#The menacing sickly posture

[hwasoup]

Tale As Old As Time

@kit-and-wolfe drew this for me in the server so, now imma use it :') Omg hi guys, Ik its been a while since I last updated but it's mainly bc I'm not ready to say goodbye to this series yet TT there's about 2 chapters left guysss so I hope you guys understand how much I'm edging it. Anywho the chapter is finally here !! I hope you enjoy !!

warnings: fearmongering, manipulation words: 1.8k

ch.6 | next

Chapter 7: The Mob

The days have passed since y/n traveled back to the village

Eddie was simply lounging around nearby Y/N’s home, as per Ben’s instruction from a couple of days ago to alert him if Y/N was home. He was just sitting by a bush minding his own business until he looked up and saw in the distance, a woman riding on a horse as fast as the animal could take her. He squinted a bit and realized it was Y/N. Immediately he got up and ran to where Ben was located, obviously in his tavern. 

Eventually after a bit of running, he manages to catch Ben before he leaves on a hunt. Gasping for air, he holds onto the cuff of his sweater. “She’s…. She’s back…” Ben stops in his tracks and smirks to himself “well then…. it's time to initiate the plan…” On the other hand, back at the humble inventor’s cottage. Y/N swiftly made her way back home and immediately into her father’s room. She looked at him and gasped at how sickly he looked. His eyes looked sunken, and it was clear that he hasn’t exactly been able to take a bite of food in a couple of hours. Y/N quickly walked to his bedside and grabbed the nearest towel and dunked it in some cool water that was in a bucket in the corner of his room. She wrings it out and proceeds to approach him and wipe his face, hoping that his fever would subside a bit. Mauricio’s eyes slightly flutter at the feeling of cool water drying on his face, he looks up groggily and mumbled “Mija?” Y/N’s heart melted, and she whispered “shhh, no te preocupes…I’m home.”

Mauricio took a minute to process her words. His eyes widened when he fully registered that his precious daughter was sitting right before him. He immediately adjusts his posture and tries to sit up to the best of his ability "…. I thought I would never see you again...” Mauricio immediately leans in for a hug. Y/N happily returns it to him and rests her chin on his shoulder “I missed you so much…” Mauricio tightened his hug with his daughter until he remembered a specific detail... “But…but the beast. How…how did you even escape!”

“Papa, I didn’t escape…he let me go..” She says fondly. Mauricio looked at her shocked “what? The Beast did ??” Y/N unknowingly smiles fondly at the thought of the man… “yes…Miguel let me go...” Mauricio raised some eyebrows “MIGU-” he started furiously coughing. Y/N patted his back to help him ease his lungs from all of his coughing. His voice was strained from his coughs, and he cleared his voice a bit. “That…ese monstruo ?”  Y/N immediately shook her head “not a monster…he’s different…he’s quirky, silly, and incredibly gentle..he’s…. he’s changed…” She bites her lip and looks up at her father until she hears a knock on the door. “I’ll be back papa.” She stands up from sitting on the edge of the bed and goes to attend the door. A man stood at the door with a menacing grin “erm…con que te puedo ayudar..” she says hesitantly. “Vine a recoger a tu padre” he says with an eerie voice. “Wait…my papa ??” she says in surprise. Y/N stands there looking at the man with confusion in her eyes, as well as worry as she hopes that her father didn’t do anything to further tarnish the broken reputation he has in the village.

“Don’t worry senorita..we’ll take care of him” the man says as he moves from her sight and shows her a locked wooden carriage, on the side saying Psiquiátrico de alocado. Surrounding the carriage, she noticed the villagers all surrounding it, with torches and pitchforks ready to use them as weapons if it comes to that point. Y/N immediately registered what was happening and immediately protected her father “MI PAPA NO ES UN LOCO” she said with fierceness in her voice. She was pushed aside by two villagers who barged into her home and forcibly dragged-out Mauricio and threw him inside the carriage. Y/N got up immediately and tried her best to try and get him out, but all she could do was just be pushed away. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes as everything suddenly started to look hopeless. “Poor Y/N…it really is a shame about your father...” “Ben!” Y/N looked at him desperately as she held onto the hem of his shirt “please, you know he’s not crazy” Ben hummed as he played faux innocence “but you see Y/N your father… he’s been making absurd claims, but….I am able to…well clear up this small misunderstanding…if…” Y/N looks up at him desperately “If what!” Ben chuckles and grabs her by the waist making her body be pushed against his. “If you marry me” he says with a grin. Ben leans down and tries to sniff her soft hair “one small word Y/N that’s all it takes…” Anger bubbled in Y/N’s body, and she pushes him away, her nonverbal actions speaking in volumes as to her response to his manipulation tactic. Ben scowls at her and gruffly says “Have it your way then...” and he walks away to the crowd until Y/N yells “WAIT” 

“WHAT CLAIMS WAS MY FATHER EVEN MAKING” she yelled out. Ben turned to her and chuckled “oh…why about a Beast..” Y/N in that moment remembered she had the magic mirror in the pocket of her apron and she pulls it out “PLEASE ITS TRUE… I HAVE PROOF.” She looks down at the mirror and softly spoke to it  “Show me The Beast”

The mirror glowed a green color and rose into the air, a bright flashing light arose and projected an image on its reflective glass surface and revealed Miguel and his beastly appearance. Every villager, including Ben gasped at his ghastly sight. Even Eddie stepped back a bit after seeing it

In awe Ben ripped the mirror out of the air and approached the villagers “look at this sorcery, look at this BEAST!” He turned the mirror around to show the villagers “LOOK AT HIS FANGS, HIS CLAWS!”

Y/N’s heart broke at how people saw him and tried her best to defend him “No..please…don't be afraid…He’s gentle…and kind” Murmurs were heard throughout the crowd…but Ben…he was appalled…the woman he desired so much to be his wife…was calling the Beast KIND….words that she had never said to him. He turns to her in anger, anger that the Beast has clearly won her affections and in an accusatory tone pointed at her 

“The monster has her under his spell…. IF I DIDN'T”T KNOW BETTER I CAN SAY SHE CARES FOR HIM” “HE'S NOT A MONSTER BEN…YOU ARE” Ben’s face grimaced, but he had to mask it in front of the villagers “I’ve heard of the effects of Dark Magic, but never like this…” Ben decided on what to do. “THIS IS A THREAT TO THE BANE OF OUR EXISTENCE” The villagers cheered in agreement as they truly believed that Y/N was under a spell and that she is now a danger.  “WE CAN'T HAVE HER WARNING THE CREATURE, LOCK HER UP TOO !”

Y/N’s heart shattered as she was immediately grabbed by the arms of Ben, the man of the carriage opened the doors and allowed Ben to throw her inside the wooden box alongside her father as well and closed the doors of it as well. His face was filled with fury, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Eddie.. “Ben… with all due respect but-”

“SHUT IT OR YOU'LL BE WITH THEM TOO, AND FETCH MY HORSE”

Eddie’s voice reduced to a whimper and he looked down…He knew this was wrong…what was originally a menacing plan had now become just pure cruelty. He knew he couldn’t fight against an angry Ben so he stayed silent and left to do what he was instructed.

Ben then proceeded to initiate a riot with the villagers, to prepare to fight, to encourage them to kill the Beast. Each villager went into their homes and brought out muskets, pitchforks, knives, torches, anything that could be used as a weapon. After what seemed minutes, Ben led a mob of angry villagers and used the magic mirror to find where the castle was located and led them out and directly into the woods.

______________________________________________________________ Inside the carriage however Y/N was huddled beside her father as she tried to check on his health despite the severe conditions they were in. Y/N was scared for Miguel…she wanted to warn him desperately, but she also needed to watch her father. She thought long and hard until she decided that she needed to warn Miguel.

“Papa…I need to warn him..” Mauricio looked up at her and coughed “Ay Mija..but…I- I’m scared for you…It will be dangerous” Y/N crouched beside him and nodded “yes…it will be..but, he did everything for me…he even gifted me his library..” Mauricio’s eyes widened “a library ? How many books are there ?” Y/N chuckled “more than what this village can even hold, Papa..trust me…he saved me from the wolves and now..I must repay him..” Mauricio looked into her eyes and saw a look that he had never seen in his precious daughter’s eyes. He used to have that look when he was younger and when his wife was alive. He then smiled softly knowing that well…his daughter is all grown up now, even if she hasn’t realized it herself. “If it what your heart desires…then…I could try and pick the lock” Y/N smiled as she listened to her father ramble “After all, it's only just gears and springs” he reached his hand outside the bars of the carriage to get a hold of the lock. “ But..I would need something..” he turns to look at her “shar…p” Y/N was already holding a hair pin on the palm of her hand. Mauricio chuckled and took it into his hands “perfect” He then placed his hands back out of the bars and took a hold of the lock again and used the pin to start picking at it. He eventually finally opened the lock and pushed the doors of the carriage open, quickly getting himself out as well as y/n. He turned to her and ran with her to the stables and whispered to her “take Felipe as well as this coat and go warn your friend” Y/N nodded and whispered a small thank you to him as she quickly packed everything and immediately got on Felipe and rode on him, holding onto the reins as she prayed that the trusty steed would gallop as quickly as possible to the castle.

Maurico watched as she disappeared back into the forest and smiled softly, reiterating the thoughts he had before…

 his daughter was in love…even if she hasn’t realized or admitted it yet.

taglist:

@cupcakeinat0r , @miguelhugger2099, @mcmiracles,@xxsugarbonesxx,@codenameredkrystalmatrix,@deputy-videogamer,@lxverrings,@miguelzslvtz,@itsameclinicaldepression,,@ricekrisbris,@loser-alert , @thedevax, @uncle-eggy, @m4dyy, @freehentai, @synamonthy, @razertail18, @s0lm1n,

@badbishsblog, @faimmm, @keendreamknight, @texanadmirer, @stargirrls, @itzsab,@delectableworm,@jadeloverxd @pinkmistart, kishimiest,

[heavenboundhotel]

✨SIR PENTINE✨

Name: Elias Pendleton

Species/Origin: Sinner, Snake Demon

Gender/Pronouns: Male - later questioning, He/Him (?)

Sexuality: Unlabeled (Later pansexual, he just doesn't know the actual term)

Year of Birth: 1847

Year of Death: 1888

Appearance:

Personality:

Eccentric, theatrical, and hopelessly unlucky, Sir Pentine is the very picture of a wannabe villain whose bark is far worse than his bite. A snake demon with grandiose dreams of becoming an overlord, Pentine styles himself as an evil genius with cutting-edge inventions, devastating wit, and a fearsome presence—none of which he actually possesses. His mechanical arms, crafted to project power and menace, are prone to spectacular malfunctions, undermining his carefully curated image at every turn.

Despite his villainous posturing, Sir Pentine is deeply anxious, self-conscious, and avoidant in personal matters. His attempts at wordplay and intimidation are laughable, and he crumbles under confrontation, more likely to stammer out apologies than follow through on threats. He desperately wants recognition and respect, believing that climbing Hell’s power ladder will validate his existence and silence his nagging insecurities.

However, Pentine’s soft-hearted nature and inability to truly harm others keep him from succeeding in Hell’s ruthless hierarchy. He overestimates his abilities, underestimates others, and stumbles through schemes with sheer dumb luck as his saving grace. Though he externalizes his insecurities by playing the role of “evil incarnate,” deep down, he’s more kindhearted and moral than he’d like to admit.

Pentine’s over-the-top antics and comedic failures make him a laughingstock in Hell, though he remains oblivious to how little others take him seriously. Still, his persistence—and occasional flashes of ingenuity—suggest that beneath the bluster and insecurities, there might be more to Sir Pentine than meets the eye. Whether he’ll ever realize that himself is another matter entirely.

Backstory:

Born in 1847 in Victorian England, Elias Pendleton came into the world frail and sickly, confined by illness to the indoors for much of his childhood. While other children ran and played, Elias buried himself in books, immersing himself in tales of scientific marvels, alchemical miracles, and fantastical inventions. These stories sparked an imagination unbound by practicality. He dreamed of building machines that could change the world, though he never quite grasped the line between fantasy and reality.

Elias’s parents, well-meaning but strict, unintentionally planted the seeds of his lifelong insecurities. They viewed his fragility as a flaw and his eccentricities as embarrassing, chastising him for his "silliness" whenever he tried to share his lofty ideas. Feeling inherently “bad” or “broken,” Elias internalized their disapproval and began using his tinkering as a way to prove his worth—not only to them but to himself.

As he grew older, Elias’s ambitions outpaced his abilities. He constructed bizarre contraptions that rarely, if ever, worked. Undeterred, he turned to another booming industry of the era: snake oil sales. Drawn in by promises of wealth and recognition, Elias began selling miracle “elixirs” alongside his increasingly impractical inventions. Though his intentions were never malicious, most of his creations were utterly useless, and some caused genuine harm. When customers fell ill or claimed injury, Elias was wracked with guilt but lacked the courage to admit his failures.

Word of his mishaps spread, forcing Elias to flee town after town. Isolated and ashamed, he became a recluse, holed up in small, dingy apartments, where he continued to tinker and dream of success. Despite countless setbacks, he clung to the hope that his next invention would finally redeem him. But Elias never found the breakthrough he sought.

In 1888, at the age of 41, Elias met his untimely end in a freak accident of his own making—an experimental boiler he’d been testing exploded, taking him with it. His death was as chaotic and absurd as his life, and he awoke in Hell with a newfound sense of purpose. Surely, he thought, if he was condemned here, it must mean he truly was a terrible person all along.

Eager to embrace his “true nature,” in order to push away the deep pit of self-loathing thar came with it, Elias transformed himself into “Sir Pentine,” a self-styled evil genius. He crafted a pair of massive mechanical arms—compensating for his lack of limbs in his demonic form—and filled his lair with egg-shaped robotic henchmen of dubious utility. Taking cues from the overlords he idolized, Elias adopted an over-the-top persona, complete with dramatic monologues and theatrical schemes.

Yet even in Hell, Sir Pentine struggles. His inventions fail spectacularly, his plans backfire, and his reputation as a bumbling nuisance overshadows his dreams of grandeur. While he convinces himself he wanted power, he lacks the ruthlessness to pursue it. Deep down, Elias remains the same anxious, soft-hearted tinkerer he was in life, using his cartoonish villainy as a mask to hide his insecurities.

Despite his many failures, Sir Pentine clings stubbornly to his ambitions. Whether out of desperation, delusion, or sheer determination, he refuses to give up, convinced that one day he’ll finally prove his worth.

[thefrenchydude]

Could we have a character sheet for Macaque and Wukong, and for the other characters in the visual novel, please?

Oki doki (sorry for the time it took me to anwser it ;-;)

Name: Sun Wukong

Age: ??? (physical appearance: 27)

Place: Flower Fruit Mountain

Status: Demon King

Physical description:

Sun Wukong has a sleek, athletic appearance, with supple, powerful muscles. His sparkling eyes reflect a sharp intelligence mixed with a glint of madness. His golden skin seems to emit a glow of its own. His smile is often teasing, but behind this facade lies a deep intensity.

Personality:

With an oversized ego and an impulsive temperament, Sun Wukong is as charismatic as he is dangerous. His self-confidence borders on arrogance, and he'll stop at nothing to achieve his goals. Beneath his mischievous exterior lies an obsessive possessiveness and a sickly jealousy. He'll do anything to protect what he considers his, even if it means resorting to extreme methods (unless it hurts his beloved Peach).

Abilities:

As Monkey King, Sun Wukong is a master of the martial arts, able to fight with superhuman agility and power. He is also a master of the mystic arts, including metamorphosis, teleportation and the manipulation of natural elements. He can also duplicate himself and use his hair to create things like objects or food. His magic staff, the Ruyi Jingu Bang, is a formidable weapon capable of changing size at will.

Relationship:

Sun Wukong is deeply obsessed by his love for his Reader. His relationship with Reader is intense, oscillating between all-consuming passion and overwhelming possessiveness.

Motivation:

Sun Wukong's main motivation is to protect and conquer Reader at all costs. Nothing can stop him in his quest to obtain the absolute love of the person he desires, even if it means destroying everything in his path.

Special note:

Due to his yandere nature, Sun Wukong is extremely dangerous to anyone who comes between him and his Peach. His actions are often unpredictable and violent. Better not get close to Reader.

Macaque

Name: Liu'er Mihou

Age: ??? (physical appearance: 27)

Place: Flower Fruit Mountain

Status : Demon king

Physical description:

Liu'er Mihou is a demon physically quite similar to Wukong. He has silky black fur that glistens in the sunlight, and he takes good care of it. He has three ears on both sides of his face -6 in all-. His charming smile can go from warm to menacing in an instant, revealing his sharp, pointed teeth. His posture is always elegant, accentuating his aura of mystery and danger.

Personality:

Liu'er Mihou is closed and calculating towards anyone other than Reader and Wukong. Once he's with Reader, things change and he becomes a lamb who loves the touch of his love. His jealousy is fierce, and he's ready to get rid of anyone who come between him and Reader.

Abilities:

Liu'er Mihou possesses demonic agility and strength, as well as exceptional intelligence.

