#an onward fanfiction

[boyrobott]

even you turned from me in disgust

the thing about living in a haunted house is this: horror always hits a little too close to home.

Read on AO3.

Astro really doesn't get the appeal of horror movies.

The way he sees it, he's already got plenty of bad guys trying to kill him day in and day out without worrying about a psychopathic child trying to suck out his soul in the middle of the night, or whatever's going on with those creepy little twin girls in the haunted hotel, and anyway, what kind of person actually wants to be scared? What kind of person likes gory bloodbaths where everybody dies at the end? What kind of person likes watching serial killers with garden knives for fingers, or possessed children spinning their heads around three hundred sixty degrees and spider-walking down a stairway, or a guy with a butcher knife and a mask murdering everyone he meets in increasingly awful and terrifying ways? What kind of person actually likes that sort of stuff?

…Well, apparently, Cora and Zane do, because they're going to have a whole marathon of horror movies the weekend before Halloween — and, for some reason, they've decided they want him there, too.

This presents a problem, because he really doesn't get the appeal of horror movies, remember, and something tells him several hours of them isn't going to magically change his mind, so he should just say he can't make it, come up with some plausible excuse or other, and forget all about it. But his work around the city has kept him so busy lately that he hasn't had a whole lot of free time to hang out with his friends for a while now, and he really misses them.

So he says yes.

Even though he seriously does not need to worry about some psychopathic child trying to suck out his soul in the middle of the night.

Surprisingly enough, it isn't actually that bad — or, at least, it's not that bad at first, as they settle in on the thick shag carpet in Cora's bedroom, with all the lights turned off (because Cora swears horror movies are way better in the dark), and the curtains pulled shut, and the TV screen glowing bright in the blackness, with a plastic bowl of buttery popcorn and enough fun-sized candy bars and cold sodas to put them all in sugar comas until New Year's.

…Although, to be honest, the first movie is a lot more depressing than he expected from something that's supposed to be scary.

"Why are they all so mean to Carrie?" he asks, more than once, with ever-increasing levels of distress, as the story unfolds. "I mean, she didn't even do anything wrong!"

Cora laughs, which immediately makes the whole bleak experience worth it, and tosses a handful of popcorn into her mouth. "I think maybe it's because she was really ugly in the book, or something? But that doesn't hold up here, 'cause, I mean, the actress is super-hot, obviously, so… yeah, I don't know. That TJ Porter doofus is always picking on you for no reason, isn't he? Some kids are just jerks, I guess."

Actually, Astro is pretty sure that TJ Porter is always picking on him because he's a robot, considering that's the primary focus of all his insults, but he's not about to bring that up. Last time he tried, Zane laughed and said you know he's just doing that 'cause he's jealous, right? and laughed even harder at the absolutely gobsmacked look on Astro's face as he tried to figure out why on earth anybody would ever be jealous of him.

"Oh, they're going to vote Carrie for prom queen?" he sits up a little straighter, before he remembers the teenagers on the screen pelted a sobbing girl with tampons for ten straight minutes, and laughed about it. "Wait, wait, hang on, why are they voting her in for prom queen, though? Are they trying to make up for what they did earlier, like Sue? That'd be a nice ending, I guess."

Zane sighs around a mouthful of Sour Patch Kids, and leans over to give him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Oh, you sweet summer child."

Once they get through Carrie, they go through three more films — he finds out exactly what's up with those creepy little girls in the haunted hotel, for a start, which is something he could have happily lived the rest of his life not knowing, and there's another creepy little girl right after that ("I feel like maybe we need to keep a closer eye on Widget after all this," Astro says) except she turns out to not be a little girl at all, because she's secretly a grown-up adult woman who's just pretending to be a little girl, which is crazy, and there's a really old black-and-white movie, too, about a guy who dresses up like his late mother to stab people to death in his murder motel.

"That's it," Astro declares, as the credits roll across the screen. "I'm never showering again."

"Airtight solution, SuperBoy," Cora nods sagely, before she turns her attention back to the TV. "Let's do Frankenstein next."

Zane frowns. "That's the one where the crazy scientist brings a guy back from the dead, right?"

"Sort of?" Cora shrugs, hitting a button on the remote to pull up the film in question. "He doesn't really bring a guy back from the dead, though. He just… makes a new guy out of dead people, basically."

Astro can't hold back a grimace. "Great. Thanks so much for that imagery, you guys."

Zane shoves him. "Don't wimp out on us, man. You literally talked down a bomber, like, two weeks ago. This is nothing."

"The bomber wasn't a zombie!"

Everybody quiets down when the movie begins, and for a little while, it's okay — the camera sweeps over a wintry landscape ("I thought this was supposed to be a Halloween flick," Zane mutters when he sees the snow, but Cora shuts him up by tossing a fistful of popcorn at him) and zooms in dramatically on a sad-looking man on a ship, staring wistfully out over an ice-choked ocean — but after a couple minutes, it gets… kind of uncomfortable. It's not really that scary, or anything, not like those other ones they just watched, and it's not a bad movie, either, but it's—it's just—there's just this scene, where the monster comes to life in the scientist's lab, and—

"I had worked hard for nearly two years," the narration says, calm and composed in stark contrast to the man on the screen, who's crying out in horror, shaking his head frantically, backing away from the table as his newborn creature rises up, "for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this, I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardor that far exceeded moderation. But now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and a breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Oh! My hideous progeny! How I rue the moment you drew your first breath! How could anyone look upon you without revulsion? How could I ever have imagined my endeavor would produce anything of worth?"

Astro's stomach rolls over like he's going to throw up. He doesn't really know why, but there's something about this movie, or maybe just the man on the screen, that horrifies him more than any villain or criminal out on the streets ever could. My hideous progeny, he says. (a terrible mistake. just a machine. a failed experiment. a copy.) How could anyone look upon you without revulsion? he says. (I can't bear to see his face again.) How could I ever have imagined my endeavor would produce anything of worth? he says. (how did I think this could work?)

Astro blinks, shaking his head to try and shake off the sick feeling suddenly churning in his gut, and forces himself to refocus on the TV instead. It's only been a couple of hours since they started, after all, and he doesn't want to ruin his friends' night just because he doesn't like what they're watching. He got through all those other, much scarier, films just fine, so he's sure he can get through this one, too.

Except it just—it just keeps getting worse and worse and worse.

The monster has stitches all over his face from where Frankenstein sewed him together, and bolts coming out of his neck to hold his head on his shoulders. He looks different from everyone else — so different it scares them, so different it terrifies them, so different they scream at the sight of him, and send him away without ever giving him a chance, so different he can't fit in with anyone else no matter how hard he tries.

The monster is the only creature of his kind in the whole world.

The monster is all alone.

There is no one on earth like the monster. There is no one on earth who cares about the monster. Not even the man who made him.

Astro can't remember how to breathe, and his vision does this weird thing where it goes black at the edges like he's going to pass out, and it feels like maybe his heart is pounding faster than it usually does, which is a crazy thing for him to feel, because he doesn't even have a physical heart in the first place, and then he wonders if the monster has a physical heart and then he wonders if the monster has a name, or if that's another part of being human Frankenstein wouldn't let him have, and I can't bear to see his face again and how did I think this could work and I don't want you anymore—

He can't remember how to breathe. His hands are shaking, and his arms and legs are going numb, like all the blood is rushing from his limbs to flood into his chest instead, which is kind of crazy because he doesn't actually have any blood, and he wonders if the monster has blood and he wonders if the monster has bones and he wonders if any of that really matters when the monster has feelings, and that should be enough, and why isn't that enough? why isn't that enough for Frankenstein? why won't he just treat his creation like a person?

Zane says something, then, and Cora says something back, and they both laugh, but it's faint and faraway, like he's on the other side of the ocean, or maybe like he's in the ocean, drowning under the dark water. Cora shifts a little closer to him, her shoulder bumping lightly against his, and he can't remember how to breathe, and his hands are shaking and his arms and legs are going numb and he thinks, suddenly, about how Cora and Zane looked at him when they found out he was a robot — the horror and disgust in their eyes — and he realizes, with an awful jolt in the pit of his stomach, that the people in the cottage looked at the monster in the exact same way.

