#Other people's awesome fanfictions

[avatarskywalker78]

I haven't done of these in a while, but here's Fic Back Friday again - or in this case, fic series, because today I am recommending reaching up to touch the sky by @shrinkthisviolet, an excellent series of fics featuring her OC, Morgan Wells, a girl who deserves the WORLD but who goes through so much because she has Eowells as a so-called parent!!! She's a fantastic character whom I love dearly and who you root for and I love her relationships with the cast, especially with Barry, Iris and Tina, and all the stories are so compelling. You will laugh, you will cry, you will be hit in the feels and you will want to yeet Eowells into the sun as I do. You will get your heart broken into a thousand pieces - but believe me, it is absolutely worth it!!!! It's one of the best series I have ever read on AO3 and I can't wait to see where it goes next, and you won't regret it!!!

[ibrithir-was-here]

Some art for @see-arcane 's stupendous Blood of My Blood Novella "Never Loved", which ya'll should go read it first and the come back here and scream like I did

Bum bum buuuuuuuuuum...

[glitter-stained]

Some of the posts I see here y'all gotta stop seeing fanfics as "bad dc takes". Like, it's perfectly fine to not like a trope that's popular in fanfic, but you gotta stop seeing it as character meta is what I'm saying. Fanfic writers are not canon writers, they do not owe you canon compliant, and you don't get to assume that what they're writing comes from a place of ignorance when there are so many reasons to include/not include something in your fic.

Like, allow me to use my own fics as example since they're the only one I have background info on the knowledge and motivations of the author:

-I wrote a fic with Lazarus Rage in it once. Do I know it's not canon? Absolutely. Do I think it's necessary for the understanding of Jason's character? Not at all, I think canon Jason is more interesting without the pit rage. I just wanted to write it once because it looked cathartic and you know what? It was. It was super cathartic. I wanted to write a story about the progression of a depressive episodes and using pit rage to talk about the feeling of loss of control with intense anger issues and sensation of loss and deep self-hatred afterwards, and i thought writing this is gonna feel good and it felt good, for me and for the readers.

-I'm also currently finishing another fic, in which I've simplified Tim's relationship with Jason's a lot (basically Tim is still haunted by Jason's ghost and Dick is still his favourite Robin but the victim blaming is much less intense and there's an intense, genuine admiration for Jason and happiness to get him back). Is it because I hate canon and its complexity? No, I love it, I love when character relationships are fucked up and they make a mess. I'd love to explore that in a different fic, even have the prompt already. But I'm writing a really intense fic about trauma, taboo and lack of communication around sexual abuse, and there are so many characters pov and things happening and I have to do this right because we're talking about things that happen to real people and not being accidentally insensitive or sending a shit message is more important to me than perfect canon compliance, and it's just not the place for it. This story isn't about tim, and it's not about victim-blaming. It's a fascinating can of worms to open, but I'm not gonna open it if I don't have the space to deal with it because I'm not gonna let worms roam freely all over my fanfic when I can choose not to include the worms in my story, because it might rely on base material but it's still a finite story that exists within its own scope because I'm not a comics writer, I'm a fanfic writer and my story doesn't exist as a pure extension of the comics and I don't owe you canon compliance. And how boring would that be if we could only write canon compliant stuff! No more coffee shop aus, no powers aus, fantasy aus, no more non canon ships between characters that hated eachother until the day they died (but had so much sexual tension)... Fanfic is not one single entity that takes place in a simplified version of the canon universe complete with consistent lukewarm tropes and watered down understanding of characters. Fanfics are rich and diverse and yeah canon compliant is great and i want more of it but the universe is so much wider and that's what makes it rich! Do some people write fanfic and also don't interact with or know canon? Sure, plenty of them. Does that fanfic reflect their opinion of canon? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. You don't know that. In the meantime, people are still creating extra content and enriching the fandom experience and if you don't like it, genuinely, the filter tags button is right there. That's not to say there are no racist or classist or sexist tropes in fanfics, but again that exists within the scope of that story. Bad writing exists in canon, and it exists in fanfics, and sometimes a story is canon compliant with a terrible message and sometimes a story is canon divergent with a terrible message and pushing away everyone who writes things that aren't canon compliant is not going to fix these issues in the dc fandom. Telling people to "not write the character at all if you're going to write them ooc" assumes your understanding of what is essential to the character is perfect and The Right Way to interact with a fandom and it's patronising and not only do you take the risk of looking like a moron the second you make a mistake, it is actual gatekeeping and the reason many people find getting into comics/fandom intimidating in the first place. (And it also shits on the potential of AUs like dark reflections, mafia etc. Of course Mafia Bruce who kills people is deeply ooc. These stories are still fun and it's not wrong to write them!)

"This story really should have addressed that thing that happens in canon" did it happen in the setting of the fic? No? Then shut up and let the fic tell its own story, it doesn't have to "address" anything it doesn't have space for. Again, don't like don't read is a thing. Fanfic enriches the fandom, it doesn't take away from it, but you know what can? Canon writing. I'm way more concerned with what dc is having batman represent nowadays than with fanfic I haven't read because I knew I wouldn't like it.

TLDR: It's understandable to be upset when people who don't interact with canon material at all try to assert their opinion on canon as the truth, especially if they call any attempt at disagreeing with the mischaracterization gatekeeping, but that doesn't make you immune to being a gatekeeper. Assuming you know a writer's knowledge and opinions on a character because of that one fic of them is naive and a misunderstanding of what fanfic is. Fanfic writers are still real people who give you cool stuff for free and you don't have to like it but you still have to be respectful about it, and all that negative energy you spend on rants about "bad character and" you've read in fanfics would be so much better spent on bad canon writing because these people do have the power to fuck your favourite character over and they do owe you canon compliance, and with the amount of effort some fanfic writers put into their fics compared to some of the writers who get payed to write canon, you guys could stand to be more respectful about fanfics.

[qsmpbutwithsignlanguage]

Where's that post about how the QSMP is built off of love because Tiba and Tubbo played together for a grand total of five days in Purgatory Two but they will still go into each other's chats a month and a half later and everybody freaks out with excitement and it's absolutely incredible.

Five days.

And a lasting friendship.

God I love the QSMP.

[rogueshadeaux]

Chapter Thirty-Three — Shadow Play

“I see the mark on each affront to God, now. The Mark of the Beast. It burns in their chests like the pits of hell, it’s on their hands anytime they use their powers. They’re all branded. All marked, even me. But I see it now, I see why God has made me what I am.”

7k word count | 2 spacers provided as pause points | TRIGGER WARNINGS: a lot of words, possible claustrophobia [they are UNDERGROUND please remember that!], human experimentation, military mention. ONE imbedded link.

Our footsteps echoed back a thousand times as we walked along the crescent-shaped dais on the other side of the room, Dad the first to step up onto it. “How far back do you think this goes?” He asked, shining a light down the rounded archway of the hall he was standing in front of. ADVANCED SYSTEMS. The last words of his sentence reverberated in the chasm, Brent joining him to look down it. 

“Hey!” He hollered, his voice overlapping Dad’s as the single syllable hopped around again and again. Brent turned back to face everyone, motioning down the hall. “It’s gotta be long.”