He excels in the art of combat and manipulation, and can use his charm to get what he wants from Reader. He can also blend into his natural environment and move with silent grace. His acute sense of hearing and smell enable him to track any prey with frightening precision. He can also manipulate shadows to: control someone's movements, duplicate himself, open portals or plunge places into a kind of shadow dimension…

Relationships:

Liu'er Mihou is deeply obsessed with Reader, whom he considers the love of his life. He can't stand the idea of anyone else getting close to his Reader, and is ready to eliminate any perceived threat. His relationship with Reader oscillates between tenderness and ardent desire, not hesitating to tease his love. And he's ready to use any means necessary to make sure Reader is his forever.

Motivation:

Liu'er Mihou's main motivation is to keep his love safe and close at all costs. He's willing to sacrifice everything to ensure that no one else can get close to him -unless it's Wukong, both are cool with the sharing part, even if it wasn't easy at first-. His obsession is fueled by an insatiable desire for more of Reader.

Special note:

Due to his yandere nature, Liu'er Mihou is extremely dangerous to anyone who comes between him and his Reader.

For the rest I will write it later, I have other ask to anwser. I know I'm very slow to do it, but I will so no worry.

[moonsharky]

eddie unscripted

read from the begnning

rating: teen | current full word count: 36,119 | chapter 3 word count: 13,118

level one: hall of mirrors

The rusty metal entrance gate groans as it sways in the chilling breeze, each creak a whisper of long-forgotten revelry and sorrow, now tinged with an eerie foreboding that Eddie really does not like. The distorted strains of carnival music float through the air, their once-jovial notes now twisted into a haunting symphony that sends shivers through the body. Atop the decrepit gate sits a grotesque monument to faded joy: a massive fibreglass clown head, its paint peeling and colours faded to a sickly pallor. The clown's once-bright eyes now bore a macabre alteration; one socket is a hollow void, dark and menacing, while the other is smeared with what appears to be dried blood, hinting at unspeakable horrors. Its grin, wide and fixed, has transformed from a symbol of mirth into a chilling leer, frozen in eternal, mocking laughter. The grotesque effigy looms over the desolate fairgrounds, casting a dark shadow that mingles with the unsettling melody, amplifying the sense of dread that hangs heavy in the air.

"Ugh," groans Eddie, rubbing a weary hand over his face, the exhaustion clear in his voice and posture.

Buck turns to him, concern etching lines into his forehead as he studies Eddie's expression. "You okay?" he asks softly, his eyes filled with genuine worry.

"Mmm, I just..." Eddie starts, his voice trailing off as he looks up at the ominous gate one more time. The sight of the horrifying clown head perched above sends a sickening shudder through him, and he grimaces. "I just hate clowns."

"Ah. Coulrophobia," Buck murmurs, understanding dawning in his eyes.

"I can usually pretend it doesn't exist, but..." Taking a careful glance over to the clown head once more, Eddie shivers.

"This one's extra creepy."

"Yeah."

"It's fine, I have lutraphobia."

Eddie gives him a puzzled look.

"Fear of otters," Buck explains. "It's silly, I know. But they have creepy little hands."

It's hard for Eddie not to laugh, but somehow he manages, biting at his cheeks. Though, he can't help the smile that weasels its way in.

continue on ao3

[monstersplaybook]

What These Wings Mean - Part 2 of 4

The Creator

CW: violence, murder, references to child abuse

A knock came in the dead of night, soft but deliberate. It was just loud enough that Kira couldn’t write it off as another distant clap of thunder and keep pretending to sleep. Instead, she peeled her thin, cotton blanket off her and shivered as she edged towards the door. Cracking it open, she saw a woman with lifeless eyes and sallow skin waiting for her. The Staff had arrived as Donovan promised.

“Come,” the woman said, beckoning Kira to follow. “You are summoned.” Kira swallowed, ignoring the goosebumps that crept up her arms whenever she spoke to The Staff. Between her sickly appearance and the lame, paisley bandana she wore around her head, the woman’s age was impossible to determine. She might be 20 or 60, and that disparity was… unsettling.

“Where are we going?” Kira asked, her voice faint. The woman blinked once, ignoring her question entirely, and retreated into the dark hallway. Kira drew in a shaky breath and followed. Another figure was waiting outside her door, this one tall and perilously thin. She let out a small sigh of relief.

“You’re here,” Kira whispered to Donovan before she could stop herself. His back was to her, his leathery wings drawn around him like a fine cloak. She paused, waiting for a response. But he kept his eyes fixated on the hallway before him, not even sparing a word or furtive glance her way. “I didn’t – I didn’t know if you would be.”

He said nothing, and instead straightened his posture as the sickly-looking woman began to lead them to their destination. Kira stayed a few paces behind him, watching his wing-cloak drag gently on the ground. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his practiced, regal walk was somehow more stiff and precise than usual. Her stomach churned at the realization of how significant this night must be if Donovan was acting… well, even more like a pompous ass.

Eventually, the hallways lined with headache-inducing fluorescents gave way to a narrow corridor lit with flames. Despite the warmth, an icy chill traveled down Kira’s spine as their bodies cast menacing shadows against the wall. She stared at her own shadow following her and thought of Anna. They hadn’t spoken since their argument, but she could still hear Anna’s words echoing in her head. Do you even know what these people are gonna ask you to do? How EXACTLY do you think the Creator wants you to prove your devotion to him?

Kira had pushed that question aside all day, but she couldn’t ignore it any longer. The strange woman stopped outside an aged, iron door and pulled on the large handle. The door swung open, its rusty hinges groaning as if to beckon Kira and Donovan into the dank, concrete room. Steeling herself, Kira heaved a deep breath and followed Donovan inside. She looked towards the center of the room, and for a few, miserable seconds her heart stopped beating.

Kneeling in the middle of the room were three individuals, hands bound behind their backs and eyes covered with a strip of exquisite, purple silk. Two men and one woman, all muttering under their breaths and pleading for their lives. Or in the case of the woman – praying. Kira tore her eyes away, her stomach twisted at the sight. The sickly Staff member who had led them here backed out of the room without a word. If it weren’t for the fear holding her captive, Kira might have done the same.

Donovan finally turned to face Kira and held out the handle of a narrow, elegant dagger to her. Kira met his steady gaze as he patiently waited for her to grab the handle. She eyed the ancient-looking stiletto dagger, noting the curious symbol engraved into the pommel. It reminded her of a baseball plate, but tilted on its side and pointing to the right with a line down the middle. Her eyes flicked back to Donovan as she grasped the dagger from his hand.

He offered one small nod of approval and gestured towards the kneeling captives in the center of the room. “I will introduce you to our guests, and you will choose who you will send to the Creator, through the avenue of your soul.”

Kira looked over the blade, as the answers to Anna’s questions suddenly came into sharp focus. This was how she would prove her devotion to the Creator. This was her final test. Kira shivered and clutched the dagger ever tighter to steady her hand. Clearing her throat, she met Donovan’s gaze as she asked, “Who are they?”

Donovan clasped his hands behind his back and paced towards the captives in the center of the room. He stopped behind the first, a portly man, perhaps in his sixties with a bushy beard. “This is a man whose power stretched as far as he could see. Those he wished to live, lived well. Those he wished to die, died horribly.”

The older man muttered something under his breath. Donovan cocked his head to the side, as if amused, and continued, “From all around, wealth flowed to him. And it fueled his passions – dark and twisted. He earned madness, he spent madness. He sowed violence, and he reaped violence.” Donovan met Kira’s eyes, “The world will not weep for him.” The portly man let out a low whimper at these words, as the last of his stoicism withered away.

Donovan stepped to the second man, this one much younger, perhaps only ten years older than Kira was. He was visibly trembling where he knelt, his blindfolded face flinching at even the slightest sound. Donovan inclined his head to the younger man, “This one has killed but once. A brutal murder, and one without provocation. Left to his own devices, he will likely kill again.” The young man shook his head vigorously, as if denying every word Donovan spoke.

“And yet…” Donovan continued, with a grimace. “There is hope that this encounter might change his ways. He may yet be ‘saved’.” The young man’s breathing quickened as Donovan paused for a moment before stepping to the last victim. She was an Asian woman, perhaps in her fifties, with strands of long black hair falling out of her tight bun. Donovan stepped behind the woman, whose muttered prayers grew so quiet that Kira worried even her God wouldn’t hear them.

“And she,” Donovan began, bowing his head towards the woman. “She has lived a life of proud quietness. A child in France who calls each month, to whom she sends a portion of her meager paycheck to care for grandchildren she hopes one day to meet.” Kira felt another wave of nausea as a small sob escaped from the woman’s lips. She looked away to find Donovan staring at her intently, “A yawning chasm this one would leave.”

With introductions out of the way, Donovan walked directly for Kira, his hazel eyes never wavering from her face. She inhaled sharply as he passed by her, realizing that he was going to leave her here to choose – alone. But then, she heard him behind her. His voice was soft, as if speaking secretly, “Remember from where we draw our power, my blade.”

Kira inhaled, drawing strength from Donovan’s words, and squeezed the dagger tight in her hand. She heard footsteps and the heavy thud of the large, iron door closing. It was time to choose. She turned her attention to the three hostages in the center of the room and tried to ignore the mounting pain in her chest. She called out to them, her voice faint but surprisingly level, “Do you deserve to live?” 

Each of the hostages replied desperately, “Yes.” Kira sighed, shaking her head. Of course, they’d all say that. Setting her mouth into a grim line she started to mirror Donovan’s movements from before and paced behind the hostages.

Sensing her presence, the older, portly man straightened his posture and called out in her direction. “Imagine all the wealth I’ve amassed. I can turn my life around. Just think of all the good I can do now.”

Kira chewed on her lip, drawing blood to bite back the curse that nearly sprung from her lips. How was she supposed to choose? He was the worst – wasn’t he? She should just end it now and get it over with. She looked down at his thick neck. All it would take is just one quick motion…

“Kira,” a familiar voice called out to her, as if in warning. She looked down to find Anna's reflection staring at her warily from the glint of the dagger. They locked eyes and Kira let out a shuddering breath as a tear fell unbidden from her eyes. Anna shook her head slowly. “You don’t have to do this.”

Kira looked at the victims before her, and back at Anna. Of course, she would show up now. She thought of the Staff waiting for her outside and wondered dimly where they stowed their blades, and how many she might get past before... She shook her head and wiped a stray tear away angrily—there was no turning back. She nudged the younger man with the sole of her boot, “And you?”

The young man flinched pitifully. “He– he’s right. I have things I want to do. Things I might do. But now? What if I don’t do them?” He turned his head in the direction he believed Kira was standing, missing her by about five feet. He continued to implore her, “I– I could find people like me! Stop them from doing what I won’t do!”

Kira sighed and looked up at the concrete ceiling. Faced with the prospect of death and suddenly everyone was a saint, resolved to mete out justice and live a life of virtue. Were they just words – a desperate story told to prolong their life for a few more minutes? If so, they told it well. She looked at the Asian woman, who was sobbing silently to herself. Kira wondered what she might say. Would she tell lies too?

“Not so easy is it?” Anna asked, her reflection looming in the blade. Kira stared at her, hating that she could read her so plainly. “Now that we’ve come to it… you can’t choose, can you?”

Kira huffed, not wanting to take in any of her words. She stared at the dagger's pommel, the victims before her, anywhere but Anna’s face. Kira let out a long, low breath. “I have to do this.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Anna proclaimed so suddenly and confidently that Kira almost believed it. “Fuck these guys. We can leave right now, and –”

“—And what, Anna?” Kira looked up at her, her eyes misting. She gestured to the blindfolded individuals before her with the dagger to illustrate. “There’s nowhere for us to go.” She swallowed the lump in her throat at the desperate look settling into Anna’s features. Kira stepped behind the Asian woman, who was shaking where she knelt. She called out to her, “And you?”

The woman sniffled a few times and took in a few steadying breaths to make her plea. “I have people relying on me. Who I love. Who love me. Who I’ve promised to love forever.” The woman’s voice broke at this last statement. Kira focused on her breathing to keep from throwing up.

“Kira— YOU don’t have to do this.” A strong, reassuring presence that Kira knew was Anna's wrapped itself around Kira's hand, as if asking for control. Kira met Anna’s eyes, and felt all the air escape from her lungs as she realized what she meant. “I can do it for you.”

There was nothing but sincerity in her eyes, nothing but love. Anna was her protector, through and through. Kira looked away from Anna, down at the woman kneeling before her. She felt a pain at the base of her spine as a hazy memory broke through the fortress built to keep her safe. She looked at the woman and saw herself as a child, curled up in a ball on a bathroom floor with purple welts scattered all along her back. She had trembled like the woman before her… weak, defenseless, scared.

The Asian woman let out another shaky breath, “Please.” Kira stared at her, suddenly acutely aware of the dull ache in her spine and the memories she pretended didn’t exist. “Please… just let me keep my promise a few more years.”  

Kira felt something snap, “Promises?” The woman nodded as tears fell like dual rivers from her eyes. Kira felt another ache in her spine, remembering the sting of a belt lashing her. She stared down at the woman, suddenly experiencing terrible tunnel vision as pain, both past and present consumed her entirely. She leaned down to the woman, bringing her mouth close to her ear. “Promises make you weak.”

Blood pounded in her ears, droning out Anna’s calls to her as she drew the dagger across the woman’s throat. She pulled the blade away and a gout of crimson blood sprayed against the concrete floor. The woman made a horrible gurgling noise and jerked her hands as if to raise them to her neck, only to meet resistance from her restraints. She toppled forward onto the musty concrete floor as spasms racked her body.

Kira heard a pained gasp and looked down at the blood-soaked dagger to find Anna watching with tears in her eyes, her hand over her mouth. Their eyes met for a moment before Anna turned her gaze into her shoulder, blinking back tears so that Kira wouldn’t see her cry. The sight brought Kira crashing down to reality, and to the horrible scene before her.

There was so much blood – too much. Dark rivulets seeped into the cracks of the floor as the woman’s blood spread steadily across the concrete. Kira dropped the dagger and backed away in a panic until she slammed against a wall. She slid down and drew her knees to her chest, watching as the blood pooled on the ground and the woman’s convulsions started to slow. She stared, mortified at how suddenly the color was draining from her face… mortified at just how much blood there was.

The door slowly swung open from the other side of the room. Donovan emerged from the shadows, smiling like the devil himself with a sort of sickly pride and contentment. Kira was overcome at first by a calming realization that she had done exactly as Donovan wanted. But then, a wave of revulsion hit her like a punch to the gut when she realized why he wanted her to do this. Her chest tightened, knowing with perfect clarity what she had done, and the rule she had broken this time.

In the pooling blood she saw Anna's reflection watching her with only the faintest trace of tears. Anna attempted a smile, “It’s ok… I’m here.” Kira wanted to reach out to her, to let her take control, but then Donovan arrived at her side.

Kira looked up to find him holding out a hand towards her, but not as if to take her hand. Instead, it was as though he was indicating her presence, or expressing some sort of energy in the air around her. He smiled and looked her straight in the eyes, “My little blade has at last found her mark.”

Kira felt a tug inside her head, as if something was trying to wrench open a door within her mind. And then, there was only pain. She crashed to the ground, smacking her head against the concrete as her body started to seize uncontrollably. She was distantly aware of the sound of her agonized screams as she writhed on the ground. It felt as if there was fire in her very veins, spreading out from the base of her spine and consuming her entirely.

“Kira!” Anna screamed, her cries blending with her own. Why did she sound so far away? Kira’s head jerked in Anna’s direction where she saw her other half staring at her frantically. But after a few seconds, her form flickered once like a bad hologram. Anna froze and stared at her with pure terror in her eyes, as if she could sense something Kira couldn’t. “Kira?” She sounded scared. She flickered once more. And then… she was gone, and Kira’s world went dark.

*This is part 2 of a canonical short story by Lauren Johnson. This takes place before the events of the podcast.

[lancelotslair]

How tall do you imagine Giovanni to be? I personally picture him being taller and around 6' 1".

sshort andd stout... close to his beloved DIRT... brick shithouse... built like a Cube.... SHORT KING ANTHEM.... little godfather of a man not helped by his shrimp like posture and menacing aura... 5'5" range maybe? hes not SUPER short just average ig? I literally have no concept of heights I'm SO sorry... also tbh depends on which Giovanni I look at, some versions definitely look Taller like maybe its because of his sickly emaciated boy swag but rainbow rocket Gio might be on the taller end of the italian range?

[orangegreet]

Photo by Peter Chiykowski on Unsplash

It was an impulsive decision she made, veering off the road.

Trotting her tired pony through the bog, Alina thought to reach the pond directly by cutting through the grounds.

She only realized the graveness of her error when the beast whined, its hooves stuck in the thick mud.

Alina cast a glance above at the unforgiving sky.

Meaning only to get the weary little pony a drink, she ended up stranded in the treacherous earth between road and house where few could notice her.

In earnest, she raised pleading cries toward the manor—pleas which were lost as the rain began to fall.

All that could be heard were the sheaths of water which fell in cascading waves over the grounds.

The vast estate around her might have been beautiful with the help of the sun gleaming down on its features but in the gloom of autumn dusk and the haze of rainfall, everything was colored into shades of gray and black.

How terrible this journey had become. A sickly old pony for a sickly little woman. Together for a week of travel from their coastal home in the south and up into the ever-dreary wilds of the north country. It had been a long, arduous journey.

Only now to be nearly swallowed by the grounds of Blyth Fell? It was a poor omen.