He thinks about how his dad looked at him, when he said you're not my son and I don't want you anymore, and he realizes, with a bigger and more awful jolt, that Frankenstein looked at his monster in the exact same way, hatred and revulsion and contempt written plainly in every line of his face, my hideous progeny a terrible mistake just a machine a failed experiment a copy not my son a robot how could anyone look upon you without revulsion I can't bear to see his face again how could I ever have imagined my endeavor would produce anything of worth how did I think this could work I don't want you anymore I don't want you anymore I don't want you anymore I don't want you I don't want you I don't want you I don't want you—

There's a ringing in his ears, a constant screeching wail, like tinnitus turned up to an eleven, and a terrible, crushing pressure in his chest that makes him wonder if maybe his heart is going to explode — except then he remembers he doesn't even have a heart, anyway, and maybe that's why it was so easy for Frankenstein to throw the monster away, because he knew the monster didn't have a heart, knew it wasn't human, and he can feel an awful pressure behind his eyes now, too, hot and heavy like a really bad headache. He hasn't felt this small since he lay down on a lab table and let his father kill him.

He wonders why Frankenstein couldn't just love the monster.

He wonders why he had to die just to get his dad to love him.

The pressure behind his eyes is getting worse, making the whole room look blurry and out of focus like a bad photograph, and it's stinging, and it's burning, and Astro—

—Astro starts to cry, so hard it actually kind of hurts, tears spilling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin and soaking into Cora's soft shag carpet. Loud, ugly sobs rip out of his throat before he can catch them, making his shoulders shake and shudder. Cora and Zane pause the movie and turn to stare at him, openmouthed and wide-eyed and wondering, and he thinks about how they looked at him when they found out he was a robot, and how the people in the cottage looked at the monster in the exact same way, and it just makes him cry even harder.

"A-Astro?" Cora says, finally, one hand hovering awkwardly above his shoulder like she can't decide whether she wants to touch him or not. "What's—What's wrong? What are you—?"

Astro tries to say I'm sorry, but there are so many things he's sorry for that it all kind of gets lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth, so he just sits there on Cora's carpet, sobbing and sniffling and scrubbing furiously at his eyes with the backs of his trembling hands to try and stem the endless flood of tears, and wondering if the monster can cry, or if that's another part of being human that Frankenstein wouldn't let him have. His arms and legs are going numb and his chest is aching and it feels like his heart is collapsing inside of him, a dying star buckling and bending under the weight of its own gravity and—

"W-Why didn't he want me?" he chokes out, his voice painfully small, and he wonders how many times the monster must've asked himself that same question, wonders if there was anything that the monster could have possibly done to make Frankenstein love him, and then he wonders how many times the monster must have wondered that, too. "Why didn't he want me? Why did he throw me away? Why did he make me just to throw me away? What's wrong with me?"

He wonders how many times the monster must've asked himself that same question, and he wonders how many times the monster must have lain awake at night in his dark and dirty hovel and waited waited waited for someone to love him, wonders how many times the monster must have called himself all the same horrible things his creator did, demon beast fiend villain hideous progeny a terrible mistake just a machine a failed experiment a copy not my son not my son not my son. He wonders if the monster's face is what his father sees whenever he looks at him — the waxy yellow-green corpse-skin stretched taut over rotted bones, the dull staring eyes, the terrifying towering stature, the shuffling limping gait, the bolts sticking out the sides of the neck, the lines of black X-shaped stitches threaded across the withered cheeks, the hunched slope of the deformed shoulders, the inherent wrongness of the whole shape — and then he wonders if maybe that's why his father said I can't bear to see his face again.

He wonders why his father had to make him like this.

He wonders why his father had to make him so different from everybody else.

He wonders why his father had to make him so difficult to love.

And then he wonders how many times the monster must have asked himself that same question, too.

"Tenma did that?" Cora says, at last, her blue eyes narrowed and her dark brow pulled down low in a scowl. "He did that to you?"

There's a cold fury in her tone, in her clenched teeth, in the tensed line of her jaw, and for a minute, Astro thinks it must be meant for him, that she must be mad at him — for ruining the movie, for crying all over her carpet, for making everything all about him, for whining about something that really isn't such a big deal after all, (and he knows that, he does, he knows he has no good reason to be acting like such a baby over this when his dad had it so much worse, because his dad lost his only son while he just got his feelings hurt, and he knows one of those things is not like the other, he knows that, and)—

—and then his brain finally catches up, and he realizes what she's actually saying, what she's actually mad about, and that's—that's almost worse, actually, because his dad doesn't deserve that. It's not like it's his fault that Astro couldn't be the son he wanted. It's not like it's his fault that Astro couldn't be a better Tobi. It's not like it's his fault Astro just isn't somebody other people can love without earning it first.

"H-He was going through a hard time when he made me," he quickly explains, so Cora and Zane won't get the wrong idea, so they know the truth, so they understand he's just overreacting like he always does. He has to make sure they understand that. He has to make sure they understand that his dad is a good person. He has to make sure they understand that his dad really was doing his best, and it's not his fault Astro couldn't be the son he wanted, not his fault Astro couldn't be a better Tobi, not his fault Astro just isn't somebody other people can love without earning it first, and if there's anyone who should take the blame in this whole messed-up situation, it's him, isn't it? It's his own fault he got thrown away like that, isn't it? Whose else could it be? "I—I mean, it was a really, really hard time for him. He was dealing with so much, and I was—I was just making it worse, I just kept making it worse, and he just—he just needed to get away from me for a while. You guys get that, right?"

The silence that comes after that is so heavy he thinks it's going to crush him. It's so heavy it's all he can hear. It's so heavy it presses in on him from all sides, so heavy he's scared to look at his friends just in case they're looking at him like those people in the cottage looked at the monster, so heavy he wonders if maybe he shouldn't have said that, so heavy he wonders if maybe he just made the kind of mistake he can't come back from, the kind of mistake that means their friendship is over, and they're going to send him away now like the people in the cottage sent the monster away—

"Jesus, Astro," Zane says, finally, breathless like somebody just came along and punched him in the stomach. "Jesus Christ, dude, that's… that's a lot. I-I don't even know where to start, man."

"Great, because I do," Cora jumps in all of a sudden, her voice knife-sharp and stone-hard. "Astro, it doesn't matter what your dad was going through when he made you. That's not an excuse. No, it is not," she adds, sharply, when he instinctively opens his mouth to argue with her. "And whatever made him decide to do that to you, it wasn't about you. It wasn't because you did anything wrong."

"But it was about me," Astro says, immediately — and so quiet, so serious, so honest, it takes him a second to realize he actually said it out loud instead of just thinking it. He's never needed to say it out loud before. Everyone else has always known it's true. "It was about me. If I had been better, he wouldn't have had to do that to me. If I had been better, he would've loved me right from the start."

"Is that," Cora asks, low and dangerous and so, so furious it seems to reverberate around the whole room, "what he told you?"

A tiny spark of—of something, too small for him to call anger but too big, and too close to fire, for him to call it anything else, flickers to sudden, diamond-bright life in his chest, and for the first time in their entire friendship, Astro meets her glare with one of his own, jaw clenching tight. "No, because he didn't have to tell me. It wasn't exactly rocket science! It only took a day for him to get sick of me! That kind of says something about a person, Cora, don't you think?"

There's a second of ringing silence right after he finally shuts his mouth, and he realizes he's standing up on his feet, glaring down at her — and she was scowling right back at him only a minute before, red in the face and madder than he'd ever seen her, but somewhere between one blink and the next, all her anger evaporated, and now she's gaping silently up at him with wide blue eyes, like he's just slapped her, or spit on her.

Astro has never raised his voice at her before. The guilt of it breaks over him like a wave of cold water, washing away the last, lingering spark of temper left in him. He wants to apologize, to say he didn't mean it, to promise he won't do it again, but he hasn't even opened his mouth before Cora pushes herself to her feet, too — though she doesn't look like she's gearing up for a fight, the way she did just a minute ago.

"No," she says, firmly. "It doesn't."

He's sure there must be some kind of context for that statement, but for the life of him, he can't figure out what it is. "W-What?"

