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afewproblems · 7 months

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Season Two Halloween AU Part Five

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

Synopsis: What if Eddie had been at Tina's Halloween Party in Season Two? Featuring Steve!Whump, Stancy Breakup, and Eddie just trying to keep up with all these new revelations about who King-Steve actually is...

Huge huge HUGE shout-out to Jess @strangersteddierthings for being my sounding board and letting me send such long messages full of spoilers!! I can't thank you enough!

***

“Dustin, what the hell are you doing here?” Steve says as he hurries towards the kid, he looks around as though expecting another person to follow behind him.

“I can’t find Nancy or Jonathan, you’re the only other one who knows about--”

The kid, Dustin, tilts himself to look past Steve at Eddie with suspicious eyes, “you know”.

Steve freezes, his shoulders a rigid line of tension as Dustin steps around him to head for the screen door.

Eddie had to give it to the kid, he certainly had guts just waltzing in here like this.

“You still have your bat?”

Steve looks from Dustin to Eddie and lowers his voice to mutter something that has Dustin shaking his head rapidly.

"The one with nails, Steve".

"Your what?" Eddie blurts out, forcing the other two to turn towards him. Dustin full on glares. His eyes narrow in irritation while Steve's face pales before smoothing out in that same guarded expression from earlier.

Dustin steps closer to Eddie and crosses his arms over his chest, "who are you?"

"Dustin--"

"That was a rule," Dustin cuts across Steve, smacking the back of one hand into the palm of the other, "no one else gets to know, and I can't tell Max, so you can't just tell him--"

Steve jerks his head as if slapped, a flush building on his cheeks and ears, "I haven't--Eddie's not, I don't--"

Dustin waves his hand dismissively and turns towards Eddie once again.

"Look, it's cool that Steve is expanding his social circle but you should leave".

The attitude on this kid.

Eddie holds out a hand at Dustin and laughs but it tumbles out with a tinge of hysteria, "I'm sorry, I'm still stuck on the whole Nail Bat thing?"

Steve groans, his head swings back and forth from Eddie to Dustin as though he's not sure who to answer first.

He sighs and runs one hand over his face, roughly from the slight wince he makes as he brushes the black eye, "look," Steve barks out, "he's a friend".

Something in Eddie's chest warms at the words despite the incredulous scoff that threatens to tumble out. Steve Harrington, friends with Eddie Munson?

Dustin snorts, "you don't have friends? I only ever see you with Nancy and Jonathan".

Steve flinches slightly at the words, but Dustin carries on talking, brushing past Steve to the house.

"We don't have time for this, I've been looking for you guys all day and now it's dark and there are lives at stake--"

"Je-sus, okay, okay," Steve takes three long strides to catch up to Dustin and steps in front of him, he reaches out for the kids shoulder but seems to think better of it and instead runs the hand through his hair.

"You said lives are at stake?"

It's like a switch is flipped in the kid, he whirls around on Steve, a stream of near gibberish falling out of his mouth at a mile a minute, Eddie can hardly follow it.

"And now he's this big," Dustin hisses, throwing his hands nearly two feet apart from one another.

Steve holds up his hands, "okay, Christ, how do you know it's not just a lizard, Dustin?"

"Because its face opened up and ate my cat, Steve".

Steve looks up at Eddie, meeting his gaze with a nervous laugh, "listen, Dustin, uh, he watches too many B-Monster movies, I'm just gonna take him back to his house".

Now Eddie wouldn't say he's necessarily a, 'go-with-the-flow' kind of guy, but he can roll with the punches --any Dungeon Master worth their salt needed to be able to think on their feet when the time came.

Which is probably why he opens his big fucking mouth.

"I mean, life and death situations with cat-eating Kobolds sounds exactly like my kind of night fellas".

Steve frowns and tilts his head, staring at Eddie while Dustin perks up, his eyes widen in surprise.

"Kobolds? You play D&D?" Dustin says skeptically, pushing past Steve to make his way up to Eddie now.

Eddie laughs at the question, "kid, I run the D&D club at Hawkins High".

Suddenly it's like there's a different kid standing in front of him, his face lights up in wonder and he opens his mouth to continue when Steve makes a sputtering noise behind him.

"Henderson," Steve bites out, hands on his hips, "I swear to God, if you interrupted us for some Halloween prank, you're dead".

He stands there for a moment scowling at the pair of them before turning on his heel and walking towards the house.

"It's not a prank," Dustin huffs defensively, his arms cross over his chest and his face scrunches into a frown.

He looks up at Eddie briefly, all good will from the D&D revelation earlier now forgotten as Dustin follows Steve's path towards the door.

Eddie sighs, he could just leave at this point. Either this is the most elaborate way someone has ended a smoke session with him, or the weirdest role playing game Eddie has ever found himself in the middle of.

But something about the fear in Dustin's voice has Eddie lingering beside the abandoned loungers. He bends down to pick up the forgotten joints and puts them back in his lunchbox before putting the lunchbox back in the backpack. No sense in letting some perfectly good jays go to waste.

The screen door slides open again revealing Steve, who blinks in surprise, "you stayed?"

Eddie shrugs, "I said I would, didn't I?"

Steve nods, and ducks his face, but he can't quite hide the smile that blooms, his eyes crinkle at the corners for the briefest moment before it falls.

"Listen, I know that it sounds like a load of shit--"

"Understatement," Eddie cuts in with a shake of his head.

"Yeah, but you need to know, if you come with us, you're in it. I'm not joking, this is your chance to just walk away".

It's almost as if Steve is pleading with him, and it's then that Eddie notices what Steve has gripped between his hands.

A fucking baseball ball bat, studded with nails that have been haphazardly hammered into the end of it.

Eddie looks from the bat, to Steve's face as Dustin steps out of the house now with two walkie talkies in his hand. He reaches for Steve's backpack and unzips it to place them inside before zipping it up again. There's a grim determination on both of their faces that Eddie has never seen on another person in real life and suddenly he's speaking without thinking again.

"Well, what are we waiting for?"

***

Eddie swipes a shaking hand through his sweat matted hair as he watches Steve and the rest of the party move about the Byers living room.

As though mere hours ago they didn’t just fend off a group of flower faced creatures hellbent on entering their fortified school bus to tear them apart.

It was crazy.

It was absolutely batshit that all this time there were creatures from another dimension running around their sleepy little backwoods town.

Eddie shudders at the memory of the sounds they made, the horrible grating wails like metal on metal, echoes in his mind.

And now…a person was dead. Mr. Newby.

Eddie had met him once while buying a used amp at the Radio Shack just a few months ago. He was nice, asked about the band and what instrument Eddie played. He had even offered to help Eddie get the amp out to his van.

And now, he was dead.

Mr. Newby would never take Joyce out for another date, he would never walk into his job and help take inventory, he would never offer a helping hand or piece of advice ever again.

Eddie can't help but think about how close they had all come to ending up like Bob, how one of these things had almost crawled into the bus.

What if they hadn't been called away? Bob had a gun and that hadn't been enough to stop the pack of creatures from…

Eddie looks to Steve.

Steve who hasn't stopped pacing the Byers living room since Hopper herded all of them into the house.

He takes five steps to the window at the front of the room, and five steps back to the door of the kitchen, again and again.

And suddenly, things make so much more sense.

The strange haunted expression on Steve's face Eddie would see between classes whenever he thought no one was looking.

The way the three of them, Jonathan, Nancy, and Steve never let the kids go anywhere without a ride.

The way Steve had looked at his empty pool yesterday.

Things happen in the dark, in the woods.

On the fifth pass, Eddie reaches out to Steve and catches the hand closest to him.

Whatever trance Steve was in dissipates, leaving him to blink once and look down at Eddie's hand before slowly curling his fingers more firmly around Eddie's and squeezing gently.

"How're you holding up?" Steve asks quietly as he drops Eddie's hand to pull a dining chair up to where Eddie is seated on a beaten up recliner.

