#he screwed up. but neither is the monster

[glisten-inthedark]

I'm still not over the fact that Odysseus tried to offer Poseidon an olive branch.

We start his story following a man who thinks that no one needs to die, no one needs to get hurt.

Then he loses his best friend - his light. And the scales tip, he starts to associate losing him with extreme goodness, with mercy in despite of circumstances and of threats.

And he's desperate to get home, he needs to see his wife and his son.

But a god shows up and tries to teach him a lesson about ruthlessness and the lack of kindness, and he loses most of his men because of it.

He faces a goddess, he saves his men.

He goes to the Underworld and once again comes across the person that taught him the philosophy he's currently clinging onto. He then hears his mother.

And that's when the scales tip too much to the opposite direction and he decides – screw this, I'll be the monster.

He's not a man, he's not a god. He's something else.

He sacrifices his men, and then chooses himself over them.

But when he finally faces the god that killed his men, that made his life hell, he still tries to offer him a way out.

He still tells him they can stop this, they can have peace.

And when Poseidon says, DIE.

That's when Odysseus takes a stand and stabs him. That's when he realizes there's a point in which ruthlessness is necessary, but not before he tries to offer people a way out.

Odysseus said himself a while ago - he's neither man nor mythical.

Tiresias wasn't wrong when he told Odysseus that he saw a man that was no longer him (which is why his motif plays in 600 hundred strike).

He's not a man nor is he a complete monster.

Odysseus is something else.

[good-soupmens]

Something I noticed in the confession is that they don't REALLY respond to what the other is saying

Crowley says "run away with me" and Aziraphale says "come with me to heaven"

Both are saying "be with me" but neither stops to figure out why the other wouldn't want to go

Crowley says "you can't leave this bookshop" and Aziraphale says "nothing lasts forever"

Crowley thinks he ended it.

Aziraphale says "we can make a difference" and Crowley says "good luck"

Both are leaving. Neither stayed until they could agree, or at least understand each other

Aziraphale says "I need you" and Crowley says "no nightingales"

Aziraphale thinks he ended it.

Aziraphale says "I forgive you" and Crowley says "don't bother"

That's the one that sticks.

[metalhoops]

Steve’s party trick was appearing sober long past the point of inebriation. 

It was an act he’d perfected through observation. He’d watched his mother down wine like water and waltz into a garden party looking sober as a saint. So when everything went down at the Starcourt Mall, with the drugs and the appearance of another burgeoning concussion-induced migraine fogging the edges of his vision, he’d pushed through with professional tact. 

Steve couldn’t explain how it happened. One moment he was sitting on the kitchen counter, cradling a bag of frozen peas to his bare face, freezer burn nipping at the edges of his consciousness, and the next he was sprawled out on the carpet of a stranger’s house. 

What happened in between, he’d never know. 

Maybe it was for the best. Ignorance was bliss, in Steve’s opinion. His life was so much easier before the Upside Down. He would’ve been a worse person and lived a worse life. Yet his life would’ve been close to normal, not the mercurial mess it’d become.  He wouldn’t have spent the night locked in a secret underground soviet bunker, his face doubling as a punching bag for a man he didn’t know, while monsters roamed about the town. 

The mall had burned down, Steve remembered. After all was said and done, Mrs Byers dropped him and Robin off at their respective homes. Steve insisted he didn’t need to go to the hospital, that he was fine and, more importantly, that his parents were home. When Robin sobered up, she’d realise Steve had lied.

He’d told Robin a lot of things, and after the night in the mall, so had she. She knew Steve’s parents had been out of town for months, but she’d been flying too high to use any of her admittedly brilliant brain to put two and two together. Steve loved Robin. He loved her differently after that night, but he still loved her. He was human. He needed time to lick his wounds and some space. The quiet of the Harrington house had seemed like a blessing, so where the hell was he now?

“Hey, what did you take?” A vaguely familiar voice shook Steve from his stupor. 

He rolled away from the sound, burying his face in the carpet. He cringed as a  spark of pain shot through the veiled numbness that’d inhabited his body since the Russian drugs had hijacked his system. 

“Ouch,” Steve grumbled miserably. 

His head throbbed. One eye was entirely swollen shut. Even if Steve was sober, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to place the boy through his hazy vision. All he could make out were colours, pale skin, dark hair, and darker clothes. 

“I know. I know. You’ve got a real shiner, Harrington. Come on, up,” the boy instructed. 

Steve felt cool skin graze against the nape of his neck, pulling him up into a sitting position. Steve remained boneless, not making the task easy. 

He felt separate from his body, not sure where he ended and the rest of the world began. Once pulled up, he kept falling forward, his face making contact with the dark fabric of the boy’s shirt. The boy was more comfortable than the floor, with less carpet burn and more smooth leather. He smelled of smoke, sweat and an earthy kind of cologne that hadn’t been refreshed in hours.

“Elevator up,” Steve chuckled, laughing too hard for his own good. 

His ribs ached. He felt a laugh shudder through the boy’s body as he pulled Steve back, trying to get a better look at him. He held a finger in front of Steve’s face. 

“Not sure what this is meant to do but I’ve seen it in movies,” the boy commented as he moved his finger right to left, inspecting Steve’s face for something, neither boy was quite sure of. 

“Alright. You’ve gotta know I’m the least likely person to narc on you, Harrington. What did you take? Special K? Some Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds? Were you Chasing the Dragon? Gotta be something stronger than weed, man,” the boy insisted. 

Steve screwed up his nose and moved away from the man. 

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Steve complained, trying to untangle the string of words the guy had thrown his way. 

Steve staggered to his feet, swaying before propping himself up, leaning against the wall, and feeling the whole thing tilt under his weight. 

“Dude, your walls are broken,” Steve muttered, as his legs gave out and he slid down to the floor. 

“We’re in a trailer, Steve,” the boy pointed out. Steve looked around the place, trying to make shapes from the blurs of colour and light. 

“Oh yeah,” He noted before resting his chin on his knee. 

The boy sat down in front of him, mirroring Steve’s posture, his chin resting on the bare knees of his ripped jeans. 

“Do you know what you took?” He pushed on, this time taking a different approach. 

“No,” Steve admitted, at last, sliding forward. 

The boy’s rings had caught his attention. They were little halos of light. He curiously tugged at his hand, pulling him close to examine the shine. He ran his fingers over the rise and fall of the rings. 

“Okay,” the dark-haired boy breathed, seemingly to himself. 

“I think you need to go to the hospital, dude.” 

“No hospitals,” Steve remarked eloquently as he returned to his previous position, face down on the carpet, taking the boy's hand with him. 

“Yeah well, I’m not so sure I like the idea of you sleeping either, Stevie,” He reasoned, his voice sounding strangled.   

“I’m tired,” Steve rebutted, his eyes sliding shut. 

There the boy was again, taking Steve’s face into his palm and pulling him up. For a moment, the vision in his good eye cleared enough to make out brown eyes painted with concern. 

“Look, I know we hated each other’s guts in high school but I don’t want you to O.D. on my carpet. It’s not good for the ambience,” the boy continued. 

Steve squinted, trying to place the face. Sure, he’d been a jerk in high school, particularly before his senior year, but he didn’t remember hating anyone. Not really. Maybe Jonathan, for a time, but that had passed. 

Munson. Steve’s brain supplied at last. The boy was Eddie Munson. He sold drugs and hung out on the fringes of Steve’s bigger parties back in the peak of his ‘King Steve’ era. 

“You hated me?” Steve asked, hearing the hurt in his voice before he realised what he was feeling. Eddie’s eyes widened in alarm, Steve’s face still in his palm. 

“What? No. I thought you hated me. I mean, you were a jock and I’ve got my whole ‘fuck the man shtick’, so it wasn’t like we ran in the same circles,” Eddie elaborated. 

“Jocks are ‘the man’?” Steve questioned. He’d like to blame the drugs, but he’d probably ask the question sober. 

“No. Yes. Kind of. Jocks are like... the grease for a cog in the wheel of the machine. All mass compliance to societal norms... or whatever.” 

Steve blinked owlishly at Eddie, trying to make a lick of sense out of what he’d said before resigning himself to the fact that he was completely lost. 

“I like Grease. It’s a cool movie,” he settled on, startling another laugh out of Eddie. He gently lowered Steve’s face onto the carpet and sighed. 

“Yeah, it’s a cool movie,” he muttered, leaving Steve for a moment, tossing sheets and a pillow from the sofa to the floor beside him. 

“Look, I’m going to stay up and make sure you don’t choke on your own tongue. You can stay here for the night, but I’m not letting you crash until my uncle gives you the thumbs up, weirdo.” 

Eddie slid a cushion beneath Steve’s head and draped the sheet over him. Steve was bone tired. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but the pain in his body was growing by the moment and less favourable memories were leaking back into the forefront of his mind. He watched as Eddie placed a tape into the VCR and sat down beside Steve. It took him too long to realise the film was Grease. 

“Who’d you get into a fight with this time?” Eddie asked, seemingly aware of Steve’s sudden restlessness. 

Steve didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to. 

“Were the drugs before or after?” He pushed, searching for something Steve couldn’t work out.

Again, Steve didn’t know how to answer. Once more, Eddie let it slide. 

“You want me to call anyone? A girlfriend... or?” He doesn’t mention Steve’s parents. 

Maybe he was at more parties than Steve remembered, enough to know that the Harringtons being in Hawkins was rarer than a blue moon, less frequent than even Steve would admit to. 

“No,” Steve grumbled, starting to feel the swelling in his lip. 

Eddie nodded and let Steve have his silence. He half paid attention to the flashing lights on the screen, fading in and out of consciousness. Eddie would gently elbow his side each time Steve almost reached sleep. It was a long night, broken only by the opening of a door come sunrise. 

The light was too bright, too sudden. Steve shrunk from it curling into the closest point of dark comfort. Steve realised too late he’d curled himself into a small ball, tucking his face into the familiar darkness provided by Eddie’s crossed legs. 

“What in the Sam Hill have you gotten into, kid?” Steve heard a gruff voice ask in the doorway. Despite his words, the man didn’t sound angry, more amused. 

Steve felt Eddie pull the sheets up to hide his broken face from the light. 

“You know when I was fourteen, and I brought home that stray cat?” Eddie asked. 

Steve heard a door shutting and the scrape of a dining chair sliding against the linoleum. 

“The one that was sick as a dog?” The gruff voice replied. Probably Eddie’s uncle. 

“Same situation,” Eddie spoke.

“You’re telling me you found a kid wanderin’ round the trailer park at night and thought you’d bring him home? You remember what happened to that cat, right?” His uncle asked. 

“He went missing after a week. Then we found him half-kickin’ curled up in the back seat of the Johnsons’ cinder-blocked Austin,” Eddie muttered, stating the words as though it were a conversation Eddie and his uncle had before.  

“And you didn’t leave your room for a week.” 

“Your point, old man?” Eddie remarked.

“My point is, I love you, kid. But sometimes your bleeding heart is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

To Steve’s surprise, the sheet was pulled off his head. The next thing he knew he was face to face with Eddie’s uncle. The man shone a torch in Steve’s eyes, echoing Eddie’s movements, placing a finger in front of his eyes. Eddie watched in silence at Steve’s side. 

“He’s got a pretty bad concussion,” Eddie’s uncle supplied after a beat. 

“He was on something when I found him,” Eddie said. 

Steve was getting sick of people talking about him like he wasn’t there but in the same vein, he wanted to convalesce in peace. Eddie’s uncle shot him a sceptical look.

“Nothing I gave him, promise. He’s not letting me take him to the hospital.” 

“He’s right here,” Steve interjected.

He watched as Eddie’s uncle levelled him under his intense gaze. For the first time since he’d entered the room, he wasn’t seeing symptoms, or a problem Eddie had dropped in his lap but a boy. A kid, in Wayne’s eyes, one that looked worse for wear. It was the goddamn cat all over again. 

“I’m going to get you water and some aspirin. Eds, get some rest. No buts, kid you look like you haven’t slept a wink. Should also be safe enough for you to try to get some shut-eye, boy. I’m not Eddie, you can’t bat your eyes at me and get your way. I’m taking you to the hospital if anything happens, right?” 

Steve looked at the man with narrowly masked surprise before giving him a weak nod. He couldn’t imagine his parents doing the same, not even for one of Steve’s friends, let alone a stranger. 

“Come on, you can sleep in my room,” Eddie uttered, springing to his feet with a joviality that someone who’d gone twenty-four hours without sleep shouldn’t be able to muster. 

Steve blinked, slowly standing and gathering the sheets around himself, acutely aware of how ridiculous he looked. 

“Keep the door open,” Wayne called at their retreating backs. 

That was how Steve spent the summer of ‘85 hauled up and healing at the Munsons’ trailer. A few months later, he’d return the favour. When Eddie went missing, Wayne knew where to look. 

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Tiny ideas 2

----

1. Danny, in his new and very human black and white vigilante outfit runs past Penguin who had gotten soaked when a car full of hooligans wearing clown masks ran threw a puddle and splashed him.

Danny, not knowing who this was, tapped him on the shoulder as he ran past, running his intangibility through the man and letting the water fall off him, leaving him nice and dry again.

Penguin makes note to pay both back in very different ways.

----

2. Phantom, having been exorcisized from Amity Park and essentially banished and unable to return, roams around the multiverse looking for something to do.

Upon coming across the creepiest doll hes ever seen in a trash bin, he decides to mess with some local bat themed vigilantes and possesses the doll.

His first victim is Red Robin. Danny in all his creepy doll glory toddles out from behind a chimney as his target is running across the rooftop in his direction. Birdy stopped dead (heh) and stared at the doll.

Danny picked good. The doll was porcelain and cracked, missing one of its glass eyes and moss growing out of the empty socket and around various parts of its body. Its dress was once a lovely blue or green velvet but was now patchy and worn.

He turned the dolls head around at an unnatural angle to fix its gaze on the vigilante, its frozen polite smile adding to its eerieness, and in a moment of impulse said, "I'll see you soon." In the most creepiest little girl voice he could manage, using his ghost powers to make the words seem to drift upon the air towards the hero.

And just like that, doll Danny was gone.

RR almost frantically contacted oracle, "Did you see that?!"

"RR your signal cut out for a few minutes, backup should arrive soon. What happened?"

-----

3. Jason has been getting followed around by this wierd kid who is prime Brucie adoption bait. Kid kept jumping out of nowhere without anyone being able to sense him to ask him the weirdest questions (Damian was so startled that he nearly stabbed the kid on reflex. Not that he'd ever admit it).

The questions where things like, "Do you like books? What are your favorites? Can you cook? Do you like red heads? Do you like dogs? How opposed are you to having supervillian in-laws? What if they give you free experimental weaponry? ....how about some laser cannons and a jet?

Jason ends up getting kidnapped by this kid and dumped in from of this pretty girl as the kid tells her, "I went out and got you a boyfriend who won't try to murder you. Don't screw this up!" Before the kid ran out of the room.

Jazz was mortified.

Jason is still on the floor where he was deposited earlier, "So..." he begins, "I heard you like Jane Austin?"

-----

4. Phantom faked his death in front of the people of Amity Park, just to see how they would react to his passing and kind of in hopes of something changing. He couldn't keep sacrificing everything for these people, after all.

He did not like how the people reacted. Danny had to move away cause if he heard one more person say it was a good thing "that monster" died hes going to hurt someone.

Gotham seemed lovely this time of year and its one place that neither his parents or Vlad would visit. Vlad because if he tried anything at all the worlds greatest detective would ruin him and his parents because they once tried to hunt Batman and Robin only for Batman to terrify them to the point of never returning after they hurt his bird.

Danny got hired at Wayne Tech after submitting a wide range of devices but couldn't do much thanks to still being a minor. Thankfully Mr. Wayne was very generous and kept him housed and fed while he finished his online schooling and graduated early.

(Heavy angst for Danny.)

---

5. Danny hadn't seen Cujo in a while, which wasn't too unusual, but it have been a long time since hed seen his puppy and he was overdue a visit.

Danny pulled out his dog whistle, one normally used for emergencies and that Cujo would never ever ignore.