"All that stuff your dad did to you," Cora says, her voice so strong and steady and sure he just can't help but listen to her. "You said it says something about a person, but it doesn't. It doesn't say anything about you. The things other people do to you, or say to you… that's on them, Astro. It doesn't matter who they are, or what they're going through, or if you think you could have done different, or been better, or whatever. It's still on them. They still decided to do what they did. You get that, don't you?"

Of course he gets that. Of course he knows people make their own choices, and they're responsible for their own actions, but… but his dad was going through a lot. And he was just making it worse. And his dad did need to get away from him for a little while. And it is hard for other people to be around him. And it hurt, obviously, of course it did, and it still hurts sometimes, when he lets himself think about it too long — like pressing on a bruise, or picking at a scab — but that doesn't make his dad a bad person, or a bad parent, the way Cora and Zane seem to think it does.

Besides, it's not like his dad was the only one who ever did anything like that, is it? Hamegg threw him away, too, once he found out he was a robot, Cora and Zane looked at him in the exact same way the people in the cottage looked at the monster, and sent him away like the people in the cottage sent the monster away, President Stone hunted him down like he was a criminal — and none of that makes them bad people. Hamegg was awful to his poor robots, of course, and there's no excuse for that, for the way he treated ZOG and the rest, but he still had some good in him, too, didn't he? He was always so kind to the other children in the orphanage, even if Astro wasn't one of them, and that… that says something about Astro, doesn't it? That says something about Astro, doesn't it, that he's the only kid Hamegg wasn't nice to? And Cora and Zane are the best friends he's ever had, and some of the best people he's ever met, so they're obviously not bad, either. And while President Stone wasn't exactly what he would call a good man, he commissioned the Peacekeeper specifically to keep the city safe from external threats. He might have been self-serving and power-hungry, and Astro isn't trying to say he wasn't, but he was never outright evil either, and he certainly wasn't the sort of person who'd attack an entire city full of innocent people over one single robot, not until Astro came along, and that says something about Astro, doesn't it? It says something about Astro, doesn't it, that his existence drove President Stone to the lengths it did?

It says something about Astro, doesn't it, that everyone he met in that first week of his life wanted to hurt him sooner or later?

"B-But," he says, trying his best to blink away another blinding tide of tears, but it doesn't work. "But what about Hamegg? And Stone? I—I mean… Stone went crazy just because I existed, a-and Hamegg was��"

Cora lets out a little sigh, soft and sad, and then, before he can say anything else, she reaches out and pulls him into a tight hug. "No, Astro, that wasn't your fault. None of that was your fault. I don't know why anyone would choose to do the kinds of things they did to you, because it was really, really messed up, and you deserve so much better, but I do know it wasn't your fault. You can't make somebody love you or not love you. You can't make somebody treat you one way or another. That's not up to you. They made their own decisions, and there isn't anything you could have done to change their minds."

"Yeah, man," Zane gets up from the floor, too, brushing a few stray popcorn kernels off the front of his sweatshirt, and comes over to join them. "There's no way you could have made that president guy any more whacked than he already was, trust me. And your dad…" he goes quiet for a second, shaking his head. "No offense, dude, but thinking you did something wrong is a pretty crazy to look at it. I mean, you don't think I made my parents ditch me, do you?"

"N-No," Astro says at once, even though he's pretty sure it's a joke. "Of course not. You were just a baby."

"Yeah," Zane says, very softly, putting a hand on Astro's shoulder. "So were you."

Oh.

Astro has never thought about it like that before.

Of course he knows that, technically, he was only a day old when his dad threw him away and President Stone tried to kill him, and seven days old when Hamegg put him in that arena. Of course he knows that, technically, he did fit the definition of baby back then, if only in the loosest sense of the term: still learning everything that other people already knew, brand-new to the world and clueless about all of it, stumbling blindly through his first steps and first breaths, and behaving purely on instinct instead of experience, because instinct was the only thing he knew. Of course he knows that. Of course he knows all of that.

But, for the first time in his life, he feels the faintest touch of sympathy for the small, young, scared-to-death, day-old boy he used to be. For the first time in his life, he tries to imagine hurting somebody as small and young as he was, in the ways his dad and Hamegg and Stone hurt him, and it makes him feel sick enough to throw up — and his dad and Hamegg and Stone were all even older then than he is right now. He can't imagine being a full-grown adult, and hurting somebody smaller than him like that. He can't imagine being a full-grown adult, and saying the kinds of things to a kid that his dad said to him.

"Oh," Astro says, out loud this time, because he's too dazed to come up with anything else — which is probably a good thing, because his throat pulls too tight to talk after that, anyway, and his eyes fill up with a fresh swell of stinging tears, and the tears spill over and pour down his cheeks.

Cora gently tugs him back into her arms again, and Zane keeps one hand on his shoulder while he cries, firm and warm and steady, and he doesn't know how long he stands there, clinging onto them like a lifeline as seven months of sadness floods out of him, but he knows they don't move an inch until he does, pulling away to scrub at his face and dry his still-damp eyes on his sleeve. His hands are still trembling, but not as bad as before, and his arms and legs aren't numb anymore, either. And he feels… lighter, almost. Like he's been carrying something very heavy for a very long time, and he's only just now put it down.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally — and a little shakily, too, but far calmer than he felt even ten minutes ago. "I—I'm really, really sorry about that. I didn't mean to r-ruin the movie. I just—"

"Astro," Cora cuts him off, so dead serious he immediately quiets down to hear her out. "If you seriously try and apologize right now, I'm actually going to hit you."

He's pretty sure that's an empty threat, but he doesn't particularly want to take his chances, either. He's seen what she can do with a wrench, after all.

"Also, you didn't ruin the movie," Zane jumps in, before the silence can settle over them too heavily, as he picks up the remote off the floor and clicks the television off with a pop. "That movie ruined itself. Man, that was like watching paint dry. Total snooze-fest. Let's do something fun instead." He pauses for a second. "You guys want to see how many jack-o-lanterns we can carve before your parents get home? Grace and I are still trying to break the world record, you know."

Astro knows exactly what Zane is trying to do — distract him from his feelings and steer him in an entirely different direction, pull him out of his own head and keep him out of his own head, keep him away from the hundred thousand conflicting thoughts and emotions and doubts still swirling around inside him like the world's worst tornado — but he plays along, anyway, because he doesn't want his friends to worry about him. And besides, a distraction sounds really, really nice right now. "What even is the world record, anyway?"

"Thirty thousand," Cora says, wearily, like she's heard the answer to this question way too many times before.

"And how many have you carved this year?"

Zane has to think about it for a minute. "…Twenty-two."

A small, startled laugh tumbles from Astro's mouth, a surprise even to him, and he pretends not to notice the quick, hopeful glance Cora and Zane exchange when he does. "Okay, yeah," he says. "Let's do it."

"Yes!" Zane punches the air over his head in a victorious fist-pump. "Come on, guys! Only twenty-nine thousand, nine hundred, and seventy-eight left to go!"

Cora groans.

[lineffability]

"Wait, what the He– what the fuck happened, Aziraphale?! What about the Book? The Metatron? Why did you come back? Did it work?! What happened?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again. He suddenly looked a little embarrassed. Finally, face down and mumbling into his collar, looking almost a little non-directionally annoyed, he said, simply: "Pushed him."

"What? You what?"

Crowley's eyebrows rose higher than a kite; his mouth dropped open in the telltale way that usually sparked mischievous delight in Aziraphale. Even now, a little rebellious joy jumped up for a moment in his chest, before it was dragged back down into a pit of despair that had taken up permanent residence in Aziraphale's stomach. But a little pride stayed behind, lurking sinfully in the corners of his mouth. 

“Pushed him. Into a bookshelf. And…” Aziraphale mimed a falling weight. “Buried him beneath it.”

Crowley, unlike Aziraphale, suddenly seemed not to have a single care in the world. Bastard that he was, he threw his head back and laughed, and the sound ripped so loudly through the silence of the bookshop that Aziraphale joined in nervously, just so he would have something to do. 

"You pushed the Metatron into a bookshelf?"

"I just said that, yes. No need to repeat it back to me." 

"Oh, you wonderful bastard."

[continue reading Meanwhile the World Goes On Chapter 19]

[read from the beginning]

[dogdaysareover365]

Has there been a ghostbusters onward au? Its so perfect.

