OF THE FILTH! I AM! I AMMM!!”

Then came the worst part. Even worse than the beatings he’d get after he returned home in his ruined clothes with the stink seeped into his pores. Worse than his siblings providing their version of events of how they tried to dissuade their demented brother not to play in the dumpster again, but they just couldn’t stop him. This part was far worse.

“Now apologize. Apologize for being a piece of trash. You know how you have to say it.”

Freddie’s voice became very small as he was forced to answer. “I-I’m sorry that I’m a worthless piece of trash.”

“And?”

“And for stinking up your home that was better before I got there.”

Then they’d wait. Sometimes a few seconds, sometimes a few minutes. Then they’d add the last part.

“Now thank us. For putting you back where you belong.”

“Th-thank you…for putting me back where I belong.”

And they’d wait again. It had become routine. As had the next part. Freddie would ask what he had to ask. “Will you let me out now?” And they’d give their practiced reply.

“What for? You just said you were trash that belonged in the dumpster and even thanked us for putting you there.”

“Yeah, he even shouted it at us.”

“Why would you want to come out?”

Freddie pounded on the lid of the dumpster to no avail. His captors knew how to secure the lid with a length of chain that was used to lock the dumpster at night. Freddie was left to either devise a way to squirm out on his own or pound on the inside of the dumpster and cry out loud enough to get someone’s attention. He had once been trapped inside overnight. After they’d played their little game, the two siblings would run out of the alley and down the street. Freddie could always hear their footsteps racing away. But in this version of the nightmare, they didn’t. They were still out there as Freddie cried and screamed and pounded in the dark.

Freddie slipped on the slime surrounding his feet as he stood to push against the lid. He fell into the putrid sludge, which coated his body and got into his hair. He could hear the sickening sound of tiny legs skittering around him, the squeaking of rodents. Then the bugs began to crawl on him, seeming to multiply as they swarmed their way over his legs, chest, and arms. No amount of swatting could get them off. Then the rats scampered over his shoes, across his legs, and climbed up his back. Once the rats started biting his neck and ears, as they nibbled on his fingers and the bugs burrowed into his flesh, Freddie would wake up in a cold sweat. That escape did not come this time.

This time, the darkness of the dumpster began to fade as a fluorescent orange light glowed dimly until his eyes could adjust, and then brighter so that he could see clearly. Every vermin that crawled on him glowed like the flesh of the monster he and his friends had unleashed. They sparked with orange electricity, making every cockroach and centipede a living battery and every rat a miniature transformer. Freddie screamed with all his might, but no sound came from his throat. He pounded desperately against the lid of the dumpster, but with each blow the metal gave way under his fists, devolving soundlessly into spoiled food, pet feces, and animal fat. At the moment Freddie thought he would go mad, something large and heavy landed on the dumpster with a terrible thud. The glowing pests went dark, like a light that had been switched off, and all became deathly silent.

Freddie jumped when he heard the shriek of the monster above him, followed by the sound of its talons scraping against the lid of the dumpster. Freddie was forced to push himself down as deep into the filth of the dumpster as he could to distance himself from the creature. The lid of the dumpster buckled and bent inward. Was it giving way under the monster’s weight? Then the interior of the dumpster was illuminated by a glow coming from its lid. The lid sank in on itself, oozing downward. It stretched as it went, molding to the shape of the thing that was pressing upon it. Freddie realized that the monster was forcing itself down through the lid rather than tearing it open. Rapidly, the melting metal took on the form of the monster’s head, which then turned, sparking and glowing, to look directly at Freddie. Its horrifying mouth opened, but rather than another shriek, what came out was a voice straight from the depths of hell.

“This is all your fault, you know. Your fault your friend is dead. It wasn’t enough to behave like them, was it? You had to BE like them. But what did you get? You didn’t get powers. You got me. Small, stupid, pathetic little thing. Admit it. Apologize. Thank me.”

The monster’s mouth spread wide, row upon row of teeth moving toward Freddie, with more sprouting up every second. The inside of the dumpster grew unbearably hot and glowed bright orange. The entire dumpster was going to melt in on Freddie, burning him to death before he could be ravaged by the hovering fangs. As he scrambled backwards in a futile attempt to evade his doom, one side of the dumpster broke open, spilling Freddie out into the alley amid a tide of ooze and rubbish. Freddie tried to get to his feet, to run, but the morass of filth on the ground prevented it. He pushed and pushed, but made no progress. Another source of light appeared in front of him. He looked up to see his brother and sister, each covered in energy thistles, each with dead eyes glowing orange. They opened their mouths wider than was possible. Instead of taunts, what spilled forth was a river of the same brilliant orange blood that Erin had vomited up on the highway. It hissed as it struck the ground, bubbling and burning, and flowed rapidly towards Freddie. His heart beat so strongly he knew with absolute certainty it would give out before any harm could be done to him. He knew he was going to die.