Only...Cujo didn't come. Now Danny goes on a journey to track down his missing dog. Following clues and trails across different realities, dimensions and universes to find his lost dog.

He did not expect to meet a bird themed vigilante along the way, not for them to insist he help him on his quest. Robin seemed very wary of the Infinite Realms the first time he entered them and had tons of questions. But bird boy was great company and Cujo would love him so Danny could deal.

[reds-writings]

if only tonight we could sleep?

the dora lange case had come to a close...but was it really ever over?

(pairing: rust cohle x fem!reader)

a/n: inspired by getting lost in the sound of the cure's kiss me, kiss me, kiss me album. this is set somewhere in the same world of jealousy, jealousy!. your feedback, as always, is greatly treasured!

word count: around 2.6k

warnings: angst, canon-typical death (mentions of what happens at the Ledoux shootout), nudity (showering together!), cursing, dread, etc (minors go away)

The Dora Lange case had finally been closed once and for all. All the bullshit and danger that had accumulated over all these weeks could finally cease to continue. You’re sure that even within the next twenty something odd years or so when all of this would be well blown over and buried you would never be able to truly process the fucked up-ness of it all. 

Your mind was thoroughly numb and all of your limbs ached to no end. You could feel everything you’d endured catching up to you as your body finally allowed itself to let go. Adrenaline and sheer will had been what kept you from fully crumbling during the case’s most crucial and final moments. The shit Rust and Marty decided to pull with that druggie Ginger had already left you worse for wear. Discovering Ledoux and the horrors that were transpiring in that shithole was something you couldn’t let yourself dwell on for too long lest you wanted to find yourself having a complete mental breakdown. Bodies and skulls being blown to bits right in front of you. The sight of rich blood and scattered brain matter sprayed to stain onto your boots. Finding those kids like that…you’d never get over it. One was sentenced to a life of trauma that left her catatonic and the other one deceased. You’d had the naive thought more than once telling you if only we'd all been a bit quicker…

But there was no point in dwelling on all the ifs and maybes. That was a guaranteed one-way ticket to self-induced insanity. 

You should feel relief that this is over. The weight of one of the many atrocities committed in the world removed from your down-trodden shoulders. Solved. A monster taken down and put into the earth where he couldn’t return to cause more strife. Why couldn't it feel over? Where was the relief?

You didn’t know much of what Rust and Marty felt on the matter, too busy dealing with keeping your stories straight on just how you all had come across Ledoux’s hideout instead of finding the time to have a heart-to-heart on how much this might’ve permanently screwed with your heads for ages to come. You knew well enough that ending the case like this wasn’t easy for either of them given their respective standpoints when it came to kids. Marty discovered those children and both men had carried them back. Rust had shouldered the burden of carrying that poor boy. A small choice of action that had your heart twisting even more painfully than you thought it already had during it all. The Texan could go on and on about the world being shit and there being no control over the horrors one would be put through trying to live life but you found that it was he who tried the hardest to shield others from said pain and horror whether he was aware of it or not. He cared a lot more about the human race than he let on but it would be more than ineffectual trying to convince him of that particular truth. 

Things with Rust had been all over the place since the fiasco of a night you had after the bar as well as any event that followed afterwards: surprise, surprise. The time you’d initially aimed for to really sit down and decipher where it was exactly you saw the two of you headed had found itself slipping away at every possible chance. Neither of you was to necessarily blame, as the nature of your work was in constant demand of your full attention, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.

You guys weren’t even truly anything yet and it was already this arduous. What kind of shelf-life did a pairing such as this really have down the line? It was more than likely that acting on any idea of pursuing Rust romantically was destined to never end in your favor. He was your coworker for Christ’s sake. Yes, there was no one else who could probably understand what it is you go through like each other but it was harder to separate other crueler aspects of your lives as well. Everything would get in the way of professionalism. It already had when it came to the showdown with Ginger. 

Trying not to let your thoughts go down the usual Rust rabbit hole it found itself in you decided that you’d take the longest and hottest shower you hadn’t had the luxury of taking in weeks. Any extra time you had lately was reserved for quick and cold rinses to keep yourself up and at 'em’. Relaxation in any sense of the word was hard to adjust to after long stretches of work such as these. It was like your body had forgotten how to just be. Nothing was chasing you and there was no clock ticking over your shoulder to mock you that time to get shit done was running out. The empty quiet that followed would never not be unnerving to you. You had nowhere to be and nothing to do. 

Where was the fucking relief? 

With a huff, you set aside the jack and coke you’d been cradling out on your front porch in the dwindling evening light. The air was more balmy than the stifling hot you’d experienced day in and day out though your skin still held that essence of a humid dew that kept your hair and clothes sticking to you like a second skin. Dusting off your pants you made way to get on up from your depressing reverie only to find the outline of a familiarly limber figure at the end of your driveway. How the hell hadn’t you heard him pull up?

“Are you gonna stand there like a regular ol’ weirdo or get up here?” You feigned nonchalance at his sudden presence but your heart told another story with the quickening pace it decided to adopt. 

Wordlessly, Rust ventured his way up the pathway and onto your shabby porch. He eyed the abandoned drink you had by your side so you offered it up to him. He loosened the tie around his neck and undid the first two buttons of his dress shirt before accepting the silent offering. It took two long gulps before the glass was drained.

There was a heavy silence for longer than what was comfortable. Where could you even start? You didn’t want to catch yourself in an awkward fumble trying to gauge what it was he exactly needed from you as it was clear there was a purpose in him showing up without a warning. The set of his posture made it seem like he was curling in on himself more and more by the minute. He couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye, fearful that it would be his complete undoing. This visible deflation in action made you feel panicked for not knowing what assistance you could offer without having him pull away.

“...D’ya wanna talk about it?”

Rust shook his head softly as if in a daze. His eyes growing glassy and increasingly distant while he stared at your porch’s floorboards. 

At a loss, you cleared your throat shakily, “Well I was just about to hop in the shower. You can come inside…hang around if you want. We don’t have to talk or nothin’...o-or we can if that’s what you wanna end up doin’ after havin’ some quiet.”

No reply.

“Well, there’s beers and whatnot in the fridge if you choose. Don’t be shy to helpin’ yourself.” You got up and squeezed his hand gently, warm and calloused like you’d been dreaming about since they held you. That already felt like ages ago. He still made no move.

“I’m here.” Was all you could say and with that, you loosened your grip and headed on inside then upstairs to your bathroom. After setting out some comfy clothes and shedding out of the day’s stiff attire for all the press work that entailed you waited for the shower to reach its desired heat. The person looking back at you in your steadily fogging mirror was almost unrecognizable. Bruises from recent incidents had barely begun to make their way towards the fading process. Skin so sullen and hair even duller. When had you started to look so tired? This beaten down? You felt sorry for anyone who had the displeasure of viewing your walking corpse as of late. 

The spray of the showerhead above you was nothing short of heavenly. Any pain and misery melted away to be forever cast down into the depths of the tub’s drain. Your bones felt like lead as you let yourself stand there, waiting to gain the sense of motivation to start washing yourself clean. It could’ve been ten minutes or even ten hours before the sound of the bathroom door clicking ajar had you opening your eyes. The silhouette of the cause of your heart’s aching and beating stood beyond the fogged glass as if at a loss of what to make himself do next. You said nothing, not wanting him to feel as if he was unwanted or on the other hand forced to join you. To expose himself beyond what a casual act of nudity could display already. 

It was another elongated moment before you heard the clink of a belt and the rustle of clothes being discarded. You were so far gone that it hadn’t occurred to you he was about to see you at your most vulnerable. He’d witnessed you at some of your lowest, shittiest points but this was crossing into an entirely new territory. 

And yet you didn’t feel as scared as you thought you would. You didn’t find Rust to be as judgemental about the physical as he was about the metaphysical. 

The shower’s sliding door worked its way open and you didn’t turn around until a few moments after it had closed. The look on his face was similar to the one you’d been subjected to all those weeks ago after the bar. One of true fear. Fear of being seen at his very core. Open and raw. Fear that you’d take this all in and decide to turn him away in disgust or disinterest. Rust’s eyes didn’t wander down any further than your face. He wasn’t here out of primal desire. He needed something…someone…you to help him hold himself together for just this moment. Any and all strength he usually had keeping him upright had escaped him after the weight of everything finally penetrated his psyche. 

You found your hand making its way up to his face, tracing dampening tendrils out of his line of sight before cupping his jaw. That empty blue fluttered closed, giving himself a moment or two before completely relinquishing himself to your gentle touch. Your other hand met the other side of his face before you leaned forward to touch your forehead to his. The downfall of water in the small cubicle drowned out any other possible thoughts or worries that could’ve been had in the current moment. There was nothing and no one else that mattered. 

One kiss to his nose, then his chin, and finally his trembling lips had large palms come up to rest on the supple flesh of your hips, steadily gripping you as if you’d float away from him. You separated for a moment as his hands traveled up to clutch at your back. Before he could bring you closer you kissed him gently once more before succumbing to his grasp. Settling with leaving barely-there imprints of your mouth on the expansive skin of his chest and neck, your own hands brought themselves up to return his embrace. You felt the soft press of a peck linger on the side of your head as his grip grew a bit tighter. Seconds passed until the subtle shaking of broad shoulders had you clinging to him impossibly tighter. His sobs were not all that audible but the shuddering breaths he’d take in every now and then were more than enough to clue you in on just how much he was hurting. Tears began to burn behind your own eyes as your pain melded with his. 

Here you were, just two broken people who gave up all notions of stoicism to completely and utterly crumble in front of each other. Fully at each other’s undeniable mercy. 

- - - -

You didn’t know how much more time had passed after holding each other but as the water began to grow more frigid you made haste to help each other wash up. You both stepped out so you could wrap yourself in your own towel before making your way to your linen closet to fetch him one as well as to not have him left wet and cold for too long. With your mind a bit clearer from the emotional release experienced, you finally came to realize the presence of the exceptionally athletic physique in front of you. He seemed to be in the same state of appreciation towards you and you caught yourself feeling hot in the face as you clumsily thrust a towel in his direction. 

“You don’t have to be shy in front of me.” His voice sounded raw from lack of use. The first words he’d uttered since he’d come here.

You tucked a wet piece of hair behind your ear, trying to casually meet his stare, “I know. Just didn’t expect us to end up here when you showed up is all. It’s just catchin’ up to me…” The pinch of your chin between long fingers drew you to kiss him again. 

“You’re everythin'...and then some.” 

You fought a self-deprecating scoff but he said it as if it were the most simplest fact in the world. You had no choice but to believe him.

“Let’s just find you some clothes. I am in dire need of one looong hibernation after everythin’. You too, mister.” You flicked his chest then slinked out of the bathroom. You finished any of the necessary preparations for bed by the time he had wandered into your room. The window you cracked open let in a gentle breeze while the warm glow of the few candles that had been lit danced in the haven you created. Whether you wanted a form of light for the sake of your own comfort or it being done out of some subconsciously innate need to keep Rust out of the dark for the night, you didn’t care to unpack. 

Climbing into bed once and for all, you lay facing each other. Letting peace and stillness settle in. 

“We did it y’know…it’s over. We can be okay.” You couldn’t help but say. Feeling the need to find something to reaffirm the so-called fact that should’ve been comforting at the end of all this. Anything to soothe underlying anxiety as the heavy shadow of the unknown and incomplete loomed over you. It should’ve been over but Ledoux was but a small piece to a hugely fragmented puzzle. Both of you knew it deep down but hadn’t the strength to confirm it out loud. Afraid to shatter this sense of temporary false security.

This was far from being done and dealt with. From being fully uncovered.  

Rust didn’t say anything else as he pulled you into the warmth of his chest. Caging you in with no choice but to surrender to the silent feeling of safety he was trying to provide you. You could only pray that the two of you could make it through anything as you both found yourselves victims to the passing of time and any other trials it had ready for you.

Especially with whatever was waiting for you on the other side of Carcosa.  

----

a/n: ahhhh! hurt/comfort is always a guilty pleasure. sorry for the immense dread at the end. i'm thinking of cooking up another fic that draws back to what exactly went down with our trio and ginger if that's something of interest to you all! thanks for reading!

[lets-try-some-writing]

Not only fauna screwing with them but being screwed over by it.. Moose for example. KnockOut (ratchet maybe his team too) probably had vehicons to patch up that ran into mooses and it's not like theyre gonna admit they almost died because of earth mammal

All the Cybertronians on Earth have problems with the fauna. Ratchet has a personal vendetta against deer since he runs into them frequently enough to despise the stupid things. He has run over one and he complained about it for a month afterwards when he couldn't get part of the gore out of his wheels. Optimus has a vicious and very much unspoken hatred of squirrels. He will tolerate them, but after they got into his passenger seat one time while he was recharging in alt-mode... he now detests them and lives with the haunting sound of his passenger seat being torn up.

Bumblebee has regular problems with the dogs in Jasper. There is no solid reason for it, but perhaps they sense what he is. Whatever the case, they can and will chase him all over the face of creation whenever he drive through and it has led to an overall avoidance of all dogs ever. Arcee has personal beef with the loyal crows since they have learned to pick her out and know that Jack tends to have food. Jack always feeds them while leaning against Arcee, and this in turn means that when the crows see her, they assume its feeding time. She hates it.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack have never run into anything too bad (surprisingly). However there was a singular time when they met a bear on the road and that moment scarred them forever mentally. The bear knew no fear, and not wanting to kill it, Bulkhead and Wheeljack attempted to drive off. But of course the bear sprinted, and neither were aware creatures that big can go so fragging FAST. It haunts them sometimes. Smokescreen has a problem with fish. Why? He fell in a lake and one ended up trapped in his plating for a day. He hated feeling the slimy thing so close to him and has since avoided lakes like the plague. Ultra Magnus, for all his issues, has thus far had no issues with animals.

Knockout ran into a moose with Breakdown once. The monster rammed right into Breakdown and knocked him around. The fact that the moose managed it at all has since left the duo with the firm belief that it is not worth the effort to drive in moose territory. Starscream will forever have problems with birds, but gulls in particular. He hates them with a seething passion and they seem to share the sentiment. Megatron hates organic life, period. But one creature in particular happens to be magpies. He went to the wrong place at the wrong time and got swooped and he has never forgotten it. Soundwave actually likes the wildlife a great deal, but he has had problems with on particular tiger that decided Soundwave was a kill on sight target whenever he turned up.

[sage-nebula]

In season 1, Powder/Jinx was viewed by most as a screw-up, and a monster.

In season 2, Jinx will be viewed by most as a monster, and a revolutionary symbol.

In neither season did the majority opinion see her as a person. Those who did care about her as a person — Vander, Vi, Ekko (though he tried hard not to in arcs 2 & 3), and Silco, in that order — were heavily outnumbered by those who only saw her as the consequences of her actions, and not the eccentric, brilliant, but heavily traumatized and mentally ill girl she actually was.

There are some people who are angry that she is being seen as a revolutionary or peaceful symbol in Zaun. "It should be Vi!" they say. "How could they do this to Ekko?!" But here is what those people are missing:

Symbols are not people. They are iconography. A symbol can last long, long after its origin has died. Hence why doves are symbols; they can die fast, but their paintings last forever. This means that it does not matter at all to Zaun what happens to Jinx, in any way, once she is their symbol; even if she dies, that just makes her a martyr. Even better if it's an enforcer that kills her. (I could see Sevika arranging that.)

Jinx is just as alone now as she ever was. Symbols need to stay pure. Meaning that Jinx's off-color jokes and wild actions will need to be short leashed or she could risk losing that status. Even IF she feels this gives her community, she'll lose that real fast.

This is not the face of a girl who feels she is among friends:

And that is simply because she isn't. They don't know her. They don't need to know her. They need her to do her part (be the face on the murals, the martyr when we need it) and that's it. Jinx's action of blowing up the council was loved. But Jinx herself? No.

This is not an enviable position and it isn't going to benefit her, at least not in terms of her mental wellbeing. Jinx needs real unconditional love and support—what she got from Silco in his final moments, not the empty veneration of the masses who view her as an icon rather than a human being.