Trevor is barley

Phoebe is Ian

Gary is Colt

Callie is Laurel

egon is Wilden/the dad who’s a pair of legs

Ray is Cory the manticore

[miraclesnail]

title still pending, wip, chapter 3

chapter 1 2 next chapter

When you think of Travis Stoll, what comes to mind? Powerful? Intelligent? A protagonist? More like weak, a bit on the air-headed side, and a minor character at best. So why is he being chased by a crazy man with a foot long butcher knife?

When Travis was nine, Castor and Pollux snuck them a DVD from the outside world. It was a movie called Resident Evil. And like the mean, pseudo-big-brothers they are, Castor said, “It’s a funny movie.” 

“It’s a safe movie,” Pollux followed. 

It wasn’t fun and it wasn’t safe.

Instead it gave Travis a healthy dose of zombie phobia. 

It lasted up until he was 17, around the time when Nico decided to stay full time as a yearrounder. The kid used his zombie army for everything. Building his cabin, getting him snacks, attending counselor meetings. They’re actually pretty docile and interesting once Travis got over the fear of them turning into raving, brain-chomping zombies.

Well, whatever Nico did for his zombie-phobia is all undone. Right now. Right at this moment. 

The thing inching towards him on its stomach groans like the hungry brain-eating zombie it is, muffled due to its face planted solidly into the broken tile floor. 

Travis tries not to whimper (he does though) as he scoots back on his butt from the thing. He wants to run. He wants to rollerblade away. He wants to be anywhere but here. But all of that requires access to his hands which he unfortunately does not have access to right now.

He pulls lightly on the handcuffs binding his wrists together. They graft uncomfortably on his skin and he stops. The thing groans as the metal links on the handcuffs jingle and seem to shuffle even faster towards him. It’s head is rising (oh god, oh please no.) enough for Travis to see eyeless sockets, broken jaw swarming with maggots, blue skin tinge with mold and fungi, and — 

Okay, he has enough. 

“Hey, uh, Michael?” he calls out hesitantly.

His once dead but now alive and well, and also the reason for him being tied up, friend does not respond. So Travis tries again, this time louder. “Hey, Michael.”

Nothing. 

Dude, what has he done to piss off Michael? They were on great terms before Michael had died! 

…

Michael died. Michael is dead. So this person in front of him couldn’t be Michael. Because Michael is dead. Michael died. 

Who is he then? A lookalike? A twin brother? A clone?

You know what? This is an issue Travis will leave for another time. A more pressing matter is rearing its ugly head with each passing second. That thing is a foot away from him now. 

“Michael,” Travis tries again only to be ignored again. And fine with him. He knows exactly what will make Michael talk. “Mike. Mikey. Mic. Saint Michael. Mikey-angelo. Miiiiichaeeeeeel. Miiiichaeeeellllllllll.”

And as expected, Michael snaps, “What?” His brown eyes alight with such familiar anger that Travis can’t help but stare. The intensity, the way Michael scrunches his face, the absolutely familiar face of irritation is all very Michael-like. Though, it was never him at the end of Michael’s temper. It had always been Clarisse.

“Can you do something about the… uh… you know.” Michael still glares at him and okay, Michael is really gonna make him say it. Travis finishes the sentence lamely, “The zombie. Can you get rid of the zombie?”

He waits for the ridicule, the jiving, the “oh gods, you’re such an idiot. Zombies aren’t real.” but instead all he gets is an arrow piercing the thing’s head in a millisecond.

Travis jumps, tied hands clenching his chest at the speed of the arrow. He smiles gratefully and relaxes his shoulder. “Thanks. I really—”

“Shut up.”

And Travis snaps his jaws shut and endure the uncomfortable silence they delve into. He twiddles his thumbs. He taps his feet. He thinks about how Michael is now alive. The doors of death are open again? Michael decides to make a break for the real world? Michael decides to take revenge for his untimely death caused by Luke by messing with him? 

But none of that explains why everything is so… bleak and apocalyptic. New York is destroyed. **(add more later)** Most of the buildings are gone and the remaining ones are compromised. The tiles and walls have green junk growing out of them. These things, zombies, did not exist before. 

This… all of this… it has to be an elaborate prank by Connor, right? A prank that Connor somehow manages to convince Nico and Hazel to join in on? Yeah… yeah. That makes sense. Nico and Hazel made the zombies. Annabeth designed this fake, apocalyptic New York. Percy and Jason can be the one causing the storm outside. This has to be it. There’s no other explanation. **Now to figure out what Travis did to deserve all this… 

Only one way to get answers. 

“So Michael—” he begins.

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

That went nowhere. 

Micheal crosses his arms, not moving from where he’s leaning on the crumbling wall. He’s frowning, staring intently at him. Like he’s waiting for him to do something. Like he’s waiting for him to make a run for it. But the crossbow resting snugly against Michael’s leg with all its beautiful, entirely real arrows assures Travis will do nothing. 

Except maybe scratch the itch at the back of his head.

The second his hands move up, Michael has the crossbow up and aims at his face.

Okay, no scratching the itch. Maybe he could just use his shoulder or the wall behind him. 

He lowers his hand and chuckles nervously, “Okay, sorry, sorry.” 

Michael didn’t lower the crossbow though.

Michael didn’t smile and say, ‘just kidding.’

Michael didn’t pull his mask off to reveal he’s actually Connor. 

Instead all Michael does is rest his finger on the trigger.

Oh gods. He’s really going to die here.

“Aren’t you going to make a run for it?” Michael says.

“Run?” he chuckles, “How am I going to run with you pointing a crossbow on my face?!”

Michael frowns. “You’re going to hurt Beckendorf’s feelings if you don’t try. He’s certain he created restraints even you can’t break out of.” **

Beckendorf. Another dead friend being spoken about like he’s alive. Yeah, why not. He’ll play along with whatever game this is. “Well, I’m sorry but I can’t break out of these.” And to prove it, he tugs on the cuffs and makes the link jingles. 

Michael scowls, the crossbow lowering just a tad. “You’re not even trying, asshole.”

The word comes automatically without him thinking. Connor likes to curse. Cecil sometimes too. Julia and Alice do it often as well. When he’s in a cabin full of little kids as young as 7, parents do not appreciate their kid coming back from the special summer camp knowing all the bad words a kid shouldn’t know. And since he’s the oldest, the blame falls on him. He, of course, makes Chiron take the heat of their parent’s complains but it still leaves a bad taste on his tongue. 

“Don’t curse,” he says on instinct.

Michael stiffens. He grips his crossbow tighter. 

“Travis,” Michael says slowly. At least he got his name right. “Why are you… acting … this way?”

“What way? I’ve always been this way.”

Michael exhales and steps closer. He kneels so they’re eye level and with a very careful eye, studies his face with excruciating focus. It’s very uncomfortable and Travis deals with uncomfortable situations the only way he knows how. 

With his trademark smirk, he shouts, “Boo!”

Expectedly, Michael jumps back and Travis makes himself laugh. Unexpectedly, Michael is back by his side, this time with fear in his eyes. With a very gentle hand, Michael touches his shoulder. Travis isn’t weirded out by touching. But it always came from Connor or his younger siblings. And Michael, before he died, was never a touchy-feely kind of person. 

Maybe he should jumpscare him again. 

With a careful voice, Michael says, “Travis, what are you wearing?”

He looks down and sees nothing out of the ordinary. “What do you mean?’

“Where did you get the shirt?” Michael’s voice is strained.

“My … shirt? From the camp store?”

Michael breathes harder. “Why are you wearing it?”

“Well, what else am I supposed to wear? Newsflash, Michael but this orange shirt is all camp has,” Travis jokes, hoping Michael will laugh but all Michael is doing is breathing harder and harder. 

“Travis, please, tell me you’re pulling my leg right now,” Michael pleads with tears in his eyes.

Travis blinks in alarm. Michael is on the verge of crying. Michael has tears in his eyes. Michael is pleading with him. This isn’t a joke, is it?

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answers truthfully, wincing at Michael’s face falling further, “I have no idea what’s going on actually. I, uh, thought you were Connor in a mask, but now I’m not so sure anymore.” 