At long last, Freddie woke up, screaming. Stiles was at his side in an instant. He’d turned on a lamp so that he could be seen clearly. The last thing Freddie needed upon coming out of a nightmare was to have unseen hands grabbing him in the dark.

“Freddie, Freddie—I’m here. It’s over. Whatever it was, it’s over. I’m with you. You’re not alone.” Stiles had studied how to respond to someone waking from a nightmare, as two years previously he had suffered his own night terrors, brought on by a supernatural source. The worst thing to do was to tell the person that everything was alright, that they were going to be okay. That is the last thing they are going to believe. The memory of whatever hell they’d just emerged from still clung vividly. To them, the danger was still horrifyingly real. Saying it was okay would come across as a lie. The waking dreamer would never be able to let go of his panic if the person tending to him was a liar. So Stiles knew to speak two undeniable truths. That the sufferer’s nightmare was over, and he was not alone. It worked. Freddie stopped screaming, although his eyes were still wide with terror.

“Stiles?”, Freddie gasped.

“Yeah, pal. It’s me. I’m right here. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Freddie grabbed Stiles in a fierce embrace and held on for dear life. From the shadows at the far side of the living room, Stiles’ dad observed the scene on the couch. He’d gotten out of bed instantly at the sound of Freddie’s scream. Seeing his son tending to their visitor, the sheriff realized he was not needed this time. Silently, he ventured back to his room, feeling a swell of pride for his son. It was a feeling with which he was growing increasingly familiar.

After a minute or two of silence as Stiles held on to Freddie, the redheaded boy collected himself enough to let go. As his heart rate and breathing returned to normal, he looked up at Stiles, feeling ashamed that his new friend had seen him this way, frantic and helpless.

“I’m sorry”, Freddie said quietly.

“Nothing to be sorry for”, Stiles assured him. “Nightmares are the worst. Was it about the monster?”

“Kinda”, Freddie answered. “But it was mostly about…”, and he hesitated, having no desire to disclose the humiliation of his past.

“Human monsters?”, Stiles asked. “Someone you used to know?”

Freddie’s eyes widened a bit in surprise. “How did you--?”

“Like I said, nightmares are the worst. You’re not the only one to have them. You want to talk about it?”

Freddie’s mind flashed back to his foster siblings. He had to suppress a shudder. In the dream, it was actually better to see them controlled by a supernatural monster. At least then there was an explanation for their monstrous behavior. He still had no desire to relive it. “No”, Freddie said. “Not really.”

“You want to try to go back to sleep?”

Freddie nodded. Then he said, “Would it be okay if you stayed? Just for a little bit? Until I fall back asleep?”

Stiles did not hesitate in his reply. “No problem.”

Freddie settled back down, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He positioned himself so that he could see Stiles easily where he sat in a nearby chair. It felt better to know he was there.

“Would you like me to leave the light on?”, Stiles asked.

“No”, Freddie said, his eyes already closing. “You can turn it off. I feel safer with you here.”

Stiles turned off the lamp and sat back in his chair, watching as Freddie drifted back to sleep. He stayed until Freddie was sleeping. After that, he did not get up to return to bed. Stiles stayed where he was and kept watch over Freddie throughout the night.

Aadesh’s night was going no better than Freddie’s. For as long as he could remember, Aadesh slept on his stomach, his palms down flat on either side of him, arms pulled in tight to his body, head turned toward the door. That way, should anything happen, should anyone come in, he was already in position to quickly see who it was and push off the bed to either confront the intruder or run. It was a terrible way to grow up, but he had gotten used to it. Tonight, though, his sleeping position provided him little comfort. On the McCall’s couch, deeply asleep, Aadesh was already caught with nowhere to run. In a dream that was growing increasingly dark and tense, Aadesh was being pulled up a flight of rickety stairs in a dilapidated tenement building. The wood was damp and stinking. An occasional rat or insect the size of his hand darted in front of them as they made their ascent. Aadesh’s arm was gripped tight by a much larger hand that was hauling him ever upward. Aadesh looked up to see whose powerful grip was dragging him along, knowing already it was going to be that of his older friend and mentor—if that word can be applied here—who had been coaching his young charge in how to survive on the street. The boy was only four years older than Aadesh, but he still towered over the younger boy he had in tow, his increased height having nothing to do with is higher position on the creaking stairs.

