#his beak is seared to his face

[fearandhatred]

could not get this idea out of my head so i present vulture crowley as death <3

[anonymousangstmonster]

Prompt #76 “I want to leave, please don’t make me leave”

Danny was tired.

Tired of fighting ghosts, tired of having to keep his identity a secret, tired of running for his life from ghost hunters, tired of lying to his parents every time he comes home with another injury he can’t explain.

He just wanted to end it all.

The next time he was out for his nightly patrol, his father was also out hunting.

The last time he encountered his dad as Phantom was the week prior, when Danny was fighting Technus and got thrown into another building in the middle of construction. That building collapsed with Maddie and Jack right under it. The two narrowly escaped, but Jack’s arm got smashed under one of the metal beams, it had to be amputated and replaced with a prosthetic.

During that same fight Maddie’s head got hit by a stray ectoblast and it seared off half of her face.

When Jack found Phantom while hunting, no way was he about to pass up the opportunity to beat the ghost boy bloody.

He snatched the vile creature out of the air and pounded it into the pavement with his bare hands(well, bare hand and metal skeleton of a robotic hand), breaking both it’s legs, clawing out one of it’s eyes, stomping on it’s chest until he felt the crunch of ghostly ribs breaking underneath his foot, and nearly completely severing it’s right arm just below it’s elbow, with only a few tissues of green flesh keeping it connected.

And Danny let him.

He held on to his ghost form for as long as he could, but transformed back to human after Jack had started to walk away.

Danny reached towards his dad, asking him to just finish him off, to end it. When Jack froze in place and turned around slowly, Danny started asking him to at least stay there, to not leave him to die alone.

Jack panicked, running over to his son whom he had just maimed and held him in his arm gently.

They exchanged heartbroken apologies as Danny got weaker, his words becoming harder to articulate.

But then he started to beak down sobbing pleading to his father to not make him go, that he didn’t want to leave anymore, he wanted to stay.

All Jack could do was try to comfort his dying son as he passed away in his father’s arms.

I’ve only seen Jacks enormous size and his (probably)incredible strength being used to crush Danny referenced in fics once or twice, but I need more.

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Lion's Pride [PART 2]

Gender Neutral Reader x Leona Kingscholar Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: There is a Lion living in your chicken coop. This sounds like the setup for a really bad joke--you wish it was.

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3]

There were wards carved into the wooden pillars of your small cottage that had existed long before you’d made your home here, and they had an ancient, cloying, sort of magic to them that always left you feeling swaddled in bubble-wrap comfort—safe and secure. Even against angry Skin Changers banging down your door.

“You won’t be able to cross the threshold unless you’re invited,” you called, hoping it might deter him from actually destroying your entire porch.

There was an irritated growl from the other side that sounded an awful lot like he was probably still going to wind up trying to put his claws through the paneling, so you pulled the door open once more and stepped aside with purpose.

“You are not welcome,” you said, cheerful, before gesturing for him to try and step inside.

The Lion Man sneered at you, his ears flattening pissilly atop his head as if such a fluffy show of irritation could ever be intimidating (even if he wasn’t drenched down the bone), and he moved to make his way into your home. But when his sandaled foot reached the threshold, he stopped. You watched as his brow furrowed and something darkly frustrated slithered across his handsome face. There was no great arcane barrier or explosion of magical prowess—just a gentle shudder you could see creep along his limbs as he tried to force himself to move and couldn’t.

“Was there something you needed?” you asked, after what was perhaps a too-long moment of watching him stew in a mucky mix of rainwater and his own burbling rage.

He scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning up against the well-beaten doorway like the slouch was supposed to be intentionally casual, and not because he literally couldn’t move anywhere else.

“I need your help,” he said—demanded. He stared down his nose at you like you were some sort of unpleasant looking bug crawling across the floor.

“Alright,” you shrugged. “And…?”

“And what?” he demanded.

You rolled your eyes towards the ceiling and mercifully gave him through a silent count-of-ten to try and figure his shit out. When all he did was curl his lip at you like a petulant noble in court, you sighed and turned back on him with a cheerful, customer-service, quality smile.

“Thank you for your inquiry,” you chirped. “But I’m afraid I’m all full up for the day. Good afternoon.” And closed the door in his face yet again, but this time with a polite, little, wiggle-wave of your fingers as you went.

The next morning arrived altogether uneventfully. The rain had stopped sometime during the evening, and the lingering moisture had left your little homestead shrouded in a lovely cloud of fine, glistening, mists. You headed out into the soft chill with a pleasant hum and armfuls of treats for all your critters.

And then you noticed that there was an extra animal making itself at home in your little farmyard—one that you’d assumed had eventually given up and stomped back whichever way he’d came.

The Lion Man was sleeping in your chicken coop—perfectly contentedly, too. Which you wouldn’t have expected from a near mythical creature dripping in precious gems and who spoke with all the haughty self-assuredness of someone who’d never been told ‘no’ in any way that mattered.

You glared at him for a moment or two, hoping the searing irritation in your frown would be enough to poke him awake. But the Lion Man just laid there, cozy as a clam in his bed of shredded hay.

“You’re scaring Penelope,” you huffed, loud, and tossed a handful of seed by his feet.

The birds squawked and hopped up to peck brainlessly at the treats—unbothered by the predator lounging in their nest. The rustling of their feathers and tap-tap-tap of their little beaks at least seemed to finally wake the lazy Lion Man, and he opened one glowing, emerald, eye to glare balefully at you.

“They don’t seem like they give a shit,” he rumbled at you, voice still thick and syrupy with sleep. And indeed they did not, bopping around without a care in the world. Your aforementioned Penelope had even shuffled herself into the Lion’s lap to reach some of the seed that had fallen into the folds of fabric pooling at his hips.

“Why are you in my chicken coop?” you asked, as polite as you could manage. It still sounded like you were giving yourself a root canal.

He stood with a languid stretch and your birds clucked at him irritably for a moment before settling into the warm spot he’d vacated.

“It was raining,” he complained. Like it was obvious.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and tried again. “Why are you still here?”

“I already told you, herbivore,” he yawned. His long, white, canines, glinted in the morning sunlight. “I need your help.”

You sighed a miserable sort of sigh and fought the urge to dig your thumbs into your eyes.

“Forgive me for not jumping at the opportunity to assist the person—or, sorry, whatever it is you are—who abandoned me to die in a hole,” you harumphed, turning pointedly to start trudging back to your cottage.

“You got out, didn’t you?” the Lion griped, slipping forward to dog at your heels.

“No thanks to you!” you accused, jabbing a finger in his direction. He rolled his eyes and you could practically feel the steam leaking from your ears. “I helped you once already,” you pointed out testily. “Twice, if you count all the rations you gobbled up. And you still left me behind without a second thought! Why should I bother doing anything else for you?”

His face twisted up into something sour. The grin he shot your way was all sharp teeth and vinegar.

“Ahh, that’s right. I should have remembered—humans are only willing to barter their aid if they’re going to be repaid in kind. So. Tell me. What do you want then, hmm?” He scoffed. “Wealth? Power? Protection?”

You stopped at the door to your home and spun on him, angry.

“This has nothing to do with being repaid,” you seethed. “This is about decency!”

He scoffed again and you fought the urge to just hurl the entire basket of seed into his smug face. Because you were clearly the adult in this situation and needed to act as such. Sure, Mister Lion Dude looked close enough to your age, and you knew well enough of Magic Beasts to understand he was probably decades your senior—if not entire generations—but clearly a wealth of time left no account for manners. So you were going to have to step up and be the mature one here, and not waste an entire week’s worth of grit on the petty urge to upend it all over his stupid head.

With a heavy sigh that was more a gust of incompressible cursing than anything else, you placed the basket aside and turned to him with a stubborn pout.

“Alright, then. A deal—as you’re so insistent that you know exactly what every one of us stupid humans wants. I’ll help you again. If—” you declared, “—you say you’re sorry.”

He frowned, that righteous loathing giving way to a heady mix of even more irritable confusion.

“I have nothing to apologize for,” he snipped, turning his nose up at you.

“Then I have nothing to help you with,” you smiled, barbed, and swiveled to retreat into the safety of your cottage. “Good afternoon, Mister Lion. And please don’t eat my chickens.”

The Lion did not, in fact, eat any of your chickens. Or your geese, or ducks, or even the little rabbits that lived in the walls. He’d passed out beneath one of the overburdened fruit trees that grew along the edge of the forest and slept there for the entire evening—sprawled out amidst the roots like the rough bark was as comfortable as any other luxurious bed. He was still there now, snoring softly beneath the gentle, yellow, warmth of the morning sun.

You watched him for a few quiet moments, throat catching on a curious little hum. You wondered how long he was planning to skulk about your little homestead. You wondered how he wasn’t cold and miserable every night. And surely he must have been ravenous by now. It’s not like you’d seen him eat anything.

So you raided your icebox for leftovers and heated them on the stove until your cottage was filled with the cozy smells of well-seasoned meats and sweet, berry, tarts. You packed up the meal into a neat, little, box, wrapped it all up in a tea towel to seal in the heat, and then dropped the thing in his lap hard enough to startle him awake.

The Lion glowered down at the mesh of checkered fabric in obvious distaste. But then the scent of what was tucked within said wrappings must have made its way to his nose, because some of that ire seemed to melt away and he sniffed curiously at the air.

“Thank you for not decimating my livestock population,” you said.

“You told me not to,” he snapped, tail whipping angrily at his rear. He reached out to pick at the folded edges of the parcel with a perplexed sort of expression twisting at his mouth.

“And you didn’t,” you responded with a shrug. “It’s appreciated.”

With that, you left to go about your daily business. Your garden needed tending, and one of the corners of the fence needed a new patch to keep it upright. You also hadn’t seen much of your foxes since Lord Lion had decided to make himself at home, and you wound up spending far too much time crawling around on your hands and knees—looking under bushes and into holes as you waved around a juicy chunk of roast beef in hopes of tempting them out.

There was the telltale crunch crunch of someone stepping through the dirt to stand at your side, and you glanced up to see the Lion Man looming over you with a heavy scowl—arms crossed loose over his chest.

“Is this what you do? Everyday?” he asked, sounded insultingly incredulous. His face was twisted up into a sneer that was entirely unimpressed. “Crawl through the muck like a worm?”

“Not every day,” you said after a moment of consideration. “And worms don’t have limbs. I’m more like a cockroach, maybe.”

He scoffed. “And you have the nerve to think that you’re too good to help me.”

“I never said that,” you frowned, sitting back on your heels and brushing some of the dust and grass from your pants. “I just said you needed to apologize first.”

“I’m not sorry for anything,” he said again, just as put out as before.

You waved a finger at him in a gentle tut-tut. “Ah, but we’re making progress. See, earlier you said there was nothing to apologize for at all. Now at least you’re recognizing that there is, in fact, an anything.”

You swayed your way back to your feet before he could launch into another rant about your mortal ridiculousness.

“A friend of mine hunted down a White Moor Stag last week,” you said, brushing the last of the grit from your knees. “It’s supposed to be delicious, and I’ve had some of the cuts marinating for a while now. You see, it’s this whole mess with orange zest, and molasses, and these little Red Eye chilies that I’ve been growing for ages now—”

The more you rambled, the more constipated he looked. So you cut yourself off and rubbed at the back of your neck, just toeing the wrong side of embarrassment.  

“R-Right. Anyways. I’m going to be cooking some of it up tonight to try. So—Well,” you waved your hand awkwardly around your head in a gesture that even you weren’t entirely sure made any kind of sense. “If you apologize before then, you’re more than welcome to come in and have dinner.”

He scoffed. “That’s not exactly a worthwhile offer when we both know you’ll just end up bringing me some tomorrow either way.”

You sighed.

“Probably,” you admitted. “Well. See you in the morning then if you’re still around, I guess.”

“You’re terribly accommodating to unwanted guests,” he sneered after you as you climbed the set of stairs that made up your teeny porch, and you waved him off with a grumble.

What was so wrong with being civil, huh?! You liked to think that your little cottage was homey and welcoming. You took in weird guests all the time! And you liked being known as that awkward but friendly recluse who could offer a wandering adventurer a fresh set of laundered clothes and a good meal. It was how you’d met all your other friends. Odd as they all were. In fact, if you were being perfectly honest, in comparison to some of your other compatriots, Mister Lion really probably was the most societally acceptable definition of ‘normal’ out of the bunch. Which was—not to rag on your dear friends or anything—but that was certainly… Uh…

You spent the afternoon shuffling about your kitchen, and then a long evening searing the meat to perfection. It tasted absolutely divine—totally ‘making noises not meant for polite company’ and ‘curling your toes under the table’ levels of yummy. You happily set aside some portions for your friends whenever they inevitably stopped by (with an extra-large and prettily packaged one for your Hunter), and then packed a small box of leftovers to set at the front of the icebox. Just as the Lion had said you would. Because unlike him, you were nice. And kind. And really didn’t want him to get hungry enough to start eyeing your chickens in earnest.

The next morning when you ventured beyond your front door, you noticed something a bit odd.

Your brow scrunched and you shifted the little box of meats into one hand so you could use the other to poke around your very neat looking garden.

“I don’t remember weeding this yesterday…”

Nor had you had time to fix the fence amidst all your fox chasing. Or prune the berry bushes. And normally your trimming was not quite so, err, ugly, lopsided, like the work of a toddler with safety scissors imperfect. More of a scorching, really, than any kind of clipping. There was a soft dusting of glittering, arcane, sand scattered along their roots.

The Lion snorted and snatched the food from your hands with a scowl. It was a weird, tiny, twisty expression—and way more performative than he’d probably intended it to be.

“Then you must be even stupider than I thought.”

“Huh,” you mused, plopping yourself down on one of the low-cut stumps and resting your chin in your palm. You tried to hide the amused tick of your lips behind your fingers. “I hadn’t thought that would be possible. What’s lower than a base zero?”

“Negative numbers exist,” he sneered and sat cross-legged in the grass across from you to devour his plundered meal.

You hummed and rifled around in your pockets. You unearthed another wrapped treat and passed it his way.

“Thank you for cleaning up,” you said.

He scoffed and took a too-large chomp out of his food, eyes averted towards the ground. “Whatever.”

The Lion followed you around the rest of the day—always at a distance, and always with a perpetual cloud of scathing comments settled about him like a swarm of buzzing bees. You just hummed through the streams of pessimistic angst and continued your chores. Mostly he just watched you toil away. Occasionally you’d toss him a berry from a bush you were replanting, or share some bites of the granola you’d tucked into one of your pockets. He accepted each treat with an upturned nose and absolute indignity. But he ate each and every morsel, and you noticed him go back to swipe another berry when he thought you weren’t looking.

He still outright refused to apologize, so you took your dinners alone. But he did help you move some thorny branches, and didn’t even complain too much when Penelope the Chicken made herself a nice bed in his lap. You brought him one of your spare blankets—a big, old, fluffy thing that you’d once hoped would be a bit magical, as you’d spun it together from some enchanted wool. It was not, which was disappointing. But it was still warm and pretty, so that was fine.

The Lion scoffed at it, but you just left the folded-up mess of soft fluff by his side with a pointed pat-pat-pat before returning to your own cozy bed for the night.

When the sun rose the next day, you woke to a familiar, scraggly, redhead at your door. Ace smiled at you through a layer of grime thicker than the shirt on his back, and you immediately herded him out towards the backyard to dunk him in the pond.

“What did you even do?” you asked, upending another bucket of water over his head. “You look like someone tied you to the back of a horse and dragged you the entire way here.”

He shivered petulantly. “I didn’t do anything! I swear! And nothing happened!”

Splash went the next bucket.

“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” he corrected, and you handed him a towel as a reward for his vague attempt at honesty.

Eventually Ace managed to weasel his way out of the frigid pond and into a fresh set of clothes. He sighed, content, and set about lounging in the sun like a fat, lazy, tom cat. Which, speaking of lazy, lounging, cats…

You glanced around your little farm, but your new Lion companion wasn’t anywhere to be found. Huh. How strange. You retreated back into your home to collect some of your leftovers before returning to your friend. You carefully balanced one of the boxes atop the fence as you went, just in case the Lion did come around looking for a snack.

You handed the other to Ace, and his mouth nearly started watering at the sight.

“No Deuce this time?” you asked, peering back out towards the dirt road—half expecting to see the warrior sprawled out in a ditch or something just a few paces down the path.

“Nah,” Ace sighed, kicking up his feet and letting out a heaving sigh that sounded like it weighed more than the thick, traveler’s, pack usually strapped across his shoulders. “He stopped back in town to drop off a letter for his mom.”

Ace moved to dig into the food in earnest, and you lit up at his enthusiasm.

“This is from that Stag,” you beamed, and his face went a bit pale. “Remember? The one we could barely fit through the shed door even when we got all six of its antlers off? I finally got around to cooking it.”

“That Hunter brought this?” he asked, looking more and more uncomfortable by the second.

“I mean, who else could kill a White Moor Stag?” you laughed, and Ace’s expression was shifting into something that looked a bit too close to sea-sickness for someone sitting in a soft patch of grass in the heart of a landlocked prefecture.

You reached forward to pluck up a bit of one of the juicier steaks between your fingers and shoved it firmly into his mouth. The indignant spluttering that followed rapidly melted into near moaning, and whatever hesitance was brewing in that empty skull of his dissipated in the face of such a pure, culinary, masterpiece.

You leaned forward eagerly when he began to shovel the stuff into his mouth like a dying man inhaling his last meal. “How’s it taste? I tried using rinds this time in my marinade instead of just the orange pulp, and also tried whole ginger slices rather than the ground up kind, and—"

“Yeah, yeah,” Ace waved you off around a mouthful of half-chewed meat. “Food magic, and fancy things, and whatever. Can’t you just let me enjoy this stupid, terrifying, meal in peace—”

A clawed hand slammed down over the top of the makeshift lunch box with an echoing ­­thwack, and the redhead lurched backwards with a startled squawk.

“If you’re not going to bother listening, you don’t deserve to eat it,” the Lion huffed, snatching the portion for himself and gracefully folding his unfairly lithe limbs to plop down at your side.

“You’re one to talk,” you blinked, taken aback at his sudden appearance. And blatant hypocrisy. Like. Come on, dude.

He was close—far closer than he was normally willing to get to you and your human cooties. Practically slotted up against you from hip to shoulder. His tail curled up and around your wrist and you could feel the tip of it twitching irritably against the soft skin at the heart of your palm. That aloof, emerald, glower of his was fixed on Ace with just a touch too much ire to really be considered indifferent, and his ears were pressed down into stiff, flat, lines atop his head. You blinked again, wide eyed and a bit confused. Huh. Maybe he just wasn’t a fan of strangers.

“When have I ever interrupted one of your ridiculous tangents?” the Lion snipped at you, pointedly popping the thickest, juiciest, slice of the bunch into his mouth. It shredded like tissue paper between his canines and Ace audibly gulped.

“You make faces at me,” you argued petulantly, and immediately felt like a toddler.

“But I always listen,” he shot back, equally as bitchy. And also… surprisingly earnest. Even if he was being as miserable about that sincerity as he was about everything else.

His green eyes flicked down to meet yours for a moment—two, three, four—before swiveling back towards Ace and narrowing all over again. And yeah, you’d assumed that the Lion had looked irritated with you plenty of times before, but the sneer he was giving Ace was all sorts of unpleasant. Rivaled only perhaps by that open, spiteful, hatred when he’d turned to bear his fangs at the metal spike trap twining around his legs and keeping him trapped in that pit.

His lip twitched up, almost like a snarl, before he continued, “Even an herbivore like you deserves that at least.”

Then the Lion reached around you to snatch the checkered tea towel wrapping from its place discarded at your friend’s feet, jostling you ridiculously all the while and practically bullying you into his lap with his flailing elbows in the process. He idly wiped the mess of sauces and drippings from his fingers before tossing the fabric back into the dirt—this time at his feet. You rolled your eyes at the petty theatrics and shot Ace one of your patented ‘man, what a day, am I right?’ looks, that he responded to with an expression that looked more like someone had just punched him in the nuts and threatened to wear his skin as a suit than it did any sort of real life, rational, human, emotion.   

The Lion’s arm tightened from its place at your waist—where he’d lazily left it after that initial reach around. You settled back against him with a good natured, if exasperated, huff. At least he was warm. And honestly a much nicer seat than the damp ground.

“Uhm—” Ace choked. Cleared his throat. Tried again. Choked harder. “Who—Who’s this?”

“Oh,” you hummed, pensive. “Actually. That’s a very good question. I don’t really know.”

The Lion Man practically groaned into your neck. Ace looked like he wanted to put your head through a wall.

“This entire time,” the Lion hissed. You could feel the imprint of his canines bumping up against your skin as he grit his teeth. “You didn’t even know who I was?”

“No?” you frowned, confused. And then, rightfully indignant, “It’s not like you ever introduced yourself!”

He pulled himself back with a sigh that sounded like it was the only thing standing in between a gruesome murder and whatever fragile sanity he’d managed to wrangle together. He straightened—posture going rigid and regal. The claws at your waist flexed into the breezy fabric of your shirt and his tail tightened along your arm.

“I am Leona Kingscholar,” he declared, proud. “Second Son of the Sunset Savannas. Heir to the King's Roar.”

Ace started choking all over again, and let out what sounded vaguely like a strangled ‘holy fucking shit.’ You waited a moment, shifting through the catalogue of names and places in your head before drawing a complete blank. So you simply nodded as best as you could while squashed up so close against him and offered your own name politely in return.

Ace gawked at you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You frowned. “What are you talking about? I was just being polite!”

“This is—He’s—!” your redheaded friend just barely managed to splutter out past his obvious terror. “Leona Kingscholar is a Warlord. He’s an ancient terror—He’s—He’s a General, and a monster, and the fucking Changeling Prince whose family rules over this entire goddamn continent, you absolute fucking halfwit!”

Your brain seemed to evacuate the premises all at once, and you were left gaping like a fish out of water. Mouth opening and closing as if of its own devices. Just. Not a thought passing behind those wide, horrified, eyes of yours. Eventually you managed to tilt your gaze up and up until the back of your head thunked against your guest’s shoulder. You stared at him in outright consternation and he simply arched a handsome brow, entirely unimpressed by your apparently lackluster deductive reasoning.

“…is that all true?” you asked haltingly. He rolled his eyes at you.

“More or less.”

“… and you’ve been sleeping in my chicken coop.”

Leona snorted. “I have.”

You turned back to Ace, a creeping sort of dread slithering through your gut and clawing up your spine.

“Oh no,” you said. With feeling.

“Oh fucking no indeed,” he wailed, and dropped his head into his hands.

.

.

.

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[desceros]

me, innocent, a victim: [goes to look for something in my phone's photoroll] me: [is violently assaulted by gb art] donatello/reader; gn reader; rated t

When you open your eyes, you see, to your shock, Donatello. 

Well. It’s hardly surprising that he’s in your bed, considering he’s been getting pretty good at the whole mind-melting orgasm thing. Maybe half of the nights of your week lately have ended up with your eyes drinking in the sight of him caging you in, your wrists aching with the tightness of his fingers holding them above your head, and your ears singing with the sound of him whining your name when he comes. It’s incredible—he’s incredible—and you’d be pressed picking a time in your life you’ve been happier.

But this. This is… new. 

He’s not wearing his mask. That’s the first thing that catches your attention, once you’re able to move past the totality of his presence in the gentle rays of dawn streaming through your window. He looks… softer, somehow. Different. There’s a closeness to him, physically, literally, that makes you tremble a bit in your very skin. Like you’ve never really been with him before, absurd as it sounds even in your own head. He’s touched you the way no one else has—the way no one else ever, ever will, if you have your way about it—but this. This. 

God. He’s beautiful, you think, gazing at each inch of his uncovered skin and searing it to your mind. You’ve always been attracted to him, but here, it takes your breath away. The curve of his beak beneath his eyes, the angle of his jaw, the squish of his cheek where he’s sleeping on your pillow, the little puffs of air that snooze out with each breath; all of it entrances you, making your lips quiver. 

Slowly, gently, almost hating yourself for it, you reach out. An impossible temptation to resist. The very tips of your fingers on his face, tracing from temple to chin, over and over as you memorize this unseen part of him. Odd, how it feels like you’re pining, yearning for him, when you still feel the aches in your body from how thoroughly he’d had you last night. 

…Though, you suppose, that was him having you. And this is—

—this is you having him. 

Donnie’s lips curl at the corner, and you know you’re busted. Suddenly shy, you fight the urge to pull away, to pretend you weren’t consuming the sight of him. It’s a vulnerable feeling, but you’re rewarded when he opens one eye, blearily meeting your gaze. 

“…Aren’t you usually the one nagging me to sleep?” he says in a mumble, causing you to smile sheepishly. 

“I… couldn’t resist,” you admit quietly, your touch garnering a bit of weight now that he’s awake.

“Had to check and make sure I was real under my mask?” he teases, and it’s tempting to follow him down the path. Tasting bravery on your tongue, you resist. 

“Too handsome not to,” you tell him honestly, cupping his cheek with your palm. You feel the hitch in his breath, the warmth that spreads onto his cheeks even as his scales don’t allow for a blush. “Needed to.” 

Donnie stares for a moment, then gives a breathy laugh, reaching out to grasp your hand from his face and bringing it so he can press a kiss to your palm. This, too, is new—this quiet, non-sexual intimacy. It makes you feel warm, a bit like you’re the one who’s been basking in the sunlight, not him. 

“You’re obnoxiously romantic in the morning, huh?” he murmurs. He doesn’t sound displeased. Giddily, you wiggle closer, feeling him reach out to slide a hand to your back to help pull you close, until only a sigh separates your face and his, your legs so tangled together only the roughness of his scales tells them apart.