[enehana]

What Doesn't Kill Me Makes Me Want You More

Jason Grace x Reader

Female Reader/Feminine Pronouns

Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift

The battle was rough. All around you, children were fighting for their lives, praying to their parents that they will live to see another day. Their parents won't answer them.

Adrenaline pumped through your veins as your celestial bronze sword flowed through another monster with ease. Your feet moved on their own, your ADHD taking over. It told you one thing. Survive.

Your most trusted friend and your lover, Jason, was out of your sight. Being one of the most incredible soldiers you had ever met, he was still a child. You could only hope he was still alive.

The war started after a failed quest. Some younger demigods were sent to appease a titan, to prevent this very war. They died at the hands of said titan.

So here you were. The Romans and the Greeks fighting together, trying to prevent as many casualties as possible. It was never possible.

You were a skilled fighter. You had spent many years training at camp half-blood. You fought in the Labyrinth and the battle of Manhattan. You had survived for a long time. Yet, that was still no guarantee you would survive here. It wasn't even reassuring.

Then, you froze. What stood in front of you was sure to be your end. The Nemean Lion. Impervious skin. Slain only by Heracles and Percy Jackson. And you were armed only with your sword.

It bared it's teeth at you. It lunged. Thank the gods for ADHD. You weren't lion food just yet. But you still weren't safe. Then again, you never would be, so what did it matter?

It lunged again. A searing pain ripped through your left arm and side. Tears welled up in your eyes, impairing your vision. You were screwed. And gods, you wanted Jason.

A storm welled overhead. Thunder struck out, making you flinch. Lighting struck out at the oddest angle, striking the lion in the mouth. It disintegrated. Jason appeared by your side, weapon in hand.

"Nectar, now." Jason pulled out a vial of the golden drink of the gods and handed it to you. You did as he said, drinking the healing liquid. Your wounds started to feel better, though still not great.

He took your hand and pulled you along. You were at war, you had no time for idle chit chat.

Jason fought incredibly well by your side. Your movements were synchronized. Perfect equals, thanks to the Nemesis cabin. Even when you stumbled, he was right there to catch you. His blue eyes locked into yours intensely. Fuck, was that man hot.

With Jason by your side, the war was won. Camps collected their wounded and counted their dead. Neither you nor Jason were collected or counted.

His strong hand intertwined with yours as you exited the battlefield. The sun set, creating a stunning mixture of blues, violets, and burning reds. His hand traced along your jawline as he gazed through your tough masquerade.

His lips pressed to yours with an intimacy you feared you would never experience again after the war.

"It's okay, love. We're alive. We're safe. Nothing will take me away from you." He knew you better than you knew yourself.

Your arms wrapped around his neck and you pressed your face into his chest, tears slipping down your scarred cheeks. His strong arms pulled you as tight against him as possible.

"It's over, darling. I've got you."

You rushed to press your lips to his. He returned your kiss with fervor and kindness. His hands slid up to your hips as he pulled you against him.

"I'm all yours, love."

"All mine."

Most of the few perfect moments you got as a demigod were with Jason.

"May I marry you?"

You looked up. The most perfect moment of your life was with Jason.

"Yes."

[meownotgood]

equalizer. / gun fiend!aki x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, csm spoilers, gun play, fear play, blood play, monster fucking, mirror sex, dubcon, stomach bulge, aki has a metal dick

Once the Gun Devil has infected the mind of a human vessel, they can no longer think for themselves. Can't take control, can't rationalize anything coherent. Fiends hold on to some of their humanity. But in this state, the only thing they can perceive are their most carnal desires. 

He doesn't care that he's pushed you so roughly your head is left spinning when it hits the wall, he isn't thinking about how he's gripping your side so hard your skin might bruise. The only thing Aki — or is it the fiend who's possessing Aki? — can think of as he backs you into a corner, keeps you steady with his rifle under your chin, then leans in and starts nipping at your pulse with sharp canines is how badly he needs to get his cock inside of you.

It's some sort of impulse. Something you could only describe as animalistic, something neither you, nor any of the devil hunters back at Public Safety could ever begin to quite put their finger on, you're betting. Definitely something much more devilish than human.

You figure you should have studied the behavior of devils and fiends enough to predict this, but what's happening to you right now is far from anything you've encountered before. You're normally composed in these kind of situations. But when the most feared, most dangerous devil in all of Japan is right in front of you, and when he already has you wrapped right around his trigger finger, how could you possibly stay calm?

Even without his chapped lips scraping your neck, you know your pulse is thrumming and thrumming and thrumming, your heart is pounding in your chest — and he can sense it, can feel it. Your heartbeat is insistent on his mouth, your fear and anticipation radiates from you and runs deep in his veins. His head is heavy, he's stronger, even more sure of what he wants compared to when he first came here. You've got his one-track mind focused enough to doom you even worse than you already are. 

When he manages to bite down hard enough to break the skin, droplets of blood pooling in his mouth, that's when you're really screwed. Or maybe you knew you were from the very beginning.

The moment you opened the door and saw the devil standing there, back hunched and posture rigid. Hair all a mess, the same suit jacket you ironed two days before draping from his shoulders, muttering something to himself that sounds like the syllables of your own name, you were done for. You gave yourself no means of escape the moment you made the connection between Aki and this fiend in your brain. 

You're okay with that. You're okay with it because it's Aki. You were fine with letting him inside and you didn't panic even when he cornered you. But that was when you didn't know his intentions.

Now, now he's dragging his tongue over the length of your neck, warm and wet and messy, now he's lapping at your salty sweat and your delicious blood — It's good, a metallic pang hits his throat and he's breathing harder, his dick is throbbing in his pants. Fuck, he needs you; he's losing the last shreds of sanity he had left. He's gotten a taste of what he wants, but surely he won't be satisfied with just a taste.

You can tell he needs more when as he's still sucking on your neck, your fresh wound stinging from the flick of his tongue, at the same time he's shifting his rifle between your legs; your whole body tenses on instinct and tries to shrink further into the wall behind you, and he's huffing an amused, bone-chilling chuckle. The sound sends a cold shiver down your spine. 

Your plight is just something he finds amusing. Thrilling, even. You should give up.

Your heart beats against your ribs a little bit faster, he pulls away and you get a closer look at his face for the first time. Messy hair obscuring a thick twist of veins and marrow around his face, teeth stained crimson when his lips upturn in another playful smirk. Your gaze meets the end of a wide pistol, you think this all might end for a fraction of a second, but everything melts away as icy cold lips press fast against your own. 

Tugging you backward along with him, free hand clenched on the front of your shirt, the gun sticking out of his forehead forces Aki to tilt his head at an uncomfortable angle in order to kiss you. He's quick to explore your mouth, to suck on your tongue. He's pulling you closer and as he stumbles, your feet get caught out right from under you. Your hands reach up in an attempt to grab onto something, and your fingers run through thick, matted hair. He smells like charcoal and tastes just the same, bitter and rich with a sharp tang of blood. 

You've kissed Aki before. You can still remember what it's like to feel his soft lips on yours, his bangs tickling your skin, his hands on your waist. Doesn't matter how long ago it was, or how drunk the two of you were, or how many times the two of you swore you'd try to forget. You could never forget.

But this kiss burns harder than anything you're used to, this kiss is all-consuming, breathless. It steals the air from your lungs and leaves you yielding to his — to a devil's — touch. It's how you've wanted Aki to kiss you for so, so long now. Hasty and impatient, he groans into you, a deep and familiar noise, and everything turns into less of a kiss and more of a clumsy mess of lips and open mouths.

Clumsy. That's how you would describe every move the devil piloting Aki's body makes, from the way he trips forwards and falls to the floor with you pinned underneath him, to how his lips don't quite meet yours, his tongue swiping over your bottom lip, drool dripping down your chin until your mouth is messy with his spit. He's uncoordinated and God is he inexperienced, running on pure instinct and nothing else.

His hand is fumbling to undo your clothes like it's something he's never done before. He's kissing you through it, placing wet kisses on the corner of your mouth, breathing hot air onto your cheek and biting at your ear. He's learning as he goes too, but he still tears them off without regard for rips in the fabric or buttons popping off to roll across the floor. It's unceremonious in the fact that he stays clothed, but he strips you from just enough clothing to let him have you how he likes: shirt disheveled and simply tugged all the way up, everything else tossed aside. 

A line of saliva trails from his mouth to yours as he finally pulls away, and his rough palm glides from your chest to your hips to your thighs; he wastes no time tugging them harshly apart. His tie rests on your chest, the sleeve of his suit jacket is rough on your bare skin. And you like this, don't you? 

At every opportunity you've had to push him away, you haven't. He gives you another sloppy kiss and against all odds, you're gripping his tie to tug him in closer. He smiles into your mouth and shifts his rifle between your thighs, and to his wild amusement, you're spreading them wider. Your arms are shaking when the rifle cocks, ready to fire. But even so, he's pressing his lap into you, he lets you feel how hard he's gotten because of this, and you're arching your body into him, all on your own. 

You want to get fucked like this, right? How long have you gone without Aki, without anything?

You're so good for him too, so obedient. The muzzle is heating up, and you're starting to squirm, but all it takes is a firm press of his pistol to your temple to get you listening. He can't deny he likes how you shiver, how you're delicate enough to break. And all he needed was to run the steel tip of his rifle over your waiting cunt to get you soaking wet. 

He rubs his thumb over your lips and parts them to shove the digit inside your mouth; you're gasping and sucking and he's pressing the end of the rifle in, in, in until your pussy is stretching and you're taking it. Just like that, so damn easy. Aki fucks you with his gun in short little spurs, rough movements that have you clenching and writhing underneath him — eyes glazed over, wet drool coating his fingers when he shoves more of them in, index and ring along with his thumb. The metal barrel glistens from your slick arousal, it's intense and it drags against your walls in a way that hurts just enough to spark your senses alight, to feel like heaven. 

A sense of heaven from a devil who surely came from hell. He's disgusting for this, sure, but you're the one who's enjoying it. 

He pumps the rifle in and out, works you up to a steady rhythm as a small mercy before he really starts fucking it deep. Deep enough to feel the end nudging at your cervix: a mix of dull hurt and overwhelming pleasure. He drags it out, tilts his head down and spits a thick glob of saliva onto the end of it to make it easier, then shoves it right back in.

He's starting to pant, he grips your waist to keep you still and smears your own wet saliva over your skin. His arm is steady, but the rest of his body shakes just as much as yours. He focuses on your face, on the flutter of your lashes, he watches the addicting way your pussy takes his gun. He's rolling his hips, grinding against your thigh now, perhaps without even realizing it, breathing hard and searching for any bit of friction on his aching cock he can possibly receive.

You're close already, chest heaving and hands clenched where your arms are sprawled out above your head. You can tell he's thick from his bulge on your thigh alone, you know how hard he is, how badly the devil wants to put his cock in you, and the thought gets you even higher. He hits that perfect sweet spot and as you're falling to pieces, he's right behind you, cumming in his pants with sloppy humps of his lap into your thigh.

The feeling of pleasure hardly materializes for him. It isn't enough. He doesn't want to cum like this, he wouldn't have done so if he had more self-control — any self-control. No, he needs to have his cum in you. 

You're still catching your breath when you hear the clink of his belt buckle and the rustle of clothing. His cock is cold on your stomach, slick and sticky with his spend, even colder when he rubs the slit right at your entrance and lets it drip, drip, not yet giving you the satisfaction of sinking inside. It's only when you gasp a desperate, sweet please that he holds your waist, pulling you up with ease and deciding to settle you into his lap. 

Everything happens before you have a second to think. He's thick, freezing cold and impossibly hard, leaking with arousal; it's a tight fit, a stretch when he gets the tip in, but when he's pulling you and bucking his hips out of impatience, leaving you no choice but to sink down onto him, he slides in nice and easy, you take all of him perfectly. You swear you hear him give a sigh of approval the moment the devil is all the way inside you.

Aki Hayakawa is gentle. Aki takes things slow, he's careful with every one of his touches and thoughtful with all of his words. 

And this is Aki. This is his body, his broad shoulders that you grip to steady yourself, it's the same familiar lilt of his voice when he grunts out your name. Your name, because even now, even like this, he still remembers how to say it. Your own name is the only thing he remembers. You're the only thing he cares about.

And it's his calloused hand when he caresses your skin and digs his nails into your thigh, hard enough to leave marks. The glint of his circular earrings is just as you've always known each time he tilts his head and they catch the dying light. The way his hair falls over his face is the same as you remember, save for the barrel wedged right in the middle of his skull. 

Perhaps Aki is the one who's motivating the devil to act like this, to want you so badly. All of his pent up emotions, all the times he's wanted to have you but couldn't, when he's dreamed about taking you over his bed and touched himself to the thought — This is the culmination of everything. He just needed an excuse to act. 

But even so, this isn't the same. Aki isn't like this, Aki doesn't feel like this. The Gun Fiend is very, very different, because the Gun Fiend fucks rough. 

Each buck of his hips into you forces him deeper inside. He keeps an unrelenting grip on your side, he's smirking as he drags you down and then up again, guiding you to bounce on his cock. His dick throbs with every noise you make for him. You're so tight, you're dripping, you're getting his pelvis slick and smeared with your arousal and fuck, it feels so good to be buried deep inside your warm cunt, he never wants to pull out. 

And he doesn't. You let the Gun Devil fuck you how he pleases, use you like a toy. Your thighs hurt, and when you're slowing down, when he wants to get in deeper, he's wrapping an arm around you and pinning you to the ground again, this time on your stomach, ass backed up against him.

He sinks back inside in one smooth movement with a deep-sounding groan, he presses his hand to the back of your head and shoves your cheek into the hardwood floor. His tie tickles your back and his fingers clench tightly in your hair and — Oh, you can feel the ridges of his cock so, so much better. 

From the beginning, you reasoned his heart is colder than before, but you started to assume his body must not be entirely human, either. He feels too different. Once again, like more of a devil.

And now, when you're feeling him like this, close and inside, you're sure. Aki places his hand under your stomach, he lifts your hips and fucks into you hard, hips deft to your ass, and you feel the solid steel again, the indents in the shaft and the solid metal rings right around the head. 

In the end, it's no different to getting fucked on his gun. 

And as filthy as you are for admitting it, he feels so good. He fucks you with hard thrusts of his hips, his breath is scorching hot on your skin when he kisses your jaw. The end of his gun brushes the back of your skull and he mumbles a satisfied hum when you promptly get louder for him. 

You love when he fucks you like this, sloppy cunt squelching around him as he pistons his cock in and out. A layer of sweat coats your skin. You're kept pinned down by his weight on your back. 

When he angles his hips and drags you in closer, you're clenching on him — You're hit with waves of ecstasy as you cum for him again, and he isn't stopping, he moans and grips you tighter but he keeps fucking into you at the same desperate pace. The echo of skin slapping skin fills the room, Aki breathes your name against your ear in a pleased-sounding tone and his voice sounds so much like him you feel like you could cum once more. 

All your nerves feel light and fluttery, you're dizzy, the room is spinning. You're given a few moments to compose yourself when he buries himself deep inside and stops moving, tugging his tie from his collar to give himself more breathing room and relishing in how you pulse around him. 

At that moment, you're able to make yourself more comfortable by shifting your head to the side, and your eyes catch on the wall, on a pretty full-length mirror you bought for your apartment a few days prior. In the reflection, Aki's large figure is positioned above you, his body bent over your own, caging you in. Large rifle sprouting from his arm, barrel in his skull. His slacks are slipping down his thighs, his dress shirt's come loose from his waistband. 

He pulls out half-way, slowly this time, shaft shiny and slick, distinctly silver. His bottom lip quivers, still grinning in amusement. You watch as he grips your waist and shoves his cock all the way inside you, deep enough and large enough to put a round bulge in your stomach. 

God. 

Aki works back up to his previous pace, and your vision grows misty through tears, but your gaze stays glued to the sight. His grunts in your ear grow louder as he fucks you 'til he's close. He bites carelessly at your shoulder, presses his tongue to your neck and tries to taste more blood from where he bit you earlier. His dick slips out from his clumsiness and how messy you are; he rubs it against your clit, spreads slick on the inside of your thighs, grips your ass and shoves it back in. 

