#fucked up body horror but still shaped like bird wings

[cloud-ya]

sobbing.....her little brother is her guardian angel

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Mandela Prophet AU: Long Walk Home

Adam finds himself abandoned when Jonah flees the home they were investigating. On the walk back to Bythorne, Adam’s approached by a tall figure, looking vaguely like an angel. It seems it has an offer for him.

TW: blood/gore, body horror, character death, mentions of spiders and mentions of things crawling under skin

Notes: this is around 3,600 words long, and is the basic idea I have for the beginning of this new au, taking place right after the events of vol 2. Things are most likely going to change lore wise later on, so this fic may be outdated within like. A week-

Either way, hope you enjoy!

-----

God, Adam hated the cold.

With his arms pressed against his stomach, he walked down the ice and snow covered street, barely able to see anything past the scarce streetlights he passed under if he was lucky. His hoodie, which was black with yellow lettering spelling “BPS” on his chest, wasn’t enough to keep him warm during the winter, and he was beginning to regret wearing ripped blue jeans. His chestnut brown hair poked out from under his hood, covering his forehead. His already pale face seemed even more desaturated from the cold, aside from his nose and cheeks, which were turning a shade of pink.

“You…f-fucking asshole…” He shuddered, his breath clouding the air in front of his face.  “Prick…”

He wanted nothing more than a car; hell, he would’ve risked hitchhiking if it meant he wasn’t stuck in the cold. He was pissed off, sure, though he was starting to worry more about freezing to death on an empty road on the outskirts of Mandela. The second he saw Jonah again, he was going to punch him for leaving him behind. What kind of “friend” just ditches someone like that? Perhaps Adam should’ve expected it. Jonah was never the brave type, so it did seem in character for him to pussy out. At the very least, Adam still had his camera in his backpack, and he had killer footage to show Sarah when he got back to base. Jonah missed out on the encounter of a lifetime.

As Adam walked, narrowly slipping on the occasional black ice patch, he shivered, glancing up and down the road to see if anyone was there. Of course, no one was, but he needed any optimism he could get. He could see the outlines of yellow signs signaling a turn in the road, meaning he was nearly to the border between Mandela and Bythorne. Adam let out a sigh of relief, realizing he was nearly there and nearly to being in an actually warm house. Perhaps kicking Jonah’s ass could wait; he decided he just wanted to sleep.

Adam shook his head, pressing his crossed arms against his stomach even more to conserve body heat. He walked next to the side of the road, following the turn before it finally straightened again. However, Adam paused when he made it to the end of the turn. He looked around, noticing something; it had stopped snowing, and it was completely silent. He was used to hearing the sound of the occasional bird or other animal in the woods next to him, but it sounded as if all of them dropped dead at once, or were otherwise choked out.

Adam could only hear his quiet breathing as he hesitantly stepped forward, trying to ignore the strange feeling in his stomach. As he walked, he caught something in his vision, and looked up. A tall shape with bird-like wings passed by, disappearing into the darkness. Adam stepped backwards a step, his breath hitching as his blue eyes fixated on the pitch-black sky above him. He began to walk backwards, wondering if he should keep going or flee. However, when the shape came back into view, he realized he didn’t have time to make his decision.

The figure landed right in front of him, forcing him to stumble back, slipping on the ice before falling onto the pavement. He yelled in shock, both from the sudden pain in his back, but also from seeing what was standing right in front of him. They were a tall humanoid shape, wearing a long pale grey robe over their body. They had a metal collar around their long neck, though it was unclear what type of metal it was, as the beings spotless clothes and even skin were completely monochromatic, all different shades of grey. It had long, wavy hair draping over its shoulders and back. What got Adam’s attention were the large wings on their back, its feathers white and clean. However, Adam could see exposed muscle and bone under the feathers, as if the wings were wounded or not fully formed.

Adam stared up at its face, seeing that it was smiling softly, its dilated pupils staring deep into his very soul. They folded their hands in front of their body, watching as Adam froze in place.

“…W…Who…what…are you?” Adam sputtered.

“…You truly are a fool aren’t you?” The figure’s voice was soft, yet sounded as if they were being choked. “You decided to follow the tulpa…instead of living up to your true purpose.”

“…What…?” Adam said, shakily standing up, trying his best not to slip again.

“Adam…I’ve been watching you from afar.” The figure continued. “You disappoint me. Perhaps it was too much of me to think you wouldn’t fall for his…tricks.”

“I…I did the right thing.” Adam defended.

“Oh…Adam.” The figure chuckled, their smile widening. “You’ve been led astray so far, haven’t you? You’ve lost yourself.”

Adam remained silent, wondering what the hell the fake angel was trying to say.

“However…I’ve decided to bestow upon you…everything you’ve wanted.” The figure stated. “I will give you the push you need to finally…do the right thing.”

“I want nothing to do with you.” Adam responded, gritting his teeth. “Just…fuck off already!”

The figure laughed, his voice accompanied by multiple other voices, all laughing in horrific unison. “Oh…you don’t understand how wrong you are.” The figure said, stepping, or more accurately hovering, towards him. “You’ve been searching for something, haven’t you? Knowledge no man should never have. Is that not what you’ve been searching for?”

Adam paused, his brows furrowing as his frustration turned into concern and confusion. “…How did you know that?”

“I know everything about you, Murray.” The figure said. “Though do not be afraid, I am not here to hurt you. Instead, I am here to grant you your wish.”

Adam stared at them as the held out their hand, revealing what appeared to be an apple. He stared at the fruit for a second before meeting the figures gaze once again. “You can have everything you’ve ever wanted…and more.” They said, their smile widening further than should be possible. “All you have to do…is follow my lead, and you’ll never have to worry about anything ever again.”

Adam approached the figure, staring at the apple in their hand with hesitation. “…Follow…your…lead?” Adam asked.

“I am here to help you, only if you help me.” The figure said. “All I ask for is your agreement. I can do everything else…you just need to give me your word.”

It seemed too good to be true; a ruse. Everything handed to him in an instant? It felt like a dream, though it wasn’t like he had anything better left for him. Adam grasped onto the apple, staring at the red fruit with a look of pensiveness on his face. The figure walked behind him, grasping his shoulders and leaning in closer. “Everything will be ours…all you need to do…is follow me.” It whispered, with Adam being able to hear that it was smiling its far too wide smile. Adam continued to stare at the fruit in his hand, all while the figure breathed down his neck, and despite the nagging feeling in the back of Adam’s head, he lifted the apple up, and bit into it.

It didn’t taste like an apple; it tasted like charcoal and rotten meat. He held it away from his face, seeing the bite mark left in it. The inside of the apple was completely black like ink, and he could see thin, bug leg like appendages sticking out of it, twitching slightly. Adam dropped the “fruit”, seeing it turn into mush the second it hit the ground. He could hear the figure cackling, the horrid laughter burying itself into his ears as he coughed and tried to get the bite of whatever the hell the apple was out of his body. However, it was already down his throat, and even if he tried to gag himself, it wouldn’t budge.

“Thank you, Murray.” The figure said, their eyes wide and their smile even wider. “You have made everything so simple for me.”

Adam would’ve asked what the fuck he just ate if he weren’t on his knees, trying to get himself to throw up. The figure stared at him, still laughing with its distorted voice. “Go now, Adam.” The figure said. “You need not worry about the word of the tulpa anymore.”

Adam looked back towards where the figure was, seeing that they had disappeared into thin air. Adam stood up, grasping his stomach as he looked around for where the figure disappeared to. He saw nothing, but he could feel his stomach squirming, deciding to try and ignore it before stumbling down the road. He didn’t know what the hell he had just done; only that he regretted it already. Now that his mind was clear and the trance was gone, he could see clearly the mistake he had made.

He walked and walked for what felt like forever, the discomfort in his stomach growing with each step. He felt like he was about to throw up, but he wasn’t even granted that, as if his stomach was completely empty. He grasped his stomach as he tried to shake off the nausea rushing over him. His insides hurt like hell, and by the time he was nearing Mandela’s border, he felt like collapsing. He looked up, and couldn’t describe the relief he felt when he saw the taillights of a car parked on the side of the road. He didn’t care who was there, as long as they’d be willing to help.

As Adam grew closer, he noticed that there was a man beside the vehicle, crouching down with his back against the side of the car. He was covering his face, as if he was sobbing to himself. Adam could see the clothes he was wearing, which were a black leather jacket over a white sweatshirt, along with blue jeans and red high tops. He had silver hair, and when Adam saw the familiar dyed hair, he realized who it was; Jonah.

“J…Jonah?” Adam tried to yell, though his voice was caught in his throat. However, despite the rasp in his voice, Jonah seemed to hear him. Jonah lifted his head, looking over to see Adam stumbling towards the car. Jonah’s eyes seemed red from crying, and tears were running down his face.

“Adam?” Jonah asked before scrambling to his feet. “ADAM!” Jonah ran over to his friend, catching him when he nearly collapsed.

“You…fucking dickhead.” Adam muttered.

“I-I’m sorry…” Jonah said. “I didn’t know what to d—”

“Shut up…” Adam said, grimacing. “Just…get us the fuck out of here.”

Jonah led Adam to the car, lightly pushing him into the passenger seat before running around the car and hopping into the driver’s seat. As soon as they were both inside, Jonah started the car and started driving down the dark road.

Adam leaned against the window, grasping his stomach as he tried to push down the discomfort and nausea he felt inside of him. Jonah glanced over at him every once in a while, completely silent. Adam glanced at Jonah for a second before weakly speaking. “I…didn’t expect you to actually…listen to me.”

Jonah looked at Adam through the corner of his eye. “I’m…sorry.” Jonah sighed. “I-I was…scared. I couldn’t stay there.”

Adam scoffed slightly. “You’re in a paranormal group…and you’re scared of ghosts?”

“Not ghosts.” Jonah said, hesitating before continuing. “…I’m scared of…alternates.”

Adam shook his head slightly before looking through the window. He shuddered slightly, feeling a strange twitch in his torso.

“I’m just…happy to see you, man.” Jonah said before scoffing slightly. “Unless…I’m a fucking idiot and you’re not actually him.”

“You want to check?” Adam said, looking at Jonah. “My eyes are blue; their eyes are black. I’m not one of them.”

Jonah stared at him for a few seconds before focusing back on the road. “I…I don’t know. I guess I’m just kinda…surprised...?” Jonah seemed to regret saying that immediately judging by the slight grimace. Adam glared at him, his expression darkening.

“You think…I died in there?” Adam asked.

Jonah remained silent, though the look of nervousness on his face was prevalent. He glanced at Adam before his shoulders tensed up. “…yes.”

Adam sighed, looking out of the window with furrowed brows. “Of course.” He sighed. He wanted to be mad at Jonah; to yell at him about how he was an idiot and how angry he was that he left him behind due to a stupid assumption. However, before he could get those words out, a sharp pain in his chest and stomach interrupted him. He pressed his hands against his torso, hunching over with a pained groan. Jonah looked over to see the hurt look on his face, immediately furrowing his brows.

“You alright?” Jonah asked.

“I…I-I don’t know.” Adam said, trying to ignore the squirming he felt inside his chest. “…I think…I need a…hospital.”

Jonah breathed heavily, staring forward at the road in front of him, seeing the sign on the edge of Mandela and Bythorne. “We’ll be there soon.” Jonah tried to sound comforting, though his uncertainty was audible.

Adam scowled, his breathing becoming heavier despite it becoming harder to do so. His throat felt tight, and the discomfort in his torso was beginning to be agonizing. Jonah looked back towards Adam, seeing that he couldn’t stay still, either bouncing his leg or rocking back and forth. “…Shit…we’ll be there soon, don’t worry—” Jonah was interrupted when Adam abruptly spat out blood onto the dashboard. Adam covered his now bloody mouth, the red substance running through his fingers. Jonah’s eyes widened before his breath began to quicken. “Oh…fuck…”

“O-Out.” Adam muttered.

“What?”

“I…want…out.”

Jonah hesitantly pressed his foot against the brake, pulling over to the side of the road, right by a wheat field on the border of Bythorne. As soon as the car stopped moving, Adam shakily reached for the car door, opening it before stumbling out. Jonah followed, watching as Adam hobbled in front of the car, the headlights hitting his back before he collapsed. He fell to his knees, hunching over, while pressing one of his hands on the cold and damp pavement.

Jonah ran over to him, crouching down before lightly placing his hand on Adam’s back. Jonah didn’t know what he could say to him, though before he could say anything, Adam began to talk.

“O-Out…out…” He muttered, his eyes wide. “I…I c…can’t...”

“Shit, shit…wh-what do you need?!” Jonah questioned. “What can I do?!”

“Shut up…shut up…just shut the fuck up!” Adam clenched his jaw as he said that, though Jonah had the slight feeling he wasn’t talking to him. “Get out…GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HEAD!”

Tears ran down Adam’s face as the pain in his stomach and back became too much to bear. Jonah couldn’t do much aside from watch his friend double over in pain, frozen with no clue what he could possibly do to help. Jonah wanted to say something, but flinched when he felt something move under his hand. He jerked his arm away from Adam’s back, standing up as he stared at him with confusion.

Jonah could see something crawling under the skin on Adam’s back, scratching under the surface for a way out. It prodded at Adam’s jacket, each movement making Adam cry out in pain. He screamed as Jonah began to stumble backwards, only screaming even louder when something broke through his skin, erupting from his back. It was a large, blackened, bony hand, connected to a long and mangled arm. It pressed itself on the ground next to Adam’s curled up body as Jonah fell tripped over himself and fell to the ground. He crawled backwards, yelling out in shock, fear, and confusion, his screams adding to the choir along with Adam’s agonized cries.

Jonah watched, frozen as he crawled backwards towards the car, only stopping when his back hit the grill in between the headlights. He watched as another impossibly long arm forced itself out of Adam’s body, following the other by pressing itself on the ground the opposite side of the other one. Three more pairs of smaller, more human looking arms followed suit, reaching up into the night sky. Jonah couldn’t help but compare the arms to a spiders legs; eight thin appendages that twitch and move in strange ways. Jonah always thought spiders were hated more than they deserved, and even found a few of them cute on occasion. However he didn’t think he’d ever like them again.

Adam slowly turned towards his side, seeing four bloodied arms reaching for his head. One of them grasped his hair, pulling his head back as the other three lunged towards him. Adam grasped two of them, pushing them away as best he could, despite the weakness and the pain coursing through his veins. He succeeded in keeping them at bay, though the third one managed to get through, latching itself on Adam’s mouth, covering it and making his screams become muffled. Adam felt the two other arms push harder and harder, though didn’t notice the two last human arms reaching for him. They grasped Adam’s wrists, forcing his arms down and making him let go. The two now free arms also latched onto his face, covering both of his eyes. Adam struggled, trying to break out of the arm’s clutch, his head twitching and his throat raw from screaming.

Jonah could hear Adam’s screams slowly become quieter, and soon enough, Adam’s head lowered and his own arms fell to his sides. It became completely silent aside from Jonah’s harsh breathing and the faint sound of wind. He couldn’t tell if Adam was dead, though his body seemed as still as a corpse, at least until the two largest arms began to move again. They pushed against the ground, lifting Adam’s body up into the air until his feet didn’t touch the ground. It turned around, the hand clasping Adam’s head making him face Jonah.

Jonah was completely frozen in fear, staring up at what used to be his friend. Tears ran from underneath the hands covering Adam’s eyes, and blood trickled down onto the pavement from the open wounds in his back. The hand covering Adam’s mouth was lifted away from it temporarily, and when his mouth opened, spider like appendages flicked out, black as coal. Jonah could do nothing as the thing grew closer, and with nothing else to do, he began to scream as much as his vocal chords would allow. Despite the screams echoing across the field and into the night air, no one heard them, and he was left at the mercy of his old friend.

             Adam found himself face down on the snow when he woke up. His entire body ached, sore enough to make moving at all difficult. His eye lids opened, and he felt his face and body going numb from the cold. His back was exposed to the wind through the large holes in his clothes, all stained with rapidly drying blood. Adam didn’t want to move, only wanting to go back to sleep, though dying from hypothermia was the last thing he wanted, so despite how sore his muscles were, he needed to get the fuck out of there.

           Adam slowly pushed himself to his feet, his spine audibly popping as he did so. He looked forward, seeing that he was at the edge of the forest, standing in the field he saw on the side of the road. He turned around, seeing the headlights of the car in the near distance. Adam immediately began to stumble towards it, seeing his ticket out of there. However, he saw something in the corner of his eye. He could see Jonah, laying in the middle of the field. Adam paused, staring at Jonah before he began to approach him. “J…Jonah…?” Adam weakly called. When he became close enough to see Jonah clearly however, Adam completely froze, his eyes widening slightly as he stared at the scene in front of him. Jonah was there, though Adam couldn’t see his face; it wasn’t even there.

           Jonah’s body was splayed across the snow, as if he was starting a snow angel. Blood poured onto the snow from his head, or where it should have been. His head was completely missing, with nothing but a bloody, torn stump of flesh muscle and bone, with blood beginning to freeze into icicles from the wound. Adam’s gaze turned towards the message written in large bloody letters in the snow; “COWARD.”

           Adam staggered backwards towards the road, his gaze fixed on Jonah’s body as he slowly made his way back to the car. “What…the fuck…what the fuck…” He muttered under his breath over and over, unsure of how he felt. He felt as though he should’ve been absolutely mortified, scrambling for the hills from the sight of a corpse. However, he felt…tired more than anything; tired and empty. He wanted to feel bad for Jonah, but for some reason, he didn’t truly feel much at all. That scared him more than the decapitation.

           When he made it to the car, he immediately swung open the driver’s side door and hopped in. His back stung when he leaned back in his seat, grabbing the keys that were already in the ignition before starting the engine. He took one last look at Jonah’s body, which laid in the distance, barely visible from his position. Adam then forced himself to look away, pressing his foot against the gas as he drove into Bythorne. He wished the radio in the car actually worked; maybe then he wouldn’t have had to listen to the new voices he could hear in his head.

[jadedandconfusedao3]

The Swan, The Boy and The Hanged Man

Gods, I hate her. Look at her, wandering about a meadow without a care, as if there isn’t a fucking war on. What a joke.

Luna didn’t know the swan was there until it made a pathetic sound that was halfway between a squawk and a honk. Its leg was caught in a snare trap and its wing hung unnaturally at its side. A deep gash in its underside was bleeding liberally, covering its body in swathes of red. Luna kneeled beside it to run a hand down its long back and when she raised it again, her fingers were stained in crimson.

The swan barely moved under her touch, only lifting its head to bleat at her.

“You’ve found yourself in quite the pickle, haven’t you?” Luna mused, “Well and truly trapped.”

With a swish of her wand, she cut through the rope and pulled the bird up into her arms. It tried to struggle and flap but the exhausted creature soon surrendered itself to her arms. She picked her way through the frost-covered ground back to her home. The fields were little more than scrubland and surrounded the large Rook-like structure making it seem almost desolate. Her home had never been pretty, a relic that poked out of the landscape, like a ruin from some long-forgotten time.

It was odd, Luna thought, that a swan would be caught out here. The nearest lake was not for another mile, along with the swamps and rushes they usually hide in at this time of year. That said, the swan was bony, and she could feel each one underneath its flesh and feathers. Perhaps it had simply gotten desperate and tried to eat the first bite of food it could find.

She opened the door with her wand as she tried to keep a hold of the bird, who appeared to be silently looking around with its beady black gaze. The table was the only surface large enough to hold him and she left him there as she fetched the dittany.

He hadn’t moved an inch by the time she had returned, barely raising his head to look at her.

Luna raised her wand, “Vulnera Sanentur.”

Her wand rolled around as the blood in the immediate area collected back up to knit the wound. When she was sure that it would no longer bleed, she stopped and picked up the dittany. It spread easily along the wound, and she watched as it healed even further.

He was surprisingly soft as she stroked her hand down his back. “You’ll be alright. A couple of days rest and some decent meals and you’ll be right as rain.”

She’s touching me. I hate it when people touch me. If the Dark Lord had not asked me to be here, I would peck her fucking eyes out.

