#law-typical gore i suppose

[newttxt]

the best way to luffy’s stomach is through his heart (or something like that)

a four page one piece fancomic in which luffy and law talk about luffy’s stomach

page 1

panel 1: a top view of luffy and law sitting in grass. luffy is leaning back on his hands with his legs outstretched. law sits crosslegged between them. they are both looking down at the hole in luffy’s abdomen, where law has used his devil fruit power to remove his stomach. “whoa! cool!” says luffy, while law hums, “hmm… interesting.”

panel 2: a close-up of law’s hand holding luffy’s stomach in its cube-like container. “it looks surprisingly average,” law says, “for a bottomless pit.”

panel 3: “isn’t it weird?” luffy asks. he is sitting with his back to the viewer, but his smile is still visible as he leans into law’s space. law is still crosslegged, holding the stomach, and he looks vaguely uncomfortable as luffy keeps talking. luffy says, “that thing can make food stop looking like food and start looking like poop! huh. wonder how it does that…”

page 2

panel 1: law looks off to the side, sweating and kinda grouchy. knowing he’ll regret this, he mutters, “i… know how… at least for NORMAL humans.”

panel 2: the back of luffy’s head takes up most of the panel as he demands, “what?! i wanna know too!” law grits his teeth and shouts back, “you’re just gonna fall asleep!” and luffy yells, “nuh-uh!”

panel 3: luffy grins widely, throws his arms out to the side, and flops onto his back in the grass. he’s loudly yelling, “tell me! tell me, traffy!”

page 3

panel 1: law is visible from a low-angle, as if from luffy’s pov on the ground. he sighs, “fine. here’s how it works.”

panel 2: this panel looks similar to the previous, but its slightly darker, with gray bars at the top and bottom, narrowing visibility to show luffy’s eyes are closing. law continues, “the stomach has two main functions.”

panel 3: law is now barely visible through the gap. luffy is almost asleep. law says, “the first, as YOU know, is the storage of food.”

panel 4: the background is completely dark, and law’s words trail off, “the second is—“

page 4

panel 1: a large, top view of luffy lying on his back in the grass. his arms are thrown wide still and his eyes are open. he has just jolted awake, saying, “hmm?” off-screen, law complains, “i don’t know WHY i bothered.”

panel 2: law accuses, “you didn’t listen to a word i said.” luffy sits up, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed because he’s a terrible liar. he says, “sure i did,” dragging out the “sure.”

panel 3: luffy breaks into a grin and proudly declares, “it’s a mystery!” law cuts him off with a “NO,” his speech bubble literally dripping with disdain.

panel 4: the silhouette of luffy and law sitting side by side. law is whapping luffy on the head with a light fist. law says, “idiot…” before bonking him. luffy yells, “hey!” but he is laughing, and a small “heh” shows law is too.

#one piece #luffy #trafalgar law #look im just gonna tag it #lulaw #it doesnt have to be but its what i was thinking when i drew it so. #cw body horror #??? ever so slightly #law-typical gore i suppose #he stuck it back in when luffy dozed off. maybe thats what woke him up #anyway. sometimes ur so close to someone that theyll let u look at their organs for fun! #typically its stomach > heart but for luffy its the other way around #not that he keeps his organs very close to his chest. which is a weird thing to say. what AM i saying anymore

[amarynthian-chronicles]

Extended Contract Chapter 1

Fae Prince Sun, Fae Prince Moon, Fae King Eclipse x Witch Reader

(You are a witch that fell for the oldest trick in the book by giving your name to the mischievous Fae princes of the Celestial Court. Such an inconvenience on what was supposed to be a typical office night. You are honestly not having it. They, however, do seem quite happy about having you. You decide to make a deal with the Fae King to regain your freedom. The only thing that is functional in the whole situation is your phone signal in the Fae Kingdom.)

Warnings: kidnapping, suggestive themes, gore and the usual Fae tomfoolery

“May I have your name?“

“Of course, it is Y/N.“

“Your precious contribution is very much appreciated.“

It is not every day that one seals their own fate because of a simple misunderstanding of idioms and literal meanings, but there you were, bound to the realm of the Fae Folk and belonging to the royal twins of the Celestial Court. Mondays were known to be unlucky days, but this was just ridiculous.

You weren't really in the mood for getting abducted, thank you very much.

There were so many assignments and drafts due next week and you feared Vanessa's wrath far more than you feared the dark magic of enamoured Fae.

Furthermore, you had the misfortune of being stuck with those mischievous miscreants in the middle of the witching hour. The law firm building was empty, the cranky doorman had left hours ago and the janitor had the habit of never arriving before six in the morning. You could scream, but that would not do much good. The cameras did not pick up sound and technology could not record the presence of the Fae, so the only thing you would accomplish is create evidence of your own insanity.

“Excuse me, I really must protest.“

You were in the process of trying to escape the grip of the regal solar-themed Fae. He seemed rather amused, since you weren't really successful, but he almost seemed to be playfully encouraging you to keep trying. Prince Sun had always been a very supportive person, even if he was the one causing the problem in the first place.

“Go on, beautiful, nobody is stopping you. I think that every once in a while everybody needs to raise objections and such. It is healthy.“

His lunar twin grinned, red eyes glowing with roguish mirth.

“I wholeheartedly agree with you, brother. We fully encourage sincerity and dialogue.“

You told them that you wanted to make an appeal. They happily informed you that such a thing was not possible and that you officially belonged to them. You were certainly not touched by their infectious enthusiasm. After all, being gifted with a human's True Name was an experience akin to a cat falling into a whole box full of catnip for them.

“You will play with us forever."

“The Celestial Court is a wondrous place.“

“Word games galore.“

“But beware, for danger lurks in each syllable, my love.“

“Blades caress the consonants and glide along the vowels.“

“Running is futile, but at least it is a very healthy activity. It is always important to get some cardio for the day.“

By all logic, you should be feeling some form of despair and terror, but you were mostly suffering from a horrible case of injured pride. You had fallen for the oldest trick since the dawn of magic. You were an absolute idiot. True, you were running on two cups of coffee, you had not slept properly in a week and your blood sugar levels were more tragic than Shakespeare's “Hamlet“. In your defense, working for William Afton, attorney at law, was no walk in the bloody park. Especially when you had Vanessa as your immediate taskmaster.

You had grown tired of struggling, giving yourself a few moments of respite. Prince Sun was holding you bridal style, his blue gaze soft, showing a type of adoration one would give to a hidden treasure, a joy one experiences when holding a droplet of water in a desert.

Prince Moon had a personality that was diametrically opposite to that of his brother. Hunger reigned in his eyes. Your essence was intoxicating, calling for him, enticing him. You dared not even imagine what his claws could do to you, nor what he could accomplish with his razor-sharp teeth.

Rowan charms could no longer save you, nor could silver. Leaves of holly had no more power, either. You couldn't bribe the royal twins with cream either, since apparently you were the new dessert in the grand scheme of things.

Moon reached out with his claws, searching for your delicate hand. He traced his claw along the sensitive flesh of your inner wrist with all the fervour and ardour of a lover, inspecting the soft skin. Upon giving your name to them, two different markings had manifested on each inner wrist respectively. A crescent moon on the right one and the mark of the sun on the left one.

“Gentlemen, there has obviously been a bit of a miscommunication.“

“Yes, those tend to be very practical in our line of work.“

“I don't have time for this, do you have any idea how many assignments I have due next week?“

“Actually, we do. I must voice our disapproval of you overworking yourself in general. Following orders of such unworthy scoundrels.“

“Well, I am not really in the mood for changing one group of masters for another. I wish to be taken to the Fae King.“

“You will meet him later anyway, he is a bit busy now.“

“No, no, not in that way. I wish to make my complaint.“

“Haven't we closed that topic already?“

“I demand my freedom back. You two said that King Eclipse could grant it to me if I convince him to. Although, I see now that this statement does not exclude you two being capable of the same thing and most likely you are just using the wording to trick me to stop asking you.“

“Can you blame us?“

“Yes. I blame you. And I judge you.“

In spite of it all, you had to admit the celestial princes were quite handsome and their appearance would normally be breathtaking, if you weren't meeting them under such circumstances.

In a resting position, their large wings almost appeared like regal capes. Complementary colours reigned in their respective palettes. Deep royal blues of Prince Moon's wings were speckled with tiny stars, while the rich golden hues of Prince Sun's had swirls of blue interwoven in their texture. In a way, the twins were perfectly symmetrical when it came to the design of their wings. Their attire was similar to that of jesters, but far more elaborate and indicative of their status. Silk and velvet were present, bejeweled buttons, finely tailored doublets.

Both of them were eager, lovestruck and needy. To a degree you almost felt like a lamp attracting a pair of silly mothlings. Which was fitting, considering they too had wings and all.

As Moon was still caressing you along your inner forearm, Sun could not resist nuzzling your hair. You could have sworn that you heard both of them purr. A part of you wondered how on earth did such a scene appear on the cameras, were you simply just floating around and talking to yourself? You internally apologized in advance to any poor security worker that would have to go through the recordings later.

Sun's voice brought you back from your silly reveries, his cheek resting on your head.

“As soft as silk.“

You had been somewhat aware that a pair of Fae had been hunting you for the past several weeks, but it was impossible to decipher their identity. Their glamour and shielding spells had been extremely powerful, their cunning unparalleled and their tricks endless. In many ways, they had been testing you, the purity of your heart and the strength of your soul. They would come to you, disguised either as lost little animals in need of help, or as injured humans in need of assistance. You would always help, no questions asked and always ignoring the warning tingle of enemy magic. Your mind had completely warped to the logic of the normal world and you no longer asked yourself the questions a witch would.

You did not suspect the odd new coworkers that had appeared out of nowhere either, nor did you seem to wonder where they had come from. You had simply accepted that you probably just never noticed them before and that they had always been there. A few pleasantries here, a few kind words there, and that had been all. Of course, all up till tonight when the name trick finally came to rip the veil of denial off.

You huffed, unphased by Sun's compliments regarding your hair.

“Were you the one that has been making those silly fairy-locks I kept waking up with? Those are impossible to untangle!“

“Technically you are not supposed to do that, elsewise you bring misfortune upon yourself. The poor keyboard on your laptop suffered a premature death because of that.“

“I really liked that laptop.“

“I know.“

“It was brand new.“

“May it rest in peace.“

You looked over at the little digital clock on a nearby desk. The witching hour was almost over and the power of the Fae would slightly weaken after four in the morning. If you somehow escaped them, maybe you could distract them enough till the desired hour strikes. Your magical weapons may at least have a fair chance afterwards.

You gasped as Moon leaned closer to you, his hand caressing your cheek, sliding down to your neck, distracting you with pleasurable sensations and making your spine tingle.

“What is going on in that pretty little head of yours, wishing star?“

“Nothing much, honestly.“

Both of them spread their giant wings, showing all of their glory, then draped them over you in what one may interpret as a soothing and protective gesture, but given the circumstances, it was also a demonstration of entrapment.

Impish jesters, forever grinning, forever teasing.

It was one thing to be bound and made to serve an ordinary fairy. It was a completely different thing to be serving the royal twins of the Celestial Court. They were dangerous, powerful, their stature surpassed even the tallest of humans, their urges were never satisfied and their desires never at rest. Not to mention that they were the most competent tricksters of the Fae kingdom.

Fairies were incapable of lying. Therefore, they had to resort to literal meanings and multiple interpretations, distortions, tricks. You could imply one thing that was perfectly accepted and understood in human society, but they would purposefully give it an obscure meaning that was still not a falsehood.

Your predicament was ironic in many ways. Embarassing even. To be precise, you came from a long line of magical practitioners that had been known over the centuries as the Cunning Folk. Various terms existed for such people, but in the modern times the closest definition would be light witches. It was an adequate name that differentiated them from warlocks or dark witches.

You, dear Y/N, had done your best in life to keep the madness of magic at bay. Yes, you knew how to ward yourself from curious spirits, you always had your trusted rolled up newspaper at the ready to hit the local boogeyman on the head when he was living rent-free under your bed, and pretty much every imp on the block knew to avoid you if they wanted to keep all their limbs attached.

Fae Folk, however, were a different story. Long ago, it had been a custom for the Fae to connect to members of the Cunning Folk in order to form a soul bond. A familiar and their witch, in a way. It had always been a connection stronger than any spell and a love more intense than any passionate marriage.

All of that had changed when the realm of the Fae had been afflicted by a darkness far more potent than any light spell could heal. The Hopes and Dreams of children had become scarce and all that was once joyful and innocent had become corrupted and ruined. The Fae King had become cruel and wicked, his once cheerful and loving demeanour had transformed into that of a deranged villain. He did have an odd shift of behaviour on certain birthdays, though, and this would usually take everyone aback for a solid twenty-four hours.

In light of all that, the Cunning Folk had gone into hiding and refused any new bonds with the Fae. This was unacceptable, since the Fae had depended immensely on the sweet nectar that human souls could provide, especially when that soul happened to be a magical one. Consequently, over the centuries the Fae had to resort to various tricks, from luring humans into their fairy circles, kidnapping them and taking them to their kingdom, tricking them with various word games and always having them fall in traps when they least expected it. Certain Fae were less malevolent and were simply in dire need and want of being parents to a child, so they would take human babies to raise them as their own, leaving changelings in their place.

And despite all your efforts, you still managed to become a captive. Go figure.

Prince Sun, ruler of the waking dreams, bringer of hope, and Prince Moon, protector of sleeping children and vanquisher of nightmares. All of those titles did sound pretty cute, but both of them were still impish fiends that loved to play pranks on adults. Oh, well, your time was running out, so you had to think of something fast. Or at least try to reach the little dagger with Runes that you had all nicely hidden and tucked away in a secret pocket of your trousers. You never knew when you would need to stab something supernatural. Or open an envelope.

You concocted a little plan and hoped for the best.

Trickery was not limited to the Fae and you lowkey felt proud of your cunning ways as you pulled Moon into a deep kiss, much to his initial shock. He began to eagerly reciprocate, the sweet haze of lust conspiring against him, your softness and loveliness engulfing his mind. Desire was a natural solvent to rational thought and you had no problems with using that against him. Sun, on the other hand, was both shocked, and slightly jealous, but he did know that something was off.

His suspicions were only confirmed when, in the span of several seconds, you pulled out a silver dagger with enough Runic carvings to obliterate a whole magical army, casually stabbed Moon's heart as if the very gesture was the most normal thing in the world, used Sun's surprise to wriggle out of his grasp and you ran away down the corridors like a feral kitten. Well, at least you were productive.

As you ran, your phone began to ring, conveniently giving up your location in the process, but oh well. It was Vanny, so of course you had to pick up.

“Y/N, where is that briefing paper that you were supposed to email me literally yesterday?“

“I'm in a bit of a situation, Vanessa.“

“What is it now?“

“Well, apparently I am getting married.“

“Congratulations, I still want that briefing.“

“I will call you back, alright?“

Meanwhile, Prince Moon was having a bit of an existential crisis. He stood there, shocked, dagger protruding from his heart.

Oh, yes, it hurt. It burned, stinged, all of the unpleasant things that one may imagine. However, it was nothing compared to how it could have been. The newly forged bond made him immune to most of your deadly spells and Runes, so at worst he would feel temporary pain and then it would cease.

In a way, his desire and respect for you only increased. A Fae always respected good examples of trickery.

Sun could not stop himself from wheezing, very much entertained with the situation.

“You really walked into that one, Moon.“

“Shut up.“

He would still make you pay for that little insult, nonetheless. The corridors had morphed into the same scenery over and over, the windows were suddenly sealed shut, the nearby doors leading to a dead end or into a void of eternal nothingness. You could no longer trust your senses, for mad whispers kept disrupting reality. Only a few more minutes, you hoped for only a few more minutes till the witching hour ends.

You were honestly an idiot for trusting your own luck.

Moon's voice echoed throughout the corridors, ominous and demonic. A bit spicy, as well.

“You should have saved that fire for the wedding night, wishing star.“

“Goodness gracious.“

It became rather obvious that Vanessa would not be getting that briefing paper anytime soon, nor would our good old William Afton be getting his early morning coffee next week, either. Or any week, for that matter. It was a tragedy beyond description, may he rest in pieces.

You had to stop to catch your breath, panting, perfectly aware of the fact that you were mostly screwed. Well, a part of your mind tried to add some rational remarks and told you that living with the Fae couldn't be that bad and at least you would hopefully be getting some really cute royal garments or something. When in doubt, at least material things never disappointed you.

Ghostly hands rose from the ground, grasping at your ankles, your calves, your thighs. You fell forwards unceremoniously and you would have experienced quite a hit to the ground had the hands not grasped you, shielding you from the hard floor.

“What a perfect way to spend my night, being manhandled seventy percent of the time.“

Wrestling them was useless, but at least there was more dignity in that than just doing nothing and thinking about the meaning of life till your captors arrived.

Prince Sun appeared first, somewhat sympathetic, but also visibly tired from all the shenanigans. He let you have your little moment of heroism, though.

“Take your time, darling one.“

“Oh, sod off.“

Prince Moon arrived soon after, eyes glowing a dangerous shade of crimson, the dagger still embedded in his chest. He pulled the blade out, his gaze following the path of the rivulets of blood, almost enchanted by the pattern they were making as they glided along the expertly made Runic symbols.

“Love the craftsmanship on this one. It would have been a poetic death. Stricken by a wishing star, tearing my heart asunder, red pearls the only gifts I have to offer.“

Sun went over to you, partially teasing, partially serious.

“Someone is a bit violent. Are you alright, darling one? Do you wish to talk about some unresolved issues?“

“You two are literally stealing me away.“

“It's not that bad. We shall be loving and caring consorts to you. After all, our bond is basically an engagement.“

“This is the shoddiest proposal ever. How is this even supposed to work, each of you gets their own day of the week?“

“We'll share equally.“

“Excuse me, I am not a meal.“

“Really? You do seem rather delicious.“

“This isn't fair. Do you have any idea how homesick humans can get in the realm of the Fae?“

“We have many spells designed to bedazzle the mind and encourage you to forget the mortal world. And everyone is nice in their own way once you get to know them.“

“You two had no other member of the Cunning Folk to bother and you just had to stumble upon me?“

The dark spell was lifted and you found yourself free. Well, not for long, since the twins were at your side once more. Sun kissed your hand like a true gentleman, his wings making the faintest flutter of joy.

“We searched for a heart of gold and dreams of hope.“

“And you decided to look in a law firm?“

“Bright light contrasts best against a shadowy background.“

“Can I see the terms and conditions of my service?“

“Oh? Good idea! You can read all of that on our way to the palace! It will be so much fun to explain it to you. Of course, the letters are inverted, so you will need a mirror just to read it.“

He conjured a seemingly reasonable rolled-up piece of paper, before letting it unfold. It reached the ground in a comical fashion and kept on going till the end of the corridor.

“Sun, that list is longer than the border of Ancient Rome.“

“Indeed! I had it shortened to make it easier for you.“

“Dear god.“

“I also must say that I wrote it myself. I do my fair share of corporate business and contracts with humans are my specialty, but I do prefer to engage in theater. I may have given a certain playwright a few tips on writing his special little Midsummer work.“

“Old Will? For real?“

“Wonderful chap to have a pint with at the pub. I am certain he would have had an aneurysm had he lived to see what his reputation had become nowadays. A cheerful knave being the main topic for school and homework? Scandalous. He was a most charming actor and a talented wizard of words. Had many a verbal battle with him, and I never managed to snag his soul. I fully respect him for that.“

“Good to know. Regardless, I still wish to talk to your brother about this whole affair. It is my right, considering the fact that I am not a normal human and I do have certain perks. I am certain that King Eclipse will have more respect for old customs than you two.“

Sun and Moon gave each other a look, before giggling at you, as if charmed by how silly your request was.

“King Eclipse? Darling one, do beware.“

“The knave stole the moonlight fair.“

“Neither fools nor traitors breathe for long in his lair.“

“Be our guest, challenge him, if you dare.“

You raised an eyebrow at their improvised little poetic endeavour, tilting your head, curious.

“Did you two just come up with that?“

“Well, we did think of incorporating a iambic pentameter somewhere in there, but we simply decided to free verse it.“

Needless to say that the whole charade continued even after they had conjured a portal to their world, taking you with them. You were playing a dangerous game, but realistically you had nothing to lose. Well, except your dignity and maybe your life, but nothing lasts forever anyway, so might as well.

Your case was one type of extreme. On the other end of the city, two members of the Fae species were in the process of “adopting“ a few bundles of joy. The bear Fae and the wolf Fae were aware that two children were very unhappy in their orphanage and oftentimes they would hear the little girl, Cassie, vocalize her wish to be taken away by magical creatures. The boy, Gregory, had nothing against any of that, as long as there was proper acommodation involved. He hated the hard old bed he had in the orphanage and the food was positively awful.

Of course, there had to be an equivalent exchange, so the two Fae had to bring some friends along. One of them was not too thrilled.

“Why are we doing this? I don't want to stay in the human world.“

“You only need to stay till the next full Moon, Bonnie, and then you will be free of the obligation. Monty will keep you company.“

“Monty is insane.“

“Don't be rude.“

“He pushed me off the stairs, Roxy.“

“Happens.“

Montgomery was far too busy exploring the wonders of a music player to really care where he was, honestly. A few broken orphanage windows and one angry half-blind nun later, the wolf Fae and the bear Fae had become proud new adoptive parents. Bonnie and Monty would have to serve as changeling replacements for a bit, but that is what happens when you lose fairy chess. You owe favours.

By the time Roxy and Freddy had returned home, Gregory had partially woken up, while Cassie was all snuggled in the soft pillows of her new bed. They boy looked around his new house, nonchalant and trying to read what was happening from the clues given.

“Have I been kidnapped?“

“Some may call it that.“

“By fairies? Like, a changeling type of situation?“

“Yes, but I assure you we are using all of the safety protocols that are necessary.“

“Well, I'll be damned.“

“We do wish to make the best effort and become your new family, Gregory. For you and Cassie.“

“Is that food over there? Cupcakes?“

“Oh, indeed, with buttercream and cherries.“

Gregory observed the treats for a good few moments, thought a bit, weighed all his options and of course made the best possible decision for himself in that type of situation. Fairy food was usually a forbidden thing, but he was already stolen anyway.

“I am a simple lad, I see free food and I cannot complain.“

AO3

#fairy!sun #fairy!moon #fairy!eclipse #sundrop #moondrop #fnaf eclipse #sundrop x reader #moondrop x reader #eclipse x reader #five nights at freddy's #daycare attendant x reader #daycare attendant #fae sun #fae moon #fae eclipse #fae prince sun #fae prince moon #fae king eclipse #jester's privilege chronicles #amary's chronicles

[wisdomssdaughterr]

PROJECT SUNSHINE CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE → WHAT A GIRL WANTS

summary: steve harrington x oc

when another product of Hawkins National Laboratory escaped a long-survived nightmare alongside her sister, she crashed into one unsuspecting teenage boy and dragged him deeper into the dark mysteries that made up their hometown.

word count. 3.5k

warnings: cannon typical violence, child abuse, horror, gore, and depictions of mental illness. parts of this story were written pre-season 4 release. cannon divergence.

previous chapter ← → next chapter

A set of hands wound their way around Seven’s torso, peeling her off the floor. She tried to hang on, slick fingers gripping painted skin with all the strength and fight left in her. Her short fingernails dug into the bent arms desperately trying to stay there. 

The person behind her was just as desperate, though, for vastly different reasons. They hauled the little girl up with a grunt while trying to avoid her kicks and tired punches aimed at no one but the air.  

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” they kept repeating. The words did nothing to soothe the little girl, but they couldn’t bring themselves to say anything more.  

“Ivy! Ivy please!” Seven screamed into the quiet hall. The alarms had subsided; the dust had settled. All that was left was the overwhelming stench of metal and the harrowing sobs that echoed up and down each hall Seven was carried.  

The person never stopped. They turned corners and kept their gaze straight forward, not daring to look at the ground or the walls. 

“Ivy!” Seven screamed so loud her throat felt set aflame. “Wake up! Wake up!” 

But she never did. 

Hauling the last bucket of raw meat from the trunk of his car, Steve let out a sigh while Sunshine took inventory of the supplies in Dustin’s backpack. He mainly had packed snacks, which she supposed was important too.  

“I hope we’re right about this,” Steve said. He stood surrounded by all of their odd monster hunting gear and supplies that consisted of stolen meat, a couple of canisters of gasoline, a bear trap, rubber gloves, and a lighter. 

Dustin stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I can’t believe we just robbed a grocery store.” 

“Okay, robbed is a little dramatic.” Steve rolled his eyes, even though that was exactly what they did. It was surprisingly easy to steal two buckets of raw meat from the deli department early that morning. No one saw them, somehow. They managed to walk right in and right out with a hiccup. 

“We didn’t pay for it. That’s robbery,” said Dustin. 

“Oh, did you want to explain to the butcher exactly why we needed all of this shit? I’m sure she would have been totally cool about it and not at all suspicious.” 

For two people who had never really interacted before last night, Steve and Dustin pointlessly argued almost as badly as the rest of the party.   

Sunshine smiled softly, somewhat amused by the boys’ bickering before she said, “It’s all right, Dustin. We weren’t caught and everything worked out. No one will know.” 

Even if they had been caught, the law enforcement in Hawkins was mostly on their side thanks to Hopper. Though, no one had been able to get ahold of the man in a day or two, which Sunshine was beginning to think wasn’t a complete coincidence. If there was a Demogorgon on the loose, it was possible Hopper knew about it too.  

With a light scoff, Dustin stopped fiddling with his walkie-talkie. “I’m not worried, Sunshine, not about my reputation. I was a fugitive last year, remember? I know what it’s like to be on the other side of the law.” Sunshine grimaced and Steve rolled his eyes once more.  

“I’m worried about him.” Dustin pointed a finger at Steve. 

The utterly offended look that crossed Steve’s face only caused Sunshine to smile more and bite back a laugh. 

“Listen up, smartass, we weren’t caught so it doesn’t matter. Besides, what makes you think I haven’t done something like this before, hm?” Steve was rather defensive, trying to combat the judgmental gaze of a twelve-year-old boy.  

“Yeah? What, you’ve stolen some cigarettes from your mom’s purse?” Dustin retorted. 

Steve scoffed, “Seriously?” 

A small, smug smile tugged at the corners of Dustin’s lips as he nodded. If they weren’t about to trek into the woods in search of a monster, Sunshine was sure they’d continue to bicker until one of them broke, but they refrained for the sake of their mission. 

All of their supplies were out of the car and packed away into their bags, which they then slung over their shoulders as they prepared to venture toward the old junkyard.

While Sunshine had been there before with Hopper last year, she wasn’t exactly sure where they were going. Luckily, Dustin and the boys used to use the junkyard as their hideout. He knew exactly where they were going. 

Before they set off, Dustin’s radio went off with a familiar voice. 

“Dustin! This is Lucas. Do you copy?” 

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” said Dustin. He went on to, very briefly, explain their current situation involving the fact that Dart was possibly a baby Demogorgon and that Dustin had spotted him in the woods, bigger than he had been at school. He conveniently left out the fact that he had hidden the little monster after he found him at the middle school and took him back home, only for him to escape and feat on his pet cat.  

While Dustin talked to Lucas and told him to meet them at the junkyard a little later in the day, Sunshine found her gaze pulling away from the supplies that littered the ground, and onto Steve.  

She watched as he tugged on a pair of obviously bright yellow gloves before he picked up the bucket of meat from the store. His nose scrunched up at the smell and he shook his head lightly, but just enough to cause a couple pieces of hair to fall against his forehead. 

Steve must’ve felt her gaze because he met her eye with a raise of his eyebrows. She looked away, suddenly fascinated by the dying grass under her feet. 

“Over and out,” Dustin bid Lucas goodbye, with plans for him to meet the group later. They did one last check to make sure they had all of their monster hunting supplies, then took off into the woods, setting their plan in motion.

Dead leaves clung to twisted branches over their heads and covered the ground. A breeze caused the trees to howl, but there was an eerie quietness that floated through the woods.  

Sunshine pulled her jacket tighter around her and followed Dustin’s lead toward a set of abandoned train tracks that, according to him, would lead them most of the way to the junkyard. The tracks were mostly covered in weeds and the wooden railway ties were almost completely rotted.  

For a while, the group walked in comfortable silence. Dustin and Steve took turns leaving a trail of raw meat behind them, hopefully urging the monster to follow it right into the trap they planned to set once they reached the junkyard. 

