#had the CLEAREST image in my head all of a sudden so here it is

[allknowingaxolotl]

🐐 BE UPON YE

[tavyliasin]

Disability Pride Essays - Wyll and Sudden Disability

Next up on my list for disability parallels is the ever wonderful Wyll Ravengard. Whilst the obvious thing here might be to look at his eye and the link to vision loss, there’s a lot more that can be said about the main path of his story being a strong allegory for an accident or incident causing permanent and visible disability. 

So the content warnings here are going to be around traumatic injury and incidents, as well as sudden onset disability and the ways in which we cope with these drastic changes both physically and psychologically. There will also be a little talk around ableism and family attitudes to disability, and how for some of us disability is something that integrates into our identity.

What is Wyll’s Disability?

Wyll is interesting, when we first meet him he has already lost his eye to Mizora’s first incident, but this is something he has already integrated and accepted. It isn’t bothering him particularly, and he has learned to compensate enough to fight and continue to proudly wear his title as Blade of the Frontiers. Although there’s still pain and trauma to how he has been denied his home, this aspect he has been able to fully integrate into himself and it isn’t something that he openly struggles with in the game. And then we have the choice, which is most often made, to spare Karlach. The result of that is Mizora’s most spiteful action, in changing Wyll physically and irrevocably. Not only is the process visibly agonising, as we witness him changing on the screen, but there’s clearly a leftover impact to that too. There’s a lot of reconciliation needed between the heroic image he had so painstakingly built up as the Blade of the Frontiers, to now looking much more like the very fiends he has fought against for all this time. There’s also the consideration that having huge horns growing suddenly from a head that has never had that weight would likely cause chronic pain issues whilst the muscles adapt to the changed balance.

How Do We See The Disability In The Game?

In the game with Wyll we see a lot more of it in his initial reactions and conversations shortly after. He has to come to terms with the sudden and drastic alteration to his physical body, from the horns to the scars and even ridges he mentions. Beyond that, we see more of how people react to him and what he expects from himself rather than the physical aspects that we quickly become used to. The clearest part of this are when he meets his father again. Ulder expresses a lot of unfavourable reactions towards Wyll at first, and reinforces exactly the things that Wyll has been struggling with accepting - he doesn’t fit in any more, he’s not like his peers, he can’t simply continue with the path that was set out for him when he was born. Beyond this, though, there is a chance for reconciliation. To let Wyll advocate for himself, for what he wants, and to prove that physical appearance or social status are not what makes him who he is and they never have been.

How Does This Reflect Real Life?

There are a few things in here - the biggest is a disability caused by an accident or a sudden onset illness. That can involve a similar complete shift from what someone planned for themselves, for their life, and what is actually possible now. Another one to consider is also society’s reaction to visible differences, and historically there is a lot that fictional media has to answer for in equating certain physical traits to moral failings - take a moment to think about how many villains have been visibly scarred, larger bodied, disabled, or generally not “conventionally attractive” whilst the heroes are most often attractive, fit, healthy, and usually embodying some kind of aesthetic ideal. When this is our childhood, we begin to make those subtle associations between “looks different” and “is evil/bad/immoral/scary”. So we can see not only external ableism in Wyll’s story, but also internalised too as he assumes people will only see him as a monster, that he won’t be able to be a hero like he wanted. Very few people in the real world set out to be literal monster slaying heroes, but many of us have hopes and dreams in our early life. Maybe it’s a dream career, or a qualification we’re working hard to earn, or an ideal life plan that we’ve built up and worked out as our key goal. Disability, whether through accident or sudden illness, can strip those all away very suddenly. This can feel visceral, it can lead to a very real process of grief as we mourn what we could have had whilst trying to adapt to our new normal. It’s important that we do, though, to learn to work with and around long term conditions rather than against them. At the end, we might find that we keep some core part of our dream, but it has changed to fit who we have become as we find our new identity and belonging with disability becoming a part of our life in an inextricable way. For Wyll, he was able to take his skills, his desire to be a hero, and his passion for helping people and turn it all to pledging himself to helping Karlach. He’s still a hero, still The Blade, but this time of Avernus not the Frontiers. Similarly, we might find ourselves taking our passions and finding another avenue for them, or changing how we approach them. For example, someone working as a stunt double might instead become a safety coordinator or a similar oversight role where they can still use their experience and knowledge in a different part of the same field of work. That’s not a common example, but it’s one of the most direct parallels. When we look at the ableism though, this is much more difficult. Externally, of course, we can treat people as people on an individual basis and work on any implicit biases we have when we encounter visible disabilities and try to ensure that we are pushing for accessibility. Internally, it can take a lot more work to change our thoughts and feelings about ourselves and others. It also doesn’t help to pretend we are incapable of being ableist - a lot of it can be subtle, for example it can even be in our use of outdated language.

Ableism and Implicit Bias

I’d also like to take some time on this and mention that implicit biases don’t make us bad people, they are things that are built up subtly by how we were raised and our experience of the world around us. What matters is what we do with those biases - recognising that they are there, and working within ourselves to change them and to ensure they don’t impact how we treat people around us. That’s what makes the real difference. On a very basic level, if you’ve seen a lot of films and tv where dogs are scary, and/or have been barked at or even bitten by a dog, and/or had your parents tell you to be careful around dogs because they are dangerous, then it would be natural to see a dog and feel they are dangerous. But our choice can be to recognise that feeling, where it comes from, and consciously choose to treat this dog the way you would any other similar animal - judge it by its actions, not by our preconceptions. The same might be said of how we might grow up with media of all kinds showing people with visible differences like facial scars. A whole generation with a villain literally named “Scar”, so it’s no surprise that we might see someone with facial scars and instinctively feel intimidated or worried. What matters is how we act and react, what we do and do not do, and how we break down that implicit bias. This is something that Wyll has to deal with after he has changed - he even mentions seeing his own appearance as devilish, despite how quickly he accepts that he was wrong about Karlach and shouldn’t have judged her by how she looks. He’s been able to overcome that bias in how he is treating others - and we do see how readily he helps the tiefling refugees, too - but he has to reconcile that in himself next. Between the scars, the features that make his own reflection feel unfamiliar to himself, it’s really not too dissimilar to someone getting used to the physical changes after an accident, operation, or sudden onset condition that changes things. The implicit bias is different, but it’s still there. Whether it’s getting used to things externally, or even internally, that’s a bridge that many people need to cross; the internalised parts of ableism that are much harder to break through, which is often something people experience with a sudden or new disability.  Often those with chronic conditions or neurodivergencies will be self-critical, believing themselves to be lazy rather than what is actually happening, which is that we reach a point where we can’t simply “push past it” or “get on with it”. That’s the difference with a long term issue and a short term one. If there is an end, then it is easier to go past your limits for a short time because your limits will increase again when you’ve recovered. But something permanent? There’s no recovering, and pushing too hard will make things worse.

And that’s where we need to change what we expect from ourselves - swap our Frontiers for Avernus. Continuing to work against your own body and mind are a fast way to become overwhelmed, frustrated, and burned out. But when you learn what your limits are, and how far you can safely push them without making things worse, you can reach that potential.

Take it from someone who used to be physically fit and active who now has to be sat down 99% of the time - accepting that is the key. Let go of the implicit bias that says you have to be one way, and allow yourself to live in the way that works for you.

It is harder when this is sudden, when one day you’re enjoying hobbies, a career, dreams and goals you’ve worked towards and the next…the next it feels like they’re out of reach forever. It’s important to allow that grieving process, and to accept our reality even if we don’t approve of it.

That’s the same for Wyll, there. He needs to accept that he has changed permanently, but that doesn’t mean he has to approve of it. He doesn’t need to think of it as a positive or good thing to just accept that it is how it is - neutrality is the goal, really, because overcompensating can be patronising or minimise a person’s distress.

Independence And Autonomy

There also needs to be something said about how we as the player react to and around Wyll and his decisions. The best route, in my opinion, is to allow him the freedom to explore his options from a position of non-judgemental support. Where he is encouraged to speak his mind to Ulder, and to explore his own options. There are moments he turns to the player for our opinion, to give our input on what we feel about his future, but at the end of the day it is his choice how he moves forwards with the changes in his life. Similarly, those around us who go through a drastic change in their physical and/or mental health should be permitted that autonomy to decide on what is right for them, and to retain as much independence as they wish (so long as it is safe to do so, of course, which is a decision to be made between the individual and their expert care team rather than a well-meaning friend/family deciding what they can and cannot do).

Identity and Family

Whilst this isn’t universal to all disabled people, a lot of us find that our disability is a part of who we are in a way that’s just as irreversible as the changes Wyll goes through in his appearance. Just like he can’t get rid of his horns or change his eye, or remove the ridges from his skin, we cannot separate ourselves from our disabilities. This is more prevalent in some communities than others, and can really vary from person to person too. The one that springs to mind for me is the Deaf/deaf communities - the capital D is an important distinction, from what I understand, as this encompasses more of Deaf culture like sign language and other things that are unique and important to the Deaf communities. There can be some people who tell us that “you shouldn’t let disability be your identity” or things like that, but actually it is accepting the disabilities as a part of ourselves that can be the most empowering and beneficial long term. Fighting it, pretending it isn’t there, or just denying our reality…that doesn’t help. It isn’t “giving up” to simply accept that “this is how my life is now, and this is what I need to be able to do what I want to do”. Family members can also have a hard time accepting things too. Just like Ulder at first finds it hard to reconcile how much his son has changed, particularly as his own biases come into play, he does eventually listen and learn. This is all we can ask from our own families, and what we need most - for them to hear what we are saying and to accept who we are, as we are. We are disabled, being disabled is a part of our identity, but it is not the only thing about us. It isn’t the entirety of our identity, but it is something we cannot deny or remove entirely, even if it is one that can be invisible.

What We Can Learn From Wyll’s Story

The parallel to Wyll’s story is one that could happen to any one of us at any time. It’s impossible to guarantee that we won’t ever be involved in a traumatic incident or experience a sudden illness that changes the course of our lives. The world can mark us in many ways, so it is important for us to be aware of what we might expect, and how we might better support those around us who experience these life events too. The obvious lesson is around judging appearances and unlearning implicit biases that could impact how we treat ourselves and others. Just because horns and a fiery eye have long been associated with devilish and evil creatures, does not mean that someone who has those very features is evil by nature or cannot be a hero. Wyll proves to us, and to himself, that he is every bit the hero he has always worked hard to be even if he might look like the very fiends he has devoted his life to fighting against. The less obvious one is to recognise that a drastic physical change can take longer to come to terms with internally. Whether that is overcoming internalised ableism and implicit bias, or simply allowing proper time and space for the grief to process at the loss of “what was” to subside into accepting “what is” and looking towards “what can be”. This can’t be rushed, we can’t skip to the end of that process for ourselves or for others. It takes time.

But at the end of the day, having people there who are willing to listen, learn, and support without judging or trying to make decisions for us, that will make the transition towards the “new normal” much more bearable. 

So do keep in mind during disability pride month, that the disabled community is the one minority that anyone could become a part of at any time in their life. 

Supporting the community, fighting for accessibility and equitable treatment, that doesn’t just help us in the here and now, it could help you or your loved ones in the future.

[regalrain]

I request….Dark torturing the Host trying to get the Author back </3

In the Dark, He Waits

Note: The Host is @doctordiscord123’s version!

“The shadows are trembling. The shadows are alive. The shadows are seeping with rage, slithering their way towards the Host with a goal in mind. The Host doesn’t want the shadows! The Host demands they go away! Please! The shadows can still go away, the shadows don’t need to come—“

The Host is cut off with a low groan, as a sudden shrill sound cuts through the air. His legs surrounded by cold, biting tendrils, that were so achingly familiar, yet not. They were from a bygone era, one he didn’t want to relive, and as they continued up his bound form, strapped as he was to a wooden chair, he whimpered. He knew he wouldn’t be able to shake them off. Not now, when…

“The shadows open. A singular, purple eye gleams within them, narrowing as the Host narrates. He’s here. He’s here… and he’s not going to listen to the Host….”

“Quite correct.”

It was almost more fear inducing when the shrill sound cut out to just a low thrum. Flinching, the Host turned his head up and away from his chest. A bone deep tiredness settling into him, as he gave a shivery sigh. Locking ‘eyes’ with Dark, as much as he could when he himself didn’t have them. Blood starting to stain his bandages, as he muttered under his breath. As the Host expected, the bindings didn’t give to his magic. He never could out power Dark in the past, and it seemed that remained true now.

“The Host will cut to the chase. Informing Dark that he will not achieve his goal.”

“And you know it?”

It didn’t take him narrating to know Dark must’ve lifted an eyebrow. He heard the click of his shoes as the monster in the guise of a man drew closer to him. Circling him. With the way the air shifted, the Host was sure that Dark’s mirror images were around too. Freaking out, as they were prone to, while Dark himself did nothing but twitch. He never could quite contain himself. It was admirable he never fully exploded and wiped everyone clean, but less so when he was the sole recipient of his unstable ire.

“…Dark wants the Author back.” A crooked grin stretched on Host’s lips, as the blood started to soak fully through his bandages. Warmth running in streams down his face, as he tried to be firm. It just made Dark sick, looking at him, he’s sure. “But the Host is more then happy to inform him the Author is dead and gone—“

The Host flinched, crying out as he was struck across the face. The cold tendrils that had slithered up his body tightening, threatening to squeeze him hard enough to bruise him all over. Harsh fingers grasped his chin, forcing him to keep his head up as the nails dug into his skin. If it were anyone else, he may’ve complained on how that was going to for sure leave a mark thanks to his hemophilia. But he didn’t have time for that.

“You will be silent!”

Just as quickly as they grabbed him, the fingers dropped his chin. He could hear Dark’s voice layering, several others joining in, yet his was the clearest of all. Pure warning was seeping from it. He could feel the tendrils dropping away from him as well, leaving him just solely bound to the chair. However, the second he opened his mouth to try to narrate what was going on, a hard, blunt object smacked into his stomach. Silencing him with a wheeze and a crack, as he felt the mirror images not quite there touch on both his shoulders.

“I will have him back. One way or another.”

Another thud followed, and the Host screamed as the chair he was in fell onto its left side. His cheek smacking hard into the wooden floor, causing him to gasp as a metallic tang filled his mouth. For once, it wasn’t from his eyes.

“While it’s less than ideal this way, my Dear… I’m sure the Author won’t mind.”

Just as the Host gurgled, to urgently try and get away, to say something or another to defend himself, the blunt object swung down again. It was closely followed by the slash of a cold blade across his skin, cutting him just enough to make him shriek in pain.

“I know I don’t. He’ll understand. He’ll heal.”

——————————

Sipping on some earl grey tea, Dark lifted his head as he heard stumbling deeper in the cabin. Author’s cabin, exactly where he had dragged the Host to try to tempt him back out. That obviously hadn’t worked, and Dark took another sip of his tea as the dragging of fabric was heard. The clothes he was in were still stained with blood, that color’s had drained from the bright red to a deep grey. He easily could’ve cleaned himself up, the rest of him was still spic and span, but there was one thing he wanted to see first before he did.

Twitching, he paused as the sound drew closer. Looking straight at the opening to the hallway as a tall, battered frame came into view. Clothes bloodstained and in tatters, mere rags on him now. His bandages long since having slipped down his face in a red disarray, yet it didn’t stop Dark from smirking as the being braced himself against the wall. A crazed smile on his face, the golden streak in the hair gone, soaked through with red, as two pin pricks of pure gold lit up in the dark sockets of where eyes once were.

“I’m back~”

[photo1030]

Hello, lovely!

I’m here with a request, but first I gotta profess my love for your story again (perhaps you lust for what you cannot have). Oh, it has stuck to my mind like glue ever since I first read it. The story is so good and your writing skills are excellent! I’m in great need of those fantastic writing skills of yours please. 🥰

Could you give me some good ol’ sweet fluff with F!Reader watching Arthur Morgan play/snuggle with a cat. Maybe you can add in there that he didn’t want any pets in the beginning, but immediately fell in love with the cute little guy/girl. I can picture Arthur writing in his journal with the cat laying in his lap. OMG. Imagine him drawing the cat in his journal?? 😭

Thank you in advance and please take all the time you may want or need 💚.

Thank you so much for this "ask"! This is my first request ever, so I hope I did it justice. I didn't do a "x female reader" but Arthur and Jack with this kitten. Hope that is OK? Still Arthur being adorable, so can't go wrong, right? But if you'd prefer the f!reader prompt, I can tweak it. This is the clearest image that came to my mind, so I went with it.

*I had my good friend @rivetingrosie4 beta-read this for me, so I kinda feel like its co-authored, too.

Tag: @misspearly1

ARTHUR'S SHADOW

Summary: Arthur finds an unlikely companion.

*This image is not mine. This comes from greyswan618 on fanpop.

By the time Arthur drags his latest bounty score into the sheriff's office, it's late in the day. And this one, although not necessarily hard to catch, took him a while to track down. This job was good money, but it has left Arthur exhausted. The sun is already hanging low in the sky outside of town and preparing to descend behind the mountains for the day. Since the bounty paid well, Arthur decides to treat himself with a stay at the hotel before returning home. After securing his room, he pays the hotel owner to keep his horse stabled overnight as well. May as well treat his horse too.

After walking back outside, Arthur takes Buck by the reins and leads him around to the back of the hotel to where the stable is. When he finds the stable empty, Arthur leads him to one of the larger stalls, since Buck is a rather large horse. He gets him bedded down for the night, taking off his saddle and brushing him down.

With Buck cleaned up, Arthur walks over to the rain barrel just outside the main door of the stable to fill the water trough in the stall. As he stands at the barrel, a sudden rustling catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. Turning to his left, he notices two pairs of shining eyes staring back at him from under the workbench that lines the wall. Curious, Arthur tilts his head to get a better look. He slowly puts down the bucket that is in his hands.

When he crouches down closer to the barn floor, he sees two tiny kittens hiding there. Even with the encroaching darkness of the evening, with the help of the glow of the lamplight, he can tell they’re still very young. Their fur is just growing out of that baby-fuzz stage, the gray color of rain clouds, and they're awfully skinny. Arthur looks around to see if he can see any signs of the momma anywhere, but there's nothing nearby. Either she is out hunting for food for her babies, or she's abandoned them here.

The fatigue in Arthur’s body is no longer his focus, now that he’s found these little ones.

“Well, look at you,” he chuckles quietly. He reaches into his satchel at his side and pulls out a piece of dried fish that he has tucked away. "Bet you're hungry," he says, his voice rumbly, but soft to keep from frightening them.

He holds out the piece of meat, but the two kittens do not move and only stare back at him with scared, vacant eyes.

"Alright, then," he says with a smile and tosses the meat over to them, so they don’t have to leave the security of their hiding place.

The kittens both spring backwards, tripping over each other clumsily, as the projectile hurtles towards them and lands just in front of their tiny faces. But it only takes a second before curiosity and hunger gets the better of them. Once they get a whiff of the aroma of the meat, the kittens pounce on it and begin to devour the morsel.

Satisfied, Arthur stands up, wiping his hands together. He goes back to getting Buck watered and fed for the night, humming peacefully to himself as he does. Every now and then, he glances over his shoulder to watch the kittens, who are feasting on the fish.

With his task with Buck now complete, Arthur heads back to the barn door to return to his room for the night, his boots scraping across the dirt as he moves. The kittens pause momentarily in their feast to cautiously watch him, their little heads bobbing up and down, before returning their attention to the food.

The next morning, Arthur is early to rise from his hotel room and heads out to the stable. But as he approaches the big stable door, he slows his pace as he is met with a gruesome sight. In the tall grasses just outside the door, he finds the body of one of the baby kittens. Judging by the way the carcass is torn open, it looks like a raccoon or hawk got to it.

"Ah, damn…" sighs Arthur as a slight pang of disappointment hits him. They were cute little things, and it’s a real shame that something happened to them. But such is the way of things, he supposes. He then looks around for the second one. Having some small hope that the other kitten may still be alive, Arthur makes a clicking sound with his tongue, trying to coax it out of hiding. After a few moments, he sees a flash of gray fur under a beam in the stable. He bends down and pats his hand on the ground, and the second kitten slowly creeps out towards him.

"Looks like you're an orphan, now," Arthur says to the kitten, slightly tilting his head to the side and assessing the situation. "Ain't we a pair, then?" he chuckles softly.