Everything seemed larger to Aadesh. He was reduced in size, seeing everything as he once had, through the eyes of a little kid. Aadesh’s heart pounded fast. He knew what was about to happen. He was 11 again. This was the night that shattered his world. He had relived it far too many times and had no desire to do so again. He pulled against the older boy’s grasp with all his might, trying desperately to halt their forward motion. He had to save him, he had to save them both this time. He had to.

The older boy turned and glared at the tiny Aadesh. “What is wrong with you, ya little turd? We’re already running late. Get your ass in gear.” He gave Aadesh’s spindly arm a hard yank, pulling him up two steps, bashing skinny shins against the splintering planks.

Aadesh had been trying to speak, but no sound would come out. Finally he forced his voice out with considerable effort, begging the older boy to stop. “Jose, don’t. No, we can’t go up there. You’re gonna get shot. We both are.” Aadesh’s voice came out as a simpering squeak. He sounded more like a kid crying about an early bedtime than offering a vital warning against impending danger.

His pleas went unheard. “God, what is with you tonight? Quit dragging your feet! You’re insurance. The guys are less likely to do anything with a little kid around. They might smack someone around a little, but there’s no way anybody’s gonna get cut or capped with your wide eyes staring the whole time.”

“I’m not a little kid--!”, Aadesh whined. He meant that today he was no longer a little kid. He shouldn’t be this size now. This happened more than half a dozen years ago. He should have been more than tall and strong enough to pull free of the wiry 15-year-old’s clutches, possibly even enough to haul him out of there as well. But he was so tiny, so weak, so very, very doomed.

“You are just a little kid! And until you can pull your weight for real, we’re gonna use that as long as we can. Now move!”

It was true what Jose said. In previous instances, having the smaller boy staring on fearfully had been sufficient to stay the wrathful hands of those whom Jose answered to. But tonight would be different. Tonight would be the first time that they would stumble into a situation including the ill-tempered boss that everyone in their neighborhood answered to. He was a man who never stayed his hand for anything, age or innocence be damned.

The stairs became Aadesh’s whole world. They arced upward as the rest of the building fell away, leaving them to climb a snaking series of unstable steps that writhed ever closer to an unpainted wooden door hovering in the blackness of space. Aadesh turned to run. Maybe if he threw himself down the stairs, he could get away. But no sooner had he turned around then the steps below began to collapse. Like a line of dominos, the steps fell, disappearing into the bottomless void. The stairway was coming loose faster now, quickly moving up to where Jose and Aadesh stood. Little Aadesh now fell against the older boy, hurrying him along less they plummet to some unknown doom. The devil you know…

With a final, brutal yank from Jose, both boys pushed through the wooden door even as all but the last two steps fell away. They passed over the threshold into a war zone. In the blink of an eye, Aadesh was hiding behind a table that had been tipped over onto the floor. His friend Jose was shouting. Everybody was shouting. There had been an argument about how much money was being taken in, and how much of it was rightfully whose. The argument became violent fast. Gun barrels flashed and knife blades sliced first through the air and then into flesh. The quarters were close, made worse by the clustered piles of drugs and a variety of stolen goods and no small amount of weapons. In the movies, a scene like this would often take place in slow motion. Not so here. It happened in real time. Faster than real time, it seemed. There was swearing and cursing and shouts of rage and gunfire. So much gunfire. How many people were even in that room?? Aadesh was crying, screaming out for it all to stop. He could not hear his own voice.

The man in charge, the one everyone was afraid of and rightfully so, stood in the center of the chaos. Tall, shirtless, slender build of defined, taut muscles, his pants large enough to house three of him, his wiry arms outstretched before him, a gun in each hand, firing without pause. He was already bleeding profusely from three different spots on his body (due to bullet wounds? Or had he been cut?), but he kept going without pause. One man with two holes in his chest and one in his neck fell, crashing against the table, knocking it away from Jose and Aadesh. Jose half stood up, waving his arms in surrender and declaring that he was unarmed, that he had a kid with him. That was a mistake. All he had done was draw attention to himself. The man in charge put a bullet through him, into his chest, straight out the back, on the off-chance he was a threat. His spattered insides sprayed all over Aadesh’s face.