Sunshine used most of her focus to not think about what lurked in the woods around them. Since she had been back home, after their first encounter with the Demogorgon, she stayed far away from the woods. It was a place where monsters potentially lurked and children vanished and, even though up until a day ago she was fairly sure they were in the clear of monsters and bad men, Sunshine wanted nothing to do with the woods.  

Yet, there she was, venturing through it looking once more for a monster. She had to remind herself that she was not alone, though. Having Steve and Dustin at her side put her more at ease. 

“Why did you even have this thing in the first place?” Steve asked, breaking the silence with his question aimed at the younger boy. 

Dustin let out a sigh into the crisp air. “I told you; I thought I discovered a new species. I thought I’d show it to my science teacher, and he’d call someone to get it named after me or something.” There was a short pause. Dustin tilted his head down as he kicked some leaves off of his path. “And I…I kind of wanted to show it off to this new girl at school.” 

That part of the story was new to Sunshine. 

Dustin’s cheeks were tinted pink, and she knew it wasn’t just because of the cool breeze. 

“So, let me get this straight. You kept something you knew was probably dangerous to impress some girl who you just met?” Steve said. 

Dustin rolled his eyes. “That’s grossly oversimplifying things.” 

“Why would a girl like some nasty slug anyway?” Steve asked. 

“Uh, because it’s awesome.” Dustin nudged Sunshine’s side and said, “Right?” 

She hesitated, caught in the hopeful twinkle in Dustin’s eyes. “Not exactly,” Sunshine said, softly. 

“See.” Steve shook his head. “Girls aren’t into that stuff, man. Even if this new girl thought the slug was cool, which she didn’t, I feel like you’re trying too hard.”  

A groan sounded from the younger boy. “Not all of us have your cool hair or fancy car, all right?” 

“It’s not about the hair or the car,” said Steve. “The key with girls is to act like you don’t care.” 

There was a lot that Sunshine was learning, especially when it came to things such as relationships, but what Steve said sounded wrong. Wasn’t the point of being with someone because they cared?  

“Isn’t that kind of mean?” she asked. 

“No, it drives girls nuts. Trust me.” 

Sunshine doubted that, but she felt like she wasn’t in a position to offer any advice to Dustin or disprove Steve’s advice. He was the one with a girlfriend, and that girlfriend was Nancy Wheeler of all people. Maybe he did know what he was talking about. 

“Then what do you do?” asked Dustin, his interest peeked.  

“Then you just wait until you feel it. ” 

Dustin furrowed his brows. “Feel what?” 

As Steve searched for the right words, he looked upwards at the sky, halfway hidden behind branches that only let some light in. Sunshine wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he found it and continued. 

“It’s like before it’s going to storm. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. It’s like this electricity.” 

Slowly, Dustin nodded, trying to understand. “Right. Like in the electromagnetic field when the clouds in the atmosphere-” 

“No, no, no.” Steve stopped him. “No electromagnetic fields. It’s more like a sexual electricity.” Dustin scrunched up his nose. “When you feel that, then you make your move.”  

“So…that’s when you kiss her?” 

A laugh fell from Steve's lips, quick and surprised. Sunshine only widened her eyes but kept quiet.  

Kissing, crushes, impressing crushes with monster slugs, none of those things were her area of expertise. She had watched romance unfold in the movies her mother picked out, and Sunshine was in awe of the idea. The grand gestures, the quiet confessions, the kissing in the rain, seemed too good to happen to people in real life. Real life was clumsy and odd, or at least Sunshine’s was. She was too new to “real life” and trying to understand the ins and outs of romance didn’t seem like something she needed to add to her list. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t hang onto the idea for another time when she didn’t feel so much like a fish out of water.  

“Slow down Romeo,” Steve said. “Sure, some girls want you to be all hot and heavy like, I don’t know, a lion or something. But with other girls, you gotta be slow and stealthy like a ninja.” 

“What type of girl is Nancy?” asked Dustin. 

Nancy was the only girl her age that Sunshine knew well. She was smart and tough, pretty and soft-spoken. Sunshine had this assumption that most teenage girls were like that, a force to be reckoned with in pretty dresses.  

But, according to Steve, Sunshine was wrong about that too. 

“Nancy’s different. She’s not like other girls.” 

Shifting his attention, Dustin looked at Sunshine curiously. “What about you? What type of girl are you?” 

Sunshine had no clue. 

Before the year prior, Sunshine hardly felt like a person at all. She never had the time to ponder trivial yet monumental things in pre-teens and teenagers' lives like getting someone to like you.  

Ivy had though; Ivy was in love once, and Sunshine watched it play out from beginning to end.  

Ivy loved Three, even with all the anger that stirred around inside of her. Of course, it was a young, naive type of love that happened under the roof of Hawkins National Laboratory, but she never felt anything small. When Ivy hated, she could kill with a single stare and a twitch of her fingers. And when she loved, it was all-consuming.  

That kind of love almost seemed unbearable. To Sunshine, it seemed like a curse to love someone so much that when they died, a part of you did too. Or maybe that was simply what love was. It just sounded more painful than anything.  

When Three died, Sunshine watched Ivy crumble in a way she never thought someone so powerful could. 

The memories made her stomach ache. 

“I don’t know,” Sunshine said, truthfully. “I guess I don’t really get it, the whole relationship thing, yet.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” sighed Steve, his lips pulled in a bitter frown. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” 

Glancing down at her hands, a sinking feeling knotted inside her gut. It was hard to imagine someone loving her the same way that Ivy and Three loved each other. They understood each other because they came from the same set of unfortunate circumstances. There was no need to explain their abilities or discuss nightmares from the Lab because they were actively living them together.  

Sunshine knew that wouldn’t be the case for her. If she wanted someone to love her, she’d have to spill all of her secrets. But she couldn’t even bring herself to tell her parents, let alone someone that had little obligation to believe her, trust her, or stick around. 

It was terrifying, she quickly realized at that moment, that her past and her abilities could make her impossible to love. 

“The girl I like is special too. There’s just something about her…” Dustin trailed off, a lightness to his voice and a blush stuck on his cheeks. 

“Whoa, hey.” Steve stopped walking, halting both Dustin and Sunshine. He turned to face Dustin fully, gazing down at the boy with a seriousness he wasn’t holding before. “You’re not falling in love with this girl, are you?” 

Dustin sputtered out, “Uh, n-no. No.” 

“Good. Don’t,” Steve said. “She’s only gonna break your heart, and you’re way too young for that shit.” His mood fell even further, and both Sunshine and Dustin noticed. The latter slumped his shoulders and frowned, his mind drifting elsewhere as they continued on their journey. 

Maybe Steve was right, maybe love was too messy and complicated to be worth it. Maybe it was only meant for certain people, like Sunshine’s parents or Ivy and Three. 

A stronger gust of wind blew across their path, causing more leaves to shower down from their branches and dance across the dying grass. 

Sunshine dragged her mud-stained shoes along the overgrown railroad track and listened to the wind whistle, wondering how a place like the woods could still feel the slightest bit peaceful even though a monster potentially lingered within it. 

“Hey, Sunshine?” Dustin started. “Who’s Ivy?”  

His question caught her off guard and struck her right in the chest, nearly knocking the wind out of her. 

“What?” 

“Ivy,” Dustin repeated. “You talk in your sleep. Last night you said that name a couple of times.” 

The dream she had last night came back to her in broken pieces.

Usually, when she slept, she was swarmed with memories of the Lab, but she had hoped that for one night - while Steve and Dustin crashed on her bedroom floor - the nightmares would leave her alone. 

Hearing Ivy’s name said aloud by someone who wasn’t a child of Hawkins Lab was strange, and it struck a chord within Sunshine’s heart. So many of her memories, good and terrible, were broken up into more palatable pieces inside her brain. But nearly everything about Ivy was too clear in her memories. 

The way Ivy’s jet-black hair was allowed to grow out long enough to curl at the ends and hide the scars that littered the top of her head. How the girl’s lips were almost permanently pulled into a frown, except on the rare occasions when she sat beside Three or lay in Sunshine’s bed to tell her a story before they fell asleep. Ivy’s eyes held a sad kind of rage inside of them, unlike anything Sunshine had ever seen in anyone else. 

Everything about Ivy was stuck and forever stained in her mind as if the girl still stood in front of her. 

“Oh,” she breathed out. “Ivy was like El and me." 

Sunshine’s throat felt tight as she forced the words out. She could still feel someone grabbing her off the floor, their fingers digging into her as she tried to claw her way back to Ivy.  

“You mean, from the Lab?” Dustin asked as his curiosity grew. Sunshine nodded in response. “Cool! What superpowers did she have?” 

Sunshine tried to refocus on just Ivy; she tried to imagine the girl’s cold hand in her own, but the more she dwelled on their past, the safety Ivy brought her started to break apart even more. Instead of the rare smile on Ivy’s lips or the promises she whispered to Sunshine under the glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling, Sunshine’s mind was filled with violent images of blood smeared down the girl’s face the last time Sunshine saw her. The feeling of someone dragging them apart and the blare of sires made her skin crawl. It was enough to stop her in her tracks.  

Fingers grazed her arm, causing her to flinch away and rejoin the two boys in the woods rather than swimming in the memories. In front of her, Steve’s face was pinched with concern.  

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

Sunshine took a breath and nodded, reminding herself she wasn’t back in that place. She was fine and she was safe. “Yeah.” 

It was a lot. The memories, the dreams, and the fact that the children of Hawkins Laboratory only existed in her head was a lot for one person to handle.  

To those who worked at the Lab, the children were nothing but experiments, but Sunshine knew them for who they really were. They were just kids, lost together and locked up. She knew them. She knew the wishes they made on the glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceilings and their favorite toys in the Rainbow room. She knew how their bruised faces looked with a rare smile on them.  

Sunshine wanted others to know about them too; she wanted them to exist as more than ghosts that haunted her brain. But she could hardly find it in herself to utter their name aloud, let alone tell their stories. 

“So,” Dustin began. “There were others besides you and El?” 

“Yes,” Sunshine sighed. “Ivy was the oldest. She watched over us.” 

She didn’t know why it each word hurt as it escaped her mouth. It was like she was trying to wade through quicksand but with each word she threatened to sink faster.  

“What-” Dustin started to ask another question, but Steve shot him a pointed look that caused the kid to stop himself. For a moment, Dustin studied the look on Sunshine’s face, which she tried to warp into a look that told them she was fine. But Dustin was smart, and he set aside his line of questioning for another time.  

Instead, he cleared his throat and nodded his head in the direction they were heading in before Sunshine halted their journey. “We’re almost there. It’s right up there."

As he started to walk, putting some distance between himself and the two teens, Steve lingered at Sunshine’s side, sparing glances that burned into the side of her face until he asked, “Are you sure you're okay?” 

“Yeah,” she repeated, though not very convincingly. They had bigger issues at the moment, ones that include a potential monster on the loose.  

Yet, it was clear that Steve didn’t believe her answer. 

“I want to talk about them,” she confessed. “I don’t want to be the only person who remembers them. But it…it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.”  

Steve nodded, doing his best to understand her nearly impossible situation. “Well,” he said, gently bumping his arm against hers. “When it’s not so hard to talk about it, I’ll be here to listen. And I think the kid will be too.” 

It was a simple gesture, but one that meant more to Sunshine than she was sure Steve understood.  

A small smile graced her lips as they continued to walk toward the junkyard, laying a trail for Dart to hopefully follow so they could get rid of the thing that did not belong in Hawkins, the thing that did not belong in their world. 

Tag List. @leptitlu , @sattlersquarry , & @history-of-stories

#stranger things #steve harrington #dustin henderson #steve harrington x oc #steve harrington x original character #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #stranger things 2 #hawkins lab #project sunshine

[jaws-and-canines]

Steel Thread

A AU: Ten Years Under A Different Hand story. This is a little way before what I’ve written in this AU before (which you can find here and here), and focuses on Mere and Haskell’s first meeting. Contains strong themes of mouth gore (mouth stitched shut trope) as well as general canon-typical violence. --- As expected, guilty. They find me guilty as charged, right to the letter of the law. That I knew was coming. The rest? Not really. I haven’t really had time to think, to process it all. Judge, courtroom, emptied of media and the public, jury dismissed, which should have told me what was coming. That god-awful sentence- indefinite Special Circumstances Detention. And I’m crying out to the judge who isn’t listening- please, no. Please. The last thing I manage to scream out to her as they usher me out to the fate worse than death will haunt me for the rest of my life, and I know it will- please, I’d rather hang. But nothing changes. Sterile holding cells, and I can barely stop my weeping to be able to catch my breath.

Then the Specials. I scream and fight but it’s no use. It takes only two of them to pick me up, one under each arm, and then I’m given the hushed-voice choice to walk or to be carried to the car. Walk, I sob. I’ll walk. 

And I do. Of my own volition I sit down in the back of the blacked-out car, shift to get comfortable with my hands cuffed behind my back. I let them hood me, keeping my heavy head down like it weighs with the gravity of my situation. I suppose it may as well. I just let them. Perhaps I should have fought harder.

Then here. Passed from one Special to another. When the hood comes off I’m inside a high victoriana house. This man is almost twice my size, built like a brick wall, short black hair and a bronze tan to his skin, the sort you get from working outside. He holds me by the back of the neck and and by the hip, against his body, total control over me. And then down the steps. Into a basement, dark brick, wooden stairs, and a locked door between me and the light of day.

There’s sawdust on the floor, I realise. Sawdust. I inhale sharply, the fear I’ve been holding back breaking out of me. There’s a rickety chair, and then on two tables in the corner of the basement- tray after tray after tray of horrendous looking things- or mundane things that I know aren’t here to be used for their intended purposes. No. These are instruments of pain. And they’re here for me.

They’re going to fucking kill me, I think for a moment, and wince. The Special stands me up straight and I look at him, the wince still halfway on my face. Whatever tears I cried in the back of the car have dried on my cheeks now, the pallor of fear-fuelled adrenaline drying my tears and turning me pale with terror.

“Sit,” he says. 

I sit on the rickety-looking chair. He takes a zip tie from the tray and uses it to attach my handcuffs to the chair behind my back, before standing up, almost in an at-ease position in front of me, hands in his pockets. “I don’t have a name, but you will call me Mere. General Mere, third class, in fact.” He fucking towers over me.“You’re here because someone has to make an example of you and that person is me.”

“I thought I was here because I fucking killed a man,” I croak. My mouth is bone-dry. 

“Oh, you are.” He chews the inside of his cheek. He’s so nonchalant about it. “You’ve had freedom and power and look what you did with it. No more. You have to be taught how to act. You need someone to tell you what to do. You need someone who is going to set you straight and won’t spare you the damn rod just like the child you are.”

Yeah, you’ve made that clear, I think. If he’s just going to hurt me this isn’t going to be too bad. Some amount of pain, surely, one’s brain has to give in. There’s an upper limit to what I can take, somewhere, there must be, and I have a feeling he’ll find it, but there’s nothing beyond that limit. “So what, you’re going to beat me bloody and call that making an example of me?”

“No,” he says simply, and shrugs. “I’m going to break you into a cowering, cringing wretch who flinches when I raise my hand and you won’t even realise how little of you is left. And then when people come around to visit me, they’ll see you. And you’ll serve them tea, and you will do so without a single error, exactly as I ask.” 

He pauses, and a nasty smile crosses his face. “That’s the example I’m going to make of you. I’m going to fucking break you.”

And it strikes me, properly, that I’m handcuffed to a chair in this man’s basement. It strikes me, it terrifies me. All those horrific tools and here I was, thinking maybe they’d just smash me to pieces, but no, I was stupid to think the Specials would ever give you a single-edged sword to plunge into your own stomach. No, of course not. He’s promising something more horrendous than a short lifetime of agony under his hands- he’s promising the slow implosion of my mind. The whittling down of my personality into something I never wanted it to be.

Annihilation in a still-living body, and it terrifies me.

And he just carries on talking like he hasn’t just put the fear of God Himself into me, with that little hands-in-the-pockets shrug. “I don’t like noise. I don’t like the way you scream and swear and wail. You are not going to learn anything whilst you can still talk.”

I snarl at him. Desperate, afraid anger. “I’m not going to learn anything from you, you fucking-”

He interrupts me, talking over me. “Therefore, I’m going to sew your fucking mouth shut and save us all the hassle.”

I start to laugh. He can’t be serious. And then he walks over to the table and sifts through the trays, taking out a thick needle and a roll of metal thread. The laughter turns to tears of fear. “No, no, no,” I plead with him. He’s serious. He’s serious. He’s going to stitch my mouth shut. “Please, please, no.”

He doesn’t seem to even notice and threads the needle deftly, first try.

“Oh, fuck, oh fuck!” I cry, seeing him twist the end of the thread around the needle so it doesn’t come unthreaded. “Fuck, I thought you weren’t serious! That’s barbaric!”

He holds the point up to the light. “I’m always serious. Learn that quickly.”

“No, no, you can’t do this-” 

“I can.” He pierces through my bottom lip and the pain makes my eyes water. “Shut up or I’ll break half your fucking teeth before I sew your mouth shut and leave you with a mouthful of blood and enamel for the rest of your life.” He makes the first stitch and I swallow sharply. He sews alarmingly quickly and neatly.

I realise he’s crossing them over, making a row of neat little crosses over my lips. “Stop! Stop!” I slur, as he pulls his latest stitch tight. There are tears streaming down my face- more out of instinct than anything. He just keeps going.

I realise that if I want to say something coherent, now is probably my last chance. Then I realise I can do much more than just say something. I spit at Mere, the best that I can with half my mouth sewn tightly shut. It hits him across the face, and he drops the needle, wiping his face on the back of his hand with a look of furious surprise.

“You can… stop me talk- talkin’ but you can’ stop me thinkin’,” I manage to say, feeling the stitches tear through my skin every time I move my lips. I have to swallow back the harder sounds in the words just to keep my mouth as still as I possibly can. “My… head is my own and it always will be. Example. Or not.” 

His jaw twitches. Just like my father. “You know, normally, I’d break your ankles for spitting at me like that,” he says quietly. “I’ll take that as a learning lesson. You had the opportunity to say anything. Anything at all. And you chose to spit at me and make some quaint little statement of defiance. I hope you know, you’ll regret wasting the opportunity.”

Something tears as I swallow the spit I’ve used to talk. I know I’ll pay for this, but oh, as I taste the blood dripping into my mouth, from my ruined lips, I know it was worth it. Mere picks up the needle and carries on stitching. One more cross-stitch and it feels like I don’t have the range of motion to talk without ripping my face in two. The final three are just painful reminders that he is imposing silence on me.

Too bad I still have vocal chords. That’s something he’s going to be hard-pressed to take away from me, if that’s even possible. I scream through it all, even as he tuts at me, pulling stitches tighter than they really need to be. I can scream at the top of my lungs without moving my mouth.

I keep screaming, even as he loops over the last stitch and pulls it tight through my angry and inflamed flesh. It hurts like hell, throbbing, stinging, itching and almost everything in between. I can feel the heat radiating from where the thread is tearing away at the flesh and blood of the holes he’s put through my lips.

I want to tear him to fucking pieces. A distraught sort of fury. How dare he stitch my mouth shut. How dare he even think he has the right. How dare he then go right ahead and do it. How dare he. I want to rip his eyes out. I want to tear out his tongue. I want to rip the stitches out of my face and then make him eat the metal wire. The scream that I keep making, sucking in shaky breaths that jog the stitches each time I do, is one of tearful bitter rage.

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” he says, and takes something else from the table. I look at it, and then the scream of rage turns to indignance. A shock collar- I’ve never seen one before, but the design leaves so little to the imagination. Even the metal prongs on the back of the hefty box on the side of it is pretty evidently holding one hell of a shock. “This is a shock collar,” he says to me, holding it up. “I think you’ve worked that out.”

He stoops down to place it around my neck. “If you decide to make a break for it, this will go off.” He checks the prongs make contact with my skin before bringing the two ends of the collar to meet each other, overlapping the holes punched into the plastic leather. He turns around again and takes a metal plate and a screwdriver from the table. “And it’s a nasty little thing. But it probably won’t kill you.”

He pauses as he lines up the screws. “Unfortunate for you, maybe,” he says, and screws the collar onto me with a little laugh under his breath. I can smell stale coffee every time he exhales, his hair is greasy and his nails are fucking filthy, and here he is, screwing a fucking shock collar onto me like I’m the animal here.

There are no words I would have to say even if I could. I glare at him, mouth stitched shut, blood dripping down my chin. I hate you, I want to say. My eyes should be more than enough.

He just rubs his forehead, trying to ease a headache, and then crouches down in front of me. “Now we’re a little quieter, why don’t we talk about what’s going to happen next?” He lifts my head up to look at him, my blood dribbling down my chin, shaking and trembling, whimpering quietly as every breath I take makes the steel thread tear further into my skin. The shock collar sits heavy against my throat, the prongs itching at my skin. “Because you have some choices you need to make, and you aren’t going to like them.”

#whump #whumpblr #writeblr #count the days #mouth gore #i mean it lmao #ten years under a different hand

[riderborn]

✧   ⸻   [  grace van patten,  cis woman,  she / her  ]     ;     congratulations on surviving the parapet,  cadet  waverly dunbar, and welcome to the rider’s quadrant !  at  twenty - five years old, you should know exactly what it takes to make it to graduation, especially being so warm and selfless. though, i do suppose your tendencies to be callow and paranoid may make it hard to survive until threshing. other cadets say you remind them of watercolor bruises blossoming against your fair skin from hours in sparring, weeping into your palms after your first kill, the stark contrast of floral scented shampoo and the metallic scent of blood, but we’ll have to see how true that is. remember: if you want a dragon — earn one. 

I.   BASICS .

full  name.   waverly  rose  dunbar. age.  twenty - five. gender.  cis  woman. pronouns.   she  /  her. current  location.   rider’s  quadrant. status.  single ;  unattached. orientation.   bisexual,  biromantic. siblings.   two  older  brothers. signet.  not  yet  manifested. dragon.  not  yet  bonded. allegiance.   the  rider’s  quadrant.

II.   APPEARANCE .

hair.   golden  hair  that  falls  to  her  collarbones,  typically  worn  in  a  french  braid,  a  tight  ponytail,  or  in  loose  waves. eyes.   the  color  of  dark  chocolate. height.   five  feet  six  inches. scars.   none  yet. relics.   none  yet.

III.   MISCELLANOUS.

position.   first  year.  second  wing,  flame  section,  first  squad  member. strengths.  warm,  selfless,  approachable. weaknesses.  callow,  paranoid,  uncertain. hogwarts  house.   hufflepuff. alignment.  lawful  good. zodiac  sign.   pisces. media  inspirations.   violet  sorrengail  ( fourth  wing ),  beth  greene  ( the  walking  dead ),  lexie  grey  ( greys  anatomy ),  dani  clayton  ( bly  manor ),  missandei  ( game  of  thrones ),  jennifer  jareau  ( criminal  minds ),  primrose  everdeen  ( thg ).

IV.   BIOGRAPHY.

raised  by  a  rider  family,  waverly  always  knew  she  was  destined  to  be  a  rider.  from  a  young  age,  she  watched  with  envy  as  both  her  parents  &  both  her  older  brothers  experienced  the  inexplicable  bond  between  a  dragon  &  its  rider  &  she  always  knew  that  that’s  what  she  wanted.  growing  up,  people  often  told  her  she  should  plan  for  something  else  instead  --  she  was  tender-hearted,  empathetic,  &  soft,  &  everyone  insisted  that  those  qualities  wouldn’t  make  a  good  rider.  in  response,  she  simply  held  her  head  higher,  shutting  them  all  out  &  leaning  on  her  family’s  support  to  chase  her  own  dreams.  she  didn’t  spend  her  childhood  training  to  be  a  rider,  however.  her  interest  in  being  a  rider  is  one  thousand  percent  about  an  insatiable  admiration  &  need  to  appreciate  a  dragon  up  close  &  wanting  to  experience  that  bonding,  &  has  literally  nothing  to  do  with  the  thrill,  the  stakes,  the  gore,  or  the  power  that  comes  with  being  a  rider.  all  of  those  things  are  moreso  the  negatives  in  waverly’s  brain,  the  things  she  has  to  ‘tough  it  out’  through  in  order  to  achieve  her  dreams  of  seeing  the  world  through  the  clouds.  for  that  reason,  much  to  the  quadrant’s  dismay  after  her  two  stellar  rider  brothers  have  passed  through,  waverly  isn’t  much  of  a  fighter  &  has  continuously  come  out  on  the  bottom  in  every  way  that  counts  so  far  in  basgiath.  she  barely  made  it  across  the  parapet,  i  imagine  she  was  one  of  the  last  few,  limbs  trembling  &  collapsed  once  she  got  across...  but  she  still  made  it  !  where  she  lacks  in  brawn,  she  makes  up  for  in  dedication.  she  works  hard  in  her  classes  to  learn  all  she  can  about  being  a  rider,  &  volunteers  at  every  opportunity  to  take  on  more  duties  or  more  learning.  she’s  optimistic  about  it  all,  despite  the  fact  that  she’s  literally....  getting  &  going  to  get  the  crap  pummeled  out  of  her  &  has  a  very  slim  chance  of  survival  but  tbh  she  thinks  the  chance  of  bonding  with  a  dragon  is  worth  it. 

personality - wise,  she’s  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  that  doesn’t  know  when  to  stop.  she’s  like  prim  everdeen  crying  over  that  mean  cat....  &  she  probably  barfs  at  the  things  she  sees  at  basgiath  even  more  than  violet  did  tbh...  but  she’s  also  captain  america  getting  the  shit  kicked  out  of  him  &  then  standing  up  &  being  like  ‘i  could  do  this  all  day !’  even  when  it’s  like  baby  no  you  really  can’t....  she’s  sensitive  but  hides  it,  both  out  of  fear  of  being  targeted  by  other  cadets  &  bc  fake  it  til  you  make  it.  in  the  same  vein,  she  can  be  super  naive  bc  she  just  genuinely  wants  to  see  the  best  in  ppl,  but  is  also  a  Paranoid  Pisces  so  like.  she’s  in  a  constant  dilemma  &  anxious  quite  a  lot  but  yanno  that’s  how  i  like  my  muses :  suffering < 3

V.   WANTED  CONNECTIONS.

other  cadets  who  give  a  found  family  vibe~  people  she  feels...  semi-safe  around

the  rhiannon  to  her  violet,  someone  who  wants  to  show  her  the  ropes  &  help  her  not  seem  so  helpless...  or  simply  can’t  stand  to  see  her  get  her  shit  rocked  lol

corruption  moment...  someone  who  is  kind  of  like  ‘grow  up’.  bad  stuff  happens.  get  used  to  it !  a  little  tough  love  if  you  will

someone  super  protective  over  her  please  please  i  will  give  my  first  born

ppl  to  kind  of  play  with  her  feelings  a  little  bit...  make  her  your  fiddle  &  PLAY  HER

i’d  LOVE  a  professor  who  is  kind  of  helping  her  out  a  little  more  whether  it’s  bc  they  pity  her  or  because  they’re  skeptical  of  whether  she  deserves  to  be  here  or  not

anyone  who  doesn’t  like  her  simply  bc  they  think  she  doesn’t  have  what  it  takes  ( she  probably  doesnt )  or  because  they  just  annoy  each  other...  i  want  someone  to  bring  out  a  meaner  side  to  her

anything  &  everything  else !

#basgiath.intro

[lenofiga]

Gareth’s Servant Profile from FGO Material IX

Class: Lancer True Name: Gareth Sex: Female Origin: Arthurian Legends Region: England Alignment: Lawful Good Height: 153cm Weight: 41kg

Strength: C | Endurance: B | Agility: A | Mana: D | Luck: D | Noble Phantasm: C

Writer: Sakurai Hikaru / Artist: Nekotawawa Voice Actor: Kuwahara Yuuki

CLASS SKILLS

Magic Resistance: C Nullifies magecraft activated with a two-verse chant or less. Her skill is incapable of blocking Greater Magecraft or Rituals.

Riding: B A master of jousting, Gareth, as an exception, possesses the Riding skill that Lancers typically do not possess.

PERSONAL SKILLS

Battle Continuation: C Gareth possesses the Battle Continuation skill on account of her legend in which she fought a duel spanning two hours.

Gareth of the Beautiful Hands: B While working in the castle disguised as a kitchen boy, Sir Kay nicknamed her “Beaumains (Beautiful Hands)” for her fair and beautiful appearance. At the time, Kay did not realize that it was Gareth in disguise.

In other words, Gareth had fair and lustrous skin, and her hands were especially beautiful.