Arthur slowly reaches over and picks up the kitten by the scruff, the little one giving a soft and pathetic "meow" as it's hoisted up. He holds the kitten up before his face to get a better look. It seems alright, no fleas or other parasites that are noticeable. It appears to be a male cat, too. Arthur places him in the palm of his other hand. The kitten is so tiny to begin with, and with Arthur's large hands, the babe sits perfectly within his palm. He twists his wrist back and forth, pivoting his hand, so he can continue looking over the kitten, trying to decide what to do with it now. The kitten simply stares back at Arthur with tiny smokey blue-gray eyes, blinking innocently, an occasional "meow" squeaking out of its petite mouth.

Arthur sighs with resignation. "Alright, little one. Better come back with me. You won't make it out here on your own, that's for sure."

Arthur pauses another moment, looking at the kitten in his hand, second-guessing whether he's making the right decision to take this cat with him. He's never particularly cared for cats. They always seem so temperamental and judgmental. He gets enough of that bullshit from people. Dogs. Arthur is a dog-person, with Copper being his pride and joy and best friend as a kid growing up with Hosea and Dutch. And, of course, there's always been his horses as his constant companions.

Sighing again with a shrug, he adds, "Well, maybe you can keep Jack company."

Arthur carefully sets the kitten back down and gives him another piece of fish out of his satchel to keep the kitten occupied while he gets Buck saddled and ready to head out and start for home. It's another day's ride, so Arthur is anxious to get going. By the time the kitten has gobbled up the food Arthur gave him, Arthur is ready to go and gently scoops up the kitten again and mounts his horse to begin the journey home.

As they ride out of town, Arthur protectively holds the kitten in his arm, close to his chest. The kitten doesn't move or fuss, but simply lifts its tiny face, turning about to look around at what's around him. After a while of riding, though, Arthur's arm begins to tire, and the kitten's fur up against him is making him start to sweat a bit. He needs to decide what to do with this cat so they can comfortably ride home. He considers putting him in his satchel, but quickly decides against it, worried the kitten would either suffocate inside the leather bag, or, get into all of the contents of the bag itself.

Noting how calm the kitten has been so far, Arthur simply decides to set the kitten down in front of him in the saddle. He's small enough to sit there between Arthur's thick thighs, and his burly forearms keep the kitten contained in the space pretty well. The kitten instantly sinks its claws into the leather of the saddle, bracing itself in a slight panic at being released from Arthur's protective grasp. But although the horse beneath them is walking at a brisk pace, his gait is smooth, so Arthur doesn't worry too much about the kitten getting jostled about.

And soon enough, the kitten finds its bravery and relaxes to release its claws from the soft material and sits up a bit. Arthur doesn't say anything, or hinder the kitten in any way, but watches the little one, amused at its quest for discovery. It doesn't take long for the kitten to gain more confidence, and he eventually climbs up to stand, putting his front paws up on the saddle horn. Like a tiny lion sentinel, the kitten observes the new world around himself.

After a long day's ride, Arthur decides to stop and make a small camp and settle in for the night. Once he finds a quiet, out-of-the-way spot, he halts Buck. Arthur wearily climbs down from his saddle, kitten in-hand, and sets the baby down on the ground to wander about in the cool grass while he sets up his temporary camp.

"Stick close. Don't be goin' and wanderin' off and gettin' into trouble," he warns the kitten with a pointed finger, as if scolding a child.

The furry face simply stares back at him, offering Arthur a quick "meow" in response.

Arthur goes about setting himself up for the evening, getting a small fire going first. Next, he pulls a can of food out of his saddlebag and proceeds to open it. He casually watches the kitten out of the corner of his eye, constantly keeping watch over him as he works. He sets the can next to the fire to heat up while he continues with his task at hand.

Arthur gets his bedroll set out and sets Buck's saddle atop it to use as a pillow to sleep against later. And all the while Arthur works, the gray kitten putters about his feet, following him around continuously as he moves. With every item that Arthur sets down, the kitten eagerly saunters over to sniff and investigate it. He constantly follows and lingers about Arthur's footsteps, poking at everything in innocent interest, to the point that Arthur has to watch his step so the kitten doesn't come under one of his massive footfalls and gets stepped on.

With camp finally set up, Arthur returns his attention to the can that has been warming by the fire as tonight's dinner. He grabs the can, pulls a fork from his bag, and settles down on his bedroll, leaning back against his saddle to get comfortable. Arthur lifts his eyes from the food in his hand to see the kitten slowly approach him. Now that the man has finally stopped moving long enough, the kitten can get up close to him again. The aroma of the food intrigues the little one and he lifts his tiny head, hungrily sniffing the air.

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur spears a few of the beans with the time-worn tines of the fork and extends his arm out to the kitten. "Ya like beans?" he asks the ball of fur.

The kitten cautiously sniffs the food, but turns its nose up at it, backing away.

"Come on now, you eat what's offered or you don't eat at all," he scolds the kitten. "At least that's what my momma used to say." Arthur waves the fork out in front of the kitten again to try to coax it to eat. "Come on…gotta at least try it."

The kitten comes back to him, sniffing again and reluctantly extends its neck out and licks the morsel with its tiny pink sandpaper tongue. After a few licks, the kitten decides it's edible and grabs the piece off of the end of the utensil.

"Atta, boy," Arthur says approvingly. He smirks to himself, realizing how ridiculous he sounds having a conversation with a cat. But then again, he talks to Buck all of the time, so he supposes that this really isn't all that different.

After Arthur and the kitten finish the can of beans, Arthur lays back against the saddle again to relax, his heavy frame melting into the bedroll beneath him, and lights a cigarette. He lets out a long, tired sigh as his eyes land on the kitten once more. As Arthur shuffles his foot a bit to get comfortable, the kitten takes great interest in the movement of his boot and decides to test his bravery.

His little butt rises in the air, tiny tail like an arrow straight up and at attention. The kitten crawls along the ground on his belly, attempting to be stealth-like. Arthur sees this and with a grin, he slowly waves his foot a bit again in temptation. And when he does, the kitten pounces on his boot, attacking it playfully and bites on the leather of the sole. The gruff outlaw lets out a soft laugh of amusement through his nose and begins to slowly wave his foot back and forth at the ankle, causing the kitten, who has wrapped himself around the boot, to sway back and forth above the ground. After a few more gnawing bites, the kitten plops down to the ground, confident in its own victory.

Fully invested in this as his entertainment for the evening, Arthur reaches over to his gambler's hat that is set off to the side, leans forward and drops it overtop of the kitten, trapping it underneath. There is no further movement, but Arthur can hear its little meows from under it. Smirking with his cigarette dangling from his chapped lips, he carefully picks up just the brim of the hat and tilts his head to peer under it.

He sees the kitten's little nose and a thin little paw swipe out at him, causing Arthur to chuckle.

"Fighter, ain't ya?" When Arthur lifts the hat up a bit more, the kitten quickly hops out from under it, grabs ahold of Arthur's forearm, and starts grappling with it, biting and digging its needle-like claws into Arthur's shirt and leather gloves.

Amused, Arthur rests his arm on the ground, carefully pinning the playful kitten underneath. He playfully growls at the kitten and uses his hand to roll the ball of fur over and over again, wrestling and playing with him.

When the kitten finally wears out, Arthur pauses to give him a break. The kitten stands up and gives itself a full-body shake, causing little pieces of grass and dirt to fly through the air. He's a scrappy little thing. Arthur will give him credit for that, at least. Arthur slowly pulls his black leather gloves off of his hands and reaches over to tuck them into his saddlebag, as he is truly getting settled in for the evening now.

The kitten sits on the bedroll next to his thigh, innocently watching Arthur as he moves. Arthur rolls back to lie flat and glances at the kitten for a moment before he extends his large fingertip out to rub along the top of the kitten's head, right between its ears. The kitten's eyes slowly close as it gives into the heavenly feeling, and it eagerly pushes its head up into Arthur's hand. Arthur can hear the kitten purring happily, the soft sound almost hypnotic.

"Ya like that, do ya?" Arthur's low voice rumbles in the quiet night. It's funny how such a small gesture can be so impactful on another living soul. The campfire crackles and pops softly next to them, being the only background noise to be heard in the night; its heat radiating and keeping the two of them cozy and warm.

Arthur eventually ceases petting the kitten and returns his hands to his lap. At the abrupt end to its massage, the kitten looks at Arthur again expectantly, and springs up to stand atop Arthur's chest. Inquisitive as ever, it crouches a bit and crawls towards Arthur's face, its head bobbing up and down, as cats are want to do when stalking their object of interest.

Just as the kitten gets close to Arthur's face, Arthur purses his lips together and blows a short burst of air into its face, causing it to jump back in surprise. It then suddenly leaps forward again in challenge and starts to chew on Arthur's beard. This causes Arthur to bark out a laugh a bit in spite of himself. To see such an innocent creature, so full of energy, warms his bitter old heart. He brings his hands up to start to pet the kitten again, running his large hands along its diminutive and skeletal body. After just a brief moment, the kitten seems placated with this as an "apology" and switches from biting at the man's beard to the occasional lick to his nose instead. And even though it is meant to comfort the kitten, Arthur has to admit that stroking the soft fur is oddly calming to himself as well.

"Alright, then, that's enough of that," Arthur grunts out as he picks up the kitten with one hand and sets him off to the side of him again and reaches over to grab his journal. Arthur rolls himself to sit up with an exaggerated groan, and sets the precious book onto his folded legs, opening the pages to the next blank ivory-colored page. He hasn't even set his pencil to the paper yet, when the curious kitten jumps up to perch itself on his knee.

The small face peers down to inspect the latest object of focus. Before Arthur can even stop him, the kitten hops down onto the book itself and starts walking around in circles on the pages, sniffing and inspecting it, chewing the corner just briefly, before plopping down to lay himself right across the smooth, open surface. The kitten innocently looks up at Arthur, wanting his undivided attention yet again.

"No, now, come on, fuzz-butt, get outta here now," he gruffly chides, but with only a slight annoyance in his voice as he playfully sweeps the kitten to the side with his forearm. The kitten meows in protest, lifting its paw to swat at Arthur's hand. "Hey, don't sass me, now. We're done playin' for the night."

And by this time, exhaustion has finally caught up to both Arthur and the little gray kitten, so Arthur only takes a few minutes to capture some brief thoughts in the journal before turning in for the night. He notes the job he completed, the money brought in for it, and then jots a few lines about this kitten that he'd found. He even takes a moment to quickly sketch the little one onto the paper, the strokes of the graphite tip skipping fluidly across the paper. Every time Arthur looks over at the furry ball for a perspective to assist in his drawing, the tiny face peers back at him, watching the pencil move in Arthur's hand, but obediently staying put.

When he's done, Arthur carefully closes his journal and tucks it back into its rightful place in his satchel. Taking a deep breath and stretching his tired arms over his head for a brief moment, Arthur then takes his hat and scoops the kitten into it in an effort to keep him safe and warm overnight while they sleep. He's hoping the little adventurer stays put and doesn't wander off in the night.

"There, now," peering down at the babe. "You stay there tonight, and then we'll get you home to Jack tomorrow." Arthur rubs his fingertips along the kitten's head again, gently scratching its scalp with his jagged fingernails, and then sets the hat right next to him, protectively along his side, before lying back and closing his eyes for the night.

The next morning, as the warm sunlight breaks over the horizon, consciousness slowly grabs ahold of the outlaw. He can feel the chill of the morning dew clinging to his clothing. With his eyes still sealed shut, reluctant to release the bliss of sleep just yet, Arthur stretches his body, hearing the familiar popping sound of his joints. He's getting too old to be sleeping on the cold, hard ground anymore.

Suddenly, he is aware of a slight weight on his abdomen. He peels open his eyes and sees the kitten curled up into a tight ball on his stomach, fast asleep, with its nose buried into the fur of its tail. It obviously crawled out of the make-shift bed of Arthur's hat and climbed up on top of the man at some point in the night. Whether it was seeking protection or warmth, Arthur's own body heat and the slow rise and fall of his chest kept the tiny animal comforted while it slept. The corners of Arthur's lips involuntarily pull up and a whispered "aww" escapes before he can even stop it.

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

When he gets back to camp, Arthur dismounts his horse and walks through the collection of tents and tables with the kitten tucked in his hand. He heads straight over to Dutch's tent to drop off the bounty payment. Dutch is sitting outside his tent, reading a book with a cigar clenched between his teeth, and as he gets closer, Arthur eventually sets the kitten down on the ground to walk so that his hands are free to dig into his satchel for the bounty money. The kitten continues to follow him as he heads over to the cash box and ledger in Dutch's tent. Dutch lifts his head as he notices Arthur's approach, but quickly tilts his head in confusion as he glances down at the little bundle of gray fur at Arthur's feet.

"What you got there, Arthur?" asks Dutch, pointing at the new arrival.

"Hmm? Oh. Found him. Thought he'd be a good playmate for Jack," says Arthur dismissively, focusing more on his scribbling into the job ledger.

"Well, ain't you the soft-hearted one?" Dutch muses with a slightly mocking grin before he leans over to get a good look at the kitten, reaching his ringed-fingers out to briefly pet him.

"Oh my goodness, look at that little face!" squeals Mary-Beth suddenly when she catches sight of the kitten while walking past the men. In a moment, she rushes over. She bends down and scoops up the kitten into her slender hands and snuggles him into her face. "Tilly! Come quick! Look what Arthur brought home!" she hollers over to her friend who is doing some stitching at one of the tables.

Tilly is quick to her feet and rushes over to join them, eager to see what the excitement is all about. Soon enough, a small group has started to gather around Dutch's tent to see the baby kitten.

"Awww, isn't he just the cutest!" exclaims Tilly, running her fingers over the kitten's fur. "Arthur, are we gonna keep him?" she asks him excitedly.

"Don't matter to me, but I thought Jack might like 'em," replies Arthur, crossing his arms over his chest as he stands back and watches them fawn all over the kitten.

"Jack, come here and see the kitten!" Tilly calls to Jack and Abigail and waves them over.

Jack runs over to them at the invitation, excited to see what they have for him. The second his eyes land on the tiny bundle of fur, Jack gasps with excitement and wonder, his pudgy little hands waving slightly in anticipation as he runs. Mary-Beth sets the kitten down in the grass again as Jack approaches so that the boy can play with him. And thankfully, rather than being timid and frightened by the commotion, the kitten is all too excited to play as well, absolutely loving the attention. Jack gets down on his knees and immediately starts to pet the kitten, talking and cooing to it.

"Momma! He's so soft!" he giggles.

"He sure is," agrees Abigail as she too kneels down next to Jack and reaches over to run her fingers along the tiny feline. "Be careful, though, Jack," she gently tells him. "Be gentle with him so he doesn't bite or scratch you."

"I will, Momma, I promise!" the little boy squeaks in excitement.

Standing back a few feet from the girls and Jack, Dutch and Arthur watch the happy sight.

"Good work, son," says Dutch quietly, patting Arthur on the shoulder and giving him an approving grin.

Arthur casts his eyes over at Dutch with a nod of acceptance in return. And upon seeing that his new traveling companion is in good hands now, Arthur turns and decides to head over to the fire to sit and relax his tired self.

Suddenly, despite the attention he's getting, the kitten notices Arthur moving again and instantly becomes alarmed, his little head poking up to attention. At the sight of the burly outlaw leaving him, the kitten darts away from Jack and the girls, squeezing his way between their legs, and quickly catches up to Arthur's boot-heels. Surprised, Arthur halts and looks down at the kitten.

"Now what are you doin'?" he asks the kitten. "Go on, go play with Jack," as he lowers his hand down to sweep the cat towards Jack again. He stands upright and moves on, walking over to grab a beer bottle from one of the crates. He ungracefully plunks himself down next to John on one of the logs by the fire where other gang members currently reside.

Of course, the kitten is right back behind Arthur with every step. And, of course, Jack is right behind the kitten, giggling excitedly, trying to keep up. The sight of the three of them walking about is really quite sweet; like a duck and her two ducklings tailing behind. Abigail's fingers hover gracefully over her mouth as she smiles, watching them. Arthur has always been good to both her and Jack, and Abigail is quite grateful for it. And right now, her son is just over-the-moon about his new present from his grumpy uncle. She casually walks over to the fire to join everyone, and stands behind her boy.

Sean is already sitting by the fire with Karen in his lap and notices the commotion. "Aww, would ya look at Arthur Morgan, there! The most wanted man in da tri-county area, carrin' on wit a little pussy cat," jokes Sean, "I thought you were supposed ta be da mean one 'round here, Arthur!"

"Shut it, Sean," huffs Arthur, as he reaches down and absentmindedly pats the kitten along its side when it takes a seat on the ground at his feet. "I brought him home for Jack."

"That was mighty nice of you, Arthur. Thank you," praises Abigail as she beams brightly at her son. Jack is currently crouched on the ground right next to the kitten and talking to it as if they are already the best of friends.

Arthur says nothing in response, but simply nods to her as a "you're welcome" while taking a big gulp from his beer bottle.

"Well, Jack, what are you gonna name him?" asks Hosea, his face pulling into a huge smile at the sound of the boy's laughter.

The kitten begins to playfully explore again, taking a real liking to Jack, as it climbs all over him. Its nose sniffs all about the boy's face, the softness of the fur dragging delightfully across his rosy cheeks with a ticklish effect.

"What about 'Milo'?" suggests Mary-beth, who has come to take her place by the fire as well, choosing a spot on the ground close to Jack so that she too can play with the kitten.

"Nah, he don't look like a 'Milo'" says Jack, his eyes still glued to the little cat.

"How 'bout 'Oliver'?" Abigail offers.

But Jack only scrunches his little face up even more in displeasure as he continues to think of the perfect name for his new companion.

"I suppose 'Fluffy' is out of the question, then?" jokes John as he too reaches over to wiggle his fingers in front of the kitten in an effort to join his son and play.

"No!" laughs Jack. "That's not right, either!"

The boy sits quietly, his eyebrows knit in deep thought, as if this is the most important decision he has to make in his young life. And he is quick to notice that the kitten springs into motion every time Arthur moves a muscle. When Arthur stands up to get a log for the fire, the kitten hops up and follows him. When Arthur sits, the kitten is right at his heels again.

"I'm gonna name him 'Shadow'," says Jack definitively, reaching over to pet his kitten, which is still perched at the large man's feet.

"Oh, that's a good one, Jack," his mother encourages. "'Cause he's gray?"

"No! Because he's Uncle Arthur's shadow!" says Jack emphatically at the obvious conclusion.

This observation causes Arthur to pause for a moment. His chest tightens just a bit, flattered by Jack's choice. He looks down at the kitten sitting by his boot, its little face and beautiful eyes peering back at him.

Arthur reaches down and rubs his rough and calloused fingers over Shadow's head, curling the pads of his fingertips around his velvety ears. He grins, but just ever so slightly, a softness settling there that rarely shows. "Huh…'Shadow'…I rather like that."

[slashbitch2]

The Very Nosy Neighbour

this fic was 100% inspired by this one here , but I mean it practically wrote itself I couldn't resist

NSFW

You can't remember much past waking up in an unfamiliar room- though 'room' is really a sugarcoated description, as in reality it qualifies more as some kind of cavern. You're sitting in a chair, ankles and wrists bound by an indistinguishable material. Whatever the binds are made of feels strong, so any attempts to struggle against it are futile. Yet, in spite of what really should be an extremely stressful situation, you find yourself completely relaxed. You briefly wonder whether you've been drugged, but with every sense feeling fully operational, that theory is soon dismissed.

Instead of choosing a more logical response to the circumstances you've found yourself in, you decided to focus more on your surroundings: not to form any resemblance of an escape plan, but simply out of curiosity. Although, the investigation is equally as ineffective. You're unable to name anything around you except for stone walls, strange (glowing?) vines and weird symbols carved above a few archways. Everything beyond that is either entirely lost to you, or shrouded in darkness.

With little else to do, you start to think back on the events that led you there, trying to glean any useful information from the blurry memories. The clearest image, therefore the most recent, is the smirking face of a woman, Agnes you realise. Though the malicious glint in her eyes doesn't quite match your perception of the nosy neighbour. But where is she now? Is she also in danger? You may not have known Agnes for very long, but are reluctant to let any harm come to her regardless.

With a clearer head, you consider calling for help, but a small voice at the back of your subconscious warns you against this. And the voice sounds smart, so you elect to listen to it. But what should you do instead? Where did this voice come from? And most importantly, should you trust it? Luckily, you aren't given much time to overthink the decision.

While trying to tune into this voice, footsteps echo in the distance, gradually drawing nearer. You hold your breath as the sound suddenly stops, leaving your eyes scanning the vicinity for any movement. The unpleasant reality dawns on you all too quickly: the footsteps were approaching from behind you.

