#everyone is dead and he is holding himself by a thread by trying to help Batman

[stevestark]

Eddie survives the Upside Down by sheer force of Steve Harrington's will. He, Robin, and Nancy come upon Dustin sobbing over Eddie's very alarmingly still body, and Steve doesn't even hesitate to heave Eddie over his shoulder and carry him to the gate. He refuses to think about whether or not Eddie is dead and this is pointless — he'll be damned if he doesn't try everything. They manage to get Eddie through and escape themselves before the earth starts ripping itself open, and Steve carefully lays Eddie on the bed in the RV, tearing down the road at an ungodly speed, driving straight for the hospital.

He's so singularly focused on not letting Eddie die that he doesn't remember about Erica, Lucas, and Max until he watches in horror as a gurney carrying Max comes flying through the doors of the emergency room, Lucas and Erica running behind it. The nurses stop the Sinclairs from following her through to the surgical wing, and Steve hurriedly vacates his seat, pulling the two kids into a hug, apologies pouring from his lips. Eventually, he stops babbling, and everyone takes a seat, Steve wincing as he does so.

The bites on his sides still smart, but he can — and will — wait to get seen himself until he hears something about Eddie. When they'd shown up, Steve carrying Eddie bridal style and screaming for help, everyone around them had thought Eddie was dead; after getting him on a gurney, a nurse yelled at everyone to shut up as she pressed a stethoscope to Eddie's chest, and the next thing Steve knew, Eddie was being wheeled away from them to surgery. Dustin had fallen to his knees, appearing to be praying to anything listening, and Steve nearly joined him. Somehow, Eddie was still alive. Steve refused to be seen until he knew that was still the case.

Hours pass before they're allowed in to see Eddie; when they are, it's somehow more horrifying than the moment Steve had found him cradled in Dustin's lap. Eddie is still motionless, but now he's paler, there's what looks like a hundred wires coming out of his body, and a tube is breathing for him. Steve hazily registers the doctors explaining that the blood loss was significant, as were the wounds littering Eddie's body, and that it's going to be a waiting game to see what happens next. He startles when he hears the gentle comment that if Eddie doesn't wake within a week, it's unlikely he ever will; Steve refuses to even consider that as a possibility.

Nancy manages to talk Steve into getting his own bites cleaned and stitched, which turns into taking him home for a shower and a change of clothes; they're still driving the stolen RV, and when Steve pulls back into the hospital parking lot, he hesitates before climbing out. Eddie's denim vest is still sitting on the sofa, bloodstained and ripped all over. Steve digs through the cabinets of the RV until he finds a sewing kit, and brings the vest inside with him.

He carefully washes out as much of the blood as he can in the bathroom sink, and plops into a chair at Eddie's bedside, pulling out red thread and a needle from the sewing kit. Nancy, Robin, and Dustin all exchange looks before simply sitting in silence, watching Steve carefully begin to repair every tear in the fabric.

Eventually, Nancy gets a hold of Wayne Munson, who enters the room, sees Steve hard at work on his project, and doesn't say a word — he just pulls a chair up next to Steve's, claps him on the shoulder, and reaches out to pat Eddie's leg through the hospital blankets. Neither Steve nor Wayne leave their spots other than to use the bathroom, and nobody tries to make them.

Three days into Eddie's hospital stay, the door opens, and Eleven, Jonathan, Will, Mike, and someone Steve doesn't recognize enter the room. Steve looks up, unblinking and on the verge of unseeing, before turning his attention back to the vest; two small hands reach out and cover his, and it's only then that he registers who's standing in front of him. Eleven is looking at him sadly, and hesitates only briefly before she leans forward to hug him.

He grips her tightly, and takes a shaky breath before holding a hand out toward the Byers brothers and Mike, and sooner than anyone can blink, there's a massive huddle of arms enveloping Steve. For the first time since leaving the Upside Down, Steve lets himself cry; nobody comments at it, nobody even acknowledges it — other than Eleven, who gently wipes his face with her sleeves when they finally separate.

More chairs are dragged into the room, and suddenly Eddie is the most popular patient in the hospital — tied with Max, of course, as the group takes shifts between the two rooms. Steve and Wayne are the only permanent fixtures in Eddie's room, just as Lucas and Erica are the only permanent residents with Max.

Steve finishes patching the tears in the vest, but Eddie hasn't woken up yet, so his fingers itch to keep going. He pulls out a spool of white thread, and outlines the jagged stitches he made before, carefully working his way over the entire vest once more. When he finishes that, he grabs black thread, and repeats the process.

He's in a sort of trance as he stitches away, conversations happening around him but sounding like they're miles away. It's not until someone physically stops his hands moving again that he realizes the words are being directed towards him; confused, he looks up and jolts so strongly he nearly tips his chair backwards. The person who stopped him working this time is Jim Hopper, and for the first time since the doctor gave them the stupid timeline, Steve feels hope. If Hopper can come back, Eddie can too. Eddie can too.

On day 6 of Eddie's coma, Steve speaks for the first time, tired eyes looking at Eleven beseechingly. "Can you... will you see if he's still in there?"

Eleven takes the bandana Wayne passes her and ties it over her eyes, one hand gripping Eddie's, the other intertwined with Steve's. She focuses on the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the wheezing of the oxygen pump, the sounds allowing her to drift into the in-between. She finds Eddie curled in a ball, hands clutching his sides, tears silently streaming down his face.

As she did with Steve, she gently reaches out and wipes his face clean, and waits for him to acknowledge her; he eventually looks up at her and his eyebrows furrow. "Who are you?" he asks, voice scratchy with disuse.

"Eleven," she says, holding out her hand to you.

"Henderson's friend?"

Eleven nods. "Come. Time to leave here. They're waiting for you."

She pulls Eddie to his feet and starts walking forward, focusing her hearing until she can isolate Steve's breathing pattern under the din of the hospital machinery. Her eyes fly open under the bandana, and she rips it off, turning to look at Eddie expectantly. For a moment, there's nothing and then —

Eddie starts choking on the breathing tube, Wayne starts yelling for a doctor, Steve breaks down in fresh tears, and the kids are cheering.

It's hours of examinations later that Steve is finally able to return to his seat at Eddie's side, everyone, Wayne included, giving him a minute alone with Eddie. When he enters, he notices Eddie is holding the vest, tracing his fingers over Steve's haphazard stitching.

Sheepishly, Steve raises a hand to rub the back of his neck. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I did the best I could."

The stitches zigzag across all the places the fabric had been slashed, both by demobat talons and sharp bushes in the Upside Down forest, and Steve's work has it looking like branches of lightning working their way across the vest. Eddie shakes his head and looks up at Steve, eyes wide and shining. "You fixed it."

Steve shrugs and Eddie shakes his head again. "Harrington.... Steve. You... you fixed it. For me."

Steve inches forward in his seat, and reaches out to grab one of Eddie's hands. "I dunno, I kinda think I fucked it up. But I could tell when you threw it at me that this was something that was important to you. I didn't let that place take you away, why would I let it take your things?"

Eddie laughs, head thrown back against his pillows, hand squeezing the absolute life out of Steve's. When he finally settles, he looks at Steve bashfully, head dipped down just enough that he's looking up at him through his eyelashes. "Talk about a declaration of unambiguous true love," he whispers.

Steve doesn't seem surprised or put off by Eddie's assessment; in fact, all he does is beam at him before lifting Eddie's hand to his face, pressing a featherlight kiss to his bruised knuckles.

"Take me out on a date first, Munson. Then we can start throwing words like love around."

As the room fills with the sound of Eddie and Steve's laughter, the rest of the group filters back in, including Lucas pushing a wheelchair-bound Max; Steve looks around at all of them and sighs around a soft smile.

They won.

[noxcheshire]

Taking it with Phantom now turned Robin, let’s assume he had been de-aged and was wandering different universes, cause I have a VISION. He’s around Tim’s age physically now, but mentally? He’s less human than he is ghost now a days.

So the questions is: just how long Danny stays.

Angsty route is that Danny never intended to stay longer than to just help Batman, and when he sees him healing — perhaps to a human it’s been so much longer, long enough for people to have become comfortable seeing this new Robin, long enough for years to pass, but so short for Danny because time is almost nothing even to a half ghost — and he vanished.

Just up and vanished, because he looked at Batman — he looked at Bruce Wayne — and saw a man who has healed since Jason’s passing. And if this is BEFORE Jason’s return, then I do believe even Red Hood would be confused as to how his replacement is just? Not? There? Not anywhere, what will he think?

Does he believe, in his own burdened mind that maybe Bruce had done it again, he caused another Robin to die because what else could have caused a prominent figure both in the vigilante night life and in the civilian one to suddenly disappear?

Jason’s no longer angry that he had been replaced, now he is angry that even that new Robin had died and Bruce is keeping it hidden.

And the rest of the Batfam?

Bruce who had become dependent on his third child, who could trust and rely on his capabilities and warmth, being the very glue that kept him together — and Dick, whose second brother is now missing, the one he would crack silly little jokes with, and who loved to bother him with that cocky smile and affectionate shove of his shoulder when he would visit — and Cass who felt seen because Danny just knew even when she didn’t speak, like he could hear the voice kept tightly in her chest, and had made her feel like she was just as normal as anyone else — and Damien, who had been righteously upset from the get go, who ran his sword straight through Danny who simply laughed, his blue eyes lighting up with expectation and joy, and who never scolded Damien for his differences and more violent tinged upbringing — all these soul touched people?

He was their brother/son/friend and they wanted him back.

On the other hand, the non angsty Danny side, this boy is just chilling with a smoothie and patting himself on the back for helping out a fellow hero(s).

As for Tim, I’m not sure.

If there is no reason to become Robin, then is there anything truly to integrate himself into the Wayne household?

But he is a kid, a tiny wisp of a child and maybe Danny saw him some nights when he would burst across rooftops and cock his ears to listen for crimes.

He would stop for a moment, and maybe he wanted to help the kid too. Because he was so tiny and pale, and there are bruises clinging to his eyes from lack of sleep.

He begins to act as Tim’s little shadow, a companion, and when finding out Tim is all on his own?

Well, Danny had never really thought too hard about his actions and simply dropped the child right in front of Alfred so that Tim could be feed.