Michael chokes and a violent shudder runs through his body. Callous hands grip his shoulder and shake him harshly. “Are you on drugs right now? Is that why you’re acting so strange? God fucking damn it, Travis! What the fuck!” Michael yells. 

“I— uh— um—” 

 Oh gods, what is he supposed to say?

Michael pulls him up by the front of his shirt. Travis stumbles unevenly on his feet. Even that seems to panic Michael more because he starts patting him down again, skipping over his secret stash. 

He squirms against the proding, whining, “Why are you doing this again? I told you I have nothing hidden.”

“You have nothing on you. No weapons. No equipment. No nothing. Fuck. Travis, are you fucking crazy?!” 

“Am I supposed to have something on me?”

This time Michael didn’t even answer his question, instead pulling an eyelid back. Travis flinches from the sudden proximity and tries to pull away but Michael wasn’t having any of it. 

“Did you take something? What was it?”

“Other than tylenol for my headache this morning, nothing,” Travis says. 

Michael scowls, “Bullshit. You’re acting weird. You’re acting like you did back then. You’re tan for whatever reason and… and…” Michael grabs his wrist and turns them over till the palms face up. He’s deathly silent. “Your scars are gone.”

His eyes trail back up. “All your scars are gone.”

“Yeah…well,” Travis pulls his arms out of Michael’s hands and shuffles back. “Mike, you’re really freaking me out right now.”

“Travis… you’re really Travis, right?” Michael whispers, not following after him. 

“The one and only,” he says, eyes looking away as he shuffles back some more, unsure of what to say next. There’s something in the shadows. There’s something moving in the shadows. There’s someone in the shadows. But it’s not shuffling like a zombie would so it’s probably not a — 

A gust of wind lifts them both up from the ground. Terror grips his heart and Michael yelps in alarm. Just a few meters behind them is a drop from an unimaginable height. They’re going to die. But rather than push out, the wind lifts them further and further up to where their back touches the ceiling. 

It feels like one of those gravity roller coasters in the fair. A force is pushing him onto the surface and it’s impossibly difficult to lift a hand against the gravity. Except there’s no rollercoaster causing this. And this experience is nowhere near as fun as the one in the fair. 

Michael struggles valiantly, twisting and turning and screaming to be put down. His crossbow lies below them. 

The person in the shadow moves closer, stumbling in an uneven gait, shambling like they’re drunk.

Crap, was it actually a zombie?!

But, wait, no. The zombie is laughing, manic and high, and zombies can’t laugh. 

“Caught two! I caught two!”

And zombies can’t talk. 

“I’m going to be fed for decades!”

But zombies eat flesh and oh god it is a zombie. 

The pressure intensifies and he can’t move. He can’t breathe. He’s being crushed. He’s being suffocated. 

The zombie moves from the shadows and into the dim light. And maybe Travis is dreaming, maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe he just ate something bad and is going through a full blown bacteria-induced hallucination, but the zombie that stumbles into view shares a face very, very similar to that of Lou Ellen, counselor of Hecate cabin.

Lou Ellen laughs freely, head thrown back and arm clutching her stomach. She steps closer and he notices something was wrong with her left leg. It shouldn’t be caved in the calf area. It shouldn’t be curved inwards at all. He shouldn’t be able to see the red sinews of the muscles and the telltale white of the bone. 

“Oh. It’s you. Hey, there,” Lou Ellen says and she steps closer until he can see her face, beyond happy, beyond crazed.*** 

She gives a wide, blood stained smile. 

“Nice to see you again.”  

He wakes up with the burning, excruciating pain in his neck. But it lasted only for two seconds before it all went away and he could breathe again, could think again. 

He always wakes silently. Sometimes zombies would claw their way to his living quarters and being absolutely still and listening first has saved him from bites many times. 

Clarisse’s voice is what he hears first. Maybe he’s been captured but he’s still alive for some reason. He wouldn’t think they would capture him and not sacrifice him right away unless they struck a new deal with the gods. 

“We should crack open his mind. Take a good look at what’s inside.”

“No, we can’t. That’s invading his privacy.”

Clarisse is arguing with someone. The other voice is unfamiliar. 

“He’s an enemy. We can’t treat a threat like he’s our friend.”

“But that’s Travis! We can’t—”

“Travis decapitated Mr. D, eviscerated Chiron, and tore my knee a new one. He’s fucking dangerous, Holly. Laurel, you shut the fuck up too.”

Oh. It’s Holly and Laurel. … What are they doing with Clarisse?

He keeps still, keeps his breathing even, and surveys his situation. He’s resting on a cushioned surface on his back. His wrists are bound with metal. One on each wrist and they extend outwards. Not linked together. He senses, more than feel, that it’s just a simple master lock with a standard key. The basics of basics. He can undo this in a millisecond. 

He listens closely, taking in the creaking of wood and the scuffing of shoes. There’s a person right next to him. Maybe 15 or 20 total in the room. If it had just been Michael and Clarisse, he could escape just fine. But they somehow got new people. Where did they get new people? They’re not exactly in supply.  

“You guys, maybe we should wake Travis up and have a talk with him.” Another voice he doesn’t recognize. 

“And have him go crazy trying to kill Percy again? Dude, no. That’s not a good idea. Six people couldn’t restrain him.” [That voice is Leo’s.]

“But we’re not getting any answers with him asleep. Besides he’s tied up and there’s 20 of us. I can charmspeak if we really need to,” the person beside him says. [Piper.]

“Alright, Clovis, wake him up. Everybody else be on guard,” a girl commands and involuntarily his hands curl into the sheets. Annabeth said that. No doubt. That’s Annabeth’s voice. Clear. Precise. Said a name. This isn’t reality then. Gods-induced illusion? Or did he finally die and this is his eternal hell?

“He’s already awake.”

Chairs scoot on wood and he can hear the boards creaking. Metal clinks around the room. Are they drawing their weapon? Why?

[I decapitated the God and gutted the centaur.] Oh. 

“Drop the act, Travis,” Annabeth demands. 

He opens his eyes and winces at the sunlight. It’s so bright. And quiet. It’s so quiet. The absence of rain after months and years of constant downpour… it’s jarring. It feels unnatural. Someone coughs and slowly, unhurriedly, inch by inch, he turns his head to the side to quickly glance at the people on the other side of the room. All of them standing and all of them either gripping the hilt of their weapon or hiding behind another person. 

[They’re scared. I didn’t mean to… I wouldn’t have… if I known they were going to freak out like this… maybe I should have blown the immortals up instead.] I think that’ll still be an issue. 

He recognizes a couple. Clarisse. Will. Katie. Conn— he tears his eyes to the next person. He doesn’t recognize her. Nor the next demigod and the next and the next until his eyes land on Perseus. By instinct, his hands reach for the weapons on his belt, but they lay several feet away on a table. Two demigods are sorting through his weapons. 

He calms the murderous, bloodthirsty need in him and looks to the next person, to Annabeth. He stares at her. At her golden locks. At the ponytail. At the familiar sternness of her face, the familiar sharp gaze. It’s her. It’s really her. 

A chair creaks nearby and he glances upwards. It was Piper sitting beside him. She stiffens when they make eye contact but she remains seated. 

“Hey,” she says curtly. 

“Hey,” he mutters awkwardly. 

You’re right. Piper has a really nice voice. [I know, right?]

He turns his head back to the ceiling and closes his eyes. There’s around 20 demigods in this room. More than half he does not recognize. And the half he does recognize, he can’t overpower by himself. Not an illusion then. Not hell then. He digs his nails into his thigh and considers the pain. This is reality. 

[I think we can still make a break for it]

A chair screeches against the hardwood and he winces at the grating noise. It’s too loud. His neck itches. And he goes to scratch it. The handcuffs only allow him a couple inches off the convertible sofa. But even that is too much to give. They should have secured it all the way down. They even gave him a pillow for his head. Stupid idiots. 

“Travis,” Annabeth says, “If you cooperate with us, everything will go smoothly and nobody will be hurt. So I’m going to need you to answer a few questions.” 

Something groans beside him and he snaps his eyes to it and oh. It’s just a branch against the window. 

“Why did you attack Percy?” Annabeth continues, undeterred.

He can see the tips of the pine trees and the very clear, very blue skies, not a single cloud in sight. 

“Travis, answer me.”

A bird flies freely, soaring without a care in the empty sky.