Ring of Transformation: B Gareth owns a ring infused with magecraft for disguises. Originally this should be classified as a Noble Phantasm effect, but in the game this effect manifests as a skill.

NOBLE PHANTASM

Ira Lupus (The Raging She-Wolf)

Rank: C++ | Classification: Anti-Personnel Noble Phantasm | Range: 1-50 | Maximum number of targets: 1

Ira Lupus: The sublimation of her skillful jousting techniques as a Noble Phantasm. After dealing a series of raging blows, she pierces her enemy with a lethal hit.

When she fought to protect her best friend Lady Lioness (Dame Lyonesse) in the past, she defeated a great many famed knights with a single lance, such as Sir Blamore de Ganis, Sir Galihodin, Sir Galihud (not to be confused with Galahad), Sir Dinadan, Sir La Cote Male Taile, Sir Sagramore le Desirous, Sir Dodinas le Savage, King Agwisance of Ireland, King Carados of Scotland, King Uriens of the land of Gore, and King Bagdemagus.

On another occasion, she challenged King Arthur to a joust, and was praised and given the epithet “Raging Wolf” for her fighting prowess.

CHARACTER

First person pronoun: watashi/jibun/Gareth Second person pronoun: anata/**-sama/**-dono/**-san/Sir **(for KoRT) Third person pronoun: kare/kanojo/**-sama/**-dono/**-san/Sir **(for KoRT)

〇 PERSONALITY

A tragic girl knight courageous and puppy-like in nature.

Once she becomes attached to someone, she will never betray them no matter what—even in death, as once shown by her way of life.

〇 MOTIVE/ATTITUDE TOWARDS HER MASTER

She will immediately trust her Master the very moment she meets them, feeling some sort of fate at work. That said, she doesn’t seem to understand the nature of their connection. She appears to be having trouble processing the Master-Servant relationship.

“Suppose this is the relationship between a king and his knight… If so, I already serve King Arthur. Labelling this as a senpai and kouhai relationship would be easy to understand, but you already have Miss Mash as your kouhai… Hmm… Hmm…”

〇 SAMPLE LINES

“I am Gareth. I am the Round Table Seventh Seat, a knight who served under King Arthur!”

“Good day to you, Brother.”

“My hands often get praised! Hehe.”

“Please…do not speak ill of Sir Lancelot. He saved the queen, and I believe what he did was right.”

〇 HISTORICAL BIOGRAPHY

Gareth was the seventh seat of the Knights of the Round Table led by King Arthur of Britain. She was a young girl knight born to King Lot and Fae Queen Morgan, and the sister of Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain. Mordred the Knight of Treachery was her half-brother.

She was also known as Guerrehet and Beaumains (Beautiful Hands).

Gareth was the newest addition to the Round Table and the least experienced knight. She held respect for all her senior Knights of the Round Table. She was especially attached to Sir Lancelot and often followed him.

Gareth went through numerous trainings as a squire (such as working in the castle disguised as a kitchen boy, fighting her brother Gawain, and pursuing learning under the fae folk) and eventually became an official member of the Knights of the Round Table. Like Gaheris, she did not accompany their eldest brother Gawain after her knighthood and instead chose to become an attendant of Lancelot.

♦

Gareth was loved by many for her brimming potential. Even the other Knights of the Round Table, not just her brothers, spoke highly of her claiming that “she will become the greatest knight one day” and that “in time, she will become a true knight rivaling all her brothers.”

When Agravain plotted to indict Queen Guinevere and Sir Lancelot of adultery, Gareth opposed him. She said, “I will not speak of unsettling statements about Sir Lancelot, who conferred the title of a knight to me,” and left the scene filled with deep sorrow.

Later, Agravain caught Lancelot in the act of committing adultery, but this resulted to him losing his life in retaliation. Gareth was then ordered to attend the captured Queen Guinevere’s execution. Gareth complied but made it clear that she would be witnessing the execution against her will and attended without wearing armor or carrying weapon on her person. This decision would lead to her demise.

Gareth’s unarmed head was cracked open in Sir Lancelot’s rescue of the queen.

Many lives were lost in this chain of incidents. Agravain, Gaheris, and lastly Gareth—Having lost his siblings, how tremendous must have been Sir Gawain’s grief? Thus, a schism divided the Round Table, and the glory of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table came to an end.

〇 FateGO BIOGRAPHY

She honors chivalry, and believes in and follows justice. She is proud to serve under the King of Knights, and even now considers being chosen as a member of the Round Table the greatest honor of her life.

She still respects Sir Lancelot. Even if the knight who blindly rushed to rescue Queen Guinevere never caught sight of her figure on the day everything spiraled to the end… And even if the knight did recognize her but still slew her without hesitation, she respects him all the same.

〇 USUAL ARMAMENTS

Her favorite jousting lance Although Gareth’s skill with the lance is justly proven, this lance has been enhanced multiple times by Merlin’s magecraft and has become a type of Mystic Code.

〇 RELATED CHARACTERS

Artoria Our King of Knights. His Majesty. I love him. 

Bedivere/Percival Glorious Knights of the Round Table. I love them.

Gawain/Gaheris/Agravain My dear brothers. I love them. 

Mordred I’d love to talk to Mordred more, but we never really have the opportunity to do so. 

Lancelot (Saber) !? (does a double take) My gosh! Is that Sir Lancelot as I remember him!!!??

Lancelot (Berserker) Even now, my voice does not reach him… Or maybe, perhaps…

Tristan I think infidelity is a no-no!

Merlin The great mage. I like him, but I find him a bit scary at times. I can’t quite put my finger on why.

Mash Sir Galahad? Sir Galahad!? Why did you turn into a girl? Oh, you’re not him… You’re Miss Mash!?

Jekyll He’s such a gentleman that I can’t believe he’s a descendant of the Saxons. No, from what I’ve heard a long, long time has passed since then… I’m positive that in his body runs the blood and soul of Britain. On another note, hmm… So he’s called an English gentleman? I see.

Arthur ???????

COMMENT FORM THE ILLUSTRATOR

The instruction I received was to draw an “untrained squire”. She’s a hard worker who earnestly polishes cheap steel, turning it into shining armor. Her first and third ascensions have the themes kitchen/errand boy and Knight of the Round Table, respectively. The cartridges attached to her waist holder are based on grenades. I drew her final ascension with hopes that she, as a Heroic Spirit, could become [the player’s] partner in the story. (Nekotawawa)

#fate/grand order #fgo #fgo material ix #gareth #kuwahara yuuki #nekotawawa #mytled #knights of the round table #kotr

[ace-of-clubs-and-diamonds]

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! I’ve had major Inkubus brainrot as of late. The movie itself wasn’t very good, but honestly who cares, because Inkubus himself is rhbfwjbfwf and I have thought about The Table Scene way too much. So I’ve been working on this baby pretty much ever since watching it, and I thought posting this fic on Valentine’s Day would be fitting. In a fucked up, twisted kind of way. This is a little different from my usual fair, but it was SO much fun to write. And also very self-indulgent.

All that being said, let’s get into it! Again, it’s not my typical type of fic, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

~

Demonolatry

AO3 Link: Here

Pairing: Inkubus x Fem!AFAB Reader

Rating: Explicit, NSFW

Word count: 6,608

Content warnings: Some angst, murder, gore, religion, religious themes, blasphemy, cheating, loss of virginity, cuckolding, voyeurism, exhibitionism, fingering, more blasphemy, praise, finger-sucking, consensual mind-manipulation, overstimulation, crying, so much blasphemy, Christian Reader, Ace pretends to know about Christianity

It was your wedding day, and you’d never been more miserable in your life.

You knew you should’ve been happy. You should’ve been more than happy. You should’ve been glowing, eager, brimming with joy and excitement and sheer, absolute love as you walked down the aisle and towards the priest and the groom waiting at the end. Sure, a little bit of anxiety should be mixed in there too. But mostly, this should’ve been the most wonderful day of your life.

And yet.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. Like an iron hand had slipped its fingers around your lungs and was squeezing, slowly, suffocating you bit by bit, second by agonizing second. The dress you wore – frilly and white and absolutely beautiful – scratched at your skin and made you want to claw the thing off. Wearing it felt wrong. More than wrong. It felt like a betrayal to your very being.

The church, for all its soaring ceilings and arches, felt too small, too confining, more like a prison cell than a house of worship. The gazes of the people seated in the pews burned against your skin.

Did they know? Did they see the fear in your eyes? Did they see the tightness of your shoulders, or how you clutched your bouquet of flowers with shaking hands?

Could they tell you wanted nothing more than to run?

You stepped up to the altar and turned to face your soon-to-be-husband. He was handsome and pleasant to look at, and even more importantly, he’d been sweet and devoted to you since you’d first started dating.

You liked him. You really did.

You just… hadn’t really been expecting the proposal.

And there was no way you could’ve turned him down and watched his face crumble with disappointment. It would’ve been so selfish and cruel. You could never have done that.

You wished you did now. Almost blurted it as you stared at him and that sweet, unknowing face.

You only half paid attention to the priest as he welcomed everyone on this “joyous day” and thanked them all for coming here. Yes, thank you to my family, my friends, my soon-to-be in-laws for coming to watch the beginning of lifelong damnation–

No, you shouldn’t be thinking that! You were getting married! Holy matrimony under the eyes of God, to a man you… cared about.

The priest continued to talk about the wonders of marriage. You stared at some spot beyond your fiancé, keeping a happy smile plastered to your face, even as your skin burned with shame.

You should be happy you should be happy youshouldbehappy–

Dread gnawed at your insides as family members and friends stepped up to share a reading or some thoughts about you or him or your relationship. It should have been touching.

Even when the priest finally turned to you and your fiancé, speaking about the responsibilities of marriage, you didn’t feel joy. Just anxiety. Dread.

Fear.

This was not how this day was supposed to go.

The priest was saying something about the sanctity of the vows you were about to take.

Fake. You felt like a fake. There was nothing sacred or holy about this. Not when it was a lie.

You exchanged vows. Your soon-to-be husband spoke sincerely, kindly, vowing to keep you safe and to love and treasure you until the end of time, and beyond that. You were his rock, his love, his God-given soul mate, and he was the luckiest man in the world to have you.

It should have made you cry. Made you weep with joy.

It did not. You felt like your legs were going to give out beneath you and you were going to collapse to the floor and vomit your guts out until there was nothing left except for an empty shell.

But you didn’t do that, either. Instead, your own vows spilled from your lips, just as you’d practiced and rehearsed so many times before. They felt sincere then. But now, as you stood here and the reality of it all hit you, they didn’t feel so true now. They rang hollow. Lie after lie after hateful lie, spilling from your mouth like poison.

He didn’t deserve this, and you didn’t want this. But you couldn’t back out now. It was too late.

You put on the rings. Your fiancé took your hand gently, his hands warm and soft, and slid the ring on your finger. His eyes shone with love… and concern. Concern for you, more than likely. You almost apologized. But you stopped yourself and slipped the second ring onto his finger.

This is a mistake.

The words rang in your head, loud and clear and unmistakable. You half expected to be struck down for the thought at all. Instead, the dread that had been gnawing at your insides was full-on devouring now, sinking its teeth in and tearing without mercy. Panic rose in your chest and got caught in your throat. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Time seemed to move in slow motion.

Please. Please, I don’t want this. Please, God, don’t let this happen. Somebody, anybody, PLEASE–  

The priest smiled kindly. You fiancé beamed. You wanted to die.

“I now pronounce you–”

“I object.”

The church fell silent. Dead silent. And, as one, you all turned to see who dared to interrupt the ceremony, who dared to object to this union of two such wonderful souls.

The hair on the back of your neck rose.

In the very last pew sat a man. Older, with silvery hair and dressed entirely in black. He sat with his legs crossed and one hand on his knee, the other arm stretched out along the back of the pew. He looked like a man without a care in the world.

You had no idea who he was, or what he was doing here, at your wedding. But you couldn’t help but stare at him. Stare at the man who had answered your unspoken wish almost as soon as you’d thought it.

He stared back.

“Wh-what?” You tore your eyes away from him to stare at the stunned priest. Across from you, your husband – no he wasn’t really your husband yet, was he, the priest didn’t finish – looked just as shocked. Perhaps evens more so.

“I said–” The man rose to his feet and walked down the aisle, his black coat fanning out behind him as he moved. He came right up to the altar, standing close to the three of you clustered there. This close, you could see how expensive his attire looked, how tailored and… unusual it was. And that was to say nothing of his face. Handsome, sharp featured, lined with age yet striking nonetheless.

And his eyes. They pinned you to the spot. You felt so much smaller as he looked at you, and yet at the same time, you felt important, as if you had all his attention. You didn’t know whether to cringe away or lean in closer.

The man’s gaze didn’t move away from you as he spoke to the priest. “–I object.  And I’m sure you do, too, don’t you love?”

You felt everyone in the room look at you. Your face instantly heated.

The priest sputtered in disbelief. “That’s not – you can’t – you’re not actually supposed to–”

“You can’t object!” The man turned away, and an odd mix of relief and disappointment washed over you. But that quickly morphed into concern when you realized your fiancé was the one speaking. The surprise on his face was gone, replaced with pure anger. “‘Speak now or forever hold your peace.’ I think you missed that part, buddy.”

“Yes, well, better late than never. After all, somebody had to help out your…” The man twisted back around to you, his gaze raking down your form in a way that was almost tangible. “…Dearly beloved.”

The way he said it… you almost shivered.

Not… entirely out of fear. Shame curled in your gut.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” your fiancé spat. A ripple went through the audience, as if shocked at such language.

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean.” The man tilted his head at you.  “But you don’t, do you?”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “What…?”

Your fiancé tried to reach past the man and grab you. “Babe, don’t–”

“This is entirely inappropriate–” the priest spoke up.

A sigh left the man’s lips. “This is getting rather tiresome.”

A blur of movement. A wet crunch.

It took you a moment to realize what had just happened.

A blade now extended from the man’s sleeve, dripping deep red. Everyone stared in shock. Including the priest.

Right up until his head popped off and tumbled to the ground, his body collapsing with it. Blood pooled on the floor, staining the polished white tile and seeping into the carpet. All the air seemed to be sucked out of the room.  You couldn’t move. Couldn’t think, couldn’t process what you were seeing as you stared at the priest’s detached head.

The man straightened and glanced at everyone seated in the pews. “That would be your sign to leave.”

And just like that, the church erupted into chaos. People screamed, fled, stumbled over themselves as they rushed up the aisle and exploded out the church doors. You watched your family and friends run, leaving you forgotten at the altar.

Abandoned.

Abandoned with a man who was most certainly not your savior.

You should have run with them. But something made you stay.

“Well, now that that’s over with.” The blade disappeared back into the man’s sleeve with a hiss, and he brushed his hands together as if wiping them off. He clasped his arms behind his back and slid that heavy gaze back to you. “I think a thank you is in order.”

A beat passed. Two.

You stared at him. A thank you? A thank you? He’d just interrupted your wedding day and beheaded a priest whose blood was now soaking the hem of your wedding dress, and he was standing there waiting for a thank you.

You should’ve been horrified. Revolted. Terrified.

And, yes, there was definitely that.

But deep down, there was something else, too. Something you didn’t want to admit.

Relief.

Your prayers had been answered. This man, whoever he was, had stopped the wedding.

“Thank you.” You were surprised by the steadiness of your own voice.

The edge of his mouth curled up in a smirk, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement. “You’re very welcome.”

You hesitated, licking your lips out of nervousness. You needed to tread carefully. “Who are you?”

He chuckled as if the question genuinely amused him. Before you could react, he stepped up to you, captured one of your hands in his, and raised your hand to brush his lips over your knuckles. Something curled in your gut, and you were so flustered you almost missed what he actually said.

“Inkubus, at your service.”

Your heart stumbled. That vice around your lungs returned, stronger than before, and you stared at the man in horror, unable to say anything.

What could you say?

Inkubus. An incubus. A demon. A monster from Hell.

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t be. And if he was, he had to be insane. There was no way… no way a demon had just waltzed into this very church and interrupted this very wedding and beheaded this… very… priest.

You glanced back down at the priest’s body before you could stop yourself. His unseeing eyes stared at the gilded church ceiling in shock, as if gazing upon some untold horrors. His body was skewed awkwardly on the floor, his white robes stained deep red. The hem of your dress was soaked in his blood.

…Oh God what if he was?

You snapped your gaze back to him. Fear constricted your chest and threatened to crush your ribcage like toothpicks. He still held your hand, gently, delicately, not at all how a demonic murderer should’ve held your hand.

Something about him… something about him made you believe he really was a demon. You weren’t sure what. Maybe it was how his gaze seemed to pierce you and flay you alive. Maybe it was how quickly and effortlessly he’d sliced the priest’s head off, as if cutting through muscle and bone took little more effort than slicing a hot knife through butter.

Or maybe it was how from the moment you’d laid eyes on him, you’d felt drawn to him. How his hand on yours sent electricity skittering through your veins. And how you couldn’t quite ignore the persistent thought of what it would feel like to have his hands slide along the rest of your body.

What other explanation could there be? What else could possibly explain what you felt for a possibly demonic killer who’d interrupted your wedding?

The thought hit you like a slap to the face. Holy shit my fiancé –

You whipped your hand away from Inkubus and brushed past him, heading straight to the man you’d been about to marry. He stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the priest’s body with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. Unmoving. Barely even breathing. As if he’d been frozen in place.

“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s fine. A little shaky but nothing to worry about,” Inkubus said from behind you.

You glanced down at your fiancé’s hands. They were shaking uncontrollably. But the rest of him was still as a statue.

“Are you doing something to him?” you asked quietly.

“Just keeping him in place for a little while. Wouldn’t want him to miss this.”

Your gaze snapped back to Inkubus. He’d been peering down at the priest’s body, having approached it and stopped right at the edge of the puddle of blood, but he lifted his head to meet your gaze. His eyebrows were raised, giving you a pointed, knowing look.

Unease settled in your stomach. “Miss what?”

That soft, smug smile returned. “Well, you see, I heard your little call for help, and since I was a bit bored, I thought I’d answer.”

“What call for help?” your fiancé blurted. You went rigid as his eyes bored a hole in your back. You didn’t look away from Inkubus. Didn’t want to.

Didn’t want to face your fiancé and tell him the truth.

As if he could sense that – and maybe he could – Inkubus tilted his head, gaze shifting to where your fiancé was still frozen. “Your lovely little bride-to-be practically begged me to stop the wedding – and I’m being generous with the ‘practically’. They didn’t want to marry you. A ‘mistake’, you called it, yes?” His gaze briefly flickered to you.

Panic rose in your throat. You whirled around to your stricken fiancé. Your heart broke at the look of betrayal on his face. “No, sweetie, please, it’s not like that, it has nothing to do with you – I’m sorry I just–”

He deserved better he didn’t deserve this how could you be so cruel how could you be so disloyal –

“Now, now, enough of that.” Your entire body jolted when a cold, gentle hand landed on your bare shoulder and set every nerve ending alight. “He doesn’t deserve your pity, not after what he’s done.”

Ohhhhhh what a leading question that was. You knew he wanted you to ask him. And once again, you didn’t want to.

But…

“What.”

You could practically feel the smile that curved across his face. You stared at your fiancé’s horrified, wide-eyed expression as Inkubus spoke. “Well, I suppose it’s less of a question of what he’s done and more of who. Your sweet, loyal, perfect little husband hasn’t been following the no-sex before marriage rule that you’ve so diligently followed. No. No, he’s been seeing quite a few ladies on the side. Including that friend of yours who was sitting in the front row, right by your mother.”

Your stomach plummeted.

“No, he’s lying!” Panic consumed your fiancé’s face, and his whole body started shuddering, as if he was desperately trying to escape whatever hold Inkubus had over him. “Babe, please, believe me, I’d never – he’s just trying to – he’s a fucking demon, you can’t believe anything he says–!”

“Lying is a sin, you know.” Inkubus’ hand slid up to your neck, fingers brushing against your stuttering pulse. “So is lust. Wouldn’t you agree, my dear?” His breath caressed your ear.

Your fisted the fabric of your dress. Your lovely, very expensive, blood-stained dress, which you’d picked out because you’d known your fiancé was going to love it.

He could be lying. He was a demon. He was probably lying.

…But what if he wasn’t?

“Is it true,” you ground out.

“No – babe, how could you – you’ve gotta be fuckin – babe, I’d never I swear!”

Oh God, he really was lying, wasn’t he? You knew his tells. You’d been with him for too long, and you were too observant.

He’d really been cheating on you. He’d been sneaking behind your back and having sex with other women. When had he done it? Was it those nights he’d said he was going out for drinks with the guys? Were those lies? What about that time he’d been called away to work because of an emergency? Was that a lie, too? How had you not noticed the way he eyed your friend like that? How had you not noticed how she looked at him? How had you never put two and two together?

You felt sick again. But the nausea quickly turned into something else – something hot and bitter and broiling.

How fucking dare he.

“You fucking asshole,” you hissed. Your fiancé stared at you in shock. “How fucking dare you?!? You lying piece of shit.”

“Babe, no please, I can explain –”

“Fuck you!” You tore the polished gold wedding ring off your finger and threw it at him. He flinched as it bounced off his suit and fell to the ground with a muffled tink.

It wasn’t enough. Rage still boiled in your gut. How could he? How could he?

You wanted to throw something else at him. Wanted to get back at him. Wanted to get back at him and rub it in his face so that he couldn’t ignore it, wanted to make him feel as shitty and mortified as you felt.

But how…?

“I have a few ideas.” The whisper brushed against your ear, soft and sweet and seductive. “And I’m sure you do, too.  Don’t you, love?”

You shivered as Inkubus’ fingertips traced along your collarbone. His touch was feather-light. Your body ached for more, but you tried desperately to push that thought away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Now, now, no need to lie. I’m an incubus, my dear. I can sense every little thought going through your head. Every desire. Every little thing that makes your heart skip a beat.” As he said it, his fingers slid back up to curl around your neck and he squeezed, just a little. Your breath caught and… and your heart skipped a beat. Heat flooded your body, and you were only half-aware of one of your hands coming to rest atop his, as if to ensure it stayed there.

Shit.

“You know you want to.” His other hand skimmed along your back, exposed by the wedding dress. “I know you want to. So why not? Don’t you want to show your faithless little fiancé what he’s missing? Don’t you want to show him how it feels to be betrayed? And how it feels to enjoy it? Don’t you want to choose what you do? Don’t you want to let go, just for once, to do something you want? And do something sinful?”

His fingers brushed against the edge of your dress, skimming against the skin of your lower back. You arched, just a bit.

You did… you wanted all of that. So badly.

But…

But… what? What had restraint earned you? A disloyal fiancé who hadn’t hesitated to cheat on you? A lifetime of dissatisfaction, of yearning? Constant, quiet suffering, simply to be told you were good and perfect and pure in the eyes of others? Of your family? The Church? God?

What had that been worth?

Didn’t you deserve to do something for yourself? Just for once?

You must’ve said the last part out loud – or maybe you didn’t – because Inkubus murmured, “Of course you do. You’ve been so very patient. You should get to indulge yourself every now and then.”

You were so very aware of his fingers on your neck and your back, of his breath against your cheek and his lips not quite skimming against your skin. He gave off no body heat, but the urge to curl into him was overwhelming.

“What do you get out of this?”

A breath of a laugh. “I get to indulge myself, as well.”

Right… incubus. Why was it so hard to keep a thought in your head?

“So… what do you say?” His lips brushed against your cheekbone. “Wanna have some fun?”

“Yes.” Your answer fell from your lips before you could even consider stopping it – not that you wanted to, not when Inkubus was already spinning you around and capturing your mouth in a kiss.

You immediately melted, curving into him and clutching at the soft, stiff fabric of his coat to pull him closer against you. His hands slid over your body, exploring every line and curve with a touch that was almost reverent in its gentleness. He kissed you with just as much fervor as you kissed him. The scrape of his teeth against your bottom lip had you quivering, and when he coaxed your lips apart and pressed his tongue against yours, a slight moan escaped you. That just made him more eager. It was as if he was intent on devouring you, and you didn’t have the will to stop him. Didn’t want to.

He explored your mouth steadily, thoroughly, seeking out every corner and dragging little desperate sounds of pleasure from you. One of his hands came up to your chin, tilting your head just so to allow him better access to you. Your head swam, and you could barely keep yourself upright.

He had done nothing but kiss you, and you were already so, so needy for him.

So desperate for more.

As if he could tell – and hell, he probably could – Inkubus ushered you backwards as he kissed you. Back through the slick wetness staining the carpet and tile. Back till your spine was pressed against the altar and he had you captured against it, caging you in with no escape.

But why would you want to escape?

Inkubus diverted to skim his lips across your cheekbone, then down your jawline. You tipped your head back, eyes fluttering shut as he trailed gentle kiss after gentle kiss down your throat.

Why would you want to leave when he was lavishing you with more passion and tenderness than you own fiancé ever had?

The thought took root in your mind. You forced yourself to open your eyes, and as Inkubus pressed his mouth to your fluttering pulse, you locked eyes with your fiancé – who stood there, frozen to the spot, mouth gaping open and eyes bugged out like a startled fish. Like he couldn’t believe there was a demon kissing his bride-to-be on his own wedding day. Like he wanted desperately to jump in, to say something, to do anything. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but watch.

Heat curled low in your gut at the thought. At the thought of Inkubus pinning you to the altar, sinning with you as your fiancé stared helplessly.

Fuck. Your thighs clenched.

“Oh you like the thought of someone seeing you be so sinful, don’t you?” You gasped as Inkubus fondled one of your breasts through your wedding dress, feeling your nipple harden under his touch. God, that alone felt incredible. Arcing into his touch didn’t do anything. You needed more. Desperately.

“Inkubus.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Pleeeeease,” you whined.

He pulled away to look at you, silver eyes sharp and lustful. “Such a lovely little thing, asking so nicely.” His thumb brushed across your bottom lip. “Be a dear and get on the altar, would you?”

Nervous excitement fluttered in your stomach as you did as you were told. Fuck, you were doing this. You were really doing this. It was so bad and forbidden and blasphemous, but God if that didn’t send heat coursing through you. You hoisted yourself up onto the altar, scooting backwards so you were seated better. Inkubus came around to the other side and guided you to lie down. The altar’s surface was hard and unforgiving against your back. But fuck it. You didn’t care.

You were doing something for you. Not for your friends, or your family, or even God.

Purely for you.

Inkubus peered down at you, one hand braced by your side, the other just barely brushing against the skirt covering your legs. “Ready?” he murmured.

“God, yes,” you breathed.

An odd expression crossed his face, one you couldn’t quite put a name to, but it made you shiver with anticipation nonetheless. “Believe me, God has nothing to do with this.” He glanced up at your fiancé, who was watching what unfolded before him with a look of horror. “I do hope you enjoy watching, pretty boy.”

Neither you or your fiancé had time to respond before the hiss of metal filled the air and that silver blade flashed out from Inkubus’ sleeve. Pure fear shot through you, and before you could react he sliced the fabric of your blood-stained skirt in half, exposing you to him. You squealed and squeezed your legs together on instinct, as if to hide your immodesty.

“Ah, ah, ah – no need for that.” Inkubus’ hand was cool against your leg, and you shivered, just a little. “No need for self-consciousness. I want to see you – and every part of your lovely body.”

For a moment, you hesitated. Your stomach fluttered nervously as you slowly opened your legs, inviting him to touch but afraid to say it aloud. He didn’t need any encouragement, though. His hand skimmed up the inside of your thigh, feeling the soft flesh there and sending fire curling through your veins. Your breath hitched as he stopped at the apex of your thighs. So fucking close… so fucking close to that forbidden little place.

His finger brushed against the edge of your panties. You didn’t dare look at him. But you could feel his gaze locked on you, measuring your every response and reaction as he fingered the lace of your pure white bridal lingerie. The urge to squirm, to wiggle and nudge his fingers closer to you core, was almost irresistible.

You wanted him to touch you – really touch you, unabashedly and shamelessly, so badly. You were aching for it.

He dragged his index finger along your clothed slit, and you choked on your own breath.

Holy –

“So very eager, are we?” he purred.

Your body felt like it was on fire. As he swept his fingers along your folds, it was impossible to ignore how fucking wet it was down there. How you, as untouched and inexperienced as you were, had become drenched with nothing more than a few touches and words from him.

Inkubus wasted no time. He didn’t bother sliding the panties off of you, instead hooking his fingers around them and nudging them to the side before sinking a finger into you. The church’s vaulted ceilings made your sharp gasp echo. He pulled that finger out briefly, then pressed back in, deeper. He repeated the motion. Again. Again. Pressing deeper each time, thumb flicking against your clit as he did so. Pain prickled your abdomen, but it was tempered by the heat simmered through your veins. Your eyes fluttered shut at the sensation.