Eddie scoffs at the question and shrugs, "when I figure that out, you'll be the first to know".

Steve nods, a small half smile climbs up his face.

It drops as he looks across the room at Will.

Jonathan kneels beside the couch, talking quietly to his brother, who stares blankly at the ceiling while Nancy watches on beside them.

Eddie's eyes follow Nancy's hands, the way she hesitates to touch Jonathan before eventually giving in and draping her hands over his shoulders.

He looks back at Steve who also seems to be watching Nancy. He breathes out a long sigh and shakes his head, before turning back to Eddie.

"If it makes you feel better, you're taking it better than I did the first time".

Eddie raises one skeptical eyebrow and smirks, "I highly doubt that--"

"I ran away," Steve cuts across him with wide eyes, "I almost left Nance and Jon with a monster, one of those things that took Will," he holds Eddie's gaze for another beat before dropping it to the floor.

"So, don't sell yourself short".

Eddie opens his mouth to tell Steve he should take his own advice but Hopper suddenly makes his presence known once more as he closes the door to Joyce's room behind him and walks back into the living room.

"Okay, we may not have backup on route for a few more hours--"

"If they're even coming," Mike scoffs from the corner, "who says they believed you anyway?"

"Listen, until we are told otherwise, we need to sit tight," Hopper barks, sending a glare Mike's way.

Hopper deflates slightly, as though realizing who he's talking to, and takes a deep steddying breath which he releases slowly through his nose, “we can't just charge in without backup--"

"If we sit here on our asses those things will eventually make it to town, you saw the tunnels Hop," Dustin bites out this time, shooting his own fierce glare at the chief as he stands beside Mike.

"They'll tear everything apart," Max says softly from the floor. She's settled against the back wall of the living room against the collage of drawings that Will had completed in his frenzied state, Lucas sits closer and takes her hand in his own.

"Oh no," Steve mutters under his breath, he spares Eddie a glance before standing up from the chair, "no, no, we can't fight these things by ourselves, we're outmatched here Henderson".

"Not if we know how they work," Mike insists. He walks towards where Max and Lucas are sitting, nearly stepping on the pair of them in his haste.

"Jesus Mike," Lucas hisses under his breath while Max settles for stomping her foot against Mike's own. He jumps at the sudden pain and the three of them dissolve into vicious bickering and name calling until Steve and Nancy pull the kids away from each other.

"Okay, just, keep going Mike," Nancy tells him, once everyone has settled down once more. She gestures to the drawings taped up around the room.

"As I was trying to say," Mike sneers at Max who scoffs and crosses her arms, "what if it's all connected, the tunnels, the dogs, Will?"

No one speaks, the words seem to hang in the air as all eyes move to the couch where Will lays wrapped in blankets and staring unseeing at the ceiling.

Mike continues, "this all started after that day in the field--"

"And if he was infected," Dustin interrupts with a gasp as Mike nods rapidly, pointing at him and then the drawings again.

"It's like a virus, connecting him to this, this--"

"Hivemind," Lucas supplies, his voice hollow as he stands up to join the rest of the kids, "like what Mr. Clarke told us".

"Okay, okay, slow down God Dammit," Hopper huffs as he lifts his hand to pinch his fingers into his eyes.

"Hivemind?" Steve says slowly, as though rolling the word around on his tongue, "like bees?"

Dustin blinks once, his face morphing in surprise, "kind of, it's like a superorganism made up of several others all working together, one collective consciousness".

"A Mindflayer," Eddie whispers, just loud enough for the kids to turn their heads towards him.

He's been quiet for so long, sitting on the sidelines of this group that had clearly worked together in a crisis before. It was almost like listening to Jeff, Gareth, and Grant in a Hellfire session, watching them work out a trap in real time before executing their plan.

It would be endearing if there weren't actual monsters running about.

"Holy shit," Mike breathes out while Dustin darts off towards the bookshelf in the corner.

He flips up some of the drawings until he finds what he's looking for and loudly crows, "yes!"

Dustin marches back to the kitchen table and slams the book down on the surface before flipping several pages. He slaps the back of his hand on the page in triumph as he sends Eddie a confident grin.

"This isn't a game kid," Hopper sighs but steps closer to look at the book nonetheless.

"But it's the closest metaphor we have," Dustin argues back.

"Analogy," Lucas says as he steps towards the table, a shit eating grin pulls at his mouth as he catches Dustin's eye.

"Fine, analogy, whatever!" Dustin mutters, a red flush climbs up his neck until it settles on his ears, he slaps his hand on the books again, "can I get on with it or do you have more vocab for me?"

"Dustin," Nancy sighs, reaching out for his shoulder with one hand, she gives it a slight shake, "what would this even tell us?"

"Well," Dustin turns to Nancy now and points at a section below a horrifying drawing of a humanoid man with a squid for a head. Four tentacles point in all directions while its hands wield a terrifying glowing orb.

It's not something that Eddie has thrown at his players in years now that he's managed to figure out how to balance his encounters properly.

Because Mindflayers…were horrific.

"They're basically from another dimension, and they travel to different worlds to conquer other species that they see as inferior to themselves".

"Conquer," Steve breathes out beside Eddie who can't help but shuffle closer to brush his shoulder against Steve's own.

Steve gives Eddie a brief smile before looking back to where Dustin and Hopper are arguing once again.

Eddie lets his gaze drift only to find Nancy staring at him curiously, her sharp blue eyes flit from Steve and back to himself, the weight of her gaze makes Eddie want to pull away from Steve but he holds his ground and stares right back.

Nancy offers him a tentative smile, which does nothing to ease the sudden tension in Eddie's chest, feeling as though he's been caught.

He could easily explain this away, despite the rumors running rampant at school about Eddie, there is no way anyone would believe the same would be true of Steve Harrington.

Eddie ignores the unhappy weight that settles in his stomach at the thought, he let himself get way too close, way too quickly.

Besides, there wasn’t a chance in hell that Steve was, that he could be…

Eddie shakes himself and moves away, lamenting the loss of Steve’s warm shoulder as he lets Hopper's voice pull him back to the matter at hand.

"Okay then," Hopper nods, looking around the room.

"How do we kill it?"

***

They have a plan.

Or at least, half of them do.

Going based off a thirteen year olds hypothesis that their friend is basically a spy for a creature from another dimension -which in hindsight is definitely not the craziest thing they’ve experienced today.

Is it something that Eddie would have never come up with in his wildest dreams? Undoubtedly.

But that was before a girl with literal mind-powers showed up and tossed a dead demodog through the Byers window.

Jesus Christ.

So, with El and Hopper on their way to the lab, the rest of the party busies themselves by packing the Byers Station Wagon for the drive to Hopper's cabin.

They have to flush this thing possessing Will out of him before it's too late and the cabin is far enough out of town that whatever happens hopefully won’t affect anyone else.

Eddie tries not to think too deeply about what that might mean.

He manages to find another portable heater in the Byers basement and hauls it into his arms before turning around to walk back up the stairs.

When Eddie reaches the landing his heart stops for just a moment when he realizes he can't see the kids. He takes another step into the kitchen and breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees the four of them huddled around the kitchen table with the still open Monster Manual.

Eddie pauses for just a moment when he spots a Hawkins County map beside the book.

It's covered in red marker.

An intricate design of lines ending with two circles…both around areas outside of the city center.

Eddie shakes his head and keeps moving, much to the visible relief of the kids as he makes his way to the back door.

One problem at a time.

He knows that Steve is around here somewhere, he was helping Jonathan carry Will to the car while Joyce and Nancy gathered as much rope from the shed as they could carry.

God, it's so dark now.

Eddie understands what Steve meant before, the way the trees rustle in the wind and the moonlight catches on animal eyes that shine in the dark. It's enough to put him on edge as he makes his way around the Byers property.

Every snap of a branch was a demodog prowling in the brush, every distant howl was a monster coming to drag him into the Underdark.

He shivers and keeps moving, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder every few steps.