“Well, well, well.” Someone says playfully, then snorts as they start walking closer. "Sorry to be a total cliché. I couldn't resist." It's Agnes. She narrows her eyes and smirks, folding her arms as she examines your constrained form. Subjected to her scrutiny, you find yourself swallowing, but your throat is too dry. Other small discomforts also become noticeable; your cramped limbs, aching back and the bruises on your hands. Well at least you put up a fight. The more rational part of you, however, realises that your hands are no longer bound. You stare down at them, flexing each finger as if checking they were all still fully functional.

Something suddenly knocks into your head and you grimace. Left reeling from the impact, you realise that you're slightly nauseated. Though not enough to stop you from reaching out to grasp the floating cup of water. The fact that the glass is suspended in mid-air doesn't go unnoticed, rather ignored, since there's too much happening simultaneously to comprehend any of it in sufficient detail. You swirl the liquid round, hesitant to drink, unwilling to trust your captor's apparent mercy.

"Drink up, dear." Agnes drags a chair forward, which seems to have just appeared out of thin air. She sits backwards on it, legs spread and arms resting on the back casually. "That's all you're getting until we're done here." The tone of her voice is both threatening and teasing. You're reluctant to admit it's quite a turn on.

One glance up at her prying expression and you relent, downing the chilled water way too quickly. Though you aren't given a chance to mourn your impatience, as with an effortless wave of her hand, Agnes refills the glass. While you sip at the water, she refuses to tear her eyes away from you for even a second. It's slightly disconcerting.

“Now," She claps her hands, startling you. "I assume you know why you’re here?”

“Not really.” You confess, unable to pinpoint why anyone would go to so much effort to kidnap you, especially Agnes, who up to this point had been an eccentric yet kind neighbour.

She sighs, more for show than anything else, and rubs at her temple. "Come on Y/N, let's not play dumb now."

Embarrassingly, a heat begins to pool deep in your gut, but you quickly dismiss the unwarranted lust. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh really?" She quirks an eyebrow, sitting upright. "You really have no idea?" The inquiry is ridiculing, and you can see that your naivety is starting to annoy her.

All you can do is shake your head and pray the sincerity is reflected in your eyes.

"Okay." She slams her hands down on her thighs. "I guess we'll have to go about this the hard way then, toots." A sharp gesture and your hands are bound before you once again.

By the time you're looking up, she's striding toward you with purpose, which does nothing to ease the building heat between your legs. Her hands clasp on the armrests either side, essentially trapping you, not like escape would've been possible without the extra precaution. Up close you finally recognize this isn't Agnes- in fact it never has been. There's a feral yet wise appearance to her, the facade of nosy neighbour dissolved in an instance to be replaced by a deranged, frighteningly powerful woman (or witch, you're undecided).

Despite your better judgement, you're unable to stop yourself from asking. "Who are you?" Your voice barely breaches a whisper, but she's standing close enough that nothing less intimate is required.

She looks mildly impressed, the corner of her mouth twitching almost indiscernibly. "Agatha Harkness." She extends a hand, smirking upon realisation that you're a little too tied up at the minute to reciprocate. "Lovely to meet you."

You swallow again, finding your throat to be a little less dry. "Likewise." Then decide to take another risk. "So what do you want from me?"

“Wanda's true identity.” She replies so quickly that you almost miss it, looking at you with an eagerly expectant expression.

Agatha's question confuses you further. “I don’t know what you mean.” Although your answer is honest, something at the back of your mind hisses lies.

"There's no need to lie here." Her patient humour had disappeared. "Trust me, no one will hear you, so drop the act."

For some unbeknown reason, her accusation angers you. "I'm not putting on an act, I don't know why I'm here or what you want from me." The bravery dissipates all of a sudden as you remember that you're not exactly in the position to command such authority. "Please, stop this."

Agatha purses her lips, stands up and turns away from you. She calmly moves forwards a few paces, and in the short amount of time you manage to convince yourself that she's given up. Until in a completely unprovoked move, she swings her hands to the left, sending her chair crashing into the wall in frustration. Whether this is part of her interrogation performance or not, it works. Your heart starts racing, and confusingly, the awkward heat between your legs pulses.

She runs a hand through her hair, still facing away from you. "Don't make this any harder harder than it needs to be." You can practically hear her grinding her teeth, but don't doubt that she was getting some enjoyment out of the situation.

"I can tell you that Wanda is my sister and only real family, that I moved to Westview with her and that I couldn't live without her." You start listing off some basic facts, desperate to prove to Agatha that nothing is hidden. That you're normal.

"What about your brother?" She swivels round, clicking her fingers as she tries to recall something. "Pietro!" She exclaims.

"Pietro..." You falter. Why does the name sound so familiar? The nausea worsens. You shake off the feeling. "Never heard of him."

“Liar.” In one swift movement, Agatha is right by your ear. The feeling of her lips brushing against your skin causes you to close your eyes. The close proximity was becoming overwhelming, and your body had chosen to react in a rather unfortunate way. Admittedly, you'd always had a thing for Agnes, but Agatha was on a whole other level. You dreaded to open your eyes, worried that she'd noticed your current state. Instead, you internally begged for mercy.

“Don't go all shy on me now.” She pushes your shoulder into the chair, compelling you to open your eyes. "If you don't want to talk, I have other methods." Her hand raises, a purple flow emanating from the tips of her fingers. It crackles and sparks, as if the power was barely contained, yet as she shifts closer to brush the hair out of your face, you don't flinch. One finger remained touching your forehead, then traced down to your jaw, and finally along to grasp your chin.

While the vaguely sinister movement terrified you, it also forced you hold your breath and grip onto the armrests for dear life. Why you'd decided this was hot was beyond you considering the many connotations of her words, yet your thighs pressed tighter together as she drew closer. You attempted to turn your head to the side, longing for distraction, but her hold on you kept your head still.

"This won't be much fun for you, dear." She sighed in mock pity, her breath hot against your skin... Which just tipped you over the edge. As hard as you tried to stifle the noise, a broken moan escaped your lips. You'd definitely hit a low point here. Too ashamed to face your apparent arousal, you screwed your eyes shut. Although, at Agatha's silence, you relented and opened them barely a minute later.

To your relief, or perhaps dismay, the woman was grinning like a maniac. Her eyes flickered down to your parted lips as she chewed on her own. Then carefully, as if she were testing the waters, her fingers began to rub against your jaw, and upwards to your mouth. Your breath deceives you by hitching as her thumb slips between your lips, stroking your tongue. At the contact, you can't help but arch into the touch. Agatha chuckles.

"I take it back." She murmurs, removing her hand. "This will be fun." Although the intimidation factor prevails, there's a certain desire mirrored in Agatha's expression which cancels out any remaining common sense. Your entire body felt like it was on fire, and even if you wanted to, there was little you could do to stop her. So, you give into your yearning, sighing as she climbs to sit on your lap. Immediately, her hand switches to gripping the back of your neck as she slams her mouth onto yours. You willingly indulge by opening further, allowing her tongue to slide between your lips. Her other hand lowers to grab at your chest, like she were trying to tug herself impossibly closer.

Without removing her lips, the hand massaging your chest shifts to your thigh. She still keeps her lips firmly pressed to yours, and with the lack of oxygen, you can feel yourself growing lightheaded. It almost feels like a challenge, one which you're determined to succeed at. Though when she eventually does break away, her hand suddenly slips between your thighs, and your breath is stolen from you once more. Wasting no time, she massages you through your clothes, dragging out an inevitable whine. The touch is both too much, and not enough. But judging by her malevolent smirk, that was exactly her intention.

Even though you were currently incapable of producing any reasonable thought, you still noticed that Agatha wasn't entirely unaffected. Her breathing was laboured, hips occasionally jerking against your thigh and eyes struggling to stay open. The influence you were having on her only encouraged you to moan louder, craving to see her equally dishevelled. Your plan seemed to momentarily fail as her hand retreated. But you'd certainly earned her attention.

She licks her lips, then abruptly changes her expression to look disturbingly like that of Agnes. "You wouldn't leave me out of the fun now, would you dear?" Her voice is high pitched as she basically sings her words. Although the question must've been rhetorical as doesn't await a response, instead you find your hands unbound, flung behind your back and bound together all in a matter of seconds. Then, she shifted her position, yanking your bodies closer so that your crotches were pressed together. She grunts, heaving forward to rest against you for a moment and regain her composure. And finally, without warning, starts to grind your hips together.

It doesn't take long for her movement to become more frantic, accompanied by her hair spilling onto her face. She remains impressively quiet, however, or perhaps you were just comparably loud. With the little pride you have left, you decide to take matters into your own hands, and start meeting each thrust with equal vigour. Miraculously, it works. She throws her head back with a remarkably loud moan, proceeded by change in strategy as she starts almost bouncing on top of you, hips losing their rhythm, pleasure overwhelming her. Startled by her lack of self-control, the heat in your stomach begins building exponentially fast. Your eyes slam shut.

A hand grasps onto your face. “Look at me!” She growls, then emphasises her demand by rolling her hips torturously slowly. The movement ceases. She leans her forehead against yours, staring directly into your eyes. “Come with me.” To your surprise, there's an audible plea in her voice.

At a loss for words, you nod. The pleasure had been building for so long that you knew it'd only take a few more grinds to push you over the edge. With your confirmation, Agatha resumes her thrusting, though soon succumbs, throwing her head back and uttering an exceptionally loud, high-pitched moan. She arches her back, pressing herself so far into you that the pleasure peaks. You groan, lurching backwards in a moment of pure bliss. All you can feel is Agatha, all you can think about is Agatha. Coming down from the high, you sigh and collapse forward to bury your face in the crook of her neck.

She tenses slightly at the contact, but soon relaxes into the strange embrace. You gently press your lips against her skin and feel her shiver, confirming your suspicion that it'd been a while since Agatha had received such affection. Motivated by a new, more innocent desire, you continue to pepper light kisses across her throat and behind her ear, simply enjoying the unexpectedly intimate moment.

Agatha finally breaks the silence, leaning away from your touch to look down at you curiously. "Wanda really has you under her mind control too, huh?"

Although still stuck in a post-coital haze, you muster enough brainpower to consider her words. "Mind control?"

"Oh, right." She smirks, a slight sadness perceptible in her eyes. "Forgot to mention." Before you can say anything, she swings one leg to the side, stiffly sliding off your lap and clasping her hands together. "You might want to reconsider where your loyalties lie, dear." She glances at you, then ambles to the opposite side of the room. "That's one fucked up family situation right there." Her voice teasingly calls out.

You feel yourself flush, strangely offended by her comment, and annoyed by her vagueness. "Like you can talk." Your response is a total shot in the dark, but must've hit a nerve since she slowly turns back to you, a suspicious expression upon her face. "Just a guess." You add, unwilling to know the details of whatever sensitive topic you'd just touched upon. Agatha easily shrugs it off, leaving behind a stifling silence. Eventually, it's a mixture of your own boredom and concern that prompts you to end the lull in conversation. "Are you still planning on interrogating me about something I know nothing about?"

"Oh, no I read your mind." She waves a dismissive hand over her shoulder. "Got all I needed."

Again, you're left suffocating in the confusion her ambiguity provokes, with nothing else to ask except. "How...?"

The inquiry must've been exactly what Agatha wanted to hear as she immediately dropped what she was doing to turn around and lean on the wall, arms folded in a casually smug pose. "Sex leaves you vulnerable." She smirked. "All I did was take advantage of the opportunity- but I'll spare you the boring details." With a flourish of her hand and a flash of purple, the binds holding your ankles and wrists disappeared. "You can go now. First door on the left."

Without sparing you another glance, she busied herself with some witchy task, allowing you to see yourself out. Massaging your wrists, you stood slowly, watching her expectantly. Surely she wouldn't just let you leave? Yet as you sauntered over to the door she'd directed you to, she made no move to stop you. "Bye then?"

Agatha looked up at you and winked. "See you around, neighbour."

[remsmoonlight]

— title : broken facade ( part one ? )

— word count : 2.6 k words

— pairing : john wick x reader

— summary : john thought he could keep his old world dead and buried, he was wrong

— warnings : mentions of death, blood, extremely minor swearing, kidnapping, mentions of drugging.. idk maybe a bit of hurt and angst? idk where i was going with this i spent so long on it lmao im very sorry

Nothing can be heard over the continuous shattering of the fractured pieces of a silent promise he repeated to himself every morning he woke and the last thing that ran through his mind before he would cease to resist the urge to sleep. It’s the only promise kept hidden from you and there was no going back from its state of shards, what kind of man is he if the one thing he kept close to his heart is no more.

Never let that life lay a finger on them.

Now, here he is. Knowing that the life he had previously led has wormed itself back to him, it has sullied your spirit and for that, he can find no forgiveness in his soul for himself. It’s him that is why you have been torn away from him so mercilessly, why you are in the situation you are in. He would give his life a thousand times and a thousand times over if it means you are safe, away from the harsh and cold blooded world he knows so well.

Although, the remnants of his old life is not a friend greeting him after an age has passed, but rather.. a  foe that wishes to lead him down the trail to its murky depths.

He assumes that the steering wheel that is gripped so stiffly by his hands only wish to buckle and crumble under the weight he is setting down upon it, though there is no other way to channel the highly agitated energy that swirls within him. Until you are back in his arms can he find the strength to completely calm the brutal waters that wish to overwhelm him, the only thing saving him is the objective that is removing you from the grasps of the Tarasovs’.

The same is unable to be said for you, the fear that you feel coursing throughout your entire being is the only thing that you can concentrate on. This is the clearest you have been for days, since you had been taken from your refuge from the world. You are sure that you’ve been drugged, though you can’t decide truly if that fact is a blessing or a curse. Being an unwilling participant in whatever you had found yourself in would prove difficult for those who held your life in their hands, and as much as you want to put up a fight, it’s impossible. You can see just how tense everyone in this cold, desolate room is. It’s not ideal to prod and provoke the Devil, especially as it has the power to rip you from the reality you know.

Your heart swells from the haunting image that plays continuously like an olden film, with the grit and burns. It’s a desire that you yearn so intensely for to rid your brain of the bloodied and battered John, you had never seen him so defenseless. You wonder if he is still breathing, if he is suffering from being so broken.

“ hey! why don’t you just let me go? “ you call out to anyone in the room, your fingers fidgeting anxiously with the threads of the scarf wrapped protectively around your neck.

“ shut the fuck up! “

You switch your gaze from the man who yelled, knowing that there is no point in arguing, to the one playing on the game console. Fear and self preservation that rules your body into silence battling with the confusion you find yourself experiencing at how one of the other men could feel so relaxed to the point he can play games.

Though he’s not the one who’s been kidnapped you think with a stern frown deeply painting your features, you simply wished you could be wrapped up in your duvet with a straight to dvd cheap movie playing.

The next moment a colossal bang erupted, spilling through the entirety of the room -- you have no idea where to look, your entire feeling as if it had been frozen in a moment of time. It’s not until a thud pulls you out of your cloud, and it’s one of the men who have fallen to the ground. Your eyes widen at the sight, you’ve seen such brutality in movies and television shows but never could they capture the true horror that lays in front of you.

The crimson liquid is never ending as it exits from the wound, you want to rip your eyes away from the repulsive scene yet you find yourself in a trance, with a magnetic pull that refuses to bend its will to yours. Only when your skin feels fingers digging deep into clothed flesh is your head able to turn, your feet already on the move. Your eyes refuse to acknowledge the further death that lay motionlessly on the floor, the bodies as cold as the temperature.

Rumbles fill your hearing, it’s hardly a chore to know that they’re under attack, by who you have little idea. Though a tiny spark of hope, so small it’s hardly noticeable, hums in your core. Perhaps it may be the authorities, here to put a permanent end to your newfound nightmare. Whatever it is, it has these men scared -- though, when you think back.. they have been on edge since you have had the unfortunate experience of knowing them. No matter how hard you previously tried to decipher some sort of idea, even a faded picture of what you have been caught up in, they were quick to respond with venom and hostility.

“ let go of me! “ words tumble from your lips as you try to dig your feet in further to the metal steps, hands clawing at the railings as if they could protect you.

Nothing is said to you, had it not been for the male’s grip on your arm, you could assume that they have no idea of your presence. Countless nights you had found yourself wishing for such, that they would forget your existence and you would be then able to escape. Never has that wish been granted.

Burns from the metal grasped so firmly scorch your palms, you can feel the need to survive driving yourself to fight and struggle.. opportunities to escape had been bare, the one presented now is one that you refuse to elude you so swiftly. Again, a body drops from a gunshot -- your shock proving more of a force than anything, because the hold that had been so secure on your arm severs without you comprehending it for a passing moment in time.

The leap your heart completes knows no bounds, the disturbance at seeing the violence occur at the man you have only known to be gentle and warm overwhelmed by your exhilaration that he is there and safe. John hardly acknowledges you as he passes your trembling form, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only. It’s no surprise when you decide to turn away, not wishing to have your image of him shattered any more than it has already. Though, you wonder how detrimental protecting your dream like depiction of him is.

A faze, it’s all your mind can think of describing the journey from the harsh confines of the barren property to where you reside currently. The journey from one place to the other mesh together, your memories betraying you in your inability to process everything that happened.

A hand grazes your skin comfortingly, though the suddenness pulls you out from beneath your thoughts.

“ i’m sorry. “ John speaks, keeping his eyes straight ahead on the road.

A frown sketches itself onto your brows as you turn to face him, you are unable to understand what he means by his words. The scenery passes by in a blur, stuck in a timeless state of thinking, you realise that you’ve not responded to him. How do you respond to something like? You wonder to yourself, loathing the fact that you cannot reply, a misunderstanding of rejection isn’t something needed for the moment. Against your better judgement, you need the opposite.

“ John - I - what? “

The feather like weight on your hand is still there, though now there is a contrast of tenderness and peace that had only known violence and blood exploring the expanse of his fingertips, only now a ghostly image not yet faded.

“ it got worse for you, because of me. “ he replies with a pitch as solid as stone, still refusing to make eye contact.

Though it’s not known to you that the reason he refuses to look at you is because he cannot yet come to terms with the fact that the two significant fractions of his life, the past and the present, have collided so effortlessly. He doesn’t yet want to acknowledge his part to play in the scars of his old word being the reason your surface now bears the brunt of being blemished by its cold, callous hands. He doesn’t want to have to bear witness to the tears that have stained your usually bright features, knowing the darkness that had once consumed his life wished to stretch its skeletal grip to you, threatening to eclipse the light of hope you unknowingly provide every chance he gets to set his sights on your form.

“ you’re not making any sense. “ you turn to face him now, trying to read his expression. Though, it’s at a loss. When he needs to be, he can be extremely hard to read.

“ that guy? the one I shot.. I used to work for his father. “

You blink, still failing to see the picture. You’re able to make a mental sketch, but you still need final pieces. Yes, he was connected.. but how is he at fault? Was it some sort of vengeance? Blackmail? The list is an endless trail your mind explores at the new piece of information, however it’s only John who can provide the key.

“ what does that have to do with everything that happened? “

“ there’s a reason why I’ve never told you much about my past. “ he replies softly, his mind wandering to find the most rational way to word the difficult tale, whose twists and turns trailed over it as if they were no more than a line of vines full of poison.

Though, the inner voice belonging to him knows there is no outcome that bodes well for him, the inevitable can’t be written off nor can it be denied.

“ so tell me, please? “ you plead with him, your nervous energy building and building in the tips of your fingers. They tap on the end of the car seat as you wait for his response.

“ before we met, I did things. I killed. “

It has to be quick John thinks to himself. There’s not a way that what he has to say, his past can be primped and perfumed into a pretty little picture, not when that picture is haunted by all the life that had been ripped from the world by his hand.

“ this is a joke, right? “ you laugh, incredulously. Gazing at his form it was as if the energy around him had inverted, there is no way that John, your John could do such things. The gentle smile of his, the thoughtfulness he demonstrates each day would battle his words, but the solidity and lack of humour being shown from him..? You’re tempted to believe.

“ I wish it was. “

“ there’s.. I don’t even know what to say. “ your brows furrow low, a bleakness setting itself into your expression as you try to come to terms with his answer.

“ you don’t have to. “ he speaks with difficulty, while he had expected more hatred from your eyes, he dares not to hope you will stay. Not after everything he has brought down upon you.

Fresh tears build up, until they are no more than a glassy barrier preventing clear vision. You will them to recede, to fade away until they’re nothing more than shadows. You have seen many horrors, more in the past week than your whole life and the man you love has had a direct part in that? You can’t erase the images of him gunning your captor, but you can’t erase all the sweet whispers after nights of lust and love, all the hours spent talking about life and what you would do. A stark contrast to the man you first got to know.