Luna woke that night with the moon streaming through her window. It was lovely, this quiet time surrounded by blue. She breathed in and let it fill her, coating her insides with colour. Her limbs still ached from the aftereffects of all the Cruciatus this year and the tranquillity of night helped. Where before people had hidden her shoes or tripped her on the stairs, now she was a target for far more sinister things. She tried to tell them that they did not need to follow the Carrow's lead but they didn’t listen. It hurt to see their faces afterwards, masked in horror at what they’d done.

She frowned as she made out an unfamiliar shape on the other side of the room. Swinging her legs off the bed, she padded over to where she had left the swan, wrapped in blankets on the small couch. It wasn’t a swan any longer. The boy that remained was long legged and possessed a shock of brilliantly white, blond hair. It practically glowed in the ethereal light. He barely fit on the couch; his knees bent as he curled his body up. Thin wrist bones were clearly visible through his almost translucent skin and her heart ached at the thought of how the swan had devoured the little dinner she had given it.

Luna crouched down so that she could peer at his face from where it was tucked under his arm. Draco Malfoy. He looked far less frightening curled up here, his face slack with sleep. If she were truly honest, she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him. He had been like a ghost this year, hardly engaging in other people, doing the bare minimum that he could get away with. She could barely feel his Cruciatus, it’s effect as weak as static.

There could be no good reason for him to be here, but she couldn’t make him leave. Her father would not agree but Draco had not betrayed them yet. It would come, that much was to be expected, but what cost would he have to pay for her escape and was it worth her freedom? Or was she just delaying the inevitable? Her father had been rebellious, and they had both known that had a hefty price.

She pressed a thumb along his cheek, and he nuzzled into her touch. A subtle, unconscious action that spoke more than his words ever could.

Continued on Ao3

[thenixkat]

The generic pop culture dragon review (4 legs, 2 wings, 1 head) part 1

Meatlung the Gronkle from How To train your Dragon

[id: A render of the dragon Meatlug in flight smiling and looking upwards. She's wearing her saddle. /end id]

7/10. She’s lumpy, dumpy, cute and craggy. Her little wings buzz like a bee’s! This is a dog in the body of a lump. 

Red Death also How to Train Your Dragon

[id: A render of the Red Death standing with its wings folded ad with it’s mouth open. /end id]

[gd: A scene of the Red Death in flight swinging its head around and spewing flames while surrounded by smoke. /end gd]

10/10. This lady is absolutely lovely. She’s hefty and craggy and intimidating. The shape of her mouth, crest, eyes, spines, and tail club are delightfully odd. She’s got 6 eyes! She’s massive but not absurdly big, with nice understated but not murky colors. She’s just a fucking kaiju compared to the others in thsi series, even compared to the other big dragons that lack her heft and menace. Also she actually looks lizardy with her limb proportions and set up.

Saphira from Eragon (film)

4/10. While I love how birdy and functional her wings look, I hate her smooth face and human eyes. Her face gives me ‘how do we show this dragon is female?’ vibes in a way that I hate. Her coloring is too muted and uniform and her freaky human eyes don’t stand out as much as they should.

Saphira from Eragon (book cover)

5/10. She’s got a much more visually interesting face. Look at those tentacle eyebrows and horse nose/fleshy beak  combo. The lenth of the scales on her neck give of an impression of feathers. 

Dragon from Shrek

5.5/10. Visually she’s not much to look at. And her wings are very nonfunctional looking (they’re barely attached). But the make up is fucking wild. Also she straight up ate the bad guy, which is something I always want good guys to do. (Like Shrek, Fiona, yer fucking ogres. Ogres specifically eat people. Eat the fucker you don’t like). The donkey dragon babies she ends up having are certainly... a choice.

Draco from Dragonheart

7/10. One of those dragons who’s def a character with their own story. Not personally a fan of ‘the last dragon’ plots but I like that this dragon does have some magic. Also how many dragons have you seen that participate in conning people?  I dislike how his colors don’t really pop and run together, brown is a good color but ya gotta use it right. His wings also bother me. They’ve got good surface area but they don’t really attach to his body.

Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty

8/10. This is a lovely design. I love how chunky she is and how emotive her spines are. The color of her tongue makes it look like a flame. Also the big ass nostrils and beak are very fun. Her tail is forked as in actually forked. Also she’s a fairy dragon and compared to everything else I’ve seen labeled as a fairy dragon, she’s a breath of fresh air.

Slyrak from Dota: Dragon’s Blood

8/10. Hard to find good pics of this man. This dragon is voiced by Tony Todd, this dragon has a sexy voice. The whiskers/tentacles on his face are a good touch. He’s got an interesting aged and lanky feel, very craggy old man, with good wings that show tattering. What’s really impressive is how feared this dude is, his sheer fucking fire power, and also the fact that he’s intelligent and still fucks people up just b/c he feels like it.

Dark Dragon from Burn The WItch

8/10. Before its face slid off it was delightfully cute in a lumpy way. Then its fucking face slid off for a lovely dash of horror on this otherwise cartoony sauropod shaped dragon. I love it.

Cinderella from Burn The Witch

10/10. I love her. We see her in multiple forms. Her second form is so very Digimon, she’s so gangly and awful bird. She can turn invisible. Her majestic form only happens under moonlight and she’s so graceful and glittery. But the glitter is bombs and she’s mean. Also the lace-like patter at the edge of her wings is a nice touch. And so is the continued birdyness in this nigh-unkillable murder machine. My biggest complaint is that her name should have been something like Ugly Duckling instead of Cinderella b/c that fits so much better.

[sylverstorms]

Mother Miranda x Lawyer!Oc ----Tilted Scales

Hello guys :) This is another commission I wrote for the amazing, wonderful @saltwatereulogies

Your support has been insane, I can't thank you enough. Hope you enjoy the story ❣

Three days.

That is how long you've been in the village, after years of studying abroad, before everything turns to shit.

As you slowly blink focus back into your eyes, you try to clear the haze from your mind. It feels as though you've collided with a truck. Your body hurts, your wrists protest in their iron cuffs, stuck to the wall as they are, having supported your weight while you were unconscious.

Desperately, you try to recollect the events that led you here...

A grey sky. A bleak day. One moment you were making coffee for your mother, excited to be able to sit down with her in the mornings again... and the next you heard the echo of screams.

Overcome by adrenaline, you bolted out of your house, only to witness a scene straight from a nightmare; humanoid monsters ripping villagers apart, cries and blood and animalistic growls all blending together into one mad mix.

And before you could even warn your mother...

Damn it all, what the fuck happened!

You suddenly struggle against your bonds, hard enough to rattle your whole frame. Your wrists burn from the grind against metal, but you don't care–

“Stop that. It is pointless and you will only injure yourself.” A cold voice, strangely familiar, says from far to your right.

You peer deep into the shadows, searching for the only other person in the empty room... until you see her. A mask advances on you, gold and shaped like a crow's visage, then wings folded into a cloak come into view.

You would be a fool to not recognize her. The local saint. The village's prophet. The very 'saint' your mother prayed to, for your safe return, all these years. Mother Miranda.

The sound of her heels bounces off the walls until she comes to stand directly in front of you. Looking past the openings of her mask now, you realize....

This isn't possible.

She hasn't aged a day. Not a single day, since you left the village. The years should show around her deadly blue eyes, somewhere, and yet they don't.

“I see you remember me...” she says, while you're still trying to find your voice. “Miss Warren.”

“What is going on? Mother Miranda, what happened to the village?!” you demand.

Her expression shows nothing. “The village is in need of... renovation.” she speaks, even, regal. “Repopulation, even.”

You stare at her with wide eyes.

“Now, don't give me that look. You would not be here if you weren't of the ones I chose to keep.” she continues. “You see, from now on, every single person in my domain will make themselves useful in some way, or they will be replaced. And you... you have been abroad studying law for a while now, yes?”

“I... yes.” you reply, still not fully having wrapped your mind around your situation.

“Excellent. What I need from you is simple. You will make the village independent from the state’s taxes as a religious organization... and you will keep foreign investors out from that point onward.”

What... what part of that is simple?!

“Do that for me and in return I guarantee your mother and you will go back to your house safe and sound. You will have no shortage of Lei for as long as you live, Miss Warren.” Miranda promises.

But it is not the sweet part of the deal your mind stays glued to. “And if...” you gulp. “If I can't work around the law to do that...?”

Miranda blinks slowly at you, like you shouldn't even ask such a basic question. Like the answer is obvious.

“Well. Then I have no further use for either of you.”

It is in this moment that it dawns on you.

This woman is no angel and no saint.

She is a devil.

-

-

You spend countless sleepless nights pouring over every single paragraph, every little opening or ambiguity in the law you can use to free the village of taxes.

To keep your mother in the dark about this, you work in the office Mother Miranda has provided for you, in her very stronghold.

Although technically it's her home, you don't see her nearly as much as you initially thought. She is gone throughout the day and returns late at night, not even sparing you a glance before heading for her chambers, at the upper sections of the building.

The days she does come into your office to inquire on your progress are few and far-between, your conversations always short and cold.

This evening is different.

“How is your work coming along, Miss Warren?” the prophetess asks with her aggravatingly nice accent, seating herself like a queen on the chair in front of your desk.

Your eyes are tired, but you force them on hers, through the mask obscuring her face. “I think I've got it. I'll be sending the necessary papers tomorrow and the answer shouldn't take longer than a month.”

“Very good.” she nods, a miniscule curve to her lips.

Icy eyes then drop to the wine in the whiskey glass at the corner of the desk. You think she will make a comment about drinking at work, but instead she says;

“Pour me a glass, will you?”

You will your hands steady as you comply, then carefully slide her drink over.

Miranda takes her mask with claw-shrouded fingers... and soundnessly sets it on the wooden surface. Then she pushes the veil at her hair back, shaking long, platinum locks free.

You do a double take you hope she doesn't notice. Because what the actual fuck.

You didn't think her hair was that long, or that straight, or that it would fall over her shoulders like she's staring in a shampoo ad. You didn't think her lips were shaped like a cupid's bow or that her skin was this flawless and radiant.

The helplessly lesbian part of you could begrudgingly admit she was beautiful before... but now you arrive to the painful realization she's drop-dead gorgeous.

“So. I've heard you won cases others would describe as impossible.” she begins.

“Nothing's impossible. You just need to know where to look.” you reply. Law is your comfort zone and she is not that far above you here. “But how do you know that?”

“I have my sources.”

"Nobody truly leaves this village, huh.”

“Not without my consent, no. But I knew you'd come back.” At your slight frown, she elaborates, “You would never leave your mother behind.”

She's right. There was a whole world of opportunities waiting for you out there and yet... here you are.

“Good work, so far. You can take the next two days off. Your eyes could use the rest, Miss Warren.” Miranda speaks, finishing her wine.

“Sarah.” you say. 'Miss Warren' is for clients and she is your boss.

Miranda's lips give a slight quirk that may or may not be a trick of the light.

���I know.” she replies and exits the room, long hair billowing behind her back.

-

-

The taxes were only the first challenge. Now that the village is free of them, investors are flying in circles around it like vultures over meat.

In the meantime, Miranda comes to talk to you more frequently.

Lately, it seems she has more free time. You wish that was a good thing, but...

“So... are you like... going to stay here?” You ask after reading the same sentence five times to make sense of it, because her gaze on you is distracting as fuck.

“I'm not getting in the way of your work.” she says. You want to argue she is, but can't quite do that in a way that won't get you killed.

“I'm simply not used to working with company. Isn't this boring for you?”

“No, actually. I find it interesting, even though science is my field of expertise.” she answers. “And the way you take notes is… amusing.”

You try not to blush as you look down at your notebook, filled with different colored markers and post-it squares with tiny stick figures pointing to the more important paragraphs. You have been doing this for so long to sort out information you didn't even realize you were keeping it up in her presence.

“What is this supposed to be?” she asks with a small smile, the first of its kind you've seen.

To your horror, her clawed pointer aims at a particularly silly doodle, barely the size of a pencil's eraser.

“A... bird.” you grimace like you've been stabbed.

“Ah, of course.” Miranda holds back a chuckle but you can tell she's dying to make a comment.

Studying becomes hell for the rest of the time she's there with you, those sharp eyes picking apart every little move you make. At the same time, though, the hours you spend with her make you realize...

She's not a saint, though she may look like one. She's not completely a devil, either, even if she may act as one, at times.

She's human.

-

-

Miranda shares nothing about herself when you chat, but she seems to like it when you speak about your time abroad and all the things that left an impression on you there.

Your conversation over wine is cut short, however, when you receive a call from a number you learned means nothing but trouble, lately.

“Sorry, I have to take this.” you tell her.

The one calling you is none other than this month's rival lawyer, trying to dispute your claim over the land for his own boss. He's lost to you before, so it's also personal, but you are confident you have cornered them good with the latest papers you sent them...

And you are proven correct, when, a few seconds later, he is all faux polite on the other line, resorting to offering you money for you to withdraw your arguments.

Miranda comes to stand next to you, listening in to what he's saying.

The problem with that is, the second her arm brushes yours and you catch a whiff of her perfume –which always lingers in your office long after she's left— youare the one who stops listening to him.

Your attention flies to other things, like the inches she has on you, the exact color of her pale blonde hair, the little glint of victory in her stunning eyes.

Oh, no. God, no...

You know what this is, the feeling in the pit of your stomach. Alarm bells go off in the back of your head, as though your own mind is telling your body how foolish it's being.

There isn't a worse thing you can do to yourself than be attracted to Miranda.

-

-

Over time, familiarity with the prophetess brings higher levels of difficulty into your 'try to ignore your crush on her' game.

Miranda joins your side and leans over your shoulder, sometimes, to peer down at what you're doing. You don't move and don't breathe until she's within a safe distance again.

Then there are the wayward 'reward' touches, when you turn another investor away from the village. She may pat your back or leave her hand on your shoulder, or even scratch your nape with her claws as a job well done.

You hope your poker face hides the fact you feel her touch on you for far longer than you should, after she's gone.

Tonight, the situation is the toughest it's ever been for you.

There is a rainstorm going on outside; the waterdrops are tapping against the windows of your office as though they're trying to break it. Miranda has pulled her chair next to you so you can talk easier, without having to shout over the cacophony.

“And basically the judge's decision was that—”

You are interrupted by a blinding flash of lighting, during which your mind lets you know the stronghold is easily the tallest structure in it's vicinity—

When thunder cracks down the sky and strikes the building, you nearly scream. Your body tenses and you jump; but Miranda's hands come to your biceps and hold you steady, against herself and your desk.

Another flash comes before you really have time to think about your proximity. She covers your ears with her palms before the thunderclap can send you into overdrive again.

“You are with me and you're scared of a little thunder?” she teases when things quiet down and your heartbeat eases.

It's true; Miranda is the more terrifying force of nature. At the same time, however...

You feel oddly safe to be this close to her.

“Well... I'm not scared right now...” you quietly admit.

Her pointer comes underneath your chin and lifts it so you are looking straight into her hypnotic blue eyes. How is this color even real...

“And why is that?” Miranda asks, her wings coming around you both. They're curtains of black, cutting out some of the storm's sounds.

You want nothing more in this moment than to run your fingers through each individual feather.

You lick your lips. That's...not a question you can answer if you want the balance in your arrangement with her to remain.

Perhaps, though, the scales have tilted for you long ago. You just haven't been brave enough to admit it.

You have the courage to face it now when she leans down and covers your lips with hers, warm in a manner you never imagined she could be.

Her wings pull tighter around you and your mouths slide more firmly together. Lipbalm and creamy lipstick mix, tongues brush, tasting of wine. You are shaking so bad on the inside from how much you want this, more of this, the rumbling of the thunder be damned.

Miranda's palm cups your flaming cheek when she pulls back, perfectly composed and staring at you with a little smirk in place.

You dare to turn a little, lay a tiny kiss on the inside of her wrist, beyond her rings and accessories.

You aren't very fond of storms, but...

You willingly walk right into the eye of this one.

[hepalien]

Shrunkyclunks (Modern Bucky/Cap Steve) Fic Rec

Hate Sex & Hair Protocol by @maddiewritesstucky - Mature, 1.8k

SHIELD Agent Bucky, UST, Enemies to Lovers (in Steve’s head), Humor

They’re all full of shit, Steve decides.

His team don’t have a clue what they’re talking about, running their mouths about the way he and Bucky look at each other; the tension that seems to be at a constant near-snapping point between them.

'It’s called annoyance' Steve wants to yell in each of their faces, loud and one by one. It’s the pain of having to exist every day in close proximity with someone who drives you out of your fucking mind.

---

In which Steve discovers that ire and desire may just exist side by side in his brain.

Stop interrupting my grinding series by @rohkeutta - Teen, 2.5k

Nurse Bucky, Wrong Number, Fluff, Humor

“I tried to call Sam,” Captain America says, bewildered. He’s sprinting like Usain Bolt and doesn’t sound even a little out of breath. Fucker. “Who’re you?”

“Someone who’s watching you live on TV,” Bucky tells him as the tiny patriotic figure on the screen takes the turns like he instructed. Bucky should probably be a lot more freaked out about this, but honestly? After a tour in the Middle East and six years as a nurse in New York, even this isn’t enough to ruffle him. One sees a lot of shit in the ER. “Also, you better hang up now, that thing is behind the next bend.”

“Uh, okay,” Captain America says. “Thanks?”

“Whatever,” Bucky says, disconnects the call and turns the TV off to get ready for his shift.

Save a Horse, Ride a Captain by @galwednesday - Teen, 2.7k

War Vet Bucky, Meet Cute, Fluff, Humor, Modern Howlies

Bucky tapped him on the shoulder, swaying back and forth a little as he waited for the man to turn around. “Hello,” he said, and then promptly forgot what else he was going to say, because this guy was fucking beautiful. “Wow. Good face.”

Two of the guy’s friends, a man wearing a suit that fit so well it had to be bespoke and a man with a cute little gap between his front teeth, started cracking up. The petite redhead sitting next to them cocked her head to the side and pulled her phone out of her handbag. Beautiful Face just looked kind of pained, so Bucky redirected. He was a gentleman. He could take a hint. No hitting on beautiful guys who were uncomfortable with that sort of thing, no matter how lickable their jawlines were.

“Hello,” he repeated, doing his best to mind his manners. “I’m very sorry to bother you. Can I have a piggy-back ride?”

You Make My Heart Skip A Beet by @musette22 - Teen, 3.8k

Chef Bucky, POV Outsider, Fluff, Humor

“I made soda bread.”

Steve lets out the 6’2” supersoldier equivalent of a squeak. “Oh, I love soda bread,” he says eagerly, rolling forward on the balls of his feet like he does when he gets excited. “My mom used to make it all the time when I was growing up.”

The tips of Barnes’s ears turn red, and he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “I know.”

more under the cut

Cafe Au Écoute by @littlesystems - Teen, 3.8k

Coffee Shop AU

No matter where Steve goes, there's always the chance that he'll overhear a conversation about himself - or rather, Captain America. This coffee shop is no different. The fact that he keeps eavesdropping well past the point of plausible deniability is another matter entirely.

#TweetMeDaddy by StarSpangled - Teen, 4.1k

SHIELD Employee Bucky, Misunderstandings, Crack, Humor

Coulson, for his part, stares up at Bucky with such a betrayed look of frozen horror that Natasha actually goes the extra step and presses another button, capturing the moment and airdropping the photograph to her phone for posterity. When he speaks, his voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “Why…?” He swallows and starts again, trying for some semblance of normality. “...Why would you tweet something like that?!”

“If you must know, sir,” and somehow he manages to make ‘sir’ come out with the same inflection most people reserve for ‘motherfucking son of a bitch’, “it’s because I have a difficult time doing my job when my job involves monitoring the man with the best fucking ass in the United States of America.” He slowly lowers himself back into his seat until he’s at eye level, making extreme eye contact with Coulson until Coulson turns away to make mortified eye contact in Natasha’s general direction through the one-way glass. Natasha would take another picture, if she weren’t too busy catching Steve’s red-faced sputtering. “Sometimes, I vent to my Twitter followers. Sometimes, it’s about hot men with washboard abs. Can I go now, or do you need a graphic description of how I pleasure myself at night?”

at first chance i'd take the bed warmed by the body by @spacebuck - Explicit, 8.2k

YouTuber Bucky

This close, Steve can see exactly how beautiful his hands are. He’s never really noticed before, or at least he’s never really had a reason to notice, but the man’s hands are large, tanned like he works outside all day. There’s an endearing callus on the heel of one of his palms, and Steve can’t quite work out when calluses became endearing.

