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vavuska · 4 years ago

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CRUELLA, THE STORY OF A PUPPY SLAUGHTER (Part 2)

Here for part 1:

Part 1 - Summary:

In the previous part we saw how was originally described Cruella de Vil in Dodie Smith's 101 Dalmatians: a rich heiress, bossy, cruel toward animals, obsessed with fancy jewls, luxury and also fur coats. Cruella met Anita at school, they were in friendly terms, even if Anita described Cruella as a menacing student, expelled from school for drinking ink. Dodie Smith wrote that Cruella comes from a troublesome family: her ancestor was a serial killer, with the supernatural ability to summon storms and a tail (reference to Bram Stoker's Dracula and the devil). Cruella has strange eating habits (uses a lot of pepper, the Devil's spice) and is usually cold (as a corpse or a vampire). Cruella was so obsessed with fur to marry a furrier not for love but only for his job. Cruella's husband is weak and she is the dominant element in the couple, she also forced him to take her surname after their marriage.

We saw also the rapresentation of Cruella in 1961 cartoon version of 101 Dalmatians. Cruella is still a old friend of Anita. Her main colors are red (her loudy red car is the fist thing we see of Cruella) — expressing blood, anger, determination and passion — and green (she is always surrounded by nasty green smoke that comes from her cigarette) that rapresents envy, sickness and greed.

Her appearance is very particular, because she looks like a skeleton and her skin is very white - pale, very different from the healthy pink one of the other characters. She looks like a corpse, she looks sick in this 1961 version of 101 Dalmatians.

Her entrance is accompanied by a song, written by Roger, in which he anticipates the evil intention of Cruella and underlight the disturbing connotations of her surname (Count de Ville is one of Dracula's alias; Cruella de Vil is a pun name on “cruel devil”).

3 - Cruella in 1996

The 1996 live action of 101 Dalmatians the entrance of Cruella is anticipated by a sequence in which we heard a news London Zoo discovered the excoriated carcass of its prized 3-year-old female Siberian tiger, then the news reporter says that according to animal protection groups that monitor the international trade that a white Siberian tiger's fur is so rare that the offer of a pelt would surely draw the attention in contraband. And then the journalist ask “Who cold do something so horrible?”

Then enters Cruella. She wears veiled garment complete with Balenciaga-inspired extreme shoulders and floor-length black and white fur cape.

We saw this mysterious woman with veiled face and a long fur coat - we doesn't know she is Cruella yet - , exiting from her black and white 1974 Panther Deville, license plate “De Vil”. This version of the car is more closed to the book's one.

In Dodie Smith's book, Cruella's chauffeur-driven car is black-and-white striped, which Mr. Dearly describes as “a moving zebra crossing”, and Cruella boasts that it has the loudest horn in London, which she insists on sounding for the Dearly couple.

We saw Cruella shaking the ashes of her cigarette on the shiny and impeccable shoes of her vallet Alzonzo, while he tries to not look bothered by this lack of respect, and then we saw Cruella entering in a luxurious place called “House of De Vil”. Her red cigarette holder — switching from the turquoise the 1966 animated version favored — matched with her brilliant red lipstick, makes a great contrast to her black and white attire and also underlight the psychology of color typical of Disney villains: red is associated with malice, evil (hell and the devil), blood, danger, strength, power, determination and passion.

Now we have a sight of this long railway-like white hallway surrounded by exotic fur-clothes. Now we know she is a stylist and that she is maybe the one who cold be interested in the fur of the dead Siberian tiger.

A crowd of terrified / adoring employees hurry to greet the woman: “Good morning, Miss De Vil”.

Finally Cruella enters in her office and takes off her hat with veil, reveling her double-colored hair. She is Cruella De Vil in all her glory.

This sequence recalls openly the Devil Wears Prada.

This version of Cruella played by Glenn Close is much more human that the 1961 version. She is more charismatic too and also more fashionable. Her entrance is not as scary as the 1961 version, but shows her obsession for fur, her violation of the law and abuse on animals (also at those at risk of extinction) and her high level stylist house of fashion.

She isn't Anita's friend anymore, she is Anita's boss.

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While walking to her office, Cruella meets Anita, played by Joely Richardson. She spots that Anita is working on a new model (no more white tiger stripes, but dalmatian's spots). Anita's design catches her eyes and interest, as well as Anita's dog, Perdi: they had a strange chat about Perdi's fur. That, knowing already the plot of the movie and the news details Roger and Pongo were hearing in the previous scene, well, this conversation sounds a lot disturbing.

Cruella: “Anita, darling.”

Anita: “Good morning, Cruella.”

Cruella: “What a charming dog.”

Anita: “Thank you.”

Cruella: “Spots?”

Anita: “Yes, she’s dalmatian.”

Cruella: “lnspiration?”

Anita: “Yes.”

Cruella: “Long hair or short?”

Anita: “Short.”

Cruella: “Coarse or fine?”

Anita: “l’m afraid it is a little coarse.”

Cruella: “Pity!”

Anita: “But it was very fine when she was a puppy.”

Cruella: “Redemption! We need to have a little girl talk. Come to my office. Bring the drawing.”

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Ok. The next scene contains a very popular quote from this movie.

We are in Cruella's office: she has just invited Anita to talk about her design. Cruella wants a new coat and would love to wear the one that has just see at Anita's desk. Let's remeber she doesn't want to wear Anita's puppies already, for now is just an abstract idea about someone else's puppies, but they are still talking about Dalmatians' spots, compared with leopard ones and Anita seems to be perfectly fine. I don't think she knows already of Cruella's criminal way to obtain fur from animals at risk of extinction that her henchmen steal from Zoos, but Anita works for a woman who loves to wear REAL fur. I just can't imagine Cruella wearing any faux fur coat. This is not a crime, because it's legal wear fur coats made of mink, sable and ermine and such, but I found very weird that Anita is not having any suspect about Cruella's intention, because she is working on a model of striped tiger fur and Cruella lives for fur, worship fur. She just could not accept to wear faux fur.

However, Anita doesn't seem bothered at all by this strange talk about her dog's fur (yes, dog are not coats), but as a woman who works for fashion/fur industry and loves dogs she should know that in some parts of the world it is legal using cat and dogs to make clothes. I simply can't understand why she is not having any reaction at Cruella's strage interest about Perdi's fur.

Cruella and Anita talk about their work and Cruella makes lovely appreciation for Anita's drawings: she says she is talented and she doesn't want to risk to lose her pen.

That's now that Anita says she would not left Cruella's House for another job, she would left only if she decided to be a stay-at-home mother and wife. Well, no, she talks more genericly of "plans" with a hypothetical, for now, husband/boyfriend, and this could means everything, for example moving to another city, the assumption about marriage is an association made by Cruella that told us a lot of things about how producers would she looks, compared with the family-oriented Disney business plan. This is a very relevant issue we was also in her 1961 version: the losing comparison between Anita's family's oriented live choice and Cruella's — who is sigle, rich and indipendent — one. Cruella loves only her fur coats, while Anita have an husband, a simple house and also a lot of dogs. Cruella is alone, evil, ugly, wears a lot of make up, and not happy, while Anita is married, preatty but in a natural way and happy of her simple lifestyle with her husband and their dogs.

Cruella: “Now, darling, tell me more about these spots. l did leopard spots in the ‘80s. Well, dalmatian spots are a little different, aren’t they? Cozy. Classic.”

Anita: “Cuddly. Less trashy.”

Cruella: “Exactly! Do you like spots, Frederick?”

Frederick: “Oh, l don’t believe so, Madame. l thought we liked stripes this year.”

Cruella: “What kind of sycophant are you?”

Frederick: “Um, what kind of sycophant would you like me to be?”

Cruella: “Frederick… l’m beginning to see spots. What would it cost us to start again on next year’s line?”

Frederick: “Millions.”

Cruella: “Can we afford it?”

Frederick: “Well, yes--”

Cruella: “Pay it, darling. Now go away. l have to talk to Anita.”

(...)

Cruella: “Sit down, please. How long have you been working for me?”

Anita: “Uh, two years last August.”

Cruella: “And you’ve done wonderful work in that time.”

Anita: “Thank you.”

Cruella: “l don’t see you socially, do l?”

Anita: No.

Cruella: “And you’re not very well-known, despite your obvious talent.”

Anita: “Well, notoriety doesn’t mean very much to me.”

Cruella: “Your work is fresh and clean, unfettered, unpretentious. lt sells. And one of these days… my competitors are going to suss out who you are… and they’re going to try to steal you away.”

Anita: “Oh, no. lf l left, it wouldn’t be for another job.”

Cruella: “Oh, really?bWhat would it be for?”

Anita: “Well, l don’t know. Um, if l met someone, if working here didn’t fit in with our plans.”

Cruella: “Marriage.”

Anita: “Perhaps.”

Cruella: “More good women have been lost to marriage… than to war, famine, disease and disaster. You have talent, darling. Don’t squander it.”

Anita: “Well, l don’t think that it’s something we have to worry about. l don’t have any prospects.”

Cruella: “Thank God.”

Cruella makes a very cynical — but historically appropriate and also very sharable — critic about marriage. She was right, expecially because of what we saw about her 1960s version and how she is rooted in anti-feminism and in an open condamn of women's growing emancipation from the “traditional family role” imposed by media in the 1950s and 1960s, rapresented by 1961's Anita. However, Cruella is a cruel, evil villaness, so what she says to Anita is just a condamn made by Disney on women who choose career over family and love.

But, here, Cruella is not a friend of Anita who gives her a kind and appreciable life advice (if we ignore that Cruella is evil), Cruella is Anita's boss and doesn't want to lose a valuable and talented employee, so from this point of view her statement sounds a lot more controversial: women in the 50s lost their job if they got married, they were fired because most of the time bosses made them sign a contract with a marriage bar that allow employers to withdraw from the contract, so their contract would terminate on marriage, or said in a simple way: employers used to fire the soon-to-be wife, because it was clear for them that a wife should focus more on family and house care than on a career (that's because the soon-to-be wife is going to have an husband, the bread-giver of the family).

Nowdays, it's a bitter different, but women that want to have also a family are discriminated in workplaces: employers ask constantly in job interviews of they plan to have a family, if they have some relationships or if they are single. That's because employers would lose money paying for maternity leaves to their female employees that cannot work for some month. A young woman in fertile age with a stable relationship is a risk for a employer more than a young man in fertile age with a stable relationship. A newly mom is more closed to chose a lesser paid job or a part time one compatible to her family then a newly dad.

And also this quote, remember we are talking about the 90s, gives a clear flashback on women's unstable careers back then, but also puts in highlines some stereotypes about women who menage to balance both work and family: their quility of work is lower than before (this is said by Cruella to the new-mom Anita, we will see it below), they are not productive enough, they makes employers lose money, ecc. Nowadays, unlike in the 90s there is a constant svalutation of women who chose to put family first: they have no free time, they have no a social life (well, some shy single woman like Anita doesn't have a frizzy social life too), some kind of lifes are better than others (luxury and exotics vacation are better than reading books, dancing and going to bars with friends is better than playing sports or painting, ecc.) and if they dare to go out with their friends or take time for themselves and their hobbies, society is still ready to shame them for “not being good mothers”. That's not right: everyone should be able to live their life as they want, to have a frizzy social life or just enjoying a little time for themselves, without receiving criticism of any sort.

In the US the marriage bar, the practice of restricting the employment of married women was never explicitly eliminated by federal laws. Marriage bars were widely relaxed in wartime, during World War I and World War II due to an increase in the demand for labor in the assistance of war efforts (mostly because men were at the front).

Since the 1960s, the practice has widely been regarded as employment inequality and sexual discrimination, and has been either discontinued or outlawed by anti-discrimination laws. For example, in Italy marriage bar is declared illegal with law nr. 7 of 1963, that establishes the prohibition of dismissal of female workers for reasons of marriage (later extended also to male workers), and law nr. 1204 of 1971 prohibited dismissal of the working mother within the first year of the child's age (maternity bar).

The main reason of the bar is that married women were supported by their husbands, therefore they did not need jobs. However, marriage bars provided more opportunity for those whom proponents viewed as "actually" needing employment, such as single women or married men (needed to support the family).

Discrimination against married female teachers in the US was not terminated until 1964 with the passing of the Civil Rights Act.

Marriage bars generally affected educated, middle-class married women, particularly native-born white women. Their occupations were that of teaching and clerical work. Lower class women and women of color who took jobs in manufacturing, waitressing, and domestic servants were often unaffected by marriage bars.

However, some State law provides protection for people discriminated for their marital status. For example, in California, discrimination in employment based on marital status is against the law. Under the California Fair Employment and Housing Act (FEHA), it is illegal for an employer to discriminate based on an applicant’s marital status or perceived marital status.

Under the FEHA, it is an unlawful employment practice for an employer to treat an applicant or employee differently based on the employee’s marital status. This includes: Refusing to hire or employ, Refusing to select a person for a training program, Firing, bearing, or discharging an employee, Discriminating against a person in compensation or in terms, conditions, or privileges of employment.

Marital status could refer to whether an individual is married or not, has been married, or plans to get married. This includes: Currently married, Divorced, Married to a same-sex partner or opposite-sex partner, Engaged to be married, Married but separated, Married but seeking a divorce, Widowed, Annulled marriage, Plans to get married someday, Plans to never get married, Other marital states.

Forty years ago, on October 31, 1978, the Pregnancy Discrimination Act (PDA) was signed into law to prohibit discrimination in the workplace on the basis of pregnancy, childbirth, or related medical conditions. Since its passage, more women have been able to continue working while pregnant; they have also been able to work further into their pregnancies without being forced to leave their jobs.

Pregnancy discrimination involves treating a woman (an applicant or employee) unfavorably because of pregnancy, childbirth or a medical condition related to pregnancy or childbirth. The Pregnancy Discrimination Act (PDA) forbids discrimination based on pregnancy when it comes to any aspect of employment, including hiring, firing, pay, job assignments, promotions, layoff, training, fringe benefits, such as leave and health insurance and any other term or condition of employment. Pregnancy discrimination also includes perceived bias when expectant employees experience subtly hostile behaviors such as social isolation, negative stereotyping and negative or rude interpersonal treatment such as lower performance expectations, transferring the pregnant employee to less-desirable shifts or assignments or inappropriate jokes and intrusive comments.

Claims of pregnancy discrimination filed with the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) increased sharply in the 1990s and 2000s, and pregnancy discrimination remains a widespread problem across all industries and regions of the United States. Yet statistics show that in the last 10 years, more than 50,000 pregnancy discrimination claims were filed with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission and Fair Employment Practices Agencies in the United States.

So, yes. Disney here touched a lot of points in about two levels:

Family is more important than a career (successful, unmarried stylist Cruella is the evil one) and if you, a working woman, put career over family you are wrong. Nowday, we know that there isn't anything wrong about putting career first, but also we know that there isn't anything wrong also on putting family first or find a balance between the two. The important thing we should remember is that if we have not equality in working places, we should have not real free choices about our dream life;

It's perfectly fine excluding women in stable relationships or women with children from workplaces, because their work would not be at the level of a single woman, that can sacrifice her free time working late (employers exploitation logic deny free time);

Only child-free single women should be allowed to work, but only until they meet a soul mate (reminiscent of the old Disney penchant for old traditional gender roles).

However, returning at the plot, after that Anita reassures Cruella that she has no marriage prospects on the horizon, Cruella asked to Alonzo to bring Anita's drawings to her and the two women start to discuss about Anita's work, because Cruella want to add a long fur stole to Anita's original model: “I look wonderful in spots”, says Cruella,“we could do this in linen. It would be stunning in fur”. Then Anita remarks that would not be appropriate wearing fur in April, so Cruella give her famous lines: “But it’s my only true love, darling. l live for fur. l worship fur. After all, is there a woman in all this wretched world who doesn’t?” and then makes a joke that anticipates what she will plan to Anita's puppies more over in the movie: “lt is rather amusing, isn’t it? (...) If we make this coat... it would be as if l were wearing your dog.”

Then Anita and Perdi meet Roger (Jeff Daniels) and his dog Pongo, they fall in love and get married. Cruella doesn't like this. Obviously. We see a very enraged Cruella, wearing a black cellophane velvet with black and white coque feather trim, screaming against Anita's “betrayal”, when she read Anita and Roger's wedding publication on a newspaper.

Her anger toward Roger for stealing her best employee, maybe envy for Anita's love (well, it’s Disney), are promptly consoled, when her two henchmen bring her a little present from Mr. Skinner (Nomen omen, this surname fits perfectly creepy scared guy that work as furrier): it's the Siberian tiger found dead and excoriated in the London Zoo at the beginning of the movie. It was Cruella that wanted her fur and at the end she obtained it.

This Mr. Skinner (John Shrapnel) is a sadic taxidermist that enjoys killing and skinning animals alive, just like he did to the female white tiger at the London Zoo. He doesn't speak beacause when he was young, a dog attacked him by tearing open his throat and ripping out his vocal cords in the process, leaving him with a bad scar on his neck and is a little based on Mr. de Vil, Cruella's husband in Dodie Smith's book, but with the difference that Mr. Skinner has a more strong and menacing personality, while Mr. de Vil was weak and totally dependent by Cruella's desires.

Near the end of the movie, we will see in a crescendo of more explicit references to animal abuse, this charming version of Cruella de Vill ordering Cruella De Vil to Mr. Skinner to kill the dogs, because she fells that the police's suspicion are mounting against her: “poison them,” says Cruella “drown them, bash them on the head. Got any chloroform? I don't care how you kill the little beasts, just do it, and do it now!”

(See here for references: X and X)

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In second relevant scene, Roger and Anita are out, walking the dogs, when Anita spots Cruella's car. In fact, as happen at the beginning the black and white 1974 Panther Deville is the first element we see in this scene and anticipate the entrance of Cruella. Recognizing the car, Anita runs to home and there she found Cruella. She welcomes in a very lovely way Anita in her own home, but she is very rude with Roger, who tries his best to be polite during the whole scene. Cruella then mocks Roger about his job (he is a videogame designer, a well paid job nowadays, but that in the 90s can just make snobbish people like Cruella turn up their noses, it's not the classical respectable professions “to make money”). Anita and Roger are just returned from their honeymoon and Creulla acts very nicely toward Anita, she says she missed her and their exchange of ideas, but she isn't happy when Roger announce they are going to have a baby, but Cruella remarks that “she has no use for children”, but she is very interested in Pongo and Perdi's puppies.

Unlike her cartoon version Cruella during the movie shows a lot of different, hiconic and fashionable outfits: at her visit at Anita and Roger's house, she wears a zebra coat dress with mink sleeves with matching Russian-inspired hat, red PVC boots that match with gloves in the same color and material (long fake red nails on each finger) and her red cigarette holder. Her dress also features a practical detail: a cigarette case paired with ammo cartridges as if they are military medals. The zebra stripes also give off the impression of bones or a rib cage for that extra goth vibe. Her lips are permanently stained the color of crimson, while her winged eyeliner adds to her high drama aesthetic.

Despite being set in contemporary London, everything about Cruella's closet defies a specific time period. It is as if she stepped in from the '60s of the original story combined with a century's worth of high fashion references. This is very logic: people have a lot of clothes and is natural for a very fashionable stylist to have and wear a lot of haute couture outfits.

Cruella: “And you must be Rufus.”

Roger: “No, it’s-- it’s Roger. And it’s a pleasure, Miss De Vil.”

Cruella: “What’s a pleasure?”

Roger: “Uh, making your acquaintance.”

Cruella: “Such a sweet thought. l wish l could reciprocate. Tell me, darling, you married him for his dog. Oh, darling, l’ve missed you so. l hate that you’ve taken leave.”

Anita: “But l’m still working. Um, you’ve been getting my sketches?”

Cruella: “Well, it’s not the same thing. l miss the interaction-- And what is it that you do… that allows you to support Anita in such… splendor?”

Roger: “l design video games.”

Cruella: “Video games? ls he having me on?”

Anita: “Oh, no, he’s very good at it. Um, and it’s a growing business.”

Cruella: “Those horrible noisy things that children play with on their televisions?Someone designs them? What a senseless thing to do with your life.”

Roger: “Oh, did Anita tell you the news? She’s going to have a baby.”

Cruella: “ls this true?”

Anita: “Yes.”

Cruella: “Oh, you poor thing! l’m so sorry.”

Anita: “We’re very excited about it, Cruella.”

Cruella: “You can’t be serious.”

Roger: “She is!”

Cruella: “Well, what can l say? Accidents will happen.”

Anita: “We’re having puppies, too!”

Cruella: “Puppies! You have been a busy boy. Well, l must say, that’s somewhat better news. l adore puppies! l’ll expect a decline in your work product.”

Anita: “Oh, l shouldn’t think so.”

Cruella: “Be sure to let me know when the blessed event occurs.”

Anita: “Oh, well, it won’t be for another eight months.”

Cruella: “The puppies, darling. l’ve no use for babies.”

Again here we have a remark of how horrible is Cruella as boss (she says to Anita she expect a decline in her work, and this would make her useless and less precious for Cruella's House) and as person: according to Disney people who doesn't like children are horrible and cruel, but there is a double meaning in Cruella's word: “Iʼve no use for babies” could mean both that she is not interested in maternity (that's perfectly legit, not all like children, are comfortable with them or just dream to have children someday) but also that she couldn't find any material use of babies, while for puppies we know she knows well how to use them: as material for a new fur coat.

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The next scene is a classical recall to the original Disney cartoon of 1961: it's a stormy night and during the lightning flash for a few frames only, we see Cruella as a complete silhouette while few second after she opens the door and enters in Anita and Roger's house, with a big menacing smile on her face.

Pattern clashing will not only stand, but it is also encouraged, as the tiger cape with a leopard lining reveals. Paired with a leather skirt and tiger bodice featuring claw clasps

Again there is the recurring joke about Cruella misnaming Roger (Rufus, Rupert, Roland), if it's intentional (and this version of Cruella doesn't seem to left anything casual) it's a clear remark about how she dislikes Roger, the guy that stole her best designer, if it's not intentional, shows how Cruella find him irrelevant for her purpose at the point she doesn't even bother to rember his name to flatter him. Cruella is not polite or kind to Roger as she is with Anita. She doesn't need Roger, she need Anita and hates Roger for turning down Anita's value for her interests.

In this scene Cruella uses the same words she uses in the 1961 version (“How marvelous. How marvelous! How perfect... Oh, the devil take it! They’re mongrels! No spots! No spots at all! What horrible little white rats!”), but with something new that shows her uncaring nature (“All right, put them in a bag. l’ll take them with me now.”) and again mocks Roger for his “strange” and not prestigious job, when he firstly deny her offer for the puppies (“Oh? You’ve come into some money, have you? Did you design some silly game… that will drive the delinquent kiddies into frenzies of video delight?”).

However, compared to her 1961 alter ego, this Anita is more assertive and talks for herself, saying a determinated “no” to Cruella. Anita also starts to be a bit suspicious about Cruella's intentions (“But, Cruella, what would you do with 15 puppies?”). Roger and Anita this time seems to be equally determinated to refuse Cruella's business proposals.

Cruella crescent rage is underlight by the sounds effects of thunderclaps and it is Anita who says the final “no”.

“All right, keep the little beasts. Do what you like with them. Drown them, for all l care! You’re a fool, Anita! l’ve no use for fools. You’re fired! You’re finished! You’ll never work in fashion again! l’m through with all of you! l’ll get even! Just wait! You’ll be sorry, you fools! You idiots!”

When Roger and Anita refused to sell the puppies, Cruella's rage exploded as happened in the cartoon version (she screams and insults Roger and Anita, she tears the check into a thousand pieces and throws them in Roger's face), but let's remeber she is Anita's boss now: she uses her power and fired Anita's too, now that Anita and Roger refused to Cruella what she want, Anita become immediately useless. In fact Cruella has yet the design for her new outfit, from Anita needed only the puppies and if she cannot obtain them with good manner, well, as happened in the cartoon version, she will steal them.

In the previous part we saw how in the 101 Dalmatians of 1961, the car was the alter ego of Cruella, well, in this 1996 live action, her personality and her obsession is channeled into her outfits. Before it all goes to hell for the fashion maven, her rotation of zebra, leopard, and tiger print reveal she wasn't bluffing when she exclaimed of her fur obsession.

The costumes as designed by three-time Oscar winner Anthony Powell (co-designed with Rosemary Burrows) take Cruella's love of all things animal print to the extreme, delivering jaw-dropping results.

Cruella's entire life is a performance supported by her wardrobe, makeup, and hair. Cruella increases the level of red (it's the outburst of her bloody determination to obtain what se want, it's her mad passion for furs that determinated her end) during the climax with her fur coat of choice, which will soon be ruined by some farm animals. That smell is going to be hard to get rid of, and there aren’t any dry cleaners in prison.

As we saw in the previous part, Cruella's change of luck is well rapresented by her ruined clothes: she is going to jail, her life and career are over, her clothes aren't perfect and fancy anymore.

This happens also in the 102 Dalmatians live action of 2000: red clothing anticipates Cruella's criminal climax, while her ruined clothes are the sign of her defeat.

Nearly at the end of the movie, when her plans are finally reveled, Cruella wears a very unique red “flames” dress: the bodice is organza and silk satin beaded, sequined with a beaded net collar. The skirt is silk satin and nylon net beaded and sequined, lines in ostrich feathers. The headdress is tiered flames made of mirror, metal and painted glass. While her attire during her final metch with the Dalmatian is a black dress with large shoulders that recall Balenciaga, a black lather waist belt and a Gothic necklace with rubies, pearls and diamonds. The fur coat is floor-length black and red, while her headdress is a little hat with black and red feathers.

(See here for references: X and X)

4 - Cruella in Once Upon A Time

More recent version of Cruella can be founded in the ABC TV show Once Upon A Time. I will not make a summary of the themes of the TV because it has a very complex plot and that is not relevant for our comparison. So, let's say only that is a show who feature the adventure of Emma Swan, Snow White (Ginnifer Goodwin) and Prince Charming (Josh Dallas)'s daughter, and her biological son Henry (who was adopted by Regina Mills, the Evil Queen, now mayor of Story Brook) to break the magic curse that turned Enchanted Forest to a modern day Maine town called Storybrook, in which live all the characters from the popular fairy tales we know from Disney adaptations, unaware of their true identities.