Oh God, was this was what you’d missed out on? Was this what was so sinful, the pleasure curling in your gut, the wetness pooling between your thighs, the sharp delicious stretch when Inkubus added a second finger and pumped them inside you? You arced against the altar, moaning, spreading your legs further, baring yourself to him and wiggling your hips to urge him on.

“Oh there you go, that’s it. You’re doing so well.” The praise only added to the heat sluggishly building inside of you, and you writhed and whimpered pathetically. “Ohhhh your little fiancé never could’ve treated you like this, could he have? Hmm?” He curled his fingers inside you at that, eliciting another shameless moan from you.

“No,” you gasped. “No.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and tell him that?”

You let your head loll to the side, looking at your fiancé through your lust-addled haze. He was trembling. His expression was horrified, angry, confused. And yet his gaze was fixed to where Inkubus’ fingers had plunged into you. As if he couldn’t look away.

“He – he does it –” You cut yourself off with another pathetic noise when Inkubus ground his thumb against your clit. “He does it so much better than you ever could have.”

“Good little angel.”

Fuck. You instinctively clenched around his fingers, almost crying at how good it felt. You were so fucking hot and aroused and on fire, you craved him so fucking much, you felt like you were going to lose your mind.

And then you almost did cry when Inkubus pulled his fingers out of you, leaving you wet and achingly empty. But then Inkubus regarded the wetness coating his fingers and tasted it. Fire shot straight through your core.

“Be a dear and clean this off for me, will you?” He pressed his slick-covered fingers against your lips, and you didn’t even hesitate before doing as told. The act should have revolted you, but you found yourself having to clench your thighs together at your own heady taste. At the feeling of his fingers invading your mouth and pressing against your tongue. Your fiancé made a horrified little noise in the background, and Inkubus slid him an utterly self-satisfied look.

When he was pleased with your work, Inkubus pulled his fingers out of your mouth and gripped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Do you trust me?”

Considering what he was, you really shouldn’t have. But you found yourself nodding anyway, not caring in the slightest, yeses and pleading words falling from your mouth.

Inkubus pulled away, disappearing from your vision, his hand releasing your jaw to trail down your front. And as he did so, something… shifted. In your mind. The world got a little fuzzy. And suddenly everything else felt so much sharper, every sensation was heightened to the point of being overwhelming. The slightest brush of fabric on your skin was torture, the air of the church was frigid, the building heat inside of you was so much hotter, burning and scorching and consuming. The feeling of his fingers trailing against your skin, down the valley of your breasts, had you writhing and arcing and moaning.

Now you really did feel like you were on fire. Like you were drowning in sensation.

Everything was too much and yet not enough.

You ran your own hands along your body, desperate for even the slightest bit of friction to fuel the burning heat inside you. You shoved the front of your dress down, exposing your breasts to the suddenly-frigid air, and groped yourself, teasing your own nipples, chasing the white-hot pleasure that coursed through your veins. You were so lost in yourself that you even dared to slip a hand between your legs, fingers fumbling and poorly trying to imitate what Inkubus had been doing to you. You might’ve moaned his name. You weren’t sure.

Silken fabric brushed against your skin, and a body enveloped your own, pressing against you, above and around and everywhere. Piercing silver eyes peered down at you through the haze of sensation and pleasure.

“Shhhhh don’t worry,” he murmured, voice soft and honeyed and sweet. “You’ve done such a beautiful job. Let me take care of you now.”

Inkubus pulled your hand away from yourself and shifted. You were too lost to really register what he was doing. But the sound of a zipper being dragged down skittered along your nerves and into your bones. You shivered, body tingling with anticipation.

The head of his cock pressed against your soaked folds. You bucked on instinct, gasping, but his hands clamped around your hips and pinned you against the altar as he slowly, slowly pressed into you, filling you inch by inch.

It was agonizing. It was delicious. Too much. Not enough.

You couldn’t breathe. Sweat clung to your skin. Your body hummed, nerves vibrating, entire body on edge as he stilled and waited for you to adjust around him.

You took in a shaky breath. Exhaled. Again. He watched you closely as you breathed.

Then, as your body started to relax around him, he leaned over, cock shifting inside you as he did so, sending sparks of pleasure through your abdomen. His lips brushed against yours, breath intermingling.

“Put on a good show for everyone watching.”

Everyone watching. As if the weight on your skin wasn’t from your fiancé’s gaze alone, but the gaze of saints and angels and God Himself, all waiting, watching, judging. Observing your every sin.

Oh God.

Oh Hell.

Inkubus slid out, letting his cock slowly drag against your walls. Then he snapped his hips against yours, filling you again in a sharp, smooth motion. You arced, mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure, hands scrabbling at the altar. When he did it again, the noise you made was small, broken, needy. His pace was slow and agonizingly deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him as he rutted in and out of you. The stretch was almost painful, and each thrust sent a flurry of heat through your body. Tears pricked at your eyes as you writhed and cried beneath him, begging him to keep going and repeating his name like it was a sinful prayer. And in return, Inkubus fed you sweet words of praise and affection, telling you how perfect you were, how lovely, how tight and wet and receptive. How you were doing so well, so perfectly. His voice both soothed you and drove you closer to an unknown edge.

You let out a long, pathetic moan when he maneuvered your hips so that his cock now hit some sensitive spot deep inside you, some place you hadn’t even been aware existed. Your eyes rolled back in your head. That heat inside of you built up further still, and you locked your legs around his waist.

You were so fucking desperate. You still needed more. You cupped both of your breasts, groping and pinching your nipples and fueling the fire inside of you as Inkubus deeply fucked your body and maneuvered you around like his own personal ragdoll.

Release crashed into you with no warning. You clenched around Inkubus and cried out, voice echoing with the acoustics of the church, tears spilling across your cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure he steadily, mercilessly wrought out from you.

Why had you resisted so long when sin felt as good as this?

Inkubus’ movements became sharper, more painful, his grasp on your hips bruising. His breath came out in uneven huffs. Your limp, overstimulated body trembled as you sobbed from the perfect pain.

“Such a sweet thing,” he purred. “My lovely little angel, you’ve done so well. Just – a little more, and–”

His hips snapped against yours once more before he spilled himself inside you, filling you up until you were hot and wet and full of his seed. He sighed, long and satisfied. Sated.

Slowly, the fuzziness cleared from your mind. The hypersensitivity of your body settled. Whatever Inkubus had done to you, whatever demonic power he’d used, faded and ebbed until you were left exhausted and spent.

Inkubus bent over, and even as spent as you were, the shift of his cock inside you made your breath catch. He captured your lips in a heated kiss that had you melting beneath him. And mourning when he finally pulled away. But he didn’t go far, brushing his nose against yours and cupping your cheek. You leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“My perfect, lovely little angel. How was that?”

You laughed breathlessly. “It was…” God, what could you say? Sinful? Addictive? The best thing you’d ever experienced?

Judging by the chuckle and the soft smile curving across his face, Inkubus seemed to understand. “Good.” He pressed another gentle kiss to your lips before pulling away from you – and pulling out. The gush of liquid made your skin heat again, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care about the mess.

Inkubus tucked himself back in and adjusted the scarf coiled around his neck before slipping off the altar. He looked just as put together as he had been when he’d first interrupted your wedding. Fuck, that felt like forever ago. Look at where you were now – sprawled on the altar, wedding dress soaked in blood, your skirt split in half and bunched around your waist and your bodice shoved down to expose your breasts. And that wasn’t even mentioning your cum-filled cunt.

“Well, your fiancé certainly seemed to enjoy it.”

Oh fuck, you’d almost forgotten about him. He was still frozen in place. Horror and embarrassment seemed permanently etched into his strained features. Understandable. After all, he’d just watched his perfect Christian bride get fucked and tainted by a demon in the House of God.

You glanced down his form. Oh.

There was a sizeable tent in his pants.

You couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. “Did you get a good view, honey?” you asked, your voice overly-sweet and pleasant.

“I certainly think so,” Inkubus answered for him. The demon strolled over to your fiancé. Your fiancé seemed to shrink into himself, eyes wide, and Inkubus regarded him for a long moment. “Hmm. Shame you won’t get a chance to do anything about it.”

And then his blade was buried in your fiancé’s gut, breaking him out of whatever hold he’d been under so that he could jerk and gasp as the blade twisted deep into him. His eyes bulged. His mouth was open in a silent scream. His gaze wandered to you, begging you, imploring you, do something.

You didn’t.  You felt nothing for him.

With a wet noise and a spray of blood, Inkubus ripped the blade back out. Your fiancé lifelessly crumbled to the ground, spilling more blood across the polished tile.

Then the demon turned to you.

And for a moment, your stomach went hollow. Your body went cold. And you wondered if Inkubus was about to do the same to you.

But the blade slid back into his sleeve, and when he came back over to you, his touch was a caress against your cheek.

Still. You had to ask.

“Are…” You swallowed. “Are you going to do the same thing to me?”

“Of course not, love.” His other hand skimmed up your thigh and brushed against your soaked folds. When he pressed his thumb against your clit, you squirmed.

“No,” Inkubus purred, his voice low and deceptively soft. “I have some other ideas for the two of us.”

#ace writes #inkubus #inkubus x reader #notsft #such an underrated character #deserves so much more writing #so once again i am supplying myself with what i want to see

[heejinnien]

bts | roses epilogue

word count: 1.2k words

pairing: bts x reader

synopsis: y/n is a member of the seoul behavioral analysis unit. usually, she’s the cat in the typical game of cat and mouse played with the criminals they catch, but when a mysterious string of murders has her on edge, she discovers she’s caught the attention of one of a dangerous criminal — and he’s determined to make her pay for it.

or, not all attention is the good kind.

genre: horror, angst

warnings: yandere themes, descriptions of gore, descriptions of violence, murder, the reader carries a gun because they need to defend themself against bad guys, guns, manipulation, victim blaming, this is overall just a very dark fic

author’s note: this is the conclusion to my series, roses! it is important to note that this chapter is not written from the same perspective as my other chapters. when attempting to determine the mindset of an unsub, profilers will use “i” or “you.” while this chapter uses you and takes place in second person, it is important to note it is not from the reader’s perspective.

roses masterlist

Tap, tap.

You drum your fingers idly against the wooden surface of the cafe table, checking the display of your watch. He’s late, you note, although you’re sure he was probably distracted with Y/N. You decide to wait ten more minutes for him before leaving. You’re supposed to be dead, and it’s too risky to remain out in the public eye for long. At that thought, you shift in your seat, pulling the brim of your hat down further. The way you’re angled is away from the cafe’s security cameras, and the chilly spring weather provides a perfect excuse for your long coat and hat. It’s the first time in your life that you’re glad you have the ability to blend in, and no one notices you as they pass by.

“You’re here already.”

A familiar voice causes your head to snap up, fingers tightening around the drink you had bought when first arriving. You relax when you see it’s just Jungkook. Unlike you, he’s wearing casual attire, no urgent reason requiring him to hide like you have to.

“Our meeting time was ten minutes ago,” you say stiffly, staring at Jungkook as he pulls out the seat across from you and sits down. If he feels uncomfortable from the way you’re staring at him he makes no indication of it, merely pulling the sunglasses off of his eyes and folding them, hooking them on his shirt.

“Well, I got a bit sidetracked. You know how it is.” Jungkook’s eyes gleam predatorily. Though the topic of conversation is light and to any passerby would sound innocuous enough, the hidden meaning is all but thinly veiled.

You hum noncommittally as a waitress stops by your table and Jungkook orders a latte. She looks a lot like Y/N, you silently note, with dark hair and eyes. You quickly shut that train of thought down, growing uncomfortable if left thinking about your former teammate for too long.

As soon as the waitress leaves, Jungkook’s gaze shifts back to you. “You’ve healed up nicely,” he observes, no question in his tone.

“Well, I had plenty of time,” you respond dryly, mind flickering back to the past few months spent in hiding. This is the first time you’ve gone out in public after the NIS officially declared you “deceased.” For the first few days, you kept up with the news, wondering if the officials had somehow connected what had happened to you in any way, but after a while you decided you couldn’t stomach it anymore. Every mention of it brought you back to that moment, the feeling of your teammate’s life leaving him as your hands wrapped around his throat, eyes flashing with betrayal.

“You seem to be faring pretty well yourself,” you note, refusing to let your mind wander. The first few times you had been in contact with Jungkook after the event, he had said Y/N had attacked him, resulting in injuries to both parties. There’s no trace of that now, Jungkook’s features as perfectly proportioned as before. You shudder to think about what Jungkook has been doing to your former teammate. You know her and how spirited she is, and you vaguely wonder what she’s like now.

If she’s still the woman you once loved.

You silently scoff at yourself, at how cowardly you’ve become. Once, you swore to uphold the laws of your country. Now, you’ve betrayed your country and your unit, and youu’re in hiding for murder.

The murder of your former unit, more specifically.

The sound of a mug hitting the cafe table forces your thoughts to stop wandering. Jungkook smiles at the waitress as she pulls a sugar packet out of her apron, giving the man sitting across from you a gentle smile as she tells him to enjoy his drink and leaves. You watch as Jungkook rips open the pack, pouring it into his drink and then stirring the dark liquid.

“What’s your plan?” Jungkook asks, scarcely saving you a glance as he sips his beverage. You’re glad he isn’t looking at you; you’re not sure you can control your emotions if he looks at you for long. 

“Probably leave the country,” you admit. “I know someone who does fake IDs, and he can get me a passport.”

“Where would you go?” Jungkook’s gaze finally slides to yours, and you use all your years of profiling and behavioral analysis to appear unruffled, as if you’re merely talking about a vacation you plan to go on instead of the country you’re fleeing to after committing murder.

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe London.”

“I know you’ve always wanted to go there.” Jungkook flashes you a soft smile, pausing to take a sip of his drink. “You don’t have to leave, you know.”

“It’s better this way,” you say quickly, and you know it’s true. Maybe it’s further proof of what a coward you are, but after everything you can’t bring yourself to care.

Jungkook nods and sets his mug down, clearing his throat. “Well, I guess this is it then.”

“I guess it is.”

Jungkook stares at you, a glimmer of something in his dark orbs. You rip your eyes away before you can delude yourself into thinking that Jungkook is actually capable of loving someone, that the expression in his face is love and care for you, that he’s even capable of such emotions.

Psychology would tell you no. Sociopaths can’t feel true emotion. But you cling on to the desperate thought that Jungkook is capable of feelings, that he has a conscience, that maybe he wakes up at night in cold sweats like you because of what you’ve both done.

Once upon a time, you loved Y/N and Jungkook. You just loved one of them more.

“I should go, I can’t be out for too long with the face of a deceased person,” you joke, hoping that your words don’t sound as cringy as they do in your head.

“Even with the face of a deceased person you’re still handsome,” Jungkook says softly, and now you can’t ignore the way your heart wrenches, the way you’re undeniably, inexplicably in love with this man.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, throat suddenly clogged. You clear it loudly, ignoring the hurt that flashes across Jungkook’s face for a split second.

The familiar feeling of anxiety bubbles within you, an emotion that has been no stranger to you the past few months. You push back your chair and stand, the wooden seat scraping loudly against the floor. You see a few cafe patrons glance your way, and now the anxiety that has bubbled within you is quickly rising, ready to erupt like a vat of lava.

“I have to go,” you say quickly, gripping your hands tightly in front of you to hide the tremor that runs through them.

“Wait — ”

“Bye, Jungkook,” you murmur, cutting the younger man off. You give him a soft smile, sadness leaching through despite your best efforts to keep your emotions buried, and you know in your gut that this is the last time you’ll see him.

“Bye, mi amor,” Jungkook says softly, and for a second he’s no longer a serial killer or a psychopath. He’s the boy you once loved, the boy you still do love, the boy you wish you could spend the rest of your life with, the boy you committed murder for, the boy you threw away the rest of your life for, the boy you turned into a monster for.

And with that you turn, already thinking about how you’re going to forge the next chapter of your life.

tagging: @kassrole​, @hoebii​, @biaswreckme​, @taegularities​, @moccahobi​, @scarlet2007​, @deepdarkdelights​, @birbdae​, @mieohmy, @samros95​, @ggukkieland​, @glossiestrawberry​​

#roses #bangtanarmynet #btscreatorscorner #bts x reader #criminal minds au #yandere bts #jungkook x reader #taehyung x reader #jimin x reader #namjoon x reader #hoseok x reader #yoongi x reader #seokjin x reader #bts jungkook #bts taehyung #bts jimin #bts namjoon #bts hoseok #bts yoongi #bts seokjin #horror #angst #thriller #yandere #bts #bts horror #bts angst #bts thriller #bts yandere #yandere bangtan

[thetimelordbatgirl]

So....I suffered through Fate....so by laws of this fandom that we apparently can’t hate until we watch, I can now conclude on this shitshow. I’ll be nice and list the pros....though they tiny: *Female Specialists. *Male fairies. *Uhhhh.....they got Sky being boring as fuck right I guess??? *...That’s pretty much it lol. 

Cons: *Whitewashing- for some reason, people keep acting like the show somehow excuses whitewashing....no, no it fucking doesn’t- they whitewashed Musa and replaced Flora with a white girl and her white brother to extent- there’s no excuse for this and you all know it, you just refuse to acknowledge it cause it makes you uncomfortable to acknowledge.  *Biphobia- I swear to god, if anyone proclaims this representation as good, then your apart of the problem here of why we get shitty representation- BOTH non-straight characters are with the villain while the show constantly focuses on the straight relationships, and then you got Riven as the character whose supposed to be bi, preying on Dane and getting him into drugs and alcohol and being the show’s walking stoner joke and being the walking sex references while also being an ass, while Dane starts off nice before turning into an asshole as well who like Riven, bullies Terra for her weight, which brings us too.... *Fatphobia- you’d think with how they used wanting a diverse body character to whitewash Flora, that they’d try with her writing....but no, Terra is literally bullied for her weight by Riven and Dane and its just, why- you literally could do anything but the obvious fatphobia, and you went for the obvious one, like, why. *Racist Writing- Aisha is literally the glorified helper of Bloom who gets treated like shit if she disagrees with Bloom ONCE and if she dares act like the sane one of the group by disagreeing with breaking out a murderer and taking her concerns to the teachers? BAD GUY HOW DARE YOU SNITCH ON OUR CRIMINAL ACTIVITY- just, and of course, Aisha can’t be in the right and is treated like shit by Stella until she says sorry- she has no arc, she’s treated like shit and forced to say sorry to criminal friends....just...you all really saw this and said its okay??? *Stella- did Stella hurt the writers or some shit? Cause this isn’t Stella, this is Stella clone but gone wrong. She’s literally a bitch from day 1 to Bloom, lets her nearly get killed on the way home and then gets prissy about her ring, why? Cause of a dick, aka Sky’s. And we learn Stella’s done this before, aka blinding her old roommate when she showed interest in Sky- but oh wait, no, the show insists Stella’s just like this cause of her mom so it’s okay Stella does all this. Can we just stop this trope already? Of giving assholes this excuse? It’s getting fucking old.  *Beatrix/Sam/Any new character really- all in this area cause quite frankly, they add nothing to the show besides replacing the trix and being a boring villain as a result, being Musa’s new boyfriend who only ever make out cause rushes romance and when it comes to the headmistress and Rosalind....we’ll....we’ll get to them in the stupid twists. *Bloom- Cartoon Bloom called, she’s facepalming. WHAT THE HELL WAS BLOOM IN THIS SHOW?! She starts off as typical moody teen and is nice sometimes, but then gets bitchy if someone doesn’t wanna commit crimes with her like??? And then she does that, commit crimes and....get away with it- like fuck off, fuck off with that-  *The Romance- ....it was all fucking shit, especially the love triangle THAT WASN’T EVEN NEEDED- *The Cringy Lines- as soon as I heard Mansplain TWICE, I felt my soul leave my body and I kept feeling like that at other lines- just- just actually talk to teens before you assume this is how they talk.  *The Stupid Wings- YES, THERE ARE WINGS.....but they shit so why bother....like you can literally see them struggling with the CGI as she moves around, let alone her not flying much with them and even then, Blooms the only one to earn them, cause special Bloom bullshit.... *Harry Potter reference- please stop....its 2021, stop referencing that mess... *The stupid twists- this show literally has a unhealthy obsession with upstaging the previous twist it isn’t even funny, its just annoying. First, they believe Blooms a changeling, and then that’s not the case CAUSE BIGGER TWIST. They say that Sky’s dad is dead, BUT OH WAIT- and then the whole stupid ending with Rosalind, I just.... *The Gore- I’m just gonna say right now, if ANY of you don’t like gore, this show ain’t for you- they literally show dead bodies CAUSE EDGY and show wounds being treated real up-close, so uh, just warning. 

In conclusion? This show is shit, it was already shit with the whitewashing and it just got worser when it came out. I want my hours back now, but there you go- I watched the dumpster fire, so stop acting like when I trash this show, I need to give it a chance. I gave it one- it was shit, the fucking end. 

#fate #fate a winx saga #winx club #i just #i might still post anger sometimes #but i need a break today lol #need some S4 now

[cupcakemolotov]

My Only Love: Part 2

Well, ages later, and I managed this.

When Stefan and Damon find a coffin holding an original, they hope they find an ally. They find Caroline instead. Part 1 on A03

Warnings: Alternate Universe; Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; original!caroline; hybrid!Klaus;Canon-Typical Violence; Blood Drinking; Blood and Gore; Character Death (Not OTP); Not Salvatore Friendly; Biting; No Smut Yet

                                                       -

Skirts and nails and lips bloody, her left hand curled carefully around the strange device she had plucked from Stefan’s hand the same way she’d taken his secrets, Caroline swept out of the dank and dreary basement to find just how the world had changed. A hundred years surely had more than one fascinating new thing to marvel at, and she wanted it all. 

But mostly she wanted her husband.

It was unfortunate that the house was both astonishing and an utter disappointment. The windows were boarded, and the time-worn furniture and fading curtains were as alien to her as the wide expanse of the rooms. There were no gas lamps or candles here, but strange and delicate things made from blown glass that hung from the ceiling and turned the room nearly noon bright. Some of it was tacky, the colors were atrocious and who picked out those chairs? 

Did this modern work not believe in pretty yet comfortable? She was quite certain Klaus had insisted on owning a set of chairs just like those in the 1800s and she hadn’t liked them then either. And what was that fabric?

What kind of place had she been put away to rot?

Outside, she could feel the burn if the sun and frustration clawed at her. When her father-in-law had left her to rot, he’d taken everything he could. Her daylight ring, the pretty jewelry Klaus had gifted her the morning of her abduction, her favorite hair combs. But right then it was the lack of daylight ring she raged at the most. 

Caroline stared at what looked to be the front door with impotent longing. Somewhere out there was Klaus, free from the machinations of father who had hunted him all her life and she wanted to see what changes that freedom had wrought, to taste the triumph from his tongue. To feel him beneath her hands, to know they were free. 

It'd only been a handful of hours to her memories since she’d seen him last, but she could feel the ache of centuries in her bones. The lack of the man who had stood with his hand curved around hers for all the years of her life. Her nails dug into her palms, gouging little half moons, and she took a slow breath. 

Klaus has broken his curse. Mikael was dead, and she knew her husband was hunting for her with the same need that sat in her bones. He’d come to her as soon as he knew she was awake. She’d woken in a world where they’d won. Her lips curved as she recalled Stefan’s words, the angry, bitter pill of her husband’s triumphs clear in his gaze. Below her, she could hear him grieving, the death of brother the song that would usher her into this new existence.

It was fitting she decided, for this young vampire who wished to destroy Klaus to understand the pain he wished her to suffer. He’d wanted her family destroyed, and instead sacrificed his own. She’d leave him that agony for a while yet, her compulsion ensuring he would stay where he was, keeping the cooling corpse of his brother company. Right then, she had something far more important to do. 

Carefully, she wiped her fingers clean on the skirt of her dress, mourning the ruined fabric of it even though it was already liberally covered in blood. Stefan had carried no handkerchief to offer her and she had no wish to search the house for something more suitable to wipe her hands on. She’d already seen more than enough of this place, and wished nothing to delay her husband finding her. 

Hands mostly clean, she considered the smooth shape of what Stefan had told her was a phone in her hand. A strange, modern device that connected people's voices to voice, sometimes face to face. A wonderful little thing that would bring Klaus to her, when the sun was high in the sky and she had no way to go to him. 

It was fascinating. Stefan’s explanation of how to use it and just how radio signals worked had been quite poor, when she wished to know every facet of the device. What kind of world had it become that such fascinating technology should be so badly understood by those who used it? 

Klaus would help her learn. 

For a moment, her finger hovered over the strange cover, this screen and she let herself wish this reunion would happen when she was a little more composed. A hundred years, and she was dressed in a relic of the past, dust covered and splattered with gore. The gore bothered her less than the dust, the ancient wrinkles she had no way to improve. And what was the point? She planned, hoped to be quite naked very soon. 

Pushing aside that niggling vanity, she carefully copied the motions Stefan had shown her to work the phone. Thankfully, English itself hadn’t seemed to have gone through so many changes it was completely unrecognizable, the shape and form of letters familiar even if utterly strange in this… digital format. First, the odd thing he’d called a passcode. Then she found the green box at the bottom with the strange symbol, followed by recent calls. 

There it was. His name. Klaus. 

Such a simple thing, such a lifetime of need. 

Pressing his name, her brows drew down sharply as nothing happened. Muttering under her breath a number of curses at incompetent things, she carefully prodded the screen until something changed. An unexpected jolt of noise startled her, a loud sound that she supposed was ringing. She was going to have to have so much to catch up on.

“Stefan, rethought my offer?”

The sound of Klaus’ voice, so clear and with that soft mix of charm and menace she knew so well, unexpectedly clogged her throat. Fingers flying to her mouth, Caroline swallowed hard. It was one thing to hear that her husband had triumphed, but it was another to hear his voice. To viscerally know that he was alive and if she could just get her voice to work, he’d be here. 

“Klaus.” The single word came out rough. There was a sudden, fraught silence, and she wondered if the blasted device had stopped working.

“Who is this?” Klaus’ voice was sharp, dangerously bladed, and her eyes narrowed at the threat she could hear beneath his words. 

“I am told,” she said in tones that had cooled considerably. “That you should be able to understand me as easily as I understand you. If you require an introduction to your wife, century between us or not, I am going to be very displeased, Klaus Mikaelson.”

Behind him, there was a crash, a noise that sounded like bone breaking. Her brows furrowed, ears straining to catch any hint of sound. “What was that?”

“Caroline.” Her name was clipped, a thousand things she couldn’t understand in his voice. “Where are you”?

Spine snapping taut in irritation at the blatant order in his voice, the way he ignored her question, her fingers tightened on the screen. “I believe the vampire Stefan called it a boarding house?”

“Stay there.”

Her jaw dropped as there was sudden silence, the screen changing to once again and it occurred to her that he was no longer listening to her. The screen cracked beneath her grip, and she tossed it away. Clearly her husband had forgotten a thing or two in the intervening years such as her dislike of rudeness.

Stay there. 

As if she was a minion. 

As if they hadn’t seen each other in decades and decades. Blowing out a slow breath, she wrangled her temper. He certainly knew where she was but had given her no indication how long it would take him to reach her. Maybe she should head back downstairs and entertain herself with Stefan until he arrived. 

Debating, she blinked when outside, there was a noise, a blur of movement, and then the door opened with a wrench that nearly removed the door from its hinges. Her breath hitched in her throat, and Klaus stared at her from the perimeter of the room, eyes hotly yellow. 

His hair was shorn shorter than she’d ever seen it, the cut and make of his clothing as strange and foreign as the wolf in his eyes. But she knew him down to her bones, and she took half a step towards him without thought. But when he continued to just stare at her, to watch her with a carefully set expression, her remembered annoyance sprang to the surface. 

Hand sliding to her hip, Caroline stopped moving and narrowed her eyes. Temper and the smallest bit of hurt turned her voice hard. “I cannot believe the very first thing you're making me do after being released from that box is remind you that I am not…”

His face lost its passiveness, something vibrant and wild crossing his face before the distance between them disappeared with the curve of his palm on her jaw, and the press of his mouth, firm and plush and wanting, swallowed her complaint. Hands grasping for the feel of his shoulders, his spine, she pressed back with the same gasping need he always elicited in her, teeth sinking into his lip as both a need to taste and a chastisement for his behavior. He groaned against her mouth, tongue chasing hers as she slicked along the blood, and her head spun as he tangled himself in her skirts as they staggered backwards. 