Steve pauses the video. Swallows hard. Casts his eyes around for anything that’ll keep his mind off the hands on his screen, off the words inked into those hands, the delicate shape of a bird’s wing, the curling edge of a vine.

He looks down. The name of the channel is right there, blaring the man’s name right into Steve’s brain until it feels like he’s known it all along.

Bucky Barnes.

OR: the one where Bucky's a youtuber who solves puzzles on camera, and steve's smitten and horny

Came with my cool (I dropped it) by @liionne - Teen, 9.2k

Yoga Instructor Bucky

"When you said I need to loosen up, I didn't think you meant literally."

"I meant it every way. Mentally, emotionally, and physically." Natasha says, and thrusts a yoga mat at him.

there once was a diamond by bloobeary - Teen, 11.3k

Fluff, Thanksgiving

"You," Becca seethes, and hits him with a wooden spoon. "Could have told me," Hits him again. "You were dating Captain America." Final hit, Bucky laughs. He supposes he deserves it, giving her no more information than the fact he was bringing his boyfriend to Thanksgiving dinner at her house and then showing up with Steve.

Salt by littleblackfox @thelittleblackfox - Mature, 12k

Bakery AU

The cinnamon roll is gone in four bites. Four indecent, jaw-unhinging bites, and Steve sucks the last traces of lemon and icing from his fingers with a low, throaty sound of satisfaction. He glances up at Bucky, who is leaning against the counter and watching him with avid fascination.

“Um…” Steve says around his index finger. There’s still a little icing on the bed of his fingernail, and he stops trying to work it off with his tongue.

“You know those movies where the girl eats an eclair or something, and it’s really, like, sexually charged?” Bucky asks.

Steve pulls his finger out of his mouth. He’s never seen that kind of movie, but the thought of Bucky eating an eclair is certainly… well, it lingers. “Uh?”

“Yeah, well that was the exact opposite.” Steve scowls, and Bucky cackles gleefully. “You are something else, Steve.”

Leg Day by Brokenpitchpipe - Explicit, 12.1k

Gym Thot Bucky

“So talk to him,” Sam says.

“I can’t,” Bucky groans. “I can’t, Sam, I. He just.” He fluffs his hair up and stares at Sam, distraught. “I want him to bench press me.”

“Okay, so it’s serious,” Sam interprets. “Got it."

(Or: The one where Sam is Bucky's long-suffering roommate, Bucky is a hot mess of a millennial, and Hot Steve spends far too much time on the Lat Pull-Down machine.)

Art Nouveau by voluptuous_panic - Explicit, 12.2k

Bartender Bucky, Tattooed & Pierced Bucky

Steve's on the worst date of his life. At least the bartender's cute.

much tattoo about nothing by @deisderium - Explicit, 14.5k

Tattoo Artist Bucky

Steve Rogers gets a lot of email requests, but never one like this: James Barnes wants to use his healing factor to practice tattoos.

Turns out tattoos give Steve boners.

No Wonder There's Panic in the Industry by sprinkle_of_cinnamon - Not Rated (I’d say Mature?), 20.5k

Stark Industries Intern Bucky, Team fic, Humor

In which Bucky Barnes and his BFF, Clint Barton, are NYU interns for Stark Media Group competing to be Pepper's favorite.

Or alternatively, the time Bucky assisted the P.A. team on the Steve Rogers piece and ended up (adopted) with a contact list full of Avengers.

Life of the Party by @aggressivewhenstartled - Explicit, 21.6k

Superhero Impersonator Bucky, Mistaken Identity

“You know, kids,” Steve heard from the backyard, “one of the most common threats a superhero has to face is inside an active volcano! We’re going to have to work on your evasion skills, so for the next five minutes, the floor is lava!” This was met by a sudden spike in both volume and pitch from the small children as they scrambled onto every raised surface they could find and immediately launched themselves right back off.

“I’ve never seen actual lava in my entire life,” Steve said, vaguely offended.

“You got a superhero impersonator for The Falcon’s niece’s birthday party,” Sam said, incredulous. “The Falcon, who is an actual superhero.”

Trust Enough by @geneticallydead - Explicit, 23.3k

Misunderstandings

“Saturday. Yeah, that’s good,” Steve says, and actually scuffs his shoe at the ground. Like a ridiculous shy superhero damsel. “Say eight? I live-“

“Yeah, big building with the A on it,” Bucky says, and can’t help a big stupid grin. Steve stares at him, looking a little dazed, and after their whole conversation it’s only now that Bucky’s brain catches up and realises Steve finds him quite attractive. So. Win for Bucky.

“Let me get your number,” Steve says finally, after they’ve stared stupidly at each other for about three hours, taking out his phone.

So they exchange numbers, and then Steve says he should go, and Bucky agrees, and they kind of stare at each other for a bit more, then Steve actually does go, but not before taking Bucky’s hand and squeezing it warmly in a way that makes Bucky want to shiver all over. Then Steve is gone, and Bucky is standing alone in the alley, grinning to himself.

Right up until the moment he remembers that Steve thinks Bucky is an escort he’s just hired.

Well fuck.

The Roommate by layersofart, Niitza - Teen, 28.6k

War Vet Bucky, Roommates AU, Humor, Fluff, Angst, Team fic

In which Steven G. Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America, gets a roommate. Who rapidly turns into his "roommate"—in the euphemistic sense of the word.

It takes SHIELD and the rest of the Avengers an absurd amount of time to notice.

Brooklyn Baby by sprinkle_of_cinnamon - Mature, 33.7k

Coffee Shop AU, Modern Howlies, Mistaken Identity, Team Fic

In which Bucky is just trying to live life and enjoy his unofficial official table at the obnoxiously hipster coffee shop but some guy named Steve stole his spot.

Or, the time that Bucky unintentionally befriended the Avengers and had no idea.

Never Talk to Strangers by mambo @whtaft - Teen, 40.4k

Grad Student Bucky, Slow Burn

Never Talk to Strangers: or; How a Forgotten Childhood Lesson Led Bucky Barnes to Appreciate Charlie Chaplin, Befriend an A.I., Slip on Soap Bubbles, Be Mistaken for a Succubus, and Try to Woo a Superhero.

Sinking Our Teeth In The Heart Of The Sun by fallendarlings @pressrestartwrites - Explicit, 102.8k

Single Dad Bucky, Kid Fic, Slow Burn, Domestic, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Steve has Autism

Bucky Barnes never intended to become a single father at 25. But life has always enjoyed kicking him while he's down and it's showing no signs of stopping. A chance meeting with a brick wall of a guy named Steve in the formula aisle of the grocery store leads to a friendship it seems like both of them need. If only Bucky could remember that's all they are- friends. If only Steve didn't slot into their lives so perfectly and look so good spoiling Bucky's daughter (and Bucky, despite his protests).

Oh, if only Steve didn't turn out to be Captain America.

Steve Rogers is wandering around a world that he doesn't fit into, fighting for a government that he doesn't trust, just because he doesn't know what to do with himself if he ever relaxes long enough to actually think about anything other than the next mission.

And then came Bucky Barnes and his newborn baby.

More recs

[awwfuckno]

“Ayo do you wanna be? Ghost B!” Jiho screams excitedly, pulling a peace sign, everyone joining in with a “We are the GhostBusters, whaddup!” the gang tops it off with a very un-coordinated bow. Taeil doesn't bow, of course.

What a dumb way to start a ghost hunting show, Kyung thinks.

Jiho's amazingly overdramatic narration time:

'My name is Woo 'Zico' Jiho, lead investigator of Ghost B. I didn't believe in ghosts until I came face-to-face with one. So I set out on a quest to capture what I once saw onto video. [cue over-dramatic walking videos of all the crew members in various scary places]

Our crew has worked years to build our credibility, our reputation...'

“Bitch, we've been ghost hunting for two weeks, what the fuck are you talking about?!” Minhyuk is already pissed off.

'Working alongside the most renowned professionals in the field, catching groundbreaking proof of the paranormal. This is our evidence, our GhostB, Ghost Bustin.'

“Yo, guys, so we're here at the Waverly Hills sanatorium, in Kentucky. The sanatorium opened in 1910 and a two-story hospital to accommodate 50 Tuberculosis patients. After an outbreak of tuberculosis the number of patients reached to thousands...” The whole time Jiho keeps throwing in rap hand motions and information about the bat-winged building that has an underground morgue to get rid of dead bodies when it was being used.

They all stand in the outer wing of the building with the owner, asking her questions and all that jazz until a moth flies into Jihoon's mouth, the sound guy heaving the biggest and loudest squeal of all times, echoing throughout the building. Birds fly away from the noise in one giant flock like in horror movies. The sanatorium actually shakes.

There are other interviews as well but none that end as hilariously as the former.

They show some disgusting fake videos of open-chest surgeries they did in the sanatorium. Ew.

Apparently there's some compelling ghost photos and EVP-s and stuff that's been captured on the premises. Scary shit.

They do a full check no 2 of all the equipment for the shoot the day before (the first check is usually before they take off but Kyung manages to misplace half their stuff every time):

-8 cameras for Taeil and Ukwon with badass night vision

-10 thermal cameras to scan temperature changes

-2 digital recorders for EVP-s aka electronic voice phenomena, aka ghosties talking to them

-5 EMF detectors that detect changes in electronic fields, aka ghosties walking past will make the lights on them blink and ayyyyy TRANCE PARTY UP IN THIS JOINT UNTS UNTS UNTS i mean what who wrote that

-Spirit box, the ghostie goo can use radio frequencies to answer questions. Unnecessarily loud crap, and to be completely honest, half the time Kyung doesn't understand what is says anyway

-Shit ton of extra batteries and Taeil's custom-built battery carrier vest (cause that small man is the biggest camera nerd)

-200 kilometers of wires that mostly lead nowhere (some to the end of a microphone). 'Jihoon, darling, please' Kyung starts all sweet, a little motherly 'you need to fuckin' clean this shit up before someone gets tangled in these vines and dies, seriously.'

“Look at this, man, I can wiggle wiggle wiggle” Taeil does The Wiggle, “and the picture on the camera stays completely still, this new video stabilizer so fuckin awesome.” He shudders in excitement for their new cameras.

“I swear you look like you would come at any second.” Ukwon looks 50% understanding, 50% disturbed, looking at their main camera guy.

..

The evening after their initial shoot day with the interviews is always spent at a nearby bar.

“You heard about the creeper, though? The black creature who crawls in the dark like all over the walls n shit and kills the shit out of you? And there's supposed to be a doppelganger that's a demon that takes your shape and if you see it, you die?” Jiho is getting super excited about their lockdown already.

“Dude, I don't wanna hear about it!” Jaehyo covers his ears singing Mary Had a Little Lamb loudly.

“To be honest, I don't even know what Minhyuk's part in the crew even is. I'm pretty sure he's possessed by a ghost... I guess it makes sense he'd join us...” Kyung ponders a little, looking like he doesn't really care (he really doesn't, as long as he's Jiho's right hand man and doesn't get forced to go on solo trips to the creepiest parts of the haunted buildings).

Taeil meh's at that, sipping on his beer. The holy meh of agreement.

“Holy shit, why did I join this crew, I am fuckin terrified of ghosts???” Jihoon sits at the bar stool, kinda talking to Ukwon, kinda to himself, on the verge of an existential crisis. He's holding onto his head with both hands, rocking himself.

“Cause you're in love with Taeil and would follow him to the debts of hell? Aka this place?” Ukwon suggests, a small smile on his lips.

“Yeah.. - Uh-- What?”

“What?” the older of the two suggests, this little knowing smile on his lips.

Taeil joins them, putting an arm around Jihoon and he's like, fuck, Ukwon is right.

..

“Here we are, at the sanatorium, ready for our lockdown, bros.” Jiho is ready to do the do, “So let's gear up and have fun, kids!” Jiho always gives them a pep talk before they start their main shoot.

The first 30 minutes is spent putting up the cameras by Taeil, Jihoon tagging close by with all the wires, Ukwon setting up EMF detectors on the 4th floor, the outer part of the hospital wings where the creeper is supposed to hang out with his ghostie buddies; and two thermal cameras into the morgue (knowing Jiho he's probably gonna force some of the scaredy cats from the crew to go there alone).

“SHIT IT'S THE CREEPER!!!!!!!” It starts from Jaehyo, then Ukwon, then Minhyuk, then Jihoon and Jiho, then Kyung: they are all running towards their base camp and screaming at the top of their lungs.

The creeper is Lee Taeil. Of course. Makes sense. That little creep.

“Fuckin' stop lurkin' around, bro, holy shitballs.” Jiho holds onto his heart, pulling out his asthma inhaler.

“You told me to do the fuckin thermal sweep of the whole fuckin building, you moron.” Taeil growls back at him, violently wigging the two cameras in his hands for good measure.

Roll the cameras.

“Here we are!” Jiho screams to no one particular, probs the ghosties. It echoes throughout the building eerily.

Oh, that's a nice introduction, Kyung thinks.

“Come and say hello!” He's still lookin around, “Use our energy!” Jiho has his arms wide in front of him, twirling around,

Don't.. don't start taunting, please, Kyung begs in his mind.

“Do something to us! Hit Kyung!” Jiho motions to his right hand man.

Now, why you gotta say that? Kyung sends his bitchiest glare towards Jiho. Also a couple of curses.

Nothing happens for 5 minutes but Jiho insists they stand there with their recording devices in hand.

Another 10 minutes goes by and Jiho is getting pissed off. He decides they should split in pairs.

..

Jiho walks around for a full hour with Kyung until he decides they should go to their base where their tech guy Jihoon is currently sitting to see if he'd caught anything.

They are monitoring a video on the fifth floor, when they notice Minhyuk waLKING BACKWARDS ON THE LEFT OF THE SHOOT TOWARDS THE CAMERA, you can see only the whites of his eyes as he gurgles violently, standing in front of the camera for a full 3 minutes.

“Dude, stop acting like you've been possessed, man..” Jiho says into the walkie-talkie, he's so tired and in desperate need for a shower and 4 episodes of his favourite Hello Kitty show.

Minhyuk stops and walks away like nothing happened.

..

Ukwon has been walking alone on the first floor and catches an orange orb floating. He sends a message through his walkie talkie and Jiho gets super pumped up again. They all gather in the monitoring tent to marvel the finding:

“DUUUDEEE!”

“WOWW”

“BROOO, DID YOU SEE THAT, DUDE?”

“MANNNN”

“HOLY SHIT DUDES, THIS IS GREAT--”

“FUCK, BROS”

“YEAH BABE, DID YOU SEE THA-- I mean Jihoon did you see that???” Taeil hides behind his giant camera, Jihoon whines an answer.

..

2 hours into the investigation Taeil realizes he's been walking around with a camera with no power in it and the others have to hold him down to prevent him from throwing the camera out of the non-glassed window and 10 meters downwards onto the pavement.

..

“Okay, my dudes. It's time to take some action. Let's draw strings to see who gets locked up alone upstairs. We gotta get some good action so we'll get some views, bros.” Jiho says, pulling out the strings.

Jihoon looses. He always does. He's staring to think the string-drawing is rigged.

The tall manbaby has a face camera and an extra camera with him, you can see him panting and sweating in horror, mumbling 'omajgad' under his breath as he sits in the corner of the most haunted room of the whole sanatorium.

Jiho asks him to walk around and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NOT TO BREATHE SO LOUDLY

All you see is a crying Jihoon in green night vision, carefully walking around, three cameras on him.

There's a THUMP, then a weeping sound and a loud crash. The camera in Jihoon's hand shakes and falls. It's pitch black. The still cameras Ukwon had set up are too far to record anything.

Nobody even breathes, eyes wild and scared like saucers in the monitoring tent. Then Taeil shoots out of his chair, knocks over Ukwon and Kyung, speeds out of the tent to the attic to save his man child boyfriend person WE ARE NO DATING he yells but that gets edited out by Kyung and the only part of him running that is left in is Kyung cooing “ahh~ young love~”.

After a couple of minutes of excruciating silence, Taeil emerges from the darkness carrying Jihoon over his shoulders like he's a fluffy winter scarf. An almost 2 meter passed-out scarf.

Poor man got hit in the head with a small rock (that was definitely thrown by a ghost!!) and fell like a dumbass, passing out.

“Hyungs, I think I actually peed my pants before I passed out. Like at least a couple drops..” Jihoon is holding onto a chair to catch his breath.

..

“Now, that went super well, let's send Jaehyo to the morgue alone!” Jiho is as hyper as ever.

“Fuck, you can't make me go there alone!” there are actual tears in Jaehyo's eyes.

“Yes, I can, I'm the boss around here!” Jiho angrily whispers back at him.

Kyung beames, he's still the right hand man and Jiho defs wouldn't do something like that to him.

Next thing we see, Jaehyo is in the morgue.

He sits on a chair next to the fire places a couple minutes until he hears a creaking sound. Like a door opening.

“Oh my god.. Oh my god oh my god oh my goddd. I am too gorgeous and too young to die! I haven't lived long enough to see Zico's and Kyung's kids!” Jaehyo is now in the corner of the room kneeling and praying.

Everyone in their base camp is closely monitoring what Jaehyo is up to and holding in their laughter, Jiho's and Kyung's faces beet red.

Jaehyo sees a giant shadow move from the farther side of the room towards him and completely loses his shit

“I AM FUCKING QUITTING THIS JOB RIGHT NOW!” Jaehyo storms out of the sanatorium.

“Bitch did not just do that.” Minhyuk is amazed their self-proclaimed 'fuckin gorgeous guy' actually has balls.

“I hope he doesn't take the car--” Ukwon starts, they hear the engine of their van turn on and the scraping of pavement until the sound dissolves into the echoes of dead forest around them.

..

Taeil looks disgustingly old all of a sudden: “We should just quit and become like a boyband or some shit before it's too late.” They all look into the camera like in The Office.

[jackarychaoti]

DWC2021-10 - Feast/Sleepless

- [ MUSIC ] -

“I’m dying, Jackary.”

The words caught the beast off guard as he strolled through the quiet forest of Teldrassil, barefoot and allowing his ever-present trail of flowers to flow in his wake. Next to the tall blond had been a far shorter elf-shaped man, armed to the teeth in weaponry and dressed in form-fitting leather. While they were a stark contrast to one another, the words alone had drawn Jackary to a standstill.

“I... What?”

It was right after a family feast, right after a great speech had been given about coming changes and freedom and how deeply the rogue appreciated the family he had built over the years. The pair had been laughing together, reminiscing about the past... And suddenly…

Suddenly it made sense.

“Don’t fuck around with me like that, Lok’,” Jack couldn’t help but awkwardly laugh as if it was some stupid joke that his cousin had decided to drop. If he, in his early life, was a sigil of life, his best friend was the sigil of death. They complimented each other, they went everywhere together. Of all things, Lokitan was the reason Jack wound up in Azeroth in the first place.

“I wish I could,” Loki hummed, slowing to a standstill where he could finally light a cigarette he’d fetched and drew in a deep inhale, calming the nerves that were rising in the conversation at hand.”I am fadin’ away and I can feel it, won’t be long now.”

Jack stood silently in disbelief, the reason they had gone walking through an Alliance claimed territory wasn’t to simply ruffle some feathers, it was because it was where their journey had begun together. It was made clear when Jack looked anywhere but at his cousin, realizing he was in the near exact spot he’d appeared in his own crash landing.

‘So, what? You brought me out here to--”

“To say goodbye, yeah.” Cutting off the emerald, Lokitan lifted a crimson eye upward, staring for a long moment. He gave a small smirk. “It’ll be alright, you’ll be fine.”

Would he?