“ this isn’t something I can pretend to understand, but why hold something like this from me? Why wouldn’t you tell me eventually? “ you question, many emotions are clawing over each other to rise to your surface, preventing you from thinking straight.. yet it’s frustration that is victorious.

“ I never thought I'd be back. “

“ you need to understand, things like that? They don’t go away, they have a way of coming back and biting you in the ass. “

“ yeah, I see that now. “

A groan erupts from your parted lips, dropping your head in your hands. Your fingers drag their way across your scalp, this is something you argue would be seen in a movie.. not your life. The feelings you have are conflicted and inconsistent, any normal person would jump out of the moving care.. but a part of you can’t cast him aside so easily. What you have, that’s what you know is real.

“ John, I - I need time. At the minute.. I just don’t know what to think. With everything that’s happened. “

“ I get that. You’ll be seen to, for your injuries. “

A smile, small in size lifts the darkness from your eyes ever so slightly. Your injuries are bare, save for a few scrapes on your face. It’s the mental ones that begin to frighten you. They’re not so easily treatable. A smile that wishes with all its might that it is so easy.

“ to be honest.. I just want to go home. “ you lift your head up from its concealment as you share to him your one simple desire, your eyes imploring him to follow through with your request.

“ soon. “ he finally turns his head to look at you, to finally see you properly. All he wants is for you to be safely protected in his arms, as he mutters countless apologies that he longs you forgive him for. By no means is he a perfect man, but he can strive for such for you.

“ John, I’m not dead. I’m just tired. “

“ please, don’t. “

It’s curious, the tone in his voice as he replies to you. You can’t place it, though it’s very unlike him. Your left hand removes itself from the warmth of his palm to place yours atop of his, lending your warmth and comfort to him. The fact that both of you have fresh mental scars from the ordeal is becoming promptly evident.

“ I just want to make sure you’re okay. “

“ John, I don’t know what to think, what to feel. This is just.. the craziest thing. “

“ yeah, and it’s my fault. “ he exclaims lowly, as if he’s speaking more to himself than you. Berating himself for something that was never in his control.

You shake your head, hating the way he’s talking of himself. It’s enough to rouse some anger within you, though you know better than to make the situation between the two of you worse.

“ look, I know I can’t make you think otherwise.. but you never took me away. You never hid me from building to building, you were the one who saved me. “ you argue, ferocity cautiously coating your words. Your grip settled on top of his hand growing. “ I can’t stop seeing what you did, but you were the one who got me out. I need some quiet from it all. “

Your words, you hope, are strong. Trying to separate what you have seen that day is not something that will come as light as the clouds above your head do when they shower upon you, the thought that you fear you may never do is something you keep close to your chest for now.

To protect the both of you.

[disgruntledspacedad]

the mandalorian season finale that i wish we could have

Take with a grain of salt that while I am well-versed in the OT and the prequels, my knowledge of CW and Rebels is pretty limited (I’m watching now), and I know nothing about the EU. Disclaimer that this isn’t quite fic, or headcanon, or meta, or speculation - kind of a bastardization of all of the above, maybe. 

Because he is a man of discipline, and because he suddenly finds an opportunity to channel all of that downtime in hyperspace into something productive, Din decides as they leave Corvus that he has no excuse for letting the kid’s powers fade. 

He has no delusions that floating the shifter knob across the cabin is in any way challenging to the kid. Kriff’s sake, Din’s seen him lift a mudhorn and channel a gods-damned explosion. But Din knows from hard-won experience that there’s a major difference between power and finesse, and that the more comfortable the kid becomes with casually accessing his powers, the easier his eventual reintegration with the Jedi will be. 

Besides, if Din is to be responsible for delivering the child to his kind, then he will see to it that he’s done more than just the minimum of keeping the child alive and unharmed. 

They start with simple things. A quick game of catch with knob, Din asking the kid to reach his own utensils, rather than Din handing them to him. 

Din realizes quickly that the child, like any child, is quickly annoyed with the exercises. I know you are capable of so much more, Din thinks, raising his hands in a moment of frustration. He only realizes that he’s spoken aloud when the child blinks up at him. 

Din has a distinct feeling of frustration. It raises a memory, long since forgotten, of his early combat training. He’d longed to go out to the range and shoot his blasters, rather than endlessly taking them apart and reassembling them.

Connect with him, Ahsoka had said on Corvus. 

So Din does. 

He learns to make it fun. Grogu, like any other gifted child, craves a challenge. “Float the ball,” becomes a game of catch. Silent steps evolves into hide and seek. One day, Din lowers to cabin temperature to near freezing, then watches proudly as the kid summons his blanket from the lower level. 

Din also learns the value of calling the kid, Grogu, by his name. 

Din doesn’t tend to think in the way of proper nouns. He is a Mandalorian. His charge is a Child. This is the Way. To separate the individual from its classification only complicates things. 

But the kid, Grogu, likes being called by name. At first, Din uses it reluctantly, as last-ditch effort to capture the child’s attention. But there’s this subtle thrum of rightness that swells briefly beneath Din’s skin when the kid hears it. His eyes light up, and his ears quirk, and Din finds himself smiling beneath his helmet. The name quickly becomes habit. 

As Grogu’s reluctance to tap into the force fades, Din’s challenges become more complex. Din learns, little by little, what Grogu is capable of, and he adjusts his training accordingly.

He’s getting better at reading Grogu, too. It starts as little impressions - the thrill of anticipation while watching him hunt yet another frog, the dread of bathing afterward, a sense of weary contentment as he settles Grogu into his hammock after a long day.

Then the dreams start.

At first, Din doesn’t remember them. He wakes with vague impressions, confusion/fear/longing/emptiness. Din isn’t usually a dreamer, and the intensity of the residual emotions unsettles him. 

He rolls with it, though, like he rolls with every bizarre development that the universe throws his way, until one night he wakes panting, sitting straight up in his bunker, cold sweat running in rivulets down his spine. 

Darkness. Fear, no, terror, pervasive and all-encompassing. The acrid scent of smoke and cauterized flesh. Screams cut violently short. Heat and heavy footsteps. An eerie blue glow that hums as if alive, familiar and dreadful and encroaching ever closer. Loss, aching and empty and devastating beyond belief.  

A familiar trill brings Din back to himself. Grogu is sitting up in his hammock, wide awake, staring at him with his head cocked. 

And suddenly, Din understands. 

He doesn’t speak, just lifts Grogu from his bedding and holds him close. Grogu snuggles close into the softness of his cowl, and Din feels his tiny heart beat fluttering wildly in his chest. 

“Ni ceta,” he tells Grogu. I’m sorry.

From that moment, Din starts to become aware of a bond between them. The intense, foreign feelings, the dreams that feel so real, that new, instinctual understanding... it’s all Grogu. 

Now that Din is aware of it, the connection is obvious. Grogu doesn’t communicate with words, no, but if Din is concentrating, he can determine which emotions are his and which belong to the kid. 

At first, it terrifies him, and twice, he nearly sets a course for Corvus to ask Ahsoka just what the kriff is happening in his head. But Grogu understands more than Din has ever given him credit for, and Din knows, whether by instinct of through the force, that Grogu won’t use his power to harm him.

In fact, Din finds that their bond is beneficial for more than just mutual convenience. Sure, he knows when Grogu is telling him that he’s tired or bored or hurt or hungry, but Din discovers that if he quiets his mind and concentrates, he can get a vague impression of how Grogu is doing. Where he is, if he’s content or not. Din can’t initiate a conversation between them, not in the way that Grogu seems to force himself into Din’s brain with all the subtlety of a baying bantha when he pleases, but Din finds that this casual awareness of Grogu’s continued existence is enough to convince him of the utility of their connection. 

He even finds that he appreciates it. 

Grogu, for his part, comes to recognize that Din is more than just a passing master who is casually training him in the ways of the force. Grogu doesn’t have words for what Din is to him, but his instincts determine that it is something outside his own experience. He is familiar with the concept of master and padawan, and the bonds between them. This, still, is not correct. Mando, as others call him, or Din, as the Mandalorian calls himself, is not a master. That much is clear. The Jedi Order doesn't have a term for what he is, so Grogu lifts the term from the Mandalorian’s memories as he sleeps. 

Buir. 

At some point, Moff Gideon is going to catch up to them. Din discovers the tracker in the Razor Crest too late, and Gideon takes Grogu. Din is angry, rabidly, ferociously so, until he feels that oh-so-subtle, familiar prompting at the back of his mind. 

Reassurance. Safety for the moment, if not comfort. Absolute, unassailable trust that Buir will find him.

Din chokes. It’s the first time that he’s heard that term so clearly in Grogu’s thoughts, and it alights something primal in him. He contacts Navarro on a secure channel, delivers his message, and then retreats to his cot. 

The Mandalorians of old told legends of the Dream Walkers, warrior sages who harnessed their dreams to tread the stars, to learn visions of the future and past. Din knows already that his bond with Grogu is clearest in his dreams, so he calms his nerves, tamps down on all of his adrenaline, curbs the instinct to go/run/fight/protect, and sleeps.

Din dreams of steel corridors and bright lights. He is strapped down, facing many open windows that look to the sky above him. Cold drips into the crook of his elbow, running chills up his skin. 

The stars, Din thinks as loudly as he can, as aware as he can be. Look up, Grogu. Look at the stars.

Then Grogu looks up and sees the stars.

Din wakes alert and jittery. less than 90 minutes after collapsing into his bunk, and sets a course.

Cara meets him planetside with a ragtag team of hunters and ex-rebels. More are coming, she promises. 

Din won't wait.

They surround a small moon on a backwater planet at the edge of the galaxy. Din doesn’t know the name of the system. He doesn’t care. 

Grogu is here. 

They fight. Din makes it to the lab, nearly has Grogu in his arms before imperial reinforcements swarm the base. Din is overwhelmed, and Grogu is pulled from him. 

Knocked down, but not quite out, Din watches as the star destroyer prepares for the jump to hyperspace. With all his strength, Din reaches for his kid, and his kid reaches back. “Cara is coming,” Din says aloud, hoping that Grogu hears him as he stumbles to his knees.

He is overwhelmed with images and impressions. 

The stark chill of hyperspace. A growing dread. Hands that grip him too tightly. A thin voice behind him, panicked, pleading. “We don’t know how it could affect the final results!”

A struggle. Fear. Pain. Anger.  

“Surely, Pershing, you understand that the final results is are irrelevant if the initial samples cannot be gathered. This will ensure that there are no more undue... interferences.” 

“No, please! He’s only a child!”

A mind-shattering scream, cut ominously short. 

And then, silence. 

So I’m tired of writing this like fic. I’m fairly sure it’s canon (or at least, it’s very popular fanon) that force blocking technology is a Thing. Gideon might not be force sensitive, but he’s probably studied Jedi, and could reasonably assume that there’s some sort of communication between Grogu and Din. At the very least, Grogu would use his newly redeveloped strength in the force to make things difficult for Gideon, and it would certainly be worthwhile for Gideon to cut him off.

But silencing Grogu’s access to the force would disrupt the bond between Grogu and Din. Din, who in true overprotective space dad style, has become dependent on that bond in order to assure Grogu’s comfort and safety. The sudden loss of the bond would certainly be absolutely shattering, and Din, who has no other context, would naturally assume that Gideon killed Grogu. 

Now, I’m a slut for the “presumed dead” trope. Din would-burn-the-galaxy-and-everyone-in-it-if-you-harm-a-hair-on-his-head Djarin seeking vengeance for the murder of his little green son is something that I would pay dearly to see. We’ve never really seen Din lose control, not like this. We’ve never seen him fully invested, with absolutely nothing to lose. 

I want to see him bet everything on this, call in every favor and exhaust every contact on tracing Gideon’s star destroyer around the galaxy. I want him to have time to acknowledge his grief of losing Grogu. I want him to accept that Grogu was his kid, and to regret never taking those Mandalorian adoption vows. I want Din swearing justice, knowing that infiltrating Moff’s star destroyer is a suicide mission, and just not giving a shit.

Cara manages to talk a little sense into him. Wait, she says. I can’t understand how you feel, but I know why you have to do it. Let me get some people together, let’s do this as a team. We can take them all out, make sure they can’t harm anybody else.

It kills him, but Din delays his vengeance long enough to allow them to form a plan.

I would really love some scenes between Din and Ahsoka, with Ahsoka attempting to help Din deal with a severed bond. Though her padawan bond with Anakin Skywalker wasn’t quite the same as the bond that Din had with Grogu, Ahsoka has experienced a similar loss before. It’s all a little more complicated because Din isn’t inherently force-sensitive. 

Basically, Din is shattered.

The Day comes, and Din tears though the destroyer, cutting down anybody and anything that dares stand in his way. He takes great delight in blasting Pershing three times through the heart, but the sniveling imp presses a code cylinder into his hand as he dies. 

“Take it,” he chokes, looking desperately into Din’s visor with glazing eyes. “Save... save him...”

Din grips the cylinder, still clammy from where Pershing had held it, and something in him quickens. 

Ignoring the ensuing battle and his mission to find Gideon, Din hacks into the ship’s computer. He finds a lab, well hidden, accessible only to Pershing and Gideon himself. 

Hope rises, fierce and glitteringly painful, but Din tamps it down, doesn’t dare give it power over him. He storms to the lab anyway, using the code cylinder to make quick work of the security protocols, and there, just beyond the door, is Grogu. 

Bruised, anemic, far too thin, but alive. Reaching for him.

Ad’ika, Din is suddenly aware of saying it aloud. He still can’t feel Grogu, is still painfully aware of the emptiness at the back of his mind, but the word feels right, and Din says it again. “Ad’ika.”

Grogu coos, and Din notices the manacles on his wrists. 

Beskar, but not any alloy that he’s familiar with. They are warm, almost painfully hot even through his gloves, and Din can see the scars from where their heat has burned Grogu’s skin.

Din hardly has time to process this before he realizes that they are not alone. 

Din naturally has to have a massive showdown with Moff Gideon in order to take his kid back. Lots of darksaber/mandalorian/beskar/jedi lore that I don't have the knowledge to delve into, but in my head, it’s pretty cool. No idea how Grogu would get rid of his manacles, but I would love to give him something to do in this fight, rather than him just being rescued by Din. I imagine that the beskar gets hot when Grogu attempts to tap into the force; the scars on his wrists are from the many times he’s tried to defend himself or reach out through his bond to connect with Din.

Also, damn, as soon as the manacles are off and Din can feel Grogu in his head again, he’s going to be absolutely overwhelmed, but in the best way.

Lots of healing/comfort in the aftermath. Din is dealing with some heavy guilt, especially as he’s tending to Grogu’s scars. Grogu is pretty insistent that Din doesn’t take the blame, and eventually, they work it out. Din drops his helmet and swears those adoption vows as soon as they are alone on the Crest, and the bond between them only strengthens because of it. Din learns a lot about Grogu’s history and the Jedi in general. Ahsoka is much more helpful now that she knows that Din is committed to raising this kid and not just fobbing him off on her. 

Din turns down the title of Mand’alor, unceremoniously tossing the darksaber to Bo-Katan because he just doesn’t give a shit about it. All Din wants is his ship and his kid, and that’s what he gets. 

[spicyfloaty]

Give & Take | Chapter 3

pairing: kacchako

genre: slowburn/fluff

words: 2.7k

summary: Ochako's grades are slipping. Bakugo is dangerously nearing suspension, or worse, expulsion. A certain twist of fate pairs them together for tutoring sessions. He teaches her math. She keeps him from getting suspended. A simple exchange, but what if this only brings them closer than necessary?

header credits: @alexbenedetto

[READ ON AO3]

Chapter Two

Chapter Three: Emotional Whiplash Courtesy of Shoto Todoroki

Ochako’s lunch looked less appetizing despite the fact that she got her favorite meal and weirdly enough, the same could also be said about today’s breakfast. She couldn’t help but lose her appetite thanks to the stampede of thoughts clouding her mind, twisting her stomach in knots that could intimidate a senior girl scout. She might as well be sporting a flashing neon sign that read, I have a tutoring session with Bakugo Katsuki later. Help. 

Her train of thought comes to an abrupt halt, only to go full throttle, bringing her back to the events that took place yesterday. It was bad enough that she fell asleep in class, it was another thing to be woken up by the one person she wanted to desperately avoid at all costs. She wasn’t a hundred percent sure of what happened after that, but the clearest images she could conjure in her head were warm hands and the indisputable figure of Bakugo’s back facing her as he walked out of the classroom. Ochako wants to give herself the benefit of the doubt and believe that she didn’t do anything stupid in between the gaps in her memory other than Bakugo being the one to wake her from her slumber.

Her mind wanders to this morning, Ochako didn’t miss the indiscriminate glances Bakugo occasionally threw her way within the cluster of their classmates coming together in their dorm’s common room before they make their way to class. She pushed aside the little voices that whispered ridiculous assumptions behind the sudden attention she was getting from him, instead, she reasons that Bakugo was most likely just thinking along the same lines as her, their upcoming session, that is. His thoughts might not be as all-consuming as hers, but she couldn’t think of any other reason why he’d even bother giving her the time of day.

A hand makes its way in front of her face, waving up and down, “Are you all right, Uraraka?” She realizes that she had been staring at her lunch tray for a concerning amount of minutes, “Is there something wrong with your lunch?”

Iida has a worried look etched on his face, she notices Todoroki and Deku also wearing the same expression, “Oh no, I’m fine! I was just caught up in my own head, that’s all,” She says with a dismissive wave. She instantly regrets not leaving out the last part of her sentence when she sees Iida’s eyebrows knit together, “Oh? Is everything okay?”

As much as Iida’s overwhelming concern warmed her heart, Ochako would much rather not have Bakugo as the table’s next topic of discussion, “Yes, I promise it’s not a big deal.” She manages to give her friend one last reassuring smile before trying to change the topic, “You were saying something about today’s hero training activity? I heard that All Might’s planning on having us disarm bombs again.”

Finally, this shifts the attention away from her, “Ah, yes, I’m looking forward to surpassing my record from the previous one!” Iida replies, Ochako exhales a breath of relief, thankful that her thoughts about Bakugo led her quick thinking to the subject of bombs.

“All Might also mentioned that today’s bombs would be more difficult to disarm,” Deku chimes in, “It’s most likely because he decided to have us use real ones this time instead of the simulated ones we used last time!”

Ochako takes in the sparkle of enthusiasm in Deku’s eyes and the overflowing amount of admiration in his voice, the mention of All Might never fails to elicit that kind of reaction from his biggest fan. She almost smiles fondly at the thought if not for the heavy feeling that spreads across her chest. Her mind drifts to a distant memory of the sleepless nights she used to share with him, heavy eyelids, phone pressed against one ear as she listens to Deku rattle on and on about the new limited edition All Might figurine he bought that day.

Oh, how she wished things were still like that.

“Do you think he’ll have us perform in pairs again?” Iida’s question plops additional weight on her chest, I certainly hope not.

Todoroki lifts his attention from his soba and places it on Deku and Ochako, “If that were the case, I’m confident that Midoriya and Uraraka would finish in record time just like before.” Ochako instinctively glances at Deku and he follows suit, but they look away just as quickly. If there was one thing that this conversation did not need, it was the awkwardness that already plagued Deku and Ochako’s relationship. It also didn’t need the dreadful silence that immediately follows, occupying their table as if it were a fifth person sitting alongside them.

Iida looked as if he’d much rather be anywhere than to be seated between her and Deku while Ochako tried her very best not to make a face that screamed she’d rather not be in this table at all. Todoroki, as usual, is clueless about the new atmosphere he had brought down upon the table, he takes another bite out of the soba that reminded Ochako of her own legs, had she not been sitting down right now, it would’ve been an impossible task for her to stand upright.

“Yeah,” Deku says softly, “I’m sure we would.”

A part of Ochako thanked him for breaking the painful silence gripping both of their necks, the other part of her sank in a vicious pool of guilt. Deku had always been the one making a conscious effort in trying to patch up the relationship that had both of them speechless around one another and even if they had something to say, it wouldn’t make it past the confines of your regular greeting or anything school related, on the field or within the classroom.

An image of Deku’s text from last night flashes in her mind, it had no more than 10 words, but it was the most they had ever spoken to one another after what happened last year. Hey, are you okay? You don’t usually sleep in class. Once again, it was Deku who takes the first step. She wished she had more to say than just I’m okay, but she had nothing. What’s worse is that she lied, of course she wasn’t okay, but would she really admit that to anyone, let alone him?