“Travis.”

There’s a gentle breeze outside, not a howling hurricane. 

“Travis? Are you listening?”

The sun is shining. There are birds flying. The leaves are green. Annabeth is alive. Connor is alive. Leo and Piper are alive too. Everything is alive and brimming.

Why? 

The boy he thought was Connor, the one he chased through the entire building from one end to the other, the one who confidently said his name, must actually be Travis. Did the clover allow him to time travel? To a past where nothing has gone wrong yet? No, that can’t be. The other Travis must have been the same age as him. [Piper and Leo were never at your camp at any point.]

“Percy, bring it over.” 

Then what is this? 

“Why do you have this?”

He peeks an eye open, glances at what Annabeth holds in her hands. It’s just a phone. Why is she so confused by it?

“Neat thing you have here.” Annabeth flips the phone in a hand, flipping it back and forth in faux-nonchalant observation. “It doesn’t emit our signals. You can’t attract monsters with this.”

He frowns. The way she’s talking… like she had never seen … when she had advocated for its creation for so long… *****

Annabeth hums curiously. She taps the screen once to activate it. “Who is ‘**Melon Lord?’ Weird name. They've been messaging you non-stop.”

Shit. 

It takes all he has to roll his head to the side. Annabeth holds the phone screen out for him to read, but still far enough he can’t reach it. He winces at the barrage of texts he sees.

“Yo yo yo! It’s your savior here with another daily update! I’m alive as you can see. How are you doing this fine hour? Still kicking, I hope? The others are making quite a commotion. I think they’re saying they caught you? You in trouble? Need help?”

“Yooo Travis? You're dead or what?”

“Travis?”

“Dude, I know you’re reading this.”

“Hey, you okay?”

“Travis?”

“Okay, it isn’t funny anymore. Text me back now.” 

Annabeth takes the phone back and scrolls through the limited notifications with a scowl. “Who is this person? They’re really concerned.”

Commotion? Shit. That’s right. Michael. Michael is the reason why he’s here. After he’s pushed in, what happened? Did … did Michael catch his other self? Is Michael taking him back to their base right now?!

Shit. Fuck. 

[No, wait, calm down. Let’s think this through.]

Easier said than done when his heart is beating faster by minute with fear. 

“Travis?” Annabeth’s voice is stern but there’s a crease in her eyebrows, eyes tinged with worry. 

“I…” But his voice is raspy and he gulps, wetting his mouth before trying again. “Give me back my phone. I need to call someone.”

“Call who?” She asks, face blank. “Who are you going to call?”

“S-” but he stops. 

His knowledge of the world and theirs is conflicting. 

But this isn’t an illusion. Isn’t a dream. Isn’t time travel. 

Annabeth sighs. “You know, Travis, for as long as we know each other, you never seem like the type of person to be a double agent.”

A different world then. [A parallel universe, an alternate universe] 

“We all trusted you back then when Luke left and Chiron always sent you and Connor out on a lot of quests.” 

A world where Camp Half Blood is still standing. ***

“You guys always succeeded.”

A world where everyone is alive. 

She flips the phone to its back cover and taps the insignia, a simple gold scythe, on the bottom corner.

“Hey, tell me, Travis.” Annabeth stands above, leering down over him with her piercing gray eyes. 

A world where everything is okay. 

“Was it because you were pulling the strings behind our backs?”

A world where he made the right choice and didn’t join Kronos’s cause. 

[paceywittters]

Chenford + when did you fall for me?

"When did you fall for me?" He asks the question softly, knowing she'll hear it over the crackling of the fire and the intensity of her thoughts. It's quiet, almost like he doesn't want to ask, but he knows she'll hear his tone and know it's genuine.

She knows him in that way.

He hopes that for the most part, he knows her in that way, too.

Tim watches as Lucy chews on her lower lip in thought, his teeth pressing lightly into the skin of his own lip.

Something about the combination of the cool air, the wine she'd poured in his glass, and the way she's been smiling at him tonight have him buzzing beneath the surface – enough that he'd wanted to ask her this, enough that he wanted to hear the answer. They've been skirting around the reality of it: when did you realize we were oh-so-much-more, he assumes because she thinks it will derail them entirely, but more likely because...well, he's never actually asked.

It's been hard to wrap his mind around the idea that they're in this incredibly serious relationship when he doesn't remember any of it – and harder still to try and convince himself they shouldn't be. He knows what Lucy thinks: she thinks he doesn't understand, could never feel the way she feels, hasn't let himself drift into that mindset.

What he really feels is a hell of a lot more complicated, though. He gets it entirely, if not more because she's been actively loving him through this. He doesn't remember their relationship at all, and she's doing the work for both of them.

How could he not be hopelessly in love with her?

That's where it gets complicated, though – because he loves her for her, but he loves her for him, too. He needs to untangle that before he can let himself anywhere near her, truly – because she deserves a selfless love. She deserves someone who puts in the effort for her, who doesn't just love her because she loves them harder.

She lets out a soft laugh and pulls him back, raising her brow. "It's a bad answer," she offers, and Tim tips his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at her. "What? It is."

"Lay it on me," he shrugs, taking a slow sip of his wine. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

"It's a non-answer," she takes a sip from her glass, holding his gaze as she pulls it away from her mouth. "It wasn't one moment. I fell for you in a million little moments – hearing you call me Lucy after you handed me my final evaluation, offering me a ratty old pair of sweatpants when I stayed at your place after Jackson died," she offers him a sad, solemn smile. "Letting me talk my way into being your aide, inviting me to tear down your childhood home with your sister – god, even," she presses her hand to her face for a moment and he leans in closer, just wanting to be near her. "Even you calling me fucking goat whisperer in front of a date had me swooning. You don't even realize you're doing it, too – which is even more annoying. You just exist as this...wonderfully irritating version of yourself that I can't help but be ass over feet in love with."

Tim swallows, keeping his eyes focused on her. "If you had to pick one," he breathes, grinning as she rolls her eyes at him, visibly annoyed. "What? You said I was irritating, didn't you?"

Lucy bites on the rim of her wine glass, taking a sip and then setting it down. "Just one moment?" He nods, pressing his lips together. She sighs, tapping her fingers against her chin and then dropping them, humming over at him. "I think I really knew the first time you hugged me. That's cheesy and it's not really true, but I...we'd never," she pushes her hair off her face with a one-handed sweep and he wants to slide his hand over her cheek, bring her close, feel her breath on his skin. "We'd never touched like that before, and I didn't want you to let go. You...I stayed at your place," she has that expression she gets when she feels like she needs to fill in the gaps for him, and he nods slowly, hoping she'll breathe and calm down. "You invited me over after Jackson died, said I shouldn't be alone. You hugged me and I," she lets out a soft, hiccuping laugh, "I don't know, I didn't want you to stop. I didn't know what I was feeling then, but I know it now. You were keeping me still. You were grounding me," she shrugs. "Turns out, that's what we do for each other."

He lets out a slow, steady breath. "You knew you loved me, then?"

She hums in thought. "No," she laughs. "When I think about it now, I loved you something fierce, then. In the moment? I'd never been more confused about what I was feeling in my life. You were warm, and steady, and I could follow your heartbeat. You confused the absolute shit out me, but...somehow, a little less than everything else did," she smiles over at him softly. "So, everything you do now...just, unnamed."

Tim takes a sip from his glass, reaching over and grabbing her hand. He laces their fingers and squeezes them gently. "So what you're telling me is that we're on the same page," he murmurs, after setting his wine down. "Confused, but intrigued. Enamored, for some reason."

She raises her brows at him. "You're enamored with me, huh?"

He lets out a low, rough laugh. "I've been enamored with you for a long time I remember that much."

He's pretty sure Lucy's smile is enough to keep him asking her questions all night long.

[captainderyn]

[Fictober24] Day 3: "I know you better than that."

Prompt: "I know you better than that."

Fandom: LOTRO

Pairings: Wulfwryn/Raenor

Warnings: Implied torture/brutality, implied/mentioned injury

SPOILERS FOR: The end of the Dunland epic (kind of), the beginning of the Rise of Isengard expansion

Summary: After the events that befell Wulfwryn and Raenor when leaving Dunland, the words of elves preparing to leave for the Grey Havens fester in Wulfwryn's mind. Raenor knows that something is bothering her, it is just a matter of sorting through the half-truths she allows herself to admit.