Claws pushed through Jack's long, unruly locks of hair to pull them back and up into a ponytail, keeping the weighted tresses from his face while it gave him time to think, “So just like that, you’re… You’re gone then. When--?” As he questioned just how long Lokitan had left, when he turned to face his cousin, he could already see parts of the rogue turning brittle, fluttering away in the faint, cool breeze around them like nothing more than ash.

“We have outstayed our welcome, you and I.” Lokitan drew in another slow inhale of his cigarette, pondering over what he wanted his final words to be. “We’ve also been through a lot, ever since we were little. We always got into so much shit, heh...” The shadowed dragon smirked to himself, baring a set of fangs in amusement. Bittersweet really, that it was to be Jackary he spent his final moments with when it had also been Jack that helped bring him into the world to cause chaos.

“Do you have any regrets…?” Jack asked quietly, finding himself fidgeting with his own fingers.

“A few,” Loki replied rather abruptly, wetting his lips while his vision raised to look up at the trees above, noting the stars beyond the greenery. “I regret not coming sooner to help you that night, I regret you binding your wings to service. I regret falling in love…” He trailed off at that point, seeming less inclined to want to discuss it.

Jack frowned further, still attempting to wrap his head around what was happening, and yet there he stood, speaking casually with the man that may as well have been his own brother, they were of flesh and blood. Two princes that ran away from home and carried their heritage only by name. Chaoti meant nothing in Azeroth. Jaden and Heran meant nothing, either. They were just names, something no one even blinked at. And of all of the travels the two had been through, the endless adventures or bickering or laughter or beauty or horror, suddenly it was just… ending.

Just like that.

Everything had an ending, certainly, but…

“Don’t leave me…”

Lokitan barked out a bout of laughter at that, smiling as he glanced over to Jackary, though he could see just how much the Emerald was hurting. Such caused that smile to falter. “I can’t stay…”

“You can....” Jack furrowed, shaking his head a bit before throwing his hand out to the side. “You of all people can stay! You can’t leave me..! YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” The voice echoed through the quiet trees, ruffling the feathers of a few birds that flitted away, the echo faded soon after.

“Jackary... Don’t make this harder than it is.”

“No! Fuck you! Fuck you,” Jack inhaled a bit, eyes narrowed when the unnatural sting formed in their corners. Each motion became a pacing step back and forth, his hair swayed behind him. Flowers and grass only further grew outward from his position only to die once close enough to the stand-still rogue. “You brought me here. We came here together, I came here for YOU, WITH YOU! We promised each other we’d never leave one another’s side, you fucking LIAR! You promised, Lokitan Jaden! YOU PROMISED ME!”

Watching the Emerald struggle with anything brought on the protective nature of the small Infinite. Through the beast’s rapidly increased pacing, a hand reached over to suddenly grab Jack’s arm to yank him over and downward into a tight hug.

Loki never hugged anyone.

“Jackary…” He whispered softly, fondly in the captured drake’s ear. “You have been the only one in our family, our past, or history that has ever shown me kindness and love. You’ve had endless patience, you’ve also been a complete fuckwit and you deserve that scar on your chin for what you did, but… You’re going to be okay. You’re going to move forward from this and you will find a new life, a new love, and a new family. You will find people you belong to… Beyond our name, beyond our past transgressions…. Someday you’ll forget about the horrors..”

“I don’t want to…” When had Jackary hugged back? When had he been hunching and clinging so tightly that he could hear the groaning echoes of the leather giving way to the grasp? “Please, I’ve had you with me all my life… Please… I need someone to keep me sane, to keep me in check. Please don't go.”

“You’ll find someone who will stand up to you and your bullshit. You’ll find a warm home again. I know this…” Lokitan sank faintly into the larger male’s grip, feeling the weakening sensation growing even more. “I know this because you have an air about you and people will find you addictive to be around. Keep your wings... Keep your wings and soar…”

“Don’t make me stay here alone…” Nails bit into the leathers, though with every passing second, he could feel the tension of a body between his arms begin to wilt and crumble, he couldn’t even look. He couldn’t bring himself to see Lokitan fade away. A man who had saved his life and who had saved him from the horrors of his ex-wife. His best friend.

“I love you, Jackary Heran.”

Those were the final words that escaped before arms found themselves collapsing around nothing but an ash pile of leathers and knives. The weaponry clanked when it hit the forest floor, leaving the black dust to cling to Jackary’s figure.

When had he dropped to his knees?

When had it become so dark?

When had rain gradually washed the ash from his skin?

When had Loki known he was going to die and why hadn’t he told Jackary about it?

Rock after rock, stone after stone, a small, unmarked grave was built, tucked away where no adventurer could find it unless they knew where to look. A sleepless night was spent marking the spot where the rogue had finally fallen.

When had this happened?

When did the memory of it start to fade?

A grave that would be of importance later, but that was for another story.

| - @daily-writing-challenge - |

[trashmenofmarvel]

Branded - Chapter 28

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky settles into his new life in Hell.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart​ . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

AO3

The years were tallied and the rare nights were marked, and Bucky did so, but not alone. He never told the voice to leave again, and it had stayed by his side ever since.

The road back to himself had been a painful one, but the voice never let him down. It told him things about himself he couldn’t remember, and it wasn’t until his mind began to heal and he remembered things for himself that he fully trusted the voice. Everything it had told him was true. His curiosity for the nameless entity only grew over time, made stronger by the fact it was so secretive.

Somedays, they were simply amicable companions. Even friends. It reminded Bucky of the comradery he shared with the Howling Commandos, and it made his chest ache. He thought of Steve, and the pain was nearly unbearable, so he tried not to think of him at all. Maybe he would later, after Bucky escaped this cursed world. If he ever did.

The voice still wouldn’t tell him who it was or even what it was. Bucky was disconcerted by the fact that as he regained his memories, it was possible the voice was not even real. After everything he’d endured, after Zola had robbed him of his humanity and Lukin had shaped him onto a monster, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if he was as mad as a hatter.

He also decided he didn’t care. He was in Hell—if not the biblical one than very close to it—and he couldn’t survive without an ally. Imaginary or not.

There were other things that lived in this world. Terrible things as large as mountains, roaming in the distance and leaving valleys of sand in their wake. There were also smaller demons, but still considerably larger than Bucky. He avoided them when he could, but it wasn’t always possible. In those moments, he’d either defend himself until they ran, or he killed them with his bare claws.

He never ate the flesh. One, he didn’t know if it was edible, and two, it felt… cannibalistic. A large part of Bucky was from this place, as evidenced by the fact he never needed to feed the demon side of him. Thank Christ for that. If it was between dying and getting fucked by one of those creatures out there, he would have gladly offed himself.

But he never had to. Why would he, when all the demonic energy he needed was right here, beaming down from the never-ending sunlight. It was harsh, and the human part of him wanted to seek shelter from it, but the demon was more than happy to bask in its warmth. Sated in a way it had rarely been back on Earth.

As he grew bolder and explored his “territory,” Bucky came upon curious artifacts. Things that looked too manmade to be a coincidence, but it was always ancient and cracked stone. Designs that looked Greek or Roman.

On an especially productive exploration, he came across what looked like a rudimentary camp. Broken pottery, busted wooden furniture, and even some ancient books that crumbled in his hands when he picked them up. There was a hefty tome that had somehow survived, and Bucky took it back to his cave, hoping to explore it later, but he was disappointed to find the ink too faded to read.

Bored and with way too much time on his hands, Bucky managed to fashion a writing utensil made of a “bamboo” shoot, honed to an edge, along with some ink made of lichen and moss. The relief of being able to do something as human such as journaling made Bucky laugh for the first time in… a long time. He began to document his daily excursions. It made him feel less like a prisoner and more like an explorer, but even then he couldn’t drop the habit of marking ticks on a wall to count the days. And there were many, many ticks.

There was evidence that humans had been on this world in other ways. For the few creatures that seemed to speak a language, they always spoke in Latin. Bucky couldn’t fathom it until he remembered the red book, the one that had controlled him. It had been inscribed in Latin, and his so-called masters had made sure to teach him to speak and read it. HYDRA couldn’t have been the first to summon demonic entities, and perhaps Latin had been their way of communicating with the demons they summoned?

Bucky didn’t know. He didn’t think it was important either, but the voice always got excited when he stumbled across a new ruin or found a new item of manmade design. That alone was enough to make him go out of his way to find more. He liked when the voice was happy, even if he didn’t quite know why.

And the voice was happiest when Bucky flew. The first time he realized it was when he was doing it simply for the exercise, not having anywhere he wanted to explore. Letting his mind go calm and quiet, he found he was able to pay better attention to the entity in his head. He could sense its awe and wonder as they flew high above the hellscape.

Bucky could understand. When his wings had first appeared, he hadn’t hated them. The boy who’d loved comic books and super hero pictures had been fascinated with them, and getting to fly was one of the few times he’d felt free while in HYDRA’s control.

He sensed a little bit of sadness from the voice too, and a physical longing for something. It didn’t hit Bucky until that moment the possibility that the voice might once have had a body, one it had lost, and now it was trapped here with Bucky.

His suspicions were founded when its “presence” grew, expanded within his body, until it was filling him up to the fingertips. Bucky gladly pulled back, allowing the voice to take temporary control.

It wasn’t expecting that, apparently, because Bucky’s wings slanted at an angle and they almost dropped from the sky. The voice took control of his wings and flapped in a panic, like a baby bird fallen from the nest.

“Calm down,” he said, still having control of his voice but he sounded far away to his own ears. “Just do it the way I do it and you’ll be fine.”

I-I shouldn’t-this isn’t right—

Bucky sighed but took control of his body when he sensed the voice pulling back, its presence tinged with horror. He hadn’t wanted to upset it, but at least it was calming down now that he had control again. Poor thing probably hadn’t meant to reach so far into Bucky’s body to begin with.

“If you ever change your mind and want a turn at the wheel, just say the word. I trust you, sweetheart.”

Bucky blinked. Why had he said that? He didn’t know, but by the way the voice went suddenly dead silent, he wondered if he’d gone too far. Been too familiar. Probably had. He’d have to be more careful in the future. It would be just his luck to scare away the one person he had left.

He couldn’t tell if it was human, but it spoke like one. He couldn’t tell its gender, either. Age, race, nationality? Hadn’t a clue. He wasn’t even entirely sure what language it spoke and if the words he heard in his head were literal or some kind of mental translation.

One thing Bucky knew, even if it was the most confusing fact of all: The voice cared about him.

After everything he’d done, Bucky knew it was undeserved. It didn’t stop him from being selfish and clinging to the voice like a lifeline, though.

When Bucky woke from nightmares, shaking and gasping in terror, the voice was there, wrapping warmth and comfort around him. In those moments, he felt especially weak, because he wished more than anything the voice was real. Tangible. Something he could hold and touch.

He didn’t even have a name to call it by. It wouldn’t tell him, so Bucky had said fuck it and tried to come up with one on his own, but they all felt… wrong.

He wished he knew. The one thing Bucky wanted more than to escape this world was to finally meet the owner of that voice.

That urge had never been stronger than the day they found the corpse.

It had been a day like any other, without end under the relentless pale red starry sky, and Bucky had been exploring more of the ancient ruins. He came across a structure that looked different from the rest, almost handmade and clearly thrown together in a hurry. The occupant was still inside, and by the looks of it, had been for many years.

Bucky had come across many corpses in this world, all of the demonic variety, but this one was clearly human. The body was desiccated, mummified and preserved by the hot, dry air. Bits of tattered faded clothing covered its chest and hips, not enough to discern what nation or era they came from. How they’d gotten there, Bucky didn’t have a clue. They came along with the rest of the human ruins, he supposed, but it was strange this was the first actual human body he’d come across.

He’d been about to turn away, leaving the bones undisturbed, when something caught his eye. On the mummified shoulder, stretched but not beyond recognition, was a pentagram carved into the skin.

Bucky’s eyes widened. Another demon that had once been human like him? That had been his initial thought… until the voice reacted so violently that Bucky could actually feel the anxiety shooting through his limbs.

“What?” he insisted. “What is it?”

I…

The voice seemed to be at a loss for words, fear that was not his own seeping into Bucky’s mind.

“Hey, come one. Tell me what’s got you so riled up. Do you know this guy?” Bucky didn’t see how, but that’s almost how it felt. As if the voice had recognized the corpse.

N… no, it finally said. It’s… it’s nothing.

No matter how much Bucky tried to pry for the truth, he couldn’t get a straight answer, and it only seemed to agitate the voice to the point where it couldn’t speak, fear pulsing from it like a living thing.

Bucky left the corpse where it was, doing his best to project calmness toward the entity sharing his mind. But the voice didn’t speak again until he returned to what he thought as “our cave,” and it took several days for it to return to its usual outgoing self.

They didn’t talk about it again, but Bucky never forgot how the voice reacted to that corpse with the pentagram scar. And some days, when the voice was quiet and sad, he knew it hadn’t forgotten either.

The next time Bucky decided to venture outside of his territory, he waited until the voice was in good spirits. Bucky smiled at his own pun.

Penny for your thoughts?

Bucky snorted. Maybe the voice had pulled phrases like that from his head to make him feel more comfortable, but he didn’t think so. He was sure the damn thing was human, or was at least from Earth. By paying attention to how it said things, rather than what it said, Bucky found he learned a lot more than by asking it straight-on personal questions.

For one, it seemed to appreciate sarcastic humor, and Bucky was never in short supply.

“It would be a penny more than I have,” he said, poking at a suspicious mound of dirt. This area had been promising; he’d even found a couple of dusty robes at one point. Bucky hadn’t been able to tell how old they were, but they’d definitely been the right shape and size for a human.

I suppose you are destitute. What would buy, right now, if you could?

“A blueberry slushy,” Bucky lamented. “And new boots.”

He stared mournfully at what was left of his old pair, torn apart by his expanding, clawed feet. HYDRA had told him his transition had been complete after they’d done an especially horrible ritual on him, but apparently, they’d lied. Big shocker there.

“Do you miss slushies?” Bucky kept his tone carefully neutral.

Sure, it answered, just as vaguely, as it always did. Bucky heaved a sigh.

“Come on, give me something,” he grumbled as he trekked over the deep sand. “We’ve been here… how long?”

Forty-eight years and thirty-two days.

Had it really been that long? It seemed… shorter, somehow. And also infinitely longer.

“Exactly. Almost five decades, and I don’t know anything about you!”

That’s not true, it said, going soft. Sometimes it did that, as if thinking fondly of some far away past. You know me better than anyone.

“Yeah. Right.”

It’s true!

“I don’t even know your name.” Bucky kicked over a large rock, finding nothing but a bright red reptile underneath. It scurried away, hissing indignantly.

“What, is it a witch thing? If I know your name, your sinister powers won’t work on me?”

Don’t be dumb.

“I’m not dumb. You’re dumb. Witch.”

Oh, my God, I’m not a witch.

“Well, unless you’re the figment of a shattered psyche, then you’re something. Witch is as good a guess as any.”

The voice gave a huff. Bucky could imagine it pouting like a child, and he grinned.

How is it that no matter what planet you’re on, you’re still the same smartass that I—

The voice stopped and Bucky’s head snapped up, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. Something had shifted in the air, and a second later, the ground rumbled under his feet.

At first, he thought it was one of the mountain-beasts, but this felt… different. Sharper. Every nerve ending was tingling and he leaned forward, hungrily. Not the demonic part of him. The part that was human.

He could smell it. Earth.

That’s it! the voice shouted. Over there!

He could see it in the distance—a glowing oval that looked as if it was bordered with blue fire.

Bucky didn’t move.

What are you doing! The voice screamed at him. You have to go! Now!

“I…” He swallowed thickly, his heart pounding as he couldn’t seem to get enough air. His legs wouldn’t move and his tail stuck out at an upward angle like a frightened cat’s.

Bucky didn’t know what he was doing. More importantly, he didn’t know what was beyond that portal. What if the world he went back to wasn’t like the one he left? What if he returned just to be caught by HYDRA? What if he had to feed again?

And the most terrifying question of all: what would happen to his little ghost?

There were too many unknowns, too many variables. This place may be actual Hell, but at least he’d carved out a place that was his own. He knew what each day would be like and what to expect. He had no such information about what lay on the other side of that ring of fire.

Bucky, please, it pleaded. I know you’re scared, but you have to trust me. You have to go through that portal. You’re meant to go through!

He stared at the object, no larger than a pebble from this distance, but nothing had filled him with so much fear. Not even the things he could hear crawling around his cave during the rare nights.

“I can’t,” he croaked out. He was cowardly, and he hated himself for it, but he still couldn’t budge.

Yes, you can. You can and you have to!

Several emotions flickered through Bucky’s mind, all coming entirely from the voice, too strong for it to hide from him. Sorrow, yearning, grief.

…Love?

“What’s on the other side?” he asked, suddenly desperate. “What will I find when I cross?”

Through their connection raced an ache so powerful it nearly knocked the wind out of him.

Me.

The fear keeping him immobilized shattered, and he spread his wings and took to the air. He raced to the portal, narrowing his eyes against the heated wind as he zeroed in on his target.

There were other demons below, drawn by the otherworldly energy flowing through the fiery blue portal. A dark green humanoid demon slipped through, a slithering, worm-like creature following after. Bucky ignored them, ignored everything except the portal.

The last thing he remembered was the voice telling him to land and run.

Bucky slammed into the ground in front of the portal. A demon that looked half-bull, half-bear was to his right, and it gave a roar and swung its claws when it realized he was there.

Bucky ducked under its outstretched arm—stupid beast wouldn’t even be able to fit through the portal—and he slipped around the larger demon. He pushed off from the ground, claws digging into the sand, and he leapt through…

…to land on a child’s bedroom floor.

Next Chapter

[justkeeptrekkin]

Your Life is Golden

a ficlet inspired by my need for angst and badass Aziraphale content. 

***

“Crowley. We’ve known each other for a long time, and… no. That’s not right.”

Aziraphale steps in a puddle, and it splashes muddy water up his leg. He sighs, continues walking. “Crowley, old chum. Six thousand years, eh? Or was it longer? We’ve been through an awful lot, you know, and… no, no, no. Bother.”

He passes a shop window and catches sight of his twisted, anxious expression. He tries to correct it, looks away. Shakes his head to himself and starts rewriting his speech in his mind. 

“I’ve been in love with you for a good few decades now, Crowley, and I think it’s about time I did something about it… how about we go a little faster, after all?” Aziraphale nods a little to himself. “Not perfect, but it’s something.”

Aziraphale turns the corner opposite the bookshop, a bottle of far too expensive wine in his hand. At roughly three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, Soho is still busy, still filled with tourists, the smell of beer and Chinese food in the air. For the rest of the world, life goes on; for Aziraphale, the world has changed. He settles into a familiar and delicious anticipation that has always prefaced seeing Crowley, but this time, things are different. The End of Times never happened, and since then, Aziraphale has waited for the moment he could summon enough bravery to invite his friend over.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you how I feel for a while, now,” Aziraphale presses on, muttering to himself and prompting a few funny looks from passers-by. “Naturally, if you don’t want them to, things needn’t change, but…”

It’s only as he’s crossing the road that he sees that the shop light is on. 

And it’s only when he steps back onto the pavement that he picks up the lingering taste of multiple demonic auras; the footprint in the sand betraying Crowley’s recent presence. Though he’s not here any more. 

It’s when he ascends the steps to the shop door, hand poised by the handle, that dread sits on his chest and makes him nauseous. 

Aziraphale pushes open the door.

He has never had his shop ransacked before. There have been moments where he’s imagined what he’d do, if someone broke in and tried to steal anything; how far he’d go to find and punish whoever did it; whether he’d simply forgive them like he’s meant to. Worse than that, he’s allowed himself to imagine what would happen if Gabriel and Sandalophon came back, like they did during his shop launch; what would have happened if they’d simply turned around and seen Crowley, top hat and all, holding a box of chocolates.

Now, the sound of his brogues against the wooden floor sounds more hollow than it ever has before. It fills the room too much. It aches. 

He casts his eyes about the fallen books; some of them are charred. Some of the bookshelves have come down. There are claw marks in the floorboards.