Bruce doesn’t even notice the kid, at first. After all, Tim doesn’t need to be a Robin, Danny has this role filled, so what does Tim do? He stays away, hiding dem sight and trying not to bother because he has nothing to offer the Batman.

Bruce doesn’t notice until Dick visits and finds Danny with a kid not even younger than himself, obviously taking care of the kid and is demanding why Bruce hasn’t introduced them to Timothy Drake.

Tim in this way becomes Timothy Drake-Wayne, but he still isn’t a Robin. But what if he wants to be included? What if he wants to help? What if there’s a moment in all this where Danny get’s hurt, or Bruce, or maybe even both, and Tim decided that he would be the tech support. He would be the mini Oracle of that time, without ever taking the name.

In the future Bab’s and Tim are a fearsome duo.

And maybe that’s what causes them the most pain, because even together, they are not capable of finding Danny.

At least, not until John Constantine gives an unexpected clue: “You never even knew, did you?” Perhaps he’s sympathetic, or maybe he’s just curious because surely they must have noticed how very not human Danny is. “That kid was already dead.”

After Jason's death, Bruce spiraled hard. Tim decided something needed to be done and went to Dick for help. However when the man refused to go back to being Robin, Tim resolved to become Robin instead. It turns out he didn't need to though as by time he makes his way back to Gotham, there's already a new Robin swinging through the streets.

[audliminal]

It's Just a Game, Right? Pt 6

Masterpost

"I'm telling you, Fenton!" Wes announces. "I'm onto you." A few of the kids walking past snicker at them, as Danny does his best to look confused. The startled part is easy; Wes is turning out to be a surprisingly good actor. He's been gradually leaning even harder to the image of a conspiracy nut, and the result is impressive. Danny, on the other hand, is simply trying to keep up with the insanity.

"I have literally no clue what you're talking about, dude." Danny says, attempting to push past Wes, so he can enter their classroom. Wes doesn't seem inclined to let this confrontation end, though.

"You may have everybody else fooled, but I know the truth. You made a pact with the so-called ghosts and their efforts to take over our world. You're just manipulating your parents' tech in order to convince everyone that they actually are ghosts, and not the invading fae army they really are!"

"Dude, what?" Danny responds, not quite able to hold back the laugh.

"Honestly, Wes, don't you have any common sense?" Star asks, as she walks up. "Rumor has it that Fenton's failing like half his classes, and you think a bunch of fae lords, or whatever would trust him to help their scheme? Surely they'd choose someone more competent." She flips her hair, and then walks past the both of them, as a couple of the kids nearest to them start snickering.

Outwardly, Danny winces and hunches in on himself a little more, as he takes the opening Star just created and ducks into the classroom after her.

In hallway outside, Danny catches Wes muttering to himself before following them in. No one says anything for a minute, but the moment the bell rings and Mr Lancer shuts the door, Star turns to Wes.

"I think you should be a writer or something after we get out of here." Star tells him. "That theory was honestly inspired."

"It gets even better. I have so much evidence to force on you guys, it'll be great." Wes answers, then turns to Danny. "You good? I know we don't mean any of it, but it's still gotta suck to have us acting like assholes all the time."

"I mean," Danny hums. "I'm not gonna say it's fun? But like honestly compared to everything else, dissing my work kinda seems..."

"Banal?" Sam offers.

"Yeah, sure, that." Danny nods. "Like, compared to people wanting me dead, who cares, I guess."

"Yikes," Kwan mutters. "Your life is a fucking mess, dude."

"Well, i do have some good news about that." Tucker announces, turning his computer to face everyone else. "Looks like the fanbase is making some progress towards finding the real stuff.

Danny stares at the reddit thread Tucker is on. He's honestly been only loosely paying attention to the actual stuff Tucker and Wes have been posting. He's happy to offer his knowledge of space stuff, or engineering, but the intricacies of secret code aren't really something he ever pursued. Well, except for the secret language he and Tucker had made as kids. Wes, on the other hand, peers at the screen and lets out a soft whoop.

"Hell yeah! They found the second layer!"

"Yeah. Which means they've found our first plea for help."

"Oh, wow," Sam says sardonically. "A plea for help that's so great. Why are they gonna think it's anything other than another part of the damn story."

"Chill out, Sam," Tucker responds. "The point is to encourage them to look harder. And once they find the next level, they'll start finding our info on the infinite realms."

"Whatever," Sam says, frowning. "I just... Don't like how much waiting this involves."

"Yeah it would be a lot easier if we could just, like, beat them up and call it good," Dash agrees. "But, like, jail would probably suck."

"At least they're making progress," Danny points out. "I don't really get how you guys are making these layers, but. It's more progress than anything else we've tried."

"Yeah, but like, what does this mean for us?"

"Why not interact directly with that post?"

"Maybe. We'd have to be extra careful about what and how we say it, so they don't write us off as a copycat or anything, but it could serve to reinforce, uh-" Wes leans in, to read the username. "BenBlues379's theory."

"Okay then, let's draft a reply." Danny zones out as they start to discuss the specifics. He hadn't actually had to go deal with any ghosts last night, but his parents had been working on some new invention, and the noise of their trials had made sure he didn't get much sleep despite the supposed reprieve. Luckily, nobody in this class is going to complain if he takes the opportunity to catch up on the missed shut-eye now, so with one last deep breath, Danny folds himself down onto his and relaxes into sleep, as the sounds of his classmates debating echoes around him.

[ruhjkie]

Nobody truly understood just how unhinged Aemond Targaryen could be, because all his fury and madness had always been channeled in one direction—toward Lucerys Velaryon. The Greens, embroiled in the intricate power struggles of war and ambition, were willing to overlook the rage that often boiled over Aemond’s actions.

As long as Lucerys was alive, Aemond’s obsession with him gave his madness purpose. They dismissed the outbursts, the cold fury that glinted in his eye whenever Lucerys’s name was mentioned, as nothing more than the natural consequence of personal vendetta. They saw it as calculated, as an instrument, a sword sharpened by hatred that, while dangerous, could still be wielded in service of their cause, so long as it remained contained, directed at the boy who had cost Aemond his eye. It was understandable. He had been wronged, humiliated, and scarred. His relentless pursuit of vengeance, though violent, was something the Greens could wrap their heads around.

But now— now that Lucerys is dead, that single thread which binds Aemond's madness to a specific purpose has been severed. What was once cold, calculating rage has become something far more erratic and dangerous. With Lucerys gone, there is no longer a singular target to absorb the violence within him. So then, The Greens are beginning to notice what they had been too blind, or too complicit, to see before: Aemond’s obsession was never just about vengeance—it was about control, and now that control is slipping.

At first, they try to rationalize it. Perhaps he simply needs time to adjust, to let go of his hatred now that its source has been erased. But as time passes, it becomes clear that Lucerys's death has not quelled the storm in Aemond's heart; it has only unleashed it in new, unpredictable directions. His temper flares at the slightest provocation, his cruelty grows strong, more indiscriminate. He's lashing out at everyone, even the people closest to him, the ones who used to see him as a valuable ally. He needs to get control back, or maybe he’s going to lose himself completely—maybe he’s just trying to satisfy his thirst for violence, and that’s what’s got the Greens so scared.

Is he really sorry about business with Luke, or is he lost because he’s no longer holding on to the one thing that made him feel in control?

It’s funny how they really thought they could treat him like they wanted to treat Aegon. Now they see him for what he truly is—a liability. His instability is no longer something they can overlook. They begin to whisper among themselves, questioning if they made a terrible mistake. Maybe they did. Aemond is untethered, and they are left to face the consequences of a monster they helped create but cannot longer control.

[iiconicxpersona]

My Girls. Joel x Ellie x fem!Reader

Summary: Reader and Ellie encounter David and James while out hunting and searching for supplies for injured Joel. After their traumatic experience at Silver Lake, Joel is left to pick up the pieces of Reader and Ellie's shattered souls.

Warnings: SA, mentions of r@p3, abuse, cursing, ANGST AF

Word count: 2.5k words

"Ellie, are you sure you don't want me to go with you? I can always scout for supplies after we get back?" You asked as you walked further down the snow-covered road.

Ellie hugged Joel's rifle close to her and walked alongside you. "I'll be okay. Joel's been teaching me how to hunt, and I want to try to do this on my own. Besides, we're losing daylight, and you know more or less what to look for than I do." She half smiled.

You nod in agreement. Deep down, your intuition told you that maybe separation isn’t a good idea, but you want to show Ellie that you can trust her. "Okay, well, stay close by, and we'll meet back here before sundown. If you run into any trouble or anything, radio me." Using your index finger, you motioned to the walkie-talkies clipped to your pockets.

"Okay, I will."

The idea of letting Ellie and Joel out of your sight, even for a moment, scared you to death, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and right now, you and Ellie were desperate.

Joel had been stabbed in an ambush the day before. He tried his best to tough through the pain from the open wound, but he lost too much blood and fell off the horse halfway to the nearest town. It took every bit of strength you and Ellie had to put him back on the horse. You sat in front of his limp body to hold up his weight while Ellie squeezed on the saddle behind him to help you hold him up until you found shelter in an abandoned neighborhood. Thankfully, none of the doors were locked, making it easier to drag Joel inside and down to the basement, where an old mattress lies in the middle of the room. The pain from the open wound and Ellie sewing it shut with a needle and thread she found in the house was enough to knock Joel into a slumber. But now his wound is infected, and everyone is starving to death. So, while Ellie decided to hunt for food, you must find medicine or anything else helpful.  

At the same time, you kept an ear open for clickers, scavengers, or calls from Ellie. You scout three houses with little to no luck besides bandages and aspirins. That isn’t enough to aid Joel's injury, but it’s a start. At least the aspirins could help break his fever.

You were heading to scout another house when a gunshot fired from the distance. Your pulse racing began deafening your ears, and your adrenaline kicked in as you ran in the direction where you last saw Ellie walking.

"Ellie? What was that? Are you all right?" You frantically asked on the walkie-talkie only to get static in return. She was still too far out of range. "Goddammit, Ellie! Answer me!" But again, there was static. "Shit! Fuck!" You breathlessly cursed to yourself as you continued running forward, unsure where you were going, but time was of the essence.