Translations:

meldanya: my beloved

--

All around them, Rohirrim soldiers shuffled through their nightly routines. Canvas tents rustled closed, the fires still burning outside crackles, and the soft, but constant, din of voices dropped down to a murmurr. 

The noise was a welcome hum after the ringing silence of the pits beneath Orthanc, broken only by the roar of the work camp as Raenor had been dragged to and fro. He shuddered and gave a shake of his head to break his thought spiral, focusing instead on rewrapping clean gauze around his hands. 

“Let me.” Wulfwryn settled down next to him, holding her hands out expectedly. Her voice was still raw and ragged after all the smoke and vapors she’d inhaled running around the orcish work camp, among worse things her overseer had forced her to endure. 

“Raenor.” she said, firmly grabbing his attention. With a shaky breath he held out his hands and Wulfwryn began the process of unwrapping the first gauze he’d attempted. After Moria, coupled now with Orthanc, his hands shook worse than before, his joints aching at the repetitive motion. A healer should be able to wrap his own wounds, but Wulfwryn’s touch grounded him in a way caring for his own hurts didn’t. 

His love’s face was grave as she wrapped his hands and forearms, her eyes darting across the healing red gashes where he’d been chained and other spots where harsh hands had taken joy in meeting his flesh. Whether it had been worse than under Moria, he would not and could not consider. 

He remembered very little of their time beneath Orthanc, only snippets in a dark, earthy cell and other times in the cold halls of the tower, chained beside the White Wizard like a creature on display. In his hazy memories, the most vivid was that of murderous rage, an unknown and sickly cold feeling, when Wulfwryn’s overseer had slammed her to the ground solely for speaking to him in elvish. 

Raenor squeezed his eyes closed, opening them when the pressure of Wulfwryn’s wrapping became tighter. He winced, flexing his fingers, and she paused. 

“You worry about me.” he said matter-of-factly, but not happily. He didn’t wish for her to worry about him. He’d caught the way her eyes strayed to him more frequently, assessing and gauging if they should press on. 

Wulfwryn’s eyes flicked to his face and she pressed her lips together. 

“Of course I worry about you.” she said. “I worry about your healing progress, that our travels won’t hinder that. Your progress under the golden leaves of Lorien…I fear it’s been reversed entirely.” 

She stumbled over her words, sidestepping what exactly had reversed his progress.  Raenor could not escape the thoughts of what happened beneath Orthanc; Wulfwryn was unable to speak it aloud at all. 

When they’d escaped the deep halls of the dwarves he noticed she’d begun to monitor more carefully.  Since they’d entered the Gap of Rohan, her presence had turned into that of a fretful shadow. It was beginning to take a toll on her; their bedroll at night was more often than not empty as she sat unnecessary watches, pacing the perimeter of their camp into the wee hours of the morning. 

He reached up his free hand to cup her jaw, bringing her hollow and tired eyes to his. Her nostrils flared in the way they always did when she fought back emotion. 

“I know you better than that, meldanya, than to believe you when you tell me it is simply my injuries you worry about. Something is eating you alive.” 

Wulfwryn cradled his hand against her jaw in her own, running her thumb lightly against the back of it. She opened her mouth, then closed it, again and again, fighting for what words she wanted to say as though they were stuck. 

“I never should have torn you from Rivendell.” she finally said haltingly, though the minced words were built upon layers and layers of guilt that Raenor had steadily peeled away though their conversations across their travels. 

He held the silence between them, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. They both knew he’d left Rivendell not only on his own volition to take on the quest Elrond presented him, but also out of his own need to escape the sorrows his home held for him. Those words were just the easiest ones for Wulfwryn to fall back on, the same ones she used to break the dam of whatever truly was on her mind. 

Wulfwryn’s eyes went glassy and she tilted her head back, blinking at the ceiling of their tent. 

“Our journey has done nothing but cause you harm of late.” her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “I fear these last months have done nothing but break you.” 

In some ways it was true, Raenor ceded, his physical body and spirit had been permanently altered by the enemies they faced. Just as his mind had been altered forever by the fall of Edhelion centuries before. 

“I have persevered through many tragedies and harms.” he said softly, pressing for what was beneath yet another mental wall that Wulfwryn struggled against. 

She swallowed, pressing her cheek into Raenor’s hand and shutting her eyes tightly. 

”We have passed many elves in the Great River and before that travel for the Grey Havens for less than what you have endured. When will I push you so far, put you in such danger, that you too will be so desperate for escape as to depart these lands?” 

The words tumbled out of Wulfwryn in a rush and she gasped a tiny breath, as if they were a flooding torrent she’d been trying to hold back. She pressed her lips together until they paled, shoulders giving a telltale shake that belied the wetness gathering in the corners of her eyes. 

In the gaping silence Raenor left as she grasped for words, Wulfwryn opened her eyes to look at him. Her expression was pure devastation and he knew her well enough to know that whatever was going to well to the surface had been festering within her for a long while. 

“It is my hand, my sword, my body that is failing to keep you safe. Every time I fail to keep you out of the hands of the Enemy, I sour this world for you further.” 

He realized now just how many elves they’d spoken to in the course of their journey that lamented their oncoming departure from this world. How many had spoken as though this lifetime was a shadowed mockery of lives they’d lived before. And just how despairing that may seem to a mortal who lives but one short life. 

Though his other hand was half wrapped and the poultice would smear, he brought his other hand to Wulfwryn’s face and pulled their foreheads together, blocking out the world around them. Wulfwryn heaved a shuddering breath. 

“This world is not yet ruined for me, meldanya.” he assured. “These difficult times are but a fraction of the times ahead. I would not be so easily persuaded to leave you.” 

“I am not worried about you leaving me.” Wulfwryn argued, though there was a sorrowful lapse at the end of the sentence that did nothing to convince him otherwise. “I simply do not wish to see you snuffed out so completely.” 

He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I will not be, I promise. I am far sturdier than you care to admit.” 

--

NOTE: if anyone would like further context for the events that transpired in Moria, my fic 'My World Is You' centers around those :)

[givemea-dam-break]

ermmmm and what if i wrote attack on titan fanfiction what then

[insert-witty-user-name-here]

We Last Forever: A Cottage in the South Downs

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and the pair materialized seconds later on a grassy lane. The weather was pleasantly warm. A light breeze swept across the hills carrying the smell of the sea. It was quiet, save for the buzzing of bees and the crashing of waves somewhere in the distance.

In front of them stood a cottage. It was two stories with a thatched roof. Ivy crawled up the stone facade, rendering it nearly invisible from the road. The garden gate was rusted and paint peeled from the front door. The cottage looked abandoned and yet…

Crowley stepped towards the house and was suddenly overcome with the most curious sensation. He couldn’t quite describe it but whatever it was, it felt the opposite of spooky. 

“What’s this?” Crowley asked.

“A house.”

“I can see that. Whose house?”

Aziraphale twiddled with a pair of keys in his hands. “Um, mine. Technically.”

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale in surprise.

“I bought it a while ago,” Aziraphale explained. “I asked Agent Shadwell and Madame Tracey to keep an eye on it when I… when I left for Heaven.” 

Aziraphale stilled and looked to the ground. When he spoke again his voice was quieter; his expression pained.

“I wasn’t supposed to keep it. I was instructed to let go of all my earthly possessions upon my promotion,” the angel sneered at the word and Crowley instinctively wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s. Crowley was only beginning to understand just how long it would take for each of them to heal from the hurt caused by Heaven, but they would heal in time; they had each other now. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand gently and the tension in the angel’s shoulders lessened.

“But I didn’t get rid of it,” Aziraphale whispered. “I couldn’t because I, um… Well, I bought this house for us actually. I had always hoped we might live here one day.”

A loaded pause followed Aziraphale’s words and Crowley’s mind went blank. Aziraphale had bought this house for them? Why? How? When? His shock must have read clear on his face because Aziraphale hurriedly continued.

“Oh dear, please don’t misunderstand. We don’t have to live here. I just wanted to show you because I thought maybe– actually, goodness, what am I saying? This was far too presumptuous. I apologize. I’ll sell it. Let me grab the paperwork from inside and-”

“Is that a conservatory?” Crowley asked as his eyes caught sight of a glass structure beside the cottage.