He puts down the bottle of wine. The door is left open behind him, and he can hear people talking about normal things. 

Aziraphale extends a hand- a hand that doesn’t feel like his own- and sees it land on a copy of Sappho’s poetry. The pages have fallen open to one of her lesser known elegies. The fingers dance across the words like they’re scribbles, silly little pictures that no longer make sense. Crowley had bought him this particular book. His eyes turn away from the book and scan the shop, trying desperately to absorb what’s in front of him and failing. Everything in chaos. The sharp tang of sulphur in the air; demonic battle. It isn’t a smell that he’s come across in a long time. 

“Crowley,” he says to himself. 

Then, as it finally begins to settle. “Crowley.”

He steps over the shattered splinters of a table, stumbles over scattered books. He turns on the spot, looks up, around, behind and below. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for; he hopes he’ll find something that will tell him who won this fight. At the centre of the bookshop, there are more claw marks across the floorboards, little troughs like Crowley had been scrabbling for something to hold onto. 

He’d been here looking for Aziraphale. 

He breathes in suddenly, gasps like the air is forcing its way into his throat, pouring itself inside him- and he feels his hands shake. He feels himself fall back inside his body again, sees his fingers trace the claw marks, feels the jagged wood beneath his fingers, trying to reach for Crowley- too late. 

“No,” he croaks. 

Aziraphale falls to his knees and clasps his hands together, almost in prayer. He unclasps them and presses his palms together instead, poised in front of his face. And yet, there’s the ache of knowing that no one is listening. And so he runs his hands through his hair, sitting on his heels and willing his mind to think of something. But he has only ever known how to pray and hope, not knowing how to do. 

“Where are you?” he asks Crowley, asks in a whisper to himself. “Crowley, please. God, please tell me he’s alive.”

It falls from somewhere above; it falls down in front of him, tickles his face and lands on his leg. Aziraphale looks at the single black feather, picks it up and holds it like it’s alive. All that’s left of Crowley.

Perhaps you’d expect him to cry. Perhaps you’d expect him to try praying again. Perhaps you’d expect him to remain paralysed in shock, or walk out the door, or figure out a rescue plan. You’d expect Aziraphale to reason with himself- remind himself that Crowley’s wily, after all, persuade himself that there’s no way he could have lost this battle. You might wonder whether he’d fall into his old habits of staying quiet, asking no questions, or whether he’d gather up his bravery and do something. Do something, for the one being he’s loved outside the appropriate realms of angelic adoration. 

There is no miraculous plan for this catatonic mind. What happens instead is this: hope and despair and fury. Incandescent, invulnerable fury that suddenly sparks into life. Something dormant and hiding in the heart of an angel that has not been unleashed since the stars were first moulded, since the volcanoes were first filled with lava and since the first lightning kindled. Something old and deep, something that lives only in divine beings that have seen the dawn of time, something that can only be described as titanic. 

Aziraphale falls into the centre of himself. He feels himself step back and feels something else take over; not quite displacing him, not controlling him, rather covering him like a cloak. He sees its blinding light, feels its scorching heat, and he wears it. He flexes his fingers inside its gloves and rolls his shoulders against its hot fabric. Wings explode into existence; eyes open, white and burning all over his body; hot tears run boiling down his cheeks like acid. He shines all over. A perfect, blinding ring sizzles above his head, appearing slowly as condensation does from a glass on a table. He bathes in his righteous fury until everything else evaporates. 

When he stands up, his fingers gently wrap around the single, black feather. 

***

At three thirty-two in the afternoon, on the streets of Soho, people stop and stare at the wind that gushes out of a bookshop doorway like a flood. They watch as sheets of paper- perhaps pages from books?- fly out of the doors like leaves in an eddy. They marvel at the strange, beautiful, blinding light that burns through the windows. 

People in the adjacent Chinese restaurant see the windows suddenly shatter and take cover. And everyone within a three mile radius suddenly presses their hands to their ears against a terrible, ringing noise. 

A screeching bird call, an angel crying in outrage. 

***

Crowley wakes up to the sound of nothing. He knows he’s in Hell. 

He opens his eyes. Black feathers- his own feathers- scattered across the floor. His pale arm stretched out in front of him, nails digging into his palm. The taste of blood on his tongue. He groans. It’s been a while since he’s bled. 

When he breathes in, something burns. It scalds his skin and he gasps, a staggered breath that only becomes more fractured when his ribs expand and touch the chain wrapped around them. Slow, careful movements- he tries to prop himself up as gently as possible to get a better look. He sees the metal wrapped around his ribcage, sees manacles around his wrists and ankles, tastes- tastes it. It’s not blood that he’s tasting, then- it’s metal, like a horse’s bit between his teeth. He’s chained to the wall like a feral animal. 

He’d like to say that it’s overkill, but he knows how frightened Beelzebub is of him, now. 

He rolls his tongue underneath the bit, tries to swallow- it hurts. His throat is dry and every breath struggles inside of him. The manacles dig into his wrists. But none of that hurts like the chain around his bare torso, his shirt stripped to reveal his pale, almost-translucent skin and the burn marks from adamantine. Crowley pants, teeth clenched against the bit, and stares wide-eyed at the red sores; stares in amazement and confusion and horror and eventually, acceptance. Because adamantine only burns angels. 

Well that’s new, he thinks. Aziraphale really has been rubbing off on him, it seems. 

The heels of his boots kick against the dusty floor. His cell is small, bare, dark. There are bars and a little post-box shaped hole in the door, like this is a pale imitation of a Hollywood movie set. 

He growls. They’d known. They’d waited. They’d somehow known that he’d decided to surprise Aziraphale by swinging by early; he’s just that fucking predictable. His dedication and loyalty to an angel, his puppy-dog pining for Aziraphale so blatant that they’d waited for him there and ambushed him. Hastur, Ligur, Beelzebub- the three of them cornered him and they fought, really fought tooth and claw, for the first time since the Fall. 

They’d torn his wings. 

They’d thrown him across the room. 

They’d dragged him across the floor like they were auditioning for Paranormal fucking-well Activity. 

“Azzurghs,” he tries, the cold metal in his mouth flaking and sharp. Bastards is what he’d been going for. Then, “Azzuruhuh.” Aziraphale. It just comes out a pained whine.

His back meets the wall. His head knocks against it. He casts his eyes up at the ceiling. 

God. I’d ask why you’ve forsaken me, Crowley thinks, but I’m getting pretty used to it.

***

The people of London go quiet all at once as they feel the Earth shudder. 

That moment of dread and confusion- the incomprehensible scale of whatever is coming, whatever’s out there on the prowl suddenly dawning on them. People in meetings stop mid-sentence, feeling the vibrations under foot- they look through the window down at the streets below. Tourists on the London Eye peer through the glass, seeing a blinding white light across the river. Children splash in puddles, see the water tremble with the footsteps of something huge. Pub-goers stare at the shattered remnants of their pint glasses. The ringing in their ears has subsided, but the anguish of it is still echoing in their head. 

Something’s out there. Something’s hurt. And it’s fucking angry.

***

Time in Hell runs differently. It isn’t just slower; it loses meaning. After all, time is angel-created. It’s something that brings order to the universe, something that contains chaos and makes everything just a little bit more organised and tidy. Something like that has no place in Hell. It’s therefore hard to know just how long Crowley’s been lying on the floor of his cell, adamantine burning his skin and bones aching. Dust in his throat. Eyes closed. 

He’s grown soft. No- not soft. Brittle. He’s become fragile, something hollow and aching and desperate to be filled with validation and love and attention and everything that Hell isn’t. It’s made him foolish, made him someone who waits. Like a dog at the door. When will they come? 

What’s worse, though, is that it’s not Beelzebub or Hastur or Ligur that he’s waiting for to walk through that door. It isn’t punishment that he’s waiting for in particular, even though God knows that’s what he should be used to by now. Trained to expect pain after waiting, alone, long enough that he begins to wonder if they’ve forgotten about him. Yes, even though he’s been trained to live like this, they’re not the ones he’s waiting for. 

When will he learn that Aziraphale won’t come? 

***

Even if he does come, it’s always when it’s too late. Crowley reminds himself of this, as he considers Aziraphale possessing Madam Tracy. It was only after he’d pushed Crowley away that he’d come back. And-

Well. Obviously Crowley’s forgiven him for that. Forgiveness; that’s one of the only angelic characteristics he has left. 

***

Aziraphale could come.

Endless time swims around him in a fog; Crowley has been lying on the floor, waiting, hoping, for some indefinite stretch of no-time. 

And Aziraphale could come. That part of him fights back- the same part of him that runs after Aziraphale time and time again, the part of him that saves books from burning ruins and begs for Aziraphale to run away with him. No matter how much Hell try and kick him down, no matter how many times Aziraphale proves it wrong, that little bit of hope always flickers back into life. 

It’s pathetic. It’s all Crowley has right now.

***

He hears his rattling breath and feels something wet on his cheeks. His wings have unfurled at some point, too exhausted to keep them in. They’re tattered and tired, draped across the floor.

***

There had been one afternoon recently, after the apocalypse. It had settled on them that they could be together without the weight of impending war sitting on their shoulders. So, they’d decided to be a little frivolous and go for a day out. 

Aziraphale had suggested the beach. Crowley had shrugged, closing his eyes in resignation behind his sunglasses. “Fine,” he’d sighed. Anything for you, he’d thought. And they’d hopped in Crowley’s Bentley and rolled down the windows, plummeting down the motorway towards the South West coast. Lulworth Cove was meant to be busy that day, the warmest day of the year so far, but he knew it would be quiet. Crowley had willed it so. 

Crowley had kept his eyes on the road, the white lines streaking till they blurred, the bad local radio station chattering in the background, soon to turn into Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy. Aziraphale was smiling so much that day. Aziraphale smiled in so many ways, and that day it was like the first: angelic and beatific, the way God had smiled the day She created the world. Maybe it was because he saw the world laid out in front of them, ready for them to live it in a way they’d never been allowed before. Maybe he was just in a good mood. Either way, Crowley had found it impossible not to stare. 

The wind had rushed through the rolled-down windows, and once they’d hit the country lanes, Aziraphale poked his arm outside and let the air pull through his fingers. Crowley had watched him close his eyes and smile again, that smile. 

“We could live like this forever, now,” Aziraphale had said. “You and I.”

Crowley had driven and known that that moment was important. Like initials carved into a wall, that moment would stick around with him. 

You and I, Crowley thinks now. Is it so naive to think you’ll come for me?

***

The ground shakes beneath him. There’s the sound of demons and poltergeists and incubi screaming down the corridor, outside his prison cell door. 

Crowley’s eyes snap open. 

There’s a screeching sound. It’s not anything demonic; he’d thought it was at first, but that was before he realised he could hear it inside his head. No, it’s something far too- far too something to be demonic.

Furious?

Hurt? Righteous?

It’s a sound that frightens him. It makes his heart stutter and his feathers ripple nervously. His pupils are dilated in the dark, but they narrow at the sound, fight-or-flight response kicked in. Something’s coming; something awful, something that Hell hadn’t prepared for. And just for a moment, the relief of that chases away the shadows in his mind. 

The sound of demons screaming, louder now, mixing with the ringing in his ears. A thud, as something- someone, more likely- is thrown down the corridor, landing close to Crowley’s door. And-

Oh, God. That light. It burns and it soothes all at once, it pours through the cracks of the door, stretching out towards Crowley like it’s searching for him, trying to bring him into its embrace.

The door falls from its hinges.

Crowley scrabbles up onto his knees. He hangs his head, turned away from the light, his hands splayed on the floor. Then he hears his voice in his mind. 

Crowley. 

The light doesn’t burn anymore. It’s like a switch is flicked and the anger in it simmers down; still there, oh yes, it still bubbles beneath the surface. But what Crowley feels overwhelmingly in that moment is not anger, but something kinder. The bright, shining feeling of his smile. 

He dares to look up. 

From his knees, prostrate on the floor of Hell, Crowley beholds the light of a star poured into the vessel of a human. The shape of Aziraphale, covered in bright, wide-open eyes and wings that encompass the room. They curve around him, like that very first day at Eden. And Crowley turns his head to watch them surround his broken body, a sunflower following the orbit of the sun. 

He looks back up. Cannot look away; there is something about that light that is less like the sun, and more like the moon. Fascinating, hypnotising, calming. And he gazes into the pair of eyes in front of him, the pair that he knows, with blue irises, watching with love. 

There’s something else in those eyes, too. There’s love, and there’s also something destructive- something frightening, something he hasn’t seen since the days of the Old Testament. Something that threatens floods and plagues for anyone who stands in Aziraphale’s way. 

A scalding white hand reaches to touch Crowley’s face. He closes his eyes, and feels only a soft warmth. Soft. Just as Aziraphale always is, even like this.

My dear, he hears inside his mind. 

His mouth suddenly feels empty. The bit and the chains are gone. 

“You came. I wasn’t sure,” he laughs sadly. 

The hand on his cheek grows warmer, almost uncomfortably hot. Aziraphale doesn’t respond- out loud, or in his mind. He doesn’t need to. Crowley feels it in the heat of his hand, feels it pouring under his skin; that they are on each other’s side; that Aziraphale will never sit by and watch ever again; that he will always come. 

He feels it in the press of Aziraphale’s lips against his.

The ground fractures beneath them. Hot air meets cold air, rain meets sun, and water meets hot oil. The room shudders with it. Hell vibrates with it and Heaven feels it, too. Two sides coming together, the order of the universe disrupted. 

God smiles when She sees it. 

And perhaps it’s because Crowley’s been awake for what might be weeks in here. Perhaps it’s because he’s been waiting for Aziraphale to come for him, to save him like this for millennia. Whatever the reason, Crowley suddenly can’t keep his eyes open. He feels himself relax into Aziraphale’s arms, inside the cocoon of his wings. 

He holds onto consciousness and feels himself being carried through the seven circles of Hell, over purgatory and back home. 

[well-shit-im-a-morosexual-now]

"Chasing Stars" fic?

TW: BODY HORROR (sorry anon but it's like really fluffy if you just ignore the demons looking demonic part)

Different first meeting AU! The Fall happens later while MC is already alive AU!

LONG POST!

MC is studying to be a professional (wildlife) photographer (I've explained why this is my hc before) and as part of a project they are staying at a friend's cottage in the middle of the countryside for a week or two during their break.

One night they see a shooting star, its exact path is followed just a bit later by another (they seem extremely close to earth), then there's two more, almost next to each other, going in a different direction. Two more going in two seperate directions and they're sure there weren't any reports of a meteor shower... The last one is so close that they actually yelp and try to duck back inside when it passes, burning a fiery trail. They feel the impact on the ground when it hits the earth, somewhere in the woods.

And then they're running towards it, their curiosity has always been their biggest weakness. They're running towards a big crater at the centre of a clearing, only a small part in the back of their brain notices the burnt feathers on the ground and the smell of charred flesh. It's only when they get to the edge of the crater do they realise whatever is in there is definitely not a rock.

Rather it's some creature. And their heart is pounding and they're pretty sure they're hallucinating and the smell of burnt flesh is now pretty hard to ignore.

It's vaguely human shaped but much larger. Its feet are sharp bird like talons, its legs are bent in such a way that it would not be possible for it to stand up straight without hunching and its hands are spindly and tipped with long white claws. It's got a pair of large, mangled, burnt wings with only a few white feathers clinging desperately to them. Its skin is burnt to the point of being a pitch black and they can see more burnt feathers along its shoulders, there also seem to be smoldering vacant holes along its sides and back. Its hair seems to be the same grey-white downy fluff of a baby bird and its body is covered in splashes of some sort of thick glittery gold substance.

It's facing away from them making a loud keening sound and trying to curl itself into a tighter ball. They take a step back, maybe to run screaming, maybe to check themself into a hospital, maybe to gather their wits before they lowered themself into the crater.

Whatever it is the creature stiffens at whatever noise imperceptible to the human ear that their step made. It slowly turns towards them. The flesh on the lower part of its face is burnt off showing a full mouth of long gleaming fang like teeth. But that's not what catches their attention. Instead it's the eyes, surrounded by what looks like undamaged human skin. Even with the slitted pupils they look painfully human and terrified.

The creature growls when it sees them, low in its chest as its back tenses as if it was seconds away from darting (not that they think it can). 

And instead of running for their goddamned life like any rational human would MC is slowly lowering themself to their knees at the edge of the crater. Talking to it in a soft gentle voice, like they would a stray cat or rabbit that had been hurt/spooked.

"It's okay...look I'm not going to hurt you,,,,I'm going to - fuck what am i doing- I'm going to help you okay? I'm going to - going to go get my truck and some water and rags and we'll get you cleaned up okay,,,,,just please wait here I'll be right back"

Whatever it -he?- is it's definitely intelligent. It's still slightly snarling but they're almost sure it understood them. So they get up and slowly back away and then they're turning and sprinting. Loading the back of their pick up with blankets and pillows to make a comfy nest and grabbing their first aid kit and opting out of taking actual water they instead take wet wipes and food, a proper lamp and a bottle of water.

Then while driving (as we've established MC is v stupid pls don't ever do this) they frantically Google up how to fix broken wings and treat burn wounds also can birds grow up to be 8 feet? How big is an ostrich? What are the odds of an ostrich falling out of the sky?

When they get back to the clearing, the thing is still there and curls up into a tighter ball when it sees them and it watches them with suspicious eyes but it doesn't growl.

Grabbing some of their supplies they sit back on the edge of the crater and ask whether they can come closer. It growls. They sit back down and talk to it - him? - softly. They tell their name and ask for his. They tell him what they are doing here and asks what he is doing here. They tell him they don't have any living family and ask if there's someone out there looking for him. He keens at this and they immediately apologise. They tell him about the photos they have taken and roll the water bottle towards him. They are not sure what they expect but when he (despite struggling with his long claws) opens it with a practiced movement they aren't surprised.

They ask him if they can come closer, he growls and they apologise and sit back down. They talk about more things, stories and movies. They trace the stars and tell him any stories they know about them. They ask him if he's an ostrich. He growls. They laugh.

While their eyes are on the sky he slowly drags himself up from the crater towards them, they don't hear him despite how big he is but they do notice him out of the corner of their eyes. He sits by them and they keep talking, ignoring the heat radiating off him. 

Softly he coos before placing his fuzzy head on their lap and for a minute they're frozen in place before he growls and shifts more until they start running their hand through his hair. They feel two bumps on the top of his head and wonder if he had hit his head on the way down.

Eventually with the sun just starting to peak out they manage to get him standing up, sliding their shoulder under one of his arms and hobbling over to the pick up. He's a lot lighter than he looks. They get him settled in the back and cover him with blankets and drive back to their cottage thankful that the small town centre is a bit away from them. They talk loud enough that he'd hear them the whole time

There's a bit of a struggle getting him through the door and when they (stupidly) go to fold his wings which he hasn't been moving much he rounds on them, teeth bared and arm up to strike. They both end up flinching and then he's ducking his head and not meeting their eyes and they talk him through it as they fold his wings, and wince at the pained whining sounds

They move all the furniture in the living room to the sides and put down two of the blankets and get him sitting in the middle.

They aren't sure what to do about the burnt skin, it looks beyond repair and somehow like any rawness from when they first saw him had healed into a hard thick layer, he also didn't seem to mind when they touched him. So again walking him through their steps out loud, they dip a rag in a bowl of cool water and work it along his body. The gold substance has dried a bit and flakes off when they wet it, it reminds them a bit of dried blood but there are no visible wounds/scars/damage underneath it.Whatever it came from, whoever bled gold, it wasn't him.

The holes along his body look worryingly like what they'd imagine empty eye sockets would look.

They card their fingers through his feathers, gently plucking out anything that's loose (it's most of them). After that they rub an aloe vera ointment on the places where the burns seem the worse. While they do all this he watches them as much as possible, but immediately turns around if they catch his eye.