“Has to be some sort of tech lab,” Dad muttered in agreement. 

Brent smirked at the thought. “Think we have enough time to go look? Maybe they have, like, ray guns back there,”

“If we’re talkin’ Vermaak,” Zeke started, looking over my head at Dad, “We should probably start here. Advanced systems has gotta mean power transfer device, right?�� 

Dad, though, wasn’t listening, not really; his phone’s flashlight had traveled along with his stare, looking across the dais to the hall on the other side, brow furrowed. His eyes narrowed a bit like he was trying to decipher something in the shadows, and he stayed quiet long enough for me to share a worried glance with Brent. “Dad?” I eventually asked. 

“Hmm?”

“You okay?”

He blinked hard, coming back down to earth from wherever his head had dragged him as he looked over at me, then to the other men. “Y-yeah, sorry,” he stammered, giving the hall at the other end one last look before turning fully to Advanced Systems. “We should see what’s down there.”

 Everything looked insane, so futuristic, and I felt bad for laughing at Bertrand when he said he was amazed by what he saw because I couldn’t help but agree. This place was amazing. 

Dad blew past the unmarked doors in the hall, moving deeper into the hall as he sensed something I only caught onto the further we traveled; there was something at the end of the hall echoing our footsteps back just a little too loudly, the sound coming back like an irregular heartbeat as it tried to match the loud drumming in my ears. Zeke stayed behind Brent and I as Dad held up a hand, light sweeping the rounded ceiling and noting the strange change: “It’s getting taller.”

“The entrance was wider too,” Brent muttered, shining his own against the wall. “Means there’s something at the end, doesn’t it?” 

“Probably.” Dad agreed. 

And they were right; as the ceiling widened like a maw, it spit us out into a rounded room littered in broken glass and severed wire, the walls lined with pods built into the walls. It looked like the shattered glass came from there, rained down by nearly a hundred of something escaping. A raised platform stood in the middle of the room, the perimeter circled by computers while the center held some excavated hole, something ripped up out of the ground and the concrete remains left strewn among the glass. 

And hanging from the ceiling were two cuffs, and a thick dangled wire with its copper ends sticking out. 

“Jesus,” Zeke muttered, shining his light behind him at one of the pods. They also had wires dangling from their enclosure, the ends looking like the pasties of EKG machines and some still holding catheters for veins. Zeke came to the conclusion I did, first to verbalize it: “They look like experiment pods.”

“Think this is where the Vermaak were?” Dad asked, stepping up to the platform. The computers stood on metal podiums with no visible wires, some with broken screens. “Wish Eugene was down here…”

“Could be,” Zeke hummed, messing around with the electrodes. 

Brent followed Dad up onto the platform as I slowly walked around it, shining my light at the base. There was no gap or welding or something that connected the platform to the floor; the ends simply bent out like the platform had been molded from the ground on a pottery wheel, no actual bolts in sight. It was so sleek, so unnaturally smooth and perfect.

There was a flash on the side and I glanced over to see Brent taking pictures of the pit, probably just as much for his own files as Dad’s. ‘Course. But the shine was enough to distract me, and I didn’t know there was something in my path until I could feel it under my ankle boot.

I lifted my foot to peel off the little thing off of it — it looked like a tag? Like the sort of paper tags I’d put on my gymnastics bag before going to a meet. It was in near-perfect condition, having been untouched since it was dropped.

Date and time of capture. Circumstances. Weapons, physical conditions, name rank, all duplicated three times on a page that signified needing to be cut. I flipped the page over, the sections on the back more for the holder than whoever the form was supposed to be attached to, the top titled ENEMY PRISONER OF WAR (EPW) CAPTURE TAG (PART A). “I found something,” I announced. “I think it’s some sorta…some sorta army thing?” 

Dad’s head snapped up. “What?” 

I didn’t bother answering, instead following the rounded edge of the platform again to where he stood and handed him the page. He breezed over the front before flipping it to the warnings on the back, huffing. “‘DA Form 5976,’” he muttered, looking over his shoulder at Zeke. “Direct Action form. The military raided this place."

“Oh yeah, more than likely,” Zeke agreed. “New Marais was under martial law for a bit as they dug around for information on the Beast and the First Sons. Guess they got here first.” 

Dad made some sort of dissatisfied noise in his throat, flashlight going from the form back to the computers — and then to the divot in the floor. “If this is where the Vermaak were…that had to be where the power transfer device was. They came in here with the intention of detaining anyone they found.”

Zeke left where he stood to join Dad on the platform, his light adding to the one shining down into the pit. “Guess now would be a good time to tell you they didn’t get the original device, huh?” 

Dad perked up, looking at Zeke. “Really?”

“Yeah. Bertrand tried shipping out the device, the original one meant for one-on-one transfer, when I was spyin’ on the Militia for Cole. He was trying to get it outta there before Cole got to it. You know the whole story about that gang fight at Fort Philippe?”

“Yeah,”

Zeke nodded once. “It was for that. We captured the place from the Militia, got the device, and Cole used it right there with Kuo. It exploded after.”

“What happened to it after?” I asked. Sure, it exploded, but it had to go somewhere, right?

Zeke shrugged. “It was basically scrap. Even if they got it, they wouldn’t have found anything useful in it.”

Dad’s brow furrowed. “So they never actually got the power transfer device?” He asked Zeke. 

“If it’s what was in this hole? No. Most the military coulda done was download whatever was on the computers.”

“And probably wipe them,” Dad added, more a complaint than an observation. “I’m surprised they didn’t rip these things out of the ground.”

Brent stared thoughtfully at the computer we were standing in front of, finger tracing the pole of steel that was holding it up. “We could.” 

I blinked. “What?”

Brent looked up, glancing between Dad and I. “You can recover deleted stuff from computers, right? Even if you’ve done everything to scrub it off. If we take the computer up to Dr. Sims, maybe he can find something.”

Dad rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the pedestal and the defunct computer on top of it. “We’d have to find its hard drive,” he eventually mumbled before looking back up at Brent. “We can’t just take the monitor, that’s useless.” 

“Wouldn’t the army take the hard drive?” I asked. It seemed illogical that they’d sweep the First Sons base and leave behind something so crucial. 

Brent’s eyes traveled down the metal pole, all the way to the floor and along it. “Maybe they didn’t know where to look,” he muttered, following some line we couldn’t see. His eyes raised to follow the wall and I saw all green was gone, replaced with a silver that reflected the light like…well, steel. He tracked whatever he saw to the wall next to the atrium’s entrance, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Hold this,” Brent asked Dad, not even looking at him as he passed over his phone and causing Dad to almost drop it on the ground. Brent stalked over to the wall and ran his hand along it, looking for some bump in the smooth texture and cursing under his breath when he couldn’t find it. “There’s something…under this…” Brent growled under his breath, sounding sure. “But the wall isn’t steel. I don’t see any…any bolts either.” 

“Think it’s welded straight on?” Zeke asked. 

Brent shrugged. “No idea. Either way it’s way too smooth to get through, unless I…”

Brent stared thoughtfully at the wall for a beat before bringing up his fist and turning it to steel, some extra metal shavings layering against the ridges of his knuckles as he reared his fist back and slammed it against the wall. 