When the man saw a teenage boy slump to his knees with a wet blossom of red spreading out across his shirtfront, all he shouted was “Stupid! What you doing here?!”

It was sufficient distraction for others to fire on him. It took four shots to take him down. The man’s body had not hit the floor before everyone left standing turned on each other. Jose was on his knees, limp arms reaching to Aadesh for support, his once-strong hands barely holding onto the younger boy’s shoulders. Aadesh was hysterical, screaming for Jose not to die. If Jose was dead, who would protect him? This was the dramatic moment, he knew. Like all the best superhero stories, this was supposed to be when his friend and guardian would say one last thing to his charge. Jose would use his final breath to pass on some word of wisdom, or at the very least indicate the location of a secret escape route. He could at least do that, right? But this was by no means a superhero story. Jose looked at Aadesh with searching eyes and coughed up blood on the little kid he was sure would safeguard them from harm. Before the light left his eyes, Jose cast an accusatory look at Aadesh. Silently he chastised him. Why didn’t you keep them from killing me? Just how worthless are you?! Jose’s body settled back as his rear came to rest on his legs. His head slumped forward. His hands slowly slid off of Aadesh’s shoulders. Aadesh wanted to grab Jose, to shake him, to beg him to wake up. Aadesh would later say when recounting the story, that he didn’t reach out because he knew his friend was already gone. The truth that he never shared was that he was just too afraid to.

From here, the nightmare varied. Sometimes the shooting went on and on until Aadesh woke up. In other times, the gunshots slowed and stopped as Jose died, with his friend’s death jarring him awake. The worst version of the dream was when the final two shots rang out from the doorway, fired by policemen, killing the last two would-be gangsters. Then the first officer, a large man with a build that existed in that amorphous place somewhere between muscular and fat, grabbed Aadesh angrily by the arm and shook him. His words were filled with rage and hatred. Aadesh sometimes could only recall the man’s reddened face, the spit flying from his mouth, his wild eyes, but could not hear the words. Other times he heard them with crystal clarity as they damned Aadesh as another criminal in the making, sarcastically asking if he was happy with the life he’d chosen, and hoping he liked the idea of spending the rest of his life behind bars. It was only when the cop forced the tiny Aadesh’s arm painfully behind his back with one hand and, grabbing the back of the boy’s head with the other, thrust him forward, forcing him to look at the carnage. He shouted all the while, sometimes coherently, sometimes not. It was only then that Aadesh was freed from his nightmare of memory and given the release of waking. That was how it usually went.

It didn’t go that way tonight.

When Jose slumped to his knees before Aadesh, his form going limp and arms dropping to his sides, his body suddenly lurched forward. His chest was thrust upward and his head back as the monster’s talons burst through Jose’s chest. Aadesh screamed at a terribly high pitch, but not so high that he drowned out the gurgle rising in Jose’s throat, or the hiss as his blood, now an incandescent orange, spilled onto the floor to burn like acid through the wood. Jose’s body shuttered. His eyes went blank and glowed a hideous orange. Aadesh stumbled back as his dead, impaled friend reached for him with grasping hands. Aadesh fell backwards, right into the angry hand of the large, possibly-fat cop. This time when he grabbed Aadesh’s arms, he squeezed so tight that Aadesh could hear the crack as his bones broke, followed by agonizing pain. When the cop forced Aadesh to look at him, his face was not flushed with the red rage it always was. This time it was orange. A horrible, unearthly orange that stretched and warped until it became the face of the monster. His condemning words poured forth from depths far deeper than the back of his throat.

“Stupid, miserable, wretched brat! Do you see what you’ve done? You see all this? This is YOUR fault! YOURS and YOURS alone! This is the life you want, is it? Because this is all you’re ever going to get! And you KNOW it’s all that you deserve!!”

Aadesh writhed, screamed, and begged, but the monster cop would not let go. Instead, he opened his jaws wide and unleashed a torrent of energy thistles which whirled about the room, claiming the corpses of the fallen criminals. Now aglow with the monster’s spores, the bodies rose in halting, jerking motions like puppets. Their eyes opened, all blazing orange fire, all looking at Aadesh. Their unsteady movements grew more confident as they strode toward him. He was the only survivor of their small war, and that had to be remedied.