Eddie finally makes his way to the shed, peering inside only to startle as Nancy's voice floats through the cool November air.

"Thank you, for staying with the kids," she says quietly.

Eddie freezes where he stands with the heater in hand. He knows he shouldn't be here for whatever this is, listening in on yet another private conversation between Nancy and Steve but his feet remain planted in the earth.

"Yeah well, I might be a shitty boyfriend, but it turns out I'm a pretty damn good babysitter," Steve hums so casually that Eddie wonders if it's really him speaking. They’re on the other side of the Byers shed, Eddie can almost make out their shapes between the uneven slates of the wood.

"Steve--"

"It's okay, really," Steve takes a deep breath, "you should go with Jonathan".

"Steve," Nancy's voice is wet this time as she speaks but Steve hushes her with a sigh.

"It's okay Nance,” he pauses for a beat, “all I want is for you to be happy, and I don’t think you’ve been happy for a long time”.

“What about you,” Nancy whispers, so softly that Eddie almost misses it this time.

Eddie hears the sounds of footsteps and the rustle of fabric, a muffled sniffle and several whispered words that he can't make out from this distance.

The whispering goes on for another minute or two before they fall silent, only the sound of cicadas and frogs echo in the midnight air around them.

Eddie takes this as his cue to begin to loudly walk over, purposefully grinding his steps into the gravel and walking more heavily than he normally would.

He comes around the corner of the shed to find Steve holding Nancy, his head on top of her own as she presses her face into his chest.

Eddie clears his throat and watches as Nancy steps away from Steve. He lets her go, both of their movements lighter than they have been in days.

"If you guys checked the shed, Joyce said it's now or never".

Nancy nods and walks over to take the heater from Eddie, giving him a warm smile as her gentle hands brush his own, and huh --he kinda gets it now. How Steve could have fallen head over heels for this secret badass girl, Nancy Wheeler.

"Thank you," Nancy smiles and Eddie sputters, running his now free hands through his hair.

"For what, I didn't--"

She raises a single eyebrow, and looks from Steve, before bringing her gaze back to Eddie.

"For being there, for all of them".

With that, Nancy walks back towards the house leaving Eddie to feel as though he missed a lot more of that conversation than he should have.

***

They finish refortifying the Byers house, boarding up the broken window that El had tossed the dead demodog through. Eddie adds one last nail and hammers it in before stepping back to admire their handiwork.

Steve lowers his hand from where he held the board in place and shoots Eddie a grin before he collects the box of nails from the floor and turns to put it on the coffee table.

"Steve?" Eddie says quietly. He doesn’t need to really, the kids aren't paying attention to the pair of them, but this is just for Steve. Eddie doesn't need four pairs of eyes staring at him as he tries to say this.

"I just, I'm sorry about Nancy".

Steve tilts his head in confusion, but Eddie keeps going.

"If we do make it out of this, I don't want you to think you were a 'shitty' anything".

Eddie winces as Steve's eyes narrow slightly.

"I'm guessing you were standing by the shed a lot longer than we thought," Steve says slowly as he looks back at the kids and takes another step even closer.

Eddie winces at being caught and nods, “I was looking for you originally to see if you guys needed any more help, and then I heard voices and just,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay or not, after that”.

“And for what is worth, you definitely have changed,” Eddie offers with a sly grin, “I don’t think anyone would have expected Steve-the Hair-Harrington to use Faberge, let alone let us plebs in on his secret”.

Steve’s mouth opens and closes before breaking into a wide grin, a startled laugh falling from his mouth, growing in volume until Eddie can’t help but join him.

Steve raises his hands to run over his face and into his hair as he looks at Eddie, the grin on his face softens slightly the longer he looks.

Suddenly, his eyes harden and the look of determination from yesterday takes over. Steve squares his shoulders and breathes out a strangely broken sigh before he reaches out for Eddie's hands. He takes the hammer from him and sets it down on the coffee table beside them.

"My Nonna told me once," Steve whispers, using his hand to point into the middle distance, "Steven, people will come in and out of your life all the time, and the ones that are meant to be there will stay, and if they go, then it wasn't meant to be".

Steve breathes out a sudden nervous laugh, "she was so straightforward and I loved that about her".

Eddie doesn’t dare to breathe as Steve shakes his head.

"And you, you stayed," Steve continues softly, "and I just…"

Eddie's own breathing picks up as Steve leans closer, enough that Eddie can count the freckles on the bridge of his nose.

"Fuck what Dustin said, I think I need more people in my life like that".

Eddie's eyes widen slightly as the words begin to register. No, no way, this can’t be happening.

He lets out a strangled laugh and leans away from Steve’s space, “more friends in your life right?”

It all happens so quickly after that.

Steve freezes where he stands. His face moves through several expressions, some so brief that Eddie can’t quite tell what is going on before it smoothes out once again into something blank; Steve lifts his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose before dropping it to his side and nodding.

“Yes, right, friends, duh,” Steve laughs but it's not at all like the bright wild one he let out just a few seconds ago.

This one was dull, hollow.

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, anything to wipe away the horrible emptiness in Steve's eyes but Dustin suddenly pushes past Eddie to grab the sleeve of Steve’s jacket.

"Steve!" Dustin says frantically, "Steve, we have a problem!"

The sound of a car door slamming outside catches their attention and a sinking feeling begins to form in the pit of Eddie's stomach. There's no way Hopper and El would be back from the lab yet, and Jonathan said they would radio if there were any changes.

So who the hell was outside?

Part Six

Tag List:

@eriquin @luvinthefreaks @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @goodolefashionedloverboi @ellietheasexylibrarian @bambibiest @sadboislovebeans @howincrediblysapphicofyou @coleys-a-nerd @whycantiuseunderscore @airconditioning123 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @corrodedbisexual @starman-jpg @ilovecupcakesandtea @yoriposts @clumsiluni @pelinelin @phantomcat94 @lololol-1234 @anaibis @airconditioning123 @steveshairspray @hellfireone @sunswathe @eddielives1986 @tentativeghost @robin-not-batman @estrellami-1 @manda-panda-monium @tinyplanet95 @perseus-notjackson @queenie-ofthe-void @rainbowsaw @sp0o0kylights @littlebluejane @hi-im-eff @phantypurple @just-ladyme @thoroughlycollected @justrandomfandomstm @swimmingbirdrunningrock @finntheehumaneater @dynamic-powerm@nightmareglitter

and for some peeps that I think may be interested! @steddierthings @steddie-there @steves-strapcollection @henderdads @stevesbipanic @spooky-brakers

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ominouspuff · 19 days

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GUT. PUNCHER. PLEASE. Ö

(also I see the Plo Coon WIP and I’m in the microwave)

In an instant CC-2224 sees the blue on the other clone and recognizes his enemy — knows it is CT-7567 and knows the name he took and the color of his hair.

All that is in him that is screaming — was (always?) screaming — quietens. His finger does not depress upon the trigger. His hand does not twitch towards the backup blaster on his hip.

An instant, a moment, a breath, and a single thought—

I’m no soldier.

CT-7567’s finger is as quick as he knew it would be. Between one moment and the next, Cody is free.

———

Re: Plo Coon — huehue, yess get microwaved (affectionate) (I’m very excited to show you)

#fan art #artists on tumblr #star wars: the clone wars #commander cody #captain rex #The opposite of a fix-it AU #wip tag game #OmPu Ask Hours #*slaps scene* This baby can fit so much melodrama into it #But also I do every now and then like to consider taking canon seriously in the rare points where it can bear the weight #And frankly if Cody does somehow throw off the effects of the chip IN CANON I will be frustrated because it will feel like retcon fanservic #CW: Major Character Death (implied)#CW: Guns #CW: Death #CW: Unhappy Ending (ish)#wip art

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rubywannadi3 · 3 months

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Little doodle art for Lawrence and Anastasia (my oc)🌷🪴

#my art style #my art #my artwrok #oc x canon #my original character #btd lawrence #boyfriend to death #lawrence oleander #btd x mc #lawrence x mc #cw: amputation

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bonefall · 22 days

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would whitewater end up getting dark forested for her support of mudclaw, her hypocrisy, and her neglect?

