#empty rib cages and splintered bones

[r0b0t1me]

rough concept art for the hidden city post invasion.. a barren wasteland picked clean..

#my art #bad future #environmental art is not my strong suit #and i want to make so much more #especially the mystic library i cant wait to fuck that place up #but also. Consider that i am impatient and i love throwing ideas at people #anyhow so a majority of it has been flattened. what remains is empty #since there are so many animal/yokai based buildings #i want to make a lot of dilapidated ones look like skulls #empty rib cages and splintered bones #this thing must resemble a massive. ancient corpse beneath NYC

[whump-in-the-closet]

Liberosis

cw: trophy showing, broken leg, public humiliation, caged, dehumanization, implied past torture (let me know if i should add anything!)

shoutout to @kira-the-whump-enthusiast for beta-reading, ergo saving me from many embarrassing typos!

~To Make a Villain~

previous

“Get up.”

Wyn did as he was told, keeping a hand on the wall for support. His knee threatened to give out on him. Maybe, he thought bitterly, Guillotine shouldn’t have let her idiot henchman use a fucking crowbar.

He didn’t say that out loud, however. No, he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the ground. He didn’t look at Guillotine, standing in the doorway, so he focused on the tiny metallic threads in the tiles. He didn’t have to look to know she was smiling.

“Have you learned your lesson?” The question was drawn out, meant to make Wyn flinch under the wash of memories: sleepless nights filled with relentless pain, bright lights that held no relief, and worse, worse yet– the burning, throbbing ache lingering on his arm–

Wyn didn’t want to remember. “Yeah.”

“Good. I want to show you something.” A pause. “Scythe. Look at me when I talk to you.”

Wyn’s nails dug into the wall, his knuckles turning white with tension. He looked at Guillotine, holding her gaze for mere seconds before dropping back down to the floor. He couldn’t do it. He never wanted to look another person in the eyes again.

Guillotine raised an eyebrow. “Fine. That will do for now.” She beckoned for him to follow and, limping, he did as she expected. Pain shot up his leg and he stumbled, barely catching himself on the doorframe of his room– cell, really–, and he caught sight of the others in the hall.

Suddenly, he very much wanted to be sick.

In the hall there were people. People he had worked with, people he knew. These were people who had once feared him. Villains who envied his position as Guillotine’s protege. Well, there wouldn't exactly be any envy in their expressions when they saw him now.

Wyn cursed, his heart flinging itself against his ribs like it was a trapped bird and his bones a cage. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the door frame, his mind reeling. There was no getting out of this.

Guillotine was going to make him walk, limp, out where everyone could see. And they would whisper and pity him and talk about how the mighty had fallen and how he had it coming and–

“Scythe.” There was an edge to Guillotine’s voice and Wyn straightened. One deep breath, and then another. He stepped into the hallway filled with cold eyes, leaning on the wall for support.

The silence was deafening. Wyn followed Guillotine, moving as fast as he could without putting any weight on his damaged leg. He could feel the eyes on him and ignored them as best he could.

The whispers were a bit harder to ignore.

“That’s the Scythe?”

“Doesn’t look so proud now, does he?”

“He never learns.”

Wyn flushed. He could practically feel his ears turning red. And Guillotine was smiling as she held the door open for him. Suppressed rage rose inside of him, forming into hard words and the bitter wish to stab everyone in the hall.

He hated them. But he hated the room he entered even more. Guillotine’s throne room. Said throne was on a stone dais, the stones intricately carved. Torches were set at irregular intervals throughout the entire hall and they filled the empty darkness with flickering red and gray. Distorted shadows coated the walls, smoothing the rough edges and reaching up to the ceiling. But that was not what Wyn was paying attention to. He couldn’t have cared less about the torches, though he thought briefly about knocking them over and starting a fire. The hall was filled with people, whispers and laughter echoing in the darkness.

Guillotine had left him and taken her seat on her throne. She had left him to stare at the cage at the foot of her throne, just below the dais.

The world split out of focus. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Guillotine had told him Splinter had left. She had said Splinter, the city’s precious hero, had walked out the moment she let them.

So why, why on everything that was sacred, did the person in the cage look so terribly familiar?

Guillotine leaned down to peer at the luckless captive. “Yes, aren’t they a pretty little thing?” She kicked the top of the cage and her retinue laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Splinter, the hero, didn’t look so very heroic anymore.They were crouched as far back in the cage as possible. And whenever someone came close, they shrank back.

Wyn stumbled forward, stepping on his bad leg and instantly regretting it. The pain in his leg, before a dull ache, flared to life. He hissed, doubling over. If there was any doubt before, there was none now: his leg was broken. There was a long moment of his entire existence being wrapped in pain.

When he straightened, the crowd was tight around Splinter’s cage and the laughter painfully loud.

Wincing with each step, he made his way through the mass of people. All he could hear was the dull thudding of his racing heartbeat. His leg hurt– and he was sure he wasn’t thinking coherently anyway– but he was almost positive this was some test of Guillotine’s.

And he hated it.

The crowd of people shifted and in the torchlight, he caught a glimpse of Splinter. It was, assuredly, the hero. Even if they no longer had their mask, their green hair, matted and blood-stained though it was, erased any hope it was someone else. Across one of their eyebrows, there was a shallow cut and bruises on their cheekbone. Fistwork. There were bags under their eyes so dark they looked like shadows.

Wyn froze, feeling sick.

The torches flickered.

The crowd shifted yet again and Wyn found himself pushed against the cage.

“Splinter?” He hadn’t realized he had said their name when the hero stiffened. They turned and caught sight of him. They paled.

“I’m sorry,” Wyn whispered. The words seemed pathetic, even to him. “I’m sorry.” After everything, and then this, that was all he could offer?

And still, the torches flickered.

“That’s not my name,” said Splinter. Their voice was hoarse, the words rough. A far cry from their usual sharp banter.

Wyn had never hated Guillotine as much as he did then. He looked up, meeting Splinter’s eyes and then focusing on the floor again. “What is your name?” It felt beyond wrong to ask that.

A soft exhale. Pieces of green hair cut through their vision. “Ross. She won’t make a villain out of me.” They gingerly touched the cut on their eyebrow, their expression darkening. “She can try but she won’t be able to do what she did–” Ross abruptly broke off.

Wyn knew what they were going to say anyway.

She won’t be able to do what she did to you.

“I’m Wyn,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say. The throbbing in his leg, momentarily distracted, came back with a vengeance. His head began to ache.

“You’re a good person, Wyn.”

Wyn almost missed what they said.

And then Guillotine called for Scythe to come stand by her side and raise a glass to the defeat of the city’s heroes.

Wyn drew away from the cage and somehow managed to climb the dais. He stood next to Guillotine and thought about how absolutely wrong Ross was.

He was not a good person.

Not in the slightest.

taglist: @whumpawink @kira-the-whump-enthusiast (let me know if you want to be added!)

#whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #liberosis #tw humiliation #tw whump #tw implied torture #tw dehumanization #oc wyn harley #oc ross weaver #i’m sorry but things get worse

[perlen-gold]

✨ 🕎 🎄 Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah and Happy Holidays everyone! 🎄 🕎 ✨  

A Fenhawke Story: Part III ~ Chapter 8

Once again many thanks to @cleverblackcat​ and also @aidanthecryptid​ and @kourvo​ without whose support and encouragement I wouldn’t have the guts to publish this story.

~ WARNING ~

This might not be an easy read. This is not a comfortable story. Neither a sweet one.

This is raw. This is rough. This is painful.

But if you’re brave enough to dare the leap and reach into the darkness, it might be worth the plunge...

Fenris’ feet tangling in leather thongs and straps of rotten armor.

A splintered spear-head grazing Fenris’ shoulder.

His arm brushing against a solitary fluttering, shredded banner.

Between tarnished swords and splintered war axes came Fenris’ breath ridged, terse and slit.

And then, all of a sudden, Fenris’ sore-chafed feet stopped their dragging.

Fixed, frozen, he remained standing there. It was not the deliquescing tremor of weariness. It was not the tear-clinging grip of battlefield.

Somewhere on the hazing, crinkled, gray-wide, lost battlefield Fenris stood. Deaf-green eyes staring ahead. Lips barely touching. Shoulder hanging in the slow spiraling fumes.

Sere smoke crept around him from long-cold war pyres for the lost and dead.

This was where, slowly, Fenris sank onto his knees.

Slowly, one of his hands reached up. Limp, his right arm hung from his shoulder. At some time or another, both his hands touched his eyelids, fingers spreading over each other.

He buried his emaciated face into his gaunt hands.

Fenris’ muscles, once hard as wood, had stiffened, clinging faintly to his hollowed bones. Between his empty ribs, unmoving as a discarded, dented cage he could all but imagine his heart’s beating, a moth’s frail, weak wings trapped inside.

There were no spirits murmurs, no demon’s hums anymore. Nothing but the bleak sound of his heart’s fading pulse.

Fenris fell on his hands.

He could not remember, how it felt to be on all fours.

His barren breath fell out of his throat as blades, sharp and hard. His eyes stiffened on the debris-littered ground.

Then his joints, once supple and smooth as young trees, gave way.

🎁 Keep reading on AO3 🎁

#fenhawke #fenris #garrett hawke #m!hawke #hawke #dragon age 2 #dragon age II #dragon age: inquisition #da: inquisition #dai #da2 #da II #fanfiction #my writing #pyre #da fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age #fenris x hawke #hawke x fenris

[nintn19]

The Pain

everything hurts

the pain comes from the surface of my skin as if all the the hairs are being pulled but not pulled out

from the space connecting my muscles and skin feeling similar to hundreds of splinters that split off and have a minds of their own

from my muscles, the after work out burning yet it never fades away but ebbs and flows like the tide, while being stretched just beyond their limits

and most of all my bones, they hurt the worst the throbbing like it is wanting to expand but there is no space to do so so it just builds on top of itself with no release

i tried screaming the agony out but after my voice gave way i had to try different methods

at first i tried pulling the hair out which worked for a little while but once i was hairless the phantom tugging came back

so then i tried to go for the splinters under

i searched all over

there wasnt a square centimeter i left un scraped but nothing all there was to see was the traitors muscles underneath who were also slowly torturing me

once all my skin was piled up in the corner of my room no longer able to torment me with its lover like never ending teasing i went for the next enemy

they weren't anything of note besides being the most common i tore through interrogating them all like some cold war spy hunter looking for the mole

it should have occurred to me by this point that i was no longer human as i was moving my hands as normal yet there was no meat on them just bone and sinew but i still had one more monster to kill

my bones with their need to expand and grow so i cracked them open to view what secretes they were hiding under there but there was nothing under the first few

it took until i cracked my ribs did the change start to happen

it must have been some story of threshold that i had crossed to start it but once i popped open my rib cage like a robber aiding in the escape of a fellow thief i metamorphosed

the pain stopped and i grew back my bones but now they grew how they wanted not according to biology of logic but with their own wants and desires

then the muscles i diced sprang forth much like how a meadow will suddenly bloom with life during the spring and they too did as they wished but with more intent to be of use and to build off of what the bones had provided for them

to watch as the muscles and flesh sprang forth to fill the gaps the bones had left for them was comforting and satisfying

it was seeing two childhood friends finally reunited together each having grown different due to the time apart but nevertheless still madly in love was the ferocity that they combined for me

and lastly the skin, the skin i had discarded like a toy that no longer brought joy to me it returned, and i hated it, not for the slithering way it moved across the carpet, not for the bagginess of it's emptiness, no i hated it for i saw no use of this cover, this curtain that only served to hide my trueness from the world, no i would not need such a thing

the skin knew this as well which was when it returned to me it begged for if i were too not don this crude mask it would have no purpose

so a compromise was to be made it would not fully cover my likeness but would be used to hold the more... unruly parts of my being in place and thus i finally came to be

my face is raw to the elements of the world my eyes perpetually open, nose testing the air for anything and everything, and ears that can hear the heartbeat of a frog swimming in a raging river

my neck is much more flexible now letting me move my head as i wish the liberty of this freedom brings me endless joy

i have two elbows on each arm that lets me move my hands in any way i want, the the dexterity of them has increased a thousand fold

my ribs are still cracked and growing some overlap and a few grow through but they grow and layer on top each other in a changing living way that is mesmerizing should i look to long

my legs are about the same size as before my transformation but they are stronger now capable of carrying me miles upon miles in a blink of an eye with feet that can find traction on any surface natural or man made

but i am not confined to this single form no if i was i would be no different than how I was before no matter how glorious i have come to be no now i can change and shift how so ever i please

should my arms not be long enough i can snap and slide and coerce bones from my ribs up into my shoulder socket and push out further with my whisper thin fingers slender enough to sew silk by hand and strong enough to bend steel like paper

i can shift my flesh as just as easily, moving my eyes around if i find it too much effort to shift my head or growing another heart just to pick it apart for entertainment have become common place for me

its a wish come true this gift of mine so with this body i will finally be able to do as i like and make my dreams a reality

#cw body horror #writeblr #writing #im so fucking tired

[lovelikedestiny]

Destati, my beloved, destati. Nicky’s whispering voice is sweet and golden like honey in Joe’s ears.

With his eyes closed he feels for his soulmate, hand sliding over silk-soft sheets which lack Nicky's body heat.

Destati.

He keeps his eyes shut, wanting to maintain the illusion before he blinks slowly and searches Nicky’s gaze. As Nicky sees he’s awake he smiles from where he is crouching next to the bed, arms propped on the mattress, head resting on one hand. He is so near and yet so far away, out of Joe’s reach and his beauty lets the deep, dull ache in Joe’s chest almost fade away into the background. Almost.

“Come on, my heart,” Nicky summons him and his accentuated voice curls like a protecting layer around Joe’s severely wounded heart. His still bleeding heart. “It’s time to start the day.”

In the kitchen the table is empty and Nicky leans against the door frame, watching Joe with an attentive quiet. “I already ate,” he explains and Joe nods, strangely numb, preparing himself a small slice of toast. Contrary to Nicky’s words it doesn’t smell like coffee and there are no used dishes in the sink.

While he chews endlessly on one bite, he stands close to Nicky but they’re not quite touching, never touching.

It is throbbing and pulsing in Joe’s rib cage as if his pain would live and breathe and try to escape its prison of bones and he doesn’t know how much longer he will be able to endure it.

“We could watch the sunset today.” Nicky looks distant and somewhat celestial as if he were far, far away from Joe and Joe wants to scream and beg and hold him to prevent Nicky from disappearing but all he does is give back the smile Nicky is gifting him with.

The crooked corners of Nicky’s wonderful mouth burn themselves into Joe’s mind and for one second he is falling: unstoppable and fast, without seeing or feeling anything other than this piercing burn his heart sends with every beat through his veins, tearing him apart from the inside. Thump - thump - thump…

They walk together on the beach and as Joe beholds how the salty sea air of Malta cards its windy fingers through Nicky’s hair, Joe tells him, “I miss this.” And so much more. But he can’t bring out the words, poison on his tongue and icy splinters in his blood.

In Nicky’s terribly warm gaze is nothing less than eternal empathy and glowing affection. “I know.”

When the sky turns orange like blooming day-lilies Joe thinks about taking Nicky’s hand. It would be so easy: just reaching out and interlacing their fingers as they always did. By the time the setting sun draws symphonies of colors at the horizon Joe is gritting his teeth, fighting the urge to simply pull Nicky closer to his side but then the sun is gone and Joe lets Nicky and his hands be.

The next day Andy calls and Joe toys with the idea of not answering, so he can continue to draw Nicky to endure the agony but in the end he answers nevertheless.

They have found a new mission and Andy sounds gentle and caring but also determined and wary when she asks him like she did all the time before. “It’s been over two years, Joe,” she notes and Joe hates how soft her voice suddenly is. “We would be happy if you would come back, alright? That’s all I wanted to say. We’re here for you.” A pause. “How are y-”

“I will think about it,” Joe cuts her off and ends the call, his hands shaking so bad he drops the phone.

“Yusuf.” Nicky is sitting in one of the armchairs, opposite to Joe, pure understanding in the illuminated pools Joe loved. Loves. Will always love. “You are ready.”

Joe wants to protest and argue, the lump in his throat prevents him from doing either of that. “No, it doesn’t feel like it,” he finally chokes out, eyes filling with hot tears. “Nicky, you...I don’t…”

Nicky shushes him softly, a gossamer breeze of love Joe soaks up like divine ambrosia. “I will be there with you every step of the way, habibi. Have faith in yourself.”

How can I? After all that happened? How can I fix this?

“Trust me,” Nicky says with a lowered voice as if he would tell Joe a secret just between the two of them and it has a pleading undertone. He beckons Joe to him like a siren to a lost sailor and Joe sinks down on his knees next to him.

“Nicolo…” Joe doesn’t know what to say to express the devastating, raging storm inside him.

“You underestimate your strength, my love.” It is a lie. For Joe it is a lie but he can hear Nicky’s honesty in every syllable. And that makes it so much more painful. His fingers dig hard in the armrest he clings to with all his might and although he wants to avert his gaze he can’t stand to lose sight of the love of his life. 