He's reaching for your hand as his breath picks up. There's a startling juxtaposition between how he grips the back of your hand tightly, running his thumb over your knuckles as a simple idle movement while fucking you so rough. Like he's not a horrifying devil, like it's Aki. The silhouette you see in the mirror almost crushes that illusion.

His hips get sloppier, his voice and his weight and his smell like a breath of charcoal are all you can perceive; he grits his teeth, and he gasps out your name softer than you expected. 

Then, he's letting go — He's moaning and pumping you full of his cum, warm globs of sticky white that drip from your cunt and onto the floor as he keeps thrusting in. Your body goes limp underneath him, you're twitching from the aftershocks of another high and he takes advantage, shoving in as deep as he can go, balls pressed to your skin, filling you with everything he has. Making you his. 

All his, finally. The Gun Fiend starts to feel a bit of relief for himself when he's empty, pulled out and collapsed on top of you. Breathing slow and heavy, he's still for the first time. 

He's nicer than you take him for, has a bit more of Aki in him than you anticipated, that much is true. He'll let you regain some clarity. But he hasn't bred you enough yet. He's nowhere near done with you. 

[sleepyskeleton-0]

Prompt: Hug/“this isn’t a negotiation, friend” (day 16)

Characters: Wild + Legend

Goddess, Time’s gonna kill me, Wild thought to himself as he trekked through the forest. He was allowed to go out foraging on the condition that he’d be back at camp before sunset. He grimaced as he looked at the orange streaks in the sky fading into purple.

It had been a calm day. A few stray monsters here and there, but nothing even one of them couldn’t handle. It had put most of them on edge (“it's the calm before the inevitable storm”, Hyrule said) but they all decided to ignore it in favour of having a bit of fun. Wind and Four were by the river last he’d seen them, collecting and admiring cool rocks. The others decided to take advantage of the fact that the old man was actually willing to play cards this time and even put money on the table.

In any case, it had been a while since he left the clearing and he really needed to get back before-

He stopped.

There, on the side of the overgrown path, sat Legend.

He was sitting facing in the other direction, hunched in over himself as if he’d just been punched in the gut.

Wild approached him with caution.

“Hey Legend, what are you doing?”

He came around to face the other hero and sat down in front of him. The Vet had his face buried in his knees, arms around his head. He stayed silent.

“Legend?”

“Hm.”

“You okay?”

Neither of them moved for a long while, each deciding to let the question hang in the air between them while Legend found his bearings.

He lifted his head, his face was screwed into a difficult expression, halfway between anxiousness and despair.

Wild frowned, but didn’t stare. Instead, he decided to take an interest in the dandelions that grew around them.

It’s as if he could hear the other’s struggle as he tried to form words.

“I-”

Legend coughed, trying to untighten his throat so he wouldn’t sound as choked up.

“I’m okay. I just get like this sometimes.”

It was true. They all had days where they couldn’t explain why exactly they had low mood or high anxiety, but that didn’t mean they needed to be alone during those confusing and stressful times.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“That’s okay, but you’re still gonna have to pay your taxes”, Wild turned his nose up in mock entitlement, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Wha- what?” The look of bewilderment almost made him crack.

“I’m here to collect your taxes, dude. Now pay up”, and he opened his arms with a blinding, over exaggerated smile.

Legend stared at him for a long, hard moment.

Tears pricked his eyes, apparently on their own accord, because he reached up and furiously wiped them away, snorting.

“You’re stupid.”

“Nah, I just know you.”

“Yeah, I hate that.”

“Can you just accept the hug??”

Legend sighed and promptly fell into the Champion, making no move to reciprocate the arms that encircled him in a tight embrace.

They stayed like that, enjoying each other’s company while any remaining anxiety and frustration ebbed away.

It took some time before either was ready to pull away. Admittedly, it was cold, and Wild was a pleasant source of heat.

Legend smiled as the last of his turmoil came to an end.

[love-toxin]

Retrieval - entry I

plot: after escaping the horrors of Los Iluminados, a piece of your heart is still stuck in that desolate place. you won't truly be able to rest until you find him--or until you put him down like the monster you wish you'd saved him from.

(cws: post-canon divergence, re4make spoilers, yandere!plagas!leon, fem!agent!reader, guns & blunt weapons, blood, gore & injuries, violence, grief, funerals, pining [chapter smut cws: wet dreams, mild choking, possessiveness, unprotected]

wc: 5.3k

(future entries to come! <3)

No matter how much time passes, you're certain this place will always reek of blood and death. It will always be the place that you lost the person most dear to you, and in such a vile, cruel way that it still haunts your darkest nightmares.

It's been awhile since then, but it all still feels the same when you step down from the car and let the door shut with an unapologetic thud. The air hangs heavy and thick with humidity, and although the distant stench of rot is lesser this time around, it still lurks in the background of your senses like a shadow creeping by the windows of a house. The trees hang low and sway gently as you pass them, crows beckoning you deeper into the brush with their croaking trills echoing all around you. Aside from a pitiful line of cautionary police tape strung across an iron gate, even the entryway and the path leading into the village all look exactly as they did weeks ago.

The last time your feet hit the dirt here, only Leon had been your much-needed company in your venture. You'd walked through the mud and ran through the mist together; searching the lodge and being chased into the heart of the village had only been the beginning. His breathing had been the thing to keep you calm then, of all things. Those heavy pants when he scrambled through doors and soft puffs of his chest when it was a touch too quiet; it reminded you that he was alive, and saved you from having to glance over and pray in the seconds between that he wasn't being carved into a bloody stump by a Ganados.

But all that? That was a long time ago. It feels like a lifetime, and yet neither of those timelines are the truth–really, it's barely been a month since you and Leon had been separated, but it still feels like years since you've seen him.

The scent of charcoal pulls you away from the memory of him as you draw close to the circle of houses, your gun out of its holster the moment you cross underneath the main gate. You at least have the sense not to go slinging it around when you hear the crackle of twigs in the underbrush, though the sound that resembles a gasp has you eyeing the forest to your left…just long enough to watch the offending group of birds chitter and take flight suddenly up and away from the trees as you draw close. The policemen that had accompanied you here have long since granted you their goodbyes, their eyes dark and fearful at the sight of this village looming in the distance before they had driven off in a frantic hurry. When you think about it you can't really blame them, not with them knowing the unfortunate fate of the two men they had probably rubbed shoulders with back at the station. Knowing that both of them had been made sacrifice for no better reason than violence and power.

That would've been you and Leon once upon a time, if Umbrella and the virus and everything hadn't screwed it all up and blown it to pieces. Sometimes you daydream about what it could've been like at RPD, but most times it's too painful to even consider and you just end up drowning your sorrows in a bottle of liquor instead. Leon would be admonishing you for dealing with it in that way and he would've been a total hypocrite for it, but he hasn't been here to do so. The thought that he won't ever be again fills you with so much dread you can feel it in each step you take into this dilapidated heap of pig slop and manure.

It's been over a month since you've been here last, about 37 days if you've been marking off your calendar correctly. You had to take into account the retrieval, your hospital stay, and the few days that seemed to meld into each other when you'd slept almost every hour away in recovery, but altogether it totals 37 days since you last stepped foot on this soil. Over five weeks since you last saw Leon, and only a couple days since you gave a eulogy at his funeral. It had all felt fake and pitiful even with you having organized it yourself–most of the people there were the reasons he even came to this disgusting place, all those government agents and well-to-do politicians that ate up yours and Leon's survivor stories and demanded you join the military's special ops. They should be the ones paying the price in the grave, not Leon.

But as you look around now, there really isn't much to speak of in the first place, now that you feel the sense of urgency wane and lower your pistol in the wake of dead silence. Aside from the bullet holes, the crumbled tower, and the blasted-out windows that cake the dirt with glass, there's not many signs that you and Leon had even treaded ground here. It's getting later than you'd like based on the position of that hot, Spanish sun, though. You've got to get moving and quit moping around this ghost town if you want to make any progress on his retrieval before night falls.

This isn't a trip down memory lane, after all. You came here with your own rescue mission in mind; you're here to find Leon's body, and you're prepared to give him the mercy he deserves if your suspicions about his supposed death are correct. Because you can't keep living with that memory of him in your head, that version of Leon burdened with black veins and vermillion eyes and a pained gait as he tried to kill you. When there weren't enough injections of the suppressant to go around, he gave you his own–and when it came time for you to go under the knife, Leon insisted on you and Ashley going first even when he had a death grip on the lever, the Plagas taking over him quick enough that he knew exactly what he was doing. Leon gave his life for you, Ashley, and Luis to live–and you've taken on the job of returning the favour, whether it means dragging him home in a body bag to give him a worthy burial, or putting a bullet in his head and ending the monster you never wanted to see him become.

"La Americana!"

But the moment you take another step to climb over the rubble of the church, a voice shouting from behind you sends a chill rocketing right up your spine. You thought you would only hear it again in your nightmares–but no, as soon as you turn on your heel, your eyes scan over a mob of Ganados shambling right for you. Drooling, bloody, rotting villagers wielding their pitchforks and sickles, and in that momentary panic that freezes you to the ground, a cold feeling erupts inside your chest that you've never experienced before. Acting on base instinct alone you make a mad dash for the house on your right, but you're left skidding to a stop and backing away just as quick when another monster lunges out of the doorway and makes a swipe. You're being cornered, trapped, with nobody left to save you like they did before.

This is wrong. It feels wrong, it sounds wrong, it's all wrong. This is exactly what happened before, but that was a nightmare you fought through and survived. You shouldn't be here again. Why are you here again? Why are you being so stupid to feed yourself to the same monsters that took your Leon from you? Why haven't you learned your lesson? Why?

When the first gets close enough to strike, you barely even register the hot, vile presence of its foul breath on your skin. Your muscles tighten and you swing indiscriminately, the butt of your pistol smashing into its temple with a force you didn't even know you were capable of. The scythe in its hand is halfway to hitting the ground before you're crossing the distance to the second one, movements almost robotic as you empty half your magazine into its forehead and don't stop until you're standing over it. For some reason, the gore and the blood splattering over you doesn't disturb you like it should. It doesn't even feel…real.

You're all to blame for this. This is all your fault.

Whether those thoughts are self-inflicting or self-soothing, they plague your mind in a constant, changing loop as you stagger from villager to villager. There's no other option; either fight or die, because reason won't get you anywhere but closer to your own grave. It's not even worth running at this point because they'll just chase you down, and you want them to just leave you alone more than you even want to live.

Getting hit doesn't feel real. Watching the Ganados choke on metal doesn't feel real. Not even your gun clicking empty and burning hot in your hands feels real, even when your brow furrows and you whip it at the nearest monster with a grunt that sounds more feral than ferocious. It's a slaughter but you can't tell that time has passed, or that you've gained bruises from the beating you've taken, or even that you've been blowing off the faces of people who were probably just people once. It just doesn't matter in that short, fury-driven span of time, not until you have nothing more to attack and you blink yourself awake with a hatchet gripped in your hands, soaked from head to toe in rotting blood.

With one final, blood-curdling scream from the deepest pit of your stomach, you throw your arm down and send the weapon flying across the ground like a tempestuous child. The pain, fury, and grief have been building up inside you for long you've forgotten what it feels like to be free, what it once felt like to laugh away your troubles when they got too big to deal with. Now you've been planning your best friend's funeral on the days you don't drink yourself into a stupor, and nothing matters anymore. This was a stupid idea and all you've done is set yourself up for a bigger, stupider failure than you've already proven you could accomplish. Right now, the best relief would come if you just dropped dead.

….But it doesn't come, even after you've fallen to your knees and sobbed into your hands. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. You count each breath, but each of them are just as heavy and laboured as the last, never slowing or getting shallower. If anything, you feel more alive as your senses come back and you cringe at the blood starting to crust over your skin and clothes. Taking your hands away, all that fills them is a sheen of dark, wine-deep red, splattered with tears that sting just as much as your skin that's been hacked with small, shallow cuts and bruises. As the episode passes, your desire to get up is stronger than your want to just lay down and relinquish your strength.

So you press on. Not for want of something better, but for the simple fact that you have nowhere else to go but forward. You put yourself into this mess, and as you can hear Leon's voice in your head, "You can get yourself out of it."

So you walk. You scoop up your gun from the ground and wipe the blood from the handle with your shirt. You stumble over the chunks of stone and rubble that litter your path, weaving through the half-open doors that haven't leaned right since Leon had first kicked them in or shot them open. You just keep walking until the gate with that familiar symbol comes into view, and upon pushing it open you're met with the sight of a sea of graves and dead grass–and a murder of crows watching you through the tree branches while they await a new body to pick at.

Seeing the church looming over the hilltop is enough to give you a chill. Maybe the graves are helping with that, standing as crooked and crumbling as they were before, but whatever it is about that place just plagues you with a sense of unease. Each step up the hill has you on guard, peeking around to see whether more Ganados will come out–but it's just as eerily quiet as you expected it to be, and you don't even spot much more than the crows until you're past the gate and standing on the front step of the chapel. To your fortune, the door's still unlocked–as you hoped it would be, considering all that you and Leon had to endure to get it open the first time. You'll never forget that feeling of your stomach sinking when you watched him retch up all that blood over the side of the boat, nor the heat of his tight grip as he had grabbed your wrist and whimpered in pain before slipping into unconsciousness on your lap.

Life had been scary enough then, but in some way seeing Leon go through the Plagas infection hit you harder than any other mission you'd gone through…especially since you know now that he would never be cured. He was just so strong in the face of everything, even during Raccoon City, when he truly had no idea what he was doing. He had such a kind heart that he would do anything for anybody. Even if he could be a hardass at times, he was pure.

Thinking about Leon always ends up leading you to memories of his funeral, especially so as your shoulders relax and you step into this church that somewhat resembles the one that housed it. You drop your bag on the nearest pew and let it spill over on to its side, and when your wallet tumbles out, your eyes pass over the picture inside that makes another memory pop into your head.

"This world is undoubtedly worse off without Leon. It won't ever be the same, and I…I'll miss you, Sancho."

Luis hadn't more than dabbed at his eyes at the service, but he'd hugged you so tightly at the reception he could've broken your bones with ease. You sat at a pew just like this one and held your hands between you throughout the eulogies, quiet and empty while Ashley cried her eyes out a few rows ahead. Other than a few close friends from the academy, a couple surviving members of RPD, and a handful of people Leon got to know in the military, the rest of the service was populated by complete strangers to you. Including the president himself, whose hand you openly refused to shake when he approached you with his "condolences". Without Luis there to guide you away to go get some complimentary dinner, you might have told the leader of your country where exactly he could stuff his condolences.

At the very least you can get some healing by actually burying your best friend, you think as you check the perimeter of the church to ensure its security. If you succeed, which you're hoping might actually happen if you can keep the grief and overwhelming anxiety to a minimum.

"Mh?"

Perhaps it's a good sign already, but going unnoticed by you up until now you spot something out of your peripheral that looks out of place here–and when you step up to it to take a look, sitting at the crest of the church where the podium would be, is what looks to be a washbasin that might have come from one of the nearby houses. Peering over the lip it looks to be filled with nothing but clear water…and when you dip a finger in, a sigh escapes you when you feel how warm it is. There's even a towel hanging over the nearest pew that you could've sworn wasn't there earlier, but it's getting harder to see with all the blood caking your eyelashes. And not one to turn away a perfectly good miracle, you're all too happy to strip off your clothes and dunk your head, hair, and limbs into a clean, semi-refreshing bath.

While you scrub the dust, dirt, and dried entrails from your skin, your mind wanders yet again into another world–the one you lived in before, so blissfully unaware of how bad the outcome could truly be. You'd met Leon for the first time at his debriefing in the RPD, when he'd been quietly optimistic with that baby face and a well of enthusiasm that had come out in the strength of his handshake. Marvin introduced you first as his immediate superior because you'd been in that same position before; you had been the rookie from out of town the year prior, and aside from the beaming sense of pride at moving up a peg in the force, you also liked how sweet Leon was.