How deeply troubling to be so far north from everything she had ever known and completely at a loss for what to do next. Would she die here, helpless and sodden?

The thought throttled her heart and she melted into a shroud of self-pity.

No one would hear her. No one would see her what with the rain and the closing of the day. She would surely catch her death within the hour.

Or perhaps she would grow so weak as to slip off her horse and become pulled into the earth herself where the mud would expand into her ears, her nose, her throat.

Drowning in sludge on the eve of her employment—it would be a fitting end to her tragic little life.

When her tears began to fall, she was thankful they could blend in with the rain drops running down her face; the tears and droplets would be fast friends in their wallowing.

So preoccupied was she that when two large hands clamped around her waist, she shrieked in fright and kicked at her assailant.

“Calm yourself, blamed woman!” The gruff voice shouted above the din of the storm.

Sharp eyes cut into her own, black and menacing to her enervated state.

“You are in need of assistance and I am unfortunate enough to be passing by.” He told her. Water covered his face and dripped from his nose and his jaw.

Alina was dumbstruck by his beauty.

Enough that her tears abated for the moment.

“I will have to set you by the carriage.” The man continued.

Her eyes lingered on the dark, wet locks curling from under the brim of his hat. She nodded in acquiescence though he had already begun to tuck her over his arm like a paper doll and trudge up the hill.

A great, black carriage stood at the top of the slope, door ajar and horses nudging at the road in impatience.

“Inside.” He commanded, setting her down with haste. Alina stepped into the shelter obediently and watched as the man worked his way back to the front of the coach.

The driver already had one of the horses unhitched and together the two men trailed the steed back down the hill toward her distressed pony, stopping just short of the bog land.

Alina tried to watch their progress through the carriage window, eyes squinting through the bleary haze.

After a few minutes she thought she saw her that her pony had drifted further away even as the black stallion veered back.

The window fogged. She wiped it away with her wet sleeve and pressed closer. Her sweet, dear little pony was now very deep in mud. The base of its hauches no longer visible.

The carriage door swung open and she shrieked.

The dark haired man cast her a haughty look and then shifted into the carriage, moving across from her while he rummaged in his belongings beneath the bench.

“Ah, there.” He was holding a long musket aloft with one hand and stuffing the muzzle with another.

“Should be quite fine.” He leveled the rifle and, as if remembering her existence, looked up again, “Ah, yes. I’m afraid the beast will need to be put down. Look away, if it please you.”

It did not seem to make a difference for him.

His eyes skipped right over the horrified look on Alina’s face and he swept out of the coach again, door rattling in his wake.

The black tails of his coat billowed behind him in the wind and she swore he adjusted his hat into a perfect tilt as he balanced the firearm and aimed.

Bang.

Even the tragic sound of mercy was muffled by the rain.

Alina was too shocked to make any noise. Mouth agape, she watched the blurry figures through the window as they slogged back up the hill to reattach the black horse to his harness.

She was too shocked to do more than shuffle away from the door in a daze when the man stepped inside again.

Saddle bags dropped at her feet and he reached into the bench seat to remove a rag.

He tapped the front window once seated and the carriage took off again.

The pause in their journey suddenly felt as natural as if they had made a stop-off to pick wildflowers.

The man eyed her warily as he cleaned his gun.

Alina opened her mouth to speak and closed it several times, the carriage jostling her as she floundered for words.

“I never intended to…that is, I meant to...It seemed prudent to get the pony some water. We do not—that is to say…I never fathomed such terrain…” her hand covered her mouth in shame before she could continue.

“Hmm.” He smirked and returned to his task. “Well in your desire to care for the poor beast, you quite ensured it’s doom.”

Though tears sprang to her eyes at the condemnation, she found her anger at last and glared.

He chuckled in surprise. His face crinkled with mirth. Even in cruelty, he was beautiful.

“You are most welcome, by the way. For coming to your rescue.”

Great thanks indeed. The man was more monster than gentleman in her view.

Manners won out eventually and she mustered a gracious nod. Her words were still heavy in her chest.

The dark eyes remained on her, studying her features even as she forced her gaze back to the window.

“Pardon me, sir. My wits fled me for a few moments and now I am unsure. Could you deliver me to Blyth Fell? I should like to have walked from the road so as not to be an inconvenience. Or if your coachman would be so kind as to stop here, I can find my own way.”

Alina shifted to pick up the saddle bags which contained all her belongings. Everything left to her in the world.

“You are an orphan, are you not?” He was smirking at her again.

“How did you…” the cruelty of his smile cut through her question.

“I told my staff I wished for an orphaned governess this time.” He said, simply. “Our last one was far too home sick. All her free time spent holed up in her room writing letters to her sister or someone similar. I did not heed the particulars closely, you see.”

He examined the shine of his gun as he buffed. “Only her misery. That which she spread about the hall like a plague. It was a relief when she resigned her post.”

The way he looked at her was as a predator to cornered prey. Alina gulped.

Did he just kick his lips? A trick of the mind, surely.

Her words bubbled up from the tangle of her insides, “Then you are Lord Kirigan.”

He blinked and then smiled again, “Indeed. And your name, miss?”

“You know I am an orphan in your employ and you have yet to learn my name? I am hired to be governess to your children, am I not?” The venom with which the words whipped out of her mouth astonished them both.

Apparently, the little pony was not as forgotten to her as it was to her companion just now.

Alina reddened in her cheeks and ears while Lord Kirigan stared dumbfounded for a moment.

“I apologize, sir. It has been a long journey on my own and I have quite forgotten myself.”

He adjusted his collar and seemed to right himself at her admission. “Quite right. As if I am allotted the time to learn every detail of someone whom may or may not withstand the trial period in my employ.”

Alina’s heart raced under the threat. Enduring the long journey back south as a disgraced ex-governess was not comforting in the least.

She collected herself, straightened her posture and introduced herself.

“Miss Starkova.” The Lord held her name in his mouth a moment longer than usual and she was struck again by his dark eyes, watchful as they collected the details of her across from him.

“Unusual name for this part of the world. Am I to assume your credentials are adequate?”

A retort rose to her mind and she bit it back, nodding and listing off the education and training she accomplished in Weymouth. Alina would need to tamp this urge to defy him if she intended to keep her employ beyond the carriage ride.

As if she had manifested the ending with the thought, the carriage came to a stop.

Her head tilted as she looked up at the manor through the window. Lord Kirigan made no move to leave, watching her first with open curiosity and then a scowl.

The coachman opened the carriage door and Kirigan exited.

The rain had morphed into a light drizzle. The Lord straightened his coat before turning back to the carriage and offered his hand to the new governess.

Hesitating for only a moment, Alina’s fingers slid over his warm palm.

Once more, her eyes met his. A heartbeat of energy or perhaps merely her pulse could be felt in the space where they touched. He narrowed his gaze at her and then wrenched his eyes away, dropping her hand after she descended the carriage.

“Ivan will see to your bags.” Lord Kirigan called over his shoulder as he entered the house. “Welcome to Blyth Fell, Miss Starkova.”

Alina watched him recede into the dark entry before her, unable to look away even as the drizzling rain collected at her brow and ran down her face.

[barbie-shoes]

Dark SQ fic

So after hopping back on tumblr for the first time in a long time today I got a little Swan Queen nostalgia and was looking through my WIPs and found this Dark SQ fic I started back some time around the Jekyll and Hyde arch. So I thought I’d share what I’d found and see if the SQ fandom is still interested in an idea like this, as sober living and corona got me with a lot of spare time on my hands lol.

———

‘Untitled’ Dark Swan Queen

“You're sure you want to do this?” Emma asked, nodding her head once to indicate the syringe in Regina's hand.

“Yes,” Regina replied resolutely. “I want her gone.”

“Okay,” Emma bobbed her head a few times as she held up a second syringe. “Then we do this together.”

“Together,” Regina agreed.

Of course, she had tried to talk Emma out of it. Emma was good, she'd always been good– that one little hiccup with Cruella and her time as the Dark One notwithstanding. Even so, both happened under the best of intentions. She protected Henry. And she protected Regina.

It was always a futile argument, she'd known from the start. Emma was as stubborn as they came, and her mind was made.

Emma had her reasons, none of which were disclosed to Regina. She still feared the potential for darkness in her heart, the things she felt under the curse of the Dark One. It wasn't that she didn't trust Regina, there simply wasn't enough time to get into all that before Emma's mother came looking for them. Emma was certain the woman would vehemently object to her daughter joining in Regina's endeavor to split from her darker half. So time was of the essence.

“On three?” Emma suggested, poising the needle towards her outstretched arm.

Regina pursed her lips, wishing Emma wouldn't do this. It was a risk she didn't mind taking for herself, but she hated Emma's willfulness to put herself in unnecessary danger. She was pretty sure the woman would go ahead with or without her at this point, and so she sighed and gave a sharp nod of her head in agreement.

“One,” Emma counted.

“Two,” Regina continued, placing her own syringe against her skin.

“Three,” they said in unison, both plunging the needles into their arms before either could lose their nerve.

The liquid burned under their skin as it flowed through their veins. Almost instantly their bodies began to cramp and convulse, wracked with a searing pain as if their other halves were being physically ripped out of them. It was more excruciating than childbirth, Emma thought. Regina wondered why it hadn't occurred to them that removing a part of yourself might be physically painful.

Then quite suddenly it all stopped. Not even a dull sting remained. Emma straightened her posture and opened her eyes to a positively terrified and stricken Regina staring straight ahead. Following the woman's gaze, Emma found herself once again face to face with the Evil Queen, hair piled high on top of her head with one silky curled section draped over her shoulder. Her black skirt bellowed in the wind under a dramatic black blazer with sharp, dagger-like shoulders. Her dark burgundy lips spread into a menacing sneer, and Emma's gawking came to an abrupt halt with a fireball instinctually springing to life in her hand.

“Ah, ah, ah,” another voice jeered just outside Emma's field of vision. Her head snapped towards the source, and her jaw dropped. It was her, but it wasn't her. Dressed in lacquered black pants and a distinguished black leather jacket, the woman had Emma's face but she was paler, with hair white as fresh snow. A braid snaked down the back of her head, around her neck and over her chest. She, too, held a ball of fire in her palm, red lips smirking dangerously. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Regina seemed to find her wits again at that, hearing Emma's voice so cold and taunting.

“You're the Dark One,” Regina said, the words falling uncertainly out of her mouth of their own accord.

“Not technically, no,” the woman replied banefully, turning a sharp glare towards Emma. “Not since this one so stupidly let our power fall back into the hands of Rumpelstiltskin. But I suppose you could call me... the Dark Swan.”

“Could we put the toys away, girls?” the Evil Queen asked both Emmas like they were nothing more than naughty children. “Honestly, everyone on this rooftop knows how to conjure a fireball; they're hardly going to be of any use. Can't we all just have a little talk?”

Her voice was sickly sweet and Regina wasn't buying it for a second.

“You never want to just talk,” she said, heavy with suspicion. “Don't forget that I know your games.”

The Evil Queen laughed dramatically and clapped her hands together with delight.

“Indeed you do!” she cackled. “And yet, this is a most unique situation we find ourselves in, is it not?”

“Enough with the chit-chat,” Emma's counterpart sighed in exasperation. Then, turning to address the Evil Queen, “Have you already forgotten why they brought us here in the first place?”

“My, my! You do have a point, dear,” the Evil Queen replied with her usual flourish. “That is quite troublesome, isn't it?”

“You see,” the Dark Swan began, much more stoically than her newfound companion. “Up until just moments ago, we were still you. Which means that we know exactly what you're planning to do.”

“The problem is,” the Evil Queen picked up, apparently knowing just where this monologue was headed, “that we're stronger than you. Without us inside you, you don't have the gall to follow through.” She finished her statement with a furled lip, as though appalled by the shortcomings of the plain women before her.

“Regina...” Emma whispered to the woman beside her, feeling more helpless than she could ever remember since she was a child, hoping against hope that she was the only one. She desperately needed Regina's strength right now.

Regina just glanced at her with a hapless expression, her eyes conveying everything. They had made an absolutely terrible mistake.

It was at that moment that Snow burst through the door to the rooftop, immediately frozen in her tracks not by magic, but utter disbelief.

“Oh, Emma,” she bemoaned, woefully addressing the daughter she recognized. “What did you do?”

“What's the matter, mommy dearest?” the Dark Swan spat. “Can't face the other side of the little girl you abandoned? You two-faced hypocrite.”

“Oh,” the Evil Queen gasped gleefully at the admonishing, “I think you and I shall get along quite well. Care to join me in departing this wretched crowd?”

The Evil Queen extended her dainty hand and the Dark Swan surveyed the faces around her with aberration.

“Miss Swan?” the Evil Queen inquired, not exactly irritated but ill inclined to patience.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Dark Swan replied, placing her hand in the one proffered with a devious glint. “I would absolutely love to.”

With a wave of the arm and a cloud of purple smoke, they were gone.

Neither Emma nor Regina could quite process what just happened. The Evil Queen and the Dark Swan were now loose, uninhibited, and apparently newfound allies. Even worse, they were right. They were stronger than Emma and Regina in so many ways.

When at last they each found the courage to face the woman that discovered them in the midst of their faux pas, it was to be met with folded arms and a disapproving glare.

“The two of you,” Snow hissed slowly, “have a lot of explaining to do.”

———

There wasn't really much else to do than make their way back to Storybrooke. They couldn't exactly go scouring the entire world for their Dark counterparts. That was, after all, quite a lot of ground to cover.

They'd hoped that going home they might find some relief, both from the pains of their pasts and from the guilt of what they'd done. Days meandered by, and there seemed to be little relief in sight.

“How are you feeling?” Regina asked at the diner. It had been three days, to be precise, and she couldn't take not knowing if she was the only one any longer.

“How so?” Emma asked with a nonchalant shrug, though her tone belied her indifference.

“You know what I mean,” Regina rolled her eyes. “Since the split.”

It was strange, her interactions with Emma now. She cared for the woman a great deal, she always did. But her care had altered somehow in the past few days. She would die to protect Emma, and yet, it didn't feel the same.

“I feel,” Emma started, then stopped, uncertain she wanted to say how she truly felt. But this was Regina, she told herself, and wasn't she always open with Regina? She didn't want to question her hesitation, and so she powered on. “I feel... nothing. I mean, not nothing.” Her fingers worried at the base of her neck. “It's just... everything is dimmed, you know? Like it's there but most of the time it feels just out of reach.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” Regina said, sighing in relief.

“Uh, you're welcome?” Emma replied with a sideways glance and a curious frown.

“No, no,” Regina assured. “Not like that. I don't want there to be anything wrong with you, it's just... I feel the same way.”

As a similar sense of relief washed over her, Emma understood. Something had felt pointedly off kilter inside since the split, and though she wanted Regina's happiness even more than her own sometimes, a common ally right now was most welcome.

“We...” Regina began hesitantly, wondering why her faith in Emma felt so inaccessible. “Do you think we made a mistake?” She inquired, deciding a question was less off putting than her initial statement.

“Probably,” Emma drawled, equally uncertain. “I mean, maybe. Do you?”

Regina stared into her drink, unspeaking. Something was horribly amiss, and they both knew it. Their interactions felt foreign with a far away familiarity, like old classmates at their ten year reunion. They didn't understand why everything was suddenly so awkward, so hard to say aloud.

“I think,” Regina replied, ignoring the waves of incomprehension she felt, “that we need to find the books of this Jekyll and Hyde and figure out just what we've done.”

———

Emma walked home feeling listless, empty. As she always did the past few days. Everything bad was gone and yet... she felt hollow. Henry seemed to be the only thing that could make her shine anymore, but tonight he was with Regina and Emma was alone with her musings.

Or so she thought.

Opening the door to the home she was supposed to share with Hook she was greeted by a voice that was distinctly female.

“Welcome home,” it said with saccharine familiarity. “It's just you and me tonight, kid.”

Emma wanted to yell, but she didn't, frozen in place by her own voice vibrating through her ears though not in her throat.

“Where is Hook?” She finally demanded, cringing at the meekness in her voice. The Dark Swan scoffed.

“You realize how impersonal that name is don't you?” the woman sneered. “Oh, wait, of course you don't. You banished those thoughts to me instead of dealing with them.”

Emma recoiled briefly, foggy memories of uncertainty emerging in the peripheral of her mind's eye but too blurred to make any real sense of.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she shrieked indignantly instead, still confounded by the way it all sounded so incredibly whiny and not at all firm. “And you didn't answer my question.”

The Dark Swan waved her hand dismissively with a rather unimpressed furl of her lip.

“I sent him off,” she replied like it was most mundane. Then, a wicked glint shone in her eyes. “He was awfully quick to comply when I explained who I was. Isn't it interesting,” she inquired, standing now and moving towards Emma, “how willingly he'll flee when faced with anything more than the most amicable version of ourself?”

It hit a cord, the Dark Swan’s observation. Emma felt it strum, but it was as though it played somewhere outside her, with earmuffs that muffled its tune and made it all too easy to pretend she hadn't heard.

“What are you doing here,” she asked, steering the conversation away from the man she was supposed to be sharing this roof with.

“I live here,” the Dark Swan stated simply, shrugging nonchalantly.

“Like hell you do,” Emma spat, finally feeling a tiny bit of fire ignite in her veins. “This is my home!”