The wings. The wings are a problem. They are frantically scrolling through their phone reading articles while a YouTube video about splinting a wing plays on their laptop but they have no idea where to start or how to splint it or with what for that matter and whether he'd accidentally rip them to shreds if they tried to and actually they're pretty sure he's watching the video on their laptop and huh. So they talk to him, they tell him the problem and they ask him if it would just heal like his burns did if they set the bone (maybe it won't heal properly but maybe at least it won't cause him pain - they tell him this too) and he's watching them with bright, considering eyes and they're spiraling a bit and rambling and then he's nodding his head and rolling his eyes and turning his back to them. 

They set the bones and wrap them up as tightly as they can, he whimpers and whines and squirms but he digs his claws into the pillows instead of into them

Once they are done they bring the rest of the blankets and pillows to the floor (with his wings he'd be too big for the bed), giving him water and food (all they have is cup noodles but he doesn't seem to mind). After instructing him to sleep on his front they go flop on their bed and immediately lose consciousness.

Hours later (in the evening) they wake up and walk into their living room and SCREAM BECAUSE HOLY SHIT WHAT THE FUCK THAT WASN’T A DREAM WTF WTF WTF WHY IS HE SCREAMING TOO

After their inevitable breakdown which isn't made any better because it happens simultaneously with his inevitable breakdown. They decide (the next day morning and fuck their sleep schedule is fucked) to deal with things one day at a time. 

The next week is all about cute bonding and shenanigans.

Healing is an accelerated process that only takes a few days but it's not a complete job.

The burnt skin heals into a pitch black shiny sort of leathery skin, with the skin healed they can see white markings along his front and back.

The last of the feathers fall out and new ones start growing back in. Unlike the previous ones these are a shiny black and remind them of crow feathers, they come up all through his legs, at the base of his wings, and a few along his shoulders/arms. To stop him from scratching at them they use a warm damp cloth to ease the irritation (when they'd initially just given him the cloth it had resulted with a lot of grumbling and huffing on his part until they'd taken the cloth with a roll of their eyes and swatted at his head - they'd immediately frozen because wtf was that he could probably realistically eat them but he'd only responded with a playful shove).

The bumps on his head turn out to be horns, that he's constantly trying to get them to scratch at.

The sockets and the missing skin on the lower half of his face don't heal & they should probably be more disturbed by it but for some reason they don't see it as anything too strange, it's just another part of their odd impromptu roommate.

The wings take the longest to heal and their bare skeletal form now looks more like bat wings than bird wings.

By the third day the tips of his horns are poking through his head and they distantly wondered while scratching around them if he was one of those mix & match animals from Australia like the platypus. Part gazelle, part bat, part crow and part human.

Once he heals he has boundless restless energy and is always skittering around the cottage, knocking things over like some large cat. (Part tiger?)

They have to convince him to let them file his nails so that the floor doesn't get scraped up

He's always talking. Even if they don't understand him and his words sound more like bird noises it's still him talking. If they don't listen or look distracted he'll caw at them loud and angrily.

He's very clingy and very warm. By the end of the week they find themself spending more time in the nest in their living room than in their own bed.

They don't even notice that stuff has been going missing until they one day go to kick some of the blankets outta the way and end up stubbing their toe on something hard. Underneath the blanket is a little treasure trove of shiny things from coins to the caps of pens.

He comes along with them whenever they go out to the woods with their cameras.

He seems determined to survive on cup noodles alone and honestly personality wise they're pretty sure he'd pass for one of the guys at their college.

They're pretty sure they walked into him crying while watching Cinderella, cuddled up under the blankets.

Wherever he's from they had technology because they once spent a whole hour staring at him and feeling like they were living through a fever dream while he hunched over their laptop and tapped away at it. He got caught to many many scams and they ended up getting a virus but it was worth it for that single image.

They're pretty sure he has some kind of system with the crows because suddenly there's a whole flock of them visiting the cottage and sitting around it and leaving more shiny things for him to add to his collection. They feed them just to be on the safe side.

He has nightmares. Things that leave him shrieking and growling and sobbing. They press as much of him as they can into their chest and vow to protect this monstrous creature from anything, even God himself

They sometimes catch him staring at the stars. They wonder if he misses whatever home he came from.

He avoids mirrors or any reflective surfaces. Goes so far as to flinch away from them. They preen his feathers and call him 'Pretty Bird', he grumbles and huffs and mumbles something that they think probably means 'Not a bird!' they cackle and tell him he's the prettiest ostrich they've ever seen, he shoves them and they shove back and soon they're playfully wrestling on the ground. He makes sure to be careful of his claws/talons

The first time they realise his marks glow in the dark they nearly have a stroke

He ignores them for a whole hour when they laugh after finding out he is afraid of horror movies. 

Their hands are running through his hair and scratching at the base of his horns while he is curled up around them, his tail (something which like his horns hadn't been there when they first met him and honestly they feel like they're missing some sort of symbolism here) wrapped around the calf of their leg. At first they think he is growling but have to stifle a laugh, lest he ignore them again, once they realise he is purring.

They call him Star purely because that's what they thought he was and he acts like he hates it but they've seen that small stretch of human skin on his face flush at it.

No one in town saw a meteor shower.

They're not sure what they are gonna do with him, not after their two weeks end but they know for a fact they're not leaving him

Both MC & Mammon are dumb af and don't realise how dangerous the other technically could be to them

One and a half weeks later there's a knock on their door and they're pushing him towards the back of the house before they go to open it.

There's probably the most beautiful man they've ever seen at the door and they're blushing because wtf.

He's dressed incredibly well and they're pretty sure they've never seen him at the town, they take a peak over his shoulder and there's no vehicle behind him. Looking closer at him, he looks tired with bags under his eyes.

"I'm looking for my brother" he says and they're blinking because they have no idea what to say to that. The guy almost looks expectant like they're supposed to come out and say that yeah actually they know exactly where his brother is. And they're opening their mouth to actually apologise to him when there's a loud noise behind them and the man's eyes drift past them and widen.

They're panicking 'cause they know exactly what they'll see when they turn around and when they do turn he's charging towards them and the stranger and they're yelping and jumping out of the way while screaming at him not to attack the guy wtf wtf wtf.

His body collides with the guy's and they both stumble out of the door frame at the impact and they are scrambling after the two of them expecting blood and guts. But instead their shooting star is purring loudly, tail wagging, clinging on to the stranger with a death grip and his face buried in the man's neck.

The guy is somehow managing to carry the whole weight of him and is clutching at the feathers on his back with just as much of a death grip.

Maybe one of them's adopted?

The man catches their eyes and his eyes glint red and his mouth twists in the beginning of a snarl but then their roommate is shifting in his grip and murmuring something and the guy's face is softening for a split second before it hardens again and he whacks the other over the head.

The two speak in soft murmurs but they catch parts of the man's words "Father", " Diavolo", "Lilith", "worried", "human body", "Wrath", " family", "Mammon"

He's nodding his head at the man then before disentangling himself from his (older?) brother and turning to them. He takes a few steps towards them and the man says in a warning tone, "Mammon".

He ignores his brother and walks up to them

"Guess your name's Mammon, huh?"

His eyes scrunch up in a way they know means he's smiling. 

"It's cute. Suits you."

And he's blushing and huffing and they're looking at his eyes that are still so human and suddenly they're hugging him tightly and he's hugging them back and they're squeezing their eyes shut and burying their face in the soft feathers at his shoulder.

"I'll miss you, try to stay out of trouble"

He huffs again and squeezes them gently.

They open their eyes wondering what the hell they're doing standing outside in the cold morning in just their pyjamas.

They walk back inside the cottage which for some reason seems much larger and emptier than it was earlier. There's a large bundle of blankets and pillows in the middle of the living room and they have no idea when they did that, they try to kick some of it away and end up stubbing their toe. Under the blankets is a large shiny pile of junk. Were they drunk last night?

They finish the rest of their two weeks at the cottage. They clean up the blankets and spend the nights in a bed that remains freezing even when they turn up the heater.

They go through the pictures they took over the last week and a half. There's some good ones but none that stand out. Nothing interesting or special

They feed the crows that frequently come to their window. 

When it's time to leave they get the biggest box they can and fill it with all the junk that they'd found under the blankets. The box sits at the back of their closet when they go back home

They manage to finish all of their studies during the next couple of years and somehow manage to cover all their student debt without any problems (their friends insist that they must have made a deal with the devil to achieve it).

They take freelance jobs as a professional photographer while they work retail part time. Somehow they always seem to have enough money to eat more than just cup noodles and they live in a pretty ok apartment.

They've also taken up driving away from the city to watch the stars during the weekends

Life is good. Normal. 

And then one day they're falling, ass first, into another world and meeting the most beautiful man they have ever seen.

His eyes widen a bit in something like surprise when he sees them but it's gone in a second and then he's telling them they're going to be part of an exchange program between three different realms and he's hoisting them on his brother.

And then they're begging him - Lucifer, that's his name, Lucifer - they're begging Lucifer to take them instead because one phone call with this Mammon guy and he sounds like a dick.

But Lucifer's shaking his head and he looks way too amused.

Then a loud is voice is coming from behind them, complaining about being lumped with a human.

And they're turning around to get a look at the asshole who was now responsible for their life and he screeches to a stop in front of them.

Eyes -familiar eyes, so very familiar- wide and surprised and confused, the anger dissolving from his face as his mouth opens and closes soundlessly.

And then he's saying their name, softly, softer than anyone has ever said it before.

This is posted on AO3 along with the other fake fic outlines/summaries! The link to it is pinned on my blog, feel free to leave a comment cause I feed off that shit :D

[halo-jpeg]

Bearable | A Reddie Fanfiction

Read it from the beginning

Chapter 8.5

The sound of the lock tumblers rolled shut in an almost satisfying timbre- it told Stan, in finality, that his shift was up and it was time for him to go home, that Roses on Deane had carried him through one more evening and was now seeing him off, waiting for his next return the night after. Taking a step back after removing the key from the door, Stanley glanced left at the sign reading 'closed' hung daintily from a hook just above the glass window. The red LED plant lights inside still shone in the dark corners, eerie yet comforting. With a slow inhale and then a clipped exhale, Stan spun on his heel, hitching his courier bag more securely over his neck and shoulder and setting off for home. The Portland streets were dark, the clock reading just late of 10:00 pm, thick clouds coating the sky and blotting out the stars. Keeping his gaze set forwards, Stan settled into a brisk walk, a bouncing pace that was more than familiar to him by now- even though he was no longer hurrying to evade bullies, the habit of being quick and silent stuck to him like a welcome burr. It wasn't necessarily a bad habit to be in, was it?

As he walked, closer and closer to home by the step, he busied himself in scanning the buildings, the businesses, attempting to identify the plants lining the streets with his new and limited botanical knowledge. A pale terracotta pot overflowing with rippling sunshine-yellow marigolds sat on the front porch of a thrift store, and then a few doors down outside of a place selling home-sewn fashion were bunches of hydrangeas, pink, purple and a pale blue. Petunias outside of a laundromat, bright pink begonias marking the entrance to an ice cream parlor with a large sign saying it was closing for the winter- distractions distractions. Stan heard a whip-poor-will sing it's little nighttime song somewhere behind him and found himself smiling warmly, almost instinctively reaching towards his back pocket for his bird book before realizing he didn't carry it with him anymore and letting that smile fall again. A shiver ran it's course up and down his spine for a reason he wasn't certain of. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable, shifty, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and a frown crawling over his face. Walking a little quicker, Stan crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his head as if that would hide him from anyone or anything that might cross his path. Distractions distractions. Birds and flowers.

Warblers, Alstroemerias, Common Loon, Lilies, to busy his mind Stan went over all of the Portland-resident birds and all the Roses on Deane-resident flowers, trying to ebb the near-flowing paranoia building in his head. All at once a thought unfurled like one of the colorful flora he was thinking about- Did you really lock the shop door? Stan chewed his lip, clasping his hands together and forcing his legs forwards once more. Yes, he locked the door, he was sure of it- and even if he didn't who was gonna rob a flower shop? He needed to take his OCD medicine the moment he got home. Recently, with work and school, he had started taking it at night. It often wore off by the end of the day, letting silly thoughts like that pop up like moles. More birds, more flowers, less thinking. Northern Goshawk, Carnations, Yellow-Bellied Flycatcher, Daisy. Walk walk walk. Stanley's head was trapped in some strange in-between where one half was racing and the other was sluggish and slow, like molasses- he hated it, the feeling like he couldn't quite register that things were moving to fast. He just wanted to be home with Bill, with Eddie, in his bed or at the stove cooking something up for the three of them. Anything at all- maybe he could clean his room or the lounge or the bathroom- maybe he could offer to do the laundry. Stan shivered again, and another wave of discomfort rippled through him. Birds. Flowers.

Red-Breasted Nuthatch, Orchids, Winter Wren, Orange Princess-

Stan stopped dead in his tracks. All at once, the smell of oranges hit him in the back of the throat. It was sickening, suffocating almost, like the near-toxic, too-sweet taste of children's medicine. He screwed up his face and clenched his jaw, trying to pinpoint where and why that scent had hit him so suddenly. Then, a thought, a realization not driven by his OCD popped into his head and his face drained of it's colour. Now the only thing he could think of was Dick Halloran, a character from The Shining, that stupid horrorbook that Bill had forced him to read. Dick had this power called 'The Shine', see, and whenever something like a premonition or a message from someone else who 'Shone' hit him he smelled this smell, the oranges, overwhelming, tangy, sickening. Every time this scent is mentioned in the book it is a bad thing. Maybe now it is a bad thing. Stanley has to force his legs to move, to carry him again, faster faster faster; he's basically jogging now and he'll turn up home slick with sweat and that means he'll need to shower for much too long but he doesn't mind right now. He might scrub his skin raw later, but right now his sudden nagging fear won over.

Stan had played baseball in elementary and the beginning of high school so he wasn't a terrible runner but he had hardly half the stamina Eddie would have had were he in this situation, despite the bug in his brain he called asthma. It had only been a few moments and Stan, in his panic, had sprinted away his energy; Stanley needed to be smart about it, to conserve his energy, his breath. Something dark and urgent bubbled up in his chest and he knew he needed away. Slowing to a hasty jog Stan focused solely on his breathing and going the right way. Home was closer now, less than three blocks, he could see the building. Gooseflesh broke out over his arms and for the briefest, briefest moment he swore he saw a flash of red lit white by the streetlamps across the street from him, low, on the ground or in the gutter or from a sewer drain. He didn't stick around long enough to be certain. Birds, please. Flowers.

Swainson Thrush, Rose, Rusty Blackbird, Sunflower, White-Throated Sparrow, Peonies, one after the other Stan pumped out name after name until he ran out of flowers and only knew birds; at some point after he started naming any bird, not just the ones here in Portland or even Maine or even the whole of the United States- he was desperate for anything to say, any image to conjure up to replace the fearful ones his brain was fighting to depict. The India Peafowl, or the Peacock more often, was what ended up taking the coveted 'Throne of Distraction'. He knew the bird well and spent a whole thirty seconds imagining every detail about it, the royal blue feathering of it's crown, breast, abdomen, the crisp white of it's auricular and superciliary, the places above and below the eye. They had white-and-back wings that had a total span of five feet and six foot tailfeathers of emerald green, blue, yellow, the shapes of eyes, almost, grand and royal and silently threatening. By the time he forgot about the peacock he was crossing the street towards his block and his lungs were protesting greatly. His hair was dampened despite the chill in the air and his palms were sweating profusely.

In a burst of confidence since he was now faced with the homestretch, Stan risked a look over his shoulder and then immediately hated himself for it. You never look over your shoulder, isn't that what Bill always said about horror movies? Was this even like a horror movie? Which rules were real and which were fiction? Which ones applied to real life? Stan snapped his head forwards once more and now he was driven by terror in it's rawest form, cold and sleek like the scales of a snake or the glimmer of a dark poison. His veins burned with this terror, his eyes wide and glossy, his throat pinching up and disallowing a scream. Oh, God, the thing he thought he saw- Eyes, orange, burning like hellfire, promising so many things, horrible, horrible things, a tall man, a shadow-man, something deadly and threatening in the way he stood and the way he held his weapon ready to raise and ready to strike. Stan was quick to smother the sight, the memory of the sight under the heel of his mind's shoe to forget about, to abandon, no-siree he was not crazy he didn't need to go to the loony-bin the funny farm the madhouse he was just okey-dokey all 100% okay yessir.

Birds birds birds flowers oranges grackles grackles marigold- His mind was gone by now, shrouded in some thick fog, out of reach, his soul ripped from his body to view himself in some sick third-person form. Icy numbness ate through him leaving only the terror, the sleek-cold terror as he stumbled onto the doorstep of his building and ripped his key from his bag at lightspeed, scolding himself for not getting it out sooner and then scolding himself again seconds later for fumbling, almost dropping the thing. He jammed them at the door, missed the keyhole, jammed again, missed, again, missed- finally, the keys slid into place and he cranked them to the side, ripping the door open and not even bothering to recollect them. He sent himself flying for the stairs, not trusting the elevator and getting more images from his book, The Shining, the faulty elevator moving on it's own accord, New Years Eve, party poppers, black gold silver people in suits- As Stan raced up the steps he finally found his voice but decided he could not scream, could not alarm anyone else, could not draw any attention. If you asked for help, for salvation, you got people killed and you still got fucked in the end- and, one part of Stan was horrified that none of this was even real.

If Stanley could only make it up to his apartment than he would be alright. He would be just fine. Peachy. Right as rain. The problem was that the stairs seemed to be getting longer, reaching up and up into infinity, a stairway to heaven. Birds Stan needed birds flowers too birds and flowers flowers and birds then he'd be just fine if only he had his bird book, Lincoln's Sparrow Dahlias Purple Finch Azalea White-winged Crossbill Poppy Evening Grosbeak Chrysanthemum Birds Birds Birds Birdsbirdsbirdsbirds-

Stan's mind froze. Everything came to a grinding halt. His hand rests on the brass knob of his apartment, his home, but he does not remember ever reaching the top of the steps, ever rushing down his hallway. The icy chill that had been coursing through his veins was drained all too suddenly, jarringly, leaving him with wide eyes and heavy breathing as well as a sprawling sense of confusion. The... the panic, it had been so raw, so real. The sight of the shadow-man had been so vivid. The sweat on his brow and his back and in his armpits, it was real too- he had been driven into a spiral of terror, but was it in any way possible that Stan had imagined it all? Why, suddenly, did he feel so... alright? Why, just like that, was all of it gone? The dread, the doom, the smell of citrus. Stan wasn't crazy, no, he took pills to stop his crazy, needed to take his pill, needed to make this blinding sense of what?? ease into nothing, needed to return to being just another guy in the sea of other guys in Portland Maine.

Just like that, in the blink of an eye, everything had vanished and he was okay again. Stanley Uris was just fine. Peachy. Right as rain. He might- is probably- just be a little tired. So what? People got tired all the time. All he needed was some sleep and a shower and maybe to scrub his skin right off because this sweat was making him sticky and gross and he hated it. What he needed was to get control of himself. Letting his head fall gently, silently against the door, Stan let his eyes close and tried to even out his breathing. He felt like he was a little bit silly. The shadow man he had been so convinced he'd seen was supposed to have been Jack Torrance, but Jack Torrance was fictional and Stan was just tired. That was all. After two more minutes to control his breathing, he opened the door and made straight for the bathroom. He didn't even stop to note how Eddie and Richie were practically tangled up in one another and sharing a bowl of popcorn.

[mythrilhusk]

Korosensei Never Dies - Chapter 7

Words - 2,153 AO3 Version Chapter 6 (Last)

Chapter 8 (Next)

TW: vague body horror, violence, threats

The floor trembles as a nearby generator turns on to power the flickering lights. The sterile brightness slices painfully through Ranboo's head. He winces and tries to cover his eyes, only to discover his wrists are bound behind his metal chair. Out of curiousity, he tries to move his feet. Also bound. The taste of dry cotton in his mouth warns of the muffled noises he produces when he tries to shout. 

Lacking options, Ranboo takes in his surroundings. The tight, grimy walls and lack of windows hint that he could be in a bunker. For the moment, his mind is calmly blank, clear of panic, but that could change in an instant. Not this again. Ranboo shakes his head. His fingers reach and clench in thin air, desperate to cling to his book, feel the glittery cover, see the bright colors of the kittens dolphins. 