Aadesh continued to beg for release, despite knowing it would do no good. That was when the wall exploded. Scott McCall burst through the wall he’d shattered with his super-strength. Fangs bared, claws slashing, eyes glowing Alpha red, he cut into the gang of reanimated crooks. Aadesh felt his heart swell with hope as his hero made short work of the undead gangsters, hurling them this way and that. Two of them he grabbed and smashed together, reducing them to a shower of orange sparks. Moving at remarkable speed, he leapt over Aadesh, taking down the monster cop with ferocious blows, one after the other. A final, devastating punch sent the monster hurling through the shattered wall that Scott had used to make his entrance. Scott stood tall, staring out through the cloud of dust to see if the monster cop would rise up again. It didn’t. He’d won. Aadesh collapsed in relief behind Scott, weeping, so thankful that his hero had come to save him. He was so unspeakably thrilled to see him. At least he was until Scott turned around.

“Youuu…”, Scott hissed through clenched fangs.

He was on Aadesh in an instant, grabbing his bloody shirtfront. “You did this.” Aadesh tried to speak but again, no sound came out. He gestured vaguely around the room as if to show that he had nothing to do with the gang war or whatever this was he’d been dragged into. Scott yanked him forward. “Not that, you idiot. The monster that you and your little friends brought here so you could all—what? Feel special??”

Aadesh was shaking his head. No, no, it wasn’t like that. Why was Scott acting this way? What was wrong with his hero?

Scott’s voice began to rumble. With each word of admonition it sank deeper and deeper. “You have no idea how exhausting it is to pretend to tolerate you. I hate you. You bring all this trouble and pain into my life, lying to my face, to my beta, my pack! The lowest point in my life is the burden of knowing you. You are a pathetic weakling who leaves death in his wake. It would have been better if you died here with your friend…or better yet, if you’d never been born!”

Scott’s blazing red eyes turned orange. Bones cracked and flesh stretched as he grew to monstrous proportions. His ears pointed upwards past the top of his skull. His shoulders spread wide, tearing his shirt, covered in thick pelts of fur. His arms and hands grew large and horrible; hairy, tense, with claws the size of railroad spikes.

“My life was good until you polluted it with your rank delinquent stench. I’ve sworn against killing. But now…now…” Scott’s mouth expanded, his teeth a jagged row of gargantuan fangs. “I’ve finally found someone who deserves killing!!”

The monster that moments ago was Aadesh’s hero brought his gigantic mouth down on the boy’s head, who was able at last to scream as pain shot not through his skull, but into his arm.

Aadesh sat up on the couch in the McCall’s living room. The room was dark, and Aadesh’s teeth were buried in his left forearm. He was gasping and sweating. Long ago he’d taught himself the trick that, should he ever be unable to keep himself from screaming, he would bite down on his own arm. The pain would help distract him from whatever he feared while having the added benefit of smothering whatever sound he made. Aadesh’s eyes darted about the room. Everything was dark. Where was he? How did he get here?? It took a moment for him to regain his bearings, to recall where he was, to realize that he was in the home of his hero. That for the moment he was safe.

Gingerly, Aadesh took his arm from his mouth. He had left teeth marks, but this time he hadn’t broken the skin. He wouldn’t have to explain blood stains to anyone in the morning. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could tell that morning was hours away. He slowly lay back onto the pillow, which was drenched with sweat, as was his shirt. He tried to shake the memory of the dream, but it lingered. As did the monstrous Scott’s words. Aadesh wondered how many of those words might be true. Probably all of them. Aadesh clenched his teeth and squinted his eyes. Silently, he cried until the light of sunrise began to peek through the curtains.

Things were rarely happy in the Locklear household. Kaitlyn grew up, or more accurately, got older on her own in the midst of unpleasant circumstances in a home where she never knew her mother and her father killed himself by the long, drawn-out, and painful method of Cirrhosis. After her father drank himself to death, Kaitlyn became the unwelcome responsibility of her overly strict grandfather, who always kept a sharp eye on his charges of Kaitlyn and her older brother Gregory. This was not out of any familial concern or care, but so that he never missed a chance to punish them severely for the slightest infraction of his never-ending litany of Rules of Proper Behavior and Respectful Codes of Conduct. Grandfather Locklear never liked his son, which Kaitlyn suspected was why her dad started drinking in the first place.