“And you are biased,” he accuses Nicky half-heartedly, looking up to him, full of wonder and incredibly heavy yearning for something that dissolves like morning mist on a field.

Nicky laughs and Joe doesn’t sob but it is a very close call. “Maybe I am. Maybe I just know you better than anyone else on this earth.”

You do, Joe thinks without saying it out loud because he is not strong enough for that. 

“They miss you.” Nicky lifts his hand, palm to Joe but before Joe can press his face in his touch Nicky withdraws and Joe bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes copper. “They mean you no harm, Yusuf. They want to help you because you’re family. They’re family.”

This time Joe says, “I know.” The words taste like dust. 

The kiss they exchange is light and Joe puts all his despair and love into it but it is like kissing air. 

They meet in Prague.

Booker hugs him tight but avoids eye contact, Nile smiles at him but she can’t hide her sorrow and Andy kisses his forehead which she only does when she is secretly worried. 

As promised Nicky stays close behind Joe, not leaving his side and this knowledge helps lift the weight on Joe’s chest a little. 

The bullet hitting Joe while covering the others with Nicky hurts like a bitch and he curses, spitting blood, dragging himself behind a cover. Inspecting his chest he realizes the wound doesn’t heal, searching for Nicky’s gaze.

When the others find him he is laughing, all crimson teeth and more blood than saliva on his lips. 

Booker frantically tries to stop the bleeding, talking in French to him that Joe doesn’t understand because he only looks at Nicky, kneeling on Booker’s left. Andy, in her protective vest, is holding Joe’s face, patting his cheek in a way showing him how scared she really is. It doesn’t matter that Nile yells into her phone, ordering Copley to get them help because it won’t be much longer. 

“Stay awake, Joe!” Andy shakes him, forcing him to look at her but soon enough his gaze is drawn back again to Nicky.

“Hold on, buddy.” Booker grabs his hand, slippery with his blood and tears starting to drop on their clasped hands. “Nile is talking to Copley. We will get you out of here.”

Joe is not really listening, his lips still curved into a smile. “Nicky is here…”

“Joe…” Booker starts, voice thick with emotions. “Nicky is not here.”

“Y-Yes, he is.” His mouth is filled with more and more blood but Joe couldn’t care less. His Nicolo smiles sadly at him, fingers moving to caress Joe’s blood splattered cheek, hovering an inch about his skin. “I c-an...s-see him…”

“I never left.” Nicky’s presence is a ghost of his former warmth and Joe shouldn’t be able to smell his rich, familiar scent but he does and it is wonderful. 

“Oh Yusuf.” Andy’s eyes are glistening, deep pain in her ancient eyes and she cups his face as lovingly as a mother. He knows he doesn’t have to explain for her, knows she knows and sighs. “Go to him, okay? We’ll be fine here. Go to Nicolo.”

“Fuck…” Nile sniffs and Joe hopes he gives her, his youngest sister, a reassuring look.

“It won’t hurt,” Nicky promises and Joe believes him with every fiber of his being.

I missed you, he tells him without words and Nicky’s eyes go all soft. 

He takes Nicky’s hand, finally touching, and laughs wetly as his heart heals and the all-consuming ache in his body subsides because his other half is there.

“You waited for me,” he breathes, claiming Nicky’s lips in a kiss which echoes in his very soul. 

“I will always wait for you.” Nicky brings their interlaced fingers to his lips, placing a kiss on each of Joe’s knuckles. “And whatever lies ahead of us, we will find out together.”

Joe likes that word - together. Together in life and even in death. Like it was always meant to be.

#the old guard #tog fanfic #ficlet #yusuf al-kaysani #nicolo di genova #joe x nicky

[remmushound]

Bay/rise 40!! @brightlotusmoon @errorfreak88 @digitl-art-monstr @yarchurr @sententiously-sarcastic @dakotafinely @sprinklestheditty

Content warning!! Body mutilation, details of gore, violence, and death!

“No…”

Raphael’s donation leaked out into the ceremonial paint, and what was once white was quick to turn a crimson red to match the sacred spill. Shredder’s eyes lit up white. Cassandra dropped Splinter in her shock and backed up to Draxum’s side, and Draxum’s eyes were just as wide as his companions. He hadn’t counted on ninja nimpo being part of the equation.

As the paint beneath Leonardo’s feet turned red, he looked down and stepped away l to avoid the touch as if it were toxic. He backed up as far as he could go until his carapace was pressed against the wall of vines. No— no no no no no no—it wasn’t meant to be Raphael; it was meant to be him! Meant to be his blood staining the ceremony, his blood feeding the Shredder, this wasn’t his plan—

Shredder dropped Donnie, and the first the stunned box turtle did was scramble over to his unconscious father and press two fingers to the rat's throat. His pulse was still strong. His leg was bent at an awkward angle, but if what Donnie thought was happening was in fact happening, then that was the least of their worries. Shredder was completely enraptured by Raphael like a switch had just been flicked, striding forward while a deep chuffle escaped his throat.

He sat before Raphael. The snapper stared up at the Shredder, frozen to the spot by more than just fear. Every vein in his body was ignited in a fiery red that devoured the length of his being. He felt tears running down his cheeks, but everyone except him could see that the tears weren’t tears at all. It was blood. Blood coming from his eyes and his nose and his ears and running down his body, leaving burn marks wherever it touched.

Leonardo scrambled to grab his father, not daring to get anywhere near his brother. Yoshi clung to his son tightly, his eyes wide in horror as he watched his eldest bleed from every part of his body.

“Red… Raphael!” He tried to go to his son, but Leonardo held him tight and turned at such an angle to block out both of their views so they didn't have to watch.

Shredder’s chest opened up. From within the emptiness of his being fell out a cloud of dust, bones long since burnt up now finally released from the seal that held them for so long. Wires not unlike the ones that held Krang in his body suit slivered out of Shredder, like snakes as they strangled Raphael’s body and bore him to the air as if he were weightless. Raphael couldn’t scream, even as the wires tore through the underside of his jaw and wired it shut. More agony came as the sparking tendrils wove their way into his muscles, weaving around tendons and flesh to control Raphael like a puppet. Every twitch came worse than an eternity in hellfire and if he could have moved on his own, he wasn’t sure he’d want to.

The alien wires pulled the mutant toward the chest, trying to force him inside but he was too big. The wires didn't let him go, however. They pulled him as far in as they could get him, ripping his thick skin and tearing muscles. Then the blade-like rib cage started to close, digging into the bone of Raphael’s plastron and pressing into his chest until the blades could shatter the shell and dig through the pectoral muscle to further control him. The rest of the metal ribs latched on all along his sides, digging into the bridge and plastron like they were soft as clay.

Raphael’s head was forced up, the kuro kabuto that worked as The Shredder’s head opening up to allow the mutant's head into place before snapping down onto him and crushing him like the strangle of a python.

“Shadow Fiend!” Krang cheered, grinning widely as he motioned for Shredder. The great titan of a monster turned around to face him. “Oh, you’re beautiful! I command you to kill those ra—“

Before Krang could finish his words, Shredder’s hand shot forward and grabbed Krang, the abnormally long claws a perfect fit around the utrom. He yanked Krang from his body suit with a disgusting squelch and tossed the helpless alien to the ground, looming over him with a storm brewing in his now blue eyes.

“I listen to no one.” His foot hovered above Krang for a terrifying moment before slamming down. “I…” Krang’s body splattered. There was no blood as one might expect, but instead a steady stream of purple slime spilling out of the destroyed creature. “Am…” His hands clutched at the collar around his neck. “FREE!”

With a single tug, the collar was fractured in two pieces, and Shredder pinned them to the floor. Like some savage beast, he started to tear into the collar that had controlled him for so long until it was nothing but shredded scraps.

“RAPH!” Leonardo finally cried out, and Shredder's eyes snapped to him. Neither of them moved.

“You... '' Shredder's eyes flashed with the cold memory of his time in New York. The pain of his body as it moved of its own will, teleporting him everywhere with no true focus. Fighting, because that was all he was made to do. Fighting for himself until that brat of a mutant in the blue mask forced that collar upon him and took away his will. Forcing him to be commanded by creatures far below him in every way. “I’ll kill you next!”

Shredder lunged. He was yanked back hard by his ankles as vines held him in place; vines imbued by Baron Draxum’s magic.

“RUN!”

That was all it took. Leonardo carrying Yoshi and Donnie carrying Splinter, they ran through the walls as the vines split and made way for them to pass.

“Master?” Cassandra asked, her eyes wide as she looked to Draxum.

Shredder had already broken free of the vines with a single slash and turned his attention to the yokai and human that dared challenge him.

“Cassandra, we have to go now!”

Draxum didn't give her a choice. He grabbed her hand and forced her to follow after him. After a few seconds of confused resistance, she started to run alongside him as his equal.

“RUN!” Donnie ordered to his brothers as he ran past.

Leo went to question Donnie for only a second before he saw Shredder, and then immediately took off after his brothers. Donatello and Michelangelo, however, were far more reluctant to follow after theirs.

“Leo, where’s Raph?” Donatello asked.

“Please…” Leonardo stopped for just a moment, crying heavily as his voice quivered worse than Donatello had ever heard it before, “Please just run…”

Leonardo clutched Splinter even tighter as he ran again, and this time his brothers didn't dare to question before running after him. Draxum was faster, and he hoisted Michelangelo onto his shoulder, easily supporting the young teen’s weight and carrying him faster than Michelangelo could carry himself.

“Get to the rift!” Draxum reached a claw forward, his vines following his command and spiraling to form a large gateway rift. He dropped Cassandra and shoved her forward, the kunoichi speeding ahead with an agility matched by Leonardo.

The first into the rift was Yoshi, because Leonardo had tossed the rat in against his will. Then Cassandra passed through, and Leonardo looked back just in time to see Michelangelo being tossed at him. He caught his brother, and then called to Donatello.

“HURRY!”

Donatello was the third through the rift, and then Michelangelo was there forth. Shredder bounded effortlessly over the still running bay brothers and slashed the rift in two, the portal within it blipping out of reality.

“GET BACK!” Draxum’s vines grabbed Leonardo just before the Shredder-Raph could bring its claws down on top of him. Draxum pulled Leonardo to his side and at the same instant continued to run in the opposite direction.

He let go of Leonardo and the slider quickly pulled ahead with a powerful swing of his odachi that sliced an awkward cut in reality. Leonardo fell promptly through it, but Draxum stopped to look back.

One of Shredder’s claws came so dangerously close to striking Donnie, but a swipe from Leo’s katana from behind was enough to distract him enough to rear up as high as he could stand and watch the turtles scramble beneath him. He stood and jumped in place, slamming his full weight down hard in a shockwave that knocked them all off their feet. And then he laughed.

“Turtle!” Draxum yelled, “Give me the rat!”

Donnie looked at Draxum, and then back to the laughing monster. When he was told they’d be fighting Shredder, he had been expecting something a little closer to his own Shredder in size and skill. Not this monster of a creature easily standing a hundred feet and hitting like a freight train! He gave his unconscious father one last kiss on the head before tossing him at Draxum.

Draxum caught the rat as carefully as he could, bringing Splinter to his chest and risking one last glance at the turtles and their adversary. He couldn’t risk staying any longer. Through the rift he went with the rat in his arms.

“CLOSE THE RIFT NOW!” He ordered to Leonaredo.

“Wait— but the others—“

“NOW!”

The rift closed and sealed the separation.

#oh #mi #gosh

[curvesomesunsets]

When they first meet, Alex’s mouth is full of old blood that stubbornly coats his throat. They part with Willie’s ribs cracked open and Alex’s pulse wrapped tightly in Willie’s fist. It works, somehow. Willie’s grip is firm, steadying. It works, and it’s so easy to follow him wherever he leads. Alex screams with joy until the blood drips down his lips—finally free—and Willie’s hands dig into his shoulders as though they could reach even further than the singing line inside his fist. Alex’s fingers slip where they’ve latched onto exposed bone. Willie laughs. Alex thinks he ought to crawl inside the red mess of Willie’s chest and stay within this warmth forever. 

Until suddenly, it’s gone; replaced with ice so blue it drains all colour from the space between them; until Alex’s mouth is full of blood again and his insides are burning up while weak fingers scrabble to remove whatever parasite has snuck its way into his chest. Willie’s chest is patched with frost, his tears freeze on his face, and he is too far away for Alex to burrow inside. His ribs have snapped back into place, but all wrong, and Alex takes too long to recognise hands that weren’t his or Willie’s had forced them, hands that left behind ice and ash and emptiness. His anger and terror mix until his tongue is coated black.

When Willie finally reaches out, stretches across the abyss, Alex twists desperate, shaking hands into the ice until his fingers turn red and black; until Willie’s voice sounds like a frozen lake in spring and blood spills over Alex’s frostbitten skin. Anywhere, Alex says with all he has left, with lightning in the line desperately thrumming away in Willie’s open hand. Anything, Willie whispers, voice cracking and splitting and warm. Alex buries his hands beneath the shattered ice, tangles himself in the rising sun. Willie twists the pulse still held in his freezing hands, watches the red turn golden until it wraps itself around his fingers and his wrist to join his own, phantom as it may be. Willie’s breath shakes between them, and Alex smiles. 

Willie’s shirt is soaked in blood, the shape of his splintered rib cage pressing into Alex’s chest. His breath stutters, and there is still so much ice, but it has to be enough. Willie turns away. Alex watches the golden pulse in his hand until he no longer can. The blood pooling on his tongue tastes sweeter than it did, back before Willie found his way into his lungs. It has to be enough.

#jatp #willex #julie and the phantoms #willie jatp #alex mercer #alex jatp #julie and the himbos #mywriting #tw blood #tw gore #sometimes images get stuck in my brain and then i gently place them onto the comfort characters #what does this mean you might ask #idk man i just work here #gently hopes this doesnt flop i dont know how to get posts out into this fandom im scared

[thesightstoshowyou]

Endearing

Monster OC x GN Reader

Warnings: Horror elements, supernatural elements, descriptions of chronic illness, vomit, threats, minimal blood

This is super self-indulgent. Please let me know what you think!

~~

Rotting leaves crunch under bare soles. Sharp branches on dormant bushes reach and catch on clothes, tearing fabric and nicking skin, taking their offerings of scarlet. The promise of winter chills the breeze whispering through bare branches. It bites at exposed skin, freezing sweat, and flesh, and bone.

You push on through the darkened forest, oblivious to the cold and hurt. Your body trembles, weak and feverish, but unable to pause and rest. Something calls to you, pulls you from the safety of your home in the dead of night, beckoning you to the wilds.

A thick, twisting root, hidden in fallen foliage, catches your foot. You crash into hardening soil in a flurry of decaying leaves and broken branches. A slurred groan leaves your quivering lips, a sound that registers in your foggy mind.

The fall breaks your trance. You blink, clear your vision, push to your aching knees and wrap your arms around your quaking form. Panic momentarily overrides your misery; where are you? How and why have you come here? The empty trees and icy moonlight offer no answers.

The reprieve is short. Illness returns in a wave of nausea. You hunch, wretch, producing nothing but burning bile. As you cough and hack and spit, your blurry, tear-filled eyes focus on porous white peeking from between a cluster of dead leaves.

With a shaking hand, you reach out and brush away the foliage to reveal a splintered rib cage. The stripped bones almost glow in the light of the full moon hanging overhead. Your stomach plummets. The bones look suspiciously human.

Your shallow gasps turn to white mist before your parted lips. The shivering of your body grows more frantic, fever no longer the only cause of your trembling. Your burning joints protest as you desperately try to push to your feet, ultimately failing and dropping back to the ground with a sob.

“Frail little thing, aren’t you?” The voice that speaks from the trees is rough, unnaturally grating, and impossibly deep. Heart stuttering in your chest, your head snaps up, chilly hand going to your mouth to stifle your terrified cry.

You see nothing at first, nothing but hulking tree trunks and shadows that morph into your worst fears. Frantically, you scan the darkness, your panicked breaths stalling in your lungs when your wide-eyes gaze meets stark white.

Two glowing eyes, perfect mimics of the moon hanging apathetically in the starry sky, hover in the trees ahead. They stare, unblinking, piercing right through you like the frigid wind. Around the eerie eyes is an imposing black shadow, too obscured in the darkness to reveal any detail.

You’re frozen, rooted to the spot in fear and confusion, the impossibility it all sending your heart rate skyward. Your thoughts reach and grasp blindly for a logical explanation, ultimately falling short when the eyes shift. They slink behind a thick trunk, a scratching and dragging heralding their appearance on the other side of the tree.

“Who, what, why, you wonder, do you not?” Stunned, terrified, too weak and ailing to do anything but shake like a leaf in the breeze, you dip your chin a half-nod.

“Yes,” you whisper. An abhorrent, low, rolling noise reaches your ears. It’s the sound a towering wave makes just before it crashes against the shore. The back of your neck prickles, the hair on your arms raising in alarm.

Laughter, you realize.

“Yes? That is all? No, ‘Please?’ No, ‘Spare me?’”