Whatever metal was there instantly gave away, revealing a hidden server farm sitting stagnant behind it, all ziptied servos wires and electrical tape. “Oh, shit,” Zeke muttered as Brent moved to grip the second panel and rip it off, more of the server bank being revealed. He looked over to Dad. “That’s gotta be for every pod in here and these computers."

Dad nodded slightly. “Alright. Okay, Zeke, you’re our best bet for this, so salvage what you think might be useful,” 

Thirty minutes later, Zeke was zipping up the sling backpack and Dad sighed, turning to look back in the room. He looked absolutely displeased at how much nothing there was in this room. “The ice Conduit, Kuo — you said she was activated down here, too?”

Zeke nodded. “She came outta here cold as a corpse. Said they injected her with something to get her goin’.”

Dad mulled over those words. “We should try Bio-Science, then.” he decided unilaterally, voice making it very clear that this wasn’t up for discussion. “Whatever activated her here had to be made there.”

It was unsettling how loudly our footsteps echoed back at us as we walked out of the hall and back into the atrium, across the floor to the space where the Bio-Science hall stood. Dad was leading the pack, steps sure the entire way to the hallway before he faltered, staring down the hall with reservation. 

“You okay?” Brent asked. 

It took Dad a moment to even register that Brent spoke, glancing back at us. “Yeah, yeah, I just…” he drew off, attention going back to the hall. “You ever get a really weird feeling, like something’s wrong?”

“It’s probably the shitty horror movie lighting,” Zeke joked. 

“Not like that,” he chastised. “I mean, there’s just…there’s something wrong here. In this hall. I don’t know what it is or…”

He drew off, growling under his breath as he failed to translate just how wrong it felt to him. I could sort of relate; I’d get a bad feeling in situations that did turn out to be bad, and there was whatever that gut feeling was when the ice soldiers appeared on the Sound. Maybe Dad was getting that weird sixth sense right now too? “Do you want to leave?” I asked. 

“No,” Dad answered almost immediately. He flexed his shoulders, and that unsureness left him. “Come on,” He decided, “Let’s go see what we can find.”

Our footsteps rang out sharply like slamming gavels as we walked into the wing. God, how huge was this place? The hallway seemed to go on forever, large spaces in-between the labeled and rounded doors. And those labels didn't exactly help. Once we passed the basic ones that said things like 'Laboratory Supplies' or 'Restroom', the placards began to list off actual project names: Project Emerald, Project Mirage, Project Fracture.

I wasn't feeling very hopeful about much, especially when Dad just blew past the doors to keep walking down the hall. “There's...a lot of rooms to go through,” I mumbled, shining my phone light at another door that said 'Project Helix'.

“I know,” Dad replied. “Try to remember all the names. Let's get to the end of the hall, see if there's anything there,”

The end of the hall came swiftly after that conversation, the placard reading 'Project Metamorphosis'. The door…it was scratched to hell and back, chipped away like someone took an axe to its front and failed to take it down. Dad’s hand traced the edge of the door, that pensive look still on his face. He stayed unspeaking for so long that I finally cracked, saying, “Dad? Are you okay?” 

Dad nodded. “This is it,” he said with so much assurance. His phone light traveled around, inspecting the weirdly shaped door. 

“You sure?” Zeke asked. 

Dad nodded slowly. “Yeah, I…” his brows came together, like he was confused by his own knowledge. “I’m sure. Let’s go.”

“Looks like someone else tried getting in, too,” Brent pointed out. “Think the military tried taking down the door with no luck?”

No one answered. If that was true, it meant we probably wouldn’t have a chance to get in, either. 

Dad stepped up to the door and tried opening it. Tried. He pushed against the door, he fit his hands in the linear grooves to try and pull. Brent put his hand against the door only to flinch away at the attempt to drain it, and I crouched, running my hand along where the door met the floor — or, more accurately, where the recess was. “It lowers,” I said, looking up at them two. “Goes down, like a car window,” 

“Without electricity, it’s basically useless,” Zeke said as Dad got to my level, looking at the recess. “Delsin, I know you’re intent on this, but it doesn’t look like we can get in—”

“No.” Dad snapped a bit. “This…there’s something in this room. I need to see it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before turning his head to look at Brent. "Well, any advice from the architect?"

Brent huffed, humored at the recognition but unable to answer. “Couldn't tell you. Haven't really looked into how to tear down buildings, yet. I don’t even know what kind of metal this is.” He hit the metal with his knuckle, the metallic ping that reverberated back high in pitch. 

Zeke’s eyes narrowed at the sound, and before long he was digging in his pockets for something, pulling out his keys. He held a little flashlight-shaped thing on it up to the door, sliding it around its face. “It’s not magnetic,” he declared, shoving his keys — with the magnet on them, apparently — back into his pocket. 

“So then, what’s that mean?” Dad asked. 

Brent was the one to speak next. “Means it’s probably titanium,” he said, pushing his own hand against the door. “Which means it’s strong.” 

“So we’re not gonna be able to get in?” I asked, standing. 

Dad’s face darkened. “No. We’re getting in.” He said, determined. “How do you break titanium?” 

“You don’t,” Brent said, almost sounding offended at the idea. “Do you know how strong it is?” 

“There’s…” I drew off, unsure how to ask what I wanted to. “There’s rankings or classes or something for metal strength, right? Are there any stronger metals?” 

“Steel,” Zeke hummed, looking over at Brent. 

Brent shook his head. “I don’t know if it’d be enough,” he admitted. 

“It's worth a shot,” Dad said, standing straight. “We throw enough steel at this door and it’s bound to break,” 

“Yeah, and it could also take down the entire hall.” Brent stressed. “We have no idea what’s load-bearing in here and what’s not. Most doors are connected to one—” 

“The door sinks into the ground,” I interrupted. Not only that, but this one was round. Didn't load bearing walls have to be vertical? “What’s the likelihood of it being one if it does that?”

Brent’s words faltered as he looked down at the rubber flaps on the door’s edge. “I…” he drew off, thinking hard. “Less…less likely, but still—”

Dad seemed to think that was enough. “Then we just aim for the door,” he decided. “And try not to bring anything else down.” 

Brent’s eyebrow cocked. “‘We?’” 

Dad nodded, saying, “We should use our powers together. Steel and concrete.”

“What about Jean?” 

Dad’s eyes broke from Brent’s to glance my way, and he dedicated all of seven milliseconds to the thought before saying, “Jean, you and Zeke move back, be ready to help if something happens.”

I tried not to let the request get to me. My water probably couldn’t help here, anyways. 

Dad and Brent passed me their phones and Zeke pulled me a good eight feet back as they both positioned themselves in front of the door, Dad hovering over Brent’s shoulder. I hadn’t realized they were nearly the same height before now. “You prep, I’ll add, we both throw. Okay?” He asked Brent, who nodded. 

The steel Brent produced caught the light from the phones, little beams bouncing around and the very large and very threatening looking beams Brent was making grew over his shoulder like some magical spear being materialized from thin air. I guess, in a way, it was. But what was different this time was Dad putting his concrete-laden hand through the shrapnel cloud to reach for the bars and touch them, the black rock on his arms sloughing off and onto the steel to make a jagged battering ram. 