There's a VERY high chance of it. She's almost certainly damned unless someone defended her VERY well (which is unlikely)

When StarClan makes a ruling, they aren't neccesarily deciding if you are Guilty or Innocent. They're determining if you are worthy of their ranks. You have to prove you belong in Heaven, NOT that you're not bad enough for Hell.

For most warriors this is a very simple yes, and no trial is required... but if you so much as OFFEND StarClan with your bad vibes, they might damn you just for that. Whitewater has a really bad reputation for everything she's done.

The Queen’s Rights actually work "legally" on the assumption that judgement is outsourced to StarClan, because mortals (Oakstar) can't be trusted to be impartial on this specifically. The birth of kittens cannot be used as evidence of codebreaking behavior... on the mortal plane.

StarClan was ALREADY going to give her a review just based on her affair with Mudclaw. If it ended on the Great Journey like they initially planned and she invoked QR with her Ba-less litter, there wouldn't even be a trial.

But that's not how this story goes. She was a ShadowClan cat involved in Mudclaw's rebellion, because she wanted to support him.

SHE might have only done that because she wanted to avoid ThunderClan "putting their paws in another Clan's business" or some other excuse, but StarClan says

"L + Ratio + Supported your baby daddy's coup + Set the peat on fire + What were YOU doing putting your paws in another Clan's business"

StarClan didn't even accept MUDCLAW'S explaination. They didn't even accept VIXENLEAP'S excuse, just some Thistle Law-loving RiverClan warrior who joined because Hawkyfrosty asked her to. They were always going to give Whitewater a hard time for this.

Whitewater might have been able to wrack up some goodgirl points by being a very loyal ShadowClan warrior..... and she did, a little.

But she kept her head down. No spectacular feats of redemption. Just tried to live quiet. That doesn't incur a lot of favor.

And then, the part you've been waiting for... how she treated Owlkit. Theyyyy didn't like that.

If she was sooo unattached to her mate, why did his smiting BOTHER her so much, hm?

She might have won favor for doing something very noble and giving the kittens to the bereaved Torear, but she KEPT Owlkit. Any love she had that influenced that choice drained away

and she didn't do the "right thing" for him by asking for help. She just did the bare minimum at best, and hid her abuse at worst.

Unfortunately though, the neglect and emotional abuse did not earn as much ire on their own as you're hoping. StarClan is (and was) full of much worse abusers. Hillrunner, for example.

Most of StarClan's condemnation would be based around Mudclaw's Rebellion... but they've been waiting a LONG time to process the surviving non-WindClan rebels. So... she's probably doomed.

Unfortunately I cannot imagine she takes it well. She completely ignores that Owlclaw was just a footnote in her condemnation, and uses it to confirm everything she ever believed.

"That kitten WAS meant to die that night. I should have dragged that child out into the storm with the rest of its cursed siblings. I've been shoved into the spot where Owlclaw should be!"

Hmm... maybe I should axe her shortly before the Great Battle, and actually have HER be the one who attacks Owlclaw's kittens. It would be pretty horrifying if she was the one who killed Weaselkit, her own grandchild.

#Canon will be like ouuuugh shes a bad mom bc she didnt smile at her baby every day for 500 years #Ill WRITE you a bad mom #BB!Whitewater #BB!Owlclaw #Better bones au #BB!OOTS #Poor Owlclaw lmaoooooo. Say hello to this simple bully character Jaypaw deals with haha!#(PUTS HIM THROUGH THE HORRORS)#Cw child abuse #Tw child abuse #Child abuse #Child death #Cw child death

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zal-cryptid · 8 days

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sense hell exists what would jen punishment in hell be if she didn't accept krampus offer?

"...the doors of hell are locked on the inside"

-C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

Jennifer was raised Catholic, so I think Purgatory could have been a possible afterlife for her. But then again, she was fully ready and expecting to go to Hell, wasn't she? She WANTED it. I don't think there is a demon in Hell who could torture her more than herself.

Perhaps the Silva Obscura is the first place she would have landed.

#ask #misfits in toyland #ghosts #cw death #Jennifer #my ocs #afterlife #my art #victorian ghost #mangled #original characters #horror #spooky #not canon

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tbgkaru-woh · 1 year

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Arranged marriage, the gay version

#chengxuan #xuancheng #chenguan art #jin zixuan #jiang cheng #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #mdzs #yby my art #cw: major character death #canon divergence au

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kjack89 · 3 months

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Say Don't Go

E/R, canon era. Some light angst for your Friday evening (or whatever your timezone equivalent). Implied canonical character death, blood mention.

The candle in the back room of the Musain flickered with increasing unsteadiness, its melted wax having long since overflowed from the holder. Shadows cast by its inconsistent light danced along the walls, accompanied solely by the sound of Enjolras’s pen scritching across paper and the methodic dull thud of Grantaire’s wine bottle as it was lifted to lips then returned to its place.

Without warning, the candle spluttered out, plunging the room into darkness.

“I suppose we should take that as a sign,” Grantaire said, a moment later, and Enjolras sighed.

“You may,” he said shortly, standing and fumbling to light another candle. “Would that my work ceased with the absence of light.”

He successfully lit another candle, lighting the room once more, and Grantaire just shook his head. “But does your work not bring light into the world of its own accord?” he mused.

Enjolras glanced at him. “Coming from you, that is almost a compliment.”

Grantaire laughed. “Only if we are in the business of considering drunken rambling to be complimentary.”

“Again, from you…”

Enjolras trailed off and Grantaire laughed again, a somewhat gentler sound this time. “That I suppose is the most potent sign yet that I should take my leave, before my words somehow bring offense, intended or otherwise.”

He stood and Enjolras glanced up at him. “You need not leave on my account,” he said.

Grantaire paused, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Truly?”

“Grantaire, if I made a point of removing you every time you caused offense, you would never again attend another Les Amis meeting,” Enjolras said patiently, already looking back down at his papers.

But still Grantaire hesitated. “There remains a difference between my presence at one of our meetings versus my presence here, after hours, with just you as company.”

Enjolras just shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Grantaire worried his lower lip between his teeth before blurting, “Would you permit any other attendee of our meetings to stay late into the night with you in this way?”

“No other attendees are brave enough to attempt it,” Enjolras murmured.

“Or fool enough,” Grantaire countered.

Enjolras glanced up with a small smile. “That too,” he agreed.

Grantaire hesitated for a moment more before shrugging. “Very well,” he said, taking his seat again. “If you truly do not mind.”

“I have far more important things to concern myself with than how you choose to spend your evening,” Enjolras told him.

“Yes,” Grantaire said, reaching automatically for his bottle of wine. “I imagine you do.”

— — — — —

“Sit,” Grantaire ordered, in a tone that brooked no argument, pointing at a chair as he crossed to the washbasin, rolling his shirt sleeves up.

To his surprise, Enjolras sat without complaint, which in and of itself was evidence that forcing him to sit and stay still was the best move. Joly might have additional advice, but he had been swept up in the crowd after the National Guard had interrupted their assembly, leaving Grantaire alone to close his hand around Enjolras’s wrist and bodily drag him from the scene.

But not before Enjolras managed to get himself hit in the temple by the butt of a musket.

It was with slightly shaking hands that Grantaire managed to wet a cloth in the washbasin, and he took a deep, steadying breath before turning back to Enjolras, and the blood that matted the entire right hand side of his face. “I’m certain it looks worse than it is,” Enjolras murmured, though he didn’t quite meet Grantaire’s eyes as he said it.

“And I am certain that you do not find yourself in a position to determine as such,” Grantaire said, reaching out to tilt Enjolras’s chin just slightly with two fingers before finally reaching out with the wet cloth.

Enjolras winced at the touch and would have flinched away were it not for Grantaire holding his head steady. “I can do that,” he protested, his voice little more than a mumble, as Grantaire began washing the blood from the side of his face.