“…I could be obnoxiously romantic all the time,” you tell him, looking between his eyes as the other opens, seeing the tender expression on his face. “…If you wanted me to.”

A comforting, familiar, possessive hand cups your nape, his thumb tracing the soft skin beneath your ear. A dazzling glissando of sensation runs along his touch, making your eyes flutter for a moment before you lick your lips and focus on him again. 

Finally, he smiles, an honest little thing that transfigures your heart into a tiny hummingbird. “Yeah,” he says, his tone as warm as the coming morning. “That… sounds great.”

And then, as if sealing a promise, he pulls you close for a kiss even softer than the sheets that ensconce you both. Humming into it, you melt, nuzzling his beak with a lustrous glow beneath your skin. Then—slowly, gently—your fingers again find unmasked skin, loving, claiming, confident now in the long rays of dawn.

[astro-b-o-y-d]

Triangulum - Chapter 3 - An Unwelcomed Guest

— — — — — — —

Bill’s head hurt.

A searing ache throbbed at the back of his skull while consciousness returned to him once again. No pain in recent memory compared to something like this; even getting his eye ripped out of its socket had been more of an inconvenience at worst. It took forever to regenerate those things!

The closest thing he could compare such intense pain to was his outright death, which sent a jolt of panic through his mind that only furthered his headache. He wasn’t dead again, was he—

“Why would I go through all this effort to bring you back, only to deceive you about what I have to offer?”

Oh. Right.

Any concerns were washed away in an instant as the feathery face of the shelduck drifted to the front of his mind. Not just their face, but the conversation the two of them had shared in the mindscape. The game they had wanted him to play, their contract, the destruction of the barrier as a prize—

—something was wrong.

Even with his eyelid still closed, Bill could physically feel a disconnect with his body. 

It was difficult to verbalize properly—his eye felt too distant from his limbs, and his usual shape felt noticeably altered. As if he’d slipped into a costume with lots of awkward parts, ones that stuck out in ways that forced him to be aware of their existence as he tried to descend down a narrow passageway.

Almost exactly how he’d felt whenever he possessed someone in the past. 

But the way the body suited itself around his existence, it didn’t feel like it would belong to a talking, anthropomorphic shelduck. Even with his eye closed, Bill could still feel a lack of any feathers pinpricking their way through his skin, or a beak protruding from his face—

“When did I ever say you were going to possess me in this game?”

…Ah.

Alright, even he couldn’t ignore a good loophole dodge when he saw it. Point to Tangy for their oh-so-clever little trick; he’d be sure to give them kudos for it later. 

Kudos in the form of soaking their tacky windbreaker in a gallon of rotten tuna fish for a month. Good luck getting the smell out after that one, Birdbrain!

“—what if he’s not even in there anymore?”

“Yeah, he could’ve jumped out after Wendy clunked him on the back of the head!”

“Are we even sure it’s him in the first place? Just sayin’, some random kid cackling maniacally in the middle of the woods isn’t the weirdest thing to happen around here.”

“Everyone just hold on a second, I’m trying to think—”

The sound of frantic, hushed voices stirred him further awake, and he fluttered his eyelid—no, wait, eyelids plural—open the tiniest amount to investigate. 

It didn’t seem like Birdbrain had taken any extreme measures with his vision; he still possessed a functioning eyeball. But rather than being set in the center of his face, his vision had taken a hard shift to the left and weakened to a noticeable degree. And while his vision hadn’t carried over to the right side of his face, he could feel another eyeball rotating around in its socket.

Almost as much as he could feel a set of teeth and tongue in a separate cavity much lower on his face—oh, eugh, he’d forgotten how bizarre it felt to have his face parts separated like this, and not even the fun kind of bizarre!—or a protruding nose right smack dab between his new pair of eyes.

Alright, so Birdbrain had gone humanoid for his vessel. Bit cliché, but nothing he wasn’t used to by this point. And if his mouth and eye placement weren’t enough to confirm this fact, peering open his eyelids further revealed his head to be slumped forwards, gaze fixed on a pair of black-panted human legs that were clearly attached to his body.

Yep, there was no denying that he’d been slapped back into a meatsuit mecha.

An even-riskier peek around him revealed he was currently tied up in some sort of bedroom. One clearly owned by the word’s most generic older woman of all time; creme-colored floral wallpaper decorated the walls, a shelf lined with creepy, porcelain dolls was situated near the door, and a comfortable old recliner had been set up near the fireplace—

—hang on, wasn’t this just the parlor room in the Shack?

“He’s awake!”

Shoot. Guess he’d made it a bit too obvious that he’d regained consciousness.

Bill’s head snapped up to full height at the sudden exclamation, only find himself on the receiving end of a number of different intimidation methods—all to various degrees of effectiveness.

Mabel’s weapon of choice was her beloved grappling hook. One of the better options of the bunch; metal was strong enough to shatter a fragile human skull if aimed at just the right spot and applied with just enough power and force. Terrible for his current vessel, but Bill could appreciate a healthy level of bloodlust.

Stan’s brass-knuckled fists were—admittedly—also an inspired choice, given how effective his fists had been in the past. A fact that Bill was happy to ignore and brush to the side as he shifted his attention over to—

—the random plank of wood in Dipper’s hands, one he was gripping tightly with all the intimidation of a mildly-inconvenienced kitten. Yeesh, had he even tried?

Of course, Pine Tree’s embarrassing incompetence was compensated in full by the gun in Ford’s hand, both the barrel and his own violent gaze locked onto Bill like his life depended on it.

Hmm, that was annoying.

And here Bill had hoped he could keep his return discreet for at least a short while before these suckers caught wind. Maybe strike some fear and uncertainty in their naive minds by staring ominously at them through their windows, only to vanish from sight when they came over to investigate. 

Were their minds playing tricks on them now that they were back in town? Were they simply paranoid as a result of what happened the year before? Or was there really someone watching them beyond the shadows of the trees? 

Maybe if his methods were effective enough, Ford would even start shooting at the woods in a blind panic. Heck, maybe one of the kids would even get caught in the crossfire!

Y’know, fun stuff like that.

But unfortunately for Bill, it seemed like he’d dropped right into the belly of the beast and Ford had gained the upper hand while he’d been unconscious. 

Any attempts to move his new human limbs revealed them to be restrained to the chair he was seated upon; arms tucked behind the back and bound at the wrists, torso tied in place—what, had there been a sale on rope or something? It was a miracle they’d left his legs alone—or maybe they’d just run out of rope by that point?

Nope, an abandoned piece near the far wall rendered that guess incorrect. Maybe they just hadn’t had enough time to restrain his legs, then?

Moving the focus back to his captors, Bill’s gaze bounced from person to person as he took a quick stock of their expressions. Unanimous hatred and fury trying so desperately to mask the uncertainty and fear behind their expressions. The clear desire to come across as intimidating, despite the trembling hands around their weapons.

So much fear, despite having the upper hand over him. Bill was tied to a chair and barely conscious, yet he could get a reaction like this outta them?

Good.

Because otherwise, he had no idea how he would be able to spin this situation to his advantage. With the element of surprise and mobility no longer an option for him, tapping into those fears and insecurities was the only weapon that Bill had left at his disposal.

Speaking of which—

The silence in the room stretched on as the Pines continued to stare at him, to the point where Bill was starting to grow bored. Sure, leaving them forever entrenched in uncertainty might be fun in theory, but that also required him to remain quiet for just as long.

And while that wasn’t an impossible order, Bill Cipher was not the kind of triangle to sit and behave quietly if he had any say in the matter.

He needed just the right comment to break the ice. A perfect reintroduction to his presence in their lives, one that would only strengthen that fear behind their eyes.

“I gotta ask, what didja think a gun was gonna do against me?” he asked with a grin at Ford. “I mean, do you really think regular old bullets are going to be enough to get the job done?”

His pupil flicked over to Dipper. “Guess it’s better than whatever Junior’s got going on over there, though,” he said. “Seriously, Pine Tree, a piece of wood? I guess you might have a chance at beating me in a game of interdimensional rock-paper-scissors, but outside of that, I don’t like your odds.”

Just for good measure, he punctuated everything with his loud, trademark cackle—one that shook the room and everyone in it.

Oh yeah, that’d do the trick nicely.

Sure enough, everyone’s grip on their weapons tensed, the fear in their faces now completely tangible as the worst scenario they could possibly imagine was confirmed.

“Bill.”

It was Ford who spoke first, tone marinaded in venom as he stared Bill down. Such vitriol sent another cackle throughout Bill, his body wiggling with delight against the bonds that held him to the chair. “Aww, it’s good to see you too, Sixer~!” he said sweetly. “What’s it been, about nine months now? Nice beard, by the way. Really brings your face together in a way that those sideburns didn’t, know what I mean?”

His amusement fell with a vindictiveness he made no attempt to mask. “Although if you ask me, I’d suggest taking up that old face-burning habit of yours to clear everything up and start fresh,” he said, narrowing his eye—eyes. “I mean, you’re clearly the expert in burning things around here. Facial hair, bridges, minds with me in them—”

Bill was cut off by the cold, threatening steel of the gun barrel being pressed against his cheek, pupil flitting up to Ford’s own cold, threatening gaze. “Stop talking.”

Oh, he was real mad. 

Of course, not even Ford’s ire was enough to silence Bill completely, and he managed a smug grin despite the distortion of his cheek against the weapon’s tip. “Again I ask: just a regular gun? No Quantum Destabilizer? No memory-erasing device or fancy-schmancy magical weapon from your precious journals? You must really getting dull in your old age if you're busting out the repeat performances, Fordsy.”

He tilted his head, half in thought and half to give himself some breathing room. “Although I have to wonder why you didn’t just try to kill me while I was knocked out, if you’re this trigger-happy?”

The answer to that one was pretty obvious. Given their initial reactions, they hadn’t been certain if he had actually been possessing someone—and they weren’t about to go and murder an innocent human on the off-chance they were wrong. And now that he was awake and his presence confirmed, they weren’t about to go and murder an innocent human while he was possessing them.

And if that was truly the case, it probably meant he was free to run his mouth as much as he wanted.

Probably. 

Maybe?

“Ooh, lemme guess: you wanted me to be awake before you pumped me full of lead?”

…Aw, heck with it; he couldn’t resist a chance to press a few more of Ford’s buttons! To really test the waters on what he could get away with saying or doing. “Well, I’d love to see you take your best shot at it~!” he continued with a wide grin, one that show far too much of his gums. Guess that was one benefit to having a humanoid vessel again. “I know it’ll probably get a real laugh outta the poor sucker I’m puppeting around now—”

There was a click of the hammer as the tip was pressed further into his cheek, to the point where not even leaning away from it would pull Bill out of its line of fire.

Alright, limit reached for the time being. “Okay, okay, geez, I get the picture,” he said, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “Can I at least ask for a mirror or something? I wanna see what I’m working with over here.”

Okay, maybe one more. “I’d fetch one myself, but as you can see, I’m a bit tied up at the moment~!”

Ha. Hilarious.

Luckily for him, his clever little risk seemed to pay off in the unexpected way of making Ford lower his weapon, with an added bonus of painting a look of confusion across his face. And judging by the looks being exchanged between the other family members, it was clear that his little joke had been far more effective in causing confusion than he’d originally intended.

After a few more minutes of perplexed silence between them, it was Mabel who eventually—and hesitantly—spoke up with a: “You…don’t know what you look like?”

Hmm, an unexpected question to follow the unexpected responses. And a stupid one at that; did she really expect him to give her the honest, unfiltered truth when prompted? If she did, the answer to that question would be a resounding “It’s funny how dumb you are, Shooting Star~!”, followed by a bout of condescending laughter to drive the point home. 

And the answer to her former question would probably be that same reply and condescending laughter. There was no chance across the entire multiverse that he would tell them about his little deal with Tangy. Birdbrain had said it themselves back in their mindscape: the second they found out that he was playing a game where the prize was the destruction of the barrier, the second Ford would do everything in his power to keep him restrained until the end of the game.

Or, well—more restrained than he was already.

Still, as good as his clever little joke had been, he had unintentionally dropped a small hint to them about his situation. 

Guess it was time to do what he did best; scramble their mushy little brains more than he’d done already and throw them completely off the right track. 

“I mean—it was all kind of a blur when I possessed the guy,” he said casually, leaning back in the chair as far as he could. “Didn’t exactly feel like stopping and sussing out all the details, not when the chance to stretch my legs again after spending nine months as a lawn ornament was right there in front of me—hey, come on—”

The barrel of the gun was at his cheek again as Ford gave him another warning look. “Don’t listen to a single word he says,” he said, directing the statement at the others. “We have no reason to believe that what he’s telling us is the truth, so don’t take any stock in anything he’s saying.”

Bill narrowed his eyes up at him. Spoilsport. Spoilsport and a hypocrite, to boot! “Oh, yeah, that’s rich, Sixer,” he said bitterly. “But I guess you would know what it’s like to give people a reason not to trust you, wouldn’t you?”

His functional pupil bounced over to Stan, the corners of his mouth twitching with the threat of a smile. “I’m just saying: the last time we saw each other, you were promising to finally give me that equation,” he said, with a look back to Ford. “But then when I ended up making the deal, it wasn’t your brain I ended up in, was it—OW!”

The tip of the gun was jammed so hard against his cheek that the skin would likely be bruised in the shape of a triangle later. “Stop talking—”

“Alright, that’s it.”

Before Ford could respond, Stan’s hand was back on his shoulder and gently goading him towards the door. “Ford, come on, let’s just—”

“Stan—”

“He’s tied up, Soos says the rope’s got the unicorn stuff woven into it,” Stan kept trying. “Let’s just step outside for a sec. Kids, why don’t you go with him? I’ll be with you in a few minutes, just—”

“We’re on it.”

Ford opened his mouth to protest further, but Mabel had already taken one of his hands in her own while Dipper claimed the other. “Come on, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel said, giving his hand an encouraging tug. “Let’s go wait in the hallway.”

“Yeah, why don’t you go ahead and leave, Sixer~?” Bill teased with a kick of his feet. “I’m sure I won’t go anywhere while you’re gone!”

A risky taunt, for sure. Ford had turned the gun on him enough times to prove that he was only a few more pokes away from throwing caution to the wind and sticking a bullet between his eyes, regardless of the consequences. Besides, the sooner Bill got the chance to be alone and collect his thoughts, the better. 

But at the same time, any opportunity to get under Ford’s skin was just too good to resist—nor did he have any desire to try resisting in the first place!

It seemed to be a lucky day for him in terms of taunt-rope balancing, because Ford pulled his hands from the kids’ embraces and trudged out of the room with calm, restrained steps. Steps clearly powered by every last ounce of self-control he could possibly muster, ones that suppressed a deep, brooding storm that swelled just beneath the surface.

Good. Seethe harder, Stanford.

Eventually the door shut behind him, leaving Stan and the kids—their own hands now void of any that possessed six fingers—behind. Although it was only a second later when the door cracked open again, and one six-fingered hand reentered their line of sight. 

A hand that Mabel immediately took hold of again before both her and Dipper hurried out into the hallway after him. Leaving only Bill, Stan, and a deafening silence left in the room.

A deafening silence that Bill was quick to break with a casual: “Gotta say, the beard look is waaaay more natural on you than it is on Sixer. Covers your ugly mug way better than his does.”

Apparently Ford had kept all of the restraint for himself because Stan was back to him before he could blink, and Bill had no time to brace himself as the older man grasped a rugged hand around his throat. “Listen to me, and listen good, Wise Guy,” he growled. “I don’t know how you got back here, and I don’t really care how.”

The hand around Bill’s neck tightened while he balled the other into a fist. “But I punched your lights out once, and I can do it again. As many times as it takes for you to stay down for good.”

He moved the first near Bill’s blinded eye, his good pupil following despite himself. “You try anything with my family again, you’re gonna know what it feels like to get punched to death twice. ¿Comprende?”

It was a threat Bill knew that Stan would hold himself to if necessary. One that Bill couldn’t help but feel a twinge of genuine fear towards as those final memories inside Stan’s head came rushing back to him. 

And for a split second, Bill could almost feel the terrifying heat of the flames around them, creeping nearer and nearer as they swallowed every last bit of the room in their destructive wake—

One fatal mistake…

—only for a brief moment, before he flashed Stan another toothy grin. “Seriously though, you should keep that beard. Maybe try and convince Sixer to shave his, I don’t know who I was kidding when I told him it looked good, that was such a bad idea on his part!”

His grin spread wider, once again revealing far too much of the inside of his mouth. “But then again, you might have a little trouble convincing him. Considering your poor track record in fixing mistakes.”

Stan punched him. Hard.

And when Bill crumbled with a shout, pain enveloping the area around his right eye that was sure to be bruised within minutes, Stan turned and stormed out of the room.

Yep—flew too close to the sun with that one.

— — — — — — —

Ford had barely made it out of the room before the stress of the situation brought him to his knees, and Stan entered the hallway to the sight of almost everyone else circled around him in an attempt to bring comfort.

Seeing him, Soos lifted his head. “So, is it really him?”

“Sure looks, sounds, and acts like it,” Stan said. “Alright, so the guy who tried to take over the universe and who we thought was dead is now tied up in the next room, very much the opposite of dead.”

He pressed a weary hand to his temple as he glanced around at the rest of the group. “...Does anybody have a game plan?”

From beside Ford on the floor, Mabel perked up. “What about that zodiac prophecy thingy Grunkle Ford tried to do during Weirdmageddon?” she asked. “Didn’t he say that was supposed to stop Bill?”

“Hey, yeah!” Stan snapped his fingers with an inspired look. “Great idea, Pumpkin, we could try that!”

“But don’t we need all of the symbol-things for it to work?” Soos pointed out. “And out of the original ten, we only have, like—” He paused to count heads. “—six of the people here that we’d need.”

From the spot near the wall where Wendy had seated herself, she lifted her head to join in on the conversation. “Well, then why don’t we just get the other four?” she asked. “I doubt it’d be hard to convince Robbie, Pacifica or the others to help us out. They probably hate Bill as much as we do.”

“We could also try the Quantum Destabilizer,” Dipper added thoughtfully, pressing a hand to his chin. “Grunkle Ford said it could blast Bill back into the Nightmare Realm, but I wonder if that would actually work without a rift to—you know, blast him back through.”

“What do you think, Dr. Pines?” Melody asked, directing the question at Ford.

And suddenly all eyes were back on Ford again, who had yet to move from the spot where he had collapsed after leaving the bedroom—too enveloped in his own overwhelming, smothering thoughts to take any notice to the others’ suggestions.

Bill was alive.

A scenario he had only envisioned in the worst of the nightmares that plagued his head on a nightly basis. A fear that lingered over him like the shadow of a starving predator, waiting to strike its unsuspecting prey when they least expected.

He had wanted to hope so dearly that he’d been dreaming when that child between the birch trees began to laugh in that horrific, familiar way. The bone-chilling laughter that often echoed through the deepest recesses of his mindscape, nothing more than a mere shadow of the one who had once produced it.

But this was no dream, no nightmare, nor a bad memory he could simply banish to the back of his mind—

Bill was alive.

“Dr. Pines?”

“The Zodiac Prophecy is a no-go,” he said, his words forming on their own as he returned to his feet. “The entire town believes that Bill is dead, and letting too many people know that he’s returned could ignite a panic.” 

He cast a tense look around at everyone else. “One would argue that too many people know about his return already.”

“Hey, come on, I don’t think anyone here’s in a hurry to go blabbing about him,” Wendy pointed out. 

“Regardless, it’s not a liable option at the moment,” Ford continued. “And unfortunately, neither is the Quantum Destabilizer. The only power source stable enough to power the device was only obtainable in another dimension, with the assistance of another another dimension’s Fiddleford McGucket—”

“Oh, yeah, that’s gonna be tough to get, then,” Melody spoke up. “Fiddleford's out of town for a few weeks with his family.”

“We had to put our weekly anime club meetings on hiatus until he got back,” Soos added sadly. “But, that gives all of us plenty of time to catch up on our latest show and discuss our thoughts once he’s back!”

Ford raised his hands. “Wait, that’s not what I—”

“Well, what about when he does get back?” Wendy asked. “I mean—like I said before, I doubt he’d be in a hurry to go blabbing to anyone else. Plus he’s probably smart enough to build anything we’d need to get rid of Bill.”

“Wait, I—”

“Yeah, yeah, good point, Wendy!” Stan said, waggling a finger at her. “The guy turned this place into a giant, robotic, triangle-punching whatchamacallit. He could definitely build some fancy-schmancy power source—”

“You’re missing the point!”

Ford’s fist hit the wall before he could even process his action, and suddenly the hallway was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. His frustration lingered for only a second, before he took a look at the concerned expressions around him—

—and the guilt swiftly drowned any other emotions that had been building inside his chest. “Sorry, that was—sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Several pairs of shoulders unclenched as his arm fell back to his side, and Stan moved to him again. “Woah, woah, hey, come on, no one here’s about to judge you for swingin’ a fist,” he assured him. “Feel like outta anyone here, you deserve to do it the most.”

He flicked a thumb back at the bedroom door. “‘Sides, at least you held out as long as you could. I may have given the little jerk a—let’s call it a ‘welcome back gift’.” 

A pause. “I…I gave him a black eye, that’s the joke I was trying to make.”

“Non-refundable gift,” Wendy said with a proud nod. “Nice.”

“Stan’s got a point,” Dipper added from Ford’s side. “It’s Bill Cipher. I feel like if anyone deserves to be angry right now, it’s you.”

“Yeah, sorry for uh—sorry if we sounded like we weren’t taking this seriously,” Soos added. “I know how dangerous he is, and Wendy and I even told Melody everything about him ahead of time. Just in case something like this ever happened, of course. A big bad returning during a moment of peace is a common trope in sequels, after all.”

He rolled his hands together. “And since this is the summer after he died…you know, sequel summer? Just…just sayin’, it wasn’t outta the realm of possibilities.”

“I wasn’t sure how much of it was actually true,” Melody admitted. “But also I’ve seen way weirder stuff in this town. So if you all say that kid in there’s actually an evil triangle demon bent on destroying the universe, then I’d believe it.”

“There, you see?” Stan added. “Ain’t nobody here to judge. You be as angry as you want, punch another wall or two if you really gotta.”

“Although if it helps you swing at them less, clearly we’re all on the ball when it comes to thinking of ways to put Cipher back under the ground where he belongs,” Wendy pointed out. “Maybe the stuff we already suggested won’t work, but putting our heads together like this will probably get us somewhere a lot quicker than when you were just doing this by yourself, y’know?”

“Once again, Wendy knows what’s what,” Stan agreed, and gave her a thumbs up. “If I were still your boss, I’d give you a raise.”

“...No, you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

He reached over to clasp a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Point we’re tryin’ to make is that you’ve got your family here for you this time. You don’t have to deal with this alone again.”

“Yeah, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel agreed, casting him a weak smile as she once again tucked a hand into his own. “We’ll do everything we can to help you kick Bill’s butt again!”

Ford’s gaze fell to her face, sweet eyes wide with concern and small hands once again gripping his own tightly. He could feel them trembling, clearly masking just as much fear as he was harboring inside him—

—the same way his had trembled as he pulled the trigger on the memory gun, wiping every little trace of what made his brother himself from his mind. 

He forced his gaze to the man at his right, eyes moving up to the face that mirrored his own to a near-identical degree.

The face of the man Ford had cried over for a week straight while he worked so tirelessly, so desperately to restore those lost memories. For whom he had dug out every last movie reel, scrapbook—even old postcards that Stan had sent during his travels across the country, and with whom he had spent several long night poring over the contents. 

The man whose confused expression shifted to bright realization as the kids read out the jokes from his favorite joke book, jokes he would follow up with every terrible punchline with perfect recollection. The man who suddenly remembered his and Ford’s brush with the Jersey Devil mid-story, only to go on and tell the back half as if the two of them had only experienced it yesterday.

The man who had risked sacrificing all those precious memories, all of who he was for the sake of the world’s safety. For the sake of his family’s safety.

And now Bill was back, leaving that precious sacrifice nothing more than a pointless suffering for Stanley to have endured.

“I’ll figure out a way to stop Bill by myself,” he said suddenly, pulling his hand out of Mabel’s before turning to the others. “Someone’s going to need to stay up and keep an eye on him tonight anyway. I’ll use that time to come up with a plan, and we can reconvene tomorrow.”

He reached for the doorknob. “As for the rest of you, it’s late and you should be getting to bed.”

Everyone exchanged a series of unsure looks, which Stan vocalized with a: “Do you really expect the rest of us to just sleep while you deal with some all-powerful demon all night?”

“Also, do you really expect us to sleep at all with someone like that in the house?” Wendy added. “I mean, I know he’s kindaaaa—” She made a shrinking motion with her fingers. “—now, but this is the same guy that crawls through people’s heads like a sugar-laced kid in a Hoo-Ha Owl’s playplace, right?”

Ford looked to her, then the other adults with a raised eyebrow. “You said the rope had unicorn hair weaved into it?”

“Well, yeah,” Soos confirmed. “Plus we set up those moonstones, got you that mercury you needed—”

“We have a whole stash of everything in the storage room, too,” Melody added. “If you need any more of anything.”

“Then it should be enough to hold Bill in place for the night,” Ford said matter-of-factly. “And if it’s not—well, I’ll be enough to hold him in place for the night.”

Before anyone could question him further, the bedroom door was opened and shut behind him. Leaving the rest of them out in the hallway, the shrill and barely-muffled greeting of “Welcome back, Fordsy~!” in the bedroom only adding to the unsure aura surrounding them.