“What—what can I say?” you ask, tossing your arms up in defeat. This...creature, this indescribable being will get no fight from you. Your weakened condition won’t allow such a feat. Your limbs will buckle, or the fever, or nausea, or pain will claim you well before you could do anything substantial.

Death will be a mercy. You’ll be rid of this useless body, free to rot away with the foliage until you’re nothing but bone reflecting the moonlight. No more pain, no more treatments, no more endless daily struggle.

The creature is silent for some time, intently watching the way you shiver and sweat and clutch yourself. You stare back, afraid and resigned. Instinct shrieks at you to flee, but you couldn’t if you tried. There’s no strength left in you and your bare toes have gone completely numb from cold.

The black shape twitches, oozes from behind the tree, then lumbers forward. It’s movements are indefinable, as is its shape and texture. Its flesh rustles like feathers, but moves like oil over water on thick limbs—no, thin limbs? You squint your eyes; looking at it for too long makes you lightheaded. The only unchanging feature are its white, pupilless eyes.

It stops a few feet before you, stretching and towering and curling so you must tip your head back to meet its eerie gaze. There is no mouth that you can see, but it speaks regardless:

“You are pathetic,” it states, matter-of-fact, but there’s the barest hint of pity in its rumbling voice. You’re so taken aback by its words that you laugh, the tremulous chuckle leaving your mouth in a huff.

“Yeah. Yeah I am.” You jump when something brushes your cheek. A limb you hadn’t noticed protrudes from the creature’s strange body and prods your skin. Gradually, it grows long, multi-jointed fingers that twist strangely and cradle your face.

The bizarre, alien texture of the being’s skin is only off putting for a moment. The “palm” that rests against your cheek, you realize, is incredibly warm, soothing in the chill of the night. Your eyes slip closed and you lean into the surprisingly tender touch.

“Perhaps it is endearing,” the thing muses. It sounds almost annoyed, as though the thought of finding something “endearing” is terribly troublesome.

You answer, in case the statement is directed at you, “Thanks.”

More rolling, henious laughter that makes you flinch, then, “Come. These woods are no place for something so helpless.” A second limb emerges and the being seizes you under the arms, lifting and setting you on trembling legs that nearly buckle under your weight, “Go home.”

“I won’t make it—

You’re flipped around. You blink in shock. A few steps away lies your front door. Turning, you find your yard deserted, the forest rustling quietly in the distance.

#exophilia #my writing #monster x reader #monster x you #monsters #horror #horror writing #reader insert #chronic illness #monster oc #my oc

[huntingbounties]

To The Well

     “You think gun is going to save you? Pity.”

      As the bullets bounced off the russian’s muscular exterior, Roman tilted his head a bit with a shrug. It seemed like that wasn’t going to be happening. That was a first. Then again, he’d seen some mutants survive gasline explosions, so maybe this was in line with all of that. 

      All that said, Roman holstered the gun to his thigh and cracked his gloved hands as the darker haired man approached through the gas station entrance. 

     “Hm, maybe bullets were better idea,” the enemy laughed, chest puffed proud under the black tanktop. From their skirmish thus far, that was the only thing that showed any damage. The bullets made tears in the fabric here and there but the shirt still clung to the man’s muscular form. 

     Bulky. Slow. 

     He could handle this. 

     “C’mon, Chekov. Let’s see what you’re made of.” Roman drew his fists and started to bounce slightly on his boots as the tank approached.

      Dark hair, grizzled face. Wrinkles of age shined as the man grinned. “It’s Maxim, and I think we shall see what you are made of!” Proud in his steps, the man didn’t raise his arms in the slightest to Roman’s advances. 

     That was fine. Roman was ready, that’s all that mattered. As the distance closed between them and Roman was in the back corner of the cleared gas station, his mind raced with a rush of steps he planned to take. In a flash, those plans went into action. A heavy kick shot out from his right and cracked into his opponents hip before his boot quickly touched back to the ground as his left hand fired out a shot to the man’s jaw. Before that was even over, his right hand took a hook at him. 

      It felt like he had hit a brick wall.

      His knuckles screamed back at him as his bounce slowed down. Eyes were wide at the chuckling Russian who’d just eaten all three hits as though they were from a toddler. 

     “S’good, but is my turn now, yes?”

      A tree trunk of an arm slugged towards Roman but he managed to duck it, hearing the wall behind him getting a new window added to it. Roman retaliated with a quick jab to the man’s rib cage before skirting to the left to dodge another assault. There went a shelf behind him as Maxim grunted. Roman tried to not focus on all of that but rather on the man of iron in front of him. 

     Light on his feet, Roman dodged two more shots as he worked his way out of the corner. His feet started to jog him along the back wall until he bumped the front counter. Maxim was quick to be on him, a heavy hammer fist coming down.

     Roman just barely moved out of the way only to see the metal fold and the wood underneath it turn to splinters and boards. He drifted back a few steps to gain some distance but the russian was quick to follow. 

      “Come, why you run,” he barked with a smile, the dark hues of his eyes shining under the white lights.

      There. 

      Grabbing one of the shelves next to them, Roman jerked it down before backpedaling out of the way. He heard a small grunt mixed into all the items crashing to the floor as he bolted around the aisles. 

     Think, think, think. 

      His thought process was cut short as he say the large metal aisle flying over the others and heading right towards him. He gasped and dove forward as it smashed into the freezers. 

      “You really thought that would stop me? Durak..” 

      Like a speeding bullet, the man came crashing through the rest of the store, knocking through any and every obstacle that came in contact with his strong form. The noise through it all was near deafening as metal and plastic smashed to tile. 

     A strong hand grabbed Roman by the throat before he could get away again and smashed him into one of the glass doors to the freezer. He gasped at it all. The sudden force against his throat, the blunt force smashing against his skull, his muscles crashing into the shelves and knocking them out of the way. The worst part of it all was the sharp pain he had in the back of his thigh and below his ribs. 

    He winced and gasped, chest raising and falling rapidly as he was pressed into the small box. Limp hands pawed at the large arm that had him pinned. His legs kicked out the best they could, the toe of his boot meeting the world’s strongest stomach. 

    Nothing budged. It was like the man was made of stone as he smiled at Roman. “You killed my friends, durak. Is only fair, yes? So, fast and quick, or slow and drawn out?”

      “Q--Q--Qui--”

      “What’s that? Quick?”

      Mustering all the blood and saliva his tongue could gather, Roman spat in the man’s face with a snarl.

      Maxim’s smile dulled and his eyes grew cold. His free hand wiped his face. “Slow and painful it is.” He drew back his free hand, balled a brick sized fist, and flung it straight towards the Brit’s face.

      It came to a sudden stop. A shaking hand caught the fist, the gloved fingers clenching it as hard as he could. Roman gasped and grit his teeth. The pain bloomed and drifted through him in heavy waves. His focus and breathing tried to find the pattern. He looked for the less intense shots. He felt the man start to pull his fist back. 

     His moment was opening. 

     Maxim drew his fist away from Roman’s gasp, rearing it back fully before driving it forward with all his strength behind it. A heavy laugh rang as if flew.

    All Roman could do in that time was snort. 

     His own hand jutted out, but not in a fist. His fingers formed together in a point right towards the Russian’s hand. In a blink of an eye, streams of blue surged around his fingers and along his arm just before they met the incoming hand. 

     Maxim’s eyes went wide. 

     Roman’s squinted. 

     A wash of red flooded the area, splattering on the shards of glass, the tile, and their clothes. Roman could feel the warmth hit him as he opened his eyes to see the outcome. The pressure around his neck eased as they both saw.

     Maxim’s hand was gone. Or rather, it wasn’t on his wrist anymore. What was left was a bleeding stomp of jacked bone and skin just barely clinging together in a mess of flesh. The Russian staggered back as he grabbed at his hurt limb, eyes wide. 

     “H--How! How did you---”

      The shock on him was enough for Roman to move. One leg stepped out of the freezer he’d been placed in before the other pressed to the back wall. In a flash, he pushed off and flew towards the massive man. A heavy left hand cocked the Russian in the jaw with a loud cracked, knocking him from his feet and down onto the cold tile. 

      Roman fell with him, straddling the man. He quickly held the man’s neck down as the other hand dug into his right side, gasping as he pulled a large shard of glass from his side. 

     “Mu’ dak,” Maxim screamed, his one good hand rushing to punch the smaller man off him, but it was to no avail.

     “Fuck you!”

      The glass plunged into that dark orb of his and dug in deep. By the time his fist met Roman, it was a slow slap that soon fell to his own chest. Everything in his body went limp. All the strain in his face was empty. Lost. Just like the air in his chest.

     Roman’s shoulders sagged, his bloodied glove easing against the shard of glass. His whole body grew weak as he finally started to take in his faded breaths. He sagged and fell off the limp man onto one of the knocked over shelves.

    “F....Fuck..”

     Every bone in him screamed in pain. His side throbbed over and over as he reached around to cup the stab wound. “S...Should’ve left that in...” 

    Roman looked around at the destroyed gas station. He looked to the shattered counter, the toppled aisles, and the shattered freezers. He then looked to the slain mutant. That was closer than he’d hoped to have things, but he managed. He always managed.

     “Fuckin’ Chekov.” 

     With whatever energy he had left, Roman pushed off his knee to get back to his feet before tiptoeing through the whole mess. It was hard to find anything amongst the sea of chips, alcohol, and magazines, but he found a box of bandages and huffed a small laugh to himself. He looked outside to see the destroyed cars with bullets through the windshields. Past it, he could see the flashing red and blue of the police cars in the distance.

     That was his cue. Time to bounce.

      Roman looked back down to the defeated brute and knocked his boot against the man’s temple before ducking low. The backdoor would do for now. 

     A job well done. And...another trip to a medic. 

#To the well #drabble #little bit of action practice #kinda rough but idk #sjghfkbgh #LISTEN OKAY I JUST WANTED TO DO A LITTLE BIT OF ACTION #blood tw #gore tw #violence tw #stab tw

[janekfan]

Stipulations

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366131/chapters/64217887

(Kind of heavy? Maybe? If you've experienced some of these themes? Or all of them? At once? I just love to project all over these characters soooo...sorry Jon. You must bear the brunt of my emotional ills :D

Basira is an interesting character to me. Like she's been kept in the dark, Jon has lied and been weird and is "eating" people's fears and I get it? But 177, oof. Take your victim blaming elsewhere! Especially considering she's used him for his powers before and is hypocritical when it comes to Daisy. So yeah. Got feels. Here they are all spilled over a page :D )

Weary, the avatar of the Beholding slipped between shadows in the Institute’s dark corridors, lingering at the door behind which were the key to relieving his acute suffering. He didn’t even notice that his trembling fingers were gripping the handle so tightly they ached, or that his face was pressed against the rough surface of the wood until a sharp sound from behind jolted him out of his ravenous longing.

“Jon.”

Basira. Judging from the livid expression on her face, she’d been repeating his name and was not well pleased with what she saw if the hand on her gun was any indication.

“Step. Away.” And the only reason he did, he could was the whisper of fear the Eye could sense, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. “Stop.” Whatever was left of Jon obeyed, his own fear of her very real consequences overriding the desire to takefeedriptearsatiate hunger pangs so deep and ingrained that a part of him he couldn’t remember what it was anymore to not feel starved. Who was he without this need?

Who was he that Basira needed to be afraid of him?

“Ba--”

“Shut up.” He did, with the muted click of teeth and a dry swallow. Without the singular focus of what lay behind the door he felt shaky, weak. Like at any moment his legs would give way and he’d be left here on the floor. It happened sometimes. “What are you doing?” What was he doing? She turned from him. “Nevermind. Come with me.”

“Wh’where?” The fierce glare over her shoulder made him flinch and he followed her without any more questions into his office.

Oh.

“Sit down.” Gratefully. The last time she’d had him stand and, well.

“B’Basira.” He tried again, ashamed of the pleading note that crept into his voice. He wasn’t well. He. He didn’t want to do this but even so, her disgusted disappointment was cutting. He didn’t need to Know to know that she thought him pathetic, that she thought if only he was stronger they wouldn’t have this problem, this inconvenience. This was the only thing he was good for. If he could turn his powers into a tool for them then it proved there was still something human in him, right? Basira was helping him hold onto it, that’s why she asked this of him, because it was helping. From a folder under her arm she pulled a mugshot, sliding it across the desk. Jon didn’t look. He didn’t have to.

“Where is he?” He tried to resist, like she was the one who held the power of compulsion and not him, but he wanted to help. More than anything, he wanted to help fix what he’d done. The headache behind his eyes worsened when the Eye opened, demanding payment he didn’t have to give and dredging up what he needed to Know like drawing water from a depthless well. Static rose in a tide, angry, loud, greedy and he didn’t, there wasn’t enough left, like wringing blood from a stone.

Feed your god, or your god will feed on you.

Basira’s lead pooled on his tongue and fell from his lips and it tasted like ash and ink as the static finally overwhelmed him, rising in a wave, deafening, roaring, punishing him for daring to demand Knowledge for free.

Later. Minutes. Days. Weeks. Years later Jon woke to the rasp of a statement slipping under his door and he descended on it like a vulture, ugly and clawing, weeping with this taste of relief, no matter how small. He read it again and again, the metaphysical equivalent of licking his plate clean and when the static faded and the green was gone from his eyes, Jon jerked back to awareness with a sharp gasp, nauseated with dread realization. Curling up right where he was, Jon covered his face in both hands, stifling his noise and hiding his tears even though no one was left but him.

Hollow in his very bones, like a bird, Jon wished more than anything to fly away from this prison, to somewhere, anywhere, that did not hurt. He wandered familiar halls as an apparition of hunger, subsisting on sips of air and the dust of infinite statements and it felt like punishment. To be kept alive by the Beholding even as it killed him letter by word by sentence by paragraph by--

The tea kettle. Cold. Like him. Frozen and shivering and missing so badly his heart throbbed painfully in his narrow chest. Jon ended up here more often than he wanted to admit. It was a comfort. Security. The last remnant of someone who tolerated him, proof someone had once known him enough to care for him.

Someone else he’d thrown away.

Despite their strained relationship, he was so thankful he still had Basira, that she hadn’t left him in this place alone, even though he knew she couldn’t leave because of him. But he’d always been selfish; there was no reason would that change now. But he could make it up to her. If he was good, if he was helpful, she would reward him and that was more kindness than he deserved. Because he wasn’t supposed to have statements anymore. He was beating this “addiction” she called it. If he could be strong, she wouldn’t have to keep them under lock and key and she knew he wasn’t. He was lucky she was there to do this for him. To protect him when everyone else had gone.

On the days where he couldn’t make it to the tea kettle, Jon lay as still as possible in his office, the migraine caused by demands he didn’t have the resources to spend and spent anyway so bad it took up all the space he had left for worrying about other things. On those days, the hunger was almost quiet, body too full of aches for any one part of him to direct his attention.

Then he lost his ribs. No. Not lost. He had one. Gave the other away. For Daisy. For Basira and he walked into the earth with every intention of rescuing a very important person. The Buried, the Choke, took all the hungry away and replaced it with fear and when he found Daisy and hooked their fingers together in the damp filth of this place, this eternal coffin unending, he never let go.

And still he failed her.

Until he was saved by the familiar hum and hiss of the tape recorders burrowed into his ears and refused to be ignored and they walked out.

Mostly whole.

Daisy. His salvation. His chance to prove he could still be good, passed triumphantly into Basira’s waiting arms. Despite himself, Jon knew he was beaming as much as he still could, hoping for a morsel of praise, the yearning for it almost as debilitating as the emptiness inside him. There was nothing, as he knew there would be, as Basira whisked Daisy away for medical attention and assessment which of course, was a much higher priority than soothing the ego of a monster. The room reeked of the Lonely, made his skin itch and his blood burn because he recognized a familiarity, had laid unconscious claim to it as an assistant. He was the Archivist. It was his job to protect his assistants and though he’d done a piss poor job of it thus far, it didn’t stop him from wanting to unleash his latent power on such a brazen entity that dared touch what was his. He would very much enjoy taking it apart when the time came.

Shaking his head to clear it of these new and aggressive thoughts, Jon stumbled away to clean up, ready to retreat into his sanctuary and rest for a little while until he could be useful again.

It was no longer the kettle he visited. It was the door.

Locked.

Barred.

Basira had forgotten him in favor of Daisy. Of course, she needed her. And didn’t need him for leads and without that slim hope he might get a statement out of it, he found himself going a bit mad with hunger. He Knew where they were in the building, none of them could leave it for long, and the last ounces of his dwindling control were funneled into stopping himself begging for her help.

Basira didn’t, she wouldn’t like that.

Calm. Quiet. Useful. Out of the way. He could be those things. She liked those things.

Jon couldn’t leave the door. Not now when the proximity quelled the myriad whispers overlapping in his mind like a thousand trains of thought. If he listened hard enough, curled up close enough, he could hear them tucked away in their folders and envelopes nestled in boxes, rows of boxes, so many boxes he could eat and eat until, until maybe--

“What are you doing?” With sore, heavy eyes Jon looked up into Basira’s harsh and unforgiving stare and wished for a glimpse of understanding or kindness. “What have you done to your hands?” His hands? It wasn’t him examining his torn up fingers, skin slowly knitting back together, it wasn’t him feeling the twinges of splinters dug in under his broken nails or noticing the smears of red, ruby, rust blood adorning the door like an animal tried to claw their way out. But it was him. Wasn’t it? Trying to claw his way in.