Cruella is introduced in Season 4. The evil Rumpelstinskin (Robert Carlyle) recruited her and some other evil lady to regain his Dark Lord magic powers and take his revenge on the people of Storybrook as well as his happy ending.

The first we saw Cruella is at her ungodly hour: she is divorcing from a guy called Mr. Feinberg, strongly in debt and FBI is repossessing her husband's belongings, including her fancy fur coats, her big mansion in Long Island, New York, and her other goods. (See here for references: X)

Cruella plays little importance in the plot, until the Author is released from the book; unable to kill him herself, she pretends to threaten Henry Mills's (Jared S. Gilmore) life to force Emma (Jennifer Morrison) and Regina/Evil Queen (Lana Parrilla) to do so. However, Emma confronts her, not knowing the restriction the Author placed on Cruella, and magically blasts her off a cliff to her death.

The actress chosed to play Cruella de Vil is Victoria Smurfit and her appearance recalls more the 1961 version than Glenn Close. She wears a black night gown with paillettes or little pearls, long red PVC gloves and a white fur coat, but drives her black and white 1974 Panther Deville. However, during the show she is seen also wearing leather black pants, red boots matching with her gloves and several different types of fur coats. Cruella's phone case has dalmatian spot patterns.

Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold snarkily remarks that he recognized Cruella's scent as “desperation and gin”, somewhat suggesting or implying that Cruella is an alcoholic of sorts. Cruella later confirms this, having blamed her misfortunes on “bad judgment and gin”.

Unlike her other version, this Cruella has some a very limited magic powers, and has only been known to accomplish a few specific spells. Her most remarkable power is the ability to control any animal, whether it be a Dalmatian or a Dragon. The green smoke that comes out of Cruella's mouth when she uses persuasion magic on animals is designed to reflect Cruella's green and yellow cigarette smoke in Disney's 101 Dalmatians.

Her other main power is a very limited telekinesis: Cruella is able to enchant her car to drive itself around.

In the 5 Season, after her death, Cruella ends up in the Underworld, a purgatory run by the deity Hades (Gregory Germann). She makes a deal with Hades, who offer her to rule Underworld in his absence and help trap the heroes there. Delighted with the idea of getting to torment souls for eternity, Cruella agrees to the deal. This makes even more evident the similarities with the goddess Hela from Norse Mythology, as both ruled the underworld and have half-black half-white hair.

However, the most important episode about Cruella is “Sympathy for the Devil”, in which we learn about her true story.

"Sympathy for the De Vil" Season 04, Episode 18

In 1920s England, a young and blonde Cruella De Vil (played by Milli Wilkinson as child and Victoria Smurfit as adult) is being mistreated by her mother Madeline (Anna Galvin) as she instructs her Dalmatians to chase her daughter, and is locked in the attic in the same setting that resembles the 1979 Gothic novel Flowers in the Attic by V. C. Andrews. The room where Cruella is locked up is filled with her mother's dog statuettes and dog show trophies. Fast forward to several years later, and that a reporter, who is revealed to be the Author (Patrick Fischler) but is using an alias by the name of Isaac Heller, is paying a visit to the home pretending to seek out a story after having seen Cruella from the attic, only to have Madeline warning him to stay away. Isaac returns and helps Cruella escape from the attic. He then takes Cruella out for a date that includes dinner and dancing. Cruella reveals to Isaac that the reason she was kept in the attic was that she witnessed her mother kill her father and her succeeding husbands; Isaac then reveals to Cruella that he was more than just a reporter and has the ability to use his pen and ink to create magical stories. Isaac proposes that they run away together, and uses his quill and ink to give Cruella her persuasion powers to control animals.

(See here for references: X, X, X and X)

However, for Isaac, his future with Cruella would later take a unique twist that will put his future in danger. When Madeline pays a visit to see him, she tells him that Cruella had lied to him about what actually happened to her husbands: as child Cruella killed her own father, Madeline's first husband, by putting a poisonous flower in his tea. Cruella was a troubled child and her parents had hoped she would grow out of her disturbing behavior. But after Cruella murders her father, her mother fears that Cruella's murderous tendencies will get worse and will become a full fledged serial killer. Not wanting anyone else to get hurt or killed by Cruella and not wanting her daughter to go to prison, Madeline had no choice but to lock her Cruella away from the outside world and keep her close to try to snap Cruella out of her disturbed mind. However Madeline's intentions were in vain as Cruella ended up poisoning her next two husbands. Terrified that Isaac will set her daughter free and start killing more people, Madeline warns Issac to stay away from her, because she is dangerous and can not be saved, while Isaac doesn't believe her, Madeline tells Isaac that Cruella takes everything someone loves and destroys it and tells him to stay away from her or he will suffer the same fate as her two husbands and lose all he holds dear.

(See here for references: X)

When Madeline returns home, Cruella was ready for her, and eventually kills her mother by controlling her Dalmatians and commanding them to attack her.

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Afterwards, Isaac discovers that Cruella has stolen his pen, and goes back to her house to find out that Cruella used her ability to control animals to make her mother's pet Dalmatians turn against her and rip her to shreds, before Cruella herself slaughtered the Dalmatians and made a fur coat out of them.

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«Some people struggle not to be drawn into the darkness. But ever since I was a little girl, I've said... "Why not splash in and have fun?"», says Cruella to an astonished Isaac.

Horrified, Isaac makes a dash for the pen to stop her, but during a struggle the magic ink is spilled onto Cruella. She accidentally ingests some and the ink shows her true colors. As Cruella is about to kill him, Issac uses his powers as the Author to make it so that Cruella can never kill anyone ever again by writing it down on a piece of paper "Cruella De Vil can no longer take away the life of another." As he leaves, Cruella tells him she's not done.

Cruella kept this secret, as intimidation would still work for her needs.

This episode have a lot of Disney reference to the old 1961 version of 101 Dalmatians:

Madeline's car is similar in design and color to Cruella's car from One Hundred and One Dalmatians.

The song that Cruella hears on the radio is a jazz instrumental version of the song "Cruella De Vil", from One Hundred and One Dalmatians.

Ink spills on Cruella, just like Cruella spilled ink on Roger Radcliffe and Pongo in the movie. (One Hundred and One Dalmatians, 1961)

When Cruella uses persuasion magic, the magic comes out of her mouth in the form of green smoke, which is designed to reflect the green and yellow cigarette smoke that Cruella puffs in the movie. (One Hundred and One Dalmatians, 1961)

This 1920s version of Cruella de Vil we see in Once Upon a Time is inspired by Zelda Fitzgerald, the wife of writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. Interestingly, in "Sympathy for the De Vil", Isaac can be seen reading F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel The Great Gatsby. While he is captive in Mr. Gold's cabin, Isaac reads F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. And largely recall what we already saw of Cruella's original version in the book by Dodie Smith: Cruella is a cruel serial killer. She is smart and manipulative, shows no empathy and emotions and uses people for her own needs. She uses Dalmatians as her own weapons to take her revenge on her mother: she turned her own dogs against her and finally removes the last obstacle to her own freedom. Is important to notice that Cruella slaughters and skins the Dalmatians to create a new dalmatian fur coat for her own, that wears victoriously under Isaac horrified eyes. The Dalmatian fur coat is her trophy. Killers like to take trophies and souvenirs from their victims. Keeping some memento — a lock of hair, jewelry, piece of clothing, newspaper clips of the crime — helps prolong, even nourish, their fantasy of the crime or to relive the crime over and over in their minds. Cruella at the end fully reveals herself as the serial killer she is.

When Cruella drinks accidentally Author's ink that transforms her hair black and white, is another reference to the novel The Hundred and One Dalmatians by Dodie Smith, in which is said that Cruella used to drink ink as a child. The dress Cruella is wearing at the jazz club is the dress Bérénice Bajo wears in the the famous 2011 comedy-drama film The Artist. Also the dancing scene between Cruella and Isaac recalls the one between Bérénice Bajo and Jean Dujardin, when play the role of actors Peppy Miller and George Valentin filming a ball scene for a mute movie.

Conclusion

As we saw, all the version of Cruella that were developed time by time, still share the characteristics of a sadic, cruel villaness.

Glenn Close version of Cruella doesn't care about animals' lifes, doesn't care about workers rights or other person's life projects. She uses creepy hanchmen to obtain what she wants, she steals and plot the death of even rare animals for their fur. She uses and manipulates people.

Victoria Smurfit's Cruella is a real serial killer. She is selfish, cunning, manipulative and the violence against animals is just a moment on her murderous revenge on her mother: she used Madeline's pretious dogs to kill her and then kept their skins as souvenir, as serial killers do.

There's no doubt that all those versions of Cruella are evil and Disney simply can not create any positive emotional connection with a woman who murders dogs. It's simply impossible to explain why Cruella hates dog in a way that can justify abuse toward animals. That is why this Cruella movie with Emma Stone is a huge mistake.

As conclusion, I will borrow again the words of composer Bill Lee from the 60s animated version of 101 Dalmatians to say what I think of trailer with Emma Stone as Cruella:

This vampire bat, this inhuman beast

The world was such a wholesome place until

She ought to be locked up and never released

Cruella, Cruella de Vil

66 notes · View notes

recurring-polynya · 3 years ago

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[Renji birthday] Hey, hi. What about Orihime does smt to surprise Renji for his birthday, a thank-you him helping her at New Year celebration? Include fireworks that Renji secretly enjoys? Thanks. Anything (fic, hcs, sketch..) is fine.

I’m sorry this is late, but it’s still the Renji - Orihime Birthday Weekend, so I think it’s okay!

I love the idea of the Renji - Orihime BroTP, but somehow it’s so hard for me to write, I always do a bunch of false starts or get stuck. For this round of prompts, I was trying to do the ones that inspired me the most and I liked the idea a lot more than I had ideas, if you get my drift. Anyway, I love them both too much, though, so I muscled through.

I’m sorry if this is a little ramble-y and quite silly and I didn’t manage to squeeze in fireworks (I’ve written several fireworks scenes in the past and didn’t want to repeat myself), but what it is is four thousand words long. Also, I managed to remember that Kon exists, this is possibly the first time I have ever put Kon in anything. I hope you like it!

Read on ao3 or ff.net

🎁 🎈 🎊

“Inoue,” Renji hissed. “Why am I here?”

Orihime took a quick step backwards as Keigo ran past, screaming. Ryo followed a second later, also screaming. Renji, who had served at Squad 11 for many years, managed to leap out of the way just in time. “It’s Ichigo’s birthday party,” Orihime explained. “He wanted you to come.”

“It’s not though,” Renji pressed. “It’s Arisawa’s birthday, and we’re at Arisawa’s house. I don’t think Arisawa even knows who I am.”

“Yes, she does, silly,” Orihime replied. “I told her lots of stories about you and she said she wanted you to come. There’ll probably be a football match later, and Ichigo told her we could have you on our team, as long as he got Rukia.”

“I got hauled in all the way from Soul Society for football?” Renji asked, sounding not-at-all upset about this.

“No, I told you! Ichigo wanted you to come.”

“But it’s not his birthday.”

“But it is his party. He and Tatsuki share, you see, because their birthdays are so close and they have all the same friends. It’s Tatsuki’s year to host the big friend party. Ichigo just had a little family party on his actual birthday.”

“Ohhhhh,” Renji replied, finally understanding. He nodded for a moment. “What’s a family party?”

---

Orihime cleared her throat, and tapped her in her palm. “Thank you all for coming to this very important meeting.”

Chad, Ichigo, and Tatsuki were all crammed together on Orihime’s couch. Rukia sat on the arm, next to Chad, Kon in her lap. Uryuu sat in Orihime’s desk chair, which she had hauled in from her room.

Orihime thwapped her pointer against the large pad of paper on an easel that she had borrowed from the Student Health Advisors Club. On the first page, she had drawn a large picture of Renji and written his name. “It has come to my attention that Our Friend Renji has never had a Family Birthday Party.”

“Quick question--” Tatsuki interrupted. “Is he wearing a… fur bolero in that picture? And is the bone dragon an actual thing or just...Orihime artistic spice?”

“It’s a cowl,” Rukia said, at the same time as Chad said, “It’s a stole,” and Uryuu said “It’s a capelet.”

“Thank you, that cleared up nothing,” Tatsuki replied.

“It’s his bankai form,” Ichigo said, grumpily. “His sword turns into a giant flying snake skeleton that screams like a pterodactyl. It’s super sick and he let me ride on it twice and that cape thing is really soft, actually, but he says it gets hot. As far as I know it has nothing to do with his birthday.”

“Er, no, I just got carried away while I was drawing,” Orihime admitted. “Your bankai is very cool, too, Kurosaki-kun.”

“Got it, right,” Tatsuki nodded, sounding very much like she just wanted to move on. “He doesn’t have a family?”

“I think you’re worrying over nothing, Orihime,” Rukia said, sounding a teensy bit defensive. “Many people in Soul Society don’t have families. If there’s anyone in Soul Society who’s good at scraping up friends to spend a holiday with, it’s Renji. Everyone likes him. Half the Gotei turns up at the bar for his birthday parties.”

“I know that,” Orihime said quietly. “I know that because last New Year’s, when I was lonely, he played badminton with me, even though he was very, very hungover and pretending like he wasn’t, and then he went and rounded up all my friends in the middle of the night, and before he left, he told me there was nothing wrong with making your own holiday. But family birthdays are different! Family birthdays are about the people who love you most doing special things, just for you!” Orihime set her jaw. “When I was little, Sora always tried to make my birthdays super special! We didn’t have a lot of extra money, but he would take the day off just to spend it with me and we would go to the park or watch movies or he would let me paint his nails and braid his hair. He would take a picture of me and put it in my special birthday album with my height and weight and current favorite food.” Orihime’s mouth snapped shut. Everyone was staring at her. She’d said too much, just like she always did. Her cheeks started to burn.

“When I was little,” Ichigo suddenly said, a little bit too loud, “my mom told us that we could have whatever we wanted for dinner on our birthdays. One year, I…” he paused, his eyes darting over to Tatsuki. “I had just seen Kiki’s Delivery Service, and I was obsessed with that fish and pumpkin casserole the old lady makes?”

Orihime gasped, and clapped her hands over her mouth.

Uryuu rolled his eyes. “Who wasn’t, Kurosaki?”

Ichigo snorted, but his shoulders relaxed a little. “Anyway, it took her most of the day, and I think she must’ve gotten really frustrated at some point because me and my sisters got sent over to Tatsuki’s house so the Old Man could help her. It came out kind of lumpy and huge, but it was delicious, it was exactly what I had imagined it would taste like.”

“I remember that thing,” Tatsuki added. “She made us come over for dinner because there was so much of it. It was incredible.”

“We didn’t do Birthday Dinners for a few years after she died,” Ichigo said slowly. “But then after Yuzu got good at cooking, she said she wanted to try doing it again. My dad really likes the Godfather movies and he always used to ask for spaghetti for his birthday, which it turns out isn’t that hard to make. Karin and me helped out, and we’ve been doing it again ever since. We don’t usually do fancy stuff, it’s just nice to get to pick.”

“Ichigo made me omurice on my birthday and let me use his body to eat it!” Kon announced.

“You didn’t have to tell everyone that,” Ichigo stammered, turning pink. “It’s the only thing I’m good at making.”

“My abuelo always used to sing Las Mañanitas on my birthday,” Chad put in. “First thing in the morning. Sometimes he would come into my room and wake me up. Sometimes I would come down for breakfast and he would be there, with his guitar. He wouldn’t even say ‘good morning’ until he’d sung Las Mañanitas.”

Orihime’s spirits lifted a little. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about!”

Rukia crossed her arms over her chest. “Renji gets up at the crack of dawn. I’m certainly not going over to his place to sing at him while he mixes up his horrible protein beverages.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to be exactly that,” Orihime went on. “I just thought, since his birthday was coming up in a few weeks, maybe we could throw him a party here, in the World of the Living that was… I don’t know… a little more heartfelt than just going out drinking.”

“I think that’s a very thoughtful idea, Inoue,” Uryuu said.

“Oh! I was worried you wouldn’t want to help, because… you know.”

“I had a row with Ryuuken last week,” Uryuu sniffed. “I’m honestly in the mood to do something nice for a shinigami. Besides, it’s Abarai, he doesn’t really count anymore.” He paused for a moment. “You either, of course, Kuchiki.”

“You wanna have it at my house?” Ichigo offered. “Since me and Tatsuki are the only ones with backyards, and I don’t imagine Tatsuki would want to explain this to her mom.”

“I appreciate that,” Tatsuki put in. “I can help though, if you want. In my family, we like to decorate, and I still have a bunch of streamers and balloons left over from last week.” She gestured at Orihime’s drawing. “We could probably make him a banner or something out of that. It’s pretty good!”

“Oh, that’s such a good idea!” Orihime exclaimed. She should have known her friends would be helpful. She flipped to a new page on her notepad, and began to write things down.

“I can help decorate!” Kon piped up. “I am very artistic, you know!”

“I can bring my guitar,” Chad offered. “I don’t know if Abarai wants to hear me sing…”

Ichigo shoved him in the shoulder. “Shut up. We always want to hear you sing and you never do. If Renji doesn’t want to hear you sing, he’s got no taste and also, he can suck it.”

Rukia rubbed her forehead, like she felt a headache coming on. “Renji goes to all his friends’ poetry readings and community theater and open mic nights. I am sure he would be overjoyed to be serenaded by Chad.”

“What about you, Uryuu?” Orihime asked. “I know you and your father don’t get along, but is there anything that you associate with feeling special on your birthday?”

Uryuu’s face contorted for a moment. “Ah, there is, but I’m sure it’s not helpful.”

“Maybe it will give us an idea,” Chad prodded.

Uryuu frowned. “Well, when I was very small, my mother used to make me a new kimono every year. She was… a very skilled seamstress.” He frowned. “I don’t have Abarai’s measurements, and besides, he couldn’t take it back to Soul Society anyway.”

Kon perked up. “Ichigo! Ichigo, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Ichigo jabbed a finger Uryuu. “Yuzu just got a bedazzler and she has a ton of t-shirt paint! We could bedazzle him a t-shirt! For his gigai! I’ll even keep it in my closet for him with all of Rukia’s crap!”

“Kurosaki, no,” Uryuu insisted.

“Kurosaki, yes,” Ichigo insisted. “It’s like you’ve never even met the man. I’m gonna make the most Renji t-shirt you’ve ever seen and he’s gonna love it so hard he’ll make me his new best friend.”

“I want to help,” Chad put in.

“You may,” Ichigo replied magnanimously.

“It was my idea-- whoa, Rukia, watch out!” Kon cried as he went tumbling to the ground.

Rukia was practically crawling over Chad, trying to punch Ichigo in the head. “He’s my best friend, you ass!”

“He is for now,” Ichigo replied ominously.

“You are my beloved protege, but I will end you, Kurosaki.”

“Kuchiki-san?” Orihime asked tentatively. “Do you think you could come up with a way to get him to come here? I think it should be a surprise, so you would probably have to make up a story...I understand if you don’t want to.”

Rukia looked up from where she was half-hanging over Chad’s shoulder. “Of course I can do that. I love lying to Renji. He can usually tell when I’m lying to him, but he’ll go along with whatever I say anyway.”

“Oh, good!” Orihime replied, a wave of relief washing over her. She had no idea how they would get Renji here otherwise. Mr. Urahara, maybe. Maybe.

Rukia’s brows creased as she rearranged herself to sit on the back of the couch between Chad and Ichigo. “Did you think I would say no?”

“Well… it didn’t seem like you thought this was a very good idea.”

Rukia’s cheeks colored and she waved her hands. “No, no! It’s not that at all! I think it’s a great idea! It’s really sweet of all of you. Renji’s so easy-going, people always… never mind! I’ll help however I can!”

“Try to find out what meal he might like,” Uryuu suggested. Kon was now sitting on his head. “That sounded nice and I can help cook.”

“That’s a no-brainer,” Rukia replied. “He hasn’t stopped talking about Chad’s burritos since the Advance Team mission ended.”

“Burritos are easy,” Chad agreed, “especially if Uryuu helps.”

“What about you, Rukia?” Tatsuki asked. “You have a brother, right? What do you do for family birthdays in Soul Society?”

Ichigo made a Big Yikes face, and Rukia shoved him in the head again. Orihime had stayed with the Kuchiki siblings when she was training in Soul Society, and while Byakuya could be pretty stiff, she was under the impression that he and Rukia were both working to have a better relationship.

“Kuchiki birthdays are very formal,” Rukia said regally, and then frowned. “Mostly, a bunch of Honored Relatives come over for dinner and you have to wear fancy clothes and it’s kind of a pain.” She thought for a moment. “Brother gave me a beautiful set of colored pencils for my last birthday. It’s hard to buy him presents, because he’s so particular and he usually just buys the things that he wants. He writes a lot of letters, though, so I went to my favorite stationery store and bought him some pretty paper I thought he would like. I figured that if I picked wrong, he could just use it to send letters to people he hates.” Rukia’s eyes softened. “He really liked it, actually. I guess he’s not very used to getting gifts that people have spent any time thinking about.”

“Thoughtful gifts are such a nice idea!” Orihime nodded eagerly.

“It’s hard, though,” Uryuu added, “because of the whole matter conversion issue.”

“What,” Ichigo bit off, “is not thoughtful about a t-shirt covered in rhinestones?”

“If all of you help me think of something, I will buy it for him back in Soul Society,” Rukia promised. “Not sunglasses, though. I already bought him sunglasses.”

“Isn’t his birthday, like a month away?” Ichigo frowned.

“Sometimes I plan ahead! Shut up!” Rukia scowled. “Brother and I also like to make each other cards. Brother is an amazing artist, obviously, mine hardly compare to his, but he is very gracious about my efforts.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea, Rukia!” Orihime agreed, writing down “cards” on her notes. She looked over her list. “I think this is shaping up to be a very good birthday!”

---

“Thanks for agreeing to come along,” Rukia said to Renji when he showed up at her front door on the morning of August 31. “How’s your head?”

“I feel great, but I hydrate tirelessly and also, I wasn’t the one who got into a drinking contest with Captain Komamura. How’s your head?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Rukia replied.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to just go? I’m sure I can-- did I read your text right? Ichigo got his soul stuck in Kon’s lion body and we have to go get him out? I… can probably handle that if you need to stay home and sleep it off.”

“Learn to read, oaf. Ichigo got his soul stuck in Kon’s lion body and we are going to laugh at him. Obviously, I wouldn’t miss that for anything.”

“Ahhhh, okay, that makes a lot more sense!”

“C’mon, we should get moving before Orihime takes pity on him or something.” She waved him inside. “Don’t worry, Brother said it was fine to use the family senkaimon.”

“Ah, good morning, Captain!” Renji said, his voice bright with nervous energy.

Rukia turned around and blinked. Sure enough, Byakuya was looming in the foyer. He had definitely not been in the entry thirty seconds ago.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Byakuya replied. “How delightful to see you in my house on a Sunday morning.”

“Brother, we talked about this,” Rukia pressed. “We had a whole discussion.”

Byakuya ignored her and plowed on. “I did not expect to see you today, but since you are here, I have something for you.” He held out a handsome, hardcover book. Gingerly, Renji accepted it and frowned at the cover. “It is the next book in the Tales of the Iron Army series,” Byakuya explained. “You are a fan of that series, are you not?”

Renji’s mouth gaped a little. “This isn’t… out… yet…”

“The publisher is an acquaintance of mine,” Byakuya said, looking off into the middle distance. “He offered me an advance copy, so I asked for two.”

“Uh, um, thanks, sir!” Renji managed.

“Think nothing of it,” Byakuya said stiffly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am extremely busy this morning.”

Rukia stared, gape-mouthed at the spot where Byakuya had been standing a moment previous. She wasn’t allowed to use shunpo in the house.

“What?” Renji choked out.

“Sometimes people just give him things,” Rukia shrugged, trying to play it off, but secretly fuming. She had told Byakuya that Renji was coming over and to (1) not mention his birthday and (2) not be weird. 0 for 2, Brother.

“Rukia,” Renji reiterated, and when she finally looked over, he was holding up a little slip of cardstock that had apparently been tucked into the front cover of the book. On it was painted a little watercolor Wakame Ambassador. He was wearing a humorous hat. In Byakuya’s immaculate calligraphy were the words ‘Congratulations. You are now older. You will still never defeat me.’ Renji stared at Rukia, as if this were somehow her fault. “W-h-a-t?” he mouthed very slowly and deliberately, no actual sound coming out of his mouth.

“Give me that!” Rukia snapped, grabbing both the book and the card out of his hand. “I told him we were going to the Living World, I don’t know why he couldn’t have given you this when we got back. Mikan!”

Rukia’s loyal maid immediately appeared at her elbow. “Yes, miss?”

Renji blinked. “How does everyone in this house move like that?”

“Hold onto this for Renji until we get back, okay? You can put it with the, um, other stuff.”

“Yes, miss.”

“What other stuff?” Renji asked, a grin tugging at the side of his mouth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You just said ‘put it with the other stuff’?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You must have misheard, Lieutenant Abarai,” Mikan added sweetly.

“Maybe you should clean your ears out once in a while, dummy,” Rukia suggested.

“Are we really going to the Living World today, or was it just a ploy to get me over here?” Renji asked, doing a double take when he realized that Mikan had disappeared again.

“We’re really going!” Rukia protested, marching into the bowels of the house. “‘A ploy’, ha! You wish.”

“It is my birthday,” Renji pointed out, sounding a little suspicious.

“And we had your birthday party last night! What more do you want?”

“Nothing, actually! Very good birthday, as birthdays go!” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Thanks for coming, by the way.”

Rukia rolled her eyes. “As if I wouldn’t come.”

Renji shrugged. “Well…you didn’t, for a long time. And those weren’t as fun. So thanks. For coming.”

Rukia opened her mouth and then closed it again. She didn’t know what to say to that.

Fortunately, Renji had a keen instinct for changing the subject when things got awkward. “Were you there when Rangiku’s boob fell out? She says that since it was the right one, it’s a sign that this is going to be an auspicious year for me.”