Despite the door being closed, Soos held up a hand to the side of his mouth. “Uh, okay! Good night, Dr. Pines!” he called. “Also if you’ve gotta shoot him, please aim the bullets away from Abuelita’s porcelain doll collection!”

Mabel finally let her arm—the one that she had kept outstretched even after Ford let go of her hand—fall back to her side with a dejected sigh. A look that Dipper immediately spotted and moved to her side to comfort her. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” he said reassuringly. “Ford’s just worried about Bill, that’s all. And he probably just wants us to stay safe.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t need to go around makin’ himself unsafe to do that,” Stan said, pressing a hand to his head with an annoyed huff. “Is he out of his mind? What’s he thinking, dealing with all of this by himself?”

Everyone else exchanged a look. “Well, if he doesn’t want our help then…what should we do now?” Melody asked.

With a sigh, Wendy took a wide step away from the wall. “Guess we do what the doc said and try to get some sleep. Dibs on the couch as usual, by the way.”

With that, the shuffled on down the hallway, while the rest of the group silently watched her take her leave. Once she disappeared around the corner, Soos pointed towards a door on the opposite side of the hallway. “Uh, I dunno if it’ll help at all, but Melody and I sleep in the room next to Abuelita’s,” he said to Stan. “If you want, we can sleep in shifts and check in on Dr. Pines for you.”

“And if anything actually happens, one of us can come get you,” Melody added. “Leaving the other person down here to help him if he needs it.”

“Yeah!” Soos said, nodding in agreement. “If anything happens, we’ll come get you, okay?”

Stan hesitated to respond—as if the idea was anything but okay to him—but eventually he gave them a tired nod in return. “Alright, you two. Just keep an ear out for him.” 

He leaned over and placed a hand on Soos’s shoulder. “And—should I not get here quick enough to do it myself—I give you my blessing to punch the pointy little jerk in my place.”

With a look of honor, Soos pressed a hand to his forehead in a salute. “I won’t let you down, Mr. Pines! I’ll even knock out a few of his teeth if I’ve gotta!”

“Good man, Soos,” Stan said, giving his shoulder a pat. “Now get.”

With Stan’s approval, Soos gestured for Melody to follow him to their bedroom. “I’ll be the one to come get you if we need to, then,” she assured Stan as they walked. “That’ll leave Soos open for—well, that.”

And soon their bedroom door closed behind them, leaving nobody but the remaining Pines in the hallway. And with a gruff sigh and the realization that they were the only ones left, Stan turned to face the kids.

Despite the reassurances from everyone else—and even each other—they had shuffled close to one another with their attention firmly locked on to the door of Abuelita’s bedroom. As if they expected Bill to come bursting out of it at any second.

Yep, that was about what he expected.

Another sigh brought Stan to their level, and he gave both of them a weak smile. “Well, you two knuckleheads heard everyone. Let’s head upstairs.”

The two exchanged an uncertain look. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Dipper asked.

“Yeah,” Mabel added. “I mean…it’s Bill.”

“If Ford’s so insistent on dealing with this by himself, then he’s probably got a couple of tricks up his sleeve to solve it by himself,” Stan pointed out, and reached over to lightly bap the top of Dipper’s hat. “It’s like you said, he probably just wants us to stay safe. And if he does need our help, then—well, he knows where to find us...”

Even he couldn’t bring himself to try and sound convincing by the end of his reassurances, but he gave both of them a nudge to move forwards before returning to full height. “In the meantime, let’s not give that demon the satisfaction of knowing he’s freaking all of us out and go get some rest, okay?”

After another look to each other, the younger twins eventually let themselves be lead down the hallway. Despite this, Stan counted at least three times where one of them would pause to look back towards the bedroom door, before they finally rounded the hallway corner and the room was barred from their line of sight.

The interior of the Mystery Shack had fallen silent by that point, save for the faint creaking of the wooden floor beneath their steps as they headed for and—after grabbing the bags they had dropped upon arrival—up the staircases that eventually brought them to the topmost floor of the shack.

Mere hours ago, the sight of the old attic would’ve been a nostalgic welcome back, like greeting an old friend after spending so long apart. And approaching the room at the far end would’ve been the equivalent of bringing that old friend into a warm hug.

Warm, friendly, welcoming—

But the air around the trio just felt so miserable as they slowed to a gradual stop outside the bedroom door, and Stan reached a hand to the doorknob. Rather than turn it immediately, he instead chose to direct his attention back at the kids. 

Silent attention—as if he wanted to say something, but struggled to find the proper words.

After a few, long seconds, he spoke with an uneasy: “Hey, uh, if you kids need to—you know…” The hand on the doorknob moved to the back of his head. “You gonna be alright by yourselves up here? You know you can always join Wendy in the living room, or come bunk down with me if you really need to, or something—”

The younger twins looked to each other in silent consideration, until Dipper finally spoke up: “I…think we’ll be okay,” he said, although his shaky tone implied otherwise. “If we’re really that scared, we can always sleep in shifts.”

“Yeah,” Mabel added with a bit more optimism. “And—and we’ll lock our door and window—”

An oink at the staircase drew a pointed finger from her, aimed at the pig who had ambled up the stairs after them. “—and we also have Waddles as an attack hog if we really need him! We’ll be okay!”

Her shoulders fell. “Right?”

Dipper folded his arms with a feeble nod, hands tightly gripping the sides as if he were attempting to keep himself grounded with such an action. “Yeah, we’ll…we’ll be okay.”

Stan didn’t miss this, and knelt down in front of them. “Hey, you two listen to me, alright?” he said, moving a hand to each of their shoulders. “I may not know how the little demon got back or why he’s back at all.”

The hands moved to ruffle their heads. “But what I do know is that I ain’t gonna let him lay a hand on either of you or Ford,” he reassured them. “And I don’t care how long it takes or how many times we gotta kill him before he stays dead. We’ll squash him for good if it’s the last thing we do—”

He was suddenly cut off by Mabel flinging herself at him in a tight hug, with Dipper quickly following suit. Stan remained still for a few seconds, before he wrapped an arm around each of them to complete the hug. “Alright…we’re gonna be okay, okay?”

He forced a smile as the two of them broke the hug. “And hey, look on the bright side,” he continued. “With the puny size he is now, we could probably just step on the little jerk and actually squash him to death!”

Sure enough, his weak attempt to lighten the mood brought a small pair of smiles to their faces. “We could get a pair of really big shoes,” Mabel added, smile widening further as she made a stomping motion with her foot. “Just go squish, like he’s a gross cockroach under a boot!”

“Are you implying that he’s not a gross cockroach already?” Dipper asked with a weak laugh.

“Touché, but I like painting a clear, visual picture of my words,” Mabel explained. “It’s almost as fun as painting an actual picture! Ooh, I wonder if I should paint an actual picture of Bill with a cockroach body—?”

“Save that for tomorrow,” Stan said. “Right now, you two need to get some rest. You’ve got a whole summer to look forward to, and I ain’t gonna let you kids miss a second of it.”

He gave them a wink. “Even with a sudden triangle-shaped cockroach thrown into the mix.”

Both gave him a smile—much wider than before—in return before finally shuffling to the door and pulled it open, revealing the waiting bedroom on the other side.

Aside from a lack of almost any dust on the furniture—had that been Soos and Melody’s doing?—the bedroom had remained mostly untouched since the previous summer. A few scattered googly eyes rested on the floor beside a forgotten food bowl for Waddles on Mabel’s side of the room, while several crumpled pieces of paper still filled Dipper’s old wastebasket.

And while uncertainty and fear still lingered in the air as the kids stepped inside, a bit of that old, nostalgic warmth did seem to be sneaking its way around them in a reassuring embrace. A reassurance that despite the evening’s stress, this was still a place they could call a home away from home.

After one last little smile at Stan—one he returned in full—Mabel shut the door behind them. Stan continued to wordlessly stare at the door for a few minutes, attention focused on the clicking of the lock, then the creaking of the wooden floor on the other side. When he was sure the sound had reached their beds, he finally turned and shuffled back towards—then down—the staircase, continuing onwards down the hall on the second floor until he reached the door to his own bedroom.

It was only once his hand touched the doorknob that his entire posture sank from exhaustion.

He once again lingered for a moment as he looked back towards the staircase that lead downstairs—before he shook his head and trudged on forward into the bedroom.

— — — — — — — — 

It was barely an hour later when Stan firmly concluded that he was not falling asleep anytime soon.

How in the heck was he supposed to sleep at a time like this? Bill was back! The evil triangle demon that had tried to take over the town—town? Universe? Dimension? Eh, all of the above.—and had haunted his brother’s mind for literal decades!

Ford had always downplayed how much weight Bill truly held over his mind, always reassuring Stan that he was fine whenever the topic came up in conversation and was always quick to change the subject to something unrelated. 

But if Ford really thought the guy who slept in the same cabin as him for months on end wouldn’t notice him crying out in his sleep—the names Bill, Cipher or both being shouted into his pillow with so much hatred and fear more times than Stan could count—then Stan had a bridge to sell him.

And if he really thought that he hadn’t picked up on the subtle little ways Ford would flinch or the way his mood would shift on occasion—probably due to some unearthed memories about Bill, ones that Stan so desperately wished he could just punch as hard as the guy who had burned them into his brother’s mind—then Stan had two bridges to sell him.

“But then again, you might have a little trouble convincing him. Considering your poor track record in fixing mistakes.”

With a grunt, Stan rolled over onto his back and squinted blindly at the ceiling. He didn’t trust the pointy little jerk as far as he could throw him but he’d raised a good point. What right did he have to stand—lie around and call Ford an idiot for not wanting to talk about Bill, especially when he’d been the one in charge of getting rid of Bill in the first place?

He felt his thoughts drift to the earlier events of the day, before all the Bill stuff had started. Soos’s wedding announcement, the tour of the new exhibits—

“The very weird point they’re to make is that none of this would’ve happened without you building the shack to begin with, Grunkle Ford. So in a way, a lot of this is because of you!”

“Well, we kinda have you to thank for the idea, Dr. Pines. You and the kids, of course.”

It didn’t bother him. 

Really, it didn’t.

So what if Soos wanted to give Ford the credit for tying the knot with the girl he liked, or for giving them the smart-guy science methods to make the exhibits more exciting? Even if Ford was terrible at hiding his Bill feelings, at the very least he’d seemed pretty flattered by all the praise. 

He’d felt appreciated, nostalgic over the new, science-y ways that Soos and Melody were bringing in customers. The kids were excited to be spending time with him this year.

Ford felt like he belonged.

What kind of jerk would Stan be to take that happiness away from him, especially after all the years that had been taken from him already?

At at the end of the day, it didn’t matter if people slapped Ford’s name over every single one of his own accomplishments. Honestly, after stealing his identity for three decades, Stan would willingly give up a few of his own accord if it made Ford happy.

If Soos wanted to give Ford credit for building the place that inevitably lead him to his fiancé—even if Stan had been the one running the place when Soos started working here—then fine. If him and the kids wanted to give Ford credit for the exhibit ideas—exhibits that were wildly improved from the two-bit slop Stan had been pushing for the past few decades—then fine.

It was fine.

But if there was one accomplishment that Stan thought nobody could take away from him, it was the ability to keep his family safe. Not just them, but Soos, Wendy—the entire town. They had all called him a hero, finally saw him as someone worth a darn—

At the end of the day, he had finally proven he was worth something to someone.

And then Bill came back, alive and unharmed. Stan had failed to kill him good and proper, and now he was back. Now he was back, and now Ford and the kids had to spend their summer in fear.

Now he was back, and Stan was truly worthless again.

After staring at the ceiling for about ten more minutes—and waiting another ten minutes for his nightly body aches to settle—he fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand and swung his legs over the side of the bed. And with the groan of a man whose bones were older than he was, he pulled himself to his feet, trudged out of the room and headed down to the first floor of the shack. 

The light of the TV stopped him at the living room doorway, and a quick peek into the room revealed that he wasn’t the only resident of the house who was still awake.

Despite the TV running some early morning infomercial for a cheap and useless product—one worth more than its share of that hyper-specific brand of scorn and mockery that only a snarky teenager could provide—Wendy’s attention was firmly glued to her phone as she tapped away at the keys.

At the sight of Stan in the doorway, however, she lifted her head with a curious look. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Whaddaya mean? Clearly I’m sleepwalkin’.”

“Haha,” she said, snapping her phone shut. “Gonna try again with Dr. Pines?”

“You know it,” Stan said, and placed a hand on the doorway frame. “You, uh—you holdin’ up okay out here?”

“Psh, don’t even start,” Wendy said, waving him away. “I mean, sure, I’ve got my share of worries about that little megalomaniac being back—”

She flashed him a grin. “—buuuut I think a lot of ‘em were pretty evened out by the fact that I got to clunk him in the back of the head with a bat!”

“Oh yeah, that was great,” Stan agreed with a smirk of his own, before pressing his hands together in a squishing motion. “Isn’t it soooo satisfying? The little jerk talks suuuuuuch a big game, but you hit him once and he crunches like a soda can.”

Wendy cackled at that, although her expression fell again as she cast a glance upwards. “How’re the squirts handling it?”

Stan followed her gaze up to the ceiling. “Well, they’ve stayed in their room so far, so my money’s on ‘probably as well as they can with somethin’ like this.’”

“Mmm…”

She flipped her phone back open, fingers once again tapping at the keys. “At least they’ve got each other through all this,” she mused. “The two of them combined are some of the toughest and strongest kids I’ve ever met. No matter what happens, they’ll get through it so long as they stick together.”

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, with a glance back towards the hallway. “At least they’ve got that goin’ for them…”

Both fell silent for a moment, before Stan turned to leave. “If you hear any yellin’ going on down the hall, it’s because I’m trying to convince Ford to go to bed,” he told her. “If I succeed, make sure he actually goes up to bed, okay?”

“You got it, boss.”

— — — — — — — —

The room was silent, save for the scratching of pencil to paper as Ford continued to write. 

Not for a lack of trying on Bill’s part; he had made several attempts to strike up a conversation with Ford already, but all had been shot down by either a menacing glare or the flash of the gun he kept within reaching distance.

And while neither were enough to completely shut Bill up, he did fall silent after the dozenth-or-so attempt to take advantage of the chance to gather his thoughts.

He’d agreed to play a game with that stupid duck and they’d plunked him back down in front of the shack. He assumed it had been right in front of the shack, at least; he did recall being greeted by the concerned faces of Mabel and Ford, along with some faint, blurry remarks about how he’d potentially fallen out of a tree—

—thank you, Birdbrain—

—but there was always a chance that they had stumbled across his body somewhere else and simply brought him to the shack to keep a closer eye on him. 

Regardless of how it had happened or wherever those suckers had originally found him, he was back in town as Tangy had promised. Sure, it had been a sneaky drop off with several details of what that drop off entailed omitted. But at the same time, they had still kept their word.

And while Bill still had plans to dunk that silly little windbreaker of theirs in tuna fish—perhaps with the added flair of tossing in a bottle of itching powder, Melt-Your-Skin-Clean-Off-Your-Bones-Juice, and maybe a splash of lime for taste—he could at least respect how much effort they had put into getting him here at all.

Planned retribution aside…eh, game could recognize game.

And speaking of game—

His thoughts shifted to the deal they had agreed upon, sealed with both a handshake and a signature. Three months, they’d said. He had exactly three months to play. Three months to find all the pieces of their dumb trinket and put it all back together again, Humpty-Dumpty style.

He briefly considered the idea of not playing their game at all—out of sheer spite for their deviousness in getting him here—but the idea was discarded as quickly as it formed. Despite their underhanded methods to get him back to town, they had been very clear about how strictly they had to stick to their contract. And even if they’d been lying about the legitimacy of said contract, they had still foolishly locked themselves into a deal with Bill himself.

Whether or not they truly planned on upholding themselves to their side of their deal didn’t matter—if he won their little game, Bill would either have a destroyed barrier or a duck subjected to an eternity of slow-roasting over an over fire in the Nightmare Realm. Maybe in the case of the second option, such torture directed at another being would be enough to get his buddies off his back when he returned. Heck, maybe he’d even get a spiffy new jacket out of the deal!

And that was simply the worst case scenario. Best case scenario, the barrier would be gone and no one would be able to stand in his way ever again.

And a prize that valuable was enough for him to humor the tacky idiot and romp around an annoyingly-familiar hick town in a meatsuit for a summer.

Even with his current situation, escaping wouldn’t be a difficult task to accomplish. Sure, he was tied so tightly to a chair that it would make Harry Houdini blush—he would know, he dabbled in a bit of dealmaking with the famous magician back during the height of his career—and the ropes apparently contained some of that fancy-schmancy unicorn magic that the household had used to protect the shack last year. A fact that soured Bill’s expression for a brief moment, but at the end of the day, even a magically-laced rope was still just a rope. And any rope could be cut with the right tool, or by the right sucker.

The sound of paper being ripped from a notebook distracted Bill from his thoughts, and a mischievous grin poked at the corners of his mouth as he cast a look in the direction of his six-fingered warden—just as the discarded page was crumpled into a ball and tossed it into the unlit fireplace.

Well, a sucker by any other year was just as gullible—or whatever.

Sure, Bill knew Stanford Pines would rather chew off his own extra fingers than be unpromptedly helpful to him in any way, shape or form. But even if a few details about the bigger picture had to be omitted—it wouldn’t be the first time when it came to Stanford—there were always ways for Bill to get people to do what he wanted.

The scratching of pencil to paper began again, and Bill lightly tugged against the binds that held his wrists. Well, while there were always ways to get people to do what he wanted, even he knew it was highly unlikely that he’d manage to trick Ford into freeing him tonight. And the near-silence of the room was starting to become agonizingly dull. 

To reiterate an earlier point, Bill Cipher was not the kind of triangle to sit and behave quietly if he had any say in the matter. Even if Ford was attempting to keep a lid on things now, there was always a way to annoy him into tossing out a few bits and pieces of information he had gathered in Bill’s absence. Perhaps some of that information would be of use to him.

Or maybe he would only succeed in getting the gun shoved in his cheek again.

Either way, the fifteenth attempt at starting a conversation was always the charm~!

“You know,” he began with a light kick of his feet. “I’m surprised you haven’t bombarded me with questions about how I got back yet.”

He saw Ford’s hand twitch in the direction of the gun, keeping his attention still firmly focused on his writing. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to, Fordsy!” Bill continued. “You and I both know for a fact that you’re a man beckoned by the call of the strange and bizarre.”

He winked at him with his good eye. “And let’s not kid ourselves; I’m the strangest and bizarre-est guy you know~!”

Another kick of his feet, his feet bouncing against the chair legs. “Even if I no longer have access to your mind, I can tell you’ve got a billion questions about me buzzing around in that lump of wet meat you call a brain,” he continued. “Questions like ‘How did he get back?’ ‘Why is he human now?’ ‘Why, oh, why did I think that a simple memory gun would be enough to defeat someone as powerful, as amazing, as unstoppable as Bill Cipher?’”

Ford’s hand inched closer to the gun as Bill kept talking: “You must’ve felt so proud of yourself for that memory gun trick, by the way,” he went on. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, it was a smart move that only a brainiac like you could’ve drummed up in the short time you had.”

A wink. “Well, lucky for you I’m not the kinda triangle to hold a grudge,” he continued. “In fact, I’d even be willing to answer a couple of those hypothetical questions for you! And to call us even, you can always just answer a couple of mine in return. Like what you’ve been up to in the past nine months~! Come on, I’ll bet you’re just dying to tell me all about how you grew that beard of yours!”

The hand wrapped around the grip, and Bill settled lower in the chair with a sigh. “Fine, I guess it was too much to hope for a chance to catch up with an old friend,” he said with a dramatic flair to his tone—

—one that immediately shifted into something far more malevolent. “But then again, I guess I wouldn’t find any of those around here, now would I?”

Bill paused, giving Ford him a few seconds to chime in—only to roll his eyes when he heard a click from the gun as Ford turned off the safety catch: “Oh, come on, Stanford, are you really telling me that you’d rather spend the entire night alone with your thoughts than to spend five minutes holding a conversation with me?”

“Yes.”

It was the first word, sans any threats, he’d managed to get out of Ford all night, and it was annoying enough for Bill to sink further against his restraints with a huff.

Not a defeated huff; if a stubborn, old fool not giving him what he wanted was enough to stop Bill Cipher, then he wouldn’t be Bill Cipher. If he’d possessed enough patience to wait eons for a functioning portal, then he could certainly possess enough to get a few words outta Ford over the course of a single evening.

And as soon as Ford stopped being so difficult—you couldn’t avoid talking all night, Sixer—he'd be in business.

The distant sound of floorboards creaking somewhere on the other side of the shack perked Bill up again with a look towards the ceiling. Guess the rest of the household was fighting back the urge to sleep with a stick.

The sudden lack of pencil to paper also caught his attention, gaze bouncing back to where Ford was seated. He hadn’t moved, but Bill could still see the pupils of his sunken-in eyes shift towards the door with mild curiosity.

Mild curiosity that vanished the second he realized Bill was watching him, and his focus immediately returning to his notes after clicking the safety back and leaving the gun where it rested.

Hmm.

“Fine, you don’t wanna talk about what you’ve been up to for the past few months?” he tried again. “Fair enough, I really didn’t wanna hear about it. Why don’t we talk about about something else, then? Like the kids, perhaps?”

The hand was back at the gun without pause. 

“They’re looking well, older even. Or do they?—I’m still fuzzy on the details of the aging process of you mortals,” Bill continued. “Or if you don’t wanna talk about them, we could always talk about your brother. Can’t believe he’s still wildly swinging those fists around like a wild animal, especially when that didn’t even work the first time—”

The gun was ignored completely as Ford crossed the room in an instant, the vitriol behind his eyes hot enough to burn straight through Bill’s skin, blood, skull—everything, until it bore a hole right through to the other side of his head. A motion that made Bill jump against his better judgment—his blackened eye instinctively twitching as he remembered Stan’s earlier show of force—and for a fleeting moment, he expected another hand around his throat in seconds.

Before Ford could react proper, however, a loud knock pulled both of their attention to the bedroom door. After a silent breath of relief, Bill shot Ford a cheeky grin. “Sounds like you’ve got company~! Unless they’re here to see me, which—I mean, who could blame them if they were?”

Ford glared at him before turning back to the door. “Who is it?”

“Jersey Devil. Who d’you think it is?”

“...Come on in.”

The knob turned and Stan slowly entered the room, casting a silent look between the two of them before settling his gaze on Ford. “Just checkin’ in. How’s, uh—” he began, then paused. “—how’s everything going?”

He was clearly talking to Ford, and making an obvious effort to ignore the triangle-shaped elephant in the room. So naturally, Bill had to do everything in his power to make his presence as loud and obvious as possible.

“Everything’s peachy~!” he piped up, with another wiggle against his binds. “Ol’ Fordsy and I are having the time of our lives catching up on things! In fact, I think he was just about to tell me about what the kids have been up to for the past few months?”

He flashed Ford a wide grin. “Come on, Ford, I’ll bet they’ve shared a ton of stories with you~!”

Stan pointed a finger at him. “Hey, you’d better watch that mouth of yours, before I come over there and make it match your eyeball.”

“What, you’re gonna punch it?” Bill asked. “Go right ahead, I was just lamenting the fact that my mouth and eyeball are separated in this body.”

He giggled mischievously and flashed him a wide grin. “Your fist’s about the size of a mouth-sized eyeball, right? Just asking, because the second you swing it at these puppies—” He gave a warning snap of his teeth. “—I can’t promise that you’ll get it back.”

“Everything’s fine, Stanley. Go get some sleep.”

Ford’s tone was so scripted and hollow, like the words he actually wanted to say were being held back by a metric ton of steel. More than just the physical steel plate installed in his head, a whole dam of metaphorical steel was keeping the flood of Ford’s true thoughts at bay. And judging by the way Stan’s features twisted with uncertainty at his brother’s words—only until he spotted Bill eyeing him and promptly shifted his expression into a look of disdain—there was clearly something keeping his own thoughts hidden as well.

Oh, it killed Bill to not know what they were thinking. To lack the ability to act as the metaphorical wrecking ball that could smash through all that steel in an instant, leaving him free to pry open every last little thought, rivet by rivet, bolt by bolt.

Well, at least he still possessed the ability to verbally taunt them~! “You heard the big guy, Goldfish~! Why don’t you run on back to bed while the adults talk?”

“Why you little—” Stan began, then paused with a look of confusion. “Goldfish, what—”

“Your sign in the Zodiac Wheel,” Bill elaborated. “You know—that little goldfish thing on your hat! Although I guess it could also be a reference to your constant desperation for fortune and fame, combined with your childish dream of dragging Sixer off on some ridiculous, insignificant boat adventure. You know, first part’s the gold, second part’s the fish?”

He tilted his head. “Of course, I could always call you Fez instead, but that just sounds silly. It’d be like calling Question Mark Shirt or Pine Tree…I dunno, Other Hat? Hmm, kinda like that, actually.”

“...Welp, that one’s on me for asking,” Stan said, and promptly turned his attention back to Ford. “I did need you for something, though. Apparently Soos found a few more moonstones that he said we should lay out in the hall—”

“Well, feel free to lay them there,” Ford said, making his way back to his chair. “One at each corner, evenly spaced…Probably a smart idea to stick one at the end of the hallway for good measure—”

“I really think we need your help with it,” Stan urged.