And he didn’t remember doing it.

“I...I, I d’d’dunno.”

“You “dunno?”” She didn’t believe him. And why would she when all he’d done is lie. Like a cat, he was lifted by the bunched up collar at the back of his neck, pushed, stumbling, down the corridors and held at arm's length. Even so, the warmth from her hand, the electric shock her touch sent racing down his spine was heady and distracting. He hadn’t been touched in so long and far too soon it was over as she shoved him into his chair in his office in his wing in his cage of his own making before backing away and locking the door behind her.

Quiet, quiet, quiet.

If he was quiet she would let him out. He just needed to be patient. That’s all. He was selfish, taking time away from Daisy when she needed it most. Basira did the right thing, protected him from himself. He was lucky to have someone who cared like that, to make the hardest decisions for him and so sorry that he kept causing her problems.

He curled beneath his desk, the small space comforting and contained, keeping all his pieces together as he lost hold of them one by one. So tired, so sick, he tried to sleep and it just wouldn’t come where he was huddled around the aching empty abyss in his body. It was all he could think about, a statement, just one. Please. Anything, a taste. Pacing like a caged tiger when he had a rare burst of frenetic energy, laying on the floor of his office when he collapsed, tugging listlessly at the handle of the door. Crying, crying, crying in his hiding spot but always silent. It wouldn’t do to be heard. Unseen and not heard. That was the best way. And then she would let him out.

She always let him out.

#TMA #The magnus Archives #Jon sims #basira hussain #Daisy Tonner #Jon and Daisy are friends #Bad mental health #PTSD #mental instability #flashbacks #police brutally #starvation #self harm #scratching #manipulati

[mxvladdy]

A Break- Prt. 4

Hey Hey. Here is part 4 (yay). I think this story is almost at the end. I'm thinking one more large part and an epilogue.

Hope y'all like!

To be caught so unaware was an embarrassment to his lineage. He had been trained since birth to never let his guard down. He was the eldest son, a target had been placed on his back since conception. No doubt his ancestors were laughing at him now as he bled out on the grimy floor.

His team had been hit during a lull between shifts. Such an amateur mistake. Talon struck just as he was winding down for the night. The warm buzz of alcohol and his girlfriend’s laughter promising to send him into a peaceful slumber. Hanzo’s good mood dissipated the moment his head hit the pillow and the sirens blared to life in his room. He should have never gotten this comfortable. The weeks at this compound had been boring, to say the least.

Begrudgingly, Hanzo had to admit that it had been a clever attack. The southern wall was this location’s weakest. The high winds and frozen spray from the ocean constantly wearing down the cement and weakening the steel. Sombra- the ever thorn in Winston’s side- had disabled Athena and her turrets for just enough time to sneak through and create a hole large enough for their team to infiltrate Overwatch’s halls. It had been sheer dumb luck that Reinhardt was early to his patrol spot that tonight. The first flood of talon operatives caught off guard just as much as he was. It was a quick and dirty fight. While Talon grunts had the advantage of numbers; the German giant was a seasoned fighter.

Hanzo’s room was lucky closest to the initial fight. Using Reinhardt’s boisterous fighting style to guild him down the maze-like corridors Hanzo entered the fray. Together they pushed back the seemingly endless waves of bodies being thrown at them. “Where is the rest of the team?” Wilhelm roars over his shoulder, a fresh gash from a fight with a talon assassin blinding his good eye. He swings out wildly, catching a few foot soldiers with his hammer.

“I cannot say,” Hanzo calls back, letting his arrow fly true around his german shield. “I was unable to reach them.” Damn it. He switches to melee, his quiver empty and useless on the floor. They were separated from the team and outplayed. Fine. Hanzo wipes the blood and sweat from his brow. These bastards may have divided them, but he would never let them be conquered.

“Move!” Hanzo shouts between a wild spray of bullets. Wilhelm grunts with the force of the projectiles bouncing off his shield. The sides of which begin to crack from the damage. Pulling an arrow from a fallen enemy’s chest the marksman readies himself.

Reinhardt looks back at him knowingly. He feels the hairs on his arms rise as the dragons awaken, the corridor filling with the scent of ozone. “With pleasure my friend!” He laughs, dropping his shield and jumping to the side. Hanzo’s dragons roar to life from his skin, maws wide and greedy for blood. They shoot down the hall, amplified by their master’s frustration. The psychic link he shared with them allowed him to feel the spill of his enemies' blood and splintering bone as they built momentum. It did little to soothe his pride, but it felt good all the same. Ignoring his fighting companions' shouts of victory, Hanzo cocks his head. Something about this whole encounter made him uneasy. Everything about this was too easy. The enemy fell back too easily, and for such a planned break-in. Talon would have checked which agents were here and would have planned accordingly to counter them. “Wilhelm, we must-”

Then the floor caves; a large metal hand breaking through. Unforgiving fingers wrap around his torso. Despite how loud hundreds of pounds of concrete and rebar being torn apart had to be. Hanzo heard nothing but the high pitch whine of fear and rush of wind as he was pulled down. Time froze for a moment. His gaze hyper fixated on Wilhelms' wide-eyed look of panic. One gargantuan hand reaching for the archer unsuccessfully as Hanzo plummets.

Hanzo wakes to the feeling of warmth all over. For a moment in a dazed illusion, he thought he had perhaps slipped in the shower. A hot liquid spread across the tattered remains of his sleepwear and coated his face. The coppery scent of it assaulting his nostrils and making him gag. He blinks up in a daze. The hole he fell though was all but a pinprick above him. What little light he had was dimmed by grey and deep crimson spots swimming in his vision. Kuso .

He tries to move but stops at a sharp pain shooting through his thighs and spine. He couldn’t feel his legs. Damn it, he can see the exposed wires of his crushed legs sparking dangerously in the dark. The rubble and metal debris crushing his lower half. Hanzo looks away swallowing down his growing sense of dread and presses a trembling hand to his open side resting back on to the slab of concrete, careful not to jostle himself too badly.

Hanzo gnashed his teeth together at the searing pain slowly waking up around his body. Each thump of his racing heart traveling around his body like lightning. He couldn’t reach the ruins of his legs to turn off the neurotransmitters, the phantom pains clawing at his psyche. It was like he had lost them all over again.

Breathing was utter agony. His rib cage protested against each shallow phlegmy breath. He felt so light-headed. His dragons come out slowly, their forms sluggish to take shape. It was worrisome how long it took them to manifest their bodies. They appear less opaque, the borders around them wispy and weak. He hadn’t much time left.

“Peace-” He wheezes at them. They ignore him in order to circle him. Their fear clouding his mind. Pinned. Danger. Rest when safe. They nuzzle him, muzzles and little tongues swiping at the drying blood on his face. Help. Help. What do? Their voices rise in unison. “Shh.” Hanzo tries again. He listens to them panic over his broken body. His heart sank as the list grew. Hanzo already knew his legs were bust and his spine worryingly unresponsive. But the growing tightness of his chest and limited visions raised alarms. “Akuma.” Hanzo breathes. He reaches out blindly with his free arm. The larger of his two dragons come closer, bumping his cool translucent nose against his hand. Hanzo strokes his ancient beast calmingly to regain his composure. “Find Genji-” He pauses, feeling light-headed with each word. “ quickly .” Hanzo hates how weak he sounded. He drops his hand then. The red streak left behind a stark contrast to the blue of his scales and large white mane.

The great beast rose, nodding its head once before blurring down the corridor. Hanzo looks to the slimmer dragon, her antlers scratching uselessly at the rubble around his legs. “Ibuki.” She ignores him scratching and pawing harder at a large chunk of concrete to no avail. “Ibuki,” He is softer this time, trying to reach out for her. He cries, pulling something in his side. He falls back as a coughing fit disorients him. Ibuki is there when he comes too wrapped around him gently. Her little blue tongue lapping at the grime on his purpling ribcage.

Hanzo shakes his head, even the slightest touch hurt. She stopped whimpering in distress. I’m scared . Her words are shared between them in the silence. “I know.” He murmurs back. She nuzzles at his limp arm, rubbing and licking at his open palm. Hanzo lets her, too afraid to admit that he couldn’t feel it. “Go.” Hanzo says. Ibuki starts, his hoarse command was absolute. “You are too bright my friend. It will draw attention to my position. Catch up with your brother, or better yet find Ana.” He smiles weakly, steeling his resolve. “I’ll be fine. I promise.” He lies.

It was better this way. At least they could bring the team to his body. Better than letting Talon get to him. He shudders at the thought. They no doubt would use what was left of him as a guinea pig. That scientist of theirs was the stuff of his nightmares. If she knew his thoughts she said nothing, giving him one last bump with her snout before speeding off herself. He shivers at the loss of her warmth.

Hanzo drifts alone for who knows how long; every slow blink felt like hours. He counted his breath to mark the time. Each slow pull of oxygen was like inhaling glass, the dusty air cutting his already tender throat. Yet, he focused on it. Focused on the pain of living, centering himself, feeling the myriad of wounds littering his body. The physical pain was nothing compared to the dread creeping into his head. The dark whispers of the countless bodies of his past coming to claim their due. They mocked him, laughing at the finality of his situation. He didn’t need the memories of the past to tell him the inevitable. This had always been a possibility. He knew that. He knew that it was more likely than not that he would die bleeding out in some grimy hole rather than at home or of old age. He thought he was ready for it when it came. But thinking and knowing were so different.

He regretted that it had to end this way. But, remorse was nothing new to him. It’s acrid taste was always there at the back of his throat.There was no chance of redemption now. A failure even in death. The knowledge that he was going to die down here, broken and alone, knocked what little breath he had left out of him. After all this time, he didn’t want to be alone anymore, not for this. He wanted his brother. To see him and make sure he was ok. He wanted one more chance to rebuild what he had destroyed all those years ago. He wanted to sit and meditate in the gardens with him one more time.

Hanzo choked, swearing he could smell the wild scents of Bastion’s garden. The overgrown honeysuckle bush would be blooming now. It’s pale yellow flowers climbing up the old munition house’s walls. He could almost taste the tomatoes they grew just for him; his favorite heirlooms would be a deep purple by now and ready to pick. Damn, he could taste them in his favorite dish. The salt and balsamic vinegar pungent, overpowering the taste of pennies on his tongue. Mind frantic for anything to keep him conscious latched onto the book still sitting on his nightstand. Mei had just given it to him; she was looking forward to his view on her favorite characters. Their little book circle had grown over the past few months. Lena and Ana join in, first for tea, then the company and book recommendations. How cruel . Hanzo chuckles humorlessly at the weak attempt his body put up to keep him alive. He could enjoy the irony though. Finally, for the first time in his life he had things to look forward to. People in his life wanted him for something more than his birthright. He had his family. He had true friends. He had you-

The hopeless pit in his stomach consumes him. Fresh tears streak down his face, leaving tracks in the dirt and cracking blood coating his face. The viscous liquid begging to matte in his disheveled beard. He couldn’t bear the fact that you were going to be yet another person he would hurt.

Hanzo drifts for who knows how long. Soul floating between realms. Every slow blink felt like hours. The clicking of his dry throat as he struggled for breath was his only reminder that he still lived. The dark void around him felt like a warm blanket. Would you miss him? A selfish part of him hoped so. But the other part of him hopes you will hate him. That you would wipe his face from your memory. Perhaps you would be hurt for a while, but it is for the best. Soft memories of you flint across his eyes. The hours alone in the back of your shop tasing new blend ideas and biscuits that complement them. Your soft fingers intertwined with his in bed. His rough fingers marveling at how smooth yours were. That blinding smile in the morning when you wake to see him still there, afraid he might have left in the night to go back to whence he came. How many times had you insinuated you would like him to live with you. He wished he had said yes. It would have been nice to have a proper home.

A sense of calm rolls over him thinking of you. His rattling breath becomes fainter in his ears as he slips away. At last, Hanzo succumbs with a sigh.

The first breath after death hurt like a bitch. Air barreling itself back into his lung, pushing his bruised and broken ribs to expand. Pushing the splintered bone out of the tender tissue with each staggered breath. His blood flowed sluggishly again ridding themselves of the dead cells and burning all the while. A weak pulse started up in his temple. Hanzo gasps, eyes rolling behind his lids. Who?

The bioemitter’s low light fills the cavernous space. The light bobs along with the steps of its owner. “ My how the mighty fall.” Hanzo’s lips twitch, pulling up instinctively into a sneer. That smarmy tone of superiority. It would put his late uncle to shame. “Come now. Is that any way to greet your savior?” Akande flashes the wounded man a predatory smile.

“You have saved me from nothing.” Hanzo spat still too weak to do much but glower up at the hulking fighter. “Leave.” He would rather die from the acid slowly seeping out of his stomach wound then hear anything the man had to say.

Akande ignores him, coming to crouch close to the archer. He tosses the emitter casual up in the air. “I came to see if you have thought on my offer a little bit more.” His sharp gaze looks over the fallen prince. “I believe we could- help each other.”

Hanzo scoffs, getting a sick sense of satisfaction from the flecks of blood that splatter on Akande’s pristinely smug face. “I would have thought my actions were clear enough. But, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Oh?” His smile falters for a moment before pulling tighter.

Hanzo nods weakly matching the other man's smile. “Your brazen tactics and foolhardiness on top of your lack of concern for your underlings shows me just how pathetic your organization actually is.” The strike was swift and expected. Stars erupt in his vision as his head cracked hard against the concrete behind him. His nose throbbed as it was broken again .

Akande’s grin was gone. His false mask of pleasantry was replaced with open hostility. “I see.” He looks at the healing device dwarfed in his large palm. “Very well,” He crushes it into dust with a flick of his hand. Hanzo hisses as the warm healing light was lost. “Your consent isn’t necessary. It was merely a formataly to ask.” Cold mechanical fingers latch into Hanzo’s matted hair. His cry of pain echoing as he is pulled out of the rubble. The metal of his knees catching on the beam that had pinned him. With a hearty pull, Akande separated the last few wires connecting the archer's prosthetics to his upper thighs. His legs connective sensors and wires sever with a snap. The noise of it lost as Hanzo’s screams jumped in pitch catching in the back of his throat. He grapples unsuccessfully against the hand dragging him. Akande smirks. “Rest assured Dragon. I will make you into perfection . You don’t even have to be breathing for me to do it.” He grabs at the small man’s throat with his free hand. Warm fingers as strong as iron cutting off what little air Hanzo could get.

Akande watches blankly as the archer struggles, blood spots erupting in his wide eyes. Fear cutting through his asinine attempt at bravery. Moira could fix the damage with ease. He cocks his head at the tiny pop of Hanzo’s trachea snapping under the strain. Well, tools don’t need to speak.

Preoccupied as he was with subduing his latest super-assassin Akande did not notice the streaks of blue and green barreling towards them. He was unprepared for the feel of teeth and claw ripping into his back and legs. With a roar of indignation, he threw the broken archer away, trying instead to grapple with the ancestral beasts.

Hanzo lands with a wet thud, sliding to a stop a few yards away. What little healing he had gotten from the emitter completely undone. He watches immobile, coldness seeping into his limbs. He accepts the darkness this time without a fight.

“Still nothing?” Tabby licks at the smear of icing on her thumb from her perch on your countertop. Man, it must be bad. You normally would be down her throat for putting her ass on a cooking surface. She watched you pace, your eyes never leaving the tiny screen of your phone.

“Am I overthinking this?” You ask swiping through your last few texts. Had you said something that offended? Hanzo was normally fine with telling you if something made him uncomfortable, so why would this time be different. Besides, your last couple days of messages had been completely innocent. He was helping you choose which dessert would be featured on your site for the holidays. You had it narrowed down to three before he had stopped responding. “He promised to call last night. He said he was off duty today so he could stay up late.” He sent you his schedule for the upcoming months. He was off, you had planned to stream a movie together to unwind.

Tabatha sighs loudly. “People forget BB.” She hops from the counter and wraps a strong hand around your waste. “It’s normal.” She leads you to your living room trying to console you. It didn’t help at all. People forgot sure. You forgot a lot. But Hanzo doesn’t. The man practically lived through his phone’s planner. It was one of the things you loved about him. He was predictable- reliable. “ Come on -” She takes your phone and tosses it somewhere over her shoulder to be lost in your couch cushions. “Tell ya what. You can call him tomorrow after work. Don’t act like you haven’t been blowing up the poor man’s phone.” Tabby drops down on top of where your phone landed. “Relax with me.” She flicks on Netflix, a new season of your favorite baking show had just dropped. It was the best show to get some new ideas from. Especially with the back to back holidays coming up. You had to stay fresh to keep up with the competitors.

With a sigh of defeat, you sink into your armchair, notebook in hand. He’ll get back to you when he could.  