The Dark Swan looked like she wanted to laugh, but Emma never laughed under the curse of the Dark One and neither did she now. Still, the amusement she saw in the woman's eyes practically bubbled over.

“I really did get the better end of the stick in this split, didn't I?” The Dark Swan mused, almost to her herself but definitely for Emma's benefit– or detriment, more likely. “You think you're the real Emma Swan, isn't that right? And that I am something other; a foreign entity out to destroy you.” Emma was stricken at the assessment, and at the notion it might be false. “News flash, kiddo. You may not like me, but I don't particularly like you either. And neither of those things make one of us more real than the other. We are equal parts of the same whole. You are merely the version of us that we wanted people to see. The one we tried so hard to become. Which–” she paused thoughtfully, “–would actually make me the more accurately ‘real’ of the two of us.”

“You have no idea–”

“I have every idea,” Dark Swan hissed. “Every single one you don't want to look at, I have it,” she paused menacingly. “Oh...” she drawled dramatically. “The things I could tell you.”

“I don't want to know,” Emma replied staunchly. “I don't want anything to do with you!”

The Dark Swan crept closer still.

“I bet you don't,” she heaved in a breathy whisper. “I bet you don't want to be reminded of the nights you lay awake next to your boyfriend, wondering what Regina's lips taste like.”

“I never–”

“They're exquisite, by the way,” the Dark Swan teased. “The most plump, soft, delicious lips we have ever tasted. You could have found out years ago, but you were too afraid. Would you like me to tell me things you never even dared consider? Like what it feels like to make her moan with your lips wrapped around her–”

“Stop!” Emma yelled, hating with everything she had the way she suddenly burned between her legs. She knew, in some far off way, that she had questioned this before. But she didn't anymore and that was a good thing. This parody of her only wanted to play on her vulnerabilities.

“Are you sure?” The Dark Swan jeered. “You don't want to hear about how hard she–”

“No!” Emma yelled, exasperated and short of breath at the very notions placed in her head. This woman was just messing with her. Trying to get into her head and ruin her happy ending. Sure, the idea of fucking Regina had once made her hot, but it was nothing more than a fantasy. This false iteration of her knew that, and was using that knowledge to try and break her.

“Fine then,” the Dark Swan acquiesced smugly, turning for the stairs. “I'm planning to sleep in my own bed tonight. You're welcome to the couch if you don't care to join me.”

Though her fire felt dimmed and she would quite nearly rather die than share a bed with her counterpart, she huffed and made her way up the stairs as well because Emma Swan would be damned if she let this character of herself get the best of her.

———

A similar conversation transpired simultaneously at 108 Mifflin Street, though Regina was hardly surprised to find her other half draped regally across the living room sofa.

“Took you long enough,” Regina muttered, rolling her eyes. She knew her own antics well enough to know the Evil Queen was sat in this lounging position quite intentionally, ensuring it was obvious she felt quite at home in the mansion.

“Miss Swan and I decided to take a little detour,” the Evil Queen replied mischievously, and Regina's heart sank.

“You didn't...” she pleaded.

“Oh, of course I did!” The Evil Queen purred. “I did everything you've ever dreamed of. She's quite the tasty snack, that Emma Swan.”

Regina's stomach roiled. She might not be able to feel the feelings she felt for Emma for so long anymore, but the woman still meant the world to her. And she remembered vividly just how badly she had wanted, needed, and loved Emma before this split. It should have been easier now, to not feel those things, but the only thing she felt was empty.

And now, afraid. Because she was fairly certain they needed to merge back together with their other halves. And whatever happened between the Evil Queen and Emma's counterpart was surely nothing Emma would have ever actually wanted. Even without those deep, longing feelings in her head, Regina dreaded the loss when Emma realized the truth.

“How could you?” Regina gasped, surprised to find her voice trembling with tears.

“How could you not?” The Evil Queen hissed back. “You know very well that sleazy pirate is no good for her. Can you honestly say you thought you were doing the honorable thing by never speaking up? Or were you merely a coward?”

Really, it was a difficult question to answer with so many of her emotions held just outside of her grasp. She was pretty sure though that she wouldn't have let her own fear stop her if it meant doing right by Emma. Sure, Regina loathed the one handed wonder with every fiber of her being. But that was for personal reasons– and possibly rather selfish reasons as well, she told herself. She wanted Emma to be happy, and if that's where Emma decided to find her happiness, Regina wouldn't let her own feelings interfere with that.

“How ever you managed to seduce her,” she seethed, fighting the desire to conjure a fireball she knew would be useless right now, “it was under false pretenses. I don't know what that Dark Swan’s motivations are, but I know the real Emma Swan would never have done what you convinced her to do.”

The Evil Queen’s sharp cackle raced down Regina's spine like nails scraping blackboard.

“You two really are so useless without us, aren't you?” She asked rhetorically, dramatically gasping for breath she didn't need as she laughed and then sighed. “Oh, Regina. I didn't seduce Miss Swan at all! In fact it was she who propositioned me. Not to say I wasn't most inclined to indulge her, but nonetheless it was your pretty little blonde that initiated everything. Rather eagerly, I might add.”

Regina didn't know how to respond to that. Sure, she didn't know exactly what this other version of Emma might be up to, but the idea that any side of Emma Swan might actually want her was unfathomable.

“You obviously misunderst–”

“I understand perfectly!” The Evil Queen spat, jarring Regina with her burst of anger. Not because the vitriol itself was unexpected, but it's roots she could not have predicted. “Don't you dare insinuate that I have somehow violated her. I love her. And she loves me.” Regina gaped at the open admission. “Oh, wipe that stupid look off your face like you didn't know,” the Evil Queen groaned. “Or is it that you think I am meant to believe love is weakness? Because I'm fairly certain you kept that particular attribute for yourself.”

[geirskogull]

Empty Mirror and Empty Grave 

+ Notes: A Short Vampire the Masquerade AU for Danica and Alex, This is Chapter 1 of 4 for this series, from the point of view of the newly embraced Lasombra Alexander Voss for this first chapter. 

Chapter 1 - The Same Deep Water as You

Archive Link

Icy water splashed hard against an even cooler face, a shaky exhale followed as the water pooled a tepid rusty pink in the ceramic bowl of the sink. Strange, what living habits clung to a dead man’s body, like memories fused to him with glue that spurned him to tears, yet twisted the salty brine that would have flowed from his eyes to a sickly vital red. 

Alexander thought then that  he should be laughing. That he should be cackling in victory over those who attempted to see him for their own personal gain, his father, his grandfather, this new vampiric patron who called himself sire. Yet his mind recognized in this end he was once again the true victim, but neither his mind nor his heart could contort the man’s memories to make them spell that out for him. Stubborn as always. Just like his sister. 

If he hadn’t known of the particularities of this curse, his curse, he may have tried to rationalize the ashy smudge that greeted him instead of his own tired, gauntface in the mirror. It would have been in vain, as  he knew better, he knew mirrors didn’t break like that. Hell he probably would have spent hours trying to scrub clean imaginary grime just to see his dead mossy green eyes. He always thought the color of rot suited him. Beyond that mournful rumination though, he also knew without his reflection, he looked a right mess if his sire, that figure of ruthlessness and shadows he met only a handful of times, counting his own death, saw him like this his new eternity would be over before it even began. 

So he returned to those empty habits he had once relied upon so much, inhaled deeply, straightened his shoulders, and ran cold hands across his face to remove the bloody tears tracks that dug their way there as best as he could with a smudgy mess as his guide. Another splash of water just in case, and another for good measure, and then a third till the pool was clear and he was sure the relics of his weakness swirled  down the drain, relics of shame he would never share. If he is to live forever, he would not allow it to be in vain.

“What do you want with me?” Terse words from an estranged sister echoed through his memory as he dried his face. “Arn’t you afraid dear old dad’ll axe you too, Alex?” She had hissed across a tiny café table that was more splinters held together with gorilla glue than actual wood then. Cross legged, angry and closed off, as he expected, but with sharp green eyes and new scars he didn’t remember being there last time he saw her. Those five years had changed them both so much. Then, he wondered if there was still anything left to save, left to salvage of their friendship. 

He laughed then, a bitter biting thing that painted fear across his twin sister’s face, only to be replaced with  sadness once its teeth were fully in her skin. A heavy silence hung around them in it’s wake, as if his cooling tea and her hot chocolate turned glorified chocolate milk were iron weights around their legs, dragging them to the ocean floor. 

He threw a clean black dress shirt over his shoulders and began to button it. Blinking away fresh bloody tears that threatened to spill over his still damp cheeks and the bittersweet memory in equal measure. As the visage of her hand reaching across that rough wooden sea to grasp his own terrified digits swelled in his minds, he paused.

“I’ve missed you so much, Dee.” Whispered words repeated from those recollections to nothing but the cold empty air around him. He dug his teeth into his lips, for he feared he was on the verge of sobbing once more. Once was more than enough for a night, thank you.

Oh if only he hadn’t traveled to this damn city on the guise of looking for school,only to actually be looking for her. If only he had taken the token acceptances thrown his way by those big name medical schools, all thanks to their father’s well placed donations and not in any way thanks to the intellect he believed he had. If only he hadn’t spent every cent he earned  on his own looking for his best friend that had been chased from their childhood by the bastard that sired them both, guilty only of the crime of dreaming. 

Perhaps then, they would still be truly alive. 

And not one unbreathing corpse masquerading as a living man, and the other... 

He dabbed a cold hand against his eyes, fearing the weakness of his resolve. Now is not the time to reflect, Alexander. He chastised himself bitterly, his own tone harsh. And even if it was, what would she think, seeing you now? Seeing you like this? A broken shell of a broken shell, huddling in his home not even willing to try this new gift out.

She’d tell him to relax, to lighten up. She’d ask about his class work and bring one of the animals she was fostering to sit on his lap. That’s how he ended up with Minet, wasn’t it? A loud meow near his feet confirmed his idle musings. Red eyes looking down into one cat-like yellow one, upon  a sea of black fur interrupted only by a terribly gaudy red collar and its pretty little bell. 

The vampire sniffled, kneeling down and giving the kitten a faint but honest grin. Ah his dear little constant. He found himself drawing his cold hands through soft fur and humming gently as the small cat began to purr. 

“Ah, so deep in my melancholy I forgot the most important job in my days!” A chuckle echoed in the cool air, and was answered by another dignified meow.  “Yes, yes, I know. Food is late, let’s go my dear one.”

“He’s friendly Alex, I promise.” Danica chuckled, her sing songy voice not exactly inspiring confidence, as she held a  small black bundle of fur and claws close to her chest. He hadn’t even looked up then, far too stressed out over his classwork, a med student more anxiety and coffee than flesh and blood at the present. He had more in common with the scattered cups of the stuff over his sisters home that he did her at the moment. \

“Last time I checked, tiny felines were not a requirement for me to pass my finals.” He had snipped up at her then, only to be met in turn with a very loud, very squeaky, and most definitely disappointed meow. Thankfully it was jarring enough to force the crooked man to right his posture and gaze at the single defiant eye of the feline now held ungracefully out towards him. 

"It's not, but it'll be good for what remains of you after said finals big brother"

"I'm only like two minutes older , Dee."

"And that's the first time you haven't lorded it over me, now hold the damn cat and relax Alex."

The loud, metallic jingle of kibble into a custom red bowl, the same shade as that tacky collar,  rescued the dead man from the clutches of his memories once more. Following suit was a very content and loud purr from the aforementioned Minet, King of the Flat, as he completely forgot about Alexander, Owner of the Flat, and dove straight into his food with a vigor he showed little else. Another shakey, yet unneeded, exhale left the vampire. This time at least sounding something akin to a weak  wheezy chuckle and not a barely restrained sob. 

Good kitty. 

Very good kitty.

Alexander Voss gave the fluffy menace a few polite yet ignored pats before standing and facing his evening once again. He did have orders after all, and what else had he been his entire life but a loyal, dutiful, gopher for his father and his father’s goals. Why would that change in death? 

The comedy was not lost on him, given the orders this time were “Go, enjoy yourself for a night.” As if he even knew where to start! A bitter laugh erupted from him, consuming the silence of the apartment like a mad hungry flame. Lingering in the expanse of once pleasant memories, turning them to ash in his mouth, was definitely not a good start.

But he would not fail, not again. Not at any task.

So even with the added “difficulty” of not being able to see himself in the mirror, he silently swore to his reflection that he would forge himself anew of black shadowy steel. He would be a tool for himself, not for this new vampiric father he found himself beholden to, not for the visible ghosts of his  first victims and the invisible ghost of his sister, but for himself. A revolutionary statement in his mind that would take some getting used to, and a great deal of planning to accomplish.

With the weight of his memory as the ink upon the paper of his oath, and the cold wind beyond his door the dust sprinkled upon it, he now just needed to find the wax and the stamp and it would be eternal.. As he twisted the polished silver door handle of the apartment, he closed his eyes. A stillness taking him as he silently considered this new plan brewing in the blackness in his mind. 

He shoots a careful glance back at Minet over his shoulder as the cold winter wind knocked at his coat and mussed his long, unkempt ponytail. The one eyed feline, for his part, licked at his paws absently, full from his regal meal and oblivious to his servants troubles.

“I’ll be back.”

His words were largely ignored, but the flittering familiar shades at the edge of his vision seemed to nod, almost in approval. Strange from such stern faces, barely perceivable in the messed watercolor of their forms, but still uniquely themselves. 

Facing forward, he inhaled, the last act of his old dying world, and faced a new beginning.. A pang of thirst in his gut forced a strange wolfish smile upon his face, sharp toothed and hungry. First goal of the evening, of his first free night, find a drink.

He would need the energy for what he had planned.

[bcbdrums]

More stupidity. Because my brain said so.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13577191/12/The-Little-Ones

-------------------------

Only Child

Drakken grinned as he walked leisurely through the vast grassy field that went as far as the eye could see in every direction. He closed his eyes to enjoy the sunshine that beamed around him, warming his face and his hair and every part of him. He sighed in contentment. He didn't have a care in the world.

A low rumbling sound caused him to open his eyes. Suddenly, all around him, green striped orbs began growing up out of the grass at an alarming rate.

Drakken gasped. "No... No!" he cried. As the orbs increased in size the field that surrounded him was overcome with the green vines on which the dreaded things grew, and the warm sunny sky suddenly turned a very dark reddish-pink. The orbs had formed a ring around him, attempting to block his escape.

"No!" Drakken cried again, gathering his courage and running out of the ring of what had become dozens of green-striped terrors.

He had no destination. There wasn't one. The field went on in every direction, ending only at the pink horizon. But he didn't dare stop, for the rumbling sound continued as the orbs continued to sprout around him, growing so fast that in seconds they had gone from basketball-sized to wheelbarrow-sized. Some remained round while others took an oblong shape, and their growth never stopped.

Drakken increased his pace as he gasped for breath, but the field around him seemed to be closing in. All he could see was the wall of pink as the menacing orbs continued expanding at alarming rates along his path. The vines and leaves began to take on a reddish hue, and then a rumbling even louder than before forced him to glance back over his shoulder.

A feral shriek left his lips as the greatest terror he had ever faced loomed behind him, even while he was threatened on all sides by the horror of the growing fruit. A massive watermelon, larger than a two-story house had rolled up onto its oblong end, blocking out the sun for a moment as it stood still. And then it began to fall toward him.

"Nooooo!" he cried as he ran ever faster, his breaths becoming difficult as the sickly smell of the fruit permeated the air. The rumble of the melon rolling behind him continued and he didn't dare look back, even as the path ahead was becoming blocked by melons the sizes of cars, horses, and small trees.

Nearly everything around him was red now, and suddenly he felt a slick, squishy feeling beneath his feet. He spared a glance down to find the ground covered in the flowing red juices of watermelon, chunks of red drifting in the liquid like dry leaves in a stream. The black seeds buried in the flesh looked like poison as they peeked up at him.

"No! No! Help! Help me!" he cried as the watermelons ahead grew so great that they cut off his escape. He whirled around to see the giant melon gaining, sure to squash him when it reached him.

In a panic he flung out his vines, pressing them powerfully against the fruit that were closing in on him. But all he succeeded in doing was trapping himself further as his vines became tangled with the formerly green vines that bore the menacing fruit. The rinds pressed against him suddenly split open, and soon he was surrounded by the sticky red flesh.

"No! Ngh, no!"

The giant melon was rolling faster, accelerating toward him. It was still growing and was now the size of a skyscraper as it closed in to end him. Faster, faster, and faster it came, shaking the ground and splashing his coat with the juices that had begun to rise like a flood around him.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment as the colossal watermelon blocked out the sun, looming over him as if in mockery before it finally fell down with a great speed in what would be the final blow.

"No! No! Shegooo!"

Drakken sat up with a start, not registering until a few moments later that the scream that had woken him had been his own.

He felt Shego's hand on his shoulder first and sensed her warm presence just behind him, and a moment later he felt his vines begin curling around him like a protective cocoon. He drew his knees up to his chest and held them tightly as he fought against the urge to cry.

"What is it?" Shego asked softly, her hand gently rubbing his shoulder.

Drakken shook his head once with a jerk as he tried to catch his breath, peering around at the stone walls and the moat to try to banish the horrible visions and sensations from his dream. The vines surrounding him weren't as comforting as Shego's hand on his shoulder and he tried to will them back into dormancy until called upon.