“Now!” Dad yelled, moving to cross his arms over his face. Brent’s arms flinched as Dad threw his out and the battering ram went flying, the sound it made as it slammed into the titanium door something unpleasant I could feel in my bones as it screeched in protest, making me cringe so hard I accidentally bit my cheek. The door jolted hard, but stayed standing. 

“Again!” Dad yelled over the echoes of the grinding metal. Brent built up another large spear, Dad touching it with his gravely grace before they both threw it at the door a second time. This impact came with sparks and a divot in its center that exposed a way darker metal beyond the painted surface, a bullet hole in the kevlar the First Sons gave the door. “Come on, almost,” Dad encouraged. 

They ran the same race, Brent putting his entire upper body into this next throw, and the way the entire hall shook as the battering ram made impact with the door frightened me so badly that my water was reacting before I even saw the shrapnel, phones falling to the ground to instead let my hands shoot out to weave a wall of water between them and the wall they took down. The remains of the bent circular door shot back, taking out multiple desks in the room behind it and careening into a wall as my water caught whatever rubble it tried to throw back at the two men. The shaking stopped and the horrible sounds died off soon after, and within a beat, everyone breathed. 

And then immediately groaned as the broken door slowly fell forward, revealing the hallway it couldn’t fit through. “God, it's neverendin', isn't it?” Zeke muttered, glancing at me. All I could do was sigh in return.

I let my water fall and we all entered the lab dedicated to whatever Project Metamorphosis was, shining our flashlights around the room. God, even the furniture was white, pure metal desks laid in rows in the center — well, minus the ones Brent and Dad sent flying — with standing laboratory tables lining the walls, the expo marker on the white boards posted on the wall above them faded out but still legible.

Zeke beelined it towards some leftover lab equipment while Dad moved to shift through the contents of the first desk. Brent and I glanced at each other and simultaneously shrugged, moving to the edge of the room and exploring on our own.

With no luck at my station, I moved back towards Brent, him not even looking up as I moved. “This is insane,” Brent murmured, looking down at some files. “It looks like they were trying to do something with inactivated Conduits,”

“What, like what the DUP did?” I asked, looking around his shoulder at the document. Or, trying to — the font was so small that it looked like gibberish to me.

Brent shook his head. “No, different than that. Not sure how, though...” His flashlight left the laboratory counter to shine on the board screwed to the wall — which we only then realized wasn't a board at all, but one of those x-ray lightboxes. There were still some x-rays attached to it, but Brent's phone light wasn't hitting the picture right to make it show.

“Here, hold this,” he said, passing me his phone so quickly that I almost dropped it on the ground. After throwing a quick glare my way, Brent leaned forward, ripping the x-ray from off of the board and holding it in his hands, elevated a bit. “Okay, shine the flashlight under it,” he requested.

I did — and immediately cringed after. God...what happened to this person? Their jaw simply wasn’t there anymore, shatterings of bone protruding out of the open orifice in ribbons. I've seen brain x-rays before in health class, and while you're not supposed to see every nook and cranny, it's also not supposed to be foggy white, almost like it was riddled with infection or melted to mush. “Jeez,” I murmured, shining the light farther down the x-ray. It stopped just after the clavicle — not that that was one anymore, either. It was riddled with extra growth, as if wrapped up in solid tumors. “What the hell happened to them?”

Brent opened his mouth to retort when Dad, in the center of the room, called out, “Found some stuff on the Ray Sphere!” looking up at Zeke.

Zeke turned, in the midst of wrapping a stoppered glass vial with his sock while handlessly shoving his foot back into the tennis shoe. “What's it say?” He asked, taking off the sling bag so he could store the vial away.

“A lot of big words I don't know,” Dad started, holding up the rather thick file as Zeke and Brent's light landed on Dad's form, illuminating his tall shadow against the wall. “But it has a beginning note — apparently, the Ray Sphere can corrupt a person's powers?”

Zeke's head tilted to the side as he slipped the sling bag back on, looking at Dad curiously. ""Corrupt?'” he repeated. “Corrupt how?”

Dad looked back down at the file, phone light traveling across it in tandem with his eyes. “Says it makes a person's power stronger, but more volatile. Harder to control.” He looked up at Zeke. “Were Cole's power like that?”

Zeke shook his head, almost seeming offended at the accusation. “No, he was in control of what he could do.”

“And his power didn't affect his daily life? He wasn't having issues with—” Dad looked down at the file in his hands, “—his 'enhanced capabilities exceeding the threshold of practical applicability in routine activities, leading to the unintended manifestation of his powers in a potentially disruptive or uncontrolled manner?'”

“What does that even mean?” Brent scoffed.

Zeke's eyes, though, went wide. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Then repeated it, louder. “Son of a bitch!” With a foot stomp, like he just made the world's biggest breakthrough.

Dad glanced back up, eyebrow quirking. “So is...that a yes?”

Zeke nodded fervently. “Cole couldn't do anything with electronics 'cause his power would short circuit the wires. He couldn't sit in a car or hold a gun 'cause he'd make 'em explode. You're telling me that's why he couldn't do that? The Ray Sphere corrupted him?”

Dad looked back down at the document. “More like made him too powerful for his own good. Which I mean, did help with the Beast, but he would have had a horrible time trying to live in the Age of Technology.”

Zeke nodded. “Yeah, you've got that right. Had to create a double insulated phone pouch just so he could call me whenever we were off doing stuff,”

“These powers,” I interjected. “The, uh, corruption. Would it be enough to turn someone into a monster?”

Dad looked over at me like I was insane — but Zeke just nodded sagely. “Guess that would make sense. Bertrand, his power was...well, it was somethin'. He could turn himself and other people into these things, buncha fucked up looking creatures.”

Brent held up the x-ray, and we both immediately shined our phone's flashlight behind it to brighten up the image of the jawless person. “Like this?” Brent and I asked in unison.

“Jesus Christ,” Dad muttered, looking at the image as Zeke nodded.

“Exactly like that. Well, one of them, at least.” He replied.

Dad looked equal parts confused and bewildered. “So there was a Conduit that could turn just anyone into monsters?” He asked Zeke.

Brent let the x-ray fall, turning back to the table. “Not just anyone,” he said, grabbing his own stack of documents. “People with inactivated Conduit genes,”

“That's somehow worse,” Dad's murmur echoed easily to us. He raised his voice. “But if someone's able to manipulate a Conduit like that, we need those notes. Anything that can affect their powers is close enough to what's going on with your sister.”

We nodded, Zeke motioning for us all to come here as he took the sling bag off once again for us all to put our found documents in. As I worked on rolling up the x-ray and slipping my hair tie around it so it would fit easily, Brent muttered, “You don't think you're gonna turn into one of those, right?”

I could feel the blood leave my face as I thought of the possibility. “Oh God, I hope not?” I said. “I mean, the notes said it was nearly instantaneous, right?”

He nodded. “They did, they did. Just wondering, 'cause it seems like it would be a great cosmetic improvement for you,”

My smack against his head rang out loudly through the room and into the adjacent hallway, his yelp bouncing around just as vibrantly. Asshole. 