The weeks passed in a dizzying blur. Each day you found your hand inching closer and closer to your phone. Tabatha, bless her, had been keeping you busy. Bills waited for no man and salaries had to be paid. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for you to focus on. It was better than thinking of the dead weight in your pocket. Just be patient. You trust him right? So trust him. She would say each time she caught you staring holes into your phone. You trusted him. So you waited.

“You think he ghosted?” The words were barely over a whisper. A breath from one of your younger workers to another. They meant nothing by it, you knew that. They were both sweet kids, just concerned. You couldn’t deny that your mood and work attitude have been suffering from all this. But it still stung like a slap all the same. Doubly so because you were thinking it too. It was stupid to even think about that. Hanzo was too mature for such a cheap tactic. He always carried himself with such pose and talked so much about honor and duties. Leaving you like this would be beneath him.  

Locking up after another day of silence you trudge home for the first time in a long time by yourself. You had had a revolving group of close friends that had taken it upon themselves to keep you company as you sulked. Tonight they had all planned a big blow-out bar hopping event, with you as the “guest of honor”. Sweet- but not what you needed. Besides, you couldn’t rely on them forever damn it. You were a big girl. This wasn’t your first break-up.

But this one hurt the most.

You sigh pocketing your phone as your friends blow up your phone for the third time that night. You just needed a night to yourself. Nothing some junk food and games couldn’t numb you for a bit. With the promise of pizza and your fuzzy blanket you trudge up the stairs to your home. Hmmm-perhaps some tea too, or was it a hot chocolate night?

Junk food and a steaming cup of chocolate in hand you ready yourself for a long night of adventure quests and shitty npc dialogue. Just as you were setting up your desk and booting up your pc you were distracted by the sharp percussion of knuckles on your door. “In a second!” You holler over your shoulder. You figured it was a friend coming to pester you. Expecting Tabby or her girlfriend you swing the door open ready to chastise them. You slam the door immediately, double latching it.

“Oi!”

“I’m calling security!” You shout behind you, running for your phone.

“Ah! Wait-” Not a chance in hell. You lunge for your phone. Of all the cherries on top of an already shitty situation.

“You have two seconds to leave or I’m serious!” Your voice shakes the phone pressed against your ear. The other side of your door is eerily quiet. Did he leave? Peering out to your entry hall you felt something smooth and warm plopped down onto your shoulder.

It was a wonder the entire block didn’t hear your scream. Flinging your phone away, the little green thing whizzed across the small room. It landed tangled around your phone hissing like a wet cat on your carpet. It’s little clawed feet wiggling up in the air in distress. “I told you Mizuki.” You watch dumbfounded as the omnic from months before bent down to pick up the spitting little-Was that a dragon?

“I apologize for her. She gets ahead of herself sometimes.” The omnic pays you little attention. Their slim fingers untangling their little friend from your phone. “Here,” They hand the device back to you. “Nice place you got here! I can see why my brother felt so comfortable here. We-well- he was never allowed to have nic-nacks and stuff.” They walk your place casually looking about. The little glowing snake nuzzles itself under their metal chin.

You watch befuddled as they make themselves at home. Poking and prodding at your decor. The chrome accents of their plating a stark contrast to your old world decorum. “Did he get you those?” You follow the raised finger over to your display case of trinkets. Key chains, shells, postcards, and all sorts of little items that sat innocently on your wall.

“Yeh?” You sputter dumbly. You clamber up your ottoman not taking your eyes off your- Kidnapper? Intruder? Guest? “I-wait brother?” The omnic nods giving you time to catch up with what in the world is happening.

“I admit, this wasn’t how I wanted to introduce myself. But I haven’t seen you at your store.”

“Oh! So you're stalking me now?” Your phone raises in a flash.  

“What! No- put that down!” The omnic jumps up and snatches your phone from your ear before you could blink. “Gods, can you hear me out for a second?” You gape at the audacity of their statement. Even this little dragon was glaring at them now. A fluffy green brow raised. “Oh- yea Ok. I’m out of line.” They rub at their neck mulishly. “Let’s start this over. I’m Genji.” Genji. You knew that name. Hanzo had mentioned his troublesome brother once or twice in passing. But never that they were an omnic. Was it common for Japanese families to “adopt” omnics? “

You’re lying.” Hanzo’s “brother” groans flopping back down onto your couch.

“Who would lie about being related to Hanzo? You know him.” They wave their hands up exasperatedly. “You think anyone would willingly be related to that nerd?” Well, that sounded like something a younger sibling would say. “Here,” With a hiss of an unseen clasp they fiddle with their face place. “Genji Shimada in- what remains of my flesh.” Scared lips smile up at you as he patiently lets you look over his face. The similarities were striking.

You squint. “I guess the eyebrows are a family trait.”

“Ha! We both had caterpillar brows out the womb. Keep that in mind if you ever want kids. ” He winks in mirth. Just like that the tension in your body seems to dissipate. For some reason, you believed the very odd man that had just invited himself in. But really, who else besides Tabatha knew Hanzo’s name? Still didn’t explain everything- or anything- really. The questions tumble out of you. A month worth of insecurities and inner thoughts bubble over. Genji sits and listens to you ramble. Show him your text, his promise to watch stupid movies with you.

He doesn’t say anything while you vent your frustration. He only cuts you off when you began to tear up and ask the question you had dreaded all this time. “Did Hanzo send you to break up with me?” The coward, the absolute coward. He was supposed to be better than that.

“Never.” The raw emotion in his voice made you pause. He looked at you warm brown eyes, so familiar to Hanzo’s, pleading with you to listen. Everything about his screamed honesty, and that scared you even more. Genji rose hand raised as if trying to find a way to comfort you. “I-Hanzo did not ask me to come. I’m sure if it were up to him we would have never met.” He pulls away going to look out onto the dark city streets.

“Why?” You hadn’t really brought up meeting the relatives. Hanzo had met your closest friends and family in passing when they would drop by the shop for an afternoon pick me up. You wanted to meet his side but had always been too cowardly to ask. From what little you gathered from him his parents had passed and his brother was- complicated. Guess that wasn’t a lie.

Genji shrugs. “He has always been self-deprecating to the point of cruel. Perhaps he thought he was undeserving of being in a relationship. Or perhaps being happy around me. I’m sure that is at the top of his list. But, after…” He pauses. His throat clicks dryly, moisture beginning to brim under thick lashes. He puts his faceplate back on. “After this month- It was probably to protect you.” He can’t look at you and say what he needs to. All those days spent in the ICU ward of the base watching his brother slip, only to be brought back by the sheer power of his dragons or Angies pig-headedness. He was tired. He was tired and at a loss.

It wasn’t until last night did he think of you. A sudden jolt of a memory right when he was trying to get some rest after being dragged from Hanzo’s bedside again. You didn’t know what happened, or anything for that matter. Genji knew his brother well enough that he wouldn’t want loose ends like that. Not that he was dying. He was too stubborn to go like this, damn old goat.  

Genji berated himself mentally for the mere thought of his brother just-just dying on him.  

But it was those thoughts that lead him here. He didn’t know how deep in the relationship you were with Hanzo. But after that afternoon of him gushing over every little thing about you. He was at least confident that you meant the word to his brother. “Seriously?” Genji jumps, pulled back to the moment by you scoff. “Are you-what kind of sick joke.” You can’t even finish the sentence. This was like a plot out of a damn movie. A really bad movie. “Listen Genji,” You shoot him a scathing glare. “If Hanzo doesn’t have the balls to tell me himself it’s over fine. But don’t you dare insult my intelligence by-”

“Have you heard of Overwatch?” He cuts you off mid tirade.

“Of course I have- who-what does that have to do with anything?” You feel yourself getting heated. Maybe you should call security. Genji nods fishing for his com device. Pulling up some candid and posed photos of him and his brother up for you to see. He tosses the device to you. You catch it on reflex, flipping it around to look. Gingerly you begin scrolling through the sea of smiling faces, picking up on Hanzo immediately in each shot.

Seeing him like this made you smile in turn. One picture in particular making your heart clench. His arm was thrown around Genji, bridge piercings catching in the morning light. He was laughing at something someone must have said. His head thrown back, shoulders frozen in time near his ears. Genji was laughing too, his mask off, face scrunching cutely as he snickers.

The next picture must have been out of sequence. Hanzo looked older. Despite the date on the picture being before the other one. His hair wasn’t cut and his piercings were missing. He looked tired. Deep purple bags under his eyes, a frown you only saw when he was deep in concentration harassing his beautiful features. Both arms were crossed over his broad chest in agitations as the picture was taken. He was dressed differently too. Expensive looking robes hugged his muscular form. Another was of him stretched out on a ratty couch. A young man with dreads sleeping on his shoulder. By his feet on the floor was a young woman with glasses. She was distracted but a weird floating robot vying for her attention from the multitude of tablets littered about her. Hanzo looked relaxed. His reading glass perched on his crooked nose and a paperback resting on his crossed leg. You gut twisted. You never knew this side of him. He never talked about his friends, or co-workers in depth. Were you not worth it? To be included in this part of his life?

“My brother and I, we are members of the newly reformed Overwatch. He was out on base when attacked. It was-” He pauses catching himself on the memory of his brother's crumpled form. Had that been what it felt like when Hanzo watched the light leave his eyes on that cursed night? The wet gurgle of blood filling punctured lungs. His listless eyes swollen from damage, losing the few threads of life they still held. What was worse was his dragons, the hollow of pain and shock before they exploded in a flash blue and yellow scales. Their light snuffed out with their master. Having to take his brother's remains to the status units so Angie could have some still whole cells and tissue to work with when she arrived had almost killed him too. Others had offered, but it was his duty. He needed to do this. “An enemy tried to take him captive. It didn’t end well for either party.”

Akande- the coward had fled with what remained of his crew after watching the great dragon fall. His plan backfired as more reinforcements arrived then he had anticipated. Sombra blinking them out faster than Mei could freeze them. Genji had wanted to go after him. Get him while he was down. Attack with the same savagery. But now wasn’t the time. Zenyatta convinced him to stay with only a few words and a soft touch. In that time of self-reflection by his brother’s bed, he knew fighting wouldn’t help. He needed his brother back for that. He needed you for that.

“But,” He watches struggle. His words stunning you out of your anger. He could see his truths turning in your eyes. The sudden jerks and twitches of your gaze flitting about him then to the side. Looking into your memories, bring forth any civilian knowledge you had of the defunct organization. “The Petras Act.” You whispered covering your face. It made sense. In a weird way. Hanzo’s shifty nature when bringing up his work. The sudden departures in the middle of the night. Oh, Gods. Every trinket he ever got you. The news reported strange activities in those regions. It couldn’t be.

Genji scoffs, plopping down on the floor by your feet. “The Petras Act is bullshit. I-nor my brother could sit around and watch as Talon took over.” He stretches the truth a little. If you thought Hanzo was doing it for a higher purpose it couldn’t hurt. “I’m sure he would have told you in time. He just wants you safe.” Of that he was confident. Keeping you at arm's reach from his work was a logical thing to do. A very Hanzo thing to do. He never thought of the emotional aspects of things until it was too late.

You shake your head. Eyes peeking out from between your fingers. All this was coming so fast. “Wait. You said he was attacked? Is-is he ok?” Genji shifts under your gaze trying to find the right words.

“He is… finally stable. Mercy, our medic, put him into an induced coma.” You gasp. It felt like a sucker punch to the chest. The shock of it brings tears to your eyes. “That's why I came here.” Genji scoots closer seeing this as an opportunity to grasp at your hand. He squeezes it comfortingly. “She is going to wake him up soon, and I think you should be there.”

“Why?”

“As emotionally constipated as my brother is, I know he would want to see you when he wakes up.” Genji pulls away, raising to his full height. “I want you to know, you aren’t a dirty secret to Hanzo. When I found out about you, when he finally opened up about you. I’ve never seen him so happy.”

“I realize that. But I just- do I really even know him?” You look up at him pleadingly. This was all happening so fast. A one-two punch of revelations that you could have never anticipated.

“If you come with, you can ask him yourself.” Genji’s offer floats in the dead air of your living room. A thousand and one questions rushing through you. Was he really what he said? The photos, no way they were fake. Right? What would a man like Hanzo, an actual vigilante, want with a regular business owner. Were you a cover? No, not the way this stranger in your house explained it.

Damn him. There was only one way to get to the bottom of this. “Can I text my friend where I’m going?” It was a stupid question, but if you were going to end up in a ditch at least you’d make an attempt. You can feel the man’s exasperated expression through the metal covering his face. “Right. That whole ‘underground thing’.”

“You can’t for obvious reasons but, I understand the sentiment. We are heading to Illios, I cannot divulge where but would that be enough for you?” No. But it would have to do. Grabbing your phone you text Tabatha and her girlfriend telling them you made the brash decision to take a vacation to Greece like you had been wishing to do for ages. Seconds after you hit send your phone started ringing. You glance at the man.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” He sighs. “I’m not kidnapping you. If you don’t want to go I’ll leave.” Genji makes his way to the door, intentionally dragging his feet with each step.

“No! Wait!” You round on him and press your phone to your ear. “Hey Tab.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No- just realizing that you were right. I booked the flight already anyway. Before my nerves could get the best of me.” You lie.

“Ah huh- what hotel you staying at?” Shit. Genji flashes his phone at you showing you a hotel and room already booked and paid for. You recite the address and room number. “Ok. Call me as soon as you step into that room.” She orders. “Make sure to take some pics. Maybe find a cute date? Get your mind off things for me please?”

“Ok.” You said. “Talk to you soon.”

“You can stay at that hotel you know,” Genji said once you were off the phone. “If you feel uncomfortable at all you can leave. I’ll pay for everything.”

“I’ll take that offer until I know this isn’t some elaborate con.” You sigh pocketing your phone and wallet. “If he really is in hospital then let’s leave now. I can buy stuff when I get there.”

“Thank you,” Genji smiles holding the door open for you. With one last look around you push your fear down and follow your surprise guest out the door.

#Overwatch #hanzo shimada x reader #long form fic #overwatch fanfic

[soda-fawn]

Have some Horrorfell Sans oneshot while I don’t work on my story.

The sun felt like touching a light bulb that had been on too long. You were taking shelter underneath one of the trees on your property, at the top of a hill. You had only been working for a few hours and you were already exhausted. Your hair was damp with sweat and stuck to you. You felt grimy and disgusting and honestly were just ready to give up for the day, but a few more animals needed food, and you had a few different crops to check on in the greenhouse.

Your hands were stained with soil as you looked down at them, rough and quite honestly tan from the amount of sun you had gotten. The laces on your boots felt small and frail as you began pulling off the damned things. Your feet ached like no other and you just wanted some peace now.

Peace was what you got as you rested against the large oak tree. The bark against your back felt like small pins and needles poking into your skin. Your back ached and whined, just wanting some sort of relief. Your head began to pound softly as you tried to shield your eyes from the sun, and everything in your stomach began to rumble. 

You turned your head to a small rustle next to you, one of the old alley cats had found his way to you. His hair was matted and dirty but you still gave him love whenever he came around. He was a tuxedo cat, though most of his hair had turned a dirty gray instead of the pristine white or the smooth black. He placed his head in between your palms, purring softly, as you scratched his ears. He started crawling into your lap, refusing to take his head from your palms as he did so. You wondered if he belonged to anyone yet.

“Getting a bit old to be an alley cat huh bud?” 

The old cat seemed to respond by putting more of his weight onto you, seeming to get comfortable in your lap. Did you want an old cat? You were certain he would love to lounge around on your furniture inside. Honestly have some company really wouldn’t be too bad, sure you had all the animals you had to take care of. But it was different when you went home every night to an empty house. Maybe you should adopt him, see how he’d like a domestic last few years. 

“Then what would I name you? How about Oscar?”

There was a soft protest from the old cat as he rubbed his face against your palms.

“Jack?”

The cat slowly began kneading into your thighs, his claws barely drawn. 

“Okay.. how about Ollie?”

Those big yellow eyes opened, he turned and began licking your hands. You laughed softly and began petting him again, scratching his ears with one hand. 

“Ollie it is!” 

Ollie began to knead again, his claws full withdrawn now. He seemed to just be doing if affectionately by now until he got up and leap off your lap and pranced off. He looked back at you with those big yellow eyes and waited like he wanted you to follow. 

You slid on your boots, almost immediately regretting it as your feet began to ache and boil. Tying up the laces you followed Ollie into the bushes, almost getting caught a few times with your pant legs. Ollie seemed to just prance from place to place until you came to a small clearing. It was dark, a few of the larger trees circling the surrounding area. Ollie sat down underneath one of the trees and seemed to just be happy it was cool. 

The soil was soft, almost sinking underneath your feet. Like someone, hand buried something almost like there was a hole that wasn’t completely compact underneath your feet. You have it a few good stomps before stepping away and towards Ollie. The ground was solid. People often buried animals, but this was on your property, and you hadn’t buried anything for years. It was concerning, to say the least. 

Against your better judgment you god down on your knees and began to peel away the soil. It was soft and cool as you continued to claw at it, hitting something almost instantly. You pulled away some pebbles and grass and were horrified when you saw a very large, almost bone-like hand sticking out of the soil. Your face paled as you stood up and walked in the other direction. Maybe you should just feed the rest of the animals and be on your merry way. 