Trails of blood and footsteps finally caught your attention, and your heart sank to the pit of your stomach. Your mind was already imagining the worst. You knew you shouldn't have left her alone, and if Joel were here right now, he'd be cursing you and himself out for even allowing this to happen. Desperate for some answer, you tried to call Ellie on the radio again as you followed the bloody trail.

A small, nearly demolished shack became the stopping point, and judging from the smoke leaving what once was a roof, there was someone inside with a fire. You slowly crept closer to the shack and took cover behind the wall. You could hear two people talking, and one of the voices belonged to Ellie.

The trail of blood led up to a dead deer lying behind the older man Ellie was talking to, and you felt relief that she wasn’t physically harmed. You watched as she calmly spoke to the man neither of you had seen before. His back was towards you, and from a small opening, you aimed your rifle straight for his head in case he decided to try anything funny. Ellie had the same mindset as she kept Joel's rifle aimed at the man, but she slowly dropped her defenses as he kept talking. The man gave the impression that he was a good guy.

"I sent four of our people to a nearby town to scavenge what they could, and only three of them came back. And the one that didn't was a father. He had a daughter just like you, and her dad was taken from her. Turns out he was murdered by this crazy man, and get this... That crazy man was traveling with a woman and a little girl." 

Just then, your and Ellie's defenses shot sky high as her grip on the rifle tightened, and her aim pointed back at the man.

"You see? Everything happens for a reason. James, lower the gun."

That was when you and Ellie noticed the second man standing on the other side of the shack with his gun aimed straight toward Ellie. Suddenly, you began to see red as you shifted from around the wall and aimed your rifle straight at James. "Stay where you are! Drop the gun, or I will put one between your eyes, asshole!" You demanded James as he kept his gun pointed right at you.

The man chatting with Ellie chuckled at you and looked back at her. "I'm guessing this is your mother?" He sighed. "Okay, no need for hostility today. James, lower your gun. We're not a threat to these women."

"David, they're the ones who killed Alec." James kept his gun pointed at you.

"They didn't kill anybody, so lower the gun and give them the medicine they need for their friend," David demanded in a relatively calm tone. James hesitated while looking between the three of you before gazing at David. "James, I'm not coding anything. Lower the gun and give them the medicine now." David demanded.

James slowly lowered his gun and tossed Ellie the small black bag. You not once took your aim off James, nor did Ellie off of David as she slowly searched for the bag before making her way to your side.

"I know you two aren't with a group. You won't survive out there. I can protect you."

You kept your eyes locked on both David and James as you and Ellie headed back to the house Joel was hiding in. "I told you to call me when you needed help." You scolded once you were far enough and noticed the two men did not follow you.

"I know. I'm sorry, but-" She began, but you cut her off.

"No 'buts' Ellie! You should've called me or at least come to find me first! Do you realize those men could've taken advantage of you or worse? You're still just a kid, Ellie, and I wouldn't be able to live with myself if anything happened to you!"

Your words had hit Ellie straight in the heart. You and Joel had treated her like cargo; Joel even told her that's all she was to you two. But deep down, she always hoped that that wasn't true. Maybe you and Joel cared for her, maybe not as family, but at least a friend. You two offering Ellie a choice between you and Tommy taking her to the Fireflies was hint number one that she was right, but your words confirmed the possibility that she meant more than just cargo.

You caught a glimpse of the single tear leaving her eye and felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over your entire body, but she tried to quickly wipe it off as the two of you walked in silence.

───※ ·❆· ※───

After giving Joel a shot of the medicine and changing his bandages, you spent the remainder of the night keeping watch while Ellie snuggled next to Joel for comfort and to keep him warm. The sight of them lying together warmed your heart, and the idea of starting a new life with them back in Jackson flooded your mind for a split second. However, the three of you were on a mission: take Ellie to the Fireflies and use her immunity to save what was left of the world. You and Joel agreed that the whole concept sounded too good to be true, but it may be worth it if the Fireflies could provide you with what you need to go your separate ways. Maybe.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The next day seemed to go by too fast. You and Ellie devised a plan to get David and his men as far away from Joel as possible. Ellie would take the horse to lead half of the men in one direction, and you led the other half out on foot in another. Joel would remain barricaded in the basement, but Ellie would leave her knife in his hands and warn him to stay awake and keep alert in case anyone would find him.   

Before you left Joel, you gently kissed his lips and said a quick mental prayer for the three of you before rushing out of the basement to follow through with the plan.

───※ ·❆· ※───

"HEY MOTHERFUCKERS!" Ellie shouted before shooting her gun at the group.

Just as you hoped, the group split in half and ran after the two of you. David's intentions were clear to you since the day before: he wanted Ellie. You knew that look. You had fallen victim to that look twice back. You were ready to kill him if he touched her, but you needed to focus.

The men behind you were coming up fast as they shot at you to slow you down, if not kill you. You managed to kill one, but two more were still hot on your tracks until they lost you between the trees. Your aim on one of the men was right on target, and just as you were about to pull the trigger, you heard a gunshot and the sound of the horse falling to its death. You ran towards the noise until David caught up and hit you across the temple with his pistol.

───※ ·❆· ※───

As your vision slowly adjusted to the small, dark room, the stench of death filled your nostrils, and you couldn't help but cough and gag. "What the hell?" You whispered to yourself.

Before you could examine the room, the two men who chased you shoved the door open and let themselves in. The harsh wind from the blizzard outside further wakes you up. "Ah, there she is." One of them chuckled before they shut the door behind them and quickly made their way toward you. You tried to fight them off, but the more muscular male hooked your upper body tight between his legs while the other sat on your thighs. "Oh, so we got a fighter; I like that." The man sitting on your legs pulled out a knife from his waistband, and the sight of the sharp blade made you try to fight even harder.

"NO, PLEASE DON'T!" You screamed. Your PTSD kicked into high gear.

"Don't scream!" The man demanded as he held the knife to your face. "Now we were going to kill you, especially for what you and your friends have done to our friends, but David still thinks there's hope for you and the kid. So, while he tries to convince her, he wants us to convince you to give up your friend and join us."

Ellie. Oh god, he has Ellie. "If any of you assholes touch her, I'll ki-"

Your words were cut short when the man with the knife punched you. Your head fell to the side, and ringing filled your ears, but that was when you noticed the decapitated bodies hanging from the ceiling. "I knew this bitch would be difficult." "Maybe we should just kill her." The two men mumbled to each other. "No, better yet, let's see what David's God blessed this woman with underneath all these clothes first." The man with the knife chuckled.

You began groaning and attempting to wiggle free from the men as fear took control of your body. The man on top of you used the knife to cut open your jacket and blouse until your bra was on full display. "Oh yeah, we're gonna have fun with this one." He chuckled. You began to cry out, but that only made the man hit you harder as he struggled to remove your clothes.

"Dude, hurry the fuck up before David shows up!" The man holding your upper body demanded.

"Hang on! This bitch is a fighter!" He laughed as you continued to cry for help. "Make yourself useful and shut her the fuck up!" He demanded the man holding your upper body before lowering himself to pull off your pants. The man holding you covered your mouth with his hand, and that's when you finally saw your opening. You bit down on the man's hand hard enough to bite off a chunk of his skin, with his blood coating your face before he let go of you, screaming in agony. At the same time, you wrapped your bare legs tightly around the other man's head and snapped his neck. The dead man had a gun in his waistband, and you grabbed it and used it to kill the man holding you down.

You stood there momentarily staring at the two men in shock until you remembered Ellie was still out there. You rushed to put your pants and boots back on, holding tight to the gun as you stumbled out of the shack. Your adrenaline is too high to feel the blistering winter hitting your exposed skin.

───※ ·❆· ※───

After running and panicking in circles, you approached the burning building in the distance. At this point, your body began to fight you as the adrenaline rush slowly wore off. You tried to run towards the building, but you no longer had the strength.

Once you were close enough, you could see Joel hugging Ellie, and for a moment, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you. It wasn't until Ellie saw you, quickly ran over, and embraced you in a tight hug that you realized it was real. She was here. He was here. And for the most part, they were safe.

Your hands slowly touched Ellie's head before you wrapped your arms tight around her and held her close while you both cried. Joel slowly approached the two of you and took you both in his arms. His mind was racing, and his heart was breaking at the sight of your bloody, swollen face and ripped clothing. He took off his heavy coat and wrapped it around you and Ellie before holding you close to his chest. Neither you nor Ellie could stop crying in Joel's arms once you both turned to embrace him. Guilt flooded him at the thought of being unable to protect either of you from the men in this god-forsaken town. A mistake he swore then and there to himself that he would never make again.

"My girls," Joel whispered.   

Author's note: Holy shit this was LONGER than I expected it to be, but I have been wanting to write a TLOU fic for a while. I hope you guys like it and if you want me to write more please let me know!

[deathbystero]

'cause we're just kids who grew up way too fast

in which Ponyboy struggles to come to terms with everything. a/n - here's the full chapter y'all. lemme know if it's worth carrying on with and if you have any ideas on what I can do to extend the plot, feel free to request or give me some ideas

It’s only been a few weeks since that night—coming on three, to be exact. I don’t think things will ever go back to how they were; how could they? With Johnny and Dallas gone, everything feels off-kilter in some way. Like a loose thread just waiting to be pulled, ready to fall away and leave nothing but a gaping hole in its place. 

Home doesn’t feel like home anymore. Not really—not in the same way it was before. Things are a lot quieter. A lot emptier. I don’t think Darry minds all that much; an empty house is a peaceful house, even under all the unsettling tension. 

The gang feels a lot closer now, too. I suppose that’s one good thing about all of this, but nobody is quite themselves anymore. There isn’t as much energy in the air; there aren’t many laughs around anymore, and nobody smiles as often as they used to. It's like everyone is carrying around a weighty cloud on their shoulders, or maybe they’re just trying to keep their minds busy with something else. But we never talk about those days anymore; no one does. The topic makes us uncomfortable, like a wound that can never be healed. 

Maybe it’s just me who can’t get used to living without them. 

The nightmares still come every once in a while, more now than they used to. Sometimes they’re pretty bad—Johnny and Dallas making frequent appearances, their faces blurred, their voices distorted. Sometimes, I realise that I’m starting to forget the little things about them: the way Johnny would tilt his head a little to the left (or maybe it was to the right) when he was talking; the way Dallas would bite his lip when concentrating hard on something, even if he didn't seem to notice himself doing it. Everything seems to be slipping through my fingers faster than I can grasp, trying desperately to hold onto the memories, begging them not to fade away into the background. 