Behind him, he heard Shego sigh.

"Was it the Area 51 nightmare again?" she asked.

As soon as the vines had released him enough he glanced back at her over his shoulder, surveying her from her baby bump up to her exhausted eyes and her bed-messed hair. He felt bad for waking her.

"...Similar to your experience there, actually," he finally answered, his voice a bit thick.

"You dreamt of being sat on by your giant dog?"

"No. This time it was..."

Shego stared at him. "What?"

Drakken frowned. He couldn't say it. Her craving had already become far too great a point of contention between them. In fact, it was the thing they argued about the most.

Drakken shook his head and faced forward again, setting his chin on his knees.

"Nothing..."

A pause.

"Drakken."

He sighed. He also knew he couldn't win many arguments with her. And now he just wanted to get back to sleep...

"...Watermelon."

Shego's hand left his shoulder. "What?"

Drakken unfolded his tense posture until he sat cross-legged, leaning forward and gesticulating wildly as he told her the terrifying tale. He could see it with his waking eyes—the red sky, the melons closing in around him, the certainty of death by fruit. The miasma they had all created, blinding and choking him until all he could see and breathe was...watermelon.

He paused in his heart-pounding description to take a breath, and—

The ever so soft sound of chewing reached his ears.

Drakken's eyes widened. He whirled around just as Shego's hands flew to her lap from right behind her hip. She gave him a tense shrug and nodded at him to show she'd been listening.

Drakken's jaw had fallen open. It worked silently for a long moment until he remembered how to use his voice.

"Shego... Are you...are you eating...watermelon?"

He watched her swallow with painful slowness, and then tersely, "No."

Drakken frowned in disgust and lunged across her lap at the same time she reached behind her hip. Their hands both hit the concealed dish of watermelon that he remembered preparing for her before bed and it clattered loudly to the floor as a result of their scrambling, spilling its red contents.

He didn't even wait to see Shego's scowl or hear her words of protest.

"RRAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!" he screamed, rising to his knees with his hands raised in fists over his head until all the air in his lungs had been expelled. He fell face down on the mattress and closed his eyes to the welcome darkness as he tried to catch his breath.

Blessed silence enveloped him, broken only by his own breaths that became hot as he exhaled against the bedspread. But then several seconds later the sound of metal on porcelain met his ears.

He rolled over and saw Shego standing with the empty watermelon bowl and fork in hand, a tiny frown on her face.

"What... Where are you going?"

"To get more watermelon," she answered blandly. "You spilled mine."

Drakken watched as she padded out of the room, the automatic door sliding closed behind her. He stared at the inanimate metal for a moment before letting his face fall to the blankets again. He took a deep breath through the fabric and sighed, visions of red, green, and black returning to his mind. He scowled...and then groaned in agony.

"This baby..." he grumbled to himself, "is going to be an only child."

[bunnyhanasong]

Brainwashed

Chapter 3 of Foolish Girl 

☆ Chapter 1 ☆ Chapter 2 ☆ AO3

Main ship: widowtracer

Notes: Hello all! I am so sorry I abandoned this book since November. I have been struggling with a lot due to the pandemic and my own life, so I got sidetracked and also had major writers block. I do hope this chapter makes up for it. We get to see a side of our favourite assassin in a new light, which may help explain her actions in previous chapters.

Content Warnings: swearing, mentions of weapons and injuries, canon-typical violence and the works, Reaper (he deserves his own warning 😂)

               ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Widowmaker pushed herself off the lumpy, Talon issued cot. The thing was barely considered a bed, no pillow to aid in comfort or posture, with only a thin blanket that scratched roughly at her skin. Still, Widowmaker couldn’t complain; it’s not like she felt the cold anyway. She also didn’t often rest, it just wasn’t necessary anymore, so the cot was mostly a formality.

She looked around her chamber with distaste, forgetting just how drab the whole place was. Her room in Talon always felt like a prison cell, with cement walls and floor and a broken door leading to a small bathroom. There was no personality to the room, the walls were bare and the only sign of life was her hairbrush discarded on the dresser and her own presence. The dresser contained training uniforms and various recreations of her Talon catsuit, an illogical outfit choice for battle but she could not argue. She was just a machine, an object; her opinion did not matter.

She collected her hairbrush and an elastic off the dresser, crossing the chamber to enter the bathroom. She stood in front of the dusty mirror, observing her own reflection in distaste. Her hair was down, something that occurred only when she slept, tumbling over her shoulders in a blue-black mess. Her skin was more pale than usual, it’s blue hue making her seem sickly. What didn’t help was the considerable bruises blooming on her face, highlighting the permanent dark circles under her eyes from the treatments that turned her into Widowmaker.

The bruises, she noted with an eye roll, were Reaper’s gift to her. “A gift,” he said, since she had been so disobedient. She did not off the Oxton girl when given a chance, she directly disobeyed orders and spoke back to her superior. That was asking for punishment, he explain, before landing a calculated punch to her face. Widowmaker had barely flinched at the contact, though the force of it sent her reeling backwards. With a few more hits Reaper ended up breaking her nose and leaving her with a particularly angry bruise across her cheekbone.

Moira had chastised her as she reset her nose and healed it with her scientific magic that Widowmaker would never understand. The older woman was not unkind to her, not directly, she was just cold. The scientist had no empathy in her body, purely apathetic and focusing only on the medical aspect of everything. She only fixed Widow because she was Moira’s creation, her guinea pig; a broken machine cannot function properly. She told Widowmaker that angering Reaper was a mistake, as if it wasn’t obvious, and the French woman had best smarten up. She could have healed her bruises as she fixed her broken bone in mere minutes, but left it as a reminder of her disobedience. A warning that she may not be so lucky next time.

With a huff at the memory, Widowmaker began to run the brush through her hair. She let her mind wander as she worked the knots from her inky blue locks. She wasn’t allowed to let herself to have idle thought, as she was only supposed to think what was put into her head, but no one was there to stop her this time. As she pulled her hair back into its signature ponytail, she let her thoughts fall on a particularly hyper Brit.

Tracer was someone that annoyed Widowmaker to no end. Her constantly giggling and flashing around like a mosquito she could never kill was irritating beyond belief. The sniper had wanted to kill her on multiple occasions, and had the chance almost every time, but she never pulled the trigger. She wasn’t sure why, since she only ever felt truly alive after a kill. Getting rid of Lena would cross a pest off her list and make her job a hell of a lot easier, yet there was something in her mind screaming to keep the girl alive.

With her hair finished, Widowmaker went back to her room to collect her training uniform. She hated wearing her mission suits and, though her superiors preferred her to be mission ready at all times, she would only don her catsuit when absolutely necessary. She saw the way the other agents sneered at her, no doubt objectifying her body in that skintight menace of a suit. They all got armour and protection in their uniforms, but Widowmaker’s was merely a means of demeaning her. She supposed that was the point, to treat her like the object they saw her as. She couldn’t argue, but she could avoid the outfit for as long as possible.

Her training outfits weren’t much better. Still skintight, a pair of athletic tights and a white tank top with the Talon insignia over her heart. She was able to wear a sports bra with this outfit, which gave some support her catsuits lacked. She had been chastised for it before, her hatred for her uniforms; apparently a machine should not care about being objectified. Widowmaker thought that was absurd, since she did still have some human left in her. Besides, her training outfits were more practical and comfortable, giving her more range of motion in their soft cotton and spandex than her suit ever did.

A knock on her chamber door just as she was drawing her jacket on caught Widowmaker’s attention. She sighed and flicked her ponytail over her should, making her way to the metal door that led out to the hallway.

Out in the hall stood the man himself, the shell of Overwatch agent Gabriel Reyes. She supposed that was secret information, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. Widowmaker still held some of Lacroix’s memories, though they were fuzzy. She remembered Reyes, his mannerisms and attitude, and had seen the files Talon kept on Reaper. Moira was easily prompted to brag about her “best accomplishment” and spoke proudly about how she kept Reyes from death. Really it was too easy and Widowmaker had known for a while just who Reaper used to be, and she supposed Overwatch knew by now too.

“Oui?”

“Widowmaker,” Reaper was slouched against her doorframe, “Functioning status?”

The woman tried to hide her annoyance, “Functional and ready for work, sir.”

He nodded, somehow seeming amused despite the unmoving white mask covering his features, or what was left of them anyway. He looked her up and down for a moment before speaking again.

“You are not in your uniform, Widowmaker.”

“I have not been assigned a mission yet, Sir,” she explained in a monotone voice, “Training clothes allow more range of motion for daily activities.”

“I see,” he did not sound impressed, “Well, Doomfist seems to have a mission for you; he requested your presence in the meeting room.”

“Very well,” Widowmaker agreed as she straightened her posture, “Shall I follow you to the room or am I allowed to go on my own?”

“I will take you. We wouldn’t want such an important machine getting lost on her way, would we?”

Widowmaker gritted her teeth, “Non.”

***

No more than forty minutes later, Widowmaker was back in her chamber and shimmying her way into that suit she despised so much. She hated the way it formed to her borderline emaciated body, all of the muscle and healthy fat that Lacroix had was lost due to Widowmaker’s lack of food intake and constant running across rooftops. Her metabolic processes had been slowed so she need not eat much, but that also meant her body had adapted to the lack of nutrients. Lacroix’s muscular dancer’s body had been altered to better suit combat, but it was also failing as her humanity was slowly sucked away through Widowmaker’s treatments.

“Where’s my favourite spider going?” a smug voice crooned from the corner, making Widowmaker jump. Sat cross-legged on her cot, which was empty a mere moment ago, was a particular pest that she would have no trouble pulling the trigger for.

“Sombra,” she snapped as she glanced over her shoulder at the hacker, “Pour l’amour de Dieu...”

Widowmaker made a mental note to always search her room for glowing purple translocators in the future.

“Always so grumpy,” the purple haired woman giggled annoyingly, “What’s your problem?”

“You’re in my room,” Widowmaker rolled her eyes, “I would prefer if you didn’t translocate into places you are not invited.”

“Well that would be counterproductive.”

“What do you want, Sombra?”

The Mexican woman hopped to her feet, smirk returning, “Where are you going?”

“Mission.”

“Not to see your precious lil girlfriend?”

The teasing tone and implications in her voice made Widowmaker want to hit her, “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“Just thought you’d be worried about your poor foolish Overwatch agent,” Sombra grinned, “Since you couldn’t stop Reaper from trying to do your job.”

“She was not my target,” Widowmaker said firmly, “And that is not your business.”

“Oh, c’mon, Widowmaker. I’m your best friend, why won’t you be honest with me about your little girlfriend?”

“We are not friends,” Widowmaker spat, “And I have a plane to be on.”

With that she walked past Sombra, ponytail swinging, and headed down the hallway. Sombra was the most irritating person she had met in Talon, and that was saying something. Her loyalty had always been skewed and it seemed the hacker would turn on them if the opportunity benefited her, but no one seemed to care. Widowmaker hated how smug and nosy she was, but this was just another thing a machine wasn’t allowed to care about.

She stopped by the armoury to pick up her things, slinging her gun over her shoulder so she could attach her venom mine cuff to her suit. She pocketed a few extra mines, locking them in a specially made compartment so they didn’t accidentally activate. After collecting her grapple and securing her helmet over her head, she made her way to the hangar.

The Paris Talon base was small, since it wasn’t often occupied. This was where Talon took her the first time she had been kidnapped. It was also where Overwatch had taken her from after she had been made a sleeper agent, unbeknownst to them. Since the main base was hidden away somewhere in the United States, this one was merely a place to occupy if a Mission called for it. They had been in Paris for a little over two months though, which meant Widowmaker had to deal with Sombra and Reaper in much closer proximity than she’d prefer.

She reached the hangar and found Maximilian standing outside the door of a small aircraft. The omnic regarded her with the same standoffish attitude as usual, somehow his discontent with her presence was very clear on his unmoving face.

“Widowmaker,” the leader nodded when she dipped her head in polite greeting, “Functioning status?”

“Operating as expected, Maximilian, sir.”

“What happened to your face?” His visual receptors caught sight of the bruises, somehow looking at her in distaste.

“Reaper lost his temper,” she replied lowly, “A mistake on my part, it will not happen again. Moira fixed me and I am functional, the bruising is merely a cosmetic issue.”

“I see,” he nodded and then gestured to the aircraft, “You know your mission?”

“Locate the Overwatch safe house and determine who remains in France, oui.”

“Indeed. You know of their possible whereabouts?”

Widowmaker nodded, “Lacroix’s memories tell me Annecy was an important place. It is where she grew up, where her and the husband lived, and presumably that is where Overwatch is most likely to reside.”

“Annecy... that is far, is it not?”

“Five and a half hours by car, but the aircraft can get me there undetected in under an hour I’m sure.”

“Very well,” Maximilian replied, “Get going then.”

“Yes sir.”

“And, Widowmaker?”

“Yes, Maximilian?” Widowmaker had already climbed the steps to the aircraft so she turned to look at the omnic.

“No shots unless absolutely necessary,” he ordered, “I want all of them alive... for now.”

The assassin stifled a sigh and nodded, getting into the ship. The door shut behind her and she took a seat, being the only person save for the pilot on board.

“Surveillance,” Widowmaker scoffed, “Why would they send a perfectly trained assassin for a surveillance mission? Even Sombra could do this on her own.”

She continued her quiet grumbling for most of the way there, switching to French at some point when she realized the ship was probably bugged. She muttered about everything that was bothering her, simply because she had nothing better to do. It was best to get it all out now before she was on surveillance; as she would have to be silent for hours after she landed.

“Stupid foolish girl,” Widowmaker muttered, “Getting herself shot like a dumbass.”

It’s not that Widowmaker wanted to think about Tracer, but her thoughts kept drifting back there. It was beginning to annoy her, how often the small Brit flashed through her mind. Really it shouldn’t happen at all, not with the way her conditioning left her brain wired. She was supposed to only think to kill, certainly not to get distracted worrying about her enemy’s injury. If Moira knew of this she would have a hay day messing with the conditioning again, and Widowmaker would do anything to avoid more of that. So what if she was more conscious than usual? No one had to know.

“Arriving in Annecy in 15 minutes,” the ship’s AI droned monotonously.

“Mon Dieu,” widowmaker cursed under her breath, “Let this mission go by quickly. Why must I waste my time on surveillance?”

When the ship stopped to hover above a rooftop in a quiet part of the town, Widowmaker stood. She adjusted her rifle sling and popped her comm into her ear, immediately hearing a familiar voice a bit too loudly.

“Lacroix,” Doomfist’s accent made the last name sound foreign to her, though at this point in her brainwashing Widowmaker was unsure if Gérard’s name was ever familiar at all.

“Oui, monsieur Doomfist?” Her brain still half stuck in her native language, knowing he would understand those few regardless.

“Keep an eye out for Overwatch agents but also any suspicious looking omnics; they have been known to canoodle with those useless machines.”

Widowmaker had to stifle an almost monotonous laugh, hearing a dull thump as Maximillian undoubtedly smacked the leader upside the head.

Doomfist huffed, “Don’t let your guard down, Widowmaker. That being said, no shots unless absolutely necessary.”

“Affirmative.”

“Good,” Doomfist hummed, “Don’t step out of line again, we wouldn’t want to have to put down our precious spider for disobedience; now would we?”

“Non, sir,” Widowmaker replied through gritted teeth, letting out a sigh when the comm line went dead. She was left in silence, save for the sound of the hovering plane as she went to open the door.

They would never let Widowmaker live it down, that split second hesitation. The screaming voice in her mind that told her to spare Lena. She shouldn’t have listened, she should have followed her programming. Now she was being punished simply because her enemy was still alive at her fault.

“Foolish girl,” she muttered, “Get out of my head.”

***

Those long hours on rooftops were Widowmaker’s safe space. Despite her being technically out in the open, she never felt safe anywhere else. She had become claustrophobic due to her treatments, the straps that bound her to the tables always too tight. The tiny cement box that she spent every non-working hour in made her feel like a caged animal. Out in the open though, she could lurk in silence and not be seen. She was exposed but also concealed, not backed into a corner with no chance of escaping.

She had found the safe house in a mere half hour. After hopping over rooftops and using her infrared scope to see into buildings, she caught sight of a familiar willowy woman that immediately gave away their location.

It was amusing to Widowmaker, to see Angela Ziegler away from prying eyes. She lost her hardened attitude that came with years of being a trauma medic and became a different person. She looked smaller, almost meek, shuffling around the room she had clearly tried to turn into a makeshift medical area. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, pacing around the area like a trapped, injured lioness.

“Ah, Angela,” Widowmaker hummed softly, watching through the open window, “So troubled.”

She watched a bit longer, noting that the Swiss woman merely paced and seemed to mutter to herself. She did seem worried, but that was to be expected. Angela Ziegler had always been a mother hen, with one of her children injured she was undoubtedly upset and feeling helpless without all her medical supplies.

Widowmaker’s interest piqued when the door opened, revealing a muscled woman who’s image made her scowl. Fareeha Amari, how she had grown. So much like her mother yet so different, a soldier but not as hardened by war as Ana had been. Alive, nonetheless, and fussing over the previous subject of Widowmaker’s observations.