+++

You were certain your hands had splinters in them as you quickly washed them under the water. It was evening and you had finished everything that you needed to do, well except one thing. You didn’t want to think about it. You looked at the small bag of peaches you had brought in, grabbing that bag and slowly washing each peach. You wondered what on earth could be under that dirt, that was a hand, right? Maybe you should call the sheriff. That wasn’t a good idea, chances were that if it was a body then you’d be investigated thoroughly. 

You were pulled out of your thoughts by scratching at your door, for a moment you froze. It was safe to say you were on edge since you found that... Well, whatever it was. Putting down the peach you gave a small shake to your hands, following the sound to the front door. 

The door gave little resistance as you opened, and thank your lucky stars no one was there. You glanced down to see Ollie sitting patiently like he was waiting for you. You stiffened slightly and crossed your arms, “I’m not going back there Ollie” your voice was a bit stern than you had intended. 

The old cat barely seemed to listen to you as he walked towards the trees, looking back at you with shining eyes. You huffed and held eye contact. He seemed to give you big sad eyes as you went to close the door. You grumbled under your breath and walked out the door, Ollie followed along the path. Every once and a while he’d spare a glance to make sure you were still there. 

The air had gotten a bit colder, you could feel it traveling up your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt anxiety run through your veins as you got closer and closer to the clearing, your hands slightly trembling now. A part of you hoped that it wasn’t still there, but that hope quickly subsided as you thought about what that would mean. Either someone had come back to get it or it moved on its own. 

That last part was ridiculous though. 

But as you walked through the brush it didn’t seem like such a ridiculous thought. There was a rather large hole where the hand used to be, almost 7 feet in length. Ollie continued through the trees as you stopped dead in your tracks. You had never seen a hole this large, what scared you most was that whatever was in there wasn’t. 

You stepped closer, down on your knees and looking around the hole. There were no tracks, nothing suspicious. Except for the large claw marks on the walls of the hole, you tried desperately to ignore them. But… the were just so wide, nothing a human could do, nothing a shovel could do. What the hell had been buried here, what the hell crawled out?

When you looked up you were met with those same bright yellow eyes, just a few feet ahead of you. That wasn’t what made your face pale or made your blood run cold. 

There was a large figure behind Ollie, almost 7 feet tall. It was a bare skeleton... But not quite. His rib cage could have held you and another, and his ribs were thicker than your forearm. His spine was cracked in most places but held a deep blue in between each vertebra. As your gaze followed upwards you felt your hands tremble and adrenaline pump through your veins. His skull was too cartoon-ish to be a human skeleton, his mouth was formed in a thin line and his nasal was cracked. The rest of his skull was wrapped in stained bandages, seemingly tightly. 

One of his hands reaches out to you slightly as his ribcage expanded, almost as if he was breathing. 

“...you…” 

You bolted to your feet and as you began running you felt something large and rough wrap around your wrist, easily swallowing it. You were yanked backward, slamming into what you guessed was the skeleton. You took in a shaky breath and looked up. Sure enough, the skeleton was looking down at you, bright light behind those bandages staring directly at you. 

“..help..me..”

His voice felt like a roll of thunder, deep, powerful, dangerous. 

Your saliva felt thick as you pulled away from the skeleton, not going much farther than a few feet. His hand was still wrapped tightly around you, you couldn’t find your voice as you stared at his abnormally large hands. They held so much power within them, and you knew he wasn’t using an ounce of his genuine strength as he held your wrist tightly. He could crush you if he so pleased. 

You turned your attention to the old cat that seemed to lead the way and began tugging the skeleton alongside you as you followed him. He was surprisingly quiet as he walked alongside you, his grip still tight on your wrist. He stumbled a few times through the brush, barely wincing as thorns began to cut at his ankles. A small trail of dust followed him once you moved away from the brush, getting closer and closer to your home. 

The small walk was silent until you approached the house, Ollie sat there meowing like his life depended on it until you got the door open. It was much warmer than it had been as you walked in, the skeleton following until a small thump and a tug forced you to stop. Looking back you suppressed a laugh as the skeleton held his head in his hand, rubbing it softly. 

“I’m sorry, you should duck if you’re going to be coming through the doorway.” 

He stopped his movements and looked at you, a small hint of blue forming behind his bandages. You paid no attention to it as he ducked his head and moved through the doorway. You sat him down on a chair and tried to unclasp his fingers from your wrist, “I-I need to get something. Please let go.”

To your surprise he did. You rushed to grab a first aid kit and placed your hands on his skull, he jumped from the contact and a small growl left the large skeleton. “Oh I’m sorry, may I remove this?” He hesitated but nodded. 

The bandages were much tighter than you thought, and there were at least two layers of them. Unwrapping the first layer wasn’t hard, it didn’t stick to the other bandages or to his skull. The second bandages seemed to have more blood, dirt, and what you could only describe as dust on them. It was either gray or brown, you felt a little repulsed at the sight. 

The second layer was.. Gross to say the least. It stuck to his skull and sounded like velcro when you began unwrapping it. You began to understand why, as you unwrapped his skull a large chasm made its self-present. You furthered unwrapping it, small cracks following it. There were small divots around the cracks, a few almost deep enough to be cracks. You decided against saying anything. 

You began to unwrap the bandages around his eyes, well sockets. One crack continued to follow the way down to his eyesockets, surprisingly the two of them were closed until you threw the bandage away. 

“Okay, I’m gonna clean it and then put a new one on okay?”  

Your eyes widened as he opened his sockets, in his left, your right, socket there was a large glowing red orb. You swallowed hard as he stared at you with the one glowing orb. 

“..no..bandage..”

You gave him a curious glance before turning to get an alcohol swab. You felt his eye watching you intensely as you ripped open the package and turned to him. 

“This may sting..” 

Your voice came out smooth as you began to clean around the cracks, he made no attempt to get away from you. He didn’t even make a noise as you began cleaning the large hole in his skull. You stepped away from him, picking up the first aid kit and putting it away. 

“...name?”

You turned to him again and laughed softly, he sat up at the noise. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m (Y/N), what’s your name?”

He hesitated and shook his head. 

“Oh uhm, do you have a nickname?” 

He raised his brow or the closest he could. 

“Oh like a shortened version of your name or something you would prefer to be called by.”

“..zodiac..”

You smiled softly at him and looked at the small pile of peaches on your counter. You looked back at Zodiac who seemed to be staring at them as well. “Would you like one?” 

His gaze changed from the peaches to you, and he nodded eagerly. Picking one up you examined it, giving it a small squeeze and then giving it to him. He slowly took it from your hand, examined it, and opened his mouth- you weren’t sure how that was even possible- and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. 

“Wait no-”

How did he..? Maybe you didn’t want to know. You turned to the peaches and cut another one in half, and peeled the seed from the middle then gave him the two halves. He did the same thing and looked at you like an eager puppy. “Uhm I don’t know if I have enough peaches to fill you, but help yourself. You should cut the seeds out though.” With that, he stood from his feet and moved to your side. He began to imitate what you had done and stuffed the rest of the peach in his mouth. 

It’s like he didn’t even care that you just barely reached his sternum, or that he was completely nude in your kitchen. He focused on doing the same act to each peach.

You decided to start on dinner.

#Sans #f/o tag #(y/n) #sans x reader #xreader #undertale #undertale x reader #how should i tag this? #I didn't properly edit this #so #excuse any typos #or mistakes #thank you :) #Horrorfell #Horrorfell Sans #Horrortale #horrorfell sans x reader #he has more scars

[shipwreckedshadows]

ShadowPrime

Devour. CW for mild violence.

She sat in his chair between his legs and leaned back into his chest. They gazed out over Etheria. All the way out in space, without any means for sound to travel, she felt the planet shudder, heard it scream. Its pain resonated with her - it was dying. She more than knew what the tremors felt like. It squeezed desperately against her heart, lit a burning in her lungs. Like an old, unwanted lover, she had grown used to the feeling. Death became the spite in her bones. It was the scent that dripped from Prime’s fingers.

To distract herself, she traced patterns upon his knee and up along the inside of his thigh. He hummed low in his chest and the sound rumbled through her back. She shivered and leaned harder against him. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her impossibly close. His chin rested against her shoulder as he bent to curl himself around her. He was warm in ways she was estranged from. It was so pleasant, she almost misinterpreted the caged feeling for safety.

“All you have to do is ask.” He reminded her, “And I will burn this planet just to watch the embers dance in your winds and play with your hair. I want to see the smoke curl with the smile at your lips.” He dragged the back of his finger across the bones in her cheeks, under the rotting skin around her eyes, “I want to see the fire dance in those beastly eyes.” The cold metal of his gauntlet ran a path to her mouth, “Just a single word from your lips, that’s all I need.”

All of Etheria begged her to end the suffering. The clones around her stared on in anticipation and she felt the weight of a thousand judging eyes.

“No.” Her tone thundered against the endless ceiling.

“No?” He threatened.

“No.”

“After everything I’ve given you? My love, access to the hive mind, countless nights in my bed and yet you’ll not let me have this - relief from a tireless mission?”

“If you really loved me, you would respect my decision.”

He made a sound of anger and hugged her tighter, as if he wanted to press her entirety into his chest and devour her. She felt her frail ribs splinter into her lungs. Something primal ignited in her belly and she snarled as she dug her claws into his shoulder. Green blood splattered across her clothes. He bit down into the soft junction above her clavicle and tore a chunk of her flesh. Black sludge spilled down her chest and the stale air in the ship stung the wound.

She reached for her magic and with it, found the chords of Etheria’s dying breaths. The despair of a million suffering Etherians rushed through her. Tears pricked at her eyes as every frown and grievance clawed at her blood like poison. It tasted like ozone and rain and dust.

“I never loved you.” He spat next to her ear. An overwhelming wave of darkness coated his words. She remembered now, why exactly she latched herself onto his arm.

“I bet a creature like you couldn’t even begin the fathom the meaning and the acute weight of the word.” She struggled against his hold.

“As if you yourself are an expert. You could barely care for two children!”

“I did what I had to.” 

She tore the shadows from their resting places and consumed the room in a darkness so thick it sat heavy in the back of their throats. The cuts in Prime’s shoulders oozed a glow that painted his scowl in a sickly light. She gripped his arms again and flipped him over her head. His hold on her slipped and he landed with a dull thud against the window. She held onto the throne to steady herself. The shadows threatened to consume her. 

“Affection.” She wheezed, flinching against the pains in her chest, “That much you seem to understand. You need to know love before you can know hatred, before you can know pain or suffering. I feel all of them - every cry for help, every sob in the night - all twelve million people. You have never known love, true love, Prime.”

Prime stood. Against the light from the window, he was a hulking, monstrous silhouette. His eyes glowed in her shadows, slanted in anger.

She coughed into her hand and it came away coated in dark fluids. She reached with her magic and apprehended him so he couldn’t move. She tried to search for his core, for the writhing pit of evil that powered every twitch in his body. It moved, suddenly, to stand right behind her.

Several pairs of arms took hold of her and she yelped in surprised.

“I am an endless constant in a sea of changing variables.” He chuckled from the mouth of a clone. Several sharp objects pressed against different areas of her skin.

“Say the word, or I will dismantle you.”

She considered giving up.

“Say the word.” He chanted slowly, “End the world.”

The darkness entrapped her as hundreds of voices chanted around her. They echoed against in her skull, too loud for her to think. So she didn’t. She let the demons consume the last dregs of her. She erupted like a geyser.  Memories from lives she had never lived flashed through her mind - the sacrifice of a mother, the death of a child, the smouldering stubs of houses. a chasm ruptured down her sternum and a very potent type of sadness rushed to fill the emptiness. She saw nothing and felt everything. She rummaged through the room and latched onto Prime’s blackened soul, taking it for herself.

When Etheria stopped calling for mercy, when she had guzzled the last of him, she felt herself deflate. Wisps of smoke curled around her as she fell against the throne. She forced air through her mouth and down her windpipe. There was a sting in her throat and warmth behind her eyes. Aware of the wide, wondering eyes trained on her trembling shoulders, she pressed a hand to her mouth to snuff out her sobs.

[part 1] [part 2] <- old parts but the story is told alarmingly out of order.

#shadowprime #shadow prime #horde prime #shadow weaver #spop #my writing

[forthemorefortunate]

ACOTAR Mini Reading Update

     I angled my dagger over the Attor’s bony, elongated rib cage. “This is for Rhys,” I hissed in its pointed ear.      The reverberation of steel on bone barked into my hand.      Silvery blood warmed my fingers. The Attor screamed.      I yanked out my dagger, blood flying up, splattering my face. “This is for Clare.”      I plunged my blade in again, twisting.      Buildings took form. The Sidra ran red, but the sky was empty—free of soldiers. So were the streets.      The Attor was screaming and hissing, cursing and begging, as I ripped free the blade.       I could make out people; make out their shapes. The ground swelled up to meet us. The Attor was bucking so violently it was all I could do to keep it in my forge-hot grip. Burning skin ripped away, carried above us.       “And this,” I breathed, leaning close to say the words into its ear, into its rotted soul. I slid my dagger in a third time, relishing the splintering of bones and flesh. “This is for me.”

This is all I could think while she killed the Attor:

#acotar #acotar reading update #acomaf #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #10 things i hate about you #attor #rhys #rhysand #feyre #feyrhys #feysand #night court #court of nightmares #court of dreams #velaris #sjm #sarah j maas #feyre x rhysand #cassian and azriel #azriel #cassian #live read: acotar #live read: acomaf

[lethbians]

how about a reddie barn party?

“a barn party?”

“yeah.”

“well what is it?”

mike looks at stan. stan looks at bill. bill, wide-eyed, looks back and forth between the two of them. 

“it’s… a party. in a barn.” stan speaks slowly, though the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying desperately not to smile. 

“well i nuh-know that,” bill says in exasperation, and mike lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and laughs, relieved. he knows bill is smart, he knows—the good grades and power essays will prove it—but sometimes bill’s brain cells took vacations. sometimes bill would write the coolest shit in creative writing class: the kinda shit that mike and bev and richie (so, by proxy, eddie as well) liked to read. horror stories, like the slasher films the losers stayed up to watch (ben and stan preferred anything but horror), though bill has a habit of adding corny romantic subplots that appealed more to ben than anyone else. bill would write those, would blow the whole loser’s club away with those, and then turn around and introduce himself as dilliam benbrough. 

his braincells took vacations, but they always came back. 

“i meant what is it fuh-for?” 

mike shrugs. “for fun.”

“why, do you have other plans that day, bill?” stan crosses his arms, and bill grins. 

“i’m in. on wuh-one condition.” 

* * *

“are you kidding me?” eddie scowls. “cowboy attire mandatory?”

“i don’t know why you’re complaining, eds; it’s your fantasy come true. i have two words for you, bro.” richie strikes a pose and the sound of his hand slapping against his thigh is too loud in the small space of the clubhouse. “assless. chaps.”

“take it back, bill, please.” eddie looks at bill helplessly, but bill’s too busy flipping through a Sears catalogue to see it. 

“shuh-should i get classic brown leather style boots? or should i g-go for a buh-bold black instead?” 

bev leans over his shoulder and points to an image on the sheet, her nail polish still wet. “these. they’ll match that plaid you got at the thrifty mart today.” 

eddie turns to mike, eyes desperate, but mike just shrugs. 

“i’ve been looking for a reason to wear my cowboy hat. sorry eddie.” 

richie slaps his thigh again and raises his eyebrows suggestively at eddie. “c’mon cowboy. saddle up, eddie, we’re goin’ full gay cowboy. wanna share a tent with m—.” 

eddie, red with fury (and flushed with embarrassment) punches richie’s shoulder. richie cackles, and cackles, until eddie’s pout twists like he’s holding back his own giggles; until stan turns to mike with a flat look and asks if they can be uninvited. 

“we need eight to square dance, stan.” 

eddie stops mid-tousle with richie and squawks. “we have to dance?” 

bill looks up from his magazine and sighs. “it’s a barn party eddie.” 

eddie flips him off, and this time they all laugh. 

* * *

“oh my god.” 

“wow.”

“holy shit, benny boy!” richie puts his hands on his hips and slowly turns in a circle, surveying the empty barn. “you out-fuckin’-did yourself, now!” 

“richie tozier!” calls a warning voice from the corner, and jessica hanlon gives him the stink eye from thirty feet away. “you watch your mouth while i’m around.”

richie holds up an apologetic hand, though his mouth quivers with the shadow of a smile. “you got it, mrs. h!” 

“nice, richie,” bev smirks. she turns to ben. “seriously ben, this place looks incredible.”

the lights were the hardest part: stringing them up in the rafters, wrapping them around the old wood and across the walls… ben had suffered his share of splinters and spider encounters. it’s a big barn too, and ben’s hands were sweaty from the early june heatwaves (and nerves from the spider encounters). but he’d managed, with the help of mike and his uncle, and now the whole barn was strung with fairy lights and chinese lanterns. 

“it’s dreamy,” bev says, looking ben in the eye as she does. “romantic.” 

ben goes as crimson as the barn and looks at his feet.