Maybe that’s why they haunt me so often: because I'm afraid—afraid that someday I won't remember them at all. 

Darry slept on the floor in my bedroom for a little while after that night, too scared to leave me alone after everything. He’s been doing that a lot lately, constantly checking up on me, even when I'm only in the next room over. Sodapop says it's because he's scared I’ll disappear again, which is ridiculous; I’ve got nowhere to run to, and even if I did, I doubt I’d want to anyway. Without Johnny to keep me company, I might as well be right here in Tulsa forever. 

There was never anything in the papers about Johnny and Dallas—at least not anything good. They don’t write editorials for “murderers” and hoodlums. Nobody would read them anyway. It would be a waste of ink, a waste of print, and a waste of paper. It’d just be another story about another couple of kids from the east side who wound up dead. No one would care. No one would even know what happened to them, not until somebody started asking questions, and even then, the truth would be twisted. Nobody knows what happened. Nobody but me. They can try to understand, just like Sodapop, Two-Bit,  Steve, and Darry have tried, but they won’t ever see it the same. Not like I do. 

For a long time after the incident, I tried convincing myself that Johnny wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be; you don’t just lose your closest buddy in one night. That doesn’t just happen. And yet, it had happened to me. 

To be truthful, I still don’t really believe that Johnny is dead. It’s stupid, irrational, and childish, but I can’t help but cling to that notion like my life depends on it. Maybe I'm losing it a bit, growing a little delusional. Darry seems to think so. Not a day goes by where he isn't telling me to “get my damn head out of the clouds” or to “get my act together."

I’m trying, really, I am, but sometimes it gets hard. The truth hurts too much. So I decided it was better to just pretend that it hadn’t happened. Pretend the entire mess never went down. That’s easier than confronting reality, even though I know there are some aspects of Johnny and Dallas’ deaths that are very, very real. Too real to be ignored. And it’s not like I can ignore it, can I? It’s part of me—a piece of me—a piece of my memory that I can never fully forget. I’ll just have to live with it.

That’s easier said than done, though.

[sprog-writes]

Soulmates AU but it's like this:

Just like in the real world, the idea of soulmates is just a myth. A story. A part of culture's folklore, but generally regarded to be some kind of romantic thing that's not actually real.

But after Simon gets rescued from the desert, after he wakes up in that coffin, after that brush with death, he starts seeing red threads connect people by their fingers.

He can touch them, sometimes, if he focuses enough. He thinks he's going crazy for a while. Having some kind of hallucinations.

So he does some research, he learns about the strings, and at first it does nothing to reassure him he's not going crazy. But then he finds a forum, a gruochat, something like that, with people recounting their own experiences with it. All with the same common denominator: they died, for a bit. And they didn't stay dead.

He doesn't visit the forum again after that. He still thinks it's bullshit. His eyes don't linger when he sees how a really entangled red line connects Price and Nik. He doesn't stare when he notices two practically invisible circles wrapped around two recruits pinkies, holding each other's fingers while they talk and they laugh.

And he avoids looking at his own hands like the plague. He tells himself he doesn't care. He tells himself it's not important. Not even when the other end of that thread is closer than he'd ever imagined. Not even when the hand it's connected to hits his shoulder.

He does cave, after a while. He spends some time in that forum. It's the only thing he can do not to actually go insane when it feels like his hand is being constantly pulled towards his Sergeant and him with it. Those people... At least they understand. There's a woman who was resucitated after a heart attack. She was declared dead for 2 minutes. When she woke up she thought the strings were because of something wrong with her eyes. When she went online, she couldn't help but stare and agonize about how the father of her children wasn't connected to her. They loved each other, but the universe didn't deem that enough, it seemed. It ended up ruining her marriage.

Some of the people there hated the string, just like her. Predestination doesn't match with everyone.

There's those that are hopeless romantics, who see this as the best thing to happen to them. That pass their days trying to follow the line.

Some others saw their "soulmates" as just their perfect match, but still believed you needed to put in the work to have a relationship.

Ghost doesn't know where he stands.

The more time he spends with Johnny, though, the more he understands how perfect he is for him. He's certainly disappointing some of the people in the forum, proving the universe, Destiny, whoever is responsible for it, right. But he can't help it, when everything that comes out of his Sargeant's mouth makes his eyes crinkle, when every quip and jab is met with equal responses, when seeing those blue eyes light up when he enters a room makes him want to be Simon again.

Price notices. In all the years he came back, Ghost has never been as obviously bothered by the strings as much as he is now. Not since he first thought they were hallucinations.

So, when he finds himself in the Captain's office, he expects some kind of reprimand. A well meaning question about his health.

Instead, he's met with, "Congratulations."

He blinks. "Pardon me?"

"Soap's a good lad. He's got his flaws, but who doesn't?" Price goes to light the cigar he'd been holding when Ghost walked in.

"... I don't follow, sir." He says, even though he knows exactly what Price is implying. He wants the Captain to stop pussyfooting and say it.

Price takes a drag of his cigar and blows the smoke out in a way that doesn't directly hit Ghost, even though it doesn't bother him anymore. "I don't care if you're dating or just fucking or what have you, Simon." He looks him in the eyes when he says his name. It leaves Ghost feeling prickly and oddly vulnerable. "But... You seem happier, lately."

"Fraternization -" the weak excuse he had started to pull out by instinct was interrupted by Price's laugh.

"Son, I couldn't give a single fuck. Look what we're doing here! Look at the people involved. No one cares as long as we get the job done." He chuckles again. And Ghost wants to tell him. He wants to explain about the threads, he wants to ask about Nik, he wants to spill all he feels for his- for Soap. Wants to go to his room, pull him out, kiss him in front of everyone, and intertwine their pinkies just like those rookies were, so that their fingers are so close that the string is barely visible.

But he doesn't. Instead, "There's nothing going on, sir," he tells Price, like a coward.

[kitausuret]

I think one of the most compelling things about the symbiot3 to me, especially when you hold off on putting them together until after vol 3 starts, is that it's not a human having to get used to a human partner with an alien - it's about a human having to get used to their alien partner being with another human.

Involving the Venom symbiote as essentially having this... string of exes makes the dynamic between human partners potentially really interesting. But, for Flash in particular, it's that he was forcibly separated from the symbiote and then to find it back with someone who, in two different identities, tried to kill them had to be pretty jarring. (Not that Eddie had a great impression of Agent Venom, either, what with the kidnapping, the being-tied-up-for-Crime-Master, the almost getting cooked alive...) Everyone's been awful to each other at some point. Like, it's messy. There's a messy dynamic all around.

But... then you remember that at some point, there was that little turning point. That moment when one realized the other wasn't such a terrible Venom awful after all.

(Venom (2011) #35 (Bunn, Shalvey); "Venom Inc: Omega" (Slott, Costa, Stegman))

But the crazy thing is when neither of them knew each other before Venom. They only ever associate each other with symbiotes - and largely, with one particular symbiote. Their shared partner, hell, their shared identity is Venom. It's for a long time the only thing they do have in common (at least, as far as they're each concerned).

Sure, there's something to be said for AUs where things go a little differently. I've read one fantastic AU where Eddie met Agent Venom and had never been Venom before, and another where Flash met Venom and at the time had never himself been Venom in the past. But making Venom their common ground... it's just something so special.

But, to kind of get back to my original point... normally you would expect like, oh, this human is getting involved in a relationship with another human being, they have to get used to this other human being a package deal. But here, it's Flash having to get used to (and maybe accept) that his symbiote partner is with someone else. He's already sweet on the symbiote. That's his partner. They've been through everything together, but Flash gradually seeing what the symbiote sees in Eddie? Flash eventually coming to fall in love with Eddie, too? Not just accepting but embracing the impact Eddie had on the symbiote, as the first host to reciprocate its love and affection?

And on the flip side, Eddie feeling everything the symbiote does for Flash, and having to try and separate its feelings from his own? The slow burn of going from assuming Flash is only hanging around him because he wants to be near the symbiote, to realize that Flash isn't that kind of guy? That Flash isn't so dead-set on his own jealousy that he can't trust that his partner is making its best choices?

Beyond that, they'll also find unique human-y things to love about each other. They see what the symbiote does, sure, but there's so much they can discover in the mundane day-to-day of human life, too. Even if the symbiote was the original thread that bound them together, and may ultimately be what they always come back to, they both also know what it's like to have to drag yourself back from the brink. They both know what it's like to hit rock bottom.

And they both know that you can't get back up without help.

(Venom (2018) #8 (Cates, Coello) ...oh Eddie, you were never second best. 💞 don't mistake affection for diminishment. props to this issue for the admittedly-brilliant use of "our other", though.)

[tinnieaus]

Purgatory AU ( tag Purgatory Dhmis AU)

(🔞⚠️Triggers ⚠️🔞 death, gore, child death, cult activities(sacrifices, rituals), suggestive, nsfw)

The Teachers, trapped souls. For one reason or another they were picked to endure a never ending loop of torture. They don't know if it's entertainment for some god or if it's a punishment. But they're here, and they can choose whether of not to try and keep themselves sane or give in.

Sketchpad (Paige), the oldest 'Teacher'

The longest stay in purgatory

has forgotten her name, her story, her age, and how she died

was alone for the longest time before Tony had arrived

shes a little unhinged, but still cares for those around her and has empathy

tries to help everyone else with their 'changes' knowing how traumatic it was going through it alone

friendly to everyone, only changes her tone why they're mean to her

Tony, the Leader

very much suffering 24/7

anxiety 24/7

holding on by a thread, thanks to sketch

closest to sketch, okay with colin, iffy about the rest, despises Shrignold

cries when overwhelmed

Shirgnold, the cultist

very unhinged

creepy and unsettling to the others

was already a bit crazy when he arrived, has just let himself go completely

does not give a crap about staying sane

seems to target Larry, Colin and fridge for some reason

Colin, the Nerd

very iritable and snappy with everyone

not handling anything well at all

will scream if someone tries to touch him

really freaked out by Shrignold

tolerates Tony and Sketch

cries when alone

Steve and spinach (Samantha), the father and daughter

very protective of his daughter

depressed and tired 24/7

gets along well with tony, fridge, sketch, and larry

not afraid to stab a bitch if they touch his kid

spinach is too young to understand what is happening

only talks and interacts with others when her dad is around

feels safe around her dad and fridge

really likes fridge

thinks Larry is cool

Fridge(Fredric) and bread boy(Bonnie), father and son

fridge is jumpy and on edge 24/7

sticks close to steve, feels comfortable to be around another parent

doesn't trust anyone but steve to be alone with BB

over-protective of BB

too terrified to kill anyone, but will fight if threated

One by one the unfortunate souls wake up in a brightly colored house. Each have no recollection of their name, their life story, their existence before now. They can remember just moment before their death, the emotions, the colors, shapes. Then the light they walked towards that inevitably brought them to where they reside now.