Sounds of muffled outrage echo through the otherwise silent halls. Ranboo perks up, listening intently. He can't tell who else is in this predicament with him. 

What happened? Blurry flashes of terror, of pain, of rage, boil just beneath the level of recollection. The dart in his neck, spitting poison into his veins, weakening his limbs- 

He can't recall anything. Not even the terror as his friends scream for help, scream in anger, what are they angry for, why are they scared, why are you scared? 

Ranboo clenches his eyes closed, trying to shut out the creeping panic and the soft voice. 

You're scared because you hurt them.

Ranboo shakes his head frantically. No! No, he would never hurt anyone.

But you would. And you did. They're all here, now, because of your little display. Oh, you won't die. But does he need them?

Who's he?? Ranboo glares at the wall, unable to visualize the voice that sounds so very familiar.

"Aren't you an unusual find." The man slouches in the door, draped in an oversized purple hoodie. "Heh. Techno will want you back, won't he." 

Ranboo scowls at the man as best he can with a sock in his mouth. Technoblade and Philza wouldn't care if he disappeared. 

"You want to talk? Too bad. Maybe later. You don't get privileges after what you did to us." 

The sock contains Ranboo's shouts and curses. 

The man smiles grimly and turns, limping out. "Your friends are fine. For now. Fuck up and one of them dies." 

Tears leak out of Ranboo's eyes, burning and blurring his vision. He hangs his head and trembles with small, miserable sobs. He can't even remember what he did to deserve this.

++++

It's the weekend after exams. Summer vacation. And that means time to fuck shit up. Philza has given out a schedule for the fighting classes, so he'll be preoccupied with that, but Technoblade has other plans. 

Techno strides out of the building, narrowing his eyes at the camouflaged form of Awesamdude in the trees. The government security agent has been watching him for a while. Techno's not technically allowed out of Sam's perimeter around the building, but rules are for losers. 

"Techno." Sam greets him as Techno strides past. "Where are you going?" 

Techno wrinkles his nose, wishing he'd transformed into his chrysaor state earlier. Human form tends to be limiting, and the boar-like attributes, not to mention the multiple sets of wings, are useful for intimidation purposes. "Oh, nowhere in particular. I just thought I'd boost the economy of the nearby town with some of your president's money." 

"Have you seen Tommy anywhere?" 

"Mm, no. I'd assume he's on vacation." 

"Interesting." Sam's expression is completely unreadable. The leaves behind him make a fascinating shape, almost like a dog. Techno stares at the waving greenery, failing to catch Sam's next words. 

"What's that? The leaves distracted me." 

"I said, I got a strange call from him, but now I can't find him anywhere." 

"That's odd." Techno yawns. The kid is probably off gallivanting somewhere and laughing about pranking Sam. "Did you try Quackity's treehouse?" 

"No- he has a treehouse? Where?" 

"Forget I said anything." Technoblade waves a dismissive hand. 

"Tell me, Techno." Sam growls. 

Technoblade considers the effort of intimidating Sam, added to the potential backlash onto Philza, and decides it's totally worth it. "Oh, I'm keeping you safe. It's for your own good." 

"Huh? Techno, what do you mean?" 

"Quackity and the Ducklings will shoot first." Technoblade lets a slow smile crack across his face. He can see Quackity sneaking up behind Sam. 

"They're teens, how aggressive can they be?" 

"We sharpen the motherfucking bones of our enemies and use them to slaughter every bastard who stands in our way." Quackity drops down from the tree, grinning wickedly. "Oh, and Tommy isn't at our place, either. I was just looking for him." 

"Quackity." Techno greets the teen with equanimity. 

"Techno." Quackity returns in the exact same tone. 

"Uh, alright, I'm going to go see if Tubbo knows." Sam moves off awkwardly. "Techno, don't leave the perimeter. I will know." 

"Will you, now." Techno returns in a slow drawl. 

"I've got the kill switch, Techno. Don't push me." Sam scowls, then yelps as Quackity kicks him in the shin.  

"Fucking don't ever threaten the old man again, you bastard." 

"Don't let Phil hear you call him that." Techno reproaches with a grim smile. 

"Alright, alright!" Sam cries, losing the battle for his dignity as Quackity manages to steal his cap and then proceeds to wear it. "Techno, go ahead, but if you hurt anyone in the town, there will be consequences." 

"Who said anything about killing? There's no major governmental figures down there. They're safe from me." 

Sam gives a pained sigh and then strides off to look for Tommy. Quackity sticks his tongue out at Techno, then trots to catch up with Sam, still wearing the agent's hat. 

Techno heaves a relieved sigh at finally being alone and free to wander. Hidden in the seclusion of the trees, he stretches out his wings and breathes in the aromatic air. The thousands of souls murmuring in his veins hunger for blood. Not yet, though. Not quite yet. 

++++

Wilbur keeps his eyes closed, feigning sleep as he examines his situation. His feet are free, but his wrists are bound, and there's a gag tied around his mouth. He can hear Tommy beside him, raging through his own gag. Charlie whimpers on Tommy's other side. 

Where's Eret and Ranboo?? What the hell happened?? Wilbur tries to think back.

<<~rewind~<< 

Eret suggested building a treehouse like the Ducklings'. He said he knew a good place for it, so Wilbur and Tommy followed him. Charlie tagged along, cracking terrible jokes with Wilbur. 

After passing the perimeter, which seemed to have been deactivated, Eret stopped at a huge tree. Ranboo showed up out of the blue, disoriented and asking Eret why he was there. 

And then- and then- what happened? 

Wings, so many wings, bird and bat and beetle and butterfly- 

Ranboo transformed. There's no other way to say it. The quiet, creepy boy who had always sat at the back of the classroom went absolutely feral for no goddamn reason. 

A man appeared, dropping from the trees, buried in an oversized hoodie. He was unfamiliar, but Eret fought by his side like they'd sparred together before. Ranboo, or whatever creature Ranboo had become, grew weaker and slower by the moment, lashing out at whatever was closest. Wilbur dragged Tommy away from the fight and tried to flee. 

Charlie was wounded while trying to break up the fight and calm Ranboo down. Tommy screamed and tried to run back to save him. Wilbur had to follow, he couldn't let his idiot friend die on his own. 

Eret stepped back as Ranboo finally fell unconscious to the ground. The mutant-- or angel-- looked almost adorable, lying there in a limp puddle of wings and eyes and claws. Tommy pulled bandages out of his backpack and started binding Charlie's wounds. 

Wilbur remembers the next few moments vividly. 

"Eret, fucking help me!" Tommy snapped. 

"No hard feelings, boys." Eret said. 

A dart pricked Wilbur's arm. Tommy shrieked as he was darted as well. "You bastard, you fuckin basss..." He didn't get to finish his words. 

Unable to move, Wilbur soon followed Tommy into unconsciousness. 

>>~present~>>

Remembering the events only leaves Wilbur with more questions. But one of them is about to be answered. The man in the hoodie stands over him, his heavy footsteps so unlike Eret's. 

"I know you're awake, Wilbur." 

Wilbur opens his eyes and shrugs eloquently. 

"I want you to write a letter." 

Wilbur makes an agreeable noise through the gag.

"Alright, I'll take the gag off. There's nobody near for miles, so screaming won't do anything besides piss me off." 

"Who are you?" Wilbur asks as soon as the gag is off. 

"Purpled." The man checks his wrists to make sure they're still tightly bound. 

"What would you like me to write?" Wilbur attempts civility. There's no point in pissing off his captor yet. 

"A ransom note." Purpled doesn't smile as he moves to check Tommy's wrists. Tommy attempts to headbutt him, but recieves a smack for his trouble. 

"Don't fucking touch Tommy, you son of a bitch." Wilbur snarls, anger sparking in his eyes. 

"Alright." Purpled laughs, pissing Wilbur off further. "Eret, got a pencil and paper?" 

"Yes, sir." Eret limps inside, one arm dangling, broken. 

"I hope it hurts like hell." Wilbur glares at him, baring his teeth. 

"Ha... I assure you, it hurts plenty." Eret gives a small, guilty laugh. "But you'll all be safe. We aren't going to hurt any of you. All we need is bait." 

Purpled unties Wilbur's hands. "Be good." 

"He just said none of us will be hurt." Wilbur retorts, stretching his sore fingers. "What're you going to do if I try to escape?" 

"I'll kill Tommy." Purpled says darkly. 

Wilbur shoots a venomous glare at Eret. "Hm??" 

Eret puts the pencil and paper on a nearby table and moves to the door silently. Purpled answers for him, "We don't plan to hurt you if everyone behaves. But step a toe out of line, and someone will get hurt." 

"What do you want me to write?" Wilbur decides to change the subject. He won't let Tommy be hurt, no matter what. 

++++

Technoblade returns to the school at night, practically inhaling pockies from the several boxes he acquired in the town. The townspeople had freaked out upon his arrival, but they'd been amenable to contributing food in return for his timely departure without harming anyone. 

He enters the school building and flicks on the lights. Philza tilts his head up, raising the brim of his hat to peer at Techno with narrowed eyes. "You're back late." 

"I got distracted." Read: there were fluffy dogs, and Techno gave all of them pats. "Want some pocky?" 

"Sure, mate." Philza catches the box thrown to him, and snaps one of the chocolate-covered biscuits between his teeth. "I just got some troubling news, Techno. But I want you to stay out of this one. I have reason to think it's a trap." 

Techno shrugs with a dry grin. "You really think I'd let myself be taken down by a trap? What's going on?" 

"It's Purpled, mate." 

"Oh." Technoblade clenches his claws into fists, his eyes darkening. "What makes you think I don't want revenge?" 

"I know you do, Techno." Philza says apologetically. "But it ain't safe. He's gotta be working with Schlatt, you know that. If Schlatt is making a move, that means he's got something up his sleeve he thinks can take care of you." He chomps another pocky. "Look, I'll take care of this one." 

Techno strides up to Philza and snatches him up by his coat. "I can't let you be captured, too." He growls. He can't let Philza be taken away, not again.

"I won't be. I'll get help." Philza smiles and presses his hand to Techno's bristly cheek. Techno pulls him into an embrace. "There, there, you big lug, I'll be fine." 

"What happened?" 

"Purpled kidnapped some of your students. Wilbur, Tommy, Charlie, and Ranboo. Eret helped him. I just got the ransom note." 

Technoblade drops Philza with a gruff snort and turns away. "I'm coming with." 

"No, you're not." Philza retorts. "It's a trap." 

"How can you be sure it's not a trap for you, too?? I can't- I can't let them take you, Philza, I can't." 

"If Schlatt wanted me, he'd have me. He's got President Skeppy in his pocket. You know that." 

"Take Sam." Techno growls. "If you refuse to take me with you, at least take Sam." 

"I already asked. He's not allowed to interfere." 

"He will be held accountable if you're harmed." 

"I'll be okay, mate." 

"You better be, Philza. Or I don't know what I'll do." Technoblade gives a dry, ragged laugh. That's a lie. He knows exactly what he'll do. 

Chapter 8 (Next)

[polupenthes]

@mercysought​. | the gentleman: little towns late at night when no one’s awake and the only lights on are the street posts.

Storm Hag, they called her, and call her still. Her brother the Grey Pilgrim, and she the winter he heralds in thick clouds. Both siblings have gold in their eyes, flecking their irises. Her brother’s blue, so his gaze like a sunset. Hers, green, so her gaze like a forest fire.

Each winter she opens her jaws and swallows the moon. Her life as a weapon: unmarred. Sharp and sharpening still. In her existence as the manifest essence of her father lies her becoming, her hollowness, her grief. Her and her brother made to ensure continuity, blossomed from their father’s eye the way other gods may have asked for a writing desk. 

She is the winter, and as such she is cold. This is the dictate of her nature. Her nature demands, and she must answer. Her brother was a fool for thinking otherwise, that nature could be annihilated, ignored. It isn’t. It cannot. Nature is skin. It is muscle and the precision of sinew. 

And it is blood. On her hands. On the knife. The knife she left behind on the wooden floor (clatter!) and the blood didn’t wash off of her hands even now as she melts from raven-form to human again and her knees give. 

No one to catch her. Her palms smack hard on the cobblestone. The late night lights from the windows, flickering pressed up against the darkness, eyes of the great beast of life. She did not look where she flew: she flew, out the window on dark wings and Símidh’s voice still ringing in her ears as his hands grabbed her shoulders and shook. Shook her.

WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU D--

No. None of that. The sting of her palm exorcises the last of the sound from her ears. Her blood, or the blood of this shape, at the tip of her tongue when she bites it. What will drown her, now? She had done what she had been made for, begun to. 

Death was not beyond her. It was her: death and the rebirth of her nature. On the gravel of time her hands laying divots, making mountains and forming, forming, breaking. Water was of her as much as ice. 

She could make it storm, if she wanted to. She could scream and the sky would split open with thunder. And the sound would be a sound of reckoning, discovery. Instead what she has is the deep heaving sobs that vomit inside her an agony. She claws at her collar, tries to catch the terror and pin it down to name it. But it just exists. It exists and it has a name: Medrawt, one she does not discover but rather look in the mirror at. The anger at his reticence, the terror at his horror, and the love beneath it all still hiccuping through her chest making it all of it so raw, so skinless in the sun. 

The storm comes. Heavier rain than the village elders expected. The clouds bruised black, the thunder voracious. Her hair sticks to her forehead. She stands but her knees cannot, cannot hold her. Even her body unravels, rebels, refuses. Refuses. A word she barely understands. A word she barely knows in its entirety. Instead holds it fragmented in her chest like shrapnel, refusal, as if even the possibility of it were too much.

If she were to refuse, refuse her father and refuse the fate he made for her, where would that leave her? What would that make her? Betrayer? Scion? Of self and of purpose, of blood. Blood-breaker. But when she closes her eyes she sees Medrawt cradling Akua’s body, and sees nothing beyond that. Her knees will still bruise in the mud and her hands still grab those fistfuls of wet dirt. 

His hand appears just above her line of vision. He stands completely dry, untouched by the rain she has brought. The rings glint in the lights pouring from the porches, those lanterns swaying lightly in the wind and inside them the bright flame of civilisation. 

A child sits at the window and looks into the darkness of the night pressed up against the warm light of the fireplace, a membrane of thin gold to keep such relentless black-blue at bay. She cringes as she squints past the glass to the wind and the storm and the rain. She does not see the two figures and they do not want to be seen. 

Bheur takes the hand that is offered her, and he pulls her up so she stands. She looks at her stained hands and not at him.

“You always come when I need you.”

He says nothing. Half-shadowed. Like an apparition. Like hallucination.

He comes because her knot in the tapestry has come unraveled. He comes because he has been asked to watch. He comes because if a tree does not fall it cannot be heard. What does it matter why he comes? He comes, always, as the water rises and she drowns in it.

He takes her hand. She is already cold, she is already rotted: the anaerobic environment of her pain peat that seeps into her clothes and skin, digesting, unmaking and re-making into dirt, into rock, into land. She is land. She was giantess before she was daughter, and before she was daughter she was sky.

Elsewhere she would be half-dead. 

She is animal wounded. She is darkness devouring, devourer. 

He says nothing and she knows he is thinking. Of what? How he will sketch her and rot her in his painting of this moment, done yesterday and in a hundred years and while she was still thinking of her act as salvation and not murder? Before. Before. The sun had set upon her and she had been too foolish and happy to notice and by the time she had blossomed red with her dagger the knowledge of her nature had erupted bright and foolish in its half-innocent surprise. 

No beauty, now. Hag bristling and her eyes hardened to granite-marred stones. Volcanic rock. The earth in all her splendour, coagulated and bending upwards in constructions of chert. Around her all the storm, fanged and vengeance-hungry, of a winter come early and merciless. 

She pulls her hand out of her grasp. He thought too long. He said nothing.

“Will you stop us? Can you, stop us? Now, with the die set and my destiny aching to be held?”

Can that which is not born but created have destiny? Hold destiny, understand what destiny is? Can story made flesh choose its own ending? She turns to look him in the eye and find she cannot pin his eyes into any shape that can be seen. It’s maddening, it maddens her. Knees muddied and dress all torn and hands stained with red and then with rich, dark earth, and the wind that howls. 

“SAY SOMETHING!”

Her hands, palms splayed, to his chest. To shove, a child with a broken toy. Were she to rage any louder the ground would shatter into splinter. Beneath her feet it tenses, a skin waiting to be cut, and she feels all of her power condense in the middle of her.

What a reckoning silence can bring. 

His. Her father’s. Her brother’s. 

She knows why he is silent. Because this is choice, litmus test, threshold made specifically for the threshold-dweller. He cannot stop her and he will not: he will not make that decision for her.

So she is alone with the thought of it. So she is alone, then, with the pain and the consequence of it. A loneliness unending and unyielded, one she cannot parse. She lacks the tongue of it for it though she is older than many tongues in many skulls, soothsayers or just simply marsh-dead. Her hands are so cold. Her body so cold, also. 

The blood will not be washed so simply: the blood will be her testament and undeniable legacy. To be bloodied. To be of blood. 

The bright winter cracks across the sky in the shape of lightning. White-hot, veins carved into the pliable fabric of a night as merciless as it is cold. He wants her to think the decision has not yet been made, that the hope for redemption is pliable.

Sweet enough and close enough she could pick it ripe from the vine.

But this is storm, the first deep storm of winter. Any fruit would not survive the unyielding barrage of the rain. Any fruit she could have tasted she has already cast aside, the flesh peeled back to reveal all the ways in which she tricked herself with freedom.

Medrawt will learn it too, she knows. She will make him learn how freedom has a price and the price for them is to break each other’s hearts.

No.

She made her choice long before she crumbled here. She made her choice in the sunlight, the sliver of it, she made it when she decided to silence Akua forever. And in Símidh’s eyes was a rage that had no other name but hate.

The Gentleman’s silence demanded this choice be brought to the present. But there’s none of it left, and it is spent. And it was made. And to those that she loved most she has become monster-creatue-animal. And to her old dance partner who offered her his hand she is none of those things.

But the innocence and compassion he may have been able to gift her is spent, emptied. Lies in their hands, bird skulls emptied of summer. Too thin and light to survive this torrential rain.

In the rain the strong beating of wings: her form of black raven (twin to her brother’s white) takes flight, and with it the rain stops. 

His silence opens chasms. And it is too late to close them.

[itallstartedwithplayingvet]

Whumptober 2020 Day 10 - They Look So Pretty When They Bleed - Blood Loss

Fandom: Silent Hill

Characters: Valtiel, Cheryl (Heather) Mason, Cybil Bennett (mentioned)

Content Warnings: Blood, loss of limbs, broken bones, body horror, religious and cult themes

Word Count: 3,057 (Sorry about the length, it took a while for me to get to a place that felt good to stop at!)

Side note: Heather is referred to as Cheryl in this bit because this takes place after the events of SH3, after which Heather decided to start going by her original name, Cheryl.

I...I must return to her…

Rain poured from a blackened sky as a pale figure lingered in the open doorway of a timeworn church. Shaking, bloodied hands clutched at the rotted wood of the doorframe, seeking support for the weary body they belonged to. Within the church, a thick trail of fresh blood snaked across the floor, leading from a large pool in the center of the chapel, to the figure itself.

Valtiel’s grip on the doorframe tightened as his legs grew weaker. Through narrowed vision, he gazed upon the Otherworld town before him. It would be a long walk from here...that is, if he could even continue to stand up. A long walk, or an even longer crawl. He didn’t think he’d make it far if he were to crawl. The aching from the stumps of snapped-off bone that had once been his wings had rendered his arms all but useless. It took much of his remaining strength to keep his grip on the doorframe. The thought of crawling along on his stomach was out of the question--his chest felt as though it had been filled with shards of glass, and even breathing aggravated the injury.

Thus he was left with one option. It was a great risk, one that would require every ounce of strength left in his body, and his full, unbroken concentration. It was something he’d hardly ever done before. He’d always preferred to walk or fly in order to get around, but now...well, both of those things were out of the question. Valtiel bowed his head, and in his mind’s eye, pictured the face of the girl he’d watched over since the day of her birth.