As Dad tried to find a way to fit the large x-ray into Zeke's bag, I watched Brent turn, shining his flashlight across the room and to the gap in the wall where the vast hallway stood. “What do you think is back there?” He asked me.

“I don't know,” I shrugged. “Probably more human rights violations.”

“Was there anything else over by that x-ray viewing box?” Dad asked us. We both sorta shrugged, giving him some noncommittal sounds that had him huffing hard. “Alright, I'll go double check. Do me a favor? Go check out the desk we flung next to the hall.”

We nodded, separating from the group as Zeke moved to fiddle with the other desk that was thrown to the side when Brent and Dad broke in. Brent put the flashlight on me like a spotlight as I tried to shift through the contents of the desk despite the weird angle it was at, pulling out nothing but useless to-do notes and nicotine gum foils.

“Anything good?” Brent asked me.

I scoffed, “Unless you wanna count old McDonald's receipts as loot, then no,”

I sat back on my heels and looked up just in time to see Zeke straighten, holding his hand up triumphantly like he had found gold — but whatever was in his hands was too small to see. “Got something!” He declared. “Some sorta recording chip.“

Dad turned to look over his shoulder. “Any idea what's on it?” He asked.

“Not yet,” Zeke hummed. He grabbed at a little pouch on the strap of his sling bag and there was a quick snap as he unbuttoned something. “But luckily, I brought Cole's old phone. I had tinkered with it a bit way back when — gave it a chip reader.”

Dad's eyebrow raised, and he 100% looked like he was not buying whatever Zeke was saying. “And you're sure a 25 year old piece of technology will work?”

Zeke snorted. “I modified a Nokia. I'll die before this thing does.”

Dad began walking over to Zeke as he fiddled with the old phone and the chip reader. The beam of light above me slowly started to move, and I glanced up to see Brent's attention — and inadvertently his phone — begin pointing towards the hallway again. “C'mon,” he finally said as I rose to my feet. “Let's go check out what's back there,”

Brent was already walking away by the time I called out to Dad to tell him what we were doing. “Okay, just shout if you find something, alright?” he requested as I jogged to catch up to Brent.

The hall was squared, which was different from the others — it felt like a normal hallway. Brent flashed the light everywhere; the high ceiling, the floor, where they met. He had this studious look on his face that left me wondering if he was taking notes for his own build down the line, or if he was critiquing the place and thinking of how he could have done it better. “Wonder if every other room is this big,” he hummed, light jolting to shine behind us. I couldn't blame him; I wasn't really a fan of treading through the dark underground, either. It felt like there was always something breathing over my shoulder. This entire place was freaky enough even without the fact that it was entirely powered down.

“Well, it's going to be a very long night if they all are,” I murmured back.

We turned forward simultaneously, just in time to see the light of the phone catch in the reflective surface of a pane of glass. It was as long as Brent was tall, following the curve of the wall in a slope. “What the hell...” Brent muttered.

The closer we got, the more I realized it wasn't a window, but a door, some large and super thick plexiglass thing that had five separate locking mechanisms on the outside. None of them had a keyhole though. There was a screen the size of a small television on the side, and a laminated piece of paper above it haphazardly taped to the wall like it was an afterthought, the 'TEST SUBJECT 0409' in giant bold.

There was nothing else about the corpse in the viewing room. No name, no demographics, no gender. Just a set of numbers the First Sons only bothered to throw on the wall after the fact. Barely cared about, barely human.

“What the fuck…” Brent drew off as he looked into the chamber. I couldn’t say much, I was too shocked. 

The glass was iced at the edges, patterned spreads of white frost that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. There wasn’t a bed in the room, no sink or anything. There was barely something that constituted a toilet — but it was all frosted over. The corpse in the corner of the small observation room was curled in on herself, arms wrapped around her knees as if she was trying to keep every little bit of warmth she had left contained to her core until the very end. She was perfectly preserved. That’s what was worse; I could see her frosted eyebrows still screwed close together, how she seemed to have froze in the middle of chattering her teeth. The folds of the thin scrubs she was in were stiff with icicles, her lips softly blue. 

“They froze her?” I whispered, the reminder of that feeling making shivers run down my spine.

Brent moved his phone’s flashlight around, up and down, trying to get a good look inside the chamber. “Look, see that?” he asked, pointing to the corner of the room. I looked up where he was pointing; it was one of those old flip signs, the kind they’d have at super old airports that would flip to say if a place was boarding or whatever. The white on it was damaged from the frost, but the dark black lettering showed through with ease; PRESERVATION ENGAGED.

“Do you think it was something to keep her body…” I drew off, unsure of how to even say what was going on, “...mummified?” 

Brent flashed his light around the room once more before letting it settle on the 5 locks. “That, or keep her from squealing.” he sighed hard, turning. “C’mon, let’s look at the others.”

I threw one last look at 0409 before letting my eyes fall to my feet, following Brent. 

There was a cshchsk that echoed into the hallway from the main room of the lab, like a walkie talkie was receiving interference, and then that same sickeningly sweet voice from the other dead drops came back, the voice of the Bertrand guy. 

“At first, I questioned His choices,” Bertrand’s voice echoed down the hall, the gross drawl of his accent making another shiver go down my spine after the one wracked up it by the cold hallway. There was another testing room, this time a man in it, hands frozen to the wall as he died trying to claw through the frost. I couldn’t help but hold my arms close to my core and Brent noticed, dragging me along. “Why would God turn me into such a monster when all I’ve done is follow His word? I never strayed far from His grace,”

Brent scoffed. “Isn’t this the same dickwad that was a fascist?”

I shook my head in disbelief at this asshole’s words, looking into the next testing chamber — and pausing when I did. In this chamber, there was definitely…someone, but I couldn’t see them well. Not when they were buried under the frost like that. But there was something off about the lump in the frost that I couldn’t put my finger on, like they were misshapen in a way. 

I mean, of course, that could have been a side effect of being frozen alive. 

“I prayed for days after I used the Ray Sphere to ask God why. Why turn me into this beast, this monster?” He asked no one. I’m pretty sure it was just to hear himself talk. “Why would He damn one of His most loyal soldiers to be a demon for the rest of his life? But I don’t believe that’s it anymore, no. I think I finally see what He has planned for me.”

Brent stopped dead in his tracks, making me run into his side. “Wh–, dude!” I snipped, rubbing where the bridge of my nose hit his hard bicep and blinking back the tears from the impact. 

Brent didn’t react. He didn’t even really care. He was too busy staring wide eyed into the next testing chamber, face a bit paled even in the dim light of my phone’s flashlight. I followed his stare, my own eyes widening as I looked at what was in the room. 

There was a human…I think. It was definitely the remains of one, at least. Their skin was leathery, grayed out in the way you only expected corpses to be. But the color darkened to match the texture the further it crawled down their arms, the skin growing and hardening to become these scythes of a pollex crab claw. It looked shelled, too, just like a crab’s would be. There was still a face to the person, still a mostly human body…but those claws…

“I understand what the auras I see are now. Marks of the Beast, of the devil’s influence. I’m branded with my own, and that’s why the Lord has made me what I am. I must atone for my sins.” Bertrand’s voice said from the other room as both Brent and I looked at each other and then rushed to look in the next cell. This one had the same claws and grayed skin, but there was more. Jagged frills of shell climbed up their — its — arms, clubbed claws where its feet used to be. It laid curled, back to us, so I couldn’t see its face — but I could see how its back seemed larger than humanly possible, like there was an extra set of muscles along its spine. 