The doctors office

If a Teacher gets hurt for any reason, they can go to the Doctor. The dark room holds two beds, two cabinets and an unseen figure that stands outside the light of the bright lights pointed at the beds. Each teacher has visted at least once, for something small like a cut or cough, and something big, limbs torn off and on the brink of death. Even cold, seemingly dead body's can be brought to the Doctor and they'll walk out as if nothing happened. Whoever made this place knew violence would be prevalent and brought the best doctor on board.

The longer the teachers exist in the purgatory, the more cartoony they become. At some point they become completely 'cartoon' and can change into their 'object' form (aside from shrig, into his bugiffied form) but for everyone but Sketch are unable to do it. The transition from human to cartoon starts with simple things like clothes, appearing in the purgatory in a different set of clothes that hints to the person's cartoony end goal. The skin color changes, maybe some facial/structural changes that happen throughout the process, added limbs, loss of limbs, hair changing colors, eye color, height.

Rooms in the house

The rooms in the house seem to be made specially made for certain Teachers. Each Teacher has a room, decorated, set up, and painted specially for them. Each time a Teacher arrives, the hall upstairs gets bigger, longer and adds a new room. The hall is unusually long compared to the layout of the house. The rooms shift and break geometrical and logical rules as it changes to fit the souls living inside. None of the teachers are able to leave the house

[redroomroaving]

Don't burn alone in the dark (Rolan x Geraldus, G, what-if one shot)

The wizard is hurting, drinking himself useless as he waits at Last Light Inn, refusing to let anyone get close to his pain. Geraldus, trying to hold on to hope in the dark, can't help but see it. (Aka: What if Geraldus was with the Harpers at Last Light Inn?)

He was there again; at the bar.

Geraldus slid the bow from his shoulder, resting it on the table as he took a seat, glancing across the length of the inn at the figure at the other end, slumped over, a wine glass in hand, eyes staring into oblivion.

Tumeril was saying something, but he wasn’t really listening; distracted as he took in the tiefling and felt the familiar, aching pang of guilt in his chest.

They hadn’t been fast enough; by the time they’d made it to the source of the noise - the crash of thunder and clatter of swords that had echoed even in this place that seemed to swallow up all sounds - it was too late.

Bodies strewn across the floor already, and there, gathered in dark in a cluster - just a few left; a young woman with lavender hair was shielding two of the small children - children, mostly, were left - and there, chest heaving and eyes wide, flecks of fresh blood across his cheeks - the wizard.

He must have spent nearly all he had to fight them off, his limbs shaking as Geraldus’ compatriots rushed to their side, quickly gathering up the children and fighting back the last of the retreating cultists.

He could still remember what he said as he approached him - those gold eyes meeting his, glowing there in the dark.

“They took them,” he said, “I have to go after them I have to -”

Geraldus took a deep breath as he watched him across the bar now; recognising how absolutely defeated he looked. They hadn’t been fast enough, and the tiefling had lost his family for it. No amount of wine was going to change that, but he seemed determined to try.

“-again once the others are ready to take back over, I guess. We’re not going to find them, though.”

Geraldus glanced back at Tumeril, realising he’d barely heard a word of that, but understood his sense of defeat. They’d lost more than a few already to this place and the unending dark; he knew why Tumeril thought it pointless to try and find survivors at the cost of more lives.

“We can’t give up,” Geraldus said quietly, looking at a pair of the tiefling children huddled together in one corner, playing games together to pass the time, “there’s still…”

Tumeril laughed sharply, shaking his head.

“You’re too naive,” he said, “they’re already dead, Geraldus.”

Maybe he was right. It was getting harder, the more nights they spent in this place, to hold on to the threads of hope that Geraldus had always kept so tight, but he wanted to try.

It all felt like a nightmare that didn’t end, no matter how many times you woke up.

Every morning the sky was still black, and in this place it was always the middle of the night, all of them clinging desperately to the light; even as they bristled against one another in these confines - the Flaming Fist no less frustrated than they were, the refugees struggling to stay afloat, and the High Harper there in the middle of all of it - her sharp gaze overseeing everything.

She was talking quietly now to another; an elf finely dressed in an elegant dress, with dark hair who seemed to be responsible for the Fist. They’d arrived a few days back now, before they’d found the tieflings, and had spent most of their time gathered in one of the side rooms formulating a plan.

Everyone seemed to be looking for a plan; but as each day passed, the hours all starting to blend together, he could feel the weight of this starting to bury them all, one by one.

It wasn’t too late; Geraldus was sure of it. He’d picked up tracks this time - found a path towards the edges of Reithwin, the path to Moonrise Towers; some, at least, had not been pulled away with the cultists. Someone had made it to shelter there in the ruins; he felt sure of it, and he prayed that whoever they were, they were staying safe.

We’ll find you, he told himself, and we’ll find the rest of them, too.

His eyes drew back to the bar; the tiefling’s voice was raised, not quite a shout but close to it, carrying across the bar as he addressed the woman; the bard with the lavender hair.

“A song?” He was saying, voice sharp and filled with spite, “oh of course, what could possibly help more?”

“Rolan-” the bard was saying, a soft, sorrowful look on her face, “I’m just…”

��No please, Alfira,” the wizard replied, leaning back a little, his glass lurching in his hand, a little wine spilling across his hand that he was heedless to stop, “do play us a song, I’m sure this captive audience will appreciate your caterwauling.”

“It will help pass the time whilst we wait to find out just how many of us died for you to get here,” he said, every word sharper than the last.

Geraldus fiddled a little with the edge of his arm-guard, watching as the bard sighed deeply; watching her features crushed with hurt as she crumpled with defeat, slinking away, a glittering of tears in her eyes as she did.

“At least we’ve got quite the supply for them to drown their sorrows,” Tumeril said wryly across the table, eyeing this unfolding scene, “although at the rate they’re going, we won’t have that either soon.”

Geraldus watched the wizard’s face; the victory was fleeting - his face triumphant for only a moment at the bard’s retreating back before the spectre of reality set in, a shard of something impossibly lost, the rawness of mourning fresh and burning, flitting across his features.

The tiefling slumped back against the bar, lifting his glass to his lips, and, finding half of it across his sleeve instead, let out a string of curses under his breath, face turning spiteful again as he rolled up the edges of his cuff with a hiss.

Geraldus watched as he held his glass out again, demanding another. One of the children, glancing at the other nervously, reached for a bottle and poured it.

Geraldus thought faintly that perhaps someone ought to intervene, or at the very least, that the children shouldn’t be behind a bar at all.

“I’d get a drink myself,” Tumeril said, “but I don’t fancy being in that one’s blast radius.”

Geraldus glanced back to Tumeril then.

“He’s lost his family,” Geraldus said quietly, “he’s hurting.”

The tiefling had tried to rush after his family even then, as they had gathered up the others to pull them back to safety. He’d watched as Skywin had grabbed one of the children and lifted them onto her back, calling the retreat.

“Geraldus, there’s no time for this - we have to go.”

He’d reached for the tiefling just as his shaking legs gave out, and helped to pull him to his feet, listening as his compatriots had promised the wizard that they would go after them as soon as they could - that he just had to come with them now first.

Geraldus hadn’t made the same promise, only helped to hold up his arms as they pulled him with them.

“We’ve all lost people,” Tumeril said, a little sombre now, “they’re out there right now paying respects to the three we lost just today.”

Geraldus had seen them, clustered out there on the outcrop by the side of the inn, looking out on the strange light that surrounded them; this false sky conjured by the Cleric above, saying their prayers for the fallen.

“You don’t see the blacksmith drinking himself useless,” Tumeril added, blonde brow raising slightly.

But the blacksmith could still hammer; the bard could still play; the children still had one another to play with, the Harpers had their mission, the Fist had their charge to protect.

The wizard, though?

What could he do other than wait? No wonder he felt so powerless.

“No one should be powerless,” Geraldus said quietly. Tumeril let out a little sigh, reminded, glumly, of their tenets.

“No one should be powerless,” he agreed.

He thought of going to the bar - not that he wanted to drink, he never really did - but then thought better of it.

Tumeril had been right about one thing; around that man at the bar was a tempest, and no one that stepped close would be able to cut through those waves until the storm had passed. He’d condemned himself to facing it alone, and the thought of that created a little uncomfortable swell of sadness in Geraldus’ gut.

Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his heart from aching a little for him; sitting there, his pain spilling out behind the sourness on his face, a pyre burning in silence.

What had she called him, the bard? Rolan.

He committed the name quietly to his memory. Rolan.

–

Rolan’s head was swirling as he leant against the cold stone, letting his forehead press against it for a moment in a vain effort to stop the spinning.

Stepping outside had been a mistake - some loose headed notion that the air would help stop the sensation that he was on the deck of a lurching ship, the ground perilously close to rising up and meeting him as he took each step - but of course, there was no fresh air here - not in this place.

No wind. No stars. Just more spinning and darkness and the images of them - of Lia’s face, her amber eyes burning bright and wide, telling him it would be ok, that they would be ok, of Cal’s hands wrenched behind his back - the sword clattering from his side as he shouted in defiance of the face of his captors.

The feeling, like ice through his heart as he realised there was nothing else he could do to stop this, hearing the sounds of crying behind him - and knowing that no matter how his heart was tearing apart - if he left them these children would die.

Fuck, he thought, feeling the soft scrape of the stone against his skin as he let his forehead slide just a little down the wall, they could be dead already. They’re dying. I’m here and they’re dying and I can’t think and I -

Here, alone, with the swirling void beneath him and just the feeling of stone to anchor him before it swallowed him up, he had no more defences left to stop the tears. They were falling now, whether he wanted them to or not.