His palm pressed against the back of her skull as he pressed close and her spine hit the wall, so close that hip, thigh and stomach were all one line of burning contact even with her skirts and his clothes between them. There was nothing passive in his touch or kiss as they let mouths and hands roam, and she dug in with her nails, demanding more. 

When he pulled back, lingering so they breathed heavily against each other’s mouths, his hand left her face to cup her hip, pulling her even closer. His gaze flickered down the line of her chest, to the blood splattered material that was both his and the other vampires, and his mouth curved slow and pleased before returning to her face. When he spoke, his voice was low and raspy, a thousand benedictions behind his eyes.

“Caroline.”

#my fic #klaroline fanfic #klaroline drabble #klaroline #here we go again i think

[hungarianbee]

Way of the Witcher: bits of lore

Disclaimer:  Post contains spoilers to the Witcher games These things may be canon-typical, but the following trigger warnings apply if you want to check out the cards: gore, monster dismemberment, needles, body horror, insects and spiders

“In a world plagued by horrors and monstrosities humanity desperately needed a new type of weapon to turn back the tide. Created by ingenious Alzur, witchers — professional monster slayers of exceptional strength, speed, and agility were tasked to end the threat once and for all. Organized into different schools they honed their craft and passed their knowledge onto novices in training. Some of them were destined to become the legendary heroes and protectors of humanity. Others — the very thing they were supposed to fight…”

Since the gwent expansion was anounced I followed it with rapt attention; every bit of lore is a gem in my eyes. I decided to write down my thoughts of the cards and lore pieces revealed in a post. Share that knowledge around, amirite?

The post references Gwent cards which were leaked (2020 november-december). The theme is mutation and everything that comes with it; namely sweet-sweet lore of the lesser known witcher schools: the Bears, Cats, Vipers and Griffins.

Tucker in, under the cut there is 4.5k analysis of each card that came out.

We’re starting with a theme, then work our way throught the 4 schools (each contain the following:  a leader, a mentor, an adept, a general witcher, a specific job, an item, a school relevant monster, 2  known witchers and a location), then go through a Witcher 1 throwback, Salamandra, and round it with a few new monsters and neutral cards. 

While I describe most of the cards concisely and all the known witchers and locations are on my blog, you might want to look the cards in their (small) glory: [DO IT HERE]

Sounds good? Here we go!

Edit: [this source is better]

The theme is mutation - be it monsters created by transmutation, witchers or salamadra

If that is true, there are monster cards that seemingly stand out: the Succubus and the Phooca

If we are to believe that they do connect to the mutation theme, then

(1) we can conclude that Phoocas (a rare, and more dangerous form of Nekkers; they can pull your head off by sheer force, watch out) are a natural mutation of the original species,

(2) but we’re still left with the Succubi (an inherently demonic creature). They might have chosen it because of its appearance: succubi have horns and goat-like legs. (Note: in the graphic novel “House of Glass” the succubus character has wings, but lacks hooves. In that sense, she could be mutated.)

Breaking it down into factions/schools (some of the cards can be paired up; these cards are interpreted together):

School of the Viper: starting with the vipers, because they are my favourite

Viper Witcher Mentor & Viper Witcher Adept: the flavour text says that the Viper mentors are exceptionally cold and ruthless, and that’s underlined by the story the art tells: the mentor busies himself with sharpening a blade, and in the background we can see the adept attempting to kill his best friend goat, as was ordered. The mentor watches this from the corner of his eye. Young Vipers are to kill their pets (which they nurtured for years) before becoming a fully-fledged witcher. The latter could mean that the boy depicted on the card hasn’t even gone through the Trial of Grasses.

Viper Witcher: On the card we see an unknown Viper crouching over a royalty he killed. I feel like this type of card is meant to represent what we think a general Witcher of said school would be like. Apparently Vipers just like to slay the nobility *shrug*. The flavour text informs us, that Vipers call their two swords “fangs”, and that their style consists of fast and furious attack aimed to overwhelm the enemy.

Viper Witcher Alchemist: Every school has a specialty; Vipers are proficient in potion or poison making. The right side of the alchemist’s face seems to have healed burn marks; a blown up concoction might have caused it.

Ivar Evil-Eye: So far there’s little to know about Ivar. He was either the Master of the Viper Keep, or the founder himself (gwent suggests the latter). He’s described as heavily scarred (facial scars suggests burns and slash marks too), and each of them has a terrible story to tell.

Warritt the All-Seeing: Warritt is a (newly introduced) Viper with heavy disfiguration to the upper part of his face: his eyes are sealed shut (possibly by burn marks, though his hair remains intact). The art shows Warritt drawing a modified version of the Supirre sign in the air to help with his loss of sight. As the wiki says: “Supirre is a Sign used for eavesdropping. Drawn on a solid surface, it allows the people near this surface to listen nearby conversations which would be normally inaudible due to the distance or background noise.” It was only used in Sapkowsky’s second volume of the Hussite trilogy (not yet translated to English), which is entirely separate from the Witcher novels.

Kolgrim: Fate laughed at this Viper. As a kid he was swapped by a weeper, saved by a witcher, than rejected by his own mother who believed that the fake child was the real one. Later, as a grown witcher Ivar instructed him to find a lost weapon diagram. On his journey he was accused - ironically - in White Orchard of kidnapping a child. Invoking a Temerian law, Kolgrim was told to cleanse their crypt (as seen on the card) then he can go. The truth is revealed in Witcher 3 - Kolgrim was beheaded by the villagers before he could even step into the crypt. To add insult to injury: the child was eaten by a drowner. The gwent card therefore shows the optimistic outcome: that Kolgrim reached the crypt and passed in battle. And what’s up with a crypt full of wraiths anyway? White Orchard is shady, guys. (Lil’ trivia: Kolgrim’s eyes are yellow-green.)

Vypper: Basically an overgrown snake that likes damp marshes (they even fight the local kikimores for territory). They only relate to the mutation theme by their nature - they resemble the “school’s animal”.

Gorthur Gvaed: The Bloodgate Keep is located in the chasms of the Tir Tochair mountains. It’s built so high were you to look down from the bridge leading into the keep, you would only see fog (one could wonder how the vipers trained in these conditions). The bridge is made so that you’d have to cross the lookout tower - it might have served as a check in spot. The post itself is circled by the stone coils of a snake; the top is open and has a huge lit bonfire in the middle for warmth-keeping and possibly signaling. Unluckily, it didn’t stop the Usurper’s army from destroying the keep.

Coated Weapons: They leaned heavily into the alchemy and assassin side of the school. Vipers coat their blades with an acidic liquid, so they can kill a man with a nick of it.

School of the Cat:

Cat Witcher Mentor & Cat Witcher Adept: On the adept card we can see a young Cat walking the tightrope blindfolded (they start with close to the ground and slowly increase the distance with time); the mentor is looking up at him. Like the Vipers, Cat mentors are nonchalant about risking the kids as seen from the flavour text: “If you fall, it’s over. Your nine lives are up, kid.” Furthermore, the background of the Cat Witcher Adept card shows the not yet destroyed Stygga Citadel. The Cat Witcher Mentor is in the same scene and we can see lots of potatoes and cabbages; cats definitely eat their veggies.

Cat Witcher: The card shows a Cat in the heat of battle mid-jump; his hood is up, blood is flying everywhere. The flavour text emphasizes that cats are known for their mad bloodlust, not stopping killing even after the enemy capitulated.

Cat Witcher Saboteur: A Cat perches next to the window, a smoking bomb in hand, eavesdropping on nobles. A rope is hung from somewhere out of the pic, possibly for a quick exit. Vesemir comments that these are many-a deeds the cats did that taint the reputation of witchers.

Gezras of Leyda: Gezras is a not yet known redheaded Cat witcher. Following the pattern he seems to be the founder of the Cat School. His flavour text shows that even back then (when the mutagens made Cats emotionless) they were inclined to dislike humans: “Take a contract from Aen Seidhe over a dh’oine any day, as you’re far less likely to receive a knife between the ribs in place of coin.”

Brehen: Now this cat embodies the Cat madness. He’s known as the Cat of Iello because he massacred everyone there. He was consequently shunned by all the schools, and he was even convinced that Vesemir put a kill order on his head. He met Geralt later in the 1240s on his way to claim the bounty for the princess. Thinking that Geralt was there to rob him of his chance of the bounty, Brehen took a priestess as hostage (this is what we see on the gwent card). Geralt managed to convince him to put away the blade, and they parted without crossing blades. When meeting with the striga he scoffed into her face that “she won’t be his first royal”. But his luck ran out. The Temerians buried him and fabricated the story of a cowardly witcher stealing their coin. I’m halfway convinced we see Brehen in the netflix series.

Gaetan: This boy broke into the fandom like a bulldozer. After the folks in Honorton cheated him of his pay and tried to kill him, Gaetan flew into rage and killed everyone there except Millie, a girl who reminded him of his sister. That’s the scene we see on the card. And then Geralt robs/kills him.

Saber-Tooth Tiger (Stealth): Another huge animal/monster related to the school. It’s story is this: “The prized possession of royal menagerie, until a commando of Scoia’tael assaulted the exhibition, released the beast, and set it upon its cruel masters. Since that day, it has acquired a selective taste for human flesh.” Another cat turning against humans.

Stygga Castle: An outside view of what we already saw on the Cat Witcher Adept card. It’s located on a cliff, and the sun shines into it just right (so that the Cats can bask in the light). The walls form a circle where they shelter the inner grounds, and a bigger tower emerges in the middle. The Castle could be reached by the thin bridge connecting it to the mainland, or by the cliffs (if one is brave enough).

Making a Bomb: Cats seem to have a specialty in bombs. Guess where Lambert got his interest from *winkwink*

School of the Griffin: lots of pairs in this one

Griffin Witcher Mentor & Griffin Witcher Adept: Compared to the other schools, this pairing is tame - the adept is climbing a tree to retrieve a crossbow bolt. We can see the mentor in the background. On the mentor card the adept waves down with the retrieved crossbow bolt in hand. It shows a kind of comradeship that’s not present in the other 3 schools. The flavour text emphasizes the importance of knowledge. Students are afforded to choose their final Trial: recite the entire Liber Tenebrum (Book of Shadows; one of Keldar’s favourite books) or steal a griffin’s egg. Noone’s chosen the former.

Griffin Witcher: The witcher is shown shooting down a griffin. According to the flavour text they prefer hunting with silver-tipped arrowheads instead of swords.

Archgriffin & Griffin Witcher Ranger: On the Griffin Ranger card we see the witcher crouching over track marks. On the archgriffin card he found the albino (or very old) monster, who’s already killed someone (probably a lumberjack, judging by the axe). According to the flavour text, Griffin Witchers are trained to be professional trackers; nothing can stop them to reach their prey. Even though archgriffins are considered the embodiment of courage, loyalty and fighting spirit, the gwent card corrects the notion that the Griffin Witcher were named after the monster. In truth, they got the name in honour of their founder’s mentor, a knight named Gryphon.

Erland of Larvik: Continuing the trend, Erland is the founder of the Griffin School (one of the two that are confirmed 100%). He’s from the first generation of witcher, mutated by Alzur himself. After the Order began fracturing he had a confrontation with Arnaghan (who’ll be the founder of the bear school). Arnaghad almost killed one of his brothers, slashed Erland across the face then parted ways with the Order and left Morgraig Castle with his own group. Seeing that the the remaining witchers couldn’t go on like that, he grabbed his 13 best friend and left to Kaer Seren, where (after purging it from spectres) he founded the Griffin School which focused on magic, preparedness and flexibility. His teaching emphasized knightly values (mimicking his long-dead mentor, a knight named Gryphon) in hopes that it would make future witchers’ life easier. It didn’t.

Coen & Keldar: The cards are mainly connected by background. Coen is finished killing what appears to be an albino arachas (but it’s definitely an insectoid), while Keldar’s taking notes. We can rightly assume that he’s updating their bestiary, since he’s one of the teachers/mentors who focus on gathering and sharing knowledge. Coen’s flexibility shows in the flavour text: “There is no such thing as a fair fight. Every advantage and every opportunity that arises is used in combat.” Not very knightly, is it?

Kaer Seren: The “Star Keep” Erland and his friends fled to. It was used by the Order’s mages to mutate witchers (that’s why it was haunted by spectres). It’s located at the edge of the Dragon mountains by the sea between Poviss and Kovir. It’s said to possess the great library, which later mages tried to get for themselves. They messed up: by bringing down an avalanche on the Keep, that knowledge was destroyed. The keep was badly damaged and many witchers died.

Target Practice: The Griffin School’s specialty is their precise aim - they “can split an apple in two from a hundred paces”.

School of the Bear:

Bear Witcher Mentor & Bear Witcher Adept: The adept card shows that young witcher are taught to catch fish by hand (just like their school relevant animal). On the mentor card the elder witcher leads a group of younglings in the mountains; possibly out to teach tracking. The cards are connected by flavour text. The young Bear witcher-would-be’s need to complete the Trial of the Mountain, which consists of them climbing Mount Gorgon (also known as the Devil Mountain; it is the highest peak of the Amell range) to retrieve a runestone. The Trial often ends with the kids frozen to death. The Bear Mentor card’s flavour confirms it: “If you’re unsure of the way, just keep a lookout for markers - the frozen corpses of would-be witchers.” This sounds ominous - don’t they collect their fallen?

Bear Witcher: Bears are solitary hunters as seen in the flavour text: “life alone can be tough”. The witcher in the pic just dismembered what looks like a ghoul (with a tail?).

Bear Witcher Quartermaster: This one I like. The Quartermaster is an amputee (missing one of his arms, which was taken by a bear; must have won that fight one-handed), yet they still found a job for him where he can be useful. His flavour text suggest he likes Mahakam mead.

Arnaghad: The founder of the Bear School, he never felt kinship with his fellow witchers. After attacking a witcher named Rhys over a contract, wounding him deeply from shoulder to waist, he returned to Morgraig, attacked Erland then left with his possé to found the Bear School - Haern Caduch - in the Amell Mountains. Later he almost died in a betrayal, which resulted in another schism and the foundation of the Viper School.

Gerd: Gerd’s a legendary witcher who fled to Skellige after allying with a Usurper instead of his daughter, who later issued a warrant for his arrest. He has a busy time in Skellige: first slaying a dragon, befriending the Jarl Torgeir, killing a bunch of sirens, losing so many weapon diagrams you wouldn’t believe, losing half his pay and silver sword on gwent, escaping Nilfgaard and managing to slay a striga, killing some of his pursuers, only to be caught up in the siege of Torgeir’s castle, where he died in the ruins. On the card he’s showing Bear-typical strength: he’s tearing apart a siren with his bear hands.

Junod of Belhaven: Junod had a dubious background, but was thought to be the child of a brave dwarf and a giantess. He’s a huge man, with a big bushy beard and bald head. His sobriquet is false; he took it after Ivo, because he liked the ring of it. He was known as a strict haggler and a bit of a gambler. In 1243 he took a contract in hopes of cash (he wanted to forge the Grandmaster Ursine Armour). The subterranean monster was said to live in the caverns. Junod drew bear signs and wrote a warning on the wall (this is the scene we see on the card). He was however ill-prepared; the beast turned out to be a shaelmaar (a type of relic Gaetan slew once) that killed him in that very cavern.

Dire Bear: Once again related to the school in question, the Dire Bear is stuck with so much weaponry that it looks like a walking armory. Lots of witchers must have tried to slay it, yet it still kicks - just like Bear Witchers, it’s resilient till the very end.

Haern Caduch: Built into the side of the Amell Mountains, it’s the coldest environment of all the schools. As with the other schools, the Bears were forced out of it due to folk riots. It was left in disrepair to be buried under snow and ice (as seen on the card). It’s name could be translated as “Piercing Whiskers”.

Armor Up: As Bear’s are more likely to stand in the way of attack than dodge, they need to wear a heavy armour at all times.

Salamandra:

Roland Bleinheim & Gellert Bleinheim: Witcher 1 characters. They are thought to be brothers, leading the Salamandra organization. As drug lords one heads the fisstech operation in Vizima’s sewers (Roland), the other in the swamps (Gellert). The flavour text pretty much matches: both of them wondering what the other one is doing.

Salamandra Mage: The art itself was already leaked in China around 2 years back, and there were a few theories. One of them was that the man depicted is Zerrikanian, and I think that’s correct. Both the facial tattoo, darker skin, thinly braided hair and fire magic points in that direction. Azar Javed (a known Salamandra fire mage) happens to be a Zerrikanian escapee too.

Salamandra Lackey: A girl with the Salamandra-stapled mask runs from a city guard. The flavour text says the following: “Lackeys are expected to perform their first five jobs for no pay, demonstrating their passion for the gig.” The organization monitors from the beginning that only those remain who are extremely loyal to their cause.

Fallen Rayla: A little background for those who are unfamiliar with her: Rayla of Lyria was a veteran of the Nilgaardian Wars. She harbours anti-nonhuman sentiments after she was captured by Scoia’taels and severely maimed. The Rayla we see on the card is a mutant - in Witcher 1 she was supposedly shot down by Scoia’tael, and Salamandra found her close to death, subjected her to mutation. She was killed by Geralt.

Salamander: The card shows a bright blue spotted salamander. It has two tails and heads (possibly grown together?). The Salamander is a symbol of the organization. Metaphorically speaking it could mean, that Salamandra thought of itself as something untouchable: “best to avoid petting them, as the salamander, when threatened, secretes a deadly toxin”.

Failed Experiment: The card - ironically - thrives when it’s poisoned. The “experiment” only resembles a human in shape. It’s clutching the table ends, as if trying to escape still.  It’s fair to assume that they later dissected it: “even failed experiments can serve a purpose”.

Salamandra Abomination: A step further from the failed experiment - we see the results of pushing science’s boundaries. Only the skull is left intact, everything else of the body is covered with insectoid-like growths.

Stolen Mutagens: Gruesome organ harvesting. The witcher heart (?) glows, which is either an artistic decision (probable) or the mages sent magic into the body, and the mutagens light up (like angiographia). Three types of mutagens can be harvested: red (strength), blue (magic) or green (resilience). I headcanon that the amount they inject of the three types can vary - that’s how you get strength inclined witchers like the wolves (red), or big ass mothers like the bears (green).

Salamandra Hideout: There are multiple hideouts in Witcher 1 (outskirt of Visima, crypt in sewers and one in the trade quarters). The one depicted here is the fisstech lab in the sewers. It shows a dimly lit, cobwebbed room. There’s an elevation where a body lays on the table. The elevation’s floor is gridded, so the blood and other fluids can freely flow down into the sewer water, where many bodies are already discarded recklessly.

Neutral:

Alzur & Viy & Koshchey: Alzur was a charismatic mage and spell inventor, who created many horrible monsters, like the koshchey (with the spell: Alzur’s Double Cross) and the Viy (a huge centipede-like insectoid). He was also the one who did the lion’s share of work with the witcher’s mutation.

Cosimo Malaspina: Cosimo was the teacher of Alzur. He was known for his knowledge in hybridization and genetic modification. Him and Alzur were the true creators of the witchers sect. On the gwent card, three man are shown prodding at a mutated body. Cosimo (the old dude) is in the middle, Alzur might be the one on the left and that leaves Idarran on the right. His flavour text paints him as cold and clinical, someone without empathy: “Children keep asking him for gifts. He doesn’t know why, but it really helps with finding subjects for his experiments.”

Idarran of Ulivo & Idr & Wererat: Idarran was one of the contributers of the witcher experiments. He’s an expert in hybridization and genetic modification, whose teacher was Alzur. He was a pale kid who lived in the canals of Vizima and experimented on rats at the age of 5. He found beauty in gruesome creations, like the Wererat (a human-sized rat on roids) and the Idr (a big centipede-like insectoid). He’s disdained by Geralt for his many monsters.

Triangle within a Triangle: It’s a magic spell used to introduce a series of mutations and to greatly increase the mass of a given body. That way they can create huge monstrosities, like the koshchey. Adepts often confuse it with a pentagram which can lead to infernal disasters.

Selective mutation: The card shows a close up of a young man’s eyes - one mutated (catlike) one human. His skin shows his high toxicity level, ashen with prominent veins. He’s held down as alchemists prepare to inject a yellow concoction into the human eye. It’s possible that after the success of witchers the mages tried to recreate the changes in smaller scale, then unmake it in turn, unsuccessfully.

Witcher Student: This is not really a card, but I included it anyway. The card’s ability is - ironically - doomed, and to add insult to injury, its flavour text is the following well-known fact: “Four out of ten boys survive… at most.” It’s also a point for black humour that the gwent commentators added: the Trial of Grasses card boosts this unit significantly.

Berengar: He’s a Wolf School Witcher who blamed his school for denying him a normal life and consequently abandoned them. In Witcher 1 Geralt can decide to kill or spare him. In a letter he admits that he was a coward because he betrayed Kaer Morhen and worked with Salamadra in hope that they can undo his mutation. His card references a questline in Witcher 1, where he tried to reason with the vodyanoi (~lovecraftian fish people) to spare the village’s prize-winning cow, named Strawberry. This is non-canon; in the game Geralt takes over the quest to do this instead.

Leo: Another Witcher 1 character. He was an orphan taken in by Vesemir. He was a kind-hearted but hot-headed man, who had all the training but not the mutations and the experience - he never killed a man. The flavour text of his gwent card kind of mocks his death: “He would have caught the arrow if he only had some heads-up.” He’s burned on a pyre and his cenotaph can be found south of Kaer Morhen.

Geralt: Quen: The last classical sign that wasn’t yet a card. In the art, Geralt is wearing the Manticore armour

Snowdrop: She’s a not yet seen character; impish looking female bard with light blond hair (flowers braided on the side) who plays a medieval version of the fiddle to a rooster. There’s a horseshoe hanging from the hem of his pants. She’s also seen in the gwent: journey #3 launch trailer. She’s narrating that she was saved by Alzur. Alzur told her about his plans of creating witchers to fight the beasts of the Continent, and she admired him so much she spread his story (”let me tell you about the greatest sorceress to ever lived”). Their story will unveil in the next week, I’ll probably update accordingly. It’s also interesting that Alzur says in the gwent intro (regarding witchers): “Bards will toil to do justice to their feats.” As if his own successes and experiences will be mirrored in his creations. Projecting much?

Monsters:

Viy & Idr: both of them are centipede-like insectoids conjured by infamous mages (see: Alzur and Idarran)

Wererat: same can be said about this one. Idarran experimented on Vizima’s sewer rats since the age of 5. This human sized abomination was the end result.

Succubus: We already discussed how the “Succubus” doesn’t fit the theme. Other interesting thing is the surrounding of her - in the background we can see a skull full of some kinda of dark liquid; she’s also holding a goblet. I’m not saying she’s drinking blood, but if she does, it would shed some questions as succubi don’t need to drink blood at all.

Phooca: As nekkers’ rare big brother, phoocas are ogroids that have the strength to rip a man’s head off with their bear hands. According to the wiki, in Celtic folklore they are regarded as shapeshifting fairies.

Koshchey: A witcher 1 boss, koshcheys are spider-like abominations summoned by mages. The woman standing her ground in the picture is Visenna (Geralt’s druid mom). In the story she’s the one to kill the first koshchey ever created.

Spontaneous Evolution: Under the Red Moon the wolf mutated into an amalgamation of eyes and teeth. Malaspina possibly added something to the mix that proved unstable. The card’s name is kind of ironic - this change is not spontaneous (it was induced) but could be related to evolution (it would imply that this form is somehow advantageous to the current environment and helps adaptation). (Note: in my opinion spontaneous generation would be a better term: it’s the thought that living creatures could arise from nonliving matter.)

Hybrid: the card shows a two-headed wolf or dog. Pretty straight-forward.

Chimera: A creature created my Cosimo Malaspina. He combines the genes of a fiend and griffin, then added a trace of insectoid and wyvern. It kind of looks like a furred wyvern with antlers. Interestingly the frightener (an insectoid; a rare result of magical experiment) is also called a chimera.

Dol Dhu Lokke: a new monster lair location. The depending on how you translate “lokke” the Elder can be read as “black valley place” or “alluring black valley”. It’s so dangerous - housing many-a horrors - that even a witcher thinks twice before going near it.

Interesting tidbits

Coen has hair, which is weird because so far he was described in all sources as bald.

There used to be a card  that was also called Viper Witcher, which is now referred to as “Kingslayer”

The Bear Witcher’s face was drawn after one of CDPR’s employee.

The Koshchey’s card title has a typo: “Koschchey”.

Easter eggs (mainly in flavour text)

The Spontaneous Evolution card references The Powerpuff Girls intro: “Professor Malaspina accidentally added an extra ingredient to the concoction - compound X.”

The Bear Witcher card might reference a song of Baloo from the Jungle Book (The Bare Necessities): “Life alone on the road can be tough - be sure to bring all the bare necessities.”

#my shit #the witcher #gwent #witcher meta #witcher lore #i worked really hard on this #i hope it shows lol #if y'all have any thoughts i'd be happy to hear about them #cross my heart i don't bite

[sword-dad-fukuzawa]

they took her, oneshot

I wrote this a bit ago too, and this is a crosspost from Ao3. It’s my first attempt at horror/mystery themes. CW for canon-typical gore. The Port Mafia, after all, doesn’t take kindly to people muscling in on their turf. -- -- -- -- 

A building with red brick walls looms onto the street. The night is cool and dark, with the moon hanging above like a fat fish. Most of it is obscured by thick grey clouds, but moonlight filters down and onto the street anyway. There is a lamppost by the door of the building, and the light doesn’t so much as flicker. For anyone who takes a walk on this particular street at this particular time, they wouldn’t have noticed a thing. No shadow darts through the lamplight. The door doesn’t open. There is no other sound than the moan of the wind. 

But there is now one more person inside the building than before. 

The light doesn’t flicker. The door doesn’t open. The wind howls. 

Inside the large building are nearly a hundred men. They all wear the same colors and walk the same path. Each and every one of them is a smuggler for a burgeoning illegal organization, trying to muscle in on Yokohama turf. This is a port city, after all. They are no strangers to smugglers. 

But these poor fools are American. While most of the established and even up-and-coming gangs in Japan know about Yokohama, know that the city was claimed long ago, they’ve only heard rumors. As criminals, they should know the value of rumors. There is no shortage of whispers. Not in Yokohama. 

The man with the power of a god running through his veins, who turns gravity against his enemies and takes no prisoners. The laws of nature don’t apply to him.

The rabid dog who stalks the night, with a penchant for grisly and bloody executions. Once you’ve seen him, it’s too late.

The squad of highly capable killers, led by a man who’d gladly smoke a cigarette as he made your body crumple in on itself. They take no prisoners and have no mercy. 

These are the three that Yokohama’s underbelly talks about, always in hushed tones because the walls have ears in this place. Few people in this city don’t know about the Port Mafia, and fewer still have never had dealings with them. Almost everyone that can be hired or bought off in some way has interacted with their agents. Never the higher ups, not unless you were incredibly unlucky. But the Dragon’s Head Rush is still fresh in their minds when the American smuggling group lands on Yokohama’s shores. 

— 

“Those poor bastards,” says Hirota Takeshi, as he takes a sip of his drink. He’s a part-time bodyguard for hire, and the Port Mafia has called him a few times for gigs they didn’t want their names on. Unlike most people, he’s actually met one of the Port Mafia’s executives—a woman named Ozaki Kouyou, as pretty as a spider-lily in bloom and deadlier than a typhoon. He hasn’t seen her ability up close, but he saw it once from a rooftop building. He doesn’t think he can forget a demon with a flashing sword, not when it had left the street covered in blood.

“Who?” asks Kazuhide Eiji, a man he’s worked enough gigs with to know fairly well. He’s tipsy already, Takeshi notices, and tries not to sigh. Kazuhide has a surprisingly low alcohol tolerance for a man of his size. 

“The Americans,” Takeshi reminds him, and Kazuhide nods with big, exaggerated movements. “Right, right,” he says. His caterpillar eyebrows furrow. “Why?”

Takeshi tries not to roll his eyes, but he ends up giving into the urge anyway. “Didn’t you hear the beanopole?” he asks, referring to the tall, skinny blonde man who’d sauntered in a few hours ago. “They’re setting up a smuggling route involving the port, and they were looking for manpower.”

Kazuhide’s ruddy face pales slightly. “Smuggling?” he asks rhetorically, and Takeshi nods. 

Kazuhide takes a deep drink from the glass in front of him. “They’re fucked,” he mutters. “Poor bastards.”

Takeshi sighs. 