Grantaire made a small dissenting noise, his eyes not leaving the gash at Enjolras’s hairline. “You certainly can,” he murmured. “But I have little faith that you would if left to your own devices.”

“To be fair, you have little faith in just about everything,” Enjolras returned evenly.

A smile twitched at the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “Well, save for—”

“Your full glass, yes,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes. “Do you ever grow weary of making the same jest?”

“Haven’t yet,” Grantaire told him, straightening to return to the washbasin and rinse the cloth. As he did, Enjolras stretched and made the tell-tale signs of beginning to stand, and Grantaire whipped around instantly, scowling. “Did I say you could stand?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes once more. “I am fine,” he told Grantaire, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Grantaire pursed his lips. “I did not say otherwise.”

“Well enough to stand, at the very least,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “Now that remains to be seen.” He pointed again at the chair before ordering, for a second time, “Sit.”

Enjolras sat, scowl firmly in place. “I think you are enjoying this,” he said, a little sourly, and Grantaire’s shoulders tensed as he hunched over the washbasin, the water in it pink with blood.

“You think that I enjoy tending to your wounds?”

Grantaire’s voice was quiet but Enjolras still flinched as if he had shouted. “I did not mean—”

Again Grantaire turned to him, his face impassive as he took his previous spot at Enjolras side, pressing the cloth once more to Enjolras’s head. “My preference would be that you not be harmed seemingly every time you get it in your head to set foot out your door, but my vote, it seems, does not carry much weight.”

Enjolras winced, though it did not appear to be from the pressure Grantaire was applying. “I—”

“What?”

Enjolras sighed. “I apologize.”

Grantaire blinked, his hand not moving. “There really is a first time for everything.”

For a long moment, they sat like that in silence before Enjolras rolled his shoulders and tilted his head, trying to catch Grantaire’s eye. “I do mean what I said earlier, though.”

“Which part?” Grantaire asked.

“That I can do this myself,” Enjolras told him, reaching up to rest a hand on top of Grantaire’s and the cloth still pressed to his temple. “You need not stay.”

Grantaire just made a small humming noise of what could have been agreement or dissent in equal measure. “I shall take that under advisement,” he murmured, making absolutely no move to pass the cloth to Enjolras or otherwise move.

Enjolras sighed, his hand dropping to his lap. “You shall be the death of me,” he said sourly.

A ghost of a smile flitted across Grantaire’s face. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

— — — — —

Grantaire sat upright, swinging his legs over to the side of the bed but making no attempt to stand. He glanced back at Enjolras, sprawled next to him, the light from the moon filtering through the window casting Enjolras’s usually golden curls with a silver sheen. “What?” Enjolras asked, something languid and almost sleepy in his tone.

“Nothing,” Grantaire said, his fingers twitching against the bed sheets.

A frown puckered Enjolras’s forehead. “And yet you look as though you are waiting for me to say something.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Perhaps I am.”

Enjolras sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Would it not be easier to tell me what you wished to hear?” he asked, something like frustration coloring his words. “I am—” For the first time that evening, even more so than when he had asked Grantaire to accompany him to his bed hours earlier, Enjolras hesitated. “You know that I am not experienced in this regard, so if there is any set of usual platitudes I should be offering—”

Grantaire let out a noise like a snort, shaking his head. “After all this time, you think I seek mere platitudes?” he asked, his voice low.

Enjolras rolled onto his side to face him. “Truth be told, I know not what you seek,” he said, matching Grantaire’s tone. “From me, from this, from any of it.”

Grantaire just shook his head. “All this time, I have sought only one thing.”

He said it simply, evenly, and Enjolras frowned, looking away. “That is what I feared most of all,” he said quietly. “That you should seek the one thing that I cannot offer.”

For one long moment, Grantaire just looked at him, something unreadable in his expression. Then he sighed and drew a hand across his face. “I know what you presume I wish to hear, but you are wrong,” he said. “Never have I expected to hear those three sweet words from your lips in this or any lifetime.” He leaned over so that his lips were practically against Enjolras’s ear. “I would settle instead for two.”

“Two?” Enjolras breathed.

Grantaire nodded. “Don’t go,” he murmured.

Enjolras shifted away slightly so that he could frown at him. “You wish for me to tell you to stay?”

Grantaire shook his head. “No. I wish for you to ask me not to go.”

Enjolras’s frown deepened. “I see no difference—”

“I suppose you wouldn’t, so used are you to having every request treated as an edict,” Grantaire mused, straightening once more. “And that is what telling me to stay would be: a command. You and I both know I have had no great success at following commands, even the ones given by you.” He paused, his eyes searching Enjolras’s for a long moment. “But while you have commanded many things of me, all of which I have failed, never once have you asked anything of me. So if there are only two words I could hear fall from your lips, it would be that request alone.”

Enjolras looked away. “Must I ask for something that is offered freely?”

Something tightened in Grantaire’s expression, but his voice was even as he replied, “Only so that the person offering knows that it is not he alone who wants it.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment, broken only by Enjolras’s eventual sigh as he rolled over onto his other side, his back to Grantaire. “If you wish to stay, stay.”

Grantaire swallowed and nodded with unspoken understanding. “And I think it best that I go.”

Enjolras just shrugged. “If that is what you wish.”

— — — — —

Enjolras ground his teeth together, frustration palpable. “Go home, Grantaire.”

Grantaire just smirked, lifting the bottle of wine in his hand but not drinking from it. “Give me one compelling reason why I should,” he challenged.

“You are drunk.”

Enjolras said it flatly, his disappointment clear, and Grantaire’s smirk sharpened. “That has never hindered my staying in the past.”

“Fine,” Enjolras said impatiently. “You are drunk and you are annoying me.”

Still Grantaire looked amused. “Again, never before have you found that a hindrance.”

“Well, I find it one tonight.”

Grantaire set the bottle down, propping his chin on his hand as he looked thoughtfully at Enjolras. “I don’t believe that you do.”

Enjolras scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard what I said, unless you have suffered yet another injury, this time to your ears,” Grantaire said, before repeating, enunciating every syllable, “I don’t believe you.”

“You think that I speak falsely?” Enjolras asked, with a dangerous sort of calm.

Grantaire just shrugged. “It is less that I find your words false and more that I understand your meaning to differ from what you speak.”

Enjolras scoffed, looking down at the pamphlet in front of him. “I don’t believe even you know what that means.”

Grantaire’s smirk became brittle. “It means that you say one thing, knowing that I will understand what it is you truly wish to say but cannot allow yourself to.”

Now Enjolras looked up sharply, his lips pressed together into a flat line. “You know not of what you speak,” he said, the same dangerous edge to the words.

A dangerous edge that Grantaire did not heed. “Don’t I?”

“No.”

Something tightened in Grantaire’s face and he leaned forward, urgency in every line of his body. “I, who have spent every day of the past few years deconstructing every sentence you have ever uttered?” he asked quietly. “I alone who has spent uncountable hours at your side to hear what words you do not share with even your closest friends? You think I know not of what you speak?”

His volume had risen considerably by the end, and Enjolras just lifted his chin, meeting his glare coolly. “You have deluded yourself into believing this is more than what it is. You may lace your words with hidden meanings and double entendres, but that does not mean—”

Grantaire barked a dry, humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. “And now you accuse me of not saying what it is I think!” He stood abruptly, taking only a few automatic steps toward Enjolras. “My God, man, I could not be any more transparent with my thoughts, with my feelings, if I tried. I ruminate and I ramble and every thought that has ever existed in my head has seemingly also passed my lips, but you—“

He broke off, shaking his head, equal parts admiring and grudging. “Every word that passes your lips is weighed, measured, considered,” he said. “Each sentence as carefully constructed as any of your plans. And so I have taught myself to read between your pauses just as surely as your words, to find meaning in each breath and every hesitation. Call me deluded if you must, but do not sit there and tell me that I do not know of what I speak, in this instance at the very least.”