“Not if you follow my instructions.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot as far up his forehead as they could get, expression lighting up with sadistic glee. Oh, oh—they were fighting~! “Aww, I’m back for five minutes and you two are already at each other’s throats again!” he said with a mirthy twinkle in his eye. “Man, even after all this time, you Pines Twins still can’t get along!”

He began to rock back and forth in the chair with delight. “Come on, punch each other in the face!” he demanded excitedly. “Give Sixer a black eye that looks worse than mine!”

He stopped rocking for a moment, and cast a look down at the chair. “Hmm, I forgot that you mortals haven’t evolved to the point where you can hear the voices of inanimate objects,” he said. “Such a shame that I can’t hear how much this chair is screaming while I rock around on it!”

With a cackle, he proceeded to rock back and forth even harder. “Hehe, I’ll bet the four-legged jerk's absolutely livid right now—ACK!”

The chair suddenly tipped over and crashed—Bill and all—to the floor with a loud clatter. With his limbs too restrained to catch himself in any dignified fashion, Bill quickly found himself with his face squished into the lavender rug near Abuelita’s bed. 

Both Ford and Stan stared at him for a moment, their disagreement temporarily forgotten at Bill’s misfortune. However, Stan snapped back to reality first and took advantage of the other two being distracted long enough to pull Ford towards the door and out into the hallway.

Bill barely had time to bark out an irritated: “Hey, get back here and pick me up!” before the door was pulled shut behind them. With a irritable huff, he attempted to rock the chair again in the hopes of adjusting to a more comfortable angle.

And after a moment of struggling, he finally succeeded in rolling the chair onto its—and by extension, his—back. Leaving him completely flat on the floor with his gaze pointed upwards at the ceiling.

Well, at least this angle was more familiar.

— — — — — — —

“Stanley, I said—”

“I know what you said,” Stan replied, closing the door shut behind them. “But you know I’m gonna try and make you sleep tonight, right?”

“And you know I’m not going to do that, right?”

“Ford—”

“How on Earth am I supposed to sleep with Bill still alive?!” 

It was like something had finally crashed right on through whatever wall Ford had built up in his mind, the stress he had tried desperately to repress all evening spilling out of him in an instant. “The memory gun should’ve worked,” he muttered in a panicked tone. “It…it destroyed everything in your mind, right?”

“Well, yeah, everything—” Stan began. “But—”

“There had to have been something he did, something that protected him,” Ford rambled on, mostly to himself. “Was it a spell? Some kind of failsafe? Did he catch onto our plan—”

“Woah, woah, hey, just breathe for a sec,” Stan interrupted. “Yeah, this is exactly why you’ve gotta let someone else babysit the little jerk while you get some sleep. You’re not gonna get anywhere if you’re too tired to think straight.”

And maybe if Ford got some sleep, he could shift some of the burden to Stan’s shoulders where it belonged. Yeesh, the poor guy had really been holding back earlier. Had he really been this stressed all evening?

…As if Stan needed to ask.

“You’d be surprised at what I can accomplish during an all-nighter,” Ford assured him. “Back in my college days, I once started a twenty-thousand-word essay at ten in the evening, and had it on the professor’s desk by six the next morning.”

He pressed a hand to his forehead. “And when you first arrived here to help me hide the journals, I was starting my fourth consecutive day of staying awake.”

“Fourth?!” Stan sputtered in disbelief, before he shook his head. “No, no, just gonna ignore that for now—it’s not like I got any room to talk when it comes to bad sleep schedules. But also you are not staying up four days to deal with this by yourself.”

He reached over to place a reassuring hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Come on, Stanford, let me help you,” he urged. “At least go get an��hour of sleep. I’ll stay down here, keep him quiet—heck, I’ll duct tape his mouth shut if he gets too mouthy with me.”

He balled his free hand into a fist and thumped it against his own chest. “Let me help you put that pointy jerk twenty feet back under the ground, and make it stick this time!”

Ford’s eyes fell to the hand on his shoulder and followed it up to the desperation in his brother’s features.

An expression near identical to the one he had worn after being blasted by the memory gun. Confusion mixed with a desire to understand…

It was like they were back in that clearing in the woods, the natural warmth of the sun draping itself back over the town, after the blood-red skies of Weirdmageddon had barred it from sight for so long. Stanley kneeling in front of him and the kids in a dazed trance, no recollection of whom he was or the sacrifices he had just made.

All of which he had assured Ford was worth the risk while they swapped clothes back in the Fearamid, beneath the wretched tapestries of the remaining Zodiac members, an ear perked on both ends for Bill’s thundering footsteps reapproaching the main room.

But had it been? Had it been worth the risk?

Up until Mabel’s scrapbook method, they had no way of knowing that Stanley would’ve been able to return to his usual self. And as far as they knew, that cure only worked when presented with the memory gun’s effects. What if Stanley got involved again, only for something worse to happen to him than lost memories? What if he couldn’t simply be scrapbooked and home movie’d back to his usual self again this time around?

What if—

“Yeah, well, if they keep on bein’ that thrilled, you’re gonna have to bust out that necromancy spell to talk to me.”

“I’ve made up my mind, Stanley,” Ford said, and turned back to the door. “You go get some sleep.”

“Wh—Ford!”

His brother’s name fell on deaf ears as Ford promptly open and shut the door behind him. Stan continued to stare at the closed door, too dumbfounded to properly react. 

Ford really didn’t want his help with Bill? He could understand sending everyone off to bed earlier, but he was still turning down his help when it was just the two of them?

He raised a hand to the doorknob, the temptation to try and properly sway Ford into letting him help rising in his chest—

“Mr. Pines?”

Stan nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a voice from the other bedroom in the hallway, and he turned to see Soos standing in the doorway. “Everything alright? …I don’t have to punch anyone yet, do I?”

With an exhale, Stan forced his hand back to his side again. “Yeesh, Soos, don’t sneak up on me like that or I’m gonna be the one who starts swinging. But nah, everything’s fine. Just thought I check in on Ford, is all.”

“Alright,” Soos said with a small smile as he held up a fist of his own. “But I swear, I will throw a punch if I need to! I made a promise, after all.”

He paused, and switched the fist to another hand. “Although maybe I should use this hand,” he said thoughtfully. “Don’t wanna accidentally break my Shack-Brochure-and-Fanfic-Writing hand on his face, you know what I mean?”

He swapped back to the first. “Although it’s probably better to use your dominant hand to punch—”

“Go to bed, Soos.”

“You got it, Mr. Pines!”

He shut the door, leaving Stan once again by himself in the quiet hallway.

Stan cast a look back to the door in front of him, his hand moving towards the doorknob again.

The same way it had when Ford had called him to the shack all those years ago, eyes bloodshot and features sunken from a lack of sleep—four days, Ford?!—and he’d showed up without a second thought to help.

Despite all the time they had spent apart, Ford had relied on him enough to seek out his help. Despite everything, Stan had still held some worth in his brother’s eyes.

And how had Stan proven that worth to his brother?

By tossing him through some massive, otherworldly portal for thirty years, stealing his identity, and ruining his life.

By getting huffy over a simple thank you and nearly dooming the entire universe.

“But then again, you might have a little trouble convincing him. Considering your poor track record in fixing mistakes.”

By not doing the one thing that had actually granted him worth, and killing that stupid demon proper.

He slammed his hand back down to his side again in a balled fist, and headed back down the hallway.

Forget it, he’d try again tomorrow.

— — — — — — —

“So, how’d the fight go~?”

Not even Bill’s shrill tauntings could pull Ford out of his determined state as he returned to his chair and notebook, the tip of his pencil once again dancing across the paper with incredible speed.

From the floor where he’d fallen earlier, Bill cast him a sour look. “Oh, real mature, Sixer. You’re really not going to pick me up?”

Ford’s hand clenched tighter around the pencil as he went to scratch out his latest idea—one that joined the dozen other scribbled-out ideas above it—before moving down to the next empty row on the paper and starting again—

“Uh, hello? Stanford? I’m talking to you!”

Talk then, you vile little demon.

The tip of the pencil snapped and Ford was unable to bite back his frustrated grunt of surprise. Right on cue, a cackle started from the floor as he reached for a pencil sharpener. “Hehe, I heard that~!” Bill chimed in a singsong voice. “Guess we know who lost the fight, eh, Grumpypants~?”

Ford paid him no mind as he quickly sharpened the pencil back into a point and returned to his work with that fierce determination from before.

No matter how many scribbled-out ideas he had to toss into the fireplace, he was going to find a solution to this problem.

No matter how long it took, no matter how much he had to verbally endure at Bill’s hand again—

—he would make certain that his brother’s sacrifices hadn’t been in vain.

“...Okay, seriously, are you going to leave me down here all night?”

— — — — — — — —

Mabel couldn’t sleep.

Ever since she’d settled into bed—a snoozing Waddles curled up at her side—her eyes had stayed glued to the ceiling. At first she’d tried distracting herself by holding mental conversations with the mold spots permanently stained into the old wood, but not even Daryl could lift her spirits at a time like this.

Every few minutes, her gaze would move to the bed across the room, a question lingering on her tongue for a moment before she returned her attention to the ceiling.

It was around midnight before she finally vocalized her lingering question with a quiet: “You awake, Dipper?”

Her answer immediately came in the form of blankets shuffling as Dipper rolled over to face her. “Of course I am.”

She rolled over to face him proper as well, both pairs of eyes shifting to the triangular window of their room. The moon hung high in the night sky, its beams of light shining through the glass and illuminating the floor in a way that would normally be comforting.

Tonight, however, the sight of an eye-shaped object through the triangular frame was just a painful reminder of what waited for them just a few rooms below.

“I can’t believe he’s back…”

Dipper turned his gaze from the moonlight and back to his sister at the sound of her voice. “Did you see Grunkle Ford?” she asked quietly. “He was so scared…”

“I don’t blame him,” Dipper admitted, placing a hand to his forehead. “We went through all of that trouble to kill Bill, and it didn’t even work.”

He slid the hand down to cover his eyes, but immediately lifted it again to peek over at her. “Hey, you saw it, right? How much he looked like me…”

There was more shuffling—this time on Mabel’s end—as she sat up in bed completely. “It was like when I saw him during the puppet show,” she said, pulling her legs to her chest. “Except the hair and eyes were different this time around. His left eye wasn’t all—”

She covered her own left eye with one hand. “His hair color’s different this time, too. I wonder why?”

“Who knows?” Dipper said with a shrug. “Although I guess meeting—or re-meeting a guy who looks like me isn’t the weirdest thing to happen in this town, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mabel agreed. “Still…why’d it have to be that guy? Why does he have to ruin everything?”

A sad hum escaped her as she hugged her knees close. “So much for getting to spend more time with Grunkle Ford this summer…”

Dipper let his arm fall before he sat up in bed. “Hey, come on, you really think it’s gonna take all summer for Grunkle Ford to get rid of Bill?” he asked. “He’s spent the last thirty years traversing the Multiverse! He’s explored more dimensions than we could probably even think of on our own—dimensions where everyone lives underwater, dimensions ruled by talking robotic octopi—”

When Mabel plopped sadly back against her pillow again, Dipper paused for a moment to think. “—dimension where the air is made of cotton candy instead of oxygen?”

As he’d expected, the concept twitched the corners of her mouth with mild amusement. “Ugh, I’ll bet that dimension is soooo tasty,” she said. “I wonder what they do when it rains, though? All the cotton candy would just melt and then they’d have no air—ooh, I’ll bet they have like, a ga-ZILLION of those cotton candy-making machines ready for when that happens!”

“Anything’s possible in the Multiverse,” Dipper said with a nod. “My point is that Grunkle Ford’s been around, and he’s probably picked up a lot of different ways to get rid of Bill! Even if the methods he’s tried already didn’t work—and even if we can’t use stuff like the Zodiac or his Quantum Destabilizer—I’m sure he’s got something up his sleeve.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. And if none of those work, we could always come up with some ideas for him! Like—like—”

She flumped her arms across her blanket with an exasperated huff. “Well, I’m too tired to think of anything now, but I’m sure we could think of something!” she said, scrunching her face in concentration. “What if we…I dunno—”

“Oooh!” Dipper snapped his fingers with inspiration. “What if we got one of those time travel devices, strapped one to Bill, and then rocketed him to a date so far into the future that he’d never be able to get back to our time?”

Mabel pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle, but her amusement faded almost immediately. “Nah, that wouldn’t work. He could always trick and possess someone super far in the future, and they could help him get back here,” she pointed out. “Like what he did with that Blendin guy, remember?”

“Oh, yeah…”

The two fell silent again, the only noise that could be heard was the gentle summer wind rustling the forest outside their window. “We should probably sleep for real,” Dipper finally said. “We can just…do what we told Grunkle Stan we were going to do and take shifts, right?”

“Well then, you sleep first,” Mabel said, once again in an upright position as she reached over to pull Waddles close to her. “And like I said I was gonna do, I’ll let Waddles stay on your side and be your guard hog while you sleep.”

Waddles followed up her remark with a groggy little oink of reassurance, and Dipper let out a chuckle. “Yeah, and what’s he gonna do if Bill pops up in my dream?”

“I mean, you can always dream up a dream Waddles to eat him,” Mabel suggested. “He looks like a corn chip, right? I’ll bet dream corn chips taste just as good as real ones!”

She plapped a hand against the top of Waddles’ head. “Plus then when you wake up, you’ll have the real Waddles right there to comfort you!”

This got a full-on laugh out of Dipper. “Alright, alright, point made. Send him over.”

Mabel leaned over the side of the bed and gently set Waddles to the floor, giving his little rump an encouraging pat. “Go on, boy! Go protect Dipper from the dream nacho!”

With another tired little oink, he ambled on over to Dipper’s side of the bedroom and oinked up at him for assistance. “Go ahead and set an alarm on your phone, Mabel,” Dipper said, and reached down to pull him up onto his bed. “What should we set it to? An hour? Hour-and-a-half?”

“An hour works for me,” Mabel said. “But if you don’t actually sleep for that hour, I will not hesitate to stay up longer out of spite!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sleeping…”

Dipper settled back down under the covers while Waddles snuggled up next to him, and it wasn’t until Mabel heard Dipper’s light snoring that she finally dared to tear her gaze from him and reach for her phone.

That was good. At the very least, he’d be getting some sleep tonight.

She looked to the window again—the moonlight still faintly illuminating the darkened room—and crawled out of bed to stare outside properly. Despite the tall trees that surrounded the shack on all sides, there was little to block the ocean of stars that painted the night sky.

After staring for a bit, she turned and crawled back into her bed. With another look at her brother to make sure he was still asleep, she dug her hand between the mattress and wall, the tip of her tongue poking out between her lips in determination as she fumbled around for the unseen object she sought so desperately.

She knew it was a longshot that it would’ve remained in the same place for nine months—given the dustless state of their room, Soos would’ve been the most likely candidate to find it if he searched-slash-cleaned hard enough—but eventually her fingers brushed against something and she pulled it out to investigate.

It was an old, dusty piece of paper, the same one she had crumpled and tucked in its hiding spot almost a full year ago. The edges were frayed and torn and the tint of the paper was a sicklier yellow than she remembered—but the jagged writing on the front was still just as legible as the day she’d found it in Stan’s car:

“Note to self: Possessing people is hilarious! To think of all the sensations I’ve been missing out on—burning, stabbing, drowning. It’s like a buffet tray of fun! Once I destroy that journal, I’ll enjoy giving this body its grand finale—by throwing it off the water tower! Best of all, people will just think Pine Tree lost his mind, and his mental form will wander in the mindscape forever. Want to join him, Shooting Star?”

Mabel stared hard at the paper for what felt like an hour—although in reality, it was probably no longer than a few minutes. She read and reread several times over, every cruel word like a knife to her vision and gut, before finally crumpling the paper in an angry fist and shoving it back down between the wall and her mattress where it belonged.

She settled back against her pillow again, and turned back to Dipper’s bed. Still fast asleep, with nothing more than the occasional twitch or shift in place.

He was sleeping, supposedly without nightmares. That was all that mattered.

She continued to stare at him until the sight made her drowsy, before turning her attention back to the various mold spots on the ceiling.

Daryl was going to have to work overtime tonight if he really wanted to lift her spirits.

[elyssialumengard]

Alastor x Reader : Fragile Link ( Part 5 )

Link to the third chapter to those who haven't read it :

https://www.tumblr.com/elyssialumengard/742072151760355328/alastor-x-reader-fragile-link-part-3?source=share

Link to the fourth chapter to those who haven't read it :

https://www.tumblr.com/elyssialumengard/743311203904913408/alastor-x-reader-fragile-link-part-4?source=share

Summary :

In his dilapidated radio room, Alastor, wounded and humiliated by his defeat against Adam, tried to mask his failure. The arrival of ( y/n ) reignited the tensions. Sharp reproaches and unveiled truths sparked a verbal duel, blending pride and vulnerability, as each exposed the other's flaws in a heavy and menacing atmosphere.

______________________________________________

The silence in the radio room was heavy, broken only by the distant crackle of dormant equipment.

Alastor stood tall, his shadow flickering under the trembling neon lights overhead. His smile, usually broad and dazzling, hung loosely on his face, more like a pained grimace. A deep wound slashed across his chest, the torn fabric of his suit revealing a gaping injury that bled slowly onto the floor. His hand trembled, clutching the shattered remains of his cane, now rendered useless.

He had fled.

For the first time in years, he had run from a fight, his pride and arrogance swept away in an instant by the relentless power of Adam. The physical pain seemed almost secondary to the searing humiliation eating away at him.

Turning toward his desk, he placed trembling hands on the worn wood, bending over to catch his breath. A faint noise caught his attention—something light, almost imperceptible, had entered the room. He didn’t turn immediately, keeping his gaze fixed on the desk as though looking away from his own thoughts might cause them to shatter.

A delicate rustle followed. Then, a sharp cry. The pure, clear song of a bird pierced the tension.

Alastor raised his head slightly but remained motionless, his shoulders stiff, his eyes locked on an invisible point ahead. The bird, a small creature of pristine white, had perched on the edge of a chair. Its feathers glowed with an otherworldly shimmer in the room’s dim light. It tilted its head slightly, its piercing gaze fixed on Alastor’s back.

He could feel it watching him—an attention almost too heavy to bear in his current state. The bird didn’t move, as if studying every contour of the broken man before it.

- ... You. His voice, trembling with irritation, cut through the air.

Slowly, he turned. And when his eyes finally fell upon the bird, his smile, already fractured, twisted further. His jaw clenched, and his face, unable to mask his emotions in such a state, darkened visibly.

He knew this bird. There was no mistaking it.

The creature tilted its head again, as though confirming his thoughts. It seemed almost satisfied by his recognition. Alastor, on the other hand, felt a wave of irritation wash over him. (Y/N) had seen everything. Everything he desperately wanted to hide—his weakness, his failure, his retreat.

The bird took flight. In a fluid motion, it drew a perfect arc through the air before diving toward the desk. There, it opened its beak wide, releasing a vivid flame that engulfed the parchment tied to its leg.

The document burned quickly, its ashes swirling through the air in an incandescent dance. These glowing particles coalesced, forming a circle of light that intensified until it became a portal, pulsing with energy.

Alastor, still leaning against the edge of the desk, watched the scene with deceptive calm, his smile frozen on his face like an unchanging painting. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to reveal nothing—not his searing pain, not his palpable exhaustion, not the frustration boiling under his skin.

When the light grew blinding, he straightened despite the agonizing pain in his chest. He adjusted his bloodied suit with casual indifference, as though the tattered fabric bore no trace of his humiliating defeat.

And then, she appeared.

(y/n).

She crossed the portal with an unyielding grace, her figure enveloped in a cold and distant aura. Her perfectly tailored clothes drifted faintly around her, as if defying the laws of gravity. Her piercing eyes scanned the room before settling on him.

Alastor greeted her arrival with a radiant smile, barely marred by the tension in his jaw.

- ( y/n ) ! What an unexpected appearance. His voice, exaggeratedly light, betrayed a subtle undercurrent of vigilance. Is this a coincidence, or am I graced with a courtesy visit ?

( y/n ) stopped a few steps away from him, arms crossed, her face impassive like a marble statue. Her eyes slowly traveled down to his bloodied chest, the shattered fragments of his cane on the floor, before rising again to meet his gaze.

She didn’t answer immediately. The silence stretched, heavy and sharp. Finally, she spoke, her voice calm, almost indifferent :

- So, this is all that remains of the so-called "Radio Demon" ?

His smile widened, defying the venom in her words.

- Ever the charmer, aren’t you ? But yes, I’m doing perfectly well, thank you for asking.

( y/n ) raised an eyebrow, a faint sigh slipping from her lips.

- I saw your fight.

He didn’t move, but the glint in his eyes grew sharper.

- Oh, did you ? Well, I do hope it was entertaining. I always strive to put on a worthy show.

She ignored his attempt at levity.

- It was… pathetic.

His smile remained, but his fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the desk.

- Now, now, ( y/n ). You know I never do things halfway. A spectacular defeat is far more memorable than a mundane victory.

She stepped closer, and the air around her seemed to grow colder.

- Perhaps if you had accepted my deal back then, you might have avoided this disaster. You’d still be powerful. Invincible, even. Maybe I’d have even deigned to step in.

Alastor let out a loud, theatrical laugh, but an attentive observer would have caught the tension humming in his tone. He lifted his head, his smile gleaming with mockery.

- Your deal ? He shook his head softly, defiance flashing in his eyes. We both know how that would have ended, my dear. A day, at best, and I’d have found myself locked in one of your pretty little pocket dimensions, trapped for eternity.

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, a faint smile curling on her lips.

- Perhaps. But you would have been my equal.

He stepped closer, ignoring the pain radiating from his wound.

- Your equal ?

A low, almost bitter chuckle escaped him.

- What you offered wasn’t a partnership. It was a gilded chain. And you, better than anyone, know that I don’t shackle myself to anyone.

( y/n ) tilted her head, her smile fading.

- And this is where it’s led you, Alastor. Beaten. Weak. Dying.

He straightened fully, his smile widening despite everything.

- Dying ? Come now. I’m not that fragile.

But she didn’t seem convinced. Her gaze, hard and piercing, seemed to cut through his defenses.

- Keep smiling. Perhaps one day, you’ll even believe it yourself.

He held her gaze, his smile still intact, but the silence that followed resonated with an almost painful intensity.

( y/n ) finally tore her gaze away from Alastor, letting her eyes sweep across the room. Chaos reigned supreme. The shattered windows allowed icy drafts to seep in, stirring the tattered remnants of curtains. The walls, scarred with deep cracks, stood as silent witnesses to the intensity of the recent battle. Furniture lay overturned, some pieces shattered into splinters, and a faint cloud of dust still hung in the air.

She advanced slowly, each step echoing in the silence like a verdict. Her heeled boots struck the fractured floor with mechanical precision, a stark contrast to the disorder around her. Stopping by a broken mirror, her fragmented reflection stared back from the scattered shards. She picked up one of the pieces with her fingertips, turning it under the dim light before carelessly tossing it behind her. The sharp sound of the shard hitting the ground seemed to punctuate an unspoken judgment.

Alastor, still leaning against the desk, watched her intently, his ever-present smile plastered on his face. But as his gaze followed her movements, something caught his attention, and his grin froze ever so slightly. The pearls that had once adorned her horns—the ones he had given her two decades ago—were gone. Their iridescent glow, which once danced with her every movement, had vanished, leaving her horns bare and stark.

He didn’t like it.

Subtly straightening his shoulders, he adjusted the tattered lapel of his jacket with deliberate precision, masking his unease. His fingers brushed against his bloodied shirt as if sheer willpower alone could erase the stain.

- Look at yourself. She said at last, her voice cold and cutting through the silence like a blade.

She stopped just in front of him, arms crossed, her glacial stare assessing him like a judge passing sentence. Her eyes lingered on his wound, the stubborn tilt of his defiant smile, and the way his hands gripped the edge of the desk.

- A fallen Overlord. She murmured, almost to herself. A tyrant reduced to crawling in the shadow of his former glory.

Alastor responded with a light laugh, but a flicker of wariness flashed in his eyes before vanishing.

- And yet. He replied, spreading his arms in a mock flourish. Unlike the furniture, I’m still standing.

( y/n ) raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly as if studying a curiosity. With slow, calculated steps, she circled a toppled chair, running her fingers along its broken backrest. Then, without warning, she righted it with a sharp motion and seated herself with regal ease, crossing her legs. Every movement was precise, almost cruelly deliberate, asserting her dominance over the space.

- Make no mistake, Alastor. She said, her voice icy, though a dangerous glint sparkled in her eyes. I won’t let you die by someone else’s hand.

Her tone froze the air, yet her eyes burned with intent.

- If you’re going to perish. She continued. It will be by mine. But not like this. Not in this pathetic state. That would be... too easy. Too dull.

Her gaze dipped to his wound again before she leaned forward, resting her elbow on the chair’s armrest and closing the distance between them.

- No, I’ll destroy you when you’re at your peak. She murmured, her words deliberate and sharp. When every fiber of your being screams that you’re invincible. Only then will your defeat have meaning. Only then will you understand how far you’ve fallen.

Alastor’s grin faltered for the briefest of moments, but he recovered quickly, smoothing his sleeves with deliberate care. Straightening his posture, he lifted his head, his expression hardening into one of defiance.

- Touching. He said, his voice laced with sarcasm. Truly. A tragedy worthy of the grandest dramas. Should I feel honored ?

He took a step closer to her, closing the distance until their shadows merged. His smile widened, but this time it softened, carrying a hint of sincerity.

- And you, ( y/n ) ? He murmured, his tone dropping to a low, intimate challenge. At what point did I become so important to you ?