Crying, Rolan? You’re crying now like that means anything to them? A tear shed for their loss is as useful as one of Alfira’s fucking songs. It doesn’t help anyone but you.

His stomach was turning now, the spinning sensations starting to lurch in his gut too now, and he could feel it - the wine rising in his throat; his evening of poor decisions ready to stage an encore.

His hand went to his mouth, a vain attempt to stop it before it started, but it was too late - he felt himself retching already.

He span in place and gravity finally claimed him, feeling himself falling forward to the floor with his mind still half in the air, everything feeling a little as if it were happening a few seconds later and a few steps away.

He heaved as an unstoppable wave of wine and iron and bile rose up through his throat.

In his dizzy mind, he hoped, at least, nobody was around to see this particularly heroic display of vomiting.

Alas; that hope was quickly dashed.

He was still spinning, unable to even really look up as he felt a presence beside him, kneeling - fingers reaching, carefully and tentatively, to pull his hair back from his face. He felt those fingers drawing his hair together and gathering it at his nape; and wondered when it had even come loose.

He was still heaving; painful, sharp lurches through his gut that he couldn’t stop, a whole night’s worth of wine determined to make a second appearance.

He was aware of the fingers on his neck the whole time, a hand placed on his shoulder and guiding his wobbling body slightly to lean some weight against them, crouched.

“It’s ok Rolan,” a voice, soft, unfamiliar, was saying, “you’re ok.”

He was grateful at least his tears would be disguised like this; his eyes watering now from the sudden sickness just as much as the pain.

Finally, as it started to cease, he reached up and wiped at his lips with his sleeve. Well; at least he didn’t feel quite as swirling any more; the pain in his gut and the horrible, sharp smell of bile dragging him rather abruptly back towards something more sober.

He let his other hand steady himself against the stranger’s knee, feeling himself shaking a little and trying, desperately, to stop doing so. After a moment that felt far longer than it was, Rolan managed to lift his head, and braved himself to meet their eyes.

He blinked away the watering of his eyes, and found himself looking at a familiar face; one he’d seen only once before, but one he remembered.

He’d heard his saviours before he saw them - a sharp arrow shot striking into the chest of the looming cultist, sending it crumpling to the floor, a deadly hit. Then, to his side, a streak of magic, and the clattering sound of approaching footsteps and metal scraping, armour and swords.

A pair of wide, hazel eyes, dark hair framing soft features, drawn together in concern, a hand placed on his shoulder, the other still clutching a longbow.

“They took them,” he had said, trying to get the stranger to understand that it wasn’t him that mattered, “I have to go after them, I have to-”

Those same eyes were looking at him again now, dark brows drawn together in gentle concern.

He didn’t know what to say; his mind still too filled with haze, his body still wavering, the taste of bile on his lips reminding him just how little dignity he had in this moment.

“Don’t worry,” the stranger said, releasing his gentle grip on Rolan’s hair, and after a moment, whispering in a low voice, words echoing with arcane energy, “te absolvo.”

Rolan felt it; a wave of energy rippling out from the stranger’s grip on his shoulder, spreading out across his body, washing over his mind like water, soothing and cool against the heat and pain that occupied his skull.

As it lapped through him, he felt a little bit of his own mind returning, but not as it had been before the wine, not filled with shrapnel and anger, but simple, clean, feeling like the moment of waking, that blissful space before you remembered all of the details of life that waited in the day.

He was lifting him, slowly, carefully to his feet. Rolan felt himself wobbling, his legs not quite steady enough, and let his weight lean into the stranger's body a moment, unable to do anything else.

His body felt solid, and warm, and a much better anchor than the cold wall had been.

“We should get back inside,” the stranger said gently, “there’s a door, through the back - it’s quieter.”

Rolan pulled back, testing his own feet a moment, and the stranger released his grip. The strange false moonlight was reflected in his eyes, looking at him, aching and genuine in a way that made the creeping sense of shame in Rolan’s gut grow.

What are you doing? Rolan thought, what is the point of you, Rolan?

“I don’t need your help,” he managed, wanting the shame to stop and not knowing how else to get it to stop other than to get this man to stop looking at him.

The stranger smiled; just a small one, the tiniest curve at the edge of his lips.

“No, you don’t,” he said, “but you can have it, anyway.”

Rolan felt a twist now, in his chest; an unexpected sensation there he was struggling to identify, battling with the guilt and misery, and not knowing what to do with any of it. He was exhausted, now, and the world still felt too loose for him to stay in it much longer.

So, he nodded.

“I’m not thanking you,” he said quickly, even though he wasn’t quite sure why he did.

The man smiled again.

“You don’t have to,” he said simply, and then started walking, slowly, leading the way.

As Rolan trailed after him, doing his best to keep his steps steady, he noticed the half-elf glancing back at him, eyes darting across him, making sure Rolan was following him.

He was tall, dressed in impressive armour; a little more notable than many of the other Harpers he’d seen lingering about, not that he had paid any of them any particular attention. He hadn’t cared to learn anything about any of them - they mattered even less than he did.

Still, as they rounded the corner, heading towards the back door, he found himself asking a question.

“Who are you?” He asked.

The man looked a little surprised, but smiled, brushing a little hair back over a pointed ear as he reached for the door handle.

“I’m Geraldus,” he said.

Thank you, Geraldus, he thought, silently, holding the name in his mind a moment before it slipped back into the haze.

[onstrangerthighs]

I'll Find You (Today, Tomorrow, and Yesterday)

For @billyhargrovebingo

TW: suicidal thoughts

--Chapter One: The Funeral--

He stares anywhere but at the framed picture of a clean-cut Billy Hargrove, dressed in a white button-up shirt, something Steve is sure he wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing. In the photo, Billy’s all teeth, his face pulled taut like a rubber band at its limit. A fake smile if Steve ever saw one.

Did he ever see Billy with a real smile?

Yes. Shirts vs. Skins, that day in gym class. He had worn a tired but cheeky grin, cerulean eyes locked on Steve; a famished lion hungry for a challenge, and then some.

He picks at a loose blue thread— the same shade as his eyes.

Steve’s parents had flown in two days earlier when word reached them about Starcourt. Nothing about what really happened, just the official cover story everyone agreed to tell. The last words Steve spoke before going completely mute were “Billy saved us.”

“That color suits you, son,” his mother said as she straightened his collar, something she hadn’t done since he was ten. They’d actually sat together as a family back then.

He’d looked in the mirror on his way out and couldn’t place why, but he’d gotten a little choked up. Yeah, blue looks good on me.

It looked better on Billy.

“Quite the turn out, huh?” Tommy’s voice is the quietest it’s ever been.

Steve scoffs. School had been canceled so everyone would be able to attend the service, so majority of “grievers” were just happy to get a day off.

“He-uh-liked you.”

The program scrunches up in his tightening grip.

“He asked a bunch of questions, wanted to know all about ‘King Steve’,” Tommy laughs hollowly. “He... really came alive around you.”

A lone tear rebels against Steve’s dry eyes and onto the paper.

“If Billy were here right now, ya know what he’d say?”

You only knew him for a few minutes. Then again, Billy did have this strange effect on people, himself included, where he made such an impression that it was like you’d known him forever. He left you breathless, always wanting more of him.

Tommy goes to hug Steve, but instead settles for a shoulder pat, leaving a space that doesn’t stay empty for long.

Was that what happened when people died? Did they just… get replaced?

As Nancy would say, bullshit. Some holes can never be filled by anyone*.* Billy was a tough act to follow. He wasn’t meant to be replaced. He wasn’t meant to die.

It’s far too sunny for a day like this.

“Max is trying to get her mother out of the bathroom,” El - oh, that’s who’s sitting next to him- says. She holds a tissue box close to her chest and squeezes his fist. “Billy was special to me, too. He was a hero, Steve.”

Look what that got him. He died for a town that didn’t give a shit about him when he was alive. He should be here.

“Sometimes I think he should’ve let the Mind Flayer take me. But that wasn’t who Billy was. He was the hero we all needed, and he never got saved. Mike says I’m one a lot… I don’t think any of us are.”

This girl really is much too wise for her age. If anyone knew the real Billy, it’d be El, who had started calling him her big brother.

“You met him. During basketball. You-” El pauses, looking at him sadly before continuing, “you were one of his happy memories. He didn’t have many.”

If he were alive, maybe I’d be brave enough to tell him he made me happy, too. At least I put a smile on his face, even if it was only for a couple of minutes. It was special to him. Was I-

No. No use in going down that road. If only… I’d known sooner how cruel summer could be to stars in Indiana.

“I’ve got you,” Max assures her wobbly mother as she half-drags her dead weight to their seats. When they pass by Steve, they don’t look at him. Susan smells like she drank an entire liquor store in preparation to face her dead stepson one last time, and when Jonathan leaves his own torn family to offer some help, Max hisses at him, “Help? A little late for that, don’t you think?”

Jonathan opens and closes his mouth, because he really can’t argue otherwise. Neither can Steve. Nancy watches the tense exchange from a distance with haunted eyes.

“We… we didn’t kill him, Steve.” She’d whispered over the phone two nights prior, sounding just as guilty as he felt all the same.

“Yeah? Well, we sure as hell didn’t try to help him, either.”

Before Billy’s coffin is lowered into the ground, everyone gets in line with flowers to lay on it… him. Max goes first, barely holding back tears as she sobs her goodbyes. El abandons Steve’s side to hug Joyce, which is understandable. He’s not exactly the warmest person.

“I can’t do this,” Susan cries loudly, dropping her flower.

“Mom! You promised! You said you would do this for him!” Max pleads, hiccupping.

“None of us should be here.”

“Mom, what are you-”

Susan pulls away from her and kneels down beside the coffin, trembling. “I failed him. He was so young! It’s all my fault! All this damned town’s fault! We killed Billy!”

We killed Billy.

As soon as they arrive home, Steve runs to the bathroom and vomits his breakfast. His parents don’t bother checking on him. They’re probably already gone. Now it’s just him and his guilt. He counts sheep until eventually falling asleep. Every few hours he wakes up screaming for Billy to run. To get back in his Camaro and keep driving.