Enjolras said nothing, and Grantaire took another step towards him, reaching out for his hand. “There may only be two words I have ever wanted to hear, but it does not mean you have not said them in every way that matters. And that is why I do not believe you find my presence a hindrance, on this or any night.”

But Enjolras just pulled his hand away, his expression carefully neutral. “Go home, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s hand fell to his side. “So be it,” he said. “But returning to my home will not change the meaning of any words said here tonight – or anything left unsaid.”

“I know,” Enjolras said quietly, so softly that Grantaire almost could not hear him. “I only wish that it could.”

— — — — —

There was no moon in the sky, and the only candle in the room had long since extinguished itself.

Still, Grantaire moved with practiced ease, finding his clothes where he had flung them a few hours earlier. He shrugged into his shirt, doing up the buttons with long, nimble fingers, pale against the stark blackness of the room.

Enjolras watched with hooded eyes as Grantaire tugged his trouser on and then stood, disappearing a little at a time under each additional layer, the hastily buttoned waistcoat, the sloppily tied cravat.

Neither man made any attempt to speak.

Perhaps all that needed to be said had been.

Or perhaps both feared breaking the tentative, unspoken truce that had led Grantaire again to Enjolras’s bed that night.

In any case, Grantaire turned to the door without sparing Enjolras an additional glance, and only then did he hesitate, his hand on the doorknob.

Without warning, he turned, crossing back to the bed and reaching for Enjolras, his hand gentle against the back of Enjolras’s neck as he pulled him up just enough to press a single long kiss to Enjolras’s forehead, the kiss like a benediction, a sacrament.

Penance and absolution in one.

His fingers carded through the wispy curls at the nape of Enjolras’s neck, but still he made no attempt to speak, or otherwise break the moment.

A moment that was not enough, and could never be enough, but the only moment that Enjolras had ever granted.

He held onto the moment as though he could somehow force it to be enough.

Then he straightened, and this time, when he left, he did not turn back.

— — — — —

Grantaire, roused by the silence, stumbled forward, his eyes fixed on Enjolras and only Enjolras. Just as always.

He brushed past the National Guard as though they were no more than mere specters, for in that moment, they were. One final impetus for the unspoken conversation that had ruled what little he had forged with Enjolras over the years.

“Do you permit it?” he asked, the simple question that defined their entire existence, that narrated the way their lives were forever entwined and hurtling towards this moment no matter what either man had tried to wrought along the way.

Enjolras’s answer to the question was as immaterial as ever, because Grantaire had always known what the answer was, or would be. Had known it as certainly as he knew that it would end like this.

His answer was in the soft smile Enjolras gave him there at the end of all things. It was in the gentle press of his palm against Grantaire’s, just as it had been in every kiss, every touch, every gasp wrung from Enjolras’s body. Grantaire had heard what he so longed to hear in every way that mattered, in the end.

He only hoped that Enjolras knew it, too.

There was no time now to ask, no time to speak, but so much of them had lived in the unsaid that it mattered not.

The final volley of gunfire sounded, but Grantaire did not hear it. His eyes were still fixed on Enjolras, and he heard but one thing, one final time:

Don’t go.

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #fanfiction #les miserables #canon era #developing relationship #sort of ish #major character death cw #canonical major character death #injury cw #blood cw #light angst #someone's inevitably going to get mad at me for calling this 'light' angst and you know what? I welcome it

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nancygillianmvp · 6 days

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fic pride friday

Rules: Post your favorite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

thank you for the tag @lemonlyman-dotcom i'm using this to try and be kinder to myself in how i think about my own writing

strays (5 + 1 of TK attempting to bring home a 'pet' from a call, Nancy POV)

“Carlos has been talking about maybe getting a cat…” TK muses. Here we go again , Nancy thinks. There’s no mistaking the look on her partner’s face; she’s seen it more times than she can count—he wants to take this wild animal home. She knows his heart is in the right place, but the sooner Carlos relents and lets him get a cat—or a fish, or a hamster even, any kind of pet—the better as far as she’s concerned because talking him out of bringing home new ‘pets’ every week gets exhausting. “Dude, stop, don’t even say it.” “You can’t possibly know what I was going to say.” “I know you, TK. You were going to suggest that murder mittens over there might be a good cat for you and Carlos to adopt, but the answer is no.” “Murder mittens? Look at him, Nancy—he’s just a little baby.” TK says, gazing longingly across the room at the tiger cub. “TK, I can’t believe we even need to have this conversation. You can’t raise a tiger in a downtown apartment. Tigers aren’t pets, or did you forget why we ended up here in the first place?" “Oh, but look at him. He’s only a baby. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” “This week, he’s a baby, sure. But do you know what babies do, TK? They grow up, and then you will be the one calling 911 because your 200-pound murder kitty went for the jugular, and when that happens, I’m not coming to save your ass, dude.”

nothing a kiss better can't fix (soft tarlos)

“Seriously, it’s nothing, TK,” Carlos says as he leans against the back of the 126 ambulance with his worried fiancé methodically checking him over. “It’s not nothing, Carlos. You’re bleeding .” TK tells him, trying to gently guide him towards the stretcher. “Now, will you please sit down and let me treat you?” “I’m okay, TK. Breathe,” Carlos says, taking his fiancé’s hand. “This is nothing a kiss better can’t fix.” “Is a kiss better for a certain flu-riddled fiancé of yours, perhaps exactly how you ended up in this situation, dude?” Nancy asks with a raised eyebrow and a laugh. “First of all, I’m not ‘flu riddled’,” TK tells her, putting dramatic air quotes around his words. “And second, how do you know about that?” “When are you going to just admit I know everything,” Nancy tells him with a grin before adding. “Also, you’re both, like, hella predictable.”

sugar, butter, flour (5 + 1 TK and Gwyn baking)

His father and Carlos have always assured him that Jonah will know her through him, but as they stand in the kitchen, he wonders how he can ever live up to the task. TK is uncomfortably aware of the ache of grief in his chest alongside a sharp streak of guilt. Guilt that he got 28 years of her love but spent so many of them pushing it away, too deep in the spiral of addiction to accept it. Those were years Jonah will never get, and TK wasted them.

and again (nancymarjan)

And then before she can dwell on it any further, the countdown hits midnight, the fireworks start in the distance, and Marjan kisses her. It’s like nothing she’s ever felt before, and while Nancy has never been a believer in destiny or soulmates, right now, at this moment, it’s undeniable that Marjan is her soulmate.

when everythings made to be broken (introspective carlos/a 4x01 coda)

He takes a deep breath and silently tells himself, “You can do this,” and suddenly, he’s nineteen again and doing whatever he can to be a good son and live up to expectations. He’s standing at the altar trying to convince himself he can do this, that somehow he’ll be able to love her like he’s supposed to—like God wants him to—because his parents need him to, his family needs him to. He’s silently praying that, in time, he’ll be able to love like she deserves. She’s his best friend, and he can learn to love her like this, surely—he owes her that. But it doesn’t work out��despite his best efforts, he can’t love her the way she deserves, so he moves out, and she starts dating again, and he’s ready to drown in his shame. And then she disappears, and as the months drag on without a single credible lead, he goes through all the stages.

no pressure tagging

@fallout-mars @paperstorm @literateowl

@reyesstrand @welcometololaland

#tag game #fic pride friday #my writing #CW: grief #cw: canon character death #CW: mentions of addiction #can you tell my favourite thing to write is tk and nancy bantering

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emily-mooon · 1 month

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OK! here's the general idea for this Nordegrim Ghosts AU that has been haunting me:

CW FOR MENTIONS OF DEATH, ATTEMPTED MURDER, AND ALSO A TINY BIT SUGGESTIVE (just a tiny bit though)

Stacey, Scott, and Lawrence inherit this big house from a distant great aunt they have never met after she passed of old age. Scott is in debt so he cant take the house like he was supposed to, and Lawrence wants nothing to do with it, so Stacey gets it instead.