She didn’t respond immediately, her piercing eyes searching his as if hunting for a crack in his armor. Then, with calculated slowness, she uncrossed her legs and rose to her feet.

- Don't get me wrong. She said coldly. It’s not for you. It’s for me.

Without warning, she raised her hand. A brilliant white light burst forth from her fingers, pure and blinding. Before Alastor could react, the light enveloped him entirely, piercing through his flesh, his muscles, and his very soul.

The pain in his chest vanished almost instantly. The torn flesh mended itself, leaving smooth skin where the gaping wound had been. Even his clothing, though still stained with blood, seemed to regain a semblance of order.

With a speed that betrayed her apparent indifference, she raised her hand. A white light, dazzling and pure, burst from her fingers. Before Alastor could react, the light enveloped him completely, penetrating his flesh, his muscles, his very soul.

The pain in his chest vanished almost instantly. The tears in his flesh closed up, leaving smooth skin where the gaping wound had been. Even his clothes, though still stained with blood, seemed to regain some semblance of order.

Alastor stepped back abruptly and, with a sharp movement, grabbed her arm to stop her. His fingers, clenched like a vise, closed around her wrist. His eyes sparkled with cold anger, but a deeper glint shone within – something indescribable he refused to confront.

- Ironic, isn’t it ? He murmured, his smile now tinged with bitterness. You, saving me. Such hypocrisy, my dear.

She didn’t flinch, her cold, unreadable gaze fixed on his.

- Your little speech about my supposed weakness… While you, you’re nothing but a shadow of what you once were.

Her tone cut like a blade, slicing through the silence that had settled between them. ( y/n ) narrowed her eyes slightly but maintained a neutral mask.

- And yet, here you are, still dependent on my hand. The irony cuts both ways, Alastor.

He tightened his grip, forcing her to remain still. With surprising strength despite his condition, he pulled at her sleeve, revealing part of her forearm. The skin – or what remained of it – was nearly transparent, as if it were gradually fading. Bones were faintly visible through the fragile, ethereal surface, an undeniable sign of her decline.

- You can’t hide that, not from me. Alastor said, his tone low but sharp. You want to lecture me about power and grandeur ? And yet… look at yourself. I noticed it last time, during our last encounter. But now…

He tilted his head slightly, his smile widening, cruel and mocking.

- Now, it’s so much more obvious. You’re fading. Becoming… transparent, quite literally.

She lowered her gaze to her exposed arm, but instead of panic, cold neutrality settled over her face. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him, her eyes gleaming with an icy light.

- Let go of me.She ordered, her tone glacial.

- Why ? Do you want to play at who’s weaker ? A new distraction for you ? A way to divert attention from your own fall ?

- It’s not…

- It’s not what ? He interrupted, his smile growing even wider, revealing sharp teeth. Not what I think ? Don’t play innocent. You’re weak, my dear. And you know it.

He tightened his grip further, his fingers digging into her almost intangible skin.

- You’re still the same. She murmured. Convinced that pointing out others’ weaknesses is enough to hide your own.

- Just as you do, because you refuse to face what you’re becoming. He murmured back, more softly but with sharp bitterness.

She tried again to free her arm, but he didn’t budge. It was clear she couldn’t match his physical strength, at least not in her current state.

- Let go of me. She repeated.

But Alastor remained still, his gaze locked onto hers, searching for something behind her mask of neutrality. A flicker of bitterness crossed his expression as he finally released his grip, not without a final lingering glance at ( y/n )’s nearly transparent arm.

She stepped back, quickly adjusting her sleeve as though to erase what he had seen, to erase the truth she hid from everyone, even herself.

- You have no idea what you’re talking about. She murmured.

- Oh, but I do. Alastor replied with a laugh, his voice dripping with a mix of triumph and disdain. And you know it as well as I do.

Alastor crossed his arms, his smile growing more mocking, a glint of amusement shining in his crimson eyes. He scrutinized ( y/n ) from head to toe, lingering on her carefully readjusted sleeve, as if that could erase what he had uncovered.

- So, tell me.He began, his voice drawling, saturated with irony. Am I the only one who’s noticed… or has Taku also stuck his nose into this little embarrassing truth ?

The name was enough to make ( y/n ) flinch slightly. It was almost imperceptible, a tiny movement of her shoulders, but Alastor saw it, and the detail made his smile widen even further.

-Oh, interesting. He murmured, feigning an almost childlike innocence. He doesn’t know, does he?

( y/n ) averted her eyes, her mask of impassivity cracking just slightly. But she remained upright, unyielding.

- It’s none of his concern. And it’s certainly none of yours.

Alastor let out a deep, guttural laugh that filled the room like a vibrating wave, echoing against the walls scarred by their recent battle.

- None of his concern ? Oh, come now, ( y/n ). He’s your faithful knight, your devoted assistant, your… He paused, the smile on his lips turning more insidious. Your pillar, perhaps ? Your rock, your confidant ?

He took a step forward, lowering his voice slightly, but every word was a blade, precise and calculated to strike true.

- But really, my dear… what good are friends if they can’t see the truth ? Especially one so… glaring ? Doesn’t it weigh on your shoulders, carrying all of this alone ?

( y/n ) lifted her head slightly, her dark gaze igniting with a cold fire.

- And you think your opinion matters ? She snapped, her voice cracking like a whip.

But Alastor didn’t flinch; on the contrary, he seemed delighted. His smile lingered, savoring the way she adjusted her sleeve almost mechanically, her near-nervous gestures betraying more than she wanted to admit.

- Oh, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s rebellion in the air ! I see you’ve taken my remarks from last time to heart. At last, a bit of independence. Bravo !

( y/n ) narrowed her eyes, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips.

- Don’t spout nonsense, Alastor. If Taku isn’t here, it’s because he has better things to do than come deal with you in my place.

Alastor tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as that mocking glint persisted.

- Better things to do, hmm ? But of course. What could possibly be more important than you, ( y/n )?

She remained impassive, though her fists clenched at her sides. Alastor, meanwhile, stepped back slightly, raising a hand in a mock gesture of surrender.

- Very well, very well. I’ll take your word for it, my dear. Taku must surely be a busy man.

He took a step to the side, as if to better observe her.

- But even so… trust me, he’ll notice eventually. And when he does… well, let’s just say I’ll be very curious to see his reaction.

( y/n )’s gaze didn’t waver, but her silence spoke volumes. A palpable tension seemed to thicken the air, like a taut rope ready to snap.

- That’s between him and me. She finally said, her tone sharp and cutting. It’s none of your business.

Alastor inclined his head slightly, a thin, honeyed smile playing on his lips.

- Oh, everything concerns me. I can’t help it. It’s in my nature, after all.

( y/n ) averted her eyes, her jaw tightening. Yet the faint tremor in her dark pupils betrayed restrained anger… and a flicker of doubt, as though Alastor’s insinuations, despite their apparent lightness, had struck a nerve.

She stepped back, deciding to put an end to this useless verbal sparring. But Alastor’s gaze remained fixed on her, his crimson eyes glinting with mischief, a predator savoring every reaction of its prey.

- You know, my dear. He finally said, his voice soft but laced with provocation. You’re far more entertaining than you think.

She didn’t reply, merely turning her back to him, her silence speaking louder than any words she could have said. Alastor tapped a finger against the edge of the desk, the sharp echo of his gesture resonating in the charged stillness. His gaze lingered on her, tracing the line of her shoulders, the way her slightly tensed arm betrayed a pain she was trying to hide.

A shadow crossed his face, fleeting but genuine, as he watched where she disappeared. He stepped closer, hesitating for a moment. The gesture, though instinctive, seemed heavy with meaning. His fingers barely brushed the fabric of her sleeve—a fleeting, almost imperceptible caress—before he drew back abruptly, as though forbidding himself from going any further.

- That doesn’t change the fact that you can’t control everything. He murmured, more to himself than to her. This little secret… it will catch up with you. Just like that crack you’re so desperately trying to hide.

At those words, she slowly turned to face him, her gaze burning with icy anger. Yet Alastor didn’t look away, meeting her fire with a strange softness in his crimson eyes.

- And you, Alastor ? She asked, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. How long do you plan to hide behind that smile ? Behind your bravado ?

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the change in her tone, but his mask of nonchalance remained firmly in place.

- I’m not hiding from anything. He replied with theatrical exaggeration, raising a hand as if to dismiss the accusation.

- Really ?

She placed two fingers against his chest, right over where the wound had been. The touch, though light, seemed to burn. His eyes darkened for a moment, but he remained still, unable to move back or forward.

- Because to me, you’re already half-dead. She breathed.

Her words made his smile falter. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of replying, but no words came. She withdrew her hand, leaving behind an absence that weighed as heavily as the gesture itself.

- I don’t need your veiled threats. She continued, stepping back, her gaze still fixed on him. Or your attempts to deflect attention from your own weaknesses. You can hide behind your laughter all you want, but I… I see what’s left of you.

Alastor let out a dry, almost guttural laugh, but this time it lacked its usual sparkle. He took a step toward her, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

- And you, ( y/n ) ? What do you see when you look in the mirror ? A fallen queen ? A stubborn survivor ? Or simply… a ghost ?

Silence fell again, heavy and oppressive. The two figures stood facing each other, each trying to pierce the other’s defenses. Their shadows, cast by the flickering light, seemed to perform a macabre dance on the dilapidated walls.

Finally, ( y/n ) broke eye contact and turned toward the portal, still pulsing with energy.

- Keep playing, Alastor. She murmured as she walked away. We’ll see who falls first.

The portal closed behind her, taking with it her silhouette and the bird that had remained silent the entire time, now perched on her shoulder.

Alastor remained motionless, the silence around him falling like a leaden shroud. He raised a hand to his chest, to where she had touched him, brushing the spot as if he could still feel the warmth of her fingers.

A sigh escaped his lips, faint and almost imperceptible. His smile, so often a weapon, faded nearly to nothing, replaced by a darker, more vulnerable expression. And in the darkness, the echo of his own laughter rang out one last time—a sound bitter and strangely fragile.

Then it faded, leaving the room to sink into a silence heavy with all the things he hadn’t said.

______________________________________________

I sincerely hope you enjoyed this new part of the story. The truth is, part 5 took much longer to come to life than I initially expected. I had lost sight of what I wanted to do with this plot, and it took me a while to rediscover the essence of these characters and their dynamic.

I hope the intense exchange between Alastor and ( y/n ) captivated you as much as I enjoyed writing it. Their relationship is complex, full of tension and unspoken words, and exploring it is both a challenge and a joy. Thank you for your patience and support ! 😊

[theheartofone]

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Eighteen

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Eighteen: Burn, Demon, Burn

The cavern shudders in the entrance of its mouth. Debris is kicked up into the air like the soot to your smithing; the ashes of what you could only describe as rebirth hangs thickly and desolately in the air.

You struggle to blink through the amount of dust, the dry particles of sand sticking stubbornly to your vision - yet your eyes never look away from his bare back.

He stands in front of you, acting as a barrier of scarred skin and muscle, silently drinking in the enemy before him. Like a predator, he thinks, he watches, his shoulders thrusting forwards…

“Roronoa,” you whisper lowly. You stare at the nape of his neck, focussing on the subtle sweat that baubles there. “Let me talk to them.”

His head twitches to you, and you see the incredulous look that’s sported across his brow.

“You gonna share some tea and biscuits, too?”

“I like tea parties,” you sarcastically mutter. “Do you really want to start a fight against an army of wizards?”

“I like sword fights,” he counters. His back, still unyielding, divides you from the fourty more lackeys that continue filing in, their power-wielding hands threateningly raised in front of their solar plexus’.

Another typhoon of debris coats the cavern’s climate, sweeping into the rhythm of their clambering footsteps; Zoro, unflinching, readies his sword, shoulders squared, a feral glint in his eye.

They all stand in line, stacking themselves into a wall with their scrawny bodies and long-pointed wizard hats. No words are uttered; remaining tight-lipped and hard-eyed, they all wait with baited breaths for the main entertainment to begin.

Oh, and absolutely, it begins.

"Well, well…” A powerful voice heaves thickly in the contained air, the rumble of his graceful footsteps echoing deep into the cavern's marrow.

The wall of wizards divides in half, searing a perfectly straight angle to the landscape beyond the cavern. A silhouette towers over what would’ve been a beautiful view, an ostentatious wizard hat poking through the sky like a sharp-beaked crow.

The Shaman grins.

He advances through the divide, his footsteps almost imprinting the ground that they trace across, and with a yellowed-out smile, his face comes into your and Zoro’s view.

"It’s the demon and her protector. How delightful," he trills.

Your gaze shifts from Zoro to the shaman, apprehensively observing both of their movements. The wrinkled shaman’s eyes blaze with fervour, fuelled by the apparent thirst for your blood, and even the shadows cast by the cave walls seem to writhe in response to his undeniable want.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward. Immediately, the minions raise their arms up higher to their chests, and the shaman’s resentful eyes burns deeper into yours.

“I’m Raya…I’m a blacksmith,” you slowly say, raising a hand up in peace, the other resting on your dagger. “This is entirely a misunderstanding. I’m willing to resolve this peacefully if you are too.”

The shaman sneers, a twisted grin contorting his features. "Peace? The only peace that awaits you is in death."

“No.” You shake your head, maintaining a neutral expression across your face. "We can leave this place and never return. No more trouble for you or your people."

The shaman's laughter echoes through the cavern, his bright earthy eyes sharpening with each passing second.

"Your kind has caused chaos for far too long,” he spits at you, his fumbling fingers spinning in arcane energy. “Your kind is an abomination.”

The lackeys inch closer, their hands glowing with a tinge of ochre oranges and golds. Zoro, with a bitten back growl, tightens his grip on his sword, advancing a step closer to them.

"She’s giving you a chance to leave," Zoro warns, his voice cutting through the tension. "Take it."

The shaman's expression twists into curiosity, his eyes flickering to the swordsman in front of you. "No, foolish samurai, it all ends now."

And everything, all at once, becomes undone.

The lackeys surge forward, their hands emitting a wave of teeth-gritting power in your direction. Zoro charges into the fray, swords slicing through the arcane energies, as you, too, move with agility, the dagger in your hand deflecting their blinding light.

The shaman's raises his arms in revelation, his voice dripping with drunken pleasure.

"It all ends now. It all ends now."

As if a dam has burst, the enemy surges forward, balls of energy glowing golder and brighter within the centre of their chests.

Zoro charges into the fray with primal determination, the sword in his hand splitting through the ethereal onslaught with a hiss to his metal. In tandem, you move with an agility born from blood, the dagger in your hand slicing the energy with a dance of fury.

"This doesn't have to end in bloodshed!” You scream out, thrusting your dagger against an attacking hand.  “Let us leave, and we swear to you we’ll never come back."

“Denied,” the shaman grins widely, a typhoon of dark energy convulsing within his fingers.

And in a single, swift motion, he aims his finger at you.

It all happens so quickly – neither you nor Zoro have the time to react.

The energy leaves his towering body, zapping into your blackened arm like the massive jaws of a convulsing animal. Your head snaps down, the blood rushing into your ears, your eyes widening in shock, and your breath lodging in your throat.

Although the adrenaline within you blocks any idea of pain, there’s an undeniable feeling of warm wetness that lingers across your skin. From your shoulder, down to your forearm, all the way down to the end of your wrist, a large slash slowly unsews from your skin, your body so easily unravelling under the shaman's fingers. The air hisses as your blood meets the atmosphere. And it sizzles.

Your blood sizzles on your skin, loud and heavy and metallic. And it burns within your bones like poison.

The shaman guffaws heavily, maddened eyes drinking in your frozen frame.

"Burn, demon, burn!" He yells, already pointing his fingers again at you, a ball of darkness growing within their tips.

Zoro immediately advances towards the shaman, a forceful slash thrown at his back. His grey eye, uncontrolled and drunk on rage, is widened beyond belief, the sword shaking in his hand as he shoves him away from your line of sight.

"Lay another finger on her, and I'll cut all your limbs off," Zoro bellows furiously, hissing and spitting in a voice that you've never heard come from him, dark and uncontrolled and incredibly not calm.

And although the wound in your arm continues to untether and de-skin itself, you keep on fighting. With the last remaining shreds of your energy, you fight through the unbreathable pain; the very air pulses with palpable tension as you attack and deflect, spin and thrust, until the edges of your vision finally blur into a ragged darkness.

Blood, the essence of life turned macabre, begins to spurt from your mouth in a crimson cascade. As the vitae meets the cool cavern air, it sizzles and burns, leaving third-degree kisses of pain across your skin. Almost instantly, your steps falter, teetering on the precipice of collapse.

"Hey!" Zoro's voice reverberates through the cavern, his terrified eye fixated on you from a distance. But before you can muster the words to tell him to stop, to turn around and leave you there, another gush of blood escapes your lips, and you choke, your eyes locked on his.

The world swirls in disorienting patterns, pain in your arm and the burning sensation in your mouth blending into a symphony of agony. Despite your struggle, Zoro charges in your direction, his voice laced with urgency and concern.

"Hold on. I've got you," he urgently hisses, strong fingers gripping your shoulders, a palm pressing firmly against your bleeding wound.

"Your blood betrays you, demon. Burn, demon, burn," the shaman taunts, his words a haunting echo in the cavern's twisted symphony.

Zoro, with every stroke of his swords, fights not just against flesh and magic but against the encroaching darkness threatening to consume you both. Your vision dims further, the edges of consciousness slipping away like sand through grasping fingers.

But before darkness consumes your vision, your body throbs aggressively within Zoro’s grasp.

BA-DUM.

The green-haired samurai snaps his head down at you, feeling the chaotic vibration within his palms.

BA-DUM.

With a heavy, pulsating beat, you scream out loud, piercing the cavern with your awful shrill.

BA-DUM.

The blood stings. Everything stings. Your arm feels untethered - your body, a bouncing ball.

BA-DUM.

And with one last howl, your body contracts, expands, and… explodes.

BA-DUM.

No. You dizzily look down to your body, seeing that everything’s still intact. You didn’t explode, no.

“What the fuck just happened?” Zoro yells out, gaping at the landscape above you. You tilt your head up, realising that none of the lackeys are there. The Shaman, too.

BA-DUM

But wait. They’re there. Outside the cavern, teetering off the edge of the mountain. Airborne but colliding aggressively with eachother.

BA-DUM

Colliding against each other within an invisible sphere of wind. A bitingly ferocious, yet perfectly controlled tempest ensures within the invisible borders of their ragged bodies, swirling in a way you could only describe as animalistic.

BA-DUM

Hah. You laugh a little to yourself, drunken from the sampled taste of death. They look like flying confetti strings, all tangled within each other. Absorbed by such a gluttonous typhoon.

Zoro shakes your shoulders, and your eyes blurrily graze across his face. He’s saying something – his mouth’s open, a helpless look on his face, the vibrations of his voice running through your body… but you can’t hear him.

You look back to the typhoon, the energy of growling wind ingraining itself so perfectly within the mountainous landscape.

BA-DUM.

It looks exactly like something your old man could wield.

[aurora-the-kunoichi]

The Forgotten - Chapter Eight

Punishments Can Be A Good Thing

I know I know it's been two years since I updated this! I've gotten some motivation the past week! Here's to it continuing! I have a story for a friend to finish!

Full Story Here

It hurt, like nothing they had ever felt before. The searing pain shot from the base of their skulls down to their toes tearing through them like a raging inferno until knees finally buckled making the three mutants drop to the rooftop. Leo’s mouth opened in a roar of pain as an overload of pressure inside his skull erupted while his mind flooded with imagines, no, they were memories. Flashes of his brothers in a sewer, a large rat and someone covered in metal. Then she came, the kunoichi and another punch of pain followed by her purple eyes, swords, laughing, and sex.

His heart clenched and then everything was clear. Like being dunked in the ice waters of the arctic everything washed over him and he remembered, remembered everything. Even the last day he was free. Leonardo remembered the ambush, the confusion as they were hauled away and Aurora, Casey, and April screaming after them. Then they were engulfed in white, prisoners shackled to tables. He could see his brothers struggling next to him as the lab techs pried their beaks open with metal tools.

Then he saw them, little metal things wiggling in pliers as they were lowered into their mouths. Leonardo could remember struggling with everything that he was. He knew if those things were put in them it would be over. If Bishop had control over himself and his two brothers it would be over for the resistance, for Aurora, Casey and April. He yanked at his restraints but as felt the tentacles squirming along his tongue he knew it was done.

He could feel it all, the thing searching as it worked its way to the back of this throat and down, down until the pain started and he screamed again just as Raphael roared along with Michelangelo. He distinctively remembered the metallic taste and copper as it burrowed into his system and then nothing.

Another surge hit him, and images of a place he didn’t recognize. This time the flashes were blurry and confusing. He was standing in front of what looked like an army of sorts. He was training them, and his brothers were at his side awaiting his orders. Then Bishop was there, hands resting on HIS shoulders telling him his mission had been a success. How he was proud of the progress he’d made with the rebels. Leo’s stomach rolled at the realization. He had been working for Bishop, helping the mad man with his conquest of world domination. The memoires kept flooding in, filling gaps, making his head ache from the pressure. All of a sudden, he was on a truck, everything was still hazy, but he could tell there was a woman in front of him. Raphael and himself pursued her and then another flash of his hand clasped around the hilt of a blade watching the tip separate flesh, sinking to her gut.

Then just as quick as it had come everything came to a halt and he was cold, panting on a roof top with Raph and Mikey next to him seemingly in the same panic-stricken state. He could feel the hot tears running down his face, emotions once lay dormant burst forth in a gasping sob. He could hear Raphael saying “No, no no.” over and over again while Mikey gasped for air like he was having a panic attack. Had they killed anyone, how many of his own rebels had fallen by his hand? How far did Bishop make him go? How long had it been? His fingers drug across the gravel of the roof top as he took in heaving gasps of air, if felt like they were feeling for the very first time in years, it was all so overwhelming.

“Leo.”

That voice was familiar, deep, and comforting; it couldn’t be but as he looked up Leonardo and his two brothers were greeted to the most glorious site. There, a few feet in front of them was Donatello, their missing brother with Aurora just behind him. He was back, when did he get back? Where had he been? 

At that moment it didn’t matter, he was there, alive, they both were. Don had been missing for over a year. They called out to him, but Mike moved first. The youngest was on his feet barreling into his brother’s arms knocking them over with his strength. Raphael was next launching himself onto the pile wrapping his large arms around his svelte brother.

He wanted to follow suit, he did, but something kept him from rushing to his brothers. The look in Aurora’s eye kept him rooted in place and her hand on the hilt of her katana was an unmistakable red flag. Was she scared of him? He would never do anything to harm her…..or had he?

“Aurora?”

“Is it you? Really you?” Her fingers slipped from the hilt and stepped forward, but a large three fingered hand wrapped around her thigh bringing her down with the three brothers. Raphael rolled them and pinned her below him.

“You and the nerd are the most beautiful site I have eva seen.” His hand slipped under her head and the brute leaned down slanting his mouth over hers.

Aurora resisted for a millisecond before melting under the onslaught of the brutes’ advances, his tongue pushed in sweeping at hers. The rumbled in his chest that followed was a missed sound along with Mikey pipping up beside him.

“Quit hoggin her Raph.”

Up for a quick quip Raph release her mouth keeping his lips ghosting over hers as he caught his breath, “Ya can wait a minute. I need a little longer.” As he leaned down to continue Raphael felt Donatello’s hand on his shell.

“I’m sorry Raph but as happy as I am seeing all of you right now we don’t have time.”

“Don’t Don……..it feels like years…”

Aurora placed her hands on his checks bringing his gaze back to her, “It has been.”

Dumbfounded Raphael pushed up getting a little distance to look at her. “Fucking what?”

“It’s been over three years since you were taken by Bishop.”

It was Leo’s turn to chime in, “We’ve been under his thumb for three years? How… how did you stop him and bring us back? Is this the first time we’ve seen each other since we were abducted?”

With a heavy sigh Aurora pulled herself from beneath the brute and Michelangelo’s grabby hands and stood “We haven’t beaten him yet and this...” Aurora motioned to them. “Isn’t permanent. This is a test, Donnie blocked the signal but we’re not sure for how long. And no this isn’t the first time we’ve seen each other since he took you.”

The vision of the blade sinking into flesh ran through Leonardo’s head. “No….”

Aurora reached for the hem of her shirt and lifted exposing the scar, the same spot he cut into the woman. It couldn’t be, he would never hurt her. His mind reeled and went back to the vision but this time it was clear as day. There above him was Aurora on top of him as his blade penetrated her midriff. The look on her face was of pain, not just the physical, betrayal lay heavy in her purple eyes. Just as he thought it couldn’t get worse, he lunged forward slamming her to the ground wrapping his hands around her throat and began to choke the life from his kunoichi. “I’m sorry..”

Aurora stopped him, “Don’t, it wasn’t you and we don’t have time to unpack this at the moment. Right now, I need you to tell me everything you can about the main facility you three are being housed at. More specifically where is the room with the servers? How do you access the room, and how many guards watch over it? Everything guys and quick.”

As the three brothers recounted what they knew about their prison, out of the corner of her eye Aurora saw people coming from their home’s confusion played over their faces. The streets began to fill with them, crowds of bewildered citizens filtering out into the city. At least they knew the radius of the small device, maybe a couple hundred feet or more?

“Aurora.”

Hearing her name Aurora turned her head to met Leo’s concerned blue eyes. “How do you plan on getting past the guards, past us? I don’t like this, if I had some time I could help plan but I can feel the pressure growing in the back of my head. Whatever Don devised is beginning to fail.