He'd greeted you with honorifics you didn't need, smiled when you gave him a tour, and not once did he ever scoff or roll his eyes when you were giving him advice before he had even started. You noticed him because he was new, but also because he respected you and pretty much everyone else with barely any hesitation. In his plainclothes surrounded by decorated officers he treated everyone he met like a friend, and although Marvin had expressed concern about him being a little naive once he went home, you remember that moment as you watched him get into his car, and you remember thinking that the world–and Raccoon City–needed more people like that. You liked to think that you always knew he was a hero at heart.

Your brow softens as the water starts running clear down your body, the basin filled with blood and muck that you've been scrubbing off your skin until it's raw. The tiredness is setting in now from the plane ride and the tension, and all you want to do is sleep–but a sudden start and pain flooding through your abdomen has you alert and gripping the edge of the basin. Easing your chest out of the way to look down, you watch in frustrated horror as your fingers brush by the opening of a much more significant wound than the scrapes and bruises just beneath your breast down towards your stomach. At only about a half inch wide and five or more inches long the cut isn't severe, it doesn't even seem like it's been touched by the filth you've been doused in as you pour a little more water over it. But now that you've noticed it the sting is much more palpable, and with no desire to have it infected and die a slow death you fumble for your pitiful first aid kit and work away at closing the wound. Strips of medical tape and gauze are about all you can do, though the process is slow and awkward with you trying not to stretch or strain it too much for it to hurt worse. Just your luck. It's only the first day. You just count yourself fortunate that Leon isn't here to see this because you know he'd both fuss over you and tease you to no end…although you do find yourself glancing around more as you fix yourself up, your mind on high alert while you're in this state of vulnerability. For some reason you do feel watched, although with no sounds or odd noises to tip you off you're tempted to assume you're relatively safe. You can only hope that you are, because rarely have you ever been so sluggish and desperate for rest than you feel right now and you'd rather not wake up with an axe in your skull.

When you're done and with your clothes still hanging wet over the pew, you've got little choice but to tug on an old shirt and thin shorts from the bottom of your bag, the spare set of clothes an absolute emergency item that you're glad you at least brought this time. The summer heat's still strong so hopefully it doesn't get too cold in the night, the darkness of which you can spot creeping over the horizon through the stained glass windows. Luckily for you the layout is fairly simple and you'd already rediscovered the upstairs room where Ashley had been kept in your search, so after pushing the pews with a grunt to block the doors, low windows, and finally the ladder to the second floor, you take your gathered things inside and set up on the thin, downy cover that will have to do as a mattress for tonight. You've certainly slept in worse, less secure places than this anyways.

But before you allow yourself the chance to drift off, your fingers stretch for your wallet again that you'd tucked back into your bag, the picture greeting you once more when you flip it open and slide it out. Leon's beaming face smiles back at you, and your gentle self stands beside him six years younger in front of the RPD's grand foyer statue. Him in his jacket and you in your uniform, waving and grinning at the camera with his arm around you like nothing bad ever existed in the world. You knew in your heart that day would be the start of something different, but just how different wouldn't occur to you until it was too late. The picture sits tightly in your hand for immeasurable moments that melt into one another, up until your eyes finally flutter closed and you drift off in neverending silence.

When sleep finally comes, so do the dreams. And in them, you get to see Leon in a much more visceral way than the pictures on your desk or the smell of cologne on his jacket. The walls behind you look to be the same as the room you'd fallen asleep in, but in smooth fashion a hand cups your chin and pulls your gaze back from the floor to the one who wants it the most.

Leon looms above you on bended knees, his chest bare and hair tousled as if he'd yanked off his shirt in a hurry–he's always like that, always in a rush to begin only to take his sweet, agonizing time when he's actually performing. His lips look bitten and flushed like he's been kissing you already, but maybe that's because he's been nibbling on it like he is now out of shyness, or maybe embarrassment.

"I missed you." Your voice comes out muffled as it usually does, and Leon shifts around, his hands dwarfing your knees in comparison as he moves them to fit himself between them.

"I'm right here, sweetheart." His smile lights up your world with a glow, he makes it brighter even though a shadow still casts itself over half his face from the lantern on the other side of the room. "I'm always here for you."

But you died. Those words play on your lips, but you don't allow them to slip out. If you do, the dream may end here and now, and you can't afford to let such a precious moment of affection pass you by. "I love you, Leon." You whimper instead, and he gasps with pure, undiluted need as he makes that push inside you that he's been waiting for all night–that soft, wet heat welcoming his stiff self in like it always does and always will. The pressure stings at first, it beats hard in your chest and between your legs where he lies, but it's a forgiving ache and not a dull pain. When Leon kisses you again, it all disappears just as quickly–even quicker when he eventually starts to move.

"I love you more. I'll always love you, even after you're gone." He whispers against your lips, breathing his sentiment in and capturing yours on every exhale back. His fingertips leave trails of searing desire up your flesh, warm hands guiding your arms higher to rest around his neck and keep him as close as you can. You wouldn't need to, you don't have to, but he wants to be closer and you know you do too. Being inside you isn't enough for him, he needs you to want him, to desire him so deeply you can't fathom being apart. And you do, you always do, but you never seem to manage saying it out loud even in the throes of a perverse dream…but he can.

"I'll love you even if you leave me again. I'll fuck you so good you don't even think of doing it to me." Your lover pants, his pace picking up while your pleasure jumbles up into a heated, twisted mess. It seems like he's just entered you but at the same time it feels long, like you've been at his mercy for hours or days on end and the pressure keeps mounting higher and higher too fast. These fantasies usually end too soon for your liking but that's always because you're the one folding first, legs shaking and nails digging blunt marks into his arms when he makes you see stars. You're getting close to that mark now, yet you've barely even started.

Leon suddenly holds his hand up to your throat, fingers splayed over your delicate neck to squeeze it with a growl low in his throat. "Don't ever leave me again. Promise me." At your absent reply he tightens his grip harder, and the stars in your eyes have you choking out an answer that isn't good enough. "Promise me I'm the only one. Swear on your life you won't choose him over me."

"I-I promise! Leon, p-please, I promise! I-I'm coming to–c-cumming, Lee!" You cry, overwhelmed as you look up with wet, hazy eyes at the man you've always loved. The black veins start spreading across his golden skin, and his own gaze grows cold and dark before a sudden pulse turns his irises to a bright, piercing red. The killing blow comes with a chuckle as his lips curl into a sinister smirk, and his hips plummet down to meet yours in a cacophony of sounds that will echo in your mind for days on end, just before he stills and a shudder rolls through his body. As tight as he says you are, he never fails to press himself deep enough that he releases that pent-up desire as close to your womb as possible.

"Mine. All mine. You promised."

In the next moment of bliss settling in and a groan erupting from his throat, the world blots out into darkness and you jolt up from the floor with a start.

"Shit!"

The curse just flies from your mouth on instinct, the heat having disappeared and the pressure of a body on top of you making way for cold, aching emptiness. An uncomfortably warm, sticky wetness pooled between your legs has your attention immediately, but you've got no choice but to cringe and ignore the discomfort for now. Your breathing labours in your chest for minutes upon strained minutes before eventually quieting, and only then do you groan and shift in your spot to glance at the time just to remember that you aren't in your bed nor at home. As you would hope not, considering how stiff your back is from sleeping on the ground.

Without windows it's impossible to tell just how long you've slept, and a glance around the empty room offers no clues either. So when you manage to get up and stretch, the only thing you notice fluttering down from where you'd let go of it is that same photo of yourself and Leon–with that dream in the back of your head, however, you can't bring yourself to look at him and shove it back into the plastic holder in your wallet.

Still, with that being a normal practice for you being around the person you've been harbouring feelings for, that dream in itself was stranger than most. The last thing you want is to dwell on it right this minute, but Leon's words still echo in your head regardless; what did he mean when he spoke those words? Did they have a shred of truth to them, or were they just the frantic machinations of your brain still trying to make sense of his death?

Either way, you don't really want to know. You just want to leave this place altogether–but with that option out the window, the least you can do is leave this church and get some fresh air. With the skill and briskness of a trained agent, you gather your things and briskly slip on your newly-dried clothes downstairs, a few bites of a protein bar all you need to sustain you at least for a couple hours.

Upon pushing on the heavy entrance doors, the crack of light between them opens up into a bright horizon with the sun beating down on the soil, the burst of morning light blinding you temporarily as you take those first few steps outside. It's just long enough for your surroundings to come into focus that you get a whiff of the humid air–and in seconds your nose scrunches up, the foul stench of decay pervading your senses in the instant that it takes for you to take a look around.

Lying in droves around the cemetery, piles at the bottom of the hill, and strung in pieces all around your feet, are the bodies of the Ganados. The sight of it strickens you immediately with shock, but then nauseates you to the point of clutching your mouth to keep what little food you brought from coming back up.

The corpses have been strewn around like some sort of macabre dollhouse; lying in pieces splayed every which way, facedown in the grave dirt or strung up in the trees for the crows to peck at. Some have been gutted and others dismembered. A few have their heads missing. Intestines and gore lie in bloody wake around the site of the massacre, sticking to the soles of your boots from one step into the aftermath, and you want to vomit. God, how can you not want to vomit at the sight of it all? What god could be so cruel, even to monsters?

It's sickening to the point of panic–run, you just want to turn tail and run far, far away, but your destination hasn't been decided quite yet. Ideally you would have sat down with your map and plotted it out, found your next objective, maybe would've scoped out the closest place to rest once you're finished your search. You would've been thorough and confident like any rescuer should be.

But the cowardice in your heart screams louder than courage. In a moment, you're rushing down the path and running out the gate, frantic in shoving it open just enough to slide yourself through but too disturbed to look back towards the carnage. In seconds the church is far behind you, and in a matter of minutes you're on a new path you haven't yet considered the danger of.

All you know is that you want out of this place, you want to go home–even though home has been within arm's reach since you got here. It's never too far away, especially when you inevitably follow the road that leads right towards that infamous castle gate, and your destiny.

[throneofsapphics]

haunt me like the wind that blows (part 3)

Feysand x f!Reader

(part one) (part two)

Summary: it wasn’t really a nightmare, it felt more like a gift. Even with the pain, her subconscious was the only place she could taste freedom.

Warnings: dark feysand, toxic relationships, dubcon, kidnapping, nightmares, non-consensual bondage, references to suicide attempt, a bit of smut, gaslighting probably, minors dni!

Word Count: ~2.7k

A/N: this is going to be the last part! please mind the warnings

Seconds after she breached the wards of Velaris, a familiar hand clenched around her wrist - tight enough pain lanced through her hand, and she wondered if he’d break her wrist. 

“Feyre said you could be trusted,” he purred, “but I knew better.” 

The wind, the beautiful and cruel wind whipped around her face, the ends of her hair rising. She could taste it - the freedom on the horizon. Then - gone. She was alone. She stumbled back, eyes wide as she glanced around her. Had she imagined it? Bruises circled her wrist and it still ached as she clutched it to her chest. 

“No, that was real.” Rhys crooned. 

“Leave me-” 

“Alone, yes I know.” His voice took on a cruel tone. “Let’s see if you survive the night, monsters worse than me are out there.” 

Gods. Gods. She was so screwed. She wouldn’t put it past him to unleash something. Something to haunt her, to scare her into coming back. “Anything is better than with you.” Y/n taunted, unable to control herself. A snarl echoed through her mind, but she took off into the night. Maybe this was just a game, but she’d be a fool not to take the chance. But where to go? She didn’t doubt that word spread of her in Vallahan, of the rogue mate to the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. 

Branches whipped against her arms and legs, small cuts scraping against her but she didn’t care. All pain was drowned out as she sprinted, as fast and far as she could. Temporary freedom was better than nothing. She would take anything she could get at this point.

“You really think you’ll manage without us, don’t you?” Feyre’s voice echoed in her mind - and she didn’t know if it was real or not. Reality seemed to warp around her - the trees shifting in unnatural rhythms, the ground shifting underneath her - rolling like waves of the sea as she struggled to balance. Any trees she tried to grip for balance shifted out of her way. Y/n fell down a hill, tumbling and barely covering her head as she fell -

“Y/n,” a voice shouted, overtaking everything else. Hands braced her shoulders, shaking her awake. This voice was real. She knew that. “Wake up love.” She groaned, rolling away and tugged at her wrists. Chains - still sleeping with the chains on. Her eyes blinked open, spotting Feyre leaning over her, Rhys’s hand stroking down her arm. 

“You had a nightmare,” she brushed her finger over her hand. Y/n glanced down at her bare arms - no cuts or scrapes, no evidence of her wilderness ‘adventure.’ Did they plant this one inside of her, to give her some kind of sick hope? Neither of them replied, or gave any indication they were listening to her thoughts and she let out a slow breath. 

“I wouldn’t have them if you took these off,” she mumbled. At least they’d lined the interior with something soft, after Feyre protested about the bruises on her wrists.  

Her eyes glazed over, and y/n knew she was speaking to Rhys. Feyre had always been a bit … softer, maybe she would argue on her behalf. A few minutes passed as she chewed on her bottom lip. Rhys let out an exasperated sigh behind her, but the chains unlocked and she forced herself not to yelp out of excitement. 

“On a trial.” Rhys warned, flipping her around to face him. His eyes had darkened, a clear warning that if she tried anything, worse consequences would face her. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” She spoke softly. Maybe it made her weak, but sleeping in those damned chains had worn her down and she would have begged on her knees to be free of them. Captive. She thought she was trapped before, but it was nothing compared to this. Eyes she couldn’t see followed her everywhere, and anytime she spotted something remotely sharp - it disappeared. If she ate with a butter knife, Rhys or Feyre watched her the entire time. Even the cups and glasses had been charmed not to break. 

A clash clattered across the floor as tea spilt on the kitchen tiles. Rhys winnowed into the room within seconds. His eyes shifted between the cup on the floor, and her face. 

“I dropped it, I promise.” She nearly wailed at the dark look on his face. She felt him rifling through her mind, and gave a nod after deciding she was being truthful. A snap of his fingers cleaned the liquid up, the mug disappearing. 

“You need to be careful my love,” he said in a soft voice, gathering her in his arms. “We don’t want you getting hurt.” Or hurting yourself, went unsaid. He made her sit, brewing her another cup and almost made her feel loved. It was all a game, everything was a game to earn her trust and wear her back down. At least she told herself that. 

The memory faded, and she hadn’t realized she was facing Feyre again, her back pressed firmly against Rhys’s chest, his hands wrapped around her waist as Feyre rubbed out her wrists. Like she would every morning. Always checking to see if she could feel everything, if anything was injured - like it wasn’t them inflicting any injuries. 

“Aren’t you going to thank us?” the High Lady teased her. 

“Thank you.” She said quickly, not wanting to risk anything. 

“Such good manners when you get what you want.” Rhys’s sleepy voice came from behind her. She loved that voice, when he was soft and gentle - first thing in the morning or in the middle of the night. Loved. Y/n threw that word out of her mind. No love for them, nothing redeemable about them. 

“Sleep.” Feyre ordered both of them, “I’ll take the nightmares away,” her hand kissed the inside of her wrist. But - it wasn’t really a nightmare, it felt more like a gift. Even with the pain, her subconscious was the only place she could taste freedom. How sad everything had become, how painful of a trap she fell in. She thought of everything she lost, of everything gone to her. Gone with the wind, swept away at every moment. 

-

When she woke, alone, the sun was already shining, and she rose, a genuine smile on her face for the first time in months - but something pulled at her. Chains. Gods was that a dream too? But, they were longer this time, long enough she could reach the side table. A note placed on it. 

We had to leave early, we’ll come back as soon as we can. 

Tears spilled, dripping down on the paper and smudging the ink. The best dream she’d had in months, and it was soured. But, her favorite book and a still-warm mug of tea sat on the side table, within reach. She could indulge in this small kindness, just this once. 

They returned at the same time, looking pleased to see the book propped on her knees, one hand holding her page open as the other held her mug. 

“I told you she’d be happy.” Feyre elbowed Rhys. Maybe happy was an overstatement. The male rolled his eyes. 

“I still like her in chains.” Feyre hummed an agreement. Speaking of her like an object. That’s all she was to them. 