It’s perfect though cause her and Neil, who is also her husband now here, were planning to move houses anyways and were struggling to find a good place. Also since the house is super big, they thought about opening a hotel at one point once the house is all fixed up.

What they don't know is that the house is haunted. the ghosts in question are:

Knives Chau: A teenage girl from the 1950s who was a fan of rock n' roll that got pushed down the stairs by a jealous classmate (not Tamara btw that was her gf) at a party

Julie Powers (IDK her married last name yet): An Edwardian women who got pushed out the window by her husband (who is Joseph in this AU btw)

Stephen Stills: A folk singer from the mid 60s who dies in a fire (people confused him with the other Stephen Stills all the time)

Gideon Graves: A music producer from the late 60s early 70s who was poisoned by a rival producer

Lucas Lee: A Victorian lumber guy who was crushed by a wooden beam during the construction of the houses renovation

Todd Ingram: A 90s Rockstar who died while having sex with his bands drummer (which like in the comic, was also cheating on his girlfriend and it is still Lynette and Envy)

Lisa Miller: A somewhat famous 1930s actress who died while filming a scene

Matthew Patel: An early 19th century poet who died in a duel that was orchestrated by a good friend of his

Roxie Richter(she has no last name in this au btw, putting it here cause I put everyone elses last names here): A Viking who was struck by lighting

Ken and Kyle Katayanagi : Inventors/mechanics from the late 19th century who died in a car explosion along with their dog (who is a dog version of robot 0-1 btw). They live in the carriage house as its far more peaceful than the main house

The ghosts overhear the hotel idea when Stacey and Neil are talking about it and they are not too pleased with it. So they try to haunt them so they'll leave, but ultimately fail.

Then either Gideon or Todd, come across Stacey leaning out the window and decide to push her in an another attempt to get them to leave which in turn, almost kills her. Because of this, now Stacey can see ghosts and forms a close friendship with them. Neil, like Mike and I assume Jay in bbc and cbs ghosts respectively, will have a collage of what they all look like since he cannot see them.

So yeah that's my idea so far! I’m still tweaking things but I’m happy with this rn. I’ll definitely make art for it at some point (and if people want it, an ask blog). Feel free to also suggest some ideas for this au if you have any :]

#also btw it takes place on the east coast cause why not make some more changes #its mostly inspired by bbc ghosts cause thats the only one ive seen and i adore that show to pieces #because of this fact decided to check out who the ghosts are in cbs ghosts and some of the time periods are similar to the ones ive picked #some of the charcters also die and are in the roles of some canon characters (ex. Julie and Matthew) but i did essentially tweak some other #and also added in new time periods for it to be unique #this is a new niche au to add to the pile #I’ve kinda done it once before with ST but only managed to make byler capvers stuff along with toxic regency ghost boyfriends stonathan #scott pilgrim #scott pilgrim comic #scott pilgrim takes off #stacey pilgrim #young neil #neil nordegraf #knives chau #julie powers #stephen stills scott pilgrim #gideon graves #lucas lee #todd ingram #lisa miller #matthew patel #roxie richter #ken katayanagi #kyle katayanagi #nordegrim #cw mention of death #cw attempted murder #adding those two tags in cause while i mention them briefly it still could be trigging for someone #lmk if I should add the cw suggestive tag #cause I’m unsure since it is like one word compared to death and attempted murder

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spontaneousglitterbees · 1 year

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Click for quality. Part 2 of the polygraph arc! (Read part 1 here) (Part 3!)

[AU Masterpost]

Everyone's still in shambles after the simulation. No exceptions.

So Miu's polygraph is kind of a black box (you know what goes in and comes out but the rest is a mystery) but there is at least a basis in reading electrical and chemical signals in the body to discern things like mood and, with enough pattern training, attempt to predict intent. Granted, something like that would be incredibly specific to the patterns (people) it's trained on, so why not have the most unpredictable, unflappable ultimate in the school play guinea pig?

He just happens to be incredibly flappable, today. It's a jacket day, after all, and even if Miu heard in passing what that means, actually seeing it in practice is something else. But the program is mostly to decipher him in particular anyway; two birds one stone, making it less likely the class will overlook genuine distress and helping K1-B0 curb a major source of frustration when he comes back.

(Well. When he comes back, of course. Kiiboy's current deal in this AU is kind of its own story.)

They did, in fact, discharge Kokichi with a cane and orders to do physical therapy, a fact he has told nobody that spread through the class like a lighter to a gas line since someone, Kaito, can't just not tell his sidekicks secrets. Being Kokichi, he has elected to completely ignore both as often as he can get away with (which makes the bad days worse, naturally. Consequences? For my in/actions?) to What Did You Expect, Dumbass results.

It's just about time for an overdue conversation.

#danganronpa #dr #new danganronpa v3 #ndrv3 #danganronpa v3 #drv3 #kokichi ouma #ouma kokichi #kokichi oma #oma kokichi #iruma miu #miu iruma #post-vr drv3 au #glitz dr comics #glittersart #post-canon #cw mild internalized ableism #cw allusions to character death #long post #the machine whirrs because kokichi doesnt *actually* know if hes been polygraphed and isnt anxious about it so much as genuinely confused #his game persona has but his pre-game memories are very limited. everyones are #the program really is intended to be helpful overall-#-but while in testing she made the reading notif a terrible horn sound out of a little bit of petty spite. as a treat #she doesnt actually really need to write things down here since the laptop is recording data from the apparatus tbh #but if it feels like an interrogation maybe itd get him to respond? and. it does.#something something 'he lashes out; she stands a little too close to him: he flinches like his subconscious anticipates Repercussions'#which she did *not* expect #in other news kokichi cant actually see that workbench around that corner from that angle i dont think? esp not in the dark #but miu is looking longingly in that direction bc she knows its there even without seeing it and part of bond w person is copy person

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whumblr · 10 months

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Weapon

So, a lil while ago, @whumpedydump asked about Zayne working with Emery and why Zayne says it's better to be tortured by him than by Emery. Here we go.

Warning: Dead dove. Don't want to spoil, so if you're not sure, check the tags for warnings, if ya don't care, keep going.

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

“What the hell happened to your hands?” Jay gaped at the bruises and scratches over Zayne’s knuckles.

Zayne instantly pulled back and turned away.

“Punched a wall because I have to put up with your stupid questions.” His left hand – unconsciously – slid over his right, covering the worst of the bruises, the raw, reddish split skin, and lightly rubbed over it.

“Yeah, sure, a little one-two combo to a brick wall.”

“Now you’re just begging for a one-two combo to your face.”

“Just saying,” Jay held his hands up, “if you found someone else to torment, be my gu—"

Zayne sharply turned. “Don’t ask,” he snarled and pointed a shaky finger in Jay’s face. “Okay?”

“Did I say you could stop?”

“Sir, he’s… he can’t take much more.”

Zayne took another step back, revealing the man kneeling in front of him to show Emery the state he was in. He was quite sure that another hit would knock him clear out. Which, honestly, would probably be a mercy at this point.

The man barely had any strength left to stay upright on his knees, his clenched fists ziptied behind his back were trembling, blood poured from his nose, and even with gasps and heaves he couldn’t get his breathing under control.

Emery remained unimpressed and stayed where he was, just a few steps behind Zayne. He merely glanced down at the man, who struggled to look up but glared at him with all he had left. “Yes, he can. Keep going.”

Zayne hesitated. He felt disgusted having to do this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t beaten on someone before. But this was… different. Too random. Impersonal. He had no idea who the man was, what he’d done to deserve this, what Emery wanted from him. He’d just shown up to this warehouse as Emery had ordered, was presented with nothing more than a man tied up on his knees and the task to ‘make him talk’. That’s it.

But the man didn’t talk. And by now, Zayne wished the guy had actually passed out like half an hour ago. But he was stubborn, like a certain someone he knew. Emery, unfortunately, was also stubborn, and Zayne knew the guy was going to be the first to break.