“I did! I was talking to Momo and we were basically at Ground Zero when it happened! I can’t believe Hisagi was in the restroom.”

“He’s probably still sobbing about it.”

They continued to recap the best parts of the party as they traveled through the senkaimon and picked up their gigai from Urahara’s, but there was something nagging at Rukia, something that had been nagging at her ever since Orihime, with her giant, squishy heart, had suggested that Renji deserved something better on his birthday, something which Rukia knew was unequivocally true.

“Oi, Renji,” she said suddenly as they turned onto Ichigo’s street. Renji was in the middle of a story about Iba’s sideburns, but she’d heard it before, and they both knew he was only telling it to fill the time.

“Eh?” he replied.

“I, uh, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry that our birthdays were so shitty growing up,” she said quickly. “Sorry in the sympathy sense, not the guilt sense. We were just kids, it’s not like there’s much more we could have done. Just... it sucked and it’s not fair and I’m sorry.”

Renji was staring at her with a look of mild horror on his face. “You thought our birthdays sucked?”

Rukia stared back at him. “They weren’t great, that’s for sure.”

Renji’s face fell a little. “Oh. I’m sorry you feel that way. We… we did try, you know. I remember stealing blankets for your birthday, to make sure we had enough for all of us. We always used to try to make sure we had something to eat that day, too.”

Rukia flushed. “I wasn’t talking about me, dummy!” She paused. “You did? Crap. Now I feel even worse.”

“My birthday’s in August,” Renji shrugged. “We didn’t need to worry about freezing our asses off. And we almost always managed to do something fun that day. Going fishing or making a bonfire or lying on the roof and looking at the stars.” Renji gave a rueful little chuckle. “You know, it’s fun when everyone gets together to get smashed on my birthday, but there are so many people and you can hardly hear what anyone is saying. Those old days… I dunno. I guess maybe they just felt a little more personal. When we were here on Tatsuki and Ichigo’s birthday, Orihime was telling me about family birthdays, and I think our old birthdays were a lot like that. Just some nice time spent with the people I like best.”

“You’re such a sap,” Rukia said, trying to keep her voice from wobbling.

“Like you didn’t know that,” Renji snorted. “I’m definitely gonna give Ichigo a hard time, but I’m actually kinda glad he managed to pull this bonehead move on my actual birthday. It’s a good excuse to come see him, and I got to spend a little quality time with you, to boot. Was kinda nice to see the captain, actually, even though he made a quick exit.” Renji sucked his teeth for a moment. “After we get Ichigo sorted, I don’t ‘spose you’d mind taking a little stroll around town and seeing what the other kids are up to today?”

Rukia had her hand on the gate that led to the Kurosaki back yard. “That… could probably be arranged.” She pushed the gate open.

“SURPRISE!”

Confetti filled the air. Someone was blowing an air horn. Everyone (except Uryuu) was wearing very bedazzled t-shirts. Even Kon, sitting on Chad’s shoulder, wore a tiny one with an even tinier lion on it.

“Happy birthday, Renji!”

“Happy birthday, you old geezer!”

“We made you burritos!”

Rukia looked up at Renji. He had one hand clapped over his mouth and his eyes were wide. “Happy birthday, dumbass,” she said softly.

“Excuse me, I will be right back,” Renji said, turning on his heel and walking out the gate.

Orihime’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no! What did we do?”

Rukia held up her hands. “Just give him a second, he’s fine.”

The Karakura kids barely had time to exchange worried glances when Renji burst back in through the gate, at full volume. “What the Hell is this?” he roared. “And where did you get those t-shirts?”

“We made them!” Ichigo shouted back, and thrust a poorly wrapped bundle into Renji’s hands. “We made you one, too!”

Renji enthusiastically tore open his present and held up its contents. “Rukia,” he gasped. “Rukia, look.”

“Chad drew the Hihiou Zabimaru,” Ichigo explained proudly. “I was the one who wrote ‘OH YEAH!!’”

“It’s so beautiful,” Renji sniffed. “Here, Rukia, hold this!” He shoved the shirt into Rukia’s arms and immediately began to wrestle off the one he was currently wearing.

“Uh… buddy…” Tatsuki frowned, trying to throw her hand up in front of Orihime’s eyes, but also unable to tear her eyes away. “That is… a lot… of tattoos…”

“It’s okay, we’ve all seen it,” Orihime reassured her, pushing Tatsuki’s hand away.

“Never mind seeing it again,” Kon added philosophically.

“How does it look?” Renji asked, once he’d gotten dressed again. He was flexing his biceps for good measure.

“It’s a little tight,” Rukia replied, but it didn’t stop her from looking.

“That’s how hot people wear their clothes, Rukia,” Ichigo informed her. “Get with it.”

“I love this so much!” Renji declared, looking down at his own torso again. “I can’t believe you all made this for me. I am so happy!”

“Brace yourself, Abarai,” Uryuu said, “but this is about 1% of the birthday festivities Orihime planned for you.”

Orihime’s cheeks turned pink and she waved her hands frantically. “Everyone chipped in, I hardly did anything!”

“We know you don’t like cake, so we put a candle in a burrito for you,” Ichigo said, jerking his thumb toward the picnic table. “Come sit in front of it, so Chad can sing you your birthday song.”

“We saved you the lawn chair without any wobbly legs,” Kon added generously.

On his way past, Renji slung his arm around Orihime’s shoulders. “Thanks, kid,” he murmured.

Orihime looked up at him. “You’re our friend and I just wanted you to know how special we think you are on your birthday.”

Renji stared at her for a moment, an expression on his face like he wasn’t sure how to make words come out. Suddenly, he tightened his elbow around his neck and crashed the knuckles of his other hand fiercely into her scalp. “I love all of you, too!” he laughed.

“You can’t noogie Orihime!” Ichigo and Tatsuki yelled at the same time, and promptly tripped over each other in an attempt to tackle him. Uryuu flung a pinecone at Renji’s head. With his typical perfect aim, it would have been a direct hit, except that Kon had leapt from Chad’s shoulder directly into its trajectory and got beaned in the face instead.

Orihime was laughing and shouting “That tickles, that tickles!” Renji was cackling. Chad stood, dumbfounded, his guitar hanging around his neck.

“Rukia… avenge us…” Ichigo groaned from the ground.

“On one hand, it’s his birthday and Renji should get to noogie whomever he wants,” Rukia declared loftily. “On the other hand, Orihime is a precious angel. On the third hand, suck it, Abarai!”

She launched herself at him.

#renji's birthday 2k21 #my writing #please excuse my kon liberties #i've read too many murderlight fics

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mortimer-writes-sometimes · 4 years ago

Note

If you are still taking requests, *clears throat*

Sans just wakes up with two cracks in his eyes (just like Gaster's) and he is completely blind + a bit of Sansby(because I can't help myself-)

Did someone say a n g s t? I love the idea of Grillby crying steam!

I know you said a bit of Sansby. You’re getting a lot of Sansby. As in they're married and living together.

Note: Translating the wingdings is not essential to the story! They’re mostly for dramatic effect and some vague exposition as to how/why Sans got hurt. Like, really vague. So you’re not really missing anything if you don’t translate them!

Cracks

Word count: 1296 Warnings: Sudden injury, being blinded, panic Summary: Sans suddenly loses control of his magic, permanently injuring himself. Grillby is there to assure him he isn’t alone.

✂︎💧︎✌︎☠︎💧︎📬︎📬︎📬︎ ✌︎☼︎☜︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ 💧︎🕆︎☼︎☜︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ 🕈︎✌︎☠︎❄︎ ❄︎⚐︎ 👎︎⚐︎ ❄︎☟︎✋︎💧︎✍︎✂︎

💧︎♋︎■︎⬧︎ ■︎□︎♎︎♎︎♏︎♎︎📪︎ ⧫︎♋︎🙵♓︎■︎♑︎ ♋︎ ♎︎♏︎♏︎◻︎ ♌︎❒︎♏︎♋︎⧫︎♒︎📬︎ ✂︎✋︎ ♍︎♋︎■︎🕯︎⧫︎ ●︎□︎⬧︎♏︎ ♒︎♓︎❍︎📪︎ 👎︎♓︎■︎♑︎⬧︎📬︎ ☠︎□︎⧫︎ ●︎♓︎🙵♏︎ ⧫︎♒︎♓︎⬧︎📬︎✂︎

✂︎✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ 💣︎✌︎✡︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ 💧︎🕆︎☼︎✞︎✋︎✞︎☜︎📪︎✂︎ 🕈︎📬︎ 👎︎📬︎ ☝︎♋︎⬧︎⧫︎♏︎❒︎ ◻︎□︎♓︎■︎⧫︎♏︎♎︎ □︎◆︎⧫︎📪︎ ⧫︎♓︎●︎⧫︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ♒︎♓︎⬧︎ ♒︎♏︎♋︎♎︎📬︎ ✂︎✌︎☠︎👎︎ ✋︎☞︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ 👎︎⚐︎📬︎📬︎📬︎ ✋︎❄︎ 🕈︎⚐︎☠︎🕯︎❄︎ 👌︎☜︎ 🕈︎✋︎❄︎☟︎⚐︎🕆︎❄︎ 💧︎👍︎✌︎☼︎💧︎📬︎✂︎

✂︎✋︎ ⬥︎□︎■︎🕯︎⧫︎ ❒︎♏︎❍︎♏︎❍︎♌︎♏︎❒︎ ⬥︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎ ✋︎ ♎︎♓︎♎︎ ♏︎♓︎⧫︎♒︎♏︎❒︎ ⬥︎♋︎⍓︎📪︎✂︎ 💧︎♋︎■︎⬧︎ ⬧︎♋︎♓︎♎︎ ⬥︎♓︎⧫︎♒︎ ♋︎ ⬧︎♒︎❒︎◆︎♑︎📬︎ ✂︎💧︎□︎📪︎ ♋︎❒︎♏︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ♑︎□︎■︎■︎♋︎ ♒︎♏︎●︎◻︎ ❍︎♏︎ □︎❒︎ ■︎□︎⧫︎✍︎✂︎

☝︎♋︎⬧︎⧫︎♏︎❒︎ ⬧︎♓︎♑︎♒︎♏︎♎︎📬︎ ✂︎✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ ✌︎☹︎☼︎☜︎✌︎👎︎✡︎ 😐︎☠︎⚐︎🕈︎ 💣︎✡︎ ✌︎☠︎💧︎🕈︎☜︎☼︎📬︎✂︎

🕈︎♓︎⧫︎♒︎ ⧫︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎📪︎ ♒︎♏︎ ♒︎♏︎●︎♎︎ □︎◆︎⧫︎ ♒︎♓︎⬧︎ ♒︎♋︎■︎♎︎📬︎ 💧︎♋︎■︎⬧︎ ⧫︎□︎□︎🙵 ♓︎⧫︎📬︎

Sans woke up to searing pain in his soul, screaming as his magic released itself uncontrollably. The bright blue light enveloped Sans’s body, the burning sensation searing every bone before the sensation suddenly concentrated in his skull. The magic coiled tighter, burned brighter, until…

Both of Sans’s eyes flared brightly. The coil snapped, the burst of energy vibrating in his skull. He heard bone shattering and screamed again, hands coming up to his head as blood started to seep from the cracks. The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was the bedroom door slamming open and Grillby’s panicked voice begging him to stay awake.

0.00001 HP. Sans had survived with 0.00001 HP left. Grillby had never seen a more terrifying number in his life, pulling his husband into his lap as gently as possible. The fire monster nearly gagged as he did. There was blood everywhere, and Sans was covered in burns from where his magic had overwhelmed his body. The worst part was the cracks. There were two long, vertical cracks in Sans’s skull, one for each eye. This was far beyond Grillby’s healing abilities. His hands shook as he pulled out his phone, dialing the number for Dr. Alphys. “Pick up, pick up damnit! Oh my god… Oh my god, Sans…!”

The line connected. “Dr. A-alphys speaking. What can I-”

“H-help,” Grillby stammered out, nearly sobbing in desperation. “Sans, he- we need help- I can’t- he’s dying, I need help!”

“Hey, whoa, slow down! Sans is- is hurt? Okay. I’m- I can come to help, just breathe and tell me where you are.” Dr. Alphys put Sans and Grillby’s address into the GPS on her phone as Grillby rattled it off, nodding. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, tops. J-just hang on!”

It was the longest ten minutes of Grillby’s life.

✂︎💧︎✌︎☠︎💧︎📬︎📬︎📬︎ ☼︎☜︎💣︎☜︎💣︎👌︎☜︎☼︎ 🕈︎☟︎⚐︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎🕯︎☼︎☜︎ 👎︎⚐︎✋︎☠︎☝︎ ❄︎☟︎✋︎💧︎ ☞︎⚐︎☼︎📬︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ ☟︎✌︎✞︎☜︎ ❄︎⚐︎ 🕈︎✌︎😐︎☜︎ 🕆︎🏱︎📬︎✂︎

A soft beeping caused Sans to stir, groaning softly. “Grillbz, your alarm…” Huh, that was funny. Did Grillby change his alarm sound? Because it certainly sounded a little off. The blankets felt weird too… and his head…

Sans lifted a hand to his skull, fingers coming in contact with several thick bandages. Vague memories of the morning came together and it clicked. He was in the hospital. His magic had suddenly gone rogue and almost killed him. Why? Sans felt like there was a reason, but he couldn’t remember. The headache he had and the painkillers that were trying to get rid of it certainly weren’t helping.

A door opened somewhere to his right, a few footsteps drawing near before something- a plastic coffee cup, maybe?- hit the floor.

“Sans!” Grillby gasped, fighting back tears of relief as he approached the bed. “You’re awake! I thought I was going to… you wouldn’t… I almost…” He lost the battle against his tears, taking Sans’s hand and sitting on the bed while he cried.

Sans reached out towards him, managing to guess where Grillby’s shoulder was before pulling him down into a hug. He rubbed the Grillby’s back as he let him sob, shushing him gently. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m alright. You didn’t lose me.” He sighed, touching the bandages again. He felt around the edges of them, tracing them up towards the top of his skull, then down to…

The skeleton froze. “G-Grillby…?”

Grillby sat up, immediately concerned. “What? What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.

Sans took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. He already knew the answer to his question, but he still had to ask. He had to hear it from someone else. His voice was shaking when he spoke. “Are… are there any bandages… over my eyes?”

“No?” Grillby tilted his head. “By the time we got you to the lab, the cracks closest to your eyes had already started to heal. Do they hurt?” He noted for the first time that the lights that made up Sans’s pupils were still gone. Oh. Oh no. “Sans, you have your eyes open.”

Sans couldn’t breathe. He was starting to feel faint. He was going to be sick. “Heh, that’s funny,” he managed…

“Because I can’t see you.”

Alphys did everything she could, but nothing worked. No amount of medicine or healing magic could bring Sans’s vision back. While other cracks in Sans’s skull healed, the ones crossing over his eye sockets were permanent scars, keeping the magic in Sans’s soul from fully restoring his body.

“I-i don’t know what- what happened,” Alphys stammered as she flipped through Sans’s charts. Sans was still in the hospital bed, Grillby sitting by his side and holding his hand as he listened to the doctor speak. “Permanent fractures like that can only be caused by an immense amount of magic,” she continued, “B-but your soul is- it’s stabilized all on its own!” She sighed and lowered her clipboard, wiping at her eyes as she forced herself to deliver the news that Sans and Grillby already knew was coming. “I’m sorry Sans. Th-there’s nothing more I- I can do. You’re… you’re blind.”

Grillby felt Sans’s grip on his hand tighten. He gently squeezed back, watching his husband with immense concern. “...darling? Are you going to be okay?”

Sans didn’t respond for a long moment, just letting the news sink in. He was blind. He would never see another sunrise. He would never see a rainbow. He would never see Grillby smile again. “I-” Sans tried to respond, but his voice cracked and his words turned into a sob, the skeleton beginning to tremble. “No,” he gasped through his tears. “Fuck, no.”

Grillby didn’t need to hear anything else. He got up and sat on the side of the bed again. “I’m going to put my arms around you now, alright?” he asked softly. When he got a nod, he gently pulled Sans into his embrace, telegraphing his movements as he pulled him close. “Sans, just breathe. It’s going to be alright.”

“Alright?!” Sans gripped Grillby’s jacket, his entire body shaking as he sobbed. “How the fuck is it going to be alright?! I’ve lost my vision, Grillby! I can’t read, I can’t get around on my own- I’m a sentry, for fuck’s sake! My entire job relies on me being able to see!” Tears dripped into the crack beneath Sans’s left eye and he cringed. “You can’t spend all day taking care of me and still take care of the bar. I can’t help make dinner or run errands or even wash my own damn clothes anymore. What am I supposed to do? What are we going to do?”

“Listen to me,” Grillby said softly, wiping Sans’s tears away in small puffs of steam. “I don’t know what we’re going to do yet, but we’ll figure it out. No matter what happens, we’re going to make this work, and we’ll manage it together. You’re not alone, Sans. You’re going to get through this.” He gently kissed the top of Sans’s skull. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Sans nodded, sniffling. “Hey, Grillby? I love you.”

Grillby held him closer, trails of steam coming off the corners of his eyes as he cried with him. “I love you too, Sans. I’ll take care of you.”

“I promise.”

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it! If you did, consider reblogging/leaving a comment for me! If you have your own prompt idea or if you just want to ask me something, my asks are open!

#dustywrites #undertale #undertale fic #oneshot #sans #grillby #undertale sans #undertale grillby #sans x grillby #sansby #ask answered

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brandywine-tomatoes · 3 years ago

Text

One of the Bad Ones

From a little thought of mine <3

Masterlist

Pairing: (platonic) female!oc & crosshair

TW: sad/depressing thoughts, a little bit of human experimentation, self-depreciation, PTSD

Word count: 1895

QUICK NOTE: this is a concept with my oc Dain and her (platonic) relationship with Crosshair. Dain is a chiss jedi who hates the republic. She was the TechnoUnion's test subject years before Echo got there. She was rescued by the Batch and Co. when they went to rescue Echo. If you want more details, let me know!

There were good days and bad days for Dain. This day would be one of the bad ones.

Hunter and Wrecker were getting some much-needed rest, recovering from the day before. Tech was messing with a small part of the hyperdrive in his bunk with Echo helping, not getting the rest they needed. That left Dain piloting through the ridiculous amount of traffic on Pasaana, their new mission destination, with Crosshair as her co-pilot. A content silence consumed the ship, only Tech’s fiddling with a blow torch, Hunter and Wrecker’s soft snores, and the clicking of controls filling the cramped space.

Dain was consumed whole by her usual track of mind. The horrors of Skako were always her first destination. It was hard not to think about it, she was there for years. She constantly had to rhyme off the different things she could see, focus on the light reflecting and refracting around the ship, squeeze her eyes shut and dive into the life forces of her crewmates to bring her back from the fluorescent-lit laboratories and chilling surgical tables. Her limbs disobeying her commands as her captures messed mercilessly with her eyes. She could feel the tiniest of needles embedded in her iris, the sorry excuse for a numbing agent being injected.

She could still feel the helplessness that she constantly felt every second she was conscious on Skako. The bacta tube she was confined in when the surgeons needed a break still haunted her. Her long hair frail and coarse flowing like a separate entity, her oxygen mask so tight around her face practically another body part. She felt like she was being slowly and carefully pulled back to it, she could feel the warmth of the liquid seeping up her calves and past her knees, almost above her waist.

“You okay?”

Those few words violently pulled her out of the tank she was sinking into.

She didn’t feel the little drops staining her cheeks. Of course she wouldn’t, she was too messed up to feel the things that made her organic. She saw a sparkling on her cheeks refracting the light of the speeders and pods held up in front of her.

Dain quickly wiped them away. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Simple question,” he said, his usual snark present.

“I am perfectly adequate; I don’t know where you’re getting your ideas from.”

“Your bullshit doesn’t fool me,” Crosshair sighed.

Dain whipped her head around to his dead serious face gazing out at the fully stopped highway. “I beg your pardon? I am not, as you say, bullshitting.”

“You’re suffering. You really think this act is convincing?”

She was perplexed.

“Don’t look so surprised.” He went back to prepping the ship from its parked mode to move a couple inches further.

Dain did her part in guiding the ship the few little inches. They stayed in silence for quite a while, Dain trying to stay afloat by following the train of speeders and pods zig and zagging across miles and miles towards the capital city. Crosshair had propped a tiny black book on his raised knee, sketching away like he always did when he had extra time.

“How could you tell?”

Cross continued with his pen. “Hm?”

“How could you tell?” Dain asked a little louder.

“Well crying doesn’t cover anything up,” he gestured with his pen to her newly wet cheeks.

She quickly went to work wiping them dry, the force drawing a deeper blue to her skin. She dropped her hands in her lap in defeat, her shoulders sagging. “I can’t control it.”

“Nothing special.”

“I misspoke. I can’t feel it.”

Crosshair seeded his sketching of the pods and speeders.

“I remember what lacrimal feels like, seeping from the tear ducts,” she continued. “But I just... I don’t function like that anymore.”

He didn’t know what to say. What do you say to such a horrific fact? What did they do to you?

“I, um, overshared. Apologies.”

“No,” he objected. “It’s, uh, fine.”

Dain sunk into her seat, pulling her knees up to her eyes instinctually. Making herself as small as possible eased a little itch in the back of her mind.

She was a leader before all of this, she didn’t want to shy away into a corner and fade away in her own shadow. She stood with purpose and commanded respect. She was a decorated soldier, higher in rank than most Jedi. She had a family who she loved and who loved her. She depended on the Wolffe Pack as much as they depended on her. She was one of them.

She held a burning passion against the Republic. She fought to someday end the war so she could help burn it down and build something better in its ashes. Something that didn’t negotiate living being's lives like they were poker chips to be tossed in a pot.

It was all gone. It disappeared. She only wanted to melt into the soil, maybe help the earth flourish with trees and wildlife beside a rushing river. She didn’t hold a passion for anything she used to. She wasn’t the leader she needed to be, she didn’t have a family, she didn’t have anything to fuel her anymore. She was empty and purposeless. Maybe I’m better off melting into the earth.

“Here.”

Crosshair tossed the little black book and the pen to Dain, landing in the space between the armrest and herself. Dain stared at it for a moment, unsure of what he was playing at.

She slowly unfurled herself, her feet setting on the floor without a sound and her nimble hands bringing the book and pen to her lap.

“You can’t stay in there forever, you know. It’ll drive you insane,” he started.

Dain’s shoulders deflated. “I know.”

“It’s impossible.”

She eyed him wearily. And I thought this was going to be a pep talk.

“You just have to escape long enough.”

She stayed silent and a small bit of intrigue nipped at her fingers.

“Try it,” he gestured to the open landscape in front of them.

Dain shimmied to the edge of her seat to prop the book to a blank page against the dash in a free spot of any controls.

“Any requests?” She asked without an ounce of cheek in her words, only what seemed to be defeat.

“Nothing you can remember.”

She looked around the desert in front of her. Only a city that looked like a birdbath all those miles and miles away and the pods and speeders backed up were to see. Nothing she could see really sparked interest in her, nothing ever did anymore.

Just as she was about to toss the book back, she found her subject. A little patch of orangey clouds against the scorching sun. The entire sky was filled with them, the light bouncing off every fluffy edge and casting long shadows, but this patch’s edges were sharply defined and outlined against the glowing of the sun. There was no double meaning, no metaphor she could attach to it. Nothing sad to see in the clouds, it just looked graceful and meaningless.

She scribbled away on a page, not having enough energy to criticize her chicken scratch. She remembered a piece of advice from someone she hadn’t thought about for what felt like decades. You always get caught up in what you think you’re seeing, not what’s actually in front of you. Exasperated laughter echoed in the aftermath.

She proceeded with that in mind, trying to stay out of her head and only taking what was in front of her to transfer messily onto the textured parchment.

Crosshair was the smallest bit surprised the broken woman in front of him kept sketching away for more than five minutes. He half expected her to toss it back and retreat into whatever hell her mind had become.

He didn’t believe it when Anakin told the rescue team on Skako that it was Force Marshel Dain Lec in the bacta tank, floating eerily like a dead specimen with a tight black shirt and shorts that gave away how much she looked like a dead, decaying skeleton.

She was basically a myth in the GAR. Force Marshel Lec was one of the most decorated soldiers in history; her battle plans and strategies were studied by captains, commanders, and generals. The Bad Batch admired her work, it was exactly their style of getting things done. But she only worked with Commander Wolffe and his battalion, she didn’t ever grace the rest of the GAR with her presence. The fact that she was one of the only Chiss serving the Republic only added to the mystery of Dain Lec.

But it wasn’t just her bat shit crazy plans and strategies that she was known for, her humanity and empathy were only dreamed of. The regs all had their fair share of generals who hated them for existing, some even had the unfortunate fate of serving under Krell, but the Wolffe pack only spread the word of her immense empathy and compassion. Ruthlessness and compassion never went hand in hand, but somehow the universe broke logic and made Force Marshel Lec.

Crosshair couldn’t put the myth to the face. Sitting beside him, still sketching away on the consul, was a shrivelled and washed-out woman who couldn’t feel her own tears. Granted, it had only been a few months of her being dumped on them along with Echo, and she hadn’t been in the thick of the action yet, only drawing up plans and flying the ship, but he couldn’t imagine what else an escaped science experiment could do.

“You underestimate my abilities a staggering amount, Crosshair,” Dain’s permanently shaky voice broke his thoughts and sent him into a panic.

His thoughts staggered. “You- you-”

“Force users can’t read other beings' thoughts, but I can most certainly piece together the ones that float by.”

Crosshair thought someone raised the temperature in the ship by 20 degrees.

“I... I...”

“I’ve made the best snipper in the GAR speechless,” a small smile spread across her lips. “It’s perfectly fine, no ill will befalls this situation. I’ve endured far worse than the judgement of others.”

He didn’t know what to say. Again. He felt embarrassed over anything, over the fact he’d stoop to such lows. Why was he like this? Why did he have to point out the worst in people who were already suffering enough? Was it some kind of ego thing? Was he that insecure?