“You’re our mate.” Feyre frowned at her. “If you’re not going to be grateful …” 

A few minutes later, she was spitting out apologies and thank you’s as Feyre’s hand landed on her ass, her body draped over her knees. She would pause, letting Rhys run his hands over her already bruised ass. His hand slipped between her legs, and she fought back tears of embarrassment as he felt how wet she was. 

How sick was she that this turned her on? At being punished for her thoughts. 

“How else would we correct them?” Rhys’s voice entered her mind. “It’s alright to feel this way,” he spread her arousal over the small abrasions on her ass, and she winced as it stung. “The bruises will remind you.” 

The chains unlocked, but the freedom was temporary as her hips were dragged back, and she was shoved to her knees in front of Feyre, her legs spreading, dress hiked up around her hips with nothing underneath. “Take your reward now.” She cooed, one hand on the back of her hair, guiding her towards her core. She wanted to fight and protest, but the temptation and taste of her was too much. The desire to please her mate was so ingrained in her that sometimes she couldn’t resist it, and this was a way to alleviate it - a less harmful way, she justified to herself. 

-

Three months passed before she could wake alone and unchained. A treasure, and she prized herself on earning back that trust. But, she shoved that thought deep down - in a place nobody could reach. The thought was filled with a sense of vindication, and the last thing she needed was them catching wind of that feeling.

She moved silently, sneaking through the halls how she’d learned, and heard voices coming from one of the small dining rooms. 

“That could work.” Feyre said. “It would keep her here.” 

Keep her? How? Hadn’t they already done everything to keep her? 

“I have to go,” Rhys said and a chair shoved back she quickly took a few quiet strides back, before reapproaching with louder footsteps - the ones they’d become accustomed to hearing. 

Rhys exited just as she approached, a smile curving on his face as he spotted her and wrapped one arm around her waist, tugging her into his chest. He pressed a quick kiss to her lips, “Good morning.” 

“Good morning.” She repeated, forcing some inflection into her voice. Not overly so, but enough for it to come off as natural. 

“You enjoyed your gift?” 

“Thank you.” The smile actually did reach her eyes. 

“You’ve been so good.” He ran a thumb over her cheek, brushing across her lips. 

“You’re going to be late. Rhys.” Feyre said from the doorway, shooting her a smile. “Want to go to the markets today?” 

She nodded eagerly, picking up any crumbs they would string out for her, and tried not to despise herself for it. Feyre had a pleased expression on her face at her excitement, and Rhys reluctantly released her. 

“I’m the High Lord. I’m never late.” He muttered, but winked at her as he winnowed away. 

Feyre’s grip on her was tight as they walked through the city streets, arm in arm. Not giving her an inch unless she allowed it, but she would take it. No familiar faces, either. Some she recognized as old neighbors, ones who used to work with her in town, but their eyes glazed right over her as if she didn’t exist.

Her mouth opened once, as if to try and call out to them, but she couldn’t find her voice. As she met Feyre’s eyes, there was a warning glare there. Don’t talk to anyone. Feyre didn’t have to speak the words for her to understand the message. She swallowed and gave her a nod. Immediately, her expression lightened and she reached over to squeeze her arm, stopping for the next person to greet her. 

Popular, Feyre was incredibly popular with her people, they loved her. If only they could see how she is behind closed doors, the wicked cruelness and quickly shifting moods. What her love really looks like. 

“And who is this?” An older female smiled, her face lined with wrinkles - hair just starting to silver. As soon as she’d acknowledged her, the woman’s eyes changed as if she didn’t register her at all. Feyre was making sure nobody recognized her - that she was forgotten. 

No talk of “who was that on the High Lady’s arm?” or “Did you see y/n, she’s been gone so long!” would go around Velaris that night. Nobody would remember her. Nobody except who Rhys and Feyre allowed. 

- Two years and three days to the date after she was first returned, y/n got another chance. Gods did she take it. She ran and ran and ran. Breaching the words of Velaris, just as a hand clamped around her wrist - bruisingly tight as it ached. 

“Feyre said you could be trusted,” he purred, “but I knew better.” The same words from that nightmare, but this time he didn’t let go. Fear might have rung from every sense of her being, but she brought up as much determination as she could as she turned to face him and took a step closer. His brow furrowed in confusion, but she spat. The drops glistened on his cheek, surprise evident in his eyes. A satisfied smile crossed her features, but his gaze turned feral quickly and it was gone as soon as it came. 

He leaned towards her, his breath grazing her ear. “Run.” He dropped her wrist, and she did. 

Wind whipped her cheeks, branches scraped at her skin, but the floor and trees didn’t move this time. Of course, it was useless and futile, of course it would end as quickly as it began - but she’d take the chance to feel the wind against her hair, to feel the strain of her legs as she got a mockery of freedom. 

Rhys let her run, maybe gave her a ten minute head start before she began to feel his presence nearby. She would catch a glimpse of him, and cut a sharp angle to another direction, weaving in and out of trees to try and lose him. She didn’t know how long it lasted - but her lungs burned and legs threatened to give out under her. Keep going, keep going, she chanted to herself, wanting to draw this out as long as possible. 

She screamed as a weight slammed behind her, shoving her down to the forest ground. Her face pressed into the dirt and a hand yanked the back of her hair - arching her neck as his other hand circled her throat. 

“You believed it, didn’t you?” He murmured. “That I would be that stupid to give you that chance.” His hand tightened around her neck. “I don’t make the same mistakes twice.” 

A whimper left her throat. “Fuck you.” She said weakly, and her cut some of her air off, keeping any words from coming out of her mouth. 

“You’re already in trouble. Don’t make it worse.” If she’s already in trouble - she threw an arm back, a weak punch landing against his shoulder. He laughed at her, finally releasing his grip on her hair and neck as she flopped back into the ground, and scrambled to turn, backing on her knees as the rough bramble scraped the bottom of her thighs. 

He shook his head, looking at her almost fondly. A shield quickly deflected the rocks and sticks she tried to throw. But, she couldn’t stand - her legs fell out under her as she tried, already worn out from all of the running. He must’ve entertained her for at least an hour or two. 

“Three.” He corrected. “I was impressed with you.” A game, this was all a gods-damned game to him. The curve of his lips told her she was right. “A game for me,” he taunted, “but it’s so sweet when you think it’s real.” 

She threw out a string of creative curses at him, but he rolled his eyes and she watched his patience slowly wane. Still, she kept cursing as he heaved her to stand, keeping a firm grip on her as he winnowed back to the river house. 

He let her go and she fell onto the tile, wincing as her knee hit the ground. Feyre stood with her arms crossed. “You let her hurt herself.” She frowned at Rhys. 

“I let her have some fun.” Rhys hedged, but even he wilted slightly under Feyre’s disappointed stare. At least she wasn’t alone in that. In everything else, she’d be alone. For the rest of eternity. 

“Don’t be so sour,” Feyre tutted, reaching out a hand for her. “You have us, that’s all you need.”

[storiesbyrhi]

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence/some infrequent gore, swearing, animal death, no beta, death in childbirth (mentioned, not described), abusive parents, suicide, spiders/bugs, grief/mourning; light smut; warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: Homeward bound. 2738 words.

1986

Every now and then, you’d catch a glimpse of Eddie swooping by, keeping pace with your car. It was mid-afternoon by the time he grew tired, burrowing into his front seat nest and sleeping until twilight. As soon as the sun was safely locked away on the other side of the world, Eddie chittered and you responded by turning him back into himself.

He stretched out, making dramatic noises and pulling faces.

“You okay there?” you asked him, laughing at the show of it all.

“Only trying to make you smile, my little witch.”

Damn.

“So, you were right,” you changed the subject. “About not being the only non-witch,”

“Wolf, right? I could smell him.” Eddie’s face screwed up in disgust.

“What happened to the support group for monster lovers?”

“I draw the line at lycans.”

The seriousness of his expression made you laugh. “Well, you’ll have to redraw it, because Ev has it bad for him. The others already knew all about it too,”

“And we believed we were special,”

“I mean… We still are… Witches and werewolves aren’t mortal enemies…”

“Of course. Wolves’ mortal enemy being their own tail and all,”

“Eddie! Stop,” you laughed, hitting him with the back of your hand.

He grinned at you, then looked out at the road. “And the other?”

“That one is a bit more of a secret. Ash is seeing one of the fae folk. It’s still very new. Taking it slow… Making sure they’re not actually trying to lure her into some centuries old curse. You know how they are,”

“Trickster sprites,”

“Exactly,” you nodded. “And then there’s Steve fucking Harrington… who has elected to inexplicably haunt Mel,”

“Why? I assume he never met her,”

“Yep, but she came and asked me if the ghost in her house was him. It was. He says he’ll leave her alone but had this stupid puppy dog look on his face… So… Maybe there is a whole new world of witch romances to come.”

Eddie grinned, he liked the sound of it. Though, he really didn’t want a werewolf as a brother-in-law. “Do you want me to take over?” he asked then, pointing to the steering wheel. “I’ve been practicing,”

“And here I was thinking you disappeared in the middle of the night to eat,”

“Oh, I do. I find the worst person I can. I eat them. Then, I take their car for a lesson,”

“A two birds, one stone, kind of thing, huh?”

Eddie nodded with a disconcertingly innocent smile on his face.

“I was thinking about that actually. I think I can help,”

“With which part?” he asked. “The eating or the thieving,”

“Neither. The choosing.”

The joy left Eddie’s expression. He looked away from you, suddenly studying the hardly visible horizon out his window. “You don’t need to be a part of it. You don’t have to have it on your conscience,”

“Neither do you. Not in the same way, at least. What if I can take some of the guesswork out of picking who is, you know, bad,”

“It’s not guesswork. I watch them. I find them while they’re-”

“I know. But what if you didn’t have to wait for them to do something bad? What if you could tell what they had already done?”

Eddie stayed quiet. There was a gas station up ahead, the lights shining brightly. You pulled in and cut the engine.

“I know it’s always going to be on you. You’re always going to have to make that call, about if they have sinned and if the sins are…”

“If they justify death,” Eddie finished for you solemnly and still not looking at you.

“Yes. But what if you could see them? The sins. If you could, I don’t know, just touch someone and see the worst of them. And only when you wanted to. Would that help?”

He was clicking two fingernails together, pensive or maybe anxious. Eddie got out of the car and looked around. There was a family inside the gas station. The kids were screaming about peanut butter cups and soda.

“Would it help you?” he asked after you’d got out and walked around to him. His hands were shoved into the pockets of the sweatpants he’d been getting in and out of, vampire then bat then vampire then bat. “It might make it more precise. But it’s still conjecture. Still a judgment. Still a human death.”

You tried to read him, but he’d locked you out for the moment.

He continued, “Sometimes it hurts. Or, sometimes I think it hurts. Or, I think it should hurt. I don’t know if I can tell the difference. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I can stop myself from hurting them. But I don’t know, really know, if it weighs on my conscious. I don’t even know if I have one.”

It had been easy to get lost in Eddie’s goodness. It had been the important thing to show your coven. But it was never going away, the darkness. He might have been a good vampire, not a properly made monster, but it didn’t change the fact that he was still a vampire.

“If I say it would help me-”

“Then, I am sure, it would help me. What is good for you is good for me,” Eddie told you. “But I can tell which of them are more like me than you. I can see it in their faces. But if this makes you feel more in control of it, then I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

The neon sign of the station buzzed and crackled, the cicadas trilling back at it. The family got in their car and hit the road again, the radio turned right up to drown out the noise of bickering children.

You could see the station’s clerk watching you and Eddie from behind his counter.

“Loving you doesn’t make me feel guilty. I’m not ashamed of what you are,” you told Eddie then, looking back at him. “I’m not trying to make you into something you’re not.”

He nodded. “I know.” He saw it on your face, a flash of exasperation. “What are you trying to do?” he asked. “Because I’m not ashamed of what you are either… You don’t have to be a lawful, virtuous witch.”

There was a small smile playing on Eddie’s lips and you knew it meant he’d cottoned on to the fact that the seed of darkness that lived inside you was working its magic.

“It’s not just about making things easier for you or for me. It could be… A kind of justice…”

“Ohhh,” Eddie almost laughed. “I am your weapon, and if you can point this blade in the right direction, then well fuck, it might work faster than the humans’ courts and witches’ spells?”

Eddie had only recently started to swear, a habit he was picking up from you most likely. Fuck, in particular, sounded terribly good coming from his mouth.

You looked at him and slowly nodded. He threw his head back and laughed into the night. The gas station clerk sighed in relief at the sudden change of atmosphere around you both.

“Oh, my little witch. You do continue to delight me.”

Eddie pulled you into a rough kiss, letting the tips of his sharpest teeth run along your bottom lip. You were warm and tasted so sugary. He had been itching to eat you up since leaving the Catskills.

“I love you,” you said breathlessly when he let you come up for air.

“I love you too. Entirely.”

…

Waking up alone was bittersweet. Although you missed the weight of Eddie next to you, the immediate crawl of his body to yours, it did mean he was likely up to something. Mostly, it was innocent domestic work.

Pre-turning, Eddie never really had a place to call his own. As a vampire, the idea of home meant something different too. But now, the boy could nest. He cleaned and picked flowers to put in vases and glasses all across the trailer. He was also dabbling in cooking, though he could not eat the fruits of his labor.

So, mostly, it was domestic work, but now and then, you would wake up to him doing something different. A week after returning from the Catskills, you and Eddie had fallen back into routine, but this morning was out of the ordinary.

Eddie had stacks of books crowded around him. Pages of handwritten notes were spilled across the coffee table, your altar supplies stacked neatly below it.

“Looking very witchy there,” you greeted, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Hi, my love,” he replied without looking up. “I’m almost finished.”

Looking around, you realised it wasn’t just the books Eddie had been combing through. Herbs and other potion-brewing bits and pieces were lined up along the kitchen bench.

“Almost finished what?” you asked.

“The spell.”

Nodding slowly at him, you waited for the explanation. It never came. Instead, you let him work on his craft and went about your day.

By mid-morning, he was ready.

“Little witch!” Eddie yelled loudly. You were outside, watering your potted plants and herbs. “Little witch! Come!” There was childlike enthusiasm in his voice and it made you smile.

“Where do you need me?” you asked him, but he was already ushering you to the couch.

“I have written you a grounding spell,” he announced.

“A grounding spell?”

“Yes. Something to reconnect you to the natural world. To promote health and healing.”

Eddie was wide-eyed and on the verge of mania. He had a little dirt smeared across his cheek, and it was caked under his nails. Although his hair was pulled back in a bun, single coils of curls had fallen out throughout the night. He was beautiful.

“Go on,” you urged.

“It starts with malus domestica,” he began.

“It always does,” you noted, already holding back a giggle. He could have just said apple. Still so very dramatic.

“They connect you to the earth. Sacred. Biblical.” He really had been doing his homework. “Then, black hellebore root.” Eddie was at the kitchen bench, holding up a jar that he’d already dug through. That explained the dirt.

“I hope you’ve been careful with that,” you warned.

“I know. Extremely toxic. Even witches sometimes wear gloves to handle it,” Eddie said, reciting one of the books he’d read. “But it is also symbolic of rising from the past. And has a long history of use in witchcraft.”

Eddie had read about hellebore poisoning, how it brought on hallucinations but could also cure mental affliction. He read about how it could be harnessed and used in banishing spells and for purification. About white versus black hellebore and all the folklore surrounding them.

“Okay. What do we do with this apple and root?” you asked, playing the part of a captive audience.

“Core the apple and thread the root through it. Let it air overnight, by moonlight. Come morning, it gets wrapped in willow then cooked,”

“Willow?” you tested.

“Willow that is strong and true. Willow that takes pain and fever and grief and releases you from it.”

You nodded and smiled.

“When the apple is cooked through, falling apart, you take the hellebore root and powder it,”

“Then what?”

Eddie hesitated. “Alas, I do not know…” he admitted. “I can’t find a way to close the spell,”

“Do you have any ideas?” you asked, standing up and coming to the kitchen counter. You looked at everything he had pulled out of the apothecary.