“What the fuck?” Brent murmured again, more aghast this time. 

“I see the mark on each affront to God, now. The Mark of the Beast. It burns in their chests like the pits of hell, it’s on their hands anytime they use their powers. They’re all branded. All marked, even me. But I see it now, I see why God has made me what I am.”

 I followed Brent as he walked briskly down the hall, glancing into each chamber before quickly moving on. God, they were all the same; the huge claws long enough for them to use as crutches, the bent backs. At some point we got to see the horrors of that x-ray in all their fucked up glory; black bled through their abdomen and up their spines like something was poisoning them from the inside, their jaw shattered by the force of those thick appendages that jutted out of their jaws like tentacles. I guess the only solace I could cling on to when looking at these monstrosities is that they looked tranquil, curled up in the frost. Hopefully the people they once were passed peacefully. 

“He is giving me a chance to repent. To be more. His son was betrayed by one of his own, yet through that betrayal, we received salvation for our sins. That sacrifice is what He is expecting of me now.” Bertrand said, sounding so sure of himself. “I’m to be His sword and His might. I’m to cure the world of these demons by turning them into such and exposing them to the world.”

Brent’s steps slowed as the phone’s flashlight moved to face forward again and started traveling up, higher and higher as it caught the red and black exoskeleton of whatever that was in front of us. The chamber was at the end of the hallway and double the size of the others with the little crab-guys — but it needed to be to hold that creature. It was doubled over, reinforced arms being used as forelegs as it glared forward, three eyes on each side of its elongated head. It looked like something out of a horror movie, especially with its mouth open like a lotus, three long pincers coming together over a row of razor-sharp teeth. You could barely see the skin of the human it used to be under the exoskeleton of its hard shell, just as grayed and veined as the other crab-guys only an evolved form. Was this the end stage? Two segment claws as long as my arm and knees facing the wrong way?

“I’m meant to be the cure to the monster Kessler saw in his visions, the Beast that will burn the world to the ground,” Bertrand affirmed to himself. “I’ve done it, and watched them be hunted like the vermin they are. I’ve built the Militia to help track them down. These Conduits are not human, and they won’t be when I’m done with them. We are in the end times, and I am one of the disciples God intends to help salvage the world.”

Brent and I stepped closer to the frosted glass, standing on either side to get a look at just how tall, how wide this thing was. It had blades that ran up its elbows like knives, one elbow nudge away from spearing through someone. “Let them devour New Marais like a swarm of locusts. Let them see the monsters that are hiding among the meek, and let me be their savior. Let me lead them away.”

As I was looking at the jaw ripped open with tendrils of tissue holding the bones together, a volt of electricity shot up my spine when I realized the thing was staring back at me, blinking ice off of its translucent eyelid. 

“Let them ravage the world and get rid of the sinners, and may God help those that fight against them.”

“Jean,” Brent warned when he saw the head of the creature, the ‘Ravager,’ snap sideways to look at him.

We both took a half step back as the Ravager’s elbows flexed and it stood straighter, looking down at us from behind the glass. The three pincers on its mouth flexed open so it could give off a garbled scream that even the thick glass couldn’t keep silent, making me flinch and move to cover my ears. Its limbs moved lazily as it awoke from whatever hibernation the frost had it in before its super thick and long claws slammed into the concrete ground, shattering it with each rake. 

It was trying to dig its way out. 

“Run,” Brent said as Dad’s voice yelled something from the lab. “Go, run!”

[almost-an-arsonist]

Is it weird that I feel like there's a cycle to my interests? I can't stay into something for SUPER long, but if I do then it has almost like a schedule to it...idk here's an overly long description...

The Four Phases:

Introduction: The fandom catches my interest, I begin reading/watching/etc. whatever the thing is. Normally I'm introduced by fanart or an eloquent post about how amazing it is. Sometimes I pick it up on my own, or another person tells me about it.

Canon Content: I enjoy reading/watching/etc. whatever the thing actually is, and I likely will watch a lot of analysis videos on it. This part is mostly made up of mostly canon and little to no fanfic/fanart consumption. I, however, am NECK DEEP in love with whatever it is, and will talk a lot about it, which is probably annoying to others :D

Fanfic/Fanart: Either the canon content stalls, goes stale, or stops completely, and I have to compensate with fanfiction. This phase is awesome. I love seeing all of the cool things that the fanbase creates. However, during this phase some of what I DO read/see/enjoy is slightly embarrassing, and its harder to get people into fanfiction about something that they may have never experienced. I can't rave about it to others as I do in phase two. That being said I am definitely not embarrassed about reading fanfic, just some of the specific fanfic that I read is weird :D

Stability: After a slight stall in overall interest post-fanfic phase, I then stabilize to 50% canon and 50% fanfic in terms of interest. I can be normal when talking about whatever the thing is. Most of the time. Normal, my good friend, is quite rare for me (if you can't tell), but this is about the most normal it gets. I am well balanced... but then the cycle repeats with a different fandom.

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

just got a comment on a fic i wrote four years ago that made me reread all the other fic i wrote for that pairing and remember how deep i dove into a specific album because all the lyrics of it reminded me of that pairing and how i very quickly lost the thread of my obsession with that pairing that made writing them fun but how i love them again just as much these days and want to rewatch them from the beginning and maybe if i return to that same music too i’ll unlock the ability once more to write the kind of fic for them which always made me very happy so i’m just saying you never know what effect your fic comments might have but you should tell fic writers how you feel if you love their work because it is always always always one of the best ways to encourage more of it

[malaquitedreams]

Im shocked, now we have discourse about how to enjoy fandom and stuff like fanart and fan fiction.

THIS IS MY SAND PIT AND I WILL DO WITH IT WHATEVER I WANT.

what merits are we using to judge this goddamn it.

All fandom content and creation is inherently transformative of the original work, since it is not put out by the original author, it is not canon.

And you’re going to tell me we can’t enjoy fandom if it is TOO transformative and doesn’t respect the source material and you need to deeply engage with the source material to what? Be valid? What?

It’s like telling someone the can’t go look at a painting of a city unless they have studied that city’s history, looked at multiple photographs to get familiar with how it looks and also visited the city, and on top of that the artist took liberties and played differently with the lights and shadows.

Because if you don’t do that, you can’t fully enjoy it, what?

Maybe I want to look at a pretty picture sometimes and that’s it.

Maybe I want to have some fun with these characters.

[akhuna]

Mostly office & work place fluff without plot, featuring the wolves looking out for Ciri. Office romances/slight angst to possibly arise in later chapters, although please note the relationship between Ciri and the lads will remain strictly platonic.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Okay, so I read this last night and I acutally stayed up for this - it is SO CUTE and well-written, and you’re gonna love it!

I certainly did - support the artist!