Her grandfather’s method for properly raising a child was to instill constant fear of punishment at random and unsuspected intervals. He believed that if a child was perpetually terrified of making a mistake, he never would. Heaven help you if you ever did make a mistake. No excuse was accepted and no forgiveness given. One of her brother’s favorite games was to deliberately get Kaitlyn in trouble so he could watch gleefully as their grandfather dealt out his swift punishment. It was something Kaitlyn endured far too many times and never wanted to revisit again. As Kaitlyn thrashed about in the McCall’s upstairs guest bedroom, that was precisely where her dreams took her.

The house where Kaitlyn lived as a child was small and cramped, but in her dream the house was like a labyrinth, curling in on itself as it twisted down and around, making every possible exit another doorway back to where she came from. She was small again, younger, as she had been back then, making her feel all the more vulnerable. Hot on her trail was her alcoholic brother, fresh from a bender and in need of a distraction so that dear old grandad had a different focus for his rage. Kaitlyn ran around every tightening corners and through narrow doors in attempt to escape her brother, only to rush through a door and run right into him. Before she could turn back and get away, he had her arm in a vise-like grip she could not break.

“Time for you to help big brother”, he sneered. “He’s not in the mood for one of grandfather’s “Evils of Drink” lectures.” Her brother held up a bottle in his other hand, which he had nearly drained. He had left enough in it for his purposes, though. Kaitlyn didn’t know how his hand had gone from her arm up to her face so quickly. It was as if time skipped a beat, making her miss it. However his hand had gotten there, it was there now, his long fingers pinching Kaitlyn’s nose tightly. She tried to pull his hand off, and when that proved of no use, she pushed with all her strength against his shoulders in an effort to drive him away. As she struggled in vain, she kept her mouth closed tight, her lips a thing line. She wasn’t going to let him do it again. Not after so many times, after so many beatings.

“Your face is getting so red”, her brother laughed. “You can’t hold your breath forever.” His pushed the lip of the open bottle against her mouth, tracing it teasingly back and forth. “You have to open up sometime…” He stopped there, his eyes suddenly showing signs of coming into focus, despite being bleary-eyed with whiskey. He had an idea. “Even better! Hold your breath until you pass out, sis. It will be lots easier to pour this down your throat if you’re passed out on the floor.” With his hand that still held the bottle, her brother used two fingers to clamp Kaitlyn’s lips closed tight. Kaitlyn’s eyes grew wide in horror as her brother sang in a drunken, singsong voice, “Beddie-bye, beddie-bye Katie-time.”

Kaitlyn jerked away, crying out, “NO!” It was just the opening her brother needed. He splashed the whiskey into her mouth, making her choke and gag. As Kaitlyn fought to catch her breath, he poured the last of the bottle over her head and across the front of her shirt. Kaitlyn fell to her knees, gasping for breath. Each time she spat the poisonous whiskey from her mouth, it seemed to fill back up again. It took forever to be rid of the stuff, to clear her throat and suck in clear air. Her mind whirled with the desperate plan to brush her teeth, to shower, as quickly as possible, to rid herself of the damning false evidence. But by the time the thoughts had occurred to her, it was too late.

Her grandfather now had her in his grasp. A large man with snow white hair he refused to cut, he grasped her arms and yanked her to her feet. His eyes were intense with hatred, and as he howled with rage his hair flowed about him, making him look like an angry phantom. “Again! Again you do this! How many times must you defy me!” Kaitlyn tried to speak, to defend herself by exposing the true culprit, but no words would come from her mouth. The harder she tried, the more mute she became. “Don’t lie! I can smell it on you! Have you nothing to say for yourself??”, her grandfather railed. “Do you want to end up like your father?!” Then came the four words that preceded every punishment, every beating. “YOU KNOW THE RULES!!”

Her brother hovered behind their grandfather, leering over his shoulder, gleefully enjoying the spectacle. “Hit her, grandfather! It’s the only thing she understands!” The stench of alcohol rolled off her brother like a thick fog, stinging her eyes and turning her stomach. Why did her grandfather refuse to smell it?

The grandfather pulled Kaitlyn close, his eyes wild and his breath rank, his face contorting with fury. “It is bad enough you’ve begun to talk crazy like your mother. Why are you determined to use the method of your father to drive yourself insane like her? WHY?!!”