At 12: 00 am, his own screams scare him awake, and his nailed bat isn’t by his bedside like it usually is.

2: 00 am… he pretty much gives up on getting in the mandatory 8 hours. He hasn’t slept since this whole mess with the Upside Down, when he learned that monsters were real. He stares holes through his ceiling. Billy died not even knowing what the fuck was going on. Why didn’t we tell him? So what if it was supposed to be a secret? He deserved to know.

And yet…

You punched him. Your last words to him were “get out.” You could’ve opened the fridge! You could’ve shown him the creepy ass demo-whatever. You never say the right thing, do you? You’ve wasted words and started fights. So many mistakes.

Oh, and you lied to him about his sister. He looked at you like you were a freak. Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself while he’s seven feet under? Typical.

If I could fix it, trust me, I would!

Gifts won’t bring me back, Harrington.

I know.

2: 45 am, and Steve finally dozes off, praying for the first time since his first communion… begging God to kill him.

[countlessrealities]

Kisses under the mistletoe || No longer accepting

@alm1ghtysea sent: 💏 - my muse kisses your muse under a mistletoe without a warning (For Adrien and Kaito !)

Parties were the sort of scene Adrien was still getting used to. He had been to plenty of gatherings with his father, back when he had used to model for Gabriel, but those were easier to navigate. All he had to do was being quiet, talking only when he was addressed and smile for the cameras, if there were any.

This was different.

He wasn't sure of how Marinette and Alya had managed to convince the principal to let them hold a Christmas party in the school yard, but apparently not only they had succeeded, but they had also managed to turn the place into show of colourful lights and winter-themed decorations. The place was almost unrecognisable

Adrien himself had helped setting up the scene the previous day, but seeing it now, with the light of the day quickly fading away, everything looked as if it had been wrapped in a cheerful golden glow, with a touch of red and silver here and there. In one word, it was beautiful.

Had it been up to him, he would have gladly just leant against the wall, away from most of the crowd and enjoyed the scene. Not just the yard in itself, but also the people and the cheerful atmosphere that filled all the space. Unfortunately, everyone else had other plans for him, so he had found himself being dragged from one corner to the other.

Chatting with Nino, making sure that Chloé didn't mess with the sweets Marinette had baked, saving the latter from her own clumsiness, playing judge in an argument between Kim and Max.

And, last but not least, now Plagg was demanding to be fed some of the cheese from the refreshments table.

The teen had grumbled a little at the kwami demands, but eventually he had given in. Careful not to draw anyone's attention, he had made a beeline for the food, keeping watch while the creature scarfed down almost all the contents of the cheese plate. Hopefully, no one would have noticed, because he wasn't looking forward to lie and say that he had been the one to eat all that.

"C-C'mon, Plagg, that's enough," he whispered, ushering the kwami back under his shirt. "I'll get you more once we get home, alright? Someone might see you. And we can't...!"

The rest of his sentence was lost in a little huff as he turned around and bumped straight into Kaito. He had spotted the other teen here and there, surrounded by his friends, but he had never found the chance or a pretext to approach him...until now.

Adrien instantly opened his mouth to apologise, but, once again, his words got lost as he noticed something else, hanging from a thread right over their heads.

...Oh shit. Was that mistletoe?!

"Uh, h-hey, Kaito, I just..." He started, unsure of what to say. He had stared at the plant too long, because the other had looked up in turn.

Great, now the cat was out of the bag. And how he wished to be the cat, so he could have just zoomed away and hide on a rooftop.

"It looks like we...that's..."

Did his friend even know about that particular tradition? He was certain that it was something that had its roots in the Western culture. And if that was the case, then he would have looked twice as a fool, if he had tried to do what he was supposed to do. Maybe he should just turn on his heels and...

A hit against his lips cut through his thoughts and he quickly realised that it was Plagg trying to get him to just go ahead and...do the thing. Easier to be said than to be done. But, on the other hand, he couldn't stay there looking like a dead fish either, could he?

"It's tradition, you know, so..." He started again, trying and mostly failing to channel his inner Cat Noir.

This time he let his voice trail off on purpose, both because he needed the extra moments to steady himself and because he was hoping to catch Kaito off guard. The time to suck in a quiet breath through his nose and he was leaning forward.

He didn't dare to go for a kiss on the mouth, he couldn't have made himself to do it even if he had really wanted to. Instead, he landed his lips against the older teen's cheek, pressing a soft, lingering kiss on it. As their skins brushed, time seemed to stretch and the universe seemed to shrink down to the way their body heats mixed together.

The moment was suddenly broken as he moved back, the weight of the implications of what he had just done falling on Adrien all of a sudden. He could not have a conversation with Kaito right now. Not about the kiss, not about anything else.

"Oh, anyway, I...I see Nino calling for me. He probably needs help with...this thing from earlier," he hurried to say, not giving the other any chance to react. "I'll...Let's talk another time. Enjoy the rest of the party!"

And with that, he was off, making sure to disappear in the crowd before sneaking into the lockers room. Running away from his friend was starting to become a habit and he really did not like it.

Letting out a heavy breath, he leant his back against the wall, closing his eyes and running a hand on his face. He was a complete disaster when it came to handle this particular ordeal, wasn't he?

Exploiting the fact that they were alone, Plagg floated out of his hideout, coming to stand in front of his holder's face, green eyes shining with mirth.

"Damn, you're really bad at this wooing thing, do you know that?" The kwami huffed out in amusement. "Sooo...Does this mean that we're going home earlier and that I can get my cheese sooner?"

Adrien let out a groan, shoving the creature aside. "Oh, shut up, Plagg. We're not going home...yet. I'm going back out there...in a minute or ten."

[rainbowsuitcase]

AU where Steve met Loki before, pt2 - New York

Part 1

Steve wakes up. He reads all the files they give him access to, he gets on the internet, he finds out about Thor. He remembers one of his best guys, who insisted his name was Loki and jokingly, or maybe not so much, called himself the God of Mischief.

Steve doesn't get a file on him. There's no mention of him anywhere in Captain America's biography. He's probably dead and Steve adds him to his never ending list of people to mourn.

He gets weirdly into Norse mythology.

Then they send him to Germany to fight Loki. The actual Loki. Who looks a lot like Steve's Loki, even with the ridiculous helmet.

But it can't be his Loki. First of all, his Loki wasn't actually a god. Second of all, even if he was, this Loki shows no signs of recognizing him. Third of all, this Loki doesn't seem to like humans very much.

He briefly considers if this god somehow knew Steve would be here to fight against him, somehow found out about Steve's Loki and took on his appearance to exploit a weakness.

Except he doesn't seem to care much for Steve at all.

It's unnerving.

It's heartbreaking.

Steve has been feeling like he's hanging on by a thread ever since he woke up and seeing Loki's familiar smirk in a much much worse context is making him feel like the thread is about to snap.

Then Hulk smashes Loki into the floor of Stark Tower. Then the Avengers come arrest him. Then he sits up.

He's bruised, his face is bloody, he look tired and he looks like a man who understands that he lost and yet. He looks different. He looks at them differently. Steve didn't even realize there was difference before but now that it's gone, he can see it clearly.

Loki's eyes slide over them all and come back to Steve. But it might also be Thor. Except-

"Steve." His lips spread into a smile that looks a little histerical, a little exhausted, a little sad, and painfully familiar. "You haven't changed."

Everyone freezes. Iron Man aims an open palm at him.

Well, isn't that nice.

Hulk's cell is destroyed, so instead of getting locked up, they get to sit in an interrogation room with many, many weapons aimed at them and they get to explain everything to everyone and each other at the same time.

Loki was apparently mind controlled. Not as much as Clint, but it helps them understand.

Steve tells him he was frozen in ice and Loki looks like his heart has just shattered. "I should have been looking for you," he says, and Steve may not understand everything about gods, but he's pretty sure no one can turn back time.

"We're here now." He wants to reach out and hold Loki, he wants to tell him how glad he is that there's at least someone he hasn't lost, but he's painfully aware of the many, many eyes watching them.

Explaining to them what the hell they're talking about is incredibly hard, but also incredibly hilarious.

"So you want to tell me," Tony takes a deep breath, "that Captain America and the God of Mischief used to be friends?"

Steve shrugs. "I wasn't always Captain America, you know." And friends isn't exactly what he would call it, but he figures that confession can wait.

Ultimately, even though they all reach some kind of an understanding, he doesn't get to keep Loki. Even if he can't be fully blamed for this invasion, apparently he got into enough trouble before that.

"I was always a problem child," Loki says when they manage to get a few moments alone. There's pain in his expression that they don't have the time to talk about.

"Well, you better act nice," Steve insists. "This better not be the last time we see each other."

Loki is taken away and Steve watches it happen, trying not to see a pattern in it.

Part 3

[cookie-nom-nom]

On the Subject of Religion and Rot: Part 4

Part 1 is here. A short story about the Elder, a mushroom hivemind that is devouring the World Tree.

It was Azar’s hesitation that ruined everything. She had tried so, so hard to make sure this wouldn’t kill anyone else. The horrid epiphany that she wasn’t alone froze her to the spot. Yet it was that same horror that spurred Cyra into action, lunging for Azar and ripping the flint from her hands. It skidded across the floor, and her heart leapt to her through with the fear it would spark and set the World Tree ablaze. But the flint was safely scooped up by Wickburn. 

Cyra commanded him to run, but he was rooted to the spot. And as Azar’s dagger slashed through her arm and the Elder lit up with the hunger of fresh blood, she realized why. Thin mycelium crawled in glowing glyphs across his skin, feeding into the rest of the Elder. And yet he was still animated and breathing. Cyra and Azar recoiled from the man martyring himself. 

Above, the dark clouds of spores rolled uneasily, thunder echoing through the hollow World Tree as the synapses of the Elder fired. Wickburn poured his desperate prayers into the hivemind, terrified his warning would go unheeded. Otherworldly images and emotions flashed through his brain, incomprehensible and ephemeral. His binds were so fragile, thin threads offering only tenuous connection to his god. A lightning storm gathered within the World Tree. The Elder was a whir of susurrations, a chorus of innumerable voices tangled in a writhing knot he couldn’t even begin to unravel. It felt like drowning, and Wickburn clutched the flint as a lifeline, vowing to protect his god to his dying breath. 