—

The room opening out onto the street is brightly lit. There are people bustling inside, despite the late hour. A woman in business casual, her tie slightly askew from the long day and her updo starting to come undone, stumbles as if pushed. She glances down, realizes she tripped over a bump in the flooring, and thinks nothing of it. 

Her name is Morozumi Alice, and she lives alone. She washed out of college back home and ended up getting dragged into shady operations by her boyfriend. She’s still with him, though she wishes she wasn’t. Every morning, she wakes up and tells herself that she’ll break up with him. Every night, she slips back home, annoyed at herself because she didn’t. And yet she goes to work for annoyingly little pay, just like clockwork. She’s nobody important here, and she is painfully aware of it. 

Maybe she could’ve been someone important if she’d just tried harder in her classes, Alice thinks bitterly to herself when she gets time alone. This place worries her. She has a pistol in her handbag that she just barely knows how to use. She remembers Finn’s face as he pressed it into her hands, sad eyes focused for once. “Just in case,” she hears him say in her memories, and the very thought of him annoys her.

She yanks herself upright, her back protesting, and adjusts her tie to lie straight. She has one last meeting, then she can go home. 

Home, with her overweight cat and fuzzy blankets and half-broken coffee machine that works, but only if she bops it with her fist. She wants to curl up on her ratty couch with her cat and stare out into the city. As much as she hates being here, Yokohama is a beautiful place. 

Alice allows herself one tiny sigh, before she heads down one of the hallways on the left side of the building. She is alone, but she likes it better this way. It means she has to interact with people less, and the people her organization employs scare the hell out of her. She’d never say so to Finn, because he would probably tease her, but she keeps the thought close to her heart. Her low heels make soft noises on the tile as she walks. 

Her handbag swings from her arm in a familiar rhythm and the manila files, tucked close to her chest, press comfortingly. Just one more meeting, she thinks. 

The light flickers. 

Alice glances up and squints, adjusting her sensible black glasses. The light fixtures embedded in the ceiling rarely do that, even though the building is old. The bulbs don’t flicker again, so she pays it no mind. 

Then there’s a sound, and Alice’s blood runs cold. She turns her head slowly, coming to a halt in the middle of the hallway. She heard footsteps—not the click of heels or the heavy thud of boots, but just…footsteps. Regular ones. But the hallway is empty. “Who’s there?” she asks, but she doesn’t get an answer.

I’m imagining things, she thinks to herself, and takes a steadying breath. Her pulse is jumping like an erratic hummingbird. She silently curses her boyfriend’s stupid stories. She hates the late night shift and they make it so much worse. 

Alice turns back around and starts walking again, clutching the manila folders more tightly. She pays attention to the sounds her feet make on the floor, but there’s nothing more than the typical clack of her heels. The light above her remains steady, and she rounds the corner cautiously. This hallway is empty too, which seems strange. Normally there are more people down here. 

It’s just a slow day. She breathes in deeply, then exhales. She’s almost to the right room, anyway. She walks to the end of the second hallway to a nondescript wooden door. She knocks twice, quiet and polite. “It’s Morozumi Alice,” she says, loud enough for the people inside to hear. But nobody calls for her to enter. Perhaps they’re still in the middle of the previous meeting?

But she had checked the schedule. There shouldn’t be anyone before her. 

Part of her hesitates when she puts her hand on the doorknob. She could be barging in on someone, maybe even the executives, and then she’d be in trouble. She’s barely keeping up with her rent as is. 

She shakes the thought away and turns the handle.

The first thing that hits her is the smell. It smells terrible, like the one time she walked into an open-air market on a humid day, and it hits her with all the subtlety of a freight train. Alice barely registers it. 

She was supposed to meet with a team that was going to manage the shipping operations. All highly capable, trained, and intelligent people with more years in the business than she’d spent in any one place. She walks into the room and is faced with their bodies. 

The manila folders slip out from her slack grasp and fall to the floor. The papers spill over her shoes, and if she was in any state to pay attention to them, she would notice the red leaching into the important paperwork and save them. As it stands, she can only stare, horrified, at the seven corpses strewn about the room with abandon. 

One woman is slumped over the table, her neck at an unnatural angle. Her red lipstick seems to glare eerily under the harsh office lighting. Next to her is a man, middle-aged and balding, with a bright slash of red across his throat. Two other corpses were killed in the same fashion, sprawled in their chairs like macabre dolls. Another woman, this one older with graying hair at the temples, lies on the floor with a mutilated eye and another slash. There are more corpses in the back of the room, but Alice can’t tell how they died.

The room bleeds red, and Alice falls to her knees. She’s vaguely aware that she started screaming, but before the noises she’s making can alert anyone, she feels a hand clap onto her mouth. She starts struggling against whoever it is, feeling their arm lock around her neck and pull her roughly to her feet. 

Some part of her keeps her head and she bites down, snagging some skin between her teeth. The hand comes away and there’s a muffled curse from behind her. It’s a man, she realizes faintly. The hand comes over her mouth again and instead of an arm on her neck, there’s a cool press of metal. That’s a knife, she thinks, and her gaze darts down. Bright, jagged steel reflects light from the office into her eyes, and she shuts them with a gasp. 

“Sorry about this,” murmurs a voice in her ear, and it’s surprisingly young. It’s the last thing she hears before there’s a sharp pain, and everything goes black. 

— 

Takeshi’s tired. He’s been at this dimly lit bar for hours, watching Kazuhide drink too much alcohol and get progressively rowdier. At this point, he’s ready to go home. 

“Oi, Kazuhide,” he says, but the bigger man ignores him. “Kazuhide,” he says, louder this time. 

He turns, face flushed. “What, Hirota?” he snaps, and Takeshi can’t be bothered to be annoyed. He stands from his seat and takes out a wad of paper money, setting it down next to him. “I’m going home,” he says, and Kazuhide doesn’t stop him as he walks out of the bar. He wants a smoke, but he’s also tired enough that he might choke on the nicotine like a pansy fresh off his first job. His pride can’t take the hit, so he walks home without touching the lighter in his pocket. 

Or, he starts to. He passes down a side street because he knows it leads to a shortcut, and passes a red brick building. Something about it makes him stop. The hairs on the back of his neck rise, and a prickle goes down his back as he stares at the building. 

Something’s wrong. 

Takeshi glances up at the moon. “The onryou are out tonight,” he whispers, and the wind picks up as if to confirm it. He shivers and tugs his jacket closer. The building in front of him looms, and he can’t hear anyone inside. It’s strange, considering the lights are on. His unease ratchets up several notches as he stares, waiting for someone to move inside. But no one does.

I should go home, he thinks, but he doesn’t move. He’s rooted to the spot. 

No, not rooted. He’s drawn towards the door by some invisible string, making him reach for the handle and tug it open. It offers no resistance. 

Takeshi walks inside, knowing that he could probably get fined for trespassing. The area at the front, with a reception desk, is empty. Instead of turning around, he continues deeper into the building. The lights are all still on in here, too. There isn’t a single sound. 

Where is everyone?

He walks down the left side hallway. It’s as empty as the foyer, and his shoes make very little noise against the tile. There’s no sounds to show people up ahead, not even the little eddies of air from people walking. 

His adrenaline spikes and he turns around, half-expecting someone to materialize out of thin air from behind him. There’s nobody there, and there hadn’t been anything to set him off in the beginning. He swears under his breath, reaches into his pocket, and takes out his lighter. If he’s going to be in some creepy abandoned building at night, he’s going to have a smoke, too. 

He lights his cigarette and holds it between his teeth. The adrenaline makes him feel awake, and the nicotine wakes him up even more. Takeshi walks down the hallway, glancing around for anybody, but he sees no one. It’s strange. 

He exhales, blowing smoke into the air. Isn’t there anyone in this building? Or…maybe the janitor just forgot to turn off the lights, and he’s being paranoid, and he’s very much trespassing. “I should go home,” he says aloud, but he keeps walking forward. 

He rounds the corner and sees an office room with the door slightly ajar. He approaches slowly, making his footsteps as loud as possible so he doesn’t startle anyone inside. He even knocks. “Anyone in there?” he asks, and he gets no answer. He’s about to push open the door when there’s a strange noise, like the sound snow makes when it’s crushed underfoot. 

Takeshi whips around, cursing himself for not even bringing a weapon. The hallway was empty, he thinks, his heart jumping into his throat. He was so sure it had been empty. 

But now, leaning against the wall with a careless sort of grace, is a man. He’s young, and skinny enough that his sweater hangs off of his frame. His hair is a bright orange under the institutional lights in the ceiling. He’s not even looking at Takeshi, but he freezes all the same. 

“I don’t think you should open that,” says the man—boy, really—but doesn’t make a move to stop him.  

“Why?” Takeshi asks, aware it’s a silly question. “Who are you?”

The boy raises his head, but he still doesn’t look at him. His shaggy hair hides his eyes from Takeshi’s view, but he can see the boy smile. It’s a sad smile, and it makes something in Takeshi ache. 

“You can’t really unsee it,” says the boy. 

Takeshi ignores him anyway and pushes the door open. He registers what’s inside before he feels the urge to be violently sick. True, he’s a bodyguard, and he’s run enough semi-illegal gigs to not be squeamish at the sight of blood. But inside that room….

Bodies. Piles and piles of them, leaking blood onto the floor. 

The boy sighs. “I told you,” he says, and he sounds vaguely apologetic. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Who are you?” Takeshi repeats, backing away, and the boy finally looks at him. Overbright hazel eyes, almost feverish, lock with his. He doesn’t look crazy, Takeshi thinks. He looks tired, like a man who’s been running for a long time and knows he’s nowhere close to the finish line. 

His hand flicks out, and he’s grasping a knife where there hadn’t been one a second ago. Takeshi revises his opinion of the kid. He’s not just tired.

He’s desperate. 

The boy peels himself off the wall, and Takeshi backs up further, holding up his hands. “Look, look, can we talk about this?” he pleads, and the boy shakes his head. “Orders,” he says, almost helplessly. 

Takeshi suddenly understands why the building had drawn his attention. The American smuggling organization’s agent had given an address to Kazuhide and him. This place is—was—their headquarters.

“I’m not with them,” Takeshi pleads, painfully aware that he’s unarmed. But he’s strong, and this isn’t his first time confronted by someone violent. He can probably take him down. The kid’s built like a stick. 

“Doesn’t matter,” says the boy, and he sounds regretful as he advances. 

I’ll get this over with, Takeshi thinks grimly, and rushes forward to disarm the kid and put him into a headlock. But as he makes his move, the boy smiles. Something’s wrong.

As soon as he touches him, the boy dissolves into particles of light that fall slowly to the ground, almost like snow. Takeshi whirls around, looking for him, but the hallway is empty. 

“Shit,” he whispers, before there’s a sharp tug at his throat and he can’t feel anything anymore. The last thing he hears is a whisper. 

“I’m sorry.”

— 

Tanizaki stands over the body of the man who’d been unlucky enough to wander into this particular building on this particular night. He wipes the blood off onto the man’s clothes and sighs. “That makes 203,” he murmurs, because he knows there’s no one around to hear. He reaches into his pocket after holstering his knife and pulls out a flip phone. He opens it, scrolls through his contacts, and picks one of the numbers. 

“Ichiyo,” says the person on the other end of the line, and Tanizaki grits his teeth. “Mission complete,” he mutters. “Tanizaki reporting in.”

“Body count?” asks the woman, and Tanizaki grips the hem of his sweater to stop his other hand from shaking. “Eighty seven.”

There’s an approving noise from Ichiyo and Tanizaki has to push down his rage. “Can I see her?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady. The woman hums, deliberating. She drags it out for longer than she needs, he can tell, and it infuriates him. “You get fifteen minutes,” she says finally. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” he chokes out, hating himself for thanking her, for meaning it, because his gratitude is an ugly thing that rises in him alongside the fury. 

“We reward success, here at the Port Mafia,” Ichiyo says, her voice almost proud. Tanizaki bites back a retort about where she can shove that success. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, tone biting, and hangs up before she can. It’s a small, petty thing, he knows. But it tempers his anger a little. 

He’ll be able to see her tomorrow. It’s worth it, all of it is worth it.

All for her. Everything for her.

Tanizaki leaves the building with his phone and knife tucked away from sight. But he stops before he leaves the front of the building behind, tipping his head up to the moon. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Fifteen minutes, huh?” he says.

He wonders if it would be enough.  -- -- -- --

"His ability is terrifyingly suited for assassination." (Hirotsu, episode 33)

#basically the pm scouted tanizaki out before he works at the ada #he wouldn't want to but #well #assassination ability #tanizaki junichirou #light snow #port mafia #ichiyo hiuguchi #cw gore #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd #horror #mystery #drama #naomi tanizaki #au #fanfiction #fanfic #one shot #aurie writes

[goodluckdetective]

Fic: smile, you’re trending

Ship: Jon/Martin

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567242

Warnings: Canon typical violence, alluded past child neglect, alluded past police brutality, horror, off screen gore, brief mention of body horror, mentioned past character death

Tags: Angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt comfort, protective Martin, Lonely!Martin, one shot, character study

Characters: Jon, Basira, Martin

Rating: PG-13

Length: 9K

Summary:

Post 179 but not episode centric

During an encounter with another Avatar of the Eye, Jon faces his past, Martin takes a turn at playing Kill Bill and Basira has a second look at the monster she’s determined to see.  

For three people associated with the Eye, they could all use some perspective.

Author’s Note:

Formally “a matter of perspective” and then I realized that was an episode title and felt very silly. This is the tumblr version because I forgot to post a version here, I only posted the link, whoops.

Big thanks to Impatiens_capensis on AO3 and lamella who served as editors to this piece so it can beheld without taking psychic damage. Their input was a massive help and I cannot thank them enough for their time. Big thanks to namiofthesea as well for advising me on the small details of beauty youtube. Your cursed info was essential.

Fic below the cut:

Jon knew they couldn’t die in this new world they inhabited, but he wasn’t quite sure about the specifics when it came to being harmed.

His new powers were useful despite being unwanted, but they had their limits. Hypotheticals were the biggest one. He could tell what path was safer to take, but not if an Avatar might change their mind to follow them. He knew Basira’s gun would always have bullets in it, but he didn’t know if that would apply to any other weapon she picked up, or if her gun would always work against what chased them. And he knew they could not die, at least not yet, but he didn’t know what would happen if someone tried to kill them.

“So if I shot you,” Basira said as they took a brief rest to light a fire between a domain of the Stranger and the Vast. She’d met up with them just outside of London after their brief split with a few new scars and a heavy tread to each step. But she was alive and that was something to celebrate. “Your wound would just heal?”

They made camp in a domain of the End, a giant graveyard that while unpleasant, wasn’t the worst place to rest. There was a fallen tree that made a good enough bench to sit on for Martin and Jon, and Basira sat across from them on a rather large boulder.

“Given past experience, that seems the most likely,” Jon replied, ignoring the look Martin gave him at the comment. They had discussed his attempts to make an anchor before he went to Jared, and Martin turned out to be fond of all ten of his fingers. After the incident with Daisy, Martin fussed for a full day as it healed up, even offering to carry him across a few domains. Across from them, Basira looked nonplussed. “The best guess I can go on is my leg and that managed to heal up within the day. But I can’t be sure if that will be the case everywhere.”

Basira scowled at the mention of his leg. It was a painful reminder for the both of them. Jon’s pant leg was still stained with blood and rips from the incident. “Because it’s a hypothetical?”

“Something like that. That or the Eye thinks Knowing will take away all my fear of it and doesn’t want to spoil the fun.”

“It’s spoiled enough fun already if you ask me,” Martin said, just under his breath. Jon allowed himself to smile and reached over to squeeze Martin’s knee in response. They weren’t big into public displays of affection as it was, but with Basira around they’ve tried to keep snogging to a minimum. It might be the apocalypse, but awkwardness apparently lived on.

Basira ran her thumb across her chin, deep in thought. She was less outright hostile to them after they met back up in London , but there was an edge to her that told Jon she still wondered if he was worth trusting. “And we can’t die either?”

“No, at least not for good. At least not now.” Jon paused after that and closed his eyes. Since Daisy, he knew more about the laws of this new world, how it shaped and bent around emotional logic. The specifics on how that logic changed from place to place was what he struggled with. He tried to Know the specifics, reaching out for that endless pool of knowledge but he came back empty handed with the taste of battery acid on his tongue. “I don’t know anything more than that.”

“Another hypothetical?”

Jon looked up at the sky. “I think more trying to keep the fear of not knowing fresh.”

He explained what he meant by that later, when Basira was asleep and he felt less watched despite the thousands of eyes in the sky. Martin was a good listener and patient when Jon struggled for the right words. After being a mouthpiece to others’ horrors Jon still found it difficult to voice his own.

“You think after everything, I wouldn’t be able to feel fear anymore but… I can,” Jon said, lying on his back with his eyes closed. He could still see the eyes in the sky, he could see everything around them, but if he focused very hard on a domain of the Vast, he could sometimes pretend the stars from that sector were the ones actually in front of him. Back before Basira joined them, he would sometimes list the constellations to Martin who in turn would tell him the mythological stories behind each one. “I still do. I don’t think I’d be able to be the Archivist if I couldn’t.”

Martin was next to him, side to side, his hand holding Jon’s tight, thumb brushing across his knuckles. Somehow he managed to remember how to be gentle despite everything. “You don’t seem scared.”

Jon turned to him, opening one eye to look at him properly. Martin looked tired, bags under his eyes from lack of restful sleep, but he watched Jon with rapt attention. It was calming, seeing those brown eyes focused and fully present. One of Jon’s worst memories of the Lonely was Martin staring at him with pale empty blue irises that looked so close to that of Peter Lukas.

Jon forced a wry smile on his face. “Would you believe I’ve become a fantastic actor?”

The raise of one eyebrow that Martin gave him in response was easy to interpret without Knowing. Jon sighed, and closed his eyes again, rolling closer towards Martin. Martin’s arm reached around his side in a loose embrace and Jon made a mental note to move within 10 minutes or his arm would fall asleep.

“Fair enough,” Jon said, voice somewhat muffled by Martin’s shirt. “I suppose it’s that a big part of fear is the unknown. I am scared of the pain fire can cause, but the fear of dying from it or being burnt by it permanently: that’s gone now.”

That was true. The entire time Jon faced down Jude Perry, the fear in his bones was only that of pain, not what might come after. It was such a contrast to the fear he’d first felt facing Jude, that he’d been almost power drunk on it, reveling  in the fear coming off of her in waves that Jon himself no longer felt.

Jon didn’t want to ever admit it out loud, but sometimes it was intoxicating to be the predator instead of the prey.

“That takes some of the edge off, knowing what is coming, at least for me. No, it’s the fear of what I don’t know that is still sharp. And that’s what the Eye wants, I think. The fear of what comes next when all you know is that there will be a next.”

“After all this, it’s still feeding on you,” Martin said, rubbing Jon’s back with the hand under Jon’s side.

“I don’t think it ever intends to stop.”

Martin was quiet before he pulled Jon in closer for a proper embrace, resting his chin on the top of Jon’s head. It reminded Jon of lazy mornings in the cabin, back when they thought things might actually be alright. Comfort might no longer exist in the world, but if there was anything close to it left, the sensation of being loved and protected was the next best thing.

“Think if we find a domain of the Desolation, we can dig up a rocket big enough to fire into one of those pupils?” Martin mused, his hand still rubbing Jon’s back.

“It wouldn’t-“

“I know it wouldn’t do anything, Jon; I mean solely for the satisfaction.”

Jon did consider it and he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. He Knew the eyes in the sky wouldn’t even blink if they tried it, but picturing it anyway was indeed satisfying. “I’ve never lit fireworks before.”

“Neither have I.”

“I don’t know if the Eye will allow me knowledge on how to prank it.”

“Good thing we’re likely clever enough to figure it out ourselves. And if not, Basira can probably put it together. She might even like it.”

“Maybe she will,” Jon tried to picture Basira smiling under a display of fireworks. She hadn’t smiled since Daisy and Jon found he missed it. Despite their current antagonism, Jon never wanted her miserable.

Daisy wouldn’t have wanted that either. She told Jon once that Basira and her would go for pubs on weekends. Instead of drinking, they would play trivia and laugh whenever they got an answer horrendously wrong. Jon Knows what that was like, he can even tell you the smell of the peanuts on the floor mixed with spilled beer, but he wished he could have seen that laughter for himself.

“You aren’t responsible for the world, Jon.” Martin whispered into his hair.

“Are you sure you're not an Avatar of the Eye with that insight?”

“No. I don’t know everything. I just know you.”

Jon opened his eyes and looked at Martin before craning his neck up for a brief kiss. It hurt his neck to do it for too long, but the kiss was sweet and reassuring. He moved Martin’s arm so he was no longer lying on top of it and smoothed his hair back.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Martin did. As he rested, twitching with nightmares he never remembered, Jon thought about what he was still scared of. The Web for sure, the strings he couldn’t see. Jonah, for what he did to him and what he could still do. He feared for Melanie and Georgie’s safety and if they hated him as much as he thought they should. He worried if Basira would ever be okay again, if he ruined everything he touched, if she was right to sometimes look at him like he was something dangerous.

And Martin. He feared Martin’s devastated expression if they killed Jonah and this hell still stood. He feared the Lonely, coming back and telling Martin that being alone was better than being with a monster. He feared losing Martin’s hand in his, the sound of a soft snore at night, and the whistling as they walked when the landscape was particularly horrendous and they needed a distraction.

Love was the only thing that could prompt such overwhelming fear, Jon thought. That was why it was so powerful a feeling: no one would dare to risk that horror of loss otherwise.

No, Jon Sims was still scared of so much. It was hard to quantify all that fear: Jon sometimes felt he could drown in it. Martin helped keep him afloat and in turn Jon kept him from being lost in his own quest devastation. They were each other’s safe harbor.

“Lord, I’m becoming a poet,”Jon said to himself, amused. He glanced at Martin who began to mumble under his breath about the cold. Carefully, as if not to disturb him, Jon grabbed his discarded jacket from next to them and laid it over Martin. It didn’t stop the muttering but there was less of it than before. Small miracles. “I suppose there are worse fates.”

With that, Jon began his watch as his comrades slept on.

______________________________________________________________________

The thing was, Jon never considered what would happen if he ran into another Eye Avatar.

The domain they walked into was one Jon chose as the most safe. When it came to domains, the Desolation and the Corruption were best avoided, so when Jon found himself picking between the two and then the Eye, he went for the Eye. It was a smaller domain, a former multimedia office turned into multiple hallways and rooms of endless monitors. It seemed the Eye had a fondness for the digital age.

The domain belonged to a former internet influencer by the name of Irene Hatchette. In her mid-twenties with a relatively popular makeup series, she fed on the fear of exposure. Her relationship with the Eye began as a child by tattling on her step-sister before the took the same scheme to school where she would steal her classmates cell phones and told everyone what she found, while implying even more to let people come to their own worst conclusions. In university, she learned to make fake accounts and emails to lure people into sending her things she could publish widely out of context, and as an internet star, those fake identities triples as she used each to speak to her rivals, invade their fan groups and personal pages for information she could sell to gossip magazines or twist for her own use. Once, she had to spend months pretending to be a therapist to get scoop on someone’s past hospitalization involving horrendous burns, which she dug up medical photos of by calling the right stupid hospital tech about changing “his corrupted password.” Once she published the pictures all across the internet, well, the rival stopped being a problem. It was business, sure, but there was a thrill to it too, much like pinning a still living butterfly to a corkboard to put on display.

Before the Change, she found rivals would now just tell her things behind her new identity of the week, their greatest insecurities without months and months of building a fake persona. It was like they wanted her to know, like they wanted her to tell everyone about how little they deserved what they had, and she took full advantage. It was a minor power, but a useful one for her line of work. She’d started going after just regular people before everything started, wrecking them with perfect pieces of information when she found someone who deeply feared being seen. Now her entire domain was dedicated to the practice, a full multimedia center for her to broadcast whatever she wanted.

The statement Jon gave after he walked in followed the format of an online video tutorial script. When Jon told them this was a domain of the Eye, Basira decided to stay behind to listen to the statement. Martin plugged his ears and hummed a song Elias used to complain about them playing in the Archives. When the statement was done Basira stared at him, looking like she smelled something rotten.

“What?”

“I may have nightmares of you saying “remember to like and subscribe” in that tone.”

Jon couldn’t blame her. The instructions to “make sure to peel away the skin so you can expose their heart to the viewer! It’s important to be authentic: well it’s important for them to be authentic. Your job is just to watch ,” was particularly vivid. He was glad he never got into social media with all the mess happening in the Archives if this was even a little what it was like.

The dozens of television monitors and screens around them show a different person’s secrets, twisted into a show.  The man who edited his photos to hide his ache scraped of his skin with a rusty razor on one screen. A woman who claimed she lived in luxury was buried by her piles of bills in her crumbling apartment. On a monitor right behind Basira, another man removed each tooth from his mouth by hand. The like counter in the corner shot up with every howl of pain he made.

“Another Eye Avatar?” Martin asked them after Basira gave him a recap of the statement.

“Yes,” Jon said, pulling his gaze from the screens.

“You know, it’s surprising we haven’t run into one before now,” Martin said. “Unless you’ve been keeping us away from them?”

“I haven’t.” That was something worth considering later, Jon thought. Martin was right: it was unusual this was their first one.

“So this domain is what?” Basira asked as they headed down the halls and through a room full of even more televisions. They had to walk slow from the hundreds of cords and wires that littered the floor. “The fear of being exposed?”

“Something like that,” Jon said. “Imposter syndrome too. It doesn’t have to be a real secret to be preyed upon.”

“And the Avatar?”

“In the media room. She shouldn’t be a problem: she’s setting up a new stream,” Jon said, glancing at one of the monitors in the room that had a countdown on it. He didn’t envy the poor soul who was about to grace the captive audience.

Most of the walk through the domain was quiet, nothing but the hum of technology and the noises coming from each screen. It was a small place, just hallways of computer monitors cataloguing fear to a delighted audience. If they hadn’t been interrupted, they wouldn’t have been there for more than an hour relatively speaking.

Later, Jon would suspect Jonah to be behind what followed. Or perhaps the Eye was his blind spot, the one place where he couldn’t quite see. Regardless, he only knew the Avatar was coming right when she appeared at the end of the hallway, phone in one hand, headset around her neck. She was small, smaller than the three of them, with pale skin and a slender build. She looked mostly human. Only two things were off: there was an artificial light to her, almost like that of an edited photo. That and her eyes were a brilliant bright green.

“So you’re the Archivist,” she said. She had an American accent (came over for Uni for a degree in business, able to afford cost of London with her parent’s income, learned secrets were the best weapon for attention by ratting out her step-sister and- focus, Jon, not now ), blonde hair curled up into ringlets and nails sharpened to pointed tips. When she spoke, there was a sneer to it that reminded Jon of his wealthier classmates at Oxford who wanted everyone to know how many zeros graced their bank accounts. “I was expecting someone… older.”

Jon heard the tape recorder in his backpack click on. He could tell Basira and Martin heard it too by the way they stiffened. Something was going to happen here and the Eye wanted to watch.

“We are just passing through,” Jon said. He knew what she wanted now, and he cursed himself for not figuring it out sooner. He should have known an Avatar obsessed with her self importance would take offense to anyone she deemed ‘competition.’ “I’m not here to intrude on your ‘production’ here.”

“Then why walk in like you own the place? She said. “And what’s with the extra luggage?”

“Luggage?” Martin scoffed. “That’s the best you could do, really?”

She ignored him. “I’m just saying, walking in without an introduction is rude. I mean, don’t you know who I am ? You know who everyone is.”

“I know who you are,” Jon said. “And I swear we are just walking through.”

“And if I don’t let you through?” The Avatar took a step closer. Basira pulled out her gun, aiming straight ahead.

“Don’t move.”

The Avatar didn’t look phased. She tilted her head to the side, curious. “Or what you’re going to put my down like your Partner?”

Static grew in Jon’s ears. He turned to Basira. “She’s baiting you.”

“I know that,” Basira snapped, through gritted teeth. The Avatar didn’t move, staring at them with bright green eyes. It wasn’t the same effect as being stared at by Magnus but it was similar, an itch under the skin of being terribly seen.

“Does he know that you thought about shooting him instead for a second?” The Avatar said. “You thought he could be lying, about not being able to bring her back. Maybe killing him would have fixed this. But you picked his word in the end. Sided with the other monster—”

“If you think you can pick me apart, you thought wrong,” Basira’s aim was steady, but Jon could tell she was tense by the grit to her jaw. “I’ve already lost everything. There’s nothing left for you to put on your screen.”