[cynicalmusings]

aaaa im so happy that people like my cyno art concept!!! my brain is doing a happy little tap dance!!! :')

to the anon who asked to use my art as a pfp : yes!! ofc!! just credit me by using @ghosti_blu as it is my twitter handle, otherwise go off!!

also i completely forgot about the wind chimes oh my LORDDDDDDD no wonder it felt off!! i added it vry quickly, but my next cyno concept piece will be a lot more refined then this lmao ;-; i also rendered his face a little more and cleaned up the edges ^^

also also, here's the very very rough sketch of the sorcerer!cyno design! i apologize for how messy but i hope you enjoy it <3

some more things about the rough design :

i originally wanted to give him more layers, but i kept it minimal as the belt + multiple layers underneath would look too busy

i wanted to use the handle of his signature polearm as a stick to hold his lantern, but i had so much trouble trying to find a way to add a strap that i just gave up LMAO

was unsure if i should keep the anubis eye necklace, but i kept it as it made the chest window feel less empty :)

i wanted to make his lantern feel more whimsical, but i just opted for a normal lantern to draw more focus on to his design

anyways uhh yeah that's it lmao ;-; sorry for the big word vomit, i like rambling about my thought process n stuff,,, thank you again for liking my art aaaaaaaaaaaaa :'00 that means the world to me <33

just… wow. again, i have no words to describe how awed i am by this. you just… you’re amazing. wow.

[avatarskywalker78]

It’s a (belated) Fic Back Friday - my first one in a while, and just a couple short fics for today. The first is Name the Stars by Gilari, a Buffy/Firefly crossover where Spike joins the Serentiy crew and nearly kills Mal before River steps in and assures the vampire that Mal isn’t Caleb. The second is Plus One Slayer by WinterD, a Buffy/Doctor Who AU where Buffy is the one to be transported to the TARDIS at the end of Doomsday, which somehow manages one of the strangest things that’s happened to her, and she just wants to kick the bad guy’s ass and get home - not looking likely when the only other person there is a very confused possibly-demon. Both stories mesh the worlds well, get the characters right, and work as complete mini stories where it’s up to the reader to imagine what could happen next.

[ibrithir-was-here]

✨️🩸Happy 100 Chapters to Blood of My Blood!! 🩸✨️

Link to the story in full as it stands at the moment :)

[number-0-iz]

I have gifs, I make memes, I make trailers, covers, posters and I love sharing about my ocs!

Do you ever read a fic so interesting you want behind the scenes lore, ten pinterest moodboards and one of those fancy .gif edits but none of that exists bc it's a fanfic?

[prinnamon]

as a subtitler im incredibly biased as i say this but. shoutout to forms of fan labor other than fanart and fanfiction. fanart and fanfiction are awesome, don't take this as a dig at those, but i have a big appreciation for fans who provide closed captioning/subtitles/translations of works out of love n passion; fans who recap and explain aspects of the original work; fucking SPEEDRUNNERS, holy shit, shoutout to speedrunners and challenge runners in video game communities. lots of things that fall outside the scope of what comes to mind when people think of fanart/fan labor are integral parts of a healthy fan ecosystem

[allylikethecat]

its deliciously awkward but oh my god i just want to lock them in a room and not let them out until they TALK

HEHE talking it through would be WAY too easy! We're adults here! We avoid difficult conversations! If you avoid the conversation you can't be let down and have your heart broken!! (It's obviously much better to break your own heart by NOT talking about it!! lol)

You might be onto something when it comes to locking them in a room and not letting them out until it's sorted though 👀

Thank you so much for not only reading but taking the time to send me this ask! I'm so grateful that people are taking time out of their busy days to interact with me on here and that y'all are so lovely and wonderful and supportive! Thank you so much again! I hope your Tuesday was wonderful and that you have a lovely rest of the week!

❤️Ally

[maelstroms-blog]

Part 3...i think

Thank you again to @tringstarruuu for drawing and giving me permission to write for their AU

Enjoy

Hob grunted as he sat up, followed by a swear and a sigh. Blearily, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, ignoring the rough texture of his face. It was just his nightmare, leaking into reality, but, when he looked down at his hand, it was wrinkled, sprouting with grey hairs. The nightmare was real. Hob covered his face, tracing the new grooves on his cheeks, balling his fists into his hair. In the pale morning light, his hair took on the colour of dandelion seeds, and that sent a jolt of pain into his heart.

He let out a watery sigh, trying to stop the heaving in his chest before it started. His old, weak chest, his every breath rattling. Flinging the blankets off, he swung out his legs, shivering as his bare feet touched the floor.

'That wizard,' he rasped, noting his changed voice, 'That damn, beautiful wizard.'

Surely, he would have the cure for this. Of course, that would mean travelling into the Waste-the very thought dampened his resolve. The Waste was a no man's land where the wickedest witches and wizards traversed. Cursing whoever and whatever they came across for fun, or fighting each other in some bid for new magic. No mortal dared to cross that land. Luckily, Hob had nothing else to lose. He would either end up lifting his curse, or dying. Win-win honestly. With a grunt and a worryingly creaking sound, he got up, looking out his window as he did.

The town was slowly waking up, bakers lighting up their fires, fishermen heading down to the pier, and over the bustling signs of life, his eye was drawn to the horizon, or, more accurately, the hulking mass of metal creeping over the landscape. The wizard Dream's castle.

Hours passed, and Hob was no closer to reaching that damn castle. Yes, the terrain was rough, craggy rocks dotted the non-existent path that an able-bodied person would struggle with. In Hob's current state, every step felt like it could be his last. He had to take more and more breaks, breaks that did nothing but fuel his irritation. The ache in his legs another nail in his coffin. It was his sixth break when he was seriously considering just staying there. keeping still until nature took over. The grass would spread to his extremities like a rash, roots would burrow into his flesh, maybe his skull could become a home to a family of birds. Eleanor would have liked that.

Before he could fall down that particular hole again, his fingers found something smooth. Polished wood. Hob turned, sticking out of a thorn bush was a stick. Dark, knobbled, with a shine that meant it was varnished. A cane, and it was a sturdy looking one.

'Are the fates finally smiling down on me?'

Wiping his hands on his shawl, he grabbed hold. It took an embarrassingly long time to free the stick, the tangle of thorns stronger than it looked. Then, with a sound like ripping fabric, the cane was finally free. Hob paused to take a breath, a breath he wasted on a cry of surprise.

A face was staring down at him, an eerie face. Black, triangle eyes with a crooked smile, carved on a big pumpkin, complete with a tattered suit and hat. Hob took another breath, trying to calm his racing heart, thumping against his tender chest. It was just a scarecrow. He released it, waiting for the inevitable clatter. It never came. Hob blinked and turned his head. The scarecrow, still standing upright, still stared him down with empty eyes. Hob blinked again, the thing didn’t even sway in the wind.

Suddenly, it turned on the spot, shoving its outstretched hand in his face. Hob jumped back, tripping over his own feet. This thing was bewitched, much like him. Someone obviously tried getting rid of the thing, and here comes Hob, dithering like an idiot, and frees the damn thing.

The fates had changed their minds.

Hob turned to run, not that he would get far, when something touched his shoulder. For some reason, Hob glanced back, not knowing what to expect. Hanging out of the scarecrow's sleeve was a stick, a proper stick. Hob just blinked, and it finally clicked.

'Are you-Are you giving me a stick?'