Dain tossed the book and pen back to Cross, making him jump. She looked at him intently, trying to catch his gaze that was anywhere but on Dain.

“Cross.”

He sighed and met her foggy crimson eyes. It didn’t seem like a confrontation. She brought her knees up to her chest again and fidgeted with something in her lap. How could she be considered a leader? Stop it.

Her gaze turned to one of sympathy. Pity.

“You should consider your own advice, you really think this act is convincing?”

He scoffed and leaned back against the co-pilot's seat, turning his attention to the backed-up traffic.

She sighed deeply, like the weight of the world was getting heavier with each conversation they had. “I’m still here, even if everyone here doesn't want me to be.”

A/N: HELLOO PEOPLE!! It's been a while!! I haven't been writing a lot lately, that's not true, I've just been writing a long marvel fic and making new OCs that no one's interested in I'm sorry for that. If you want more of my bb Dain, please let me know! I'd love to share her with y'all!! Go drink some water, get a snack, take a break, you deserve it so much!! I'M SO SORRY IF THIS WAS OOC, I TRIED MY BEST OKAY

#the bad batch #tbb #star wars #sw #bad batch #the clone wars #tcw #echo #tech #wrecker #hunter #crosshair #omega #original character #anakin skywalker

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annaraebananawriter · 4 years ago

Text

Haunted

...Can this be split into two parts? Probably. Am I going to split it into two parts? No.

This is based off of the Haunted Au by @156lemongummies, the bad ending for Astral. This was partly written before I knew how Astral and the villagers interacted, or rather didn’t interact, so I filled in the blanks with my personal headcanon. Just keep that in mind.

Also! Fun Fact: This can also be titled Imposter, and you’ll see why.

Fandom: Undertale, but specifically Dreamtale

Characters: Nightmare, Dream (Who belong to Joku), Corruption (There are multiple versions of him, so I don’t know who to credit) and mentioned Astral (Who belongs to @156lemongummies)

Warnings: Character Death, Grief, Things like that and I think that’s all? Let me know!

Word Count: 5240

~oOo~

It was one of the days that Dream and Nightmare planned to relax and hang around with each other—and only each other—without fusing into Astral. Though, they weren't opposed to it; accidents happened, after all. However, they made a deal that it was important to have these days of 'normality' so that they don't forget how to be just one person. They might need that knowledge, one day.

Dream was pretty adamant of this...rule? That was the closest thing to a label they would get. He thinks that it's healthy to remember that they do have a free will in this sort of thing. As if they would ever forget, but you know, better safe than sorry, which was starting to become Dream's motto these days. So, one day a week—or about that, anyway (they were pretty lax about the date; after all, fusing was natural for them. They liked it. The date was just to help them keep a sort of routine in their lives, which was another thing Dream found important.).

Nightmare, on the other hand just went along with it. He didn't care all that much, as Dream was happy and that was what really mattered, right?

The only real problem he had with it...was the villagers. You see, they had never...told them about Astral. For all they knew, Astral was just a skeleton who lived in the woods and came out to visit every now and then. There were quite a few rumours revolving around their origins, too. Some that Dream found creative (he would say that while forcing down a smile, as if it wasn't appropriate to laugh at something like that) and Nightmare found amusing (they were pretty ridiculous and his laughter usually seemed to make it harder for Dream to keep his composure) But, overall, Astral was usually accepted with welcoming smiles and fond pats on the head.

...

To be honest, Nightmare was a bit jealous. Which was silly, he knew that, as he was a part of Astral and so he was also welcomed warmly while being them. But he just...couldn't help it. For so long now, he craved, craved, to be accepted by the village. His efforts were all rejected, however, like they couldn't even fathom the idea of him having emotions like a normal person and not being a cold-hearted demon. It made him angry. Made him want to...do things, things that Dream would hate.

"But He Doesn't Care, Now Does He?"

(In the back of his mind, he knew that, if the villagers ever found out, Astral would be treated differently. They would refer to them as only Dream, disregarding both what fusing means and that Nightmare was even there. The thought always hurt.

"Selfish Idiots—"

However, he would bear it with a smile, like always.)

But he won't tell Dream. He won't; nothing would change his mind. Dream would be confused, not quite understanding but try his best to. His brother would ignore the villager's needs, his own needs (although he already did that), in favour of Nightmare's. He would worry himself sick, which would make Nightmare worry and blame himself (he already did; Dream still worried now, and that was bad enough). It was a cycle Nightmare didn't want to get trapped in.

So, he won't tell Dream. He could handle it himself.

Everything would be fine.

"Naïve Child..."

~oOo~

Nightmare hummed as he walked back towards the tree.

He had forgotten his favourite book back at home and, knowing how much he liked his reading, Dream had sent him back to get it. Nightmare had worried, asking if Dream would be fine by himself. Dream, in all of his optimistic self, had laughed and waved him off with the assurance that everything would be fine. Still a bit worried, he had shrugged off all of his doubts and left, trusting Dream.

(He does trust Dream. He really does. He knows the other can take care of himself and he knows the villagers won't do anything to harm Dream, but he can't help but worry. It was in his nature as a brother.)

For Nightmare's part, everything had gone surprisingly smoothly. He encountered nobody on his journey, except for the stray animal that brushed up against him for pets and affection. It had been quiet in the house, in a good way. He found the book rather easily, once more shaking his head in fondness of his brother (he would've been fine for one day without the book, but Dream had insisted and he had recently gotten to a good part of it so it was too good to pass up).

Now, Nightmare flipped the book over in his hands, staring at the cover. It was made up of hues of brown, gold, red and everything in between the three. The brown and gold made up most of the cover, as it was an arch covered in twisting vines. In the arch, stood two silhouettes holding a rose between them. They were coloured red. His gaze travelled upwards, to the tile. It was printed in big black letters, all capitalized and elegant looking.

It was called—

"...e...now...ian?"

Nightmare's head perked up. He blinked as he saw the tree. He was closer than he thought he was. He almost smiled.

Almost.

Because that was when he noticed the people surrounding said tree and, consequentially, his brother. His brother, who he could only see glimpses of the bright colouring of his clothing, who was surrounded and seemed to be trying to talk to the people holding him by all accounts captive.

Nightmare frowned.

His stomach twisted.

One of the men—by his position, most likely the one right in front of Dream and also the leader—was saying something. Nightmare could see his mouth moving, but he couldn't hear what was being said. There was a pause and the man's lips twitched downwards; Dream must've said something back that he disagreed with.

Nightmare narrowed his eyes.

He had to get closer.

He had to hear what was being said.

(Because his gut twisted with worry and his heart was beating at a rapid pace and Dream was in the middle of all of this, he could get hurt, and gah, he was so stupid he should've never left—)

Quietly, he crept towards the tree, making sure that he stayed out of sight. As he came closer, he could make out words, though he had to strain to hear them.

"Again, I'm sorry," Dream was saying, sounding nervous, which was a first for him, as he usually was always happy to talk to someone. "but I can't let you have an apple. They're not to give out like that. If that was the only reason for you coming here, then I'll have to ask you to leave."

Nightmare narrowed his eyes as the group looked at each other. Now at a good enough distance, he took the chance to study them.

They weren't from the village. It was rather obvious, as both because Dream was nervous as he talked to them, which he wouldn't be if it was someone from the village, and because the group looked like they didn't belong here. They didn't have the clothes or things that everyone wore and they also had weapons. The people of the village didn't carry weapons around with them. These guys did. Now, if they weren't from the village, where were they from?

Nightmare paused and thought.

Come to think of it, this group looked an awful lot like...Bandits.

One day when Astral was walking around the village, they had overheard some of the talk about Bandits. The name was an overall loose term to call them, as they weren't really Bandits, like from stories and such, but it was the closest thing they had to call them. The people of the village were worried because it sounded like these Bandits were here because they had heard about the tree. They were worried about what it meant for their precious Dream.

Astral had left soon after that, as they wanted to talk about this news.

However, if this group surrounding the tree were the Bandits they had been talking about, then what did they want? The obvious answer would be that they wanted an apple. They must've come here to get one and talked with Dream about it, but Dream had refused them gently, as they weren't supposed to give out apples, only protect them. Or at least, they weren't supposed to give them out willy nilly to anyone who just asked for one.

...For some reason, Nightmare didn't think they'd just leave and forget this ever happened.

The thought filled him with dread and something cold.

Eventually, the leader of the group sighed and shrugged. "Oh well, it was worth a try!" He seemed to smile at Dream, who Nightmare got the impression was surprised at. Nightmare frowned as well. There was something odd in his voice. "Thanks for telling us though. We won't bother you anymore." He turned and started to walk away.

Nightmare could finally see Dream. He was right; his brother had been surprised. His golden eyes were wide and stared at the back of the leader as he left. Then they slid over and locked with Nightmare's. They stared at each other, trying to have a conversation without words.

The leader stopped walking, as if remembering something he had forgotten, drawing the twin's attention back to him. "Oh yeah," He said, turning back around with a dark smile on his face. One that made Nightmare's heart clench in worry. "I almost forgot the parting gift."

It happened too fast.

Nightmare had taken a step forward, as something in him screamed that he had to protect Dream.

But it happened too fast.

Too fast for Nightmare to move.

Too fast for Dream to defend himself or even dodge.

Too fast for anyone to do anything to stop the leader from attacking with the knife.

It was as if the world slowed.

Nightmare's eyes slowly widened, his book dropping to the ground as he started to run. His brother's name ripped itself from his throat, a desperate cry that was too late.

It was all too late.

He arrived at his brother's side just as Dream stumbled back, a cut stretching across his chest. It bled gold. Nightmare grabbed Dream as both their legs gave out from under them. Panicking, Nightmare tried to heal Dream, but his magic flickered and died.

(He had never been good at healing, not like Dream was—)

But it was enough for him to learn something alarming:

The knife hadn't just cut Dream's chest...

It had cut his core almost clean in half. And nothing could heal a core.

Which meant...

Dream would...

Dream was going to...

Dream was...

Dream.

All at once, the world was back to normal. Sound slammed back into Nightmare's ears, becoming a ringing that he tried desperately to ignore. He had to focus on his brother, who's breathing was ragged and stuttering and he couldn't do anything—

"Pathetic."

"Dream..." Nightmare said quietly, voice thick with tears, which had started to spill over and down his cheeks, blurring his vision. He didn't know what to do. He didn't think there was anything he could do. His hands hovered around the wound.

The tightness in his chest grew until he could barely breathe.

His world had narrowed down so that only Dream and him remained. Nightmare felt so much that it all blurred together into a strong sense of guilt. For not being there in the first place, for agreeing to Dream's stupid suggestion that he go get his stupid book, for not being fast enough in coming back. For so many things that, in the back of his mind, he knew he couldn't have prevented, not really, but feeling too helpless to listen to the voice of reason.

He watched as Dream shakily smiled. "I...i-it's okay, Brother..." Nightmare could barely hear Dream speak, too focused on the sudden pale glow coming from him. The pleading in Dream's voice for the next words brought Nightmare's attention back to him, his mind suddenly very clear and quiet. "P-please...don't blame yourself...not your fault, okay?"

Nightmare's breath hitched. "Dream—"

Dream didn't dust. Neither of them did, or would. It was something they had known ever since they were brought into existence. As they weren't human, they wouldn't leave a body and as they weren't monsters, they wouldn't dust. Instead, they would just...fade, disappear into the void or wherever they go when they die. Despite knowing this, however, they had never worried about it.

After all, as long as they were together, nothing bad would ever happen, and that included dying, right?

Nightmare thought back to this as he watched Dream fade in front of his very eyes, too frozen to move. Realizing that Dream was disappearing forever made him start and reach out, a whisper of his brother's name caught in his throat as his hands closed around particles of golden light that quickly disappeared. Dream's crown and clothes dropped to the ground, his gaze following them. He knew that if he opened his hands that there would be nothing there, so he let them fall to his side as they opened.

His gaze narrowed on the clothes pile as a cold feeling spread throughout his body. Rage filled his heart, urging him to do something to the people who killed his brother. They killed Dream, who was only trying to protect the tree, who was only doing his job. They were idiots for not realizing it! They deserved pain. They deserved to die in turn.

Nightmare stood up slowly and stumbled a bit, the draining of feeling so many things in such a short time catching up to him. He turned around and was faced with an empty hill.

They had left.

The fact made him laugh hysterically, something breaking in him. He laughed and laughed; he couldn't help it! He found that he couldn't stop. He reached a hand up to grasp his head, trying to ground himself as he continued laughing.

"Cowards."

Yes, they were, weren't they?

They killed someone so dear to him and left without facing consequences? That was the very definition of cowardice!

Though...maybe Dream wasn't dead.

Maybe...maybe...maybe he was just playing Hide 'n Seek!

It was Dream's favourite game, after all. They played it almost every day. So, Dream had probably decided to start a spontaneous game of it. He even got some of the villagers to help him hide, how clever. Yes, clever and very dirty.

Nightmare giggled once more before relaxing. "Okay, Dream. I admit, you got me good for a second there. I really believed you were dead!" A giggle burst through his mouth again and he desperately tried to smother it. "But enough's enough. It wasn't funny. It was the opposite. Now please come out and apologize!" He crossed his arms and waited.

Nothing happened.

He blinked, confused. Dream had never refused him before. He had always listened when Nightmare was this stern with him. His arms uncrossed and he cupped his hands around his mouth as he called out. "Dream?" No one answered back and his confusion grew. "Dream, please come out! I'm not mad, just..." He struggled with his words for a minute. He sighed. "Okay, I'm a little angry, but I forgive you. Now please come out!"

He waited again expectantly.

Nothing.

Nightmare frowned, anger returning to the front of his mind. "Okay, fine!" He snapped out, turning sharply back to the tree. "I'll wait until you come to your senses and return!" He stomped back to the base of the tree where he stopped and stared at the clothes still on the ground. He reached down and grabbed the crown, ignoring the way his hands shook and his stomach sank.

Maybe he was...

He refused to believe it. "Dream, please...It's really not funny anymore..." He whispered to the crown as he tightened his grip until it hurt. He listened once more, growing heavy with the growing realization.

No one answered him. No one came up to him and tackled him in a hug. No one whispered their apologies as they started crying as they realized what they did. No one was there for Nightmare to smile at and comfort and hug and make them promise to never do that again.

And if no one was coming to do those things, then that meant...

"Please..." Nightmare whispered once more, voice cracking on tears. He fell to his knees and screamed. He screamed over and over again until he couldn't anymore. Until his throat ached and his mouth was dry. He clutched the crown tight to his chest, thankful that there was at least one thing left of his brother.

...that Dream was really dead.

~oOo~

The next few days passed in a blur. Nightmare had taken the clothes, cape (which had made him sob heavily once more as he grabbed it) and crown back to their house. Entering the house had been another struggle as everything in there reminded him of Dream. He had to stop himself from breaking down and crying at the sight of their couch and so many other little things until he made it to their bedroom, the one they shared.

Then came another struggle entirely. Once he had gathered enough courage to open the door, he had immediately started crying. Since they shared the room, there were so many things in here that reminded Nightmare of Dream. He had thrown the stuff onto Dream's bed and ran out of the house, all the way back to the tree where he remained for the days following.

He avoided going back to the house, at least for now. He knew he would have to face it eventually but he just...it was too soon to go there now. So, he remained at the tree, never sleeping except for the occasional hour of which he had a nightmare of Dream dying all over again and spending the time locked in his head, face blank on the outside.

~oOo~

It was one week from the incident that the villagers had realized what had happened.

Nightmare looked up slowly as footsteps stomped heavily towards him. Recognizing his usual bullies, two monsters and a human, were coming up to him with a murderous look on their faces, he tried to stand to greet them.

They arrived before he could and the human, their leader, grabbed his collar and punched him, pushing him to the ground. Nightmare held himself up with his elbows, looking up at them with a weak and confused expression. The leader panted and retracted his arm. He glared at Nightmare.

"You murderer!" He screamed, making Nightmare flinch as a bit of spit landed on his face, though he made no move to wipe it away. "How could you kill him?! WHY?!"

Nightmare's eyes widened as he realized what the other was talking about. He gulped and started to whisper, "I didn't..."

One of the monsters shook their head, looking down on him with disappointment. They didn't seem to have heard him. "Your own brother...you killed your own brother! I can't even imagine how he had to have felt..." They shook their head again.

That hurt. Nightmare whimpered a little, the words striking true. They were right. Dream had to have felt the same way as he was dying. The pain in his brother's eyes brought another fresh wave of tears to him in the present. Dream must've blamed him, at least a little. His words about not blaming himself came back to Nightmare again too and he realized that Dream must've been just trying to make him feel better.

After all, it was Nightmare's fault he was dead.

The other monster spoke up, whispering, "You really are a demon..."

Nightmare hung his head, not opposing the words. He really was.

~oOo~

Nightmare yawned as he stared at the words on the page. He hadn't slept in...what was it now, three days? Though that may not seem like much, he had only slept a handful of hours the nights before, some days even getting zero hours. Now he was just too tired to keep his focus on anything.

It wasn't that he didn't want to sleep, either. He did. But he was also scared to. He kept seeing Dream dying over and over again, then hearing his voice say things like it was his fault Dream died, he killed him, things like that. Nightmare knew, on some level, that Dream wouldn't want him to blame himself—hell, his last words were that it wasn't his fault—but...no matter how he looks at it, all he can see is that the blame rests on him for not being there quick enough.

The villagers agreed that it was his fault, too. They often yelled things at him as they passed by the tree, sometimes coming up and hitting and kicking him. They mostly kept their distance, however, for which Nightmare was grateful for. He didn't have the energy to deal with them.

There was also...Astral. Just the name made his eyes tear up again. With Dream...dead...he couldn't become Astral again. He wouldn't be able to ever again. It hurt. When they were Astral, their minds were entwined, as if becoming one singular one. Each time they fused, they grew closer, becoming more dependent on the other. It's not...entirely healthy, they knew that, which was why they had the days where they tried not to fuse. It was important to remember that they could take care of themselves on their own if need be.

And now...Nightmare would need to take care of himself forever now. Alone.

...

It hurt.

He didn't know what else to say but that it hurt.

This was another reason why he wanted to sleep so badly. If he goes too long without it, his mind gets muddled and there's no filter for the thoughts that come. Meaning most of them end up being about Dream, about his guilt, about the villagers, about Astral, about so many things that he wants to not talk about.

...God, he was so pa—

A sudden sound—like...a book being slammed—next to his ear made Nightmare jolt, his eyes snapping open. He blinked hard as his heart raced, reaching up to rub at his eyes. Confusion filled him as he blinked again. What just...

Light giggles filled the air now and Nightmare forgot how to breathe.

That sounded like...

But it couldn't be...

But...

"You should've seen your face, Night! It was so funny!" A voice—Dream's voice—said next to him, his giggles turning to laughs.

Nightmare was shaking. He must be dreaming, must've dozed off by the tree, because Dream was dead. He knew it. He saw it happen. Yes, he might've tried to deny it in the beginning but there was no way he was denying it now.

But still...

Even if this was a dream...at least he gets to see his brother again, right? Even if it was just a figment of my imagination.

A finger poked his cheek, bringing Nightmare out of his thoughts. "Night? You okay? I didn't scare you too bad, did I?" The concern in his imaginary brother's voice made Nightmare's mouth twitch. No matter what he was, Dream was too good for this world.

"Nightmare?"

Nightmare shook his head and smiled, turning to his brother. God...he looked the exact same he did when he died! Forcing down a sob, he swallowed. "I'm fine, D-Dream. Sorry for worrying you." He laughed awkwardly in between his words.

Dream stared at him. That was another thing about his brother. People though Dream was too oblivious to notice anything outside of himself, but that wasn't the case. Dream noticed lots of things. He just...kept it to himself. Nightmare smiled again as he remembered all this.

Dream grinned, cyan eyes twinkling, drawing Nightmare's attention again. "Well, okay! As long as you're alright." Giggling to himself, Dream sat down beside Nightmare, leaning against him as he started to weave his flowers together.

Nightmare watched him for a minute, a fond smile in place.

He had missed this.

God, how he had missed this.

It felt like forever since he saw Dream last. He wasn't even sure how long it had been exactly as the days all sort of blurred together in his remaining shock and grief. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, actually. Pretending everything was fine seemed very appealing to him, as he drank in the sight of his brother next to him as he should be, relished in the warmth and weight of the body pressing against his...

...

But something itched in the back of his mind, a strange sensation that something was wrong.

Nightmare paused and furrowed his brow, thinking this over.

...

Did...

Well, it could be a trick of the light...but...

Did...did Dream have...cyan eyes? Now, in his made-up fantasy? Why would he make Dream have cyan eyes when he knew, remembered as one of the most painful things, as one of his most favourite things about his brother, that Dream had...golden...eyes...

Nightmare froze.

A slow, terrifying chill moved through him.

"Hey, Nightmare?" The Dream beside him asked, all movement stopping, voice almost...dead...hollow. "Why did you let them go?"

Nightmare blinked, still coming to terms with what he had realized.

'Dream' tilted his head back to meet his eyes, cyan staring holes in his soul. "The guys that killed be. Why did you let them leave? Why didn't you go after them and..." he shrugged, "I dunno, kill them?"

It was said with such casualness, such innocence, such child-like curiosity that it, while squeezing his chest in pain as he hadn't heard that voice from Dream in years, confirmed his suspicions.

After all, Dream wouldn't wish death on anyone, whether they killed him or not.

It didn't matter if it was his mind or not.

This wasn't Dream.

Anger surged through him and Nightmare shot to his feet, making as much distance as he could between him and the...the imposter, who had fallen with a yelp at his sudden movements. He turned and glared, with as much hate as he could. It was difficult with the thing still looking like Dream. "You aren't him."

Fake Dream blinked, looking confused. "What are you talk—"

"You aren't him," Nightmare repeated, staying firm, "so don't try to pretend you are. Dream's eyes aren't cyan. They're golden. So golden that the sun can't compete with them, gold itself can't compete with them."

He took a shaky breath. "You aren't him. You aren't Dream."

Fake Dream had reached a hand up when Nightmare pointed out the eyes. He frowned. "They're cyan? Damn, I thought I fixed that problem."

"You aren't Dream." Nightmare repeated again, as if the imposter was denying it still.

The imposter shrugged, standing up. Nightmare took two more steps back. "No, I'm not. I wondered if you would catch on, when you would, so I'm not gonna deny it. But," He grinned, black...stuff dripping from his mouth. "do you want to see who I really am?"

Without waiting for an answer, Fake Dream stepped back and disappeared.

Nightmare blinked and everything was different. The sky was a deep red, black clouds covering it, the sun was gone. The grass, trees, everything was dead. Brown. It crackled under his feet as he turned in a slow circle. The village was in ruins, some parts of it still on fire. He covered his mouth as he spied a few bodies in the rubble.

And...the tree. His tree.

It was cut in half, jagged edges poking out of the ground. There were a bunch of flakes of bark resting on the ground, what must've been the remains of the top half of the tree. The remaining stump was dead, but it wasn't the faded gray colour most trees would be when they were dead. It was black.

It was horrifying.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Dream's voice whispered in his ear and Nightmare spun around.

The imposter had changed. He still resembled Dream, still wore his clothing, still bore his looks, but he was covered in black...sludge? Goop? Whatever it was, stuff. His cyan eyes were glowing now and he was still grinning, though it had switched from cheerful to eerie. He was also...floating.

Nightmare was shaking, he faintly noted. Breathing in slowly, he tried to calm himself. It was just a dream. "Where are we?"

The imposter's grin widened. "Why, our home of course! Well, what it would look like in the future. I don't know if it still looks like this. Dream's death did really change things." He laughed, spreading his arms out wide. "Heck, we weren't supposed to meet until after you ate the first apple!"

Nightmare shivered, his horror growing at every word uttered. "What."

The imposter nodded like it was the best thing in the world. "Yeah! You were supposed to eat the apple—" He paused and backtracked. "Well, you were supposed to pick it first, in an effort to prove you were as good as your brother. I was supposed to convince you to eat it and then we would become one person bent on drowning the world in negativity!"

"That's..." Nightmare swallowed, shaking his head. He grew dizzy.

"Fun, right? And then—"

Nightmare shook his head again, getting his bearings again. "Don't. Just...don't. I wouldn't do that. I won't do that. Not ever."

The imposter stared at him, all his happiness gone. "You would. You've thought about it before, I wouldn't be here if you didn't! And you still might." He tilted his head. "Dream's dead. Whatever relief he would give you from the beating and harsh words is gone. The villagers will come back and they will be worse. You'll get tired. You'll give up."

"I won't." Nightmare growled, fists clenched by his side.

The imposter's eyes narrowed. "We'll see."

Nightmare growled again and moved to explain just why he wouldn't do all those terrible things, but a wave of drowsiness washed over him. He stumbled, his legs suddenly straining to keep his weight. His eyes felt heavy.

The imposter blinked and his cheerfulness returned. "Oh, we're out of time. See you again soon! And call me Corruption! 'The imposter' was getting repetitive."

Nightmare didn't hear any more as his legs gave out and he fell backwards into a sea of black.

~oOo~

Nightmare woke up with a gasp. Panting, he looked around quickly. Still under the tree, though the sun was setting now. Still by the village. The world was still alive. He was awake. Gripping his chest, he tried to calm his breathing.

He was awake.

Or was he, he thought, tensing as Corruption's laughter (still resembling Dream's, the bastard) filled his head.

"We're going to have lots and lots of fun, brother!"

Nightmare shivered, burying his head in his hands.

Its voice still sounded like Dream.

Nightmare let out a loose sob, digging his fingertips in his head.

Dream was dead—he still struggled to say this, unwilling to accept it—but Dream was dead.

Dream was dead and he was left with someone imposter, some ghost, demon, thing, whatever that wanted and was trying to taint his memory.

#my writing #my fanfiction #nightmare sans #dream sans #mentioned astral #corruption #or #droopgoop #haunted au #tw death #my was this a doozy #im going to crash now #bye

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skelanonymous · 4 years ago

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DustCherry ?