“thanks bev.” 

“are you guys gonna’ help set-up or just stand there like raisins on a celery stick?” jessica stands behind the group now, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. “your poor friend is struggling over there and you all are looking at the lights like a bunch of moths.” 

mike turns to where bill’s currently putting up the big banner he and bev painted. well, trying to put up the banner. actually, struggling is really the word he’s looking for. every time bill would get one side taped up he’d walk to the other, but just as he’d get that corner taped down the first side would fall again. mike bites his lip and tries not to smile too wide. 

they all stand there for another few seconds, watching bill continue to struggle, before mike shakes his head and jogs over to help. 

“oh!” bill says as mike pressed his palm to the paper to keep it up as bill fought with the tape dispenser. “th-thanks, mikey.” 

“no problem, bill.” mike watches bill attempt to rip the tape with his teeth. “are you going to the barn party with anyone?”

bill pauses, looks up at mike with the strip of tape still in his mouth. “uhh. the rest of yuh-you guys?”

“i meant as a date.” mike’s face is perfectly calm, but the cage of his rib bones shakes noisily with the thumping of his heart. “are you, you know, going with anyone?”

bill starts fighting with the tape again. “uh, n-no.”

“do you want to go with me?”

bill manages to rip off the tape he needs, and finally secures the poster. mike steps back cautiously from the wall, just in case it decides to fall again. nothing moves. mike looks back to bill, who still hasn’t answered. 

“yes. yuh-yeah.” bill smiles, a soft thing, and nods. “that’d be awesome, mikey.” 

“cool,” mike says, feeling very, very cool. “very cool.” 

* * * 

“whoa, eds, slow down—eddie, damn, what’re you running for?” richie’s keeping up pretty easily with his long legs and therefore long strides, but eddie’s practically jogging at this point and soon richie’s going to have to do the same. “what’s goin’ on, cowboy?”

“don’t cowboy me,” eddie grumbles, his boots making a little click click with every step as the fake spurs tapped against the sidewalk. 

richie stops. “eds, are you mad at me?” eddie’s still walking, albeit a little slower now. “eddie.”

“i’m not mad!” eddie says, madly, though he stops walking too. “i’m just. i’m. ugh!” eddie makes a little noise of frustration and richie tries desperately not to feel so fucking fond about it. “why didn’t you ask me to go with you to the barn party?”

if richie wasn’t already frozen to the spot, that would’ve knocked him out cold. “wh… what? whaddya mean? i’m here, with you, right— “

“but you didn’t ask. you just showed up unannounced like you always do.” 

“well yeah that’s just how it is—”

“but why didn’t you ask?” eddie turns, sparks of red on high cheekbones turned orange in the lamplight. he looks like a puppy, ears turned down and big brown eyes hiding sadness under the brow of anger that covered it. the pieces clicked together in richie’s head. 

“oh. ohhh. i get it.” richie shoves his hands in his pockets. “you wanted to be romanced.” 

“that is not what i said.” 

richie takes a few steps forward. “you wanted me to get down on one knee and lend you my kerchief as an invite to the debutante ball.” richie, playing up the western twang he’s taken on, over-pronounces every syllable in debutante. eddie scoffs to hide the beginning of a laugh. 

“shut up richie, i was just saying—“

“well, mistah edward j. kaspbrak— 

“don’t call me that.”

“— would you do me the honor of bein’ my pardner—“

“i hate you.”

“and accompanyin’ me to the hanlon barn party so i don’t haf’ta ride solo tonight?”

richie’s got his hand cupped under eddie’s chin by now, and the other arm curled loosely around eddie’s waist. in the early twilight glow, richie’s eyes shine with amusement and something else; something that’s always wrapped in every glance sent eddie’s way. love, probably, though eddie’s still scared to say it and richie’s no better. sometimes richie knows he’s in love but he also knows he was in love last year, and the year before, and the year before that one, and every year that goes by richie’s love feels deeper and stronger and real-er. richie used to think love was a peak at the top of a mountain of feelings but being with eddie has him thinking that maybe it isn’t, that maybe love is just a mountain and richie never wants to stop climbing. 

“yes, asshole, of course i want to go to the barn party with you.” eddie’s not even trying to look angry anymore. richie wants to kiss him, and he goes to do so, but the oversized rims of their cowboy hats bump together and it makes them both laugh. 

“gay cowboys sure have it rough, huh?” richie asks. “let’s try that again.” then he tilts his hat back, leans down, and kisses Eddie properly. 

* * *

the lights looked good in the day, but they look downright magical in the dark of night. there’s still a purple tint to the sky, leftover from the stretched out sunset, and though there’s no cracks in the roof to see the stars through, they cast a foggy glow on the grass outside. 

the music is loud, but not too loud, and cheerful, but not overtly so. dancing music, is what it is, and most people are inside making the most out of it. stan’s in there with patty, mike knows—he’d seen them spinning circles around everyone else. mike knows for a fact stan doesn’t take dancing lessons, but the way he and patty swing and dance with such ease and grace makes you think it was practiced. mike just thinks that true love shows in the way you move together. you can always see it in the way people dance. it’s about… well, richie and eddie have it too, and richie’s got two left feet and a tragic lack of the “being able to take things seriously” bone. 

it’s in the way they look at each other, though, the way eddie’s face pulls into a joyous adoration when richie spins him around the room obnoxiously even though he’s telling richie to put me down, put me down! it’s in the way bev brushes her fingers against ben’s when he hands her a cup of punch, and the way ben’s knee lingers when bev’s knee rests against his where they sit on the bench; like every touch is infinite, and worth every second. it’s in the way stan holds patty as they dance, like she’s something to be held, and the way patty holds him just the same. 

fuck, mike knows he’s only eighteen, but he knows what love, true love, looks like. 

“the p-party is inside,” bill says. an adjacent thought to mike’s last, suddenly here before him: bill, in all his plaid and leather fringe glory. mike’s heart, a racehorse poised at the startling line, takes off.

“i needed a break from the line dancing. your mom is kicking my ass.” it’s true. ms. denbrough sure knows how to country-shake it. 

“she was muh-more excited for this than i was,” bill jokes, and then walks the rest of the way from the barn to the edge of the field where mike is standing. 

“you look good.” it’s a bit sudden, maybe, but that thought evaporates when bill lights up with a shy smile. “the cowboy look suits you.” 

“thuh-thanks, mikey.” bill’s hand twitches, like he’s going to reach out, but it stays at his side. “your shirt. it’s a g-good shirt.” 

nice one, denbrough. bill makes a face. 

“i mean yuh-you look strong it it. i mean, handsome. and strong, tuh-too.” bill’s bright pink, and mike couldn’t think him any cuter. “yuh-you know what i mean.”

“i wear this shirt all the time,” mike says, just to see if bill will flush darker. he does.

“yuh-yeah, i know.” 

mike’s eyes flick to the barn and back. out here, the music is muffled, but mike can still tell hear andy williams crooning his familiar tune from the speakers inside. 

“do you want to dance with me, bill?” 

bill’s hand twitches again. “out here?” 

mike nods. bill nods, and mike bets his heart is knocking against his ribs just as hard as the one in mike’s chest. mike offers his hand, and bill takes it, and the next moment mike’s got bill denbrough against his chest as they sway to the easy beat of moon river.

it’s in the way bill steps on my feet, mike thinks. it’s in the way he apologizes every time, even when i just laugh and promise him it’s okay. it’s in the way he keeps apologizing, cheeks flushed and hands curled around mike’s arms, until mike kisses him quiet. 

it’s in the way that mike’s only eighteen, but he knows what love, true love, feels like. 

#reddie #hanbrough #richie tozier #those r the focus but theres also uhhh #benverly #stanpat #but they're on the side sorry #my writing #thank u 4 this i wrote like a madman for 40 minutes #Anonymous

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (Entry #25)

(cw: drug use, graphic descriptions of gore, blood, insects) ----------

01/11/88  11:01 PM

Hey.

I wanted more GC, and I wanted it quick.

For the first hit, though, I at least had the sense to wait and let my code settle back into place. Which sucked, big time. I came out of that first trip maybe a couple hours before the arcade opened, and I spent the whole work day in my den nursing the most brutal form of buff hangover I’d ever experienced. I had aches on my aches. It was like I’d done five full-body workouts with my guts full of rocks and my head in a vice.

Once the arcade closed, I actually fell asleep and stayed asleep, which was for the best. By the time I woke up the next morning, my body felt right again and my pupils had faded enough to be clear by quitting time, so Tapper wouldn’t be tipped off by an incriminating glow when I went to see him.

I did try to draw some portraits from memory during the day, but my brain was too fried for that to work. I had to wait until closing and chase down some Good Guys, ones that would probably cooperate if I told them what it was for. Whatever anyone thinks of me, everyone loves Tapper. Thankfully, I got one of Mario. Good ol’ plumber-pants sat still without much of a fuss.

Tapper was happy to receive the portrait, and I was happy to get paid. I smiled and waved and played along, before immediately going to break my promise again. I should definitely have felt bad about it, but I kinda didn’t. Nothing was more important to me than GC.

It’s really easy to fall in love with something that makes you feel the way I did in the last entry. 

After that, I ended up thinking that GC could do no wrong. I thought that if I could manage a steady, controlled diet of GC, sleeping away my sobriety between hits, I could make a new, happy life for myself inside my own head. Maybe that would seem sad to the losers stuck in the arcade. All they would see is my body lying around, only ever getting up to get more GC. Looking at it with the mind I have now, that is sad as hell, not to mention impossible, and something I can hardly believe I liked the idea of stooping to. But at the time, I was like one of those pining romantics, madly infatuated with my new lover. I loved GC. I could see nothing wrong with spending the rest of my life with it. I probably would have married it, if I could have.

It wasn’t long before the honeymoon ended.

My second hit started out very much the same as the first one, minus the arousal. Nothing seemed different at first, but I felt good. All my sick feelings had been sucked away and my mood was climbing, so I felt compelled to get up and stroll through the woods. If I remember correctly, it really was a fair bit of time before anything happened. Long enough for me to forget I’d taken any buffs.

Finally, I found something exciting. A tree’s bark shone in a particular, familiar way -- I went over to touch it, and found red stained across the palm of my glove, yet again. Beyond that tree, even more were the same. They reminded me of the cherry syrup, of course, so I followed their trail through the woods. They led me right up to the edge of the map, where the accessible forest cuts off, and the out-of-bounds forest stretches into darkness.

I wondered for a moment why I’d been led there. I couldn’t go any further, and even if I could, none of the trees ahead had any red on them. Uncertain, I inspected a red tree a little closer, and immediately sneezed. It didn’t smell like cherries at all -- it smelled like paint. All of them did, as I could suddenly smell strongly. How I missed that along the way, I had no idea. I’d been following paint splatters the whole time. Once I turned to look into the dark forest again, I jumped a bit.

The trunks that had been clean not seconds before were now splattered with a full spectrum of pungent paint. I took a moment to take it all in and wait for something else to happen, but nothing did.

Seeing how the paint led further into the dark, I figured it had to be another trail. I’d been trying for years to get through the edge of the map, so it seemed impossible to follow. But I stepped forward anyway.

There was no wall. I walked straight through.

I only took a second to look back before continuing on. I’d been standing around long enough, and I don’t think my impaired brain could comprehend the gravity of what I’d just done. 

The trail went on for a little while, until the darkness grew thicker. Curiously, the paint stayed just as clear and bright, but sank deeper towards the ground as I went, until it was just smeared under my feet. When I looked back to check out the colorful footprints behind me, I realized I couldn’t see the forest anymore. Apart from the paint and myself, everything was pitch black as far as I could see, in all directions. 

My gut sank and my head churned. I may have mentioned I’m not really a fan of endless dark. Part of me wanted to lower to the ground and find a way to hold onto it, but I was relieved to hear something.

There was movement. Some fabric shifting, some heavy breathing, some soft, wet sounds. My blood rushed for a moment -- finally, it was time to pick up where I’d left off the previous time. I followed the sound eagerly, and quickly found another smeared paint trail. After a surprisingly long time following it, I finally found what I’d been looking for.

A little ways off, I saw an unusual but familiar sight. It was me, very much the way I looked in the mirror during the last dream, only fully clothed. I was lying down, and I saw a shadow bent over me, but it didn’t look like it was alone. I wondered for a moment how weird it would get if I joined, but the longer I watched, the more I realized that something was off.

My face was turned away. I wasn’t panting, I was heaving like a fish on land. I couldn’t see the edges of the figures, but they still looked a whole lot bigger than the one in the first trip. That’s when I noticed one painfully obvious, crucial thing -- the paint trail led right up to my clone. There was paint all around her, and every color imaginable swirled in a lethargic way like droplets of oil on its surface. And beneath her, a pool slowly spread out from her body. It wasn’t just paint.

It was blood. 

The shadows were eating her alive.

My heart nearly stopped. I wanted to run, but I felt rooted to the spot. All I could do was sink into a crouch, covering my mouth in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t look away. I was forced to watch the ghostly monsters rip my look-alike into bite-sized pieces.

I heard fabric tearing and some sharp snaps. One of them had torn the lower half of one of her pant legs right down to her ankle, and had locked its jaws down on her calf, tugging hard. The others dropped what they were doing to dive in and fight over her leg, which shook the rest of her body like a ragdoll. They had been at her for a little while, it seemed. Paint spilled out of her open wounds as if from a broken jar, and as it did, the very color in her sprite seemed to drain out with it. She was gnawed within an inch of deletion. Heaping bites were taken from around her hip joint, eaten right down to the bone, all shredded and glistening in a garish rainbow. Her smock was torn right open, her tank top nothing but strings. There was a gaping hole chewed right through her white, wooden ribs, which were splintered outward like a broken cage. Through it, I could see a disgusting bulb of pink bubblegum that swelled and shrunk with her heaving breaths. Needless to say, the gore was a horrifying sight. Part of me was waiting for her belly to just fall apart and spill her gummy guts everywhere. But, honestly, the most harrowing sight for me was just a few simple cuts. 

Your name once again stretched across her chest, weeping fun colors that practically laughed in my face.

It was then that the careless jostling of her body flipped her head to face me. I had to clutch both hands over my mouth when I saw her.

Her face was golden, bent, punctured, misshapen, bleeding from a dozen scratches. The same face I saw reflected in my warped paint can, the day of the attack. All things considered, she seemed pretty calm for someone being eaten. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she was sweating, seeming to strain from the effort of staying alive.

Then one of her eyes cracked open, and she saw me.

Her eyes went wide as saucers, filled with fright. They darted towards the shadows, then back to me, and her breathing quickened. Even with a twisted face, the urgency in her eyes screamed just as loud as any voice:

“What are you doing!? RUN, DUMBASS!”

Her leg tore completely free of her body at the hip, and I screamed.

The darkness burst to light. All of it, in all directions, woke into a blinding, humming white light that shocked my eyes for a second. When I adjusted, I saw them. Tall, white, splattered with paint, standing alert around the severed leg, each staring right at me, were dogs.

I bolted.

Vicious, metallic barking gave chase not a second after. My first instinct, one that I’d forgotten was no longer an option, was to fly away. When I grabbed my brush, however, rather than finding red, orange, and yellow, I found nothing. Just a normal, dry brush, out of an empty can. I couldn’t believe it. I ran as hard as I could, beseeching my body to please, please just freakin’ fly. They were almost right behind me, just about close enough to snap at my heels, and I had no idea where I was going. There was nothing. Endless, white void. 

Then, SPLAT. I quite nearly tripped at a splattering sound so loud, it might as well have been the beat of an enormous drum. I didn’t pause to look, but I found that I didn’t need to. The sound beat through the wide white world again and again, until the source spread into my line of sight.

Falling like raindrops the size of hulking boulders were globs of paint, all of them a mess of that infuriating red, orange, and yellow. When they hit the ground, they burst apart in a crashing splatter that colored the endless white like a canvas. The smell smacked into me like a brick wall, quickly reaching suffocating levels and making my vision blur with tears. I didn’t know what they meant, or how I was supposed to avoid them. I was just certain that one would fall directly on my head and break my skeleton into pieces.

Better than being eaten alive.

My worries were cut short. A drop fell not on my head, but right in front of me. I barely had time to see it. The next few moments came so quickly that my brain couldn’t even keep track of them.

The paint splash hit me like a full-body tackle. I was knocked back and fell hard. Before I could move, a dog drove its bony body down onto my gut, and… I don’t know how to explain it, but, just like that, we were falling. As if the force of its dive broke the ground under us. 

Everything went dark, and my scream echoed with a metallic twang. I suddenly found myself tumbling down what felt like a metal shaft, with sharp angles and corners that beat the absolute hell out of my body, all the while tangled up with a nearly skeletal monster that I hadn’t even seen up close yet. But I didn’t care what it looked like. I was more concerned with the claws ripping through my clothes and skin, and the teeth snapping wildly above my hands as I pushed its throat away from me.

Then, within seconds, we shot through the bottom of the shaft, and crashed into the ground hard.

Dog-first.