Ochako would have sunk deeper into guilt if it weren’t for Todoroki once again speaking up to point out something she had almost forgotten about.

“Uraraka, Mr. Aizawa called you in his office the other day,” he begins, putting his chopsticks down. Ochako feels her breath hitch at the unexpected mention of her meeting with Aizawa, the weight of her guilt suddenly exploding into confetti inside her gut the minute her thoughts fly back to Bakugo like persistent flies on a moldy sandwich. She was going to get whiplash because of all the shifts in emotion this clueless, soba-loving boy was inflicting upon her.

Todoroki’s gaze focuses on her, “Bakugo was also summoned not long before, are these two events related in some way?” he asks as if it were the 17th century and he was a king questioning his subjects. She thought that she had already escaped every possibility of talking about Bakugo but here it comes barging into the conversation like the metric ton wrecking ball that it was.

She knew that if she told them the entirety of her conversation with Aizawa, she’d only make her friends worry about her more than they already should. She even has yet to tell them about the part time job she took about a month ago at a small cafe in a nearby town to help cover her father’s medical expenses, not to mention the huge decline in income for their family’s business. The times when she had to book it to the train station the minute their last period ends were often explained to curious classmates as extra martial arts lessons with Gunhead, not that she has anything to show for it since she was probably washing cutlery during that time rather than learning how to do a proper axe kick with a pro hero.

She decides to keep her answer brief so as to not give anything away, “I’m gonna be having tutoring sessions with Bakugo from now on.” Thinking about it in her head, the idea never really struck her as something peculiar, but hearing it from her own voice for the first time with her closest friends as her audience, she realizes how weird it actually sounded.

To her surprise, Deku is the first to react, “Kacchan?” The way he said it didn’t sound like he disagreed with the idea, he just sounded genuinely surprised.

“That’s...unusual” Todoroki points out. It’s not like Ochako could deny that, the last person anybody would consider to be capable of helping someone understand what a definite integral was would be Bakugo.

“Well,” Iida interjects, “as um unusual as the idea may be, I believe it would be a wonderful opportunity for you, Uraraka.” Ochako wanted to hug the boosters out of Iida right then and there, but he wasn’t finished yet, “But was there...,” he trails off for a while.

“...Another option?” Shoto finishes.

“Well, Iida and Momo are already helping Kaminari, Jirou, and Mina, while Deku--,” she pauses. For a moment, she had forgotten that Deku was sitting one seat apart from her, and now he was learning about how she had considered being tutored by him instead. “uh Deku...was already busy training with All Might.” Her eyes dart to anywhere except for Deku’s direction.

“What about me?” Todoroki offers, “I’d be more than willing to tutor you.”

Ochako considers this for a short while before remembering how much it was necessary for Bakugo to be the one who tutors her, “No! I mean--I appreciate it, really I do, but,” Her eyes quickly dart to Bakugo’s table before focusing on Todoroki once more, “I’m okay with this.”

Todoroki studies her for another second or two before replying, “I see,” he picks up his chopsticks and points them towards her, “If you’ve already set your mind to it, then I will no longer push the idea.” He punctuates his sentence with a slurp of soba.

“Bakugo is a consistent top student, yes, though he can be a bit--,” Iida clears his throat, “ill-mannered and quite...loud.” He turns to Ochako, the same concerned expression taking over his face once more, “Are you sure about this?”

This makes her think. Bakugo surely wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around nor was he someone she was over the moon to be learning one on one from. Despite this, she was at least 95% sure about her decision since she believed that everybody can learn a thing or two from anybody, even from a piece of work such as Bakugo Katsuki and as if to read her mind, “Kacchan can be difficult to get along with, but I think that there’s a lot Uraraka can learn from him.” Deku adds, “I don’t think his attitude should overshadow the fact that he’s an amazing person, and maybe someone who could be just as amazing as a mentor.”

It’s been almost two years since Ochako had first met Deku, but it still never fails to amaze her whenever he praises Bakugo like this. She’s heard stories from when Deku and Bakugo were still in middle school, but they would always be told in a way where it would never be truly complete. Then again, it was Deku she was hearing it from. Ochako doesn’t think she would ever truly come to understand how tough those times must have been on him, but even that won’t stop Deku from listing all the things about Bakugo that he deemed amazing.

It was this sentiment from Deku that gave her the strength she needed to face Deku head on with a small smile, “Yeah.”

The boys eventually tangent to a conversation about Present Mic’s lecture when Ochako’s gaze finds its way to Bakugo’s table once again. Bakugo had Kirishima’s arm hooked around his neck and a deep scowl on his face that made her wonder how Kirishima was still alive and breathing,  moreover, how his arm was still attached to his body. Despite this though, she somehow already knew the answer. Bakugo was someone who could blast your head off if you looked at him the wrong way, but at the same time he was also the kind of person who would push a friend to their limits no matter how much they tell themselves that they can’t do it. He’d be the type of person who would take absolutely no shit from anyone because he'd be too busy being the best version of himself he could be.

Bakugo’s scowl morphs into a grin in response to Mina hitting Kaminari upside the head and it sends a flutter to 3 different parts of her stomach. It’s probably the lack of food in her stomach right now, she should really get to eating.

Watching the captivating dynamic of the neighboring table, Ochako can’t help but wonder if he was asked the same question as her by his friends. Had he told them about her? What did they have to say, nevermind, what did he have to say?

She doesn't realize that she’s been staring for too long when Bakugo looks over to actually catch her staring. Ochako doesn’t know what possessed her to decide not to look the other way, but she doesn’t. Bakugo narrows his eyes as if to say The hell are you lookin’ at? and before her heart could leap out of her chest and yell at her to look away, she finally does. She lets out a heavy breath, not knowing she was holding hers the whole time.

---

The day goes by as it usually does, the only notable thing about it being the bomb disarming activity they had during hero training. Fortunately, All Might didn’t throw them into pairs again, this time grouping the class into teams of 4, her teammates being Iida, Momo, and Tokoyami. The reason for the increase of allies was due to the presence of civilians/dummies they had to evacuate while simultaneously having to disarm the bomb.

Iida stayed true to his word and beat his previous record, Ochako didn’t have much time to celebrate because she was already running to the nearest dumpster to hurl her guts out. Bakugo’s team however had the best time out of everyone, not that anyone was surprised by this, but the way he did it was what stuck with her the most.

Normally, a team’s initial strategy would be to evacuate the civilians first before dealing with the bomb itself, it’s that or the team would split up to tend to the civilians while another faction disarms the bomb. Bakugo’s strategy was to just simply allocate all manpower to disarm the bomb right off the bat and when accused of not cooperating with his team to get the other part of the job done he says, “Why would I waste my time evacuating civilians when I could just disarm the damn thing so no one would even need to be evacuated, fucking morons.”

His statement didn’t sit well with most of the class, but Ochako knew that Bakugo didn’t just do that for the sake of being selfish and arrogant, he did what he knew was the best option to take and no one could have seen it that way except for Bakugo.

Ochako’s thoughts subside and her attention returns to the sound of her footsteps bouncing off the empty halls of UA as she made her way to the room indicated on the schedule clutched in her hand, Mr. Aizawa had already made arrangements to allot an empty classroom for them to study in. She turns a corner and she spots Bakugo on his phone leaning against the doorway, already there waiting for her. The faint glow of the setting sun paints the hallway a soft shade of orange, wisps of Bakugo’s hair form shadows on the sharp features of his face. He looked at peace. Bakugo looks up at her, blood-red eyes holding her in place. Ochako could have sworn he had some kind of hidden quirk that paralyzed people dead on their tracks.

“Took you long enough.”

[daemongal]

To Silence a Devil

So this was my piece for the @invictuszine, a zine lovingly put together by a group of wonderful contributors and the amazing @copper-wasp who made the whole thing a reality. To anyone who ordered the zine, thank you very much and I hope it makes it to you safely (super soft cover and all if you ordered the physical one!) and if not, I hope you enjoy this piece and all of the others that are being posted! 

***

“Hey Dante, is everything ok? You haven’t been out since we came back from the Temen-Ni-Gru.” Lady walked solemnly towards where Dante was seated, concern clear on her features.  

Humans, the deep, bestial voice echoed once again in his mind, so weak. She would look so much more delicious with her skin torn open. It would be so easy for us, Dante.  

“Piss off!” he screamed in a voice barely his own, smashing his fist against the desk which splintered under the impact. “Just leave me alone!”  

Lady stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide, sucking in a heavy gasp of air as her expression dropped along with her jaw. Body tense, she reached towards her gun reflexively, taking a slow step back, eyes unblinking as she watched his shoulders slump and head hang heavy.  

“Fine,” she lowered her gun, posture still stiff, “if that’s what you really want, I’ll leave you to your self-pity.” She stepped back towards the door, throwing a piece of card to the floor in her wake. “I only came here to help... I’ll still be here when you decide you need it.” Barely holding her voice together, she slammed the door, leaving Dante alone once more.  

“I hope you know those words were meant for you, demon.” A deep laugh reverberated through his mind.  

“I am more than aware, Dante. We are one, after all, you and I. I hope you realise, there is nowhere for me to ‘piss off’ to. Just embrace me, let me in. You do not understand the power we hold together if you would just allow it.”  

His heartbeat was racing at the creature’s words as he looked towards the palm of his left hand, at the cut through the glove that was made by the brother that ‘embraced’ his demon. The one whose strong sense of pride led to becoming the very thing Dante has fought against all this time and eventually, what lead to his undoing. His hand turned into a tight fist as he slammed against the desk again.  

“Never. I’ll never become like him!”  

“Oh, Dante; we could be so much more than that.”       

***  

Silence hung heavy in the room, punctuated by the low hum of beaten air from the ceiling fan and the occasional uninhibited growl rising from the depths of Dante’s chest. He hated this, hated it; being alone with his own thoughts, with his own mind.  

But what choice did he really have? What options did he have to choose from with the hand he’d been dealt? 

Days had passed since the incident with Lady. Her contact card remained seemingly glued to the floor where it had been left, and Dante remained mostly rooted to the same spot. He had tried to sleep, to get a break, but his dreams only turned into nightmares haunted by the physical manifestation of the demon that plagues his thoughts in his waking hours. 

He had tried to eat, but his disobedient body rejected most of what he consumed. During a final fit of hope, he called for a pizza, praying that his love for the crispy bread crust and melted cheese would be enough to overcome his body’s denial, a pleasant twinge of excitement igniting in his chest for the first time in days.

The smell of warm food filled his nostrils as a knock echoed through the room. Rising from his chair he choked back a groan, a sudden wave of nausea spreading through him as he took in deep breaths, the air filled suddenly with the heavy scent of something different, surrounding him until it felt as though he could swim through it.

He gripped the edges of the desk, keeping himself grounded as thoughts and images flashed through his mind, of how little he now cared about the steaming box of food and how suddenly he was craving the one that held it, of how wonderful his sharp teeth would feel digging into their soft-- he threw a hand over his mouth, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat.

“This is so messed up. Just let me have this, stop filling my mind with your sick fantasies!” After a further knock on the door followed by a polite “hello?”, Dante’s nails were digging into the wood of the desk, raking lines across it in an attempt to ground himself.  

“Why do you deny us? Your body is crying out for what it needs, you can end this pointless suffering now if you would just indulge us.”  

His fingers became sharp, inhumanly clawed as the lines dug deeper and deeper until, with a dismissive “whatever”, the presence left the doorway and his senses began to calm. The edges of the desk cracked under his grip as he reclined in his chair, sighing once his head cleared of depraved thoughts.  

It was becoming difficult to fight back; the demon stood proudly on the borderline of his consciousness, a few mere moments away from taking over during a moment of weakness. He was exhausted, watching his hands slowly reverting back to human skin, shuddering at the thought of how unnatural the soft flesh appeared through his eyes.

“I’m not indulging you with anything, ya hear me.”

Confident that the human was now well out of reach, Dante rose from his chair and wandered towards the door, each footstep feeling heavier than the last.

Within seconds, his whole body tensed, senses screaming out as the scent of a demon caught his overly sensitive nostrils. He dove back towards the desk, swiftly grabbing Ebony and Ivory just as the sound of smashing glass filled the room, as time seemed to slow.

His body was in hyperdrive, eyes flickering between the multiple Hell Prides that fell alongside the shattered shards of glass. He raised his twin guns to point and shoot at the two furthest away, landing a shot clean between their eyes, dissolving them to dust before they had reached the floor.

“Pathetic.” 

The voice boomed in his head. For once Dante agreed, opening his mouth to acknowledge the statement before being abruptly cut off.

“Not them; you.” 

His mouth hung open, wordless breaths being all he could form. He’d been called a lot over the past week, but no words had been spoken with such malice. The question hung on the tip of his tongue before it was answered for him.

“You hold your pathetic weapons as if they offer you some kind of comfort. You are a demon, Dante; act like it”

His guns dropped to the floor as he watched the scales envelop his hands once more, spreading up his arms, the heat invigorating him with a newfound energy as his breaths became hot and laboured.

He felt the warmth spreading up his spine, his heartbeat speeding up uncomfortably, the sound of blood rushing in his ears blocking out all surrounding sounds as he watched the glass silently hit the floor through suddenly too focussed eyes.

His hands balled into fists at his side as anger spread through him, a rage only comparable to when he triggered for the first time atop the tower. A sudden understanding spread through him as he smiled; smiled for the first time in days. A hellish grin full of sharp teeth and malicious intent followed by a deep laughter that threatened to explode from his chest.

“Yessss…” he spoke in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own, “I’ll tear them apart.”

His body lunged forward, newly formed wings spread wide, grabbing and pinning one of the hell prides by the throat. He felt a faint sensation in his arm as he glanced to see the scythe buried into his flesh. 

He laughed; deep, demonic, from the depths of his chest as he inhaled the scent of fear that suddenly enveloped his senses.

“Cower, weakling.” His fist tightened, revelling as the demon squirmed under his grasp momentarily before his claws met crushing it as it turned to dust. A satisfied growl left his throat as he turned, leaping towards another.

He clawed, essentially tearing the demon in two, adrenaline and heat coursing through him in quantities he had never experienced before. 

The demons continued to flood into the room as Dante continued his carnage, ripping demons apart, gutting the larger demons that followed, turning his shop into a bloody mess. 

Joy; it was the only word he could use to describe how he--or the demon-- felt, looking on at the slaughter he had caused with his bare hands, his mind the clearest it had been since before the tower. 

His body slowly began to sober, his trigger fading as his body returned to its own, the pleased lull of the satisfied demon floating at the back of his mind. His stomach grumbled as he walked single-mindedly towards the door, snatching up the pizza resting on the doorstep. 

Throwing it onto his desk, he grabbed a slice, sucking in a breath tentatively as he took the first bite. He almost shed a tear over how amazing it tasted, his stomach gladly accepting the gift.

“So,” Dante spoke between greedy mouthfuls, “this enough for ya?” He pointed his crust around the room. “Not quite as human as you imagined, I’m sure, but they bleed all the same.”

“As long as they are weak, and you are strong. As long as they cower before us and accept our power, it will be enough to keep me sated.”

Dante hummed, eyes scanning the floor as he wandered, kicking aside dust and remains.

“Well if that’s the case then, we’re gonna have to set a few basic ground rules. And,” he leaned over, picking up the now off-white card, “we’re gonna need a whole lotta demons.” He chucked himself back into his chair, revelling in the quiet before sneering.

“Looks like I’m gonna have my work cut out for me.”

[moonlitwing]

It’ll Be A Picnic

When they were 14, Steve Palchuk and Eli Pepperjack went into the woods of Arcadia to look for goblins. While out there, they ran into Jim Lake ... and Bular.

Contains death and implied gore.

+=+

Steve was taking selfies the first time he saw a goblin. Since he was starting high school next week, his mom finally agreed he was old enough get a cellphone. He was messing with the camera in the backyard and saw something moving behind his back.

He turned around – which meant the thing wasn't on camera anymore – and squinted. It was green, and climbing a tree, and looked more like a monkey than a raccoon. Steve switched the camera settings and got about three seconds of video before the weird creature was hidden in the leaves.

He watched for a while, but it didn't come back out. Then his mom called him in for dinner.

Steve didn't say anything to her about the green monkey. If he tried showing her the video, she'd probably think it was a camera filter he'd been playing with.

The first person he told was Eli Pepperjack. Pepperjack was some kind of conspiracy nut. If anyone was going to believe Steve wasn't just messing with them, it was him.

Besides, Pepperjack was the one to approach Steve.

Sort of.

"Things in this town aren't what they seem!" Pepperjack insisted, trying to pass out fliers to passing students in the hallway between classes. "Join the Arcadia Investigations Club and we'll get to the bottom of this mystery! All the mysteries!"

"Don't you need a teacher to sponsor a school club?" asked Jim Lake, who was trying to get around Pepperjack to reach his locker.

"Um … well, it's not an official school club yet." Pepperjack took a step back from Lake and bumped into Steve. "Hey! Want to uncover Arcadia's hidden secrets?"

The flier had four blurry photos framing the club name. One of them might've been a flying saucer, or a dark out-of-focus cloud. The second was of some kind of animal tracks. The third, Steve couldn't make out what it was supposed to be. The fourth showed a green blur leaping into a bush, one leg almost in-focus. It was the same shade of green as the monkey-thing.

Steve took the flier and found Pepperjack after school.

"I've seen one of these," he said, pointing to the green picture. "In the woods behind my house."

"Really?" Pepperjack's eyes and smile widened.

"I got it on video." He got out his phone. Pepperjack actually squealed, making Steve flinch at the sudden high-pitched noise, when the video played.

"I can't believe you actually got it on camera! This is the clearest image of a creeper I've ever seen!"

"Creeper?"

"That's what I've been calling them. Things that creep in the night! Arcadia is a hotbed of paranormal activity. Where exactly did you see this one?"

Eli came to Steve's house after school. His mom was thrilled he'd 'brought a friend for dinner'. They went out to the backyard and hopped the fence – well, Steve did; Eli needed help.

The creeper wasn't hanging around, and it hadn't left any footprints or claw marks that Steve could recognize, although Eli excitedly photographed some scratches on the trees.

They went deeper into the woods.

It started to get dark.

Steve was starting to think he should just leave Eli to it – the woods weren't all that interesting if you weren't already into nature and stuff – when something ran through the branches above their heads.

"After it!" Eli yelled, and went running. Of course Steve had to follow him now. If Eli fell and broke his leg or something, someone had to call an ambulance.

Did he even get service out here? Steve would check once Eli slowed down enough that Steve could actually stop and still keep Eli in sight. Getting lost in the woods would be bad enough. Being lost alone would be worse.

There were more things in the trees now. Steve could see them sometimes when they were on low enough branches. Fat, long-limbed, shockingly fast, all going in the same direction. One of them looked at him and hissed. Its eyes glowed red and yellow. Its big pointy ears made it look like some kind of mutant cat.

The trees thinned out a bit. Steve saw someone standing ahead. He grabbed Eli by the shoulder and yanked him back.

"What –?!"

"Ssshh!" Steve pointed at the … person? The cat-monkey-creepers swarmed around them. The figure started passing stuff out, which the other creepers ate. Steve couldn't see what exactly it was.

Eli shook Steve off and got closer, getting out his phone and shining a flashlight at the creeper picnic. The green things hissed and scattered. The big one whipped around, ears up, pupils slitted –

"Jim?" said Eli.

"Eli?"

It was Lake. The face was different, but still sort of similar. The hair was about the same, discounting the horns sprouting out of it. The blue sweatshirt was the same.

"Oh, man, you just ruined the shot," said Lake. "Tobes and I are doing a mockumentary on the Billycraggle. Hence the costume," gesturing at his blue face and big stuck-on pink nose. "It took ages to train Nana's cats for the … baby-billies scene."

That made no sense. A bit more sense than supernatural creatures, but still.

"So where's Domzalski?"

"Wha – Steve? You're here too? How many people are out here?" Lake squinted past him. Those creepy slit pupils widened a little. "Toby's … in the trees somewhere. I kept looking into the camera so now I'm not supposed to know where he is exactly."

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence while Steve and Eli waited for Domzalski to reveal himself and confirm Lake's excuse.

"… Maybe he needed a bathroom break." Lake shrugged. "He'll be back. It'd be super awesome if you guys'd just … go … and pretend this didn't happen."

"If you're doing a Billycraggle movie, I should be a consultant." Eli pouted. "I'm an expert on everything that goes bump in the night."