“Jon, I know we’re trying to move away from Kill Bill but we might have to this time,” Martin whispered, his hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon nodded watching as the Avatar took another step towards them.

“I know.”

A shot rang out as the Avatar took another step in their direction. Jon watched as it passed through the Avatar, the image of the creature only glitching from the attack. Basira shot again and the second bullet was just as ineffective as the first.

“Shit,” Basira said, jumping back. Looking down, Jon saw the cords that lined the hallways twist up and reach for Basira’s ankles, wrapping around one with a tight grip. She yanked her foot loose with another pull but he could see the other wires begin to writhe beneath them like maggots feasting upon a corpse. Some of the cords plugged into monitors disconnected from their respective screens and rose up coiled like snakes. Electric sparks spit from the plugs, more dangerous than any venom.

Jon watched the Avatar take another step, the gaze in her eyes one he’d seen in Elias’ and on his own when he passed reflective surfaces. She was hungry.

Martin and Basira would look like the perfect meal for the Eye.

Jon straightened his shoulder, grabbing his tape recorder which was still recording, focused on the static in his ears and the endless gaze of the eyes above that were watching, always watching. He stared at her, drinking in all the information he could, about where she came from, what she feared, what she had done. The tape recorded whined. “ Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon —”

The Avatar paused mid step. Jon could see some strain to her face as the Eye looked down at her. But unlike the other Avatar’s he’d done this too, the strain looked like an annoyance rather than imbolizing. It didn’t make any sense: she wasn’t stronger than the others he’d faced so far. Then how—

Then he Knew. This Avatar was of the Eye, Jon destroyed the rest by using the power of the Eye against them but in this space that power was hers as well. How could you destroy someone with the power of Knowing when they were already known?

“Jon? What’s wrong?” Martin asked. The Avatar’s smile grew wide, all teeth as she stared at Basira. Basira who was not entirely steady with how her hands shook.

“Run,” Jon said, grabbing both of their hands and taking down a hallway at the same moment the Avatar ran at them at full speed.

It was a short chase. The many cables made navigation difficult when walking, let alone running. As the Avatar passed a monitor, she stuck her hand in it, pulling out a large piece of glass with a very sharp end. Perfect, Jon thought, for gouging out his eyes.

“See that guy: I heard even his mother didn’t like him. I mean, how shitty of a person to you have to be for that to happen? You know there has to be a reason behind it, right?” The Avatar’s voice was different then earlier, an airy sort of tone to her voice was layered with false concern.The monitors chimed in unison, showing a picture of a woman who had Martin’s eyes but none of the warmth of his expression. Comments with wild speculation ( he’s a liar, no he’s a fraud did you see his CV, no it’s because he’s petty about the smallest things it’s so annoying, or maybe he’s just stupid he never even finished university, I can’t believe he put his own mother in a home and barely visited how heartless-)  popped up beneath it, blocking the image except for the woman’s empty eyes.  “I could never do something like that to my Mom.”

Chirping noises of notifications and comments rang from the monitors covering the walls, high and shrill as more responses rang in. The noise consumed the hallway, painful in volume and pitch. Jon looked to Martin who was keeping his gaze away from the screens and focusing on the floor.

“And her-” The Avatar continued. “I feel so bad for people who have to work with her, it has to be so hard. I mean, she just strikes me as so self righteous. Look at me, I’m the law, I know best for the whole world. I mean, maybe she’s just trying to help, but like, she’s also such a hypocrite, you feel me? I mean, did you see what she said back there? If that’s how she greets her allies, I’d hate to be her enemy.”

The monitors changed again to that of Basira, pointing her gun at Jon in the forest as another loud shriek of chimes came from the monitors. Another round of comments appeared (she was just in it for the power anyone can see that, no loyalty whatsoever too did you hear what happened to her partner, I bet she’ll find someone new to blame next time she always does nothing can ever be her fault) . Basira turned around and fired another shot, this one going through the Avatar and hitting one of the monitors behind her.

“Keep running, a left and a right and we’ll hit the exit-” Jon said. He lagged behind the other two; his running abilities still the worst of the three. All seeing Eye powers did not provide sudden physical fitness. That wouldn’t matter once they were out. Outside her domain, she wouldn’t have the advantage. They were so close.

"Hello Jon.”

That voice from the monitors, in just the right intonation and tone that Jon heard from his own mouth on the worst day of his life, caused him to misstep. He tripped over a bundle of cords, falling down with a loud thunk. They wrapped around his legs as he fell, securing him to the floor.

“Jon!” He heard Martin shout from ahead of him. He began to struggle to his feat but before he could, the other Avatar was upon him, the glass shard held high right above his face.

“What makes you the king of this new world?” the Avatar growled, her image flickering like that of a hologram, each pixel looking to be made up of a different colored eye. The concerned tone she had from earlier was gone, envy dripping from every syllable. “You don’t even want the power. It’s wasted on you!” She stabbed down and Jon barely dodged the attack by craning his neck to the left. A cord came up from the ground and wrapped around Jons’ neck, not tight enough to choke him but tight enough to hold him still.

“You weren’t qualified for the job you had, you never were and now we’re supposed to lay our hands off because you were the key to the door? That’s all you are: a shitty old key. A piece of metal! He made you that way, made sure every scar and mark was another notch in your useless body to force open a door.  Why do you get to be in charge when all you do is open people up to their own nightmares?”

The fog consumed the hallway before she could finish her sentence. A small wave rushed in across the tiled floor under Jon’s hands, replacing the endless path of wires and cords. The taste of sea salt coated his tongue, and when he waved his hand in front of him, the Avatar was gone. All that remained was mist and empty space.

Jon’s stomach dropped and the chill that entered his body wasn’t just from the cold. He stumbled to his feet and looked around. All he could see was Basira, running towards him in a full sprint.

“Jon, are you hurt?” She reached out as if to inspect his neck but he turned away. Now wasn’t the time.

“Basira, have you seen Martin?”

She shook her head. “No. Last I saw he was running at you. What happened?”

“I think Martin did.”

Basira frowned. “He’s still tied to it.”

“He always will be. That’s how it works: the trauma doesn’t just leave you. It just gets quieter.”

“This isn’t quiet, Jon.”

“No, it’s not. Can you see enough to not get lost here?”

She nodded. Jon turned to head into the fog.

“I’m going to find Martin.”

He didn’t stay long enough to hear her reply.

______________________________________________________________________

It took around five minutes of searching to find another figure in the Lonely. He could see them just barely at first, a lone person curled up on their side in the endless mists, but as he gets closer he can make out a better shape.

The figure in the shallows isn’t Martin. It’s the eye Avatar. Her makeup is gone, washed off her face from the waves and she sits curled into a ball expression blank. Around her the fog curls up into figures of people Jon has never met, staring down at her with a blank expression. With each roll of the tide she fades more and more.

“This is my apology video,” the Avatar said, voice so soft it was barely audible. “I’m not actually sorry, no one is when they make these, but this is what people want me to be sorry for so I have to pretend to be. That’s all my life is, pretending. It’s probably the thing I’m best at.”

Jon tried to take a step away but he found himself frozen. This statement was different from her first one and the Eye wanted to drink it in.

“I don’t know who my real father is: Mom always told me it was a famous celebrity or something but I’m pretty sure that’s a lie. She’s the one who taught me how to lie; she was the best at it. Before she married my Step-Dad, she talked so much about how she always wanted to be a step-mother and how happy she was that I’d have a sister. I knew she was lying; she never wanted me, and she didn’t want Odessa. But she wanted my Step-Dad and that’s what mattered—”

Jon watched as she continued to speak, the fog around her shifting and forming into rooms and people she once knew. He listened as she talked about how lonely she was in the big house they moved into, how her stepsister helped but never replaced that void of parental attention she craved. She talked about how when she was ten she realized confessing to her mother how Odessa broke a treasured vase made her mother shower her in praise for being a good for, how joyed her mother was to tell her stepfather how much his daughter was a liar. Her voice began to echo as she recalled how she began to tell her stepmother every secret Odessa trusted her with for those scraps of praise, how it made her feel terrible but not as much as it made her feel adored. How when her stepsister found out and stopped talking to her, she was forced to read her diary for scraps of intel.

“Mom convinced my step-dad to send her to a boarding school for troubled kids when we were fifteen.” the woman who was once Irene Hatchette said as her story wound to a close. “And then I had no secrets left to steal. So I watched the housekeepers and my classmates and my teachers and then my competition because nothing was worse than being ignored. And now everyone can see me on their screen except they don’t see me at all, not really. That’s fitting I guess. I can see everything but no one can see me. Isn’t that funny, guys? I think it’s funny.”

Another wave washed over the ground and the Avatar vanished leaving nothing but an imprint of her silhouette in the sand behind her. That would soon be gone with every wave that passes. No record that she ever existed would remain.

“God,” Jon said. Statements of Avatars always got to him. They were always the strangest mix of evil and pathetic.

It scared him to think that his would likely be the same.

He didn’t have time to dwell on that thought. Instead he looked around, really looked, and Martin was there, only a few meters away looking down at the space the Eye Avatar once occupied with a blank expression. The fog swirled around his feet like a cat, cozy and content, not feeding at him but waiting at his beck and call. It made Jon’s stomach turn.

“Martin.”

Martin looked up. His eyes were a glassy white blue, the color of sea foam. Jon was beginning to hate that color. “Jon.”

Jon walked towards him stopping right in front of Martin. He reached out for him on reflex and then pulled his hands back as one passed through Martin’s side. “Time to stop this. She’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?” Martin’s voice had an edge to it that told Jon that he knew exactly what Jon was talking about. Like he was making a wry joke. Martin had always been petty and snarky but in the Lonely those twisted again in the mists to make him cruel.

“... fair enough. But time to let the Lonely go. This isn’t—”

Jon cut off. This isn’t you, that was what he wanted to say. But that wasn’t quite true. Martin had such an affinity to the Lonely because it was a part of him, just like Jon’s thirst for knowledge had always made him a part of the Eye. Martin would always find himself feeling alone in a crowd, Martin would always have a bitter edge that came with years of cold air for comfort. To deny that would be wrong.

But Martin’s loneliness had also encouraged his depth of empathy, his unwavering compassion and his helping nature. It was the reason he reached out to others who looked lost, and the reason he brought a fresh cup of tea to his grumpy boss each morning because he always seemed so isolated. Martin would always be tied to the Lonely, yes, but it didn’t have to be who he was.

Jon reached up a hand to cup Martin’s face. He was cold to the touch, eyes the same pale empty blue that reminded Jon far too much of Peter.

“This isn’t who you have to be,” Jon said, swiping his thumb across Martin’s cheek. Then, stronger. “This isn’t who you want to be.”

For a moment, nothing changed. The fog lingered, swirling at their waists and there was no sound but the rush of an empty ocean and a ticking clock. Then Martin closed his eyes and the fog receded, blown away by a gust of wind. The ocean smell faded, the sound of the ticking clock was replaced by the hum of multiple monitors.

When Martin opened his eyes in the monitor filled hallway, they were brown once more.

______________________________________________________________________

They fled the domain quickly after that, spending little time after finding Basira to  escape. When they made it outside, they all stopped to catch their breath, a wheeze coming from Jon who was still no good at running.

“Are you alright, Basira?” Jon said between gasping breaths.

“I’m fine. What the fuck was that?“ Basira gestured to Martin. Fog still clung to his ankles and he exhaled more every breath. While now solid, the edges of him blurred like a mirage. He was glaring at Basira, that cold edge to him still apparent in his expression.

“Me, saving our skins.”

“By summoning the Lonely?”

“It was the best idea I had. She was hurting Jon! Not that you’d care about that.”

“That’s not—” Basira cut off shaking her head. “Since when could you do that anyway?”

“Basira—” Jon started but was soon cut off by Martin.

“I don’t know, I’d never tried it before!”

“Martin—” Jon didn’t get to say anything more than that before Basira responded.

“Do you even know how it works? What if it just consumed you instead? Or Jon?”

All hopes Jon had for this conversation ending civilly died with that question.

“I would never hurt Jon. Not like you planned to. We all heard what it said back there.” Martin almost growled. When he spoke next, his voice echoed. “Why are you looking at me like that, Basira? Thinking you put down the wrong monster again?”

“Enough!” Jon’s shout was enough for Basira and Martin to both take a large step backwards. “Martin that was uncalled for—” Jon kept talking as Martin began to argue. “And Basira, I’d appreciate it if your first reaction to Martin saving our lives wasn’t outright suspicion. We’re all tense with what happened. We need to cool off.”

Basira turned away first, walking towards the street where some burned out cars were. Martin watched as she went and ran his hand down his face.

“Shit,” he said, the echo in his voice still present but not quite as obvious. “You should probably go talk to her. I’ll go sit over there and check our supplies.”

Jon grabbed his wrist as he began to walk away. Thankfully despite the blurring edges to Martin’s form, he was still solid enough to touch. “Do you need me to come with you?”

Martin shook his head. “No. I just need a bit of time to… think.” His eyes were still brown, and Jon felt his pressing concern fade. “I’ll keep in sight just in case. Deal with Basira first. I don’t want her splitting off again: it’s too dangerous. Even if I’m pissed with her.”

“Okay,” Jon said before pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek, just to feel the cold skin warm a degree. He was worried, but he also trusted him. With that, he let go of Martin’s wrist and walked over towards Basira who was glaring at what was once a car.

“What Martin said  was uncalled for.”

Basira nodded. “It was.” She brushed some dirt off her pants before turning to look at Jon. “But I get why he’s pissed. Given what she said back there.”

Right, that. Jon hadn’t forgotten what the Avatar said about Basira’s opinion on him. “So it’s true then?”

“Don’t you know that already?”

“I told you I wasn’t looking,” Jon said, irritation bubbling over. He’d assumed as much, he wasn’t oblivious, but he’d never looked to know for sure. Having it confirmed wasn’t a surprise but hearing that Basira assumed he was looking stung more than he cared to admit. He couldn’t do this right now, he thought, and turned on his heel to go after Martin.

“Wait, no, Jon—shit this is not how I wanted this to go.“

Jon stopped at the tone in her voice: still stern but not hostile. Instead he waited, still staring back at the empty building where they came from. Did Basira look at him and just see a monster just like the Avatar they had escaped from? A man obsessed with information that he could wield like a knife and rip people open?

Did Basira see him and just see another Elias?

“You don’t talk about yourself much,” Basira said.

“Neither do you.”

“No, I don’t.” Basira was quiet for a moment before she spoke again. “What that woman said—about you being a key to a door—true?”

Jon clenched his bad hand, thumb brushing over the burn scar there. A key notch, that was what the Avatar compared it to. He hated how right the comparison felt. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried,” Jon snapped, curt. “You didn’t listen.”

He was surprised by how angry he sounded. He thought he was used to this by now, resigned to not being listened to. Basira wasn’t the only one who did it: she was just another person in a long line who decided Jon was better worth blaming than hearing out. And to be fair, she had plenty of reason to, after some of the things he did. She had more reason than most.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

“I’m listening now,” Basira said, her voice sure and steady. Jon took a deep breath through his nose, burying down the anger under layers of guilt that left it at bay. He turned to look at her. She hadn’t moved any closer or farther away. Her hands were at her sides, open palms facing her knees.

“And why is that?” Jon’s voice was quiet. Basira was silent for a few moments and when she spoke next, it was with a hesitance Jon rarely heard from her.

“You said with… Daisy… it was the first time Jon heard her say Daisy’s name since everything happened. A pang of grief and hurt washed through him as he remembered two versions of the same woman: the one who held a knife to his throat with hungry eyes and the one who sat with him in his old office and taught him exercises to stop the phantom pain in his bad hand.

He missed the friend he had and he feared the monster who hunted him. Neither canceled out the other.

“You said that I couldn’t hunt a monster I refused to see.” Basira said, drawing him out of the memory. “I think the same might apply in reverse.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t find a human when I’m determined to see a monster. So I’m listening. If you want to give it a try.”

She looked sincere. Part of Jon was afraid this would go like it always did, that he would finish this story to be told he only had himself to blame. Yet, the opportunity of a different ending is enough of a temptation to give it a try. So he does.

He explained Elias’ plan and how he fit into it, the ways he was kept in the dark, the marks he needed to have the perfect notches for the door Elias wanted to open. When she asked about the marks he goes over each, some quicker than the others, sparing the least amount of time for the boy and the book. It wasn’t like a statement, he didn't linger in the emotion of it, but it bleed through in his tone when he wasn’t careful. The whole explanation couldn’t have taken more than 15 minutes but it felt like hours.

When he finished his story, Basira spoke first.

“So you were 8 then? When it started?”

Jon’s voice was not steady when he answered.“If you consider the first mark the start then yes.” For a second he could feel the smooth paper of the book under his hands, and the gasp of breath as he ran away from the house that would haunt his memories well into adulthood. All of his past traumas are like that now, as an archive he feels each memory as vividly as it first occurred, but the Web remains the worst one to revisit.

“Daisy was 11,” Basira said.

“What?”

“She didn’t talk about it much,” Basira continued. “I don’t know the details, just that she was young.”

Jon instantly Knew without trying. He saw the creature on the top of the stairs, he felt the fence dig into his back and leave a scar there that will become Daisy’s nickname, he tasted the fear she felt seeing every new report of Calvin’s escalating violence. All the trauma flooded his head in a matter of seconds.

“Oh,” Jon said, when it was over. “I didn’t know.”

“She didn’t like to talk about it,” Basira shrugged. “I assume she didn’t know about you and the Web either.”

“No. I—”Jon’s mouth felt oddly dry. “I...I hadn’t told anyone until a few months ago. Unless you count the tapes.”

Jon didn’t count the tapes. They listened but they never responded, an impassive audience. Not like Martin who upon finding Jon frozen in front of a spider web outside their cabin, pulled him gently inside, made him a cup of tea just warm enough to drink without burning him and said “It’s not your fault what happened. I promise, it’s not your fault.”

“I don’t hate you, Jonathan Sims,” Barisa said. Jon turned his gaze down to his shoes. The blood on his pant leg from Daisy’s attack makes his stomach twist.

“You should.” He thought about the Avatar back in the building, how she’d peeled open his biggest regrets and laid them out for display. How pathetic he was, to have ruined everything so badly.

Basira took a step closer, still far enough away to give Jon space but close enough that Jon could see the mud and tar caking her shoes.

“I think I’m the one who gets to decide that,.” she said. “I am angry; Ithink I might always be. You dragged me into your mess and you’ve hurt innocent people. That doesn’t just go away.” She took another step forward, close enough to reach out if she wanted. “But it doesn’t make you a monster either.”

“What does it make me then?”

“What I wish Daisy got a chance to be; someone who decided to make a different choice before it was too late.”

“Who says it isn’t too late for me?” Jon looked up at Basira. She raised her hand up over Jon’s shoulder but didn’t touch, waiting for a sign the gesture was welcome. Jon gave a slight nod, and she held his shoulder gently and gave it a light squeeze.

“It might be. But I’d like to think you’re the one who gets to decide that.” She removed her grip from Jon’s shoulder and took a step back, giving him space once more. “You should probably talk to Martin: I doubt either of us is feeling friendly right now.”

“I’m sorry for what he said,” Jon said.

“You still apologize too much,” Basira said and a small hint of a smile passed her face. “I’m going to do a weapons check. I’ll join you after.”

Jon watched as she got down on her knees and began to open her pack. In another life, he thought, they could have been friends, joined by their mutual love of books and mysteries. He didn’t think that was a possibility now, after everything that happened. This world was not conducive for new friendships.

After this conversation, however, maybe they might find something close to it. Not quite friendship, but understanding at least.

With that thought in mind, Jon went to follow Martin.

______________________________________________________________________

He found Martin sitting on the ground next to a half-rusted bike and a few empty plastic bottles. He looked less faint around the edges, more solid than when they left, but when Jon got closer he could feel the chill that still wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Martin,” Jon said, sitting down next to him. Martin’s gaze was fixed on his shoes but when he spoke there was no echo to his voice. That was good.

“Jon. How’s Basira?”

“Pissed at you but otherwise better than expected. We had a talk.”

The chill intensified, just a fraction. Jon Restrained the urge to shiver. “What kind of talk?”

“The good kind. I think we’ve reached an understanding, if that makes any sense.”

Martin nodded and the chill went back to how it was when Jon first arrived: enough to be noticed but not enough to demand a jacket. They were silent for a while, Jon making sure he was close enough that their arms were touching. Just enough to provide a weight of presence.

“I’m sorry. About Kill Bill.”

“What?”

Martin still didn’t look at him, twisting his fingers together. He did that when he was nervous, one of the gestures Jon could now read without any supernatural knowhow. Normally he would reach out and with slow movements, drag one of those hands free for a kiss. Martin looked too upset for Jon to try it now.

“For trying to encourage you to go all avenging angel. Back when we first left the cabin and all. I’m sorry.”

Jon was rarely shocked by anything these days, but this threw him off guard. He thought they covered this a long time ago. “Martin you don’t—”

“No, no, I—” Martin breathed in deep and Jon was elated that he couldn’t see the other man’s breath. Back when Martin first escaped the Lonely, a winter fog followed every inhale for at least a few days. It made it hard for Jon to take his eyes off him, so scared he was that he might disappear.  “Back then, I thought it would be good to get rid of them—”

“I know—”

“Let me finish.” Martin untangled his fingers to hold up his pointer finger. Jon stopped speaking at the gesture. “I thought it was good to get rid of them, that we could maybe help people or something.” His shoulders slumped, and Jon could read shame in the slant to them. “But I also thought it would feel good, for the both of us. To not be chased around for once by things we can’t stop, to finally turn the tables on the things giving us nightmares for years. Let them know what it’s like. And when I wasn’t the one doing it, it kind of was. Not entirely, but just enough to feel right.” He kicked one of the empty plastic water bottles forward. “But back there… When I did it myself, I just felt—”

He finally looked up at Jon and Jon’s heart twisted to see the stricken expression on his face. “I just felt terrible Jon. That woman was objectively evil: she used people’s darkest secrets against them for clicks on the internet and her own amusement. The fact that her childhood was shitty doesn’t change that. But when I was there making her feel just as lonely and isolated as she deserved to be, all I could think about was how I sounded exactly like… exactly like… him.”

Jon didn’t have to ask who Martin was talking about. Instead he reached forward and placed his hand in Martin’s squeezing tight. A reminder that Jon was there, that Jon was listening, that Martin was not alone, not anymore.

Martin kept talking, squeezing Jon’s hand back, “I’m not saying we’re the same: Peter threw people in the Lonely for tribute and I only did it to save you. Our reasoning was entirely different even if the end result was the same. I’m not Peter Lukas because of that.” He said that with more confidence, the tremor from earlier gone. “But I think doing that, while it doesn’t make me more like him, it doesn’t make me better either. It makes me—”

“Feel worse?’

Martin leaned against Jon, resting his head on Jon’s shoulder. It was awkward with how much taller Martin was, but not unpleasant. “Yeah. So I’m sorry, for not getting it.”

Jon thought back to the power he had with Jude and with Jared. How the rush of finally being in control would fade to a rush of shame. “It’s hard to understand.”

“That doesn’t mean I couldn’t have tried sooner.”

“You’re not like Peter, you know,” Jon said. “Not even close. Not now, not then.”

“Thank you.”

They sat there for a few moments, quiet in each other’s company. Martin still ran cold, but he warmed up with the contact. Jon listened to his heartbeat, the reminder the Martin was still alive, that he still had a heart, that he hadn’t lost him to death or the Lonely’s endless waves. Jon was not a lucky man but for as long as he lived, he would be thankful he had just enough luck to have this, even if  just for a little while.

“So you’re not going to cast Elias into the Lonely then?” Jon asked after a period of quiet. Martin shrugged, the gesture causing his hair to brush against Jon’s chin.

“I don’t even know if it would work; I think he’s too self absorbed to be lonely properly.. If your thing doesn’t work and I have no other choice I’ll give it a go, but otherwise I’m thinking the traditional route might be best.”

“Oh?”

“I have two hands and the institute probably has some loose pipes in it still. I was thinking I could take a page from his book.”

Jon snorted. His worries about his powers not working on Elias faded to the back of his mind, a matter of concern he could examine later. There would be time to think about the implications of what happened with the Eye Avatar. For now, some banter would suffice.

“How’s your swing?”

“Not bad but I’ll make sure to practice on the way there. I can see how I do against some stop signs.”

“The domain of traffic laws won’t see you coming.”

They both laughed, quiet but strong. When Basira came over to join them, Martin stiffened but with a look from Jon he kept his mouth shut. Knowing the pair of them, Jon thought, they would respectively apologize to the other soon enough. All it would take was some time.

He wasn’t sure how much time they had left, with Elias waiting for them at the end of it. The Eye could only tell him so much and it had no intention to tell him how this would all end. If the world could be saved, if they could survive this ordeal would remain unknown until it happened, leaving Jon to marinate in the fear of what could be.

For now, Jon was content to stay in the dark, the man he loved humming an old song with his head on his shoulder and Basira quietly watching them with something that was close to fondness. The man who understood him best and the woman who was making an effort to try. It wasn’t the worst moment to be in, at the end of the world.

It was something almost like peace.

#tma #tma fic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #basira hussain #sometimes you forgot to make the tumblr version it happens my dudes #welcome to the plot is just a train for character development and we're gonna ride it #tma 179

[hannah-deserved-better]

The Deep Woods

(Credit to unknown artist on Google for the Drizzt picture)

Summary: Sam, Dean, and their friends are out enjoying the great outdoors. But, as usual for the hunters, their plans for relaxation are foiled when they team up with a group of campers whose numbers are dwindling as something is hunting them in the woods. Together, they must all try to survive a creature, and eventually, they find themselves at an abandoned cabin and forced to survive there as it seems like the laws of reality in this part of the forest aren’t all they seem and creatures who belong to another world seem to be finding their way in.

This is the first chapter of a fic that is a stand-alone ‘lost in the woods’ Supernatural fic which I am turning into a multi-fandom fic. The other fandoms are The Hobbit, Legends of Drizzt, Rurouni Kenshin.

Warnings: blood and gore, graphic violence, horror, survival in the woods, haunted mansion, Jealous Dean

Tropes: Survival in the woods, haunted cabin, enemies to friends to lovers, strangers to lovers, friends lovers

Pairings: Castiel/Hannah/Meg/Sam, Dean/Rowena, Fili/OC, Kili/OC, Kenshin/Kaoru, Sanosuke/Megumi, Drizzt/Ellifain

OCs: Asphodel and Brenna are OCs that I’ve always used back when I wrote for the Hobbit fandom. They are actually original characters from my novel series that I adapted into the Hobbit Verse. I tend to change their backgrounds from story to story but in general, Asphodel is a hobbit, her face claim is Eleanor Tomlinson, and Brenna is a Gnome. The Gnome culture is also an adaption from my novel, they are female dominated people who live in the polar regions and make a living off of whaling, deep-sea fishing, and caribou hunting.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25363057/chapters/61497556

“Who the hell talked me into this!” Dean exclaimed as they hiked through the trail. They were surrounded all around by thick forests, and the smell of pine hung in the air, as did the heat of an August day. 

“It’s good for you, Dean,” Sam called as he led the group of backpack clad hikers. Dean frowned. He was usually the one in charge of things, and he didn’t appreciate his little brother usurping his authority. 

“Not quite the outdoorsy type, are we?” Rowena teased as she trotted alongside the two Winchesters, easily keeping up with the both of them. 

“Look, do you know how many things live in forests?” Dean reminded her. “We’ve hunted lots of them. And whose bright idea was it to go backcountry camping? I mean seriously? We could have at least stayed at a regular campsite. You know, with toilets and food.”

“We brought enough food to last the trip,” Sam reminded his brother as he trekked along, his large backpack secured to his back, and a hiking stick in one hand. “And we have a witch, a demon, and two angels with us and not to mention two seasoned hunters. What could possibly go wrong out here?”

“Damn it, Sammy, you never say ‘what could possibly go wrong’ haven’t you seen pretty much every horror movie in existence?” Dean knew he was being a little overdramatic, but he also knew he had a point. From Wendigos to werewolves, to a plethora of various monsters, they didn’t have a very good track record when it came to being outdoors.

And Dean didn’t miss the way Sam mentioned the other members of their entourage. He groaned internally as he glanced behind him to Castiel trailing behind them, Meg and Hannah on either side of him, chatting softly to one another. 

“Keep up the pace, Fabio!” Dean demanded hotly at them. Castiel glanced up and scowled in response as the three of them started walking a little faster. He doubted Castiel understood the Fabio reference, but ever since Meg and Hannah had returned from the empty, the three of them had been inseparable, and Dean found it just plain annoying.