Odd idea I’ll never fully flesh out. Have a cohesive scene. Only set up, we’re in an AU where Red is both the eldest prince of Fellsword kingdom under Gaster and Forge, the blacksmith who runs a criminal bar and supplies weapons for the rebellion. Dust is Dust kinda.

Words: 1.7k

“Heya Forgey.” Dust winked from behind the helmet. Red rolled his eyes and finished cleaning the glasses from the bar.

“Whatcha need Dust? You ran out of pieces to request. Already made all the armor you could need, all three of your weapons. “Red slid the glasses into the cabinet. “I doubt you’d greet me before killing me.”

“I’d totally greet you before killing you. I consider us friends.” Dust’s pointy grin, teasingly flipping a dagger in one hand. “But no, I don’t want to kill you. Quite the opposite really.” He snaked out a purple tongue to lick along the dagger’s edge. Red’s soul pounded in his chest, Dust’s eyes going half lidded, all sultry and wanton.

“Are you propositioning me?” Red face flushed. Dust only chuckled at his incomprehension.

“That was the idea.” His eyes shifted from the purple to the more familiar dualtone. “I wanted to have a little fun and you’re the only handsome friend I have.” Red lifted an eyebrow.

“I didn’t think you had many friends.” Red kept cleaning off the bar counter. “Thought assassins didn’t need ‘em.” Dust shrugged.

“Honestly, you’re the only I have as Dust. The rest are from my day job, and those don’t intermingle.” Dust leaned back, casually draping himself over a chair. “It does make you the most handsome by default.” He stuck out his tongue.

“How the fuck do you have a day job? I can’t imagine what you’d be like outside of this.” Dust seemed so well suited for assassin work. Picturing him baling hay, running a shop, baking? Dust laughed.

“I’m capable of behaving. Let me show you.” Suddenly leaned over the counter into Red’s space, Dust trailed a finger under Red’s jaw. Red grabbed his arm, but didn’t wrench it away.

“I’m guessing this comes with conditions. Nothing with you is ever that easy.” Dust licked his teeth at Red’s iron grasp.

“Either I keep the helmet on, or you agree to a temporary blindness spell. Can’t have you seeing my face.” He climbed over the counter, never pulling his arm free. He made a delightful little sigh when Red wrapped the other arm around his back. “I don’t mind you being in charge. I’m flexible.”

“Uh-huh. You just get to see mine then.” Red glared at the horny assassin through the face guard.

“Forgey, I’ve known who you were since Day 1.” He hooked a leg around Red’s waist. “Prince Red Fellsword helping rebels and causing chaos against his father. It doesn’t matter to me. I only care how good you are with your hands.” His free hand flipped up the face shield.

“Dust! Pe-”

“Relax, there’s no one for a mile in any direction. Don’t forget who I am.” He dragged a sharp finger down his throat. “It wouldn’t be wise.”

Red huffed before releasing Dust completely. The assassin waited patiently in his space, still hooked tightly to his pelvis. He weighed his options carefully. This wasn’t a smart thing to do, not by a longshot, not with the most vicious murderer in all the kingdoms. But his soul pulsed at the thought of fucking someone that powerful.

“You get how fucking insane this is, right?” Red glared at the shorter assassin. His smile only got wider, toothier.

“Completely.” Red pinched his nasal ridge, then pulled Dust’s other leg up to fully seat their pelvises together. He snapped his fingers and they landed on Red’s bed down the hall.

“Fuck it, I guess I’m insane.” He removed the armor covering Dust with ease. The belts slipped off, plates clanging to the ground. Dust’s eyes got wider and hungrier. “Blind me whenever.”

“Once I’m down to the helmet.” Dust pulled at Red’s shirt, yanking it over his head and scraping his fingers down the ribs. Red pushed Dust’s tank up to his neck, hands wandering over his chest.

“Didn’t know you were a skeleton like me.” He tended to the bones with practiced ease. He knew how to make Dust scream if he had bones like his. He hadn’t worked the pants fully off, but did squeeze right at the base of Dust’s tailbone. Then after a cursory lick across the collarbone, he bit down. Hard.

“Oh fuuuuuuck! Mark me up Forge.” Dust’s tongue lolled out of his helmet. He raised a hand and snapped. Red’s eyesight blinked out.

There was the sound of metal ringing, and then a tongue in his mouth.

Dust devoured his mouth hungrily. The scent and taste of blood had him frenzied, clinging to Red’s body. When he broke away, Dust was suddenly by his ear.

“Can I taste your blood?” Dust’s body rumbled with a groan. “Your mouth tasted so good with mine in it.” Red felt for and then bit down on Dust’s opposite shoulder. Red made sure to really get a mouthful, licking up the excess before trailing his hand to the back of Dust’s skull to kiss him again. Dust’s entire body shook with desire.

“One bite Dust. Make it count.” Red felt Dust’s hands scrambling to remove both of their pants. He tried to help, but couldn’t do much about Dust’s clothes while blind. Then the shock of a wet tongue right on his pelvis. Dust licked upwards, attempting to force the shape.

“Give me something to suck on.” Red’s body summoned the cock on reflex. Dust lavished attention onto him before pulling the entire cock into his mouth, taking the entire thing deep into his throat in three short bobs.

“I-ahhhhh- I’m not gunna last if you keep going at it like that.” Red didn’t hear a reply, per se, but he did hear some very enthusiastic hums around his cock. Dust’s tongue wrapped around him, stroking and tightening around the base as the head dipped further and further back into his throat. Red couldn’t see but he did feel the drool dripping out of Dust’s mouth onto his pelvis, could feel him holding onto his hips softly, coaxing him on with light circles, heard the moans increasing in pitch the faster he went. And if he listened in real closely, some very wet fingers playing with an equally wet pussy…

Red came right into Dust’s throat. And judging on the choking sounds and jolting around, he came right on his fingers.

When Dust let the cock out of his mouth, Red smelled something sweet by his face.

“Just getting nice and wet for you. Wan-oooooh…”Red had already stuck his tongue out for a taste. He guided the fingers into his mouth with one hand, and slipped the other right into Dust. He got in three fingers on the first try.

“I’m still sensitive, haaaaaaaaaaah, so cruel of you.” Red could feel Dust writhe against him, around his fingers. His skull laid against his shoulder, mouth open with whining pants, before it turned and bit down with those sharp canines. Red only tensed; he remained silent. Dust suckled at the bite, tightening with each draw of blood. He let go before Red got woozy.

“Reeeeeeeeed.” Dust’s voice took on his bloodlust form. Part of Red was worried. He flexed his fingers still buried deep in his cunt. “AHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

Red pulled out his fingers, and gently flipped them over. It took a little feeling around, but he definitely got settled between Dust’s legs. He felt up those long bones, nipping along them, cleaning off his fingers before switching to the other femur. Dust sighed softly when Red finally lined them up.

“I’d kill to see the faces you’ve been making, but I guess I’ll live with just having you.” Red chuckled, pulling the legs up over his shoulders, kissing his shins. He pushed in with a guiding hand. “Oh fuck, you’re still tight?” Red groaned.

“You’re -Mmmmmmm- the only one-,” Dust moaned at the first thrust, still coming down from the blood high, “-whose fucked me.”

“Well you’re not a virgin either.” Red fucked Dust steadily. His pussy was still tight around him, not nearly loose enough to really let go and pound the hell out of Dust without making it uncomfortable. Dust panted and laughed.

“I’m. Usually. The one. Doing the fucking!” Dust whined as Red finally started to speed up, his body relaxing into the hard thrusts, begging for more. Red hadn’t planned the pace, he just couldn’t hold back anymore.

Dust fucked people, he did not let people fuck him. But here he was, letting Red take him. He offered himself without a thought, Red hadn’t even needed to negotiate.

“Then I’ll make you scream.” Red slightly changed angles until Dust’s voice escalated to pitchy moans of pure bliss. He relentlessly pushed them both further and further along, getting to really savor the moment after that first fast orgasm. Dust clawed up towards up, pulling himself off the bed to hit even deeper.

“AHHHHH!” Dust wailed, spasming around Red’s cock until he spilled into him.

They rode out their peaks in peace, finally separating when the sensations of touching overwhelmed them. Red laid back in his bed, fully expecting the absence of another body beside him.

“Don’t think this gets you a discount.” Red joked. He didn’t want to let this into his soul; loving Dust would lead to nothing but heartache.

“Of course not.” Dust chuckled, the subtle ringing of metal as Dust got dressed to go vibrating around the room. “Don’t think this grants you immunity.”

“Never.” Red stretched out his limbs, getting ready to relax. “As long as we understand each other, repeat performance is on the table if you want it.” He heard Dust’s shadow magic swallow his presence, already slinking off to the next target. But not before a whisper by his ear.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He could hear the smirk in it, and with a snap, his eyelights came back to an empty room. He grinned before turning in.

Deep in the shadows, Dust shivered. Red’s magic was still leaking down his thighs, knees shaking. Keep it in mind? More like restrain the impulse to come here every night. He wanted the blacksmith bad before, and the fire in his soul was stoked by the night they shared.

Forge would be his, one way or another.

----

Currently working on a longer non-sexy Errorberry, but hey, making progress.

#Dustcherry #dusttale #underfell #undertail #since this is the tags...#long game would be that Dust and Prince Blue Swapguard are the same person #story time

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braindeadskeletons · 4 years ago

Note

Could I have a matchup pls? I’m pansexual and gender-fluid (but I usually go by female pronouns), and have a slightly unhealthy obsession with rainbows and glitter. I don’t usually go out much, but that’s because I don’t like being by myself, and I don’t really have anyone to go with. I have ADD and anxiety, so that’s a bit of a train wreck. I have a HUGE hyper-fixation on space, and love soft cute things. I also really enjoy biology and science in general. (Sorry Imma have to take another ask)

I love all and every animal ever (probably, I haven’t actually seen them all) and own a hairless cat. I can and will read everything I can get my hands on within 2 hrs of getting it, unless it’s written poorly. I play the viola, and will sometimes draw or write in my spare time. I hate all physical activity no matter what it is. I’m pretty non-confrontational for the most part, but the second you hurt one of mine, I won’t hold back. And I’m told I can be terrifying when I want to be.

Hi there, of course you can! Don’t apologize for taking up two asks it’s perfectly fine, and it even helps me out a bunch! More information = more for me to write about you and your match! Alright so admittedly while I was reading your information you had me stumped for a really long time. I considered giving you a match with the original Sans but then once I started writing I realized ‘hey you’re going off of nothing except that they both think science and space are cool. That's no good.’ It’s not that Sans wasn’t a good option for a match but I felt like there was another skeleton who fit the bill a bit better. Which is why I chose the skeleton below.

I match you Horrortale Sans!

Alright so! To start us off in a relationship with this big goober you would need to know a couple of immediate ground rules. Sans has been through so much in the underground. It feels amazing for him to finally be on the surface, be out of the old sentry job, and to see everyone including his brother being well fed. That’s all good and well and mentally he’s doing so much better but the fear is still deeply ingrained in his mind. Back home he was told by Papyrus to not go anywhere without him so that no harm would come to either of them. Sans was always the one taking care of Papyrus yes, but he still only has one hp. An easy meal. Yeah, above ground that doesn’t need to hold true anymore but he still feels like he needs to go places with at least one other person. It’s typically his own brother since it’s so comforting to have a familiar face and someone who gets it by his side, but sometimes Papyrus can’t be there. In those cases, he always wants to go with you. He knows that you don’t like being by yourself and he deeply relates to that feeling and doesn’t want that for you either. If you’re with him he can watch you and know that you’re safe. He’ll happily accompany you and hold your hand as you two go out grocery shopping, walking in a park, going to see a movie, etc. Anywhere you go, Sans is right behind you and he’s just a shout away if you ever need him. You’ll never feel alone with this absolute cutie of a skeleton by your side.

The times where you two go outside are going to be rare though. He dislikes it as much as you do. It feels unsafe, everyone gives him weird glances because of his appearance, and overall it’s never much fun. He doesn’t care about other people's opinion but still, the staring does bother him. But with you, everything can change! Sans feels safe with you because of how much trust he has in you and how much he adores you. Even if someone does give him weird looks if he’s outside with you none of it will matter. He’s only focused on the cute human by his side, how much he loves them, and how much you make him happy. He can only hope you feel the same way about him since he’d much rather stay inside and spend time with only you instead. Sans's main priority is to make sure you and him both feel safe, are well-fed and happy. His protective nature easily shows. He knows that you can handle yourself well and that you can be terrifying when you need to be, but he also knows that you’d rather not confront people yourself. Just more justification to him as to why he needs to be by your side. It doesn’t hurt that going outside means that he can protect you from the other humans he does not trust

Speaking of feeling safe, Horrortale Sans is honestly the most understanding of the Sanses when it comes to anxiety. He knows how it feels to live day to day life with a creeping sense of unease (to put it lightly) in your stomach even if everything is alright. He hates that you feel this way and will do anything to help you deal with it. If you feel awful at any point you can count on him. Do you need him to breathe with you? Would you like a hug if that would help ground you? Do you just need some space? Anything that you need he will provide. The same attitude is given in response to your ADD. Hell, he even handmakes some fidget toys for you if that’s something that you enjoy. Now that he’s above ground he wants to try and be who he used to be, and that includes building and tinkering in his new lab. If you ask him, he'll absolutely put those skills into making something that’ll help you out.

Sans adores hearing you talk about the things you enjoy. He’s getting back into his own hobbies now that he has the materials and time for all of them. If you ever want to talk to him about biology, any scientific or space he’s always there to listen. He may not completely understand everything you say but he’s slightly familiar since once upon a time he was just as passionate as you were about science. The head injury just made him forget about a large chunk of the information he used to know. Sans will be more than happy to learn about anything you want to teach him, and he’ll even make notes of what you say since his memory is so screwed up.

With your interest in space, Sans will definitely be taking you to go stargazing. If there’s one thing that he will completely understand it’s the beauty of the stars. As mentioned before, he doesn’t remember half of what he used to know about space but that’s where you come in. You can point out the stars and constellations to him and tell him everything you know about the planets and he’ll be hanging on to every word. You make him want to be the old skeleton he used to be, and seeing you underneath the starlight only reminds him of why he fell in love with you in the first place.

This is a really weird fact about Sans but for some reason, animals really seem to like him?? They love him a lot more than the humans do, excluding yourself of course. Nobody really understands it. If you ever go out to a place like a park it’ll probably go something like:

----------

You: hey sans I bought us some nice cream and-

You: uh

You: wh-

You: what do you got there buddy?

Horrortale Sans, holding a squirrel:

Horrortale Sans: ….friend….

You: oh my god-

You: can I pet it???

Horrortale Sans:

Horrortale Sans: [nods]

----------

It’s honestly so adorable. He just attracts them, what can he say? It’s really a good thing that you love animals so much because either way, Sans attracts a lot to him. Sometimes he’ll come home with hurt animals just to help them out. Dating him is going to be heaven for you. Honestly, with Sans comes the animals it’s a whole package deal. You really wouldn’t have to worry about your cat not getting along with him. Sans will win your baby over one way or another. It’s guaranteed.

Since you like reading so much, Sans will pretty much give you books on a daily basis. Does it make you happy? Well he’s gonna get it for you. Not up for debate. It’s yours now. He supports anything you like, which includes viola, drawing, and writing. Though you may not write and draw as much as you play he’ll still support your works immensely. Taking your art to carry with him in his jacket pocket, reading everything you write, he’ll even give you ideas for some writing but be warned that most (all) of the ideas will be morbid. His favorite time to spend with you is when you just play on your viola as he sits and listens. Listening to you play is so soothing, and seeing your adorable face light up once you finish looking for his approval just makes his day.

#god #this is literally so soft #i have such a soft spot for Horror i'm sorry if i got carried away #thank you so much for sending this in!#Undertale matchup #matchup #horrortale #horrortale x reader #horrortale sans #horrortale sans x reader #x reader #reader #y/n

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radramblog · 3 years ago

Text

Adventures in the Forgotten Realms Commanders

Due to circumstances I won’t get into at time of writing (don’t worry it’s mostly good) I’ve been forced, dragged over, and required to actually fucking read all the new Commanders from Magic’s newest set, Adventures in the Forgotten Realms. I’ve only recently gotten deeper into D&D, I don’t know who like any of these clowns are (except Tiamat, obviously).

Also due to circmstances beyond my control (that are less good but understandable) my Commander night has been called off and I don’t get to play with my shiny new Cabal Coffers. It’s a bit sad, and it means I want to get my fix elsewhere.

What better way than to combine these two and just write about every AFR ‘mander? That’ll pass the time. There’s like, what, 30? I can manage that if I’m quick. Let’s get into it.

(No I’m not doing the precon cards I haven’t been staring at those all week)

Acererak the Archlich

The way I see this guy going is one of two things. You either do infinite Venture by making him free (not too hard in Black, what with Heartless Summoning, Carnival of Souls, etc.) and have a probably fine combo commander. For the record, infinite Venture does kill your opponents flat-out, BUT only because of Lost Mine of Phandelver’s Dark Pool room, and only if their life totals are lower than your deck count because you’re going to be drawing it in the process. That shouldn’t be an issue, but you never know.

The other option is just playing him fairly, which requires completing Tomb of Annihilation, and you just have a kinda mid Stax commander I guess? Eh.

Asmodeus the Archfiend

This Devil is clearly trying to echo prior Demons like Griselbrand and Vilis, but I’m not sure it’s going to be successful- if only because the mana investment means it’s a lot slower. And if he gets killed when you don’t have B up? Blown the fuck out. Add in no evasion and this is a God I’m happy to pass on.

Barrowin of Clan Undurr

Okay so this is kind of like Alesha, in less colours and more mana, if you manage to complete a dungeon. And there aren’t that many dungeon cards, so you’re probably playing some bad ones to make up for it. This is definitely a 99’er in that Esper Dungeon precon, and certainly not a commander.

Bruenor Battlehammer

In an attempt to solve one of Boros’s problems, Bruenor saves you a bunch of mana on equips and makes shit like Argentum Armor substantially more playable. He also gets kinda fuckin beefy with even just a few on him, hitting that 7 no matter what the first one is and 11 not long after. As far as Boros Boys go, you can do a lot worse!

Delina, Wild Mage

Didn’t we just get this card? Like, in C21? This is harder to make busted than Rionya, but it is cheaper and works with legends, so fair call. There’s not enough “advantage” dice mechanics in Red, certainly, so you can’t go probability-mad with this, but it’s pretty decent value. It also happens to be a Shaman, so it works with that new MH2 card, and that’s fun.

Drizzt Do’Urden

This guy has a lot of potential, and for added bonus, he has a cat! A lot of the cards that are good in this are the ones that are good in, say, Varolz, but honestly if you just want to play Selesnya Beatsticks then Drizzt might be the way to go. Can’t play him in Cats, though, unless you want to lose Kaheera, so.

Ebondeath, Dracolich

Yeah I don’t think this one was for this format? I mean it’s super recursive, and probably a really good candidate for a Homicidal Seclusion/Deadly Wanderings deck. I think we need one or two more of that effect to make it actually playable, but I still like the idea.

Wait why isn’t this fucker a skeleton? WoTC Pls.

Farideh, Devil’s Chosen

Look, I tried. I really tried, but there really just isn’t enough to make Farideh work yet. At least in black-border, as I think she’s probably one of the best silver-bordered commanders printed in a minute. A shame, because I sure do enjoy Tieflings, and the effect is legitimately solid if you can trigger it consistently.

Grazilaxx, Illithid Scholar

While I imagine it’s a perfectly solid commander in their own right, basically Mono-Blue Edric but not group-huggy, where this is going to really shine is in Ninja decks. Holy shit, this is so nutty for those. Honestly, ETB decks in general are going to like them, because the choice of either taking damage and letting them draw or letting them reuse a powerful ETB is pretty tough. I like everything about this, except the art, because I’m not into tentacles no thank you.

Gretchen Titchwillow

When Strixhaven came out, I thought Zimone was going to be the most boring Simic commander we’d ever see. But here comes Gretchen to outdo them.

Look, Simic can do good designs. Even at uncommon- Imoti, Moritte, and Eutropia are all super interesting in my opinion. But Simic being just draw and lands has become a meme, and I’m sick of it. Extremely so, for three main reasons- one, it’s boring, two, it’s been all over the place since WoTC decided +1/+1 counters being their only theme was bad (and, fair,) and three, it’s good.

Gretchen is the most boring card in the entire set, in my opinion, and I sure hope she isn’t a cool character in the lore because that’d be such a waste.

Hama Pashar, Ruin Seeker

There are 21 venture cards in Azorius, and some of them are even good. Most of the Room effects are pretty minor, however, save for some of the endgame ones (and copying Cradle of the Death God is pointless, Atropal is legendary), so copying them isn’t actually a huge amount of value. I’d still play this in Esper Venture, but I don’t think I’d build around it.

Icingdeath, Frost Tyrant

While this clearly isn’t built for this format, equipping this dragon with it’s own tongue is kind of a hilarious idea. You could do worse for Voltron decks, I guess, and in the 99 it’s both a thing to slap equipment on and an equipment itself- like a flying (and weaker) Halvar. Eh? I just wish the token wasn’t legendary- like yeah Flavour but this effect gets a lot worse when you can’t recur it. It’s rare that someone goes out of their way to kill an equipment that isn’t super busted, so Frost Tongue is probably hanging around for a while anyway.

Man, it feels awful if they bolt this one, huh?

Inferno of the Star Mounts

Okay this is fucking cool. It’s a Shivan Dragon with haste, and that ability is probably pretty feasible to activate- keep in mind Braid of Fire and Neheb and the like are in the format- and combined with a swing will just kill someone. In fact, when I saw this, my brain immediately started looking for ways to shrink it, just so you can get multiple 20-damage wallops in a turn.

…there aren’t very many. But still! Even if you can’t get to 20 multiple times in a turn, getting to 21 once or twice is pretty good!

Iymrith, Desert Doom

The fourth of our dragon cycle, because hey, it is Dungeons and Dragons. Iymrith reads basically identical to Dragonlord Ojutai, but without White- and for that kinda control deck, White is pretty nice to have. Iymrith can draw you more cards than Ojutai, but only if you’re low, in a blue deck, in Commander, so. With that said, a deck that just loads this with cheap auras/equipment might actually be pretty good, since they can load you back up on cards and keep the Voltron flowing, so, maybe? I’d honestly consider it if I didn’t already have Mono-blue Voltron as a deck.

Kalain, Reclusive Painter

Okay this is super interesting. He is, unfortunately kinda fighting with the RB precon face, Prosper, for the new RB treasure deck, but for an uncommon there’s a fair bit going on here.

Actually, wait, is there? I thought about this for another couple seconds, and I don’t think this card actually does that much. It’s one treasure, and it benefits you a little bit for doing something you frankly don’t really want to be burning treasures on? Like it probably plays a mean Marionette Master, but everyone does that.

There really aren’t any other RB Artifact commanders, though, aside from Prosper or a partner deck. So ehhhh? Why are more people playing this than, like, Bruenor?

Krydle of Baldur’s Gate

That’s a lot of words that don’t actually do a whole lot. I like the second ability, but Commander and especially Dimir aren’t hurting for evasion options. This is probably pretty good in Rogues, but that deck has a de facto best commander now, so. If this came out like, five years ago, it’d be kinda hype, but not anymore.

As an aside, I do kinda hate it when they just print a Tribal commander (or anything like this) that’s just miles and miles better than every other commander for that archetype, like with Anowon 2 or Edgar Markov or Anje Falkenrath. Wait….those are all vampires…….

Minsc, Beloved Ranger

Shivam Bhatt did a fucking excellent breakdown of this character’s lore on twitter, which I recommend reading- the history of D&D’s lore is fucking wild. As it is, this seems like a pretty fun Naya commander- there’s plenty of creatures that get way better if you make them large, even if targeting Boo seems kinda pointless.

Also, I need someone to explain to me why the “Top Cards” on EDHREC for this guy right now are, like, all combo cards.

WAIT NO FIGURED IT OUT, unlike Marath he doesn’t say X can’t be 0 so you can use him as a sac outlet, for fucks sake people.

Nadaar, Selfless Paladin

Hey remember all the things I said about the WB and WU dungeon cards? I mean, at least this guy could theoretically complete the dungeon on his own, but Mono-White is even more restrictive for what you could get, so. At least he draws a card every so often. And that anthem isn’t even remotely worth it, at all.

Old Gnawbone

Green eating up more of the colour pie, I see. Now to be fair, I’ve pondered Mono-Green artifacts for a while, and this is probably a better leader for that list than Oviya Pashiri (but…I like her….), but beyond that I’m not sure what you’re doing with this. I guess people playing Sakiko because they think she’s actually good and not because they like her have a new commander.

This is fuckbusted in the 99 of like a million decks though. So there’s that.

Orcus, Prince of Undeath

That…is so much mana. In a colour combo not especially great at garnering lots of it. The second ability scales fairly well, and it is a decent body on its own, but I don’t think this is going to be a particularly popular commander. Like, you have to pump 6 mana into this just to get a 2-drop back or to Infest the board? And that’s just the first time you cast it? Nahhhhh.

Oswald Fiddlebender

Artifact Pod? Yeah, okay, sure, that seems reasonable at two mana. Keeping this mono-white was a good idea, I can’t imagine how insane this’d be in blue. I’m no artifacts expert, I’m no pod expert, but this has to be busted, right? Like surely there’s an easy way to infinite this? Someone with more brains figure it out for me, but either way it’s still a bunch of value and also a tutor in the zone.

(convert two random 2-mana rocks or wellsprings into Basalt Monolith/Rings of Brighthearth, okay that’s a good start)

Shessra, Death’s Whisper

…ehhhhhhh. Okay, so, it’s a significantly worse Deathreap ritual in the command zone, and also a terrible Lure effect. Along with the flavour words on this taking up much more space than necessary, making the effects look much bigger and better than they are. Would it have hurt to give this deathtouch? Make it trigger on every end step? Lure more than once? I dunno, this just seems painfully weak to me. We’ve had an overabundance of Golgari commanders recently, to be fair- MH2 had 3, and before that was the enemy focused Strixhaven/C21, but that’s no excuse for this to be such trash- just look at Bruenor.