There was another awkward pause, and then the green things came swarming back.

Those were definitely not cats. They were laughing, and making a repeated low noise like a chant; "Boo-la … Boo-la …"

Lake's ears went back – Steve refused to believe that was a costume, it was too twitchy, too alive – and he shivered.

And a monster came out of the woods.

It was big. It had yellow-red eyes like the green things. Steve could only tell because the eyes were glowing. Everything else was just a hulking shadow.

Could – could he outrun that thing? Through the woods, in the dark?

Eli turned his phone light on it. The monster growled. It was buff, with horns and tusks … and swords.

"Explain, Impure," it snarled.

"Lord Bular …" Lake's voice wavered. "I … I hope you're hungry. I brought you something to eat."

Eat?!

Steve made a run for it. Eli, behind him, also tried to run – the light from his phone shook wildly, flashing in all directions.

Wham! Steve tripped on the uneven ground. Something heavy pinned him. Behind him, Eli screamed. There was a wet crunch and the light went out. Steve struggled and started to cry.

"Please … please …" Steve blubbered. Eli wasn't screaming anymore. Don't kill me I won't tell anyone I swear I'll do anything just please – "Please!"

Lake, the stone monster pinning him, hauled Steve to his feet and offered him to the other, bigger stone monster.

+=+

Jim checked himself carefully for blood before going home.

He hadn't known Bular would be close enough for the goblins to call over. He wasn't sure there was anything different he could've done if he had. Maybe he could've stolen Steve and Eli's phones and told them to run, and dealt with the fallout of being seen later.

If a human catches sight of Bular while you're with him, say you lured the human there for him to eat. He won't believe you but he'll let it slide.

He didn't know Eli or Steve that well. He would be able to plausibly claim ignorance if anyone questioned him after they were reported missing.

Thank the Pale Lady that it hadn't been Toby or Barbara who'd followed Jim to the 'goblin picnic'.

+=+

I'm using the same Changeling!Jim model, for looks and personality, as I do in 'Becoming the Mask'. Those who read the main fic will notice it is set two years after this, and that Eli and Steve are still alive as minor characters. The events described above did not happen in that timeline, but they could have.

[soft-foxxay]

Fine • hotgomery

Three days ago, Billie walked out of murder house with the thought of never coming back again after a raging fight with Nora, who swore she'd leave the house and go to the ends of the Earth if it's what it takes to avoid Billie.

But in those few days Billie couldn't help but feel herself burning on the inside in guilt, she couldn't sleep at night when the words she said ring in her head like church bells, she couldn't erase the sight of the wounded Nora off her head.

At last, she finally decided that nothing in this world is worth upsetting her one true love. So, she made a firm decision to go back and fix it all since a part of her inner self was already sure Nora probably wanted to fix things ages before but she couldn't due to the fact that she's stuck in that house.

The door made a loud noise when it was opened, the house was drowning into the silence as usual. A normal person would've thought the house is empty but Billie knew better, she knew the amount of creatures that are roaming the place in the time it seemed like nobody set a foot in the house for centuries.

"Nora?" She yelled as loud as she could, trying to gain Nora's attention. "Nora honey where are you?"

She entered the living room, the name escaping her lips over and over again but with no response.

"She doesn't wanna see you." Billie was startled by Tate's sudden appearance. He showed up out of nowhere which caused an abrupt error in her system.

She pressed her hand to her chest, gasping for air and looking at Tate with eyes that showed a silent rebuke. All before she came to realize the statement the dead young man dropped.

"What do you mean she doesn't wanna see me?!" She refused to believe what she just heard, but yet a part of her was shattering into pieces. She went there all hopeful that everything will go back to normal, and to know this wasn't on her list.

"She told me. She said you've hurt her enough and she's afraid you'll hurt her more. So, miss Howard, you're not welcomed here now." The blonde headed boy explained with a forced smile. He didn't want much to do with them so once he finished his talking he disappeared.

"There's no way this can be true!" Billie half screamed in the progress of convincing herself. A pool of tears blurred her vision, for a second she stool still, eyeing everything around in pain. Her knees felt feeble and she was a breath away from collapsing onto the floor. She felt like she didn't have much to do anymore, like the one and only wish she had was gone with the wind now.

But then she maintained herself. She gathered her strength by wiping away the few fallen tears and remembering why did she come her in the first place, and once again she had hope, if Nora truly loved her, she wouldn't hesitate to make things right again.

She headed to the basement where she knew Nora would most likely be, filling her heart with hope. She could feel herself trembling in nervousness and fear as she fought away all the negativities and possibilities of everything becoming even worse that took over her mind.

The name slipping out of her mouth shakily was the only heard sound in the quietness of the basement. She kept repeating the name over and over even without getting any response, but she couldn't find and urge in her to stop calling even if it took her last breath, on hope that somehow Nora will notice how agonized she was.

Eventually, Nora appeared. Turning away from the eager Billie, looking at nothing specific for she preferred looking at everything except Billie. Billie felt slightly at ease, now that Nora had decided to show herself, it provided her with even more hope considering that this could be the first step of repairing what's broken.

"I was pretty clear when I demanded not to see you." Nora's voice had never been colder as it filled the room. She was still facing the wall in order to look away from Billie, her hand was fidgeting with the necklace around her neck as she stood firm and still. Something broke inside Billie, she lost a bit of hope in her, she expected the whole world to be cold at her but not Nora, and for a brief part of the second she began to wonder if Nora still had any love in her at all, for she believed someone holding love inside would never be this stiff.

She made her way towards Nora, fighting everything in order to let the hopefulness in her win. She knew for certain that Nora was only playing pretend now, pretending to be all rough so that she shows a stronger image of herself.

"Nora! I'm s-" Her feet rushed towards Nora uncontrollably, she was suddenly stroke with some weird faith, she believed that they were a step away from going back to normal and that thought shut down everything else in her mind.

But as Billie got closer, she noticed the way Nora drifted away, still avoiding any kind of contact with Billie. In return, Billie stepped back. Something in her couldn't feel whole, her hope began to fade away with each moment, in fact, something in her was silently telling her that's she'd reached a dead end, and now she has to go back to where she came from.

She didn't try to say anything, she just remained silent, looking at Nora who refused to look back at her with eyes burnt with the tears she struggled to trap.

She was willing to leave, but her physical body disobeyed, she was pulled in and forced to stay like a piece of iron being forcefully drawn to a magnet.

There was a pause, where the overrated silence was adding more to Billie's ache. But soon she could hear faint sobs coming from Nora's direction, which was even worse.

"You had no reason, no actual reason to do what you did!" Finally, Nora decided to make herself heard. Her voice came out through her sobs weak, and didn't have the amount of strength she intended to have. She stuck to the idea of not wanting to take a quick glance at Billie for she knew if she did, no bit of her hardly collected strength would be left.

Billie tilted her head up to look at Nora when she spoke. She knew that Nora had every right to be upset so she decided to be a listener until it's time for her to speak.

"After all, I just can't seem to forgive you." More and more stuff were falling apart inside of Billie. When she went to that place, she had an amount of hope and faith in the good things to come that not all the oceans can contain. But slowly, all of that was fading away, with every word Nora uttered, a bit more of Billie's world collapsed, and she was slowly surrendering into the darkness of her thoughts.

"It was in that moment when I realized I just don't have much to hold on to." Nora turned to face the hopeless Billie, wearing a stiff look in the eyes.

"I ran into a wall! I was out of my mind, enraged, and my fury got the best of me! I don't know you just happened to be the bowl I poured it all in, and I know apologizing will never fix it but I'll do everything to fix it!"

Billie half yelled, her despair was the clearest thing Nora could notice. Her tears were rushing down her cheeks like a wild waterfall.

"But if I really had some place in your heart then you'd let go of all at the sight of me." Quietly, Nora replied, resisting all her inner urges and enduring the pain of the sight of the broken and tortured Billie.

"Tha- baby I'm sorry, please just give me a chance to fix it, please." Billie shed whatever tears she had in her burning eyes as she made her way to Nora, who stood firmly in place without being slightly affected, seemingly.

Read more...

[bluerose5]

In a Past Life

(Warning for severe illness, lack of editing, and transfer of consciousness.)

Summary: Connor gets the feeling that he met the deviant leader before the events of Detroit. Word Count: 1,395. Rated T.

The first time that Connor saw Markus, he nearly bit his tongue off from the shock.

What he was shocked about? He couldn't exactly say. All he knew was that, deep down, he had seen that deviant before.

Flashes of various images had passed him by, there and gone within a second. The feeling was disorienting, his senses were overwhelmed, and the room wouldn't stop spinning for anything. As he stared at the screen before him, his vision focused in on the RK200's facial structure, trying to figure out where he knew him from.

Of course that would be the moment that Hank approached him, asking whether he found anything of interest.

Before Connor could even think, the words were already spilling out of his mouth, dismissing Hank's concern.

Apparently, he came across as a bit too defensive because it was nearly impossible to miss the suspicious glance thrown his way.

Connor ignored the churning of his gut, continuing on with their investigation.

Only the flashes didn't stop there.

With each passing day —hell, with each passing hour— more and more of the flashes invaded his mind, the strange images growing impossibly more intense with each encounter. All it took was one thing to trigger them. It could be something as simple as a random coffee shop, or it could be another news coverage on the deviant named Markus.

When he and Hank eventually visited Elijah Kamski himself, the images remained at their clearest throughout Connor's entire stay. He would constantly raise a hand to his throbbing temple, massaging his LED in confusion, but every time he did so, Elijah would merely stare at him in amusement.

After the whole "Kamski Test" ordeal, Hank rushed him out of there as quickly as possible, but the images refused to go away.

From then on, they were a constant nuisance, a stubborn thorn in Connor's side that he would rather ignore.

Following that, he threw himself into his work without abandon, a tactic which eventually paid off. With Hank's help, of course.

Connor didn't know what he expected out of that exchange with Markus, but he definitely didn't expect for all of the images to come crashing down on him at once.

And when he comes to, he definitely doesn't expect to be transported to a different world.

No, not another world, but... a memory?

Your memory, his mind corrects him, but no. That's impossible. He has no recollection of this.

Everything around him is overwhelming. It's like all of his systems are being bombarded at once, overloaded by an endless array of sensory data. The sounds, the smells, the tastes...

Wait, no, androids can't taste.

Wrong. Wrong. This is all wrong.

But Connor can remember it all, as clear as day. The sweet taste of his favorite chocolates on his tongue, the teasing press of another's mouth against his own, a smile forming on the human's lips.

A human that beams back at him with mismatched eyes.

Before Connor can get his bearings, though, he's thrown haphazardly into another vision, launched into a free fall before he crashes through another portion of his programming.

This time, he's in an apartment, yelling through a closed door, his mouth moving without his consent.

"Markus, please," he begs, tears streaming down his cheeks. Desperate and afraid, he clutches tighter at the phone in his hand, a recent email open on display. "This is our last chance. He's offering us a solution."

"Bullshit. He's offering for us to be his guinea pigs," Markus calls out, followed by some strained, gurgling coughs.

Then silence.

Connor feels his heart sink in his chest, and he starts pounding on the door, his nails scratching viciously at the wood.

He doesn't even notice when he starts bleeding.

"Markus?!" he yells.

No answer.

Connor feels his stress levels skyrocket to hazardous levels, his LED turning a deep red.

Followed by an endless display of notifications.

Software Instability ▲

Software Instability ▲

Software Instability ▲

[IN%EGR@%ION C@MPLE#E]

What? What integration?

There's not even a warning before he's thrown back into the fray.

Connor continues to bang on the door, dropping to the floor to peak underneath.

"Come on," he whimpers, swiping furiously at his tears.

It clears his eyes long enough to spot Markus' form, still and lifeless on the floor.

Connor can't breathe.

He can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't breathe...

The room goes dark around him, just for him to reappear in  yet another memory.

This time, he's in a hospital of some kind, surrounded by sterile white walls on all sides while an incessant beeping drones on in the background.

Connor sits by an occupied bed, his leg bouncing, fingers tented thoughtfully over his mouth.

And Markus lays silently before him, staring resolutely at the ceiling, his breathing shallow, eyes droopy and frame emaciated. At this point, he can barely stay awake, so he nods off on multiple occasions, unable to keep his head upright. Connor uses his sleeve to wipe away the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Summoning what remains of his strength, Markus reaches up to grasp comfortingly at his hand.

A white gold band shines brightly in the lights.

The door opens, and Connor glances up at their visitor in relief. Markus takes the time to appraise him as well, his lip curling with  disdain.

Elijah Kamski stares at them, rewarding them both with an appreciative nod.

"Thank you two for agreeing to participate," he says, calm and collected.

Holding in another cough, Markus glowers, squeezing weakly at his husband's hand. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm only here for him. This never was and never will be about you."

Kamski holds his hands up in surrender, smirking victoriously. "Crystal clear. Although, I have to admit that I was surprised by your sudden willingness to participate."

"Nothing like a good change of heart," Markus deadpans.

Connor takes a deep breath, trying to keep himself from falling apart at the seams.

"You wanted someone with my level of intellect to perform your procedure on," Connor states. "If you want my cooperation, then this is my condition. Save him first, and then you'll get the prototype you always dreamed of."

Kamski considers the offer for a weighted moment, then nods his final consent.

"Well, gentleman," he says, clasping his hands together with glee. "Ready to make history?"

"No."

That one word is enough to snatch Connor immediately back to the present.

Meanwhile, those memories —his memories— continue to sort themselves in the background, but it doesn't end there. It isn't a simple replay of events, but it's a total integration of the experiences. Emotions, thoughts, actions... All of it is transferred over.

All of it is his.

Not only that, but all of the other missing pieces return. Pieces that were supposed to be lost with each new transfer into another "Connor" android. Fifty predecessors, but he's the first to come full circle.

He's the first to fully adopt the original Connor's consciousness.

A human consciousness.

The words pop up unexpectedly.

[I AM DEVIANT.]

Oh no.

He shakily drops his gun, grasping desperately at his skull.

Too fast. This is all happening too fast.

He feels like he's drowning, suffocating. His legs can barely hold him up, and his chest feels as if it is collapsing. He keels over, dry heaving onto the floor.

Pain. This is pain. Why can he perceive pain?!

[STRESS LEVEL: 96%]

A notification pops up, warning him of potential self-destruction.

Coughs wrack his body, and a bitter taste clings to the inside of his mouth.

What has he done?

Hands settle roughly on his shoulders, but Connor can't even find it within himself to look up.

His voice is still the same, calm yet passionate, able to make a person believe anything.

Able to convince an entire people to stand by his side, even in the face of death.

Connor curls in on himself.

Why now? Why did it all have to come back to him now, of all times?

Why couldn't this have happened at Stratford Tower, before the worst of the damage had been done?

"Connor," Markus whispers, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Too bad Connor is going to have to break his heart.

It only takes five words.

"They're going to attack Jericho."

[alstanfordart]

Do You Want A Balloon Colin?

Scene where Colin Dobson encounters Pennywise. Usual warnings for violence/gore.

Mr. Dobson was seated in a rocking chair near the window, his gaze staring out to the unrelenting storm. Lightning flashes outside the window, momentarily coating his stressed features in stark white. Colin sat at his feet on the floor, hunched over his toy soldiers. His expression stoic, hands barely moving the small figurines.

The room was dark, the only light was coming from the window and a small lamp near the headboard of the bed where Mrs. Dobson sat upright, a book gripped in her hands. Her eyes however are fixed on her husband, her mouth quivers slightly.

"I can't believe you lost that goddamn music box," she sneers, spittle shooting out her mouth. "What the hell am I going to tell my Grandmother?" The box traveled with her everywhere, it's music a comfort in unfamiliar environments.

Mr. Dobson's jaw tightens, his left eye twitches. His rocking starts accelerating, the creaking of the chair increasing. His only response is a little sniff, barely audible among the rain hitting the window and growing creaking noise.

She gives a loud, repulsed "Hmph" sound, breathing heavily through her nose. "Disgusting." She shakes her head, her eyes are bloodshot,crazed.

Colin remains silent, his head slowly lifting, eyes growing bigger when he sees a red balloon emblazoned with "Colin" in bold white letters floating leisurely across the other side of the room. A long white string flowing from it.

His eyes follow it as it floats out the door to the room, now open.

Had it been open before? He rises up, casting his eyes to each of his parents, neither of whom seemed to notice the sudden appearance of the bright crimson object. His Mother still murmuring under her breath, his Father's chair still creaking loudly.

The sounds from his room become distant as he follows it, reluctantly at first, as it makes it's way down the hallway, seemingly invisible to the other guests. He watches as two women in the hall having an animated conversation are completely oblivious to it as it glides past them. He continues to follow, down the flight of stairs, taking small steps as it makes it's way through the front entrance, the doors hanging wide open.

It floats down the pathway. Colin observes from the doorway, intrigued as the rain and wind have no effect on it. He wonders if he should even follow, but only briefly. He quickly makes the decision to run after it as it starts towards the back of the hotel.

He runs down the hillside, the wind causing the droplets of rain to sting his face. He suddenly slips on the wet grass and falls, taking a tumble, however still keeping his eyes peeled for the balloon, now out of sight. His eyes comb the area, sitting on his rump, flicking his soaked bangs out of his face.

But then, there it is. Suspended just beyond a large bush just by the grotto. It's string obscured by the large shrub. He approaches, the sound of the rain hitting the surface of the water grows louder as he gets closer.

The cave that had so frightened him when he first laid eyes on it, now beckoning him, like some magnetic pull gripping his legs, drawing him nearer. Then…

Then he sees the balloon. But not just the balloon no, it's..a clown. A clown in a gray costume, accented with red poms poms, his large white gloved hand holding the balloon's dainty string.

A clown, standing in the pouring rain, holding a balloon with his name on it. The clown himself seemed bone dry. Before Colin can comprehend the oddness of the situation, the clown suddenly gives a little wave and speaks.

"Hiya, Colin, I'm Pennywise the Dancing Clown. Would you like a balloon?" he giggles, his blue eyes are like the color of the clearest ocean water, seemingly illuminated as he crouches down."Your parents aren't too much fun right now are they?" His buck teeth are displayed as he smiles, watching Colin's face shift to one of moroseness.

"No, sir, they're not." Colin keeps his head hanging down, Pennywise places his index finger under the boy's chin. "Let's get your spirits up."

Colin then hears what sounds like waves crashing coming from the blackness of the cave, as well as people laughing and carnival music. An almost- yellow light starts to appear along the inner wall of the entrance, like fingers splayed out along the rock. Inside the sound of the crowd of people grows louder, more rambunctious.

Pennywise throws an arm up, the bells of his suit jingling. "A circus by the beach! How's that sound? A beach, a circus and a balloon!" he holds the string out for the boy to take. "Here!"

Colin grins. "Great!" He snatches the balloon.

It chuckled to Itself. This one isn't too smart.

"Alright then! We've got hot dogs and cotton candy and popcorn! Let's go!" He motions for him to walk to the cave, which Colin does, without question. It's a clown after all. They are about fun and games. No threat of monsters lurking. As he runs to the entrance, there was indeed a beach scene, the sunshine was warm and lighting up the sky as seagulls circled above a circus, complete with rides, game booths and food stands. As well as groups of people gathered around, enjoying the festivities.

"Oh, wow!" Colin runs to one booth, decorated with images of clown faces and red letters. "I want some cotton candy."

A man wearing a red vest and white dress shirt with a skimmer hat holds out a cone, filled with fluffy pink goodness. "Here, ol' Samuel has got you covered." he grins wide.

Colin snatches it from the man's hands. "Thanks!"

He grimaced however as he bites it. "Ugh!" he spits, tiny bugs flutter to the ground. "Ew! Gross! Bugs!" He puts his hand to his chest as he continues to evict any last bits out his mouth. He wipes the saliva from his lips as he looks at the cone. It's crawling with the strange red and black insects.

He drops it, horrified, whirling around as he hears laughter. The cotton candy man is still grinning. His mouth stretching further up his face near his eyes. Until his whole mouth seemed to be near the top of his eyebrows. Colin starts walking backwards, his eyes fixed on the man. He keeps backing up until he bumps into someone, feeling the brush of silk against his neck. He looks up.

It's the clown, only not. His face, it was different. The soft blue eyes have been replaced with bright golden-yellow. Colin jumps back, looking about the area.

Everything was levitating as the sky begins to darken, swallowing the sun, going out like a dying light bulb; the booths, the people, the rides begin to levitate. The food and game stands languidly break apart as they begin to rise higher. Except the one man, Samuel. He stayed, his creepy grin now turning into a gaping hole. A loud buzzing fills the air, as any traces of the light is now gone and the cave now an ordinary cave. The unpleasant sound is coming from the mouth of the man as dozens, if not hundreds of insects come shooting out.