“Dean, leave Cas alone,” Sam insisted as Dean faced forward again as he walked. “You’ve been acting like a jealous prom date.”

“Am not,” Dean insisted, though his somewhat childish response was a feigned attempt to hide the fact that Sam’s accusation held more than a little truth to it. Dean was jealous. And he’d never admit it to anyone, including himself. Instead, he kept telling himself that Hannah and Meg were up to no good, that just because they’d randomly returned from the dead, shouldn’t mean anything.

Or maybe it was because they’d had Cas to themselves for so very long that Hannah and Meg were unwanted invaders. They’d been living in his bunker with his angel as if Castiel and Sam were both his possessions. It was just supposed to be the three of them. Forever.

“Alright, I think we should-” just as Sam prepared to announce instructions which Dean had hoped would signal a reprieve from this death march they’d been on, a high pitched shriek cut through the sky, causing Dean to nearly jump out of his skin with alarm as he immediately whirled towards the sound, hand instinctively falling to the holster of the gun fastened at his hip. 

“Help, help!” came a frantic voice as a woman suddenly burst from the trees, standing in their path. 

“What is it?” Sam asked as they all stopped and gathered in close. Dean rolled his eyes when he felt Castiel’s presence beside him. 

“My husband, he’s missing! Please!” the frantic woman begged, trembling in fear as she glanced back the way she had come, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze.

“Slow down, dearie,” Rowena said comfortingly, putting a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Now, what are you doing in the woods all by yourself? Don’t you know there are bears?”

“And who knows what else,” Dean muttered to himself. He met Castiel’s gaze, and the angel shot him a scolding scowl. 

“I’m not alone,” the woman stammered. “I’m camping nearby with a bunch of friends. But when I noticed Herb was missing. Oh god, do you think a bear got him?”

“Show us where you’re camping, and maybe we can try and trace your steps,” Sam said calmly. Dean knew Sam was always the type to try to diffuse the tension. Ever an air of calmness. The two of them were quite used to these types of situations, after all. 

The woman took in a deep breath and hesitantly started back for the trees. Sam and Dean slowly fell in line behind her as she led them through the thick, dense forest of towering conifer trees. 

“We were backcountry camping,” the woman began softly. “We go every year. This year, it’s a group of us: me, my husband, our neighbors, and all the kids. Maggie, my youngest, just turned 16, so we all came out here to celebrate. It’s nice to get away from civilization sometimes, you know? Especially with teenagers. We specifically picked a place like this because there are no cell phone towers.”

Dean caught on that the woman was rambling, probably to distract herself from her fears as she kept walking. But he did feel some sympathy for the woman. He was already mentally listing the monsters that could be lurking in the forest. A bear certainly wasn’t on his list; after all, it was never something natural in their line of work.

“So when did you notice your husband was missing?” Dean asked as he walked along, stepping on twigs as the sunlight got dim the further from the path they went. The creepy, foreboding feeling was beginning to settle into Dean’s mind, and he mentally noted that his shotgun was strapped to his backpack, within easy reach, just in case his trusty pistol wasn’t going to cut it. Not to mention, he was always armed with an angel blade, the demon blade, and a whole array of knives, daggers, and other weapons. 

“This morning,” the woman responded. “He must have gotten up sometime in the night to go to the bathroom. His rifle is still here, and he’s been gone all day.”

“Did you mention your name yet, dearie?” Rowena asked as she made it a point to walk beside the woman. 

“Oh, it’s Leslie,” the woman murmured softly. She appeared to be in her forties or fifties, perhaps, dressed in a pair of shorts and a simple cotton shirt. “Oh, we’re right here.”

The trees parted to reveal a small clearing. In the center was a cluster of tents. Dean counted about a dozen figures as they all glanced in their direction. 

“We found some fellow hikers,” Leslie announces as she rejoined the rest of her party who all stood up to face the newcomers. “They haven’t seen Herb at all.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll try to find him,” Sam announced to all of them. Leslie went through and introduced them. So in addition to Leslie and Herb, they had a daughter named Maggie, a son named Evan. Then there were Tom and Shelly with their son Brayden and son Jess, and lastly, where Kate and Randy with their daughter Stephanie, and daughter Kylie. 

They all reminded Dean of typical suburbanites with their brand name camping equipment, trendy outfits, not all of which seemed particularly appropriate for camping and their well-manicured hair. Dean was sure at least one of them drove a Kia sports utility vehicle. The youngest among them were the two 16-year-old teenagers; the other kids were all in their later teens or early twenties. Many of them donned various insignia of colleges they were attending.

It turns out they all attended the same church together, and the adults all worked in the same office. They all couldn’t be more cookie-cutter, apple pie normal if they tried. Definitely not the type that would likely believe that any of Dean’s usual suspects would be responsible for their husband’s disappearance.

Dean couldn’t help but note the irony of it all. Sam had all but assured them that they wouldn’t run into anything unnatural out here in the wilderness, and yet here they were.

#fan fiction #Supernatural #Castiel/Hannah/Meg/Sam #Dean/Rowena #rurouni kenshin #legends of drizzt #the hobbit

[mirrorfalls]

The Joker 80th Anniversary Super Spectacular (2020)

“So Lego,” said nobody ever. “Now that you’re got some decent free time and the spoons to write, what are you gonna do? Get some actual work done on that Detective Conan longfic you’ve been rattling about the last two years? Actually start your long-overdue cert paper, that thing you need to graduate?”

Oooof course not! Instead, let’s dive back into the wonderful world of Cape Comix, featuring Tumblr’s least-wanted villain! Will any of these ten little tales actually manage to find something new - or at least interesting - to say about Laughing Boy? Let’s find out.

“Scars” by Scott Snyder and Jock. A pretty typical Snyder gonzo-horror jaunt, complete with “haha, the Joker really is the godmode manipulator/killer you’ve been denying he was all story! Sucks to be you!” ending. It’s stories like these that make me wonder why the hell Bruce’s rogues gallery even needs Scarecrow anymore, even in concept.

“What Comes at the End of a Joke” by James Tynion IV and Mikel Janin. Ahh, Christ, why didn’t I expect there’d be a Joker War tie-in somewhere in this... Well, there ya have it, the Secret Origin of Punchline. There’s a germ of an interesting idea here, likening the Joker’s “the hell with anything else, I just want to fuck over The Powers That Be” influence on Gotham’s youth to the Alt-Right’s influence in real life, but even then I reckon other writers have already done it better.

“Kill the Batman” by Gary Whitta, Greg Miller, and Dan Mora. The first creative team I had to look up - apparently, one of ‘em used to run IGN, and the other co-wrote Rogue One. This is also the first one built as a comedy, which I approve of in theory; in execution, though, the setup is a bit too mawkish for its own good (not to mention way too eager to quote-mine Chris Nolan) the last-page punchline is exactly the kind of dad humor our “hero” was complaining about halfway through the story. All in all, I’d still recommend “Going Sane” as a better take on the whole premise.

“Introducing the Dove Corps” by Denny O’Neil and Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez. Guys, whatever differences I’ve had with his work over the years, I really wanted to report that O’Neil went out on a high note. And I will say this one probably has the strongest premise in the whole book, with Joker trying to not only (gasp!) play hero but (horrors!) do it without bloodshed. O’Neil doesn’t quite cheat the premise, but the story is still bogged down with at least one unleapable logic hole (a Special Forces Team doesn’t know who the fucking Joker is?!), a bunch of pointless continuity-mining (See! The origin of TKJ’s tourist getup!), and a predictable-as-hell ending. Whatever faults the other stories may have, none of them end on a line as hacky as “Killing is so much fun.”

“The War Within” by Peter Tomasi and Simone Bianchi. Okay, first thing - it’s not “Batman/Badman” levels of faux-cleverness, but it’s not quite out of that ballpark. There’s no real plot outside the narration (except maybe to set up some future arc in Tomasi’s Detective), just Bianchi doing a Joker-through-the-ages showcase. Said showcase hits most of the obligatory choices - Golden Age, Silver Age, TKJ, TDK, TDKR - but I will say I was pleasantly surprised to see The Batman’s Joker getting a shout-out, dreads and all.

“The Last Smile” by Paul Dini and Riley Rossmo. Huh. Wasn’t expecting to see Dini do a riff on Joker: Devil’s Advocate of all things - and only slightly that it would average out as the best story in here. After his less-than-stellar writing on the Arkham games, it’s heartening to see Dini’s still got some of the old magic, with a genuinely insightful look into what might scare the Joker: the possibility that Batman can have his cake and eat it too, can get rid of his not-so-eternal dance partner without endangering his precious code, because sometimes, the law is good for something after all. Kudos, too, for a more creative use of Harley - and rapport with Ivy - than years and years of Harley-centric media have ever managed.

“Birthday Bugs” by Tom Taylor and Eduardo Risso. A strong competitor to the previous one - you can almost never go wrong with “the Joker tries to do something nice for an innocent” as a premise - with some choice lines that carry the theme smoothly without ever feeling like grandstanding. That said, Risso’s art is a lot more hit-and-miss than Rossmo’s - some panels are absolutely beautiful, but others - especially if Joker’s actually in them - just look hideously tryhard - and the gore in the last couple pages feels more cheap than disturbing.

“No Heroes” by Eduardo Medeiros and Rafael Albuquerque. See previous opening line. The themes discussed here (why be a hero for a soulless Capitalist engine?) are a little triter, not helped by the fact that the story’s not really long enough to let them breathe properly, but the art is on the whole a lot stronger; and in an age where artists are falling over themselves to out-demonic each others’ Jokers, I especially dig the choice to put him in a mask for most of the story, rooting his scariness in unmoving minimalism instead of hyperexaggerating every wrinkle and pore of his face,

“Penance” by Tony Daniel. Ah, yes. The perennial weak-link of the Reborn era and the inventor of that whole skinned-face idiocy back at the start of the New 52, Daniel’s turn here... threatens to be interesting a few times, but never manages to get all its ideas into anything coherent, much less good in execution. Shame, really - apart from “Birthday Bugs” it’s the only one to focus on “normal” crooks, a perennially underrated element in Joker romps.

“Two Fell Into The Hornet’s Nest” by Brian Azzarello & Lee Bermejo. This was the one I was least looking forward to... and it looks like ol’ Brian anticipated that, given the line (”Have you checked the credits on who’s writing this?”) he kicks off page two with. I suppose it, more than any of the other stories, cut to the heart of what the Joker’s stream-of-consciousness should look like - but that doesn’t really stop it from feeling like something Azzarello cranked out on a lunch break. Even random nonsense needs to be handled with care to not feel like waste of the reader’s time - and whatever else this one has going for it (I did smile a little the nurse taunting Joker about being as much an empty corporate symbol as Batman himself), care's not really on the menu. Stick with his Calvin & Hobbes parody from Superman/Batman #75.

So there ya have it - three (possibly four) stories I’d legitimately read again, surrounded by a sea of mediocrity and misfires (and some intermittently interesting pinups - JRJR’s Joker-as-007 piece hit my sweet-spot best). That’s honestly a better record than I would’ve expected for the J-Man in 2020 - better, by all accounts, than the 80th super-spectacular the Robins got.

Would it have been too much to ask the Lego Batman guys to contribute something, though?

#Joker #Lego has too much time

[spideypoolbigbang]

For ease of access we’ve compiled a list of all the teams and their creations in a google spreadsheet which can be found here. We’ve also placed those same links under the cut!  In addition to the masterlist, we also have a wonderful collection on AO3 of all the fics for this year. Please check it out when you can! Thank you again for this wonderful first year and we hope to see you all when sign ups open for SPBB 2019! A huge thanks to @jdragon122 for the banner!

Title: De Testis Absentia: On the Absence of a Witness

Author: @nimohtar  

Artist: @limeonik Rating: Teen and up Warnings: None

Final Word Count: 11,339

Summary: In Ancient Rome, Petrus Bennio Pacor lives under the generous patronage of Antonius Ennius Starca. When Antonius’ witness in a court hearing fails to appear, Antonius invokes a law to summon said witness - but sends Petrus to do the deed in his stead.

The witness? One Vado Vinstinian Vilsoni, a former soldier currently trying to eke out a living in the poorer area of the city as a debt-enforcer - and wholly uninterested in the rules and regulations of Rome.

Somehow, Petrus must persuade Vado to do his duty; Vado intends to avoid it as long as possible…especially if it means Petrus continues to come calling at his door.

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Title: Make Myself Believe

Author: @common-white-dude

Artist: @mere-mortifer

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No major warnings

Word Count: 20142

Summary: Omegas had always been trained in special institutions to be good mates for the Alpha that chooses them. Omegas are supposed to do whatever their Alpha says. No questioning, no second thoughts. No freedom.

For Peter Parker, life had always been horrible unpredictable and erratical, and he had thought that the only constant in his life will be being a servant for his mate.

However, even that won’t even be as Peter had thought. Not after he ends up with Wade Wilson, an Alpha that seems to like to behave on the exact opposite of what Peter had learned all his life.

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Title: A Study of Stairways

Author: sparkstarthetrashcan (@sparkstar-trash)

Artist: @ninja4646

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Major Character Death

Word Count: 14,696

Summary: Wade Wilson is a bad student. Poor grades, no attention span and not a soul to help him. Even if he tries to study he’s always distracted by his phone or a supernaturally attractive boy who showed up out of nowhere, whispering answers in his ear.

Peter, almost got into Harvard, Parker spends his time tutoring students. He’s smart enough and he’s got nothing else to do, so he might as well. But Wade’s different. He doesn’t seem to want Peter for his brain like everyone else, Wade cares about him.

Problem is, Peter isn’t normal. He’s a ghost.

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Title: TheRealDeadpool posted

Author: JessJesstheBest (saywhatjessie)

Artist: Sophie (temporary-teddycup)

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: No Major Warnings

Word Count: 6,133

Summary:

Carly Shep @Spider-butt Sooo… has anyone else noticed how cozy Spider-Man and the Merc with a Mouth seem to be lately? (14 retweets, 74 likes)

Or the Isn’t it Bromantic comic run from the perspective of in-universe social media.

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Title: Searching for the World

Author: @Salios

Artist: @Chez

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Violence, Blood and Gore

Word Count: 15k+

Summary: Fallout!Au

Peter is a mutant from a vault looking for help saving his uncle, who is interred in a failing cryo pod. He makes his way from his vault in Queens to Manhattan to Stark industries, the driving force behind Vault-Tec before the war. But being a mutant he know it’ll be a difficult trip. Ends up getting held up and Wade, being a nosy asshole, steps in. Offers his services and Peter accepts though he has no idea what kind of payment Wade is expecting

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Title: His Apartment, His Safehouse

Author(s): @flowery-musings

Artist: @x3nia

Rating: teen

Warnings: slight angst, talks of suicide and depression, deadpool-typical speech and violence

Word Count: 5297 words

Summary: In one universe, Peter considers the place his apartment. In another, Wade considers the place his safehouse. Confusion ensues when Peter, after a tiring class day, meets what appears to be the one and only Deadpool, standing in his apartment, who he knows to most certainly nothing more than a fictional character

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Title: I Need to Tell You Something

Author: Pineau_noir

Artist: AhumokIo

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No archive warnings apply

Word Count: 21k

Summary: Coming to screens worldwide this February.

When Peter Parker was 15 he was bitten by a spider on a school trip. The next day he woke up a little… changed. His whole world was turned upside down.

Both figuratively and literally.

As in, he was upside down, hanging off the bed, clinging to his now ruined bedposts. With his brand spankin-new tentacles.

Eight of them to be exact. Yes, apparently in Peter’s universe, the evil scientists at Oscorp spliced an octopus’ DNA with a spider. A spider who decided to snack on Peter.

To try and have what passes for normal, he moved in with the Avengers. But almost five years of living with the Hulk, Captain America, and Iron Man are definitely not the norm for most people. Add in a flirty leather-clad mercenary, who keeps trying to feed him, and he knows his life has veered severely off-course. He thought he knew how to handle the strange things in his life, but he never expected Deadpool.

Starring Peter Parker as Spider-Man and Wade Wilson as Deadpool, with music by Carly Rae Jepsen.

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Title: That Which Binds Us

Author(s): @343enderspark

Artist: @catsauceeartofficial

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: Temp Character Death, Comic Book Violence

Word Count: 9193

Summary: Normal people just feel emotions from their soulmate, which get stronger as they get closer. Hardly inconvenient.

But of course it’s not that simple for our dear boys. Wade’s good ole time in the Weapon X program turned those handy emotional feelings into a pretty little white box that likes to keep him and Yellow company. Poor Peter got the short end of the genetic lottery, being one of the rare humans that feel their soulmate’s pain instead of emotion.

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Title: Different Strokes

Author: @thatvixenchick

Artist: @amazing-spiderling

Rating: E

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Word Count: 8494

Summary: Peter’s just trying to live his life as a normal omega — as normal as an omega can be after being bitten by a radioactive spider. What he certainly did not need while out of costume and quickly falling into heat was to run into Deadpool. Alphas usually didn’t take kindly to what happened to Peter during his unique, super-powered heats. Turns out, Deadpool is the absolute opposite of upset about it.

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Title: Petey, we did it, we outran the Blob

Author: @joaas

Artist: @onthestraightandnarrowpath

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Word Count: 29, 731

Summary: Deadpool just wants to find and kill the guy who turned his face into the biological version of a Jackson Pollock painting. Is that too much to ask for? Apparently it is, because the Avengers just won’t let him be and get his revenge in peace. Also, Spidey keeps showing up and calling him Wade like they’re best buds now or something, what’s up with that?

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Title: And Words Are Futile Devices

Author(s): SordidDetailsFollowing

Artist: Nanakoblaze

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Word Count: 30k

Summary:

Peter doesn’t think he’s lonely. He’s too busy to be lonely. He’s twenty-two, working on his PhD and holding down a shitty job at the Daily Bugle, not to mention his nightly extra-curricular activities. He’s too busy for friends, and he’s certainly too busy for romantic interests. And yet, shockingly, apparently everyone in his life thinks he needs to stop being an anti-social recluse and get laid.

So Peter enters the wide, wonderful world of online dating. He doesn’t expect to find his soul mate, or even a friend, and he’s definitely not looking for hook ups. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, really, until one Wade W. Wilson catches his eye and captures his heart with risqué dog pics and a concerning obsession with cannibalistic serial killers.

This is a love story. A sweet, inevitable journey towards each other. There is humor, and melancholy, and a touch of both gravitas and levity to the weeks that trickle by. But really it’s just an account of the slow, magnetic movement of Peter towards Wade, and Wade towards Peter.

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Title: Spidey Spidey, Give Me Your **** (Love, Suckers. Love.) Anyway… I Got A Bad Case Of Loving You… (Or The One Where Peter is a Nurse But Not In a Kinky Way)

Author(s): Lilian

Artist: Lizardyne

Rating: E

Warnings: No archive warnings apply

Word Count: 5k+

Summary: Nurse Parker is sent to make sure one of the patients in his hospital is recovered enough to be discharged. He doesn’t expect to recognize the scarred man as Deadpool, his sort of friend/college/person he might have certain feelings for.

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Title: The Hearts in your Eyes

Author: BloodthirstyMerc

Artist: Cynspidey

Rating: E (explicit)

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Word Count: 72k+

Summary:

The day Peter meets Deadpool is the worst day of his life.

——

After trying so hard to forget his presumably long-lost heartmate, Peter finally gives into the feelings he’s acquired for Wade, the one person who’s unintentionally helped him mend his broken heart.

Miscommunications lead to Peter thinking that Wade had found his heartmate while they were together, resulting in him spiralling into a self-destructive depression.

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Title: The Firsts and the Last

Author: Violet_arabian

Artist: Moemai

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major Character Death

Word Count: 20k

Summary: Peter managed to survive the Vulture, get in good graces with Tony Stark, and finish the school year in a neat bow. Finally, his life as Spider-Man had begun. Sure, he still took care of petty theft and the occasional grand theft, but he had also been acknowledged. Which meant that there were more big-time baddies to fight and wounds to tend. Yet, for some reason, no one told him that villains or anti-heroes would be so infuriatingly persistent.

From the start of his senior year to the next three chapters of his life, Peter faces dark alleyways, high rooftops, close calls, and family time. All while dealing with Deadpool, unaware of the heavy and dark future looming above them.

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Title: What you need

Author: Neonbat

Artist: Chez

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: None apply

Word Count: 18,158

Summary: Peter Parker, for lack of a better description, is having a shit time. An incident at school leads him to rash decisions and when he finds himself in the middle of New York alone and at night, he knows he’s in trouble. A mysterious man rescues him in a tight spot and despite Wade being kind of terrifying in his own right, he turns out to be the friend Peter needs, and in the end, the one Wade needs as well.

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Title: we were never supposed to make it half this far

Author: scarlett_starlett

Artist: milkshake-sprinkels

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Underage, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking Word Count: 16k Summary: High school is rough. Uncle Ben is gone and being bullied has always been a problem for Peter Parker since he was little. But being best friend-adjacent to Midtown High School’s hunky quarterback star Wade Wilson is probably one of the few shining moments in his otherwise unlucky life—even if Wade is friends with Flash, his childhood tormentor, and distressingly straight (since, y'know, Peter has more-than-best-friend feelings for him. But that’s all part of that Parker Luck™)

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Title: Turning Tides

Author: @snarkysnartes

Artist: @amazing-spiderling

Rating: T

Warnings: A/B/O, Pining, Jealousy,

Word Count: 5k

Summary: Wade Wilson really didn’t believe in true mates until he met Peter Parker. Now, now he knows that they’re meant to be and he wants nothing more than to show Peter and his kingdom that love.

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Title: Feral

Author: MsCaptainWinchester

Artist: Nhrive

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Torture (off screen), Stalking (past), Sexism, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Full-Shift Wolf-On-Wolf Sex, Mpreg, Discussion of Potential Miscarriage

Word Count: 48k+

Summary: When Peter comes across a skinny, sickly feral wolf in the woods while he’s out hunting, it’s hard to remember that the wolf is a person, too. An alpha, and likely a dangerous one given his size. The wolf was Peter’s Snarly, his giant, scared wolf he takes care of, gives head scritches to, chilly river baths, and treats. So many treats.

What he doesn’t know, what he could never have guessed, is that his sweet Snarly is the most wanted alpha in the kingdom, Alpha Killer Wade Wilson. As the two of them begin their strange courting, will Peter be able to come to terms with Wade’s dark past? Or will that past come knocking on his door to remind him?

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Title: Don’t find no one but me

Author(s): @Garsloup

Artist: @Aredesification

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Word Count: 30K+

Summary:

Norman Osborn is an asshat. Peter knew that much, but he didn’t expect the man to jeopardize a viable research just because Peter is the best and  – in his opinion – the only viable option to be in charge of his own project. But the CEO seems to be out for blood, and if Peter wants to pursue his project he has to mate with an omega. This looks like a terrible idea, the worst to be honest. Until it doesn’t.

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Title: This Title Makes me Jurassic

Author(s): Milkshake-Sprinkels

Artist: Kirago           Banner by @jdragon122

Rating: Pg-13, Teen and Up

Warnings: No warnings Apply

Word Count: 6000

Summary: As the COO of Oscorp Industries, Peter Benjamin Parker is in charge of the biggest project yet, the Indominous Rex. When things start going array, Peter must call upon his old flame and renowned dinosaur handler, Wade Wilson. With Peter’s niece and nephew, and Wade’s Daughter, they must save the park from annihilation.

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Title: Through Dangers Untold and Hardships Unnumbered

Author(s): Born To Be Wilde

Artist: ginogollum

Rating: Teen audiences and up

Warnings: kidnapping, drinking, swearing, mild violence, weaponry, bugging, mild gore, vomit.

Word Count: 20-25k

Summary:

“Spiderman kidnapped a child?”

“I know right! Well technically he took her into super protective custody because there’s this drug lord trying to kill her to get to me so Spidey nabbed her from my apartment and hid her away and then he’s going to put her with a new family. It’s all very complicated and grey area and a bit like that David Bowie movie.”

Actually it’s exactly like that David Bowie movie. TDUAHU is the first instalment in a three book series, How Are You Enjoying My Labyrinth? All spideypool, all labyrinth. This first story has Wade having to traverse New York through problems and pitfalls all to bring Ellie home. But will Peter, who of course is sure he is doing the right thing, be able to keep Wade away for the full 13 hours? And will everyone be able to keep their feelings in check?

Will post later due to emergency. Please check back at a later date!

Title: Healing Invisible Scars Author(s): @hey-im-amber @enocca Artist: @amazing-spiderling Rating: Mature Warnings: implied rape, drugging. abuse and homelessness Word Count: 6k Summary: Wade is an omega who’s escaped his past alpha who has done everything he could to break him. Homeless, a kind stranger invites him home and tries to help the omega as well.as he can. But with Wade hiding his past, how long can good things stay good? Peter tries to help but he refuses to think this kindness comes without a price.

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Title: Picture This

Author(s): @RansomNoteworthy

Artist: @Thelastpinecone

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Temporary Character Death

Word Count: 13k

Summary: Spider-Man and Deadpool are just acquaintances and occasional colleagues. But when Spider-Man is photographed being rescued and carried by Deadpool, the resulting media coverage means very different things to Peter and Wade, when everyone assumes they’re in a relationship together. A fake-dating, acquaintances-to-friends-to-lovers story, with all the humor and angst SpideyPool can provide, as Peter deals with his growing feelings and Wade copes with a very unpredictable relationship, and the Avengers are judging the whole thing from the sidelines.

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Title: Wade Wilson’s Super Awesome Mixtape of Love to Peter Parker

Author: sadieb798

Artist: Black Sodas

Rating: E

Warnings: Temporary Character Death, Gore, Canon Typical Violence

Word Count: 15K

Summary: There’s a body lying on his carpet.

Peter’s breath catches in his throat, it feels like his heart just took a swan-dive into his stomach and landed with a plop.

Oh God, oh God, his brain chants frantically. He immediately lurches toward his desk, reaching for his phone, but he overcompensates and knocks it off. He watches, breath caught in his throat, as it falls to the carpet with a soft thud and bounces under his bed.

Peter immediately dives for it. The phone’s not very far from him, so he doesn’t need to stretch as he reaches for it. His fingers grasp the beveled corners and he pulls it towards him. Instinctively he looks up, and instantly regrets it.

The white lenses of a superhero mask meet his, and blink.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Deadpool asks, his voice gravelly as he waves a hand.

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Title: Off the Record

Author: @crookedswingset

Artist: @c0njidraws

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Sexual Content

Word Count: 130K

Summary: Peter Parker is a corporate lackey whose sole job is to root out problem executives who waste Oscorp’s money and time. Wade Wilson is a reserve Avenger on the hunt for a prize even Iron Man couldn’t nail down–the real identity of everyone’s favorite webhead. Too bad most people think Spider-Man is Harry Osborn.

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Title: A Different Life

Author(s): mxximum-effort

Artist: adumbtree-draws

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Word Count: 10.7k

Summary: Peter Parker and Wade Wilson’s marriage was over before it even had a chance to begin. But now, twelve years later, Peter Parker is almost-happily in a relationship with Harry, about to get married to him. He receives a letter informing him that Wade Wilson is filing for divorce- they’ve been married all along. Suddenly, Wade is back in his life, and Peter can’t help wondering what life might have been like if he’d stayed with Wade. As they navigate their divorce, and their current failing relationships, the pair find themselves falling for each other once again.

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Title: Alone: The Death of a Hero

Author(s): Raxwend, Anonygod

Artist: MagniloquentChanteuse

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Major Character Death

Word Count: 17739

Summary: Six months after a devastating war between the United States and Canada over a new form of renewable energy Peter Parker is moving through life feeling like an empty husk. Now that most of the population of New York has been infected with a debilitating disease created by Canadian scientists, he finds himself feeling less useful as Spider-Man as he patiently waits for Tony Stark to develop a cure for the disease. While he still tries to be the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, his self appointed duty has become increasingly difficult as he faces those infected. The infected have become insanely violent, lashing out at anything that moves with unbelievable strength for a human as they are fueled by one primal instinct: fighting. Peter is torn between trying to fight those infected while ensuring that they are still safe for when Tony releases the cure, and a mercenary that he’s fallen in love with that tries to convince him it’d be better for everyone if he just ends their suffering.

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#spbb masterlist #spbb2018 #spbb 2018 masterlist #spbb artists #spbb writers #spideypool #spideypool fics #spideypool fanart #fanart #fanfiction #spideypool fanfiction #spiderman #deadpool #spideypool big bang