In a heartbeat, Kaitlyn was elsewhere. She was even younger now, perhaps 5, if that. Her grandfather, his hair still gray, dragged her roughly down a polished hallway as if she were a rag doll. She couldn’t keep her footing so was helpless to ever try to resist. She did not want to get to the end of the hallway. She knew what was waiting there. Then she was frozen, no longer aware of her grandfather at all. She stood paralyzed in her tiny child’s body as she moved swiftly down the hallway as if she were bolted to a conveyer belt. She did not want to see the large door with the tiny screen window high above her. But there it was. She prayed that this time it would stay closed. Give her that relief, at least. But no, as with every time before the door opened on its own to reveal her mother, her dear sweet mother, strapped down to a bed in a soiled hospital gown, her eyes dilated from an excess of drugs. The tender lips that once sang her lullabies dripped drool that ran down her faced and pooled on her pillow and shoulder.

Her grandfather’s rough hand was on her shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Is this how you want to end up? Is it?!”

Her mother’s eyes caught sight of her precious daughter and conveyed a message as the door once again slammed shut. Help me.

What happened next happened every time she’s had this dream. Her grandfather hauled her into an office of the state, her body once again older, though not by much. Her grandfather hurled her onto the floor of the lobby as men and women in ill-fitting suits emerged from all corners and an endless line of numbered doors to claim her. Her grandfather stood stiff and tall, his voice raised for all to hear declaring that he denied all responsibility for this troubled child, leaving her clearly self-destructive behavior to be dealt with by the surrendering her to the system. He drifted backwards, receding into an open elevator as many strange hands reached for Kaitlyn to pass her from one to the other, from one to the other, in an endless line of cyclical rejection. The doors of the elevator would close, leaving Kaitlyn to her fate. That was how the dream always ended.

But not his time.

Kaitlyn heard the laughter and smelled the alcoholic stink of her brother. She looked up to see that he was one of the state employees grabbing at her. He smiled a humorless smile and laughed his drunken laugh as his eyes began to glow a sickly orange. Kaitlyn sensed what was happening and tried to pull away, but too many hands were holding her now. Her brother laughed louder, his mouth stretching wider than it should to reveal twin rows of jagged teeth. His laughter vomited up a cloud of spores which shot across the room to claim her grandfather in the open elevator. The energy spores clung to the old man and multiplied. Even as they consumed him, he did nothing to bat them away or resist them at all. He just continued denying his granddaughter, cursing the pain she’d caused him, the years of his life she’d stolen from him, and was still cursing her as his body began to melt like an overheated candle and the elevator doors finally closed, sealing off the horrible sight and the smell of burning skin and hair.

The many hands of the nameless government employees hauled young Kaitlyn over to a desk where she found her brother again, waiting behind the desk with his eyes aglow and his fangs bared as he continued to laugh. His cheap suit caught fire and burned away, revealing a form that was half her brother and half monster. There were no more taunts, no more teasing. Instead her brother lifted his hand to show it was now orange and clawed. Before she could respond, her brother sank his claws deep into the top of Kaitlyn’s head.

The first thing she noticed after the initial shock was that there was no pain. It was only when she felt as if her mind was leaking—not blood or tissue, but memory—that Kaitlyn truly began to panic. Her brother, now shifting to a more monstrous version of himself, with skin turning orange and wings starting to sprout from his back, tore the top off of Kaitlyn’s head and dug deep inside. Her body was paralyzed as she felt his long claws digging around for something. She felt the tears sting on her cheeks as he found whatever it was he was looking for and took hold. He took hold and he pulled as hard as he could. Kaitlyn cried out as her brother tore what felt like flesh and tissue from her brain. But nothing tore completely free. He pulled and clawed, dug and yanked, but the moist, dripping, elongated object he pulled free just continued on in an ongoing sheet, like a broken window shade or a giant bedspread. As blood and matter fell away from the extended strip, Kaitlyn saw that it was slick like shower curtain and it glistened sickly in the light. Her brother kept pulling, laughing, mocking, and Kaitlyn realized this elastic thing from inside her head wasn’t like a shower curtain at all. It was like a canister of film unrolling from its spool.

Her brother, now more monster than sibling, clutched Kaitlyn’s face in his gnarled hand and thrust her forward, forcing her to see what he was doing. Now the sheet shifted to that of a movie screen, upon which flashed various images, memories from Kaitlyn’s life. She saw her mother, being taken away by the hospital men as she cried for them to stop. She watched again as her father sank into bottle after bottle of booze. She had to look on at every taunt from her brother, every beating from her grandfather. The monster-thing that had been her brother in this nightmare kept on pulling, and the images on the sheet shifted. Now she was seeing a replay of every vision she’d ever had. The visions she shared with her three friends, and the mischief those led to. She saw herself cry out and was then rewarded by a visual cascade of the most heroic teenagers she’d ever seen. Scott and his pack standing against threat after threat, facing death time and again for each other and everyone else. For a split second, Kaitlyn took some hope form those images. But it was only for a split-second. Her brother’s claws began to shred the screen, tearing away the memory of her visions. One by one, the images cut to black. Each moment of bravery, laughter, terror, and victory slipped away. He was taking away the most important part of her life.