Turning to the streets they watched in dismay as the citizens began to reach for their heads as if in pain, some fell to their knees and screams began to fill the eerie silence. It became painfully clear Leo was right,the little device was starting to give up.

Turning back to the three she watched in despair as their faces scrunched up in discomfort. The devices in their bodies began to protest and try to regain control of its host, there were moments left.

“Fuck.” Donnie hissed making his way to the device to see the smoke begin to billow from its innards. “Not yet, please just a little longer.”

Aurora moved to the three struggling mutants, “We’ll get you back I promise.”

Leo stumbled as the pain in his head began to radiate to his extremities. “You’ve kept the resistance safe from us for three years. I have faith in you and Donnie.” His gaze felt Aurora and sought his genius brother. “D, keep her safe….. from us and hurry. Bishop……he’s becoming more unhinged, he carved up Raphael when I didn’t give up the base or Aurora. Mikey’s next if I continue to disobey him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The three turtles woke up on the ground of the roof which they just had the new strange mutant turtle and the kunoichi cornered but now they were nowhere to be seen. And worst of all they had no memory or their interaction past her lunging for something in the shadows.

 “Where’d they go? What the fuck just happened?” Raphael ground out getting to his feet in a huff. “They were just here? Like one minute we were lookin at that tall fucker and blondie and the next we’re waking up on the ground. Bishop is gonna be pissed. All those supplies gone for nothin.”

“This can’t be good.” Leo started running his thumb nervously over the hilt of a kunai snug against his thigh. “But the mutant that was with her, he was protecting her and yet he was so familiar like I had seen him before but I have no…memory of him….guys.” Leo’s voice demanded their attention. “Until we gather a little more information on this mutant we keep this to ourselves. As far as the mission went tonight we were unable to apprehend the woman. Understood?”

“Yeah, this is getting a little too weird. Somethin’ ain’t right.” Raphael nodded finally noticing his sai were no longer in his hands. “We were ready, weren’t we?”

Leo and Mikey turned to the hot head looking at his palms and then to his holstered weapons.

“Yea why?” Mikey too realized his chucks were away.

“We ain’t cocked and loaded no more.”

Clenching his fists Leo remembered pulling his katana free, he could still hear the sing of the metal when he landed on the rooftop and now they were returned to their sheaths on his shell. “How curious, we felt safe enough to disarm ourselves. Something is definitely going on. Come on let’s look around to see if they left anything behind that can shed light on any of this.”

As Leo and Raph began searching the rooftop for clues Mikey finally unfolded the piece of paper that was in his palm when he awoke. Making sure he was out of sight he read the note obviously meant for his eyes only. ‘Test worked. Eat this.’ Not wasting a moment, he stuffed the tiny paper into his maw and swallowed.

After a good hour and a half all three of the turtles came up empty on the rooftop.

“Fuck! Bishop is gonna be pissed we came back empty handed again.” Raphael chucked an empty can across the blacktop before facing Leonardo who was looking over the edge of the building at the people below.

“Yes I’m not looking forward to calling him and telling him we failed.”

With their crew safely back at base Donnie made a beeline for this lab prototype in hand. Aurora and Casey tried to keep up as Donnie’s longer legs carried him down the hall at a faster pace. 

The door to RND burst open and Donatello set his prototype on his desk and immediately began to disassemble it. He began to call out to his techs asking for new parts, better tech, demanding to take it from any non priority items if needed. Soon the lab was a buzz with their best minds working to beef up the prototype and find a power source to handle the load of the transmitter. As he took the back off Donatello could see the small battery burnt to a crisp. He definitely needed to get an appropriate wattage to take the signal’s power.

The three brothers made their way to the vehicle they had stashed a few blocks away and piled inside ready to head back to the compound. As Raphael started the engine to begin the trek back home Leonardo reached for the com to contact Bishop.

“Blue leader to Ares.”

There were a few moments of silence over the com before a burst of static followed by a click until his voice came over the speakers of their vehicle. “Ares here, was your mission a success Blue Leader?”

Leo looked to his brothers with a tight-lipped frown while pressing down on the com button in his palm. “Unfortunately our mission was derailed by unknown circumstances sir. The rebels were able to get away with the bait sir. And we were unable to locate the blonde.”

“I see..” came from the com with an uncomfortably long pause. “This is very disappointing Blue Leader. Please retuned to base immediately.”

“Yes Ares, we are en route.”

The rest of the ride home was silent. Raphael slowed their speed not in any hurry to make it back home to their obviously upset leader. Leonardo kept his gaze fixed on the trees outside as they grew close. This was the first time he could remember going back to the compound didn’t feel right. And to add to his growing concerns Mikey was acting off. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was hiding something. Leo turned his blue gaze back to Mikey who was also lost in the passing of the trees; there was something new in his eyes. Something pleasant, making the youngest a little happier than usual. Hope maybe? Did he know something they didn’t? It was something he would get from Mike after they dealt with Bishop.

As the three turtles entered into the compound, they were greeted by an emotionless Bishop which was not a good sign. Even with his signature sunglasses perched on his nose Leo could feel Bishop’s dark eyes burning into his soul.

“Raphael you are needed in docking bay 3. I was told there are a few heavy boxes that need to be loaded into a truck and the forklift I’ve been told is down.”

Raphael didn’t like the growing pit in his stomach as he was deliberately separated from his two brothers but not wanting to upset Bishop further he nodded quickly and made his way to his new task without a word.

“Leonardo and Michelangelo please follow me; there is a matter we need to attend too.” Without waiting for a reply from the two mutants the intimidating man turned towards his office at an unhurried pace.

They followed quietly with Leonardo taking the lead by habit. They watched Bishop bypass his office making his way now to the integration rooms in the back of the main building. If Leonardo had hair, it would have been standing on end; everything in his body was suddenly on high alert but followed their Commander into one of the rooms without question. The door was shut behind them and a woman Leonardo was familiar with, stood beside them eyes low to the ground clearly uncomfortable to be in the room. Her presence alone set him into fight or flight mode. It was Emerald, one of the few known altered human’s in Bishop’s army. She was a dark haired Amazonian beauty. Not a skinny frail human but a muscled freight train with the strength to rival their own. Her and Raphael had become quick friends when they were introduced into the compound. Their love of combat and impulsive hot headedness was a big part of their growing friendship. Problem was in this instance Emerald was the only one in the compound that could restrain them and she was in this room for a reason. Leonardo’s eye darted to Bishop who was no longer emotionless but now had a cruel smile on his face. The man looked to Emerald and nodded.

Leonardo quickly followed Bishop’s gaze to Emerald who looked up and mouthed “I’m sorry” before lunging for him pulling both his arms behind his back effectively restraining the large mutant.

Struggling in her unwavering grasp Leonardo addressed Bishop in unsure rising dread. “Bishop?”

Michelangelo uncertain what was happening moved to free his eldest brother but Bishop stepped in between him and Leonardo. “This is essential Michelangelo for Leonardo’s growth as a leader and if he wants to take over for me one day. But if you try and free your brother here from Emerald I will order her to break both of his arms.” Seeing the youngest reluctantly stand down but still tense he continued. “Now I need you to stand in front of Leonardo and don’t move. The more you fight his punishment the longer it will progress.”

Leonardo watched his baby brother step into view and his heart sunk suddenly knowing what was about to transpire. “Please sir, please punish me not Mike, he was only following orders. My orders.”

“Oh, this is YOUR punishment Blue Leader, don’t be mistaken.” Bishop hissed darkly stepping up to Leonardo to pull a kunai from his thigh holster. The tip of his finger ran over the blade cutting himself instantly. Bishop popped his finger into his mouth to clean the flesh of blood. “You do take excellent care of your blades Leonardo, its’ almost methodical. I bet everyone of them could cut a falling piece of hair. Do you sharpen these every night? ” Bishop didn’t wait for a response and moved from Leo to encircle Michelangelo like he was eyeing up his prey. “What did I tell you would happen if you disappointed me again with that blonde bitch? It is apparent that Raphael isn’t your weak spot since his filleting wasn’t a good enough warning. The blade was lifted and drug over Mikey’s arm instantly drawing blood in its wake.

“Please.” Leo pleaded again watching Mike wince but remain still. He began to pull again at Emeralds grip. He felt her tighten her hold and lean in.

“If you fight this he’ll only go at Mikey harder.” She whispered into his ear.

Bishop continued moving to Michelangelo’s other side slicing into the exposed side between his shell and plastron. Mikey still remained silent keeping his eyes locked on the ceiling above. “No no no that will not do. Michelangelo, I need you to look into your brother’s eyes while you receive HIS punishment.” Another swipe sent another rush of blood down his side when he didn’t comply. “Do it!”

Blue met blue but Leo could see the resolve in his brother’s eyes. He knew Mikey could take this, but he shouldn’t have too. Not for him. He had failed not Mikey.

“Good.” This time the blade’s tip sunk into yellow banded turtle’s side sinking halfway into the meat of his side.

This time Mikey’s eyes widened at the searing pain.

Bishop’s hands were now covered in blood, his brothers’ blood. Leonardo should be deliriously mad, ready to cut this man’s head off but all he could do is watch like he was a prisoner in his own body. Unwilling to hurt the man. His heart was racing, eyes welling with tears as the mad man cut at his brother’s flesh again and again making sure he was watching. Something inside him was screaming, like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest. It was beginning to hurt; his eyes closed and winced but blood soaked hands pulled Leo from his mind. Eyes shot open to be face to face with Bishop a look of pure ecstasy in his eyes. He was enjoying this.

“You did this to him; do you hear me! Fail me again and I’ll have both his and Raphael’s heads!” With the final emphasis on Raphael’s name Bishop turned and made one final slice to Michelangelo’s side splitting it wide open. This time Mikey cried out clutching at the gaping wound doubling over in pain.

“Mikey!” Leo yelled lunging forward as he felt Emerald’s grip loosen on him as she swore under her breath at the brutality of Bishops punishment. Leo grabbed for his brother ignoring Bishop as he left the room permitting Leo to deal with the aftermath.

Leo’s arm went under Mikey’s armpit supporting his weight while he helped him to the chair and sat him down. Taking a quick assessment of his injuries Leonardo turned to Emerald who had yet to leave the room. “Go find Raph I’m gonna get the medic, these wounds are deep.”

“I’m so sorry Blue. I had to obey him.”

“I know Em, I couldn’t stop him either. I don’t like the power he has over us. Now go get Raphael.” Emerald nodded and tore from the room.

Leo turned back to Mikey, “Stay here and keep pressure on this, I’ll be right back!”

Mikey nodded but wasn’t fully focused on anything but the thing wriggling in his fingers. As Leo exited the room Mike gripped tight at the thing and pulled letting out another yelp of pain is it ripped from his flesh. There in his hand was a small octopus thing; the very thing Aurora told him was controlling them. Just then his mind flashed bright white sending a wave of nausea and pain through his whole body. He collapsed to his knees and let out a silent scream as memories flooded his mind for the second time tonight. Everything came rushing in even what happened on the roof earlier this evening. Then as the pain slowly ebbed away his head was clear. Clearer than it had been in years. He was back. The thing in his hand was still struggling in his palm so he dropped the fucker and stomped on it until it stopped moving.

It was then he knew he had to go, without his brothers and right now. He would be back later for them with Aurora, Casey, April and their army. He remembered where he belonged, where home was.

Leo nearly dragged the doctor behind him as they raced into the interrogation room to find it empty. Leo saw the blood coating the chair and floors but something small on the floor caught his keen eye.

“Where is he?” the doctor asked annoyed.

Leo walked forward and covered the thing with his foot. “He must have wanted to take care of it himself. Or maybe Raphael got here first and brought him back to our room for treatment. You know how Raph feels about anyone but us treating our wounds. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware of your brother’s aversion to the doctors here. I still have a scar from him when I tried to stitch up a laceration the first month you turtles got here.”

As the room emptied Leo reached down and picked up the object turning the thing in his large digits. “Just like she said.”

Donnie and Aurora were both in the R&D laboratory working on the radio when a loud commotion came from the hallway. Heavy footsteps came quickly as the two looked up to the door bursting open. April stumbled into the room a giant smile plastered on her face.

“What?” They both asked in unison reluctantly getting up from their chairs.

“He’s back!”

“Who’s back?”

April was bumbling over her words and she launched herself at Donnie who caught her effortlessly. “He remembers everything he remembered where the base was! He took it out!”

The excitement was palpable; Aurora gripped at April’s shoulders as she hugged Donnie. “WHO?!”

“MIKEY!”

[stories-and-chaos]

Tarnished pt 3

[Helluva Boss AU where Blitzø’s childhood theft from Stolas’ palace is discovered and major consequences ensue for everyone involved. Trying to stick with established lore but taking some liberties to make the drama work. Multiple headcanons from various sources I’ve come across included as suits the story. Starts roughly five years before Murder Family, I’m making assumptions about the timeline]

[18+ rating for language, sex, violence, alcohol consumption, abuse, and general Hellaverse-ness]

[Part 3/?? Word count 3826 Mostly SFW]

—————

His dreams were pleasant nonsense until they shifted to something prompted by memory in the early morning hours. A growling hiss, searing pain in his palm, his own childish voice repeating “don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him.”

“WHAT THE FAWK STOLAS!” A screech unrelated to the memory/dream jerked him awake. Blitzø was crouched over him on all fours, that growling hiss rumbling from his chest. It had deepened over the years but the sound must have been enough to trigger memories.

Stolas didn’t have time to think about that however. Stella, the vulture his father insisted he marry, was shrieking next to the bed. Blitzø was crouched over him protectively. The imp’s chivalrous actions were marred by the facts that he was still naked and that in order to face Stella, his crotch was right over Stolas’s beak. His dick flopped against Stolas’s face; if he’d had any sort of erection the prince would have taken him into mouth just to piss Stella off more. But Blitzø was flaccid and his genitals slapping facial feathers was more hilarious than anything.

“WHY THE FAWK IS THAT PEASANT IN OUR BED AGAIN?!” If his wife’s voice could be compared to music, it was an out of tune oboe played at full volume by an amateur DJ.

Blitzø’s tail whipped around. “Oh fuck off you dusty whore. You knew exactly what fucking night it was. Satan’s taint, you even had your personal Chucklefucks bring me in.” He shifted his posture to look her closer in the eye. Now he was straddling the prince’s chest, tail still flicking around Stolas’s head. “Thanks for that by the way bitch; they scratched up my hooves, motherfuckers.”

Stella loomed over the male demons. Blitzø flinched at her approach but stood his ground. “I couldn’t let you just saunter in here like you own the palace. Especially when you keep forgetting your place, you foul mouthed cock sucker.” She refused to put herself at eye level with any lower ranked demon. “And I know you being late results in some sort of punishment. Which apparently this excuse for a man is too weak to follow through on.” Her dark pink eyes glared at the two down her elegant beak. She looked the part of a distinguished prince’s wife, but five seconds in her company made that illusion fall apart.

Blitzø couldn’t help himself; he stuck his tongue out with a smirk. “What can I say, I’m verrrrrry good at apologizing to Master Stolas.” He ran his hands down his chest and thighs seductively. “You’d know if you ever unclenched your cloaca long enough to try.” He kept smirking, his forked tongue sticking out and flicking at Stella.

She squawked, her hair feathers rustling in anger. “How dare you, you little bastard.” She raised a manicured claw to back hand the imp. Before she could swing, Stolas grabbed her wrist. He squeezed with just enough pressure to keep her attention.

“Firstly Stella, this is my bed in my chambers. You and I haven’t shared a room since Octavia hatched.” He matched her glare, the frustration over his marriage boiling up in a rare show of anger. “Secondly, Blitzø is bound to me and has been since before you and I ever met. So you, my bitch of a wife, have no say in what happens between us.” She opened her beak to interrupt but Stolas kept on. “And thirdly, if you ever attempt to harm Blitzø again, I will lock you out of the expense account.” This might have sounded like a weak threat but all three of them knew Stella cared more about her appearance and status than anything else in life.

“You wouldn’t dare.” She hissed and yanked her hand away. This year’s fashions had just debuted and Pentagram City’s elite party scene was just getting started for the year. If Stella showed up in last year’s gowns, all of the Goetia and Hell’s other notables would know she’d made some sort of mistake in her domestic life. Rumors would start. Any damage control she attempted would just fan the hellfire. She’d done the same to enough rivals to see that outcome. But Stolas didn’t back down. “Fine,” she turned dramatically, the layers of her gown fluttered against the floor. “But this isn’t over, imp fucker.”

Blitzø stretched and fell into the pillow nest after Stella slammed the door. “Shitbiscuits, I swear she gets crazier every day. Christ on a stick Stolas, you’re gonna have divorce her at some point here.” They’d both dealt with her abuse for years; Stolas’s threat would only keep her at bay until the end of this year’s party season.

Stolas lounged next to him, tail feathers swishing around as he thought. “I know Blitzy dear. I’m trying to hold out until Via reaches her majority. Then we don’t have to worry about custody or child support.” He lazily stroked Blitzø on the back. His talons stuttered slightly over a patch of white scarring, a reminder of a time Stella had been alone with Blitzø. “But I don’t know if we can wait that long.”

Blitzø could tell what part of his skin Stolas had come across. It had been nearly twelve years since Stella and her brother cornered him alone. Octavia was still in the egg and Stolas had a meeting with one of the Sins that day. He shuddered at the remembered pain. “I’d hate to think of what she’d do to Via if she had any custody.”

The imp loved the gangly owlette as much as Stolas did. He’d known her for her whole life. From a crowned egg (he still thought the Goetia’s egg portraits were ridiculous) to a fresh hatchling (Blitzø compared her to an angry peeled potato) to a downy ball of excitement (the cutest fucking stage in his opinion) to the clumsy molting preteen she currently was. The idea of Stella treating his Puffball like she did him was terrifying.

“Sir?” A voice piped up from the door to his room. “Is everything alright?” Right! Moxxie was here.

“Yeah, the bitch is gone for now.” Moxxie entered, fully dressed for the day in pressed trousers, a button down shirt and tailcoat jacket. Blitzø recognized the outfit from when some of the staff tried to push him into a more subservient role. Obviously it hadn’t worked. The clothes fit the other imp decently enough. “I’m just glad we didn’t have to deal with her last night, just her lapdogs.”

“I’m sure she’ll be out shopping as soon as possible today, just in case I do lock her out of the expense account.” Stolas put on his robe for a bit of modesty. “Good morning Moxxie. That out of tune alarm wrapped in feathers is my wife and mother of my child, Stella.” Blitzø snorted a laugh. He launched himself off the bed, not giving a shit about being on full display. “Darling, you should probably get dressed or I think our new friend will pass out.”

“Whaaaaaat, we’ve all got cocks here. I’m down to compare. I’ll fucking win too.”

“Yes but I doubt our guest is. Not to mention if Stella is about, Via may be coming by soon. She’s missed you as well after all.”

“Oh shit. Yeah, I don’t need Puffball seeing this. Be right back.” He grabbed the clothes he stripped off the night before and popped into the other room.

“My apologies if Stella disturbed you. There’s no excuse for her behavior but I do lock the doors when Blitzy is here. Apparently I need to change the locks again.”

“Oh, uh, no I was already up your high- Stolas.” Moxxie corrected himself quickly. He’d actually had some fruit as a light breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen before he’d heard the wall shaking shriek. Considering how well sound proofed the palace seemed (he’d barely heard anything from Stolas’s room last night) he was sure it had been ear splitting in person.

Stolas glanced over at Blitzø’s room, as if debating something. “Might I have a moment of your time Moxxie? Blitzø will take a bit and I have something I’d like to ask you.”

“S-sure thing sir.” They took the same seats as last night and Stolas pinned him with that four eyed stare. Moxxie was certain this was how mortal rodents felt when trapped by a bird of prey.

“You’re connected to Greed’s mafia families, correct?” Flustered, Moxxie gaped at the demon prince. “I’m sure Blitzy didn’t pick up on it, but your surname caught my attention.” He lazily shrugged his shoulders and continued. “I have no intention to inform Blitzø, nor to prevent him from hiring you. I just prefer to have you and I on the same footing. Or as close as we can manage.” There was no avoiding that a prince of Hell had so much power over even the head of an imp mafia, much less a fledgling member like Moxxie, that being on the same footing was laughable.

He nodded nervously, claws reflexively clenching the chair cushion. “My father’s head of the family. I was inducted just over a year ago.”

“That does explain your prowess with firearms. I assume your presence here means you’re distancing yourself from the family.” A statement, not a question.

Moxxie knew what happened to demons that crossed his father. He knew what would happen if Crimson got his claws on him again after trying to leave. But no one from the family or their muscle had done anything for him when he was caught. “Yes sir, I am.”

The red pupil-less stare became less severe. “Very well then. You’ll be glad to know there are very few in the Pride Ring that will recognize your name as being part of Greed’s crime families. The vast majority of the Ring is filled with Sinners after all. I’ll let you and Blitzy discuss your employment.” He paused, realizing something. “Or if you decide being involved with the Goetia family is too much, we can attempt to find you an alternative solution. It’s the least I can do in thanks.”

That was more than Moxxie could have hoped for. “Thank you sir.” The imp decided to press his luck. Stolas seemed open to talk at the moment. “Stolas, sir, what is this binding you mentioned between you and Blitzø? I thought the Ars Goetia were all powerful.”

“Is that what the rest of Hell thinks of us? Good to know the illusion of omnipotence is working. Sadly however, we do have limitations.” His gaze turned to the not quite hidden door. “When we were very young, before I even started my studies in the arcane, my father King Paimon used my own blood and sigil to bind Blitzø to my will. ‘To teach me a lesson in status and the dignity of the Goetia,’ he claimed.”

Stolas sighed dramatically. “Nothing I’ve learned has been able to break the binding. The only thing that might do so is my death…but that would likely cause his as well.” He glanced at Moxxie. “Please don’t tell Blitzy. It’s something I’d rather he not concern himself about.”

“Of course sir.” Secrets for secrets it seemed.

The owl prince continued. “In lieu of breaking the bond, we’ve done our best to test and bend it. At first Blitzy had to be within thirty feet of my person or my grimoire. As my power has grown, he can now traverse all seven rings with my permission and even the mortal realm. But he cannot be away forever. We’ve concluded his presence on the estate for a day every lunar cycle satisfies the conditions of his binding.”

“Who’s talking about me out here?” Blitzø emerged dressed in a long dark suit coat accented in red. A frilled high collar covered the gold sigil around his throat. Black and yellow bracers covered his forearms. The clothes were well fitted; not tailored to perfection but not something snagged from dozens like it off a department store rack.

“Moxxie inquired as to the specifics of the binding spell on you.”

“You mean besides the fact that it sucks ass?” Blitzø checked his reflection in a wall mounted mirror and adjusted his shirt collar slightly. “Whatever, I’m fucking hungry. Yelling at the feather duster worked up my appetite.”

“We’d best accompany him, else he’ll likely end up eating Fizz-Os with water,” Stolas remarked dryly. “Hey it works and I don’t burn the building down.” Blitzø opened the door with a flourish to let everyone out.

“It’s vile and I refuse to let it happen again if I can help it. I believe pancakes and eggs are in order.” Stolas led the way to a well stocked kitchen with a breakfast nook overseeing one of the gardens. Moxxie was just offering to help cook when a high pitched voice yelled “BLIIIIITZYYY!” At least this one was cheerful.

Blitzø braced himself as a fluffy weight landed on his back. He quickly supported the two long legs that stuck out under his arms as downy feathers fluttered around his head. “Oof, where’d these tent poles come from?” He waggled one of the young bird’s legs. “Stolas, you sure there isn’t some flamingo in your family?”

“Noooo!” The adolescent demon kicked her legs with a giggle before standing up to give Blitzø a proper hug. “You were gone so long this time, Blitzy. Dad was starting to freak out.”

“Sorry Puffball, I got held up in Greed. Made a new friend though; this is Moxxie, he might be working with me if we don’t scare him off.” He hugged the girl back, realizing his head didn’t reach as high as he expected. Octavia had hit a growth spurt evidently. “How’s the molt going?” She’d just started losing her baby down and was growing her juvenile plumage. She’d have another full molt in a few years when she reached adulthood. After that she’d go through partial molts to refresh her feathers about once a year.

“Absolutely awful! I’m so itchy!” Octavia was dressed in an oversized band shirt and loose fabric shorts so as not to rub the growing feathers. Normally she had a crown stitched beanie on as well but her scalp was too irritated for that.

Blitzø gently patted her arm. “I can help with that. Been helping Stolas whenever he molts since we were kids.” He stood on the window bench so he could reach her head once she was seated. Normally parents would help their fledgling avian demons, sometimes siblings. Paimon was the least attentive parent possible though. All of Stolas’ grooming had been handled by servants growing up, including his molts. Seeing his friend so uncomfortable, Blitzø had the servants teach him what to do.

So he had years of practice gently removing dead feather sheathes, giving delicate scratches and checking that the new feathers were coming in properly. Stolas could handle most of his body feathers at this point but his head and neck were hard to manage alone. Via had smaller isolated molts throughout childhood but this was her first full body one. Blitzø focused on her head, since that was likely the worst part. Her soft hooting sighs sounded just like her father’s when Blitzø did this for him.

Blitzø kept up his preening assistance; he had to be careful as feathers right next to each other could be at vastly different growth stages. Stolas and Moxxie meanwhile started on breakfast.

“Let me help you, Stolas, sir,” the imp pulled over a chair to reach the counter easier. “I can take care of the pancakes.”

Stolas blinked well…owlishly at him. “I should say you’re a guest and to allow me but assistance would be appreciated. Do you need a recipe?” Stolas placed ingredients on the counter. In consideration of Via’s molt and her increased nutritional needs at the moment, he decided to defrost some mice as well.