Targ Nar, Demon-Fang Gnoll

I hope you like Gnolls, because that’s gotta be the only reason you’re playing this. Hello Tuya Bearclaw/Syr Faren/im sure a bunch of other boring commanders, this is another one of you. This looks so bad next to the Gruul precon (which is apparently somehow the first Gruul precon) and, well, every other RG general from the past couple years (save, again, Tuya Bearclaw). Even the fuckin Walking Dead guy is cooler than this.

The Tarrasque

Disappointment part one over here is at time of writing the only commander from this set with a fat zero decks. Considering there were like 10 commanders at that number when I last checked, people are clearly trying out the set, so The Tarrasque being abandoned is particularly sad. It just…doesn’t do anything? It’s the fucking Tarrasque, and it doesn’t have trample, or a fear ability, or anything? Ward 10 is cute, basically being hexproof unless they have infinite mana (or an uncounterable spell), but really? I want more than this idiot for my 9 fucking mana commander. Ugh.

Tiamat

I believe I’ve talked about Tiamat before, when she got spoiled, but I can’t be arsed finding that and dredging it up. I’m still disappointed, basically, especially since I’ve now read her statblock and know what she actually does. They could’ve given her a cool ability per head like Cromat, or had her recur like she does in the lore, or something. I genuinely would have preferred if she was an Emrakul-style massive game-ender (with a no-reanimation no bullshit clause) than this. How utterly meh.

Trelasarra, Moon Dancer

This is literally just Ajani’s Pridemate but Selesnya and in the zone. Also you scry. Sure? It does also have two relevant creature types I guess, and they’d probably be good in a Soul Sisters deck. But it’s not like Selesnya was hurting for Lifegain commanders- this is basically just Lathiel but much leaner and voltron-ier.

Varis, Silverymoon Ranger

Wait you can’t even play this in Esper Venture, fuck. With Flash effects, you can start clearing dungeons well quick enough, but like, for what, a Wolf? And these defensive keywords aren’t getting you anywhere either. Blegh.

Side note- I’m a big fan of tokens, and collecting various token arts, and I was extremely disappointed when I found out that the Wolf token from this set is just…the Zendikar one again? They didn’t reuse the 3/3 Angel or the Goblin or even the Zombie, why just that one? Something must have happened behind the scenes here.

Also….Silverymoon? That sounds like shit.

Volo, Guide to Monsters

Hey, I know you, you’re from that one book. As much as Anti-Tribal sounds fun, I’m pretty sure this just turns into generic Simic value. Copying things is fun, I suppose, though not working with Legends hurts. I also appreciate that this supports playing a bunch of weirdo cards or ones that have fallen out of favor because they have more unique creature types- Anphin Mutineer, Acidic Slime, and Diluvian Primordial all seem like a lot of power here.

That said, is anyone ever letting this fucker stick around for a turn?

Xanathar, Guild Kingpin

Hey, I know you, you’re from that one book. This card is completely awful to play in webcam-commander, so it’s a good thing we’re all getting vaccinated, right?

So this is UB Gonti, I guess? And also unironically not the worst combo commander, since it stops people from playing spells on your turn in a very White-like effect. Add in some Lantern-style effects and you can get a real stew going with this guy. He looks like a lot of fun- and I’m sure he’ll end up popular as a result. Well, that and being on the cover of an expansion book gets you a lot of notoriety.

Zalto, Fire Giant Duke

Our final card, our final Venture card, and the only red one. So, uh, there are literally 4 other Venture cards in mono-red, and at least one of them is complete dogshit, so I can’t imagine this being very good. Also, it’s an Enrage trigger on a 3 toughness 5-drop? Far from ideal. I guess it’s a 7 power trampler for 5, but that’s kind of faint praise to damn with. Maybe if someone makes 5C Venture, or if Giant/Barbarian tribal feel lacking, then this guy can find a home.

Shoutout to the exactly one person who built this deck, by the way. I see you, Elder Demon Highlander, and your 100ish views on your deck tech.

And that’s the lot of them. Honestly, a lot more misses than hits, but that’s perfectly okay by me. 30 legends in a set is a lot, not to mention the 12 from the precons, and we’ve had so many actively playable legends recently that I’m fine with, like, half of these being trash. Trash is more fun anyway! Get yourself a fuckin Varis, why not.

Okay but seriously though who’s biting the bullet and building Tarrasque first? It’s not going to be me.

#ramble #mtg #commander #edh #mtgafr #adventures in the forgotten realms

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ellaofoakhill · 4 years ago

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Xerxes

You don’t have to do this. Hohenheim nodded. They’d repeated this phrase time and again, once he’d told them what he was planning. But he was doing it anyway.

With a pang of guilt, he thought it might have taken too long already. The Dwarf might have gotten there first, thanks to Hohenheim’s cowardice. And the invisible chaos of horror and pain he’d spent a hundred years calming. Now…

Hohenheim smiled. Now they were an ocean, wave upon wave of thought and feeling, capable of coordinating themselves in ways that would’ve been impossible, had Hohenheim not fought to make himself heard, so they could be heard.

The waves of their voices gently rumbled in him now. Most were reluctant. Some were terrified of what they would see; Hohenheim had taken the shortest possible route in his escape, had tried to see as little as possible. A few, the bravest, and the kindest, were with Hohenheim. But they knew what he had been through, the toll he had paid for surviving. It had been them who’d started the refrain.

You don’t have to do this. Hohenheim crested the rise. And saw, dunes and dunes, and dunes away, a pillar in the desert. What he was going to do suddenly struck him, more viscerally than he’d expected.

It had been a conversation he’d inadvertently overheard; couldn’t avoid overhearing. It was Tony who’d started it; he hadn’t known more than ten thousand of them then, and Tony had always been loud. His voice would’ve stuck out anyway, but the familiarity pulled Hohenheim’s attention like a hook.

I miss home. Hohenheim had been about to bite into a chicken leg. He paused; the Xingese bar was quite full, and though he’d gotten a few looks when he walked in, there were just enough foreigners passing through that no one questioned him, and by now he spoke the language well enough to keep from making a scene. He was all but invisible.

Yeah, well… we all do. He didn’t know Marilla at that point, but she assured him later it was she who’d spoken.

But we can’t go back; there’s nothing there for us. Brock had always been one to leave the past in the past.

The whole ocean had quieted, listening; there was the slightest murmur, of hundreds of thousands who no longer had lungs drawing breath.

Xerxes is a ruin by now. Leo; in life he’d looked like a sad lion, and spoke like a sad lamb. It’d just hurt to go back.

Besides, Brock said, would you really be okay with seeing everyone’s… I couldn’t bear to see what’s left.

The ocean went quiet. Though none of them had eyes, Hohenheim had the incredible feeling of thousands upon thousands of them watching him.

He raised the chicken leg to his mouth. The sudden quiet in his mind, compared to the usual din, was both wonderful and terrifying. “What?” And then he realized. And he understood.

No! Sarah had shouted into the quiet ocean; though she’d no body, Hohenheim could perfectly visualize her hands on her hips. We are not putting him through that!

The ocean was in chaos for at least a month. No one ever brought it up again, but Hohenheim couldn’t forget. Dread knotted in his belly. He’d go back. He couldn’t avoid it forever.

Later on, as he learned every single name, every single story, it would be compassion that fueled his commitment to return. But in the first few years—Hohenheim couldn’t lie to himself—it had been mostly guilt. His bones were the only ones nobody needed to bury.

***

He started small, camping in a hollow outside one of the outlying villages. You don’t have to do this, they said, as they had said more times than Hohenheim could count.

“I know,” Hohenheim said, “but I want to.”

You do not want to go back, to open up the old wound, Sergis said.

“No,” Hohenheim said, “I don’t.” In the flummox that followed he continued, “But I do want to set you and the bodies of your loved ones to rest. Even moreso than I want never to go back. Besides,” He stirred the fire, pulling the blankets around him as the cold desert wind stirred through the rocks, “I’m not sure this old wound is healing properly.” He looked down at his hands. “I ran away. I don’t hate myself for it anymore, but I left your bodies here to rot. I ran away, trying to hide my naivete and my cowardice like a child hides the sheets after he wets the bed. So now, I’m going to dig out the infection, abscess by abscess.”

There was a pause in which the ripples of conversation ebbed and flowed. You do know, Hohenheim, Jeremiah said, that only half of the bodies will be ours. The rest are…

“With him.” Hohenheim spat the second word. “Yes, I know.” He looked off over the sand. He slowly turned his head—almost had to force it to turn—until he was looking over the barren remains of Xerxes. “I don’t know what I can do for them; I wish I could say more than that. But whatever I can do, I’ll do it.”

***

He split his time carefully. Hohenheim had to go looking during the day, finding them in the best light, so they could be identified by the souls within him. Of those who had been awake, memories of that night were burnt into their souls forever, and time had done nothing to wear them away. But those who had been asleep—a great many, mostly children; theirs had been the hardest voices for Hohenheim to hear, and the ones he knew he had to take the most care in listening to—were useful as well. They knew whose house was just by the road leading to the capital, where their parents and siblings had slept in the house.

They were too late for some. Vultures and jackals had smelled the rotting flesh, and there were a number of skeletons too damaged and too far removed from their homes for anyone to identify. Hohenheim tried his best, and gave every single soul a chance to examine every single body. Some had no idea which bodies were theirs; there had been too much chaos in those last moments for them to remember, or they had wanted too badly to forget. Others were sure a broken pile of bones was theirs, though it was nowhere near where they said they’d died. When asked, by Hohenheim or another soul, they said they just knew. Unless another soul said the body was also theirs, Hohenheim didn’t argue.

Hohenheim made a stone jar on the spot, and followed every detail of the burial rites as closely as he could, while he set the bones within. He wore the white cover over his mouth and nose, and wore the white gloves. He said the words, and set a copper coin over each eye; the hardest part of Hohenheim’s preparations had been moving bars upon bars of smelted copper out here so he could transmute them. Then he sealed the jar and carried it to the nearest settlement.

At night, he dug. It had been a century since human feet and the hooves of livestock had packed the earth, but it was still hard work. He used a shovel, and dug away from the settlements so the Dwarf wouldn’t find the remains.

Hohenheim? Marilla asked as he was eating. He was on to the tenth village, now, and had laid some thousand bodies to rest.

“Yes? What is it?”

Why don’t you use alchemy to dig our graves?

Hohenheim paused, the bite of crisp, roasted lizard resting on his tongue. He chewed, and swallowed. “Alchemy ripped your souls from your bodies. It doesn’t seem right to lay you to rest with it. And…”

And?

“You deserve my fullest effort.” He looked into the fire. “Every last one of you. And I mean to give it.”

***

The first body of someone Hohenheim knew was Andal’s. It wasn’t anywhere near the capital. He remembered, as his knees buckled, that no one but Andal wore a copper chain with a green stone in the shape of a scorpion around their neck, and had old fractures in the first two knuckles of their left hand from when he’d nearly slugged Hohenheim and hit the doorpost. The structure of the man’s face was a close match. Hohenheim remembered his master had sent Andal out here to deliver a message to his wife’s cousin regarding the birth of their third granddaughter.

Hohenheim did not sleep that night. Or any of the six nights after that. He redoubled his work. Forty thousand laid to rest. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. He finished all the furthest flung towns, villages, and farmsteads. Some, he realized, were the towns where the massacres had happened. The tears he cried at those villages were just as much of rage as sadness. And he cried many, many tears. He couldn’t help it, didn’t want to, when so many within him were wracked by grief at seeing the unburied bones of their stolen loved ones.

But as he worked his way further and further into the country of his birth, Hohenheim found something happening that he hadn’t expected, though he realized he should have. The souls within him… were comforting each other. Parents grieved with parents for their lost children, children for their lost parents, brothers for sisters, sisters for brothers, lovers for lovers, friends for friends. And the sadness they had all felt for so long started to ease. And, for some, even break.

Families were reunited, friendships rekindled as the souls that had known each other in life found each other, and Hohenheim sometimes felt that the ocean within him almost transformed into a starlit sky, and sometimes the tears he cried were happy tears.

But almost no one within him hadn’t lost somebody to the Dwarf in the Flask. And so Hohenheim’s work continued. And he felt them shift from wondering to encouraging. Those who knew how told him how best to dig, where the ground was best for it, which sites would be hardest to find.

And Hohenheim dug. Not graves, open to the elements and easy to recognize, but crypts, into the ground and sides of gorges and ditches that hadn’t seen rain or water in decades. He reinforced them with stone blocks, made to Sergis’s exacting specifications. And within each crypt, he buried a community, each jar in a niche with the remains of its closest family and friends.

One hundred thousand he’d laid to rest. Two hundred thousand. Three. Four. He started working in the densely populated centre of the country. The gap between Andal and the second person Hohenheim recognized was substantial, but it couldn’t last. The next body he recognized was that of Ilsa, his baker’s wife. She was far from home, but he’d heard she had family east of the capital, and Hohenheim doubted anyone else he knew from back then wore a baker’s apron with the exact same pattern of desert roses stitched into the leather. The gap between her and the third, the royal courier who had a wooden foot, was much shorter than between the first and second.

Five hundred thousand. Six hundred. Seven.

The first time Hohenheim looked over the horizon and saw the silhouette of the royal palace, just as the sun was setting, he dropped to his knees and vomited. By the time he rose, the moon was up, the starts were out, and the vomit had been washed away by the flood of grief that washed over him.

He’d begun recognizing landmarks some time ago; now Hohenheim was recognizing individual buildings, houses, streets, squares. And almost daily, he was recognizing bodies without the help of the souls within him. Though it was getting less surprising, he was no less horrified by the finding, the recognizing of each life that was snatched away.

As he identified, and carried, and dug, and buried, Hohenheim could feel the wound in him starting to close, the guilt starting to lift. With every body he laid to rest, one soul’s grief and anger was assuaged, however slightly. He felt his determination to finish this thing deepen and harden within him.

He emptied the capital’s prison, the market district, the merchant’s quarter, the bazaar, the stables. He searched every basement, every rooftop, every bedroom, every warehouse, every granary. He saw the bodies of children who died sleeping, friends who died drinking, enemies who died brawling, lovers who died making love in each other’s arms; he saw a thousand thousand private moments, interrupted. He saw lives that should’ve been lived.

As those he had buried passed a million, Hohenheim moved into the environs about the palace, its ruined shape hanging over him as he worked. He almost told himself he wouldn’t go in until he’d checked every other district, and buried every other person, but stopped himself; he knew he wouldn’t go in because he was afraid.

***

And then the day came. It was as sunny as the rest. Hohenheim stood at the gate, for a very long time, staring into the palace grounds, dry and dead.

Hohenheim? He froze. They’d never all said the same thing at the same time before. Marilla continued, and all the others fell—somehow—perfectly silent. It’s okay. You have helped us do as we needed. Go and put your own demons to rest. We’re here for you. Because you are here for us.

Hohenheim didn’t try to halt the tears. “I know, Marilla.” He took a step forward. “Thank you.”

He scoured the entire palace from the bottom up. He left no room unexplored. Including his own. He heaved a sigh of relief when he found no one there.

After almost a week, he finally came to the throne room. There were nine bodies. Five for those who’d stood at the five corners of the innermost circle—Hohenheim remembered all of them. One for his master. Hohenheim wept for him, even as he collected his bones. One for the chief advisor. And the two other assistants, Mayo, and Willard.

Of the king, there was no sign, save for his rings and his diadem. They rested beside the brazier, where the final—and first—blood had been spilt. Hohenheim stared at them for some time.

“So much greed,” Hohenheim said, to no one in particular. The souls quieted as he spoke. “A million souls answered to you, and the wealth of a nation filled your coffers. No one ate so well as you, no one dressed half so finely, no one suffered so little. When others died at forty and counted it old, you feared death at sixty and seventy... It wasn’t enough for you.

“... Why!” The roar ripped from Hohenheim’s lips before he knew he was shouting. “Why wasn’t it enough? Why did you want more? Why couldn’t you be satisfied with the riches of kingship? Why did you have to cling to what you couldn’t have? Why did you have to be such a thrice-damned fool? He swindled you out of the lives you had no right to trade! The only souls I blame more for this than mine are his and yours!”

Sweat dripped into Hohenheim’s eyes, and he realized he’d kicked the brazier over, scattered the rings across the room. He wiped the sweat away, and took a deep breath. “You’re inside him somewhere,” he said, collecting himself. “Good. I can’t imagine a better place for you. I know you can’t hear me. But I will do everything I can for the lives I ruined by helping you. And he will suffer a fate of equal value to what he’s taken. I won’t imagine what that might be.” Hohenheim turned to the bones lying about the room, and moved to his master’s body.

“But your fate, King of Xerxes, will not be much better.”

***

The last crypt was sealed. The land of Xerxes had been cleansed of the bodies of its murdered people. As the sun set, Hohenheim looked back over his country.

You won’t be coming back, will you? Brock said.

“No,” Hohenheim said. “I think not.”

You’re going to try and find him, aren’t you?

Hohenheim nodded. “Yes.”

We’ll help. Marilla sounded more certain than the passage of time.

“I know.” Hohenheim turned west, and started walking. For some reason, as he passed the pillar marking the edge of his ancestral lands, the final lines of his people’s funeral rites came to mind. He had recited them many, many times. He couldn’t have told anyone why he said them one more time, but he did.

“All things were made from one.

And at the end, all things return to one.”

#my fanfiction #fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist: brotherhood #xerxes #we never saw anything like this in canon #but it could've happened #it just sorta came to me #from who-knows-where

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consumedkings-archive · 4 years ago

Text

ancient names, part x

ancient names, pt. x

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt x: how large the teeth

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~7.2k (yes I am a clown)

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop.

Warnings: Gore/violence, forced used of psychotropic drugs to induce hallucinations, spooky scaries (hi October!), implications of sexual assault though nothing specific, and uhhhhhhh liberal use of a shotgun. And you know, the usual things that come with Far Cry 5. Also, proofreader? I hardly know her.

Notes: So this chapter took quite a while to get around (thank you, writer's block), but it's here! And a spooky update, just in time for October, too! Yes, Elliot is hallucinating basically this entire chapter. What's real?? What isn't??? The world may never know.

I pulled a lot of inspiration from a LOT of medias/myths, so if you think you know what it is I would LOVE to hear from you and see if any of it comes through in my writing the way I want it to!

Special thanks to my lovely @starcrier, who has been a true homie throughout my wrestling with this chapter, and all of the lovelies here on tumblr and on AO3 who have sent in their feedback, chatted with me, and just all in all provided me with the support and inspiration I really needed to get this chapter done! I probably sound like a broken record by now, but the fact that I have managed to write this many chapters at all after finishing my first chaptered fic in a VERY long time just a few months ago is insane to me and certainly would not have happened without y'all.

Okay, sappy notes over. Enjoy! Thank y'all so much again!

She is twenty-four, and she cries under the tent of blankets that Joey has made for them.

It feels like she is seventeen, again, in a little fort that they make, but there are key differences: they are in Elliot’s apartment in the city, and Joey’s face is somber, and in the dark Elliot can feel the guttural, gut-wrenching grief sounds shaking her down to her skeleton.

Blanket tents were never for crying in, before. They were never a place to say, between gasping breaths, that she didn’t know why she let a man that she trusted touch her even when she didn’t want him to. How can she? If someone has never experienced the paralyzing fear of being completely out of control, of being helpless, how could it ever make sense?

Elliot knows that it doesn’t. She knows that Joey doesn’t understand completely, not really, and that it hurts her feelings that Elliot flinches when she moves too quickly, and that it stings to say the name of the man she had been dating—that his name tastes sour, like a venom, on her tongue now—and that when Joey tells her that she needs to tell someone what he did, it draws a noise of agony out of her not unlike the way an animal trapped sounds.

She does not sleep that night, or the next night, or the next, and finally when she is tired enough to be worn down she goes to a therapist. She has to, Joey says, or she will never get a job working with the law in Hope County, and Elliot knows she’s right so she does.

There are a lot of things that the therapist says. Trauma hits her the hardest. It blinks, a neon sign above her head, assigned to her so that all will know: that she is Trauma, that she has it, that it sits in her bones and makes a home out of her. Is that all I will ever be? She wonders. Trauma? Is that all that I have, now?

Each day is a series of motions, one after the other: waking up, getting up, standing and walking and breathing and existing, all the time. Each of those motions exhausts her. She files a restraining order; she goes to therapy; she takes the sleep medication but that is all she wants to take because otherwise she will feel too much unlike herself. She finishes her training with a clean bill of health from the doctor and her therapist and she packs her apartment, which hurts worse than maybe anything else, because each book and blanket and trinket packed away is a constant reminder of the person who had been there, who had stolen her safety from her in the very place that she was supposed to always feel safe.

But Hope County is waiting for her, and that is what she will take comfort in: that there is always a place for her, there.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was the worst-case scenario. In any other universe, in any other life, she would not have let herself be convinced to approach an enemy unarmed. Not even John’s flippant confidence that she could make a weapon out of anything instilled in her the idea that things would be alright, in the end.

That had been the only thought that could keep her going. Once I get Joey and get the hell out of Dodge, everything will be okay, her brain would say. Get Joey, get out. That’s all there is to it.

But that wasn’t all there was to it, anymore, and she knew that; she knew it while her heart hammered in her chest, while her skin itched and burned where the redhead had touched her like he was dripping in acid, while the blood rushed through her head in a violent tidal wave that made her feel like she was going to puke. They had stuffed a wet cloth into her mouth and hauled her away, out of sight of the Seeds, and now she sat—alone, tied, the cloth spit out onto the floor of the cabin they had left her in.

She was somehow both unaware of how much time was actually passing and fully confident that it had only been a half an hour; if she moved her head too fast (which was to say, at all) the world wobbled and swam around her. Elliot finally relented to burying her face into her knees and closing her eyes to try and stop the swimming nausea.

The door clicked open. She saw Ase, first, and behind her loomed the redhead. The woman was taller up close than Elliot would have thought—probably bridging five foot ten—which made the redhead much taller than she had thought, too.

I could kill her, she thought furiously, through the strange haze that had fallen over her. If I got my hands on her, I could.

“Hello, mor,” Ase said. Elliot saw the warmth blooming in her voice, like an aura welling up out of her, red and searing; the realization that they had certainly dipped the cloth in something that would ultimately be worse than just dying-by-chemical-ingestion hit her hard, sending her heart fluttering in a panic. It was the same brand of panic she had felt when John had found her in the field; wildly out of her control, as if she were being puppeted by something else, something larger than her.

The redhead closed the door behind them, and Ase closed what little distance that remained between the two of them, crouching in front of her. Elliot tried her best to muddle through the panic and muster up some hostility, but it was hard, when it felt like the floor was both sturdy and melting underneath her.

“Fuck you,” Elliot managed out, her mouth feeling like it was full of cotton balls. It didn’t seem as though her words had any effect on the blonde, and for a second she panicked, wondering if she had even said anything at all in the first place or if it had just been in her imagination.

“You left Kian with a few nasty bites, didn’t you?” Ase asked, her voice welling with amusement. “I did not want to stuff a tea-soaked washcloth into your mouth, but we couldn’t have you drawing any more blood.”

Elliot’s gaze slid to the redhead—Kian, she thought venomously—and the movement of her eyeballs felt like they were hitching unsteadily in her skull. So they had drugged her, again. What the fuck was it with cults and drugging people?

The woman reached for her, and instinctively, Elliot flinched. The gesture came a few seconds too late; the drug in her system, whatever it was they had soaked the cloth in, was already starting to wear her down.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Elliot said, as Ase untied the rope around her feet and then her hands, “if you want me to stop biting people.”

“I am not worried,” Ase replied sweetly. “You’re already looking more docile by the minute, mor.”

Elliot swallowed thickly; to do so took concentrated effort. “That isn’t my name.”

“It isn’t a name at all,” the blonde agreed unhelpfully, tossing the ropes to the side and coming to a stand. She smoothed her hands across the dark fabric of her dress, and then extended a long, elegant hand. “Now, do you want to see your friend?”

She felt her heart stutter painfully in her chest at the woman’s words. After having been tricked and toyed with by John, it was strange to think she was finally in the home stretch that she had been trying to reach these last few days; that finally, finally, all of her toil and trouble was bringing her back to Joey.

Briefly, the idea that she could take Joey and run--leave the Seeds to their own devices--fluttered through her brain. Leave the Seeds to clean up this mess on their own. Hopefully, the Resistance had already bolted out of Hope County and were well on their way elsewhere. If she grabbed Joey and got out--if she could get in touch with law enforcement outside of Hope County--

Elliot stared at the Swede's hand and tried to gather her thoughts up in one place. It felt too much like they had become marbles, spilling out of her hands every time she tried to focus. She took a breath and then forced herself to a stand, blatantly ignoring Ase's outstretched hand. Just the act of using her legs to stand felt a little like being on stilts; the world lurched and ground to a watery stop around her, and only confirmed, infuriatingly, what Ase had said--that she was in no shape to bolt, or fight for that matter.

"Come along, then," Ase said pleasantly, taking a few steps away from her. Those few steps made it look as though the ground stretched out for miles between them, and her stomach twisted. The blonde looked at her over her shoulder and smiled.

"Kian, help our friend," she murmured. The redhead stepped forward and reached for her, ever obedient to his master, and Elliot immediately gritted her teeth and took an unsteady step backward.

"Kian, don’t," she bit out, mimicking Ase’s honeyed tone as much as she could. And then, less sweet: "If you touch me again, you'll walk away with a lot more than a bite mark, fuckhead."

Kian flashed a smile that felt like a snake against her skin and gestured for her to go on ahead. "Go on, then."

Just being in his proximity again made her skin crawl; it felt still like his hand was around her throat, the heat of his breath against the shell of her ear. Even in the dizzying haze that had settled over her, she felt her heart leap uneasily into her throat at the memory.

Before she realized what was happening, Elliot's feet had carried her out around Kian and out of the cabin, trailing the beacon that Ase had become, a strange green aura undulating around her. I hate this, she thought, watching the way the trees around her shifted and bled into the night sky.

"How—how long was I in there?" She asked, falling into an uneasy pace next to Ase.