The scarecrow wobbled, its way of nodding,

'Oh.' Hob's cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

It was the perfect size for him. It took the strain off his knees, he almost felt like he could run, if it weren't for his back.

'Thank you,' Hob smiled, dropping it when he saw the scarecrow without an arm. Its empty sleeve flapped in the wind, its big, orange face staring down in silence. Before, he would have felt a twinge of sadness for the thing, instead, he felt nothing.

'Thanks again,' he clutched his shawl tighter, 'A place to stay would be more useful, though.' His tone was sharper than he meant, and the scarecrow turned its back, almost hitting Hob's face with its sleeve. The tapping of the stick gradually faded, leaving Hob alone once again, nothing but the wind and his thoughts for company.

'Well,' he sighed, 'That killed a few minutes.'

Now, back to the arduous task at hand, his knee was already protesting again. As he took the first step, the chill of a sudden fog crept in. Its cold fingers trailing down his neck. The dank, grey fog crawled down the hill like some lumbering beast, blocking his view of the horizon. Hob pushed through his groaning knees, lost in his thoughts a sound broke through. He thought it was his heart pounding in his ears, struggling with the extra strain. No, this was more wooden.

Hopping back into view was the scarecrow, trails of fog clung to him like cigarette smoke. Hob dropped the stick in shock, not at the sight of the pumpkin head, but at the huge machine behind him. Dream's moving castle, and it looked rough.

From where he stood, he heard the groaning creaks, just like his knees. The castle, though Hob was loathe to call it that anymore, was a wreck, there was no other way of putting it. Red rust covered the thing like moss, uneven patches were stuck to the metal, and the windows, what few there were, were cracked. Hob was embarrassed to even look at it. How the hell could this be a castle? If this was his only hope for a cure, he better get used to having a bent back. He shot a glare at the pumpkin headed scarecrow, even though it was only trying to help.

Still, even though he didn’t like it, it was here now. He staggered towards the would-be castle, pain stabbing his chest as he hurried. He huffed and puffed, the scarecrow hopping just a bit in front, goading him on. Hob would've cursed if he had the breath to spare. He reached out, straining to grab the rail. His fingers brushed against cold metal, stretching until his shoulder popped, and he had it. Almost dragging himself down in the process. He was on the steps with a terribly awkward hop, clutching onto the sought after rail. He waited to get his breath back before turning around,

'Come on, Pumpkinhead! Hop like your life depends on it!'

The scarecrow was in hopping distance, Hob reached out for him, but a bang came from above them. A torrent of black smoke spilled into the air, and the machine picked up speed. Hob had to grip the railing with both hands. The tapping faded; Hob looked up just in time to see Pumpkinhead swallowed up by the fog. He tried not to feel sad; it was just a scarecrow he told himself, and yet, he stood there, waiting for it to appear again.

With that over, Hob turned back to the little door, its awkward shape forcing him to duck his head. The handle clunked as he turned it, the hinges loudly resisting as it opened. Despite that, it snapped shut behind him, like he was an animal in a trap. Hob shivered, ears ringing from the abrupt silence. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, a spark drew his attention, the hearth came to life. The sudden light burning his eyes. The first thing he noticed were the books, piles upon piles of heavy tomes surrounded him. The dusty smell of paper making his nose wrinkle. Then, he found a chair, and nothing else mattered.

He fell into the chair, letting out an almost sinful moan. His knees and back cried out in relief. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back, the warmth enveloping him like a blanket. He didn’t even bother removing his shawl. He could feel slumber calling to him, the promise of a dreamless sleepHe could feel slumber calling to him, the promise of a dreamless sleep enticing him. He could hear its voice clearly, a chirping male voice,

'HEY!'

Hob started, wincing at the sudden movement. He blinked, finding himself staring into a face, coming out of the flames, no, it was made of flames. The flickering flames were like puffed up feathers, two burning coals peered into his soul like eyes, its golden beak making it look like a crow. Hob blinked again, yawning,

'Um…hello? Are you a crow?'

The fire crow blazed brighter, its beak clicking in annoyance,

'What's it look like?'

'…You look like a crow, a burning one.'

The fire crow huffed, light dimming.

'I'm not supposed to open the door to strays,' his eyes were the definition of a burning glare.

Hob, too tired and sore to argue, just sighed, 'Throw me out then,' he settled further in his chair, 'If you can.'

'I would if I could,' the flames swirled, sending out a wave of ash from the hearth, 'As you can see, I'm cursed, much like you.'

The words broke through the fog in Hob's brain, 'You know I'm-,' his jaw clicked shut before he could utter the word, Hob frowned, straining to unhinge his jaw. Luckily, the fire understood.

'Hard not to,' the fire crow tutted, he got brighter, leaning in close to look at him. Hob squinted at his light.

'And, brother, you got a bad one,' he hummed, the sound making an ember spark, 'Almost as bad as mine.'

With another crack, the fire crow was inches from Hob's face,

'Perhaps we can make a deal?'

Hob brought a hand up to his face, as if that would shield him from the heat,

'What?'

'A deal,' the grin obvious in his voice, 'You help me, and I help you,'

Hob scoffed, 'I may be old, but I'm not stupid,' he breathed out, watching the flames shy away,

'The one rule around these parts is never to make deals with demons,' Hob leaned forward, exhaling deeply. The fire crow cringed,

'And that's what you are, isn’t it?'

The flames flickered sullenly, '…It's not all I am.'

Hob sat back, shaking his head, amused, 'Right…'

'No, really, I know I'm a demon, but I'm cursed just like you,'

Hob sighed, rubbing a hand over his wrinkled face,

'Even if that's true, how am I meant to help? Look at me, I'm no use to you.' The words didn’t hurt as much as they once did. The old adage was true, Time heals all wounds.

'Why doesn’t the wizard Dream help you?'

The fire crow blazed, turning white hot, and hissing,

'You think I haven’t thought of that?! He's cursed too!'

That made Hob stop. He assumed Dream had trapped the fire demon. He thought he was so powerful that curses would bounce from him like water off a duck's back. But no, like a plague outbreak, each of them was infected with a curse. Just like that, what little hope Hob had was snuffed out, like a hearth doused in water. Something bubbled up inside him, an emotion, not the familiar bitter tang of grief, or metallic taste of rage, this was something else. A sound slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, followed by another, and another. Laughter. It had been so long he forgot the sound. It wrenched its way out of his throat, painful yet freeing. His only shot at returning to normal, and it was gone. He laughed louder. Leaning forward from the force, hurting his sides. Glancing at the fire, tilting his head like the bird he resembled.

'You alright?'

The question sent him into another fit, he flapped tiny flames in alarm.

'Alright? Alright!' He slapped his thighs, grinning at the demon,

'I'm screwed!' He chuckled, fresh tears springing to his eyes. He didn’t know what kind.

'Now, Mr fire/crow-whatever you are, if we're done here, I'm going to sleep and try to dream of happier times,' he waved his hand, 'Try to keep your flickering down.'

The fire grumbled, 'My name is Matthew…'

'Ok.' Hob sleepily shrugged. With that, he closed his eyes, and dreamed of nothing. Of course. Thank you, fates.

Thank you for reading, hope u enjoyed

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Dreamling as Howl’s moving castle AU