“Moreso, bad ideas. What not to do. Consume it, for example,”

“Yeah. That could kill me. Maybe even turn me into a werewolf,” you joked. The look on Eddie’s face was priceless. “Kidding. Hellebore is an active ingredient in lycanthropic ointment though… Mostly it’s used in what we used to call flying ointment, or magic salve. So no, I cannot consume it,”

“Yes… Well… I thought then, returning it to the earth. Burying it. That didn’t feel right,”

“Mmmhmm… I think you have a clue here,” you told him, pulling a bowl of eucalyptus seed pods forward. “Did you read about these?”

Eddie shook his head.

“They’re kind of amazing. Eucalyptus trees are native to Australia, but are planted ornamentally around the U.S. They produce a highly combustible oil through their leaves. Little fire bombs, basically. They catch ablaze easily. But, these little seedpods are fireproof, and when threatened with fire, they drop lots of seeds and fertilise the scorched ground. Within a couple of years, the burnt earth is already returning to its gloriously green form,”

“Very smart of them,”

“Very smart,” you agreed. “Maybe we can learn from them. We can not just withstand the blaze, but add fuel, let it all burn, and start again,”

“The powder… we let it go free…” Eddie said slowly, catching on to what you’re saying.

“Ah-huh. We give it to the wind.”

Working side by side, you and Eddie cored apples and filled the void with black hellebore root. You set them on the kitchen windowsill ready for the moonlight. (You’d have to take down all the window’s covers though, sunproof house and all.)

Eddie was proud. It was written all over his face.

“Now who’s the little witch?” you whispered to him, stepping up to his body, pressing yours to his.

In reply, Eddie pulled you close, wrapping his arms tightly around your frame. He kissed the top of your head then pressed his cheek to it, resting on you.

“Thank you. Nobody has ever written a spell for me before… Well… Not a good one…” You looked up at him. “You are good, Eddie. And you’re allowed to be. You can be… both. Everything,”

“Everything,” he repeated quietly.

“Yeah… So… What now? We can’t work on them until tomorrow.”

Eddie swept you off to the bedroom by the time you opened your eyes after your next blink.

“But it’s not bedtime,” you said voice saccharine and purposefully dumb.

Eddie grinned. “It’s not. I don’t want you to go to sleep now anyway,”

“No?” You sat on the edge of the unmade bed, looking up at Eddie.

He stood between your legs, reaching out to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs running softly across your skin. He smiled wide, teeth sharp. “I’m very, very hungry.”

Eddie rarely let himself taste your blood, though the occurrences were becoming more regular. He was scared of a multitude of things. Not being able to stop. Seeing something in your magic blood he couldn’t unsee. Pissing off some ancient and unknown creature that would resurrect if ever a vampire munched on a witch.

Sometimes, if you begged pretty enough, you’d get a small bite out of him. But it was better when he came asking for it. The soft inner thigh was his greatest weakness.

Lifting your arms up, Eddie followed the instruction and took your shirt off. You fell back against the bed and let him push your skirt up. He dropped to his knees and kissed the tops of your thighs. Up, up, up, until his mouth was bruising the skin above where the femoral artery was pumping blood.

You still didn’t know how he did it, how he could make it feel so good. You didn’t want to know. It was his own secret vampire magic and it was one mystery that would never appear on your murder board.

Eddie’s teeth sank in and your hot, red blood began to flow. He pushed you further back on the bed, then held your leg up, so the blood would pour down towards where you were already wet. His tongue lapped at blood and arousal fast. He didn’t waste a single drop.

You writhed under him, eyes screwed shut, and body on fire. The vibration of his tongue was pulling you ever closer to climax, but he wouldn’t stay in one spot long enough to let you get there.

Eddie grabbed your hand and smashed it to where he’d bitten you. “Heal it,” he growled, barely able to form words. You did what he said and he licked your palm clean of blood as a thank you. He hooked his arms under your legs and ripped you back to the edge of the bed. Then, he was positioned exactly where he needed to be to let you get there.

End Note: We're back in Hawkins... Now what? Reblogs and comments are appreciated!

Fic Taglist:  @paranoidmunson  @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust @hiscrimsonangel @buckysbarne @m00nlight101 @word-wytch @spicysix @briasnow-blog @goth-cowgirl-03

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes  @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob  @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl @eddies-hid3out @siren-lungs @aheadfullofsteverogers @hiscrimsonangel @dashingdeb16 @cultish-corner

[spectralscathath]

Tour Guide to the Unexplained- A Gravity Falls Fanfiction

Chapter 1: Pines vs Gnomes

Stan and Ford didn't expect much when getting shipped up to Gravity Falls to stay with estranged family. Not gnomes, not a town full of secrets, and definitely not the Mystery Shack and their lying uncle who runs it. But with Ford's smarts and Stan's punching, there's no mystery they can't solve.

Ao3 Link

Stan didn't know what he expected of the old guy Shermie called their Grunkle Dipper, but it wasn't what they got. Ford closed the door to their new attic bedroom as Stan stood in the middle of the room, looking between the two beds. Not bunk beds. Nothing like home. 

The silence was thick, so Stan broke it with a laugh. "What a load a' hokey, whaddaya think, Sixer?"

He expected Ford to start laughing and making fun of all those stupid 'exhibits' in the tourist trap their grunkle called the Mystery Shack. Fake cursed stuff, fake monsters, and fake ghosts. Fake and fake and fake.

Ford wasn't laughing. He stomped past Stan and threw his backpack and duffel bag at one of the beds, immediately claiming the left side of the room for himself. 

Stan picked anxiously at the edge of his wrist brace, unsure what to do with himself as he stood in the middle of the room. "Sixer?"

" What , Stan?" Ford snapped, already climbing onto his bed and emptying out his stuff with less care than usual.

"Is this 'cuz I called it hokey? I know you like this stuff, Ford, but that's all definitely fake down there-"

"I hate it." Ford growled out, gripping his typewriter as he pulled it out of his backpack. Dad was never able to pawn it, so it became last year's birthday present. 

"You hate it?" 

"Yes! There's actual real anomalies and stuff out there- we saw the Jersey Devil for cryin' out loud- and he's making a big stupid joke outta it!" Ford's face went red with anger, six-fingered hands shaking. "Outta freaks!"

Stan got the jolt that he needed to move, scrambling up onto Ford's bed with him and shoving his shoulder against his twin's. "Kay then, let's go kick his butt about it."

"Stan!" Ford instantly looked stricken. "We can't do that!"

"Why not?" Stan punched his fist into his palm and winced at the twinge of pain in his bones. "He's made you feel bad so he gets the left hook. Them's the rules."

"He's an adult."

"Adult, schmadult-" Stan waved off. "Screw that-"

"And mom said you can't punch anyone for another week until you get the brace off."

"Then I'll kick him! Ka-pow!" Stan kicked his feet out in demonstration of his awesome fighting moves and Ford snorted, giving him a small shove. 

"He's twice your size, knucklehead."

"So we'll team up," Stan shoved him back. "Kings of New Jersey, right?"

"Kings of New Jersey," Ford repeated, already looking less mad. Sad. Smad. "We still can't fight an adult though."

"Sure we can! I'll trip him and you jump on his head when he's down-"

"Stanley," Ford rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, so that was a plus. That was Stan's job. They only ever had each other, and they only ever would, because neither of them would ever have any friends, but that didn't matter, and this was why. Things were always better when you had a twin to have your back. 

"Okay, okay. But he can't make us work here. He's got that cashier and that handyman guy, and he has to run tours, so we can just run off in the woods. It'll be fun, let's find Bigfoot."

"Do you think he'd be out here?" Ford's eyes lit up and he scrambled for his notepad and pencil, already scribbling a vague map of the area from his recollection of the trip from the bus stop, probably. Ford's brain was so cool, he had to be the smartest person in the history of ever. 

"Sure, it's forest-y." That was his thing, right?

"Then let's find Bigfoot." Ford grinned and hopped off the bed, flicking the collar of his jacket up like he was an adventurer. A real one, not the fake kind Grunkle Dipper dressed up as. 

"Bigfoot!" Stan jumped off and threw his fists in the air. "Let's go!"

"C'mon, Stanley, you gotta wear a jacket."

"Nah, sleeves are for nerds."

"Hey!" Ford punched his arm, grinning bright. "Don't call me a nerd, goober."

"Don't call me a goober, nerd!"Stan punched him back and ran out the door, past their grunkle's bedroom with its big 'no kids allowed' sign, and down the stairs, taking a big jump over the last two, nearly crashing into Dipper at the bottom.

"Whoa-" Dipper darted back, holding something behind his back. He was still dressed like some Indiana Jones rip-off, like he should be diving into old cities for gold but here he was, running a tourist trap. "You're in a rush, what's going on?"

"We're Bigfoot hunting!" Stan blurted out.

"Can it, Stan!" Ford ran down to join him and slapped a hand over his mouth. "We're gonna go exploring- EW, STANLEY!" He ripped his hand away as Stan finished licking his hand. 

Dipper stared at them before shrugging. "Yeah, I was the same at your age. Just don't go too far, alright? Oh- and hang up these signs, while you're out there." He pulled out a hammer and signs from behind his back and tossed them down. 

"What?" Stanley stuck out his tongue even as he caught the hammer, Ford fumbling the signs as they clattered on the carpet. Heh, and mom thought Stan needed to wear glasses more. Lame. "But we're exploring."

"Explorers have to mark their trail, don't they?" Dipper grinned and struck a pose, tipping his hat. "As this town's resident monster hunter, paranormal investigator, and Tour Guide to the Unexplained-" if Ford didn't hate it, Stan woulda applauded the showmanship- "I'd know."

Ford bent down to pick up the signs, grumbling under his breath. Dipper didn't hear, but Stan did. 'Faker' was accurate. 

Stan spoke over him to prevent either from getting in trouble. "We'll hang up the dumb signs."

"Yep." Dipper patted them both on the head as he walked by. Stanley tried to scrub his hair clean of the touch. What was that for? "Don't get too disappointed if you don't see Bigfoot today, alright? Gravity Falls is a pretty sleepy town. Be back by dinner!"

"We will!" Stan only lied a little, following Ford out through the gift shop, past Carla reading a music magazine behind the register, past Boyish Dan lifting boxes out of Dipper's beat-up old pick-up truck, the faded blue paint chipped and dented, and past the attached shed where Waddles Jr. took pictures with tourists.

Ford stopped at the edge of the trees, the signs gathered in his arms before he handed them to Stanley. "We'll show him. Let's find that Bigfoot."

"Yeah! Let's show this place how we do things in Jersey!"

#

Gnome bites really hurt. Were they venomous? Surely not, but maybe he should test their wounds for toxins? Even if there wasn't venom, there could be bacteria! Who knew what gnomes ate- and Ford bet they didn't even brush their teeth. "What if we get some magic gnome disease?"

"Uh- soup, I guess?" Stanley carried most of Ford's weight as they limped out of the woods, covered in twigs and dirt and a lot of scratches. "Mom always makes soup when we get sick."

"Yeah. Soup is a primitive but effective cure for ailments." But it wouldn't be Mom's soup out here. "Where did you even get that switchblade?" And how did Ford not know about it? Tying a knife to a possum was one thing when they were nine- but Stanley had a switchblade and Ford didn't know about it.

"Nicked it when we were packing." Stanley shrugged as if that wasn't the scariest thing Ford had heard and they just stumbled on gnomes making abduction plans. Didn't Stanley remember getting grounded for a whole summer? 

"But, Dad'll be so mad-" 

 "Dad won't notice." Right, with the renovations. With all the asbestos and lead paint the city was making him get rid of, a single switchblade might not be missed. He could see Stanley's logic, but he still wasn't sure. And it didn't answer his real question anyway.

"So… why did you take it?" 

"I dunno- in case of mountain lions? Or bears? Maybe there's wolves out here!" Stan grinned, a gap in his teeth. "And definitely for scaring gnomes. Did you see that guy's face?"

"Yeah," Ford laughed because it seemed like the right response, still uneasy. "I'm glad they didn't chase us too far. I wish we could have caught one though, just to show Dipper."

"Let's go do that tomorrow. They look pretty small, and pretty stupid, so you should figure out a trap easy." Stan gave him a friendly squeeze. They didn't hug so much anymore, Ford missed it. All part of growing up though, that's what this trip was about. Toughening up and becoming real men, dad said. Learning how to pull their weight instead of letting other people carry it. Speaking of-

"I think I can walk now." Ford pulled away and tested his foot. Still hurt a bit, but felt better. "Thanks, Stan."

"Hey, that's what I'm for, Poindexter," Stan grinned and reached into the back of his jeans. "And look! We didn't lose Grunkle Dipper's hammer either!"

"Yeah, and we found this too." Ford smiled and reached into his jacket, pulling out the diary they'd found. It was definitely a girl's diary, neon purple and covered in sparkles and puffy stickers that were peeling off and a painted-on shooting star that trailed rainbows. The big number 3 inside the star was what really held his attention. Were there other diaries? The writer's name was missing, and the pages stopped halfway through, and the scratch-and-sniff stickers on each page had lost their sniff, and the entries grew increasingly paranoid. He wondered where the writer was now. Were they the ones who left all those scratches on every tree around the Shack?

There were so many questions. He had to know more.

"Do you think that diary's right about 'Gravity Falls having a secret hidden dark side'?" Stan did a pitch perfect impression of Ford, spinning the hammer his hand and nearly dropping it on his sneakers.

"It was right about gnomes in the forest," Ford shrugged, flipping through. Some of the illustrations were wacky and cartoony, some were more realistic, some had googly eyes glued on, and all of them were the coolest things he'd ever seen. He liked the stickers too, some of them were cute, but he couldn't admit that. Stickers and cute things were for girls. 

"Are you gonna show Grunkle Dipper?" 

Ford hesitated, an inexplicable feeling of being watched settling right between his shoulders. He turned around, looking at the forest behind them and didn't see anything. 

Waddles Jr. oinked loudly from his pen, making Ford jump and Stanley laugh at him. Stupid pig. Why did Grunkle Dipper even have a pig? It was so big too, he thought pigs were supposed to be smaller.

No. He didn't want to tell Grunkle Dipper. Dipper wouldn't understand, he'd just use it to make more fake anomalies. He wouldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe Ford. He might even laugh at him for carrying around such a girly-looking book.

Ford put the diary back into his jacket and looked at Stan. "I don't want to tell him."

"Cool, super twin secret." Stan agreed immediately, holding up his braced hand. "High six?"

"High six," Ford smiled and gently tapped his palm against Stanley's, careful not to aggravate his healing wrist. Stan said it was a boxer's fracture, and he complained about it hurting after a boxing lesson, so it had to be. Stan was a good liar, way better than Ford ever could be, but after the Jersey Devil incident, he'd agreed to never lie to Ford again. 

The bell jingled as they entered the Mystery Shack, closed for the day and devoid of suckers for their Grunkle to swindle, Carla the cashier and Boyish Dan the handyman already gone home for the day. Just them and their Grunkle, the conman.

"Wow. What happened? You two look like you got in a fight with a- a wolverine? Or something?" Dipper stood up from where he sat behind the counter, his hat hanging over the register. Ford hadn't noticed the little tree pin on the hat's band before. 

"You should see the other guy." Stan slapped the hammer on the counter, following Ford towards the house section of the place. Ford didn't want to talk to their Grunkle, he just wanted to check his gnome bites and read the diary until his eyes fell out. 

"Uh- hey!" Dipper called after him, and they both stopped. Dad made sure they had manners, after all. Dipper cleared his throat, tapping his pen against his chin. "Listen- I know this was last minute, but I want you two to have a good summer. Tell you what: you can both pick something from the gift shop as a welcome present, on the house."

"Really?" Did he think he could bribe them into liking him?

"What's the catch?" Stan asked, instantly suspicious. Dad would never allow that. The only way he ever gave stock to them was as a birthday gift if he hadn't been able to sell it and didn't think anyone would ever buy it. They didn't get very many birthday gifts from him. Ford's typewriter had been the first in two years. 

"No take-backsies?" Dipper chewed the top of the pen- gross- and shrugged. "No swaps, how about it?"