"A few hours," she replied, looking over at her. "Felt shorter?"

Yes, Elliot thought, but the word didn't come to her mouth. The ground slid under her feet; the world around her pulsed in time with her breaths, stretching and cinching in equal parts until she found herself standing in front of another of the cabins. In the distance, the sound of the lake water lapping at the shore echoed over and over in her head.

Ase pushed the door to the cabin open, and inside sat Joey Hudson.

She looked tired, days of exhaustion sitting heavy on her face, a dark shadow of sleeplessness and makeup both ringing her eyes. Joey had always been pretty, and now was no exception; the brunette, though her clothes were dirty and her eyes fluttered with tiredness, was just as lovely as she always was. The sight of her had Elliot’s head and heart swimming with emotion, rising up thick and high in her throat until she thought she might come unglued right there, in front of a psychotic woman.

But with the feeling of being on a seesaw unseating her nonstop, and the desperate, aching reminder of the person she had been missing all along, Elliot didn’t think almost anything about Ase. As far as she was concerned, in that moment, the woman ceased to exist; the same choking feeling that she’d felt when Jerome had said, you can tell me if it’s not okay. A relinquishing. A lifting of her burden. You don’t have to Atlas this thing alone.

“Joey,” Elliot said, the woman’s name coming out of her mouth hoarse and heavy. Joey’s eyes fluttered tiredly and she mustered up the closest thing to a smile.

“Hey, El,” Joey replied. As Elliot crossed the space between them and immediately crouched to kneel in front of her, the smile warmed into something more genuine. In an effort of lightness, the brunette said, “You should have called, I would have cleaned up.”

Elliot felt the soft, wrecked little sound, so close to a sob, more than she heard it; it was a choked almost-laugh, her hands fluttering absently as though unsure of where to land. “I tried,” she managed out, as thinking and speaking became harder, her jaw stiff and unyielding. “I tried, Joey—”

Joey nodded and said, “I know.”

“I will leave you,” Ase said lightly from the door, “but, Elliot? You only have a short time before you become fully open to the influence. I would drink some water.”

The blonde turned, leaving and closing the door behind her, leaving just the two of them there. By then, even while the world swam around her, and she thought she could see little sparks of orange light flying off of Joey, she threw her arms around the brunette and hugged her tightly. It took a minute for her to realize that she was crying--happy, relieved tears, the kind that came suddenly and without warning.

“I was so worried about you,” Elliot murmured between sniffles, pulling back and immediately searching for restraints. There were none. Unlike John Seed’s version of Joey’s captivity, no duct tape covered her mouth, nothing bound her hands together; she was just sitting in there—probably knowing well enough that running would have been a worse idea. “I thought John had you, and then he got me, and then he said he’d pawned you off to Faith, and—”

“Slow down,” Joey laughed, the sound not quite reaching deep enough in the cavity of her chest to be a real one. “You have crazy eyes, El.”

“They gave me something,” she explained, pressing the heel of her palm against her eye. “They did it once before, but it was stronger then.”

Joey handed her the bottle of water she had been nursing, uncapping it for her. “They gave it to me too, once,” she replied. “But not again. Maybe I didn’t give them the response they were looking for. Elliot, these people are--there’s something really wrong here. They keep talking about this thing in the woods, asking if I’ve seen it...”

Elliot took a big swallow of the water, shifting on her knees and then taking another. She felt absolutely parched—the water tasted a little funny, but she wasn’t sure if she trusted her own sense of taste right in that moment anyway. “We have to get out,” she said. Whatever the cult believed in or practiced didn’t matter; what mattered was getting the fuck away from them.

She was certain she could hear Ase’s voice just outside. She lowered her voice, trying her hardest to make sure she was whispering, “We were hoping to—I mean, I was hoping to—the plan went wrong, Joey, I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But we can still get out.”

“Where’s everyone else?” Joey asked. “Sheriff Whitehorse, and Burke, and…”

Her voice trailed off absently, and Elliot could feel the brunette’s eyes on her. She hesitated, taking Joey’s hands in her own before she replied, “I don’t know.”

“Then who is ‘we’? Jerome and the others?”

“No, Jo, it’s--”

The door clicked open behind them, echoing once, twice, three times in Elliot’s head before she turned to see Ase looming in the doorway. Long, dark, the sharp angle of her jawline and the high slope of her cheeks making her look more severe, more beautiful than before.

“It is time for you to see,” she said, her voice light. “You will have time with your friend later.”

“What about Faith?” Elliot asked, struggling to her feet. “I want to see that Faith is okay too. That you haven’t—”

“After,” Ase replied, her voice startlingly ironclad.

“Joey comes with me.” She tried again, tried to force her voice to firmness, to assertion. But Ase only smiled, tranquil now despite the hardness of her voice. She crossed the small space between them, looming in Elliot’s vision--eclipsing all other light, taking away all sense of anything else outside of her.

“She stays,” Ase replied, not unkindly. “This is only for you to see.”

She crossed the distance of the cabin between them and reached for Elliot, taking her hand. The contact made Elliot’s skin buzz. She was so tired--so tired of this stretching and pulling of herself, so tired of the way their drugs made everything somehow more than what she could handle and forced her to handle it anyway.

“Joey—”

Elliot turned back to look at the brunette, reaching for her as Ase pulled her along; Joey had pulled herself to a stand and was trying to follow after them, saying something like, it’s okay, I don’t mind coming, really, more practiced at polite coercion than Elliot was. Before Joey could reach the door after them, Elliot saw the broad, tall form of Kian blocking out the doorway, saying something to Joey in Swedish.

“Hey! Leave her alone, you fuck—”

Ase pulled on her hand, hard, yanking her until she was stumbling after her sleek figure. Out in the night, where the air was chilly with an early-Autumn coldness and Elliot could see her breath floating out of her mouth, she almost felt at peace for a second. Everything was still. Incredibly still, the way the surface of a pond was before a stone landed.

One step at a time, she walked her to the edge of the campground. They broke the treeline, hand-in-hand, until they could see Sacred Skies Lake stretched out below them. Elliot craned her neck to try and see the cabin where they were keeping Joey, but the trees blocked most of her vision of the campground.

“Look, there,” Ase said, interrupting her thoughts. She gestured down at the far treeline. When Elliot turned to look, she saw nothing; only darkness in the still woods. Too still, she thought now—still in the way the forest was when a predator had arrived and all the prey had fled.

The lake rippled below them, and then smoothed out, dark and clear as glass. She tried desperately to see--really see, not just what the drugs were making her see, as though she could brute force her way through the barrage of sensations overwhelming her.

And then: “Hey!”

It was a woman’s voice, thrown from somewhere down by the lake. Elliot felt apprehension crawling across her skin. She didn’t know why it was making her nervous, but she strained to listen for it again all the same.

The voice said again, “Hey, Elli!” and she felt her stomach drop. It was her mother’s voice, the sweet Georgia drawl that her mother had always sported, calling to her from the woods. Calling for her.

“Mama?” Elliot managed out, her voice thick and hoarse and bubbling before it even left her mouth. She felt Ase’s eyes on her, inquisitive, but all she could think about was I have to get her out of here, what is she doing here? Why isn’t she with the others?, so louder this time, she went, “Mama, I’m here!”

She took a step forward. It was Ase’s hand that stopped her, a gentle shake of her head. Elliot looked back at the woman for some kind of answer, but her expression was empty of anything that might have been helpful; on it was only the serene, delicate smile of a woman enthralled.

There was a stretch of silence. Something dark shifted in the trees. Something big, rippling leaves and branches as it moved.

And then: “Mama?”

It was her voice.

It called, again, “Mama, I’m here?”, and the pitch and timbre felt the same as her own voice, like she’d shouted into an echoed canyon, but it was wrong. It was all wrong. It sounded like something trying her out, feeling out the way she sounded. Practicing.

The air bubbled around her with some kind of emotion. It popped, pulled tight, stretching over her vision like saran wrap, until it hurt to keep her eyes open, until she thought desperately that all she wanted to do was close her eyes—but she couldn’t. She had to stay awake, stay clear, stay conscious. For herself, for Joey and Boomer and for—

(Whether you like it or not, you and I are on the same side.)

It called, from deep in the treeline beyond the lake, again. “I’m here!” The voice pitched and pulled between words, like whatever it was kept trying to get the exact cadence of her words—trying her out, tasting. Sliding beneath her skin.

“What the fuck is that?” Elliot whispered. Ase smiled serenely at her, and gave her hand a squeeze.

“Look harder,” Ase murmured. “You will see It.”

She took a step forward, her heart thundering in her chest, trying to see beyond the utter stillness of the forest. Nothing moved; nothing breathed in time with her, anymore; where the drumbeat of the world had once felt it was intrinsically tied to her, she was now cut off from it, in a cold, dead space somewhere beyond.

Something in the trees shifted again, and rumbled.

“It has been waiting for you,” Ase murmured, coming up behind Elliot. Her voice was silky, warm, spinning a web around and around her until it made her feel—

Safe.

“What has?” Elliot managed out, swallowing thickly.

“We call it the Father,” she said. “It talks to us, when we are open to it. In voices we recognize, in the voices of our loved ones, so that it does not scare us.”

Her hands were on Elliot’s shoulders, gently squeezing, and she thought she was going to throw up. The trees in the distance warped and bent, swallowed up by something big and dark and humming, the vibration of it melting around her thrumming beneath her skin.

“It tells us, Elliot, that the end of the world is here. Your own Eden’s Gate knows it, do they not?” Ase’s voice was more urgent now; Elliot didn’t have time to think about how she said your own Eden’s Gate before she was plunging on. “They know it. The only difference between us and them is that we serve It, that we help to usher it in. Just as we once took, so do we give back to It—life, cyclic and infinite. You know it. You understood the words, in the flowers, didn’t you?”

My heart aches for you.

Be gentle with me.

I come soon.

“You’re fucking crazy,” she said, the words coming out slick with panic, spilling out of her before she could stop them. Her shoulders scrunched up to her jaw to try and brush Ase’s hands off of her. “You’re insane. You—crazy bitch—”

They were John’s words, not her own, but it was all she could muster up; the woman’s face remained light and serene, turning Elliot to look at her now.

“It waits for you,” she insisted, her voice wobbling around Elliot like the reverb of a bass drum. “I told you that you would always come back to us. I knew when I saw your color.” Her gaze swept over Elliot, almost affectionate. “White, in perfect balance.”

“Stop touching me,” Elliot managed out, pushing Ase’s hands weakly off of her. The strange thrumming persisted under her skin, a violent cacophony as she tried to block out the sound of her own voice beckoning her from the woods. Hey! Mama, I’m here! It said, begging her to follow, begging her to investigate.

Breathing became harder. It felt like she was gulping in lungfuls of water, eeking out whatever oxygen she could, but no matter where she looked to try and get Ase out of her mind she only saw dark trees; bending and curling and pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

“Mor,” Ase said, taking Elliot’s face in her hands like a lover would, “Mother, that’s what you are. For us, to us, while we serve It.”

“Fuck you,” she spit out, but her voice cracked instead, the fear welling up inside of her like a tidal wave. “I’ll—”

Ase shook her head. “I told you, it is a cycle,” she whispered, pressing their foreheads together. “Wherever you go, wherever you run, It will wait for you. It waits for us all, Elliot, and it will have you. As It gives, so too, does it take.”

She opened her mouth to respond when the loud crack of a gunshot echoed just a few feet away. Ase’s head snapped around viciously, her hand still gripping Elliot’s face with a firm, unforgiving hold; even in the dark, even with the drug wreaking havoc on her system, Elliot recognized the filthy backwater whooping of Peggies.

The flash of headlights through the trees suddenly brought everything back to life, the sound roaring in through Elliot’s head like someone had flicked the mute button back off again.

She turned to look back at the lake. Whatever had been lurking there was gone, now. The sound of feet hitting the dirt, shouted words in a foreign language, and the sweeping realization that they might yet still get out of here sent her heart hammering.

Ase pulled on her, hard, until she was stumbling after her. She craned her neck to try and see if she recognized anyone, to see if she could see one familiar face, but where the gunshots were echoing was already far enough that she could only see the brief flicker of headlights.

The door to the cabin opened. Warm light flooded her vision, splintering behind her eyelids as Ase pushed her inside and said, with a sudden and violent amount of poison, “Stay.”

Everything felt like she was swimming in molasses; each movement harder than the last, each breath taking more and more of her concentration. The door slammed shut. In the time it had taken Elliot to will her venom into existence, Ase had released her hand and swept out of the cabin, leaving her alone with Joey. Through the curtains, she could see dark shapes shifting and melting, one into another, and she took in a stuttering breath.

“Are you okay?” Joey asked immediately, reaching for her. “What did she say? When they did it to me, she kept asking if I could see—but it was just trees, out there, to me. El, look at me.”

“We have to get out,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, cracking with panic. “We have to get the fuck out of here, Joey. These people are—so much worse than Eden’s Gate—”

Voices catapulted in volume outside, tires squealing and doors slamming. All of it felt too loud, even with a wall between herself and the violence—like someone had cracked the volume up to one-hundred and then pulled the knob off.

“What the fuck? Are those Peggies?” Joey whispered, glancing out the window. “I do not want to be in the crossfire of two fucking cults. Elliot, when are the others coming? Where are they?”

Elliot swallowed thickly. As the sounds of cacophony increased outside, reminding her that she had made something like a deal with the devil, she took in a deep breath. She didn’t have time to think about the woods, or whatever it was she thought she’d seen in there, or the way that Ase had gripped her face and said, It waits for you.

“Right,” she said, trying to push those thoughts somewhere far down and out of sight. “So, listen, Joey, about the others, they’re—gone.”

Joey stared at her. “Gone?” she repeated. Horror started to creep into her tone. “Like—dead—?”

“No, I mean—they’re gone. Or they should be,” she added quickly, heading towards the window to look out, “I told them to evacuate Hope County when I ran into these crazies the first time.”

“Okay,” the brunette began, slowly, “so… before, when you said we and—that you had a plan…”

“Right,” Elliot replied, her head swimming a little. “Yeah, a plan. Remember when I said that John got me—”

Joey shook her head, not because she didn’t remember but because she already saw where this was going. “Elliot—”

“—and then he told me that he pawned you off to Faith, and—well, Joey,” Elliot managed, “there wasn’t any way I was going to lose one iota of a chance of getting you back.”

“Fuck,” Joey groaned, pressing her hands to her eyes. “Fuck, Elliot, please tell me you didn’t—”

“Well, look, Joey—”

Something rattled the door. It struck Elliot with a note of panic that they had been locked in, and she didn’t know if in that moment she felt worse to know that they had closed them in or if it was a comfort, considering the chaos that was probably ensuing outside.

Worse, something in her head said. It always feels worse, to be trapped.

Someone banged on the door three times, and then through it came a blissfully familiar voice: “Elliot? Are you in there?”

Elliot felt a wave of relief wash over her. She never thought she would see the day where hearing John Seed’s voice would bring her relief, let alone comfort: but it did.

She hurried to the door, rattling the doorknob for good measure. “Yes,” she replied quickly, the words coming out a bit hoarse, so she tried again, louder this time: “Yeah, John, I’m in here. Can you break the window?”

“I’ll do you one better. Get back from the door.”

She did as he said, reaching for Joey just mere seconds before she heard a concussive splintering of wood and metal from the other side of the door, which swung open shortly thereafter. She was not wrong to think that the outside was chaos; she could hear it more clearly now, but almost none of it mattered, because John Seed was standing there with a shotgun in his arms.

“You could have just broken the window open,” Elliot managed out, around the complicated mess of feelings welling up inside of her and her tongue feeling two sizes too big in her mouth. “Idiot.”

“That’s a lot of attitude you’re giving your rescuer,” John replied, cocking the shotgun with an affirmative click, click, the plastic shell clattering onto the front porch of the cabin. “What are you standing around for? Let’s get moving, hellcat.”

“I’m not going with him,” Joey bit out venomously. “That psycho kidnapped me and held me hostage!”

“Oh, Hudson, that was so long ago,” John drawled, glancing over his shoulder at the erupting chaos behind him. “Keep up with the times, won’t you? Elliot and I are partners, now.”

It shouldn’t have felt dirty, hearing John Seed say that to Joey—because they were partners, because he didn’t have to come for her if he had Faith already and he did anyway—but it did. It felt traitorous.

“You fuckhead!” Joey snapped. “If any of our friends are dead, it’s your fault!”

“Okay!” Elliot announced, her voice high and panicked. It felt weird to be the middleman, the one demanding that everyone be calm. “Okay, let’s just—everyone shut the fuck up, okay? I am hours into a fucking drug trip and there is no time to debate the moral ethics of teaming up with a cult leader to escape another cult leader!”

Joey’s jaw clenched as she stared at John, her eyes narrowing, Elliot’s hand still firmly gripped in hers. She looked at Elliot for a moment, and then—

“Fine,” she ground out.

“Great,” John replied.

“Awesome,” Elliot said, taking in a deep breath. “Joey, is there any medicine in the cabinet? We should grab it.” She paused, looking at John for a moment, her gaze sweeping over him. He was unmarked. Unscarred. Splattered with blood, but it didn’t bother her—rather, assured her. “Did you—did you get Faith?”

He watched Joey let go of her hand and cross the room to gather up what few things she had—the half-drank water bottle, some pills from the cabinet in the bathroom that may or may not have expired, Elliot thought—and then he said, “First thing. She’s waiting for us down by the lake.”

“Good,” Elliot murmured, nodding and swallowing thickly. For a second, a strange silence stretched between them, and then John took a few steps into the cabin and he reached for her.

“They didn’t hurt you?” he asked, his voice dropping in volume, his fingers brushing her jaw and tilting her face to get a look at her neck where Kian’s fingers had dug into her skin.

She felt her lashes flutter, the feeling of his fingers skimming the still-tender spots sending strange vibrations rattling through her skull. Her skin didn’t crawl the same way it had when Kian had grabbed her, but heat did bloom in her face, and she felt it crawling all the way down her neck. His gaze darted over her face, lingering on her mouth for a heartbeat in their close proximity.

“Stupid,” she muttered, brushing his hand off. “Of course they didn’t. You should be checking on Ase’s little boy-pet.”

John grinned, the expression drenched in something close to pride. “I should have known.”

“Let’s go.” It was Joey’s voice that interrupted, slicing right through the moment, dousing out the flames Elliot felt in her chest. The brunette grabbed her hand and pulled her through the doorway, out into the cold, black night—a night swelling and vibrating with sound now, no longer ruptured by a stillness that sat like condensation in her lungs but noise, bubbling and sparking in the air like electricity.

Joey stopped, ducking and pulling Elliot back behind the next door cabin when the sound of gunfire pierced through the night. John slipped just ahead of them and said, “Hey, maybe let the guy with the gun go first?”

“Maybe the guy with the gun should be covering our asses instead,” Joey retorted. She pushed the water bottle into Elliot’s free hand and nudged her ahead. “C’mon, get a move on, Elli.”

John glanced back at her, and his expression said, Elli, huh? That’s cute. Elliot glared at him, but there was a lightness in her when she did—it didn’t matter, that infuriating way he cocked his grin at her, like he was equal parts pleased with himself and proud of her ferocity. It didn’t matter, because she could see the hilltop where Ase had shown her the lake, and once they got down they were home free, and John Seed could feel however he wanted to about her.

She had Joey. She would be free to go, and leave the Seeds behind her.

Shouting clipped through the air in the distance, and John glanced back behind them, exhaling through his mouth. No doubt the members of Eden’s Gate that were creating this diversion (and that’s what it was, a diversion) were getting mowed down, obliterated by the organized, methodical killing that the Family was capable of.

Elliot glanced back. Through the gaps in the trees, she could see bodies dropping and crumpling against the ground, pulled and yanked out of trucks that had been driven right up against the clearing. Lambs to the slaughter, she thought hazily, her fingers slipping out of Joey’s hand. What am I, then?

Wherever you go, wherever you run, It will wait for you.

Someone screamed. She saw the light of it, pinching off of them in sharp, rapid bursts of yellow, swimming through the air until disappearing into the night sky above her where the boughs of the trees stretched impossibly far. Each massacre, each bloody slaughter ending life after life, the residue filtering through the air in ghostly wisps of color.

As It gives, so too, does it take.

“El,” John said, taking a step down the hill, “we have to go.”

“Joey?” she asked. “She--”

“On her way down the hill, already.” He reached for her, hand outstretched, ignoring that she seemed to keep losing time. “Let’s go.”

Elliot paused at the top of the hill; her gaze darted, without much thought, to the treeline—it’s nothing, she thought to herself, I just want to check.

Something lurched in the treeline. Big, breaking and snapping trees, and Elliot felt a breath slip out of her, violently departing her lungs.

“John,” she began, uneasily, “I don’t think I can—”

“You’re fine, El, just keep—”

Joey called something from down below them; irritation flickered across John’s expression, and he turned away from her to take another step down the hill and call back, “Yeah, we’re—just sit tight down there, Hudson…”

Elliot took an unsteady step backward, and just as she did, she felt someone grab her arm.

“Not you,” Ase hissed at her, yanking her hard until she stumbled back from the hillside. There was a frantic, wild energy about her now, infernal, bubbling up out of the calm, polished veneer. “Not you, mor, not this time. You get to stay and see what you’ve done.”

Elliot felt cold earth and pine needles beneath palms, prickling through her jeans as she hit the ground. Her stomach lurched; she thought she was going to throw up, but when she turned around to see Ase stalking towards her, a different kind of nausea welled up in her. For the first time in a long time, Elliot felt real, cold fear in her, searing through her like a venom.

She wanted to call for John, or Joey, or anyone—but her jaw felt like it was wrenched tight, and violent sparks of light were rushing off of Ase right in front of her eyes.

“You’re insane,” she managed out unsteadily, the heat in her voice whipped away by the panic inside of her.

“I told you,” Ase said, taking two steps closer to her, “no matter where you go, you will always—”

Something loud and concussive echoed. Elliot heard flesh and sinew tear until the pressure of something greater; the arterial spray of it peppered her vision, splattering across her face until the world looked like it was doused in red film.

Ase’s expression went slack as she sank to her knees in front of Elliot, and in the dark of the night, Elliot could see the blood splatter of the gaping wound in Ase’s stomach just before she slumped forward. She wasn’t dead, yet—as John took a step forward, cocking the shotgun again, Elliot thought about the way Ase’s stomach had been spilling out of her.

“John?” she asked, feeling very small and very far away. A part of her brain was vaguely aware of the sounds of the firefight echoing in the night, of voices shouting closer to her, but she couldn’t think about any of that. All she could think about is the way John was looking at her, the shotgun propped up and ready to fire again, though he didn’t. Not yet.

Something brushed her hand. Elliot looked back and saw Ase’s glassy eyes, her fingers brushing Elliot’s, reaching for her. Blood dripped out of her mouth, and the green light that Elliot had thought she’d seen around her now was beginning to dim. Her lips parted, her gaze flickering absently over her face.

“Do you see?”

Ase interlaced their fingers. The earth below her stretched out, pulling her, sweeping like a neverending conveyor belt that only managed to make her sicker.

Another concussive blast muted out the world. She heard nothing but the ringing in her ears as the back of Ase’s head caved in, their eyes locked and their fingers interlaced, like friends. Like sisters.

“No,” Elliot said, the sound coming out of her like some kind of agonized noise, “no no no—”

Something firm and warm gripped her shoulders. A hand reached up, pushing against her jaw until she was forced to turn her eyes away from Ase’s mouth moving silently.

It was John. Eclipsing her vision, filling it up until there nothing else. John, pulling her to her feet, wiping the blood from her face and saying something—something that she couldn’t hear, her head vibrating with the residue of the shotgun blast that had covered her in gore—pulling her to the hillside, pulling her down.

The world swam and melted around her as John pulled her down the hill, one hand gripping hers and the other steadying her as she stumbled and swayed. She tried to look elsewhere, anywhere that wasn’t John, John who had looked like maybe he was hesitating and then had blown Ase’s head to pieces, but she couldn’t.

At the bottom of the hill, Joey immediately grabbed her away from John. “El? Elli? Are you okay?”

She didn’t know what to say. The feeling of Ase’s fingers reaching for her, interlacing with hers, stuck to her ribs. Elliot thought about the curve of the back of Ase’s head, concave from the shotgun shell, the carmine spray of the woman’s wound coating her face.

“If you want to stand around down here and chit chat, that’s fine.” It was Jacob’s voice. When had Jacob gotten there? Why was he there? She watched him grab Faith’s hand and pull the girl along, heading further down to the lake. “We’re leaving.”

“When—” Elliot began, still dazed, feeling like the world was becoming a watercolor painting around her. “When did Jacob—”

“Drink some water,” Joey said, holding the water bottle out to her, “and we’ll talk about it later, but right now we need to move, Elli.”

She nodded numbly, clutching Joey’s hand as she started to walk, John’s radiating warmth on the other side of her. Elliot glanced at him through the corner of his eyes for any indication that he felt, at all, any emotion about what he’d just done—but he only looked quietly troubled, his fingers brushing hers as they walked.

He’d said to her, grinning slick, yours must surely be the sin of wrath. But she didn’t feel so very wrathful now, Ase’s blood on her face and the world falling apart around her. She watched him, glancing around through the trees, checking the chaos behind them, the slaughterhouse he had led his lambs to.

Not this one. John’s voice, hissing in her ear, as she gasped around lungfuls of water. This one’s not clean.

John’s hands on either side of her face, gripping, grounding her to the earth when she felt like she was going to float away, when it felt like the earth was slipping out from beneath her feet. John, not grimacing or flinching when her nails dug into his arm to keep her present, to keep her anchored.

Which one are you? she thought, staring at him until her eyes burned, until he looked over at her inquisitively. Which John are you?

John, glowing with pride at Joseph’s praise. John, irritably telling her to smoke a cigarette because he knew from one casual conversation that it would relax her. John, his fingers brushing the skin just below her collarbone, saying maybe we’ll tattoo it here, just over your heart. John, calling her a killer.

By the pricking of my thumbs.