Moxxie started measuring and mixing. “No thank you sir, I’ve got it. Although if you’ve got some almond extract I’ve found it gives a refreshing flavor profile if you’re used to vanilla in the batter. Or perhaps some fresh ground cinnamon. If anyone prefers something sweeter I can add in blueberries or honey, I personally enjoy honey from Gluttony on mine.”

“Ooo! Can I have chocolate chips?” Octavia’s eyes popped open and she waved her hand to get their attention. The thought of personalized pancakes made her stomach growl in a very undignified way. Chocolate chips were more important than dignity at breakfast though.

“Make that two Moxxie!” Blitzø said from his perch behind Via. He was currently checking around the base of her neck. “If you jerks are gonna keep me away from Fizz-Os then I want some chocolate.”

Stolas set a bag of tiny chocolate chips next to Moxxie mixing bowl. “May as well indulge them.” Moxxie fired up the griddle section on the stovetop. “Coming right up Miss Octavia, sir.”

“Just Via,” the girl said through soft hoots. Blitzø’s attention really was helping her itching head. Her dad was helping her preen throughout the day but first thing in the morning was the worst. She let her eyes close, the comforting sounds of her dad and Moxxie prepping breakfast was accompanied by Blitzø’s unending chatter.

She’d never tell him, but his talking was basically like white noise for her at this point. It was comforting, similar to listening to the acid rainfall. Unfortunately the thunderclap that was her mother ruined the moment.

Stella strode in, wearing a gown only slightly less sumptuous than her evening wear. “As if seducing my husband isn’t bad enough,” she spat at Blitzø, “now you’re going to have your claws on my daughter?”

Via sighed. From a young age she’d known that her mother despised the imp that she’d come to think of as an uncle. Blitzø and her father had recently explained some of their complex relationship. Blitzø in particular was quick to reassure the girl that despite being forced to stay with the Goetia, he loved Via and her father. No mention of Stella however.

“Mum, I told him to help with my molt.” She’d learned that framing interactions with Blitzø as things she’d ordered seemed to mollify her mother. Stella huffed and waved her taloned hand dismissively, allowing them to continue. Via caught sight of Blitzø slowly flipping her mother off as she turned away.

Now she spotted Moxxie pouring the next batch of pancakes. “Another one Stolas?” She knew the current crop of imp servants (by sight, not by name obviously) and this wasn’t one she recognized. Like Blitzø he wasn’t dressed in a staff uniform, another giveaway. “Are you going to fuck this one too?” she sneered.

“Language! And no, of course not!” Stolas knew she didn’t have any respect for him, but it wasn’t like he went sleeping around with every demon that crossed his path. “He simply rendered some assistance to myself and Blitzø.”

“G-good morning ma’am,” Moxxie caught a glimpse of Stella before he remembered Blitzø’s warning about not making eye contact with “the overdressed bitch.” He quickly turned back to the griddle. He’d gotten the impression of pale height that rivaled Stolas’s, draped in layers of fashionable silk. Despite not looking directly at her, he knew this was how prey felt. The owl prince’s glare seemed almost gentle compared to the open hostility from Stella. Moxxie gulped, searching for some way to ease the tension. “Wo-would you like some breakfast ma’am?” Maybe he wouldn’t get chomped into pieces if she was distracted by food.

Another moment of her glaring. “Have it and a pot of coffee brought to the dining room.” She whirled back around, making sure her full skirt swirled with the proper flair. She clap her hands with glee, as if coming up with an amazing idea. “Octavia, poppet, do you want to go shopping with Mummy today?”

The owlette perked up. “Oh, can we go to Stylish Occult? Or Eclipsed Shore? There’s a new album by-“

“Pwah ha ha! Of course not dear, we won’t be going to plebeian shops like those. No we’re going dress shopping. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Not really.” Even on good days going dress shopping with her mother was exhausting. It couldn’t be called clothes shopping since Stella only wore gowns and would only purchase dresses for her daughter as well. The thought of being a giant doll for a day, shoved into unfamiliar clothes, made her already itchy skin crawl. “Trying on a bunch of dresses is gonna make me loose even more feathers.”

“I suppose you have a point poppet. Another time then.” As quickly as she entered Stella swept out of the kitchen, not sparing any more attention on her husband or the imps. Used to this, Stolas simply buzzed for a servant. Once Stella’s portion was plated to her preferred level of elegance the small imp server left with the meal, a carafe of strong coffee and a bottle of coffee liqueur on a cart.

Moxxie and Stolas delivered stacks of pancakes with eggs (and defrosted mice for Via) to the table. Blitzø had already finished the mini preen so they’d just been chatting as they waited. Via and Blitzø’s identical looks of sparkling glee at the sight of their chocolatey breakfasts proved they had spent a lot of time together. Blitzø launched into his stack while Via ate in a more refined manner. Except for the mice. There was no refined way to swallow mice whole.

Sipping his own coffee Stolas asked, “Do you want to go out today sweetheart?” Yesterday she’d been too tired for much of anything. But if she was up for it, it could be a nice distraction from the molt.

“You and Blitzy won’t be too busy Dad?” She was used to them being inseparable the day after Blitzø got back.

“Nah, I really do gotta talk to Moxxie about a job. Haven’t seen Loonie Toonie yet either.” He’d been talking about the Hellhound girl since her recent adoption but Via hadn’t met her yet. “I’ll be back tonight or tomorrow though Puffball.” He’d normally ruffle her head feathers but that’d ruin all the grooming he’d just done.

“Besides, I want to just treat my little Starfire on occasion. We can go wherever you like. Make a day of it.”

“I’ll get dressed!” She popped out of her chair and rushed off to room, legs tangling a bit on her way out. “See you later Blitzy! Thanks for breakfast Moxxie, it was great!”

“I suppose I should dress as well; I doubt she’ll be long with how excited she is.” Stolas snagged a mouse left on Via’s plate and gulped it down. “Mm, delightful.” He stroked Blitzø’s head between his horns as he unfolded out of the seat. “Send a text when you’re heading back darling. Have a good day you two.”

A/N: Taking a few liberties with Octavia here as she’s much younger than in the show and not so jaded or angsty yet. Hopefully the wall of text isn’t too daunting, I’m trying to break things up in manageable sections.

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[munchkin1156]

I have fallen (but have faith, for I shall rise once more)

. . .

Borrower Techno with rest of sbi as god's? More likely than you think :D

2.2k words for part one, definitely going to make a part two because I'm not about to LEAVE y'all on a cliffhanger like that.

(Cw: Blood, injuries, mention of death (non happens) swearing, angst, accidental fearplay and Techno passes out due to blood loss.)

Hope you enjoy my (technically) first addition to the mcyt g/t community from my user!

. . .

Technoblade wasn’t like other borrowers.

Other borrowers didn’t have voices in their heads, who screamed at him for blood, grew emotionally attached to the most random things, or know things that helped him evade capture multiple times.

Other borrowers didn’t have memories that never existed, searing into his brain at moments when he loses themselves, of friendships with beings of power, of him being a being of power, of falling from the clouds for a crime he did not do.

When his sword is stained red from those who wronged him, then in his head it rings. When the voices, or as he called them, Chat, started chanting. It never made sense, what they chanted.

Blood for the blood god

And it scared him, not knowing what it meant. But he couldn’t dwell on it now, just like he couldn’t dwell on it yesterday. He was a borrower, and that meant he needed to borrow.

Techno stepped outside of the comfort that was the shelter that he had been using for the past week. Being a wandering borrower, he didn’t have a home, exactly. He wandered from place to place, travelling lightly and swiftly, being able to escape at a moment's notice.

He had bases in some places, so he could restock and rest for a bit, but he was exploring a new area and that came with the consequence of not knowing where safety lay, so if a bean were to see him, he might not be able to get out of there fast enough.

But it wouldn’t come to that. Techno was an amazing borrower, and his motto was literally ‘Technoblade never dies’. He started walking through the long grass, humming to himself. He wouldn’t get caught, he was certain of it.

So why did he feel so uneasy?

. . .

“Hey- Hey! Stop it!” He whispered, whipping his sword out as an act of defence. The crow squawked defiantly but didn’t stop trying to pick him up with its beak.

Techno groaned. Crows were always nice to him, and they were one of the few things that gave him those memories other than blood. 

Memories of black wings surrounding him, feeling safety and warmth, and when he looked into those eyes-

Other things that did this were music, especially guitars or discs, the colour red, and that one statue. It had been in some rich fucker’s garden, and from what he had overheard the people in it were gods, whatever that was.

Their names, according to the beans he had been eavesdropping on, were Philza, Angel of Death, a golden blonde man with large black crow wings, a fatherly expression on his face as he stared at Soot, the god of music and chaos, a brunette who was laughing and ruffling the hair of Innit, god of discs and the wilderness.

And, standing a little bit away from the others, was a statue with its head gone. According to one of the beans, it was because they had been banished from the kingdom above, for a crime so terrible, and therefore been erased from history.

He also heard them say that it turned out to be an accident, that DreamXD, had framed him. But by that time it was discovered, it was too late, and he had been cast down, though it is said those three gods still search for him, in the hopes that they could bring him back.

They said his name was Blade, the god of war and blood. And that’s how he got his name. 

Technoblade.

And, another funny thing is, no matter how hard he sees those gods as Philza, Soot, and Innit, like the man described, some hidden part of his mind changes that to Phil, Wilbur, and Tommy. But that was beside the point.

The point was, that no matter how nice the crows were to him, they kept trying to take him somewhere.

Usually, they’d stop if he complained or shouted, or drew his sword (never intending to kill, just to scare them off) and they’d stop. But this one was even more persistent, and Techno realised now that he’d either have to fight it (something he would like to avoid if possible, he liked crows and they sometimes brought him gifts) or run.

He chose the latter, dashing to the side the moment the crow grabbed him. It squawked in outrage and Techno realised that it couldn’t chase after him on foot, with its legs like sticks. Birds were meant to fly, not walk.

‘Looks like I win this time, eh?’

He thinks, grinning to himself. The crow that he escaped from cawed loudly, and he only had a split second to wonder what that could mean before another crow SWOOPS down out of nowhere and yoinks (he’s not even sure what that word means but it seems about right for this situation) him up in its claws.

He had jinxed it. Techno didn’t believe in superstition, but he was certain that was what had happened.

The pinkette struggled in the crow's grasp, desperate to get free before it took him to… Well, wherever it was taking him. But it was no use. He wondered why it was so determined to bring him wherever it was going. Techno supposed he’d find out, soon enough.

Eventually, after a few minutes of flying, the borrower noticed something very, very strange. The crow was taking him up. And by that, he meant really, really high up. The world below was barely visible, as they went higher and higher, through the clouds.

And once they came out of the clouds, Techno couldn’t believe his eyes.

“The kingdom above… Fucking hell it’s real…”

He muttered to himself in awe. It was made out of pristine white shining material that might’ve been made out of the clouds themselves, with magical glowing lanterns floating in the air.

Techno’s first thought was that it belonged to the ruler of this kingdom, or at least some kind of person in power, I mean it was so fine and well-kept that it had to be, right? Wrong.

On closer inspection, he realised that the people walking down below were… Normal. This was a normal town here, and these were normal civilians.

The crow flew past it though, taking Techno with it. Its wingbeats never slowed, and it showed no sign of tiredness. This was no ordinary crow, he was sure of it.

And this was no ordinary place. Chat had stopped talking altogether, and his mind felt as if it was his own, at last. It was as if someone wanted him to be peaceful, but that was silly since he was literally getting kidnapped by a bird.

What a great day Techno was having, right?

Aaaaand now the crow was flying down, towards three people that looked awfully familiar, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it and then-

Oh fuck that’s Philza, Soot and Innit. He’d recognize them anywhere, after the incident with the statue. Oh, he’s fucked. He’s going to die, oh stars he needs to get out of this mess-

‘But aren’t the gods his family?’

He brushed that thought off with a shudder. Why on earth did he keep thinking stuff like that!? It didn’t make any sense, and you better believe that he was gonna get to the bottom of this.

Not today though. He was about to get caught by some of the most powerful beings in the entire universe, and he’d actually rather not. He valued his life, after all. So he did what any self-respecting borrower would do and fucking stab the bird.

Techno hadn’t particularly wanted to stab the crow. As he might’ve mentioned before, he liked crows. There just hadn’t been another choice. 

And it had worked.

The crow dropped him with a screech, alerting the three gods immediately. Their gazes fell on the bleeding crow who flew over to them with a lot of effort and landed on Philza’s outstretched arm. It healed almost instantly.

But the pinkette didn’t know any of this, because he happened to be falling when that situation had played out. And when Techno hit the ground, he felt his body scream out in pain and his head ring in agony.

The world around him felt loud and blurry. His head seemed to be sticky with what he could only assume was blood. He forced himself to stand, he needed to get out of here, needed to be safe-

Chat was back now,  just as incoherent and jumbled as his thoughts, and from what he managed to make out, delusional. They kept saying something about… Dadza? Who the hell was- Oh. Wait what!?

So Chat was no help. 

Techno winced. He couldn’t think, everything was just so loud and it hurt so damn much and he couldn’t understand and oh fuck did one of the Gods? beans just spot him and oh no they’re all walking towards him now.

The borrower’s eyes widen, and he couldn’t help but shrink back as the three gods towered over him, eyeing him over with such a strange expression of hope and longing that made Techno wonder if he actually was delusional.

The silence was broken when one of the gods, Innit, spoke up, voice breaking slightly and eyes glazed, as if holding back tears.

“Holy shit… Is it him? Like, really him?”

Philza responded, managing to sound calm and yet so desperate that it made Techno’s cold heart shatter, though he was not sure why.

“I don’t know Tommy (wait WHAT-), why don’t we ask him instead of talking over his head?” The angel of death suggested, and now they were all staring at him again, possibly even more intensely than before.

“So,” Philza said curiously. “Who are you, why did you stab my crow and why did it try to bring you here?”

There was no malice in his voice, it was just confusion and subtle amusement, but that just made Techno’s nerves worse. The only reason he could think of that would involve the god being amused about his half-dead state was-

Oh fuck, were they going to torture him?

“I’m Technoblade,” He said, after a few moments of hesitation. The pinkette ignored the sharp gasp of air from above, acting like he didn’t hear it, because he did not want to think of why the god might be shocked, and instead continued.

“I stabbed your crow because I was about to get seen (and look how that ended up) and I have no clue why it brought me here.” Techno knew it was not a smart idea to lie to a god, and he was anything but stupid. His injuries throbbed painfully, but the gods either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Techno wasn’t about to guess which one…

After a very long while (in which Techno was trying his absolute hardest not to die on the spot) Soot spoke up. “So that’s a- a yes, then? It’s him?” He asked, voice cracking slightly. “Yes, Wilbur, (WHAT THE FUCK) It’s really him.”

The borrower didn’t have time to question what in the world he meant by that, because at that moment  Philza reached down, and Techno realised what was about to happen a second too late.

He scrambled backwards as the hand came towards him, absolutely terrified out of his wits, but the god paid no mind to that, plucking him off the ground by his waist easily. 

Techno struggled in his grasp but fell limp almost immediately. There was no way he was escaping from Philza, even though he wanted to, and besides, it just made his injuries worse. The tight grip the god had him in didn’t help either.

“What do you want from me!?”

He shouted, glaring at the gods, though it quickly fell as he remembered how easily they could crush him. Soot made a small noise (pity?) but he ignored it. “You- you really don’t remember us?” Asked Innit, with a look of despair on his face.

‘Remember you? I’ve never seen you before in my life!’ 

Not in this one you haven’t.

 Responded one of the voices, before it faded back into the clutter of noise. “Chat?” Philza asked, and Techno almost responded with ‘Yeah, it’s making no sense…’ when he remembered that he never told them about Chat.

Something clicked behind Soot’s eyes, and he spoke up. “So you really don’t know who we are… Right?” Techno nodded. Where exactly was (Wilbur) Soot going with this? “So that means…” “Means what? I’m not about to sit around all day waiting while you give me half-formed answers,” the borrower responded, with more challenge in his tone than was wise.

It’s not like you could stop them from doing that…

Said another one of those loud voices unhelpfully. ‘Thanks a lot…’ He thought to himself irritatedly and stared at Soot expectantly, which was harder than it seemed because his eyes kept unfocusing, and the corners of his vision were blurry and stained red. ‘Blood?’

“Listen, Technoblade, I don’t know what species you think you are, but…” He hesitated again, before continuing.

“You're a god, and our brother, at that.” Soot paused, and then started saying something more. “I’m so glad we finally found you, we’ve-”

But Techno didn’t get to hear what they’d done, the blood loss had finally caught up to him, and he passed out, darkness now surrounding him as he finally drifted into a dreamless sleep.

. . .

Aaaaaand that's it, folks! Great ending we got there, right? Hope you liked it :] Big thanks to Beckyu for helping me choose how to end it, and start next chapter.

That reminds me...

@i-am-beckyu and @brick-a-doodle-do, thank you for wanting to be tagged! If you want to be tagged, comment, ask or dm me and I'll add you! :D

Bye for now!!!

[love-the-purple-cat]

Kurosaki's heartbeat was slow.

Ulquiorra rested his head on the sun-warmed skin, feeling the human's lungs expand and contract, the slow pulse of the heart pumping blood just beneath him, cradled lovingly between bone and tissue.

He wasn't a fan of the sun, too searing bright and burning hot to be comfortable, but Kurosaki enjoyed it and would spend any free time he had on the wicker chair on the balcony.

Today, they had a visitor.

Ulquiorra eyed the bird warily. It was sharp – sharp eyes, sharp beak, sharp feathers and sharp nails. A perfect predator that could at any moment steal him away from Kurosaki's warm embrace and tear him apart.

"Don't tense, she can sense your fear." Ulquiorra turned his head to look at Gin who had wrapped himself around Kurosaki's naked thigh. He was also afraid, that much the bat knew, but the bird would have a harder taking him with how securely he was gripping the limb before Kurosaki intervened.

In a way, the primal fear Ulquiorra felt at being hunted and watched was fascinating, and knowing there was very little he could do to stop it made him sick with all of the adrenaline.

"It's okay," Kurosaki murmured quietly, dragging his short nails through Ulquiorra's fur. He must still be tired from work and instead of resting on the bed he's out here in the broiling heat feeding a mouse to a predator with a food clamp that will need to be thoroughly cleaned later.

The bat exhaled, shifting until his ear was pressed directly against the human's heart, listening to the deceptively slow beat, facing the snake and leaving his back unprotected against an enemy.

Gin shivered when Kurosaki dragged a finger down his side, returning the gesture with kisses to the thigh, mindful of his fangs. It was so very easy to wound the human nowadays and they had to be solicitous when in contact with him.

[lustrous-dawn]

@ask-noonescity: The Cresselia spotted the trio of new comers she quickly brightened up spotting the twins in their onesies "Oh they are adorable!" The happily chirped out before looking to Zhen "Did you pick them out? Its so cute for them and obviously suits them!" she happily with a small giggle escaping "Did you bring snacks?" she asked with simple glance over the older one before she chuckled "I can share mine if you'd like!" she said with a smile

@ask-noonescity

Tora did a mock roar towards Luelle, giving her a wild grin. “I’m the Great Taiga of Johto!” She giggled, standing tall and proud. Her tail swayed behind her as she clung to Zhen's calf.

Arashi was latched onto his other leg. He hadn't gotten the courage to roam but that was how he was. Always cautious of his surroundings. But he peeled back the hooded beak to peer up at the Legendary. He was wide-eyed as he stared, lost for words. 

Laughing, Zhen ruffled Arashi's hair, “He's a bit shy! Give him a moment and he'll warm right up to ya.” The young lad puffed up his cheeks but there was no mistaking the slight smile on his face. 

“I wish I had an eye for outfits,” he said with a grin. “But it's not my thing. I have someone in my pocket who's all about this,” he whispered as he was spilling a grave secret. Little Abby would strangle him if he took the credit for it. “I can pass along a message to her if ya interested in that type of thing.” He knew how much the Whimsicott craved new projects. Working with legendaries as well? She would be absolutely over the moon to do it. “She based it on some folklore we have about our wind and earth spirit.”

There was a pause, his eyes on the children. You can tell there was more to this legend than what he was saying. But he quickly moved on, holding up a small container. 

A bento box! 

As he opened it, he revealed several neatly cut *surumes seared to perfection. The aroma still made his mouth water. “Trust me, this is a delicacy!” 

The kids however seemed to recoil at the smell, Tora sticking out her tongue. 

“Ick! We have sweets!” Tora fished out a pouch of her own. “Mochi!” She said with glee. Powdered with pink, these treats were soft but chewy. She bit into one, lapping after the sweet red paste that had seeped out.

A huge smile. “Trade?” Tora held out her pouch for Luelle.

*These are finely chopped Octillery Tentacles, seared over an open fire. It is a highly sought-after delicacy in Johto. There is no need to show concern for the creatures as their tentacles do grow back as normal.

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 06: do or die, you'll never make me, because the world will never take my heart

Forced to Watch

2445 Words; Ouroboros AU

TW for violence, exploitation, injury, trauma

AO3 ver

The locker room seemed impossibly large when Mirtala first saw it; a bench in the center more than half her height and ten lockers each as tall as her in two rows on the wall.

Mirtala had only ever heard about the locker room in passing; never from Dion, who hated talking about the arena to her, but from the Wolves and sometimes from Aster and the other kids. Of those groups, only the Wolves had ever seen the locker room, but Aster and the rest just loved to boast about how well they’d do when they were finally old enough for the arena, loved to boast about how they knew so much about it already.

But it wasn’t Aster and the rest who were standing in the locker room, a Wolf’s hand on their shoulder. It was Mirtala, her braids twisted into two tight little buns.

“Your outfit’s in the middle locker on the bottom,” the Wolf said, gently nudging Mirtala forwards. “You won’t be going in right away, but better to try it on now.”

The locker in question was unlocked. Mirtala wasn’t entirely convinced that whatever was inside would fit her—it had only been a few days since Creed drafted a contract for her, only a few days since she’d leapt into the arena with an ill-fitting wolf mask. Surely, with everything that happened in Ouroboros, there hadn’t been time to create a new outfit—every competitor in the arena was an adult or close enough, after all, and none of them were very close to Mirtala in size or stature.

To her surprise, the outfit she pulled out fit her well enough. The pants and boots and black shirt was much like Dion’s, but sized down to fit her. The shirt had the number 054 embroidered on the back in shimmery white thread—did Dion’s outfit have the same, under his vest? Mirtala figured it must have.

Where Dion’s vest was red with gold accents, Mirtala’s was white with red accents. It reminded her of candy canes, almost, or playing cards—there was a red heart on the back. Red-dyed faux feathers lined the collar, soft around Mirtala’s neck. She turned back to the locker for the final piece.

A red and white chickadee mask greeted her, the carefully shaped beak seeming to gleam under the locker room lighting. The paint was bright, unfaded by time, free of chips. It looked brand new. It looked like it’d fit her perfectly.

Mirtala pushed the mask on, reaching back to tie it.

It felt like a damnation.

+=+=+=+=+

The brawl was well underway by the time Mirtala was guided to the arena. She took a moment to peer through the gate, watching. The Opossum was already lying face down in the dirt—was he down for good, or would he get back up later? The Rhino was charging after the Rabbit, ducking around and under the obstacles in her attempts to reach hare. The audience was loud, the resounding din of the cheers and jeers louder than the groan of the gate as it rose.

“Good luck.” The Wolf shoved her forwards, out of the shadow of the gate into the searing light of the arena.

The announcer’s voice blared over the loudspeakers. “What’s this? A new challenger appears!” The audience roared. “Introducing the Chickadee! You may know her from a few nights ago, but this is her official debut! Let’s give her a warrrrrrm welcome!”

Mirtala steeled herself. She tried to imagine the arena before her as one giant jungle gym. A giant game of tag—that’s what she was about to participate in. Just a game of tag.

The announcer continued, “The first challenger to catch the Chickadee wins! Can she evade her powerful opponents? Let’s find out!” The audience was too loud, the lights too bright.

The Rhino snorted. Mirtala wasted no time in somersaulting to the nearest set of painted metal bars and flinging herself up atop them, darting about a monkey bar-like structure that curved up and over and around. The Rhino couldn’t reach her up here, so Mirtala took a moment to breathe.

Thunk. Thunk.

…Nevermind. The bar shook again as the Rhino kicked at one of the supports, and Mirtala cartwheeled over to a maze-like arrangement of metal panels. The Rhino circled around the entire thing—Mirtala had hoped to lure her into the maze entirely. Phooey.

The Rabbit chose that moment to try attacking the Rhino, landing a kick right into her leg. But the Rhino was built like a tank and it showed—she simply whirled around to face the Rabbit, who was quick to dart off.

Keep things interesting.

It was Mirtala’s whole job, in this arena—if she failed to do that, then she might as well have lost. She walked along the top of the maze walls, leaping over to another set of metal bars.

The cage bars cast shadows across the arena. Mirtala’s mask pressed against her face. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the Rhino with all of the judgment she could muster. “Are you even trying? My Nona could move faster than you!”

That did the trick. “You—” The Rhino slammed her shoulder into the pole, making the whole thing wobble. Mirtala didn’t fall, though, holding on tight. She focused not on the woman attempting to tear the structure out of the ground, but on the Opossum on the structure behind her, slowly creeping forwards.

“My baby brother’s stronger than you! He’d have knocked this whole thing over by now!” Throwing all these insults didn’t sting as much as Mirtala expected—maybe it helped that they were (kind of) true?