She was speaking to Angela in what looked like a gentle tone, a worried hand grabbing her shoulder. The doctor reacted with an annoyed shrug, though she sighed and begrudgingly apologized to Fareeha. Trouble in paradise? Widowmaker shrugged, not her business and certainly not information Talon would value.

She turned her scope to another open blind, fussing with the zoom before she finally caught sight of someone. A thin girl walking past the window, she barely looked older than a teenager, carrying a pair of crutches. Curious, Widowmaker leaned a bit over the edge of the building and focused her view a bit.

The girl, Hana Song according to her previous research on Overwatch affiliates, had walked over to the only bed in the room. There laid a sickly looking thing, a shell of who Widowmaker knew her as, Lena Oxton.

“Oh,” Widowmaker found herself saying, “Pauvre chiot...”

Tracer was slumped into the mountain of pillows propping her up, looking at Hana with a sour expression. The younger was obviously trying to get her to stand up, but the injured woman shook her head firmly. Widowmaker knew it was way too early for ambulation at that point, not with the extent of Reaper’s damage. Ziegler must know that too, so why was the young agent trying to hard to pry Lena from her blankets.

“Interesting...”

Hana had succeeded in getting Tracer in a sitting position and was trying to get her to swing her legs over the bed. The Brit was clearly protesting, clinging tightly to her friend as pain shot through her tightly bound injury. The agony was apparent on her face and it made the sniper want to yank Hana off her, something in her mind protesting at the sight.

Widowmaker was shocked when she felt a pang of something in her stomach, a wave of worry and guilt washing over her. The intensity of them hit her harsher than Reaper’s fist; she hadn’t felt those emotions in ages, didn’t even think she could anymore. Why did her body have such a response to Tracer’s pain like that? Why wasn’t her programming pleased with the sight?

“Merde,” she spit in annoyance at her own thoughts, unsure of what to do. She should be checking other rooms for more Overwatch agents, clarifying who was in France, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight before her. Hana had slipped out of the room by that point, probably to get Angela, leaving Tracer alone on the chair beside the widow.

The woman was slouched over herself, hand holding tightly onto the windowsill for a semblance of support. Her teeth were gritted in pain as she tried to distract herself, clearly wanting to go back to bed to avoid this situation longer.

Widowmaker jumped when Tracer made a sudden movement. Noise from out on the street made her turn to the window, glancing out into the twilight. The motion made Widowmaker held her breath, she should be further away, she chose a rooftop too close by for secure surveillance. A rookie mistake for an assassin of her stature, especially when she locked eyes with her subject.

Tracer had clearly spotted her, her brain working overtime in her pained haze. It took a moment before a look of recognition crossed her face, quickly morphing to confusion and pain. Widowmaker cursed under her breath, mind screaming to hide, to duck, to run, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

The injured woman propped herself up in the windowsill, leaning closer to the pane as she gazed at the assassin across the way. She could see the familiar outline of her enemy on the roof, the telltale glowing red eyes on her helmet and the anxious shifting of having been spotted.

This was wrong, Widowmaker thought, what in the world was she thinking?

Tracer’s mouth moved as she spoke to herself, one word that Widowmaker felt hit her harder than it ever had before. The distance between them didn’t matter, nor did the fact that she couldn’t hear Lena. It rung through the silence surrounding her, blaring in her skull like a knife to the brain.

“Amélie...”

[deathsaught]

SEND ME 👑 + A CHARACTER NAME OF A CHARACTER YOU THINK I SHOULD WRITE !   

ANONYMOUSE SAID :  👑 + LeBlanc?

WOULD I: YES / MAYBE / NO

HAVE I EVER BEFORE: YES / NO

ICON & WRITING SAMPLE 

                               It wasn’t every day the matron got herself caught up in such a intricate plan , though , the offer was one she couldn’t refuse no matter who was in her way . Lithe , powerful digits clamp among staff as a look of focus begins to blossom over darkened visage . 

                                                            “   so    long .   “

                                comes the final words uttered past dark tiers , the essence of trickery at hand as the TRUE matron had already been out of the nobles quarters & far down the hall . A loud ringing of bells immediately signalling a possible catastrophe albeit one only Leblanc is truly aware of .  Magic carries the mage to & fro , the sickly ink  & purple remains begin to fester into dust after a few second delay .  “  why do they resist ? “  the black rose will rise , & so shall she , yet  Noxus remains skeptical & slumbering on the true woman who pulls the grand schemes behind it all. 

SEND ME 👑 + A CHARACTER NAME OF A CHARACTER YOU THINK I SHOULD WRITE !  

@fxlgurkinesis​   said    👑 + akali ?

WOULD I: YES / MAYBE / NO

HAVE I EVER BEFORE: YES / NO

ICON & WRITING SAMPLE

The festival had been shrouded in dozens of ionians , even the unfortunate noxian skittered about to Akalis distaste .  Streams of red , gold , vibrant greens all flicker from each canvas in beauteous decorations ; A festival of sorts . One Akali was familiar with and one she vowed to protect especially from that filthy menace ;  Zed.   The assassin leapt from rooftop to rooftop  , the womans silken red outfit giving off the faintest of glimmers from fireworks bursting in the night sky .     Fear the assassin with no master , she thinks  -  balance wasn’t everything , Shen should know better by now .  pointed nails latch unto beloved weapons as posture becomes ready for the grand finale ,  Akali knows hes there ---   and she knows hes waiting.         “      I’ll  do it MYSELF .     “  

[pinksrs]

THE PINK SERIES, VOLUME 1/PROLOGUE

CW: Death.

If you’ve ever felt like The Universe is working against you, there may very well be a point to your paranoia. If you ever felt like something wasn't a coincidence, I’m sorry to tell you you may have a point.

I’d like to tell you that The Universe is a benevolent character. I'd like to tell you that It takes your thoughts and feelings into consideration. I wish it were the type of person that minds Its manners, holds open doors, says please and thank you, and cares.

But It isn’t, and It doesn’t.

The Universe is an asshole. It’s got a sick sense of humor. Why do you think you only run into your exes when you haven’t showered in three days? That touch of sick irony is the work of The Universe. It's idea of funny is pushing people in front of trains.

That’s not to say It’s concerned with you. You may actually be paranoid, I’m afraid (and there’s nothing I can do about that). The Universe isn’t responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened to you.

I'm sorry, but there's nobody to blame for their death.

You ought to consider yourself lucky.

When The Universe takes interest in something, it’s never pretty. It wreaks havoc, in the form of relentless circumstances we call coincidence.

Coincidence is easier to grasp than fate.

It’s easier to dismiss, too.

It should serve as some sort of comfort, though, to know that The Universe isn’t interested in you. No, you’re not on Its list of pet projects. There’s no ant farm with your name on it that the Universe picks up and shakes until your world is in shambles.

There is an ant farm labeled Duffy, though.

Boy, if you think you’ve got it bad… The Universe has really got it out for this lot.

It’s been watching them for years. In all actuality, in the long run, relative to The Universe, twenty one years is the blink of an eye. But as it so happens, The Universe isn’t the most patient of natural forces.

On the contrary, The Universe is quite childish despite being eons old. As ancient as It is, It’s still prone to temper tantrums when it doesn’t get Its way.

Rain streaked streets breathe in the night air. Steam floods the pavement and mingles with the midnight mist of the city by the bay, like condensation on one's breath. Rain in San Francisco – how original.

But in defense of The Universe, creativity’s dead. Believe it or not, It’s not actually responsible for the weather.

The rain sets the streets aglow, with fluorescent neon signs bleeding onto wet streets. Grease-stained asphalt has a kiss of color in the dark by headlights. Signs for 24/7 pharmacies, cannabis dispensaries, and burnt-out bulbs of street lamps blink. The city is alive as it ever has been.

San Francisco is advancing fast into the twenty first century. It’s not the same little town by the ocean with the fog and the trolleys anymore. It’s louder. bolder, more mature, with less fear of falling into the sea.

To the other billions of people on the planet, it’s any other night, but to one Englishman, it’s the end of the world. The Universe has been watching him the past few years, like a television show that’s always running. It only tunes in when there's nothing better to watch.

The Universe has tuned in at the perfect time.

The apartment is cramped and perched on the corner of the building. It's so close to the traffic stop outside that light dances through the window. The lights are bright enough to cast a sickly glow about the room. It cycles through crimson, emerald and gold. Each is as bad as the next. The menacing glow of red is no better or worse than the yellow light seeping across the skin like jaundice.

If he weren’t so used to them, they’d be a nuisance, but Edgar Duffy isn’t one to dwell on things he can’t change. He doesn’t dwell much of anything, actually. As boys go, he’s nothing special. He’s not the most handsome, nor tall, nor smart. But he's handsome enough, tall enough, smart enough.

He was enough, but never too much.

As of eighteen seconds ago, it was his birthday. So far, being nineteen doesn’t feel much different than being eighteen.

For a moment there, he thought it might. He thought things might be different, for once. His hopes had been too high to think a birthday with his brother could go any other way. Couldn’t they go one year without lapsing into their pattern of clenched jaws and grit teeth?

As brothers go, Edgar and Ivan Duffy aren’t the type you write home about. They’re more the type you write about in passive-aggressive posts on social media. They're the type to give thoughtless gifts to each other, bought last minute at the corner store. Takeout from the place he hates is paired with a cheap bottle of wine, and a store-bought cake.

If Ivan paid more attention to his brother, he might have a clue about what Edgar likes. The gesture is impersonal and empty. Neither of them have fooled themselves into thinking it’s anything but.

They made attempts at talking, all feeble and failed. Edgar and Ivan found that they had little more to bond over these days than schoolwork.

It's obvious that neither of them want to live together.

Edgar stares ahead at the half-full takeout box on the table, heavy brow set into a furrow. All these empty gestures are the sort of thing he’s learned not to dwell on. Instead, he's taught himself to accept this as one of the innumerable things in his life he cannot change. They were fixed and factual things he had to accept. That, or let it destroy him.

Like bad birthdays, filled with lazy attempts at siblinghood. That, and compulsory, celebratory dinners with Ivan. After nineteen years, it’s finally sunk in – some things don’t want to change.

His lips purse into a line, and at long last the words sitting on Edgar's tongue for the last hour spill out:

“You should go.”

The pair of them serve as a harsh contrast to one another. Where Ivan is a fan of black and leather, Edgar prefers tartan and denim. Where Ivan prefers chocolate, Edgar would rather have vanilla.

By no means is Edgar tall, but he towers over his older brother. Depending on whom you ask, he’s the better looking of the two, too. His features fit his face, unlike Ivan, whose ears stick out too far and whose brow hangs too heavy. Wide eyes sit deep in sunken sockets, with lips bowed into a permanent pout. The look is complete with ill-aligned teeth and rodential overbite.

The older Duffy looks a bit pathetic slouching beside his brother. Edgar’s perfect posture, mane of chestnut hair, and green eyes was a startling difference. He made Ivan’s swampy, dark eyes and thicket of black curls look like sickly mange.  It didn't help that Ivan had haphazardly shaved the sides of his head.

While the relation is undeniable, it’s not willing.

Not on Ivan’s part, at least– not if he can help it. Ever since Edgar ripped his way out of their mother, Ivan made it his life’s work to separate himself.

Ivan may be two years older, but he’s not acting it. Sipping wine out of a red plastic cup doesn’t help his case in the slightest. “Go? You can’t kick me out of my own flat.” For whatever reason, his accent’s harsher than his brothers, thicker and far more clumsy on the tongue. It could be the wine staining his lips purple, but Edgar’s always suspected it’s for show. "It's your birthday."

“I don’t want you here ‘cause you’re supposed to be here,” he begins, blundering on forward. Quick! Before he can lose momentum. Edgar’s never been one for boldness. “I want you here ‘cause you wanna be here, not ‘cause you’re supposed to. You can go if you want– don’t force yourself to stay here on my account." Edgar's hands fly into the air. "‘Sides, you’ve got plans, haven’t you? You only wanted to do it tonight so you could get it out of the way and blow me off tomorrow.” His tongue clicks against his teeth as he sits forward, grabbing for his cup to wash the taste of salt out of his mouth. “Right?”

Like a deer in the headlights, Ivan rubs a hand at his jaw and looks about the room. He'll try anything if it’ll buy him time,  if it will spare him having to deal with this. Oh, he’d really rather not. “I mean,” Ivan heaves a sigh. “G wanted to do something… It’s our first anniversary, y’know–”

There wasn’t a nerd alive with a bigger heart and more criticism in his veins than the likes of G Cooper. A year later, Ivan was still there. It wasn’t like it was serious, only comfortable and convenient, lazy and warm. A year, no doubt, is a bigger deal to G than it is to Ivan. As he tends to do, Ivan fails to realize exactly how big of a deal.

Edgar is quick to steer him back onto the path. He had decided early on that he didn’t like G. Something about him never sat right. “Don’t change the subject, Ivan. Don’t drag him into this.”

Ivan’s eyes narrow with a look towards Edgar, mouth taut. Can you blame him for trying?

“Am I right or not?”

“Well–”

“Ivan.”

“Yeah, okay, you’re right…”

“I can’t believe–” Edgar pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut to taper off a glare. “Y’know what? Yeah, actually, I can believe it, that’s the sad part. Do you have any idea what an asshole you are?”

It’s the brashness and the source, that causes the wine to catch in Ivan’s throat. Sputtering, he manages to swallow, wiping away any drops on the back of a black sleeve. It’s not like he hasn’t been called an asshole before, but hearing it from the likes of little Eddy was obscene. They had their problems, but Edgar was a quiet kid that kept his opinions to himself. “There’ll be other birthdays, Edgar. What’s the big deal–”

“You’re going to do it on other birthdays, too! You’ve done it before, you’re doing it now, you’ll do it again. So,” Edgar scoffs, getting to his feet. “Stop forcing it; stop punishing me, Ivy.”

Ivy isn’t a name Ivan’s heard come out of Edgar’s mouth in years. He can’t help but think it seems exceptionally childish this time around. Desperate, even. It’s a subtle, passive aggressive jab. “Punishing you for what?” He may be petite, but somehow Ivan’s managing to make himself even smaller as he slouches into the sofa.

Edgar stops to flash his brother a look, his arms loaded with bowls, chopsticks, and takeout boxes. He gives a wag of his head, brown hair tossing. “You know what. When are you gonna stop blaming me and let it go?”

Now, it seems, Edgar’s hit a button. Ivan clambers to his feet, fighting gravity and a hungry sofa. “You let it go– I’ll blame you as much as I want, screw you.” Always quick to act, this one. Ivan’s never been good at getting a grip on his emotions, especially not where family’s concerned.

“She was my mum too–”

“Fuck off, she was not– you don’t get to say that.” Pint-sized fists clench at Ivan’s side. He stands his ground, as Edgar goes about his business.

His brother is calm by comparison, picking up the mess they made. Soon, it’s all piled into the garbage, except for the birthday card. “You can go now.”

There’s anger welling in Ivan’s chest, ready to boil over. Is he going to scream, or cry? Neither of them can tell. A moment passes before he realizes he’s holding his breath, like he used to do when he was a child. (He'd kill himself if their father didn’t come home that second.) “You asshole...” But Ivan trails off, eyes squeezing shut.

No, he won’t cry.

Ivan swallows down the lump in his throat as he grabs everything he can. He hastily shoves his phone into a pocket, wallet already safe in his jacket. There are more things he needs, but in his frenzy, Ivan can’t bother to remember them. All he can think to do is throw his arms out and shriek. “Fuck you, Edgar!”

Edgar may be calm, and far less dramatic than Ivan, but he feels himself bordering on hysterics. If he had it in him, he might fight to keep his brother there, but he doesn’t. They’ll put up an argument another day, but he’s tired, and his shoulders feel heavy. Can’t they table it? “Just go see G, Ivy. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah? I’m tired– you’re drunk, anyway.”

“I’m not drunk,” Ivan snaps, but he's clumsy as he pushes his way past Edgar and to the door. He leans his weight into the wall for support. “But whatever, you’re right, I don’t want to be here. It’s sick– she died and you’re making me celebrate it. It’s not fucking fair.”

“Life’s not fair, Ivan.”

“You’re right, Edgar. Life’s a bitch, then you’re fucking dead.”

The door flies open and slams shut behind him. Ivan storms into the hall, barreling down a single flight of stairs. There’s an elevator, but he doesn’t have the patience to wait. Stomping down the stairs and out the building feels right. Bursting into the night air, Ivan finds that the rain has let up.

The fog is heavier than ever, swirling at his feet and leaving steamy breath to fall from his lips. Black hood up, hands shoved into pockets, and he marches.

Where? In no time, he finds that he’s left his cigarettes and lighter at home, but there’s no way in hell he’s going back now. It calls for a quick stop at the liquor store for a pack of cigarettes and the first lighter his hand finds. Then, he let the wandering begin.

G's apartment was the destination, eventually, but for now he’s aimless. He keeps his eyes ahead and focuses on nothing more than  the pavement under his boots and the wind on his face. The wind has Ivan pulling his hood back up to right it again, securing it over the tangle of curls. He feels raw without it, and far too vulnerable for comfort.

He’s always been like this. Ivan was stubborn, flighty, and keen on running away whenever the pressure got to be a little too much. He could be a diamond under all that pressure, but he fights to fly and avoid every problem. Ivan does it almost as diligently as he avoids having to spend time with Edgar.

They could get along if he’d let them; Edgar’s the sort to get along with anybody.