Colin runs as they swarm him, he swats at the bugs trying to make his way to the cave entrance. But it's gone, disappeared. He trips and falls at the clown's black and white boots with a skid. The clown's eyes now glowing brighter, his face contorting into grotesque needle-like teeth, protruding from his red-rimmed mouth. At that moment, everything Colin was terrified of, everything he feared, was looking down at him, salivating. The secretions of this-whatever it is- dropping on his cheeks.

"We all float in here Colin!" Samuel cackles as the boy screams, attempting to dig his nails into the dirt as Pennywise pulls him by the ankles farther into the blackness of the cave. The sound of the clown's maniacal laughter bouncing off the cavern walls.

[izaswritings]

Title: it’s just a mild inconvenience

Synopsis: Pro Tip— When you die saving the life of your worst enemy, make absolutely sure there’s no chance of survival. Otherwise, things get awkward. Like really, really awkward.

Personally, Varian would take the death and dying. At least then he doesn’t have to deal with all this “caring” nonsense.

Notes: The response to this story makes me so happy to see!! Thank you so much for all your support! I'm overjoyed to know you guys are excited for this au!! It's going to be a fun ride, ahaha 💖

Once again, many thanks to the amazing @jessucakes for brainstorming this monster of an au with me! It’s getting me through college, ahaha 😂

Warnings for: cursing/swearing (Varian, tsk tsk, watch your language), references to past character death (including references to past impalement), and... that's all, really. Huh. As always though, if there is something you feel I missed, just let me know and I’ll add it on here!

-

AO3 Link is here!

Chapter One is here!

-

chapter two— it’s not kindness, it’s ______

-

Varian doesn’t get very far, regrettably.

It’s Eugene who catches him, mostly because he’s taller and has longer legs and, unlike Varian, is neither in shock nor drugged, and so clearly has the advantage. This is the only reason he wins. The only reason.

“Are you a child or some weird shapeshifting eel creature,” Eugene wheezes, trying desperately to keep a hold on him. He’d caught up to Varian no problem, but Varian takes a demented sort of glee in the knowledge that catching him sure wasn’t easy. Though the commentary is a bit insulting, so just for that, Varian elbows Eugene in the chin with gusto. He doesn’t get free but he does get petty revenge, and really, isn’t that all that matters?

Eugene hauls him back into the infirmary room regardless of Varian’s many efforts. Despite the quick scuffle and enthusiastic measures to escape, Eugene has somehow managed to find a way to hold Varian in such a way that he’s effectively useless. He’s hanging half-way upside down and trapped between Eugene’s side and his arm. It’s ridiculous, uncomfortable, and probably mortifying for the both of them, but Varian can’t kick or punch Eugene at all now, and he suspects darkly that this was the intent.

He scowls at the ground, the blood rushing to his head, and gives another go at squirming out of the hold. Nothing. Varian’s not yet at the point where he considers biting Eugene to be the best course of action, but— well. He’s getting pretty damn close.

“Put me down!”

“Sure, kid,” Eugene says, and the world goes topsy-turvy and then suddenly and painfully soft. Eugene has—he’s dumped Varian face-first on the bed, that jerk! Mattresses hurt!

Varian pushes himself upright and turns to glare at him, rubbing at his nose. Rapunzel is still here—and, damn it, still smiling, hands twisted in a knot before her chest and face cast with a shade of uncertainty, but all in all still disgustingly positive.

Varian can’t look her in the eyes—he’d died, and he’d died saving... why the hell had he—so he glares at Eugene instead, because Eugene is easy, and still despised, and also in general kind of an ass, so there’s no harm in hating him. He jabs one finger at the older man’s face and says, “Let me go. Right now.”

“We can’t do that, Varian,” Rapunzel says, and wow, that’s pretty rude, can’t she see Varian is ignoring her with every fiber of his being? He doesn’t want to look at her, and then she goes and starts talking anyway. “We still don’t know if you’re entirely okay! You were in a coma for three days, and before that, you had just di—”

She stops, voice withering, and all of sudden he can’t look at her for an entirely different reason. His stomach twists into knots, his breaths shortening, chest tight with an echo of searing pain.

“Doctor says bed rest,” Eugene announces in a rush, but he says it so loudly and with such desperate gusto that it sounds more like “DOCTORSAYSBEDREST” and just about sends Varian falling from the bed out of sheer fright. “So, uh, yeah, no can do, that lady scares the shit outta me and I’m not going to be risking her wrath anytime soon, so just—just—” Eugene clears his throat, and for a moment his eyes shift to Rapunzel, something wordless passing between them.

Varian waits, glaring up at them. “Just what?”

“Do… that…?” Eugene offers, and beside him, Varian can hear Rapunzel sigh.

There is a long and awkward pause. Eugene clenches his jaw and then sighs, the tension finally falling from his shoulders. He lifts one hand and rubs it down his face.

“Look, kid… Varian,” he says finally, voice slow and measured. “I know this is… weird. And yeah, I’ll be straight with you, this is goddamn strange. You’re not the only one wanting to jump out a window, though as per usual you’re the only one bonkers enough to actually try and do so—”

“Eugene,” Rapunzel says.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “I get it, okay? You don’t like us, that’s fine. And hey, you’re… actually pretty unlikeable yourself, to be fair—”

“Eugene.”

“BUT,” Eugene says loudly, waving his hand down at Rapunzel. “We don’t, y’know, actually hate you. Or want you to die. Or suffer. Or… any of that awful stuff. Which might be a really weird concept to you, kid, except—” And here Eugene pauses, and Varian can feel his heart sink, “Maybe you do know what I mean, don’t you?”

For a moment Varian cannot respond, any response drowned out under what has been said and what has been implied. You didn’t want her to die. Or suffer.

You don’t actually hate us.

The memory of that spike through his chest is clear, sharp and sudden, and for a second Varian cannot breathe under the weight of it, can taste phantom blood in his throat and almost see that dark earth behind his eyelids. And then the words register, and his anger rises up, so wonderfully familiar he could cry.

“Oh?” Varian says, and he feels cold, now, at last in control of himself. This anger is welcome, so terribly welcome. It drowns out the memory of that dark world, that echo of pleading still in his ears, the questions twisting around his heart and soul. Why did I—

“What makes you think that?” Varian says, and he smiles. The tide has shifted, and it has shifted in his favor. At last he knows what to say.  “What, did you just forget the past, oh, year of me trying my best to brutally murder you all? Do you think one good deed will change that? You think this changes anything?”

Eugene falters, and Varian’s smile grows. The relief he feels at this is startling. Nothing has changed, not really. This is merely a bump in the road, an obstacle of little importance. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

“Doesn’t it?”

Rapunzel’s voice is soft. Quiet, yet firm, and at the sound of it, Varian falters. He forgets himself, he looks at her, and he sees her red-rimmed eyes and her hands clasped before her, back straight and head tilted. The memory arises without warning, overlaying on the present, the image of her silhouette against the dark sky, the clearest memory besides the pain—

Sour bile rises in his throat, and Varian tears his eyes away.

“It does matter,” Rapunzel says, a note of finality in this statement. “It matters to me, Varian, even if it doesn’t to you.”

He sneers at the bed covers. “Trying to redeem a villain, Princess?”

“I’m trying to repay a kindness.”

Something in him withers at that, at that wording, at that quiet reproach in her voice. Varian shivers, grasping for that former confidence, but it had faltered at her voice and now has slipped fully from his grasp.

He ignores it, all of it, because what else is he supposed to do, and how is he supposed to respond to that? Damn them, this is exactly what he didn’t want to happen!

Rapunzel wants a happily ever after; screw that, Varian thinks. She wants him to play along, to pretend everything’s okay—well it’s not, and he refuses, and she’s just going to have to live with it.

He’s not sure what they’re expecting—Tears? Heartfelt apologies? Declaration of feelings? —but they aren’t fucking getting it, oh no, not from him. Instead Varian lifts his hand and jabs a finger at her, now, a sharp point of accusation that breaks her calm and makes her blink back. The tension breaks with her stare. All at once they are again on even ground and oh, god, thank god.

“This is shitty repayment!” Varian announces loudly, something desperate in the words, and takes delightful pleasure in how her nose scrunches at the swear. Ha-ha. “Repayment is money! Me being left alone! Revenge or something! This?” He waves a hand at the room, confidence growing, the desperate edge giving way to offense. “This is just kidnapping! What the hell!”

“To be fair,” Eugene says, “The alternative was, y’know, death, so I’m not entirely sure why you’re complaining—”

Varian swings that finger onto him, nearly jabbing Eugene in the eye. “Don’t you start, Fitzherbert!”

Eugene blinks, then snorts through his nose, crossing his arms. “Ooh, fancy, last-name basis now. How long did it take you to learn how to pronounce that correctly?”

Varian splutters. “That is not the point! The point is—”

“Also, considering your usual, y’know, plots, isn’t kidnapping actually appropriately ironic? Food for thought!”

“It’s still kidnapping!” Varian snaps, and jumps up off the bed onto his feet so that he can glare at them properly. It doesn’t help. They still tower over him. “It’s only okay when I do it!”

“Okay, now that’s just plain—”

“Guys, please,” Rapunzel starts, and Eugene turns to argue with her, and Varian takes delightful pleasure in yelling at them both. For a little while the world is back to as it should be—blessedly antagonistic and chaotic in equal measure, and the memory of his death and what it meant, is, if only for a little while, thankfully far away.

-

They’re about midway in a shouting match when the doctor finally hears them. She doesn’t appreciate the noise, if her exasperated threats are any indication. She sweeps in with a pile of fabric and glass in her arms and just about drops it all when she sees them, dark skin going even darker with anger and eyes going wide when she takes in the events.

“Are you lot yelling at my patient!?” she says, with a voice full of ominous thunder, and everything after that is a whirlwind. It is, honestly, a tiny bit scary: the doctor sweeps in and wrestles Varian back under the covers and the Princess and Eugene out the door in about ten seconds flat. Between one blink and the next—gone. One minute Varian’s shouting at the top of his lungs, the next he’s flat on his back and the room is near devoid of people.

Seriously, what?

Well, Varian thinks. It could probably be worse. At least he doesn’t have to listen to Rapunzel’s prattle anymore, or Eugene—thank god, really, because his neck is starting to hurt from staring up and shouting at them for so long. Seriously, why are they so tall? That kind of height should be illegal, or something. It completely throws a wrench into proper revenge ranting.

The doctor, unlike Eugene and Rapunzel, is blessedly silent in comparison. She barely even looks at him—not directly, anyway, though she eyes him every once in a while, pinning him with a short stare and then looking away. She does that… a lot, actually. It’s kind of freaking him out a bit.

Okay, maybe its freaking Varian out a lot. It’s just… little things. She keeps eyeing him like she’s faced with a puzzle she doesn’t get, which. Okay, granted, could be explained by him dying and then coming back (thanks for fucking nothing, Rapunzel, you useless princess, you’ve brought him back and made him a circus sideshow freak in the process). But then.

In the weirdest move doctor lady has pulled yet, she puts an old (and way oversized, which means it’s Eugene’s, and at some point Varian is going to have to burn it on principle) shirt on the dresser before leaving. Which, whatever, except as she does it, she pins him with another unreadable stare and gives a really cryptic statement of “You’ll be wanting this dearly, child, the collar will help hide your neck and arms.” And then she just… leaves without a backward glance. Boom. End of conversation.

Like. The hell, lady?

Still, weird-ass doctors aside, Varian is finally—finally! —on his own. He waits a good few seconds, listening intently, and the moment he is certain that no one else is coming back, he slips out of bed without any hesitation. He pads his way silently across the room, and then he eases open the door with a careful creak, ready to duck out. He just needs to see where the guards are at, and then—

Varian stops. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then draws away, shutting the door very softly. He stares at his hand for a long moment. He pursues his lips. He squints at the air.

“No,” he decides, and opens the door again. The same image. He closes it. Opens it. Closes it. Absolutely no change. The scientific method has failed him.

Varian throws open the door completely, letting it bang against the wall, arms outstretched, ears straining. Nothing. Empty hallway, silent house, not a single goddamn guard in sight.

He stares at the empty hallway for a long moment. “What the fuck,” Varian whispers, and grabs the door handle, slamming it shut. He waits. No footsteps, no yelling… “Whaaaaaat the ever-loving—”

Okay. So. Apparently the whole… dying thing must have really addled some brains here, because Varian is starting to think they haven’t even posted a damn guard. Which is—it can’t be. He’s almost offended. Why on earth would someone forget that? He could just—walk out! Right now! They’d never even know!

Do they probably think he’s in too much shock to escape or something? Or too hurt, and well, he is probably a little drugged— no, still no excuse. That’s it. Varian is offended. He’s spent a whole year building up his reputation as a someone to take seriously, and apparently one tiny, practically inconsequential mishap has sent it all spiraling down the drain.

It’s goddamn typical, is what is it. It’s also terribly insulting.

Just for that, Varian jumps out the window. No guards outside his door? Screw them; Varian’s sneaking out properly regardless, and he’s jumping out as many windows as he can along the way. They must have at least guarded the perimeter. He’ll jump out, scare of few metal-heads, maybe trip a few guys. That’ll teach them to not post a guard at the door, the inconsiderate jerks.

Still, the whole thing leaves him jittery and uncertain. It’s not until Varian’s jumped out, oversized shirt pulled over his head, bereft of any of his possessions, that he realizes he— really didn’t think this through. No Rudiger, no alchemy, none of his things…

But apparently, that doesn’t matter. Because even outside, there are still no guards, either. Not even a stranger. Varian looks around the side of the infirmary house with a growing sense of unease. No one. Nothing. They’d just— left him. Alone. Completely alone. What the hell is going on? Are they stupid? Did someone’s head get knocked the wrong way when he wasn’t looking?

His mind, without warning, strays back to Rapunzel. Maybe she just trusted me not to leave.

Which is—weird. So weird. What is Varian even supposed to think about that?

He lingers at the bottom of the window, struck with sudden uncertainty, a strange anxiety. No guards at the door, or the windows, when they should know—

But hell, what’s he supposed to do, climb back up? No, no way. Varian is being ridiculous. Why is he even hesitating? Who cares if they decided to trust him? Who cares if he breaks that trust? He’s not their friend, and nothing has changed, and Rapunzel is just going to have to get that through her remarkably thick skull.

Varian hisses through his teeth and marches away. He’s not looking back at the window. He’s NOT looking back at the window. Nope, nope, nope.

He looks back at the window.

…Not even a single guard. Not around the house, or side-streets, or… anything. Just a house, the doctor, and him.

“What the fuck,” Varian says. No answer. “Screw you, Raps.” Still no answer. Someone’s got to be hiding behind a corner somewhere, he refuses to believe they’ve left him unsupervised. They just… no, no. Guard around the corner. There has to be. “I’m leaving, you can’t stop me, ha-ha!”

Nothing.

Varian clenches his jaw and turns his back deliberately, inwardly furious with himself. Okay, no guard, so— Ugh. What now?

He’s acting so stupid. It’s the painkillers; it’s gotta be. He’s just... moody, is all. Teenagers are supposed to be moody, right? It’s a puberty thing! He’ll wake up tomorrow morning faaaaaar away from here, and everything will be as it should.

The more he thinks about it, the more sense it makes. Dying, puberty, drugs— terrible mix. Varian’s a scientist, he should know. Everything’s absolutely a-okay, it’s just his dumb teen mind is being… dumb, again. Yeah. Yeah, that’s it!

Varian lifts his head, cheered by this idea. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for all of this, he’s just got to be in a better frame of mind to see it. All the more reason to leave!

The town is small and circular, and in the distance, growing closer, he can see a ring of trees. Varian fast-walks down the roads, eying every alleyway suspiciously. He’s so close to the edge now, and there’s not even a town border wall or anything. The moment he gets into the woods, he’s home free.

He’s so close he can almost taste it. Spirits bolstered, Varian speeds up, walking fast, and blindly turns a corner just in time to hear, “…doing all right?”

Varian halts in his tracks, mind going blank. No. There’s no way. Not even his luck can be that bad—

Doctor lady’s raspy voice says, “Princess, I’ve told you three times, he’s perfectly fine,” and promptly shatters all of Varian’s hopes and dreams into dust.

Well, Varian thinks. So it is them. Shit.

“Oh,” Rapunzel says— Rapunzel! Out here! Practically five feet away! Why!? — “I know, I’m sorry, I just… those bandages, I just thought…”

Varian flings himself against a nearby wall, pressing a palm against his mouth to quiet himself. He is so close. He can see the edge of the forest just a few blocks away, but if he moves they’ll hear him and—damn it, damn it, damn it!

“As I said, your tear healed him. But…”

“But? What does that mean? There’s shouldn’t be a but!”

Doctor lady sighs loudly. “But,” she says, “the rocks created… some weird complications. The healing perhaps wasn’t as—thorough as you are used to. It’s nothing bad, but the bandages were necessary.”

Varian freezes, panic stalled and mind caught on the conversation. That was… even more cryptic than the shirt comment. He picks at the collar of his borrowed top, suddenly hyper-aware of the bandages wrapped around his neck and the whole length of his torso. He feels fine. He feels pretty great, actually, so—why is he covered in bandages?

“I—not as thorough? What do you mean? Is, is there still danger?”

“It is nothing you need to worry about.” Footsteps echo in his ears, and Varian jumps, drawing back—but they are moving away, not towards him. He can hear them only distantly now, the doctor lady saying, “Worry not; I know what I’m doing, even with all this magical involvement…”

Their voices fade. Varian waits, and when he peeks out from behind the wall, there is no one outside but him.

He rubs absently at his chest, feeling the bump of the bandages through the borrowed shirt. Complications? What in the world does that mean?

His head hurts. The night air is cold, and the conversation has left him rattled. He’s too tired to think about this right now, he can barely think straight as it is. Varian scrunches his hair in his hand and presses his palms against his eyes, bending at the knees, a strangled cry of frustration at his throat.

He bites it back just barely, rocking on his heels and then standing so fast it makes his muddled mind spin like a child’s toy. Varian steadies himself against the wall and sucks in a deep breath.

…It doesn’t matter, Varian decides finally. It’s not important. Why, oh why does he keep getting stuck on these things? He’s free, he’s out! The painkillers and trauma can take a goddamn hike. Varian is getting out of here, and in the morning, everything will be just fine and it’ll be like nothing happened.

Take that, Rapunzel. This whole thing has been way more trouble than it’s worth. See if he ever saves her again! Hah!

Varian casts one last look at the infirmary room and that empty window, then turns away. Good-bye, silly princess; good-bye, unguarded window; good-bye, creepy cryptic doctor lady and unfamiliar town! Varian is out and he’s unsupervised, and that’s always meant good things for him and terrible things for everyone else. Freedom at last!

He doesn’t quite skip from the village, but it’s a near thing. And really, why shouldn’t he? He’s free and he’s alive, awkward conversations avoided successfully. He certainly won’t be seeing any of them anytime soon, that’s for sure, not if Varian has any say in the matter.

Varian is heading home. The ordeal is finally over.

-

The ordeal is not over.

The ordeal, Varian is finding, is not even close to being over. The ordeal has gained a consciousness and a downright awful sense of humor and is currently sitting up in the trees and cackling like a deranged manic child at his misfortune.

“Ooooooh, sure,” Varian mumbles, kicking a spare stone across the path. It’s been hours since he left the village behind, and the moon is high in the sky. “Eugene gets to die and come back, and he gets a castle, he gets a celebration…”

Varian is lost.

“He gets a warm bed and food… ugh, food… hot drinks… cocoa…. Warm blankets...”

Varian is lost in a dark forest in the middle of autumn, with no food, no jacket, and no idea of where he’s going.

In hindsight, leaving the infirmary room was—probably a bad idea. At least it was warm there.

“But me? Ohhhhh nooooo, I die, and I get manhandled, weird shows of dumb trust, creepy doctor ladies and Eugene’s old shirt… do I get cocoa? Do I get a castle?”

High above him, the moon sits heavy and bright in the sky, shining through the towering pines. The ground is obscured to his eyes, shadows long and all-consuming. Varian has no idea where he is or where he’s going. He isn’t even following a path.

“Oh no, no cocoa for me! No castle! Me, I get annoying princesses, I get dumb shadowy paths in the middle of freaking nowhere, I get lost—”

His foot catches on a root, and Varian goes plummeting head over heels. He hits his side and then pitches down a hill, because of course he does, and then he keeps on tumbling down that, because why not, and then at last he manages to roll up on his feet just in time face-plant an icy stream, because clearly all that other stuff was letting him off way too lightly.