Mother...Take me...to the Mother…

The view of the town from the Otherworld faded, as did the wooden doorframe he’d been clinging desperately to. He stumbled and fell forward--onto soft carpeted flooring. It would have been a comfort had it not painfully readjusted his shattered rib cage. His vision remained narrow, but even from a heap on the floor, he could see her.

Cheryl was staring at him in bewildered horror. She blinked a few times, her mouth agape...before at last standing up from her seat before a wooden desk and stepping behind the chair. “What...the...fuck…” She muttered.

Valtiel reached towards her, but his hand soon dropped to the floor. Following the jump, all of the strength had been sapped from his body. He was only vaguely aware that he was bleeding before her--sullying the holy ground she walked upon with his filth. Alas, it couldn't be helped. With luck, she would forgive him.

He was tired...so very tired. Surely it was safe to rest here for a moment...

. . .

"What the fuck are you?!" Cheryl cried, standing behind her chair as though it would protect her from the strange monster that had spontaneously appeared on her bedroom floor. She thought to run to her closet and retrieve one of the many weapons she'd brought home from Silent Hill.

But something kept her from doing just that. It wouldn't have taken a doctor to see that the monster before her was severely wounded.It was bleeding all over her carpet, after all--Bleeding like a damned stuck pig, in fact. And was that...bone sticking out from its bloodied back?!

Christ. I don't think this was my doing. Even God didn't look this bad when I was done with Her. Cheryl mused to herself. Does that mean there's some way stronger monster outside? Did this...thing crawl in here to try and hide from it?

Come to think of it...just what the hell is this thing, anyway? Cheryl leaned closer against her better judgement to try and inspect the creature further. After a moment or so of gazing upon its disgusting, pallid flesh, she remembered something she'd seen in Silent Hill...in fact, a few different things.

This thing was in the elevator at the mall...and in that locker...and behind that ladder...and hanging between those two dead bodies...and in that crawlspace in the church…and…

It's the thing that killed Claudia.

Cheryl could recall a painting she'd seen in the church. An image she'd tried to put aside, given its disturbing appearance. The painting of a twisted, vaguely human-shaped being, with a featureless face and a pair of lips on the side of its skull. A painting labeled as depicting the "Attendant of God", an angel named Valtiel. The bit of scripture beside the grotesque image had explained that Valtiel had been created by God Herself to serve Her and carry out Her will, and that when it was time for Her to be reborn, the angel Valtiel would serve as protector and midwife to the Mother of God.

The thought that this...thing had been following her for heaven-knows-how-long--stalking her, waiting for her to birth the Order's patron deity--It sent a cold chill down Cheryl's spine. She was almost happy to see it suffering, and debated whether or not to finish it off.

Wait...something's missing. That freaky painting...Where are its wings? She could swear the painting had depicted the creature with an oddly beautiful pair of black-feathered wings. She'd almost forgotten this feature, considering that she hadn't seen them on the creature during any of her previous encounters with it. But her eyes were once again drawn to the bones protruding from the creature's back. It all seemed to make sense now--something had torn its wings clean off, and it had sought protection from further harm by seeking out the only human it trusted.

Her gaze softened a bit when she looked at the creature now, for she had realized something else. …I'm sure the Order fucking hates me for killing their God. I saw what you did to Claudia. What stopped you from doing that to me?

...Same reason crocodiles don't eat those little bug-pecking birds that clean their teeth, I'll bet. You still need me. But why? I literally killed your God! I've thrown the world's biggest wrench into the Order's plans, and that wasn't enough for you to kill me?!

...Maybe...maybe I can trust you, then.

Cheryl thought over the idea, weighing what terrible consequences might result from her helping a seemingly rogue, former enforcer of the Order.

...Fuck it. I've killed so many of their monsters...I think I know all their tricks by now. And if this thing's still willing to trust me after what I did...I might as well return the favor.

Cheryl knelt down to the creature's level, and cautiously placed one hand under its chin. She wasn't sure if it even had eyes, but it seemed like it had been looking at her earlier. The creature groaned, but remained still. Cheryl heaved a sigh. "If you use this to try and make me birth your God again, I won't hesitate to finish you off. Understand?" She whispered sternly to the creature.

. . . 

The Mother's words roused Valtiel from his brief spell of unconsciousness. Yes, he understood what she meant. He was quite accustomed to threats of punishment for disobedience. Though it had been quite some time since he had spoken the tongues of the common man, he parted his lips and managed a single "Yes."

The Mother recoiled in horror once more. "Fucking hell...you can actually talk?!" She muttered in disbelief. "...I was just expecting a nod." She sighed. "Well...here goes nothing."

Cheryl reached beneath his body with both hands, and hooked them beneath his armpits. With great effort, she attempted to pull him to his feet. After several attempts that left the both of them exhausted, Valtiel realized that he would have to assist her, despite the exhaustion he felt. When Cheryl tried to lift him again--following a handful of muttered expletives--Valtiel strained to move his legs, and with every remaining shred of energy in his body, he pushed against the floor. Eventually, with his cooperation, Cheryl managed to lift him to his feet.

"Okay. That was--" Cheryl let out a cry of surprise and frantically tried to brace herself against her bed when Valtiel suddenly collapsed onto her. She managed to keep the both of them upright, and after catching her breath, she began dragging him to the side of her bed. Luckily, they weren't far from it. She soon reached the side of her bed, and pushed the creature onto it as gently as she could manage, which unfortunately still coaxed a quiet moan from its misplaced lips.

"Sorry." Cheryl muttered, wiping sweat from her brow and scowling when she realized she'd also smeared it with his blood. Whatever, I can wipe that off later. She thought to herself. She thought to adjust the creature to a more comfortable position, but realized she'd nearly forgotten that it was still actively bleeding. Of course, blood loss took priority over any other injury, so she wasted no further time in gathering supplies.

"I'll be back soon." She said to the creature, though she found the idea of trying to reassure a monster rather strange. "Just...stay there. Don't move." Without another word, she left the room and made her way towards the second floor bathroom. She could only hope they had enough gauze.

Valtiel whined as she left, reaching towards her with one feeble hand, but he could not reach her without leaving the bed, and it was doubtless that he didn't have the strength left to follow her. So he let his weary limb collapse onto the bed, and watched through vision blurred with delirium as his idol left him. Now that he was awake, and after all the effort it had taken to move to the bed, the pain of his wounds was unbearable. It wasn't in his nature to act so pathetic, but it also wasn't in his nature to feel pain. It was something practically alien to him. Divine beings were meant to be higher than mortals, and therefore knew of and felt hardly anything mortals were accustomed to. There had always been threats to cut his ties to the divine, but not until today had they been followed through. In the back of his mind, Valtiel began to fear the prospect of becoming fully mortal. If this inescapable agony was just part of the mortal experience, what else did such a fate have in store for him?!

He found himself unable to silence his impulsive whines and moans. Such noises did nothing to relieve the pain, but he had seemingly lost control of his vocal chords, and to restrain a cry served only to exacerbate the pain in his chest. The steady stream of blood that had been spurting from his crudely amputated wings had slowed to a trickle--a small act of mercy he was grateful for. Still, it hadn't completely stopped, and he felt as though it wouldn't until every drop of life left in his broken body had seeped into the Mother's bedsheets.

He could just barely hear her somewhere down the hall. She sounded as though she were searching for something. She had mentioned that she would return soon. But...what was she searching for in that room? Surely if she were truly divine, she could heal him with only a touch.

No...no, of course not. She was still divine, he had no doubt of that. But her power had certainly grown weaker over the years. As it was, she didn't appear to be capable of any divine feats at all. But that didn't matter now. She was still worthy of his worship, and always would be. And he would accept whatever she planned on doing to help him in this time of dire need with the utmost gratitude an angel could bestow. ...But if she didn't do something soon, he feared he might not be able to stay long enough to thank her.

Answering his prayers, Cheryl returned to the room carrying a small red box in her hands. On its side was a small cross. Valtiel wondered if it was some manner of holy artifact, though he'd never seen one like it before. The Order didn't really use crosses in its holy symbolism...that was Christianity. Admittedly, there was some small overlap between the two religions, but that hardly mattered now.

Cheryl walked around to the opposite side of the bed, until she was facing the angel's back and completely hidden from his limited field of vision. He began to crane his neck backwards in an attempt to see her, but Cheryl seemed to react poorly to this, and so as not to offend her, he returned his head to its original position.

“Okay...I’ve got a grotesque monster that calls itself an angel in my bedroom...” Cheryl muttered to herself. She opened the First Aid kit she'd found in the bathroom, and rummaged for a bit before finding a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a roll of gauze. She looked at the angel's back again, and cursed softly. Whatever he was, he needed a surgeon, not a First Aid kit. But Cheryl knew taking him to a professional would be impossible. She didn't dare move him now, and he wasn't exactly human, or any other creature that could be easily explained to a doctor or vet. Honestly, she wasn't certain if others could even see him. A part of her still thought she might be hallucinating this whole thing.

"Hold still." She commanded him. "This is probably gonna hurt like hell." She poured a few drops of alcohol onto a scrap of gauze, and gingerly pressed it to the first of the wounds. At once, Valtiel whined sharply and thrashed weakly. He repeated this as Cheryl moved to the other wound, though he thrashed less and less as time dragged on, until he simply lay there, breathing raggedly, as she moved to wrapping a thick layer of gauze around his upper back. He whined whenever she would touch the stumps of bone that remained of his wings, and wheezed when she pulled the gauze tight.

"Sorry…" She apologized to him reflexively, applying a few more layers until she was satisfied that she'd made enough pressure for his wounds to stop bleeding. "Had to be done." She gazed down at her hands...they were completely covered in the creature's blood. How the hell am I supposed to explain this to Mom?! It occurred to her that blood was about the toughest natural substance to wash out of fabric. And here her guardian angel had spilled his all over the damn place!

Honestly, she was surprised he hadn't bled to death yet, let alone that he was still lucid enough to react when she touched him. But Cheryl decided that there was nothing she could do now about the mess, and so when her mother found the gruesome scene in her bedroom, she would simply come clean and tell her the full truth of the matter. Her mother had been to Silent Hill before Cheryl was born...or rather, when Cheryl was still her...earlier incarnation. She doubted she'd ever fully understand how a person could have been not one, but two people simultaneously before their own birth. But Cheryl felt certain that her mother would at least know what her new guest was.

Valtiel seemed to have calmed down since Cheryl had finished her attempt at patching him up. Though he still appeared to be in quite a bit of pain, he'd at least stopped moving and had fallen silent. Though...Cheryl wasn't so certain of whether or not that was a good thing. "Does that...feel any better?" She asked him, albeit hesitant to hear him speak again. Thankfully, he only shook his head.

"...I have an idea. Don't move. I won't be long." She said softly to him, before leaving the room again and heading for the bathroom. First, she turned the faucet on and thoroughly washed her hands. Sure, maybe blood of the divine had positive qualities, but she still didn't want it all over her hands. After that was done, she opened the mirror cabinet and retrieved a small white bottle. Granted, her guest wasn't human, and she had no way of knowing how medicine developed for humans would affect him...but she didn't feel right just letting him suffer. So she took the bottle of over-the-counter painkillers back to her bedroom.

She stopped at the side of the bed facing him directly this time, and reached over to her nightstand to grab a bottle of water. She shook the bottle of pills once to get the weary creature's attention. "You're probably not used to doing this...but with any luck, it'll help you." She unscrewed the cap and took out two small pills. “Here, just open your mouth, and swallow these.” She held the pills in her hand near the strange mouth on the side of Valtiel’s head. He didn’t respond. Really, he almost seemed confused by her directions.

“What, do you not know how to swallow things?” Cheryl sighed. “Who am I kidding? Of course you don’t. You’re some weird otherworldly monster, of course you don’t understand the concept of eating.” She took the bottle of water from her nightstand. “Here, do like I do.” She took a few sips of the water in an attempt to show the strange creature how swallowing works. “Think you can do that?” She held the pills out to him again, as well as the bottle of water.

Valtiel snatched the two pills from her hand using a long, thin tongue that snaked out from his misplaced lips. Cheryl jumped back in surprise, but watched as the tongue brought the pills into his mouth, and after a moment, or so, he appeared to swallow them. Cheryl sighed, relieved that he’d finally figured it out. “There you go, weirdo. Hope that helps.” She took one corner of the topmost sheet on her bed, and draped it over the angel’s body. “Just stay here and rest, okay? Please don’t try to follow me around.”

The angel nodded wearily, and soon, Cheryl heard him breathing slowly and softly, as though asleep. She took this opportunity to start attempting to clean the room, albeit while trying to make as little noise as possible. With how much effort it had taken to get him to fall asleep the first time, she didn’t want to wake him again any time soon.

Mom is really gonna freak.

[miqojak]

Massacre

(( I have been in such a SLUMP with Jak lately, and I haven’t even sat at my computer in something like two weeks. So, here’s to me knocking the dust off my writing, and hoping I can figure out how to get Jak back into RP again. Big-time mentions of @ketsuchikotetsu and the fellow who hurt her. It’s a bit gorey here and there, be warned. Also, enjoy MUSIC - if you want. ))

A gristly, wet sound of bones grinding broke the silence - followed by the clean snap of, at last, the shoulder being cracked from the socket in which it belonged. It was less enjoyable when they’d already died, however. The hunt was the evocative part - the savagery of the struggle was the true beauty. 

She’d haunted the Shroud, while the girl buried herself deep in her own mind - Kesri - she’d made the mistake of ignoring her own common sense, and the warnings of the Wolf, and now she paid for it. Not that she wasn’t part of Kesri - but she was the part that had loudly protested against affections. That had insisted that if she must care, then at least not to care for the Fuckboy Sailor. A waste of time and energy, as her Wolf had said.

She liked the Wolf, that ‘Beast’ of Jak’s - if she was capable of such an emotion, even. If there were anyone to insist on being loyal to, why not the creature just like her? Someone else that the world had left fractured, someone else who had picked up those pieces no matter how they made him bleed, who dared to exist when - time and again - the world had tried to break him, or tell him he was wrong. Like her, he was fury unbound. Rage. Cruelty. Ferocity. Control, even in the heart of chaos - but then, the chaos was typically of his own creation; yet another trait to aspire to. The flash of fangs made sense, the guttural ripsnarl in his throat, the rumble in his chest. It was the way of things. It was honesty. It was savagery at its most exquisite. It made sense. He spoke the same language.

The girl had cost them even that, in her ignorant, prideful insistence on clinging to the Fuckboy she thought she could...what, change? Make worthy of her? Force to grow up? A man at least a decade her senior was not a kit, and shouldn’t need a young woman coming into her own to teach him how to exist, how to function with a degree of maturity and intelligence. And when, at last, he’d rampaged past her walls, torn them down with both ferocity and charm...he’d stuck the knife into the softest part of her, as she’d always known someone would do, if she didn’t maintain those abrasive walls. Even that Dog of hers had done likewise - gotten to the center of the labyrinth, where a modicum of affection still trembled within her...and then he’d done what they’d both always anticipated: he ran. 

“Not until you let the village idiot hold you under until you stopped breathing. Not until everyone you held close, few as they were, left you. You cower, terrified of the stark, frigid loneliness of their sudden departure - when you should never have let them in to begin with.”

The Beast furiously brought the girl forth, with this thought in mind - loomed, a beast of shadow and crimson...all eyes and teeth, a thing maddening to witness.

Wild-eyed and half-feral, herself, ‘Jak’ swept her panicked gaze about the bloodied forest clearing, strung as it was with various bits of what were once organs. Kesri, birthed once more into a world rife with cruelty, lifted a tremulous gaze to the Beast that towered in a way it never had prior...but then, it had never been left to feed itself as much as it would have truly liked. At least, not until...not until...

Tall as the towering trees of the Shroud that enveloped them, that nigh-formless creature whose form vaguely resembled that of a jackal...though constantly shifting and reforming, that inky shadow substance that comprised it was incapable of holding a truly static shape for any length of time. The girl bowed her head, tail limp in the moist decay of the forest floor, fur full of clinging needles and leaves - long, slender ears fallen in their entirety; a beaten little beast, herself. The faintest of murmurs accompanied the hang of her head, “I know.” A rasp - she hadn’t used her voice in...a moon? Despite the taste of blood on her tongue, the appendage felt foreign in her mouth; a writhing worm, a maggot in a corpse. 

“Did you actually believe in your own lies? Your mask - that of the dragon - you came to feast on your own ego, as those fools filled you up with praise; a false goddess, built on false love, on false hope...set upon a false altar. A mockery of the throne you COULD have.”

It shifted shapes - first, to that of a dragon...which also bore too many eyes. Far...far too many - wings covered in them, all staring, twisted, blinking erratically, before it shrank down to a jackal-headed figure that towered over her. A clawed ‘hand’ extended, the eyes in its palm staring as it coiled those twisted fingers about her throat, to lift her aloft.

“You’re...me, you can’t - ”

“You’ve never been above self-harm. Why start now? You try to emulate me, you speak of the Jackal, but LOOK AT YOU.”

It took her shape, now - though that sucking blackness that devoured the light of the stars filtering through the trees was heavily threaded with sanguine ‘veins’, sanguine eyes. Its mouth full of too many teeth, still, as it berated her...as she tore at herself. The Beast wasn’t wrong - she was pathetic. A wretch, well and truly. What was it Ketsuchi had called her...a wide-eyed kitten? Perhaps she had been. All ego, and no sense, she’d thought she’d known better. And when she’d realized she didn’t, in fact, know any better at all...she’d borne down on her point even harder, for fear of admitting failure.

“The only one among them who ever truly invested in you. That one stung the most, didn’t it? We’ve never begged ANYONE. Not of our own accord, not outside of a role, and yet - how do We rectify this? Forget your runaway Dog. Forget the Fuckboy. As he forgot YOU, when he so desperately sought someone else who would tell him that his insignificance was enough - someone who wouldn’t push him, but accept how WORTHLESS he was - and after we gave him EVERYTHING. After he lied, and told us he liked how we pushed him to excel, and be better. You mourn what was never true...so pursue what was: the Wolf.”

The thing’s fury - her fury! Her indignation, rage, and pain! - was choking the life out of her, ripping her own aether right from her, as it had done to the once-living bodies strewn about the glade in which her own life now trickled away.

“I don’t...know how! I was just...a project. Besides, I don’t...deserve...”

“You don’t know how?! NO one knows how to begin, little robin. No more excuses. Make a choice, for fucking once. Own your mistakes...and don’t make them again.”

The use of that ‘nickname’ - that, that saw the Beast begin to shrink, as inky tendrils swam up the little woman’s body, in turn “I...I have been. Maybe...maybe I still am. A jackal pup, a little bird beating her wings. But I...cannot be my own...enemy. No more. No more hiding. I will hurt, but I will...be me. Us. You, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known. The only one who will ever love me, never leave me...me.”

When she fell to the gore-soaked forest floor, gasping for breath, the little calico shook with...power. It had fed incessantly, nigh-constantly, as she’d licked her wounds - the Beast had terrorized the Shroud, an unknown horror in the trees...stealing the unsuspecting from their homes, snatching any fools brave enough to venture into the forest’s belly. But Jak was tired of hiding. Tired of crying over spilled milk. Tired, she was so fucking tired - and angry. Furious, at the wounds her supposedly loyal hounds had left her with. She was unstable, still, sure; the Beast would re-claim control, in time, and it would remain a struggle for the foreseeable future - but Jak excelled at survival. She would not let the ignorance of men put her fire out. She would not waste away in the depths of her own mind, to become nothing but a mindless creature. 

She would rebuild her walls - and fortify them, this time. Paint them in the blood of those who even thought of seeing what lay at the heart of J’kesri - put their heads on spikes, and show them just what happened when you cared for a beast.

No more naivete. No more living among the sheep - no more pretending, as they did. The Fuckboy had thought it weak, to set aside one’s emotions, but he was more the fool for indulging his, wasn’t he? They made a good weapon - a good tool - and nothing more.