"Deal!" Stan nodded and dove into the aisles, Ford following behind at a sedate pace. Just one thing? But there was so much choice, so much stuff that was weird for a gift shop to have. He could see socks, bookmarks, mystery gift bags, survival kits, all sorts of gemstones and crystals, weird runestones, keychains, power tools, snow globes, Waddles Jr. bobbleheads, question mark headbands, bottles of formaldehyde, fake cyclops skulls, baseball hats, postcards, toys, t-shirts, salt and pepper shakers, jars of fake body parts…

He stopped in front of the grappling hook box and stared at what was in the next basket, 'world's strongest magnets!!' emblazoned on the packaging. Seeing the two next to each other was like a localised lightning strike of inspiration, his brain sparking with an idea, a need to create. Not the grappling hook- too unsafe- but the general shape…

"Can I have these magnets?" He grabbed them and held them up to show Dipper. 

"That's a good choice," Dipper leaned over the counter to see. "Just don't aim them at your fillings and you should be fine."

"We don't have fillings." They were still losing all their milk teeth, after all. Dad said they wouldn't need to waste money on dentists until they had teeth worth losing. It was factually incorrect, but their father was not a man to argue with.

"Then you're good to go." Dipper smiled at him as Stan ran out from the aisles. "Whatcha got there, Stan?"

"Smoke bomb kit!" Stan yelled excitedly.

"Not like- brass knuckles?" Ford blinked in confusion. There were probably some for sale in this place. Stan was good at punching. 

"I'm gonna make smoke bombs!"

"Have fun with those." Dipper popped on his hat. "I'm gonna feed Waddles Jr., be ready for dinner in ten."

There was a moment where Ford wanted to tell him everything, that the gnomes were just outside the treeline, that they got into a big fight with a whole colony of them after Stan fell into their cave and saw them practicing their human disguise, that they got away with just a few bites and scratches. 

Ford wanted to tell Dipper that the supernatural was real, the anomalies he sold to tourists as a hoax were real , but all he had to go on were some bitemarks and the diary of a mad artist. 

And Dipper would probably just blame squirrels for the bitemarks. Just like everyone else always blamed clumsiness for everything else. 

No. Ford couldn't trust Grunkle Dipper, who only Shermie spoke fondly of and no one else in the family had seen or talked about in years. Grunkle Dipper wasn't someone he could trust. No one was.

Except Stan. 

Ford tucked his magnets next to the diary and ran upstairs to join his twin, head spinning with a million questions and a deep, burning surety that he could find the answers himself.

#

Dipper waited for all the lights to go out before he slipped out of the Mystery Shack, a denim jacket thrown over his pajamas as his boots crunched on the dirt, vanishing into the woods under the full moon. 

He hopped down into the gnome caverns, the moss springy under his feet. "Hey, you gnomes! I wanna talk to whoever's in charge!"

Gnomes popped out of every crevice- he nodded once in respect at Schmebulock, who nodded back- and one of them pushed through the gathering crowd until he stood on a rock that put him just at Dipper's knee height. 

"Well- since the old queen got eaten by a badger and we're looking for a new one, I'm currently the one giving orders." He flicked his suspenders with a smile that Dipper wanted to punt. "Name's Jeff. And you're-?"

Dipper lifted his bangs in answer, watching the gnome horde start chattering nervously amongst themselves. Yeah. He wasn't thrilled about his reputation with the secret side of Gravity Falls either. Still- it could be useful. 

"There were two human kids today." Dipper dropped his hair and crossed his arms, cutting in before Jeff could start talking more. "I want everyone in the forest to know not to hurt them. They're my nephews."

"Well- they caused some trouble in our territory, so you see, we had to-"

"No. Don't care, not interested." Dipper reached into his jacket and pulled out his flashlight, brandishing it like a weapon at Jeff, the crystal attached set to 'shrink'.

"Now hold on-"

"Tell everyone in the forest: no one messes with the Pines twins. Or else I start showing real attractions again." Which would tank his profits unless he picked very carefully, and would be more trouble than it was worth, but the forest didn't need to know that.

"No- no, we're all fine and dandy with how things are!" Jeff laughed nervously, waving his hands. "Alright, gnomes! You heard this guy, no one kills the new kids! Someone go tell the manotaurs!"

"You do that." Dipper started walking towards the exit, throwing out one more suggestion for the road. "And don't kidnap anyone this summer, alright? It's seriously messed up when you do that."

Stepping out of the gnome cavern had him drawing his jacket tighter and doing up a few buttons to ward off the feeling of being watched. He could hear the faint rustling behind him of a hundred gnomes rushing off in every direction, the wind catching in the pine needles, and it sounded like an echo, laughter in the back of his head. 

He left the trees and returned to the Shack, past Waddles Jr., and into the gift shop. The boys were- well, a setback, but one he could work around. He just had to keep them alive for the summer and send them home in one piece. Why did he even agree to this? Didn't matter, he did, just had to work with it now.

The vending machine slid open with a hiss. Just one small setback. Mabel would understand. She just had to wait a little longer.

He wasn't going to let the rest of the family ruin things.

[inadeqcies]

— THAT BOY IS A MONSTER ✘ ; a ricardo self para 

𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 | @redcreekfm !

a manila envelope sits plain and clear on your desk, your name printed in a neat scroll across the front, robotic even, devoid of any human touch. your curiosity about what lies inside will reveal a series of photographs featuring none other than daniela estrada, notably uniformed in the very clothes she wore the last time she was ever seen in red creek. closer inspection leads you to make out another figure - one bronte dubois, and she doesn’t look happy. in fact, neither girls do, their faces just clear enough you can make out what appears to be two people engaged in an argument, something that was never reported to the police. you can take the photos to the police yourself, or you can run with the exclusive story; the consequences of either path are unclear, but the choice is yours alone.

~ 𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙳𝙾 𝙶𝙰𝚁𝙲𝙸𝙰 , 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝟻 𝙼𝙸𝙽𝚄𝚃𝙴𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙴𝚃𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙴𝚂𝚃 .

ricardo  takes  brief  pause  at  the  envelope  on  his  office  desk  .  he  glances  around  his  closed  off  office  ,  but  nobody  else  has  made  their  way  into  the  register  yet  .  in  fact  it's  quite  unlike  ricardo  to  make  his  way  in  either  .  he's  been  in  ‘  his  office  ’  maybe  thrice  since  arriving  at  redcreek  .  he  can't  help  but  wander  how  long  this  envelope  has  been  sitting  here  for  .  days  ?  hours  ?  minutes  ?  did  someone  ,  somehow  ,  know  he  was  coming  in  before  he  even  did  ? 

distracted  ,  he  reaches  for  the  envelope  and  slides  his  metal  envelope  opener  expertly  under  it  .  ricardo  is  here  for  at  the  register  this  morning  for  one  reason  and  only  :   to  check  billing  and  find  out  who  he  can  fire  with  the  least  ramifications  .  the  register  is  making  him  barely  any  money  ,  which  is  ludicrous  because  the  town  is  basically  on  fire  .  despite  what  true  crime  podcasts  like  to  advertise  ,  nobody  gives  a  shit  about  murdercreek  . 

he  sighs  to  himself  and  reaches  over  to  his  laptop  to  unlock  it  .  it's  clean  and  crisp  ,  just  like  the  rest  of  his  office  .  BLATANTLY  UNUSED  ,  the  way  he  likes  to  be  seen  and  live  .  ricardo  almost  forgets  about  the  envelope  entirely  as  he  brings  up  payroll  and  gives  it  a  cursory  glance  .  there's  more  names  on  there  than  he  expected  which  means  he  has  extra  work  to  do  .  great  .  he  clicks  print  and  waits  for  the  flashy  ,  overly  expensive  new  printer  to  blink  to  life  . 

IT'S  THEN  THAT  HE  LOOKS  AT  WHAT  IS  INSIDE  THE  ENVELOPE  . 

he  immediately  pauses  .

it  takes  him  a  long  time  for  his  brain  to  click  into  gear  and  start  whirring  .  his  hands  move  deftly  over  the  glossy  photos  now  in  his  possession  .  he  recognises  one  person  in  it  immediately  because  he'd  recognise  them  everywhere  .  their  face  has  been  strewn  up  all  over  town  as  soon  as  he  arrived  :  daniela  estrada  . 

the  second  person  in  the  photo  .  .  .   ricardo  does  a  double  take  .  bronte  dubois  ? 

he's  seen  bronte  around  town  but  never  directly  spoken  to  her  .  yet  even  he  knows  for  a  fact  that  there  has  NEVER  been  a  mention  of  bronte  and  daniela  talking  to  each  other  .  and  from  the  photos  ,  it  isn't  just  talking  either  .  their  faces  are  screwed  up  ,  hands  waving  .  daniela  looks  emotional  . 

THEY'RE  ARGUING  . 

ricardo  quickly  moves  to  the  envelope  and  flips  it  over  .  the  writing  on  the  front  had  surpassed  him  the  first  time  ,  and  when  he  looks  :   all  he  can  make  out  is  his  name  in  perfectly  non-descript  font  .  he  feels  his  heart  pick  up  its  beat  as  he  flips  it  over  again  ,  and  again  .  there's  nothing  else  on  it  . 

FINGERPRINTS  .  fuck  .   ricardo  drops  the  envelope  like  he's  been  burned  ,  then  looks  at  the  photos  again  .  he's  touched  the  edges  of  the  photos  ,  but  nothing  else  .  he  should  ,  and  could  ,  realistically  .  .  .  take  this  to  the  police  .

his  mind  flashes  to  daniela  in  the  photo  .  to  bronte  .  to  the  police  and  the  way  they'll  whisk  over  ,  bag  it  up  ,  and  leave  without  a  secondary  word  ,  besides  their  usual  bumbling  TOMFOOLERY  . 

his  heart  clenches  in  his  chest  .  it  moves  like  a  fist  ,  tensing  and  untensing  .  ricardo's  eyes  slide  over  to  daniela  in  the  photos  again  .  he  reaches  a  finger  up  ,  unable  to  stop  himself  ,  and  brushes  his  thumb  over  the  glossy  covering  of  her  .  she  was  here  .  she  was  here  .  and  now  she's  gone  . 

his  finger  moves  ,  slow  ,  steady  .  PURPOSEFUL  over  to  bronte's  face  .  he  hovers  and  scrutinises  her  face  .  he  can't  quite  recognise  the  expression  .  he  doesn't  know  her  well  enough  .  ricardo  doesn't  know  this  TOWN  well  enough  (  and  he's  worked  hard  to  keep  it  that  way  )  .  but  one  thing  is  clear  :  somebody  sent  him  this  on  purpose  .  somebody  saw  bronte  and  daniela  .  somebody  knows  this  is  meaningful  .

ricardo  leans  back  against  his  chair  ,  letting  the  photos  fall  onto  his  desk  .  he  evens  out  his  breathing  .  in  .  out  .  in  .  out  . 

his  eyes  move  to  his  phone  ,  right  next  to  his  laptop  .  the  printer  has  stopped  whirring  .  SILENCE  ENCOMPASSES  HIM  . 

the  police  will  want  this  information  .

 ricardo  picks  up  his  phone  and  the  time  blinks  back  at  him  :  5.45AM  .

this  information  is  important  .

a  click  .  a  slide  .  a  realisation  burrowing  its  way  into  his  brain  :  he's  the  only  person  who  can  decide  what  to  do  with  it  .  he's  the  only  person  who  knows  . 

ricardo  gazes  at  his  laptop  ,  at  the  open  payroll  .  THE  SINKING  SHIP  THAT  IS  THE  REGISTER  .  but  .  .  .  not  for  long  .  not  with  this   .

ricardo  moves  with  speed  then  .  enough  momentum  that  kennedy  and  effie  would  stare  at  him  aghast  ,  probably  .  he's  not  the  writer  or  the  reporter  that  either  of  them  are  ,  but  he  doesn't  care  .  first  print  goes  out  before  6am  and  he  has  15  minutes  to  make  it  happen  right  now  or  his  brain  tells  him  it  never  will  .

ricardo  opens  up  the  latest  copy  of  the  register   .  he  erases  whatever  junk  was  on  the  first  page  (  probably  some  stupid  fall  recipe  for  pumpkins  or  whatever  )  .  ricardo's  brain  swirls  ,  moves  like  a  hurricane  .  he  thinks  of  daniela  .  he  thinks  of  the  envelope  .  he  thinks  of  bronte  and  the  photos  .  there  is  a  crashing  noise  inside  of  his  ears  that  he  hasn't  heard  in  years  .

ricardo  uses  his  phone  to  scan  in  the  images  and  upload  them  .  then  ,  rather  hopelessly  ,  he  types  : 

WHY  WOULD  BRONTE  LIE  ?

new  photos  show  bronte  dubois  and  daniela  estrada  in  an  emotional  argument  .  the  police  have  not  reported  this  for  reasons  unknown  .   how  much  do  the  police  of  redcreek  really  know  about  what  happens  in  their  town  ?  how  many  bodies  have  to  pile  up  or  go  missing  before  sheriff  demetrius  and  his  dimwit  officers  do  anything  ? more  importantly  .  why  has  bronte  never  mentioned  anything  about  her  heated  ‘discussion’  (argument)  with  daniela  before  now?  is  this  an  innocent  fight  or  something  more  sinister  ?  if  the  police  or  bronte  are  part  of  this  coverup  and  crime  ,  the  register  will  always  report  whats  happening  to  its  faithful  residents  . at  the  register  ,  we  believe  in  honesty,  transparency  and  finding  out  what  is  really  happening  in  your  town.  we  will  follow  any  tips  ,  advice  ,  guidance  or  opinions  you  have  .  reach  out  to  us  today  if  you  wish  to  provide  more  real  news  about  what's  happening  in  your  town  and  don't  trust  the  sheriff  and  his  officers  to  do  right  by  you. anonymous  tips  can  be  sent   directly  to  ceo@theregister.com.

[artist-issues]

The Percy Jackson finale crossed too many character-breaking lines for me this time.

Luke did want to kill Percy in the books. He for sure did. And Percy immediately wrote the guy off for that. It’s important to Percy’s character that that be true. Because Percy believes Luke was never his friend—just faking it. And Percy only goes ride-or-die for his friends or people who are mistreated. Luke was neither, and he did the one thing Percy would never do, which is betray people who count on him, so Percy wrote him off. It’s part of Percy’s character that when you cross a line with him, he gets scary-angry and won’t hesitate to beat the snot out of his enemies. No torn “oh nooo you might have good in you.” Not after you cross a line; Percy gets harsh.

But in this show, it’s like Percy is only extending that harshness to…the gods. His dad. The angry eyebrows barely loosen even when his dad is sacrificing for him or being sweet about dreaming of his mom.

It’s not Percy who’s pleading with Luke and insisting that there’s still good in him. It’s Annabeth. Annabeth, in the books, won’t give up on her old friend. It’s Annabeth who saves Olympus, and the whole world, by continuing to believe she can reach the old Luke—and eventually succeeding. She doesn’t outsmart her way out of it. She has faith in him. So, what? They’re going to take that strength of character away from Annabeth and bizarrely give it to Percy, who has no history with Luke?

Annabeth in the books is way more relatable. She has an obvious crush on Luke, which contributes to her and Percy’s will-they-won’t-they tension for the whole first series. In addition to that normal-girl character trait, she sometimes gets afraid. Of spiders. And is immobilized by the sight of them. She also has way more fear of trying to make a normal life work than Percy does. But all of that id downplayed or straight-up erased in the show. Percy never gets to save her from Crusty or the mechanical spiders.

Grover is not the voice of reason. He’s a fidgety nervous screw-up who is comic relief for a lot of the books, but demonstrates gentle loyalty. This Grover is way too self-possessed and mature.

WHAT HAPPENED TO GABE BEING ABUSIVE? There was a whole plot point where Percy’s mom suffered through Gabe as a husband because his body odor overpowered the monsters that could endanger Percy—and she did that in spite of the fact that he started hitting her. And by the end of The Lightning Thief, the big lesson Percy learns is that he can’t save his mom. Or his dad. He can’t fight their battles. (Just like his mom shouldn’t have been trying to fight HIS battles.) He can only be there for them and support them while they take care of their own issues. Something that loyal-to-a-fault Percy Jackson is very good at. But he always has to fight between wanting to sacrifice himself and save everyone and knowing that some battles aren’t his to fight, no matter how “godlike” he is. They just…erased all that!