#far cry 5 #john seed #john seed x deputy #john seed/ofc #far cry fic #my writing #john seed/original female character #am i clown? yes #does that stop me from posting as much as i would like? also yes

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bonesthebeloved · 4 years ago

Text

It’s a fine (taped) line

Summary: In which Roman isn't doing well after the events of SVS Redux and Remus finds him in their room next to a bunchof balled up tape that had separated them for years and years. Characters: Roman and Remus (Janus mention)

Triggers/ Squicks: crying/ breakdown. Mention of weapons and (mild)violence, intrusive thoughts, sea monster, swimming in natural water, eyes. (if I missed anything/ you’d like me to tag anything let me know.)

Words:2881 (I didn’t spell check this. We die like men.)

He was afraid

It hadn't been quite as long as he'd liked since the last time he'd been afraid like this. Not even a full week.

Afraid like a shiver that ran deep until you were sure you could hear your skeleton rattle. Afraid like laboured quite breathing and wide eyes staring into unseeing darkness and even more unseeing void.

Afraid like standing on the plank with a sword poking in your back and hungry sharks beneath you.

Afraid like he was now, standing in a well lit room accompanied by two other sides and Thomas himself. In the middle of the day with the doors safely locked and his Katana at his side.

He shouldn't be afraid.

Uncertain. Angry, yes. Maybe even hurt. But afraid should not apply to this situation. After all there was no threat.

Yet he felt it. And he knew his voice would be shaking even before he'd opened his mouth to speak. And he knew his hands would be shaking even before he lifted them to cover his mouth. And he knew that and he knew that and he knew-

He didn't know anything anymore.

"You are!" came a shout. Almost sounding desperate enough to be genuine . Almost sounding certain enough to be true.

But Roman was afraid. And he was shaking when he looked over for confirmation to the side that had cracked his trust beyond repair because how else would he know if it really was genuine and certain enough. How else would he-

He'd never have guessed that a single nod would be the thing that would shatter the cracked funhouse mirror. Never would've guessed that the only thing standing between him and the hungry sharks below would be the incline of a head. The confirmation of a lie.

So he sunk out with a last scoff at their hosts expression. Seeing the tiniest of cracks forming would've concerned him to no end if he himself wasn't completely shattered at that moment.

And when he popped into his room he looked at where he was standing. The edge of the plank. Toes nearly touching the line of white tape seperating the two sides of the room. One messy, clothes on piles and crumpled up paper all over the floor. Bed unmade and in need of a change of sheets. Curtains still drawn and houseplants dying.

The other half belonged to Remus.

And there, on the edge of the plank, with noise coming from the bathroom attached to their room and Remus his pet rat squeaking happily while running around the bed, Roman bowed down and, getting a good grip on an edge of it, ripped the tape away from the floor, shattering the imaginary barrier and the line he'd set for himself.

When he had taken of all the tape, all of it a sticky, bawled up mess on the floor now, he dropped to his knees, slowly lowering his head to the floor aswell and leaning it against the carpet, closing his eyes.

And he cried. Not dramatic and loud wailing like would be expected. No, his crying was quiet. Almost deadly so as the tears dropped down his face and onto the carpet. As he gripped his hair to stop himself from hitting the floor. And he pulled his hair to stop himself from pouncing his fist on it.

And when the bathroom door opened he stopped, still pulling and still silent and facing away from whoever had just walked in.

The side stopped in their tracks too. Still by the bathroom. Hand probably still on the door handle, hair probably still wet, eyes probably trying to communicate with their brain about what it is their seeing.

Because Remus had walked in on his brother on the floor which was devoid of tape. The tape of which he’d tried to convince his brother was the spot an invisible lazer beam would kill the first person that walked over it.

Because Remus had walked in on his brother while he was crying.

Because Roman never cried infront of him. Not since they had been kids and they’d learned to hate eachother once drawings of nightterrors and bloody zombies became ‘bad’ instead of just ‘creative’.

Because Remus was hurrying over to his brother now, falling onto his knees with a loud smack and feeling the carpetburn set in already as he shuffled closer, a hand outstretched as both a warning and a question.

When Roman shrugged his shoulder away from the hand close to it Remus nodded silently and let it drop to his side. No touching then. Alright.

“That bad huh?” He grimaced at the words. Too loud in the now deadly quiet room.

Roman simply let a hollow laugh echoe through it and Remus swore they’d never had an echoe before but then again their room changed all the time.

Like how the glow in the dark stars had changed into swirling galaxy above his bed and how Roman tore down his posters every month to rearange them.

Like how the white tape that had been there for years was now suddenly gone.

“Wanna talk about it?”

A short silence that stretched out just long enough for Remus to take another breath to offer to distract his brother instead when suddenly:

“I’m not his hero anymore.”

Remus saw it now, the outlines of the shattered mirror his brother had become.

He didn't like it one bit.

"I'm sure that's just good ol' Double D's messing with your head of course your his he-" "Janus."

Remus was silent then, slowly sinking down to sit infront of his brother, careful not to cross the now nonexistent line theyd set for themselves so long ago.

"Pardon?"

"He's called Janus. He told us so you don't have to act like you don't know his name anymore Rem. He told us. The fucker told us."

"That's... Good right?"

Roman laughed, the sound hollow and joyless, before muttering the most quiet 'yeah right' and letting his head drop again, still sitting in the middle of the room that used to be seen as two. The room that now lacked the devider.

"He called me evil." And there it was. The issue that Roman was struggling with the most, laid out in the open raw and ugly in the dim light of the room.

"Did he now? What'd he say exactly. Because, if I know one thing, it's that Dee only says shit like that as a joke or when something seriously messed up was said to him and I'm assuming the later didn't happen so-"

"I laughed at his name." Roman said numbly, the monotone voice nearly as terrifying as the one full of pain from just seconds ago.

"Well of course you did! It's a stupid name! It sounds like he's a middle school libr-" "Librarian yeah. I said the same thing."

Remus opened his mouth to speak again, to return to his way of comforting his brother which was distraction by blatant mockery.

But then...

"And that's the problem Re. That's the whole damn problem."

"What is?"

"He called me evil Re."

"I mean yeah you've told me already what you hit your head or some-"

"He compared me to you."

Ah.

Right.

That.

'Well fuck you too Ro!' Remus said. Only he didn't say that because what kind of a brother would he be.

Because Roman, after all these years, still didn't get it. Still thought of him as evil and himself as good. Still stuck in the black and white, the good and evil narrative that they were taught since they were able to count to two.

And oh Remus wanted to slap his brother for that. Wanted to give him a good shake and ask him who the hell he thought he was.

But Roman was crying at the thought of being compared to him.

And while that idea made him sick to his stomach, Roman was still crying. And he was still his brother, even if it ment being hated so viscously that the mere thought of being like him caused a breakdown this severe.

Even if his own brother seemed to want him gone.

"Then he's even dumber then his name Ro."

Roman looked up at that, snot and tears mixing under his nose and on his hand as he wiped it away. Looking pathetic as ever but the little spark of hope the sentence had created was present. And that's all he needed.

"Have you seen yourself? Of course you're not evil! You're basically prince charming except gayer! Ha! Can you even imagine an evil Prince Eric? Of course you can't because it's ridiculous!"

A huff of air from Romans nose then. And it wasn't quite a laugh sure. But it was a start. And Remus could work with just a start.

What he couldn't work with though, was no response beside just that puff of air. The silence in the room seeming to press down on him. Threatening to squish him flat like a pancake. Squashing him so hard that his eyeballs popped out and-

Right. Sad brother. Focus Remus focus.

"Hey I've got an idea."

Twenty minutes later and they stood in the imagination, his brothers eyes still red rimmed and he himself repressing the urge to make a comment about how it matched his colour scheme and how he should really put some blood splatters here and there for another pop of colour.

"Why are we here again?" Roman said into the cold misty evening. Slowly feeling his shoes soak up the water, his socks getting a bit wet.

"To scream." Remus said, gesturing towards the giant lake infront of them. The fog hanging low over it giving it both a mythical and horror movie esque feeling. Though with Romans current mood, horror movie was probably more likely.

"... To scream?"

"Yeah! I saw a man do that in a movie once after his daughter got killed by a man with a butchers knife. It looked awesome there was blood all over the kitchen walls and her head was-" "Don't spoil the movie for me Rem."

'Don't spoil it for me' had become Roman’s go to way of nicely telling his brother to shut the fuck up. Remus saw right through it of course. His brother would never watch slasher films after all. They made him have nightmares. But he appreciated the vague form of effort none the less.

"Just scream at the damn lake Ro. I didn't take you out here just so you could complain."

Roman looked at him weirdly, though decided that 'fuck it' seemed to be the mood he was going for today, stepped forward towards the edge of the lake, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

His voice broke several times while he did so. The scream sounding more and more choked up the longer it went on for, so much so that Remus started to wonder if his brother was losing his voice when he finslly fell silent and the quiet came back to press down on them.

Remus came to stand next to his brother, looking at him, at the tears streaming down his face and at how his eyebrows seemed to be trying to recreate the Nike symbol.

At how he was slightly shaking and standing just a smudge too close to the water.

At how his expression changed from pained to surprised to shocked when Remus pushed him into the ice cold lake.

At how this might be how he made his brother atleast a bit happy again. After a while of cursing and splashing around he got used to it, standing till his waist in the water and looking at his brother until finally he too jumped in, water splashing everywhere as he did so.

Roman snapped his fingers, the both of them now in diving suits rather than their normal outfits.

He ignored Remus his complains about how he'd rather swim naked as he came up to him and dunked his head under the water again. A fight breaking lose that had water splashing everywhere and curious woodland creatures come out of the woods to watch the two rulers of their kingdom seemingly get along for once.

Remus noticed how, after a minute or so, the deer suddenly fled. Not thinking much of it as he summoned a huge water gun and blasted it straight into Romans face.

Roman noticed, a moment later, how all the rabbits and squirrels and mice and rats fled aswell. Looking around for a moment but getting distracted when Remus summoned Poseidon trident to make a wave.

The twins both noticed how the birds also fled when the water began to ripple in a way that wasn't caused by them. How the water underneath them suddenly got darker as a huge shadow swam circles in the lake.

The both looked at eachother with wide eyes as they swam to the edge, summoning their respective weapons.

"Remus?"

"Hm?"

"Did you maybe forget to mention something when we came here?"

"I-... Mightve forgotten about me trying to recreate the log Ness monster yes."

"Wait, you made Nessy?!"

As if on queue, the giant seacreature emerged from the surface, scales glittering as the sunlight hit them. Green and blue and purple making for quite a beautiful image weren't it for the razor sharp teeth and monstrous features that came along with it.

"This is one hell of a way to distract me Rem." Roman said, rolling his shoulders as he held out his sword.

"... You're welcome?" Remus said, eyes flicking from the rip off Nessy to his brother and back as the monster growled and came closer.

"Alright then. Let's do this." Roman said, voice low and dangerous, bending his knees slightly as if preparing to dash away.

"Let's kick some ass!" Remus said. Surprised but not put off by this new development in his plans to cheer up his brother. If screaming at a lake would always lead him to a monster fight then he'd have to do this more often!

They set foot in their room four hours later. Both of them completely soaked, Roman wearing a small satisfied smile while Remus just looked grumpy.

They both flopped down on their respective beds, Remus his rat looking up in shock before quickly darting over to go and Greet its owner who just huffed and reluctantly petted the thing.

"That was fun." Roman said into the now quiet air.

"For you maybe! I had to watch how you 'calmed down' Nessy instead of taking part in the bloody fight I'd been hoping for!"

"Nessy did nothing to us she didn't deserve to get hurt."

"She nearly bit my arm off!!"

"Yeah? Well that's your fault for trying to poke her with your mace."

A strangely comfortable silence fell over the room then. And Remus began to slowly realise something. The realisation not quite there yet but almost.

Almost.

"... Thank you Rem. That was... Nice."

Ah. He got it now.

"Yeah well, at least I don't have to watch you cry on the floor anymore hm dipshit?"

"With how things are going, I think you'll see that more often than not. Asshat."

They both laughed, quiet and only partly sarcastic.

And Remus smiled into the quite. Pulling his legs up so his brother wouldn't see it.

"Hey Ro?"

"Hmm? You're not evil okay? He just said that cuz you hurt him a bit."

"Hmm. I should apoligise shouldn't I?"

Remus smiled again at that. Sitting up after he realised that he didn't mind his brother seeing him happy. Enjoyed it even.

"Oh I'm sure he'll show up at the door with a basket of fruit and a heartfelt letter next thing in the morning." Roman sat up too then. A small, unsure smile on his face.

And Remus realised he didn't mind seing his brother happy, either.

Enjoyed it even.

"And if you want. I can punch a little sense into him if he doesn't, and we'll go and look for another lake to scream at, how bout that."

"That'd be nice Rem."

And then Roman did something neither of them had done in a very long time.

He got up from the bed, brushing off his wrinkled clothes and, one step at a time, inched closer to the now non-existent barrier.

"Ro what are you-"

And then Roman was infront of him. On his side. Leaning over him slightly with his arms outstretched the tiniest bit.

"You're not evil either Rem. You never were."

Remus hadn't hugged his brother in over ten years.

But now here Roman was, carefully wrapping his arms around him after getting a nod of approval. Carefully tightening them and laying his head on his brothers shoulder. Squeezing him a little bit as Remus returned the hug hesitantly.

And nothing had been resolved. Nothing had been talked out or solved and things might only get worse before they get better but they were hugging and that was something at least.

And they'd been living in the same room for as long as they'd existed. Always there, always together.

And yet...

"I missed you Roman."

"I missed you too, brother."

This has been in my drafts for month I hope it's alright-ish at least.

Tags: @purp-man @sapphire-knight @ragingdumpsterfiremess @chronophobica @lance-alt @mylifeisadeceit @itriedandimtired

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years ago

Text

Two of Haunts || Morgan & Lydia

TIMING: Current

SETTING: Lydia’s home

PARTIES: @inspirationdivine and @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: A mysterious gift shakes Lydia and Morgan, waking up fears they’d rather keep buried.

CONTAINS: mention of head trauma

“Maybe I should bring Deirdre over with me next time,” Morgan said, carefully squeezing her friend’s hand. “I think she knows more about fae distractions than I do. But we read Mary Oliver a lot to each other when we need to unwind, and when we’re a little melancholic for...a number of reasons. As quiet as it is in this place sometimes, it feels like we never run out of reasons. But, anyway, I hope at least the landscape imagery was nice to hear about.” She smiled sheepishly and bent her head to catch her friend’s eyes. “I can clear out, if you need to rest…?”

Before Lydia could answer, a knock sounded on the door. Morgan went stiff, her arm shot out to shield Lydia from only the stars knew what. This wasn’t the kind of house that entertained surprises, not anymore. One of the security guards went to the door. There were no murmurs, no questions or confrontations that Morgan could hear. The central air hummed. The pages of the paperback Morgan had been reading aloud from rattled quietly. Why wasn’t anyone speaking?

During Morgan's’s brief visit, Lydia had been sitting for most of it. She was managing little trips out of the house now, for bits and bobs and for the sake of proving she was doing better. The call of mushrooms were getting stronger and headset by the day, but the unspoken rule of not attending fae events with a lost wing was enough for now to keep her away. But Morgan was right, it was late afternoon, and she needed rest before the sun went down. She wouldn’t get it at night. “It was. Thank you. For everything, Morgan.” She shouldn’t have thanked her, Lydia thought a split second too late. It was becoming a habitual slip of the tongue at this rate. She froze at the sound of the knock, immediately looking to O, who nodded and went to answer. Lydia coiled as tense as a wire, eyes wide as she picked up her phone so fast she dropped it back into her lap. She fumbled the password before opening the app connected to her doorbell, her heart so loud in her chest she was sure Morgan could hear it. “There’s no one at the door.”

“No one?” Morgan asked. “How is that--?”

“They left something behind,” O said. There was more silence. Morgan stood up, trying to hide her concern behind a stretch. In time, the bodyguard emerged carrying a small envelope. Not poisoned, not magicked in any way that they could tell. They revealed the contents, holding up three cards that made Morgan flinch with recognition. “May I see those?” She asked, looking from O to Lydia and back again. “They’re Tarot cards,” she explained. “Don’t, um, shuffle or turn them, maybe, please? Position can be important in a spread and--” She looked haplessly at Lydia. “I mean, it’s just so weird, it’s worth looking into right? Do you--know anyone who would send you these, Lydia?”

Between O and Morgan, Lydia was the only one breathing. She could hear it in the silence lingering between them, picking up as her heart did, and with the increase in fear came the increase in pain. There had been silence like this right after Lydia had crashed to the ground, knocked down with a crash of thunder, as he had hovered over her, smiling neatly. It had happened right there. She trembled as she looked up at O, barely processing what Morgan was saying. “What? What? Yes, give them to her. Thank you, O. I don’t- I’m not-” Lydia squeezed her eyes shut in a frown, trying to build the sentence in her head before replying. “It could be him.”

Morgan took the envelope and knelt to examine the cards over the coffee table. “Hey, if it is, we will figure it out and we will keep you safe.” She reached back for Lydia’s hand and gave it a good squeeze, hoping to pass some of her confidence onto her. “Besides, White Crest is so weird, it’s possible there’s other people this could be. Maybe this is just one of those weird widespread things across town. Whoever it is, though, I’ll eat them myself before I let them hurt you. And you can bind me to that if you want.”

She turned her attention back to the cards in the envelope: the Three of Swords, the Ten of Swords, and the Wheel of Fortune, a reversed position, she thought, indicated by a dark smudge at the bottom of the wheel that looked like a finger painted arrow. The bottom of the wheel, Morgan recalled, where misfortune came to all sooner or later, no matter how they ran from it. Morgan couldn’t determine if they were meant to be laid out in order from the way they appeared from opening the envelope, or if there was a presumed reader, and everything would come out reversed order to someone else, or if they were meant to appear face down and re-shuffle themselves in a strangely limited three card pull. Morgan maneuvered the cards in circles, pushing them around with the point of the envelope, testing out this idea. But no matter what she tried, the implication seemed pretty grim, the kind she would backpedal from and say, ‘This is fine! Draw another card!’ She turned to Lydia again, wincing with discomfort as the violent images on the cards came into view. “Are you at all familiar with the tarot, Lydia? If I arranged these like this--” She nudged them the way she’d received them. “--Do you understand anything from them? Or feel...reminded of anyone?”

How did such things immediately drop her into a babbling, blithering mess. But as Morgan talked, Lydia just grabbed a cushion to crush it against her chest. “I don’t- That’s reassuring, someone else- a new creep leaving messages.” She wouldn’t bind Morgan to that. Firstly, it was an impossible promise to keep unless Morgan was there at all times, and neither of them really wanted. They were at each other’s consistently enough that Lydia didn’t imagine it would go well. Despite her fright and her pain, the thought drew a smile. Lydia shifted in her seat, leaning in as Morgan looked over the cards. It wasn’t the vampire’s style, Lydia thought. “I don’t know that it’s- that it’s him. His gifts were more…. People’s heads and creepy tortured humans.” Lydia explained. She looked at the cards. Lydia knew nothing about tarots, but this could be a threat. A card with a dead body stabbed with swords, ten of them? A heart with swords going through it? A bloody stain on a wheel? Whatever it was, it was a threat. Lydia twisted the cushion in her arms until the fabric began to tear. “No, I don’t have any idea. But it’s a threat, right? It has to be.”

“R-right,” Morgan stammered sheepishly. As much as she was trying to keep a clear perspective, Lydia was right that there was no good way to look at this. Someone was at the very least trying to scare her, but the cards, while graphic, weren’t necessarily the scariest in the deck. Amateurs and faux fortune tellers in movies tended to like Death as a portent of doom, not knowing the relief the skeleton queen brought with her. “Well, as for the threat, I mean...yes. But it seems really...specific. Like, if we say that this is a traditional three card spread and that they’re meant to be read straight out of the envelope, this ten means that in the past you were brought down really low by a loss or betrayal or some other external crisis, maybe especially that has to do with the way you...communicate with the the world, verbally or...not.” And that had definitely happened. As much as Lydia was recovering, Morgan felt like it barely counted as past at all. “But this one, the three, it’s about a personal heartbreak, Like a family member or a close friend, something that causes you a great amount of grief, but it’s in the present position, which… I don’t know, Lydia. If I had read these from you, I would say that it could be a grief for a part of yourself, but these cards weren’t given with that kind of care. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but it doesn’t make sense with what I know of your present. And who all even knows about what happened to you?” Unless that was the threat, that the vampire, or someone else, wanted to make Lydia grieve for the people and the life she had left. “The last one is...it’s awful, yes, doom and gloom and misfortune in the future, but if this isn’t how that asshole vampire works, I don’t understand who could know enough about you to send these. Not that we won’t find them, I just--” Morgan turned to search Lydia for answers, for some signal that she knew how to unravel this so they could find out who did this, kill them, end her troubles. She was reaching for her when she froze, hand mid-air, her eyes fixed on the window behind Lydia with horrified disgust.

Whatever nuance there was in the cards was lost on Lydia, even as Morgan explained them. She had no idea if a three card spread was the norm, or if they were supposed to be looking for another, in the bath maybe. Lydia whimpered as Morgan described the ten, squeezing her eyes shut. She thought she had won in their little game of words, promise bound him into obscurity, and instead he’d almost put her in the ground. Low was extremely right. Lydia felt her eyes begin to sting. It was going to happen all over again, just like before. A personal heartbreak, Lydia had no idea, but maybe it was Felix, who was sleeping with an abomination, and a human one at that. That was the only present she could think of. “Not many. I can’t- I can barely speak the words, and how else would anyone know?” Lydia squeezed her eyes shut, salty tears spilling down her cheeks. Misfortune in her future. He’d take the rest of her wings. He’d drown her and not let her come back this time, he’d-

“What?” Lydia asked in alarm as Morgan froze. She twisted sharply to see whatever Morgan was staring at, out through the window and into the garden. All she could think was Chloe had met the vampire in the garden. He’d been there. But Morgan was staring at nothing at all, which was all the more frightening. “What! What did you see?!” She screeched in panic, scrabbling to her feet even as her body began to splinter with pain.

Morgan had only seen Constance once, lit by magic and shrouded in smoke and flame. Just once, when she was bound in the circle, before she broke free and faded from her senses. She could never forget how young she was, with baby fat still softening her chin and jaw, how her translucent eyes sparked, how normal she seemed for being pulled out of a death over a hundred years ago. Morgan had only seen her once, but she could never forget her face.

She reached down to hold Lydia, keep her still, protect her. “No, it’s not--it’s not him, you’re hurting yourself, Lydia, please--” She must have looked back to assure her, because when she looked back to point her out, she was gone. Morgan gripped Lydia tighter, her eyes swiveling over the room. Had she only imagined it because the reading was so frightening? Was she intuiting something between her pain and Lydia’s? Constance had never been banished or destroyed, everything had been swallowed up by her own death. But after so many months, why now, if it was even her at all? “I thought I saw someone...that I know. But I’m not sure. She’s not there anymore. You’re going to be fine…”

Lydia crumpled back onto the couch almost immediately, biting hard on her lip to suppress the whimper she suddenly felt obliged to hide. Silently, she quickly wiped away whatever tears had filled her eyes. Not even the sharp lightning like pain shooting down her spine fully distracted her from Morgan’s nervous disposition. She looked back up at Morgan, eyes wide and jaw trembling. Morgan was looking around in fear, and, having heard Lydia yell, O had run in, eyes scouring the room as well as they asked if everything was alright. Lydia just deferred the question to Morgan. “You can’t-” Lydia started, staring at the spot through the window that Morgan had been looking at. She couldn’t know that Lydia would be fine anymore than Morgan would. “Who was that, Morgan? Who do you think you saw?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan said. “It looked like--or, I thought it looked like some...ghost.” She couldn’t bring herself to say Constance’s name. It was meaningless to Lydia, and evoking it into reality seemed either completely delusional or like tempting fate. “But it happened so fast, and I don’t see her anymore, not anywhere. It doesn’t make any sense.” Morgan’s worry frantically smudged the details in her memory as if they’d been done in chalk. The more she dwelled, the less she became certain. “It was probably just some random ghost drifting by that startled me. They do that sometimes, you know. They get bored and restless like everyone else. Sometimes they go back to where they have good memories, that sort of thing. But it’s still...frightening for a second, like a jump scare, right?” She looked from Lydia to the security guard and back again, hoping that this all sounded as rational and convincing as she wanted it to. “It might be a good idea to check the perimeter or make some wards or salt lines just in case, but I really do think we’re fine.” Morgan struggled to meet the fae’s eyes as she said the words, but she did it all the same.

O nodded, walking away as they spoke to Jeremiah on the phone. Lydia watched them go before turning back to Morgan. "I already have security against ghosts within the building because I occasionally work on haunted- haunted paintings." That wasn't the only reason, but Morgan wouldn't appreciate hearing about the time she was aggressively haunted by a ghost of a human she'd eaten. That was the kind of thing she didn't think the young zombie would appreciate. She wondered if Morgan failing to meet her gaze meant something, if this was another human attempt at a lie. Lydia didn't have enough heart left in her to care, her heart still thumping in her chest. "If you say so. We're safe from ghosts at least here." Her gaze fell back to the tarot cards, trembling. "Just not from creepy messages."”

“...Oh.” Morgan said. That wasn’t the rational explanation she wanted for why the ghost hadn’t bothered them inside the house. She had been thinking more along the lines of ‘you’re losing your shit, Morgan,’ or ‘the ghost didn’t care enough about you to come inside, it was just passing through.’ But if the inside of the house was protected, anything might happen. What if something was being plotted, what if this was meant for her, if this was just the beginning of Constance trying to finish the job she’d started? What if-- Morgan screwed her eyes shut and flexed her fingers as hard as she could. She was catastrophizing. After everything she’d been through, who wouldn’t? “That’s good,” she said, as decisively as she could manage. “That you’re safe here. That means there’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s alright now. Everything’s gonna be just fine. And these--” Morgan reached for the tarot cards and ripped them in half. “Only have the power you give to them. And I don’t put any stock in creeps trying to choose your path for you.”

#two of haunts #wr lydia #wr chatzy #wr lydia chatzy #wickedswriting

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