After nineteen years, keeping his brother at arms length has worked for him. That, and everyone else he knew.

But what of the rest of it?

The sniff is audible, wet, and sloppy as he tries to clear his sinuses of signs of distress. Sleeve balled over his fist, Ivan scrubs away at his eyes to wash away tears. He fights back the urge to throw himself onto the pavement and sob. That’s ridiculous and dramatic, and the sort of thing best saved for the bathroom floor. The shower running and the music blaring would drown him out and keep Edgar from listening. The walls of their apartment leave nothing to the imagination.

Edgar was right about one thing.

He is drunk, Ivan admits to himself when he stops to lean heavy into a brick wall, looking down the length of the alley.

This isn’t familiar territory, and if Ivan were smarter, he’d be more wary of dark alleys on darker nights.

If he were sober, he'd pay attention.

If he were smarter, or sober, he’d have noticed the soft sound of boots falling against wet pavement. Something is stalking and creeping, with lips curved into a sneer.

A predator lurks, ready to snap.

Ivan pushes himself from the wall to right himself, swaying when he stands. The hood slips back over his head and falls down. Eyes shut in time for hot tears to boil over. It doesn’t count if they never reach his cheeks. Still, he’s not stopping them or wiping them away.

Not until the sound of gravel underfoot catches his attention. He rounds on his heel to turn and face whatever is in the alley with him. In a whirl of fog and alcoholic haze, of loose curls and tears in his eyes, Ivan can hardly make anything out, save for a looming figure.

Before he can process a single thing, everything gets cut by the flick of a wrist, a tug, a scream, and the last desperate whimpers of a heart still kicking.

[taeclin-blog]

◣ F I V E   T H I N G S !!  ◥

fill in the categories with 5 things that your character can be identified by. repost, do not reblog !!

TAGGED BY. I stole this dkghkdhgkdhg TAGGING. anyone who wants to!! this was neat!!!

✖   I. EMOTIONS / FEELINGS.

 01. languidity: effortless slow grace, but in a manner that indicates long-term fatigue    02. impishness: naughty mischievousness, prone to teasing and mild cruelty   03. intelligence: pattern recognition, tapping an array of chemical and medical knowledge  04. pensiveness: careful meticulous thought, a contemplative demeanor   05. pragmatic pessimism: one too many times being burned, almost losing everything. 

✖   II. GREETINGS.

 01. A soft, polite smile, followed by a “ Hi there. Can I help you? “   02. A roll of the eyes and a slumping of her shoulders; “ Oh no. What now? “   03. Her hand touching a shoulder, and slowly drifting to touch the back of a connected neck before dropping back to her side.   04. A lithe giggle accompanied by a dark threat.   05. Loudly remarking “ HOW ARE THE HEMORRHOIDS HOLDING UP? ” in public, when surrounded by a large crowd. 

✖  III. COLORS.

 01. Royal blues: clean, sanitized sensations, evocative of water.   02. Dark blues: her short, tousled hair, almost black in poor lighting.   03. Shades of black: plague and death.   04. Translucent whites: cure and recovery.   05. Ruddy brown: thoughtful eyes combing through research data. 

✖   IV. SCENTS.

 01. Bleached hard surfaces, clean and sanitary, but evokes a sense of sickliness.   02. Coffee with caramel notes: there’s doubtlessly a coffee mug somewhere on her desk.  03. Almonds. Her soaps, shampoos, and lotions all have sweet, subtle hints of almond.   04. Plastics and latex. A faint smell, but persistent with the plethora of disposable medical equipment.   05. Hand sanitizer, standard procedure before touching any patient. 

✖   VI. OBJECTS.

01. A tablet with medical information and records. Precious cargo, full of information that can’t be lost.  02. Various jewelry pieces, few of any value but many of particular style and comfort. Chokers, bracelets, necklaces, rings, and so on.  03. A tube of dark burgundy nailpolish, usually found on her bedside nightstand.  04. A soft, black leather jacket, well-worn and well-loved.  05. Three degrees, framed and hung above her desk at home. 

✖   VII. VICES / BAD HABITS.

 01. Vengeance and retaliation directed at those who cause her harm. Rarely violent or loud in nature, but instead quiet undermining and subdued resistance.    02. Obsessive checking and double-checking and triple-checking of measurements and mathematic information. What is the precise ratio for the chemical compound? How does height and weight of the patient factor in? Is the measurement precise? How precise?   03. Popping joints and knuckles, usually her fingers and sometimes her toes.   04. Enforcing social and emotional distance: standoffishness. People who get the closest to you are capable of causing the most harm.   05. Scab picking: the only way to stop it is to have it wrapped up very, very well. 

✖   VIII. BODY LANGUAGE.

 01. Lackidasical posture, leaning back or forward and rarely sitting/standing upright. Legs crossed and tossed up on a desk, or stanced-wide on the floor in front of her to support hunched-over elbows.   02. Menacing scowls that put a “ resting bitch face “ to shame.   03. Rubbing the back of her own neck when anxious, usually pulling fingers up and through her scalp.   04. Hands shoved in pockets, whether they’re on a labcoat or a jacket.   05.  Touching her tablet to her chin while thinking and reviewing important data it contains. 

✖   IX. AESTHETICS.

 01. Quiet urban boroughs: a small-town intimacy with big city proximity.   02. Modern apartments with dark kitchen cabinets and pale hardwood floors.   03. The scent of dried herbs, powdered bones, and other traditional medicines.   04. footsteps in a coagulating pool of blood, dragging the stain across the floor.   05. cool, clean white sheets lazily hanging off a bed. 

✖   X. SONGS.

  01. invite me in - wild ones    02. marrow - st vincent   03. love you lately - ariana and the rose   04. sunsets, pt 2 - sg lewis   05. assume the worst - drama

[masterofmunson]

Breathless (1)

Bucky x Reader

Summary: She’s breathless, and not in a good way.

Word Count: 1.8k+

Warnings: swearing i think, mentions of starvation, violence, torture, death. ANGST.

Looking at him took my breath away, and not the good kind that most people associate breathlessness with. I couldn’t breathe. It was as if a pile of rocks sat in my chest. Each breath hurt worse than the last. My body was shaking with unadulterated fear. I was face to face with the monster under my bed, the star of my nightmares. The same stormy blue eyes that shot me in the shoulder all those years ago.

I honestly thought I was going to puke. My hands were clammy and I felt light headed. Tears threatened to spill over my cheeks and I take in a bated breath. My surroundings fade and it feels like I’m floating.

His blue eyes are no longer menacing and cold. Instead, they’re soft but haunted. It still doesn’t make me feel any better being around him. His eyes brightened at the sight of me for a moment and it unnerved me. His face falls and he takes a hesitant step towards me.

“Y/n? Is that really you?” he asked, his eyes search mine for a trace of the girl that was imprisoned with him. I know he can’t, because that girl no longer exists. Not since he shot me, at least.

I crossed my arms and straighten my posture. “You’re not a very good shot,” I spat, pulling the shoulder of my shirt down, revealing the nasty scar that stretched from my shoulder to my neck. He winces.

“Y/n!” Steve hissed, scowling at me.

“Fuck off, Steve. Did you know I was his first and failed mission?” I sneered angrily. “I was the test subject to determine if he was the Soldier. Spoiler alert, he failed.”

“Because I was still me, dizzy doll! I couldn’t shoot you. I wouldn’t kill you. You’re my girl!” Bucky interjected.

I look away and a tear slides down my cheek. “Your feelings for me set HYDRA up with decades of torture. They had no point for me so I was expendable. Every new method they came up with to torture you with, started with me.”

It was 1949, four years after the war ended and I found myself in post war torn Austria. I had just finished my degree and a promising job offer led to to the ruined country. I was too excited to see the skepticism in the offer. It was deep in the mountains and I had no knowledge of how to transport to and from the closest town nearby where I was suppose to be living. That was my first mistake.

The men who I’d later discover as HYDRA agents would drug me on the car ride there. I’d be striped of my belongings and nearly starve to death for the next week until they moved me into the cell block Bucky was occupying. I was scared and weak, terrified that I was going to die.

I was freezing in the clothes that I wore. I wanted to make an impression, so I wore a nice, bright yellow dress with my lab coat that would be my only source for warmth. I was getting sick. I coughed up a lung every now and then and my skin was hot to the touch, even though I was shivering.

And then by some miracle, they moved me. They viciously dragged me down multiple corridors until I got lost wherever we were. If they thought that I was ever planning on escaping, having multiple hallways with just as many others was the trick at capturing me, that’s for sure.

The doors in front of us opened with a scream and I shake against their grasp. They throw me into the room blindly and I fall with a loud crack. My knees crumble and my palms burn against the rough concrete.

I managed to get onto my feet and back myself into a corner. I ducked my head into my knees, quietly muttering prayers that I learned over the years. My eyes close and I shake with each word that tumbles out of my lips.

“Why did they bring you here?” a voice hissed out in another part of the room. It’s rough, raspy.

My eyes snapped open and I’m met with a worse for wear looking man. Despite our conditions, he looked fine. He was muscular and from the looks of it, he was wearing clean clothes. I scan the cell and notice this cell is ten times better than the one I was in.

It had a bathroom area and a small cot for a bed. It was an ideal hostage room unlike the one I was in. The cell I was in only had a bucket for a toilet and I was confined to the floor as a bed.

“I-I don’t kn-know,” I rasped out in between a coughing fit. My throat burned and it took everything in me not to throw up. “They j-just threw me in here. I’ve been isolated for a w-week.”

His cold eyes soften and he grabbed the cup of water to his right. He walked over to me before gently grabbing my hand, placing it in my hand. I thank him quietly, drinking it slowly. My eyes met his again again and for the first time I notice how beautiful he is.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Y/n,” I mumbled, shaking in the rags of my lab coat.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/n. I’m Bucky.”

After we met, I found solace in him. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and the months turned into a full year of imprisonment. It was a slow and torturous year, but I had Bucky. He kept me safe and warm.

He’d sooth me whenever I’d forget myself. He knew me better than I knew myself in just a year span. He’d remind me of who I was and run his cool metal fingers through my hair until I fell asleep in his embrace. No matter how many times HYDRA attempted to erase who I was, Bucky was always there. They could never erase him from me, and he brought me back to the ground.

One day after an attempted mind wipe, I was worse for wear. They threw me back into the cell roughly and I had no energy to lift myself up onto my butt. I was weak and feeble, shaking in response from the energy coursing through my body.

Bucky hurried to my side and held my head in his hands. My eyes closed as I listened to his soft strong voice. He was lulling me to sleep before my eyes opened again. Our eyes meet and my hand reached up, tangling my fingers in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m so weak and–and broken. You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

“Shh,” he murmured, “You’re not weak or broken. They’re trying to break you, but you’re not broken. I don’t mind takin’ care of you. You remind me of sickly Steve. I like takin’ care of you. I care about you.”

He holds me and pulls me into his lap. My hand brushed against his cheek and he leans into my touch. His fingers play with my hair and our foreheads touch.

“Y/n,” he breathed, “I really want to kiss you,” he confessed.

My heart leaped out of my chest and I turn my head, pressing my mouth against his. It’s firm and full of everything each of us want to say but there were no words for it. He holds me close and I cling to him. He seemed to be the only thing anchoring me.

“James,” I whispered against his lips. He hums in reply. “James, whatever happens to me, it’s okay. I can’t keep going like this. If HYDRA for whatever reason decides to kill me, I want them to. I can’t live like this anymore.”

“No,” he begged, holding my face. “I can’t lose you too.”

“Bucky, I can’t keep going like this. I want to die. I can’t handle another minute of HYDRA. You have to understand. I’m begging you to understand.”

“Y/n,” he croaked, “I can’t let them kill you. You’re all I have.”

I smiled softly at him, running a finger over his cheek. “It’s okay, Bucky. I’ll still be with you here,” I press my hand against his chest.

A handful of days pass before anything happens. It’s the middle of the night and I’m ripped off the home I’ve made in Bucky’s embrace. I cry out and he reaches for me, but he’s beaten into submission at the sound of a gun cocking. I freeze, adjust to the bright light in the room.

Agents surrounded us. My eyes met Bucky’s and his plead with mine. Mine soften, knowing what’s to come.

One of the head agents enters the room, a red book in hand.

“No,” Bucky cries, struggling against the agents in the room. “No, please.”

“Bucky,” I coo, forcing him to look at me. “It’s okay.”

Tears slide down his cheeks and a sob rips through his chest. I watch the agent open the book, thumbing through the pages. I tone the agent out, focusing on Bucky.

He’s gone moments later and his orders are given. He takes the gun and moves it to my direction. His eyes are cold, but it doesn’t frighten me.

“It’s okay,” I murmured in reassurance. “It’s okay, Bucky. Do it, please.”

He looks at me and raises a brow. Something in him clicks, but the gun still goes off. I crumbled to the ground, pain ripping through my shoulder. I was still alive.  

“No. No, no, no,” I chanted under my breath as they dragged me away to privately discipline him. I never saw him again until now.

“I asked, no, begged, you to shoot me. I was miserable. I was weak. I was dying. I wanted to be put out of my misery. You know better than anyone else how that feels,” I spat angrily, feeling my face get hot as tears slid down my cheeks.

“I loved you, Y/n! I couldn’t have you dying on my conscious!” he cried.

“Oh, and I’m sure you could have Howard and Maria on your conscious then, huh? You don’t love me,” I argued. “You think you do, but you don’t. I was the only companion you had. You don’t love me.”

I know it’s a low blow, but I don’t really care, not yet at least. I’m hurt. I’m scared. It’s the first time since he shot me that I’ve seen him.

His face fell and Steve growled my name. I ignore him, storming off to my bedroom. I slam the door shut and slide to the floor. My body shakes as sobs rip through me and I climb onto my bed, pulling my knees to my chest, crying myself to sleep.

yEAH NEW SERIES!!!! this one is going to contain a shit ton of drama. no one’s gonna be happy and it’ll be awesome. you’ll shoot me, but it’ll be awesome. and there’s gonna be a love triangle with a very over looked avenger ;))) send me asks of who you think it’ll be!!!

PERMANENT TAGS: @jessevans @fuckmewintertucker @ria132love @anastasiaannaa @bubblyaschampagne @kindnesswins @queen-valeskaxx @lilasiannerd @sammnipple @blueeyedboobear @mcuimxgine @marvel-fanfiction @blueskies-love @super-soldier-wifey @broken-pieces @xxchexchickxx @castawayreject @iamwarrenspeace @melconnor2007 @nerdyandproud9 @frostbyte-horan

[slushblock]

Fell - Chapter 5 - The Light in the Pit

Hmmmm.... A bit dialogue-heavy... but...

Nobody expected Ren to show up at the town.

Not that there was anyone to stop him, exactly, at least not then. He simply opened the front door to the workroom and walked right on in. Nobody was there.

It didn’t seem abandoned, though; the forge was still burning, and there were tools and bars of refined demonite near the anvil. A few books were strewn about, as well as a pile of more unusual materials that looked like they’d been refined from plants and other organic materials. An incomplete and very botanical outfit made from those materials and some gems was left hanging up near the loom.

As the large man closed the door behind him and continued to look around, he couldn’t help but notice that there was a heavily charred chair nearly falling apart by the the forge, along with a pair of deep scorch marks shaped like shoeprints. The irony of the flames crackling about five feet away wasn’t lost.

After the first cursory glance, Ren stepped over to the books, noting in particular the handwritten journal. Before he could give it much more thought, though, his attention was grabbed by the sound of tired footsteps down the stairwell.

Aura looked like she’d seen better days, out of armor and back in her old clothes. It looked like she hadn’t been out of the house since the last time they’d crossed paths four days ago. That didn’t stop her from nearly having a full panic-attack upon seeing the stranger in their house, reaching instinctively for any weapons, only to realize she didn’t have any ready without first going through her scroll.

“Wh-wh-WHAT are you doing here?!” she managed to shout, backing up into the stairwell, leaning over to barely glance around the corner of the door frame.

There was no telling if it was a product of never having seen the man out of the shadows before, but his sickly condition seemed a whole lot worse in proper light. His graying skin appeared even more unnatural, and the right side of his face was disfigured by puffy inflammation and prominent veins. A thin line, perhaps a scar, over his eye seemed to be the possible source. Where the swelling from the infection should have probably covered over his right eye, instead the eye bulged a bit, seeming larger than natural, with a faint greenish tinge to his sclera. It was, frankly, disgusting to look at, and Aura had to take every ounce of restraint to not stare awkwardly.

Ren’s initial silence did not help Aura’s unease with his presence, but eventually he responded, voice raspy, “Just checking.” He looked down for a moment, then reached up and removed his helmet. Without the framing, and the fact that he was mostly bald save a very short, military mohawk, his facial deformations stood out even further. He held the helmet under his arm and continued, “I know what happened. I felt it as I left. My curiosity to how you two handled the..,” he narrowed his eyes, “...revelation… finally got the better of me.”

“Oh really. That’s great,” Aura growled, still hiding behind the door frame and wondering if she would be able to grab a weapon quickly enough if things went south,  “Also, thanks a frickin’ lot for warning us about the godsdamned doll, asshole.”

She was met with silence. Finally, Ren managed to piece together his own confusion enough to quietly respond, “...What doll?”