The thing just barely broke my fall. My whole body slammed flat against the floor. Being profoundly disoriented and beaten halfway to hell, I found it incredibly difficult to push back up off the ground. But in the few moments I had to take in my perceived reality again, I noticed a few things. 

One, the dog was gone. Its body wasn’t even there. All that was left was a huge splatter of white paint that soaked the front of my clothes, and a pair of hinged, golden jaws that looked like they might have been crudely cut from my brush cuff.

Two, I was in a weird, waxy, yellow room, and the walls ran with slowly dripping honey.

Three, there was a baseball bat lodged in the floor in front of me.

And four, barking was echoing through the hollow metal shaft above me. A second dog was on its way down, and I was right where it would fall.

I didn’t think. I just moved. With every ounce of strength I could muster, I leapt to my feet and grabbed onto the baseball bat, but that thing was stubbornly stuck. I planted my feet and yanked as hard as I could, and it shifted a bit, but not nearly enough. That barking was getting closer at a speed that spelled my doom. As far as I could tell, my very life depended on the stupid thing pulling free. So, I did the same thing I always do, and survived.

It all happened in a single second, in one fluid motion. I drove my foot hard into the floor that trapped the bat and finally yanked it free. The momentum whipped my body around and threw the bat behind my head into a loaded wind-up, the very moment that the horrid, snarling thing dropped down in front of me. It lunged at me, and a millisecond was just enough time to see a gaping, golden trap of jagged teeth and white fur stained with haunting rainbow blood, before I let my swing fly. I slugged that thing in the head with enough force to break those jaws apart at the hinges. Once more, its body burst into nothing but a pungent, white splash that sprayed me from head to toe. 

I killed it.

The room was silent. The scramble was over. My entire body quaked so hard, I thought I would crumple to the floor. Apart from the night I was attacked, I’d never been so shaken in my life. But there was a strange thrill to my adrenaline, too, a sort of moxie. I killed one of those monsters, two if you count the lucky fall. Once upon a time, I’d been tied up and at their mercy, of which they had none. This time, I could fight back. This time, they ought to have been scared of me.

For a time, the barking stopped. I knew there was a third still alive, and I had no idea if it was still after me or not, so I was loathe to let my guard down. But I let myself look around. 

The room was small. Big enough for a small sprite to live in, but still really small. As I mentioned, the walls definitely were yellow, but something in my head must have been knocked loose in the fall. For a few seconds, those yellow walls glitched and flickered a spectrum of crackling, blinding colors, pushing nails into my temples. As painful as it was, I didn’t think much of it. I’m not sure why.

I was in a beehive. If the honey wasn’t enough of a tell, there was a fat, fluffy bumblebee almost as big as me shivering in a corner, staring at me, clearly paralyzed with fear. 

They looked completely harmless. But I was nearly killed and not in a trusting mood. I backed up and gripped my bat tightly. I asked them, “Are we gonna get along or are you gonna try something stupid?”

They buzzed.

“I don’t speak bee. You nod, understand? I’m gonna ask you again, are we gonna get along?”

They nodded vigorously.

I thought about it for a minute, decided I could kill a bee with my bare hands if it came to it, and let up on my stance. “Well, alright then.”

Just like that, without another word, they crawled up the wall and burrowed through it, out of sight. I called after them once, but decided I didn’t care. Instead, I addressed the multiple points of stinging pain over my body. From that scuffle during the fall, my smock was torn in several spots, opening up windows to dirty, ragged claw marks that sent blood trickling down. There were a few on my biceps and chest, but the very worst of them curved over my shoulder and onto my back. 

The white paint splatters sure didn’t help the pain.

There wasn’t much I could do about the wounds, but I decided to ditch my smock. The way it hung on me might have gotten in the way if another fight came up. That’s just the way I was thinking.

That’s when I heard the click-click-click of a dog’s claws wandering around. It came from everywhere -- above, below, all around. It was the third dog. It had to be. I hadn’t killed it yet, and it got into the hive. I grabbed my bat and slowly backed around the room. I wanted to be ready for it, but I couldn’t even pinpoint where it was. I tried to harness that moxie again, that vengeful semi-bloodlust, but I was still anxious. To say the least.

“C’mon!” I shouted. “COME OUT!”

There was a waxy squeak, and a door split out from the wall. I let out a wild yell and leapt for it with a killing blow loaded. But it wasn’t a dog -- it was another stranger. I just barely caught myself before I could crack their skull in. It’s safe to assume they screamed, but, somehow, it sounded like silverware tumbling together.

I slowly lowered my bat and got a good look at them. They were another bug, an ant this time, all reddish-brown with an orange chest and black butt. Not as cute as the bee, which peeked out shyly behind them, but they didn’t seem all that hostile. They had all four weird “hands” up in a pacifistic way, and they were braced in a long stance, as if trying to keep their body as far away from me as possible. Once I eased up, they emitted a sound like someone scraping their knife and fork together.

“...Uh...huh,” I said, backing away from their extended hands. They were confident enough to advance a little bit, but I pointed my bat at them. “Now, you stay right the hell there. Not another step ‘til you tell me who you are. In English.”

They looked affronted for a second, and gestured to themself with a metallic squeak. Their sound-language was starting to piss me off.

“Oh, for Litwak’s-- I don’t understand metal, damn it. I don’t have time to-- Wait.”

I paused to listen to the nails clicking around again. The ant squeaked, but I shushed them. “Listen. Hear that?”

They shook their head.

“There’s a dog. There’s a dog in the hive,” I said, following the sound. “I took out the first two, but there’s still one more. It’ll come after me, so you’d best clear out if you know what’s good for ya. This is my--”

I saw it. Right behind the ant and bee, in the low lit corridor, it bent its spidery legs to stalk down low, and it looked right at me with a disgusting golden grin gaping wide.

“THERE!”

Everyone jumped, including the dog. It instantly scrambled, slipped, turned tail, and ran. There was no way in hell I was letting it get away. I lunged for the door, but I was blocked by the ant waving their arms in front of me. I rammed my foot into their gut and dashed past them in pursuit of the monster.

I followed its footfalls up a couple spiraling passageways, until they fell silent. I ended up in a corridor much like the one I entered below, although I took a moment to notice that the wax was quite thin at several points in the walls, with dim, warm light glowing through. Little rooms just like the first one, I figured. My cowardly opponent had to have been in one of them. 

Flipping my bat in my hands, I crept past the rooms. That aforementioned vengeful semi-bloodlust really began to boil over. I just yearned for the satisfaction of killing the thing that quite nearly killed me. It was an odd feeling. I’d never had the actual intent of killing something before, outside of self-defense. But I told myself that this thing would kill me if I didn’t kill it first, so, in a way, it was still self-defense, I figured. I hadn’t become unhinged. My actions were completely rational. 

So, feeling securely justified, I started whistling. “Here boy. C’mon out, now.”

I only stopped when I came upon a light that felt cold. The dog was just on the other side of the wax. I was sure of it. 

So, I hit a hole in the wax and kicked it through. Sure enough, it was there, arching its back hard into the corner. Finally, I actually got a solid look at it.

I immediately wished I hadn’t.

I didn’t see it so much as I felt it. Looking directly at it felt like squinting against dry, freezing air, and its pixels seemed to shudder and blur as if my very eyeballs were shivering. Its fur was a dead, icy white, stained in colorful blood. Every part of its body was long to the point of being grotesque. I could barely focus on its paws, but they looked far too long and bony, more like gnarled hands than anything else. Its face redefined hideous, and I was glad to not get a clearer image of it -- there were holes where ears should have been, a blank slope where a nose should have been, wide, quivering, pitch-black eyes over drooping lower lids, and, of course, those hinged, golden jaws. Calling it a dog was generous. It was no ordinary sprite, no creation of the Devs’. It was, in its entirety, wrong.

It was up to me to correct it.

“There you are, you spineless hellhound,” I sang as I advanced on it slowly. Staring at it felt like inhaling ice water, but I endured it to enjoy the sight of my fear so afraid of me. “Aw, you look so scared. Like you’ve seen a ghost,” I spat, “Spooky, huh? You gonna cover your eyes? Or, maybe you’d prefer to be blindfolded. Yeah, and then I can chew your legs off. You could even tell me your master’s name so I can cut it into your chest. How’s that sound?”

Its hand-like feet pushed and slipped against the honey-slicked floor. It visibly shook, blurring its pixels even more, while it let out a loud whine that was like rusty brakes.

“Oh, shut up,” I said. When it screeched more, I stomped. “I said shut UP! This is nothing compared to what you did to me. A sick, miserable monster like you doesn’t even deserve the mercy of a quick death, but every second you’re alive is a monumental waste of memory.”

Close enough to end it, I raised my bat, and with every ounce of venom in me, I said, “Now, get the hell out of my head, you filthy dog.”

A red-hot claw clamped on my right arm. I shouted and dropped the bat, which clunked to the floor, and the dog immediately bolted. I was angry, I was in pain, I was confused -- even more so when I twisted around to see the ant holding onto me. Only now, they had big red lobster claws in lieu of hands, one of which grabbed the bat and tossed it away. They weren’t squeezing hard, but the contact hurt in a way I didn’t understand until I kicked them away from me. 

“Why the hell did you do that?! Why’d you protect that thing!? Who are you?!”

They rattled in response, but I froze. Everywhere on my arm that had made contact with their claw was sharply tingling. I was conscious enough to remember how being touched makes me feel, but this was so, so much worse.

In a ring around my forearm, there was a dense team of tiny ants. Burrowing under my skin.

Naturally, I screamed. 

“What-- WHAT THE HELL?! WHAT DID YOU DO!? WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME!?”

I ripped my glove off and intervened. I dug my nails in as hard as I could and scratched. The ant came at me again, but I ordered them to keep away from me, maneuvering away as I had to. Every second, I could feel all of their tiny pinchers cutting away at my insides and digging deeper. The feeling alone made me want to throw up.

Finally, my skin broke and peeled away like plastic wrap. I ripped all the way around the ring and, without pausing to look, shook all the bugs out. They went flying around the room and disappeared into the honey. I stood there, panting, my mind sort of rattled, my head starting to seriously ache.

“Devs, my head… Listen,” I said to the ant, “I don’t care who you are, what game you’re from, or if it will get you unplugged. If you do that to me again, I will tear your skinny limbs off and bleed you out. You hear me?”

They nodded quickly. 

“Damn straight.”

Even with the bugs gone, my arm still hurt in a different way. I had clawed into it, after all. But when I looked at it, I didn’t find blood. I found feathers. Shining, red feathers pointed out of my skin. I’ll admit that I got a little excited. I picked a bit more at the ripped skin, and, sure enough, more feathers unfolded. I could feel them under my skin, all over, if I squeezed and prodded. They slipped around under my touch.

“Hey,” I said, chuckling weakly and lifting my arm. I found that I could fan the feathers up and down just by tensing my muscles. I pointed to it and looked at the ant. “How cool is this?”

Then I turned my hand around, and my palm caught my attention. There was a rip across the fabric of my glove, and a single red feather unfolded from a slit in my skin.

That’s around the time that things turned upside-down.

The pain in my head spiked so hard, it felt like a stake slowly driving into my skull. My vision cut in and out with crackling binary, until it gave one hard flash, and my surroundings made a sudden, staggering shift. In a split second, I found myself outside the hive, as if I’d teleported. 

Really, I’d just lost a chunk of time.

My heart was pounding, though I wasn’t sure if it had been from exertion or adrenaline. I had no idea how I went from there to wherever I was. But I stood before a disgusting sort of marvel. There were hills and hills of rotting fruit as far as I could see, all of which was crystalized, looking almost candied. Up above, the sky was nothing but a sea of shifting, buzzing flies, shimmering like polished pebbles.

I paused and looked at my arms, some feathers poking from holes that weren’t there before. I wasn’t sure what was happening to me, and I didn’t have my bat anymore, so I was a bit wary of moving forward. With nothing else to do, I found myself walking anyway. The rocky fruit clicked together under my feet in a very unstealthy way, and part of me wondered if I’d wake a garbage-dragon protecting their garbage hoard. That’s when I heard something.

Dragon or not, there was a sprite somewhere. I heard fruit clicking and snapping over a hill, and a deep rumbling sound similar to a mug sliding across a countertop.

That’s all I saw of the rotten hoard.

There was another stabbing pain, another flash, and I lost another chunk of time. 

Next thing I knew, my vision was cutting in and out. I was screaming something, but it was too choppy to remember. The main thing I remember is that I felt the bugs again, over every inch of me from the neck down. I was on the floor, I think, thrashing and scratching.

Flash.

I was back in the hive, in another small room with the same ant from before. I was standing on what could only have been a table. I was panting a bit, and the ant was a safe distance away, also winded, as if we’d just had a chase around the room. They squeaked and scraped a bit louder than they had been before. I still didn’t understand a word they said.

I was clutching my arm, holding it up for them to see. More and more of my skin had been pulled back over feathers, and, remarkably enough, my fingers were curled into pearlescent, white bird claws.

I shouted something. I don’t remember what.

Flash.

I had a blanket over my shoulders. My fingers were bare, cold, and slick. There was a destroyed piece of cherry pie on a plate in front of me, and I was enjoying the feeling of its insides on my skin instead of eating it. 

I think from here on in the dream, my brain really started to shut down. I got pretty stupid and embarrassing, and, honestly, I don’t think I absorbed a whole lot of what was said to me, or even what I said. There are hard-lined blips of dialogue that are just missing from my head. I’ll cut them out as they happen, moving forward. 

I only caught the tail end of myself telling what felt like a long story.

“--and two fingers in here, comparing side by side with your eyes closed, I promise you couldn’t tell the difference.”

I was looking at Fix-it. Plain ol’ Fix-it. I was in his plain ol’ apartment. Apart from a few things knocked over, everything was where it should have been for a moment.

Fix-it sat across from me at the table, his hair a mess, his eyes rimmed red from either crying or lack of sleep. He leaned his cheek heavy into his palm and seemed to be fighting with all his might to keep his eyes open. There was coffee in front of him, but I got the impression that it had gone cold.

I was very disoriented. I had been facing down an ant mere seconds ago, as far as I could tell. I had no idea how I ended up there. Part of me wondered if it was real. I wondered if Fix-it was real. I squinted at him, as if I could read his code if I tried really hard.

“Fix-it, is that you?”

His eyes drooped. “Mm-hmm.”

I just stared at him, surprised at his tiny response. I actually found it a little unnerving.

“Fix-it, wake up. You’re creepin’ me out.”

His eyes opened, and he studied me for a second. With a defeated sigh through his nose, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Uh, Make-it Mavis, weirdo?”

At that, his face turned hopeful, and he straightened a bit. “Do you know who I am?”

“The Hammerhead. Duh. What’s the matter with you?”

He held his chest and thanked the Devs for a moment. My head throbbed, and for a second, his sprite flickered in every direction. He reformed with black eyes and pinchers for a frame, then creepy bug arms, then he was covered in ants, and then he was just himself again. I took a deep, steadying breath, wanting to ask the very programming what the hell that was.

“Okay, Mavy,” he tried to smooth his hair, and spoke carefully, as if this wasn’t his first attempt. “Can you tell me… what you remember about this evening?”

The question seemed easy, but the answer was slippery. I sucked my teeth, pinched my brow and wracked my brain. “I was just… there was an ant. They were trying to ---------- had a sort of, like… bird hand.”

He nodded slowly. I continued.

“They put bugs ---------- tore them out. I somehow ---------- of dead fruit and a sky full of flies. I had a monster dog cornered--”

I jolted up. “The dog! It got away! Where’s my bat!?”

“Mavy, Mavy, Mavy!” He lifted slightly from his seat, hands up. “It’s okay! It’s okay. Please, stay seated. Relax.”

“No! No, no no, I can’t relax! There were three, and only two are dead!” I gripped the table, my bones rattling. “The last one’s ----------! It wants my color!”

Fix-it paused. “Your… color?”

“My color! The color in my veins!”

“Your blood.”

I flew into a sort of panic induced rage. “My COLOR! They eat color! The entire kaleidoscope’s inside me! Don’t ----------?! I am color! I AM COLOR, DAMN IT!”

“Mavy, listen to me carefully, okay? Just take deep breaths,” he said softly and clearly. It seemed to me that he’d been saying that a lot that night. “You’re safe. You’re in your own game. You’re with me, and I’m not gonna hurt you. Okay?”

“No,” I said, and snatched up the fork next to my plate. “Just look -- this is what they want!”

He jumped to his feet. “Oh-- Mavis, no, no, don’t!”

I slammed my left hand down onto the table and drove the fork into it. It was like stabbing into a thick, dense steak that spit buttery juices. There was no pain at all.

Fix-it squealed in alarm. He rushed over, but I stuck my foot out. “You keep away from me! Look with your eyes!”

“Mavy, you’re bleeding!”

“I know! Look!”

I yanked the fork out of my hand and held it up for him to see. Looking like a peculiar bite mark, a neat row of holes spurted yellow and orange paint that ran down my arm.

“You see?!”

Then it just turned red.

Flash.

#fanfiction #fanfic #wreck it ralph #fix it felix #make it mavis #original character #homesick #watch out this ones wild