Thanks, Universe.

Varian comes up spitting water, coughing hard, rubbing at his new bruises and stumbling back up on his feet. “This is—this is BLATANT FAVORITISM,” he bellows at the sky, breathless with exhaustion, “and you should be ashamed!”

No answer. Varian stomps his foot, slips on some algae, and falls backward into the stream with a loud splash and high-pitched scream.

The water is even colder the second time around. Of-fucking-course it is.

Varian sits there in the stream, staring up contemplatively at the night sky, and finally closes his eyes with a whine. He slams back his head into the water, icy droplets splashing his face, the stream brushing through his hair. It is so cold.

Seriously, just—why him? Why is it always him?

He sits there until the cold of the stream starts making him shiver, and slowly climbs up to his feet, wisely keeping his mouth shut this time around. Okay. Stay calm, Varian. Take stock of the situation. Surely there’s something good in all this!

He’s wet, cold, lost… dirty and muddy… he’s pretty sure the fall back there bruised his arm, and that hurt, damn it… he’s standing in a stream…

Tired though he is, this thought makes his mind perk up. Stream, water, running water—people. People, houses, they tend to cluster around water, which means—

Ha-ha, makeshift path. No more stumbling blinding around the woods for him!

“There’s a bright side to everything,” Varian mumbles, except saying it aloud makes him think of Rapunzel, and that’s… hmmm. No no, less positive, he’s got to think less like her— “Except it’s also cold, and rocky, and I fell in it…”

There, Varian thinks, marching up the streamside. Now he feels much better.

He follows the path of the stream for all the rest of night. It leads him up a few hills, and gets him turned around once it splits at a crossing, but at long last—shelter.

It’s not much, but it is better than the woods, at least. A rugged and abandoned house—a hunter’s cabin—resting high and by the streamside. The windows are broken and there’s no door, but it’s shelter, and Varian stumbles through the threshold feeling so relieved he almost cries.

No cocoa—damn it—but there is a bed, and drawers, and mirror… A wardrobe, tools, even some dried meats and a tiny jar of honey. Food, at last, and Varian settles on the floor with his findings, feeling immeasurably pleased with this success.

“Take that, Princess,” he mutters, chewing furiously at the jerky. It tastes stale and dry in his mouth, and he makes a face as he gnaws at it. Ugh, gross, dust flavor. “I’m doing just fine. Trying to repay a kindness, blah blah blah, it’s kidnapping and we both know it… hah! Whatever. I’ve got food, honey, clothes; I’m doing fantastic! See if I ever come back now, you bast—”

Varian stops. He takes the jerky out of his mouth, because it is honestly pretty disgusting, and also it gives him something to stare at. He looks at it for a long moment, eyes gazing past and through it into nothing. His mind is going a million miles an hour. His fingers clench and unclench as he thinks.

“Wait,” Varian says.

He is in a cabin in the woods. He has food, shelter, clothes… food, shelter, clothes… Something is missing, something’s not right, and for the life of him Varian just can’t figure out what it is—

At long last, the dots connect. The jerky slips out of Varian’s numb fingers. His eyes have gone wide, his mouth slack.

“Oh,” he says weakly. “Oh, no, no, no, no—”

The cabin in the woods. The empty cabin in the woods. The empty cabin, the quiet nature and the nighttime and Varian—just Varian.

“Rudiger,” Varian breathes, and then, “Oh, shit, Rudiger!”

[stealth-spiderr]

better // t.h.

aight lads!! this is my piece for Kath’s ((@upsidedownparker)) 3k writing challenge, it’s inspired by in my blood by shawn mendes and i hope it’s at least a little bit good bye xo

summary // tom calls layla earlier than usual, and more needy than usual, to pick him up from a bar where he’s drinking to forget his broken heart, and maybe he tells her why it’s broken.

pairing // roommate!tom x oc

warnings // mentions of drinking, swearing

word count // 2,222

Being startled awake by her phone ringing in the middle of Saturday nights wasn’t anything new to Layla since she had become roommates with Tom. In fact she preferred the calls seeing as that meant he wasn’t bringing home another girl for the night. When she’d first moved in he’d call his mate, Harrison, but once she and Tom were comfortable around each other she’d told him to call her for rides home instead. He certainly stretched the limits of that offer over the next few months.

What she wasn’t used to however was Tom’s goofy contact photo lighting up her screen while she was still up. She was sprawled out on the couch, part way through the third rom-com of the night and it wasn’t even midnight yet. Layla pauses the movie to answer the call, already getting up to put on some shoes.

“Which bar are you at again?” She asks, instead of saying hello.

“Need you,” Tom whimpers.

Layla stops in her tracks, noticing the quiet from the other end of the phone. Normally Tom would be in the bustle of the place he was at, she’d barely hear him ask for her to come pick him over the sound of music and people. But now all she could hear was his strained breathing and the faint thump of bass from rooms away.

“Tom, are you-”

“Please, just get here. The Blackbird.”

Before she could say another word the line went dead. She quickly scrambled to her room, pulling a hoodie over her thin long-sleeved t-shirt and stuffing her already socked feet into a pair of vans. She hissed at the cold on her bare legs when she hurried out the door, quickly locking it behind her.

The Blackbird was a bar a couple of towns over, about a twenty minute drive during the day but Layla could make it in fifteen at this time of night. She was thankful he was there as both of them frequented the bar with their friends so the staff are mostly familiar with Tom’s antics.

It was right on twenty minutes later when she pushed open the door of the Blackbird, her hazel eyes scanning the room hoping to meet Tom’s warm brown ones. After a minute of no luck she walked to the bar, waving down Max, one of the bartenders she’d come to know fairly well. She’d barely opened her mouth when he nodded his head in the direction of the bathrooms.

“He went in ‘bout half eleven,” he said, “checked on him about five minutes ago and said you were on your way. I gave him some water, hopefully he drank it, he looked shocking.”

Layla smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

She walked around the corner to the little hallway where the bathrooms were, a guy slipped passed her and shoved open the door to the men’s and she quickly tapped his arm. He stopped and raised his eyebrows at her questioningly.

“Can you check and see if there’s a guy called Tom in there? He’s got brown hair, probably looks like a corpse by now, I just need to take him home.”

“Sure thing, I’m gonna piss first though or I’ll explode.”

She smiles at the guy as best she can after he put that horrid image in her head, before leaning on the wall opposite the door. She drums her fingers on the wall to the faint beat of the song vibrating the walls until the door opens and the guy sticks his head out.

“He’s in here, but very out of it. He said he won’t go anywhere until he sees Layla, and I’m assuming that’s you.”

She licks her lips and rakes her fingers through her dark brown curls.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she sighs.

Layla slides passed the guy who says Tom’s in the last stall and that he’ll watch the door until she can get Tom out. She mutters a thanks and continues into the room, it smells bad, but that doesn’t matter when she finally lays eyes on Tom. He sitting on floor, back against the wall with his legs straight out in front of him leaving his feet sticking into the next stall. There’s an empty bottle of water beside him, a small wave of relief washes through her knowing he’s had something other than alcohol to drink. She bobs down beside him, definitely not sitting on the floor herself, and brings her hand up to his cheek, tilting his face towards her. His eyes open slowly, they’re a bit bloodshot and it takes him a few seconds to focus on Layla’s face.

“Hey, roomie,” he whispers, bringing his hand up to cover her own on his cheek.

It sends shivers through her body, there was something about the feeling of his fingers on her own that drove her crazy.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks.

“Not really feeling anything, if I’m honest.”

His eyes slid closed as he spoke but his hand stays over hers so she knows he hasn’t passed out.

“Can you stand?”

Tom nods as Layla withdraws her hand, he uses the toilet and the wall to pull himself up. She pulls his arm over her shoulder and wraps hers around his waist and starts walking towards the door, surprised at how steady he is. She kicks the door to open it, and the guy waiting outside holds it open before a few impatient looking guys enter behind her.

“You right with him?” the guys asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Layla replies, “thank you so much for your help though.”

The guy nods but walks beside her to the door of the bar before giving her a salute and heading off. She gets the unusually quiet Tom out to her car and buckles him in with no problems before getting in herself. She sticks the key in the ignition but before she can turn it Tom grabs her other hand and mutters for her to wait.

“Please don’t throw up in my car,” she begs.

He chuckles, the most emotion Layla had seen him show since she arrived, but shakes his head whilst leaning on the headrest. He rubs his free hand over his face and up through his hair. She looks him over, his hair now looking even messier, his eyes barely half open, his flushed cheeks from drinking. His fingers carelessly twisting with hers as she turns as much as she can to face, he lulls his neck to the side to look at her properly.

“Why do you do this to yourself, Tom?” she whispers.

“To numb my broken heart.”

Layla opens her mouth but Tom presses his finger to her lips to silence her before rolling his head back to face forwards.

“I had a girlfriend before you moved in, she lived here. We were pretty serious or at least I thought we were but she up and left me with no explanation. I went to my parents for dinner, she was s’posed to come but said she wasn’t feeling well, I told we’d go another night but she insisted I still went. When I got home, she was gone and so was all her shit. Never heard from her again.

“That’s why I went out all the time, go out all the time. I was so used to having her there and all of a sudden she wasn’t, I didn’t know how to handle it. First time I was out I just kinda hid in a corner, looked at my phone until I was drunk enough to not have any worries,” Tom pauses and takes a deep breath. “That felt so good, just having the clearest mind because I couldn’t focus on anything properly. Not on how much I was drinking, not on who I was kissing, not on taking them home for the night. The more I did it the easier it got. If I felt like shit my mind was like ‘just have a drink and you’ll feel better, just take her home and you’ll feel better.’ And I thought maybe it was getting better, I hadn’t thought about her in a while, and it didn’t hurt when I did think about her. But, fucking hell, I ran into her on the way down here and I just- fuck, it was like it was the night she left all over again.”

Tom’s voice cracked and he dropped his head quickly, bringing his hands up to cover his face. Layla still saw the first tear spill from his eye, and her heart was breaking for him. She knew he wasn’t in the best place when she moved in but she didn’t want to over step so she never asked about it.

“You wouldn’t think this could get worse though, right? But it fucking does, because she’s pregnant,” Tom spat the words like they’d left a foul taste in his mouth.

“Yours?” Layla asked.

He looked up at her, eyes red and raw from him wiping them dry, and shook his head.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, she left just under eight months ago now and she definitely wasn’t that far along.”

“Jesus, Tom, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

The pair sat in silence for a minute before Layla reached for the key again, when Tom made no move to stop her she turned it and put the car in gear. She hated driving in silence so the radio was playing at a low volume in case Tom wanted to talk, but he stayed silent the whole trip.

Getting Tom inside was a bit more of a bother than getting him out of the bar, now that tiredness had settled through him Layla had to hold up more of his weight. None the less she got him inside and to his room, telling him to get ready for bed while she got him some water. She also kicked her shoes off as she passed by her room, before grabbing two glasses of water, one for herself as well.

When she entered Tom’s room she thought he wasn’t in it, it took a few seconds for her to notice he was sitting on the floor leaning against the bed, just in his boxers. She carefully sits beside him, putting the glass down in front of his feet and then waits for him to make the next move. Minutes go by before Tom picks up the glass and downs the liquid as fast as he can manage, a few drops leaking from the side of his mouth in the process.

“People keep telling me it gets better,” he mumbles, turning to Layla, “does it ever?”

“Absolutely,” she tells him confidently, placing her hand on his leg and giving a reassuring squeeze.

“Doesn’t feel like it, it feels like the walls are caving in.”

“Tom, I think you’re forgetting that better doesn’t mean good. It just means that tomorrow, or in two days or even more you aren’t going to feel as shitty as you do right now. I’m not gonna sit here and say everything will be fine, because I can’t promise you that. But I can promise you it will get better.”

Tom lays his hand over Layla’s and tucks his fingers in between hers. He won’t look at her in fear of seeing any form of distaste across her face at the action. She won’t look at him in fear he’ll notice the flush in her cheeks at the action.

“Will you be my better?”

Tom’s voice is croaky and barely audible, but she hears it, head turning towards him hastily. He still won’t look at her, she can see how hard he’s trying to not meet her gaze and he cheeks only redden the more he tries. She leans over and presses a kiss to the soft skin of his cheek, pulling away and waiting for him to turn his face to her.

“I’ll do my best, Tommy.”

He finally looks at her, loving the way the nickname sounds in her voice, loving the way she’s looking at him. He can’t help but let his eyes flick to her lips as her tongue darts out to wet them quickly and he subconsciously does the same.

“Will you kiss me?”

He leans in the tiniest bit as she nods and brings her free had up to his face, running her thumb along his cheekbone gently before closing the gap between them. He lets Layla dominate the kiss, she keeps it slow but teasing, biting softly on his bottom lip a couple of times before he pulls back.

He untwists his fingers from hers and gets up onto the bed, holding his hand out to Layla to help her up.

“Will you stay? I think I need somebody now.”

She doesn’t answer out loud, but accepts his hand and gets under the blankets with him. He rolls onto his side, facing away from her and tugs her arm over his torso. She happily cuddles into his back and he splays her fingers out on his chest so she can feel his heart beating, it’s a little fast. She starts drawing patterns on his skin until he falls asleep, tangled in her limbs, she traces the word ‘better’ across his chest before letting the fatigue drag her to sleep.

let me know if you wanna be tagged or don’t wanna be xo tag list // @tomsfireheart // @tomhoellandb // @laucontrerasv // @spidey-pal // @paper-goonie // @hottrashformarvel // @gayvodkatour // bridiereads** // @starksparker // @h-osterfield // @upsidedownparker // @shuriismyqueen // @spideymood // @thewiseandfree // @stephie-senpai // @bi-writes // @peters-vlogs // @noneighborhood // @caloe-vera // @starlightfound // @lafayettes-baguettes-1 // @lemirabitur // @lilleone

tom taglist // @assumeimapenguin // @idontlooklikereginageorge

[blackaquokat]

For Those Who Wait (Part 2)

(Part 1)

 Pairing: DAtective

A/N: So I didn’t intend for this to have more parts, it was just supposed to be a thing explaining how the DA and Abe found each other again, but then I realized some other information is important for future installments in my DAtective ‘verse, so...here you go! It’ll probably be a short series, only one or two more parts, but I hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless!

Oo00oO

As Abe walks them to his home, he can’t help but notice how pale they look each time they pass through the light of the street lamps, the exhaustion lining the skin around their eyes.

“How long have you been wandering around here? Actually, you know what, how long have you been following me?”

They look at him sheepishly. “I, uh, I saw you about a week ago, but…I wasn’t sure it was really you, so I held back—”

“Hold on a moment,” Abe interrupts. “What do you mean you weren’t sure it was me?”

Their brow lifts. “Probably for the same reason you thought I was a trick?”

A cold feeling grips his nerves. “So…you know about that…that thing that’s wearing the Mayor’s face?”

Their gaze cuts away suddenly, but not before he catches the grim twist of their mouth and Abe wants to kick himself. How could he forget?

“Sorry, I…I know he was your friend—”

“How far are we from your home?” they interrupt, looking around and up and anywhere but at him.

Abe lets the moment pass, lest he puts his foot in his mouth again. “Only a couple more streets.”

When the pair finally arrives at his apartment, his partner stands at the entrance as he steps inside. They’re just…staring, eyes raking over the measly living space and Abe wrestles down the sudden insecurity in his gut.

His apartment is essentially one large room. One bed rests against the far wall, the kitchen is tucked into the corner, and there is one small table where he eats and works and another table holding a television where he can watch from his bed. The only other piece of furniture is a small red lift chair. The wallpaper is stained, and he has no idea how they’ll react to the state of the bathroom.

Abe probably could have moved into something bigger and more…livable, but it’s just him. Who’s he trying to impress?

Had he known his favorite dead District Attorney/Partner would be coming by, he would’ve at least added a couple flower vases, or picked his underwear off the floor.

“Um…everything alright, Partner?”

They blink rapidly and look back at him, eyes glassy and dull. “Sorry, I…I seem to space out a lot lately…”

As they enter the apartment and shut the door behind them, Abe can’t stop watching their movements.

It’s them. It’s his partner. There’s no denying. He knows that face, those eyes, their voice…

But at the same time, their cheeks are sunken in, hair matted to their head and longer than he’s ever seen, and the spark in their eyes he remembers so fondly is nowhere to be seen. Even as they step further inside, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room and gazing blankly around…

It really does look like they’ve returned from the dead, but only mostly so.

“How long have you been alive?” Abe asks again.

Brow furrowed, they bite their bottom lip in thought. “It’s been a week, or…maybe two, I’m not…really sure.” Their head shakes from side to side. “I have trouble keeping track of time.”

“Wait, are you telling me you’ve been wandering the streets for two weeks?”

Their head jerks back at the rising of his tone. “I mean…I usually slept in abandoned buildings, but essentially, yeah. I was looking for…” They cut off, eyes darting down again. “Honestly, I don’t know. Something familiar, I suppose…you were the first familiar thing I found.”

Oh, there is so much the two of them should probably discuss (two weeks on the streets, how are they not…? And why not approach him before, why follow him for so long?), but first things first.

“You need food,” Abe announces as he heads to his refrigerator. He cringes at the white bareness found within. “I hope you don’t mind cold pizza, that’s all I have in here.”

“You had me at ‘food.’”

Oo00oO

“For the last time, I’ll just sleep on the floor—”

“And I’m telling you,” they interrupt, though their voice is muffled from the pillow as they lay face down on his bed, “that this mattress is big enough for two, so shut up and get in.”

Abe growls, finally relenting, and after shedding his coat onto the chair, falls back into the empty mattress space beside his partner. “I see death hasn’t kicked your bossy ass out yet…”

Their body vibrates with gentle laughter. “Only with you, Abe. Only with you…”

Their breathing evens out a moment later. Abe attributes this to their exhaustion, because when he knew them before, they seemed to have trouble falling asleep.

He really should let himself descend into dreamland, no matter the horrors likely awaiting him. It’s been a long day, a long night, and he probably needs to give his mind a rest in order to process everything.

Instead, he watches his sleeping friend breathe in and out, notes the way their brow furrows even in their rest…

Alive.

Not well, but alive.

…it’s impossible.

Then again, so is he.

Abe slips out of the bed, slowly so as to not jostle the mattress and grabs the file he keeps hidden under the lift chair. Copies of the cold case at Markiplier Manor before the cops took them back.

An impossible case, just like him and his partner.

He flips through the paperwork, the pictures of the crime scene, images of familiar faces he’s only occasionally seen since that day. Most of the reports are essentially speculation on what may have happened, and the lack of actual bodies found, where they all went, and end with more speculation on occurrences but mainly because the detective who wrote it didn’t want to outright say “We have no goddamn idea what happened here.”

Then there’s the section dedicated to the DA.

It’s cripplingly short, like their career had been, like the investigation into the case itself. A brief summary of their life and family, their campaign, brief conjecture into their relationship with the Mayor (Abe tries not to crumple the paper at that bit), and exactly one picture, from when they first took office. They stand before the camera, clearly unused to the spotlight, but meeting it head on with determined eyes and a confident set of their jaw.

Abe thinks back to the last time he saw them: terror in their face, then the shock as a bullet punched right below their ribcage, and how hard he screamed their name when they toppled over the balcony, he couldn’t even direct a shot at the weeping Colonel before the world went black.

He has…a vague recollection of that muggy world, but the clearest thing is, ironically, the clawing darkness, and echoing voices…voices that weren’t addressing him.

It’s not fair, is it?

Let me in…

He’s dangerous now…

This will work, I promise…

To this day, he has no idea who was speaking, and who was spoken to.

But now…

Abe had shouted so much at the detectives who had investigated the scene, because how can you not find a dead body, how does such a thing just…disappear? Mark, the DA, the Seer…their corpses were nowhere to be found.

He’s seen the Mayor walking around live and well since that day, but knows it’s not Damien, it’s Mark, in Damien’s body…somehow.

Then that thing, the 3D glasses demon who bends reality and wears the Mayor’s face as well, only darker and more menacing, that explains at least one of the missing corpses.

But what about the other two?

He looks at his partner now, sleeping in the bed. Their fingers twitch slightly as a deep sigh escapes them.

Abe thinks back on that conversation he heard in the void.

They have so much to speak of, and he hopes doing so won’t make their state of mind worsen. They seem frayed enough as it is.

Oo00oO

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