“Yeah, the- wait… what?” Aura was taken by surprise, leaning out from her cover more to fix the intruder with a very bewildered look, “You… but then how?”

The large man was so deadpan it was almost eerie, “I was simply killing demons when it happened to me.” He shook his head, “There was no doll involved.”

Aura wasn’t sure she believed him, but also remembered how they almost didn’t notice the doll in the demon’s hand, either. Perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched that he’d shot a demon down, not realizing it held anything at all before it plunged into the lava. She huffed. Thinking about the incident at all wasn’t exactly pleasant.

“If it makes you feel better,” He tried, vainly, to reassure with his grim tone, “You’re taking it surprisingly well.”

Finally feeling a little more at ease, but no less irritated, Aura stepped out into the room, “Oh sure, this is taking it well,” she gestured to herself, sharply, ”Not leaving the house in days is taking it well. Yeah, I’m totally over over having to scrub my own blood off every possible surface of my own bedroom! Even the ceiling!” She threw her arms up, in what could have been mistaken for exaggeration if it weren’t so painfully true, “Seriously, screw this place,” Aura sighed heavily, spinning a chair so she could flop down on it and bury her head in her hands, elbows on the table, “I don’t wanna live here knowing something like that is living under our own feet.”

“...Ah.”

“If you wanna see ‘taking it well’, go talk to king idiot,” Aura crossed her arms and leaned back, eyes closed, “I honestly don’t know how he does it.”

Puzzled by the casual insult, Ren tilted his head, “Does what?”

“Keeps going?” Shrugging, Aura, gestured at the journal on the table, not so much imploring it be read, but simply acknowledging its owner’s questionable mental state to herself for having read it, “I watched him get dismembered and swallowed by something I don’t even want to remember… Thought he was about to go mad locked in his own room for two days doing Thoth-knows-what, but then he went right back to being his normal, stupid self,” she sighed heavily, “Now the moron’s got it in his head that he wants to kill that thing, and wants to find the means to do it, for BOTH of us, so he’s off risking his-”

Her rant was cut off by the telltale ringing of a magic mirror upstairs, followed by the opening and closing of a door and the clomping armored footsteps down the stairs. Axl turned the corner, now wearing armor made from the demonite and scales they’d gotten; similar to Ren’s, but simpler, and without the unusual red gilding. “SO, I found this really neat new sword while I was out,” he began, holding out the aforementioned weapon, expecting to only see Aura there, “Nearly broke my leg in the deep hole in the ground above it, almost like it fell fro-oooh crap it’s you,” he trailed off upon seeing Ren standing there, looking menacing by just existing.

The large man narrowed his eyes, “Indeed.”

Axl barely resisted the urge to say ‘Wow, you look terrible’, instead opting for a much simpler, “...Why?”

Ren only felt like dignifying that with an answer as he had a feeling this would be the last time he’d be asked that, “To see the constitution of a pair of kids dumb enough to ignore my warning…” With that, he placed his helmet down on the table, roughly enough that the clang made both jump. “So..,” he looked up. Suddenly, there was a faint, if sinister, grin on his face. Some of his teeth looked a little sharper than they should have been, “You want to kill that wall of flesh in the underworld?”

Axl shivered, “...Well, yes.” He glanced at Aura, who very clearly disagreed with that goal, before looking back at Ren, “What is it to you?”

“Let’s just say our goals… align,” Ren leaned forward, hand on the table and causing it to creak threateningly, “I had my doubts-” he paused, reconsidering, “Well, I still have them. But having any allies with such a massive undertaking wouldn’t hurt.”

“You’re both insane,” Aura mumbled, straightening her posture and putting her own arm on the table, “What could something like that have that’s worth going insane trying to kill?”

“Who knows,” Ren took his helmet, holding it in both hands, “I’m looking for answers.”

“And simply knowing that there’s one less unthinkable horror in this world would make living in it that much more tolerable for as long as we need to stay here,” Axl added.

“So it’s a deal?” Ren smirked, putting his helmet back on and holding out his hand, “I help you gear up quicker, you help me take down that monster.”

Aura just shook her head quietly while Axl returned the smirk, holding his hand out in turn, “Deal.”

Before their hands met, the moment of agreement was broken by the door opening, followed by a slow, sarcastic clapping.

With that frustratingly knowing smile, the guide stepped back into the house. The three adventurers stared in shock,confusion, and a little horror as he closed the door behind him, “It’s good to see you’re finally taking preparation seriously,” his smile sharpened as he walked over to the burned out chair, knocking it over into ashen splinters with the slightest touch before standing in his own charred footprints, “I would hate for you to waste my time like that again.”

Aura sputtered, trying to form words, before simply whispering, “H-how..?”

“You think guys like you are the only ones immune to death?” The guide casually walked over to the tables, retrieving one of the unused chairs and sliding it so deliberately over to the forge that the sound grated painfully, “I was certain you’d already known, it’s a rare blessing not to be.” He shifted a momentary sly gaze over to Ren, who clenched his teeth nearly hard enough to hear, but said nothing. The others didn’t notice.

Axl was much less angry. He’d seen the footprints and knew what they meant, but his eyes drifted to them again almost as if having seen them for the first time. His tone was almost… sad, “Why didn’t you warn us?”

“You weren’t ready,” came the simple response, as the guide repositioned the chair opposite where the original one lay in blackened fragments, “But I do suppose experience is the best teacher.” He sat down, shrugging, the sinister glint of his grin fading away into a much less threatening smile,  “I may be used to it, but being burnt to nothing is still a painful way to go. Next time I’ll learn to take reckless impulsivity into consideration over competence when it comes to being sacrificed to untold horror.”

The way the deceptively plain man spoke so casually about that was chilling enough without making the mental connection between his death by fire and the thing that apparently appeared in the wake of that. The same question bubbled in everyone’s minds. Ren was the first to ask, gruffly, “So that thing appears when you die in a fire. Why would that be?”

“Though it pains me to not answer a question directly,” the guide’s expression belied the hint of annoyance that his tone only barely hinted, “not only is it not your business, but considering how quickly you abandoned my help and advice, I really don’t feel inclined to share that kind of information with you,” he chuckled, forebodingly, “seeing how you know so much already.” Ren grunted, backing up slightly. Aura narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

With a growl to cut off any further questioning, Ren turned around, heading to the door, “Enough. I’ve preparations to make,” he looked over his shoulder momentarily as he opened the door, “I’ll meet you on the road if you trust me. We can go forward from there.” With a final, curt glare back, he slammed the door behind him.

The guide chuckled, shaking his head as he sat down. Axl took off his helmet, rubbing his forehead, “Well, that got weird.”

“You’re not seriously considering still letting him tag along, right?” Aura looked back between the door, Axl, and the guide simply sitting there, leaning back with his hands behind his head, “It’s sketchy as Hell…”

“Well…” Axl fiddled with his helmet, turning it over in his hands, “I really don’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but it’s not… like…” He trailed off, suddenly regretting what he was about to say. He looked down, helmet facing him as he broke eye contact.

“What?” Aura began to stand up, chair creaking against the stone floor, “Because I haven’t been hanging out with you?” She put both hands on the table, leaning forward, “Because you can’t go a week without having someone to watch your back?”

Axl winced with every verbal jab, “No, it’s not that-… it’s not like-... I don’t...” He looked down at his journal, eyes occasionally darting to the stairs. Choppy breathing indicated he wanted to blurt something out, but was keeping a tight lid on whatever it was. Finally, he sighed, “It’s not that I’m afraid of dying. But just sitting around doing nothing out of fear won’t get us any closer to escaping this place… but I know I can’t do it on my own.”

Aura continued to glare at him, and he continued to avert his eyes. Finally, she sighed, “Fine,” her answer surprised Axl so much he dropped his helmet, looking at her with amazement as she pushed away from the table, “I really don’t want to… but damn it, I’m not gonna be shown up by a pair of dudes, especially not you. But I’m not hanging around if that creep 180’s on us.”

Axl held his breath for a moment, but once he realized there wasn’t some catch, he heaved a relieved sigh, with a faint smile, “...Deal.”

“Oh, and the slime stays.”

“Damn it!”

Off to the side, the guide chuckled. They ignored it.

True to his word, Ren began to offer assistance. Not only did he have a considerable amount of gathered resources from his hidden bunker - wherever that was, considering he never divulged its location -  but a great deal of the ‘work’ he’d mentioned involved great lengths of underground minecart tracks, cleverly hidden with moving walls made to look like naturalistic stone. Axl had run into them a few times, but had encountered so many incomplete and broken tracks before that he rarely followed them anymore after one too many tracks ending in water, lava, or otherwise fatal or at least incredibly painful falls.

Having a network for traveling quickly to certain places made exploring that much more tolerable, especially the jungle just beyond the scorching desert to the south, and the snowy tundra past the corruption chasms. Nobody felt the need to question the proximity of weather extremes at this point, so long as they could get around them.

Though he tried to avoid the guide as best he could, Ren began to visit the town more frequently between forays, but never stayed there, and never appeared there out of nowhere. Whether he used a mirror at all or died was anyone’s guess, as he obviously set his return point to wherever it was he called his home in this world. Curiosity to how these two strange individuals spent their off-time led him to hang around more and more.

Regardless, over the days the others noticed Ren’s ‘condition’ was slowly worsening over time. The veins were taking on a faint greenish tinge, and small, keratinous growths could even be seen on or between some of the larger pustules.

Despite, or perhaps due to not being asked, the guide had offered a rather sarcastic, “You know, you could possibly get that treated,” his voice was almost teasing, but not in a friendly way, as he gestured to the facial disfigurement, “We do have a nurse here, and you’d be surprised how skilled she is. Worse comes to worse, I’m sure the dryad might-”

“It was my mistake, so it’s my burden to bear,” Ren had cut him off, slamming down the tools he was using to whittle bullets from the heated meteorite metal they’d recently collected, “I’m not going to inconvenience others for my own shortcomings. If there’s a way to get rid of this, I’m finding it myself.”

Axl nodded quietly with a faint smile off to the side as he tooled away at his own project - some kind of figurine made from leftover silver - familiar with that sentiment, at least partially. His way of dealing with it was just different.

Aura, who had been marvelling at the magic glow within the diamond-tipped staff she’d just made, rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, groaning, “Ugh, GUYS,” to herself.  Axl chuckled, taking out a small sliver of gold to add to the figurine, but reconsidering and putting it away again, returning to some attempts at finer details as he hummed to himself softly.

Ren turned to Axl to finally ask a question that had been nagging his characteristically dark outlook, especially given his first-hand experience with Axl’s casual handling of death and having finally gotten a chance to read the journal, “How is it you manage to stay so… positive?”

Axl seemed a bit taken aback by that, not necessarily because it was an unusual question, but because it triggered a pang of regret. He used to hear it a lot more. From classmates. From family. “Well, things are bad enough as it is. If I spent all that time also making myself miserable, it’d just be double misery. I can’t live like that, and I’m sure the people I want to return to wouldn’t want that,” he shrugged. Saying it out loud made him feel rather foolish, “Plus, it helps me keep focused on the things worth looking forward to.”

The concept made sense to Ren, if painfully naive, but he had a feeling there was more to it than that, “We’re preparing to battle something beyond the nightmares of most normal people,” he muttered as he returned to his bullets, “What about that is worth looking forward to, beyond it potentially having answers for us?”

Axl looked down at his figurine. It looked a bit like a suit of armor, though it was still looking very rough. He’d started working on designs like this to make his real armor look less awful when the time came to make it. It wasted less material. He sighed, “You think the wall may contain answers… I say it contains hope.”

“Hope?” The large man paused his work, looking up, “Not what I would have expected…”

“Well, I’m not sure how you died to it…” Axl put the figurine away, crossing his arms, “but when it swallowed me, I had a split second of clarity to see what was inside of it before I died. I saw… things. Like spirits. Swirling motes. I could feel them, feel their energy for that moment,” he shuddered, “Some of them felt like the energy radiating from the corruption, only worse… some of them felt sort of like that, yet different, somehow… and even more unnerving.”

Aura put the staff down, eyeing Axl like he was even crazier than she had already established, “How is that hopeful?”

“Because there was a third… and it was very distinctly full of light.” Axl straightened his back, taking the figurine out again. “With all this darkness that surrounds us, there is light, and it’s locked away inside that wall for some reason,” talking about it gave him a thought, and he started working on the figure some more, “I just want to let it free, so we can use it to combat the darkness.” He paused, looking down, “Maybe it also holds the key to finding our way home.”

Aura was about to respond to that, but was interrupted by the sound of a woman clearing her throat. They all turned to see the dryad standing there, looking a bit grim. Axl took a sharp breath and turned back to his figurine as she spoke, “You should not put your faith in that.”

Axl was startled by that notion, “What..?”

The nature spirit stepped into the room, and the man-made fire of the forge flickered in her presence. “I know there is light down there. I was there, with many of my kin. I know what happened. I know why it was sealed.” She cast a glance over at the guide, expression severe. He simply nodded, but said nothing as she continued, “Just because there is light does not mean it is good. At one time, it was wholesome. It existed to protect. But it went wild, and became just as much of a threat as what it was defending against.”

Axl’s shoulders drooped, his hands holding the figurine falling into his lap, “Oh…”

The dryad felt the sudden loss of nerve, and tried to put on a slightly more reassuring smile and tone, “I know I cannot stop you from letting it out. You may even be able to harness it for a greater good, as it was once upon a time,” she paused, her expression going somber, “But if you do… I will not be able to stay here. I must go back to the jungle. I will need to warn the others.”

Hearing that caused Aura to gasp, “W-wait, why? But we’ll need you-!”

The dryad closed her eyes for a moment, placing a hand on Aura’s shoulder, “I am sorry. I have duties to fill, and promises to keep,” She opened her eyes again, looking to Axl, “If you know the light is there, then you know about the other two. Blood, and darkness. You would be letting them out, as well.” Letting her hand fall from Aura’s shoulder, she turned back towards the stairs, “There will be another like me, if I cannot return. I will try, but I cannot promise anything…” With that, she headed back to her room.

Aura frowned, deeply upset by that, “So we’d be opening up Pandora’s Box…” She mumbled some indistinct curse, kicking the table leg, “Friggin’ great.”

Axl’s composure drooped more at the cynicism,”I…” putting the figurine away, he bit his lip and turned to going through their supplies, head shaking. After a moment, he frowned further, “Running low on iron for potions,” he muttered, trying to put on a faint smile, very obviously trying to distract himself, “Gonna head down for a little bit to grab some silt to see if we can’t get a little more.”

Aura nodded as Axl kicked open the trapdoor to the underground and headed down, closing it behind him. For some reason, silt was the only way they’d found to acquire proper iron; otherwise, their only option readily available was lead. As much as Axl was arguably not worse for wear having run around in armor made of the stuff for at least a week (and as much as Aura half-joked that maybe it affected his judgement more than he wanted to admit), nobody was particularly interested in drinking it.

As he disappeared, Aura turned back with a heavy sigh, surprised to be feeling just a bit guilty.

“What’s that about?” Ren mumbled, half-curiously, “...You like him or something?”

The statement took Aura aback and she nearly fell over, “Wha- NO! Oh GODS, no!” There wasn’t a drop of hidden denial in her tone, and in fact there was a hint of disgust considering their age difference, “I feel like a godsdamned babysitter for a guy who’s older than me, like the whole world needs to be childproofed for that idiot!”

“...Ah,” Ren replied simply, almost sorry he asked. He probably should have guessed that himself.

Aura leaned back, sighing again, “Honestly, though, I worry about the guy. Dying over and over is bad enough, but watching someone else die over and over, and that frequently-” Her eyes widened for a moment, and she straightened up, looking back over at Ren, “Say… Do you remember your deaths?”

Ren looked down in silence for a moment, before nodding slowly, “...Yes. Of course I do. Not that it’s happened much.” He idly adjusted his gauntlets, voice low, “Why, don’t you?”

“I… sort of. But not like that,”  Aura rubbed her forehead, “Just… sort of remember how, but not the details. But seeing the details from third-person, and the frequency... imagining what it must be like to be aware of it…”

“It sounds to me like you’re trying too hard to cling to rational thought,” Ren muttered, the response catching Aura somewhat off guard. She gave him a strange look as he continued, “...It’s something I’ve noticed a lot of the townsfolk doing. Try to forget the world’s strangeness and what it’s doing to you, and you start to forget yourself. It’s not a good idea. I know. This world has a way of punishing rationality. The prices I paid...” He trailed off, slowly and delicately ran two fingers down the blighted side of his face with a wince, “...The more you try to stay sane, the harder it’ll hit you when it catches up.”

Aura shivered slightly. They both let that statement set in for a while before she broke the silence with a soft, sarcastic chuckle, “Between you and me, I think he might be, like, actually getting off on dying-”

“Please don’t imply such unsavory things about people behind their backs, it’s rude and creepy,” Axl’s voice from the stairwell made Aura jump.

“What-” Aura craned her head back to look, “ ...why are you back so quickly?”

“Dynamite,” came the simple, sheepish reply.

Ren arched his still mostly-healthy brow, “You mean you need some, or you-”

Axl’s flat-lipped, embarrassed half-smile said everything as he picked up his journal and scribbled in it, before heading back down the trapdoor.

Aura rolled her eyes, turning back to Ren and gesturing sharply with an expression of ‘See??!’