Azar lunged, realizing the obstacle to the obliteration of the Elder could not flee. But Cyra guarded Wickburn, easily overpowering the weakened arsonist. But she didn’t have to be strong to kill them all; one spark in the midst of the spores and the fire would devour everything. “We will all be immolated,” Wickburn said softly. 

“We’re already dying,” Azar hissed. “Your god is killing both of us, and you’re so blinded by zealotry you welcome it. This way I’m taking the source of corruption with me.” 

“And everything else alongside It,” Cyra snapped. “Should you burn Her, nothing will be left to hold the world! You would bring untold death. The heavens would crash down upon us all, stars unleashing inferno as they plummeted to-” 

Struggling to escape her grip, Azar hissed pure venom. “You can speak to me of heaven and hell all you like, but I’ve seen too many people starve while food was left to rot here.” 

“What does it matter if it means the Elder eats cattle instead of the pillar of existence? It’s our only delay till the last of the World Tree is consumed, and yet you would kill us all now!” She clamped down on the hysterics in her voice, trying to sound reasonable. “Listen. I can help you. I’ve been investigating how to destroy the Elder. There’s a way. The World Tree may be dead, but She can still hold everything in place if we can prevent the corruption from spreading. No more sacrifices. Your people won’t starve.” Cyra released a slow breath of relief as Azar ceased her fighting. Holding out her hand, Azar hesitated but accepted it. Cyra smiled, trying to project a confidence she didn’t feel. She didn’t know if there really was a way, or if the Elder was simply stringing her along to get more sacrifices. “It will take time, and caution, but we can save everyone together.”

“What?” Wickburn’s eyes widened, something horrible twisting in his gut as he realized his ally sought the Elder’s destruction. Only he knew of their traitorous plot, and yet he was rooted in place. “No, no, no, you can’t!” His very mind recoiled from the abhorrent thought. So anathema was it to everything he knew, Wickburn struggled to find the argument that would sway Cyra. “Life and Death is cyclical. The world shall still be held in place since It is replacing Her. We’re not some– some doom cult! All we want to do is accumulate and spread knowledge. The progress we’ve made has helped so many; breakthroughs in medicine and science and war strategy and–”

“Progress for who?” Azar snarled. “None but the priests and scholars. If your ‘progress’ is built on the bodies of those too unimportant to matter, then I care not for it.”

“This is the beginning of humanity’s enlightenment, of the new world. Think of the knowledge you would destroy. You would doom the progress of the future.” 

“And I would save the people of the now.” 

“No, you would slaughter them!” 

“I think we can do it.” Azar turned to Cyra. “How? How do we destroy the Elder and not Its host? We have to destroy every last spore.”

“I…I don’t know. And I dare not believe the Elder would tell me,” Cyra admitted. Doubt rotted her insides. No. No, it was impossible to destroy one without the other. Fire was the only thing she could think of to purge the corruption, but the thought of burning the corpse of her goddess and destroying everything she stood for was abhorrent. Even should the world collapse the Elder would simply feast upon its corpse. Perhaps that had been Its plan all along. Cyra turned to Wickburn. “A cycle. You said it was a cycle. Death nourishes life.” 

The man sighed in relief, the faintest hint of spores lacing his breath. “It is the nature of existence. There is always renewal in destruction. I promise everything will be okay as long as the Elder grows in place of Her.” 

Cyra held out her hand. “Give me the flint. She won’t be able to catch me.” Wickburn eyed Azar’s skeletal form, and agreed. Determination sparked in Azar’s eyes, but it turned to bewilderment as Cyra immediately pressed the flint into her hands. Her goddess was already dead, and surely everything else was to follow. It was too late for this cycle, the next would have to be nourished from the ashes of this one. “If the new world is to have a chance, we have to ensure the Elder can’t devour existence.” 

“The Elder knows decay is impossible without regrowth! It isn’t going to devour the world, don’t– stop! You don’t know what you’re destroying!” But his pleas fell on deaf ears. Cyra knelt. A deep breath to soothe her racing heart. And she began to sing a mourning song. For herself. For her goddess. For everything she ever knew. There was no one left to pray to for the safety of the new world, and so she would have to ensure it herself. 

Desperately, Wickburn turned to Azar. “Think of the innocent lives you will end. All of existence will collapse because of you.”

Azar glanced between the two of them. “Sorry, but your theologies mean nothing to me. You’re both insane if you think this dead log is holding up the sky.” Nevertheless, she hesitated, having never intended for anyone to be hurt. But Wickburn had chosen to perpetuate the system. He was culpable. This was just. And Cyra accepted her death, and was far too zealous to be convinced the apocalypse wasn’t upon them. The bile in Azar’s throat wouldn’t stop her. 

Wickburn howled as he realized what was coming, in his desperation ripping himself out of the embrace of mycelium and lunging for Azar. As his own blood spilled, the symbols carved into his skin burst with light, billowing streams of spores peeling from him like smoke. Above, the synapses of the Elder were frantic, lightning flashes spasming Its divine terror. Wickburn was caught in a maelstrom of the Elder’s thoughts, desperately pushing past as he threw himself at Azar. But he was too late. Her knife struck the flint. 

A spark. 

In one second, all was dark. In the next, the three mortals at the center of the pyre were immolated, writhing shadows in pure radiance and then no more. A shockwave berthed by the explosion swept out, rattling the world. The inferno blossomed outward in golden petals, racing faster and faster as it devoured the miasma of spores. Burrowing downward into the heart of the world, the blaze vaporized mycelium and roots alike. It raced to the heavens, past the crests of human civilization, past the soft blanket of clouds, serpents of fire arcing around infinite branches. The inferno stretched out further and further, devouring past the horizon in every direction, its hungry jaws snapping at everything in sight. 

Dark billowing clouds poured out of the pillar of existence. Perhaps it was smoke. Perhaps it was spores. 

Fin.

[prtfrmhrtbrn]

june 8: ‘taking chances’. 495 words; prompt via @jegulus-microfic !!

(possible cws: drowning & descriptions of pain. whoops!)

The potion slips down his throat easily, like he was born to drink it. James’ hand is in his, holding it tightly, like it was crafted to hold it. Like they were etched particularly, to fit together like they do; not conceived but instead poured into candle-moulds that match only with each other. One-of-a-kind.

The potion slips down his throat easily, but the oyster shell is heavy in his hand, and only getting heavier. It’s hard to lift, even with James’ help; he sobs and begs and pleads, says, “James, anything but more, please, I’m going to die, it’s going to kill me,” but he knows that the agony is as much the potion talking as it is himself, and James lifts the shell back to his lips once more and despite everything in his body crying for the opposite, he drinks.

And drinks. And drinks.

The risk of drinking it sends cold shivers through his body, but they’re so indistinguishable from the nervous tremors- from the knowledge that this is probably what they call ‘the right thing’- that there’s no real difference.

The potion seems bottomless, so much so that when he comes to the end of it, his mouth is open for more; ready, waiting. James looks at him, and smiles, and reaches into the basin to grab at the locket, and he says, “you did it, Reg.”

(Shouldn’t it be- “we did it”?)

He sounds so pure; sweet; happy. Things so unreasonable for a nineteen-year-old who’s in a cave in the middle of nowhere to help his boyfriend kill an immortal to end a war. A nineteen-year-old who’s dealing with undue responsibilities because of a would-be Lord, a false god, a man who panned for gold and found pyrite and convinced everyone that it was authentic. And he’s ruining their lives.

It’s not so bad, not anymore. The potion stung and hurt and burned and made him feel lke he was being cauterised from the inside out, but it’s not so bad. It had left him achingly thirsty, but the lake surrounding the island is full of cool water that eases the pain, and when arms start to grab; scratch; claw, he doesn’t really notice, not until James starts screaming from on the shore.

“Reg!” He calls, anxiety and panic threaded through his tone; an expert weaver, the way that they’re so intrinsic to the way that Regulus’ name falls from his mouth. “Reg, swim away! Please, I-”

And then he’s in the water too, trying to drag him out; fruitless, because the grab-scratch-claw had left him weak and he’s all dead weight. Not even James is strong enough to pull him away from that, though he tries; he always tries. Has never stopped trying. It’s one of Regulus’ favourite things about him.

(Or, well. It used to be.)

(He’s the one who dies first, of the two of them, but it’s a ‘used to be’ no matter how the order looks.)

[astralleywright]

the thing about teen wolf season 3 is that it's bad. like all of teen wolf is bad. but season 3 takes what made the first two seasons so good despite being bad (likeable and compelling characters and not taking itself too seriously) and said actually fuck all of that, this is a Dark and Serious Show now. and it fucking sucked.

but also there's the episode where Scott got fucked up in a werewolf fight but his injury wasn't healing because Derek had (presumably) died in that fight and Scott blamed himself, even though he had been the one trying to find a peaceful solution. but Derek's dead and its Scotts fault and he's bleeding out on the floor of a rest stop bathroom. and Allison has to stitch him up because their only idea is to trick the wound into healing, and she's using a needle sterilized with a lighter and sewing thread from Lydia's purse, and Allison, who shot 10 arrows into another teenager's chest while looking him in the eye, is shaking too bad to thread the needle. and then she hallucinates her dead mother berating her, and she's breaking down on the floor of this rest stop bathroom, and then her mother tells her to breathe. and she does. and she threads the needle and stitches Scott up. and he does start to heal.

and she helps carry him out, and Isaac is beating the shit out of Ethan in front of everyone. because he found out that Scott was hurt, dying, and even if Ethan wasn't the one who put the claws in Scott's side he's one of them, he was there, he's a part of this monster that's killing Scott, the first person in a very long time to really care about Isaac, to be kind to him. Allison's father taught her how to stitch up a wound, and Isaac's taught him how to hurt someone like you really mean it. and then Scott sees what's happening and yells Isaac's name, not angry, just firm. And Isaac steadies, and stops. and looks up at Scott (still holding Ethan by the shirt just in case lmao), looks at how he's standing, looks at where the wound is now healing, and all the tension leaves him as he smiles at Scott. and Scott accepts this. Ethan's still collapsed on the ground, bleeding profusely out the face. everyone else looks on in horror. (none of them could get Isaac to stop; most of them don't even know why it happened). In the next episode they go to The Motel That Makes Werewolves Want to Kill Themselves