Kaitlyn squirmed away, but could only go a foot or two before being pulled back. The unfurling screen was still attached to her, rooted within her head. It finally reached its end as the lengthy sheet stopped hard and clung to its moorings. She could feel slender tendrils from the sheet snaking down into her body, wrapping around her spine. On the screen was all the memories of the trip to Beacon Hills, meeting her heroes…and each one was fading to black. She kicked and cried out, but it was of no use. Her brother, or now fully the monster, it’s mouth aflame with spores, it drooled a sizzling mess of glowing orange acid onto the screen, burning it, sizzling it away, filling the air with the stench of alcohol, smoke, and sick. She watched in horror as that which inspired the best in her went up in smoke.

Kaitlyn clutched at the slick sheet extruding from her mind and pulled. No. he would not take this away. She’d already lost her mother, her father, her home. She would not surrender this too. The monster roared and descended upon her, jaws wide, acidic drool gurgling over its lips. The last of the sheet burned and tore, causing Kaitlyn to hurl backwards. The smoke, the smell, the emptiness, the loss sought to smother her. And then…

Nothing.

Kaitlyn was adrift as her nightmare receded. Her world stopped spinning and she found her footing. She was back on the farm where they’d performed the summoning spell. But it looked different from how it did today. The land was lush and alive. The buildings were new and well kept. At least they were for the moment. The monster was there, smaller in size than she knew it, but it was unmistakably the same monster. Kaitlyn watched as the silent scene unfolded before her. The farm was burning. People—a family, by the looks of it—screamed in panic, but none of them wanted to desert the others in order to make an escape. A beautiful girl, perhaps Kaitlyn’s age, approached the monster as her name echoed behind her, shouted by those who wished to stop her. The girl turned to look at Kaitlyn, her eyes glowing yellow, her mouth full of fangs. She roared a lupine roar and threw herself at the monster. The monster first lunged at her, then began to pull back the closer she got.

The world went into slow motion. The werewolf girl stopped leaping and began to float. She drifted toward the monster, which now appeared legitimately frightened. As the girl swept ever closer to the monster, she turned to show her fangs shrink back and her eyes return to normal. She looked directly at Kaitlyn and spoke.

“You know what you have to do.”

With that, the fear and racing panic of the nightmare subsided. Kaitlyn could feel what she was swept in now was no bad dream. She’d felt this sensation too many times not to recognize it immediately. She was having a vision. The darkened dream with its twisted version of what had happened in Kaitlyn’s past gave way to a glimpse to a clear view of what had happened well before her time. She was back on the farm where they had performed the summoning ritual, but it was unlike she’d seen it before. The grounds were lush and alive, its structures new, but all of it was quickly coming apart at the seams. In her mind, Kaitlyn turned to see the monster, mush smaller than it was today, but unmistakably the same monster. She leapt back, but realized the monster had no interest in her. Its focus was instead centered upon a beautiful girl moving towards it. Her name was Marguerite Willoughby. Kaitlyn had no idea how she knew that. She just did. Marguerite’s arms were extended with sharp claws protruding from her fingers. Her mouth opened to reveal fangs as she howled defiantly at the monster which bore down on her. Eyes glowing a brilliant yellow, the werewolf girl who had died decades before hurled herself at the shrieking monster to die all over again. The conflict was furious, brief, and horrible. Marguerite’s howl became a scream. The monster wailed. As the entire scene unraveled, Kaitlyn cried out her own silent scream until she felt her throat go raw and jolted herself awake in the McCall’s guest bedroom.

Kaitlyn panted, relieved to be free of the nightmare. Her relief was short lived, however, as her thoughts returned to the genuine vision she’d experienced. As she caught her breath, she rested a palm against her forehead, feeling how damp and clammy the dream had left her skin. But there was greater discomfort ahead. Kaitlyn drew her knees up to her chest, folded her arms atop them, and let her head fall on her forearms. She didn’t weep, but tears fell from her eyes nonetheless. She knew what she had to do…what they all had to do. There was no other option. Given the choice, she would have preferred the nightmare.

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