And he had to do the breaking.

Emery never lifted a finger. He had others to do his dirty work for him.

While the man was obviously nearing a limit, he was not hitting a breaking point. He remained silent, unwilling to give up a scrap of information, and with the bits of strength he did have every now and then, just glared past Zayne right at Emery.

But Zayne felt that he was nearing a limit as well.

His hands were trembling and not just from the pain of bone striking unrelenting bone. But also from the sickening crunch that followed every strike, the blood that stuck to his hands, the grunts of pain followed by agonising silence in front of him, judging silence behind him. How much longer was this going to take?!

A coughing sound escaped the man’s lips, along with some blood as he tried to speak and Zayne found himself hoping he’d finally spill. But when the man found his voice he merely said:

“Yeah, man, keep going.” His voice was soft, tired, but the defiance in it was thundering loud. “Knocked out you’d get just as much out of me as you are getting now.”

Zayne peeked a look at his boss to see how he’d take this.

Not well. Emery’s face darkened.

“Your knife,” he merely said, narrowed eyes still on the man.

Reluctantly, Zayne reached into his pocket. He didn’t go for his actual knife, the one he used with Jay. That was his favourite, meant for play. This one was a spare, meant for work, to be put away after everything had ended and snap it closed to keep the memories of the job contained. All kept separate.

He held it out for Emery.

But Emery refused it and took back a step, making room for Zayne to stand over the kneeling man and positioning himself in just the right spot to watch over the whole spectacle.

Zayne wasn’t really sure what he expected. Of course he was going to have to do it.

He made a show of slowly folding the knife open, but his heart wasn’t into it. Usually he’d love the twitches of fear, the widening of eyes, the flinch as the knife clicked. Here he was just furiously hoping it would make the man relent. When he didn’t, he stepped behind him, kept him in place with a hand on his shoulder, and pricked the blade over the side of his ribs.

Last chance, man!

The man tensed under him, flinched hard when skin split and red soaked into the cut fabric of his shirt. But the warning by just cutting skin deep was not enough to make him either scream or talk. And before Zayne had to make himself go a step further, he heard a tutting sound.

Emery sighed, shaking his head, and stepped forward.

Before Zayne could pull away, Emery’s gloved hand was on his and pushed the knife deeper into the cut.

The blade sank in deep. Way too deep. Zayne startled and meant to pull back, but Emery’s hand clamped over his and actually pushed harder, dragging it along. The blade slid in up to the hilt, carving through skin, muscle, blood vessels; indifferent to what it severed. Blood immediately gushed free. A sickening scream rose up and Zayne had to force himself to keep the man down by his shoulders before his trashing made things even worse.

Emery finally withdrew his hand. “Stop petting him and get him to talk.”

With some effort – and with a disgusting squelching sound – Zayne had to actually pull the knife free. Blood kept running down the man’s side, sticking his shirt to his skin. If he had to dig that deep, the man would probably bleed out after about three or more cuts. This was no longer threatening a man to talk by torturing him; this was ‘talk fast or die’.

And the guy seemed to realise as well that he wouldn’t be able to walk away with this.

“No… no, don’t do that again,” he wheezed. “No!” He bucked again when Zayne held the knife under the first cu— he couldn’t even call it a cut; it was a full on open stab wound.

“Talk,” Emery said over the begging.

And something burst. Along with his tears, the man’s words spilled out of him, talking as fast as he could through gasps of pain and in-between heaving breaths.

Thank god. Zayne let him go and stepped away, relieved he didn’t have sink the knife in like that himself, that it was finally over.

Emery nodded, seemingly satisfied with the info he got. “Good.” And before Zayne could even fold his knife, he followed up with his final order:

“Slit his throat.”

Zayne froze up. “I… I don’t think that’s necessary—”

“I do,” came the cold reply, effectively ending any further protest.

The knife nearly slipped from his grasp. His heart skipped a beat and it felt like it just plummeted down into his stomach, dunking into the pool of dread that started to violently swirl around. It didn’t. After that world-stopping split-second it kept going, thundering against his ribs. Wide eyes shot from Emery to the man and back until Emery’s patience ran out.

“If I have to do it myself, I will do it twice. Do you understand me?”

Zayne clenched his jaw and tucked away all feelings before a hint of the despair whirling through him could slip free. When he turned his back on Emery, a tiny bit did slip out as he couldn’t help but glance at the two guards Emery always had with him, estimating his chances. Slim. And he had no doubt that the man wouldn’t follow up on his threat.

Something hardened inside him. Him or me. Or rather, him and me or just him. Survival instinct took over, wrapping all around him like a cloak protecting him. He did hear the man’s pleas, but the words just bounced off, like arrows against armour, never fully registering in his brain so that even if he wanted to he wouldn’t remember them later.

Besides, begging him was useless. He didn’t call the shots here. He was just the—

He stepped behind the man again, so at least he wouldn’t have to see the shock and betrayal in those eyes turn blank when— He firmly grabbed onto the man’s hair and dragged him back up on his knees, holding him up. All part of his determined, cold act.

But when he bent over, settling the knife just under the man’s jaw, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Then he let the blade sink in, immediately going in deep – letting him bleed out as fast as possible was the least bit of mercy he could offer – and he dragged the knife over his throat all the way to the other carotid artery, cutting both.

The trashing stopped as the finality of the act hit them both. The pull of gravity on Zayne’s hand turned heavy and he let the strands of hair slip from his grasp. The man slumped to the ground, wrists digging into plastic as he struggled against the zip ties as if reaching for his throat could somehow stop the bleeding, and Zayne looked away. Would rather look at even fucking Emery than watch the final moments of the man under him.

Emery watched impassively and with a certain disdain, cold eyes fixed on the man, following every twitch until he finally stilled. Then he abruptly turned and walked outside to his guards.

Taking just the slightest moment to compose himself, Zayne took a deep breath – that did fuck all like putting a band aid on one of those cuts he just inflicted – and followed.

Cold air swept over the river towards him. He didn’t notice the cold as much, but the breeze tickled over the cuts on his hands and he found that he was still holding onto the knife, fist clenched around it.

Emery glanced back at him, almost surprised that he was still here. “Someone will be along shortly to dispose of the body,” he said, tone dismissive and colder than the night air around them. “You are done for the day.”

A vague sense of immense relief that he didn’t have to clean this mess up hit him, but not as hard as it should. It was dulled, along with everything else. Zayne went along as if on autocue, making eye contact and nodding, hoping it would uphold a stoic pretence.

But as soon as Emery turned the corner, his mask shattered.

Every emotion that he had kept at bay all night burst free in a whirlwind of chaos, battling each other over which one would get released first. It was overwhelming. He didn’t know whether to cry or to scream his rage.

Because what even just happened?! Was he—did he just—

He refused to look back inside, just wanted to forget about that image as soon as he could. But even if he wanted to, to get confirmation on what he just fucking did, he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot. Completely paralysed, making him just stand there watch over the dark churning water.

The protective cloak of survival instinct ripped away. Immediately making way for something dark bubbling up, taking hold of him.

Guilt.

It clawed up inside him, whispering to him, calling him names, calling him murderer.

No…

No! This was not on him. It was not! It was Emery. It was all Emery!

If he hadn’t been here, Emery would have killed the guy himself. If Emery had called some other pawn to order around, the guy would still have been killed. Even if Zayne had refused, the guy would still be dead. And so would he. Every possible outcome ended up with the guy bleeding out on the ground.

This was not on me. It was on him, on him, not me! On him!

Because Emery already had his mind made up. And any bit of mercy Zayne’d tried to—

His breath caught.

If you hadn’t tried to spare him… If you’d just knocked him out… maybe…

No!

The blood was on Emery’s hands! Not his!

His knuckles ached as his fist clenched around the handle of his knife. Split skin burst open further, stinging, making him look down.

It wasn’t his blood… coating his knuckles, running over the flesh of his thumb.

And with a scream, he threw the knife as far as he could into the river.

Continuation here

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