(Or maybe the poison of Ouroboros was getting to her. Mirtala dreaded the possibility, but she couldn’t deny it.)

The Rhino bellowed a wordless cry of rage, stepping back to throw even more force into her next shove—

The Opossum leaped down onto her from behind, arms wrapped around her neck. Mirtala watched as the Rhino stumbled this way and that trying to dislodge him. She grasped at his arms, and even slammed him against the metal panel behind her, but he held fast. Within moments, she went down, the Opossum leaping to the side to avoid being pinned.

The Opossum had hardly a moment to bask in his victory before the Rabbit’s boot was driven into his side, slamming him into the metal panel he’d just leapt off of. The Opossum was quick to get back up, darting between two metal poles to avoid the next kick. Mirtala could see his hands shaking. The Rabbit charged him again, and he yelped.

Mirtala’s whole job was to “keep the fight interesting,” as Creed had put it. So she grabbed the bar she was standing on and swung down, her legs catching the Rabbit right in hare’s shoulder. She wished she could aim for hare’s face.

The Rabbit stumbled backwards. Mirtala swung back up, flipping once in the air before grabbing the bar and landing in a handstand. “Nyeh!” She taunted. There was no time to doubt, no time to stop and think—she had to keep moving no matter what. Mirtala couldn’t stop, couldn’t let herself be caught—

She slid down a pole and dashed across the ground. The Rabbit lunged, and Mirtala ducked under hare’s tackle. She rolled to the side to avoid the next tackle, leaping into the air and slamming directly into the small of hare’s back. Hare wheezed.

Mirtala moved to climb back up, out of reach— 

Her whole world tilted as she was lifted into the air by her ankle in one smooth motion. The Opossum held her up in front of himself. The audience cheered.

Mirtala crossed her arms. The fight was over.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion was going to be sick.

Anxiety was taking a hand mixer to his organs, dread trickling down his spine. He’d never been in Creed’s private box before. He never wanted to be in here again.

Creed’s King Cobra mask glittered in the light, covering the upper half of his face. His dark brown eyes still looked like deep pits ready to swallow Dion whole even with the fake scales. “She’s doing quite well for herself.” He commented, voice light.

Dion receded further into the plush seating. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be here, sitting five feet away from this monster of a man, watching his baby sister hop about the arena like it was some kind of playground instead of the awful fighting pit it truly was—

But he wasn’t allowed to leave, either. Creed had insisted, and when Creed insisted on anything it was an incontrovertible order. When Creed insisted, someone else ended up suffering.

“You should be proud,” Creed purred, as Mirtala taunted a woman more than five times her size. “Your sister has more will to survive than half of the roster.” He took another delicate sip of wine, setting the glass down before turning to regard Dion directly. “You are proud, aren’t you?”

Pride was the last thing Dion was feeling. Complete and utter terror, sure, but—

How was he supposed to be proud of Mirtala dancing around the one place he never wanted her to go? How was he supposed to feel anything but a sense of abject failure at his ability to take care of her, to protect her from as much of Ouroboros’ ills as he could? She shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t have ended up in Ouroboros with him—and yet his own idiocy had brought her down with him, and despite his every effort he could do nothing to protect her from his own fucking mistakes—

Dion’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to tear his eyes away from the arena below them, wanted to tear his eyes away from his sister being chased around like something to be caught, like a goal to be grabbed—

But he couldn’t.

Hatred rose up Dion’s throat like bile. He turned his ire towards the monster beside him. Venom gathered on his tongue.

(He’d nearly yelled his throat out when he’d first found out about Mirtala’s shiny new contract. Partly at Mirtala, partly at the Wolf watching him on his next dayshift.

He hadn’t had the courage to do anything more than glare at Creed when he saw him. Had almost yelled, only for his words to lodge themselves in his throat and make it sting and tighten with unshed tears.)

“I hate you.” Dion snarled. “You’re awful. Mirtala doesn’t deserve this, nobody deserves this, and I hate you, you figlio di put—”

“Are you done?” Creed’s voice cut through Dion like a knife. All of his fight left him, his whole being coming to a halt under Creed’s gaze.

Creed grinned, the fangs of his mask gleaming. “So you can be smart sometimes.” He commented.

Dion hated him. Dion hated him so much. But he held his tongue, wary of the Wolf guarding the door, wary of the serpent sipping wine barely five feet away from him.

The audience roared. The sound grated against Dion’s ears. His throat tightened and his eyes stung, his view of Mirtala ducking under the Rabbit blurring—

He hated this. He hated Creed, he hated this place, he hated his inability to do anything to get himself or Mirtala out of this hellhole—

But he hated himself most of all.

+=+=+=+=+

Mirtala cleaned herself up in the locker room, trading her arena outfit for nightclothes. Her hands shook, her heart racing in her chest.

She wasn’t sure what scared her worse—the fight, or the thrill that she had felt during it. Mirtala had felt unstoppable up until the point that she was finally grabbed, on top of the world as she leapt and tumbled around. She didn’t need to win fights, just to evade everyone long enough to make things interesting. But she had wanted to win so badly, wanted to push herself further like it really was just one giant game—

And that scared her more than anything. Would she let that competitiveness control her? Would she let that need to win take her over until the Mirtala in the chickadee mask was unrecognizable to her? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

The exhaustion in her bones, the lingering adrenaline from throwing herself around the arena like it was one giant obstacle course—

It was satisfying. It was just like home, just like tiring herself out practicing her performance and pushing herself to go higher, farther, faster—

Uncertainty and fear swirled in her stomach. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream and kick and shout until the emotions swelling in her heart didn’t seem so impossibly big. She wanted to cry.

But no tears ever came.

+=+=+=+=+

Their room was bigger when Mirtala got back. Her hair hung loosely around her shoulders, water dripping off onto her back.

Dion was waiting on his bedroll when she returned. His face scrunched through five different expressions in the span of a second at the sight of her, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

(He looked like he’d just cried. Mirtala still wanted to cry, herself.)

Wordlessly, Dion turned away, his expression stone.

Whatever. Mirtala grabbed Francis III and sat down on her own bedroll. Dion could stay mad for all she cared; she wasn’t going to stop. She had finally found something to do that could help, and she wasn’t going to let Dion talk her out of it.

(She wasn’t allowed to, besides.)

She clutched the plushie tighter. When Dion came back from the arena, he curled around her until their breathing matched. So why, when Mirtala came back from the arena, did Dion refuse to look at her? Was he really that mad at her?

(Probably. He’d yelled at her when he found out about the contract, his face twisted into a monstrous snarl of hurt and anger.)

Her eyes stung. Mirtala sniffed, begging herself not to cry. She was strong! She was brave! She had to be, to survive here in Ouroboros. And she was.

She heard Dion move behind her. Felt his hand ghost over her shoulder before withdrawing. “Tala—” He started, only to fall silent.

She didn’t turn around.

(Later that night, when Dion’s breathing had long evened out, she tucked herself against his side, pulling his arm around her and imagining that he’d put it there, that he’d pushed through his stupid doubt and held her himself instead of holding back like a coward—

Mirtala clutched Francis III closer. She hated this place. She hated it so much.

But she was still powerless to do anything about that.)

[desceros]

F!Donnie's reaction to the discovery of f!viola-chan pregnancy? *Gives you the biggest puppy eyes as possible as I sulk after reading chapter 19* I beg of you for some fluff before my heart can't take it.

[yelling as i walk around the dash with this fic in a makeshift hawking tray] come get yer symphony copium right here folks symphony copium we got yer symphony copium donatello/reader; female reader; rated m (lil bit of spice)

“You smell… really good.” 

It’s a rare evening: Donnie’s actually in bed with you, no one got hurt today, everyone made it home, and with the success of the latest supply run there’d been food enough to go around. Your already-smiling face brightens further at his words, and you laugh as he presses close to burrow his face in your shoulder from behind.

“So you’re going to crush me into the mattress?” you ask, expecting him to make some kind of quippy retort about how he does that most nights anyway; but he doesn’t. He’s still smelling you, like your scent is intoxicating him somehow. “…Donnie?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his beak running over your skin, his brow furrowing as he concentrates. It’s a confusing mix; his intense study makes you a little nervous, but he’s holding you so gently and filling every inch of your personal space with himself, making it nearly impossible to think about anything else.

“Don? Is everything okay?” you ask after a moment, going to roll over to face him only to freeze when he clutches at your body and pins you in place, a low rumbling sound from deep inside his shell searing straight to the animal place in your brain that screams for you to obey your mate. Shivering, worried, aroused, you comply.

…He’s still scenting you. 

“Donnie. Donnie.”  Urgency fills your voice, and though you don’t move—not that you could, what with how he’s got his hand on your shoulder and his legs strategically on yours—you do put enough emphasis in your tone that he finally pulls out of whatever turtle-brain part of himself he’d sunk into.

“…You…” he starts, his voice something that sounds a bit like wonder. 

“Donnie, for fuck’s sake, what—”

“You’re pregnant.”

This time, you freeze without his command. The word bounces around in your head—pregnant pregnant pregnant—and bruises the sides of your skull for how hard it hits. 

“…Is that… Is that even possible?” you ask, trying to turn. Again, he puts pressure on you, not letting you move. He isn't on top of you, not quite, but you're not going anywhere. One part of you wants to scream in frustration, but you can also feel the way his weight calms the panic that you see just on the edge of your reaction, its gnarly tendrils ominous and bleak. “How is that—We can’t—?”

“Apparently we can,” he says, slightly muffled from where he’s still scenting you. “Fuck, you—you smell so good. I have to get up in a few hours. I’m supposed to be sleeping right now. All I can think about is fucking you while you smell like this.”

His hot words, combined with the way he uses his grasp on you to roll his hips against yours, make you keen into the dark air of his lab. Still, you claw your way back, refusing to let him melt your brain. This is—This is important, you have to—you’re fucking pregnant in the apocalypse, there’s so much you need to—

“Donnie, we have to—” you start, but he cuts you off by sinking his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, one hand sliding down to press low on your stomach as he arches into you again, then again. Fuck; he knows your body better than you do, and with a twist of his fingers he has you nearly begging for him.

“Yeah. We do,” he murmurs, talking about something completely different and, infuriatingly, still managing to set your blood on fire. “You’re so pretty. Always feel good. Amazing. You’re incredible.”

…Oh, you think, hearing it in the tremble of his voice. Feeling it in the way that his fingers go light on you, the way he’s curling around you more than he is crawling on top of you. The gentle, gentle, gentle weight of his palm against where it’s not just you inside your body anymore. The curve of his mouth against your skin between the wet kisses and nips where he's drunk on you.

“…You’re happy?” you ask quietly, uncertainly, and that, that’s what finally pulls him to you.

“Of course,” he says, like it’s an absolute not to be questioned. “Why wouldn’t I be? I love you.” Then, going still, he seems to consider that there might be an alternative reaction. “…Are you happy?”

You stare at the wall in front of you, mismatched and haphazardly scraped together. Just out of your hearing range, you know there are millions of hungry aliens looking to erase the very memory of you and the ones you love off the surface of the planet. It’s cold in the winter and sweltering in the summer. There’s almost never enough food. Only Donnie’s desalination machine keeps water from being an issue, and it’s a delicate, delicate heartbeat for the entire operation. Any day, you could die. Any day, you could lose him. Hope is a butterfly wing between you all; beautiful but gossamer-thin. 

You roll over to face him. This time, he doesn’t stop you.

He’s—god. Happy doesn’t even begin to touch it, you think, cupping his cheek with your hand and tracing your thumb at the line where his mask would be if he were wearing it. You haven’t seen his eyes this bright in… in… maybe ever, you think. His mouth is frowning now, waiting for your reaction, tempering his own, but you can see the shape of where he’d been smiling stupidly a mere moment ago. 

“I’m… worried,” you tell him, whispering softly between you. “I’m scared. I’m—I’m so, so scared. I’m shocked. I’m…” 

Donnie puts his hand over yours, keeping your palm pressed to his skin. It’s all you need. 

“…I’m happy.” 

His mouth goes back to that easy smile, his forehead pressing to yours as he pulls you close. This close, you can see the way his eyes are a little wet, and, oh, oh, he’s—he’s so much more than happy. It’s contagious; his delirious joy spilling over and making you giddy with the very idea of getting to share something like this with him. 

Sniffling, you press a quick kiss to his lips, laughing wetly when he chases you for more, tucking his face into your throat and inhaling deeply like he can’t stop. His hand finds your skin beneath your shirt, and his teeth find you again, the low rumbling churr of hunger intermingling with the light chirps of jubilation. He’s his own symphony of contentment, filling the lab and drawing from you giddy little laughs that tickle before the two of you fall to familiar whines and keens and mewls instead. Through it all, he's careful; gentle; worshipful; a reverence of you that makes you tremble even more than his sweet touch.

There will be time for the rest of it, you decide, letting his fingers coil with yours above your head as he slides inside on a gasped chant of love you love you love you that fills you to your very soul.

For now… you’ll just be happy.

[payphoneangel]

📝 Writing Patterns Tag Game 📝

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

Oooh how fun! Thank you for tagging me @shallowseeker 💞 I'm going to go in reverse chronological order to see how my writing style has developed as well!

Universal Donor When Sam applied to Stanford, he needed an ID, a permanent one. He decided to use Bobby’s address as his own, that was the only way he could know any papers Stanford sent would get to him safely, without Dad or Dean seeing. He crafts his fake drivers license carefully and delicately. Brown hair, hazel eyes, 5’11,” 150 lbs. He hesitates, for a moment, then writes “M” under sex. He pulls the license number off some freshly dead citizen of Huron, SD, as Bobby instructed. He looks again at the template driver’s license online, checking for anything else he’d need to add. At the very bottom corner, a little red heart sits before the word “DONOR.”

If I Believe You Dean pauses as he’s putting on his shirt, noting his body in the mirror. He’s wearing only his boxers. His eyes glance across the familiar rolls and splattering of tattoos. The freckles and the sunspots and the barest hint of wrinkles. Cas tells him he wears his age well. Dean tells himself he wears his age well. His eyes linger on his chest.

take my hand (hold on forever) Leviathan are so fucking loud. Tendrils wrap around Dean’s arm and waist, hoisting him off the ground. Dean plunges his knife into its side, and as a ‘thank you’ it howls right into his ear and sends him flying through the air. Landing heavily, he both hears and feels the crack of his chest before his head slams into the ground, hard. 

there's no cell service in the afterlife Castiel draws in a pained gasp.  He has lungs again, a mouth again. He opens his eyes, and the spinning floor of the dungeon welcomes him as he falls to his knees. He looks to where the brick meets concrete, the last place he saw Dean, the look of remorse and terror still seared into Castiel’s mind. Cas hears a thump behind him. He turns around. 

Not Whole, Not Holy A simmering feeling of longing starts to well in Castiel’s chest. It originates in the deepest part of his core, radiating outward in waves and fading into a tingling restlessness in his fingertips. He lets out a pained sigh, rolling over onto his side. The sunset glares a bright orange hue into his small cabin through the window. He covers his face with his arm, shutting out the dusty twilight, and waits.

A Midsummer Night's Dean “Y’know, I think Timon and Pumbaa are gay.”  Cas hums, considering. “Why do you think that?” 

Prelude It was a straightforward order.  Castiel finds the car in a small Midwest town, with only Dean inside.

Ask Me Why My Heart's Inside My Throat “Cas, you got your ears on? We got a problem we could use your help with.”  Dean’s voice resonates deeply in Castiel’s Grace. With a thought he flies to Dean, finding himself on a weathered fishing boat on the East coast. The ocean slaps against its side. The sky is swimming with the promise of rain.

Spellbound It wasn’t like he planned for this to happen.  Rowena held out her hand to Sam. “The crow beak, if you would.”  He had every intention— good and pure intention— of following Rowena’s instructions. But when they were in the same room together, she seemed to know exactly how to move and talk and even blink in the most distracting way possible. 

Long Black Cloud Coming Down Something was wrong with Sammy.  Course, they had just salted a spec. It was a shotgun rockin’ dug out salt’n’burn. Dean couldn’t exactly blame him for looking worse for wear. But there was an edge to the way he hunched over himself in the booth. He was bent like a paperback, folded and frayed. He looked sallow. Dean worried his thumb against the side of the linoleum tabletop.  Maybe it was just shitty diner lighting.

If anyone is interested in reading any of these, here they are.

Ah how fun to see them all lined up like this! I learned to be punchier with my intros as I went. My first couple of works start with big blocks of text, but I started playing around more with paragraph length by Take My Hand. And with the last two, I finally figured out how to write in past tense! Only took me 8 tries lol.

I think I developed a pattern for intros as I went: Short, punchy action/dialogue, followed by longer paragraph to explain the setting/situation.

It's interesting to see which characters/dynamics struck my fancy at any given time. I started with Sam Insanity, took a nice long stroll in the Destiel Enchanted Forest, then returned to my roots with more Sam Insanity.

Tagging: @kingflups @cutemothman @bloodydeanwinchester @kerryweaverlesbian and anyone else who'd like to play!

[meet-the-far]

Prompt 1: Envoy

Strong and wide were the wings of the mighty yol that sat upon the altar, its image carved into marble and adorned with ornaments of polished stone, twisted brass and macrame string. Incense burned thickly from the nearby braziers, filling the cavern with plumes of sweetened earth that coiled and billowed through the air before escaping between cracks in the limestone walls. Below, upon the dais, the familiar black stumps of the Kagon’s candles burned with steady flame inside a wooden basin – a light unto the path of those lost souls who sought guidance from the wise bird.

Kaito stood at the base of its pedestal, a string of wooden beads clutched tightly in his hand. His eyes were transfixed on that viciously intricate visage, carved with such skill and craftsmanship that he almost swore it was real. The beak curved into a fine, razor-sharp edge that looked capable of goring through even the toughest of scales and turning the soft flesh underneath into minced meat. A pair of rubies sat deep inside each hollowed socket, the torchlight reflecting off its prismatic surface giving way to the illusion of a blazing fire smoldering within. This appearance was further accentuated by each and every feather on its body masterfully sculpted into roaring waves as if to convey the very essence of a living, breathing flame, and as he gazed upon its full glory, he thought he could even feel the intensity of its heat.

Is this what I looked like? He wondered to himself, his knuckles burning white around the wooden beads as they creaked against one another. Is this what they saw?

Though many a fortnight had passed since that fateful day, what flashes of memory he could still recall had seared themselves into his mind’s eye. The fear on her face. The taste of blood and ash on his tongue. The scorching walls of blackened fire. The wet tearing of meat and sinew giving way beneath his fingers and the blood-curdling shriek that followed when he took that woman’s arm…

A surge of sickness bubbled up in his stomach at that last thought. His throat clammed shut, his saliva suddenly thick, and it took every conscious effort not to let himself heave his last meal onto the floor. Although he later learned of the woman’s survival thanks to the combined efforts of the Dotharl and the Kagon, the very idea that he was capable of such a thing left him nauseated and dizzy. How could he, a man devoted to a life of purity, do something so unbelievably cruel? And even if it wasn’t exactly him at the time, it didn’t change the fact that it was his flesh that had done it. He was still responsible. After all, hadn’t he been the one to unleash Her in the first place?

Kaito swallowed. He was the reason for the iloh’s destruction. The reason so many lives were lost, and those who remained were left to pick up the pieces and start anew. They blamed him for it. He could see it in the wary glances of the tribesfolk that passed him by, though few voiced it out loud. And they were right. In his eagerness to do a good thing, he mingled with powers he did not understand and instead brought about their condemnation. Now, they were the ones paying the price.

Was he even allowed to call himself pure anymore?

If he hadn’t gone to that mountain… If he hadn’t been so foolish as to follow those children… If he had listened to the cries of the earth reaching out to him… if he had only done something different…

Lost in his thoughts for as long as he was, Kaito failed to notice the creeping sensation that prickled down his spine like icy fingers until it was already too late, tendrils of malice plunging deep into his flesh until it squeezed forth a sharp gasp from his lungs. His eyes flew wide, the scales along the back of his neck and upper arms lifting at the sudden chill that rushed through him, freezing his blood where he stood. And then he heard it, a dark and drawling voice that teetered between malevolence and amusement:

“How curious… a palescale, here of all places…”

Spurred into motion by this new and unfamiliar voice, Kaito spun on his heel to face the perpetrator. He didn’t know what to expect – another Dotharl perhaps, or maybe even a close relative of that strange spider-like Buduga. What he saw instead was a hooded man, unassuming in appearance and dressed head to toe in black fabrics and ornaments of bone akin to the Kagon. He was slightly hunched over and clutched a gnarled staff in his right hand. Even his pale, ashen skin was like unto those belonging to the nocturnal tribe, but something was somehow… off.

It was his eyes.

One moment they were a striking blue, and the next they would shimmer into a bleeding red, but then he would blink, and before he knew it, they had turned back into that cold, icy hue. Kaito would’ve assumed it was merely a trick of the torchlight, but there was a certain heaviness about this man that pressed against his shoulders, beckoning him to fall on his knees.

He refused.

He knew this sensation – had felt it many times back in the temple when an object inhabited by a shikigami was brought in for the monks to purify. The beads around his wrist felt numb as he began to run his thumb over each one, counting them in his head, and he murmured a prayer. Whoever, or whatever this man was, he did not belong in the natural world.

“Are you frightened?” the man spoke with a slight tilt of his head, and the corners of his lips curled into a smile that showed far too many teeth.

Kaito frowned, wanting to deny him, but the halt in his throat gave him reason for pause. “…No,” he croaked at last, but he knew it wasn’t entirely the truth.

Suddenly the man leaned forward upon his staff, the red orb nestled against its shaft glinting softly in the low light. Down those silvery eyes went, and then back as though he were sizing up a delectable meal. “Liar,” he teased, his deep chuckle reverberating against the cavern walls, the sound amplified as though there were many giggling voices all around them. “I can see the way you tremble on your own two feet.” He paused and swiveled his head again, this time to the other side and his smile somewhat fell. Now, he let forth a delighted hum. “Curious… how curious indeed…”

“What is it you want?” Kaito snapped, though he immediately regretted it. He knew he ought to hold his tongue especially towards a man with such a threatening aura, but between the prodding of his scale color and his treatment by the Xaela in recent days, his patience had long been stretched thin.

But the man simply laughed. Mockingly. Aggravatingly. Kaito imagined himself punching this man in his damned mouth, though the thought had been fleeting one. “My, aren’t you a testy one? Surely, you’ll have earned your scales with that attitude of yours,” he said with a wry grin.

Kaito ground his teeth and said nothing. The man was making jest of him, as many of the Xaela often did, but he refused to react. And why should he? He didn’t know this man, had nothing to prove nor allegiance to show him. All he wanted was for him to get to the damned point, and preferably far away from him.

In his hand, a finger twitched against the wooden beads.

Eventually the man continued, taking Kaito’s silence in stride with a leisurely wave of his hand. “That is why you are here, no? To prove yourself amongst your tribesmen despite being so… tainted.” He sneered wickedly at that word.

Again, Kaito didn’t respond to his goading, but his words had pricked a dagger deep inside his heart. That’s what he was, wasn’t he? Tainted – in both body and soul. Did this man know? About his association with the Red Bird? He swallowed at the thought, suddenly aware of the sweat rolling down the back of his neck.

Soon the man realized that Kaito had no intention of budging from his stance until he gave answer to his question, and the man heaved an exasperated sigh. “Bah, spoil sport... I thought you might at least make my visit interesting. I suppose such entertainment is too much to ask.” He paused as he pulled back on his staff and settled its base near his side. Strings of sheep bone rattled off the top of it. “Very well… I am looking for someone. The Ezen of this… quaint little abode. My condolences to the former one, by the by. Dreadful news, that was. We were…” he rolled his hand at the wrist as if he could waft the correct term into being, “partners, of a sort. It is only proper that I seek out the new one, hmm?”

The Ezen? Exactly what kind of partnership did he have with this man? Surely nothing good, if this stifling aura had anything to say about it. And while he didn’t much care for the wellbeing of the new man in charge, he had little reason to believe anything good could come out of the two meeting one another. So, he thought to buy them some time. “Sorry,” he shrugged weakly, careful with his next words. He had to be convincing, lest the man see right through them. “I… think they’re still deciding who should hold that title.”

The coldness in those eyes were almost palpable as they glowered down at Kaito and bore through his soul, an unspoken promise written into them. Did he know he was lying? The lump in his throat was back, pressed painfully up against his windpipe like someone had suddenly clamped their fingers around it. Kaito held his breath for as long as he could, fighting his every urge to push it back down.

And then, to Kaito’s relief, the man turned away. Disappointment was etched all over his face, his lips pursed into a flat line. “That so?” He stood straighter now, evidently not needing the support of his staff as he held his head high. “…Unfortunate. One would think they had someone ready in hand to take the mantle.”

He believed him? Kaito was almost certain the man knew better, and even took a cautious exhale through his nose so as to not draw attention. But the stranger seemed to have taken an immediate disinterest in him once he was proven to be of no use, so much that he didn’t so much as cast his eyes back in his direction. It was relieving, and yet a bit unsettling at the same time. Kaito had never been a particularly good liar. What if all this came back to get him? Already he was on a continuous streak of bad luck… Did he somehow just make it worse?

Suddenly the man raised a knuckle to his chin, his head tilted with a look of thought. He was considering something, and Kaito dreaded to hear what it was. “Hmm… yes. In that case, it would be most practical if I tarried long enough to hear the announcement.” He twisted around again, flashing rows of those wicked teeth. When he spoke again, there was a playful lilt in his tone as though he knew. “I do believe you will be seeing me around.”

Kaito felt his heart drop. He was not looking forward to it.