“For your plants, yes.” Aziraphale blushed. “Would you… like to see it?”

Continue reading on AO3

[anicehomicidaltree]

Another fanfic!! Yay! Mathilde talks to Barney about what happened in episode 27

[yuesya]

update!

New chapter for zenith of stars is up!

Kidnapping segment comes to a close.

FFN | AO3

[vadlings]

the memories of the boy i’ve been (801 words) by vadlings

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ethan Frye & Jacob Frye, Evie Frye & Jacob Frye, Ethan Frye & Evie Frye & Jacob Frye Characters: Jacob Frye, Ethan Frye, Evie Frye Additional Tags: Character Study, Emotional Baggage, Bad Parenting, Family, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Jacob Frye Has ADHD

Summary:

Before Ethan, it had been just him, Evie, and their grandmother. Obviously they’d competed, but nothing like they did later on, when every word of praise to Evie and look of disapproval to Jacob felt like the driving force of the rift growing fast between them.

[cursedbanalities]

The Misty Road Onward -- A Curse of Strahd Story

Index

____________________________________________

[[Hey Everyone!! This is the first part of many for the weekly fantasy story I'm making! The title is a working one that I liked, but if anyone can think of a better title for this piece, let me know! This is inspired by my Dungeons and Dragons campaign, and I'm using the Curse of Strahd adventure module as inspiration for this story. Because of this, I have to say:]]

[[I DO NOT OWN THE RIGHTS TO STRAHD VON ZAROVICH OR ANYTHING INVOLVING BAROVIA. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED (and all that). I've also changed some things in the story that might work differently than established lore, either through the details of my own campaign, or through differences of written work vs D&D logic. Everything else was as accurate as possible, in my opinion.]]

[[With that out of the way, enjoy this chaotic story about a vampire lord, a lust for power, and four very unlucky individuals!]]

Taglist: @knkbr1020, @booimaspookyghost. (RB/comment if you want to be updated on the story!)

Prologue:

The sweet, scarlet red liquid filled his mouth and threatened to run down his face from his greedy swig of the delicious wine. Its sweet aromas washed over his taste buds, making his thirst for it insatiable. He finished his cup, and went back to wandering the grand hallways of his Castle Ravenloft. Red Dragon Crush was a favorite of his. Once upon a time, wine was one of the largest exports of Barovia. Now, trade to his grand country has withered away and died, but the sweet alcohol remains in great demand; it’s the lifeblood of many of Barovia’s inhabitants and is used as a way to find some warmth in this cold, cold existence. Though, not everyone could afford the drink he guzzled down– Red Dragon Crush was easily a year’s salary for the peasants of the land.

Luckily, Strahd von Zarovich was not just “anyone.” He was the Dreadlord of Barovia, the vampire lord imbued with powers from the Shadowfell! Even before that, he was the one who saved this glorious land from the barbarians that inhabited it, he was the one who sought out architects and artisans to construct a grand castle in honor of his parents! By all means, he should have everything he wanted…

As he walked along the hallways of Ravenlofr he ran his long, clawed fingers along the intricate woodwork donning the walls. He felt dust pile onto his fingers. He doesn’t spend much time in these parts of his castle. What was once a lively area full of artisans and traveling noble families was now caked in dust and cobwebs. Like many things in his life, it seemed this castle had begun to wither away before his very eyes. Yet, he knows this is a silly notion. After all, for the longest time he needed only his parents– King Barov and Queen Ravenovia. His love for them was sublime, and his very essence of being was torn away when they both decayed before his very eyes. Yet, this castle is still alive. He knows it. Even if he was the last of his lineage, roaming the halls with no companion. Strahd’s very presence was what kept this castle’s heart beating. Nothing else.

He paused to look at a piece of fine art hung on the wall. Strahd had commissioned artists to fill his castle with terrifying splendor, so this is one of many paintings. In this specific work, a lone soldier with a mixed look of determination and wide-eyed fear took his last stand on a battlefield. In one hand the soldier held a tattered flag, barely fluttering, as though a weak gust of wind caught it; the other held a long, bloodied sword, though he looked too tired to raise it in defense. Bodies were scattered around him, all seemingly cut down by his sword. The soldier’s horse also lay beside him, dead, and the soldier himself appeared to be wounded– though Strahd couldn’t tell if the blood on the soldier was from him or his enemies. He turned and quickly walked away. He must remember to send one of his unseen servants here to clean.

Strahd von Zarovich pushed open a secret wall and descended a dark staircase to the main floor. The staircase went seemingly forever downwards, giving him plenty of time– not that he hasn’t had centuries– to think about how to bring even more… “life” to his castle. He had some playthings here, sure– usually those “lucky” Barovians and adventurers who meet his fancy. They’re nothing more than meat to serve his carnal desires, though. Other than that, they serve no purpose greater than simply lounging about the castle halls. No, he needed someone to share this un-death with him. 

He needed Tatyana, his lost love.

Strahd reached the main floor and immediately walked out the front gate, calling for an unseen servant to take his empty glass from him. A silver platter appeared from the darkness, only really visible from Strahd’s infrared darkvision. He gently set the glass on the platter, before walking through a grand entryway. Four wyrmling statues beamed down at him, perched at different locations on the ceiling, baring their fangs, as though they’re ready to animate and attack anyone they see. He pushed open the main doors of Castle Ravenloft and strided into the pouring rain. 

The cold rain was inviting, so he walked gracefully through the ever-present fog as a storm raged above him. He looped around the castle grounds to the back of Castle Ravenloft, facing the east. A garden stood between towering buttresses with boarded-up stained glass windows. Strahd let the garden go to waste long ago, but this was once a place for his mother to spend her days– a place he imagined spending with his Tatyana. A few small flowers struggled against the rain, but pressed skywards through the gloom. He walked through the garden, hardly paying it any mind, and pushed open a screeching rusty gate to the castle overlook. He could gaze down the massive Pillarstone that Castle Ravenloft was built upon, and down to the pitiful village it loomed over. Fog enveloped the village, seeming intent on smothering it; yet there was an orange glow of a fire seeping through the windows of many of the dilapidated buildings in the village. Including one– the burgomaster’s mansion, the home of his Tatyana. 

I shall visit her again tonight, he thought. It’s been a tenday since I last saw her, after all. That’s far too long. He hopes she won't be startled by his sudden appearance, but he knows he could win her over with his charms. There’s still a few hours until the dark, however. He’ll allow her that time before he visits. 

Something caught Strahd’s attention, off in the east. He could feel something entering his domain. He smiled. It seemed as though some fresh meat had traveled to his wonderful country, and he was dying for some company. He supposed it was fated, but he knew better than anyone that fate was only what you make of it– and that it’s possible to change it if given the opportunity. No matter what brought them here, whether it be fate or sheer curiosity, this was exactly what the Dreadlord Strahd needed. With a laugh, he unfurled his cape and transformed into a bat, flying over the Village of Barovia. 

This next tenday was going to be the most fun he’s had in years.

***

[musicoftheheart]

screaming and crying rn because what do you mean i almost finished writing the next chapter of hmt only for the document to NO LONGER OPEN??? please no, god no don’t do this to me right now

[spywhitney]

The trinkets on her windowsill rattled as her feet hit the ground repeatedly in an excited haze, a shamelessly wide smile removing a small chip off the harsh iceberg of her fears. This was it. Something that would go right.

Chapter 3 of my sydcarmy hurt/sydluca comfort fic is out.

[inkandpaperqwerty]

heeeeeeeeeck yeeeeeeeees i made it to 3k!!!!!!!!!!!! you guys are freaking awesome i love you

[ohmypawsandwhiskers]

Of Devils and Monsters Ch. 7 is posted!

Art by @mraeelli

Summary:

Fate brings two old friends together again and sets them on the path to truth. In a last ditch effort to save her own skin, Lozen Daniella Pierce reaches out to an old friend in hopes of gaining her freedom. In doing so, she and Erwin Smith find themselves thrust on a path to truth- the truth behind the walls, behind secret organizations, and the truth of who they turned into.

Read chapter 7 here!